love, read, write

Dear The World,

My most sincere apologies for failing you all. I shall promptly shove myself into a dark and dusty corner whence I find it somewhere gloomy and shameful—after I write this apology letter post.

I do not know what has gotten into me—perhaps it is the food I ate, the lack of growth I had, the sleep I had not, or my mindset was not austere.

But here it is. For the second time, I have failed you all. I have failed myself. I have failed humanity.

 

Now, if you have been wondering until now, why I am so apologetic, so gloomy, so upset of some sort of thing I had done—I shall correct you in your ponderings and wonderings. It is not so much something I had done, but something I had not.

I.

Had not.

Read.

Five.

Classic books.

IN one Year.

 

Now this sounds very, very pathetic, and I know, I know it does. It puts me to shame, and it makes me not want to post this in fear that people I actually know read this and condescend upon my reading ability from thence onwards.

 

But to reflect on this Rear (short for Reading Year), I have not read much books in general. It is saddening that, with the acquaintance of high school comes the decreasing of Reading Time, to the point that I have returned many overdue library books unread—untouched.

Perhaps it is the overbearing task of completing prodigious amounts of homework assignments, or my lack of skill in time management. Perhaps it is the preference of technology over books, or in other words, the abundance of technology versus books—now that I have a smartphone. (YEAHIKROMGOMGOMG)

(Compose yourself, Indigo.)

 

But I have resolved to myself, that yes, this year, it shall not be a fail of a Rear. It shall be a successful Rear, a glorious Rear in which I will be able to confidently shout, “Long Live the Rear of 2013!” Even on the last day, and yes, I knoweth that this doesn’t create much sense, but I shalleth write in the language that I nor thee doeth knoweth. Ieth caneth speaketh funnyeth yeteth soundeth wiseth byeth addingeth etheth ateth theth endeth ofeth theth sentenceth.

Prolly sounds like lisp.

 

No.

But—to return back to my original tone of voice, yes, I know. I haven’t read much books this year, and I am quite honestly disappointed with myself. Can’t quite put my finger on it, but it’s some mutated form of shame and disappointment.

I will, however, state the few Classics I have read. I shall then proceed to list the few Classics that I have attempted to read (or rather started, and then never had time to read it, until it was overdue at the library).

Classics I read:

The Old Man and the Sea by Earnest Hemingway

A Clockwork Orange by Someone

Two O. Henry Short stories by O. Henry

Yes That’s about It by Me.

(I lied. I shall create three lists.)

 

Classics I read in School:

Of Mice and Men by Steinbeck

Lord of the Flies by William Golding

 

Classics I started to Read but Never Really Bothered to Finish (Or didn’t finish by 2012):

Animal Farm by George Orwell (or someone like that, if my memory serves me correctly…?)
(One Google later---Yes, yes it did. My memory is loyal like that sometimes. Sometimes.) (Oh yeah now we’re reading it in school.)

Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens

Demian by Hermann Hesse

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time by Mark Haddon (I’m actually reading this right now; almost done, in fact.)

And a Few Other Books I forgot to Include by Assorted Authors

 

I’ll put this post date as December 31st, 11:59. Hehehehe.

 

My next post, I’ll decide 2013’s resolution.

Au revoir.

So. Here is December, sitting and glaring at me.

How’s Pentaclovel going?

Well, lemme think.

I read…

Hemingway.

I read…

A Clockwork Orange.

I read…

mmm…

Yeah.

I KNOW. D:

I got some big time classic reading cramming to do.

Seriously.

I’ve been so busy with high school---

PSHHHH.

…yeah. I’m sorry. I’ve disappointed humanity.

 

But A Clockwork Orange by Whoever-Wrote-It (use Google) is quite an interesting book. Not once through the book did I find it ‘boring.’ Seriously.

And it was cool, getting to decode the language. Then I wondered if there was a nadsat dictionary online and apparently there was.

Of course I didn’t look at it. I wanted to figure it all myself. It’s kinda cool, you know. Sorta like a new language, but not so different. Maybe a dialect, but not as similar.

…

What, are you doubting me?
OF COURSE I didn’t look at the words.

…nobutseriously. This time your trust is in your hands. Believe it or not, it’s up to you.

 

So anyhow.

I’ll try to read another classic book.

(Does school count? Because if so, I’ve read two more. Of Mice and Men by Steinbeck, and Lord of the Flies by Golding. Lord of the Flies is really a cool book, though. Seriously. You should definitely read it if you haven’t.)

 

…bye!

by O. Henry
So today, I read “The Social Triangle” by O. Henry, a short story about, well, a social triangle. Much like a love triangle, only instead of love of others, of respect of others’ social class. It is really an interesting point of view in things, and it does get many points across. I’m not an expert at analyzing literature and finding its deepest meanings, since I’m not much experienced in the world of Classics. But in fact, I will attempt to make some analytical statements because I think it might help me improve upon my currently ground-level skill.
This story is basically about three social classes. I don’t know how to identify it, but it seems like Ikey Snigglefritz is very low class. The next up the ladder is Billy McMahan, who is a relatively high class—he’s a politician and a leader, someone much looked up to by Snigglefritz. Then, there’s the super-rich, who is Cortlandt Van Duyckink, who is a “[M]an worth eighty millions, who inherited and held a sacred seat in the exclusive inner circle of society,” (O.Henry, 22). I personally like Duyckink the most and McMahan the least. I don’t know, it just annoys me that McMahan really values meeting Duyckink to the extent that he would try to get everyone to have liquor for free just because he feels the mood. Maybe I’m being really one-sided, and his spirits were uplifted, but for some reason, at a personal scale, it bothers me a teensy bit. Also, that people would look at him much more respectedly. But it’s not like I don’t like him because of that, but more like, I don’t like how people,  normal people, everyone (even me), would do that if we were in that situation. That our attitudes change from morose to ecstatic just with the shake of a hand. Obviously, there’s a lot more meaning in that one shake, but when you look at it generally, it’s pretty interesting how effective it can be to your mood.
I also think he sort of shook Duyckink’s hand because he wanted to shake his hand, not because he wanted to donate. This I think because it says McMahan made an “[A]udacious act of his life,” which wouldn’t be called audacious if the objective was not asking to fund the help-the-poor campaign Duyckink was holding, but to merely shake Duyckink’s hand.
Obviously, there’s a lot of loopholes and craters in this supposed “analyzation” of the text, but hey, it’s kind of my first time doing this alone. (Yeah, I know. I’m old, and how can I not have done this before, I know. Just…bear with me.)
I like Duyckink because of the obvious reason—because he reached out to the poor. And also, that his heart’s set in the right place, as O. Henry says that it was his sudden urge or instinct—oh, it was an impulse. But all the same, such actions don’t stem from the brain but from the heart, and that’s what makes me solidify my opinion about Duyckink. (That he’s not a jerk.) (Not that McMahan is a jerk.) (He’s not.)
The three characters have different reasons for shaking the others’ hand. First, Snigglefritz shakes McMahan’s hand out of honor, out of pure admiration. TMO, McMahan shakes Duyckink’s hand out of want of attention and recognition (maybe a teensy bit of helping the poor). Then, Duyckink shakes Snigglefritz’s hand out of sympathy and wanting to help. These three kind of tell me that when you’re in a low position, you look up enviously a lot. When you’re high, you realize your ‘power.’ But if you’re not at the highest, the pleasure of seeing those below you look up to you, and the pleasure of just the luxury, might make you want more. When you’re at the highest, or at lest, in Duyckink’s case, you kind of see the flaws in being rich, and you stop and think about how to use it, just because you have too much of it.
Of course, these three are applying to people whose moral standards, their way of living, and their general thoughts are on the more, let’s be obnoxiously general, “good” side. Because obviously, there are plenty of rich jerks who use their money and position for more and more power, and plenty of poor jerks who just give up and don’t give a flying French fry about what they’ll do with their life.
(…yeah that just made no sense, the last two paragraphs.)

Literary Terms:
They’re not terms, by the way. I’m just using a phrase we used back in seventh grade when we did this as a class. xD So I won’t be naming too many literary terms, fyi.
What I really noticed and liked was the repetition of “He had shaken the hand of _____.”
That sentence is what ends each of the three parts of the short story. And it kind of ties it together and subtly yet quite noticeably makes the point across of the Social Triangle.

I also like the repetition of the words “impulse,” “audacious,” and “royalty” when describing the sensation of bringing yourself up to shaking the other person’s hand, and also the flushing, overwhelming feeling of the achievement as you shake their hand. It ties their emotions together while slightly distinguishing them. I didn’t notice this immediately (perhaps with audacious I did, but not with impulse and royalty), but when you think about it (at least, when I did), you remember that subtle meaning kind of left a little mark in your head and distinguishably, yet subconsciously let you know that the three are inextricably bound and related.

Work Cited
O. Henry, . 41 Stories by O. Henry. 2nd ed. New York: New American Classics, 2007. Print.

It wasn’t always like this, you know. Before, I used to have lots of friends and family by my side, I had a smile on my face, and my thoughts were clear and mild and happy. That beautiful picture of all of the relationships I had with people—family, friends, relatives, acquaintances. The picture was full of people who all knew who I was. And for that matter, made sure I knew who I was.

But it became different. We all start at the same place, you know. So in the beginning years of life, everyone isn’t that far from each other. We are easier to make bonds with—find friends, find smiles to share. But time draws us a line, a line that, if you start from the starting point—there are infinite directions you can lift off and go. I didn’t know, in the beginning—in the beginning, we were all the same distance from each other—generally. But it was, I noticed later on, true that even in the beginning, I was drawing my line in a direction much different than everyone else.

It’s not like I could help it—or that I knew what would happen. What could I do? As a teething little tyke, I could do nothing but oblige to my mother’s commands and scolds. She was, in a way, putting her hand around mine and directing the line for me.

But when It was time for me to draw my line on my own, and I looked up, there were less people in the picture. That picture—that once had lots of friends, family, relatives, acquaintances—that picture was becoming something entirely different. I began to feel a strange sensation in my heart—that if I ever looked up, there would be less people by my side, less people to share smiles with, less people to talk to. Their lines were going in the completely opposite direction. This sensation grew stronger as I grew older. I felt weak. And lonely.

I would approach others, hoping to find that it was possible to break that feeling—to recreate that beautiful picture I had in the first decade of life. I tried to communicate with other people, smile at them, and wave—do what they all seemed to do on a daily basis. But all I would be returned was that look. Those eyes—they were all the same. They had that scornful, hateful, disgusted look. It would come in variations—after nearly two years of the effort, I realized that subconsciously, I had been analyzing those looks, tucking them into different shelves—sorting them into different categories of contempt. There would be embarrassment, hatred, disgust, amusement, condescension, a large variety. But I did not give up.

