A2 Summer Task

My area of interest for this investigation is the effect of alcohol on language.


The first article I found was about the effect of alcohol when learning a new language.
https://www.brainscape.com/blog/2011/04/foreign-languages-drunk/
 This article highlights the point that grammar and pronunciation are redundant in such states.

The second article I found spoke of the long-term effects of alcohol on the brain and regions involved in language processing.
http://phys.org/news/2009-03-brain-language-skills-spite-alcohol.html

The next source suggests that language abilities are reduced upon alcohol consumption because the toxin just makes us care less about what we  do and how we speak.
Vhttp://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-2723630/Drunk-words-really-ARE-sober-thoughts-Alcohol-doesn-t-impair-ability-control-actions-just-makes-care-less.html

http://dialectblog.com/2011/12/27/drunken-speech/
This article highlights the key issues found in speech when intoxicated.

http://www.phonetik.uni-muenchen.de/Bas/BasALCeng.html
provides samples of participants speaking before and after intoxication.

Short Story: This Girl

There were so many times that I just wanted to curl up and end everything. So many moments that I just wanted to cry until I passed out from dehydration, as dramatic as that may be. It was just too tiring; the want and the need for acceptance. Constantly shaping myself into the exact person I was expected to be. It was crippling. I would be quiet or loud. Intelligent or incompetent. Loving or vengeful. There was never a compromise; because I was that girl who would be what you want, when you want. I was the girl with no true opinions, I would merely reiterate yours.

     Perhaps there was something within me that wanted to change, but at the same time, I didn’t want to change. I feared being myself because I feared rejection. I was terrified. Terrified of walking to lessons alone, having lunch at a table with people scared to sit by me, spending weekend after weekend after weekend alone. I. Was. Terrified.

    I was never like this before. I was never the girl to conform to your desires. But 16 years by myself made me change that. Although, it is perhaps sadder than I am making it appear, because I wasn’t alone for the majority of the time as I was surrounded by people whom I believed truly loved me for me. But I, like many other lonely souls, pathetically believed it. Somehow I had convinced myself that I, Ariella Morgan, was good enough, And boy was I wrong.

All of a sudden I was alone and the rumours began. But what the people around me thought of me, paled in comparison to what I thought of myself. Because it was from then that I lost it. I cried and cried, hoping that would solve something. I wish I was onlooking on this girl from afar, the one sat in front of her oversized mirror, eyes puffy from crying and her face dark from mascara pouring down. Then I became silent, I would hardly utter a word, you would never believe it now.

     I wish people knew me before. I was once happy, I smiled; because now I can’t look in the mirror without breaking down and crying because all I feel is a deathly inferiority. All I feel is that I’ll never be enough. I can’t even console myself- nothing I can say, nothing I can do. I cannot even aid myself through this lifetime of hurt. I can admit now that I’m fighting inner demons which are tearing me apart; a mere shell of me remains, I’ve even lost my heart. This is the tale of my torture, it’s pretty twisted and even I’m confused. Because the blame lies in no-one except myself. I look in this stupid, shockingly clean mirror and i just think, ‘What do I get for this?’. Is this all there is? Is there truly nothing for me. But this globe is cruel, it won’t give you what’s “deserved”.

    Would you believe I spend sleepless nights, crying in my bed? I just lay there and shield my soul from the monsters invading my head. That sounds worse than I intended, because I’m not crazy. Although that line defining sanity, is so far gone it’s become a dot.

    I just wanted to be accepted. I wanted to be loved. I wanted to be what they needed, because I needed them to need me. Honesty, I’m sick of being fake, and I’m sick of being me; though I don’t know what’s me anymore because it’s been so long. So long since I’ve truly smiled or laughed, so long since I’ve done what I wanted. Because I haven’t been Ariella for a while. I’m just a reflection of you. Because would you like me as much if I did what I wanted to do?

        That’s all it is with me though, ‘was’ and ‘-ed’. The past is where I live, and down there it’s just me. And it’s sad down here too, as I bittersweetly weep because although my body’s living, my soul is ultimately defeat.

***



So, I wrote this short story based on a poem I wrote a few weeks ago, so I'll just add that in too...



I wish I was onlooking
On this girl from afar.
This one inhaling shaky breaths,
Her lips slightly ajar.
Soft smiles grace her features,
Maybe a tear escapes her eye.
When she sees happy people and couples
Walking on by.
Maybe once she had someone.
These memories evade my thoughts.
After all she's frequently forgotten,
Because her efforts were for naught.
I wish people knew her before,
When she was happy and smiled.
I wish she could look in the mirror
Without breaking down as she cried.
I wish I could console her,
Provide her with soothing, soft words.
But not even I could aid her,
Through this lifetime of hurt.

