Not the Red Baron

2007-05-18T21:19:00.000-07:00

OK. Its been a long time.

Glenn and Lionel and Phuong havent been much help in Project Work. The first two did the original GPP (in which I gave LOADS of input and they just put in) which I had to do loads of edits on and after the teacher had a word with us I asked L. to do the edits after giving him a couple of pointers. He returned it to me all but unchanged. And he took hours to do even that. But it was good I guess, by then I was too worn out to touch it myself.

I don't think I even got into Debate Committee while this guy on the team was made President, and this other girl who's on probation for Student Council/Slaves is Vice-President. Hee hee. Very funny, seniors.

That Kuo Chuan Presbyterian Secondary Debate Clinic the CCA has roped us into is not very good. But the students we are working with are obliging and interested. Something I never expected.

I volunteered to spar with main team this week. Sparring was yesterday. It was exhausting but much, much better than what we usually did as a club before the trials (everybody thrown into the kitchen sink-format Debates).

Skipped Saturday CCA for the second week in a row.

The Troubles

2007-05-03T02:51:00.000-07:00

One thing I know: I should not have taken physics.

It's awful. Things are awful and everyday I'm made to feel stupid.

My mother's called and arranged yet another physics tution (is that grammatically correct?--ought to convey the meaning clearly enough). Frankly I'd rather eat glass. I'd rather stay at home and sulk. I'd rather quit.

And whoo! Tomorrow's Friday and that means physics practical.

I want to leave this place. I don't know where for I just no longer want to stay here. I reme,ber earlier on, weeks, months ago my mother said I could go to United World College, now my dad says I can go off to this place in Australia to study--unfortunately both are very expensive and if I say that I'd like to go now, very seriously, sure as hell they're not going to let me. It's the way my life has always turned out. No way to escape it.

Next time I'll keep my trips at home

2007-04-27T07:51:00.000-07:00

Today was dreadful. And it was a Friday.

Had a nervous breakdown in physics lab and did a big boo-hoo in front of the class. Too painful to recall. It was all the stupid experiment's fault, I was still fucking about with the equipment while everyone else was already merrily swinging marbles (yeah, swinging marbles was what the experiment was about) and then it was 4: 30 and time to pack up. I had almost finished the set-up.

The physics tutor doesn't give a shit about me or whether I'm learning anything or whether it's good for me to have lessons that make me so upset. He wasn't willing to address the whole problem about the practical and just told me: Oh it will get better...blathery blathery blah. He doesn't treat me like a human being. He and the maths tutor are really only interested in chatting up the scholars. They seem to have forgotten that their salaries come from the taxes people like my father and mother pay.

Yap Kian Wee and Lim See Poi. Bad karma is RUNNING after you in a Fury. And you can't do a thing about it.

Looks like its time to evade tax. I've had enough of this place.

On the more important stuff. I'm thinking of either switching subjects or changing my combination by dropping physics. I have no idea what on earth possessed me to take it. Oh yes, its the adults fucked me up. Just like how they did every other time.
Or I will quit school. To become a comic book artist. To go to Lasalle, NAFA or polytechnic. To think about what i should do with the weeks between now and almost certain death (because my luck's so bad that I can't even be let to die properly).

Seriously, I regret to ever coming to this school, and then my decision to stay. I hate the place.

I lost my glasses during swim PE. So I couldn't follow any of the lessons which came after. And I missed KI because its right after PE and I was too busy looking for my glasses, thankfully it was a test period, so I could make it up by doing the write-up during one of my free periods.

The girls' bathroom after swim PE smells of wet, dirty rubber, stale socks and old piss.

PW--poo

2007-04-26T08:19:00.000-07:00

Glenn and Lionel are resorting to peer pressure. Making me agree to do their vulcanized rubber thing for Project Work and then turning round to insist I tell them how to do it. When I know absolutely nothx about rubber.

Never knew the opposite sex could get THIS bitchy--I thought I knew. And then I didn't.

I think I heard them complaining about me to their friends. That's taking it a little far ain't it?

Ordinary life

2007-04-24T02:53:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I freaked out in the Project Work Room. I'm PW rep and and everybody is bloody irresponsible, especially Phuong. I had to go collect his PI from him, traipsing up to his GP lesson because the teacher wouldn't let him go. Maybe I should have just left him alone, would serve him a lesson in punctuality, time waits for no one, not even short Vietnamese scholars. I feel rather sick as well, he's in my PW group along with two other slackers.

Ack, CCA people are quite alright, as are those from my literature tutorial, but I barely see them.

And guess what? Today I asked a couple of harmless questions and the KI teacher just blew up...in the chilly way. I have no idea if it were Mohit or I who did it. And yet, even if it were me, maybe I'll never apologise for I don't see the reason for it.
Stupidly egotistical. Forgive me I'll grow out of it. All.

Thomas Blackburn

2007-04-14T06:30:00.000-07:00

So, Thomas Blackburn,
I'll have to give it more than a cursory scan when I've got time,
Hospital For Defectives
By your unnumbered charities
A miracle disclose,
Lord of the Images, whose love
The eyelids and the rose
Takes for a language, and today
Tell to me what is said
By these men in a turnip field
And their unleavened bread.

For all things seem to figure out
The stirrings of your heart,
And two men pick the turnips up
And two men pull the cart;
And yet between the four of them
No word is ever said
Because the yeast was not put in
Which makes the human bread.
But three men stare on vacancy
And one man strokes his knees;
What is the meaning to be found
In such dark vowels as these?

Lord of the Images, whose love
The eyelid and the rose
Takes for a metaphor, today,
Beneath the warder's blows,
The unleavened man did not cry out
Or turn his face away;
Through such men in a turnip field
What is it that you say?

And for a hint of my darker impulses...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QkhJYsGsi4g
it's totally why guys shouldn't get near to me, I'll do something ba-ad to them.

I'm on a high tonight somehow.

I want to try LSD before I die

just kidding.

Dear computer/internet/whom it may concern...

2007-04-14T05:55:00.000-07:00

A big F you. I can no longer assess my livejournal, on which I can conduct illicit secret activities which keep me very much alive.

And have I got something for you, sweet reader... http://food.oregonstate.edu/ref/culture/taboo_allen.html. I wonder what Father Saturn* tasted as he ate his children...
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Goya_-_Saturno_devorando_a_su_hijo.jpg

*Roman counterpart of Chronos.

Complaint
For there are times when I wish to be
and yet not have the words to say.

And oh yeah, I'm no longer interested in getting into Students' Council, not really my thing...have to tell them Monday. No loss to them anyway, they've got no need for a wet blanket like me. OHoho.

Moan, groan, again

2007-04-13T08:43:00.000-07:00

I can't believe I actually submitted a Students' Council form... I thought we'd already been through that. I had a talk with my KI teacher today, he told me basically stuff I already knew but hadn't really thought about--as in really thought, the way normal people would before they throw five bucks down the drain and set about photocopying and writing and photocopying.

Students' Council means Student Slaves, or Cheap Labour. And I know that...I know that...ahahaha, I mean, I've already seen how they've got to do all kinds of ushering crap during events, ie. Founder's Day, which I plan to skip next year.

Worse still, BOTH first and second- intake orientation made me really depressed. Like Bernard Marx in BNW, just that they're (the other kids) actually the ones who are most like the readers and I'm just a bloody wet blanket who can't HELP it. But hey, I like it...

But Student Slaves also means something I can put on my SGC (school graduating certificate)...it's a bit of a difficult choice, especially since I'd like to take H3 Literary Criticism and I still haven't gotten down to making any literature notes (for H2), and I've got Debate as a CCA (curse it all, it doesn't look too promising, I've been left out of the swing team for my own school's inter-cols--but there's always EXCO to look forward to, IF I get in). And plus, if I get into SC, I might be able to plan some not-so-corny events.

Bleargh.

Interesting superfluous point: when I went to hand in the form in SC room (Council Room, they call it, a really grand name for a place that's practically overflowing with cheap plastic cabinets and other junk--which is what happens when forty people share a little room), I saw the fellow who was in charge of my orientation group. He quickly went to the back of the room and disappeared from sight. I wonder whether or not there was a correlation in all this? And what does he think I could possibly do to him--say hi? (and hells no I wouldn't)

And there was some really annoying Christian pop song playing as well, called Hosanna (I know becuase they play it just about every Monday during chapel). As a result of this, I couldn't concentrate on my physics practical lesson which came afterward because it kept playing my head...and it's playing NOW, again--!!!

