catingub

2011-08-28T08:55:00.000-07:00

If you didn't already infer, I don't use this blog as much as I used to. Everything I post up is on my other blog on Tumblr. I realise that most of what I write will be lost under the crap and noise of something misappropriated as an enhanced-Twitter-feed but it's where most people are nowadays. Other writers are bound to find something.

I wouldn't rule out a return to this, though. Cheers.

Wonderful

2010-03-28T07:41:00.000-07:00

It is daytime as he sits in his bedroom. His back sits against a wooden chair and his feet rest casually on the wood floor. A fan wobbles overhead at a third of full speed. Four lights are on, beaming their spotlights nowhere in particular. It's mild; too balmy for Spring weather, outside anyway. He lives in the warmth year-round. The room is a dark red, not quite mahogany but not vibrant either. A bed is before him, an amplifier flanks his left, the door is to his right. Shelves and a television loom above ground; his other guitars hang behind him.

An electric guitar, jet back with faint pick scratches and traces of sweat, is resting on the bed. Her tone is rolled low, pick-up selector in neutral, tuned a half-step down, and already plugged in. At his feet is a toppled-mic stand, cord traceable to a laptop perched precariously on the bed's edge. He kills time, anxious, for an hour checking non-existent and unimportant news. He's nervous. It isn't palpable but it's there.

The music is before him, ready to sing notes through numbers. It's the best he can do without the privilege of scales or named tones. Today, his room is a studio. The walls try in vain to isolate noise, his locked door signifies the session's occurrence, his laptop is his mixing station. The acoustics could be better, always could be, but he can't complain. It's worked before. He's been able to convey his music in those makeshift conditions.

He takes in the scene, warms up, runs through the song's motions. The sound resonates through his amplifier and courses through the microphone. He records everything, deletes the takes, then records again. It has to be near-flawless. Through what seem to be hours, arpeggios flow from fretboard to hard-drive and bends slide into databanks. He's probably played that song fifty times by then but he keeps at it. A mis-picked note, an underwhelming lead line, an unsatisfactory take; they all prompt re-records. The hours of the day melt into night. In that studio it is as bright as the four bulbs allow. Outside it is darkening.

It is a late-night dinner outside when he deems his takes satisfactory. The clatter of the silverware and china reverberate through the recording in spots. The tones could be better but it is late. His comfort zone of expression has passed. He stands, removes his electric and sets it down on the bed. Crouching, he adjusts the mic-stand to its proper height and sets it on the ground. An emergency glass of water is by his side. Earphones on, he swallows his fear with his water and starts to record over his accompaniment.

The words are another's but the emotion is his own. The music carries the scene to any given night, fictitious at that point in time, shared by a couple. He sings of a lady, hair dark and long, fussing over herself before a party. The lyrics aren't correct, at least not by the original, but the thought is. His voice strains as the two move to their gathering. They share in mutual feelings of splendour, of wonder. He continues on, vocal cords unaccustomed to the strain, eventually admitting his own sentiments. Bound by the rhythm and metre of the pre-determined lines, he hopes his delivery can hold its own weight.

Another hour or so sees him nitpicking at wavelengths before he finishes. It isn't the best. It isn't better than anybody else's. Still, he feels it can express some sort of emotion. A favour asked late into the night and the song is sent along on the pretense of critique. All he can do is hope for some sort of response. A call received and he spends the rest of the evening in cautiously optimistic happiness. She might say she feels wonderful. He knows for sure that he does.

E standard, no capo

2010-03-07T01:47:00.000-08:00

I sat outside in the dark blue-black evening after work, sitting on the edge of some green patio chair. My arms were cold, a baby burn across my forearm healing pink beneath the unattractive scabs and blisters. It wasn't cold enough to merit a complaint. My fingers stayed warm moving across an aging neck: one hand to take stabs at other men's music, the other flailing to make those strings sing. She'd been barren once. I dolled her up the night before, dressing her up in new threads draped across her body. I cleaned her head, her face now gleaming where once it had been dull. The same six earrings, three on each side, found their places in their familiar holes. She was a shining beauty despite the absence of the sun. Her voice resounded while I sang along on that dark stretch of architecture.

Beneath the cloudless sky, I looked to the stars. Those bright dots punctuated the night; I'd never seen so many shine so brightly. I sat in the dry air, her shape draped along my legs. Repeating the same pattern I'd periodically try my voice then find it could not stand in comparison to those of better men. It wouldn't matter; she'd lend her voice despite my failings. Often, I'd stop to look at the faraway shapes of people --perhaps lovers, perhaps strangers-- walking along the evening streets. I'd think and wonder if they heard us. If they did, I'd apologize outright for my ineptitude to sing those same old love songs... but they'd commend her for being so euphonically sweet.

We sat there for a good hour and traded the same songs to fill the vast expanse of air before us. If I had enough courage, I'd sing a song by a man to his love or one of blackbirds or one of a man, tears free in his eyes, misplaced in heaven. And when I knew my off-key melodies overstayed their welcome, she would take the night and make it her song. But when the air grew too harsh and the navy of the night crept on towards black, it was time to part ways. For all the hesitations, I found myself uncharacteristically direct in the goodbye. We walked on past the glass door and into a warmer, greener zone, young woods sweeping before us. She rested on the couch, neck propped on the arm-rest, body drooping awkwardly over the pillows.

The night was done; I walked away into a room of red highlighted by the monochrome black-on-black-on-black. I knew she'd find her rest in some other boy's room that night while I sunk away into my worlds of superheroes-turned-mayors and journalists-turned-proactive. I thought of all the ways I could've extended that hour. My mind raced itself into depression while I took in the colours-upon-inks-upon-pencils of the art in that fantasy world. Words didn't seem important.

But what was done was done; she sleeps in the cooler, yellower, room of a boy I know. She doesn't rest on a bed but hangs her head, as if in shame, while she dreams above the floor. He couldn't care less. And what am I left with but some worthless memory-turned-metaphor that, I know, will be seen as love lost. Oh, there were songs, of that there is no doubt, but how many people sat on that balcony that night in the chill of the night. And is that even plural?

I'm sitting here, hands warm and tapping at some careless keys, with an exercise in my expression --perhaps to rekindle some sort of lost literary love-- and some poor fuck will think I'm talking about the girl I've fallen for.

And now for something completely different

2010-02-09T18:33:00.000-08:00

So I was reading some of the back-issue comics I picked up for Romel since he's been filling the gaps in his collection. I don't usually read Spider-Man since I'm more of a DC guy but one of the character monologues really struck me. Say what you will about comics being a "lesser" literary form but some writers are just damn good. This is from The Sensational Spider-Man #41, written by J. Michael Straczynski and penciled by Joe Quesada; it's an exchange from an alternate, washed up Peter Parker to the regular Spider-Man (italics).

"So who're you?"

"Oh, well, I mainly work in software design and testing. Computer games mostly... first person shooters, space combat games, super hero stuff. Yeah, kind of fell into that right after high school."

"Well, that sounds like it must be kind of a fun job."

"You know why guys like me get into games like that? Because there's something missing. We look around at a world where there used to be a chance of being a hero, of being important... and it's just not there the way it used to be. You can't just pick up a gun and become a gunfighter, or go off and explore for a new world, or pull a sword out of a stone, or rescue a damsel in distress, or-- So we play games and we read books because the world we got isn't the world we thought we were supposed to get, the world we thought we'd been promised by somebody. Because things didn't turn out the way they were supposed to. So we go someplace else."

"But those places don't really exist."

"Yeah, well, nothing's perfect, right? If I could do any of those things in real life, really be those things, a hero, somebody who could change the world, save lives-- I guess I'd be the happiest guy on Earth. I'd never ask for anything else. Wouldn't need anything else. I'd be grateful. Because the rest of the world never gets that chance."

Good words from Pete to, uh... Pete.

38

2010-02-08T02:32:00.000-08:00

My honest words are spent on ears that seem
To turn and turn away as seconds pass
From hours to days and silent weeks. I dream
Through clouded nights and look by twisted glass.
I should not hold my hopes too high or look
Too long into her eyes, whose gazes turn.
She walks her life in peace, between the crook
Of silence borne from speech. I do not learn
To hide enamored hopes. I sit and think:
If I had courage, strength, or wisdom here
I'd find her hand in spite of fear and drink
Away my fruitless thoughts with love found near.
But I know I will never find this joy;
Such is reserved for men, I am a boy.

37

2010-02-06T03:45:00.000-08:00

A skirting dusk lies fallow 'twixt my feet.
I see no nighttime eyes to scrutinize
My love. Or, least, they gaze in wait. How neat
The foreign ground, pecked through with cautious eyes.
I think her sun is fading from my sight.
But... I'd be wronged to write these thoughts as fact;
One hand in mine, her other to the night,
While both we play to tunes of her skilled tact.
I'd fall again, again, and evermore.
To speak, to move; the two are intertwined
Yet distant still as waves that meet the shore.
I stride sans mind in search of hope to find.
I know I care; that much is certain here,
But to what end? To what committed fear?

To a Cousin Never Known

2009-11-24T05:24:00.001-08:00

If I could trade a thousand lives just for
Another day to know your hidden face
Then, hesitation gone, I would. You'd pace
Among the living fields and endless shore.
Between the raving winds and azure roar
I'd hear your quiet words. You'd sing in case
I could not see. I'd feel a cousin's grace.
Then, in that blink of time, I'd know you more.
But now the life has faded from your heart;
I cannot see the face I never knew
Nor walk passed time to mend this careless wrong.
I know the mourners march a world apart
And I, one living guilt, will think of you;
There was no fanfare for your passing song.

Requiescat in pace

July 5, 2009

2009-07-05T05:05:00.000-07:00

There is, placed upon a black shelf, a book that I hold quite dear. (Now, let's not say to what extent I hold it close; rather, let us believe that there is a level of endearment here.) On that shelf lay other memorabilia of years past: some tools for my instruments, some documents of the past year, some tools that would have been used for art. None of these pieces have been used in quite some time. In fact, I have not taken to my instruments in quite some time nor have I perused my documents as I once did. The art supplies--pencils in black and in colour--are the youngest of these, unused, neglected, and not exposed to the reaches of the outside world.

At this moment, I have taken to my thoughts and set them to this medium. In front of me wafts the aroma of tea; it is orange pekoe and the boiled water has just been heated. Prior to this writing, I have been reading a novel by a man whose initials are E.H.. He wrote in short, terse sentences. Where he would write. "I drink my tea. It is fresh," I would take it upon myself to write what lays before you now. Now, his writing is not entirely what motivated me to take to prose. While his words have inspired me, at the very least, to take to writing in full sentences they are not the central impetus.

Readers, as you may be acquainted with already, you'll find that I have been writing in, as they would say, "poetic" verses. Now, I can't be one to judge these pieces as good or lasting in the impression of others. (If had the input of my readers, I could much better gauge the skill of my writing.) It has occurred to me that I have not taken to prose writing, that is, the writing of complete thoughts borne by complete sentences. Now, while my thoughts in poetry have been expressed through complete sentences, they would have been chained by rhyme, rhythm, and breaks of lines.

I have grown tired of this style of writing for the time being. Of course, it is not born from out of my overbearing acquaintance of sonnets. Rather, it is for another style. Let it be known that I am writing a poem called "The Sketchbook", tentatively titled. I had started it on June 18 and worked on it sporadically for a few days. I have not, however, touched it since the end of June. Now, you can say that I am neglecting the art of poetry through this expository piece of prose. While that is true, there is nothing, I feel, that I should owe to anybody by publishing pieces. Call it a bitter resentment but if I should not receive feedback for my writings, to whom do I owe them? For lack of others' voices, I owe these pieces to myself and, as such, am in no rush to continue writing.

Now, you will say that you are fine with this and I see no objection. I have no desire to set myself to some sort of schedule and write on the seemingly mundane. For anybody who is hurt by this admission, and this should be nobody at all, I offer my apologies.

Let us get back to the sketchbook that lies upon a shelf. Hovering over my head, she seems as a monument to some old event, some bygone era. The implements by her, unopened pencils at the forefront, are quiet for a reason. On the sketchbook's cover is the image of art. (I cannot recall what it is now; I have not gazed upon it in some time.) There is a sea of black that bookends the image, underneath that is red. That image is nobody's; it is what is beneath that cover which paralyses my artistic spark. Her pages are empty, still white or cream (I cannot remember) and I have done nothing to free my mind upon the canvases.

I think she'll sit idle until I have rid myself of this artistic paralysis, as I have called it. Perhaps it will be free when I have finished that, perhaps final, poem. (It seems as though a good way to justify my actions.)

Pay no attention to my ramblings. I've set myself to write and I think it would be quite the waste to lose a moment of inspiration.

To _______, A Sonnet

2009-07-02T05:59:00.000-07:00

When we were strangers, not yet known or met,
I could not know the passions of your eyes
Nor you my rhyme, or how I'd learn to set
My art to match the beauty of your sighs.
When we were distant, I could never know
The boundless hazel of your rolling locks
Nor could your glowing smile flame my heart's glow.
Your heart would never know my quiet knocks.
But now I hope we walk, in dusk, and see
That tower, white, against this hostile sky,
Against the flow'ring red my words will be
Those hundred things to melt with your reply.
I hope, and pray, you see that sudden flower
And know what's reckoned from this quiet hour.