Whatever I had done to try recreate the bonds and relationships of life that I so dearly, so desperately yearned for—whatever I had done, it turned out to be the wrong action. Very wrong. They began to look at me differently—after a point in time. And very rapidly, their looks all assimilated into one category. It was something I couldn’t identify—not at all, until whatever I had done, it broke. It finally erupted, and they created a bond with me for the first time. But it wasn’t one, not at all, one that I had wanted.

The first time they began this ritual, it was in school. They took me into the bathroom and made me inadvertently gulp toilet water. They kept me there for an uncomfortably long time. It was, at first, a delight to realize that someone was finally acknowledging my presence. But after a sickening amount of time, I realized that this was not something I should be happy of, that, if anything, this was taking me in the total opposite direction than the one I had in mind.

It became more frequent, and then less aquatic attacks were used, and more physical offenses. I found myself encountering my own blood so often, it was like a daily sort of thing, I’d expect it. And all the while, I kept my efforts in trying to create a bond, a relationship, with anyone. Please, anyone who would give me a hand and let me find myself away from this desert.

By the time my acquaintances with my blood were becoming regular, I realized that the beautiful picture that once was, was now only a fragment of my memory—almost becoming a figment, confusing me whether it was truly real or not. For now, I was in a dry, arid desert of nothing but my shaken, lonely mind, filling the empty space. My voice cracked in the dry, moodless air, and my hands were bleeding from no moisture. I was purely, utterly alone in this world.

Did I dare consult my mother? No, her strong voice and opinions, her forceful looks and actions—they all gave me a realization not too long after I began to lose the beautiful picture. I realized that it was she who had been the cause of this—she who had drawn the beginning of the line, pushing me into the direction, so far out, that by the time I realized, I could not turn back—it was too difficult to turn back. For everyone was not letting me go in their friendly direction—nobody was letting me through—they were all pushing me away. They refused to give me a chance.

My first second decade of life was in utter misery and pain, loneliness and hatred. My pure innocence in the efforts to befriend any being began to grow weak and desperate. I began to lose hope.

It was those words that truly cut me off, that gave me the true idea, that gave me the realization of my future. My void future.

“Nobody wants you here.”

Nobody.

All those words, I had refused to accept before, words that were vulgar, words that were cruel, words profane. They all pierced my heart, but those—they broke it. I finally realized that it was true. Nobody wanted me alive. I had no purpose of life. What was I do to, but be a pathetic human to exchange mean words about, to glare at, to throw hurtful words at. I was truly a nonexistent being, to the point that, people merely knew who I was, to acknowledge me as someone they didn’t know, who was a nobody. That’s what they called it. A ‘nobody.’

When I found myself in a position that I had to get a life, a job, I had nobody to consult, nobody to ask. For I was landed in a desert of loneliness, completely, utterly alone, in the darkness of the desert, trying to read the sand, to find a pattern in the sun—anything, that would be a means of communication—a means of getting a meaning, a flower into my heart. After searching for years and only getting yells and shouts and curses of my mother in return, I somehow managed to get into a place which they called college, which I called, the last step before true loneliness.

After college, I realized that I would truly be alone in this world, no classes to attend, only a job to search for.

How puny. How pathetic. How pitiful. Nobody was around me. I was slowly drying away in the desert, my skin turning to dust, my hair crumbling. My eyes would barely crack open, and my muscles and joints—were rusty old because there was nobody to oil them.

I realized one day, upon looking in the mirror, my life before me, and the life ahead, would never, ever be any better. It would never get better, and I would never be able to find a smile. Because I was already dying, because for two decades, nobody would reach out to me, no matter how hard I tried. Because society just could not accept me, whether it was for my efforts, for who I was, or for who I wanted to be. They only judged by their eyes, and not their hearts and souls.

It was a sharp, sudden, flash of a realization, because my heart was so dry and tiny, it could not take it.

I looked into those eyes of mine and saw but one emotion. Fear.

What had I done wrong, that put me in this position? What did I do, that, in the beginning, set me away from people whom I once called that warm, happy word—friend?

Nothing, nobody cared. Nobody wondered. Nobody asked. Nobody.

How could I make them see me? How could I make them smile, other than showing my pitiful, bloody self, embarrassed self to them? What could I do, that would make them look at me, look at me with anything other than disregard, ignorance, and condescension?

I went to college classes, day after day, and decided to pick someone whom I would try to befriend, once more. If it didn’t work, I would truly find no need in being alive. I soon found a beautiful lady, someone who had kind, twinkling eyes, and lots of friends. I began to like her more than I did to anyone else in my life—I fell in love. Seeing her gave me a seed of hope, a droplet of water on my cracked lips.

It wasn’t long before she noticed. And it wasn’t long before I even managed to gather up courage to confront her, that she courageously came up to me—oh, how blissfully happy I was that she was looking at me—but something was wrong. Those eyes.

Those eyes of contempt.
And fury.

“Can you stop staring at me? You’re so creepy. You don’t have any friends, and you’re always alone. Who are you?”

“But—I like you… can you be my friend?” How long it had been since the last conversation…

“You’re so creepy. Get away from me, get out of my life. You’re always following me. I’m going to call the cops if you keep doing that! Nobody wants people like you here.”

It was that again. And this time, because of the affection I had felt towards her, that hope that somehow unchapped my lips and let a faraway oasis appear in my field of view—it brought a heavy wound upon not just my heart, but my mind, soul, and body. I felt dread, and for the first time, I felt hatred. Hatred for this world, that created an atmosphere to make her hate me, hatred for all of the people who made each other so prejudiced and cruel, hatred for the living beings of this world—for not letting me in.

And I began drop the classes. I stayed home, and using a computer, began to draw myself into the world of fantasy, where I could find a world with no humans, or humans who were kind, or humans who ended up as heroes.

I began to watch movies, movies of what people called villains, whom I found myself deeply interested in. I shared those moments they had, I could understand them fully, their loneliness, their hatred to the world—I could feel it bubbling in my heart. I realized that I was not alone in this world, that those people also felt these things. And I realized that I could also end up as they did, in positions of power and wealth. If I could just steer the world in a different direction, I could manage to evade deaths like theirs and maintain a life of success. I realized that this hatred and this loneliness could breed a new type of life for me—of this thing they so often identified, that word they so often used—power.

I began the task of walking the paths of those people, and started out by picking a movie. This would be a very dangerous road to take, enemies could appear, and threats could occur. I carefully planned out the whole road. I began to force a way out of that desert. The first step was physical likeliness—which was much easier than planned—the Internet was quite useful a tool.

Becoming obsessed in creating a world where I was no longer dying of dehydration, of no moisture, of complete, utter darkness and loneliness—it became my life.

It was not long before I realized my final step. I had to create fear in people—I had to do something that would force them to look up to me, not down.

It was a perfectly well planned out idea—an ironic one, that I would create my first act of mercilessness towards the people I so hated—it was beautiful. I no longer needed the ‘beautiful picture’ I once longed for. I needed respect. And this would earn it, as did in the many videos I analyzed and watched for studies.

I used tools and weapons to create the diversion and work upon my first attack.

It succeeded, and I identified myself in front of the remaining crowd, looking for that look in their faces—and indeed it was there—fear.

Not long before I knew to carefully protect myself—for enemies would come, as did in the videos, and not long before my name became popular, it was on the Internet—when once it was a name to spit upon, to curse at.

Not long before a person came looking for me, telling me she would help me out of my problem. Finally, a follower. I had expected more, but one, for now, was enough. I would reward her later.

But she did not seem to understand the rules of apprenticeships. She constantly asked me questions, about my painful past. I tried persuading her about the future, of my plans—but she told me they wouldn’t work. She was a frustrating apprentice.

I saw her one day, and it was before she noticed me, but she was speaking of her fear of me, of her worry.

Only then did I realize that somehow, upon trying to create fear and respect in people—I had returned on my old plan. On relationships. She was the first person I could truly speak to, who would not tell me of my uselessnesses to the world.

It was then, that I changed my mind, and began to cooperate with her, in search of a bridge that would help me cross it, and for the first time, take a look at the lush fields of flowers, friendships, families, bonds, relationships.

It was in her that I planted my seed of hope. As my drying body began to emit an ugly stench, I weakly, meekly hoped that seed had found a fertilized soil. I planted my hope once more.

~

Guess whose story I tried to write a ‘story’ on. Just guess.

 

Original post:

IOC doesn’t want South Korean player to accept bronze after making political statement

The London Olympics began with a flap about delicate Korean political tensions. The Games will end with one too.

IOC officials have recommended that a South Korean soccer player will be barred from collecting his bronze medal after he celebrated his team's victory over Japan by holding a sign that addressed an ongoing, hot-button political flap in the region.

Jongwoo Park held up a sign that read, "Dokdo is our land," a reference to a peninsula that both the Japanese and Koreans claim as their own.

Following a review, the IOC requested that Park not take part in the medal ceremony due to violation of rules prohibiting political statements by athletes.

Earlier in the day, South Korean president Lee Myung-bak raised political anxieties by traveling to the group of uninhabited islets (called Takeshima in Japanese). The Associated Press reports he told policeman that the islands were "worth sacrificing lives for."

A Japanese official called Lee's trip "incomprehensible."

At the start of the Olympics, the South Korean flag was displayed during a North Korean soccer game. Officials from North Korea refused to let their players take the pitch until a correction was made.

UPDATE: South Korea complied with the IOC's request that Park be excluded from the medal ceremony on Saturday. The crowd at Wembley Stadium was informed of his absence.

~end of original post~

Chase, Chris. “IOC doesn’t want South Korean player to accept bronze after making political statement.” Yahoo Sports. Updated 11 Aug. 2012. Accessed 13 Aug. 2012.
Link to original post (click to view)

Dear Park Jongwoo,

Congratulations on your efforts and work for the bronze medal in the men’s soccer olympics! I’m sorry that you had to have the medal taken away. And it must be truly disappointing that you may have to go to the military service because of it. It was a brave thing you did, to show your patriotism towards Korea. However, it was a foolish thing as well.

