English A1 Blog

This is just a small token of appreciation:

For this last part of the blogs I just wanted to reiterate how I am loving the poems by Yates and Heaney. I used to depreciate poetry because it had always been presented as incomprehensible, fancy, and in a very impersonal way. (This may sound like I’m being a suck up, but not really) I think Lissy’s way to present the poems we have read is a great way because if I am not mistaken these are poems that she personally likes a lot, and they are not just ‘famous’ poems one must read for high school.

I especially liked Digging by Heaney and The Cap and Bells by Yates. These two were just filled with great imagery and a meaning behind each that I loved. Moreover, these were comprehensible! Not only easy to understand at first glance, but they had a clear meaning that was simple to interpret. This is something I consider makes poems more approachable.

Well, well. This blog is about the excerpt of the New Yorker we are meant to analyse for each English Blog Session. Since we just recently turned in a Paper 2 that I wrote on the first impression of titles and how they reinforced or altered our opinions once the text was explored, I figured it could be interesting to do a similar, yet not exact, analysis on the piece of work I found in the New Yorker website. To begin with, I found this short story in the fiction section of the website, which is why it caught my attention. The title is The Autobiography of J.G.B., interestingly written by J.G. Ballard (J.G.B). Funny, huh? I say it is an interesting choice because from what I know autobiographies are not pieces of work catalogued as fiction.

Anyway, I am writing this paragraph without having read the text previously so that my first impression is actually my first impression, and is not altered by the content of the short story instead. To begin with, as mentioned in the introduction, what caught my interest (and I must congratulate the author for doing such a good job) was that the story was under the section of fiction; the title mentions an autobiography! Also, by not stating the name, just the initials, J.G.B., I am intrigued to find out who this person is, and why his name is not mentioned. I am not sure why, but the title somehow gave me the idea it could be a mystery story. Weird, I know, but the initials were just too suspicious. Plus, the picture gave some information away, I think. A man who seems to be standing all alone in a deserted Trafalgar Square in London, or perhaps Time Square in New York (I wouldn’t know about this last one). (As I begin reading I am informed it is in fact Trafalgar Square – nice! =] ).

As I read the story my first impressions are somewhat reinforced. It is indeed a very mysterious situation. B, the main and only character whose name is never known, wakes up to find that he is now living in a deserted world where every single soul has vanished, every living thing has disappeared, except for birds. Interestingly at first glance I do not see any sort of autobiographical sense in this text. However, after exploring it more in depth I reached several conclusions. The whole story is just a way to represent B’s life. The emptiness in the streets and in the world, as described in the excerpt, represents the loneliness and solitude that reign the world of B. When he goes in search of his friends and finds no one it shows how he feels abandoned, left out, excluded. The birds are the only things that accompany him in this lonesome journey. Why birds, I wonder. Let’s begin with the general features of birds. They migrate. They fly. This may imply a sense of freedom, flying away, reaching the sky. Perhaps B is not so lonely after all; perhaps this is what he has been waiting for – freedom.

Overall, I loved the title, and I loved the story. It was short but it was so interesting and captivating. I know see why it is under the fiction section even though it is an autobiography. The story itself is fiction, yet the meaning behind it is the autobiographical part. It was very ingenious by the author to approach his ideas in such a way. The title not only reinforced my point of view but it also diverted it in a way, because it broadened it in a way I could take a look at it with a deeper insight. I know the analysis is not thorough and much more can be deduced from this text but this was just a small overview of what I consider a lovely piece of writing.

Has there ever been a time in life

When you’ve felt that,

Even if you have friends and family you that claim they love you,

You are a complete outcast?

That even if you have a nice life,

You are still not happy?

Even if you have friends,

You feel left out?

And even if your parents say they love you,

You feel unloved?

You live life as if all of this was normal.

As if what you feel is what everyone else feels.

That everything should be, and is, that way.