Life seems quite unfair at times

2007-04-09T03:09:00.000-07:00

I feel old.
Dreadfully so. I've been looking up the blogs and journals of old classmates, from secondary school all the way back to primary. It seems their lives are on an upward path, blooming into the heartsickening beauty and joy of the bright gaudy hour. after which there is nothing. But for them, the present, the future life seems all there for the taking, there is at least some measure of happiness, some change for the better (although it would be practically impossible to become worse off than they were when they were "young", I'm not saying they've become better people or anything though).

Their legs have gotten longer.
Their faces have become "better", longer, ovalish, whiter.
They are going someplace, as in, they're going to graduate with better CCA records and marks than I will.
They have friends--or rather they can talk to their classmates because they're around the same level in terms of smarts and temperament.
They are going to have more fun than I ever did or will, although they don't deserve it. Becuase they are the same people who crushed me when I was still with them.
The list goes on. And in contrast, I feel old, or more accurately, as if I have never been young. The trajectory of my life seems to have been a long dormant miserable period as a retarded child, through an invisible leap to sudden old age. But in spite of this, nothing seems to have changed. I've remained what I was in face and figure, in fact, I have become heavier and that weight leaves me earthbound. I still don't do well in school. I have no friends and can't get along with the people in my class, or rather, they are indifferent towards me and my reaction is nothing because I can't bother with them.

I seriously wonder if I will spend the rest of my life stewing over unfulfilled ambitions, the wreck of dreams and suchlike. I too was once a child and as that child, I wondered who I would grow up to be. Certainly my dreams have changed, and so have times, but still. But still. The bitterness is there.

Daily life.
My Project Work Group.
I don't care if anyone sees their names, they are just names.
Glenn
Lionel
Phuong.

Just for the heck of it.

updates

2007-03-28T07:16:00.002-07:00

On my new class--it's alot of loneliness and it often comes damn near to rock-bottom misery...but somehow something gets me through the day, I don't know what.
The boy-girl ratio (19/20 to 6 respectively) doesn't shake me, especially since I don't talk to most of them. I believe it's largely due to the polarization between the genders. And to make things worse, I'm one of the only people who CANNOT talk to others save this silent little fellow who doesn't seem to be interested in making friends anyway.

My subject combination: KI, Physics, Maths, Literature} H2 and Economics}H1.

I just suffer two years, two years--at most I lose my sanity to quote a certain Natalia Hausjah.

And to wrap things up I'm currently in debate CCA 'cos it's actually fun and I LEARN SOMETHING and I'm Project Work representative as I wanted the accreditation on my school records.

I have swimming PE on Friday. Dread.

HAve just come back from an exciting and unproductive group outing with a couple of debate people. The SJI guy didn't know anything about this Bishan Gay guy I asked him about.

Oh okay, time to tell the truth

2007-03-10T05:24:00.000-08:00

Second-intake orientation was a mess, but not so big as first-intake.

Whether or not I was "sporting" and got my panties wet in their games, it didn't work out. And they wouldn't let me wash up.

Luke-warm, wet pants

2007-03-08T02:00:00.002-08:00

I got my shorts wet today. As part of an orientation game, I had to sit on a water bomb. And burst it. Disturbing stuff really.

Went on to perfect my tan (as I didn't have the time to apply the sunblock I had packed), secure a FEMALE dance partner for their sucky couple dance (good-o), do my KI diagnostic test (oh god, I DO hope I get in) and alot of other things.

I seriously believe by now that ACJC is run by anti-fags, they love to spoof them. It's rather cruel...and silly, I thought we'd all left that behind when we graduated from primary school (and the attendant confusion about sexuality), I mean, just LOOK at their MILK (Mainly I Love Kids--man, their grammar is TEH BADZ) promo ad and the second intake orientation video. But I kind of like the school, in fact, I like it more than I ever liked Crescent or RGPS. Nobody's picked on me or bullied me yet except for the occasional stupid jibe from stupids who don't even know me (okay, cool it now, it only LOOKED like a jibe from the corner of my eye, I don't KNOW for a fact...but then again nothing can be absolutely proven).

I think the kids here are cute...not physical appearances (a whole new ball-game, and I' NOT going to wear my heart on my sleeve), I just appreciate how (for lack of a better word) everyone is so lovable and non-threatening and...just good. I cannot generalise, I know that, but that's pretty much what I think of the people whom I have actually gotten a chance to speak to and spend time with.

For the benefit of those people whom I requested blog addresses from (I'm sure you thought I was voyeuristic or something, um, no not really), ...my orientation group is Harpy...and you can find a certain other person who wasn't in the same orientation group this time by searching the name up on blogsearch.

Um, I really appreciated the coordinators' efforts, for both the first and second time. And I found that all the people whom I spent the day with are really very (ah, I've lost my nerve, see? refer to paragraph above relating to schoolmates).

Shit, I'm a pathetic idiot.

Please knock on my little grey door.
Virginia Woolf to Isaiah Berlin

Dear 1AD4

2007-02-28T02:58:00.000-08:00

The rumour about ACJCs cut-off point is crap. Don't worry about it. I bet it's all a product of the school spin-machine--ahahahahaha!!!!!!!!! PATHETIC! Ahhmm...I don't think I should say anymore.

search: Hugo van der Goes melancholy

2007-02-12T16:45:00.000-08:00

http://www.oldandsold.com/articles08/painters-5.shtml
Hugo Van Der Goes
( Originally Published Early 1900's )

IN the Hospital of Santa Maria Nuova at Florence, founded by Folco Portinari, the father of Dante's Beatrice, is preserved a large altar-piece by Hugo Van der Goes.

Tommaso Portinari, agent at Bruges for the house of the Medici and the most influential foreigner in that Flemish trading city, cherished a warm affection for his native Florence, and, among other generous acts, presented this votive picture to the hospital. It is in three sections, the central panel representing the adoration of the infant Christ by the Virgin Mary, Joseph, and three shepherds, and a numerous company of angels. The left wing of the picture shows the donor, behind whom are his two boys, with St. Anthony and St. Thomas ; and the right wing presents his wife and daughter with their patron saints, Margaret and Magdalen.

Of all the works produced by this able but unfamiliar painter, the St. Maria Nuova altar-piece, which is mentioned by Vasari, is the only authenticated one remaining.

Conway says of this triptych :

This picture of Master Hugo's would be of untold value for one thing alone, even if it possessed no other virtues : it is the first picture that really makes us acquainted with the mediaeval peasantry. Nothing is more obvious than that the three shepherds are drawn from life. They are no ideal shepherds ; their horny hands, rough features, and gaping mouths, are proofs of a perfect veracity. The three men in this Nativity, or at all events two of them, are not creations issuing from the moral consciousness of any one. They are reflections of actual persons. Their bent figures tell of their laboring battle with the earth. Their hardened faces have been beaten into that rugged form by nights of exposure, frost, and storm. Whilst the world was going along in its noisy fashion with wars and revolutions, setting up of kings, political intrigues, and tremblings of hope and fear in the hearts of conspicuous but now for the most part forgotten men, peasants such as these were the real heat that kept the whole surface bubbling on the go. But for their careless and continuous labor, kings and feudal systems would have faded in a few days. Yet they are as unrecorded and unobserved (expect for some tyrannous statute of laborers or another) as if the fine gentry, the monks, and the merchants had really been the life at the heart of the whole body politic. Among the multitude of Golden Fleeced heroes, Hanseatic merchants, lords, counts, dukes, and popes, whose likenesses we possess, whose sayings we can know if we care to hunt them up, whose manner of living is recorded in minute detail, these three old shepherds are the only representatives of the far larger and more important body of "silent sufferers and silent workers who kept the world a-going."

Van der Goes, probably born at Ghent about 1405, and a pupil of the Van Eycks, appears to have labored mostly in that city and at Bruges. At one time in his life he was afflicted with attacks of insanity, — caused, according to one account, by an unrequited love, according to another, by religious melancholy, — and retired to a monastery in or near Brussels. One of his fellow monks has left the following account of this episode in the artist's life.

