Angry

What makes me angry is that I often lose focus when I need to work on large projects.  This has been my downfall many times.  Even though I know exactly what I need to do, there is a lethargy that weighs me down and pulls me to entertainment websites instead, such as 9gag, Armor Games and Youtube.  There are several negative effects associated with late phase procrastination.

1.       Work quality is reduced.  Due to the time lost to procrastination and other unproductive activities, less time is allotted to the project, which compromises quality, and in some extreme cases, compromises the deadline. 

2.       Sleep quality is reduced.  Due to the schedule being pushed back to finish projects that could have been completed earlier, sleeping times are often compromised. 

3.       Attentive quality is reduced.  Aside from the fact that long hours spent in front of the computer screen are detrimental for one’s ocular health, sleep deprivation can negatively influence education quality to a substantial degree.  Inadequate sleep can result in an inability to pay attention to what the teacher is saying, and can also impede one’s ability to remember things.  Cognitive functions also deteriorate. 

Proposed solution(s):

1.       Work in public.  Peer pressure can subconsciously force your brain to focus. 

2.       Work outside without a charger.  The use of a battery limits your working timeframe, giving you a concrete time window to finish your assignment. 

3.       Turn off the Internet.  No more distractions.   

Possible problems to Proposed Solutions:

1.       Distractions in different forms.  That girl sitting across from me keeps looking at me…

2.       Public areas may be noisy and can impede one’s attempt to focus. 

3.       Some assignments require the internet for research purposes, etc.  

Analytical Essay

Wei-fan Chang

GE1401 University English

Analytical Essay

OF TWO WORLDS

                The question, “From where do you hail from?” to me, is not an easy question.  In retrospect, my prolonged exposure to both Eastern and Western cultures has granted me a far better understanding of most world events than both cultures themselves provide.  The ability to juxtapose two strongly divergent social systems implies deeper a significance other than a simple evaluation of each—the implications trigger a series of thought processes that ultimately lead to a unique and fundamentally different perspective than most people entertain.  While it is true that living with such duality has its personal drawbacks, it is my belief that the benefits of such a lifestyle far outstrip the costs, as the conclusions obtained through this thorough analysis pose even wider and far-reaching implications that transcend the monotony of daily life.

I had the unique opportunity to spend my childhood in two widely divergent worlds.  In my primary years, I frolicked in the rural countryside of rural South Carolina; during my adolescence, I lived under the shadow of colossal Asian cityscapes.  What effects could this bicultural experience have wrought upon me?  For starters, I often get peppered with questions like, “Do you consider yourself Western or Eastern?” or “Which is better?  America or Taiwan?”  Naturally, these questions are purely subjective, and are relatively easy to answer, but the greatest implications are much more subtle. 

                To start off, Eastern and Western cultures are a tough mix.  For a child who had to make the transition from rural South Carolina to the highly urbanized island of Taiwan, one can get a serious case of cultural shock.  In America, we were taught the idea of “rugged individualism”, which stressed the importance of individuality, intuition, and independence; as such, we were urged to pursue our own life goals to their fullest.  Taiwan’s educational system, on the other hand, stressed efficiency, discipline, and usefulness—every lesson and quiz drilled into us was designed to streamline a basic set of skills required for any occupation.  Personal quirks were discarded in favor of teamwork and harmony.  Understandably, as a carefree country bumpkin, I was horrified by this kind of facelessness—the idea of surrendering one’s identity was, in my opinion at the time, equivalent to murder.  My child eyes saw the education system as a giant robot factory, with cookie-cutter students graduating off an assembly line. 

