The holidays are here.
Oh jubilate!
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Monday, May 30, 2005
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Tonight was a good night. Dinner with Firas and Changwen. It's been a long time since we drank and chatted. All these stupid jocks going for their bloody seasons hmmpf. But when it all boils down the boys are the ones I feel most comfortable being myself around.
Of course, that might have alot to do with the drinks as well.
Of course, that might have alot to do with the drinks as well.
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Friday, May 20, 2005
Sunday, May 15, 2005
Aiee I cannot take it essay after essay after essay after essay after essay. HOW HOW?
Okay Tim. Just because you've vowed not to be pretentious doesn't mean the world has to see you panick-stricken over silly things like essays.
TEHN AGAIN! AAAH. WHAT IF MCCONNELL KICKS ME OUT OF LIT.
Relax Tim. He won't. He hasn't kicked anyone for not doing the FIRST essay, what makes you think he will this time round.
AAAAH BUT I FEEL UNACCOMPLISHED.
You always do.
That's true. BITCH.
I try.
And that was a brief snapshot of what just went on in my mind. I think i'm getting schizophrenic. This is quite odd. Maybe I'm developing a split personality, one a crazy-ass whiney motherfucker, and one the cynical bitch. This is odd indeed.
Oddity-oddity.
Okay Tim. Just because you've vowed not to be pretentious doesn't mean the world has to see you panick-stricken over silly things like essays.
TEHN AGAIN! AAAH. WHAT IF MCCONNELL KICKS ME OUT OF LIT.
Relax Tim. He won't. He hasn't kicked anyone for not doing the FIRST essay, what makes you think he will this time round.
AAAAH BUT I FEEL UNACCOMPLISHED.
You always do.
That's true. BITCH.
I try.
And that was a brief snapshot of what just went on in my mind. I think i'm getting schizophrenic. This is quite odd. Maybe I'm developing a split personality, one a crazy-ass whiney motherfucker, and one the cynical bitch. This is odd indeed.
Oddity-oddity.
Saturday, May 14, 2005
Okay I feel like declaring my current state. (Because things like this need declaring now and then)
I am one (1) lazy bitch who has yet to finish up studying money and interest rates, has one LitS essay to do, and has a plethora(hmm must watch myself) of people dissatisfied with me.
Oh twat(Yes I know what this means hadri). There has to be more to declare.
I am one (1) lazy bitch who has yet to finish up studying money and interest rates, has one LitS essay to do, and has a plethora(hmm must watch myself) of people dissatisfied with me.
Oh twat(Yes I know what this means hadri). There has to be more to declare.
Well then. Here we are again.
Enough is enough was referring to the past few entries. As much as I hate to admit it now, they were getting a wee bit high-flown and pretentious. I forget these things sometimes you know, it's easy to forget when your propensity to show off takes over.
There are no short-cuts to better writing, you know. Just because you learn a few complicated words and throw them into what you write is no measure of how well it is written. Just because you pick up a few poignant phrases in your latest reading doesn't mean you understand what they truly mean, much less recreate them in the right context. There are no short-cuts to become more poignant, to convey more and say less. Throwing in complicated words to cover up the lack of clarity, it doesn't work that way. I forget that sometimes.
So therefore, I am guilty of writing the way Tessie Tan Rui Rui writes her rubbish fanfics. Instead of looking to distill what I have to say, I have looked to complicate and fabricate matters.
And it is not just writing.
You have to warn me of these things you know. Faults like these just creep up behind you without you noticing, and then become ingrained in you. When you finally do realize them, if it's too late you just accept them as part of your being, which is the slippery road down to hell. At least now I can nip them in the bud.
You have to warn me of these things, yeah?
Enough is enough was referring to the past few entries. As much as I hate to admit it now, they were getting a wee bit high-flown and pretentious. I forget these things sometimes you know, it's easy to forget when your propensity to show off takes over.
There are no short-cuts to better writing, you know. Just because you learn a few complicated words and throw them into what you write is no measure of how well it is written. Just because you pick up a few poignant phrases in your latest reading doesn't mean you understand what they truly mean, much less recreate them in the right context. There are no short-cuts to become more poignant, to convey more and say less. Throwing in complicated words to cover up the lack of clarity, it doesn't work that way. I forget that sometimes.