He says : "I was a novice when Van der Goes entered the convent. He was so famous as a painter that men said his like was not to be found this side of the Alps. In his worldly days he did not belong to the upper classes ; nevertheless, after his reception into the con-vent, and during his novitiate, the prior permitted him many relaxations more suggestive of worldly pleasure than of penance and humiliation, and thus awakened jealousy in many of our brothers.
Frequently noble lords, and amongst others the Archduke Maximilian, came to visit him and admire his pictures. At their request he received per-mission to remain and dine with them in the guest-chamber. He was often cast down by attacks of melancholy, especially when he thought of the number of works he still had to finish ; his love of wine, however, was his greatest enemy, and for that at the stranger's table there was no restraint. In the fifth or sixth year after he had taken the habit, he undertook a journey to Cologne with his brother Nicolas and others.
On his return journey he had such an attack of melancholy that he would have Iaid violent hands on him-self had he not been forcibly restrained by his friends. They brought him under restraint to Brussels, and so back to the convent. The prior was called in, and he sought by the sounds of music to lessen Hugo's passion. For a long time all was useless ; he suffered under the dread that he was a son of dam-nation. At length his condition improved. Thenceforward of his own will he gave up the habit of visiting the guest-chamber and took his meals with the lay brothers."

Hugo died in 1482, his insanity having disappeared in the meantime.

The picture of the mad painter which we reproduce was painted by Emile Wauters in t872, and exhibited at the Brussels Salon, where it made an immediate sensation, and was purchased by the State for the Brussels museum.

Wauters, who is a pupil of Portaels and Gerome, was born at Brussels in 1846, and has devoted himself to the painting of portraits and of history. The museum of Liege possesses his " Mary of Burgundy entreating the sheriffs of Ghent to pardon her councillors ; " while on the staircase of the Brussels Hotel de Ville may be seen his " Mary of Burgundy swearing to respect the commercial rights of Brussels, 1477," and "The armed citizens of Brussels demanding the charter from Duke John IV. of Brabant." An enormous panorama of "Cairo and the Banks of the Nile," " Sobieski and his Staff at the Siege of Vienna," Serpent-charmers of Sokko," "The Battle of Hastings," and many other works, attest the talent and the industry of Wauters, whose extraordinary gifts have won him a multiplicity of medals and honors of various kinds.

IFile type:PDF - Download PDF Reader... the monastery of Hugo van der Goes (?1435-1482), spoken of ... CHRONICLE AND HUGO VAN DER GOES ... "involutional melancholy", as inappropriate (Hugo was ...www.tau.ac.il/arts/projects/PUB/assaph-art/assaph4/articles_assaph4/dolev.pdf More pages from tau.ac.il

PDF--open at your own risk!

Stranger than paradise
Naughty shepherds, lifelike angels, a mysterious vase of flowers ... there's nothing conventional about the Portinari Altarpiece
Jonathan Jones
Monday December 23, 2002
The Guardian

Christmas is a time for nativity scenes, and this is the story of one of the greatest ever painted. But what Christmas tale would be complete without suicide, attempted suicide and madness?

The monks tried everything to soothe the famous artist who had come to live among them as a lay brother. Hugo van der Goes retired to the Red Cloister, an Augustinian monastery near Brussels, in 1475. He spent the rest of his life there, praying, painting and suffering. He was treated as a special case; he was allowed to paint, even to travel. But, according to the chronicler Gaspar Ofhuis, nothing calmed him. Van der Goes descended into deep melancholia and tried to kill himself. The monks attributed his death in 1482 to the curse of melancholy.

In the 19th century, Van der Goes had a gothic appeal for Romantic students of art. In Emile Wauters's 1872 painting The Madness of Hugo van der Goes, choirboys sing to him, while the abbot, conducting, watches the nervous, darting expression on the artist's face and the ceaseless motion of his hands. "I myself have become especially haggard of late, almost like Hugo van der Goes in the famous painting by Emile Wauters," wrote Vincent van Gogh to his brother Theo from Arles in 1888. "Except that, having had all my beard carefully shaved off, I'm as much the very placid abbot in that picture."

Van Gogh was kidding himself. Later that year he would tell Theo that obsessive painting had left him "reduced once more to the deranged state of Hugo van der Goes in the painting by Emile Wauters", and on Christmas Eve 1888 he acted threateningly towards his friend Paul Gauguin, cut off part of his own ear, and presented it to a prostitute. Van Gogh spent Christmas in hospital. His Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear, in London's Courtauld Gallery, was painted on his return in January 1889.

The image that Van Gogh most often referred to when he wanted to discuss, at a remove, art and madness was that of Van der Goes. In his letters, he harps on about Wauters's painting - the first mention is just a year after the painting was executed - and, over the years, his allusions to the picture become more confessional.

Van Gogh and Van der Goes were similar, not just in their mental fragility, but in the intensity of their art. The reason Van der Goes was treated with such respect by the monks, that royalty visited him in his seclusion, that he is remembered as one of the greatest artists of the 15th century, is because he painted one of the most universal and glorious of nativity scenes. Except there is something almost too energetic and abundant about the Portinari Altarpiece.

It is a stranger in paradise, or at least, an outsider in the Uffizi. Van der Goes's masterpiece has been in Florence since 1483, when a boat brought it up the Arno after a hard journey from Flanders. It was commissioned by Tommaso Portinari, the Medici bank's representative in Bruges, for the church in the hospital of Santa Maria Nuova, back home in Florence. It was a way for Tommaso, so far away on business, to remind people not just of his existence, but of his civic loyalty.

The triptych consists of a large central panel with two wings. At the centre is a nativity scene intensely poised between joy and gravity, stillness and horror. Mary, in dark blue, prays to the newborn child on the ground. Joseph, to the left, is old, sombre, joining her in prayer. The shepherds seem almost to be leaping forward, their figures are so robust and elated as they squat and pray; they are very different in mood from the stately angels, whose faces are long and grave as they kneel and float all around. The setting is in the ruins of King David's palace - there is no glass in the gothic windows - where animals are stabled. They join in, too, expressing meditative devotion.

On the left-hand panel, the kneeling, plain-robed Tommaso Portinari and his little sons Antonio and Pigello participate in adoring Christ; St Thomas and St Anthony Abbot stand over them. On the right-hand panel, Tommaso's wife Maria Maddalena Baroncelli Portinari and their daughter Margherita pray with St Mary Magdalene and St Margaret.

The bare details are traditional - but there is nothing conventional about the ways in which Van der Goes brings this painting to stormy life. For a start, while the rich donor and his family are praying neatly, the shepherds are smiling, gesticulating, leaning forward to get a better look. They resemble slightly indisciplined actors in a nativity play staged by peasants. Van der Goes explicitly alludes to popular religious theatre; the whole composition of the central scene is theatrical.

In radical contrast, the angels are uncanny creatures. They have flattened, elongated, very serious faces; they are wise angels rather than happy ones. But most of all, they are real. The fusion of their coloured wings and almost drably humanoid bodies is so matter of fact, so convincing. Van der Goes can see them. He makes this emphatic by including, in the foreground, two vases of flowers, painted with the meticulous naturalism for which Dutch painters were to be revered centuries later. The detail of petals, leaves, ceramic and transparent glass placed at the centre of the painting, in front of Mary and between the angels, implies something about observation and fact: it implies that Van der Goes can "see" this vision just as surely as he can see those flowers.

This is a painting dense with personality and originality. Today's accounts of Renaissance art tend to put huge emphasis on patrons, on religious and communal commissioning. But a stunning new book, Gothic and Renaissance Altarpieces, in which the Portinari is reproduced, reveals that religious art was a territory of frenzied individualism. Altarpieces let the artist go crazy: Bosch painted The Garden of Earthly Delights as an altar triptych; similarly extreme are Grünewald's Isenheim Altarpiece and Bouts's wings from a Last Judgment altarpiece.

Big, folding, multi-layered, multi-scened altarpieces are some of the most ambitious paintings that exist, and they offered immense scope for bizarre invention, to delight and awe the illiterate churchgoer. The shepherds in Van der Goes's altarpiece represent the humble people to themselves.

Van der Goes is mysteriously fervent. His painting wants to say everything. In the background, the rest of the story is played out with magical concision. Mary and Joseph make their way through rocky hills to Bethlehem; the shepherds are visited by the angel; the Magi journey out of the east.