You live a life of lies,

Where you don’t have the courage to talk to anyone,

And think everything will end up fine.

Until one day, when you feel you’ve lied enough,

And just can’t do it anymore,

Everyone finds out the truth.

You had pictured this day many times before,

And just as dreams are,

It didn’t seem so bad…

But that day comes,

And all that you had imagined is a complete lie.

Instead of help offers or concerns

You lose total trust from those who you love,

And instead of understanding

There is only yelling.

You try to explain yourself,

But words won’t come out!

You’re stuck!

When you feel like talking

There is no one to listen,

And suddenly,

You feel completely alone in this world!

You want to talk to someone,

But you don’t trust anyone, anymore.

And there is no one you can think of that deserves to listen to your crap.

Friends say they’ll always be there for you…

But what happens when you need them

And you just can’t get hold of them?

You know there is something wrong with you,

But you don’t know what it is!

It’s killing you slowly,

And no one seems to care!

Even you don’t think it’s anything important…

Until you cannot handle it anymore,

And you give up on everything you have left.

Life is meaningless as you think about it more and more.

Did you ever read books in which the character was sad, troubled, depressed?

And you thought: “Wow, that won’t happen to me… my life is perfect.”

But things change in a matter of seconds,

And the happy life you lived turns into your worst nightmare.

And those problems you have

You just don’t know what they are.

You think it’s a friend annoying you,

Or your period,

Or a bad day,

Or simply bad luck…

But they go on for days,

And weeks,

And months.

You’re dying to know what the f***ing problem is

And you have no clue!!!

What do you do?

You want answers now,

And you hate not knowing anything at all!

No one can help you!

Your parents, who are supposed to support you and guide you,

Are now a problem too,

And you just want to run away

To an unknown place.

Alone.

Forever.

You need time to think,

To clear things up

And sort them out.

But no one will give you space!

You are not at peace with yourself,

And as long as things are that way,

You won’t be at peace with anyone else.

And what if there is one,

Only one,

Person in this world that you need right now,

And that person is not there?!

It’s the only person that will listen,

The only person you can talk to.

But the person is just

NOT THERE!

Ok, this I think has been, and hopefully will be, the first and only deathly, depressing, emo, suicidal text I write. I wrote it a while ago when I still lived in Switzerland and I was having lots of problems with myself, my parents, and some other people. I know its quite simple, with short words, but I hope it gets the message through. It was a time when I felt trapped and alone, when I had no one to talk to and had trust issues with everyone. I had made many mistakes and well, lied to my parents and friends about many things, and I had no one to share my feelings with. I was furious with myself, not with anyone else in particular, but that anger was then transmitted to those people who lived around me. It was a horrible experience that changed me completely. Since then I have become a really cold-hearted person who does not give much importance to my feelings. The structure of the poem was not really thought of, but just sort of broken into the pieces I felt I had become, because I felt I was shattered. There is really no rhyme because my thoughts just stormed out of my mind into the paper and I feel that if I alter the original structure then the mood and the feelings I want to transmit will be lost.

Ode to cereal

Crunch.

Crunch.

Crunch.

The sound of teeth

Munching away

The grains of wheat

Enlighten my day.

Whether it’s chocolate,

Strawberry,

Honey,

Or yogurt.

The sound of the crackles

When milk splashes

Rubbing against

The wonderful flakes

Satisfies my pains.

Resting on the bowl,

The clock ticking away,

Gives the cereal

The delicious sogginess

That I so love to indulge in.

Whether its morning,

Evening,

Or midnight

Oh you cereal

Are my delight!

For every spoonful

I bring to my mouth

It gives me tickles

And my skin stands out.

Oh so crunchy

Yet so yummy

I want you, cereal

In my tummy.

It’s not lust,

Just pure love.

Oh so peaceful

Like a dove.

You are resting

In the bowl;

Soaked by milk

You are nesting.

Oh you cereal

That I love

You are the one

That I’ll have.