So tired...
I think the quality of this blog is dropping
Maybe the quality of my thoughts are too
Or perhaps they never were of much quality in the first place...
Adios
Monday, September 29, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Nemu? (Or: Not a Political Viewpoint)
Politics seems funny sometimes
Its like bureacracy on steroids.
Apparently, if we want to protest, we need to Appeal to get a permit to "riot", and even then only within a certain area. I'm not too sure about how accurate I am, so take it with a pinch of salt. Still, my guess is that it won't be long (hey, we have an Official forum for complaints now!)
Its almost Megatokyo-ish; Zombie Horde invasion next thurs, 'Zillas stomp and destroy areas 13 and 52 of Japan, all Magical Girls are to be liscenced and registered, those found summoning sparkles and pink laser beams without the appropiate permits will have their "love magic" transformative devices confiscated for 24 hours... (possibly less, given the nature of said devices to somehow bust free in an explosive attempt to return to its rightful owner)...etc...etc...etc
So basically you send your "protest application" in, the gov reads it, and assuming he is of the right qualifications, grants it and you have your little march, feel happy with your "display of force" and go back home to post your 561th complaint on the "Feedback" forums.
Issit me, or are we missing something here?
Not just protests...almost everything here has elements of bureacracy innit. Its almost Discworld worthy - where thieves mug you and give a reciept. Except in this case, its probably the other way round. (Its amazing what old ladies carry in their handbags these days. Some of these aunties leave the house only to go shopping, and they only leave once a month. Sacks of Rice tend to hurt alot, if only by the law of F=ma, where m is significantly higher than the mass of your chin)
And after they're done beating up the poor little mugger (the thief, not the students. We IB Muggers don't rob old ladies; they don't carry enough useful textbooks) they could probably send an email to the Security Department asking for permission to organise a "one-man-Civil-defense-Neighbourhood-Cleanup" while requesting a receipt for one unconsious ruffian, whose parents are by then no doubt posting on the forums about the lousy morals and corrupting influence western society is having on today's "open-minded" youths.
I mean really. I might just be a nerd with a computer; but I'm a bored nerd with a computer. God knows what I might do. Perhaps someday I'll get bored enough to start writing political commentries. And when that does, you'll probably find what's left of my soul shivering in a small corner, while the rest of it gets carted, signed and registered/processed past various forms of red tape straight for Heaven/Hell (apparently, its spread to even there these days.)
Still, I wonder what would happen if I try protesting against having to appeal to protest?
Or maybe I'll try walking upside down on the sky. Some part of me seems to think it might be easier.
Its like bureacracy on steroids.
Apparently, if we want to protest, we need to Appeal to get a permit to "riot", and even then only within a certain area. I'm not too sure about how accurate I am, so take it with a pinch of salt. Still, my guess is that it won't be long (hey, we have an Official forum for complaints now!)
Its almost Megatokyo-ish; Zombie Horde invasion next thurs, 'Zillas stomp and destroy areas 13 and 52 of Japan, all Magical Girls are to be liscenced and registered, those found summoning sparkles and pink laser beams without the appropiate permits will have their "love magic" transformative devices confiscated for 24 hours... (possibly less, given the nature of said devices to somehow bust free in an explosive attempt to return to its rightful owner)...etc...etc...etc
So basically you send your "protest application" in, the gov reads it, and assuming he is of the right qualifications, grants it and you have your little march, feel happy with your "display of force" and go back home to post your 561th complaint on the "Feedback" forums.
Issit me, or are we missing something here?
Not just protests...almost everything here has elements of bureacracy innit. Its almost Discworld worthy - where thieves mug you and give a reciept. Except in this case, its probably the other way round. (Its amazing what old ladies carry in their handbags these days. Some of these aunties leave the house only to go shopping, and they only leave once a month. Sacks of Rice tend to hurt alot, if only by the law of F=ma, where m is significantly higher than the mass of your chin)
And after they're done beating up the poor little mugger (the thief, not the students. We IB Muggers don't rob old ladies; they don't carry enough useful textbooks) they could probably send an email to the Security Department asking for permission to organise a "one-man-Civil-defense-Neighbourhood-Cleanup" while requesting a receipt for one unconsious ruffian, whose parents are by then no doubt posting on the forums about the lousy morals and corrupting influence western society is having on today's "open-minded" youths.