It is the northern, winter landscape that sets the emotional tone of the entire painting. The trees are bare and black against a sky whose chill brings a cold blast of winter to Bethlehem. What it tells you, unmistakably, is that the religious vision of Van der Goes is hard won; it is fraught with fear and the knowledge of death. That is why the angels are so serious; this newborn baby is death-bound. The warm little theatre of the nativity is surrounded by winter; mortal ravens perch on the trees.

In the Red Cloister, in Wauters's painting, they try to comfort him. The choir sing heartily. The abbot looks on caringly. But Hugo van der Goes is inconsolable.

· Gothic and Renaissance Altarpieces by Caterina Limentani Virdis and Mari Pietrogiovanna is published by Thames and Hudson, priced £65.

O' Level Results

2007-02-09T01:22:00.000-08:00

Secondary school sucks. Even when you're out of it.

BEFORE giving out the results, the stupid school CRESCENT GIRLS' SCHOOL made us all WAIT and listen to the respective marks of the high-scorers and watch them go through their prize-giving ceremony. F-- THEM. Vulgar but I don't care. I'm very angry.

The top-shitty-scorer in the whole of Singapore is--get this--a MALAYSIAN, Mahathir do you get this? WHOOO!!!!!!! The top Indian student is ______. Both my classmates. No hard feelings.

What I'm truly frustrated about is the lack of support the school gave us when we were still in school. Nobody gave a damn about my sister and I when we were there and doing badly and being terribly unhappy as the teachers' pets had all seemed to have ganged up on me for no apparent reason. In fact, on the one or two occasions when I had outbursts due this, my classmates and teachers thought I was crazy and unreasonable.

And even after. I saw a couple of girls crying outside the hall and being comforted by friends. No teachers, the principal and everyone else were all inside REJOICING over the grades of the top few. One shall always cry alone.

I had been hoping to leave this all behind, but somehow I'm always being led back to it. I hope that someday, when I graduate from school and no longer have to care about grades, I can finally forget this unhappiness.

What happened today--a funny incident

2007-02-05T02:49:00.000-08:00

A little commentary on Northern Rennassaince art which I wrote
I've always been interested in the role of the artist's personal life in Northern Renaissance art. It all seems so cool--cold like the weather up north. There is often a great sense of calm as if a great quietness has fallen over all...I'm thinking van der Goes and van Eyck here... There's less passion than the Italian masters, and the style very fine so it's all rather impersonal to me although I feel that van der Goes's people's faces have been distorted by some deep anxiety or stress from inside them, like a kind of pressure rending the mind, or maybe that's just in context of his life (went mad, attempted suicide before finally dying).

For example there's the painting The Lamentation of Christ in which the woman in white in the corner of the far left seems to be grieving alone rather than with the rest, the painting is eerie in it's emotional intensity and I also wonder if van der Goes was able to intuit the intensity and remoteness of this grief and contrast it to the frenzied movement of the figures and their garment's billowing because he had ever felt this in himself.

The Death of the Virgin is even more extreme in this way. Each of the assembled characters are showing individual grief, all different yet with the same level of pain. Some of them look terribly abstracted while others lean in closer to the Virgin's bedside. The Virgin herself is disturbing in her pallor and the look of her, passing from life to death and I think that van der Goes tried to capture the mystery of the transmigration of the soul, her fingers are not quite clasp and her eyes are almost closing.

Death enters the picture as the radiant apparition of Christ and the angels and they are dressed in blue and red like Mary and the mourning characters, so perhaps the artist was establishing a link between life and death, the human and the divine. I think it might be an occurrence in the subconscious of the dying, of heaven opening up and the Son there to recieve them, invisible to those who are still definitely alive. So this could be the juxtaposition of the soul and the world, the intangible divine Truth and the reality that surrounds us in our lives.

The painting acquires an air of unreality from the brightness of the colours so that it appears as if the whole canvas/room were suffused with light.

I feel that the degree of personal feeling in the work of van der Goes is so deep that it is all very poignant.

Feel free to comment or correct me if I'm wrong. It's purely commentary.

pictures here http://www.wga.hu/frames-e.html?/bio/g/goes/biograph.html

It's the 4th of February today. I'm in ACJC if you don't know yet.

Something very interesting happened, it's more a narrative than anything and more situational than anything but I'll try to write down the proper series of events. Heck, it was a little ray of sunshine in an almost monochromatically grey day...art lessons! maths lecture! Chinese! Headache! No wonder I haven't been my usual self.

I went for lunch at the Japanese "restaurant" (not sure if the term is applicable here) at school. The food wasn't too good and I think that might have caused my second headache later on in the afternoon (first one was during literature and Chinese--last lesson of the day). I ordered tori katsu-don and all I got was some rice with soya sauce, raw shredded lettuce and bits of fried chicken...can't take that kind of food.

Now...what made up for everything that otherwise went totally wrong--a murky fish tank in the far corner. The background of it, for some queer reason, was blue...bright blue...it's that kind of lousy aquarium that's a filthy glass box of water and dead, dying fish. In it was a large arrowana fish, it's shape was bent as it's body had set in rigor mortis (for it had been dead some time already I expect). There must have been a pump in the tank for the ghastly shape went blowing back and forth in strange stiff somersaults so that it's blackened eye kept coming back, again and again to face the watcher. There were two other fish lying sideways at the bottom, these were flat, silver and of unidentifiable specie. There was another half dead silver flat-shaped fish floating on the top corner and gazing at us too, swallow swallow gulp...

Then an old woman (the owner of the, hm... place) came out with a containber of fishfood and spooned some in as if she expected it to be of any use. The fish did not improve. Old woman stares at the fish and yells something into the back of her...place. A man's voice: It's dead!

A while later, a service staff dressed in shorts and T-shirt who looks suspiciously like a Philipino maid and a young man come out. They stand in front of the fish tank and have a mini-conference over what to do about the dead fish. Dead or not dead, what to do, you hold or I hold (note, this is purely conjecture). The maid stuck a net, a small red water scooper into the tank before realising that she'd have to grab the fish with her hands to remove it. Uck.

So the guy went back in and got a bucket. Maid stuck her hand in and held the arrowana for awhile then let it go again. After more conferring,k she grabbed it with both hands and put it into the bucket the man was holding.

Funny how it wasn't the other way round. Often it turns out that women have to do the gross jobs.

I took a picture and video of the dead fish. Will try to post them sometime.

Hmm. When I came home and told my mother she asked me if I prayed for it. Clean slipped my mind.

My Junior College posting

2006-12-23T20:52:00.000-08:00

Thought you'd like to know...

The results for the temporary (three months) Junior College postings before the O'Level results came out:

Anglo-Chinese JC for me.
Anderson JC for my sister.

Both are second tier Junior Colleges.

Another shitty day out!

2006-12-03T03:07:00.000-08:00

And I've been waiting for it all week.

That's the way it's been for the past week. Parents or sister didn't feel like taking/going with me.

It was a pretty existentialist day out. Again I felt the awful strange feeling that's been plaguing me for years (from the time I was five, six years old); it has always been a mystery to me and I never found out what it was or it's cause. It simply went away as I grew older and more things came into my life. Hmm.

Well, yes it was a pretty shitty existentialist day full of atheistic depression. There was simply no place to go, no place I could go. We (my sister and I) saw crowds of tortured nameless faceless people filling the streets, milling about the shopping district. There was no memory of the past or thought of the future, the crowd was a uniform, ugly mass. The stores (my beloved bookstore in particular) were just the same as they had always been, everything too expensive to buy. It was an awful feeling, that purposelessness.

Then we tried to take a bus home. We rode and rode, expecting to see our stop, sometime, anytime. All we found at the end was the deserted bus-interchange. I read off a small, grubby sign: ALIGHTING ONLY. Then we looked around us and there was no one in the bus except for one badly-dressed old man. He was already getting off the bus; he looked as if he knew where he was going. The bus driver twisted his arm to motion to us that there was nothing more, no more. We had to get off.

In the end we took a taxi home.

At home (where I am now), my sister told our mother that we did not see our stop, we never did and we were left stranded in some god-forsaken part of town. Our mother tells us we took the wrong bus and that we read her map wrongly.