                However, as I gradually became accustomed to the new, fast-paced system, my eyes gradually perceived something I failed to notice.  The fast-pace, no-nonsense drive of education in Asia ensured a highly competent workforce that was not just in demand in Taiwan’s high-tech industries, but everywhere in the global economy.  For example, in South Carolina, multiplication was only gently introduced in fourth grade; in Taiwan, first graders end their year with problems in addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division—many students attend special cram schools known as buxiban in order to maintain this edge.  There is a pervading Western stereotype that Asian children are better at mathematics and science than American teenagers; initially dismissed as an urban myth while in the US, I realized its validity when I was shocked to discover that my childhood years spent in the US at a prestigious private institution had made me lag behind academically in Taiwan’s public schools.  We were able to best giants not because we were inherently better, but because Asian students on average practice much more than their American counterparts.  Although I was mercifully spared the fate of going to buxiban like many of my classmates, I ended my first year in Taiwan with a new realization: intuition alone is useless without skill and discipline. 

                A recent trip down Memory Lane invoked a mixed response within me as I revisited my childhood: everything I saw was exactly the same as I remembered it, and yet, nothing was.  I recognized the trailer park where I lived, but it no longer was the lively playground I once saw it—it was a broken, backwater neighborhood with flimsy telephone poles and forest saplings.  Every image silently spoke of crippling poverty.  A rapid conclusion offered reprieve: intuition without skill and discipline leads to poverty; but I realized that there was something integral in my childhood that shaped my way of thinking—even though most people in rural South Carolina did not make much money, most people were still very comfortable because they were content and had attained their life goals.  This is in direct contrast to one of the major flaws of Asian education—many are unhappy because they were forced into a profession against their choice, or were simply lost and didn’t know what to wish for.  This second realization brings everything full circle and completes the philosophy: one needs intuition to dream and aspire, and one must have the necessary skills and discipline to make it happen in order to be happy. 

                This revelation had a curious effect upon my reasoning.  Either side, when evaluated individually, views itself as the truth and the other as heresy; South Carolinians see Taiwan’s urbanized education system as something straight out of 1984, while rural America is the epitome of destitution, stagnation, and backwardness.  It is only after one has a taste of both worlds that one realizes the polar opposites are actually two halves of an even greater truth.  This in turn sparked a deeper line of thinking and created a wider approach.  My favorite analogy is the concept of 3D-glasses.  Individually, our eyes can only understand two-dimensional light; the illusion of depth is created by minute differences between two different pictures.  The two halves complete each other, and it is this “depth” that is the “greater truth”; once one sees it the greater truth, it lends a whole new perspective on life. 

                Cumulative revelations tend to snowball, and this one was no exception.  I quickly realized that the key point is that there is rarely a singular or perfect truth, and one should keep one’s eyes open and consider events from all perspectives before making a decision.  Only after one has seen everything can one truly understand anything.  

Descriptive paragraph

Watching bullet trains scream past has been a hobby of mine.  Silvery-white, sleek, and soundless, the serpentine trains glide out of the station gracefully as if on glass; but just a couple kilometers down the line where I await, there is nothing gentle about a train ripping throught the country at 300 kilometers-an-hour.  The ground and the air itself quivers as the quarter-mile long dragon curves through the green landscape, roaring, hissing.  Yet, as ungentle bullet trains are to the peaceful rural countryside, there is still a sense of regalness, a sense of grace and awe-inspiring majesty.  Seconds before the twinkling headlights come into view, the rails sing.  Yes, they sing, a metallic screscendo that rises in pitch and intensity...

Creepy Online short story assignment

CHARACTER

500 Hours: The Theta Six star system

Elizabeth fled.  Maxing out her thrusters as fast as they would go, she helplessly watched as her beloved battleship, now hazy in the distance—vanished into an angry blue fireball.  Pieces—pipes, armor plating, gun turrets, and other flaming debris, scattered in all directions.  The heat of the blast could be felt even inside the cocoon of her escape pod, and she began to perspire and shake uncontrollably. 

The view outside gave her mixed feelings.  The last fuel cells of her capital ship—the Transvestite, were detonating in pink plasma blooms.  Plasma reactors—especially the pink ones, were expensive as hell, but Elizabeth couldn’t help but marvel as the shimmering aura of turquoise mixed with that of the bleeding fuel. 

Her sense of monetary loss, however, was winning—she slumped to the floor, curling her body into a tight ball of misery.  Thoughts raced through her mind, her brain chasing phantom memories of the past hour.  One hour.  Just a short hour ago she was still lounging on her ship’s luxurious bridge, sipping coffee, and now she was trapped in a cramped, dimly-lit prison of a pod. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen, she angrily cried to herself.  What could’ve possibly gone wrong? 