May 27, 2009

Epitaph

2009-07-02T05:57:00.001-07:00

Here lies a mind in quiet rest. The end
Called me to meet th' eternal Trinity.
Forget me not; let no tears of yours bend.

I lived in hope that noble men might end
Our pains. Know this is not eternity;
Death offers nothing but the mortal end.

I bear no grudge nor did I waste or spend
My love. Though this seems not a victory,
Forget me not; let no tears of yours bend.

You who remain, heed this and move to mend
While you and time are in fraternity.
Death offers nothing but the mortal end.

Proclaim your lives, let blazing hearts ascend
To God, the endless good paternity.
Forget me not; let no tears of yours bend;
Death offers nothing but the mortal end.

March 11, 2009, English 12
(After reading Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night", we were to write a villanelle.)

Trial Separation

2009-07-02T05:54:00.000-07:00

A crack to split that bleeding heart in two,
Vain tears to try and win back what was lost,
Hoarse voice that croaks the schism, born anew
When love could not continue; they died. Tossed
Away to chide the past that they had shared,
Dejected love takes home within a hearse.
It drives on lies proclaimed: to say they cared
Where empty words flew "true", but nothing worse.
There is no shrive, no absolution here.
They stand apart, hell bent to see the one
Who they had loved in pain. There is no fear
Save for the one that they might come undone.
A tragedy, this is, to see that split;
No promise now t' eternally commit.

March 6, 2009, English 12
(We were told to write "the saddest poem you can write", or at least try.)

A Dream

2009-07-02T05:52:00.000-07:00

Somewhere, someone is writing a poem
Upon a sheet that never felt the touch
Of loving ink and words that flow and roam,
Which draw a world that never loves so much.
And in his thoughts a world so diff'rent from
The vast expanse that colder shoulders share.
And in his dreams a quiet, beating drum
That bleeds the memories through hostile air.
On that white sheet a blue invades a calm
And quiet world, to bleed his dreams that he
Can never share, lest he give up his psalm,
To let his dreams recede where they're not free.
But he recoils and draws away his hand;
Dreams die in lies before they're in this land.

March 4, 2009, English 12
(We were all given the line "Somewhere, someone is writing a poem" to start our poems.)

The Invader

2009-07-02T05:50:00.000-07:00

Laid dead upon the whitest plain he moves
Past death in its abusive, violent state.
A cracking, bubbling mass, this reject proves
His strength t' assault this open, welcome gate.
He stabs me first, a yellow knife to tear
My nostrils, weak t' accept with faith this strange
And foreign thing. A bleeding sense of fear
Invades my mind when still I stand in range.
I, paralyzed with hate, can never act
Against this stench that shakes my very core,
Nor can I give th' offence; I see, in fact,
That paradox of thing'd amuse me more.
For as it stands this beast deserves to live:
A yellow strain that shares more than I give.

March 2, 2009, English 12
(We were each given some concoction to perceive using any of our five senses. I received a yellow dish that smelled unpleasant.)

To _______, A Sonnet

2009-07-02T05:48:00.000-07:00

Behind this one, a mind so vast and free
Whose hazel hair lies set upon that green
With curls on curls that flow on endlessly,
A smile so sharp to cut the air. Between
This day and that which is to come in time
Sits nothing but a love of friendship bound
By common words of verse and rhymes sublime
That came about in haste when they were found.
And while these words may seem to stand in love,
As such the ones that live in unrequite,
They fly beyond those petty thoughts, a dove
Set free to bridge those minds in quick delight.
And though I never knew her soul before,
I feel as though I know it all the more.

February 26, 2009, English 12
(We were assigned classmates to write a love poem to. I was assigned a fellow writer and claimed the love of friendship.)

In a Lover's View

2009-07-02T05:47:00.002-07:00

I would say
"your love for me is a flame
burning with the intensity of
one thousand burning suns,"
but then I would say
it were too cliche and think it over.

I would say
"you love for me is a candle
burning in the night, effortlessly,
for all the world to see,"
but then I would say
a candle could not bear magnificence to you.

I would say
"your love for me is a light
leading me on in the darkness,
when no other would,"
but then I would say
a light could not shine as bright as your love.

I would say
"your love for me is an inferno
blazing with the intensity of
the fires of hell,"
but then I would say
your beauty and hell could never mingle.

I would say
"your love for me is a flare,
finding me when
I am lost in the world,"
but then I would say
you need no means to find me.

I would say
"your love for me is a
crimson flash of
everlasting beauty
shining in the darkness
when nothing else can,"
but then I would say
my words would do your love no justice.

So I will say:
"Your love for me is like a truck."

January 16, 2008, Writing 12
(The aim for these poems was to create cheesy love poems.)

The Sound of Water

2009-07-02T05:47:00.001-07:00

Nothing
first, as the droplets gather,
condensing and then a slight
Grumbling
as they start to meet warmth.
cold brothers meeting affection
to become lukewarm, as if platonic. a
KRAK-A-BOOM
now as the light splits the sky.
Shrieking
now as the heat splits the tree
and sets it aflame,
helplessly standing a mile below.
and now they fall, first in a slight
Tick-tick-tick-tock
to
Bellow
and
Screech
and
Scream,
as if to say the blitzkrieg is coming.
and then a torrent comes from the heavens
Roaring
and then
Rolling.
she was a
Whisper
but now she is a
Shout.

January 13, 2008, Writing 12
(We were each given a sense to perceive water by. I was to write on perception by hearing.)

Bataan

2009-07-02T05:46:00.004-07:00

They came from the land of the rising sun,
Commanders with sword and guardsmen with gun.
As if from he sea, they rose from the coasts.
As if from the grave, they moved as ghosts.

We fell from our watches, our vigilance high,
We saw our own brothers wither and die.
As they fall, friends called out to their heavenly hosts.
As if from the grave, they moved as ghosts.

The Emperor's men came and stood, poised to strike,
While elsewhere, our comrades would fall to the Reich.
And the nations did cry as we fell from our posts.
As if from the grave, they moved as ghosts.

Still, King let us to die and waved his white flag.
He handed us over in suit and in rag.
My city did fall with strange soldiers engrossed.
As if from the grave, they moved as ghosts.

So they took us to march from south to the north.
The diseased and the dying were all put forth,
The walking wounded under Japanese boasts.
As if from the grave, they moved as ghosts.

And they offered no quarter to brown or to white,
And the kindest of mercies: reprieve in the night.
And we marched in the sun, in the field, on the coasts;
As if from the grave, they moved as ghosts.

We died on that highway, carved cruel in the dirt,
The thoughts of our lovers our only comfort.
And we walked on for freedom, a right foremost.
As if from the grave, they moved as ghosts.

Now we are but men lost forever in time,
Our story told in pricture, word, and in rhyme.
Tell of our tale, the men who marched from our posts.
Say, "As if from the grave, they moved as ghosts."

January 11, 2008, Writing 12
(The focus was to have a line, perhaps unifying, that repeated throughout the poem. I wrote of the Bataan Death March.)

Anarchy

2009-07-02T05:46:00.003-07:00

A man in mask to set the fiery stage
Runs along the ground by which they laid it.
He seeks to usher in a freedom age
And burn the stones, to lay them in the pit.
Once did her eyes burn with the light of stars;
Her beauty overflowed amongst the crowd.
Now they are blind, scratched out with jealous scars;
Now she lies used. No longer is she proud.
He bids her adieu, scorn in his last kiss.
The flames are lit for a show triumphant
While truths of victory quietly hiss.
Stones will fall in this oppression ancient.
As he watches the flames in full blossom
He stares in at at tomorrow's freedom.

December 19, 2007, Writing 12
(We were each to come up with a title to a poem and subsequently give it away to another student in the class. We would then write a poem to the title.)

Envy

2009-07-02T05:46:00.001-07:00

I envy,
Though not of
the way they move so
gracefully and
serence
while ours are so
clumsy and
discomposed.
I envy,
Though not of
their compliments to each other. They are
silent and in
perfect understanding
while ours are
squabbles and
struggles.
I envy,
Though not of
their thoughts, always
perfect and in
unison
while ours are always
lacking and in
disarray.
I envy
That they were once us but
No longer.

December 19, 2007, Writing 12
(The assignment was to write a poem in the style of our favourite poem. At the time, mine was Envy by Yevgeny Yevtushenko.)

Letting Go

2009-07-02T05:45:00.002-07:00

The cars sing on these summer streets
With men and women; they pass by.
I see a girl whom my eye meets.
And in my eye a tear, to cry.
Once did we share thoughts consummate
Without a flaw, our love perfect.
Yet bound by fate, so intimate,
Chance struck us both by cruel defect.
Remembrance lost of perfect bliss
Was fated luck, thoughts lost to time.
So we forgot, mem'ries amiss;
As cruel a fate should be a crime.
And so I walk along this street
Our hearts, once bound, shall never meet.

December 13, 2007, Writing 12
(This is based on a short story by a Japanese writer. I cannot remember the story's title, unfortunately.)

Meditations on the Banister

2009-07-02T05:45:00.001-07:00

I am standing here,
Light breaking through the windows,
Stepping upon steps.

Noise echoes through space:
A man booms and crackles near
While music speaks far.

A silent approach
As I fade in the backdrop
And the echoes sing.

My shadow grows long
As ink and paper meet; love
In loneliness faced.

As they walk away
Light casts shadows lengthy, slim
Against vanity.

The noise still booms here
While the pen still meets its love.
I meditate here.

On the banister
I write with senses fulfilled
While the world walks by.

December 12, 2007, Writing 12
(We were sent to different places in the school to write poems to be called "Meditations on the [Location]". I was sent to the east staircase on the second floor. I sat on the banister.)

Shall I Compare Thee to a Winter Morn?

2009-07-02T05:44:00.000-07:00

Shall I compare thee to a winter morn?
Thou art as fair as fair can snowstorms be
And thou as bright as tree trunks barren, worn.
Your soul as deep as blindest eyes can see:
Beauty excelled by nothing more than death.
Voices sung as shrieking sirens deaf'ning,
A touch that lingers like a beggar's breath,
And eyes that see not the gold of a ring.
Your bitter iciness shall never fade
Nor shall your frosty touch ever recede.
Your beauty, longing, cuts me as a blade
Yet my eyes, human only, simply bleed.
Immortal likeness, never fade away
To live tomorrow as to live today.

December 10, 2007, Writing 12
(The assignment was to style a poem in the style of another. I chose Shakepeare's Sonnet 18.)

Deluge

2009-07-02T05:43:00.000-07:00

I once ran my hand
Through hair flowing like rivers.
The streams have dwindled

December 10, 2007, Writing 12

On My Eighteenth Year

2009-06-10T00:00:00.001-07:00

On this dim dawn, my eighteenth year is born.
The night is ice, the stars are absent here.
A surging flood of thought is born from fear.
From past to fate I think, and I am torn:
Are my rhymes feeble, drawing only scorn
From passers knowing I am never clear?
What of myself? I stand on this frontier
Of melancholy, sadness, hopes forlorn.
No gleaming star gives hope to my estate
As I look to the bleak and endless night.
I cannot draw my dreams from distant eyes,
Nor turn from passioned feelings or their weight.
Ill-fated hopes will always blur my sight.
No answers fall from out the darkling skies.

When There is Silence

2009-06-01T00:39:00.000-07:00

When there is silence looming on the air,
When words are vague reminders of our time,
When you seem as a ghost of fading care,
I turn to woe, to sadness, and to rhyme.
I cannot say what drives me to this verge;
Conflicting sorrows crush my timid hope.
Aspiring dreams do naught to quell or purge
My fears of discontentment on this slope
Of living tears. Or do I think with haste,
Act without sense, to judge what is not clear?
What is the truth? My mind has surely raced
And drowned, by rashness, reason with my fear.
But now I wait, and hope, on your reply;
That my affections still might live, not die.

Life, Liberty

2009-05-29T03:36:00.000-07:00

You huddle, jeering, as the roar of shell
Erupts and mortars cleave their chasms through
Grey skies, their homes, vast sands, and men we knew.
False lightning booms and smites this desert Hell.
Your boys convulse, know fear, the putrid smell
Of rotting fam'lies, hope, and comfort too;
Their medals at the chest: the smoke-drowned view,
The burning bones, a dying land's last yell.
But still you laugh, amused by this strange sight;
And still you smile, eyes blind to screaming guns;
And still you live to praise Horace's lie.
If you were born into this barren plight
You would not howl, or smirk, while discord runs
The cold steel bullets through your throat's dry cry.

Masters of None

2009-05-29T03:19:00.000-07:00

Slumped over and disheveled we leaned to
See what men, like us, could be. We saw their
Eyes, bright and gleaming as the sun, and knew
That they'd been borne to sentiment and care.
Those shining faces, gazes white with pride
And eyes that shot like darts, knelt down, fell back.
They stared into our hearts with care denied;
We stumbled from the beat of their attack.
From out the fray, we stuttered, looked on glass
And saw our faces, dumb with aged fatigue.
We felt our hands and knew, from out that pass
Of time, that we'd been cast out of our league.
So here we slouch, a warning to our peers,
That they may learn from us, our wasted years.