I feel horribly shitted.

I wonder if I should write some stories and put them up here

2006-12-02T02:18:00.000-08:00

I already write stuff in my own free time, but it's too personal. I'd also like to put stuff up here to...hm...make it more meaningful perhaps? And to exercise my brain and let people know my ideas on writing? I'd be really pleased if someone saw this journal and found the contents interesting or even inspirational. I would like to read nice stories (original or fanfiction-al, both are good) on the internet, it's free human contact.

I have a special interest in history and art/ists, but I don't know very much about it while I'm a freak for historical accuracy (like the details, the nitty-gritty of daily life, how they spoke, the documents and rituals) . So I can't write historical/art fiction. At least not per se. I'm supposing that I shall write poetry or stories in verse; besides, I like experimenting with form and I feel that poetry is very intense and the verse-prose form is sorely under/wrongly-utilized.

So...I'll close my eyes and think awhile...

I would not write a piece just for the sake of throwing in, say, Philippe Hurepel* (bet you don't know who that is). I like to believe that there is a philosophy behind the study of history and that it's not just random bits of outdated gossip.

thinkaboutitthinkaboutitthinkaboutit

*The son of Philip Augustus/Philip II of France.

An example of what I'm thinking about (except just more substantial):

Farnese.
Who wore himself to nothing.

Night.
Walked to his room.
Hung up his coat.
The water rose in him.
Out of his eyes.

That's all for now, I'll get back to it later.

Glenn Gould plays J. S. Bach

2006-11-29T20:21:00.000-08:00

Goldberg Variations

On Youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UzO0XWcnA38.

Bach is different from Mozart and Chopin (my current two favourite composers). I feel that he lacks the emotional intensity and tension that characterize the latter two in that his pieces are not exactly of a certain mood or thought. But Bach is absolutely sublime in the intricacy of the pieces so that the quick succession of the notes reaches a prayerful electricity--I don't know what I would call it, slow or fast, it is dreamlike in its contemplativeness.

Music is not representative (unlike any other art form which I can think of at this time), and therefore it comes the closest to our hearts. At the same time, it is also the most abstract. So I cannot say in so many words what it means and what Bach's piece was to tell us.

I would say that it is an expression of nature, as all music is (you: duh? ). The Goldberg Variations is quite a joy to listen to, and it is an expression of exactly that: Joy.

Rightly, I shouldn't even be writing this because it is quite a pointless exercise, how can I tell this: what is music? Listen to the piece I have linked (above) and comment here.

Conclusion

2006-11-28T17:14:00.000-08:00

My sister and I had a really long discussion last night. I think we've come to a conclusion, at least for now.

Love is being alone together.

Or, as we remembered then, to paraphrase Rilke:
Love is when two solitudes come together and protect.

Also, has anyone noticed, God (of the Christians at least) has strong feelings.

Because you didn't like the stuff in the last post

2006-11-26T06:30:00.000-08:00

For my sister.

Usually I prefer to keep my passions private, but this blog is anonymous and I'd like to go ind-depth instead of just talking it over.

Hmm, how should this go?

I imagine that most people are unwilling to tell/let other people (especially those close to them) what they really think as they perhaps feel that it betrays their individuality. Or more likely, they feel that it makes them weak; also, I myself believe that we all need secrets to live asthey provide depth, something for us to feed on in our moments of doubt.

More specifically, our couple-in-love would be...shy (?) around each other? Opinions?

And is it love, true love? They're both really young (and sex-obsessed if you ask me, boys are like that). Sex, to many people, is a fact of life and many people put the both of them together. I just wonder, is it a social activity or just one involving sensation? Our girl is terribly ... hm ... demure. What's she thinking? Is it what she imagined? Yes?

I would say yes.

I can't tell you exactly where it is going. Where do you want it to go? I feel that love between couples is not a happy thing essentially, not a happy thing whether they stay together or leave each other. I vote that they stay together.

Love (the way it is with most people) is a funny mixture of desire, selfishness, discontent and impermanence. It is cyclical in nature with it's moody storms and lull periods of harmony. It is a 1 + 1 = 2 kind of thing, not 1/2 + 1/2 =1 or even a 1 + 1 =1. We don't complete each other, it's the periods of solitude while one is in love that really counts.

To be honest, what is it? What is it we're talking about, I don't know. I should like it to be in the tone of satire as it's one of the only ways in which to face something that would otherwise be altogether too painful to look at. We're weaker than we think we are.

My vision of F is that of a doom-eager, tragically egotistical, self-obsessed young fellow. But he is the real-deal in a world full of children pretending to be unhappy and prodigiously gifted; he has his gifts although his ego is not one of them.

Our tragic heroine is one who writes her own life. She is weak of will, not thinking, a desirous and restless girl. She loves unwisely and is unwilling to decide her life although one could argue to a certain extent that she was forced into her circumstances. She does things that she know aren't good for her moral self as she wants to.

I'll write more some other time, oh dear me it's late.

My turn to play Doctor Freud

2006-11-25T18:09:00.000-08:00

For my sister.

Love is at first not anything that means merging, giving over and uniting with another (for what would a union be of something unclarified and unfinished, still subordinate?), it is a high inducement to the individual to ripen, to become world, to become world for himself for another's sake. It is a great exacting claim upon him, something that chooses him out and calls him to vast things.

Rainer Maria Rilke Letters to a Young Poet

Rilke sees love as personal development and perhaps the awareness of something/someone outside of the self. Do you agree? (comment below)

Personally, yes, I believe it is a growing of the self into the world, greater awareness and the stripping off of the base selfishness (and other forms of self-centredness and egocity to become more sensitive) that ails all human beings. Love as a lesson? (comment on this below) Whatever it is, it is a journey, nevermind where it ends, in a permanent union or a bitter split--we still come out different from how we were when it first came to us. (Not like one of those awful pop songs that alk about the griefs of break-up--they fail to see that love's value is essentially in the transformation it causes in us.)

Is there such a thing as true love? What is true love? (I've wondered this myself, and very seriously too.) The poet Marlowe brought forth a very interesting point in his poem Hero and Leander,
Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?
Alright, this is not the entire quote I wished to give you, however, the gist of what follows is that when the person decides personally what/who he loves, it is not a strong love. Rather, love that is a compulsion, inexplicable, is Love. What Marlowe means is that true love is a result of fate, not the fruit of personal will, which means that there is a force outside of us that decides for us whom we love. I suppose it is true to some extent as love is blind (although, as an asides, Nat King Cole did remind us: but will you please make up your mind?). Seriously, I could argue for this: true love requires no reason. If one loves another for a reason then one loves the qualities that the object of one's affections represents instead of the person, there fore making love nothing more than a venal thing, borne out of the selfishness of one's own heart. Not ideal at all.

Love is very important to us all (we always talk about it, don't we?). However, I find it regrettable that people have gotten such a strange, warped idea of love that it has become more of a vice or a nudge-nudge wink-wink thing between the youngsters that you and I have trouble speaking of it face to face (or even writing notes on paper to each other in case our parents might find it and get the wrong idea). Human love is a very personal thing, not like the love of God (in some religions) which is for everyone and something which even believers find hard to comprehend, so deep and vast it must be. We have no idea, no reasons as to why we love each other, but being the subjective beings we are, perhaps we love because it is the closest we can get to the truth (?). As a natural compulsion towards others like us.

What do you think?

Sex is an even more uncomfortable topic but I'm proud to say that we're sixteen and not obsessed by it even now. More than ever now, popular opinion is that sex is great, is natural, is good for us and people who think it is a sin are the sinners themselves. (Is this what drove us off the self-indulgent Earth-Goddess Tori? How I can mock something when I no longer love it!)

More than ever now, give me your opinion. (In comments.)

Personally, I feel that it is all a base joke (and so do our lovies!). Is it necessary? That is what I ask. How does it benefit us? (As a girl, I can speak quite eloquently against the sex act.) I think that this is why sex is a taboo topic and that kids feel that it is cool and rebellious to speak about it publicly--it's just another way of upsetting their parents. We know, but we still do it as guilty pleasures (so we call it, it sounds so ^%&^* innocuous). Magazines and pastoral care lessons only tell us that it is good as they're afraid that we'll stop listening. Well, don't listen, it's nonsense and nobody learns anything from it.