I mean really. I might just be a nerd with a computer; but I'm a bored nerd with a computer. God knows what I might do. Perhaps someday I'll get bored enough to start writing political commentries. And when that does, you'll probably find what's left of my soul shivering in a small corner, while the rest of it gets carted, signed and registered/processed past various forms of red tape straight for Heaven/Hell (apparently, its spread to even there these days.)
Still, I wonder what would happen if I try protesting against having to appeal to protest?
Or maybe I'll try walking upside down on the sky. Some part of me seems to think it might be easier.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Inner Thoughts of an Outer Dream
...and when i sit down in front of a character sheet, with notes and annotations and bits of habits and desciprtions and powers and sketches and all the fluff that accompies a creation i stare at the whole sheet and just rest my hands, staring ernestly at the paper, picturing the character, name, outfit; moving, breathing acting talking and doing all the things he/she should be doing, and only one word comes to mind;
Live.
As an author, as a creator. As one of the dreamers, the child-people, whom sit in corners all day long and dream of worlds, dream of places never-been, things never-done, people that could have become. As one of the architects of the impossible, I sit here and type. And ponder.
And realise, somehow, that is all we seek to do.
It is like a plague, as Mark Twain indirectly seems to say. One author writes a book, and soon two authors are inspired from it. Those two write two books, and four more arrive. Like rabbits, Romantism spreads. The threat of too much dreaming, of imagining without acting, of words without hand.
Yet without the words, can the plan proceed?
Seers are always called mad, for they are the ones who see what lies not there.
I have within me, worlds. I have within myself the capacity to change these worlds, to move them, to shape them. The characters are mine to control, puppets on a string, yet I wish them to be more than mere puppets, to become more than just clay dolls, baked from Earth. Like Geppetto I seek more than a simple extension of myself. I seek not to wield, but to make a wielder.
For it is both a great and fearful thing, when a story rides the author. When the writer is no longer in control of the beast of which he had wrought, had laid the foundations, the ideas, planted the seeds and shadows of events to come. In one fell swoop he is overtaken by a passion, a fury, a desire to release this caged beast he has bred for so long. And like a torrent it pours, furious and powerful, that the author himself is swept by its might. Such is the power of true prose. And it is prose like this that sweeps the reader as well.
It is prose like this, that holds what each of us now have empty in our hearts.
Life.
-----------------------------------------------------
Someday I will write a book. A book about Words. About ideas. About the relationship between Man and his Language. For the first task Adam had, was the Name the animals of Eden. And though Naming they were Tamed, and through language Man did rise, beyond the singular predator, into a society, into a community - into a greater organism, the sum of many parts, words the nervous system, the nexus between.
Someday, when my art is good enough, I will make a comic. About Artists and Art, about stories and characters and ideas. About what happens when such things are lost. About Dreams. All things precious to me. There will be laughter and joy, and jokes and little bits of nonsense, but the comic will be, first and foremost, my views. On what it means to write, to create. On what it means to give life, to fiction and to Man.
Someday, I might think about religion. No, I have already done that. And the comic for it is finished, lying in my head. A simple comic, with simple themes. Yet that is all that needs to be said. For such is Faith, a simple thing - yet one impossible to grasp.
The power of language...in the hands of a skilled master. I have seen and read the works of such masters, and I know for certain - that while in combat the pen is not mightier than the sword, there are many other, subtler ways; by which it can pierce a person's heart.
And write upon his very soul.
Live.
As an author, as a creator. As one of the dreamers, the child-people, whom sit in corners all day long and dream of worlds, dream of places never-been, things never-done, people that could have become. As one of the architects of the impossible, I sit here and type. And ponder.
And realise, somehow, that is all we seek to do.
It is like a plague, as Mark Twain indirectly seems to say. One author writes a book, and soon two authors are inspired from it. Those two write two books, and four more arrive. Like rabbits, Romantism spreads. The threat of too much dreaming, of imagining without acting, of words without hand.
Yet without the words, can the plan proceed?
Seers are always called mad, for they are the ones who see what lies not there.
