What the Farmer Knows

A merchant came to a farmer's field
and asked the farmer what he knew.
"Not much sir," came the reply
"Just how to grow me rice and rye,

Of where to find the sweetest streams
Of where the soil's still fresh and green;
Of when the seasons come and go,
and when the times are ripe to sow.
My seeds and fields are all I need
For my wife and child at home to feed."

"Strange fellow!" laughed the merchant well,
"See what stories I have to tell!

Of heroes travelling to seek their fates
Of the riches behind the palace gates
So what if you know where the water runs,
So what if you work under rain and sun
How does this help me, in my land and time?
Take your rice and give me wine;
I know men far greater than you'll ever be
Who journeyed more lands than all could see,
Who made riches untold, and lived like Kings
their stories are legends which all men sing
Their praise is known throughout the lands
So keep your knowledge to your own hands
A scholar can learn what took you years
From books in class while covering his ears
Of what use is this knowledge, for money or fame?
I've heard far better from the blind and lame."

And so the merchant left, without a word
For to him the farmer lived a life absurd;

But inside the cart, beneath the tomes
lay a barrel of rice
to feed his home.

Writing about Attention

[Warning: This post goes all over the place]

Such an enjoyable thing, isn't it?

Not sure how many agree, but there's something...magical about the way your thoughts condense themselves onto the screen/paper, preserved and kept for ages, and then, after a couple of weeks, months or even years, you look back and read those thoughts again; and thats when you start wondering

Who the heck is this guy!?

People change alot, huh?

Started writing TNN stories. Not sure if its a good idea though. I had plans, great plans, to bring what I felt was a nice difference to TNN. in a way, it made me feel like I was in a sense "part" of their group. Not that I'm entirely sure of the truth of that statement though.

Similarily, when I looked at the first chapter I wrote, and the one I'm writing now, I noticed a slight and subtle difference in writing. In a way what we write, especially amateur writers who just shoot off what ever's on their head, reflects our current state of mind. Gradually I think I'm stablilising my psyche, which could be a good sign. Ah well...let's just see where things go...

Still very nervous about people reading/watching me write stuff. I love it when people praise my work, yet somehow, there's this sense of guilt as well, because I know the flaws of it too. There is the saying "the creator is his/her own worst critic", I suppose its mainly because we have seen the process of building, and just as a mother sees her child grow up, a writer who sees his work develop knows all the strengths and weaknesses of his piece. However, a writer who constantly looks at the weaknesses will find himself unable to publish anything (mainly cause he's too busy trying to iron out the mistakes). Hence, there is this "line" of standard which most writers call it a day and submit their work.

And this is where the feedback comes in.

I can't elaborate how much i'm afraid of feedback. Its both terrifying and yet, like moths to a flame I keep getting drawn to it. I hate attention, in a way, yet at the same time I crave it. Rather, it can be said that the best joy I can derive is from watching people appreciate the works without knowing I did it. (Although this is at least half a lie)

Its not that I do not wish attention. I like people to give me credit. I want credit. Yet there is something inherently wrong, I feel, with doing things purely for credit. Someday I'll reach the point where I can create and work without worrying about such things, but that day is still far off. Until then, I shall contend myself with the subtle credit that is given occasionally, whenever people don't think I'm listening. The simple, unsaid knowledge that the person is doing his job, and doing it right.

Somehow I find that to be the most sincere praise one can ever have.

Of Me

What is a poem? What is a tale?
From what source these strange things hail?
Crafted of course, from Hands not mine,
Formed from parchment - Dot and Line.

Hands not mine, Words not own,
Soul in self, Thoughts once sown;

Like Rock and Leaf, each holds a song
passed through time from Ages long,
A pen-tip dances upon my life
Its end my handle, its tip my knife-

Words to carve, soul to grind,
Wounds to drain, Words not mine;

Someday the river, like parchment, dries;
Red-water stain, Bottle of Lies.
Perhaps a poem is like the sea,
Roaring yet calm, a reflection-

Senses

Lines of darkness enclose a space
of plain white squares and dark red spots
That we may see the shapes unseen
the flowers amidst the fields of rot

A song is sung, a perfect tune
That weaves the sorrow of the morning birds
That calls the heart of long-lost dreams
That heals the soul with unkind words

Hands reach out to strike the child
A warning felt by every nerve
The hand that heals may hurt as well
The hardened palm of a mother's love

The wind that chases the smoke away
Grants us the joy of cool fresh air
The fields of grass, filled with trees
shall renew the clouds for us to bear

The fish is plain without its salt
Come my friend, and do not weep
The smooth cracked wall may keep its faults
For the taste of life
Is bittersweet.

------------------------------------------

Warehouse poem. I'm running out now. Inspiration comes, but I usually don't have the time to write them. This one was somewhat incomplete, but I thought-Oh well! And decided to post it anyway.

But no...

"...he was bundled into his grandfather's old gear and shoved out into the ring in some tiny little town, and well, that's where clowning lost a king.'

'Why? What happened?' said Moist.

'Why do you think? They laughed at him."

-quoted from Making Money, Terry Pratchett

Weeds

Somewhere in the arid lands
The weeds grow. Their roots
Hold the loose soil together-
Dry sand
Linked by natural ropes
Like bridges between the mountains;
Nourishing, these fingers
feed the seed within
the Corpses
Of past weeds, silently lain
Buried under the moss
That has grown to feed the air.