Parting

2009-05-29T02:10:00.000-07:00

The twilight of five years approaches quick;
Our sun is setting in the quiet skies.
The flame must soon engulf and leave the wick
And we must part, and fade, and cry good-byes.
Our time has come to sail the turbid seas,
Roam lost, rave loud, and never find our rest
Until Time's wisdom finds in its decrees
Reprieve for all: the weak, the poor, the blest.
And you, who follow in our bygone ways,
Must hold our torch of memory. When we
Are gone, fix not some stony hearts or gaze
Upon some false, misleading jubilee.
In passing now we leave to you our home,
Where mem'ries once did live and still they roam.

To My Mother's Father

2009-05-19T05:13:00.000-07:00

When I am aged, my hair in wisps carried
By quiet winds, and struggling smile to arch,
And eyes hazed by Time's hand, my heart will march,
Struggle to the land where you were buried.
I will meet you by the church where, married,
You dreamed to hold an infant's hand. I know
I am the child as she was then. Your glow,
Through years, sits idle in a frame, tarried.
And we will sit upon our homeland's bough.
You will cry and tell how, once, you loved your
Other and I will sit, forlorn with sighs.
I will hear your boundless wisdom and know
Why you had passed and left us on this shore
When on deaf ears fell your forgotten cries.

An Ignoble Penance

2009-05-19T04:40:00.000-07:00

We wander through a sea of waning truths.
A faithful girdle smashed and dying did,
Once in those distant years, hold Christ, forbid
The throngs of sinful men, of damnèd youths.
It lies in pieces, broken, foreign now
To those who grow, who birth, and now are born.
We yearn to see a great repair but mourn
And fail to rest our Saviour's tired brow.
I strode between those saving words of Grace,
Compassion, Love and those that split my heart;
I bled but filled it with those Godless sighs.
I cannot bear to see my Maker's face
Nor feel His arms where once we'd been apart;
But I repent and, shamef'lly, meet His eyes.

On Recognition

2009-05-04T00:56:00.001-07:00

Ah, but for the chance that eyes strung wide
And far, and minds that climb the highest peaks,
And tongues that sing the sweetest from their cheeks,
Could, in my quiet, simple words reside.
To know that I, with some secluded pride,
Could hear their praise: the girl, the boy who speaks
And tells of those forgotten lines from weeks
Antique; and others with their thanks provide.
Could these be truths where once I'd writ the err?
Nay; for this and other rhymes die slow and
Drown among the unremembered sea of
Rooted depths, discordant songs, distant care.
They join the drowning minstrels' sombre band:
A cacophonous clash to minds above.

To Byron, Shelley, Keats

2009-05-04T00:29:00.000-07:00

When I behold those antique written rhymes
—The majesty and beauty of their sighs,
Divine and boundless vision of their eyes,
Eternal verse not bound by mortal times—
And view some glimpse of endless grace, sometimes
I shrink, diminish, hide these worthless eyes
That, dreaming, once had hoped their verse to rise
Among those ageless odes and beauteous chimes.
But I hold now— in heart, in mind, in soul—
Some raging words that cannot find their ink
Nor speak with actions, silenced by some plight.
My quiet ramblings cease, they are not whole.
Those silent words—cannot their speaker think?
They sink again and vanish from Their sight.

But there is no tomorrow.

2009-04-08T23:47:00.000-07:00

I am standing over the edges of my bed. It sags into the bedframe slightly and I shift my balance between legs over the slight crevice. The corner creates an uneasily steady vantage point over the claustrophobic confines of my room. The two remaining lights shine awkwardly on the walls. The shelves continue their Atlas impersonations.

I am looking toward music I once listened to when I was younger, staring at the empty cases that litter a shelf. They tower unevenly, a testament to my eccentric tastes and my incompatibility with the world. I am always aware of this. The light shines off of the jewel cases, cracked plastic interspersed with colours in a world of art.

I turn again to my literature, a juxtaposition of my childhood and what the world pressures me into becoming. The comic books outweigh the novels but for image’s sake I, and others like me, call them graphic novels. I realize I have not finished a substantial novel in years. The comics stand with straightened spines and uniformity while the prose is collected in dishevelled organization.

I reach for magazines that teach me to play my instrument better; I feel a pang of guilt. They sit on the shelf, rarely read and barely touched. I could have been a better instrumentalist, I know, but I have squandered it away on two-second happinesses and distant friends. And I ignore them once more, pulling back my hand when I realize what I am doing.

I knock over a stack of photographs. They are film photographs, aged and collecting dust. I catch a glimpse of years in a span of seconds as the fall slowly, pirouetting downward in a wondrous spiral. They slide beneath my bed.

I step down from my vantage point and crouch down to pick up some photographs of yesterday. A hum comes from outside of my room and I lie to myself that it’s some old nostalgic tune. I am holding photographs in my hands of young men and women who I called my friends once. Perhaps some of them still are.

I am sitting in a recliner some number of years ago. The candles on a cake flicker vividly as the smiles are illuminated by a camera flash. The light shines off of my glasses. There is a bustle in the scene here. I am surrounded by my closest friends, the boys and the girls alike, and we share our smiles and our happiness. Five years ago, these are my friends.

I reflect on this scene and collect the photos. Today, they are little more than strangers. I am isolated; they have gone their own ways. They have become champions for their own causes; I have become a young man of yesteryear. They find happiness and eventual love; I linger in the past and resent myself. I stack what I find on my television. It, too, is gathering dust.

I check under the bed for any photos I have misplaced; I find one. It is of two people but I no longer recognize their faces. The boy seems to stare off into space, happily unaware that this picture is being capture for as long as the film persists. I think I knew him once; he looks like he could be happy behind those silent eyes. The girl seems to place her thoughts elsewhere; I do not think I know her any longer. I place the photo, for some reason, with the rest and climb the bed to stack them where they belong. The highest shelf creaks as I place the photos behind my literature.

I fall lazily onto my bed and look up at the dimming lights. They do not flicker; they remain constant. The orange glow accentuates the red walls; they do not do much for the black shelves. I look up again at my music and see that I have tucked away some yearbooks behind them. They fit nicely between the two parallel shelves.

I debate whether or not I should bring one of them down to recollect on my memories of years past. I decide against it; anything that I should remember has already been immortalized in my memory.

I collect myself and sit on the edge of my bed, feet flat against the warmth of the hardwood floor. I can feel the split between the panels contrast harshly against the soft fleece of my bed. I stare out through the doorway and into the dark hallway. It is lit only by the eerie blue lights of the kitchen appliances. I hear the drone of some faraway fans; through the ceiling I hear the pattering of a child’s running.

I reflect on my day and remember how I have been dumbstruck by some two-bit fact and that my toils and time have been for naught, rendered so by the fleeting “yes” of some faraway woman.

Godspeed, Space Bat

2009-03-19T13:43:00.001-07:00

A bat that was clinging to space shuttle Discovery’s external fuel tank during the countdown to launch the STS-119 mission remained with the spacecraft as it cleared the tower, analysts at NASA’s Kennedy Space Center concluded.

Based on images and video, a wildlife expert who provides support to the center said the small creature was a free tail bat that likely had a broken left wing and some problem with its right shoulder or wrist. The animal likely perished quickly during Discovery’s climb into orbit.

Because the Merritt Island National Wildlife Refuge coexists inside Kennedy Space Center, the launch pads have a number of measures available, including warning sirens, to deter birds and other creatures from getting too close. The launch team also uses radar to watch for birds before a shuttle liftoff.

Nevertheless, the bat stayed in place and it was seen changing positions from time to time.

Launch controllers spotted the bat after it had clawed onto the foam of the external tank as Discovery stood at Launch Pad 39A. The temperature never dropped below 60 degrees at that part of the tank, and infrared cameras showed that the bat was 70 degrees through launch.

The final inspection team that surveys the outside of the shuttle and tank for signs of ice buildup observed the small bat, hoping it would wake up and fly away before the shuttle engines ignited.

It was not the first bat to land on a shuttle during a countdown. Previously, one of the winged creatures landed on the tank during the countdown to launch shuttle Columbia on its STS-90 mission in 1998.

NASA

I have no life

2009-03-18T04:17:00.001-07:00

Today, I realized that I have no life. (Well, ordinarily having no life, I guess I would not even possess the absence of a life.)

I slept in until 11 a.m.; I didn't feel like going out this morning because I had nothing to do and I was broke. Fair enough. I had a leftover sandwich for lunch (a vegetarian focaccia) from work last night.

My midday revolved around my anticipation for UBC's self-reporting of grades for early admission. Not having applied to other universities (I didn't want to go to other universities), I was eager to get official acceptance into UBC. It should come as no surprise that my marks are abnormally high for an arts program. It turns out that they changed the start of reporting from 2 p.m. to 3 p.m.; work started at 3.

Work was quiet and uneventful, as it always is. Closing shifts (3 p.m. - 7 p.m.) are always like that. We finished the close 15 minutes early as usual. Picked up an abnormal amount of tomato and pesto focaccias as well as pecan cinnamon buns.

Dinner was filet mignon at my grandma's apartment. It was a great roast and I got to see some of the Canucks game (I don't have TSN at home).

The family went home. I self-reported my grades, read over some UBC stuff, played guitar, and then went to Rock Band 2 where I spent over 5 hours on a single challenge.

I spent 5 hours, consecutively, on a video game and I have nothing to show for it. (Granted, I play a mean guitar but that's beside the point).

I have no life.

Catingub's Wager

2009-03-15T22:07:00.000-07:00

Give me a movie title and I can pervert it, no problem.

"Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?"

2009-03-06T01:16:00.000-08:00

(That's Latin for "Who watches the Watchmen?", from the Roman poet Juvenal.)

Today Watchmen comes out in theatres. I've been looking forward to this movie since June 23, 2006. That's almost two-and-a-half years of waiting. Tonight, at 5:45 p.m. I get to see if it lives up to my expectations. Here's to that!

Oh, and to keep you all occupied before you watch, and I implore you to, here's a scan from the original comic. This series of panels stars Silk Spectre II and Nite Owl II.

Okay, I lied. It's a Photoshop.

Ray's theme (the Lifehouse Chronicles)

2009-02-23T22:37:00.000-08:00

No one knows what its like to be the bad man,
To be the sad man behind ~~blue~~ eyes.
No one knows what its like to be hated,
To be fated to telling only lies.
But my dreams, they aren't as empty as my conscience seems to be.
I have hours, only lonely. My love is vengeance that's never free.

No one knows what its like to feel these feelings
Like I do, and I blame you.
No one bites back as hard on their anger.
None of my pain and woe can show through.
But my dreams, they aren't as empty as my conscience seems to be.
I have hours, only lonely. My love is vengeance that's never free.

When my fist clenches, crack it open before I use it and lose my cool.
When I smile, tell me some bad news before I laugh and act like a fool.
If I swallow anything evil put your finger down my throat.
If I shiver, please give me a blanket.
Keep me warm, let me wear your coat.

No one knows what its like to be the bad man,
To be the sad man behind ~~blue~~ eyes.

Regarding the Loss of Eden

2009-02-06T01:47:00.000-08:00

The man who sought, with great magnificence,
To speak the ways of God to man in hope
Of justice dealt to knowledge in the mind
Did spill his mind to think of that great loss
Wherein we lost our bliss and state of grace
To gain that knowledge banned: forbidden fruit.
And as that spilling did commence, the seeds
By which that fruit had borne to earthy air
Did sow a tale that sang of Eve's first sin
Which cast us out of God's full love and trust.
This paradise we lost, though foreborn by
The fall of angels once in league with God,
Did tear my mind through its eternal life
To move past years on years lost in the grasp
Of Time. Those words drown out my mind and wit
As that deluge that drowned the world of sin
To purge the men who turned away from God
For their own love of vice and sinner's song,
Yet saved that righteous Ark and all its kin
Joined with a multitude of ev'ry beast
To start a world anew by Saving Hand
of Grace and God. So too this flood carve strong
The valleys of my mind with its swift words
So as to purge my senseless thoughts of naught
And place in them the magnitude and scope
Of invoked words sent by the Grace of Ghost
To that compellèd man to write the verse
Wherein he'd show the world our earthly roots
That once were placed by God under his watch
Yet lost by Eve to that Infernal Snake.

Post Midterm Report

2009-02-02T21:15:00.000-08:00

So just a little report on how I've done on the Midterms and where I'm standing in terms of my grades. Midterm mark in parentheses. ~~Haven't gotten my Day 2 marks yet. Expect a major dropoff for those.~~

Got the marks for two of the Provincial subjects and, like I predicted, there's a substantial dropoff. That makes my Provincial average 87%. I've never been so happy for a B in my life. Looks like I'm going to Arts at UBC... woooooo.

History 12 - 95% (100%)
Literature 12 - 95% (93%)
Religion 12 - 95% (100%)
Law 12 - 95% (93%)
English 12 - 87% (87%)
Physical Education 12 -
Information Technology 12 -
Spanish 12 -74% (74%)

Of Friendship

2009-01-30T01:57:00.000-08:00

It has occurred to me, in the fact of revelation, that the friendships I have formed once are dissipating. There is no fact I can recall to refute this, nor is there any reasoning that would suggest a logical twist for the otherwise.

I am writing these words, perhaps some of which will be empty messages, alone in a dark home with nobody awake but I. While it is true that no man is entirely alone, or disconnected as John Donne said in his seventeenth Meditation, I feel that I am at the very closest to this extreme.

What is there to say of friendship, of the interactions that this relationship begets from out of its existence? There are acquaintances I have, yes, but their importance is trivial when regarded against the definition of friendship that I hold. There will be no boring definitions of friendship here; I subscribe to the literal accounts of the dictionary.