Elizabeth wasn’t sure how long she stayed in this fetal position when the control dashboard sputtered to life.  A garbled voice popped intermittently through the static, but it was a voice that she knew all too well.

Hello... …are you there? …you …all right?  …pieces—…everywhere!  Anybody?

Jake.

Elizabeth painfully picked herself up off the floor and pressed the button. 

“Jake.”

The voice paused for a few seconds and a small holographic image of a man appeared. 

“Jesus, Liz, what happened to you?  You okay?”

“Help me, please.” Elizabeth was taken aback by how raspy her voice sounded.  “My ship…”

“I know, I know.  I saw the explosion—I think you hit a mine.  Look— (pause) that guy J-slab’s after you again.” 

“J-slab?!?  I thought…”

“I know—I know, relax.  Just relax.  I’ll protect you; setting up rendezvous coordinates as we speak… here.” the dashboard beeped, “Meet me here.”

“I’m in a pod.” Elizabeth blurted out.  “If J-slab finds me, I’m dead.”

“Right.  I see—uhh, alright.  Meet here then—Theta Six; Theta Six Service Station.  Is that okay?”

“I guess.”

“Good.  I’ll meet you there.”

“Love you, Jake.”

“Ditto, my dear.”

“Jake?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.  Over and out.” There was something about Jake’s voice in last tine that seemed a bit odd, but given the circumstances she figured she would have to ask him when she met him. 

Elizabeth sat back down and smiled.  For the first time, she was aware of the throbbing lump on the back of her head—the memories were back now and she remembered them, albeit somewhat dimly.  Images flashed before her—of her ship flying parallel to his, her delicate white hand enclosed in his, his warm lips on slowly parting hers and… 

She shivered in pleasure at the last memory. 

Destination: Theta Six.  Arriving.  The AI’s nonchalant announcement snapped her out of her reverie.  Far ahead, the aurum lights of the orbiting station beckoned welcomingly to her.  Quickly, she adjusted her hair—straightening the singed and frazzled strands and wiped the grime off her cheeks. 

Jake, I love you.

The pod docked into the hangar with a smooth purr.  The engines whined, then slowly winded down as she cut the power.   A tall, middle-aged man was already waiting on the dock—Elizabeth didn’t even need to look before she rushed into his open arms. 

“Hush, my dear.  You’re safe.”  His embrace was solid and warm.  This is pure bliss.  Elizabeth closed her eyes. 

“Happy Anniversary… Miss.”  An undeniably familiar voice—Elizabeth whirled around and saw a man in a long trench coat, and immediately began to tremble.  The brim hat, worn low, hid most of the stranger’s face, but she needed no facial features to recognize the distinctive scar on the man’s chin or the brutish firearm aimed at her. 

“J-slab.” She whispered. 

J-slab fired once, and Elizabeth ducked as the first bolt of white-hot steel imbedded itself in the opposite wall.  There was a silent click, and Elizabeth let out a small gasp.  Her back arched in pain, and she sank to the floor, but something caught her from behind and lifted her back up.  Agonizingly, Elizabeth’s eyes darted between the emotionless eyes of Jake, the glowing slug imbedded in the wall behind her, and the eerily silent figure of her nemesis.  It then dawned upon her that J-slab’s single shot had missed.  

_________________________________________________________________________________

Norman couldn’t believe it—his character was being killed before his very eyes; and there was nothing he could do about it.  Desperate, he jammed his pudgy fingers onto the keyboard in an attempt to resuscitate his love, but J-slab had already emptied his clip into the ragdoll figure slumped on the floor.   Norman’s frantic movements and screams perfectly mirrored his avatar’s feeble twitches and gasps; across the bridge of the computer screen, “Elizabeth” could clearly see her mangled body lying in an ever-spreading pool of scarlet, her wide eyes flitting about in terror as her life slowly ebbed out from the five fresh gaping holes in her chest. 