The Olympics is where the countries of the world set aside their political grudges and relations and purely compete in sports, to find who is truly the best at what. To disturb the political peace within the boundaries of the Olympics with such a controversial statement, is like setting fire to quick-burning kindling. It may cause a big eruption. As a person of the tantamount nationality, I feel guilt and sorrow that one of the players couldn’t get the first bronze soccer medal that we have earned. Especially one of the soccer players. However, this may have caused us to do exactly what your sign asked not. It may have raised the possibility of Dokdo being Japanese territory more than before. Because not only Japanese and Koreans watch and attend the Olympics, other countries who have not thought or noticed much about the small and insignificant problem may have thought this a big upcoming deal ought to be dealt with by the bigger countries, although it is not at all so. Hopefully, you realize your mistake and you will still be able to continue in your great career as a soccer player representing Korea.

Sincerely,

Sylvia Freud

 

Dear President Lee Myung-Bak,

It’s an honor to write to the president of Korea, and it puts me half to shame that I need slightly criticize your doings in this first correspondence. However, your act of raising ‘political tension’ concerning the land problem with Dokdo could be devastating to our country. If this comes to the concern of international meetings and debates, then we no longer have a given right to claim Dokdo as our land until the international meeting comes to a conclusion. For the past however-so-many years, Koreans have been peacefully living in Dokdo with not much of a grudge and problem besides the occasional claiming by Japan. It was always shrugged off because of the much obvious fact that Dokdo was and is Korean land. It was neither brought to attention or changed at all. It was considered as just the Japanese babbling amongst themselves over territory.

I hope that you recognize your mistake and that you will take no further action concerning our and the Japanese’s ‘argument’ over Dokdo. Because ignoring their comments will be the most we can do to keep Dokdo Korean territory on our map. As long as only the Japanese believe Dokdo is their territory, we are fine. But if the whole world begins to see it as so, it is then that the true problem occurs and action towards the right is necessary. For now, I hope that you remain indifferent with the current situation.

Sincerely,

Sylvia Freud

Article: “Built In Bias”
Article-Author: "Brooke Gladstone
Magazine: Muse
Issue: April 2012

This article is about psychology and our decisions and personalities.

It starts out with the butterflies. It’s not the brain sending messages to your gut that you’re nervous and that you should now feel all fluffy, but actually the other way around.

For instance, warmth makes us feel good. (Which is probably where the whole chicken-soup thing comes from.) Researchers did a study where they pretended to be fumbling with a whole pile of stuff in their hands and then handed a cup of hot or iced coffee to people. They then described an unknown person based on a packet of information and asked the person holding the cup what that person’s personality may be like. The test subjects holding a hot cup of coffee rated the person noticeably higher for “warmth” than those with iced coffee. In another study, test subjects holding a hot therapeutic pad chose more gifts for a friend, while those with a cold pad chose gifts for themselves.

There are many other examples such as these that showed that we are unconsciously biased under certain atmospheres, and even under certain appearances such as gender and weight. Also, scientists did a study where they could predict people’s decisions up to seven seconds before the test subject was aware of making them. It seems our choices are already made and can’t really be hindered much in a short period of time. They even say that if we’re predisposed to believe myths, we actively block out any contradictory information.

This all adds up to whether we really make our own choices or not, and when we truly make our own decision, without any outside influence. Do we ever? And if not, what happens to the justice and ‘fairness’ of the world? Are we grumpy in the winter and happy in the summer? Will people at a social disadvantage always stay that way? And how can we fix it?

I also have another question that I know will not be answered any time too soon, but—the article generally implies that warmth=happy, positive-ness and cold=selfish, unfriendly. Not to the degree that when we’re cold, we hate the world and everything in existence, but to a noticeably greater degree than those with something that is warm. Which leads to my question—then what about hot? Why are we prone to be grumpy when we’re outside on a super-hot humid day? What makes us cheerful when we’re outside in the winter?

This almost ties up with a book I read recently, called The Body of Christopher Creed by Carol Plum-Ucci. In the book, a character says that everyone has a line of reality, and if you cross it, they just won’t listen (or something like that). It kind of makes sense, now, because we don’t hear things we don’t want to hear. In other words, we block out the truth when it hurts most.

Tooooooooooooooooooooday’s essay is going to be….

Drumroll, please…
doodoodoodoodoodoo….

BEST OF WHAT’S NEW (you probably already knew that) GADGETS!

This is an article-ish thingy from the science magazine, Popular Science, in the December 2011 Issue. This issue shows the 100 best innovations of the year. And they categorize the ‘best innovations’ into about ten groups. The group I’ll be writing about is the “Best of what’s New—Gadgets.” The contributors to this article/list/explanation are Tim Gideon, Corinne Iozzio, Steve Morgenstern, and Darren Murph. The Gadgets group has ten inventions—to list them all, they are
> Lytro Light-Field Camera
> Eye-Fi Direct Mode (SD card)
> Kyochera Echo (Android Phone)
> Looxcie Live (Video-Cam)
> Nvidia Tegra 2 (Android Batter Extension Chip)
> Sony Alpha SLT-A77 (Camera)
> Wacom Inkling (Tablet)
> Orobotix Sphero (RC Toy)
> Blocks Buster (E-toy)
> (There’s Probably a Tenth one, but I can’t seem to find it amidst all of the scattered paragraph layout. Sorry, Tenth One.)

They range from Cameras to electronic toys. But which one is truly the best, and which one do I think is the best? I guess it’s all different depending on the person, but to me, me who likes drawing and writing and notebooks, I would choose the Wacom Inkling as the best Gadget Innovation of 2011.

I guess I’m kind of biased towards it because of my views and interests, but I honestly think that the Wacom Inkling is absolutely AWESOMEISTICALLY an astoundingly, profoundly, amazing invention/innovation. Phones and cameras are cool when it comes to new additions and updates, but the new innovations are just improvements—a double touch screen, or a quicker shutter. Although, I have to admit, being able to change the focus after taking a picture is pretty cool. But I think that the Inkling is by far the best. The inkling is a whole new idea and invention. It can be so easily accessed and used for so many different purposes, and it would probably benefit if not all, most of its users.

Even me (if I had it). It brings the real art world and the digital art world together. Often, I find myself debating over whether I should use a notebook or Photoshop. I want to upload my drawings onto my website, but I also want a hard copy. Scanning isn’t good enough for uploading, and printing a drawing from Photoshop doesn’t give the same effect on paper, either. It often creates lots of self conflict, and I end up either regretting my choice, or wondering how to transfer that drawing on Photoshop onto my notebook so I can carry it anywhere I want.

The Inkling also eases the burden of losing a drawing or sketch, especially if it’s for an important job. If I had an important car sketch in my notebook that I drew for the next meeting, and I lost it, in most cases, I’d have to either find the notebook somehow, or redraw it. The Inkling gives you the warm and fuzzy feeling in your stomach that yes, you have another copy on your computer. Even better, you can improve on it using Photoshop or Illustrator.

What I find awesome about the Inkling is that you can use layers. It is just unimaginable that someone could come up with such ingenious idea! Simply brilliant, to my opinion. You can draw and create new layers and upload it onto your computer to edit layers and lines and colors, while still having the good feeling that you’ve used the traditional method to draw this, too! It’s combining the real and digital world, as I’ve said before.

It would be awesome if the Wacom Inkling can have another series with colors, and even with a pencil. I’m not sure if the Inkling now lets you browse through layers and draw on a prior layer, but if it doesn’t, Wacom should probably improve on that in their next version. Surely then, the Wacom Inkling will become an indelibly dominating art-related technological invention of all time!

Here is a drool-summoning picture of the Wacom Inkling.

 

 

Okay, bye! :D

Today’s E+ is on the article from the science magazine Popular Science, “Where Data Lives” by Rena Marie Pacella in the November 2011 Special Issue.

So basically, to sum it up, the article “Where Data Lives” pretty much gives you an in depth listing and explanation of the Worldwide Database. For a summary of that big a topic, it’s only two pages, but if you look into the short explanations of each type of database, you know enough to be able to imagine the never ending, vast, expansive land of data that exists out there. In fact, you know that you couldn’t possibly imagine it at all.

Data, to my opinion, is like a creature. If you know how to tame it, it can become your friend and also a helpful assistant. But if you let it slip or use it for the wrong sort of reason, it might just unleash itself onto the whole world. There is so much data—from genetic information to keeping track of every organism on Earth to even just the code of human relationships—it can be used for good, but it can also be used for bad.

One day, in the future, we will have an unlimited amount of information just put there in front of us, placed ever so conveniently that all we have to do is lean forward and grab it. It kind of takes the fun away from learning, don’t you think? Just the thought that with the right information, nothing can stop you from knowing anything—it kind of scares me. It makes me ask myself, is knowing a lot good? And because of all of this knowledge, we create and discover more and more things, which will, in the long run, probably turn out to be something drastically harmful and devastating (like cars). Of course, after those years, we find and create things that will counter our foolish actions from decades ago using the same knowledge.
It seems that humanity is destroying nature—in fact, if we hadn’t existed, if no intelligent creature had existed (which is technically not possible because one will always be smarter and therefore develop faster), theoretically, the Earth would be much more healthier. Instead, Earth is infested with this cancerous species calling themselves the top of the food and control-the-world chain, and shaking up the Earth’s health and inhabitants without asking a word.
To say, it’s not exactly our fault, nor am I blaming us and telling humanity to commit suicide—it’s in our general nature to want to survive, a very common and probably in many minds, overused phrase. It’s all back to Darwin’s theory of Natural Selection. But with or without biological proof, it’s obvious that inventing is, in a way, our way to survive. But now that we can think, and act upon decisions and counseling, maybe we can harness all of that data, and use it wisely.

This is where my ultimate opinion lies—that we should share data across the world. It should be universal, and unlimited—to every last fact (besides government-involved issues and such). Although we wouldn’t be learning anything if we had all of the world’s information right at our fingertips, but if the whole world—if every single person could see the same information, the world might become more unified. Instead of dividing people into classes of what they know, we would all be equal. And the majority of people may not bother into looking at the subjects of psychological advertising or biomolecular engineering.

Every bit of information, of course, would give credit to the founder of the fact. And although people from other countries may use scientific information to create chaos and disorder (maybe in our healths), we can use the same scientific information to disable that, or even prevent it. If every single capable person could judge what is true and what we should do about a worldwide problem with the same amount of information, we just might get closer to making a wise decision for once.

Today’s ‘essay’ is based on the article “Bookscapes” by Victoria Johnson, in the literary magazine “Muse” in the May/June 2012 Issue.

(I’d just like to give full credit so I don’t get sued. 3: )

 

I love books. Books are awesome and they sweep you off your feet and they take you to a new place, a place that everyone is welcome to and everyone can help develop and create. It gives me a break from stressful things and it can sometimes make me feel better. And reading this article just gave me another reassuring feeling that I am not the only person in the world who feels this. And that some people choose to take their love for books even further.