So therefore, I am guilty of writing the way Tessie Tan Rui Rui writes her rubbish fanfics. Instead of looking to distill what I have to say, I have looked to complicate and fabricate matters.
And it is not just writing.
You have to warn me of these things you know. Faults like these just creep up behind you without you noticing, and then become ingrained in you. When you finally do realize them, if it's too late you just accept them as part of your being, which is the slippery road down to hell. At least now I can nip them in the bud.
You have to warn me of these things, yeah?
Monday, May 09, 2005
Saturday, May 07, 2005
And of course, with the recent topics at LitS, coupled with assorted questions from peers and a fruitful discussion with my CT (who I know is reading this now), GP research into the philosphy of Art and the Civics Periods, I have come to the perennial question: (mymy, such exaggeration)
To blog, or not to blog? (haha)
Put in a less dramatic and reductionist manner:
Why do I write? All these idle mumblings on this blog? All these words splattered across the screen?
I think I write to sort out what I have to say. Of course there is the element of practice here, I want to finally give form to those nebulous things that drift around in my head, so that I can write what I feel better. However, sometimes one finds that in writing, one sheds new light on the subject. When I write I tend to self-console, or so I've noticed. Like the bright tendrils that blur the exact darkness. I start out with despair, and then take the subject, twist it around, and turn it into an eulogy of sorts. Whether I use the assurance of possibilities, or the comforting struggle for glory, I've always tried not to be depressing here.
There is also the fact that no one wants to listen, so I write. This is my little act of rebellion, in a way. After all, you can slip things into your writing that you'd never say, nor would anyone want to hear, in real life. My little castle in the clouds is here. The projection of what-ifs and thought-up realities. You see this in the cryptic posts, the romantic dreams, and the occasional lamentations.
Image is also another concern here. I detest that stupid inane saying on my blog now, I shall endeavour to learn photoshop and blot it out with a cleansing mass of white. Disgusting, really. But returning to the subject, I write, in a sense, so that you see me in a different light here. I remember Joash saying I'm quite a disturbed soul after being here. I don't remember wanting to portray myself that way, but I suppose at one time when I was drowning in sorrow the way the emo-women do I must have desired that image. There is always indulgent nobility in suffering.
Katharsis is another issue as well, I suppose. Where else can I write something and have the whole world, familiar and unacquainted eyes alike, look at what I have to say and react in a way influenced by me? In the way katharsis is achieved through shouting and brutal arguments, it is achieved here as well. Katharsis, is after all, somewhat like an announcement. Screaming at the world does wonders for the soul, you see it in all the sentimental chinese serial dramas.
And, written in order of importance, the last consideration when I write is your entertainment. This used to be much higher up actually, around rebellion and air-castle-building in the order of priorities. Perhaps this is reflective of my gradual loss of faith in others. Or perhaps I have just become a boring old geezer by now.
Perhaps the evolution of word-processing has had profound effects on writing. When you can go back and change what you want to write so easily, it is only natural that what you write takes on a more considerate, all-encompassing and empathetic form. To the open-minded that is disastrous, their brains will fall out, they will end up saying nothing but lamenting emptiness, the most all-encompassing concept the human mind is capable of. In a sense, perhaps the typewriter allowed us to capture some elusive form of glorious ideal in its caging permanence and inalterability. I look back at some of the things I said to inspire myself and I find them riddled with holes. But of course, sometimes I abandon the rational, this is just another of those instances.
I don't know how to end this. So I will do so in the most basic primary-school form of ending any composition or essay.
The End.
To blog, or not to blog? (haha)
Put in a less dramatic and reductionist manner:
Why do I write? All these idle mumblings on this blog? All these words splattered across the screen?
I think I write to sort out what I have to say. Of course there is the element of practice here, I want to finally give form to those nebulous things that drift around in my head, so that I can write what I feel better. However, sometimes one finds that in writing, one sheds new light on the subject. When I write I tend to self-console, or so I've noticed. Like the bright tendrils that blur the exact darkness. I start out with despair, and then take the subject, twist it around, and turn it into an eulogy of sorts. Whether I use the assurance of possibilities, or the comforting struggle for glory, I've always tried not to be depressing here.
