Friday, July 04, 2008
I dieded
You can't possibly not love this. You really can't. Absolutely darling.
*twiddle fingers* This kid is 14. Is it horrible to say that he's totally hot? He looks like an anime character! When he first started dancing I actually couldn't tell whether he's a guy or a gal... the epitome of pretty boy-ness. And who else thought that rain sequence was smokin'? And the confidence! I love a guy who can say 'it was the greatest performance I've ever done' without sounding like an ass. Am I a paedophile? Seriously, am I? I could totally fall in love with him! *kicks LSB out of door*
(Also, am I a geek for recognising the Gene Kelly moves in the dance?)
This is also ultra-cool. They're not as pretty and charismatic as pretty boy, but dammit I think they might be better dancers.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
university
First, I found this post on Infinite thought:
Yes, Singaporean universities, factories producing streams of soon-to-be disaffected labour like the multiple leakages of toxic waste flowing from filthy pipes into filthy ground, in which they languish for another 50 years till they dissipate, unnoticed, and vanish forever, remembered by none, this is you.
And this wonderful link as well:
The same lack of solitude & introspection applies to the poor sots who have to work for a living. Each day passes in miserable apathy, succeeded only by the next identical day till the days of our lives are spent. Your life seeps away while you, unaware, attempt to amass resources so that you can live. Every 9 hour day translates into a 45 hour week, which shortens our lives by 45 hours every week.
Ok, I'm sure you've figured out by now that I've taken two wonderful opinions about the deplorable state of university education, turned them into a diatribe about work, but if you don't get any of that, you only have to take with you this important message: I've had two utterly miserable sucky lousy tragic stressful days of work, really, but at least I can still write a long, meandering sentence that probably lost you by the 15th word.
What universities need is less consultants and middle managers indulging in 'blue skies thinking', the outcome of which is always that universities become more like businesses, and more self-critique. The celebritisation of academia - the guest star-lecturers, the honorary degrees, the bid to get a by-line in a national daily - must stop. Knowledge is anonymous and universal or it is not knowledge at all.
Yes, Singaporean universities, factories producing streams of soon-to-be disaffected labour like the multiple leakages of toxic waste flowing from filthy pipes into filthy ground, in which they languish for another 50 years till they dissipate, unnoticed, and vanish forever, remembered by none, this is you.
And this wonderful link as well:
What happens when busyness and sociability leave no room for solitude? The ability to engage in introspection, I put it to my students that day, is the essential precondition for living an intellectual life, and the essential precondition for introspection is solitude. They took this in for a second, and then one of them said, with a dawning sense of self-awareness, “So are you saying that we’re all just, like, really excellent sheep?” Well, I don’t know. But I do know that the life of the mind is lived one mind at a time: one solitary, skeptical, resistant mind at a time. The best place to cultivate it is not within an educational system whose real purpose is to reproduce the class system.
The same lack of solitude & introspection applies to the poor sots who have to work for a living. Each day passes in miserable apathy, succeeded only by the next identical day till the days of our lives are spent. Your life seeps away while you, unaware, attempt to amass resources so that you can live. Every 9 hour day translates into a 45 hour week, which shortens our lives by 45 hours every week.
Ok, I'm sure you've figured out by now that I've taken two wonderful opinions about the deplorable state of university education, turned them into a diatribe about work, but if you don't get any of that, you only have to take with you this important message: I've had two utterly miserable sucky lousy tragic stressful days of work, really, but at least I can still write a long, meandering sentence that probably lost you by the 15th word.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Stumbling - the grand romantic gesture that was not
This morning I woke up with the brilliant idea of sending LSB a recording of my piano-playing. Then the problem - what to play for the love of my life? Something not overly cheery - neither of our dispositions tends towards carnivalism (yes, my made-up word. I shall petition to Derrida's memory.) Something that sounds warm and lovely and appropriately romantic. Something that wouldn't make my philistine boyfriend think immediately of 'that techno remix by random anorexic Taiwanese star'.
Unfortunately there's nothing in my repertoire that quite fits the bill. So in the end I decided I'd just have to learn a new piece. I dug up a copy of Beethoven's Pathetique Sonata, sight-read and practised a couple of times, just to get the hang of things. Then I played the 1st bit of the 2nd movement for him. After about 30 recordings and two hours, I settled on one version and emailed it (together with all my love and a lengthy mushy coupla paragraphs) to LSB...
Turns out he can't seem to open it.
Ok.
Oops sorry. Don't mind me. Just stumbling my way through life and love. *trips over own feet*
(Seriously, that should be my motto: 'stumbling my way through life and love'.)
Anyway, I'll probably let LSB listen to it at some point, but of course it's no longer a 'grand romantic gesture' and more like a 'ok, do I really have to listen to this? your playing sucks' kind of scenario.
BUT just because it will forever be associated in my mind with the general screwed-uppedness of life doesn't mean that you guys can't listen to the music now. :P
I searched through Youtube and can't find a single version of the 2nd movement that I like. *sigh* It seems everyone plays it much slower than I like it. Nevertheless, here's Zimemann (don't ask me who he is) with Beethoven's Pathetique Sonata (in C minor), 2nd movement:
It's really a lovely piece.
Unfortunately there's nothing in my repertoire that quite fits the bill. So in the end I decided I'd just have to learn a new piece. I dug up a copy of Beethoven's Pathetique Sonata, sight-read and practised a couple of times, just to get the hang of things. Then I played the 1st bit of the 2nd movement for him. After about 30 recordings and two hours, I settled on one version and emailed it (together with all my love and a lengthy mushy coupla paragraphs) to LSB...
Turns out he can't seem to open it.
Ok.
Oops sorry. Don't mind me. Just stumbling my way through life and love. *trips over own feet*
(Seriously, that should be my motto: 'stumbling my way through life and love'.)
Anyway, I'll probably let LSB listen to it at some point, but of course it's no longer a 'grand romantic gesture' and more like a 'ok, do I really have to listen to this? your playing sucks' kind of scenario.
BUT just because it will forever be associated in my mind with the general screwed-uppedness of life doesn't mean that you guys can't listen to the music now. :P
I searched through Youtube and can't find a single version of the 2nd movement that I like. *sigh* It seems everyone plays it much slower than I like it. Nevertheless, here's Zimemann (don't ask me who he is) with Beethoven's Pathetique Sonata (in C minor), 2nd movement:
It's really a lovely piece.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Hamlet
Comments like this remind me of how different Hamlet appears to all of us:
"We love Hamlet, but, it seems to me, we love him more because we see him not only at his best (when he tells Horatio, in the serenity of acceptance, “There is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow,” or when he exchanges forgiveness with Laertes, the brother of the woman he loved and whose heart he shattered) but also at his worst (when he bullies his mother and brings her to tears, or when he hesitates to kill Claudius at his prayers because, not content with taking revenge for his father’s murder, he wants to send his uncle’s soul to hell)." - The American Scholar
When Hamlet gives his "fall of a sparrow" speech, I don't think 'serenity of acceptance' - I think fatalism, a sense and premonition that events have come to a head and he no longer has control anymore. When Hamlet hesitates to kill Claudius, I don't buy his 'I want uncle to go to hell' excuse. I just think that he felt it was not the right time - his anger had not run its course, there were too many things he still did not know and had not made clear (why his mother had married his uncle, for instance, and how she felt about all of this) - to kill Claudius in the midst of so many unresolved issues and so much uncertainty, it just didn't feel like the right time. So I do buy the 'Hamlet as man of thought instead of man of action' theory in the sense that I believe he could not take action until he's straightened out his world of thoughts. (But not in the sense that Hamlet is perenially unable to take any meaningful action.) Perhaps A.C. Bradley would disagree, his Hamlet being more warrior-like than mine.
I remember some scholar - I can't remember who - commented that the beauty of Hamlet the play is that Shakespeare leaves so many things unexplained. We never truly know why Hamlet did this or that and as a result, we are able to interpret Hamlet in our own different ways. Each of us is able to create and own a different Hamlet by projecting ourselves upon this slate that is not entirely blank but blank enough. I am 80% convinced that my interpretation of Hamlet reflects what I would have done in his place. But methinks perhaps Hamlet's motivations or even his personality are not quite the point of the play.
Hamlet the character is an elusive and charismatic one, and he is a constant source of fascination for me. I think this character is probably one of the best known in English literature, and much of the attention given to the play is focused on figuring out this personality, his motivations, and in some cases, figuring out whether he is 'good' or 'bad' or plain 'pathetic'. But if I don't remember wrong, till the 19th century Hamlet the character did not receive much attention from the literati. The play was seen as just one of the 'vengeance dramas' (my term), which was by no means an original plot, even during Shakespeare's time. I think some writer (Goethe?) suddenly found Hamlet the character to be pretty interesting and atypical, and suddenly everyone was debating Hamlet the character, and Hamlet the character took precedence over Hamlet the play.
Ok my account of the history of scholarship is not particularly impressive. (I'm old! My memory is fading! I knew this once!)
I have to confess, I love thinking about Hamlet the character as well. But I also think that Hamlet the play can be appreciated without much knowledge of Hamlet the character, and not just in a Hollywood blockbuster - murder and incest and sex and war - kind of way.
Whether or not Hamlet was a thinker or a warrior or an angsty spoilt teenage prince or misogynist, the range of emotions in the play is exquisite and exquisitely portrayed. The highlights for me:
- the despair and grief and bitterness of Hamlet: "Seems madam, I know not what seems"; "O that this too too solid flesh would melt, / Thaw and resolve itself into dew"
- his angry lashing out at everyone around him: his bitter wordplay with Polonius, his disastrous (relationship-wise) scene with Ophelia
- Ophelia's beautiful mad confused grief: "I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died"
- Gertrude's subdued, poignant and pathetic (in a tragic sense) lament for Ophelia: "There's a willow grows askant a brook" is one of my favourite speeches from this play; "Sweets to the sweet, farewell. ... I thought thy bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet maid, / And not have strew'd thy grave" --> I was horrified when some stupid local desserts show on tvmobile called itself 'sweets to the sweet' or something to that effect.
- the self-centered (& perhaps guilt-ridden?) angry fight between Hamlet and Laertes in Ophelia's grave: "I loved Ophelia: forty thousand brothers / Could not, with their quantity of love, / Make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her?" --> Seriously? You called her a whore, dumped her, killed her father and caused her madness, and now you disrupt her funeral and fight with her brother in her grave over who loved her more? One of Hamlet's lowest points for me.
- Hamlet's final realisation that it was all over: "The rest is silence." --> Another of my favourite lines.
- Horatio's lament for his prince: "Good night, sweet prince, / And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest." --> Yet another favourite line. It's so poignant and yet ironic, given Hamlet's last words.
Ah I'd almost forgotten how much I love Hamlet the play. Chock-full of emotions and drama! Which is the way I think it should be appreciated. Sometimes I think we put too much emphasis on understanding and not enough on simply feeling.