She is fighting inner demons
And they are tearing her apart.
Only a shell of her remains
And it is breaking my heart.
This is the tale of a young girls torture.
One so broken and abused.
But the blame lies not in her mother, brother, uncle or a friend.
Nor a psycho, a lover or a stranger met in bed.
The blame lies in her views and thoughts on herself.
As she looks in the mirror and thinks,
'Where is my wealth.'
Surely she's entitled to something
After all she endures.
But this world is cruel,
It doesn't give you what is yours.

This girl spent too many sleepless nights
Crying in her bed.
Shielding her soul
From the monsters invading her head.
Don't get me wrong,
Crazy is something she's not.
But that line defining sanity
Is so far gone its become a dot.
This is a girl
I wish I could see distantly.
But that is near impossible;
This girl is me.

Style Models

My first style model is a dramatic monologue titled The Not So Perfect Child and it is written by D.M Larson and was featured in the published play, Secrets of My Soul.

The piece follows a girl who is struggling with her self esteem and believes that she is unimportant compared to her sister. The piece has little character evolution except for the transition from anger to sadness. It also uses ‘old’ language and words are ordered in a way we would not now order them.

 The piece uses no stage direction in terms of movement, but it does, however, have stage directions in relation to emotion and voice. The piece is 323 words, which is much lower than my desired word count (500-900 words)

My piece will be between 900 and 1500 words, and will be about a teenage girl struggling with a relationship (either romantic or familial). Like the style model, there will be little character evolution, however there may be an understanding for the character.

 I will be using stage directions to show both movement and emotion, as if it were a script for a play or movie.

http://www.freedrama.net/notperfect.html

My second style model are a series of diary entries from The Diary of Anne Frank. The excerpts i have chosen give an overview of the entire situation over an extended period of time. I find the diary entry interesting because it is not the author writing/talking to themself instead it is the author trying to make anyone listen.

My diary entry will also be between 900 and 1500 words and will be separated into several separate entries.

http://alphahistory.com/holocaust/anne-frank-diary-1942-44/

I have now decided in instead doing a short story, which is simialar to a monologue, and a debate article. I have decided on a debate article as a diary entry is very similar to a short story and a monologue because of the language used. Whereas doing a short story I can use more imaginative and descriptive language and to contrast, in my article I will use more formal, factual and subject specific lexis.
     My style model for my short story will still be The Not So Perfect Child written by D.M Larson as it has a similar theme. However, my style model for my debate article will be a piece about the introduction of Coke Life.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/finance/newsbysector/retailandconsumer/11050410/Taste-Test-does-Coca-Cola-Life-taste-better-than-regular-Coke.html

That time I ran away

I wish I could say this was a story of the time I ran away and saw the beauty in the world and realise that every second is precious, but instead, this was the time that I went on a leisurely stroll up the hill and I twisted my ankle so I stopped to wait for my step dad to pick me up. 

A few days ago I experienced the worse bug I had in a while. I usually call it 'seasonal sickness', it's essentially just my body getting used to the change in temperature. Weird. I know. However I, being the teenage girl I am, exaggerated this 'illness' to the fullest. 

At 12:34pm I woke up, ready for my day which I anticipated would be filled with boredom and sneezing. Daylight hours were usually spent watching reruns of Criminal Minds or CSI:Miami, but for some unknown reason my legs took me to the shower. 

My tired eyes glazed over, making the green tiles of my shower look like the jungle, and suddenly I was transported to the Amazon, where I stood beneath a beautiful waterfall. The water so clear that you could see your own reflection, and so clean that you would drink it with no doubt of its sanitation. 

I don't think I'll ever discover which one of my Amazonian spirit animals possessed me to go on a walk at 15:02, but somehow, in my paraplegic state I left my home. 

The interesting thing about Bath is that no matter where you look, you're 98% guaranteed to see a field. And that was the only thing which surrounded me. The one to my right was covered in a golden crop and cut into a maze for children, adults and tourists to play in; and the one to my left was reserved for the seven horses. Their grass was dying, the farmers weren't paying enough attention to both details. 

And neither was I. 

Because the next thing I knew I was on the floor. It wasn't even anything too serious. Like, have you ever been walking and your ankle just bops in and out of place. Well that's what happened to me, only I was also wearing heels. Dragging my crumpled body over to the next patch of grass, I curled up upon it, writhing in pain. I had sent my 999 text to my step-dad to come and pick me up, but I knew it would be a while before he checked his phone. So I waited. 