I have within me, worlds. I have within myself the capacity to change these worlds, to move them, to shape them. The characters are mine to control, puppets on a string, yet I wish them to be more than mere puppets, to become more than just clay dolls, baked from Earth. Like Geppetto I seek more than a simple extension of myself. I seek not to wield, but to make a wielder.
For it is both a great and fearful thing, when a story rides the author. When the writer is no longer in control of the beast of which he had wrought, had laid the foundations, the ideas, planted the seeds and shadows of events to come. In one fell swoop he is overtaken by a passion, a fury, a desire to release this caged beast he has bred for so long. And like a torrent it pours, furious and powerful, that the author himself is swept by its might. Such is the power of true prose. And it is prose like this that sweeps the reader as well.
It is prose like this, that holds what each of us now have empty in our hearts.
Life.
-----------------------------------------------------
Someday I will write a book. A book about Words. About ideas. About the relationship between Man and his Language. For the first task Adam had, was the Name the animals of Eden. And though Naming they were Tamed, and through language Man did rise, beyond the singular predator, into a society, into a community - into a greater organism, the sum of many parts, words the nervous system, the nexus between.
Someday, when my art is good enough, I will make a comic. About Artists and Art, about stories and characters and ideas. About what happens when such things are lost. About Dreams. All things precious to me. There will be laughter and joy, and jokes and little bits of nonsense, but the comic will be, first and foremost, my views. On what it means to write, to create. On what it means to give life, to fiction and to Man.
Someday, I might think about religion. No, I have already done that. And the comic for it is finished, lying in my head. A simple comic, with simple themes. Yet that is all that needs to be said. For such is Faith, a simple thing - yet one impossible to grasp.
The power of language...in the hands of a skilled master. I have seen and read the works of such masters, and I know for certain - that while in combat the pen is not mightier than the sword, there are many other, subtler ways; by which it can pierce a person's heart.
And write upon his very soul.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
The crow
Amongst the flock, a crow
grey feathers tattered - fall
drifting softly, whelmed in woe
within the chirps - a caw;
of a crow rising
from the shadowy flock
Masked by the chatter
from Bird to bird, Their
tails like velvet rainbows,
leaping into the sky.
The Birds dance, soaring
within Their song a pouring
of noise, an endless cawing
its drawling
unheard amongst the calling-
Land once more;
still falling...
Pained it tries to sing
with beak and claw - a tool
to give it flight, a wing
not weighed by strong earth's pull.
Till now it dances
molting-
red against the Blue,
hoping Their feathers
somehow
may stain its own ones too.
grey feathers tattered - fall
drifting softly, whelmed in woe
within the chirps - a caw;
of a crow rising
from the shadowy flock
Masked by the chatter
from Bird to bird, Their
tails like velvet rainbows,
leaping into the sky.
The Birds dance, soaring
within Their song a pouring
of noise, an endless cawing
its drawling
unheard amongst the calling-
Land once more;
still falling...
Pained it tries to sing
with beak and claw - a tool
to give it flight, a wing
not weighed by strong earth's pull.
Till now it dances
molting-
red against the Blue,
hoping Their feathers
somehow
may stain its own ones too.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Friday, September 5, 2008
Alone...
I don't have...anything do I?
Nothing.
So many bright candles...no one will miss the weak flame that goes out right?
Once I thought there were lost sheep looking for the lamp
Now I realise the only lost sheep is me.
Nothing.
So many bright candles...no one will miss the weak flame that goes out right?
Once I thought there were lost sheep looking for the lamp
Now I realise the only lost sheep is me.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
The Archivist's Pen
A few days after a botched-up IOP, I met a friend along the stairwell, early in the morning. Once again the evil spirit of self-loathing hath taken me, in part due to certain posts by people about their awesome IOPs, or disappointments about their so called "failures" (Argh! I forgot to address the symbolic relevance the capital letters in the Poem mean to the overall theme of Life, Death and Torture in my twenty-third content slide! NUUUUUUUU~!)
Anyway, I met that friend. And said to him unto the heavens: "God, why do my presentation skills suck so much!?"
To which he replied (the friend, not God), "well, everyone screws up their presentations sometimes"
"Well, everyone I know didn't"
"Everyone you know being?"