"We love Hamlet, but, it seems to me, we love him more because we see him not only at his best (when he tells Horatio, in the serenity of acceptance, “There is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow,” or when he exchanges forgiveness with Laertes, the brother of the woman he loved and whose heart he shattered) but also at his worst (when he bullies his mother and brings her to tears, or when he hesitates to kill Claudius at his prayers because, not content with taking revenge for his father’s murder, he wants to send his uncle’s soul to hell)." - The American Scholar
When Hamlet gives his "fall of a sparrow" speech, I don't think 'serenity of acceptance' - I think fatalism, a sense and premonition that events have come to a head and he no longer has control anymore. When Hamlet hesitates to kill Claudius, I don't buy his 'I want uncle to go to hell' excuse. I just think that he felt it was not the right time - his anger had not run its course, there were too many things he still did not know and had not made clear (why his mother had married his uncle, for instance, and how she felt about all of this) - to kill Claudius in the midst of so many unresolved issues and so much uncertainty, it just didn't feel like the right time. So I do buy the 'Hamlet as man of thought instead of man of action' theory in the sense that I believe he could not take action until he's straightened out his world of thoughts. (But not in the sense that Hamlet is perenially unable to take any meaningful action.) Perhaps A.C. Bradley would disagree, his Hamlet being more warrior-like than mine.
I remember some scholar - I can't remember who - commented that the beauty of Hamlet the play is that Shakespeare leaves so many things unexplained. We never truly know why Hamlet did this or that and as a result, we are able to interpret Hamlet in our own different ways. Each of us is able to create and own a different Hamlet by projecting ourselves upon this slate that is not entirely blank but blank enough. I am 80% convinced that my interpretation of Hamlet reflects what I would have done in his place. But methinks perhaps Hamlet's motivations or even his personality are not quite the point of the play.
Hamlet the character is an elusive and charismatic one, and he is a constant source of fascination for me. I think this character is probably one of the best known in English literature, and much of the attention given to the play is focused on figuring out this personality, his motivations, and in some cases, figuring out whether he is 'good' or 'bad' or plain 'pathetic'. But if I don't remember wrong, till the 19th century Hamlet the character did not receive much attention from the literati. The play was seen as just one of the 'vengeance dramas' (my term), which was by no means an original plot, even during Shakespeare's time. I think some writer (Goethe?) suddenly found Hamlet the character to be pretty interesting and atypical, and suddenly everyone was debating Hamlet the character, and Hamlet the character took precedence over Hamlet the play.
Ok my account of the history of scholarship is not particularly impressive. (I'm old! My memory is fading! I knew this once!)
I have to confess, I love thinking about Hamlet the character as well. But I also think that Hamlet the play can be appreciated without much knowledge of Hamlet the character, and not just in a Hollywood blockbuster - murder and incest and sex and war - kind of way.
Whether or not Hamlet was a thinker or a warrior or an angsty spoilt teenage prince or misogynist, the range of emotions in the play is exquisite and exquisitely portrayed. The highlights for me:
- the despair and grief and bitterness of Hamlet: "Seems madam, I know not what seems"; "O that this too too solid flesh would melt, / Thaw and resolve itself into dew"
- his angry lashing out at everyone around him: his bitter wordplay with Polonius, his disastrous (relationship-wise) scene with Ophelia
- Ophelia's beautiful mad confused grief: "I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died"
- Gertrude's subdued, poignant and pathetic (in a tragic sense) lament for Ophelia: "There's a willow grows askant a brook" is one of my favourite speeches from this play; "Sweets to the sweet, farewell. ... I thought thy bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet maid, / And not have strew'd thy grave" --> I was horrified when some stupid local desserts show on tvmobile called itself 'sweets to the sweet' or something to that effect.
- the self-centered (& perhaps guilt-ridden?) angry fight between Hamlet and Laertes in Ophelia's grave: "I loved Ophelia: forty thousand brothers / Could not, with their quantity of love, / Make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her?" --> Seriously? You called her a whore, dumped her, killed her father and caused her madness, and now you disrupt her funeral and fight with her brother in her grave over who loved her more? One of Hamlet's lowest points for me.
- Hamlet's final realisation that it was all over: "The rest is silence." --> Another of my favourite lines.
- Horatio's lament for his prince: "Good night, sweet prince, / And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest." --> Yet another favourite line. It's so poignant and yet ironic, given Hamlet's last words.
Ah I'd almost forgotten how much I love Hamlet the play. Chock-full of emotions and drama! Which is the way I think it should be appreciated. Sometimes I think we put too much emphasis on understanding and not enough on simply feeling.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Agyness Deyn
How do you say 'new girl crush'? (alt.: how do you say 'yes, I attended a girls' school'?)
Ok I'm probably late on this bandwagon, but she's so incredibly beautiful!!!!!!!!! But not in a done to death way!!!!!! Argh! Especially love the hat look in this video. I also love the look in her eyes, if you know what I mean.
Friday, June 13, 2008
10 smokin' beavers
This was a phrase that decided to take up residence in my brain just a few minutes ago. I'll try to use it somewhere in this post so you know what 'tis all about. We all know what a earworm is (or at least now you do, if you followed the link), but I'll be damned if there aren't brainworms as well.
As you all have probably rightly forgotten my dismal attempts at philosophy some months and a lifetime ago, you would probably be surprised that I haven't given up the expedition into cuckooland. Nope, I have too much iron in my soul (ironic fortitude, perhaps?) to be turned back by mere lack of reason to continue. *roars and thumps hairy chest*
I have as a matter of fact, gone past Leibniz, at whom I was stuck at the last time, by employing the elegantly simple strategy of skipping the chapter. By dint of pure willingness to ignore whatever looks too difficult to understand, I've reached Locke. And discovered that I can't proceed any further without going back to the bloody Greeks. (watch for it...) And I was like, 10 smokin' beavers ina cherry pie! Ain't this a right-ho bobbity-cop?
Guess which accent I have in my head. Really, guess. Prizes if you get it wrong.
So dragging my feet (I must say my feet appear to be less philosophically inclined than the rest of me), I went back to Socrates and started from there. The beauty of getting a 'philosophy for idiots'-type book from the library is that I managed to go from Socrates to Aquinas during lunch hour before I was rudely interrupted by the pointed silence that marks the recommencement of work.
Let's face it, if Socrates was playing an electric guitar with his homie Plato on a snazzy stage, I wouldn't be throwing any underwear on stage. In fact, I'd probably be doing the opposite. Which means I'd be collecting the underwear thrown on stage and either screaming to teenage girls that THEY COULD GET PREGNANT IF A BOY TOUCHES THESE PANTIES or not so surreptitiously pocketing the underwear to sell on eBay later. But never mind that.
The Greeks are so antiquated! *cries*
Good work, me. That was a brilliant one.
I really want to get to the 20th century soon, and I have only... well, 700 years to go.
Hmmm actually, that doesn't sound as bad as I thought it would sound.
I tend to take the default, instinctive position that people have always been a certain way and will always be this way. But reading these strange old men, I'm constantly surprised by how differently people think nowadays.
Which reminds me of the website of lynching photos that fell upon my lap from the bountiful plenty of the Intrawebs. Mere decades ago it was considered ok to kill someone. Mere decades ago children laughed and played around the gibbet or bonfire or any ol' tree as someone died and it was ok. Nowadays parents are uncomfortable when kids play violent video games.
I once attempted to read John Boslough's Stephen Hawking's Universe, which is the 'pop' version of Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time, which is the 'pop' version of whatever else it is that he has written. Needless to say I started out with the Stephen Hawking original, didn't understand a word, retreated to Boslough's further dumbed down volume and still didn't understand a word, at which point I retreated into ignorance and fortified the defences against anything quantum.
Gosh I do like me my digressions.
There are only 2 things I brought away from Boslough's book:
First, WTMF what do you mean space might be shaped like a saddle?!?!?!?!
Second, Robert Frost's poem: -
I love this poem. It is rife with material for blatantly pointless analysis, but I think I shall go sleep. I just remembered tomorrow I have to march in the ranks of the living dead, juggle 3 full pitchers of water and solve a sudoku puzzle at the same time.
As you all have probably rightly forgotten my dismal attempts at philosophy some months and a lifetime ago, you would probably be surprised that I haven't given up the expedition into cuckooland. Nope, I have too much iron in my soul (ironic fortitude, perhaps?) to be turned back by mere lack of reason to continue. *roars and thumps hairy chest*
I have as a matter of fact, gone past Leibniz, at whom I was stuck at the last time, by employing the elegantly simple strategy of skipping the chapter. By dint of pure willingness to ignore whatever looks too difficult to understand, I've reached Locke. And discovered that I can't proceed any further without going back to the bloody Greeks. (watch for it...) And I was like, 10 smokin' beavers ina cherry pie! Ain't this a right-ho bobbity-cop?
Guess which accent I have in my head. Really, guess. Prizes if you get it wrong.
So dragging my feet (I must say my feet appear to be less philosophically inclined than the rest of me), I went back to Socrates and started from there. The beauty of getting a 'philosophy for idiots'-type book from the library is that I managed to go from Socrates to Aquinas during lunch hour before I was rudely interrupted by the pointed silence that marks the recommencement of work.
Let's face it, if Socrates was playing an electric guitar with his homie Plato on a snazzy stage, I wouldn't be throwing any underwear on stage. In fact, I'd probably be doing the opposite. Which means I'd be collecting the underwear thrown on stage and either screaming to teenage girls that THEY COULD GET PREGNANT IF A BOY TOUCHES THESE PANTIES or not so surreptitiously pocketing the underwear to sell on eBay later. But never mind that.
The Greeks are so antiquated! *cries*
Good work, me. That was a brilliant one.
I really want to get to the 20th century soon, and I have only... well, 700 years to go.
Hmmm actually, that doesn't sound as bad as I thought it would sound.
I tend to take the default, instinctive position that people have always been a certain way and will always be this way. But reading these strange old men, I'm constantly surprised by how differently people think nowadays.
Which reminds me of the website of lynching photos that fell upon my lap from the bountiful plenty of the Intrawebs. Mere decades ago it was considered ok to kill someone. Mere decades ago children laughed and played around the gibbet or bonfire or any ol' tree as someone died and it was ok. Nowadays parents are uncomfortable when kids play violent video games.
I once attempted to read John Boslough's Stephen Hawking's Universe, which is the 'pop' version of Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time, which is the 'pop' version of whatever else it is that he has written. Needless to say I started out with the Stephen Hawking original, didn't understand a word, retreated to Boslough's further dumbed down volume and still didn't understand a word, at which point I retreated into ignorance and fortified the defences against anything quantum.
Gosh I do like me my digressions.
There are only 2 things I brought away from Boslough's book:
First, WTMF what do you mean space might be shaped like a saddle?!?!?!?!