Johnson, in this article, takes the subject of ‘Books with maps.’ Basically, books with long journeys or books that take place in the same general area, places where a map can help guide you step through the new world it makes. She explains the differences of the purposes of the maps. For example, while the Phantom Tollbooth (by Norton Juster) map generates as a usual map would, the Winnie-the-Pooh (by A. A. Milne) map is more of an easy-fied map that doesn’t exactly prove useful in navigating through the story, but more of an along-side picture that is characterized to have been “Drawn by me and Mr Shepard helpd".

It is truly intriguing and very thought provoking that someone would take these maps, which were taken by me, for granted, and dissect them into categories and specify why this type of map would help in this type of story and plot.

One ‘famous’ book (series) with a map that Johnson forgot, or more likely, left out because of the length of the article, was the Narnia series by C. S. Lewis. I have read the whole series a while back, and I still remember looking at the map in awe of the detail and how the story came alive just because of the map. I think that the Narnia map falls into the ‘Phantom Tollbooth’ category—it serves as a normal map would.

At this, one must ask oneself a question. Do maps really do good to the reader? I have mixed feelings about this, and it seems I am situated on the border line between two options. To the author writing the story, it will do the reader good. Because it portrays the story and setting and relative location in a more accurate way than it would have without a map. It would make the story’s image in the author’s mind more similar to the story’s image in the reader’s mind. It would also bring the story alive and bring you closer to the story. But to the reader, I find that maps can be a little restraining. Maps create boundaries in the ‘imagination’ part of reading. After all, part of reading books is imagining the characters for yourself. We often find ourselves saying, “That’s not how he looked like in my head!” when seeing a movie based on a novel. Making a map sort of ruins that, and it kind of takes away the role of our brain working to put and fit together the pieces of the puzzle described in the story to create a whole, single, coherent map. The answer’s already there, on the first page.

With maps or without, Juster, Milne, Tolkien, and many other fantastic, well known, celebrated authors with maps as accompaniment to their stories have creative and imaginative stories that wouldn’t, and couldn’t be hindered by any sort of ‘restraint’ to imagination. Although maps themselves may be unhelpful, the story is what matters, and in the end, all that counts.

So I made a new label, which is, as you probably noticed (or not) from the title—“Essays+.” Basically, on every weekday, I have to read an article, either from the science magazine Popular Science or the literary magazine (I think) magazine, Muse.

Today, I’m writing a small essay (after scouring through a stack of Popular Science magazines for nearly half an hour) about “No Pulse.” an article by Dan Baum in the March 2012 issue of Popular Science.

 

 

What is life? It’s the question lots of people ask themselves, search for, and consider the still anonymous answer as wisdom. Life, if you ask me, is pretty much inexplicable, with a variant of possible answers. Variant meaning, infinite. It’s just the state of being, and it’s our brain which creates the complex thoughts and jumbles that confuse us and throw us off course in finding our places in social life. It’s the familiar da-dump, da-dump of your heart, giving that familiar friendly greeting when you place your hand on your chest. After all, for a long time, ancient civilizations have considered the heart the ultimate source and origin of feeling and emotion.

As of March 2012, eleven thousand people worldwide do not feel that friendly da-dump. They feel a whir of a computer PC turning on, a low humming of a fly, or no feeling or sound at all. To them, life is the whirring and humming of their heart. What has happened? Have their hearts decided to leave their hosts? Have they decided that they search for a new sense of identity, and revealed their rebellious side to make a different sound, for a feeling of a new sense of life? The answer is nothing near, in fact, it’s more surprising—a jump in medical science, the key to saving lives. No, it’s not a heart on steroids, it’s actually not a heart at all. It is the artificial heart, the HeartMate II. Composed of Home Depot products and some pumps from commercial LVADs, doctors stitched it together by hand to create what may be the redefinition of one of the most fundamental symbols of life.

Sometimes, we have to sacrifice symbolic elements in life to promote life itself. Everything becomes a bit more science-y, and maybe a bit less nostalgic and ‘old-times’-y. This is one of those examples. Giving up a your heartbeat for a few more years of life—anyone would do in a heartbeat. The artificial heart may take away the familiar da-dump, but the fact that it can save lives wipes away any thought of opposing artificial heart implants. I doubt that there are many people in this world who wouldn’t want the heart implant if they needed it, and I definitely think that it is an idea that should be expanded upon. At the moment, it can’t exactly last forever and most heart implants only aid the heart in its ‘pumping,’ but with the exponential amelioration in data, information, and science, it might not be long before people who would have needed to undergo lots of surgery and eventually face death would be walking around with whirring hearts and uplifted spirits and hope.

My only question is the future—if the preponderance of people with possible future heart failures were to have artificial, more improved, futuristic HeartMate IIs, then what would be the sign of death? If you feel no pulse at your patient’s wrist, while he or she is smiling at you healthily, when will you know the difference between conscious and unconscious? It’s just a question to ponder over, and may be solved in the future. But besides that trivial ‘predicament,’ I find the HeartMate two a life-saving invention.

HEY GUYS!

wait I just realized that I already told you.

Actually, I’ve just realized, there is no ‘you.’ There is nobody reading this but me. Me, refreshing the page about five billion times so that the page view numbers go up.

-.- pathetic.

 

ANYHOW.

I’m reading it regularly now, and it’s a pretty big book, and I’m taking small doses per diem, a diurnal reading (look my vocabulary’s already so updated) (yes I said updated).

And it’s really not that bad.

Actually it’s sort of not really slightly just a bit not that bad.

Okay yeah I’d like to tell you all that it’s actually a fun book now.

Hey, I’m getting used to classics!

Oh and by the way, I’m obsessed with Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card. You’ve missed that because I haven’t posted here in a really long time, but I REALLY WANT YOU TO READ IT.

Dang it there’s no ‘you.’

 

Anyhow, anyone who’s reading this right now, read ENDER’S GAME BY O. S. CARD.

 

Okaythankbye.

Wait not bye.

 

And I’m not allowed to read Ender’s Game because I’m reading too much.

 

OKAY MY BROTHER WANTS ME TO GO AND WATCH AVATAR. BYE.

STORY IDEA DING DING DING!

So, I was at Washington D. C. for a field trip, and it was lots of fun. One of the places we went to was the Tomb of the Unknown Soldiers, which is guarded by the soldiers, full with the 21 steps and 21 seconds and whatnot. You can research that on your own free time.

Well, the gist of it is, there are three unidentified US soldiers who have died in war and whose bodies have been found. They are buried in Washington D. C. and are guarded by the soldiers.

While we were watching the Ceremony of Changing of the Guards, an idea came to my mind. It was a stupid, random idea. It was a story idea. Because we had recently seen the Avengers in 3-D, in the movies, the whole spy/adventure-aura was going about me. And as I saw those solemn soldiers giving up their time guarding the three tombs, I thought to myself,

What if they aren’t real?

It was a rashly thought out thought. It was absurd. But it came to my mind, all the same, and the more I thought about it, the more the story grew, and the more interesting it became to me.

In fact, what if those men lying in the tombs—what if they weren’t US soldiers?

What if they’re spies from other countries, disguised as a US soldier and died in the act?

And what if the real reason the soldiers are guarding the tombs are because those men probably have some top secret information hidden in them that might reveal US secrets?

What if we’re serving the enemy, honoring the enemy?

The more I thought about it, the awesomer it became.

 

Okay that’s the end of my story idea. Just sort of popped into my head during the ceremony. Sorry, unknown soldiers. You’re probably true American heroes. Sorry for doubting your genuinity. If that’s a word.

 

TY A HAND!

I can feel the scorching sweat seeping into my skin again, and the sun glaring down at me, sizzling me like an egg on a fry pan. The sun, ever so big and ever so powerful today, is reaching its frying arms right down onto my face, my arms, my legs, me.

I open the screen door, thoughtless, mindless—both taken away by the heat of the mighty sun and merciless weather.

My back raining from the unwanted warmth the backpack gave me.

But, no fear!

As I open the door, I can feel the cool air rushing out to meet me already. I can feel, just by touching the other side of the door, the in side of the door, that it is a cool, refreshing, invigorating place to be. And immediately I rush in, closing the door carefully, of course, and throwing off my backpack. Kick off my shoes. I look around, feeling the coolness seep into me. But the power is not strong. I am still sweating, and heat is still felt.

Looking around and realizing I am the only intelligent living soul in the house, I peel off my shirt and pants and change into my gym shorts right there. I run upstairs and put on a tank top, letting the cool air brush past me as I run. I throw the used clothes in the laundry basket, and run to the bathroom.

I take my glasses off and place them beside the sink. I turn the cold water on, all the way, and run over to get a hairband to tie my hair. I come back, and feeling with my fingertips that it isn’t cold enough, lose my patience and wash my face anyway.

The cold water, touching my scorching skin, my red hot skin, my melting skin—relieving it of all memories before. And as the water gets colder, I am almost smiling because it feels so—so chilly and refreshing. It feels like heaven, that place everyone finds so peaceful and forgiving. I splash the frigid water onto my neck, onto my face, letting it drip down and seep into my skin. I put my arm under the faucet, just for the fun of it, the coolness of it. I am all wet, my clothes are wet, but I don’t care. All that matters is that now, it’s not hot.

After a long session of splashing myself with the best water you can ever splash yourself with, I run all around the house—hey, nobody’s home, so why care? I’m blind without my glasses, but it doesn’t matter. The Fuzzy Objects are of no importance now. Carefully navigating so that I don’t bump into sharp things, I run around, arms wide out, like a little kindergatner playing airplane or superman. I run around like superman, but I’m much cooler than he. Let the breeze of the air conditioned air freeze the remaining droplets of water on my skin, twirl around until I’m dizzy, run around some more, and then run back up the stairs to wash my face cold again.

This time, the water’s immediately cold, so I use a plethora of it on my face, an abundance on my neck, and a cornucopia of it for my arms. Leaving the cool water dripping on my arms, I put my glasses back on and run downstairs. I long for a cool, icy popsicle, that could make my insides all cool too. But when I get to the freezer, I have another idea. I open it wide, and stick my head in. The misty air is freezing the moisture on my face, and I close the door as much as it can go, so that all the freezing air can stay here. The feeling, the whirring of the refrigerator, the slow moving chilly air, the biting cold holding onto my cheeks and forehead, it’s all a wonderful, bliss moment. I close my eyes. Relief.