"You know, (insert name), (insert another name) and of course, (insert named name)"
"That's different...those people are well...er" he paused, looking at me, "well, one's a entertainer, the other's a dam good Speaker." As for the third, neither of us needed to say anything. He just well, was.
And as I read their blogs today, yesterday, and perhaps tomorow, I can't help but to think back to those descriptions; And wonder.
I wonder how childhood friends of the King used to feel like?
I am...privileged. Very, very privileged. I live in a place, a very secluded, isolated glade - a Garden of Eden, so to speak - surrounded by people, friends, classmates, each and everyone one of them an exemplar of society. Of themselves. And each and every one of them, I know and consider a friend.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
In DnD, there is always the standard party. Warrior, Cleric, Rogue and Wizard. The main Four of the fantasy archetype - the same Four that almost all Heroes are based on today. Each with their strengths, powers and abilities, all equal in their own special way. Some would say when such archetypes were made, they broke the mold. Every single hero, class or idea that came after was mostly a variation or combination of these four.
Indeed, for when the mould was broken, someone found the pieces. And glued them together, not knowing which was which. And from these shattered pieces a fifth archetype was created, one which lingers in the background to this day. A warrior, a thief, a wizard, a cleric. All of them yet none of them, a pale shadow of the Four.
And like a shadow he follows, writing everything down. Speaks well? Some do. Others just remember their deeds in song. Reading, writing, recording everything down. A follower, always watching; for what is an adventure if no one tells the tale?
Jack-of-trades, ad-hoc member and sai-kang warrior extraordinaire; Friends and family, meet the Bard.
Fifth party member of the Four.
Anyway, I met that friend. And said to him unto the heavens: "God, why do my presentation skills suck so much!?"
To which he replied (the friend, not God), "well, everyone screws up their presentations sometimes"
"Well, everyone I know didn't"
"Everyone you know being?"
"You know, (insert name), (insert another name) and of course, (insert named name)"
"That's different...those people are well...er" he paused, looking at me, "well, one's a entertainer, the other's a dam good Speaker." As for the third, neither of us needed to say anything. He just well, was.
And as I read their blogs today, yesterday, and perhaps tomorow, I can't help but to think back to those descriptions; And wonder.
I wonder how childhood friends of the King used to feel like?
I am...privileged. Very, very privileged. I live in a place, a very secluded, isolated glade - a Garden of Eden, so to speak - surrounded by people, friends, classmates, each and everyone one of them an exemplar of society. Of themselves. And each and every one of them, I know and consider a friend.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
In DnD, there is always the standard party. Warrior, Cleric, Rogue and Wizard. The main Four of the fantasy archetype - the same Four that almost all Heroes are based on today. Each with their strengths, powers and abilities, all equal in their own special way. Some would say when such archetypes were made, they broke the mold. Every single hero, class or idea that came after was mostly a variation or combination of these four.
Indeed, for when the mould was broken, someone found the pieces. And glued them together, not knowing which was which. And from these shattered pieces a fifth archetype was created, one which lingers in the background to this day. A warrior, a thief, a wizard, a cleric. All of them yet none of them, a pale shadow of the Four.
And like a shadow he follows, writing everything down. Speaks well? Some do. Others just remember their deeds in song. Reading, writing, recording everything down. A follower, always watching; for what is an adventure if no one tells the tale?
Jack-of-trades, ad-hoc member and sai-kang warrior extraordinaire; Friends and family, meet the Bard.
Fifth party member of the Four.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Work and Dreams
All this, and what for?
So many have asked that question.
What...is the use of writing? Or creating? Or simply...purely...dreaming? Or just wishing for things to be? What use is it?
In our world? In our time? None I would say. Unless you're a writer.
And even then, you got to get lucky. You got to dream the dream that everyone dreams, and make everyone else think their dream is your dream. You got the market, advetise, make your creations worth it to the world.
Worth it. Ha ha ha.
Science is worth it. We got gadgets! Politics is worth it. We have countries! Sports are worth it. We have medals!
And in the end, what are all these for? Why do we research to make our lives more comfortable, debate to make our policies more ethical, compete to make our countries more glorious?
Is it not all the for the dream?
We build, we theorise - we construct. All this extra stuff, all of it - for what? For something more? For something greater? People want peace...why do they want that for? For stability? For safety? What do they want the safety to do?