I waited and waited. The horses fell asleep. The farmers had come out a few times and thought nothing of my presence. And not a single car stopped to check if I was alright; although if they did I would be screaming and running for the hills because I had seen enough Criminal Minds and CSI:Miami to know how that story played out. 

All I did was wait, until even the sun left me.

Have you ever experienced a sunset? Or have you even seen one? The first time I had watched a sunset I was 7, and I didn't think much o it. I didn't drink up the vibrant colours, nor remember the thickening of the air as the freshness left it due to the day's build up of lung blocking pollution. I only thought, "oh, it's night now". But at that moment, I experienced not only the sunset. But also my surroundings. I noticed the grass which was slowly losing its life, fading into a dull yellow-brown rather than its vibrant green. I noticed the odd car or two drive past and look at me in confusion. I noticed the chirping of the birds had ceased and now silence had taken its place. I noticed that I didn't need a camera to capture the beauty, my mind was fully capable of that. 

So I guess in a way I ran away. I ran from reality and escaped into realism, but I wouldn't recommend it for several reasons. 

*I broke my ankle that day. 

*My 'seasonal sickness' turned into hayfever.

*I wasn't even allowed to touch the horses. 

*And most importantly, I missed my daily crime dramas. 

Armstrong and Miller Commentary

The Armstrong and Miller sketch is set during WW2 but was recorded in 2007, approximately when slang was evolving. The piece uses slang phrases more than we would everyday. The piece would be aimed towards mainly young people because they are the ones speaking in such a way. The purpose of this piece is mainly to entertain, however it does serve to inform the viewers of our language ‘evolution’.                                                                                                                                                                          

The sketch overuses slang phrases which shows an excessive use of hyperbole to exaggerate the idea of our failing use of language; it also helps the viewers to hear the language used in context, which makes it sound even worse. Additionally, this allows the viewers to notice the grammatical errors we are beginning to make in our speech. 

Inexplicably, the piece is set in the 1930’s/40’s, a time in which language would've been very proper, however, slang terms would be created in such a time (during the war) to code messages so that the enemy wouldn't understand. This allows us to see that language changes would be happening, although not as extreme as the ones presented in the sketch. 

Style Model Analysis

The style model I have chosen to analyse is titled, 'Charlotte Hobson: Black Earth City'. It is a piece of travel writing which I believe to be aimed at adults and the purpose is to entertain and inform. 

     Firstly, the piece uses lexis which creates vivid imagery. For example, ‘The entrance hall was underwater green,’ and ‘Rubbish two feet high which rustled in the dark.’ In addition to the creation of imagery, the piece uses subject specific lexis which links in with the idea of pollution. Also, the use of oxymorons is continued throughout the piece, for example the usage of ‘The Komendant walked past in a lordly way and was bombarded with requests.’ This shows the reader that although he appears ‘Lordly’ he is treated as a servant. Similarly, 14 different nationalities are listed in the final paragraph followed by the phrase, ‘A bubble of languages rose,’ the term ‘bubble’ suggests an exclusive circle but the listing of different nationalities contradicts this idea.

         I would also like to draw your attention to the grammar in this text. The author uses a wide variety of sentence structures. The majority of the paragraphs start with simple sentences, such as ‘The human overpopulation was equally intense.’ This creates the feeling of tension. And finally, there is very little variation in punctuation. The only punctuation used is full stops and commas, however as the text progresses speech marks are used and later semi-colons. 

About Me

About me...

So, I'm Shanae, and well you must see,
You'll never meet another the same as me.
Few share my name.
None share my thoughts.
and no other is blessed enough,
To share my cohorts.

I'm only 5'1''
So heels are my friends.
And contrary to others
I don't like weekends.
I'm also a dancer,
I am classically trained.
And my Pointe shoes and tutu's
Are forever getting stained.

I'm relatively organised,
Some call me 'too neat',
And when it comes to sports
I hate to get beat(en).
I am a strategic thinker,
I may 'get into your shoes',
And I really hate mornings,
I'll always press snooze.

I won't even lie,
I still watch Glee.
And Cory Montieth's death
Was devastating to me.
I also like crime dramas
And their thickening plots.
But I don't like bridges or boats,
And that includes yachts.

I adore Game Of Thrones,
Although I'm too young.
I must say I'll miss Tyrion,
And his pretty lame puns.

I enjoy cheesy poems,
And their dull rhyme schemes;
I must say my favourite
Is ABCB.

That's all I can think of,
So I'll leave you with that.
I can't think of a rhyme,
So avoid butterfat(?)