kemasminda

 reflexivity: the embodied researcher; looking at yourself looking in the mirror. How are YOU affecting your work, a way to approach interpretation as the same part of the same whole as the same truth.  Reflexive: introspective/self-reflection, looking at your own implication in a situation while creating the text; the influences absorbed and presented ,decisions and effects in the creative process, how and what it says of who you are as a writer in this frame of time aware from conception to process to draft 1 2 3 Response to reading poem for the first time? Resonate? What you like? Why? What dyou dislike? Why? What is the truth behind this poem? REVISING Essay on poem written diction, figurative language, syntax, arrangement of lines, breaks and white space, grammar. Pick best lines Experiment with verbs tweak suggest Highlight, group, images STRUCTURE-  HIGHLIGHTS SALIENT POINTS This essay unpacks the creative process of my two poems titled () and (), on the focal po...

https://www.thoughtco.com/stylistics-language-studies-1692000 Literary linguistics (aka stylistics) IS the application of linguistic theory to literature Stylistics can be considered a process of textual interpretation by using language comprehension and sociodynamics. Literary theory: The author's choice of words and arrangement of words, sentences, and paragraphs to produce a specific effect on the reader. The style allows the author to shape how the reader experiences the work. E.g. Simple and complex vocabulary changes the reading experience even though they tell the story. What is the most important thing in Stylistics? History and Cultural studies! Then comes the author’s biographical speculation (author’s worldview and bias), and then the pretentiousness; an analyst turns into a creative writer?? This is where we turn to literary linguistics (drawing on linguistics, discourse analysis, cognitive science): Focusing on; Text, Textuality, Texture. 3 POV techniques:  omniscient ...

[15:49, 9/23/2021] Aestheticism does not pander to society's standards of what is moral or immoral. It is the appreciation of art for its Beauty. To tie the case for aestheticism is to argue for the separation of art from morality, and only the morally weak people would be influenced by immoral art, instead of admiring Art for Art's own Beauty and its lessons. Mainstream Victorian culture saw art and literature as a means of self-improvement or a spur to good works. Swinburne’s poetry instead presented readers with moral ambiguity and provided them no comfortable psychological position. The movement against aestheticism can be said to primarily stem from the concern regarding the educational values of Art that are ingrained in society (e.g. depiction of violence, romanticizing immoral acts); creating a juxtaposition/intertwining of Beauty and immoral or "dirty" Art is unnatural as it disrupts the developmental thoughts of those who are still formulating their sense of...

  i mostly believe that at this point (of digitalization), information in itself is subjective. Subjective in the sense where its utility comes from our ability to firmly exercise our stream of /direction/ while using it. We draw information, from Wells filled by scholars for centuries. It is only fitting that we guard the Well of information well— by ensuring its purity of essence, by protecting it from potential harm (from poison, contamination, etc.) I believe that we should not spend our time bloating up ourselves with its water—just to vomit it out into the sand. Humans (by chance/design) have been granted the ability to be guardians of this Well of Knowledge, Wisdom, and Understanding. We should exercise our thirst well, not gorge ourselves blindly. We should teach the new generations to be better guardians of the Well, to not muddy its waters, lest we fall victim to self-inflicted intellectual drought and pestilence. i believe that the Well of Information is subjective, in t...

 RAFFLESIA (thought process) Generates heat,  miasma, stink, flies, According to one offender interviewed for the study: “Yes, I was fully aware that my decision was illegal, but I was encouraged to take the risk in order to make ends meet for my family.” Another summarised his predicament as follows: “But you know, if I were working, I would not have gone and done this. It’s just sometimes when you are in [a] tough situation, you resort to desperate measures.” While another simply said: “There is no money where I am from. That’s why I was tempted.” Other reasons included a desire to emulate the lifestyle of their peers who profited from wildlife crime or those who gave into peer pressure. According to one of the offenders: “It was peer pressure that got me into this. My friends were older than me and they used to poach. They were driving cars and I wished to be like them. I felt bad because I was always with them and I did not match their standard, so I ended up doing illegal...

“Look!” Yong whispered to her little brother as she cracked the door open a little further. Within seconds, Han’s head popped up below her chin as he peeked at the sleeping dog. Its leg was pedalling furiously. He looked up at Yong and giggled in delight. “I wonder what it’s dreaming about.” “Shhh, you’ll wake it up.” Yong hissed. “Go help Intercom set the table!” Whilst pedalling on its back in the cramped grey yard, tongue haplessly lolling on warm asphalt, the dog felt all the smells of the cold night wind rushing — as it ran across a wasteland of rotten fields, leaping over dappled pools of moonlight. Nose primed and quivering, it sniffed the bitter notes, the crackling browns of dustiness, the strong alkaline crunch of chemicals … and latched onto a new scent that pulsed in the air. Curious, the dog bounded home in fits and starts, following the metallic smell, ears cocked in the direction of the dilapidated barn. “Aish. Heel.” came Master’s low growl. He was pushing a creaking wh...

  We love to think that we gave life to honour, to passion, to love. That may be so, but  A spilling of blood, sprout.  Animate us pushing flower blooming, but don't know what kind of flower Some may eat us. Some will erupt and kill us Some can't even grow fully It has been a year since the seeds stopped sprouting.  The boy by the sea sat on a bench, clutching his bag with his head bowed. A mass grave lay buried below him. the coral reef, an entire ecosystem.  Man forged values  Gave life to honor  Courage  Love  But time of death: began almost as its birth  Today I saw a Miracle. A sprout of the righteous.  Amidst all the deaths my generation has wrought unto this earth, you have given me new life.  Life is sprouting again. His tears were trickling down his cheeks. Don't fail it.  Reclamation  The race began the moment he awoke at the starting point. He was running, that's good, but running in the wrong direction. Th...

OVER-CAFFEINATED OVER CORAL  CITY It was by the dull orange sea where I was washing down bread with a coffee ikat-tepi. Boy and a nice woman sat close by on a bench beside me. I glanced at them, briefly, eyeing Boy’s bag—it was previously packed with lunch. Boy had his head bowed into his book, and was listening to the woman telling a story, a true one, truly to which I will re-tell to you. The woman was wise. She told him of the great feasts we had before it all ended. I remember those. The clear waters that teemed with life, and a great reef sparkling, iridescent, visible despite the mulling of the white tipped waves above. “But where are they now?” Boy piqued. He pointed at a picture in his book and gestured at the water’s dull surface. “It says that this is where we see the colours!” He looked close to tears at that point. Bless the Boy’s soul. As I looked away again to focus on my beverage, the nice woman began unfolding history. She knew. The mass grave lay buried below,...

 “Which Precinct are you from?” The dull tone of the question booms again like a death knell inside your skull. Muffled cries from the protestors ring incessantly from the treeline. Mouth dry, you try to stop your insides from reverberating in abandon before answering. “No Precinct. I’m from Earth.” you finally say. You now know what they actually want to hear when they ask that question. It didn’t go well the last time when you answered differently.  You curl your fingers and feel the nails biting into your palms as the OrderOfficer begins scribbling in her notepad.  Dimly, you hear the protestors' voices creeping closer, floating in and out of your comprehension. They have always shouted too quickly.  Despite the obvious fear, your heart maintains a sluggish trudge, obstinately fighting the atmosphere. Even after the final transition over to the Colony of Dirt, its air is still unnaturally heavy for your lungs. A tricep finally stops its spasms, and you feel draine...