I can’t believe I haven’t already posted this.

But, YOU HAVE TO READ ENDER’S GAME BY ORSON SCOTT CARD. it’s the BEST BOOK EVER. It makes you think, it thrills you, it entertains you, it turns the page for you, and most of all, IT’S GOING TO BE A MOVIE IN 2013 SO READ IT BEFORE EVERYONE FINDS OUT ABOUT IT! It’s already been a bestseller, I think, but it’s not too late to go to the library and read it. There are lots of other books (look up the Ender’s Game series on wikipedia, there’s a whole mapping of it), and there’s even a parallel novel to Ender’s Game, which I’m going to try to read as soon as I lay my hands on it.

ENDER’S GAME MOVIE IS COMING IN 2013! CAN’T WAIT CAN’T WAIT.

 

Okay. I’m done.

Sorry for not posting in a while. On the pentaclovel or decaclovel thing update, I have read one classic book so far, and it’s not even much of a classic. It’s a start, at least. I’ve read Alice in Wonderland. It’s a rather easy book, but just for the sake of it, let’s call it a classic. Working on Tom Sawyer right now.

 

Here’s the main. A little something I wrote today:

Sweating a little, but still a little bit awake in the humid air, I walk down to the parking lot, my too-small sneakers squishing the muddy, sloppy ground beneath my feet. Avoiding the larger puddles, I stare down at the dark green grass, and the mud revealing itself with a dull, shimmering glow, from the reflection of the sun. It’s kind of hot, so I walk in a way that wind can kind of graze my neck. It feels okay.

“That was terrible,” I say. “Wasn’t it?”

I look up at my mom, half hoping she would reassure me and tell me it was at least a little better than last time. Encouragement isn’t too bad, you know?

And plus, I did try a bit more than last time.

But my mom apparently doesn’t agree.

“That was terrible,” she says. And that’s just the start. I can tell.

“It was a waste of time! Do you really want to continue this? I mean, you’re terrible at it.”

I concentrate on the movement of the blades of grass. They’re all swishing this way and that. I step on one of the swinging glass blades, which makes a rather large slopping sound.

“Yes,” I say. If I’m going to do any sport, it’s rather I continue this than any other—I’ve failed at any sport I’ve tried. At least I’ve started this one. No use starting another.

She sighs.

I concentrate on the concrete, now. The grass and mud are behind me. I lightly drag my racket on the ground, and then lift it up again. Long arms, my dad said. Good for tennis.

Good for tennis, all made up. God forbid, I’m not good for any sport.

We’re at the car, and my mom’s blabbing on about my pathetic skills. My brother slips into the car, and sits right down in his seat, which is right next to the car door. His feet are luxuriously laid out in front of him, meaning I have to pass through by shoving his feet to the side.

Which is what I do. A glare is what I get.

All the while, my mom is yakking on, while opening the car door, slipping in, closing the door, inserting the key, and putting on her seat belt.

When she’s all ready, she sighs for the second time. “I mean, you were good that other week, it was at least a bit better, but now your form is terrible! It’s atrocious!”

“Okay, okay,” I say.

I think to myself. I know I am sensitive. There’s no use avoiding that. But I will not cry.

Sensitive me has tears in her eyes. But she’s not crying.

I swallow a coming lump, so it goes back down before it can lodge itself in my throat.

“…And geez, you swing this way and that! Do you even think when you’re playing? After last last week, I thought you’d improve a bit, but it’s exactly like it was! I rant on, you get mad…”

I think to myself, But I’m not going to cry this time.

All the while, the car is lining up to get out of the tennis place.

“…You just have to swing! Don’t you listen to the teachers? I mean, don’t you think about turning around and using your hip, or stepping in? Why do you just sit there and swing the racket like there’s a fly? I mean…”

I know it’s no use listening to her ramble on. It’s always the same. She repeats it all, but in different insulting ways. So I open the window, as far as it can go, which, thanks to the ‘safety features’ of the car, is only halfway. I tie my hair back with the hair band, and close my eyes halfway, leaning my head on the window.

I can only catch a few words, now. It’s so much peaceful here. The air roaring in my ears is much better than the words of my mother.

“…Need a private tutor…. Waste of time… can’t even do this… never will improve… never do well… so bad at it…”

The car stops at a red light, and suddenly I hear the words cutting clear into the air again.

“What do you think when you’re playing? Do you think about the form at all? I don’t think you think at all. Do you?”

“Yes, I do.”

And I actually did, you know. I stood there, telling myself that I would not go through another teary session in the car again, another yell-y car ride, so I stood there, telling myself to step in with the right foot (the correct sort of right), and to swing through, at least hit it in.

And I didn’t exactly hit it that bad. I mean, it went in sometimes. Which, according to my terrible sporting abilities, wasn’t all that terrible.

But of course, being the oldest and also the worst, things were not always bright when you compared yourself to the others. Didn’t really notice this much, even, until my mom told me last last week how disgusting I was at tennis.

“I mean, you’re the oldest! And the worst! Aren’t you embarrassed? You’re old enough to think through the moves, and you’re not like a baby, who doesn’t really understand and who doesn’t care much about how they play! Right now, you can’t just learn for fun!”

The light turns green, signaling the wind to return to my ears.

I close my eyes and concentrate on the roaring of the wind, filling my ears and brain.

I can just make out that my mom is now turning to reassuring herself, mostly, about how it’s okay, and that I just have to practice my form a hundred times a day, and that it’s normal, being so bad at it.

“The Avengers,” I read to myself. That’s what’s on the movie theaters now. We pass the cinema, and I try to leave some of my thoughts behind, but my mom’s throwing more at me just as I try. I listen to the rustling of the winds, finding its way into my left ear, which is cool from all the air. I read the commercial signs posted near the road, read the restaurants and supermarkets flashing by. The world is so fast. And I’m too slow.

Any similarity in personality, background, race, or situation to real life is purely  coincidental and has no relation whatsoever to this story. So don’t even think about it. Thank you.

Nicholas

My sister is a straight A student. No. Scratch that. A straight A plus student. She’s in every level of honors, at the highest. She’s skipped a grade in math, she’s in honors English and is maintaining a high 97 average, and she’s gotten only 100 averages in both social studies and Spanish. And science, she never talks about it, so I never know.

Hear, hear. There is me.

I am short.

I am sensitive.

I am easily teasable.

I’m good at math and building with Legos. I have to admit that, as arrogant as I may sound. My mom gets me math problem solving books that I solve. And I love the Rubik’s Cube. And I love science. In kindergarten, I practically memorized the Beginner’s Encyclopedia of Prehistoric Animals and the Beginner’s Encyclopedia of Marine Animals. Well, according to my mom and sister.

Writing?

Psh. I suck.

My sister is older than me.

My parents find that she is the treasure of the family. Why, she’s so modest, and smart, and she’s so kind, full of manner, she doesn’t lie. She’s the perfect little angel. No. Perfect big angel.

Then there’s me. They look admiringly at her, then they look at me. Here I am, with a skin problem—a bother to all of the family. Constantly itching to be somewhere else. Always bugging people to show them my awesome Lego creations—one has to admit, it is pretty cool.

Their face drops. But it’s not like they hate me. I mean, they tell me that they love me.

But that’s nearly BS compared to what they say to her.

And all she does is flutter her pretty little eyelashes so that they nearly faint from her perfection.

And me?

Why, they yell at me at all of my imperfections.

Nick, why aren’t you eating properly!

Nick, you have to say thank you!

Nick, you need to get better grades!

Nick, why don’t you get good scores on the NJASK?

Nick, why don’t you just die in a hole?

No, they didn’t say that last one. But I bet they do in their minds.

While, they’re all over Emily.

Nick, why can’t you be like your sister?

She’s smart at all areas of academics.

She works hard.

She gets good grades.

She enters every possible competition there is.

And she wins most of them.

And you?

Why, you, Nick, you might not be like your sister, but you’re special in your own way.

Errr—

And they stop. They halt suddenly. And they return to their everyday tasks.

And she just flutters her little eyelashes to make them faint, oblivious to her bad sides.

Actually, they aren’t that cruel.

They’re just so happy and confident with Em, that they think I have to be like her. You see, my mother thinks that everyone is like Em. She expects so much from everyone. In fact, it’s the opposite of most people. When you first begin to teach, or meet someone, you start from 0. That person has 0 credits, 0 expectations, on your part. Then, as they begin to impress you, the credits get higher and they either seem as or better (or worse) than they expect. And that 0 expectation level is situated at an average level. For example, if a teacher encounters a new student, they will assume temporarily that the student is a mediocre student. If they are, well, the teacher has psychic abilities. If they’re better, well, good for them. If they’re worse, well, the teacher’s expectation level goes down a notch.

But my mom, she thinks that the whole world is composed of Em-congruents, that her expectation level of anyone who is an adolescent or a child over 7 years of age is in the genius, smart, A+ category.

That counts me.

You see, this year, fourth grade, I got a real easy teacher. In fact, she seems like one of those deer in headlights when she sees our class hollering at each other during indoor recess. Luckily, it doesn’t rain or snow too often on snow days. Otherwise she might permanently have that look glued onto her face.

And when she teachers, she teaches easily. She grades easily. Contrary to my mother, this woman has way too low expectations of us. So if we write a mediocre to average passage of writing in response to a simple question as an open ended response, she gives an A+, check plus, regardless.

I mean, unless the writing’s absolutely atrocious, and that it might be prone to get fired if you mark a misspell-filled, grammar error-filled passage a perfect score.

So naturally, you slack off. But that’s part of life, isn’t it? Some times, you have that hard working period, and other times, you’re just slacking off, having a ‘rest.’

Well, my mother doesn’t believe in ‘a rest.’

Slacking off? Then get back to work.

So when she read my open-ended answers marked with a perfect score and the nonexistent structure, creativity, base, and effort in the writing, she blew her top.

“Well, what is this?” (She always starts calm, at a piano, and then molto crescendo to a fortissimo within about five minutes.)

“My writing.”

“Did you write this?”

“It says my name.”

“What?”

“I did.”

“And what is this writing? This isn’t even writing! You need to write better! What is this? Your teacher is slacking off!” She shook her fist. Not a good sign. “That teacher is probably lazy to grade stuff.”

At these times, unless you want to get mouth-slaughtered, you need to quickly join allies with the stronger enemy.

“Yeah, she only marks up the papers that are really, really bad.”

“Then what happens to the smart kids, like you?”

