Posts Tagged ‘dyslexia’

52C interview 1 and 2 with Maya

July 8, 2015

Interview with Maya Jones 1

Maya tell me a little about yourself

I love to draw. People, how they stand and sit and such. All their faces are different, and I like to draw their faces showing different emotions.

Animals, especially cats and dogs. But rabbits, birds and horses are good too.

You tend to draw realistically.

Yeah. If I show my drawings to someone I wanted them to know, recognise what I have drawn.

What drawing materials do you like to use?

I think a 3B, or maybe a 4B pencil is my favourite. You can go light or dark. But I like to have different pencils. Hard pencils like HBs are good for little details. The softer pencils are good for hair and 8Bs for dark areas. I also like watercolour pencils, for colour. I’ve seen this art pack that I really want.

What is in this Art pack?

Lots of different Art stuff. But I am dreaming if I think I will ever get one.

Can you tell me why?

Cause! Look I have to go now. Can we finish this another time?

Yes, Maya I am always here. take care Maya

Interview 2 Maya

52C…Welcome back Maya, you have found a pleasant shady spot. Heh! What’s the matter?

Maya…I hate school.

52C…Has something happened?

Maya…Nothing special just the same old thing. Teachers were pointing out in front of everyone how dumb I am. How I can’t spell or write proper sentences. It’s not fair I try. I don’t know what goes wrong. I want just to draw, but then I get into trouble for doodling. That’s why I come here, because I know I won’t see anyone.  I don’t know why people don’t like it here, but I’m glad for my sake.

52C…I am glad you like to be here. Other than no-one else comes here, is there a reason you like being here?

Maya…Cause it’s interesting. Where ever you look there are views I want to draw. Say over there, where that big tree creates a deep shaded area. When I look there, I see the subtle differences between the texture of the tree’s bark, what looks like an old moss covered statue and the ferns. On my right, near the path, there are many different colours and shapes. Such as the different yellows and reds of the flowers, they each have their special green leaves. And all of this sounding the multicoloured little-tiled seat. It all makes me very excited. 

52C…I see you have you sketch book with you.

Maya…Yes, I came here to do some drawings and get away from people.

52C…Can I see some of your drawings?

Maya…It’s a new sketch pad, so I only have a few very quick drawings. Except for the drawing of the mother and baby giraffes. I did that drawing at the Zoo last weekend. I would have liked to have done more drawing of other animals. But we were there for my little sister’s birthday, so I had to help watching my sister’s friends that no one got lost.

52C… I’ll leave you to draw now; we can chat more another day. If you’d like that.

Maya…Yes, you’re easy to talk to. But I feel strange talking to a block land.

52C… I’m more than a block of land…………

52C…I can see why you like to draw; you have talent. Do you like making things?

Not as much as drawing, but I make Birthday and Christmas gift for people.

52C…Have you seen the masks on my veranda? I think you would find some of them very interesting.

Yes, I’ll just finish this drawing then I will have a close look at them.

New Start for 52C

November 15, 2014

I would love some feedback on my new Prologue for my stories Adventures from 52C, 52C’s magic sends children on adventures in real locations in the world today

PLEASE
Prologue

I am Fifty-two-C.
Within my place life thrives, in its own unique way.
‘A plot of land so unusual that even Google maps doesn’t recognise
it’s existence. Instead Google leaves the plot empty, where other
plots around, have their number.
That is how it should be, non-existent, empty of all
the rubbish and out of control plants’
July Council meeting; Quote from frustrated neighbour.
But I exist, I am block of land in a street like any other.
A street, where lawns were mowed, gardens were clipped and paths were swept. Households knew what was expected; nothing would dare to be out of place and nothing was.
But, my presence sprawled beyond the Surveyor’s boundary.
Kids riding bikes increased their speed as they approached me, the raised roots of my trees sending their bikes twisting at irregular angles. Mothers with babies crying in prams would roll the prams back and forward over these same roots, knowing but not understanding why their babies soon fell asleep. Even from a distance, my overhanging branches were teeming with life; and rumours spread that my trees’ branches would reach out to touch those who dared go too near.
52C is a place of shelter, for those in need. My trees, where constant treetop chatter drowns out the noise of those taming machines; the lawn mowers and whipper snippers.
‘The house and yard were in such a state; I’m sure a plague of rats
live there. Whenever I went inside Mrs Sage’s house, after the death
of Mr Sage, it was so crowded inside that Mrs Sage did not need
her walking frame! She used the different piles of books, statues and
furniture, to steady herself as she walked from room to room.’
-Maya’s mum