There are many things to say of friendship: there is the physical, the emotional, the psychological, and the other -al effects of it. Those are not important in this entry. I want to talk about the loss of friendship. I want to talk about the steady deterioration of friendship.

If I am to speak of the end of a friendship, or at the very least the death of one, I should be expected to draw from my experiences a story or two of wronged friendships wherein a single moment of ill-advised knowledge catalyzed the end. There will be none of that here. It is true that men have wronged me and, as a result, have had our friendship die, but I am very much in the root of blame for these.

So generalize with me, if you will, the notion and the nature of my friendships or, at the farthest end of that spectrum, the closest of friendships. I am speaking now of the friendships wherein you tell your every story to an open end and, in mutual respect and understanding, the listener speaks of your tale and then moves to add his own. Oh, I have had these friendships, not in the degree of plurality where I could count that in the double digits, but in the exact number where I could be accountable for their thoughts.

I have no specific friendship, or the death of which, whereby I voice my opinion or my thoughts or my lamentations, holding that as the basis for my words. My life has placed friends in my life for my benefit, I can think of many and name those few, but in the very same way that life has taken them away with time.

There is no remedy for the loss of a friend in the interactive sense. They relegate themselves to the level of acquaintance and I, in my stupidity and lack of reason, reach out to attempt to bridge that gap over the ruins of a burnt bridge. It is pointless and it does not get me anywhere; I know this is true.

These friends, I would say, are too enveloped in their own minds of self-righteousness and false presumptions. Now, I will speak in specifics, though still very vague, as a result of my spite and bitterness as, believe me, it is human to do so.

I've lost a very good friend as a result of my standing in the pitiful hierarchy that is called highschool society. True, we did drift for a year but I still managed, however vain it might've been, to make an attempt to bridge the gap and at least speak. For that year, I spoke as if nothing had ever changed. In retrospect I am wrong. The friendship died, I will presume, for my inability to rise up to some sort of social norm or standing and for his inaction to preserve that friendship.

And to speak further of this loss of friendships, I will speak of the loss wherein one had delegated himself to a higher standing than was necessary. Of this, I am purported to act in such great crimes so to have alienated him from whatever standings of friendship he assumed. I thought none of this. It is his selfishness and idealization of his image that necessitated the schism of a once-strong friendship. He shows no humility, he acts without grace, and he does not see the truth that stands before him. He is beyond saving and not worth of time.

In the year that has died, or perhaps the plural of that notion, I am guilty of the crime of the dissipation of friendship. In my seemingly noble attempts to restart my life as a person who would turn from fault, I have alienated those I call friends. Perhaps they do not see it yet but I know some will be aware. It is just a matter of time before those idealistic views pass.

Of course, it is not without human emotion that I lament for those loss, or losing, of friendship. I see myself more at fault than they could ever perceive themselves to be. I am no longer social, I do not branch out, I make no attempts at reconnection (for this is a futile attempt), and worst of all, I am no longer sincere. It is authenticity and the nature of being genuine that forges a friendship and sustains it over time.

But then again, perhaps it is not I to be completely at fault. My alienation can be seen as no more a fault than their misplacement or their rejection at sincere attempts. And if they hold themselves up to be on such a higher plane, as a friend once did, then I will make no attempts to correct them. Let them enjoy their higher plane of existence before the world brings them down.

Thinking of friendships and the basis by which they are formed, I must concede the fact that certain friendships must have been formed due to ulterior motives. If I am to be called an intellectually minded person, then friendships will be formed for necessity of answers. If I am to be called easily helping, then friendships will be born out of manipulation of the altruism I sometimes hold. And if I can be called naive for sake of believing I could find lovely reciprocation, then perceptions will be formed and sustained on their action of feigned action.

I have no point in this piece of writing, as seldom I do. Perhaps it is an incessant rambling from a bitter person who no longer has what he wishes to hold so dear. Perhaps it is a calling of attention to friends I once had but have no longer, but I realize that they will never read this. Perhaps this is a wistful attempt at gaining sympathies from my readers, but I know I will never receive that sort of half-hearted ovation.

Of friendship; it is dying and there is nothing I can do to stop it.

Midterms

2009-01-26T21:18:00.000-08:00

I'm thinking about my last exam, Literature, which will be tomorrow at 1 P.M. I really shouldn't stress about it, I have all the time in the world to prepare, but I am anyway.

To the left you'll see what my study area looks like. That's the dinner table. I like to study or do homework in the dark, in seclusion. I usually have the best work ethic when I'm left alone. Also in the photo are the things that keep me awake: coffee and water.

In five years, my midterm routine hasn't changed at all. In Grade 8, I'd study a few days before the exam. Nowadays it's the night before. It's funny how I can get a firm grasp in such a short time; I guess I'm just lucky.

So Literature 12 will be my last midterm exam of my highschool years. I'm hoping I'll do well.

"And graven with diamonds in letters plain/ There is written, her fair neck round about:/ Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am,/ And wild for to hold, though I seem tame."

Fated Time

2009-01-22T16:32:00.000-08:00

Today, I am entirely responsible for the path in destiny, in my future, that I will take.

I've thrown away the last year and a half; a month ago, the possibility of not being able to attain early acceptance into university hit. I was told that I would get a mark of "incomplete" for my first term Spanish 12 mark. I was told that this would prevent me from obtaining early acceptance. "Fine," I said, because this would be the culmination of all the let-down I have done in the last four years.

On Tuesday I was told that, in English, a subject that I have traditionally done very well in, I was not writing to the best of my ability. I knew this was true. I knew that I could have done as well as any of the top-grade students in the class. I didn't. I let my willpower slip to the calls of lethargy and learned that I currently sit at an 84.

Of History and Literature, I have no qualms because there are no problematic issues that have arisen.

Today, I learned that I can blame nobody but my self if I am to fail in restoring my grades to their rightful place, above the threshhold that separates the A's and the B's.

To speak of Spanish, I was told that I will be able to receive a mark in the upcoming report card, narrowly avoiding the "incomplete", if I am to show that I have completed the work I said I have. "It will only take a minute," I was told.

Of English, our short-story essays were returned. I had not done mine until the day it was due. I expected mediocrity and resolved that I would get nothing more. I was surprised; I had scored a 91. To tell of truth, I was also told that I would be able to salvage an A in the course if I perform well on the exam.

These two instances are not just coincidences, I feel, but some sort of twisted providence that gives me hope. It gives me the necessity to place my future into my own hands. For the first time in years, it feels almost tangible.

Tonight, I will give my time to preparing for these efforts. I have sixteen hours before this day of judgment. An almost overflowing amount of coffee is by my side, as is my music to keep me awake and alive.

To quote Churchill:

"We shall go on to the end [...] we shall never surrender!"

Inauguration Day

2009-01-20T07:23:00.000-08:00

Americans, today you start a new dawn in this era of history.

Today, the world witnesses a change from the status quo. In fact, it is a change that breaks this two-hundred year old norm of the white man in the White House.

This day is a testament to the cultural revolution that has taken hold of America, at least for the time being. The whole world is watching with keen eyes; I don't believe it has been this optimistic for you since Kennedy.

On August 23, 1968 a man told America, and the world, that he had a dream. Today, an element of that dream is fulfilled.

Don't screw this up, America.

The Storm Before the Calm

2009-01-17T08:39:00.001-08:00

Clichéd saying aside, the coming weeks (two to be exact) are going to suck. I know that it's to be expected with January ending the first term and presenting mid-term exams but that doesn't mean I can't moan about it.

01/19: Literature 12 "Pre-Exam Test"
01/20: Spanish 12 Provincial Exam
01/21: Law 12 Midterm Exam
01/23 8:30am-10:30am: English 12 Midterm Exam
01/26 1:00pm-3:00pm: History 12 Midterm Exam
01/27 1:00pm-3:00pm: Literature 12 Midterm Exam

Four exams in one week is not at all a bad thing until you consider the dates of the exams: January 19th to 23rd, the week preceding the exams. I will not be facing just the pressure of exams but the nuisance of homework that, undoubtedly, will be piled on top of studying for exams.

The Literature "pre-exam test" will be a good indication of how the midterm exam will be, I think. I predict the only difference will be the amount of writing (having two hours in the midterm compared to the one in class). It's a double-edged sword in that, one on hand, I have another test to write but, on the other, it forces studying way before the midterm (of which I am not accustomed).

My Spanish provincial will be troublesome. I know I'm probably not going to get an A on it so I'm shooting for a high B in the hopes that I can re-write it in June. Once this stress-inducer is gone, that leaves about four months to really prepare myself for a second provincial attempt in June.

Law's in-class exam won't be a problem; I just have to get all of my work done in preparation for the test. I'm planning to do that tonight. The only issue that may get in the way is that there are a number of presentations that still need to be given on Monday and if there are more "technical difficulties" then that could throw a cog into the plan.

As they say, you can't really study for an English exam. Having the need to study Hamlet more thoroughly in Literature, I think I will be well prepared going into the English exam. Literature will force me to reach those dimensions of Hamlet that English does not necessarily require so that will give me a good advantage.

History will be easy. That kind of knowledge sticks with me and I think some re-reading of information and tests will all I need coming in to the exam. All those wasted hours of staying up late and reading page-upon-page on Wikipedia will finally pay off.

Like I said, the Literature exam will probably just be an expansion of the test. I'll have at least five days to really dive into the material so I don't have many worries about it. I'm looking forward to it because, once it's finished, it'll give me a five day weekend.

One of the main problems I have when it comes to studying is poor time management so I'm going to attempt to disconnect from technology and society for a while. I'll be following the same sleeping pattern (e.g. getting up at midnight to do homework/study) so I minimize my distractions. If I don't blog often, that'll be one of the reasons why.

Good luck to all who are writing exams.

It Lives!

2009-01-14T06:22:00.000-08:00

I spoke too soon.

You'll remember that I wrote an entry lamenting the death of my first MP3 player and welcoming my newest into the world.

On Saturday morning, I took it upon myself to, among other things, rebuild/reformat some of the broken tech in the house. In the week leading up that day, I had repaired a bricked Mac mini, salvaged a PC from the depths of malware hell (almost like Orpheus), and even took apart an alarm clock.

On that Saturday, I repaired the broken whammy bar on my Rock Band guitar (it was simpler than thought), got my brother's ZEN to boot up (unfortunately, it was only momentary), and cleaned out my PS3 of the 10 GBs of photos I meant to sort out (mostly from the Maiden concert).

The crowning jewel of my day, however, was bringing my Zen Vision:M back to life.

I have no idea how I did this, though. The first time I tried to do this, I wiped its firmware and reloaded the current firmware but to no avail. I did this on Saturday morning and was readying myself for let down but, after some time (I had left the Vision:M on the boot screen) it booted to the menu you see above.

To be honest, I was amazed.

I now have 30 GBs of portable storage as well as an MP3 player for the car now! Goodbye CDs, hello archaic friend.

Zen

2009-01-10T05:44:00.001-08:00

When my Creative Zen Vision:M died about a year and a half ago, I was saddened by that loss. I lost a 32GB music player as well as a companion in my everyday life, being there for me when I needed it. It sang me to sleep, it told me stories on walks to school, and it kept me sane on long stretches on boredom.

I borrowed my brother's Creative Zen for about half a year. It served me well, although it didn't have the biggest of capacities. Those 4GB of storage did well in trying to serve the same purpose but it came up short. It died in October which is, ironically enough, my brother's birthday month. It survived many scratches and many incidents of dropping and for that I am grateful.

Yesterday, I made a decision to buy my own 16GB Creative Zen. After trying Best Buy (they did not have the 16GB model in stock), I headed to Futureshop. For about $215 (tax included), I scored a fitting replacement for my Zen Vision:M. The silicon case I bought for it set me back about $22. It was slimmer and much smaller with an easier-to-use interface as well as a slot for SD cards. I've loaded it up with music and I'm quite happy. I'm hoping this one will last longer than the other two have; I'm taking precautionary measures to make sure it does.

Next up, nice headphones! Any suggestions?

One Year Later

2009-01-06T01:14:00.001-08:00

As it turns out, today is my blog's birthday, so to speak. I really don't have anything to say regarding the matter. I guess it's because I just woke up. It's funny though, reading through the old blog entries. I've gone from long entries of deep thought to shorter ones that ordinary people would write to sonnets and back to long entires of deep thought. I still face the issues I faced a year ago. The cast is different but what does that really mean? It's all the same... I guess some things never change, eh?

No "profound" or "deep" entry from me today; I just hope I can sustain another year of blogging.

Last Entry of 2008

2008-12-31T23:43:00.000-08:00

Well here it is, the moment we've all been waiting for: the year is just about finished and we're just about to move into 2009. I can't say that 2008 has been good; I think it's had its shares of highs and lows, but more of the lows.

As in accordance with my life's turn of events, a lot of this year has been about my inability to prioritize things in my life: school, faith, family, friendships, and even the trivial things like playing the guitar or videogames. All it ended up being was catch-up and consolations; I can't say I like that. In fact, I will say that I hate it. I've disappointed a lot of people with this procrastinator's mentality: myself, my family, my friends, teachers. I must change this.

