fight for (2).

art is not a capability but a confession.

it's not whether you have talent, skill, ability or not - conventional, shallow, traits.

but whether you're willing to aspire, to admit, to choose, to fight.

and what makes art, art, is that it is a confession, that not just anyone, or everyone, is willing to speak, or make.

but if there did come a day, where everyone could/would confess.

art just might become that little bit less special.

fight for.

who's to say what's

impossible

well they forgot;

future, present; present, future.

the common belief is that, humans get so caught up in thinking about the future, that they forget to live for the present. therefore when we as students study, logically we're obsessed about our futures, and not about our presents. (In plural cos they're all different).

for me it's different. only when i live for the present can i study. for when i obsess and fantasise about my future, i do not need a high-paying job, neither do i need the top rung of the career ladder.

I just need something that'll let me live life, and not let life live me.

please not a desk job.

sick.

my bones are weary

eat and thin

i cannot jump the trampoline.

for heights so tall i can't express

the solitude of my distress

and this imagined bliss i can't quite ascertain.

my knees are weary

weak and thin

i cannot jump the trampoline

i cannot jump this trampoline.

what are you fighting for.

simplistic and quaint.

it's been more than a year. slightly more.

strangely, on the actual anniversary itself i didn't feel much. i barely felt anything.

like i observed before, it happens more in obscure moments. like tonight-

i ate a lonely late dinner again tonight.

came home late from doing art in school.

once again, like most other nights where i eat lonely late dinners (though i don't eat lonely late dinners on most other nights), i thought of my dad, and visualised him sitting in his usual spot.

and each bite of food felt awkward in my mouth.

i started thinking of all the things my dad and i would've done together if he were still alive, in the future. like maybe after ib, or ns, or uni. go fish. go exploring. go do something father-son like. then as i had a family- three generations bonding, him, me, and my children.

i started to miss the good ol' chats we used to have.

we never really chat about anything in particular.

but they were good nonetheless.

simplistic and quaint.

good chats.

grey curtain

today i sat in my computer chair

as my eyes glided over the grey curtain

though finding nothing of particular interest

didn't know when to stop, or where.

indifference, when it comes,

is a funny thing.

the tv rays go straight through my head.

my hand writes, it is unfamiliar

with the chinese words it produces.

had i not written these words before?

a bit am i, out of sorts;

my head is tired filled with thoughts.

music, break these walls!

my heart crawls to sensationalise

can i sensationalize life?

does my indifference neutralise or reveal?

indifference when it comes is a funny thing.

neutralize! reveal!

fire the guns of tomorrow.

maybe then, a curtain could be more interesting.

i didn't know when to stop, or where.

but i guess here will do.

a bit i am, out of sorts.

deep inside.

i think i really just want a simple life.

odyssey, msu, 2010, world finals.

here we go again.

my fantasy.

Agrestic.
-Pertaining to fields or the country; rural; rustic.


i always dream of living a life,
where i look at my feet and they're framed by grass
which is never still by the way always dancing
because when i look up the fresh gentle slap on my cheek reminds me so.
and the clouds hastily combed in the sky tell me so.

and in my mind i paint an open field to which my left foot belongs.
never still by the way, this field, always moving.
and i'm a foot's length away from a gurgling river to my right.
and i wonder if the cold water learnt its great secrets of refreshment from the wind.
which is never still by the way, always moving, both of them.
and even the mountain in the distance
which my feet ache to trek on, is not as stubborn as it looks.
for she too, (yes, she) moves oh so slowly, subtly and magically,
sweating a boulder, rock, pebble every now and then
trying on a new coat of ice
then always thinking it out of season when she sees herself in the mirror of summer.
yes, she too, moves.
and this happens several times.

this happens several times.
and i look at my feet.

and i realise my feet-

my feet can't move.

phantasmagoria.

what a splendiferous word.