There is also the fact that no one wants to listen, so I write. This is my little act of rebellion, in a way. After all, you can slip things into your writing that you'd never say, nor would anyone want to hear, in real life. My little castle in the clouds is here. The projection of what-ifs and thought-up realities. You see this in the cryptic posts, the romantic dreams, and the occasional lamentations.
Image is also another concern here. I detest that stupid inane saying on my blog now, I shall endeavour to learn photoshop and blot it out with a cleansing mass of white. Disgusting, really. But returning to the subject, I write, in a sense, so that you see me in a different light here. I remember Joash saying I'm quite a disturbed soul after being here. I don't remember wanting to portray myself that way, but I suppose at one time when I was drowning in sorrow the way the emo-women do I must have desired that image. There is always indulgent nobility in suffering.
Katharsis is another issue as well, I suppose. Where else can I write something and have the whole world, familiar and unacquainted eyes alike, look at what I have to say and react in a way influenced by me? In the way katharsis is achieved through shouting and brutal arguments, it is achieved here as well. Katharsis, is after all, somewhat like an announcement. Screaming at the world does wonders for the soul, you see it in all the sentimental chinese serial dramas.
And, written in order of importance, the last consideration when I write is your entertainment. This used to be much higher up actually, around rebellion and air-castle-building in the order of priorities. Perhaps this is reflective of my gradual loss of faith in others. Or perhaps I have just become a boring old geezer by now.
Perhaps the evolution of word-processing has had profound effects on writing. When you can go back and change what you want to write so easily, it is only natural that what you write takes on a more considerate, all-encompassing and empathetic form. To the open-minded that is disastrous, their brains will fall out, they will end up saying nothing but lamenting emptiness, the most all-encompassing concept the human mind is capable of. In a sense, perhaps the typewriter allowed us to capture some elusive form of glorious ideal in its caging permanence and inalterability. I look back at some of the things I said to inspire myself and I find them riddled with holes. But of course, sometimes I abandon the rational, this is just another of those instances.
I don't know how to end this. So I will do so in the most basic primary-school form of ending any composition or essay.
The End.
Savage Garden - Two Beds and a Coffee Machine
And she takes another step
Slowly she opens the door
Check that he is sleeping
Pick up all the broken glass
And furniture on the floor
Been up half the night screaming
Now it’s time to get away
Pack up the kids in the car
Another bruise to try and hide
Another alibi to write
Another ditch in the road
You keep moving
Another stop sign
You keep moving on
And the years go by so fast
Wonder how I ever made it through
And there are children to think of
Baby’s asleep in the back seat
Wonder how they’ll ever make it
Through this living nightmare
But the mind is an amazing thing
Full of candy dreams and new toys
And another cheap hotel
Two beds and a coffee machine
But there are groceries to buy
And she knows she’ll have to go home
Another ditch in the road
You keep moving
Another stop sign
You keep moving on
And the years go by so fast
Wonder how I ever made it through
Another bruise to try and hide
Another alibi to write
Another lonely highway in the black of night
There’s hope in the darkness
I know you’re gonna make it
Another ditch in the road
Keep moving
Another stop sign
You keep moving on
And the years go by so fast
Silent fortress built to last
Wonder how I ever made it
And she takes another step
Slowly she opens the door
Check that he is sleeping
Pick up all the broken glass
And furniture on the floor
Been up half the night screaming
Now it’s time to get away
Pack up the kids in the car
Another bruise to try and hide
Another alibi to write
Another ditch in the road
You keep moving
Another stop sign
You keep moving on
And the years go by so fast
Wonder how I ever made it through
And there are children to think of
Baby’s asleep in the back seat
Wonder how they’ll ever make it
Through this living nightmare
But the mind is an amazing thing
Full of candy dreams and new toys
And another cheap hotel
Two beds and a coffee machine
But there are groceries to buy
And she knows she’ll have to go home
Another ditch in the road
You keep moving
Another stop sign
You keep moving on
And the years go by so fast
Wonder how I ever made it through
Another bruise to try and hide
Another alibi to write
Another lonely highway in the black of night
There’s hope in the darkness
I know you’re gonna make it
Another ditch in the road
Keep moving
Another stop sign
You keep moving on
And the years go by so fast
Silent fortress built to last
Wonder how I ever made it
Thursday, May 05, 2005
It is interesting to be reading two books at the same time.
