To a Cousin Never Known

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

December 10, 2007, Writing 12

On My Eighteenth Year

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

"Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?"

(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)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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.