Where there was also loss of willpower and work ethic, there was also loss of others in life. This year has been full off loss all around and just being in the community exposes it to me. Two stick out to me this year: one in the beginning of the year and one near the end. I won't mention names out of respect but it truly does disappoint me that this year, as promising as people make it out to be, only gives out pain. For them, and for all we lost this year, rest in peace.

Perhaps like my parents, I've been estranged from some of the closer friends in my life whether it be of my own alienation or of their unknown motives. Truth be told, it sucks to know that you ended up alienating your own friends, ones that you've known for the better part of your life. What hurts more, though, is your friends forcing the end of a friendship for their own selfish suppositions where they can not see the error of their ways and disposition. Maybe it is better that way.

Faith has been a rollercoaster ride this year. As with every year, I resolved to re-establish my faith life with God. I can say that I did that this year and this happened with Senior Peer Ministry as well as Encounter XXVI. But, as others often say, there will always be the period after the religious high where you come crashing down to Earth. That's happened to me three times this year: once after the Senior Peer Minsitry retreat, once after Encounter XXVI, and the last after Encounter XXVII. I will say I'm disappointed in myself for not making a more conscious effort to retain some of the things I promised myself; I hope the year will change.

Friendships took a drastic turn this year. As with other people, I branched out to a more "real world" environment. The social action against Scientology was a major catalyst in this. It brought me friendships with like-minded people that I still hold today; I am happy because of this. It is good to be exposed to the world that will follow out of this bubble-world of private school. I've cultivated my own friendships within school too, fostering them out of acquaintance and receiving more than I thought.

What can I say about love? As always, I've been disappointed. I came close though, and for that I am happy, regardless of how things turned out. While it may have been the reason for my Sonnets, it's something that I wish I could eternally hold dear. It's a double-edged sword, I guess.

I must change my life, that much is sure. My resolutions are as follows:

Set my priorities in my life.
Do not do things last minute; plan ahead and take responsibility for my homework, work, and other responsibilities that I may have.
Do not alienate others and truly relish the friendships I have now; do not lose what I must hold so dear.
Build on the faith I re-established with God. Go to every Sunday mass and the two days of obligations.
Stay connected with family and hold a good relationship with them; that means mom, pa, Roy, and Nanay.
Set my goals and actually follow through in the process and execution of the goals.
Get in shape and do not neglect to take care of myself.

Here's to a good 2009!

Sonnet XXI

2008-12-28T02:39:00.001-08:00

For five long years it has been cold and bleak;
Perhaps it more, I was never so sure
If that was true or if it be so weak
A lie that time has forced me to endure.
I've gone and searched to fill this aging void
With what I turned to love in my posthaste;
Though it has not returned I have enjoyed
The feigning joys of love that I had chased.
But looking back I know I worked in vain;
No love did come to me in those five years.
The aches of heart, not theirs, on this campaign
Has driven me to cry these made-up tears.
I shall not chase the dreams my heart creates;
I tire waiting for illusioned dates.

Sonnet XX

2008-12-28T01:50:00.000-08:00

As always, now I fall to wistful thought:
Love that was found once in a quickened haze,
Or feelings sent of love that was distraught,
Or my affects not caught by hazel gaze.
I sought to gain what I had never had,
Be it the grace of beauty in her strides
Or flush of mind in secret glamour clad
Or poetry she writes, but then she hides.
Oh I have cried no tears for these three deaths
Of likely bonds that I may never hold!
They do not cry for me beneath their breaths
For they have found their loves in better gold.
If they be silver, I present my rust
So I may fade 'gainst other lovers' lust.

Sonnet XIX

2008-12-17T01:04:00.000-08:00

Perhaps these words would serve as futile spears
That dented not the heart but warming air,
And if they be then I be moved to tears
That fall not for a loss but her lacked care.
I fear she does not know what lies beneath
These cloaked-and-daggered rhymes, or if she know
At all that these be writ 'neath cunning's sheath
For her to see affections on new snow.
But then my thoughts draw far from ill-struck hope
And wander in the quiet stars of peace;
That she might know the gravity and scope
Of these and let my heart rest now with ease.
To you, I call, reflect my growing plight
With words of yours or ease me from your sight.

Sonnet XVIII

2008-12-10T18:05:00.000-08:00

What once was dead has found its way to life;
Some tear-stained words were born on those blue clouds.
Now this poor past has come to walk past strife
And come to terms with thoughts once drowned in shrouds.
I wrote her once, or twice, some months ago,
Some words transposed on blue clouds like her own.
But I assumed she did not read or know
Of what I wrote that night. How had I known
It was withheld for her to see with time?
I stand the fool in judging with blind thoughts
That she be feigning in this misled crime.
Her sincere words succeed these twisted knots.
So let us talk and share what we did once.
Let closure take the place of wrong silence.

Sonnet XVII

2008-12-08T23:11:00.000-08:00

If time had stayed a guest in our fair days,
Instead of walking to its pacing march
And bringing us along to change our ways,
Then I would wait to finish this love's arch.
And if the days would wait and stay awhile
While I thought ways to build from out of naught,
Then this be true: I'd love your growing smile
While Cupid's stylings send affections taught.
But as it stands, time forces me along
And days grow short with Winter's looming air.
Though in this rush, these feelings do grow strong
While trembling eyes look to your heart as fair.
So by time's hand I do extend my own
To ask of yours to walk past the unknown.

Sonnet XVI

2008-12-07T01:22:00.000-08:00

That day where minds did wander tinted hues
A pact was signed, though not of ink but word.
Wherein one'd paint with whites on blacks and blues
The other'd draw with rhythm formed absurd.
In telling now, no pretence is displayed;
No gifts of intellect are standing near.
Incessant ramblings move to be arrayed;
These nothings can't be set to be so dear:
For sands of time must pass for wisdom's growth
And words much be exchanged for sentiment
To be of worth. O, this be true of both
Agreed, else turn to a quaint detriment.
These words precurse that promised, forming verse.
Upon return, these words will reimburse.

Sonnet XV

2008-12-07T00:57:00.000-08:00

In truth, I did not think it pass as quick
As fate would make it so. It was profound
And shapèd thoughts that dealt with love born sick;
Why then time's haste to set it in the ground?
Perhaps it be to move from that which hurt,
As chancing love does often strike quick blows
To gambling hearts which sooner may revert
To wand'ring wastes, dead under newborn snows.
Or maybe then to wish them well to do
In unity where discord once was set.
Still yet, perchance, of chances to renew
Acquaintance where now sits this cold regret.
Alas it be of finding what may be
Or else teased truth where dimming eyes do see.

Sonnet XIV

2008-12-06T23:47:00.000-08:00

The men of old did say that time heals all
With its own passing through the path of days.
Though time be old, it shows no greys that call
To full attent how age has had its ways.
And this be true of love with its own plan:
From time to time the errs in number grow
And judgement sorts the king from peasant man;
Learned lessons stem from unrequited woe.
But he moves on from mem'ries once of love,
Yet too of pain, and loves that never were.
Remembrances, with time, do fly above
That wistful soul when thoughts anew do stir.
Now with his hand, take yours and bid adieu
To this poor soul, who's started now anew.

Intermezzo: Cosmic Irony

2008-11-30T20:17:00.000-08:00

Sonnet XIII

2008-11-30T20:03:00.000-08:00

Goodbye, I say, to that which I've held dear
In spite of no returns of what I'd said
Today or last or years no longer here.
Let go this err and slowly rest its head.
Goodbye, to you, and talks that never flew
Beyond the paltry sums of bygone days.
And never past the words that spoke untrue
Of failed intents; I never did amaze.
I say goodbye but mean not an offence
But simply bid farewell to that which meant
The world to me. So now I leave here, hence,
And walk the winding roads: some straight, some bent.
Farewell to thee; do not look back to these
But move in grace while I fade to the breeze.

Sonnet XII

2008-11-30T19:45:00.000-08:00

I'll never stand amongst the tailored crowd,
Set still to cut away the newest one
Who'll march along in time with faces proud
And hands that join before the setting sun.
I'll not be one to win with a masked face
And smiles that feign a man who is approved
By those who do conform and render grace
When honesty and truth are then removed.
I'll not be pushed to fit the mold to please,
Where wit and mind and soul do none to sail
Among the troubled tempests of these seas
Where others' dying ships and crews do fail.
Now that I've lost in this endearing quest,
I urge this better man to do his best.

Sonnet XI

2008-11-30T19:27:00.000-08:00

In setting up the question that bears death
I saw no fault in ways that walked to ask.
But cities fall and man turns to the breath
From whence it came. All ends with this small task.
With these black eyes I see the one who'd win
Her holy hand, with crimson bonds approved.
If union serve their choir be, mine din.
If gold they be, this rust must be removed.
All those in last walk on; if fourth or third
Or closer still, as if in second-place,
Words writ will fall in vain; they'll not be heard;
Now gone from suitor's eyes her wand'ring grace.
I once had faith and hope, the loves of man;
Though now this failure ends 'fore it began.

Sonnet X

2008-11-30T19:09:00.000-08:00

Oh fate, you've pushed me to accept your deal;
Surrender all that I've seen fit to give.
I once had hope but night did come and steal
Those winds that made these faithful sails to live.
I've seen the melody harmonious
In twisting their own fated strands to hold,
Where once I stood erroneous
To speak with naught against a wall of gold.
And this quick truth does now mark a descent
Of dying loves where once there had been life
Placed with the night on a dead man's crescent,
Though forced in vain to live in endless strife.
Now to the victor go these saintly spoils
While to the grave go ghosts of these last toils.

Sonnet IX

2008-11-29T17:51:00.001-08:00

The pen has stopped this weak and humble mind,
And truth made blind these quick and fading eyes.
Thoughts dance about, those which do move behind
Fall's cold and dying sun. This love, it dies,
When placed beneath the face of judging life.
But when it sees the dreams and fates of man
It grows against the parting sorrow's strife
And does grow strong in spite of time's own span.
So why do I leave torment for this love,
That dies and lives again as with the tide?
Perhaps it moves with fate from God above
Or with strange thoughts, with logic pushed aside.
I've never yet to set this love to fade
Else it would die in others' lasting shade.

Sonnet VIII

2008-11-24T21:44:00.000-08:00

If this be less than bold forgive the tone;
I thought of ways to tell you this small truth.
First frank speech, perhaps you and I alone,
But I recalled the letdowns of past youth.
I write this sonnet now in earnest fear,
I've thought of it before, but my heart dropped.
I've set to ask of you, in my words dear,
And seek response before time's hands have stopped.
A supper quick, on a December night,
Six past the noon and second of the days.
A friend has gifted me this rich delight;
Think not of funds, for neither of us pays.
Gift my own heart with your response of "yes"
Or let it be, and never more progress.

Sonnet VII

2008-11-23T03:42:00.000-08:00

I know not how to move, to give a life
To my own wand'ring thoughts or questions deep
That deal with adoration. Present strife
Does rear its head in my light valour's sleep.
A supper asked, if luck be kind to speech,
Would sing to her had I the knighthood's heart.
The art of film would welcome her to reach
Words joined to wit, and nevermore apart.
I've sat and dreamt of ways to win her "yes",
But never have I found a way to talk.
I only wish for her, in love, to bless
My ears and heart; take those first steps and walk.
Still I do think I never will amass
The nerve to ask her to a night, fair lass.

Sonnet VI

2008-11-23T03:21:00.000-08:00

On one cold night she did divulge a truth,
Apologies that fended off my thought
Of intellect. I did recall our youth
And wronged soliloquies which my heart caught.
No words were rendered under sense of mind.
In place of them were simple words of doubt,
Concerning authenticity. If blind
Love be, as sayings go, I walked without
My sense. Could chance appear for unrequite?
Did luck arrive for my unwav'ring hope?
Or was it false, to quell my dreams in spite,
And draw the tears to flow, to never cope.
Still I stand at a crossroads over vast
Decisions, and of love, that time has passed.

Sonnet V

2008-11-23T03:06:00.000-08:00

Why then do I make haste in this travail?
Is it for dreams, ideal but never real?
Not reason; cooler minds never prevail,
Nor status; mine is lesser. Still I feel
Attraction to her mind, and soul, and wit.
On these I've built the talks that tear my heart
Yet build it up in time. I do admit
My choices seem recoiled. Did I depart
Just recently from a failed port on shore?
I tell the truth, I've sailed to fill a void
And in that quest time's forced it to be more.
In my own words, it's one that I've enjoyed.
It's for her comfort, kind and pure in sense
That comes through love, but first through my offence.

Sonnet IV

2008-11-21T04:14:00.000-08:00

In vain I act to win her darling eyes
And yet I move without a suitor's grace.
The man I am, I look, and then despise
And move in shame to cover up my face.
Her words are those, with me, she does not share.
When we do speak we never share the bond
That graces loves. No empathy or care
Does she extend to me in my sad state.
This journey long I've walked but never quit,
I dream to reap the goals that can't be reached.
She's known the whole way through, and what of it?
This wall, I know quite true, cannot be breached.
But as we speak our hollow words in bliss
I fear this love for her will end a-miss.

Sonnet III

2008-11-09T01:48:00.000-08:00

A yearbook first, a call of memories
To be drawn in, 'midst pages filled with lines
And lines of others' longing words. He sees
An int'rest underneath her friendly signs
Of faith. And from this quest he misconstrues
A love that might reciprocate his own.
In sharing drinks her words do not confuse
But rather lie. For this he can't atone
For the mistake he made in keeping faith
With one, as her, who'd rather move along.
The dawn of end is near, as is the wraith
To bring his death knell in the form of song.
It once had held the words for them to share:
"Everlong". And she, lost love, cannot care.