On one hand, I am reading Immortality by Milan Kundera in school. Partly of course, to appear intellectual, and partly because lessons are so mundane. I believe I failed in the first objective, when I stupidly asked B.C. what "milieu" means and got a most demeaning laugh in reply, followed by a suggestion that I go read "tintin" instead.
Anyway, the second is A Home At The End Of The World by Michael Cunningham, which I reserve for bedtime reading at home. (Have I mentioned how this really endearing fellow at borders recommended me the hours and expounded on how good it was? Okay nevermind there's not much to say anyway).
Ah yes, the first book, in its anecdote of Bettina and Goethe, attributes love to a grasp for immortality. That Bettina held a pistol at Goethe's immortality, and that Goethe dared not react lest anything he do be used as ammunition. The second explores the peculiar relationships of urban life, and shows how love continues to persist in its various forms.
Immortality immortality. This is the heartbeat of life, this is what courses through veins and pulses through arteries. It just kept pounding through my mind, you know. Even after yesterday when I finished chapter 2. Immortality, immortality. This is also something I came up with during a very-bored Frost lesson.
So which is it? Is love really just a concept to be subsumed under man's neverending quest to be immortal, to have his name spelled out in the stars and ingrained into the earth? Is love just the pursuit of something so elusively unattainable that when we finally do achieve it, the greatness of that love will send ripples throughout the world that will leave fascinated whispers echoing along corridors even long after our death? Or is love really the most basic striving of the human heart, and can be found everywhere, from the squalid squatters to the decadent penthouses, because it is simple and thus within every human's reach?
I don't know. I'd like to think maybe it's a mixture of both. That it is inherently available to everyone, and that we just need to find the right person. And then I find myself dreaming of how great love could be. How I want it to be so emotionally charged that we'd be inextricably bound together by it. How my professions for love will outdo any romantic fantasy the world has witnessed. How it will be everlasting, in that it will age, mellow, and become sweet as wine, to be truly savoured only after the grave. We would concoct ambrosia together, the everlasting nectar of the gods, and drink from it after our frail, flawed human bodies have expired.
Immortality, Immortality.
On one hand, I am reading Immortality by Milan Kundera in school. Partly of course, to appear intellectual, and partly because lessons are so mundane. I believe I failed in the first objective, when I stupidly asked B.C. what "milieu" means and got a most demeaning laugh in reply, followed by a suggestion that I go read "tintin" instead.
Anyway, the second is A Home At The End Of The World by Michael Cunningham, which I reserve for bedtime reading at home. (Have I mentioned how this really endearing fellow at borders recommended me the hours and expounded on how good it was? Okay nevermind there's not much to say anyway).
Ah yes, the first book, in its anecdote of Bettina and Goethe, attributes love to a grasp for immortality. That Bettina held a pistol at Goethe's immortality, and that Goethe dared not react lest anything he do be used as ammunition. The second explores the peculiar relationships of urban life, and shows how love continues to persist in its various forms.
Immortality immortality. This is the heartbeat of life, this is what courses through veins and pulses through arteries. It just kept pounding through my mind, you know. Even after yesterday when I finished chapter 2. Immortality, immortality. This is also something I came up with during a very-bored Frost lesson.
So which is it? Is love really just a concept to be subsumed under man's neverending quest to be immortal, to have his name spelled out in the stars and ingrained into the earth? Is love just the pursuit of something so elusively unattainable that when we finally do achieve it, the greatness of that love will send ripples throughout the world that will leave fascinated whispers echoing along corridors even long after our death? Or is love really the most basic striving of the human heart, and can be found everywhere, from the squalid squatters to the decadent penthouses, because it is simple and thus within every human's reach?
I don't know. I'd like to think maybe it's a mixture of both. That it is inherently available to everyone, and that we just need to find the right person. And then I find myself dreaming of how great love could be. How I want it to be so emotionally charged that we'd be inextricably bound together by it. How my professions for love will outdo any romantic fantasy the world has witnessed. How it will be everlasting, in that it will age, mellow, and become sweet as wine, to be truly savoured only after the grave. We would concoct ambrosia together, the everlasting nectar of the gods, and drink from it after our frail, flawed human bodies have expired.