“I don’t know! Well, at least the math teacher is better—you know, she gives the quicker learners extra work…”

“No! The school requires that. And this teacher of yours, she’s not grading a bit of these correctly! Do you call this proper writing? This is a KINDERGARTNER’S LEVEL!”

At this point, saying any word is like dropping a grenade. So I kept silent, even though I felt a hot bubbling steam rising from the bottom of my stomach.

“And you know what? I might even tell the principal, because this is outrageous! You’re not learning a thing! Your sister was so much better in fourth grade—she learned so much more! Her teacher taught her grammar, and she learned a lot about writing and reading comprehension. She stayed up until eleven doing homework, but you? You do it all at school! You come home with completed homework and nothing to do! This is outrageous! Look at this, Em! Did you write this horribly in fourth grade?”

She shoved the paper in Em’s arms, who took the paper and began to skim over it. But me, with growing rage not only against my mother but at my sister, for being so smart, I snatched it right out of her hands. She frowned and stomped away.

“Your sister is so good at writing right now, because I worked hard with her, and she worked hard as well. She had good teachers, too. But you, your teacher—your teacher is so lazy! I don’t know, this is not right. You need to learn! If you keep going at this pace, you’re just going to go into autopilot, thinking ‘Well, I don’t have to get good grades, I don’t have to learn a lot, do I?’ and you won’t be as smart as your sister!”

Sister banana split.

“No!” I said, softly.

“Well, then you need to—“

“No!” I said a bit louder. I did not want to be one of those bums, sitting in class with a dazed look and not understanding a single thing, until the teacher individually helped him. “No!” Not only did it mean that, but it meant great disappointment to my parents. They would never look at me the same again. Perhaps, they might never look at me again. I would be a disgrace to the family.

“Stop saying no!”

“No,” I whispered. I couldn’t think now. I burst into tears.

“I’M NOT EM. I’M NOT SMART, OKAY? STOP THINKING I’M GOING TO BE LIKE EMILY. I’M NOT PERFECT AT ALL! I’M JUST A STUPID LITTLE KID WHO CAN’T WRITE, OKAY? WHY DO YOU THINK I ALWAYS HAVE TO BE LIKE EMILY? WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS COOING OVER EMILY? EMILY, EMILY, EMILY. SHE’S THE PERFECT ONE. WHY DO I HAVE TO BE PERFECT LIKE HER TO BE LOVED?”

Suddenly, my maternal relative frowned, then her eyes dropped into sadness, and she murmured, “Oh, honey. We love you; we love you no matter what. You don’t have to be smart. You can struggle in class, pass with mere Cs, and get through school such. But I still love you. Please, don’t think that way.”

“Then why do you always talk about Emily? Why do you have to put Emily into this?”

“No, honey, it’s just that she can write so well, and to make you write well, you should go on the same path as her. We’re trying to lead you to the path she took in fourth grade. Her teacher was so much better, you see, Nick—“

“No! Mom! I’m not Emily. Don’t expect me to be exactly like her. If you need another one of her, then clone her or something! Why don’t you just disown me and go adopt some child prodigy?”

“Nononono… honey… We love you. We can’t do that. We just want what’s best for you. Emily is just a good role model, you’re lucky you have such a sister—“

“No!”

Then she turned to the old ‘insult-the-opponent’ trick. Not even a trick anymore.

“Honey, you know you’re better than her. In fourth grade, she didn’t even write that well. It’s just now. And look at you, already! She wasn’t in the Gifted and Talented group in fourth grade, was she? Come on, you know. You’re so good at Lego, with those creative things you make, and look at you! Did she solve problem solving word problems in fourth grade? You’re in a special group for gifted kids. She wasn’t!”

Did I fail to mention that back then, the Gifted and Talented program was not in existence. Of course, she disregarded this vital fact and continued her attempts in coaxing me out of unhappiness.

I gave up. I could see her point of view, that she did in fact love me, but she loved Emily more. And without even trying, she was putting Emily into everything, because that love for Emily was so deep, she expressed it even without thinking. And me? Why, she doesn’t say that to Emily.

Emily

My brother is the usual child prodigy. Music and science and math. The usual smart Asian boy, I guess. He doesn’t try hard, but he’s good at those things. He might be arrogant, but he’s good at it.

I mean, he started piano when he was in kindergarten. He was crying, because he wanted to learn piano, since I was. What big deal is it that your older sister is playing piano? But no, he had to cry right in front of the piano teacher with his little buck teeth crying, “I WANNA LEARN PIANO NOW!”

So they took time off of my lesson that day and took time to teach my brother.

And now, fourth grade, four years, he’s way too good to be true. I mean, he’s not Mozart—he’s not composing symphonies at age nine, but he’s pretty good. The songs I played after two or three years, he played after one. And with our new piano teacher, who seems to pick favorites vaguely, but still noticeably, he is definitely one of those ‘gifted’ tagged children. The piano teacher tells anyone near that he’s ‘gifted’ for musical talent.

And me?

Well, she tells me she’s proud of me.

But that’s about it.

Oh, and science? In kindergarten, when he first learned to read, my mom took time to read many books to him, with him, and eventually, listened to him. She, being a very diligent and scrupulous and vigorous mother, picked out only books that would make him learn. And the books that would fit his gender, age, and interest.

So she got him the “Beginner Encyclopedia” series. Those big thick picture books with huge pictures and nice, easy, long captions. Perfect for reading practice. There was the Beginner Encyclopedia for something with dinosaurs, fish, and there was one about meteorology, and such. And together they would read it so often (he liked it a lot), that he memorized it. But it was strange, because while some kindergartners memorize the lines of a book based on a movie they watched (probably over a hundred times), like Finding Nemo, or Lion King, he was memorizing the names of dinosaurs. And afterwards, we would see that come into effect. We would be watching that movie on dinosaurs, and he would point one out, and say, “Hey, a brontosaurus!” Then wait a minute, and say, “or an Apatosaurus?” And then he would debate with himself. And the people next to him would be gaping at a five year old child debating with himself whether the species on the screen was indeed a brontosaurus or an Apatosaurus. In which he would come to a draw, because smart as he is, he’s not a paleontologist.

And Lego. It started from me. My small interest in Lego and building things was stolen by my brother, as he began to dominate the green pan (the base for lego-building), and made all sorts of things. First, they were simple, as I made them. Sheep. Chairs. Desks. Doors.

Then, into first and second grade, he started improving rapidly. At an alarming rate. It was all based on the movie he liked—I guess movies are important for motivation…?

He got into Star Wars, which was The Thing for him, because not only were the movies interesting, but they already had Star Wars Lego Sets out there, at the nearby Target or Toys R Us. He began watching videos on making ships for Star Wars, and followed them, waited for each celebratory occasion to ask for a new Star Wars Lego Set, and then hide himself within a mass of Legos, building some sort of masterpiece. It was amazing.
He would be gone for a moment, come back after a few hours, with a full set of ships and shooting thingies. It was amazing.
Then came the day when he began to create his own.

He was holding his chest high, obviously proud of his work, and marched into the living room with his Lego in one hand and his hip in the other.

“I,” he proclaimed, “made this by myself.”

We nodded.

“No, instructions. All, by, myself.”

“Ooooh,” my mom would say encouragingly. And also at truth, because it did look like one of those Lego sets.

“I copied it off a picture, because I know that we couldn’t buy that Lego Star Wars Set, so I made it myself. And I made a few editions myself.” And henceforth, he began to make his own creations.

Then he got into mechanics. A level even I did not want to fathom. He manipulated the stretchiness of rubber bands to create some sort of gun. And he was, then, into guns. But not real ones. Lego ones. All the same, they worked perfectly, and they were so amazing, and I could not believe. These lego-substance of guns that had rubber bands wrapped around it in a certain way that if you pulled a trigger, a little Lego ‘pellet’ would shoot out. A nine year old making guns that can shoot you (not fatally)? Talking about the pull and twist and whatever it is, and about the ‘mechanism of this device’? He was already speaking in another language. Lego Language. Science Language. It was simply amazing.

And his math?

He is so lucky. He is forced to work on a workbook full of math problems daily. And he improves at a rapid pace. And with it, he gains confidence, which makes my mood ever more scornful towards him. He is so good at math. At that age, I was nothing near. I was barely passing by. Only in fifth grade, when I was placed into the ‘glorious’ title of ‘Honors’ that I realized that I may not be as bad as I thought. But of course, all those other kids in my class were doing exactly what my brother is doing now—extra curricular math workbooks, meaning more smarts, more math knowledge, and better grades. And now, at the age of thir teen, I must say. I am starting to think towards the SATs, partly because my friends are already in the process of preparation, and I am envying my brother. Without knowing it, he is getting ready for the SATs, too. He’s doing extra work, making him smarter, making that far-away SAT a bit easier than it may be to me. And although I may be in a high level math class, I know that my classmates are far more advanced in the field of math than I am. In fact, I can almost see my brother in one of them.

Did I say? He likes chess.

But let’s not rant on about my brother’s prodigy-ness.

Because he has imperfections, too.

For one, he is very annoying. But that is what all brothers are, so let’s take this for granted.

For another, it is due to his prodigy-ness. See, my parents are both on the smart side. My father graduated from the best college in Korea, and then came here to America, to study at MIT. My mother tagged along. But she taught my Dad when he worked at the office thingymajiger in Korea.

Anyhow, we have good genes.

Although I do get straight As in classes, they are barely. I’d be getting a low A, and I’d just study hard to get a 100 to boost up the grade, and continuously do this near the end of the marking period. I have to study, and I stress over it, and I hate presentations. But that’s beside the point. I am just ‘a-okay’ in all classes. Averagely smart, I guess. There are so many other kids like that in our school, and so many who are super smart. Nothing to be proud of. I think I got my mom’s streak.

But my brother, he’s like my Dad. All on the sciences and math side. Maybe not too writing-fulls, or in the reading-writing area, but definitely in the sciences and math. He’s not ‘a-okay,’ ‘averagely smart’ at a subject. He’s super-smart at it. Math? He comes home with that “pshhh, nothing” face when he talks about a quiz. And Science? I don’t know, he never talks about it, but I can never forget the fact that he loved science in kindergarten. I guess that passion was dug under by Lego. But definitely math. He is very very smart. He is easily getting perfect score on the Continental Math Leagues. And not even that, but even for the fifth grade one. A higher-above level.

But it’s this super-smart thing that gets into his head. Right to his head. In fact, if you compliment him, it doesn’t go anywhere but his head. That’s why I don’t enjoy complimenting him. It sounds cruel, I know. I do compliment him, you know, out of effortly kindness, but when I do, I can just see that evident change in expression from arrogant to superior. And he’d get way too much of it in his head, that he thinks that his math is so much harder than mine. Hello? Eighth grade math? Versus Fourth grade?

