Disclaimer
Welcome to my blog. Before anything else please follow these rules : No ripping, spamming, and any type of childish acts.
Respect is a must. Best-viewed with screen resolutions 1024x768. Enjoy your stay and have fun!
Navigations
Profile
Blog
Links
Credits
1 comments
The trumpet call
"I'm starving!" My sister announced as she entered the living room. I stared up at her, my mind stlil whirling madly within, clutching the Giver in my hand as though it was a lifebuoy. I glowered at her, the intruder, but inside I thought of the phrase "Precision of language."Hadn't Jonas said the exact same thing before being reprimanded by an Elder for "imprecision of language?""Exaggeration. Imprecision of language," said the sly voice inside my head which always came out every time I showed signs of weakness. I stared blankly at the cover of the book, shocked at what I had just finished reading. My bad habit of reading incessantly, greedily and hungrily had led to a throbbing, dull ache at the back of my head which I quelled by getting up to have dinner.Even through dinner, I was unable to dismember the thread of my thoughts. It always strayed to jonas and the Giver. When I had read the Giver, the first person I thought of was the Giver himself, but even as I helped myself to food, my thoughts strayed to Jonas. I mean, he was a Giver himself, wasn't he, by giving memories to Gabe? After dinner, my mother sat on the couch, her head drooping over a book. She looked worn and weary. As a teacher, my mother's working hours were regular, but she got home looking worn and exhausted every day, which made me wonder if she was dealing with hooligans instead of students.Looking at her somehow reminded me of Jonas's mother.Both of them were mothers. Yet, why were they so different? Maybe it's because of the blood ties, I decided.Over the years I learnt more and more about cherishing what I have. That was the reason why I felt so disturbed and sad after reading the Giver. One thing I cherished the most was having parents. Jonas's mother was not Jonas's real mother. This fact would stun ANYBODY in real life, but in the community featured in the Giver, it was just a normal, common thing. Jonas's real mother was probably a Birth Mother who was already among the Old. Thinking about the fact that Jonas had never known his biological mother made my heart throb with pain and pity. This made me wonder what I would do if my parents were not around anymore.I would definitely not be able to smile again. There would be no need to speak about even being strong, or loving my so-called parents. I flipped on the television, which was turned to a documentary channel, featuring elephants.I watched, horror piling dully up inside me, as the elephants were gored to death, on the ground, the grass a horrible mass of blood. My thoughts flitted unwillingly to Jonas and the war scene. Lois Lowry's language was rich enough to allow me to form a visual image of the scene itself. The elephants on TV were a horrible sight to behold. It was difficult, terrible, even, to decide whith was worse--the elephants, which were lying motionlessly in that large pool of blood on the ground, or the workers, who were tearing the tusks away from the elephants brutally with an air of detachedness, as though they did this every single day. I shied my eyes away from the television, my hands groping wildly for the remote control, but yet, my gaze refused to shift away from the horrible sight. Remaining glued to the television, it refused to leave. I watched, repulsed and angry, as the workers yelled to each other in a foreign language I never knew and would never learn. The speaker's cool, calm and detached voice flooded over the trumpet call of an elephant emerging through the trees, but it could not cover nor mask the agony and pain twisting through that trumpet call as the elephant surveyed its family member on the ground.I didn't know if elephants could cry, and I didn't wish to find out. I watched numbly as a KFC advertisement jingled its way onto the television set, before allowing my gaze to fall on the book lying limply on the table."Stop thinking about the book," I told myself sternly."Jie jie, is that your book? I wanna read it!" My sister's whiny voice was always more than enough to pull people out of their deepest daydreams and reveries. "Is it good?"I saw her earnest expression, filled with curiosity and eagerness. To my utmost surprise, I foudn my mouth moving to form the word "Yes."As I tucked myself in, staring dully at the ceiling, I felt that my saying that the Giver was "good" was an understatement. It was glorious.Much as it encompassed pain, sadness and sameness, it was a beautiful, moving book, which made me think in the shoes of the characters, like how Jonas felt, or even how his parents felt.It made me think, more than I had ever done after reading a book, Harry Potter, of course, excluded. The Giver and Harry Potter had made me think about things at such a depth that even I myself feel surprised. I suppose and like to think that I think about the Giver in such depth not just because of marks, or the blog project or class discussions, but because like I like it, as well.