Sonnet II

2008-11-09T01:21:00.000-08:00

I sit and write the words of days gone by:
Your spontaneity that gave sails wind
And my acceptance, letting my dreams fly.
I thought not of the time or how I'd sinned,
For time seemed not a player in our game.
A tapestry of schemes we weaved in stone,
It feigned our shared beliefs and would be name.
So then I ventured deep in the unknown
And with no torch I walked the barren lands
That once had been alight with your sweet smiles
While marked with guarantees by your swift hands.
In looking through the dark I walked past trials
Passing them with ease; I would not find your
Promises but lose you forevermore.

Sonnet I

2008-11-06T23:19:00.000-08:00

If one should say the words they truly meant
Then shadows cast would be as long as nil.
Her words would not be misconstrued or bent
Nor would his talks be puzzling. Words were still;
They grew to move and set in stone the deals
Of days to come and walks that shared the sea.
But things did change for them as one who steals
And gives to poor: a failed gratuity.
Still though the thoughts that linger on resist
The calls of sense and logic calling forth
A new mindset to shun the love that missed.
But still those memories are gold in worth.
And lacking for these two are words that fall
And close the feud; if only by a call.

Whoso List to Hunt

2008-11-06T22:08:00.001-08:00

Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
But as for me, hélas, I may no more.
The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,
I am of them that farthest cometh behind.
Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore
Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,
Sithens in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,
As well as I may spend his time in vain.
And graven with diamonds in letters plain
There is written, her fair neck round about:
"Noli me tangere," for Caesar's I am,
And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.

- Sir Thomas Wyatt

When You Are Old

2008-10-09T03:01:00.001-07:00

When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And his his face amid a crowd of stars.

- William Butler Yeats

Of Spontaneity

2008-10-09T02:17:00.000-07:00

Perhaps it was wrong to start off so spontaneously. Words exchanged; were they of merit? What truths did hers hold and why did I oblige so meaninglessly? Nonetheless I continued. And I would promise art; but what value would these lines-drawn-upon-lines have when it was done?

What of the outreach? To make something out of something so very insignificant at the time? Why interfere in something that was not fated... or perhaps it was? One can never be so sure. There was no turning back in those words but it was done. To go out on a limb, to get to the fruit. This gamble, this risk, was it all worth it?

And so it was set, maybe not in stone, but in the moveable slate of time. A day of promise and a day of reckoning. This was glad news at the time and so it reflected upon character. The risks continued but in such insignicant manner: coffee and perhaps more words built upon these. And they were met with open arms, the suggestion not shot down in pre-flight for once. The happiest days of life.

The words of such days were so very profound. The etched promises in the compromising slate of time. Of future, her words echoing the sentiment that could never be said. This future, this good future, set out in what seemed to be stone. No wrenches in these plans, only the finality of wishful thinking. Shared drinks and shared meals and to return to normality, only until the next day.

Oh, to be rendered null by the visions that were seen! To have requests shot down in pre-flight, following the context that coffee had laid out! And to see that these words were quiet lies in the fabric of her weaving. To see the coffees and the talks and the meals thrown to nothingness! To see them whittle away to the nothingness from which they were drawn. And conclusions were drawn in this haze of words said and unsaid.

So the inevitability of it all came crashing down, with profound force. This was the end and yet hope for a better future was considered. Perhaps a rough patch or perhaps just distance but, as they say, absense makes the heart grow fonder. And so the week was left and nothing came about. No words were exchanged.

The promised Saturday came about. A promise of hope and of bonds sat on the threshold in wait for those few simple words. But there was no return now: the guess of inevitability would be correct. Though the words did take flight, they were rendered null by her own. And that was it.

It had gone as quickly as it had come.

Oh, spontaneity.

Nostalgia: September 22, 2007

2008-09-15T06:08:00.000-07:00

From Chocolate Reign. A pretty early entry.

The Final Cut

The threshold stood in front of him, ajar with a glittering promise. It was hope; hope from which it was found and hope by which the future would be shaped. His proxy delivered messages of neither intent or expression, though implicit thought would have deemed such to be true. It was quite the novel situation: in through the out door.

Ironic, however, that this door would shut. And with it the hope diminished. He trembled, quivering with silent words. Nothing could be thought, no coherent speech could be uttered. Ever slightly he moved about the shut door. It was not locked; it left only a bleeding of light to deliver an infintessimal glimpse. It was not much. It was not enough.

Options debated within his mind. A few options sought to disturb the door, but none would avail. They never could. A distant beat echoed beyond the portal. It was foreign, now, and could not be retrieved. A trail of consciousness was strewn upon the ground and disappeared once it reached him.

And so he abandoned it.

I Wish I Was Rick Astley

2008-09-15T06:02:00.000-07:00

(October 6, 2007)

Nostalgia: December 17, 2007

2008-09-15T05:57:00.000-07:00

I found this on the Chocolate Reign blog that I used to co-author.

Crank Dat Roosevelt: A Literary Analysis of one of our Generation's Masterpieces

In the modern world, we look for meaning within the media and entertainment convolution of the world. In Soulja Boy's "Crank Dat", one finds meaning in the deliberate repetition of certain phrases and words. This enlightenment is divided into three phases: the repetition 0f thought, the exposition of ideas, and the inhibition of explicit meaning. All three are effective in relaying the message of the song: that one's life should be not be hindered by the obstacles placed in pursuit of suppression.

Within the refrain lies the focal point of the song; it is a repetition of one's own desire to "crank dat", "roll," and "Superman dat hoe." When simply reading the lyrical content of the song, one cannot simply discern what kind of ideals that these words achieve. "Crank dat," within the context of the refrain, is repeated six times. Now, if one were to simply place that in the refrain without context, it would make no sense. This ideal is contrary to the message of the refrain. To "crank dat", to "roll", to "Superman dat hoe;" these are all key concepts that serve as a constant reminder of a willingness to persist in ideas. In layman's terms, this refrain serves as lyrical genius; it affirms Soulja Boy's belief to never compromise.

The verses are subtle reminders of Soulja Boy's beliefs and ambitions. He, in his young age, aspires to "crank dat Robocop, super fresh" as well as "lean[ing] to the left and crank dat dance." These are not the ambitions of the everyman. Rather, they are dreams of the elite dreamers, those who aspire to lead the world in revolution. His beliefs go opposed, yes, but he refutes his detractors saying that he will "jock on yo bitch ass" as well as "cock on your bitch". This hatred, stemming from his possession of "bathing apes", is not justified in comparison to Soulja Boy's infallibility: "they look at [his] neck, saying it's the rubberband man,"; they "can't do it like [him]." He reminds them of this through reaffirmation: "I see you tryna do it like me; man that shit was ugly."

However, Soulja Boy does not achieve his spread of ideals through explicit statement. Rather, he relies on subtleties that must be interpreted by his audience. His "bathing apes"; what are they? The literal meaning of such a statement is that they are apes submerged in water to clean. Is this what he is truly trying to convey? Rather, what is this jealousy that is felt towards his bathing apes? They are not made to be interpreted literally; their meaning is made to be extrapolated in conjunction with the lyric placed in its series. Further proof lies within this masterful lyric: "crank dat Roosevelt." How does one "crank" Franklin Delano Roosevelt, 32nd president of the United States of America? Is one expected to find his remains and crank them, literally? No. This name is merely a platform by which ideals must be hoisted on the banister of liberty. Soulja Boy's subtle phrases and words achieve much more than the greatest orators could ever hope to dream.

Soulja Boy achieves much more than the so-called "literary greats" of recent times. His works are much better than those of Harper Lee or William Shakespeare or even Ernest Hemingway. The one pinnacle of modern triumph, "Crank Dat", relies on much more than explicitness to relay thoughts. He achieves transcendency of literature through repetition, exposition, and implication. These, much more relevant than dated English writers, are words that speak only one ideal. This is an ideal of truth.

Post Pending

2008-08-01T16:43:00.001-07:00

I'm going to write a long entry once again.

Just not now.

2008-07-30T09:49:00.000-07:00

Holy shit.

I have messed up dreams.

That is all.

Yesterdays...

2008-07-05T04:02:00.000-07:00

"Yesterday, there were so many things I was never told. Now that I'm startin' to learn, I'm feel I'm growin' old."

I guess it's a given. You sit back and bide your time, watching time go by, watching your summer start to go to waste. (And how does it go to waste in such short time?) You've got your newsfeeds and your blogs and all 'em, and then you've got your Facebooks or your MSNs or your forums. One thing leads to another and you start talking to people you wouldn't think you'd talk to again. Then it hits: Nostalgia

I was never one for moving on. The world moves by and so does everybody else but me? I just sit and look back at yesterday. What I had, what I lost, what could've been. I deal in the hypothetical and I see with rose-tinted glasses. Nostalgia does that to you. It makes you think everything's still the same, that you'll get the same reactions you had years ago. It doesn't say, "Oh, don't say this; you won't get the response you wanted." Instead, nostalgia dabbles and plays with your memories, often confusing them with the present.

It's like getting drunk, only on sentimentality. I can say that I've done stupid things out of the longing of nostalgia. Maybe I've fallen for somebody again for what I used to see. Maybe I think that them talking to me again is a sign, but it's all in vain, ain't it? I read too deeply into things. A polite conversation can turn into "a sign" of things that "might happen". But they're only ever just conversations out of politeness. No nudging, no leanings one way or another. It's trivial to think otherwise.

So here I stand, looking at the last month. Nostalgia has steered me wrong. I could sit here and say, "Oh, it was a failed experiment," or, "Oh, it'll pass," but it won't. The nostalgia stays and, with sentimentality, is just something that makes me who I am. Maybe it's good to, once in a while, look back on the past and see what you have. Maybe it's good to pretend you're where you were all those years ago and pretend you've got another shot. Maybe it's good to look back at the things that shape and and put you where you are today. Nobody learned anything without having to fall first.

But it's better, at least for me, to look to the future. Perhaps there's something to be had at the end of this journey. Maybe it's just wistful thinking. Who knows?

Sooner or later, I'll fall for it again. Nostalgia; oh how the ghost of you clings. And I guess, looking at this entry, sooner has come a lot quicker than I thought it would.

"Cause yesterday's got nothin' for me, old pictures that I'll always see. Time just fades the pages in my book of memories."

Nostalgia

2008-06-26T02:58:00.000-07:00

"Oh, how the ghost of you clings."

Now playing? Sonic Youth's Superstar

A School Year in Review

2008-06-24T00:35:00.000-07:00

It's the 24th of June. I'm listening to Journey and, of course, writing a blog entry. There has been a lot on my mind lately. I'm pretty sure that, instead of being a dedicated review of the school year, this will become a mass of my thoughts over the last few days, or weeks.

A retrospective; First half (September to December)

Let's begin with a look at the year, shall we? A bit of preamble here. The summer prior to the Grade 11 year was filled with the same old, usual nothings. August was filled with work. Whether it was the actual job I had or the time-consuming extra-credit Socials 11 project, I found that a lot of my time was devoted to these. My job went to hell; all of the old co-workers who I had worked with in my earlier months (2006) slowly drifted away from work. I would find that I would drift as well. The extra-credit work was stressing because I never found that I had the work ethic to finish it. When crunch time came around, only then would I work on it. This procrastination would spread the seeds of my decline to come.

September seemed like it offered optimism. A new year, new classes, more freedom in the way of administration relations; it seemed like the year would be good. Still, stupidly, I'd have the feelings for somebody who, in retrospect, was a foolish gamble. Perhaps there's a section for love, though. The work didn't seem so bad but, as it was to be expected, it was only the beginning of the year. October rolled around and, to be honest, I can't remember much of that. Halloween was the obligatory Guy Fawkes mask with casuals. November I can't remember either except for "Remembrance Day Hockey". It was the first time, if I remember correctly, that we gathered together to play some hockey for a good few hours. Things went well but I remember spraining my ankle on a slap-shot. Terrible.

With December came Christmas fever. I don't remember if I had money to get people gifts; I can't remember if I even got my family gifts. I know; it's terrible. I suck at managing my own money. I can't remember much in the way of school; I was caught up in the fever that was Rock Band. Revolution for the rhythm-game industry. It played to my liking of genres and, of course, liking of instrumental peripherals. I was shot down when I didn't get it for Christmas. That was really selfish. It was stupid. I wasn't content with what I had. And the year ended on a sour note as well.

A retrospective; Second half (January to June)

As the hours, to minutes, to seconds ticked away on the 31st of December, I thought that 2008 would be different. I thought 2008 would be a clean slate for me. I set out my resolutions for the year and, as I lay here with this laptop, I see that none of my resolutions have come to fruition. Perhaps in another time, things would have been different. As they stand now, however, they do not.

January brought the exam crunch. I didn't end up studying much, if at all, and as a result my exams suffered. I hit Bs across the board in most subjects (at least the ones I know of) and I'm sure I ended up a disappointment. The report cards rolled around and I managed to stay on the 4.0 roll. I guess it was luck that I didn't hit the Bs for the academic subjects. February I cannot quite remember either. I don't remember anything eventful. The same goes for March and April. I've got quite the troubled memory, though, so I'm probably missing something really important.