_________________________________________________________________________________

The two men watched in grim silence as their victim’s limbs paled and gradually went limp.

“You really overdid yourself there, Amber,” one said over Skype, “One of the best performances I’ve ever seen.” 

“This will make a very interesting story, won’t it?” The other responded in a feminine voice.

“What?”

“Oh, you know—how Agent Amber actually faked a year-long relationship with the mission target—that she knew all of the target’s personal secrets?"

“You were aware that there was no need to pursue that level of deception for this mission.”

Both were silent for a moment. 

“You’re getting a promotion.” J-slab finally broke the silence.

“Thank you, sir.” Amber saluted wearily.

               

                J-slab’s face had the look of concern.

                “You alright?”

“It’s over, isn’t it?” Amber asks softly. 

“Yes—mission complete.  Well done.”  J-slab’s shadow moves to pat Jake’s shadow on the shoulder, but Amber turns and cracks her fist hard across his face.

“Your trap didn’t work,” Jake’s voice snarls. “You were never a good shot.  If the target had actually intercepted the full message, it would’ve been over.”

Hello, J-slab, are you there?  The trap you set worked all right.  The pieces of that little dipshit’s ship are everywhere—do you really think there’ll be any bodies? 

J-slab wipes blood off his lip as Amber angrily hurls her silencer across the room. 

“Jake, don’t tell me you actually fell in love with her…”

Jake shakes his head. 

“My name is Amber,” she shrugs coolly.  “Amber likes playing as Jake—cold and personal.”  

Descriptive Essay

The Quest for the Shining Serpent

Weifan Chang

Behind the Science Park, not too far from where I used to live, there is a valley.  The only roads that lead into it are faded and cracked, long-forgotten avenues of winding asphalt tucked behind corporate parking lots and idyllic groves—their existence unknown or a mystery to most.  The only inhabitants of the valley are a handful of farmers, an agricultural community that scrapes out a living by growing rice and vegetables in small plots of mountain land, mountain land shadowed by the hulking monoliths of industry and modern technology.  The futuristic factories just over the hills manufacture 90% of the world’s microchip processors; while the faded red-brick houses standing in front of me are identical to the ones found in historical museums.  Old traditions and lifestyles of a century ago are juxtaposed with the glossy skyscrapers standing just a couple hundred meters away; a poignant contrast between two worlds; the modern world which we now inhabit with the one that our grandparents knew.   To the west, one faintly picks up the grating melody of urbanized industrialization; from the east, an organized mess of iron ribbon, electric wire, and concrete knick-knacks bisects the narrow valley in a straight line—stretching unbroken as far as the eye can see.  The silent murmur from the multitude of crickets and cicadas remains unbroken. 

From afar, Taiwan High Speed Rail seems unobtrusive and unimposing; the white electric poles peeking about the hilly landscape the only betraying hint of its existence; the electric trains glide effortlessly over the welded rails as if made of glass.  The orange and black streaks, thematic colors of Formosan hospitality, contrast vividly amidst the surrounding green.  Up close, one is greeted by high, unending walls of concrete and formidable embankments laced with barbed wire.  Faded signs of “Warning – High Voltage” line the fences.  Entire swathes of forestry are gone, as if a gargantuan beast had taken a hunk out of the mountain, and replaced it with landslide barriers.  Gaping holes have been hewn into the mountain’s face, defacing the natural features of moss and stone.  Tunnels are dark and mysterious caverns that lie in wait with open mouths—patiently waiting to devour their prey whole. 

This is the valley of the shining serpent.  Standing beside the railway tracks, aside from the quiet buzz from the 25kV/60Hz AC voltage dangling a few meters away and the unceasing shrill of summer insects, the valley is quiet and still. 