And because he is so convinced of his very existent intelligence, he is sensitive. Or maybe he was treated with too many Legos. I don’t know. For all I know, I may be like that. I may be just as sensitive, or even worse. Sometimes I worry about that. Seeing how annoying his sensitivity is, I sometimes worry if mine is worse. And how annoyed everyone else would be.

So if he breaks his Lego, he suddenly has this teenager act, even though he’s nine, and shouts at everyone near, stomps around, and bursts into tears, kneeling at the feet of our mother. And she would coo and sob with him and say, “oh, honey…” And stuff.

And then Dad would come by, get a bit awkward from this awkward-cryingness (because he’s not a sociably-intelligent person), and suddenly offer to go to Target with him to buy him something. Obviously it’s going to be Lego.

Dad is not a very child-discipline-aware person. He has strict philosophies that may not always be correct. If you cry, he buys you something. It’s like bribing a crying baby with candy. They eventually begin expecting the candy, and eventually, manipulate that act of crying.

So my brother cries a lot. Especially when his Lego’s gone wrong.

And recently, we’ve forced him to move all of his Lego to his room, so that we don’t have to step around the house staring at the floor in tip-toes so that we don’t seriously injure our feet. So now, he’s locking himself in his room for hours at a time, not appearing unless he has to go to the bathroom, or eat, or any other plausible reason. And if he suddenly appears out of his room crying, it means something’s gone wrong. And other times, he would run out with some sort of gun or Lego ship in his hand, and bug us for so long while we’re doing our work to please look at his masterpiece. And then we’d say, Sorry, we’ll look at it after we finish. But having such low patience, he would first go to me, then to Mom, then to me, then to Mom, alternating, until one of us would finally give up and say, Okay, what is it?

And if you ever touch that doorknob in the midst of his creating—

Oh, it’s regret you’ll feel. It’s like creeping in on a tiger’s cave or wherever they dwell. He pounces on you the minute you open the door, to GET OUT! GET OUT RIGHT NOW! STOOOOPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!”

Lego is his strong point and his weak point. Threaten to knock down one of his Lego masterpieces, and you’ve got what you’ve wanted.

He’s so lucky he’s so good at so many things. And not exceptionally good, but really, really, really good. I envy him.

And yet, Mom thinks that I’m the role model. People find that people like me are role-model-worthy, but in fact, we are just ‘a-okay’ at everything. And super bad at some things. People like my brother are superman at some things. Not everything, but it’s still worth having a super good talent than being okay in a few. At least you have one thing to be proud about.

You can’t expect a science-loving, math-genius, Lego-maniac guy to write perfect essays, and relish in writing. I mean, I love writing. Writing is my way out.

Lego is his.

But she expects so much from him, especially in the areas that he isn’t superman at. And that I’m ‘a-okay’ at. It’s those areas that I am better than him at something, because it’s no talent against ‘a-okay’ talent. And hence we are compared. Like two samples in a biology lab.

I don’t like it, and he doesn’t like it.

But hey, this is life. You need a basis for which to be compared, otherwise your grades are not accurate. Whether it is compared to a perfect score or to an average score. You want to see how good you are. You want to see if you fit in.

So yesterday, mi madre dice, “(My name), lee los libros, PLEASE!” And she said I had to read a classic book (she knows about this goal of mine and its apparent progress, or rather, apparent no-progress).

So now it is ‘assigned’ to me that I must read at least one page of a classic book a day.

One page? Not so bad.

 

I read some yesterday, and it was enjoyable to the aspect that I felt proud that I could understand such long, extensive, complicated texts that had such simple meanings.

For example, Dickens went for a paragraph with long sentences and hard words to just express that Oliver Twist was unable to breathe when he was first born.

My, ohmy, ohmy, ohmy.

So here I am, about to read a page of a classic book. So proud.

CHAPTER 1-

I read this yesterday. Just going to write down the hard words that I didn’t know and had to look up. (Hey, I have a small range of vocabulary for a person my age, so don’t be surprised if I don’t know a word that is academically equivalent to a word such as ‘hello’ or ‘cheese’ or ‘happy.’)

prudent (I knew what it meant, only I forgot)- careful in providing for the future.
Okay Actually I didn’t underline the words that I didn’t know, and I don’t want to re-read it and re-look it up. So too bad.

Chapter 2- Treats of Oliver Twist’s growth, education, and board.
domicile[d]- established in a home
impart- to give; to bestow
consolation- to make the person feel better by comfort and whatnot I don’t know don’t expect me to be a dictionary.
magnanimously- high-mindedly; nobly; generously
stipend- salary
consign- to entrust
parochial- relating to parishes
inadvertently- unintentionally
remonstrance- the act of protesting forcefully (to remonstrate- to protest forcefully)
impertinence- unmannerly intrusion or presumption; insolence.
diminutive- small, little, tiny
choleric- extremely irritable or easily angered; irascible
mollify- to soften in feeling or temper
stipendiary- receiving a stipend; performing services fro regular pay.
vindicate- to clear, as from an accusation, imputation, suspicion, or the like.
engender- to produce, cause, or give rise to
complacently- in a pleased manner

oakum- a loose fiber obtained by untwisting and picking apart old ropes, used for caulking the seams of ships. (Oliver had to pick these.)
sage- adj. wise, judicious, or prudent.
mortar- a mixture of lime or cement or a combination of both with sand and water, used as a bonding agent between bricks, stones, etc. In the book, Dickens’ writes:

“It was a regular place of public entertainment for the poorer classes; a tavern where there was nothing to pay; a public breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper all the year round; a brick and mortar elysium, where it was all play and no work (Dickens, 12).”

Elysium- any place or state of perfect happiness; paradise.
voracious- craving or consuming large quantities of food
        (or exceedingly eager or avid definition fits, too)
per diem- by the day; for each day

temerity- reckless boldness; rashness
pinion- to bind (a person’s arms or hands) so they cannot be used
conclave- an assembly or gathering; a meeting.
C: I know what countenance means! (:::::
allot- to divide or distribute by share or portion; distribute or parcel out; apportion

I haven't started it yet. I feel terrible. It's already the end of February and I haven't touched a book of classic, more or less a book altogether. Besides textbooks, I mean.
And this one library book I had to read because it was due soon.
I've started lots of books, haven't finished much.

Oh, and by the way, I got a new laptop! It's actually my father's old one, but it's still amazing. :D
Thank you, Dad!


Will start reading soon.

I started the book today, January 1, 2012. I finished the book today, January 1, 2012. This is how big--page-turning, and important book this is.

Important, yes.

(By the way, I started writing this post on January 1st, but I didn't finish, which is why the posting date is not the "today" of January 1, 2012, as mentioned in the beginning.)

Well, you can live through life without a book--what good is it to you, that much?
But it really makes you think. And it's from a start that you have an end, meaning at one point, beginning to read such mind-boggling books will influence you and make you read more of the-sort books, and sooner or later, you'll start understanding and seeing the world differently than one who hadn't read the book would.
And quite coincidentally, I borrowed five books from the library, and in the past three days, I've read three of those five books, and I've realized that they all have something to do with psychology. Extreme psychology, almost. Well, one book has something to do with psychology, but not as much as the other two.
To put it in the order of extremes, here they are:
House of Stairs by William Sleator
Invisible by Pete Hautman
The Kid Table by Andrea Seigel

House of Stairs is like a PG-10 book. Invisible is definitely PG-13 (13 because I read it, and I'm thirteen. xD) The Kid Table also definitely PG-13, more than Invisible.

But, quite sadly, I read Invisible and The Kid Table last year, December 30th and 31st (maybe 29th, too...? Not sure). Last year as in two, three(, four?) days ago.
So technically, the first book I've read this year is House of Stairs by William Sleator.
And because I'm lazy, I'm not going to write about Invisible and The Kid Table (probably because I'm not comfortable writing about certain topics, too...?).

I've also decided to apply school-learned topics into "real life" (although, I've never realized there was such thing as a fake life...). So I'm practicing MLA citations.
So, if you scroll to the bottom of this post, you'll see an MLA citation of House of Stairs by William Sleator. :D

After finishing this book, I summarized and told the story to my mom. The summary was not the succinct, to-the-point sort of summary, but just enough to tell her the storyline and main details to her, so that she could get an idea of the book.
And when I had finished, she told me it was like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (by Roald Dahl?), in a more difficult, hard-to-understand version (heh--I'd never looked at that book/movie that way).
But I had only watched the movie.
Anyhow, she said that (she also just watched the movie, by the way) in the movie, it was like Willy Wonka was testing each of their personalities and psychological thoughts to see who "fit" for the next Willy Wonka.
Sort of similarly, House of Stairs is like that. They are, sort of "testing" the five kids to see how much the conditioning behavior would go.

When I first finished this book, my thoughts were all jumbled up and unorganized, but I still had that feeling that there was something important Sleator tried to get across to the reader in this book. Something hidden, but really important.

I still haven't figured out how to put it in words. It's something to do with jobs, and how humans react daily. And there are smaller things, too.

So, to introduce the characters to you, there is Blossom, Lola, Oliver, Peter, and Abigail. I think the characters were named wonderfully. The names just fit their personality. Although it might just be how I think because I've read through the book and learned their personality through their names and thought that's how Blossoms are like, and Lolas, and Olivers, and Peters, and Abigails. That Blossoms are people who are smart and canny, but easily betraying and always thinking of how to help themselves and not others, because I read the book, and Blossom was protrayed as such character.

And, then, comes the point when you must name the pro- and antagonist. The people who are definitely in the protagonist field are Peter and Lola. It's obvious. Like Cinderella is the protagonist in that story, so are Peter and Lola (sorry for the pathetic simile--it's the only literary reference I could come up with at the time). And the obvious antagonist? The scientist dude at the end, in the epilogue. Dr. Lawrence. Now, the not-as-obvious in-between people are Blossom, Oliver, and Abigail. They were antagonist to the protagonists, but to the definite antagonist, they are the protagonist?
So when it comes to just the five of them--Blossom, Lola, Oliver, Peter, and Abigail, it's Peter and Lola versus Blossom, Oliver, and Abigail. But when it comes to the fact that Dr. Lawrence and his crew were actually experimenting on the five of them, the protagonist group increases three digits, because now it's the five of them versus Dr. Lawrence and Co. But the main point of the story was the experiment itself, because the fact that it was an experiment and that they were being tested on was included in the epilogue, which means that Mr. Sleator did not think that last paragraph was the essential part of the story as to be put in as an additional chapter. Therefore, I will come to the conclusion that--
Wait actually, I haven't come up with a conclusion.
They are all being tested. Although Peter and Lola are strong in personality and go for what they think is right, Oliver, Blossom, and Abigail go for what they want. Although that is their ultimate(ultimate because of Abigail personality change) personality, they are still, in a way, innocent (innocent as in not guilty sort of innocent, not the naive sort), in being dragged to do such terrible things.
So although they have been cruel, the true cruelty was the Dr. Lawrence & Co., because they are the ones who (technically) forced the three of them (O, B, and A just to be lazy and abbreviate) to act so... inhumanely.