Many of my neighbours hope Mrs Sage never leaves the retirement home. Maya’s Mum and Dad agreed that, 52c weren’t right for their neighbourhood, and asserted, brought down the value of their houses.
It was unsettling, neighbours said, things lived within me without obeying the boundaries of concrete and weed killer
Much of what they say is true. My garden is over grown, as no one has been here to manage it. But they should look beyond the overgrown garden and house in need of a clean.
I have three ancient trees, rose bushes that twine themselves into neighbouring bushes, gardenias and bright coloured flowers that come up in spring. I am an old piece of land, the Wallumedega people lived on my land.
My own modern story started in about 1896, men came and cleared part of my land for an orchard. Then in 1897 a man bought my land, soon after he built a home for his family. Gradually sections of my land were sold to different people. They built homes for their families.
After the first World War the family sold me and convalescing soldiers and nurse filled my rooms. At the start of the second World War, there was a need for more housing, so my house was divided into three flats. In these flats singles, small families, couples or singles lived. In 1972 Mr and Mrs Sage bought the whole house and rearranged back, to one house.
The Sages were anthropologists, and they filled my yard and house with individual items from their visits to different cultures. There was a font from East Timor that they used as a bird bath; a strange buoy from Vietnam and along the front of the house were many masks, one with a huge smile was from the Philippines. Now, I make use of the individuality each item has, plus a touch of my own magic to nurture three specific children. I could tell you many stories, Maya is one of my stories.
I often watched Maya as she passed, her head down and her eyes always moving. Her hand moved too – over a white sheets of paper, leaving images of insects, lizards and leaves. Maya, from a distance looked like most of the other young people who walk past. This year she she was wearing a new uniform, the same as those who passed her. She was average height, with bright sky blue eyes, normally hiding behind long blonde hair.
One particular day, Maya stood opposite my letterbox. I felt her sadness and frustration with people, especially her teachers, who obsessed about her writing problems and called her drawings doodles. But as she drew, the muscles of her face relaxed.
Maya was unaware of being drawn into my yard, and to the mask made of junk. So I could send her on an adventure. Where who knows what she might discover…..
It is by my magic, Maya travelled.

reflection of my past

September 20, 2012

When I think back to my days of school, I shudder with horror at how I and others were treated. We were different and our difficulties were not understood. We were often labelled as lazy, stupid and daydreamers.

We could articulate clearly with the spoken word (I was in the debating team for most of my high school years), however, when we were faced with the written word the text before us became a visual landmine. It took immense time and energy to decipher, comprehend and respond to the text.

I am in the process of writing a series of fiction for upper primary/lower high school children. One of the children will be based on me.

I would like some feedback on the following opening to one of my stories. Does it create the feelings of a child with Dyslexia.

I sit staring ahead, my chest is tight and I feel sick to the very pit of my stomach. I hear others around as if through a fog and they move around me in slow motion.

Ms Wright comes towards me with the papers in her hand.

My heart is bounding and body is trembling.

I would give anything for the next moment not to happen, never to happen again and again and again.

Ms Wright drops the papers on my desk and as they float down symbolically reflecting their lack of substance.

Ms Wright says “Ah, such a disappointment, Ann you could try and make an effort, instead of daydreaming and doodling.”

I feel every pair of eyes are looking at me and from behind hands pretending to cover mouths voices are spilling out “Ann’ so dumb”, “she even had extra time” and “how embarrassing to fail all the time”

I look down at the papers covered in red and feel my checks matching.

 I hear the bell ring and feel bodies moving past me, but I feel trapped, imprisoned in a mind that will not function as it should, as I want it to, no matter how I try.

Ms Wright packs up her books, looks at me and slowly shakes her head, then walks out the door following her students.

I look again at the papers and try and make my eyes understand the shapes they see. I look up at the doorway where the others went and wonder how they can so easily read and understand what is written.

I look again at the pages which are now becoming damp from tears that fall.

I shudder as I think of Mum and Dad’s faces when they see these papers. The money they have spent on special classes, which I hate and are just like the lessons at school, so they don’t really help.

“Stupid, the bells gone, you can go home now” says some giggling girls as they pass the doorway and see me still sitting there.

Maybe they are right and I am stupid, but there is some part of me that feels angry and knows that I am not.

 


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