I argue that sexual desire is a fault as it shows how beholden we are, still, to our earthly flesh. It's an insult to our minds and our higher intelligence as Human Beings, whether sex was invented by the Devil to tempt us from the divine bosom or just a key in evolution so that we continue to spawn (and spawn and spawn...what for?). Oh, but still, we do it. It's Fun.

And I believe that for most people, sexual desire is a natural and very important component in character as it is a natural fault by dint of our place in the Animal Kingdom. I think that it has something to do with the ego as well, ties in with that thing about breeding and perpetuatinjg one's genes. But now that we've become so advanced, isn't it about time that we got rid of this dirt that still continues to exert such a hold over our selves? (Individual will is what makes life worth living.)

Your opinion.

And the passages/character development I promised you:

He was quiet on the bus home. Was it a religious wounding, this sudden casting-off of his childhood? Or a show of his scorn of the faith he had held all his life? (The question should rightly have been: What faith? but that was too painful to consider; he chose to overlook it.) And what of that other he had left behind? Was that a question or an answer? Ordinarily he chose not to be anguished (he was not), he was a passionate being consumed by the extremes that his heart pushed him to, he was angry, he was merry, he was a wolf, a lamb. He lived in the moment, for the moment, that was what kept him alive. His tremedous will.
He was not a wise fellow.

and

Why had he done it? God it was betrayal, by God it was. How should he stop it from happening the next time, stop it from coming between them even in words? Now that he was far away, perhaps now he should tell him. Yes, then he wouldn't have to see his face...they could go back to being friends.

Update! Because...

2006-11-25T02:53:00.000-08:00

Yesterday's purchases:
The Orchards of Syon by Geoffrey Hill--$5.00 (originally over $28.00)
The Oxford History of the Crusades by Jonathan Riley-Smith--$10.00 (original price unknown but most likely more than I'd be willing to pay)

These were from the bargain bin at Kinokuniya (Liang Court), but they were still pretty new. People just didn't want them. Miraculous! I also found Don Quixote (I wanted to try that, but I looked inside and it's absolutely unbearable--sometime never then), and Death and the Sun (a book on matadors and bullfighting which I'm slightly interested in, but you can get that in the library and it cost ten dollars).

Today my brother did a wushu presentation with the rest of his wushu class at a McDonald's outlet at East Coast (three kids, not including him). His class is made up of children who have problems like low I. Q. or autism (like him), but there is one normal girl in it who's there to help her brother. They're doing it because the wushu class is not earning enough money and might close down and that means no more wushu class (so they had to do the performance in order to get more people to come and join). So they just informed the parents of other kids with problems who might be interested (apparently it makes the children more focused and all that).

Most of the kids who attended the performance had Attention Deficit Disorder and played with the decorative water pools (all part of McDonald's efforts in Bringing Sexy Back--yeah right, we're not fooled here). The waitress scolded them. All part of life with special needs kids.

Continuation on the PSLE Results

2006-11-23T02:19:00.000-08:00

6: 18 pm on the 23rd of November

My brother got a very decent grade. This is all due to the hard work of my parents and his tution teachers. My mother spent the whole afternoon calling them up to thank them for their help.

I will not reveal the grade as it's confidential and we all know how kids/adults love to know about other people's exam grades. I'm not about to give them that kind of satisfaction. Suffice it to say, we're all pleased with his results--and we can stop caring about it by next year when he's gotten into his secondary school.

As for myself, it's about time I got back to ordinary life. I have to choose a Junior College--anyone care to recommend one?

PSLE Results Day

2006-11-22T18:25:00.000-08:00

23rd of November

Primary School Leaving Examinations Results Day.

Not mine! Mine was over like four years ago; today's for my brother.

This is the result of six years of hard work (for my mother that is, my brother's too autistic to know or care about how important the exams are).

My mother expressed (oh, really she's been doing that for days already) just how nervous she is. My brother was never too concerned about his work, she's always had to push him, sitting next to him all afternoon to make sure he does his assessment books. She's not alone though, a friend of hers (mother of another autistic boy who is also going to recieve his results today) is considering not going to collect her son's marks because his poxy school ranks them so that everyone knows just how badly you've done. (She's afraid that she will be embarrassed.) No doubt some parents will be pleased with that, they're the ones with smart kids (this is typical of petty little Singapore, everyone compares grades here).

It's coming to eleven, which is when we're leaving to collect my brother's results--I have to get dressed now.

Feeling frickin' sad now

2006-11-21T01:16:00.000-08:00

I went to Orchard Road, our brightest, sparkiest shopping district and the most significant thing that happened was getting ripped off by some "charity" tout. It's true.

I'm sixteen. My sister is sixteen and we're both as gullible as sheep.
I am so angry.
We were cheated out of TEN dollars of our parent's money.

I believe that I am angry at myself really.
We realised that he was a cheat right after we had handed over the money because he put it in his pocket.
We asked it back.
He shouted and got confrontational.
We did not want that.
We walked away.

Now I am far away at home.
Typing out my anger inch by inch.
I wonder at my ineffectiveness, is it a result of my comfortable life? my stupidity? my dyslexia? or is it my religion, what I have been tutored in all my life, give to the fortunate, "even if it's a cheat if you think it is a cheat that is How are you sure? Somebody needs that ten more than you do. Give."
That is what my mother used to say.
She still says it.
And if that guy is a cheat he'll go to Hell for his wrong-doing.
There is justice in the great scheme of things.
No you cannot beat him up swear at him as it makes you bad.

The disturbing thing is that he was thin. Weedy. He said he was fifteen.
I feel terribly terribly hurt the way you would feel hurt if you were a five-year old.
I will not tell my mother any of this as she will only give me that insincere lecture again.
We know we know it's not true.

Really, I think that people only came up with the concept of justice as a way of revenge. And that the meek will inherit the earth as there is nothing else for us.

Right now all I want is to become good. Good; without the hope of a reward in the end as I do not want to be there to recieve it.

Insight from...

2006-11-19T03:40:00.000-08:00

...a dinnertime conversation with my mother.

History is the study on the nature of power.

(picture of Velazquez's Las Meninas here except that this lousy website won't let me upload it! grr!)

Philip Augustus Returns to France, 1191

2006-11-18T18:21:00.000-08:00

From http://www.fordham.edu/halsall/source/1191philaug.html, part of the Internet Medieval Source Book.

Medieval Sourcebook: Itinerarium Peregrinorum et Gesta Regis Ricardi: Philip Augustus Returns to France, 1191

[Adapted from Brundage] Philip Augustus regarded the capture of Acre as a personal liberation from the Crusade. Philip had never been as enthusiastic a Crusader as Richard and he had, moreover, been in bad health since his arrival in Palestine. With Acre once more in Christian hands Philip considered that his part in the Crusade had been accomplished and he began immediately preparing to return to the West.

When things had thus been arranged after the surrender of the city, toward the end of the month of July [during which the Turks had promised to give back the Holy Cross in return for the freeing of those who were besieged] a rumor circulated all at once through the army that the King of France, upon whom the people's hopes rested, wished to go home and earnestly desired to prepare for his journey. How shameful, bow disgraceful it was for him to wish to leave while the task was still pending, unfinished. How shameful, too, for him whose job it was to rule such a multitude of people, to arouse Christian men to this pious and necessary venture, and to see to the continuation of this difficult business....

But what could be done about it? The French King professed that illness had been the cause of his pilgrimage and that be had now fulfilled his vow insofar as he could. But, especially since he was well and healthy when he took the Cross with King Henry [Henry II, Richard's father] between Trier and Gisors, this assertion of his does not agree with the witnesses.

He was not, in fact, leaving the work wholly undone. The King of France had done much in the Holy Land, in besieging the city; he had likewise rendered a great many services and given much help. By the authority of his presence as the most powerful of Christian kings and by merit of his most excellent dignity he had made it necessary to hasten the execution of the work toward the taking of the city....

When it became known, in fact, that it was the inflexible wish of the French King to leave and that he would not yield either to lamentations or to tearful supplications, the French renounced, if they could, their costly subjection to him and repudiated their lord. They called down upon the man who was now about to depart every adversity or misfortune which could happen to any mortal man in this miserable life. The King nonetheless hurried up his journey as speedily as he could. He left behind as his replacement in the Holy Land the Duke of Burgundy with many men. He asked King Richard to put some galleys at his disposal and Richard graciously ordered two of the best to be given to him. Philip's ingratitude for this offer was later sufficiently apparent.