Second, Robert Frost's poem: -
We dance 'round in a ring and suppose
But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.
I love this poem. It is rife with material for blatantly pointless analysis, but I think I shall go sleep. I just remembered tomorrow I have to march in the ranks of the living dead, juggle 3 full pitchers of water and solve a sudoku puzzle at the same time.
Monday, June 09, 2008
Ubi Sunt
From Wikipedia:
The moment I saw this, I thought of Tolkien's lament:
And behold what Wikipedia says:
I am constantly amazed by Tolkien.
Yes I know I'm at work, but it's lunch. :P
Ubi sunt (literally "where are...") is a phrase taken from the Latin Ubi sunt qui ante nos fuerunt?, meaning "Where are those who were before us?" Ubi nunc...?, "where now?", is a common variant.[1]
Ubi sunt is a phrase that begins several Latin medieval poems and occurs, for example, in the second stanza of the song De Brevitate Vitae (also known as Gaudeamus igitur). The theme was the common property of medieval Latin poets: Cicero may not have been available, but Boethius' line was known: Ubi nunc fidelis ossa Fabricii manent? Ubi may set the tone of a poem, and can even be used to indicate the tone of another work, such as Beowulf.
The moment I saw this, I thought of Tolkien's lament:
Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?
Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?
Where is the sping and the harvest and the tall corn growing?
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.
Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?
And behold what Wikipedia says:
Sometimes considered to be a nostalgic longing for the clichéd "good old days", the ubi sunt motif is actually a meditation on mortality and life's transience.
I am constantly amazed by Tolkien.
Yes I know I'm at work, but it's lunch. :P
Playlist
This is stuff currently on my mp3 playlist:
I stumbled across Mazzy Star on youtube and fell in love (again). Not good music if you're sleepy but need to work.
If anyone is wondering, this is the SM song that I keep telling you guys about. It's wonderfully delicious listening while on the way to work.
I love the sound of this band, which is not surprising, since their sound reminds me of velvet underground.
This is one piece I wish was on my playlist, but haven't had the time to acquire. Does Chopin never go wrong?:
Oh and in other (perfume) news, I got the miniatures for 24 Faubourg & Sisley's Eau du Soir. I'm especially enjoying the Sisley (I just bought them on Saturday, so I'll try the 24 Faubourg soon), which I should, since I paid 8 good bucks for 2ml. But I hadn't expected to find a miniature of that one, so I count that as a steal. It'd be perfect if I could find a miniature of Sisley's newer Soir de Lune :( And I know that cost per ml is MUCH higher for miniatures than for the full bottle, but dammit I don't have enough money for the full bottles... and this way I get to own more perfumes :P
Accuracy of Death & The Black Book are wonderful, if a little depressing. There're so many lovely movies these days *contented sigh*. Sex and the City.... well, the dresses (some) are drool-worthy. Nothing more, but I don't think anyone was expecting more either.
I stumbled across Mazzy Star on youtube and fell in love (again). Not good music if you're sleepy but need to work.
If anyone is wondering, this is the SM song that I keep telling you guys about. It's wonderfully delicious listening while on the way to work.
I love the sound of this band, which is not surprising, since their sound reminds me of velvet underground.
This is one piece I wish was on my playlist, but haven't had the time to acquire. Does Chopin never go wrong?:
Oh and in other (perfume) news, I got the miniatures for 24 Faubourg & Sisley's Eau du Soir. I'm especially enjoying the Sisley (I just bought them on Saturday, so I'll try the 24 Faubourg soon), which I should, since I paid 8 good bucks for 2ml. But I hadn't expected to find a miniature of that one, so I count that as a steal. It'd be perfect if I could find a miniature of Sisley's newer Soir de Lune :( And I know that cost per ml is MUCH higher for miniatures than for the full bottle, but dammit I don't have enough money for the full bottles... and this way I get to own more perfumes :P
Accuracy of Death & The Black Book are wonderful, if a little depressing. There're so many lovely movies these days *contented sigh*. Sex and the City.... well, the dresses (some) are drool-worthy. Nothing more, but I don't think anyone was expecting more either.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Disturbed
I came across this website of lynching photos from the USA (via Politics, Theory & Photography), and emerged feeling really disturbed. I suggest you don't follow the link if you think you might be affected. These are real photos of lynchings and dead people. I almost cried while looking at those photos, and felt really sick afterwards, so don't say I didn't warn you.
From the website:
"Without Sanctuary is a photo document of proof, an unearthing of crimes, of collective mass murder, of mass memory graves excavated from the American conscience. Part postal cards, common as dirt, souvenirs skin-thin and fresh-tatooed proud, the trade cards of those assisting at ritual racial killings and other acts of a mad citizenry. The communities' best citizens lurking just outside the frame. Destined to decay, these few survivors of an original photo population of many thousands, turn the living to pillars of salt."
- James Allen
It was really hard to look at the photos, but I'm glad I did because the photos are meant to be seen, to be recognised finally for what they are before they can be laid to rest - evidence of murder. I felt that I had to see the photos, and for each photo admit that yes, this was wrong, they were wrong to do this.
While looking through the photos, it felt a bit as if I was bearing the burden and responsibility for what happened and what happens still, and it felt right. The crimes humanity has committed are rightfully burdens of memory and guilt to be borne by us all. Not quite rational, but it felt right.
From the website:
"Without Sanctuary is a photo document of proof, an unearthing of crimes, of collective mass murder, of mass memory graves excavated from the American conscience. Part postal cards, common as dirt, souvenirs skin-thin and fresh-tatooed proud, the trade cards of those assisting at ritual racial killings and other acts of a mad citizenry. The communities' best citizens lurking just outside the frame. Destined to decay, these few survivors of an original photo population of many thousands, turn the living to pillars of salt."
- James Allen
It was really hard to look at the photos, but I'm glad I did because the photos are meant to be seen, to be recognised finally for what they are before they can be laid to rest - evidence of murder. I felt that I had to see the photos, and for each photo admit that yes, this was wrong, they were wrong to do this.
While looking through the photos, it felt a bit as if I was bearing the burden and responsibility for what happened and what happens still, and it felt right. The crimes humanity has committed are rightfully burdens of memory and guilt to be borne by us all. Not quite rational, but it felt right.
Gender, Love and Sex
Ok I swore I'd clear the backlog of things I want to blog about.
I read this really interesting article about a guy who underwent a sex change, but what got me was the comments. One comment linked to this NYT article on a married couple who stayed happily together after the husband changed his sex. Yet another comment tells a supposedly true anecdote about a hetero female who fell in love with another woman. A reply to this comment argues that either 1) the female is not hetero but is bisexual or lesbian, or 2) the female is hetero but not really 'in love' with the other woman.
So the question is, can you be straight and still love a person of the same sex? And by love I mean what most Singaporeans would see as the emotion that leads boy and girl to date, get married and spend the rest of the lives together.
One particularly favoured response to that question is that our sexual preferences are just general preferences. Meaning that if I say I'm a hetero female, what I mean is that I'm usually attracted to guys, but I might, however rarely, be attracted to and fall in love with women. So some hetero females might be more likely to be attracted to women than other hetero females, but they remain hetero because most of the time they're still attracted to guys. Likewise a lesbian might be attracted to females most of the time, but might occasionally be attracted to a guy.
Now I totally agree with the above response. I think it's silly to believe that even though we may like more than one type of music and more than one type of cuisine and more than one colour, we can only like either males or females, or that if we usually like only males then we cannot possibly like females or vice versa. Why should our sexual likes and dislikes be so different from our other likes and dislikes?
But what I find more interesting is the definition of love and the question of the relation between love and sex.
When I say love, I'm talking about that romantic love that people seem to differentiate from all other types of love, and have amazingly high standards for. 'Love' has to be monogamous (usually), it's special, it's great and momentous and unique, and above all 'true'. You can't merely 'feel affection for' - that doesn't make the cut. 'Love' is greater than that. It's the force that triumphs over death and families locked in violent conflicts and the star-crossedness of all that.
But what is this 'love'? What makes it so special? We all know about 'true love', but what exactly is it? Were Romeo and Juliet 'truly' in love? What makes it not just a crush? What makes it different from other types of love?
One question is, can you be in 'love' and not feel sexually attracted to the person you love? Can there be love without lust?
If love can exist without lust, what makes this love so special? How is it different from the love between family members and friends? Would you marry your best friend if you saw him 'only' as a friend? If you see him as 'more than a friend', what's the extra thing that constitutes the 'more'?
If love cannot exist without lust, then what if someone has well, libido problems? Or is for some reason not interested in sex? Does that mean that that person cannot love? Does this mean that on days when you think your partner looks unattractive (your dress makes you look fat, dear) or on days you simply don't feel the lust (headache, dear) you then love your partner less?
What are the other components of love (besides, perhaps, lust)? Conventionally, one would list things like care, affection, commitment etc. These are things that are common to familial or platonic love. Can we say that familial/platonic love + lust = Love? But what if you have a friend whom you care about and are physically attracted to? Does that mean that you 'love' that friend in that special way? How much must you care about the person in order to be able to say you 'love' him?
The most common way (this is what friends tell me!) of 'verifying' if someone 'truly' 'loves' you seems to be his willingness to sacrifice his own happiness for yours. I'm not sure I quite buy that. When you sacrifice yourself for someone, is it a total loss on your part, or do you actually gain utility/satisfaction from sacrifice/being needed/being perceived as noble and loving? If so, when you 'sacrifice', is it an indication of your love, or your enjoyment/satisfaction from your sacrifice?
In the end I've never seen a definition of love that really satisfied me, and my sneaking suspicion is that love is probably an amalgamation of phenomena instead of the unique discrete phenomenon that it's often perceived to be, and that the composition of love differs from person to person, relationship to relationship. i.e. 'True love' is often seen as special and momentous and more than mere affection or care or lust, but I suspect it's actually just 'great affection' or 'great need' or 'great desire', and that what I mean by love might be quite different from what you mean by love. I do believe that there is no such identifiable, definable thing as 'love'.
And yes, I know the difference between 'cannot be defined' and 'does not exist', and knowing this I still believe that the 'special, momentous, till death do us part, one and only, there'll be no other' love is a myth and a fantasy. At least until I stop thinking and start feeling.
I read this really interesting article about a guy who underwent a sex change, but what got me was the comments. One comment linked to this NYT article on a married couple who stayed happily together after the husband changed his sex. Yet another comment tells a supposedly true anecdote about a hetero female who fell in love with another woman. A reply to this comment argues that either 1) the female is not hetero but is bisexual or lesbian, or 2) the female is hetero but not really 'in love' with the other woman.
So the question is, can you be straight and still love a person of the same sex? And by love I mean what most Singaporeans would see as the emotion that leads boy and girl to date, get married and spend the rest of the lives together.