Phantasmagoria.
1. A shifting series or succession of things seen or imagined, as in a dream.
2. Any constantly changing scene.



ib, for one, feels a bit too surreal.

yeah i expected things to be different, just not to such an extent.
it's hard to explain, it's just the general feel and mood of it all.
there's a distance between you and everything else.

people drift in and out, new faces are seen in each class.
and then you go on to the next.
and the next.

you never eat with the same people during recess.
you all somehow apparently end school at different times.

you only see your form class for but a few periods (contact time, chinese, tok?)
then again not all of them.


it's almost like you get to know everyone,
yet no one, really.


at least for now.

i think a key reason is because of the huge shift from last year's culture.
which was all that i've listed up there's, presence of.
the class was with each other all the time,
each lesson
each recess,
each end of the day.
and our class chemistry was amazing, so it pretty much adds a punch of an effect to whatever's happening now.

i wonder if i'll ever find a class with better chemistry.
miss the days of 3.15-4.15



so, so, surreal indeed.

lo

i jumped- and grabbed the fabric of the sky.
i pull- clouds, heavens from all corners fly,
and lo, in great gusto
behold

the universe.

who's to say.

they can come at really random, out-of-place times.

like today, whilst i was reading the chinese passage on H1N1.
not even sure how it linked, i think H1N1 linked to hospital in my mind, and that linked to dad.

so yeah, strong emotional waves can hit at even the most out of place times like those.
and likewise, in the most 'relevant' times, like going to the columbarium, it is possible to not feel much.

i like this poem, i read on a friend's blog.

Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am in a thousand winds that blow,

I am the softly falling snow.

I am the gentle showers of rain,

I am the fields of ripening grain.

I am in the morning hush,

I am in the graceful rush

Of beautiful birds in circling flight,

I am the starshine of the night.

I am in the flowers that bloom,

I am in a quiet room.

I am in the birds that sing,

I am in each lovely thing.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there. I do not die.

-Mary Elizabeth Frye

beautiful.
i'm not belittling the idea of weeping at a grave.
however i cannot deny that i like the perspective Mary Elizabeth Frye presents.
i like it, i feel i can relate to it, in a way.
thanks, friend.





in a thousand winds that blow.

before the memories fade.

i should pen down all the memories i have of my dad, before they grow dim.


as i ate supper today, i sat at the table alone.
and i was hit by this ancient memory, a lil' something which happened somewhere in primary 4 or so.

my round, marble-top dining table.
my dad, sat, roughly opposite me, a bit to the right.
and i probably had a sulk on my face.

it was lunchtime, i had just returned from school, and i was eating merrily (expressed in speed) when my dad sat down next to me, and scrutinised my less-than-appealing manners.
and then he told me how gentlemen should eat, and i was not eating like a gentleman, and it was bad manners, and i told him, dad i'm eating at home, it doesn't matter. and the likes.

but anyway he made me slow down, and raised his voice everytime the rate of my food-in-mouth replacing went too fast, or the speed of my spoon was too hasty (seriously). and i got so frustrated, cos the way i enjoyed my food was to stuff myself, so it was a pain to eat slowly.

well, he succeeded in that session, and many more onwards.
whenever he saw me eat a tad too fast again, at any meal time, his standard line would be, "Slowly, ryannn..."



I appreciatively chewed on my food as I savoured this memory tonight.
and smiled inwardly, seeing how my dad had succeeded.



thanks dad. (:





feels like a descending sort-of sorrow.

fragariaphobia.

So i'm having dessert - korean strawberries.

And well ok the first thing i realise is, they're pretty sweet for strawberries. This is nice.

But then the SECOND thing i observe is how demented-looking they are.

They're elongated, and unlike your nicely shaped squat strawberries which are more or less balanced and generally symmetrical from every angle, they're kinda like, well, oddly-shaped.
after that, i felt a lil' scared biting one, cos of it's like, imposing, ominous, kinda aura.

so that gets me curious y'know, like if they can be so scary looking i bet some people are scared of them, and so i google "phobia of strawberries."

it's called "fragariaphobia." cool huh.

i just might have oh-so-slight fragariaphobia when it comes to korean strawberries.




gongxifacai, my valentine.

wow, i haven't posted in decades.