Somewhere, in the fertile lands
Grasses grow. And flowers-
Bloom amongst the grey-green ground
Drawing the farmer's hands (and eyes)
Into the soil-
Digging.

The Farmer, he does not care
For the weeds; all he says
Is "Pull those weeds!" his face as red
As the mad bull's eyes; he rages
Still speaking-

"All they do
is steal nutrients
from the flowers;
Weeds bring
no beauty at all
to my perfect garden."

The hoe strikes-
The soil churns
Another root gone.

"For all weeds do
is take and take,
never giving back
just to feed themselves."
He continues, Digging
planting new seeds
As his hoe strikes-
Digging
the rocks and stones, beneath the moss
Where the Corpses rot
In Silence.

Emo is bad

And so is paranoia. And Self-pity. And Angst.

So guess what? I'm gonna indulge in all of them.

Or maybe I would, if I could first get this bloody pile of homework off me back long enough to reach the razor blade...

Bleh.

Don't really know whats up with me these days. I'm got mood swings so often they look like Sin curves. Does not help my point that we just studied wave phenomena either. *mutter..mutter*

So one minute I feel all happy/inspired/crazy, the next I'm all emo and paranoid and "THEY'RE OUT TO GET ME" sorta thing. Right now its still swinging between the two. Rawr Rawr Rawr Rawr Rawr.

See. I blame the Sugar. If I stopped taking the stuff my wrist will probably stop vibrating so much. That way I could actually hit it. (Cause my other wrist, the one with the er...erm, metal object won't be vibrating at 10000 khz either)

So well. I'll just list a list of problems that are bugging me. Maybes peoples will sees this lists of words and actuallys comes to comforts mes.

Spamming 'S' is so fun.

But really. On to the list:

1) Why the HELL am I still drawing?! I've got homework, studies, EE, TOK all sorts of shit I need to start planning and preparing for and all I can think about; heck all I WANT to do is draw. Girls. Cute Anime Girls. No this is not an addiction. Nor is it the fault of horomones (or maybe it is...). I do draw guys too you know.

But still, I can't help feeling that my drawings aren't good. I shouldn't really bother with drawing, and that NO ONE GIVES A SHIT. Which...is to be expected really. Cause everyone's too busy with Chem IA to actually go browse me blog/gallery.

Still...I feel kinda sad.

2) Relationships. You know parasites? Those little things that stick on people and suck their brains out? I feel like that at times. Sucking people's brains out. Or rather, sucking their time away. Like some sort of disturbance in their lives.

Paranoia dictates that I also suspect people of doing the same to me. Hence, should I one day begin running around the school in a biohazard suit, spraying OFF! at every humanoid lifeform I see, please take the tranquiliser gun you have stored inside the classroom closet, and shoot me with it. About three or four might be needed before my sugar-pumped system crashes (What, you think I'll do that kinda thing without getting drunk on sugar first?).

But thats all I can really do. Joke about it. Cause somehow I don't really think lifes all gloom and doom. Problem is, Teenage angst dictates otherwise.

3) Ability: Yeah, yeah I think most people heard me rant about this before. But I always feel overshadowed. There, I said it. Overshadowed. Or ignored, whichever you prefer. Its like every damn thing I can do, someone else can do better. If I can lick my eyeballs with the tips of my tounge, some other guy in the class next door will be able to lick his forehead. Stuff like that. But I've got this one sorted out the most. Just do and do, and leave it to the pros to handle the pros stuff. I'll just tackle the children's swimming pool. At least I get some fun.

I could think of more, but I'll just leave it here. People and homework and food. The three joys and worries of my life. May the steamed pork-buns watch over you, young pandan-cake. I shall go and mug/dohomework/stone/draw/engageinactsofselfdestruction. All of them are pretty much the same in the end anyway.

Chances are, only 3 people will read this post. And only 1 will reply. Pessemistic? Maybe. Am I an attention whore? Definately. An attention whore that's light sensitive, and hence hates the spotlight.

See how screwed up this is?

And in case anyone asks me, I still concur with the very first statement:

Emo is bad.
But Reason is worse.

Hope

Sometimes we forget what led us on,
surrounded by candles burning bright;
Until the day the shadows come
That we remember our hidden might.

The tiny spark that some still hold,
Like a glimmering star into the night;
Far up high yet oh so near
Out of reach but in our sight.

So we believe in things not there,
climb and seek in endless flight
In sun or shadow, in earth or sky
that they become--
our Light.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Today was interesting. A few thoughts came to mind:

On Freedom of Will:

Man can no more have true Freedom than a child can touch a flame and not be burned.

On Poetry:

Poetry is the art of seeing the complex in the simple. And loving it all the same.

On Emotion and ToK in general:

Trying to ask whether it is possible to know without emotion is like asking if its possible to eat without a mouth. It is still possible (Butterflies use their proboscis), but is probably so alien to us as humans that we could probably never accomplish it.

On Life, the Universe, and Everything (no I'm not gonna say 42.)

The world is like a big pile of cow dung. There's different bits and pieces in it, there's multi-colored layers, and theres various different kinds of living organisms on it. Everything can be broken up into different bits, yet in the end its still "one big piece of shit"

I could probably go on, but most of it will sound like the last sentence, not making any sense.

Thanks to quite a few people for the encouragement they gave today. And over the past few days as well. ^^