One particularly favoured response to that question is that our sexual preferences are just general preferences. Meaning that if I say I'm a hetero female, what I mean is that I'm usually attracted to guys, but I might, however rarely, be attracted to and fall in love with women. So some hetero females might be more likely to be attracted to women than other hetero females, but they remain hetero because most of the time they're still attracted to guys. Likewise a lesbian might be attracted to females most of the time, but might occasionally be attracted to a guy.
Now I totally agree with the above response. I think it's silly to believe that even though we may like more than one type of music and more than one type of cuisine and more than one colour, we can only like either males or females, or that if we usually like only males then we cannot possibly like females or vice versa. Why should our sexual likes and dislikes be so different from our other likes and dislikes?
But what I find more interesting is the definition of love and the question of the relation between love and sex.
When I say love, I'm talking about that romantic love that people seem to differentiate from all other types of love, and have amazingly high standards for. 'Love' has to be monogamous (usually), it's special, it's great and momentous and unique, and above all 'true'. You can't merely 'feel affection for' - that doesn't make the cut. 'Love' is greater than that. It's the force that triumphs over death and families locked in violent conflicts and the star-crossedness of all that.
But what is this 'love'? What makes it so special? We all know about 'true love', but what exactly is it? Were Romeo and Juliet 'truly' in love? What makes it not just a crush? What makes it different from other types of love?
One question is, can you be in 'love' and not feel sexually attracted to the person you love? Can there be love without lust?
If love can exist without lust, what makes this love so special? How is it different from the love between family members and friends? Would you marry your best friend if you saw him 'only' as a friend? If you see him as 'more than a friend', what's the extra thing that constitutes the 'more'?
If love cannot exist without lust, then what if someone has well, libido problems? Or is for some reason not interested in sex? Does that mean that that person cannot love? Does this mean that on days when you think your partner looks unattractive (your dress makes you look fat, dear) or on days you simply don't feel the lust (headache, dear) you then love your partner less?
What are the other components of love (besides, perhaps, lust)? Conventionally, one would list things like care, affection, commitment etc. These are things that are common to familial or platonic love. Can we say that familial/platonic love + lust = Love? But what if you have a friend whom you care about and are physically attracted to? Does that mean that you 'love' that friend in that special way? How much must you care about the person in order to be able to say you 'love' him?
The most common way (this is what friends tell me!) of 'verifying' if someone 'truly' 'loves' you seems to be his willingness to sacrifice his own happiness for yours. I'm not sure I quite buy that. When you sacrifice yourself for someone, is it a total loss on your part, or do you actually gain utility/satisfaction from sacrifice/being needed/being perceived as noble and loving? If so, when you 'sacrifice', is it an indication of your love, or your enjoyment/satisfaction from your sacrifice?
In the end I've never seen a definition of love that really satisfied me, and my sneaking suspicion is that love is probably an amalgamation of phenomena instead of the unique discrete phenomenon that it's often perceived to be, and that the composition of love differs from person to person, relationship to relationship. i.e. 'True love' is often seen as special and momentous and more than mere affection or care or lust, but I suspect it's actually just 'great affection' or 'great need' or 'great desire', and that what I mean by love might be quite different from what you mean by love. I do believe that there is no such identifiable, definable thing as 'love'.
And yes, I know the difference between 'cannot be defined' and 'does not exist', and knowing this I still believe that the 'special, momentous, till death do us part, one and only, there'll be no other' love is a myth and a fantasy. At least until I stop thinking and start feeling.
What's in a name?
The most heated LSB-moi arguments are those over the name(s) of our future daughters. Yes, those future daughters that are not even a sparkle in our collective eyeballs yet. LSB doesn't seem to care about the name(s) of any future sons.
For some reason, LSB has this horrendous penchant for very feminine and slightly old-fashioned names. Whereas I prefer names (for gals) that are unisex or not so girly.
Today LSB proposed the latest horror of a name - which I shall not specify, just in case someone with that name gets really hurt hehe - that I thought was pretty much bovine. You know, you can't help it. Some names just sound placid, slightly stupid and like they should have wide hips and a bell around their neck.
LSB observed that the child would be traumatised if her own mother thought she was a cow. I observed that the child would be traumatised because I would have fed her grass throughout her childhood. Nice green grass.
I sort of want to call any future daughter Sylvie after my 1st French teacher. My 1st French teacher (a french lady of course) had incredibly flat abs and... well let's just say she had assets that made the day she entered our chilly classroom without a bra (or with a very thin bra) a very very hallowed, blessed day. We were truly subdued and awed.
Gosh I still remember this. Yep I sound like a guy.
For some reason, LSB has this horrendous penchant for very feminine and slightly old-fashioned names. Whereas I prefer names (for gals) that are unisex or not so girly.
Today LSB proposed the latest horror of a name - which I shall not specify, just in case someone with that name gets really hurt hehe - that I thought was pretty much bovine. You know, you can't help it. Some names just sound placid, slightly stupid and like they should have wide hips and a bell around their neck.
LSB observed that the child would be traumatised if her own mother thought she was a cow. I observed that the child would be traumatised because I would have fed her grass throughout her childhood. Nice green grass.
I sort of want to call any future daughter Sylvie after my 1st French teacher. My 1st French teacher (a french lady of course) had incredibly flat abs and... well let's just say she had assets that made the day she entered our chilly classroom without a bra (or with a very thin bra) a very very hallowed, blessed day. We were truly subdued and awed.
Gosh I still remember this. Yep I sound like a guy.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
More wishes
Yes, my wish list expanded again, and it's all perfumes dammit.
I'm tempted to buy the guy perfumes on the list for LSB/my dad, though more probably my dad cos then I can steal a spritz or two whenever I like. Unfortunately my mum has final say on how my dad smells, and my mum's taste differs greatly from mine. :( On the other hand, I do quite like the idea of deciding how LSB should smell. Hmmm. Plus LSB recently gave me permission to shop for a scent for him. Perhaps he was drunk.
I bought a Sonic Youth cd. They rock, but they don't rock as much as Velvet Underground.
Random thought. Vetiver smells like grass to me, but grass with a twist. It's as if you take scent of grass, identify the earth smell, make it stronger, then somehow make it sharper. And then you get vetiver - a grassy scent with a strong, sharp earth smell. Oh, and I like vetiver vetiver. I don't really like it softened or sweetened. I want to be hit in between the eyes by blades of grass and clods of fresh earth.
Hey, it takes all kinds.
I'm tempted to buy the guy perfumes on the list for LSB/my dad, though more probably my dad cos then I can steal a spritz or two whenever I like. Unfortunately my mum has final say on how my dad smells, and my mum's taste differs greatly from mine. :( On the other hand, I do quite like the idea of deciding how LSB should smell. Hmmm. Plus LSB recently gave me permission to shop for a scent for him. Perhaps he was drunk.
I bought a Sonic Youth cd. They rock, but they don't rock as much as Velvet Underground.
Random thought. Vetiver smells like grass to me, but grass with a twist. It's as if you take scent of grass, identify the earth smell, make it stronger, then somehow make it sharper. And then you get vetiver - a grassy scent with a strong, sharp earth smell. Oh, and I like vetiver vetiver. I don't really like it softened or sweetened. I want to be hit in between the eyes by blades of grass and clods of fresh earth.
Hey, it takes all kinds.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Henri
Omg I LOVE this video! It's so french and black-and-white and pseudo-arty and so cute and funny! *screams*
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Qualifications & explanations
Well, my previous post was obviously (I mean, obvious if you were there) inspired by a discussion some gal friends had last night. I truly felt that their 'standards' for guys - at least those articulated last night - seemed to be specially designed to include only the rich spoilt brats of the world. Of course I know that my friends aren't so shallow as to really mean what they said, and that drinks with the gals is not particularly conducive to sincere, serious conversation, so it was more the circumstances and the place speaking than my friends. Nevertheless, I was a bit quiet and a bit of a wet blanket (I'm sorriiieeeee!) during that conversation because of... well, my beliefs and values and what I've experienced these few weeks.
My dad has always been a slow, cautious driver. My dad therefore wouldn't pass my friends' test (their guys have to drive at least 130-140 on the expressway). When I was young, I used to get really irritated and impatient when my dad drove slowly, but whenever I complained he used to scold me. (and my dad doesn't really scold me, so that's a big thing.) Now I truly feel treasured and loved because I know my dad drives slowly not because he's a lousy driver or because he's scared of driving fast. He drives slowly because he doesn't want anything to happen to us. He would much rather be late or miss an exit than take chances with our lives. Even when people blast their horns and his passengers grumble complain, he's held his course all these years and never wavered. He's also created, with my mum, a very very happy family. I feel very fortunate that all my family members get along with each other and actually enjoy spending time with each other. Yet my dad wouldn't have passed my friends' test.
A few days ago, a man broke down and cried in front of me because of the problems with his wife and children. He's not dumb but he's not Oxbridge material. He doesn't earn enough to afford a car. He's middle-aged and plump and balding and looked like a total wreck when he cried. According to my friends' criteria he wouldn't be worth a second glance (or a 1st for that matter). But I really respect him and I believe his wife made the right choice when she married him.
On a slightly different note, some of you might not know this, but I've recently met up with HG, not once but twice. HG is a guy who, well, crossed a certain line more than a year ago, and I spent more than a year ignoring his calls and smses. Yes, those of you who know about this should know who I'm talking about now. I don't know why he did what he did. Perhaps I gave the wrong signals or maybe he was feeling really lonely or maybe he was just being an ass. I've been annoyed with his persistent attempts to contact me, but I've long forgiven his initial transgression, and I've never actively disliked him. So when I bumped into him earlier this year and he acted decently, I basically renewed my friendship with him. (not that there was much of a friendship at first anyway.) And so far it's been good. He's behaved okay, he's quite nice to talk to, we've discovered a common interest in classical music, and I feel good that our friendship didn't end on a sour note. It's not, as some people seem to assume *ahem*, an attention-seeking thing on my part. I'm not a 'call the crusher and lead him on' kind of person.
It might be that this time he's just taking things slowly and he'll reveal his inner bastard some time down the road. Of course I'm still wary of him, and if it really turns out that way I'll probably have to cut him off again. But you see, the point is I don't believe that just because a guy crosses the line you should be mean to him and sever all ties with him. I don't believe in being unforgiving and merciless, and I don't ever believe that someone's bad behaviour reflects the whole of his personality. Just because a person behaves like a bastard once or twice doesn't mean that he is one.