One always hears the serpent before one sees it.  If it is headed for the southern beach resorts of Kaosiung, one hears a peculiar sound; the rails—they sing.  Resonance—the contact between steel wheels rotating at over 1000 RPM and steel rails bolted down to ballastless slab track, creates a melody of varying pitches and notes; a symphony unique and unlike any other.  A metallic quiver, gentle and soft as the flute, imparted with the exciting tension of a violin, and the tremulous solemnity of a cello; all fused together in an eerily feminine crescendo.   Deftly, she announces her master’s arrival, her melodious voice graceful and unabashed.  It is only after one’s ear has drunken deeply in the sound of her voice that one will see the pair of glowing lights rounding the bend…   

To the south of the valley, the gentle curve of the railway tracks disappear into the Great Abyss; the maw hewn into the mountainside.  For northbound express trains heading for Taipei, the confined space in the tunnel generates a different type of music; sound waves are distorted, compressed, and amplified.  Multiple voices, tied up into one—from the soprano rail squeak, to the eclectic choric hum of triple-V electric inverters, to the very sound of air being pushed aside by the great iron-serpent’s aerodynamic nose-frame; the chant reverberates in the throat of the tunnel.  It is an unbridled performance of fury, a brutal and masculine power that makes the very earth beneath one’s feet tremble with its coming.  The intonation of ten-thousand angry men starts in a low growl, a guttural hymn that begins in such a gentle quiet that one often initially mistakes it for a sinister ambience.  Unlike the short limerick composed by the railheads of the north, which lasts only but for the few seconds that the train takes to scream past one’s vantage point, the Canon of the Deep resounds long and clear like a brass orchestral fanfare, heralding the train’s savage rebirth from the depths of the Underworld back into the land of the living.  The low rumble quickly increases in intensity; a climax rising in both pitch and fervor.  As the train continues further in the tunnel, more air is compressed in front of the train; more sound waves are generated and echo in the natural terrain’s deep vocal chords—more seething men that join in the throng of voices clamoring for a violent exultation.  The cup overflows. 

The rolling thunder breaks. 

A burst of white, a sliver of orange, and a tinge of black; the world is swept into a maelstrom as all hell seems to break loose.  The pantographs atop the roof of the train angrily hiss and spark, the violet electrical arcs exploding in pretty pyrotechnical arrays.  The motors scream.  The ground shakes, as five hundred tons of steel hurtle past with a force nearing that of a small nuclear warhead, and the air itself quivers, palpitating under the immense aerial shockwave and violent eddy currents.  It is a heart-stopping show of strength, an ostentatious exposition of power and aesthetics combined; that of a mighty eagle spreading and flexing its majestic wings.  The two halves of the experience: the graceful, elegant dance-steps of Venus combined with the thundering, herculean footsteps of Mars, represents the union of the two sexes—a dazzling display of modern magic and technological grandeur.   An indescribable sense of euphoria and wonder tingle my bones and sends shivers up and down my spine. 

At full speed, a high-speed train covers the distance of a running track in a little more than a second—a kilometer a little just over ten; a brief whirlwind of chaos, and all is still again—the tail of the train already disappearing behind the curve.  This valley is a magical land; a land frozen in time, populated by mythical serpents and Camelot wonders, tales of heroic knights and adventurous treasure seekers.  The only people who live here are farmers, peasants and serfs who labor this land in the shadow of beasts; for the roads that lead to this valley are faded and cracked, and few are those who tread them.  Already, Nature has reclaimed the blighted areas—blanketing the concrete with a rich carpet of grass and moss, and threading ivy and flowers into the padlocks and through the barbed-wire meshes.  All is still. 

The silent murmur of crickets and cicadas remains unbroken.  

What is Success

Success is not a truth—it is not singular.  There are many different areas of success, some overlapping, others, mutually exclusive; there are degrees of success.  As an aspiring filmmaker, this cannot be truer.  Of course, there is always the goal of becoming the next Steven Spielberg or Clint Eastwood, but success should never be defined by some forerunner’s shadow or footsteps. 

The most basic form of success is finding a job and settling down in life—film has one of the worst job markets in the world.  The view of the world from eyes of youth is a rose-tinted one—an optimistic and simplified view of a complex conglomerated system.  Finding a well-paying job, or any job at that, is already a success story. 