I don't think I need to repeat myself anymore.
Everything begins with a dream. And everything shall end with one too.
So keep dreaming people. Its the only thing that makes life worth living.
And death worth dying for.
So many have asked that question.
What...is the use of writing? Or creating? Or simply...purely...dreaming? Or just wishing for things to be? What use is it?
In our world? In our time? None I would say. Unless you're a writer.
And even then, you got to get lucky. You got to dream the dream that everyone dreams, and make everyone else think their dream is your dream. You got the market, advetise, make your creations worth it to the world.
Worth it. Ha ha ha.
Science is worth it. We got gadgets! Politics is worth it. We have countries! Sports are worth it. We have medals!
And in the end, what are all these for? Why do we research to make our lives more comfortable, debate to make our policies more ethical, compete to make our countries more glorious?
Is it not all the for the dream?
We build, we theorise - we construct. All this extra stuff, all of it - for what? For something more? For something greater? People want peace...why do they want that for? For stability? For safety? What do they want the safety to do?
I don't think I need to repeat myself anymore.
Everything begins with a dream. And everything shall end with one too.
So keep dreaming people. Its the only thing that makes life worth living.
And death worth dying for.
Monday, September 1, 2008
A Deck of Cards
Be careful there, and not look at them with smirks and grins
Be careful there, when you look at him. The smiling face, and laughter, as he leans back and grins nonchantly at the world.
Shallow, you think, a joker. A fool. Yet all in all its always been the fools who see the truth. Of all the cards, beware the fool.
For he laughs and grins, and smiles and tumbles, and when you least expect, brings forth to bear all the wit and wisdom that lurks beneath that slimy rubber suit. And when he does...
King Lear went mad for a reason, you know.
Everyone judges the fool by what he says. And that alone, is his greatest power. For what it is not what he says but what he doesn't that defines his intentions, and few people notice that. He confounds the mind-readers by appearing with no mind to read, confuses the seers and wise-men by making ignorance seem like knowledge, and idiocy a form of wisdom.
And thus the wise men begin to fear the Fool, while the laughing populace watches him juggle.
And juggle well he does, the wise men, the king, and the folk of the land. It is never either of the three that remains truely free, or holds most power. For the fool is beholden to none but himself, for no one asks anything of the fool, yet the fool may ask everything of everyone else.
He throws all duties in the air, and catches them as he pleases. And the people love him for that. A fool knows no limits, and has no boundaries, for it is his job to defy the boundaries, to challenge out limits, beyond what sane men would dare. And yet the fool may appear far saner than any man before.
Why do you think the Joker is such a classic villian?
Sometimes the fool may wear the guise of a king.
Beware the fool, for beneath the bells is a dagger, drenched in blood.
Be careful there, when you look at him. The smiling face, and laughter, as he leans back and grins nonchantly at the world.
Shallow, you think, a joker. A fool. Yet all in all its always been the fools who see the truth. Of all the cards, beware the fool.
For he laughs and grins, and smiles and tumbles, and when you least expect, brings forth to bear all the wit and wisdom that lurks beneath that slimy rubber suit. And when he does...
King Lear went mad for a reason, you know.
Everyone judges the fool by what he says. And that alone, is his greatest power. For what it is not what he says but what he doesn't that defines his intentions, and few people notice that. He confounds the mind-readers by appearing with no mind to read, confuses the seers and wise-men by making ignorance seem like knowledge, and idiocy a form of wisdom.
And thus the wise men begin to fear the Fool, while the laughing populace watches him juggle.
And juggle well he does, the wise men, the king, and the folk of the land. It is never either of the three that remains truely free, or holds most power. For the fool is beholden to none but himself, for no one asks anything of the fool, yet the fool may ask everything of everyone else.
He throws all duties in the air, and catches them as he pleases. And the people love him for that. A fool knows no limits, and has no boundaries, for it is his job to defy the boundaries, to challenge out limits, beyond what sane men would dare. And yet the fool may appear far saner than any man before.
Why do you think the Joker is such a classic villian?
Sometimes the fool may wear the guise of a king.
Beware the fool, for beneath the bells is a dagger, drenched in blood.