Anyway, a post like this couldn't leave out LSB, could it? I'll admit, a lot of my criteria for my ideal guy has been heavily influenced by LSB (you should have noticed already, right?). But I don't think LSB is that ideal guy. For one, he might just be a car over house person. LSB is huge spendthrift when it comes to certain things (books & cab), and he's not known for his acute financial planning skills (not in my part of the world anyway). He's also got that 5-year old living in his brain - that same 5-year old that urges him to love football and play computer games - so he might just choose a flashy gadgety car over a nice sensible place to live. LSB can also be self-centered and inconsiderate, and he's not as careful about protecting me from hurt as my dad is. But then again, an ideal guy is only someone I think I could like very much. 'Think' is not 'feel', and our hearts and minds often take very different paths and end up in very different places. So if my ideal guy really appears I might really like him, but I don't know if I would love him.
My dad has always been a slow, cautious driver. My dad therefore wouldn't pass my friends' test (their guys have to drive at least 130-140 on the expressway). When I was young, I used to get really irritated and impatient when my dad drove slowly, but whenever I complained he used to scold me. (and my dad doesn't really scold me, so that's a big thing.) Now I truly feel treasured and loved because I know my dad drives slowly not because he's a lousy driver or because he's scared of driving fast. He drives slowly because he doesn't want anything to happen to us. He would much rather be late or miss an exit than take chances with our lives. Even when people blast their horns and his passengers grumble complain, he's held his course all these years and never wavered. He's also created, with my mum, a very very happy family. I feel very fortunate that all my family members get along with each other and actually enjoy spending time with each other. Yet my dad wouldn't have passed my friends' test.
A few days ago, a man broke down and cried in front of me because of the problems with his wife and children. He's not dumb but he's not Oxbridge material. He doesn't earn enough to afford a car. He's middle-aged and plump and balding and looked like a total wreck when he cried. According to my friends' criteria he wouldn't be worth a second glance (or a 1st for that matter). But I really respect him and I believe his wife made the right choice when she married him.
On a slightly different note, some of you might not know this, but I've recently met up with HG, not once but twice. HG is a guy who, well, crossed a certain line more than a year ago, and I spent more than a year ignoring his calls and smses. Yes, those of you who know about this should know who I'm talking about now. I don't know why he did what he did. Perhaps I gave the wrong signals or maybe he was feeling really lonely or maybe he was just being an ass. I've been annoyed with his persistent attempts to contact me, but I've long forgiven his initial transgression, and I've never actively disliked him. So when I bumped into him earlier this year and he acted decently, I basically renewed my friendship with him. (not that there was much of a friendship at first anyway.) And so far it's been good. He's behaved okay, he's quite nice to talk to, we've discovered a common interest in classical music, and I feel good that our friendship didn't end on a sour note. It's not, as some people seem to assume *ahem*, an attention-seeking thing on my part. I'm not a 'call the crusher and lead him on' kind of person.
It might be that this time he's just taking things slowly and he'll reveal his inner bastard some time down the road. Of course I'm still wary of him, and if it really turns out that way I'll probably have to cut him off again. But you see, the point is I don't believe that just because a guy crosses the line you should be mean to him and sever all ties with him. I don't believe in being unforgiving and merciless, and I don't ever believe that someone's bad behaviour reflects the whole of his personality. Just because a person behaves like a bastard once or twice doesn't mean that he is one.
Anyway, a post like this couldn't leave out LSB, could it? I'll admit, a lot of my criteria for my ideal guy has been heavily influenced by LSB (you should have noticed already, right?). But I don't think LSB is that ideal guy. For one, he might just be a car over house person. LSB is huge spendthrift when it comes to certain things (books & cab), and he's not known for his acute financial planning skills (not in my part of the world anyway). He's also got that 5-year old living in his brain - that same 5-year old that urges him to love football and play computer games - so he might just choose a flashy gadgety car over a nice sensible place to live. LSB can also be self-centered and inconsiderate, and he's not as careful about protecting me from hurt as my dad is. But then again, an ideal guy is only someone I think I could like very much. 'Think' is not 'feel', and our hearts and minds often take very different paths and end up in very different places. So if my ideal guy really appears I might really like him, but I don't know if I would love him.
My ideal guy...
A long time ago, I came up with an utterly ridiculous list of things my ideal guy must do/have, which included things like 'must play musical instrument'. Now it's boiled down to a simple 'I need to respect my ideal guy'. Or is it that simple?
My ideal guy will never drive over the speed limit (or at least,not by much) because if I'm in the car with him he'll be deathly afraid of getting me into an accident. If I'm not in the car, he won't want to get into an accident because he's deathly afraid of hurting me and the people around him. He won't want to get into an accident because he doesn't want to hurt the strangers on the road. While he doesn't always respect rules and laws, he respects people and therefore respects the rules that protect people, and that's why he doesn't want to speed. To him there're more important things than getting somewhere fast or looking cool or driving faster than other people just for kicks.
My ideal guy would never choose to buy a car over a house because that wouldn't make financial sense. He's an adult, not a boy insisting on getting the toys he wants.
My ideal guy is intelligent, not smart. He doesn't need to be some Wall Street trader or a Harvard professor, but he's got his own mind and has one or two intellectual pursuits that he's passionate about. He thinks before acting, and he acts in a mature, responsible way. He's not some snarky smart-mouthed ass who constantly reminds the world how intelligent he is. I hate people who love telling you who they know, how they cleverly got back at the people who offended them, what praises others have heaped upon their deserving backs.
My ideal guy might laugh at people who're not as intelligent as him, but he wouldn't think less of them, nor would he respect them less. Because he knows that you don't respect someone for his intelligence; you respect someone for his heart.
My ideal guy's world is a large one. He's aware of what's happening in his country and other countries. He doesn't see other countries as mere tourist destinations; he sees them as places where people live in very different ways, and also as places where people destroy, exploit, kill, fight, suffer. While he likes music and the latest movies and all sorts of modern entertainment, these are not all he talks about, and they're not the world to him.
My ideal guy loves his country, but he never loves uncritically. He is painfully aware of the faults of his country, but manages to love it deeply and truly anyway. If he loves his country blindly then he doesn't really love at all.
My ideal guy is a humanitarian. He's not the type of guy to do something really flashy like organise a fundraising event only when a publicised disaster strikes. He doesn't go around calling people to arms to save the helpless and bring light to the world. My ideal guy doesn't need a disaster to ignite his humanitarian spirit. He spends time and effort volunteering at a low-key organisation, and never spouts melodramatic crap about saving the world. Perhaps he mentors children. Perhaps when I start work at a company I'm delighted at the collateral samples they give me even when I know I'll never use them. Because my first thought is that maybe my guy's kids can find some use for them, and they won't end up in the hands of well-to-do adults who'll just throw them away. He knows that the work that really counts isn't flashy or glamorous, and it requires determination and patience and sacrifice.
My ideal guy sometimes seems weighed down with responsibilities. That only shows that he's a man who does his duty even if he'd rather be doing something else. He's sometimes preoccupied and tends to ignore me when he's busy. He puts work above entertainment, and doesn't care for parties or drinks or dancing.
Dates with my ideal guy are usually quite run-of-the-mill, dinner and movies all the time. But sometimes my ideal guy is surprisingly creative and original and romantic. Once in a long long while.
My ideal guy is not perfect. Sometimes he's immensely inconsiderate and self-centered, but other times he can go out of his way for me. When he's inconsiderate and self-centered, it's because he is thoughtless, not because he doesn't care.
I don't know if LSB is my ideal guy. So, dear LSB, are you? Or should I start recruiting?
My ideal guy will never drive over the speed limit (or at least,not by much) because if I'm in the car with him he'll be deathly afraid of getting me into an accident. If I'm not in the car, he won't want to get into an accident because he's deathly afraid of hurting me and the people around him. He won't want to get into an accident because he doesn't want to hurt the strangers on the road. While he doesn't always respect rules and laws, he respects people and therefore respects the rules that protect people, and that's why he doesn't want to speed. To him there're more important things than getting somewhere fast or looking cool or driving faster than other people just for kicks.
My ideal guy would never choose to buy a car over a house because that wouldn't make financial sense. He's an adult, not a boy insisting on getting the toys he wants.
My ideal guy is intelligent, not smart. He doesn't need to be some Wall Street trader or a Harvard professor, but he's got his own mind and has one or two intellectual pursuits that he's passionate about. He thinks before acting, and he acts in a mature, responsible way. He's not some snarky smart-mouthed ass who constantly reminds the world how intelligent he is. I hate people who love telling you who they know, how they cleverly got back at the people who offended them, what praises others have heaped upon their deserving backs.
My ideal guy might laugh at people who're not as intelligent as him, but he wouldn't think less of them, nor would he respect them less. Because he knows that you don't respect someone for his intelligence; you respect someone for his heart.
My ideal guy's world is a large one. He's aware of what's happening in his country and other countries. He doesn't see other countries as mere tourist destinations; he sees them as places where people live in very different ways, and also as places where people destroy, exploit, kill, fight, suffer. While he likes music and the latest movies and all sorts of modern entertainment, these are not all he talks about, and they're not the world to him.
My ideal guy loves his country, but he never loves uncritically. He is painfully aware of the faults of his country, but manages to love it deeply and truly anyway. If he loves his country blindly then he doesn't really love at all.
My ideal guy is a humanitarian. He's not the type of guy to do something really flashy like organise a fundraising event only when a publicised disaster strikes. He doesn't go around calling people to arms to save the helpless and bring light to the world. My ideal guy doesn't need a disaster to ignite his humanitarian spirit. He spends time and effort volunteering at a low-key organisation, and never spouts melodramatic crap about saving the world. Perhaps he mentors children. Perhaps when I start work at a company I'm delighted at the collateral samples they give me even when I know I'll never use them. Because my first thought is that maybe my guy's kids can find some use for them, and they won't end up in the hands of well-to-do adults who'll just throw them away. He knows that the work that really counts isn't flashy or glamorous, and it requires determination and patience and sacrifice.
My ideal guy sometimes seems weighed down with responsibilities. That only shows that he's a man who does his duty even if he'd rather be doing something else. He's sometimes preoccupied and tends to ignore me when he's busy. He puts work above entertainment, and doesn't care for parties or drinks or dancing.
Dates with my ideal guy are usually quite run-of-the-mill, dinner and movies all the time. But sometimes my ideal guy is surprisingly creative and original and romantic. Once in a long long while.
My ideal guy is not perfect. Sometimes he's immensely inconsiderate and self-centered, but other times he can go out of his way for me. When he's inconsiderate and self-centered, it's because he is thoughtless, not because he doesn't care.
I don't know if LSB is my ideal guy. So, dear LSB, are you? Or should I start recruiting?
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Songs!
I woke up today with my head full of old songs, and LSB has gone downstairs just to escape my singing :(
I've always felt that this is a song that manages to be sad AND noble.
Ol' man river,
Dat ol' man river
He mus'know sumpin'
But don't say nuthin',
He jes'keeps rollin'
He keeps on rollin' along.
He don' plant taters,
He don't plant cotton,
An' dem dat plants'em
is soon forgotten,
But ol'man river,
He jes keeps rollin'along.