King Richard asked the French King for an agreement for the preservation of mutual faith and security. They, like their fathers, disliked keeping up a rivalry and, though they looked for mutual love, it was never considered sufficient to exclude fear. King Richard was eager for a pact, for he had been stung by the nettle of fear. He demanded that the French King take an oath to keep faith and that he promise that he would not knowingly or maliciously trespass on King Richard's lands or the lands of his followers while Richard remained on Crusade. But if King Richard should seem to be incorrigibly at fault in some particular, he would be called upon by the French within forty days after he had returned home to correct whatever grievances there might be and he was to be warned by the French King before that monarch sought any revenge. The King of France took an oath and swore to King Richard that be would observe all of these conditions. The French King gave as hostages the Duke of Burgundy and Count Henry [Duke Hugh III of Burgundy and Henry of Troyes, Count of Champagne] and five or more others whose names are not given. How faithfully the French King stood by this agreement and oath is known well enough to everyone. For, as soon as he reentered his homeland, he stirred up the country and threw Normandy into disorder. What more? The King of France took leave and departed from the army at Acre. Instead of blessings, everyone had bad wishes and curses for him..

On the feast of St. Peter in Chains [Thursday, August 1, 1191] the King of France boarded a ship and sailed toward Tyre. He left the larger part of his army, however, with King Richard.

Further links (from the Medieval Sourcebook):
Angevin England (Henry II and Richard I)--http://www.fordham.edu/halsall/sbook1n.html#Angevin%20England

The France of Philip II Augustus--http://www.fordham.edu/halsall/sbook1m.html#The%20France%20of%20Philip%20II%20Augustus

New link!

2006-11-18T17:53:00.000-08:00

I found this wonder ful link to a website on the Medieval times.
http://www.shadowedrealm.com/
Ignore the cliche url, it's really quite good. I'll be putting it on my links section too.

A wonderful article on Richard I of England and Saladdin: http://www.shadowedrealm.com/articles/exclusive/article.php?id=17#edntref5. Nice and long.

Richard and Philip--pictures and sources

2006-11-17T18:10:00.000-08:00

It's skimpy on the pictures as I cannot find very many relevant or recognisable ones. The truth is, they just did not have photographs back then and "official" pictures were not meant to be pictures of people. They were just images of someone representing the authority or a dynasty.
The tomb effigies might be of more use, or even the vague contemporary descriptions.

Philip, on the extreme right (over there), burning heretics. (Illuminated manuscript, fifteenth century, from Morgan Library, New York, M. 536, ©Morgan Library

http://www.princeton.edu/~heresy/program.html

Richard. There is the image of the Three
Lions on his shield.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Lionheart

And look here,

Grandes Chroniques de France http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grandes_Chroniques_de_France
____________________________________

A beautiful image of Richard and Philip accepting the keys to Acre when they were on the Third Crusade.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Philip_Augustus_and_Richard_the_Lionheart_at_Acre.jpg

____________________________________

A biography of Philip on the Catholic Encyclopedia. http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/12001a.htm

A list of books about Richard and the Third Crusade: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Lionheart#References
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Lionheart#External_links

And on Philip:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philip_II_of_France#Sources

I wanted to read The Government of Philip Augustus but the local library does not stock it. If you know where to find it, could you leave a comment at the bottom telling me where? (Oh god, I'm getting desperate.)

Some of the pictures I wanted to put up but couldn't: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Philip_II_of_France

_________________________________________

As an asides, this: Medieval and Modern Passages Supporting the Theory of Richard I's Homosexuality is shit. I hate it when fags (or anti-fags or anybody else with a cause--which usually turns out to be totally unworthy) use historical figures or famous people tpo justify themselves. Being gay does not make a person great. And neither does being a woman, a left-hander or a dyslexic. (I am all those things and I can vouch that it is not a factor. I have seen so many awful websites with lists of famous _________--fill in the blanks.)

In fact, it is not even known whether or not Richard (or Philip for that matter) was homosexual. He had no offspring with his wife, Berengaria of Navarre, but that does not prove much--he was hardly ever with her (get your minds out of the gutter, he was out on Crusade or away defending his territories). Also, he had "one illegitimate son, Philip of Cognac" (wikipedia).

People who have to hinge on the greatness of others to bring glory to themselves are just losers. Period.

Richard and Philip

2006-11-17T04:57:00.000-08:00

Since some time last year (which is a pretty long time, considering how old I am), I've taken a great interest in history--just that it was not the kind they taught at school so I cannot say I studied it properly(twentieth century onwards only, meaning the First World War, the Holocaust, Marxism etc.). It was http://en.wikipedia.org/ which gave me this interest as I have a habit of going to one article, then navigating randomly by clicking on any links in the first article that catch my attention (ADHD?). Now I'm automatically drawn to anything related to sixteenth century Europe, the Middle Ages, and sometimes even to the Ancient Greek and Roman civillisations.

Although it sounds really cliche and all that, I have a great interest in the Crusades. It's not due to the fabulously strong attention of macho men riding horses in the name of Christendom, driving out the dark barbarian forces. Really. I like to believe that I have a more lucid, mature and humanist view of the period. It's nothing on current affairs either, what with Islamic terrorists blowing themselves up all around the world in the name of jihad (that's simply violence due to misguidedness, human egocentricity and self-righteousness, pure and simple--extremist know and need no reason for what they do).

I just like examining the past, human behaviour and how history has left its mark on people, individually and culturally (like, for instance, how we love looking at History, and how human behaviour follows a cycle as history is always bound to repeat itself by dint of human nature itself).

However, it's not as serious as it sounds. Not all the time. I also like looking at the People themselves. One topic that is of particular interest (or maybe just because I visited a bookstore today and saw so many books on Richard Lionheart and the Fourth Crusade) is the friendship of Richard I of England and Philip II of France. I know very little concerning them as the only information I can get my hands on is wikipedia (as the poxy local library won't buy any biographies of either of them--if there are any in existence in the first place). But that's not going to stop me from writing an entry about them (and especially my feelings about this odd couple, what the heck).

I felt that both Richard and Philip were terribly interesting and complex personalities. Richard looms large in legend as a gallant knight, riding gloriously off to battle in the name of his faith, but the real man was more...human. He might have been a splendid warrior, a brilliant military strategist, but he was also a son who tried (unsuccessfully) to overthrow his father to take the crown of England (although on a later attemp he finally succeeded); a king who was hardly ever present in his realm (as he apparently did not like the weather, and preferred the joys of riding off to battle to administrative work); and a good friend of Philip II of France, who betrayed him in the end (after their relationship soured).

Philip was also a fascinating person. He was somewhat more sedate than Richard, not much of a warrior king being more at home with the role of an administrator. He was crowned king of France at fourteen as "Louis VII, in the tradition of his forefathers going back to Hugh Capet, had his son Philip crowned king to assure his smooth succession" (wikipedia--told you that was my only resource!); his father died the year after his coronation. From wikipedia:

As King, Philip II would become one of the most successful in consolidating northern France into one royal domain, but he never had more than limited influence in southern France. He seized the territories of Maine, Touraine, Anjou, Brittany and all of Normandy from King John of England (1199–1216). His decisive victory at the Battle of Bouvines over King John and a coalition of forces that included Otto IV of Germany ended the immediate threat of challenges to this expansion (1214) and left Philip II Augustus as the most powerful monarch in all of Europe.
He reorganized the government, bringing financial stability to the country and thus making possible a sharp increase in prosperity. His reign was popular with ordinary people because he checked the power of the nobles and passed some of it on to the growing middle class that his reign had created.