May was a month where I could not wait for the summer. I realized then that the year had gone to hell for me; there was no way I could possibly redeem my grades. I slacked off more, missed school because of unfinished homework, and let my social life take over my academics. Perhaps I should've seen that as a signal of my failures and should have tried to amend that; I didn't. Before I knew it, June rolled around and so did exam studying. Of course, I didn't study for those exams. I threw it all away. All that potential to do well was thrown away for the pursuit of a good time. My exam marks suffered as a result; it was only by luck that I did not fail those exams. I had truly hit rock bottom.

And while I lay here and remember the promise I told my parents, I remember that I never won any awards. Crumbling under pressure or just a failure to live up to my potential?

The Classes

Math 11 - The last year of Math I would ever take. It was a decent year. There were about 5 guys in this class but I don't think any of us minded. I sat by the lights and door the whole year with Mike, Alfonzo, and Grace. I'd say it was good for the year; no real distractions but the ones we gave ourselves. Could've done better in terms of marks, though.

Writing 12 (Journalism) - The Green Ink. At first, I came into this course with hope. Having been switched out of B block Religion and into this, I came in expecting that this course would be good. The hope soon turned to despair, however, when I saw the cast of players. Some were great workers for the Ink; others were far too elitist in pushing their own agendas onto the school. This course is terrible when you have members of the staff who don't do their work. I'm glad it's over.

English 11 - Another year with Mr. Hughes. I can't say that this was a bad course. I can't say that it was particularly great either. What I remember, mainly, is the emphasis on essay writing. We spent many, many months on this; perhaps far too many months. As a result, this cut into our poetry time. We had about 3-4 weeks on poetry. With poetry pushed back, novel studies suffered. We had about 2 weeks on "Lord of the Flies". Great teaching but poor time management.

Writing 12 (Creative) - One of the most laid-back classes I had. It was a good experience for letting the creative juices flow for writing. It's really helped my writing style. Where once I came in with the biggest of words and the longest of sentences, I know leave with the knowledge of variety. It was stupid that this did not dawn on me before but, when you hold your own work in high regard, you tend to be blind-sided by your self-proclaimed majesty. The leeway was my downfall, however. I often used the time we had negatively and slacked off, often finishing stories or pieces a night before or on the day of the deadline. This is especially true of my 2nd-term portfolio project. Four months and I have nothing to show for it. It's worth 30% of my mark. If I've done my calculations correctly, I end up with 56% to show for the year.

Spanish 11 - Ah, Spanish. I've been with the same people for the last four years. It has been a good four years and there aren't many negatives to the whole experience. Out of Spanish, I'd say, would be Los Tres Amigos, or Palma, Bryan, and I. Extended, Matthew and Luttrell fit into that. We may have been overworked sometimes but I think that helped me study in the long run. Mr. Moscoso was a good change for a brief period but soon we were lost in the books, trying to find what we were being taught. I'm glad that Spanish is over for most of us. I can't say that Spanish 12 will be the same but I'm happy to have been granted a unique opportunity for it.

Religion 11 - This was a good class. I started out the year sitting with Etienne in the column of tables farthest from the main door. Some time in the middle of the year I switched over to sit in the third column with Bryan, Matthew, Luttrell, and Marayag (provided one of them was absent). In the final bit of the year, I sat with Sean or Etienne, with one of them nearby. Was it a good class? I'd say yes. I was afraid it would be history heavy (having seen the presentations of years past) but I was delighted to have something very different. Was I envious of Holowka's class? I'd say I would be but this class helped me rediscover my Catholic faith.

Chemistry 11 - Like Math, this would be my last Science class ever. I started out the year with promise and I still remember scoring the highest on the first test. Never again, it would seem. From then on, I would see a decline in my grasp of Chemistry. I was never one for it. I soldiered on and saw, with the Midterm, that preparation was definitely needed. I did not take the hint. I finished the Final with 68% and 83% on the year. A far cry from the 90% I had from first term. Was the drop worth the joy of not needing Science any longer? Probably not.

Socials 11 - Ironically, Socials was one of my favourite courses. Sure, I was put off my the administrative decision of Mrs. Anderson over Mr. Donnici but I persevered. Geography and government were never my strong points in the course and this showed. History was where I shone. The years of reading encyclopedias as a child and those Wikipedia late-nighters (where I would find myself going from page to page reading about history) finally paid off. Without studying, I could easily B (and A) most tests. The lack of work ethic became my downfall, however. I don't think that I did too well on the Provincial and, as a result, with my overall mark.

Goodbye World

2008-06-16T00:31:00.000-07:00

Between studying for the Socials Provincials, playing Metal Gear Solid 4, renovations at home, and playing guitar, I don't think I'll have time to go out and socialize anymore. To help me study for Socials, I shall set out the following resolutions, in effect until Friday afternoon:

No MSN
No Facebook
No Internet
No going out until after Friday
The only computer use allowed is for word processing on a computer without internet (Mac mini)

Some very restrictive resolutions but hopefully they will help me study for Friday. Here's to four days of MGS4, Socials, renovations, and guitar.

I can be reached at 778-955-8102.

To Do: Tuesday, June 3, 2008

2008-06-03T02:24:00.000-07:00

Math - Take home assessment
Journalism - Iron Maiden review
English - Lord of the Flies essay: Lord of the Flies as a Microcosm of Society
Writing - Short Stories (The Evil That Men Do, Juliette, Maria, Genevieve, The Trooper, The Call of the Beast)
Religion - Take home final exam

Iron Maiden: Somewhere Back in Time

2008-06-02T23:57:00.000-07:00

6:00 PM - Doors Open
7:30 PM - 8:00 PM - Lauren Harris
8:00 PM - 8:30 PM - Intermission
8:30 PM - 10:30 PM - IRON MAIDEN

"SCREAM FOR ME, VANCOUVAAAA"

To Do: Sunday, June 1st, 2008

2008-06-01T22:11:00.000-07:00

Due June 2nd:
Math - Coordinate Geometry: Circles
Journalism - Donnici Interview, Intramural Information, Intramural Pictures

Due June 3rd:
Religion - Final Exam (take home)

Due June 4th:
English - Lord of the Flies Essay
Writing - Short Stories (8)

Study Guides to Write:
Math
English (?)
Chemistry
Socials

2008-05-28T03:06:00.000-07:00

I have a Spanish final today but I didn't study well for it. It covers the second half of the school year but I barely know a thing of it all. I was supposed to study over the long weekend.

I have a Writing portolio presentation on Tuesday. I proposed to write eight short stories, all of which having some sort of link to World War II. The project started four months ago; I haven't started.

I barely get any sleep anymore because I got a new laptop charger. The laptop helped in my procrastination efforts. Now the charger's broken and I'll need a new one.

I blew all of the money I was trying to save up in the last two weeks. I spent $100 in one weekend and $60 the next. I have $30 and I'm going to spend that today on wall-mounted guitar hooks. I owe my brother $60. I don't have a job and I built that money up over a few months of saving my allowance.

I bought Grand Theft Auto 4 but I don't even like it to the level that you'd think I do. I go around saying it's a great game. I just think it's above average. The graphics aren't that great and it's being held-back because of Microsoft.

I'm going to be having a small birthday get together in two weeks. It'll be a lunch at Shabusen. Because of exams, people are going to say they have exams to study for. They said it last year but I know they won't. They're going to say they're busy even though they'll have wasted the day doing nothing. Almost all of them will Judas me, like they did last year. It's what they do every year. I'll go on with the facade and act like it didn't piss me off.

I'm drifting away from the elementary friends I made. I feel as though they're alienating me. I have good will but some of them are just being elitist. I don't know why they do it. It's not like I'm going out of my way to build a better profile; I just want to hang out with the people I haven't hung out with in a while. I'm not impervious to the cold shoulder.

I have the worst luck. My G-tuner head on my guitar snapped so stringing it is a pain in the ass. I lost my MicroSD adapter so I can't put anymore files on it. My laptop charger's broken and it'll cost another $50 to get a new one. The ReadyBoost on my USB drive is incompatible with Windows XP. My alarms never go off when want them too. My hair always ends up looking like shit after an hour. I broke the family digicam after dropping it. The photos for my hockey intramural article get deleted off of the school camera. Shoot to Thrill loses in the finals and I pull my groin. Meanwhile, my brother finds money on the streets and my dad finds a brand new Mac mini.

I don't know what to do about love.

A list of things to save for

2008-05-25T03:00:00.000-07:00

Another list for myself here. Just some things to save up for.

Guitars and Music

~~Ernie Ball Strings (Electric) - $10?~~

~~Choices are~~

~~8-11-14-20-30-38 (8s RPS)~~
~~9-14-18p-28-38-48 (9s RPS)~~
~~9-11-16-24-32-42 (Hybrid 9s RPS)~~

Wall-mounted guitar holders - $15 each

One for acoustic

~~One for electric~~

~~Preferably black~~

Traynor YCV80Q Combo - $1200

4x10

Traynor Extension Cabinet - $500

2x12

New Guitar
Acoustic Drum-set

Television and Entertainment

Sharp Aquos 42" LCD TV - $2000

1080p capable

Dualshock 3 PS3 Controller- $55
Metal Gear Solid 4 - $60

Got it for $12 (Thanks Tuliao), pending release and pick-up

Resistance: Fall of Man - $60
Uncharted: Drake's Fortune - $60
Resistance 2 - $60

Fall 2008

LittleBigPlanet - $60

October 2008

Computers

Asus eee PC 900 - $550+$30

20 GB storage
1 GB RAM
Preferably black

(1 GB DDR-533/677 RAM - $30)

New PC (Unknown Price)

1 TB HDD - $200
GeForce 9900 Video Card
Quad-core Processor
Windows Vista (Ugh)
Unknown other quantities

Bring on the summer working.

Change

2008-05-23T02:19:00.001-07:00

Change is the continual process of growth or modification basic to life. As the pace of change quickens, openness to new ways of thinking, acting, and relating is essential so that all people may survive and thrive. Change is something that the world needs to enact in order for human kind, not only as a society, but as a species to survive into the future. In spite of all the challenges that have arisen over the most recent decades, humanity continues to start the processes of change, however slowly they may be.

At our school, there is not so much an institution of change internally. There is the changing of students and the passing on of leadership but aside from these seemingly-ceremonious events, there is not much in the way of change. There is human outreach to help those in need and those impoverished as well as those affected worldwide by the numerous catastrophes that plague the world yearly, but there is nothing to introduce change for our own immediate society. While it is good and very Christian to put the needs of others before ourselves, change within our own community should be a high priority, especially if negative issues exist.

To address the concept of change, the school should be more vigilant in addressing issues that need to be change for the better. To find these issues and identify them, the student body’s input must be placed in high importance and the words of the eighth graders should hold the same importance as the words of the twelfth graders. Issues should be addressed and dealt with regardless of simplicity or seeming unimportance. If not the most pressing of concerns, they should be dealt with nonetheless, perhaps with fewer resources allocated to the cause. This is the first step towards change; moving towards solving the problems and enacting new routines will ease the way for change.

Regarding worldwide change, the school does much in ways of awareness, relief, and aid. Just recently assemblies regarding Darfur and the pursuit of ensuring human rights for all have been shown; this, as well as any information given about world events, aids in the process for change. To change an issue, one must first know about the issue and then gradually understand it. In terms of relief, there are the occasional drives to collect relief, both monetary and material, to help the impoverished and needy. Within the city of Vancouver, the proceeds of can-drives and the like go to aid those who cannot supply themselves with the necessities of life. As far as aid goes, the school goes on to donate, as in the case for Myanmar, on donation or fundraiser cases. These aids help to ease in change gradually: awareness starts the process of change, relief helps the process along, and aid ensures those who need help are supported for change.

Relative to the global scale, the school should take stances on change and the initiative to, perhaps, start campaigns to advocate change. As a Catholic school, it makes sense that we should support causes that promote loving solutions to problems (with love in the sense of fair treatment and bounds within human rights) rather than radical or violent solutions. In addition, it should also encourage students to support causes for change in the world, no matter how trivial it may be. After all, change comes about in many sizes and forms. With this base of students supporting their own platforms, it would only come naturally that word be spread by word of mouth, intentionally or unintentionally, and this would benefit the causes for change for the better.

As far as achievements go, the school has no bounds by which it is restrained. With the achievements in the past that this school has achieved, in comparison to its resources, there is no doubt that the school could go far in a campaign of change. The developed world lends a keen eye to the grassroots campaigns of politicians; should the same not apply to change?

A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

2008-05-23T01:18:00.001-07:00

Kofi Annan, Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr., Voltaire, L. Ron Hubbard.

One of these things is not like the other. If you said “L. Ron Hubbard,” then you are correct.

On May 12th, the Youth for Human Rights International organization came to our school and hosted an assembly on human rights. For the uninformed, this may have seemed like an ordinary assembly to raise awareness on an issue that we, as Catholics, should be aware of. Sure, this got the point across that human rights should be protected. If you still have the booklet that was handed out, take a look inside and flip to the second-to-last page. The five men listed above are called “famous human rights leaders”. I was not aware that L. Ron Hubbard was a “humanitarian” who “advanced human rights by working bravely for what [he] believed in.”

Humanitarian? I thought L. Ron Hubbard was the creator of the million-dollar “Church of Scientology”.