You an'me, we sweat an' strain,
Body all achin' an' racket wid pain,
Tote dat barge!
Lif' dat bale!
Git a little drunk
An' you land in jail.
Ah gits weary
An' sick of tryin'
Ah'm tired of livin'
An' skeered of dyin',
But ol' man river,
He jes'keeps rolling' along.
There're plenty of slow versions on Youtube, but I really prefer the uptempo version. It's much more french, non? I've always enjoyed playing this song on the piano.
Keep the home fires burning!
Somehow I feel as if I'm in a World War songs mood...
I've always felt that this is a song that manages to be sad AND noble.
Ol' man river,
Dat ol' man river
He mus'know sumpin'
But don't say nuthin',
He jes'keeps rollin'
He keeps on rollin' along.
He don' plant taters,
He don't plant cotton,
An' dem dat plants'em
is soon forgotten,
But ol'man river,
He jes keeps rollin'along.
You an'me, we sweat an' strain,
Body all achin' an' racket wid pain,
Tote dat barge!
Lif' dat bale!
Git a little drunk
An' you land in jail.
Ah gits weary
An' sick of tryin'
Ah'm tired of livin'
An' skeered of dyin',
But ol' man river,
He jes'keeps rolling' along.
There're plenty of slow versions on Youtube, but I really prefer the uptempo version. It's much more french, non? I've always enjoyed playing this song on the piano.
Keep the home fires burning!
Somehow I feel as if I'm in a World War songs mood...
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Perfume and Poetry
I'll leave the story of my long and arduous journey back home from Malaysia to another time.
LSB once commented that I seem more suited for poetry than plays. Possibly it was his way of siam-ing my demands that he mentor my non-existent play writing efforts (he was teaching some other girls how to write plays see, and how could I be left out of that?), but I do agree with him to some extent. Even in my now almost-forgotten Creative Writing Club days, I chose to write poetry. I think the main reason was because poetry was shorter and faster, and I could anyhow-ly link words together and get away with it. But never mind that.
I've always felt there is a natural affinity between poetry and perfume. Poetry is the art of expressing what cannot be said. Perfume evokes memories and emotions that we never knew we possessed. It seems to me that both perfume and poetry hide between words and hide from words, so that the truth of both can never truly be communicated. They fall between the gaps of our knowledge, yet do not fall too far from our understanding. We do not know, yet we can understand; what is hidden is also revealed in equal measure.
Blah I don't know if I really said what I wanted to say there. That seems to happen a lot these days.
Anyway, here is a beautiful story about the affair and eventually tragic marriage between Ted Hughes (who also married the equally tragic Sylvia Plath) and Assia Wevill. The article hinges on Ted Hughes' poem, 'Chlorophyll' and the Dior perfume mentioned in the poem and central to their story. It's a long article, but well worth it if you can make it through.
LSB once commented that I seem more suited for poetry than plays. Possibly it was his way of siam-ing my demands that he mentor my non-existent play writing efforts (he was teaching some other girls how to write plays see, and how could I be left out of that?), but I do agree with him to some extent. Even in my now almost-forgotten Creative Writing Club days, I chose to write poetry. I think the main reason was because poetry was shorter and faster, and I could anyhow-ly link words together and get away with it. But never mind that.
I've always felt there is a natural affinity between poetry and perfume. Poetry is the art of expressing what cannot be said. Perfume evokes memories and emotions that we never knew we possessed. It seems to me that both perfume and poetry hide between words and hide from words, so that the truth of both can never truly be communicated. They fall between the gaps of our knowledge, yet do not fall too far from our understanding. We do not know, yet we can understand; what is hidden is also revealed in equal measure.
Blah I don't know if I really said what I wanted to say there. That seems to happen a lot these days.
Anyway, here is a beautiful story about the affair and eventually tragic marriage between Ted Hughes (who also married the equally tragic Sylvia Plath) and Assia Wevill. The article hinges on Ted Hughes' poem, 'Chlorophyll' and the Dior perfume mentioned in the poem and central to their story. It's a long article, but well worth it if you can make it through.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Christianity vs Paganism
Ah after a determined search, I've finally found the arguments between Oisin & Patrick!
Patrick. "Oisin, it is long your sleep is. Rise up and listen to the Psalm. Your strength and your readiness are gone from you, though you used to be going into rough fights and battles.
Oisin. "My readiness and my strength are gone from me since Finn has no armies living; I have no liking for clerks, their music is not sweet to me after his."
Patrick. "You never heard music so good from the beginning of the world to this day; it is well you would serve an army on a hill, you that are old and silly and grey."
Oisin. "I used to serve an army on a hill, Patrick of the closed-up mind; it is a pity you to be faulting me; there was never shame put on me till now.
"I have heard music was sweeter than your music, however much you are praising your clerks: the song of the blackbird in Leiter Laoi, and the sound of the Dord Fiann; the very sweet thrush of the Valley of the Shadow, or the sound of the boats striking the strand. The cry of the hounds was better to me than the noise of your schools, Patrick.
"Little Nut, little Nut of my heart, the little dwarf that was with Finn, when he would make tunes and songs he would put us all into deep sleep.
"The twelve hounds that belonged to Finn, the time they would be let loose facing out from the Siuir, their cry was sweeter than harps and than pipes.
"I have a little story about Finn; we were but fifteen men; we took the King of the Saxons of the feats, and we won a battle against the King of Greece.
"We fought nine battles in Spain, and nine times twenty battles in Ireland: from Lochlann and from the eastern world there was a share of gold coming to Finn.
"My grief! I to be stopping after him, and without delight in games or in music; to be withering away after my comrades; my grief it is to be living. I and the clerks of the Mass books are two that can never agree.
"If Finn and the Fianna were living, I would leave the clerks and the bells; I would follow the deer through the valleys, I would like to be close on his track.
"Ask Heaven of God, Patrick, for Finn of the Fianna and his race; make prayers for the great man; you never heard of his like."
..................................................
Oisin. "There is a greater story of Finn than of us, or of any that have lived in our time; all that are gone and all that are living, Finn was better to give out gold than themselves."
Patrick. "Au the gold you and Finn used to be giving out, it is little it does for you now; he is in Hell in bonds because he did treachery and oppression."
Oisin. "It is little I believe of your truth, man from Rome with the white books, Finn the open-handed head of the Fianna to be in the hands of devils or demons.
Patrick. "Finn is in bonds in Hell, the pleasant man that gave out gold; in satisfaction for his disrespect to God, he is under grief in the house of pain."
Oisin. "If the sons of Morna were within it, or the strong men of the sons of Baiscne, they would take Finn out of it, or they would have the house for themselves."
Patrick. "If the five provinces of Ireland were within it, or the strong seven battalions of the Fianna, they would not be able to bring Finn out of it, however great their strength might be."
Oisin. "If Faolan and Goll were living, and brown-haired Diarmuid and brave Osgar, Finn of the Fianna could not be held in any house that was made by God or devils."
Patrick. "If Faolan and Goll were living, and all the Fianna that ever were, they could not bring out Finn from the house where he is in pain."
Oisin. "What did Finn do against God but to be attending on schools and on armies? Giving gold through a great part of his time, and for another while trying his hounds."
Patrick. "In payment for thinking of his hounds and for serving the schools of the poets, and because he gave no heed to God, Finn of the Fianna is held down."
............................................
Oisin. "O Patrick, tell me as a secret, since it is you have the best knowledge, will my dog or my hound be let in with me to the court of the King of Grace?"
Patrick. "Old man in your foolishness that I cannot put any bounds to, your dog or your hound will not be let in with you to the court of the King of Power."
Oisin. "If I had acquaintance with God, and my hound to be at hand, I would make whoever gave food to myself give a share to my hound as well.
"One strong champion that was with the Fianna of Ireland would be better than the Lord of Piety, and than you yourself, Patrick."
Patrick. "O Oisin of the sharp blades, it is mad words you are saying. God is better for one day than the whole of the Fianna of Ireland."
Oisin. "Though I am now without sway and my life is spent to the end, do not put abuse, Patrick, on the great men of the sons of Baiscne.
"If I had Conan with me, the man that used to be running down the Fianna, it is he would break your head within among your clerks and your priests."
...................................
Patrick. "Oisin, since your wits are gone from you be glad at what I say; it is certain to me you will leave the Fianna and that you will receive the God of the stars."
Oisin. "There is wonder on me at your hasty talk, priest that has travelled in every part, to say that I would part from the Fianna, a generous people, never niggardly."
Patrick. "If you saw the people of God, the way they are settled at feasts, every good thing is more plentiful with them than with Finn's people, however great their name was.
"Finn and the Fianna are lying now very sorrowful on the flagstone of pain; take the Son of God in their place; make your repentance and do not lose Heaven."
Oisin. "I do not believe your talk now, O Patrick of the crooked staves, Finn and the Fianna to be there within, unless they find pleasure being in it."
Patrick. "Make right repentance now, before you know when your end is coming; God is better for one hour than the whole of the Fianna of Ireland."
Oisin. "That is a daring answer to make to me, Patrick of the crooked crozier; your crozier would be in little bits if I had Osgar with me now.
"If my son Osgar and God were hand to hand on the Hill of the Fianna, if I saw my son put down, I would say that God was a strong man.
"How could it be that God or his priests could be better men thin Finn, the King of the Fianna, a generous man without crookedness.
"If there was a place above or below better than the Heaven of God, it is there Finn would go, and all that are with him of his people.
"You say that a generous man never goes to the hell of pain; there was not one among the Fianna that was not generous to all.
"Ask of God, Patrick, does He remember when the Fianna were alive, or has He seen east or west any man better than themselves in their fighting.
"The Fianna used not to be saying treachery; we never had the name of telling lies. By truth and the strength of our hands we came safe out of every battle.
"There never sat a priest in a church, though you think it sweet to be singing psalms, was better to his word than the Fianna, or more generous than Finn himself.
"If my comrades were living to-night, I would take no pleasure in your crooning in the church; as they are not living now, the rough voice of the bells has deafened me.
"Och! in the place of battles and heavy fights, where I used to have my place and to take my pleasure, the crozier of Patrick being carried; and his clerks at their quarrelling.
"Och! slothful, cheerless Conan, it is great abuse I used to be giving you; why do you not come to see me now? you would get leave for making fun and reviling through the whole of the niggardly clerks.
"Och! where are the strong men gone that they do not come together to help me! O Osgar of the sharp sword of victory, come and free your father from his bonds!
"Where is the strong son of Lugaidh? Och! Diarmuid of all the women! Och! Caoilte, son of Ronan, think of our love, and travel to me!"
Patrick. "Stop your talk, you withered, witless old man; it is my King that made the Heavens, it is He that gives blossom to the trees, it is He made the moon and the sun, the fields and the grass."
Oisin. "It was not in shaping fields and grass that my king took his delight, but in overthrowing fighting men, and defending countries, and bringing his name into every part.