Money, however, is only one face of success.  The reason I decided to make films was not because of the ludicrous paychecks and glamorous lights Hollywood is known for, but rather because film is a personal passion.  I love storytelling, and I love making film.  In tandem with the first, it isf absolutely possible to have the dream job but remain frustrated and unsatisfied due to other factors, to actually be happy; to be able to enjoy one’s “success” is a success in itself. 

Speaking of happiness, movies and money cannot be one’s only source of joy.  I long for friendships and relationships; for someone who has “enjoyed” two decades of solitude, “success” is finding someone; finding someone to love, to laugh with, to cry with, and to spend the years together and grow old with. 

But pessimism and underestimation should not dictate one’s life.  One’s blossom of youth is the time for dreams and aspirations.  While it is healthy to regard the world with a certain sense of wariness and preparedness, goals are the driving force behind our lives… The ultimate success that I could wish for: my book—into my film.  

Why I Write

Why I Write

Wei-fan Chang

There is a natural way that every individual finds himself to tread: a modus operandi best suited to his tastes.  In this state, he is in his comfort zone—at ease and in control… 

I began life as an awkward child, the oddball puzzle-piece that couldn’t fit it.  Be it in the States as the only Asian kid in the community, or in Taiwan as the only English-speaker around the block, it wasn’t that I didn’t want to fit in—I tried, but my body seemed to have a will of its own—not only to make a complete and utter fool of myself, but also to piss off dear acquaintances and potential friends.  I eventually learned to watch my words, but no matter how well I tried to mince them, Murphy’s Law was always true: If something can go wrong, it will.  I never sought Solitude’s company—it was she who found me first and held me in her cold, spiny arms. 

The doctrine of a solitary existence called for means of self-entertainment—and for the most part, I found a refuge in books.  The farther I was pushed away, the deeper I pushed into the pages.  The Lord of the Rings, Les Miserables, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and other great classics were devoured at a frenetic pace.  It did not matter that I sat on the benches alone while the rest of my friends played football or chatted together; the joys that I savored could not be shared with anyone else.  It was a comfortable existence.  Solitude was my mistress and master.  My fate. 

There is a natural way that every individual finds himself to tread: a modus operandi best suited to his tastes.  In this state, he is in his comfort zone—at ease and in control.  However, in an unstable world full of rapid change and sudden yearnings, catharsis is no longer just a task of simply embracing a self-evident truth; one must search and grope in the dark, barefoot amidst a sea of broken glass, to find the answer. 

The desire to make friends bubbled intermittently in primary school, but it was only until junior high that the true ache for friends reached the boiling point.  The tumultuous years—how was the awkward kid with no social skills supposed to make friends?  There was no way I could express with my lips the inner thoughts of my heart—they were wobbly and disjointed bits and pieces, and most of the time the words ended up lodging in my throat and threatened to choke me with humiliation and shame.  Solitude had unleashed terrible Cerberus, my personal demons of self-doubt, to remind me of my fate; but the emotional cauldron of adolescence is something that cannot be capped so easily. 

This was the moment that I decided to write.  Unlike the mouth, who has to spell out tidy little lines of coherent thought to a beat, the pen abides patience and allows time and peace of mind to gather the scattered letters.  All the books I had read, the phantom voices of Erik the Opera Ghost, of Jean Valjean, and Quasimodo, silently rose to my rescue.  Under their tutelage and encouragement, the bits and pieces gradually took shape, until, infused with their voices’ power, the words finally snapped together in a burst of lightning, and—behold!  The floating thoughts I had entertained only in my head now stood before my eyes in words of unexpressed emotions—of white-hot anger, tender endearments, and a myriad others that I cannot name. I had found an outlet.   

There is a natural way that every individual finds himself to tread: a modus operandi best suited to his tastes.  His fate will invariably seek to guide him back to this path, for in this state, he is in his comfort zone—he is at ease and in control.  But should Lady Happiness reside elsewhere, should he wish to court her, he must venture forth beyond his borders and break out a new path for himself in the pursuit of happiness—a path that ignores the coward’s ballad; for a brighter future and a better tomorrow. 

And that, dear reader, is why I write.