As it turns out, Youth for Human Rights International is based at 1332 L. Ron Hubbard Way in Los Angeles, California. Also based in Los Angeles is one of Scientology’s “Advanced Organizations”, specialized in delivering higher training to Scientologists. Like Scientology, they are a tax-exempt organization. The group advocates human rights and believes they should be upheld in any situation.

While human rights should be recognized in all situations, is a group so closely linked to Scientology the best way to promote the fair treatment of all individuals? As they say, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. The 1976 Scientologist “Operation Freakout” was aimed at ruining the life of critic Paulette Cooper. In 1990, Noah Lottick committed suicide after investing thousands of dollars in Scientology, clutching his last dollars. In 1995, 35-year old Lisa McPherson died while under care of Scientologists. The “fair-game” and “disconnection” policies also segregate and attack people. With a group linked so closely to Scientology, are these the people we want spreading the word of human rights? Furthermore, should we approve of their advocacy of L. Ron Hubbard? There are more prominent humanitarians out there not linked to a dirty cult.

If you are sceptical on the links between Youth for Human Rights International and Scientology, look no further than their website. Under “YHRI Collaborators” (found in the “About YHRI” section), a link to the Church of Scientology can be found. Not convinced yet? In 1995, the Hamburg Senate (in Germany) released a report on Scientology and its structure. In an internal memo, it was revealed that “All organizations and groups form a global network. Each one has its own individual role and responsibilities. But all service organizations have the goal to draw attention to L. Ron Hubbard’s technology and deliver it to the public.”

Don’t get me wrong; the aim here is not to detract from human rights. These should be upheld because everybody has the rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That’s not the point. The point here is to expose the modern day propaganda of Scientology. If the organization didn’t tout L. Ron Hubbard as such a saintly figure, I wouldn’t have written this article. The fact remains, though, is that they do and, as revealed by the Hamburg Senate, their ulterior motive is clear.

As Martin Luther King Jr. said, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”

Human Rights

2008-05-23T01:16:00.001-07:00

Human rights are the minimum conditions necessary for the healthy growth of individuals and peoples. Minimum human rights include sufficient life goods, availability of education and work, cultural acceptance, economic justice, and the right to political participation. The struggle towards universal promotion of human rights has been an issue in the world for quite some time. However, only recently have strides towards human rights been made evident in the world. Just as with peace and political participation, the promotion of basic human rights has flourished in the developed world. There are very little instances in modern history in the developed world, such as in North America and Western Europe, where human rights have been denied to people. However, one widely known denial of human rights has been the treatment of prisoners at Guantanamo Bay in Cuba by Americans.

In the developing world, just as with political participation and peace, basic human rights have been ignored and not been granted to many who are oppressed or not the most prosperous in society. As previously mentioned, the Darfur genocide is one such instance where the human rights of entire villages are denied by the militarist ideals of the Sudanese and Janjaweed. Oppressive governments also disregard human rights, as in China and, more recently, in Myanmar in the case of the oppressed monks and the withholding of aid relief in the wake of the cyclone Nargis. The people do not only die because of the denial of rights; those who live continue to be oppressed and those in power flourish because of their ease of access to the basic necessities of human life.

Like peace and political participation, we believe that human rights should be promoted and granted to all people, regardless of where they are in the world. In this world, many people are often mistreated and the careless actions of others in their lives lead to them not leading their lives to their potential. As we learned, the human rights of child workers are often denied in the developing world. We live good lives in the developed world and we don’t often think about how our lives would be different if our human rights were taken away. Those who live in the developing world often face this frequently in their lives. We think that we should not take these for granted; anything could change our lives and take away the rights that we often forget we have.

The need for recognition for human rights can be linked to the modern day issues involving Myanmar and both the persecution of protesting monks as well as the denial to accept aid after cyclone Nargis. Human rights are supposed to protect and promote the lives of people so that they can live their lives to their fullest extent as well as reach their potential. In the case of the protesting monks, the militarist government has been killing monks as well as making them “disappear”; the whereabouts of thousands of monks is unknown. The government is taking unnecessary and radical action against monks who rightly protest the government. In the case of denying aid after cyclone Nargis, the government is preventing aid to help, and potentially sustain life, of survivors of the cyclone. This move denies them the human right to life, the most basic of rights.

As Christians, promoting human rights is closely tied to Jesus’ message of love. To allow others to live, in its most basic form, is an expression of love by prevention of death. To allow for them to live their lives in the highest potential is an even more gratifying display of love. In order for human right recognition to flourish, we must take an initiative to make people aware of injustices committed against others. The more people know, the more they are likely to promote human rights. With this in mind, it is possible to achieve total recognition with enough support.

Peace

2008-05-23T01:15:00.001-07:00

Peace can be defined as the natural fruit of justice between people and between nations, with justice as a prerequisite for true peace among peoples. The promotion of peace requires that human dignity is respected, international cooperation is achieved, a more equitable distribution of the world’s resources is put into effect, and that the arms race ends. Peace is said to be only an idealistic dream and that it is nearly impossible to achieve in this time and world. Even if this is true, peace is something that should be strived for. Despite its uncertain future, peace is used to combat situations that arise in the world all the time.

In the developed world, peace would be much easier to achieve than in the developing world. The developed world has no need to raise arms with another nation because of its prosperity (the exception being the United States of America). The developing world, however, must work harder to achieve peace. With tensions and wars that have been enacted over trivial things like land or resources, there has been a vicious cycle put into place in the developing world. The clash between nations over dwindling resources and shrinking land borders continues to this day, one of the most recent disputes over resources being the American occupation of Iraq. With little motivation to end strife and conflict, it seems that hostilities will continue.

We think that peace is a dream that we will not see. We do not even think our children will see it in their lifetimes. The world is a violent place on a larger scale, never mind the peaceful protests and the rallies that litter the world, hoping for a peaceful Earth. The world is too caught up in materialistic greed, driving nations to quarrel and fight over land and resources. That effort would be much better used in driving peace efforts between nations. If nobody takes an initiative in stopping conflict, then there is no hope of peace for the world. It takes one influential power to strive for peace; the rest will follow. With one of the world’s superpowers embroiled in a violent occupation in Iraq, however, we don’t think this will ever come to fruition.

Peace can be linked to the modern social justice issue of the Darfur genocide. As it has been revealed, the conflict and resulting genocide has been a result of conflicting groups of people, as in the Rwandan genocide, and the hatred of one group towards another, as in the Holocaust. History has seemed to repeat itself again. With peace, this could have been avoided; with peace, now, it can still be stopped. Appeasement to the Sudanese military and the Janjaweed will not help the peace process, but stoke their egos and inflate their sense of self-importance. Only true peace can bring about the end of the conflict. The resolution of the conflict, like the ideal of peace, seems far away from fruition. The Darfur genocide, officially recognized in 2003, does not show any signs of ending.

Our own awareness of the issue, coupled with political participation, can help to amend the problem and ease the damages of the genocide. By letting the people know of the destruction in Darfur, and signalling to the government the issue at hand, it is possible to relieve those displaced and suffering from the conflict. True peace will not come about by awareness, however. Peace will only come about through intervention by a third party and even then it will not end the hostilities between the conflicting people.

As Christians, we know peace and love go hand in hand. There is not much we can do but to love others as Jesus has loved us. Love is the first step in the long walk to peace. By letting people know that peace is possible through love (and the resulting emotions such as forgiveness), perhaps a social movement can take place. If it is possible to have awareness for Darfur raised, perhaps it is then possible for a peace movement to build momentum, however idealistic it is.

Political Participation

2008-05-23T01:14:00.001-07:00

Political participation can be defined as the democratic participation in the decisions impacting one’s life, expressed for example through freedom of speech and voting. Political participation, we know, is highly evident in developed nations. North America is a large section of the world that relies on responsible political participation, that is, the participation of individuals only under certain guidelines. Dependent on area, these guidelines are supposed to ensure that political participation is done in right judgment. Federally, Canada’s voting age has been set to the age of 18 since 1970. Western and Northern Europe are also areas of the world where political participation is done under strict guidelines to ensure that the best decisions are made.

There are still some places in the world, however, where political participation are either corrupted by the government in power or disregarded completely. In newly-industrialising as well as developing countries, the voice of political participation is second to the voice of corruption within the government or from influencing powers. Countries that suffer from this are located usually within Asia, Africa, or South America. In addition to corruption, political participation is disregarded within communist, dictatorial, or even militarist regimes. In countries such as China, a totalitarian regime is in place with no democracy and penalties in place for speaking out against the government. In countries such as Cuba, the communist tendencies of the government tend to rule out the voice of the people, even though the communism places equality for all.

We, as a group, feel that political participation is not yet put into the full practice that it could be put into. We know that, in places such as Canada, political participation has been put into place and encouraged. Even though this is in place, we feel that people do not take the voting opportunity seriously. Given the opportunity, those who live under rulers who do not take their own participation would surely vote and express their political views without restraint. However, we think that people are too complacent in the developed world and that they feel they can change nothing (or do not want to change anything).

The concept of political participation can be linked to the social justice issue of totalitarian and dictatorial regimes in power across the world today. As mentioned before, China is one of the highest profile totalitarian states in recent history. The link that can be drawn between the two is to enable political participation for the people of, for example, China. In a country where protests are stopped violently (Tiananmen Square protests of 1989), political participation would hopefully allow for the peaceful demonstration of people to go unpunished. Furthermore, rightful political participation should allow for citizens to not be afraid of the state and its punishments. The people of, for example, China should not live in fear to talk against the state, nor should the state enforce its totalitarian views upon the people.

As Christians, we should respond to political participation positively, especially for the good of all people worldwide. If people live oppressed by their governments around the world, then it is very possible for Christians in the developed world to rally the people and tell the governments of issues at hand. While the government may be more concerned with internal affairs or international relations, the benefit of democracy is that the people have a say in the people in office. To help the oppressed, it is very realistic to write to the government and, if enough support is gained for the causes at hand, then the government may see that the issue is truly one that needs to be addressed. The only thing hindering this is our non-willingness to commit to the issues.

Tentative Grade 12 Schedule

2008-04-28T21:36:00.000-07:00

A History 12
B Literature 12
C Christian Education 12
D Law 12
E Spare
F English 12
G Physical Education 12
H Information Technology 12
J Spanish 12

Life's Good

2008-04-28T21:16:00.000-07:00

Seven months into the school year and school feels as though it's coming to a close real quickly. I'd say it's been a 180 for me in the last few weeks. No more fights with my parents, no more wasted time on hopelessness, no more uselessness of time. Even then, there have been more positives. I guess I could say I've found a great support group of friends due to the circumstances that have occurred. I'm actually saving money now and, I'm prioritizing things now. That's all for now, I guess. I've got some more writing to do.

√3

2008-04-27T10:19:00.001-07:00

I’m sure that I will always be
A lonely number like √3.
The three is all that’s good and right,
Why must my three keep out of sight
Beneath the vicious square root sign,
I wish instead I were a nine.
For nine could thwart this evil trick,
with just some quick arithmetic.
I know I’ll never see the sun, as 1.7321
Such is my reality, a sad irrationality.
When hark! What is this I see,
Another square root of a three.
As quietly co-waltzing by,
Together now we multiply
To form a number we prefer,
Rejoicing as an integer.
We break free from our mortal bonds
With the wave of magic wands.
Our square root signs become unglued
Your love for me has been renewed.

- David Fernberg

Estranged

2008-04-13T03:29:00.000-07:00

When I find out all the reasons maybe I'll find another way, find another day. With all the changing seasons of my life maybe I'll get it right next time. And now that you've been broken down, got your head out of the clouds. You're back down on the ground and you don't talk so loud, and you don't walk so proud, anymore.

And what for?

Well I jumped into the river too many times to make it home. I'm out here on my own, and drifting all alone. If it doesn't show give it time to read between the lines. 'Cause I see the storm getting closer and the waves they get so high. Seems everything we've ever known's here.

Why must it drift away and die?

I'll never find anyone to replace you. Guess I'll have to make it through, this time, oh this time... without you.

I knew the storm was getting closer, and all my friends said I was high. But everything we've ever known's here; I never wanted it to die.

Gotta Save

2008-04-06T15:59:00.000-07:00

Another list for myself to keep track of. Alot easier for me to find than a sticky-note or something.

Sharp Aquos 32" LCD HDTV ($799.99)
Asus eee 4G Laptop ($399.99)
~~Iron Maiden Tickets ($85)~~
Resistance: Fall of Man ($59.99)
Uncharted: Drake's Fortune ($59.99)
PS3 Dualshock 3 Controller ($54.99)
~~Patriot 4GB Mini USB Drive ($24.99)~~

Upcoming Games:
Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the Patriots (June 12)
Star Wars: The Force Unleashed (September 16)
LittleBigPlanet (September)
Killzone 2 (September)
Resistance 2 (November)

June 3rd, 2008

2008-03-31T08:56:00.001-07:00

Movies to watch

2008-03-24T05:13:00.000-07:00

Just a quick list for myself here.

April 18 - Forgetting Sarah Marshall
April 25 - Harold and Kumar Escape From Guatanamo Bay
May 2 - Iron Man
May 22 - Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (?)
June 27 - WALL-E, Wanted (?)
July 18 - The Dark Knight
August 8 - The Pineapple Express
August 15 - Star Wars: The Clone Wars
October 3 - Valkyrie (?)