"In courting, in playing, in hunting, in baring his banner at the first of a fight; in playing at chess, at swimming, in looking around him at the drinking-hall.
"O Patrick, where was your God when the two came over the sea that brought away the queen of Lochlann of the Ships? Where was He when Dearg came, the son of the King of Lochlann of the golden shields? Why did not the King of Heaven protect them from the blows of the big man?
"Or when Tailc son of Treon, came, the man that did great slaughter on the Fianna; it was not by God that champion fell, but by Osgar, in the sight of all.
"Many a battle and many a victory was gained by the Fianna of Ireland; I never heard any great deed was done by the King of Saints, or that He ever reddened His hand.
"It would be a great shame for God not to take the locks of pain off Finn; if God Himself were in bonds, my king would fight for His sake.
"Finn left no one in pain or in danger without freeing him by silver or gold, or by fighting till he got the victory.
"For the strength of your love, Patrick, do not forsake the great men; bring in the Fianna unknown to the King of Heaven.
"It is a good claim I have on your God, to be among his clerks the way I am; without food, without clothing, without music, without giving rewards to poets.
"Without the cry of the hounds or the horns, without guarding coasts, without courting generous women; for all that I have suffered by the want of food, I forgive the King of Heaven in my will."
Oisin. said: "My story is sorrowful. The sound of your voice is not pleasant to me. I will cry my fill, but not for God, but because Finn and the Fianna are not living."
------------------------------------------
Oisin's Lament
I am a shaking tree, my leaves gone from me; an empty nut, a horse without a bridle; a people without a dwelling-place, I Oisin, son of Finn.
It is long the clouds are over me to-night! It is long last night was; although this day is long, yesterday was longer again to me; every day that comes is long to me!
That is not the way I used to be, without fighting, without battles, without learning feats, without young girls, without music, without harps, without bruising bones, without great deeds; without increase of learning, without generosity, without drinking at feasts, without courting, without hunting, the two trades I was used to; without going out to battle Ochone! the want of them is sorrowful to me.
No hunting of deer or stag, it is not like that I would wish to be; no leashes for our hounds, no hounds; it is long the clouds are over me to-night!
Without rising up to do bravery as we were used, without playing as we had a mind; without swimming of our fighting men in the lake; it is long the clouds are over me to-night!
There is no one at all in the world the way I am: it is a pity the way I am; an old man dragging stones; it is long the clouds are over me to-night!
I am the last of the Fianna, great Oisin, son of Finn, listening to the voice of bells; it is long the clouds are over me to-night!
Patrick. "Oisin, it is long your sleep is. Rise up and listen to the Psalm. Your strength and your readiness are gone from you, though you used to be going into rough fights and battles.
Oisin. "My readiness and my strength are gone from me since Finn has no armies living; I have no liking for clerks, their music is not sweet to me after his."
Patrick. "You never heard music so good from the beginning of the world to this day; it is well you would serve an army on a hill, you that are old and silly and grey."
Oisin. "I used to serve an army on a hill, Patrick of the closed-up mind; it is a pity you to be faulting me; there was never shame put on me till now.
"I have heard music was sweeter than your music, however much you are praising your clerks: the song of the blackbird in Leiter Laoi, and the sound of the Dord Fiann; the very sweet thrush of the Valley of the Shadow, or the sound of the boats striking the strand. The cry of the hounds was better to me than the noise of your schools, Patrick.
"Little Nut, little Nut of my heart, the little dwarf that was with Finn, when he would make tunes and songs he would put us all into deep sleep.
"The twelve hounds that belonged to Finn, the time they would be let loose facing out from the Siuir, their cry was sweeter than harps and than pipes.
"I have a little story about Finn; we were but fifteen men; we took the King of the Saxons of the feats, and we won a battle against the King of Greece.
"We fought nine battles in Spain, and nine times twenty battles in Ireland: from Lochlann and from the eastern world there was a share of gold coming to Finn.
"My grief! I to be stopping after him, and without delight in games or in music; to be withering away after my comrades; my grief it is to be living. I and the clerks of the Mass books are two that can never agree.
"If Finn and the Fianna were living, I would leave the clerks and the bells; I would follow the deer through the valleys, I would like to be close on his track.
"Ask Heaven of God, Patrick, for Finn of the Fianna and his race; make prayers for the great man; you never heard of his like."
..................................................
Oisin. "There is a greater story of Finn than of us, or of any that have lived in our time; all that are gone and all that are living, Finn was better to give out gold than themselves."
Patrick. "Au the gold you and Finn used to be giving out, it is little it does for you now; he is in Hell in bonds because he did treachery and oppression."
Oisin. "It is little I believe of your truth, man from Rome with the white books, Finn the open-handed head of the Fianna to be in the hands of devils or demons.
Patrick. "Finn is in bonds in Hell, the pleasant man that gave out gold; in satisfaction for his disrespect to God, he is under grief in the house of pain."
Oisin. "If the sons of Morna were within it, or the strong men of the sons of Baiscne, they would take Finn out of it, or they would have the house for themselves."
Patrick. "If the five provinces of Ireland were within it, or the strong seven battalions of the Fianna, they would not be able to bring Finn out of it, however great their strength might be."
Oisin. "If Faolan and Goll were living, and brown-haired Diarmuid and brave Osgar, Finn of the Fianna could not be held in any house that was made by God or devils."
Patrick. "If Faolan and Goll were living, and all the Fianna that ever were, they could not bring out Finn from the house where he is in pain."
Oisin. "What did Finn do against God but to be attending on schools and on armies? Giving gold through a great part of his time, and for another while trying his hounds."
Patrick. "In payment for thinking of his hounds and for serving the schools of the poets, and because he gave no heed to God, Finn of the Fianna is held down."
............................................
Oisin. "O Patrick, tell me as a secret, since it is you have the best knowledge, will my dog or my hound be let in with me to the court of the King of Grace?"
Patrick. "Old man in your foolishness that I cannot put any bounds to, your dog or your hound will not be let in with you to the court of the King of Power."
Oisin. "If I had acquaintance with God, and my hound to be at hand, I would make whoever gave food to myself give a share to my hound as well.
"One strong champion that was with the Fianna of Ireland would be better than the Lord of Piety, and than you yourself, Patrick."
Patrick. "O Oisin of the sharp blades, it is mad words you are saying. God is better for one day than the whole of the Fianna of Ireland."
Oisin. "Though I am now without sway and my life is spent to the end, do not put abuse, Patrick, on the great men of the sons of Baiscne.
"If I had Conan with me, the man that used to be running down the Fianna, it is he would break your head within among your clerks and your priests."
...................................
Patrick. "Oisin, since your wits are gone from you be glad at what I say; it is certain to me you will leave the Fianna and that you will receive the God of the stars."
Oisin. "There is wonder on me at your hasty talk, priest that has travelled in every part, to say that I would part from the Fianna, a generous people, never niggardly."
Patrick. "If you saw the people of God, the way they are settled at feasts, every good thing is more plentiful with them than with Finn's people, however great their name was.
"Finn and the Fianna are lying now very sorrowful on the flagstone of pain; take the Son of God in their place; make your repentance and do not lose Heaven."
Oisin. "I do not believe your talk now, O Patrick of the crooked staves, Finn and the Fianna to be there within, unless they find pleasure being in it."
Patrick. "Make right repentance now, before you know when your end is coming; God is better for one hour than the whole of the Fianna of Ireland."
Oisin. "That is a daring answer to make to me, Patrick of the crooked crozier; your crozier would be in little bits if I had Osgar with me now.
"If my son Osgar and God were hand to hand on the Hill of the Fianna, if I saw my son put down, I would say that God was a strong man.
"How could it be that God or his priests could be better men thin Finn, the King of the Fianna, a generous man without crookedness.
"If there was a place above or below better than the Heaven of God, it is there Finn would go, and all that are with him of his people.
"You say that a generous man never goes to the hell of pain; there was not one among the Fianna that was not generous to all.
"Ask of God, Patrick, does He remember when the Fianna were alive, or has He seen east or west any man better than themselves in their fighting.
"The Fianna used not to be saying treachery; we never had the name of telling lies. By truth and the strength of our hands we came safe out of every battle.
"There never sat a priest in a church, though you think it sweet to be singing psalms, was better to his word than the Fianna, or more generous than Finn himself.
"If my comrades were living to-night, I would take no pleasure in your crooning in the church; as they are not living now, the rough voice of the bells has deafened me.
"Och! in the place of battles and heavy fights, where I used to have my place and to take my pleasure, the crozier of Patrick being carried; and his clerks at their quarrelling.
"Och! slothful, cheerless Conan, it is great abuse I used to be giving you; why do you not come to see me now? you would get leave for making fun and reviling through the whole of the niggardly clerks.
"Och! where are the strong men gone that they do not come together to help me! O Osgar of the sharp sword of victory, come and free your father from his bonds!
"Where is the strong son of Lugaidh? Och! Diarmuid of all the women! Och! Caoilte, son of Ronan, think of our love, and travel to me!"
Patrick. "Stop your talk, you withered, witless old man; it is my King that made the Heavens, it is He that gives blossom to the trees, it is He made the moon and the sun, the fields and the grass."
Oisin. "It was not in shaping fields and grass that my king took his delight, but in overthrowing fighting men, and defending countries, and bringing his name into every part.
"In courting, in playing, in hunting, in baring his banner at the first of a fight; in playing at chess, at swimming, in looking around him at the drinking-hall.
"O Patrick, where was your God when the two came over the sea that brought away the queen of Lochlann of the Ships? Where was He when Dearg came, the son of the King of Lochlann of the golden shields? Why did not the King of Heaven protect them from the blows of the big man?
"Or when Tailc son of Treon, came, the man that did great slaughter on the Fianna; it was not by God that champion fell, but by Osgar, in the sight of all.
"Many a battle and many a victory was gained by the Fianna of Ireland; I never heard any great deed was done by the King of Saints, or that He ever reddened His hand.
"It would be a great shame for God not to take the locks of pain off Finn; if God Himself were in bonds, my king would fight for His sake.
"Finn left no one in pain or in danger without freeing him by silver or gold, or by fighting till he got the victory.
"For the strength of your love, Patrick, do not forsake the great men; bring in the Fianna unknown to the King of Heaven.
"It is a good claim I have on your God, to be among his clerks the way I am; without food, without clothing, without music, without giving rewards to poets.
"Without the cry of the hounds or the horns, without guarding coasts, without courting generous women; for all that I have suffered by the want of food, I forgive the King of Heaven in my will."
Oisin. said: "My story is sorrowful. The sound of your voice is not pleasant to me. I will cry my fill, but not for God, but because Finn and the Fianna are not living."
------------------------------------------
Oisin's Lament
I am a shaking tree, my leaves gone from me; an empty nut, a horse without a bridle; a people without a dwelling-place, I Oisin, son of Finn.