Now, if you've just read up to this point, and you haven't read the book, you should read the book and stop reading this, because then it'd just spoil the ending. Technically, it already has.
If you weren't planning to read the book anyway,  read the book anyway.
And... you're still not listening to me. But it's up to you. Spoiled ending or awesome book,  your choice. (Hint: go for the awesome book.)

Anyhow, to continue my rant.

Conditioning, at first, was an unclear subject to me, only because I am slow in understanding, and I took approximately fifteen minutes rerererererereading the page that explained conditioning. Then, I looked it up, (same link as the one before) and I found a rather... easy, more clear example of conditioning. But it takes a while to read. But actually, you can understand the subject after reading just the first part, but I chose to finish the whole page (didn't bother to read the second--I still have some form of a life, you know). Psychology is an extremely intriguing, interesting, and complex subject. I would really like to dedicate some time in the summer to read a few books related to psychology.
(That wasn't sarcasm, by the way.)
(Now you know how much of a life I have--more like, that I don't have.)
(Anyway,) Conditioning is an adjective, I guess. (It's easier when a word is defined in dictionary form). Because the article (webpage, actually) mentions "conditioning experiments". Definitely not a verb. Actually, maybe a verb. Maybe it's a noun-adjective. A noun, that means. A noun-adjective-verb.
Okay, screw the part of speech attempt.
Conditioning is a type of reaction, I guess (not good at this, please forgive me if I define it drastically differently--inform me, too), when you are accustomed to a certain result when you go about making a certain cause. For example, the book. Every time they did the weird dance thing when the light was on, food would come out. The dance was the cause, food was the result. So they were conditioned (see, this time it's a verb!) to dance every time the light was on. The light was an assigned period of time in which they could attain food. I guess this is a form of Variable Duration, although it's not that accurate. Variable Duration is that you do a certain action during a certain period of time, fully, from the beginning of that "certain period" to the end, to bring about the result you want. For example, rubbing two sticks to make a fire. You have to keep on doing that action (of rubbing the sticks) during the "certain period" (which is the time it takes to make a fire) in order to bring about the "certain result" (which is fire).
Similarly, but not so similarly, they had that assigned time, which was the time which the light was blinking and there were random whispering, to dance, which would bring about the food.

Assuming you have read through the article I have given you (technically I didn't give it to you, the Sean@betabunny.com dude who wrote the article did), I will now use terms that might usually need an explanation (I'm probably going to end up describing them anyhow).
So, obviously, the little pellets of meat are the reinforcement. Because how else could you survive in the house of stairs?
Reinforcement (here I go again) is the thing that everyone is after, the thing that will reinforce the people or subjects to do what you want them to do, which in the book, is dance. And in the circumstances of the book, food was a necessity, and so, that was the reinforement.
They became so obsessed in the fact that food was all they needed, they forgot they were just in a building with a bunch of stairs, and that there was a way out, that humans were behind this, and that people were controlling them. They just had foodfoodfood on their mind, which exposed the animal-like thoughts and instincts humans have had, and still do have. We just express them in a more, as we may call it, "civilized" way.
Oh shoot. I had something really important to say, but then I forgot.
Whatever... D:

~

Okay, so I got sidetracked this morning, and I started looking up blogger templates, then I got this whole template thing and I spent half the day editing it and doing the html coding stuff for my other blog, so I am lost. This post must be so cut up.
You probably have no idea what I mean.
Anyhow,
What am I supposed to continue?
ooooh.
Okay. So.
At the ending, it shows that all of the conditioning done to the three of them (Abigail, Oliver, and Blossom), changed them into straightforward people who were coldminded and only intent on doing what they were supposed to do. They seemed inhuman, almost, uncaring, and extremely focused and alert. They did not have open space for affection, fun, or love. Love, as in just friendliness.
They were businesslike.
Here is a quote from page 156, as Mr. Sleator writes:

"[Abigail, Oliver, and Blossom's] terse, slightly crouching posture; the way their eyes slid constantly from side to side; their quick, furtive gestures--when Abigail brushed back her hair is was not a luxuriant movement as it once had been, but quick and businesslike, as though to keep the hand poised for something more important."

It is evident that Abigail has changed.
And this is where I'll start writing about the characters.

Lola, for one. She's the tough one, the independent one, with clear leadership. But there's one downside which has brought all the hatred down on her. She expects competence. She has a short patience. She expects that everyone would think quickly, straightforward as her, and that if they don't, well, they're stupid.
Which is a bad thing, because Blossom goes forth on pinching her every inch of her mental and phsyical body using that little downside of her personality.
She does, however, have the ability to see what she had done. Many a times, she would apologize after yelling at the other four in exasperation, frustration, and impatience.
And she goes for what she thinks is right. She stands strong when others waver against her. She's brave, hard-core, and isn't easily moveable, in terms of changing her mind from what she thinks is right. We see many people like this in society today.

Blossom is the spoiled brat who has to get whatever she wants in her way. This is easily portayed, as her mental appearance matches with her physical. Fat and careless--except for food. Food is the prime. Everything for food, which is probably what brought out her inner evil-ness.
She is canny and quick in thinking out things that will get people on her side, so she can use them to go against the people she hates, and also to get the things she wants. She is very good at persuasion and talking, so she is good at lying, and all sorts of talking sort of stuff.
Ever since Blossom and Lola went out to go to the toilet, I knew Blossom would be the mean one. I knew she would do something bad that would hurt Lola.
Blossom is the quick, canny, businesslike people who manipulate people by making them on her side, and getting what she wants. We see many people like this in society today.


Abigail is what my mom says, the "most dangerous" of people. They don't have a definite thought or choice. They are easily swayed, and easily manipulated. They have half of an opinion, so that with one or two sentences, that person is convinced.
She is one who cares about what others think and not what she should do. She is the person who is afraid easily. A bystander, almost. She will probably do something bad just because she thinks others will dislike her if she does not. She does not go with the thoughts, but "with the flow (of others)." ("Go with the flow" quote does not fit in, I know... /:)

Peter is like the character that changes sides. Not as in from bad side to good or vice versa, but personality-wise. Maybe it's not even that he changes, but that the "inner him" is brought out. Who knows?
At first, Peter is this dull, slightly ignorant guy who's always daydreaming about the 'good old times' when he was with his friend Jasper, who always took care of him. He's extremely dependent and careful of things. When he is in a point of trouble, he always waits for someone to figure it out for him. He is always trying to be on the safe sides, with the least percentage of risk as possible; [Sleator, 5~6] "No, he couldn't go up them; he couldn't go down either. What if he should get dizzy again, and slip, or take the wrong step? No, it was safer to stay here, and wait."
Here is a quote that gives some proof: (This is the beginning, when he is randomly taken to the house of stairs and stuck there) "He wrapped his arms around himself and dropped his head onto his chest, closing his eyes, and tried his best not to move, or to think," (Sleator, 4).
This does not seem to prove much, but this is the reaction of when he is first there. He is not curious to see what is happening, but rather, he decides to shrink back and 'try not to think,' which is a rather idle move on his part.

He goes into a serious trance, that could smother his mind, for he goes into trances that he stays mesmerized in, for perhaps minutes after minutes after minutes, and it would take longer and longer every time to awaken out of it. And only Oliver can wake him. Which is creepy. But makes sense, because Peter is dreaming about the orphanage he was in that was nice, where Jasper was, where he was always taken care of and had no worries. And Oliver reminded him of Jasper.
He depends his mind on those trances to survive.

When he begins to change, it is frightening to him, as Mr. Sleator writes on page 104, "The responsibility was frightening, and heavy to bear, No one had ever depended on him; he had never been strong enough or good enough at anything for that. It was he who depended on others, on Oliver, on Jasper." When he decides to go against the machine with Lola, he is frightened that Lola suddenly says that he is not just a part of, but an essential part of the plan, that without him it would not work.
What really intrigues me is the way that Lola gets Peter out of the habit of trances. It would take a great deal--an extremely great deal--of logical and observational smarts to figure this out. Yet this is what happens when you are scientifically tested. You start doing and thinking things you never would do normally under normal pressure.
She started manipulating things studied by psychologists, subjects that are more complex than just straightforward rewards. It is really amazing that she could be so observant and smart to just know about Peter and his thoughts. She realized that she had to reward Peter in order to keep him out of his trances.
And soon, she found the key. She found the reason he was so determined to stay with her against the machine. "It was several things, all connected. It was the reward of winning over the machine, which he hated and feared; it was the reward of feeling strong and independent, of having his own identity, a feeling he had never known; it was the reward of caring about her, of being essential to her plan and not letting her down; it was even the reward of her caring about him," (Sleator, 126). She realized that although she had those same rewards for her, Peter was weaker, and thus the reward was stronger on him. She realized that he needed to be reminded of these rewards.
It was this that would become his intangible rewards for staying out of trances.

Not only this, but also her method of going about with keeping Peter away from his trances also interested me. She knew somehow that the reward would only work if it was given at just the right time. She would remind him how important he is, how beating the machine would be so triumphant, and how much she needs him. And she would only say this a certain time after he got out of his trance. And every time he got back into the trance, she would say it a longer time after, so that the span in between Peter coming out of his trance and Lola complimenting him widened every time. And in that in-between-time, she would do the silent treatment on him.
With this brilliant idea, Peter began to awaken more easily from his trances, and eventually wake up himself. After a while, he did not have those trances at all.
It was this, the disappearance of the trances, the overcoming of the trances, that strengthened Peter psychologically.


[Not finished yet]
But I'll just publish it. :D


Sean@betabunny.com. A Behavioral Approach to Video Game Design. Betabunny.com, N.D. Web. 2 Jan. 2012.
Sleator, William. House of Stairs. New York: E. P. Dutton & Co., 1974. Print.

^first edition, by the way. :D