Immortality, Immortality.
Monday, May 02, 2005
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Saturday, April 30, 2005
Today I am going to stay at home and recreate myself. (That's another interesting word, recreative/recreation. Shall write about it another time)
I detest the word pity. Perhaps detest would be an understatement, actually. Pity, pity. It carries with it a moral perch, an underlying hoity-toity-ness that belies such arrogance. I reserve pity only for my enemies, I pity only those whom I also hate.
Just say the word. The "P" sound at the beginning causes me to recall the word "pathetic". I hope I need not explain that word. The associations with pity already bring to mind a certain condescension when it is spoken. I have problems with the abrupt way it ends as well, a harsh sound expelled between the teeth. It is almost like the seething hiss of a malicious serpent. All these hard consonants that abound are too harsh.
Phonetics aside;
It is a short word too. For the noble intent it masquerades as, of such wonderous empathy for another, it is spoken quite abruptly, almost as though the speaker believes the other's plight is so inconsequential it warrants nothing more than a short 4-letter word. "I pity you" conveys nothing in its desire to connect "I" and "You". Three monosyllabic words. How can you contain such grandiose, such ideal feelings in three short bursting sounds? You cannot express sympathy, much less empathy, understanding, and a desire to help in the word pity. All you express is a veiled condescension that will frustrate the listener even more, and allow you to walk away with a smirk as you mull contentedly over how lucky you are to have avoided such a plight.
But perhaps the worst part of the word "pity" is not its pretence at nobility. The worst, as I'm sure Bree's Husband's Mistress would agree with, is that pity comes with it the sentiment that all hope is lost for the person. (I need to find a better vocabulary). To pity someone is not to do anything to help, it is not even to lend a listening ear. It is to preach about how flawed human nature is, it is to condemn the listener to his fate. It is to say, simply, that you deserve it. The judgemental quality about it is probably the worst thing about pity.
Reserve pity only for those you truly hate. In its arrogance, condescension, and condemnation, I assure you it will infuriate and frustrate them to no end. Who knows? You may even consign them further to despair, and that would be sweet revenge indeed.
I detest the word pity. Perhaps detest would be an understatement, actually. Pity, pity. It carries with it a moral perch, an underlying hoity-toity-ness that belies such arrogance. I reserve pity only for my enemies, I pity only those whom I also hate.
Just say the word. The "P" sound at the beginning causes me to recall the word "pathetic". I hope I need not explain that word. The associations with pity already bring to mind a certain condescension when it is spoken. I have problems with the abrupt way it ends as well, a harsh sound expelled between the teeth. It is almost like the seething hiss of a malicious serpent. All these hard consonants that abound are too harsh.
Phonetics aside;
It is a short word too. For the noble intent it masquerades as, of such wonderous empathy for another, it is spoken quite abruptly, almost as though the speaker believes the other's plight is so inconsequential it warrants nothing more than a short 4-letter word. "I pity you" conveys nothing in its desire to connect "I" and "You". Three monosyllabic words. How can you contain such grandiose, such ideal feelings in three short bursting sounds? You cannot express sympathy, much less empathy, understanding, and a desire to help in the word pity. All you express is a veiled condescension that will frustrate the listener even more, and allow you to walk away with a smirk as you mull contentedly over how lucky you are to have avoided such a plight.
But perhaps the worst part of the word "pity" is not its pretence at nobility. The worst, as I'm sure Bree's Husband's Mistress would agree with, is that pity comes with it the sentiment that all hope is lost for the person. (I need to find a better vocabulary). To pity someone is not to do anything to help, it is not even to lend a listening ear. It is to preach about how flawed human nature is, it is to condemn the listener to his fate. It is to say, simply, that you deserve it. The judgemental quality about it is probably the worst thing about pity.
Reserve pity only for those you truly hate. In its arrogance, condescension, and condemnation, I assure you it will infuriate and frustrate them to no end. Who knows? You may even consign them further to despair, and that would be sweet revenge indeed.