Profile
The trumpet call
"I'm starving!" My sister announced as she entered the living room. I stared up at her, my mind stlil whirling madly within, clutching the Giver in my hand as though it was a lifebuoy. I glowered at her, the intruder, but inside I thought of the phrase "Precision of language."Hadn't Jonas said the exact same thing before being reprimanded by an Elder for "imprecision of language?""Exaggeration. Imprecision of language," said the sly voice inside my head which always came out every time I showed signs of weakness. I stared blankly at the cover of the book, shocked at what I had just finished reading. My bad habit of reading incessantly, greedily and hungrily had led to a throbbing, dull ache at the back of my head which I quelled by getting up to have dinner.Even through dinner, I was unable to dismember the thread of my thoughts. It always strayed to jonas and the Giver. When I had read the Giver, the first person I thought of was the Giver himself, but even as I helped myself to food, my thoughts strayed to Jonas. I mean, he was a Giver himself, wasn't he, by giving memories to Gabe? After dinner, my mother sat on the couch, her head drooping over a book. She looked worn and weary. As a teacher, my mother's working hours were regular, but she got home looking worn and exhausted every day, which made me wonder if she was dealing with hooligans instead of students.Looking at her somehow reminded me of Jonas's mother.Both of them were mothers. Yet, why were they so different? Maybe it's because of the blood ties, I decided.Over the years I learnt more and more about cherishing what I have. That was the reason why I felt so disturbed and sad after reading the Giver. One thing I cherished the most was having parents. Jonas's mother was not Jonas's real mother. This fact would stun ANYBODY in real life, but in the community featured in the Giver, it was just a normal, common thing. Jonas's real mother was probably a Birth Mother who was already among the Old. Thinking about the fact that Jonas had never known his biological mother made my heart throb with pain and pity. This made me wonder what I would do if my parents were not around anymore.I would definitely not be able to smile again. There would be no need to speak about even being strong, or loving my so-called parents. I flipped on the television, which was turned to a documentary channel, featuring elephants.I watched, horror piling dully up inside me, as the elephants were gored to death, on the ground, the grass a horrible mass of blood. My thoughts flitted unwillingly to Jonas and the war scene. Lois Lowry's language was rich enough to allow me to form a visual image of the scene itself. The elephants on TV were a horrible sight to behold. It was difficult, terrible, even, to decide whith was worse--the elephants, which were lying motionlessly in that large pool of blood on the ground, or the workers, who were tearing the tusks away from the elephants brutally with an air of detachedness, as though they did this every single day. I shied my eyes away from the television, my hands groping wildly for the remote control, but yet, my gaze refused to shift away from the horrible sight. Remaining glued to the television, it refused to leave. I watched, repulsed and angry, as the workers yelled to each other in a foreign language I never knew and would never learn. The speaker's cool, calm and detached voice flooded over the trumpet call of an elephant emerging through the trees, but it could not cover nor mask the agony and pain twisting through that trumpet call as the elephant surveyed its family member on the ground.I didn't know if elephants could cry, and I didn't wish to find out. I watched numbly as a KFC advertisement jingled its way onto the television set, before allowing my gaze to fall on the book lying limply on the table."Stop thinking about the book," I told myself sternly."Jie jie, is that your book? I wanna read it!" My sister's whiny voice was always more than enough to pull people out of their deepest daydreams and reveries. "Is it good?"I saw her earnest expression, filled with curiosity and eagerness. To my utmost surprise, I foudn my mouth moving to form the word "Yes."As I tucked myself in, staring dully at the ceiling, I felt that my saying that the Giver was "good" was an understatement. It was glorious.Much as it encompassed pain, sadness and sameness, it was a beautiful, moving book, which made me think in the shoes of the characters, like how Jonas felt, or even how his parents felt.It made me think, more than I had ever done after reading a book, Harry Potter, of course, excluded. The Giver and Harry Potter had made me think about things at such a depth that even I myself feel surprised. I suppose and like to think that I think about the Giver in such depth not just because of marks, or the blog project or class discussions, but because like I like it, as well.
My name is Alysia.
Designer :