It is long the clouds are over me to-night! It is long last night was; although this day is long, yesterday was longer again to me; every day that comes is long to me!
That is not the way I used to be, without fighting, without battles, without learning feats, without young girls, without music, without harps, without bruising bones, without great deeds; without increase of learning, without generosity, without drinking at feasts, without courting, without hunting, the two trades I was used to; without going out to battle Ochone! the want of them is sorrowful to me.
No hunting of deer or stag, it is not like that I would wish to be; no leashes for our hounds, no hounds; it is long the clouds are over me to-night!
Without rising up to do bravery as we were used, without playing as we had a mind; without swimming of our fighting men in the lake; it is long the clouds are over me to-night!
There is no one at all in the world the way I am: it is a pity the way I am; an old man dragging stones; it is long the clouds are over me to-night!
I am the last of the Fianna, great Oisin, son of Finn, listening to the voice of bells; it is long the clouds are over me to-night!
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Someone in China is rejoicing
I don't know, has it occurred to anyone that someone in China is dancing with joy over the recent twin disasters?
Just a few weeks ago China was faced with a huge PR disaster - people snatching the bloody torch, the protests forced secret re-routes of the torch's journey... basically it was widespread international protest against China's various sins. The theme was: China under international scrutiny as the Beijing Olympics draws near - How will China Screw Up Now?
Now with the massive earthquake, all that is put behind us, and it's all - what a horrible disaster, how can we help these lovely Chinese people (and mind you, I'm not implying that the Chinese AREN'T lovely), look at all the efforts made by relief workers and the government, oh look, the President even made a trip down. How wonderful of him, not behaving at all like a ruthless Communist leader. We're also praising the wonderful wonderful Chinese government - so brave despite all this tragedy - for, well, basically not trying to hide the earthquake. Indeed, what more could you ask for in a government?
The small group of Chinese capering around with joy over the massive loss of life in the earthquake that is PR gold for China would also be similarly festive over Cyclone Nargis. Hell, Myanmar actually made China look good.
Just a few weeks ago China was faced with a huge PR disaster - people snatching the bloody torch, the protests forced secret re-routes of the torch's journey... basically it was widespread international protest against China's various sins. The theme was: China under international scrutiny as the Beijing Olympics draws near - How will China Screw Up Now?
Now with the massive earthquake, all that is put behind us, and it's all - what a horrible disaster, how can we help these lovely Chinese people (and mind you, I'm not implying that the Chinese AREN'T lovely), look at all the efforts made by relief workers and the government, oh look, the President even made a trip down. How wonderful of him, not behaving at all like a ruthless Communist leader. We're also praising the wonderful wonderful Chinese government - so brave despite all this tragedy - for, well, basically not trying to hide the earthquake. Indeed, what more could you ask for in a government?
The small group of Chinese capering around with joy over the massive loss of life in the earthquake that is PR gold for China would also be similarly festive over Cyclone Nargis. Hell, Myanmar actually made China look good.
Knowledge
I want to talk about two things today.
1. The nature of my own subjective 'knowledge' and understanding
2. Realisation vs knowledge
1. I think this is more about associations than anything else. Let's just start from what I'm most familiar with - international relations theory.
Realist theories have always felt linear to me, with straight, simple lines. They're very solid, like the walls of a corridor. But if they're walls they're cement walls without windows.
Liberal theories come with a sensation of a 'network', countless of little interconnecting lines that envelope one. Liberal theories are also always in black and white.
Constructivist theories have a sort of translucency and a delicate mix of colours, and they feel very light and insubstantial, but they're also quite pretty. There's also a humming, vibrating sound like the echo of a bell to Constructivism.
Critical theories are always very angry. They remind me of myself when I get angry, because I tend to be very irrational and I strike out at whoever's nearby. But even though critical theories are always very angry, they're also not prosaic.
Postmodernist theories smell of rubber and over-heated wires, but they don't smell disgusting. Just interesting. Postmodernism reminds me of computers and technology, especially the Internet. I think it the 'virtual-ness' and disorientating effect and 'massiveness' of the Internet that is so postmodernist.
So that's international theory. But I also understand other things in similar ways. Take for example writing.
Policy papers remind me of the images I associate with realist theories. They're linear and progress inevitably from one point to the next. It's very hard to find surprises in the flow of the paper - no side-roads, no sudden obstructions, no stairs or windows - it's just a long straight corridor.
I remember an essay on Keats I wrote that reminds me of Constructivist theories. It was somewhat light and pretty and had the same colours too.
Political theory papers (the good ones) remind me of Postmodernist theories (whether or not the political theory paper is on postmodernism.) They smell like an over-heated computer, and they're not linear. They're almost dizzying and nauseating and almost seem to reach out in many many directions at one time.
For me, a badly written political theory paper is the one that reminds me of realist theories - a corridor with high, windowless walls.
But then again, a good realist theory is one that has many straight, windowless corridors in a huge meandering maze.
Sometimes my political theory essays feel very light-hearted to me, even though the subject matter could be very serious. Perhaps because I know what I'm trying to do with the argument, sometimes the essay seems sneaky and playful, and slightly guilty about not being serious (like a heavy, colossal museum with classical columns and greek words) enough.
Humour.
LSB's humour is of two different varieties. Sometimes his sense of humour like a hammer. It's unsubtle and hits really hard. This is the type of humour I usually associate with beefy jocks watching soccer and drinking beer, and is the type of humour that makes me roll my eyes at him. Sometimes his humour has such an unexpected turn, I'm truly surprised, and it reminds me above all of books - huge academic tomes - and the Internet. This is the type of humour that makes me giggle girlishly and fawn over him in the way that all of you are unanimously disgusted by.
My sense of humour (as I see it anyway) reminds me of the greedy snatching of a child at overhanging grapes. I don't really know why either, but when I'm trying to be funny, I sometimes feel as if I'm unrelentingly snatching at ideas hanging above me.
My mother's humour hovers over one spot on the ground and plucks that one piece of soil and lifts it into the air.
So this is how I understand stuff. And yes it's a hopeless ramble that reminds me of a whole swarm of disoriented flies flying desperately in circles in a bottle.
2. Realisation vs knowledge. Sometimes LSB doesn't understand why I suddenly get upset over something even though I've known it for months. It's simply because I've only just realised what I've known all along.
In the same way, people can know that thousands of people have died in the Chinese & Myanmarese disasters, but not realise what it means. To them it's only a statistic, not a tragedy.
At least I hope that this is the case, because this means that at least their lack of empathy is only a result of their lack of realisation, and is not because they truly don't care that people have died.
This is, I think, a fundamentally optimistic way of looking at the world. If someone's been inconsiderate, it's because he didn't realise it. If the Nazis killed millions of people, it's only because they didn't realise what they were doing. It also makes it easier for us to forgive people for what they've done.
Blah I'm feeling very irritated today, and I don't seem to be able to say what I really want to say. It's bloody hot.
1. The nature of my own subjective 'knowledge' and understanding
2. Realisation vs knowledge
1. I think this is more about associations than anything else. Let's just start from what I'm most familiar with - international relations theory.
Realist theories have always felt linear to me, with straight, simple lines. They're very solid, like the walls of a corridor. But if they're walls they're cement walls without windows.
Liberal theories come with a sensation of a 'network', countless of little interconnecting lines that envelope one. Liberal theories are also always in black and white.
Constructivist theories have a sort of translucency and a delicate mix of colours, and they feel very light and insubstantial, but they're also quite pretty. There's also a humming, vibrating sound like the echo of a bell to Constructivism.
Critical theories are always very angry. They remind me of myself when I get angry, because I tend to be very irrational and I strike out at whoever's nearby. But even though critical theories are always very angry, they're also not prosaic.
Postmodernist theories smell of rubber and over-heated wires, but they don't smell disgusting. Just interesting. Postmodernism reminds me of computers and technology, especially the Internet. I think it the 'virtual-ness' and disorientating effect and 'massiveness' of the Internet that is so postmodernist.
So that's international theory. But I also understand other things in similar ways. Take for example writing.
Policy papers remind me of the images I associate with realist theories. They're linear and progress inevitably from one point to the next. It's very hard to find surprises in the flow of the paper - no side-roads, no sudden obstructions, no stairs or windows - it's just a long straight corridor.
I remember an essay on Keats I wrote that reminds me of Constructivist theories. It was somewhat light and pretty and had the same colours too.
Political theory papers (the good ones) remind me of Postmodernist theories (whether or not the political theory paper is on postmodernism.) They smell like an over-heated computer, and they're not linear. They're almost dizzying and nauseating and almost seem to reach out in many many directions at one time.
For me, a badly written political theory paper is the one that reminds me of realist theories - a corridor with high, windowless walls.
But then again, a good realist theory is one that has many straight, windowless corridors in a huge meandering maze.
Sometimes my political theory essays feel very light-hearted to me, even though the subject matter could be very serious. Perhaps because I know what I'm trying to do with the argument, sometimes the essay seems sneaky and playful, and slightly guilty about not being serious (like a heavy, colossal museum with classical columns and greek words) enough.
Humour.
LSB's humour is of two different varieties. Sometimes his sense of humour like a hammer. It's unsubtle and hits really hard. This is the type of humour I usually associate with beefy jocks watching soccer and drinking beer, and is the type of humour that makes me roll my eyes at him. Sometimes his humour has such an unexpected turn, I'm truly surprised, and it reminds me above all of books - huge academic tomes - and the Internet. This is the type of humour that makes me giggle girlishly and fawn over him in the way that all of you are unanimously disgusted by.
My sense of humour (as I see it anyway) reminds me of the greedy snatching of a child at overhanging grapes. I don't really know why either, but when I'm trying to be funny, I sometimes feel as if I'm unrelentingly snatching at ideas hanging above me.
My mother's humour hovers over one spot on the ground and plucks that one piece of soil and lifts it into the air.
So this is how I understand stuff. And yes it's a hopeless ramble that reminds me of a whole swarm of disoriented flies flying desperately in circles in a bottle.
2. Realisation vs knowledge. Sometimes LSB doesn't understand why I suddenly get upset over something even though I've known it for months. It's simply because I've only just realised what I've known all along.
In the same way, people can know that thousands of people have died in the Chinese & Myanmarese disasters, but not realise what it means. To them it's only a statistic, not a tragedy.
At least I hope that this is the case, because this means that at least their lack of empathy is only a result of their lack of realisation, and is not because they truly don't care that people have died.
This is, I think, a fundamentally optimistic way of looking at the world. If someone's been inconsiderate, it's because he didn't realise it. If the Nazis killed millions of people, it's only because they didn't realise what they were doing. It also makes it easier for us to forgive people for what they've done.
Blah I'm feeling very irritated today, and I don't seem to be able to say what I really want to say. It's bloody hot.
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