But what really caught my attention was their friendship. Richard and Philip first met as allies against Henry II of England (Richard's father). Then afterward they became friends (as far as I can tell--wikipedia just says so...and so did all the books I browsed through today). They were surprisingly close, considering that they were, first and foremost, political allies; Roger of Hoveden reported that they "ate from the same dish and at night slept in one bed" and had a "strong love between them" (it doesn't mean that they were ever lovers though, it's just that in the past, relationships between heterosexual men were so much more intense, so much so that the word Love may be seriously applied to it). I wonder if their actions were sincere at all in view of what happened later on, and what their true motivations were. Even then, Richard and Philip still acted as politicians with differing agendas in their dealings with each other:

In exchange for Philip's help against his father, Richard promised to concede to him his rights to both Normandy and Anjou. Richard did homage to Philip in November of the same year. With news arriving of the battle of Hattin, he took the cross at Tours, in the company of a number of other French nobles.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Lionheart#Occupation_of_Sicily

Richard had already taken the cross as Count of Poitou in 1187. His father Henry II of England and Philip II of France had done so at Gisors on 21 January 1188, after receiving news of the fall of Jerusalem to Saladin. Having become king, Richard and Philip agreed to go on the Third Crusade together, since each feared that, during his absence, the other might usurp his territories.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Lionheart#Crusade_plans

In spite of the politics between them, I still found the eventual split heartbreaking in the disappointment I felt (and that I feel that the two kings might have felt--I'm sentimental, aren't I?). From the little that I have read, I suppose it began on the Third Crusade:

On March 30, 1191 the French set sail for the Holy Land, where they launched several assaults on Acre before King Richard I arrived (see Siege of Acre). By the time Acre surrendered on July 12, Philip was severely ill with dysentery and had little more interest in further crusading. He decided to return to France, a decision that displeased King Richard I, who said, "It is a shame and a disgrace on my lord if he goes away without having finished the business that brought him hither. But still, if he finds himself in bad health, or is afraid lest he should die here, his will be done."
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philip_II_of_France#Third_Crusade

Richard decided to return from Crusade as he knew that he would not be able to win Jerusalem, and also that Philip and his own brother, John, were plotting (!) against him.

The end was bitter:
From http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Lionheart#Later_years_and_death

Richard came into conflict with Philip. When the latter attacked Richard's fortress, Chateau-Gaillard, he boasted that "if its walls were iron, yet would I take it," to which Richard replied, "If these walls were butter, yet would I hold them!"
... ...
In 1199 Richard faced another rebellion by Aimar V of Limoges and his half-brother, Ademar, Count of Angoulême, backed by Philip of France. Although it was Lent, he "devastated the Viscount's land with fire and sword"[3]. He besieged the castle of Châlus-Chabrol in the Limousin. (An apocryphal legend, recounted by some chroniclers, claimed that Richard had heard of a treasure trove of golden statues at Châlus.) On 26 March, Richard, not wearing his chainmail, was wounded in the left shoulder by a crossbow bolt allegedly fired by Pierre Basile, one of only two knights defending Châlus. Gangrene set in and Richard asked to see his killer. He ordered that Basile be set free and awarded a sum of money. However as soon as Richard died, with his mother at his side, on 6 April, 1199, his most infamous mercenary captain Mercadier had Basile flayed alive and then hanged.

Philip went on to live to the (relatively) ripe old age of 57, dying in the year 1223. He "would play a significant role in one of the greatest centuries of innovation in construction and in education. With Paris as his capital, he had the main thoroughfares paved, built a central market, Les Halles, continued the construction begun in 1163 of the Gothic Notre-Dame de Paris Cathedral, constructed the Louvre as a fortress and gave a charter to the University of Paris in 1200. Under his guidance, Paris became the first city of teachers the medieval world had known. In 1224, the French poet Henry d'Andeli wrote of the great wine tasting competition that Philip II Augustus commissioned The Battle of the Wines."
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philip_II_of_France#Last_years

Although I know that I'm being a fool to get so emotional about this (since it was all so long ago and I'm not even in the slightest way involved), I cannot help but feel terribly wistful about all this. Richard and Philip most likely felt no pain at all concerning their ruined relationship; they were kings with their legacies and lands to look after, riches and territories to fight over, political alliances and enemies were all just a part of life. The relationship (whatever the nature) was doomed to fail right from the beginning, whether or not they liked each other personally. But I wonder...suppose either of them (Philip, the old and unromantic one especially) ever woke up on a cold night and lay awake with strange memories of each other and all that "oh we were young and foolish" nonsense that we all get misty-eyed about from time to time.

I hope it was so. A memory of idealism and true love's truth is infinitely better than an entire existence in the knowledge of deceit.

After all is said and done, history, often maligned as a meaningless series of events typical of this chaotic universe, does have considerable depth if we are bothered to look at it properly. The people of ages past were not that different from ourselves--in fact, no different at all; I suppose this serves to tell us, even as we continue to live alone as individuals, that we are as a stream flowing constantly although to what end we do not know. And we may be comforted that even in these dark times, we are not alone for every age is a dark age and where we are now, someone has been before and has carried the same pain that we carry.

Hugo van der Goes

2006-11-16T02:38:00.000-08:00

The paintings of the Northern Renaissance provide a strange contrast to the paintings of the Italian Renaissance. While the latter is all a rich passion where the emotion fairly pours from the canvas, the former is as cool and precise as the ice-bound soil, cut-glass air and snow infused primeval forests. All silence. All stillness. And if one would look closely, one would see a deep-seated sadness in the solemnity of it all, perhaps as a reflection of human suffering and of the wounds apparent in history.

The painter Hugo van der Goes defines this calmness, the human figure, in his hands, is one deep in thought (of God?). The people depicted in his paintings seem to be thinking deeply of something quite beyond our grasp, and yet, at the same time, of something that we have all thought of or felt at a certain time in our lives.

Biography
The greatest Netherlandish painter of the second half of the 15th century.
Nothing is known of his life before 1467, when he became a master in the painters' guild at Ghent. He had numerous commissions from the town of Ghent for work of a temporary nature such as processional banners, and in 1475 he became dean of the painters' guild. In the same year he entered a priory near Brussels as a lay-brother, but he continued to paint and also to travel. In 1481 he suffered a mental breakdown (he had a tendency to acute depression) and although he recovered, died the following year. An account of his illness by Gaspar Ofhuys, a monk at the priory, survives; Ofhuys was apparently jealous of Hugo and his description has been called by Erwin Panofsky 'a masterpiece of clinical accuracy and sanctimonious malice'.
No paintings by Hugo are signed and his only securely documented work is his masterpiece, a large triptych of the Nativity known as the Portinari Altarpiece (Uffizi, Florence, c.1475-76). This was commissioned by Tommaso Portinari, the representative of the House of Medici in Bruges, for the church of the Hospital of Sta Maria Nuova in Florence, and it exercised a strong influence on Italian painters with its masterful handling of the oil technique. There is a great variety of surface ornament and detail, but this is combined with lucid organization of the figure groups and a convincing sense of spatial depth. As remarkable as Hugo's skill in reconciling grandeur of conception with keep observation is his psychological penetration in the depiction of individual figures, notably the awe-struck shepherds. The other works attributed to Hugo include two large panels probably designed as organ shutters (Royal collection, on loan to National Gallery of Scotland). His last work is generally thought to be the Death of the Virgin (Groeningemuseum, Bruges), a painting of remarkable tension and poignancy that seems a fitting swansong for such a tormented personality.

from http://www.wga.hu/frames-e.html?/html/g/goes/index.html

I cannot upload any pictures on this website, so go to http://www.wga.hu/frames-e.html?/html/g/goes/index.html for pictures. Some of my favourites are The Fall, The Lamentation of Christ and the Death of the Virgin.

Wheee! Oh my, what a feeling!

2006-11-16T02:22:00.000-08:00

What a feeling, my O'Levels are over. Now I'm actually able to breathe!

I'm a tad too tired to be exhilarated, all the adrenalin has already been squeezed out of my system to keep going for the exams. I'm also too exhausted to talk about the whole story, it's just something I would prefer to leave behind for the moment. It's surprising really, ever since four years ago when I started secondary school (right after the nervous breakdown inducing--more for my folks really, until the final moments when I realized what was going on--Primary School Leaving Examinations--PSLE, they call it), the teachers have practically tattooed the importance of the O'Levels into the brains of the whole cohort, and all of a sudden it's over. But then again, I was never one of those who got really hot'n'stressed about my work.

I'll finish this post, dedicated to my not-too-intense feelings about finishing my exams.

I'll continue on some other news in the next post--see above.

Oh God, why this?

2006-11-07T22:03:00.000-08:00

Just today I found one of those Sharity Elephant donation envelopes on the computer table, for Children's Day. One of my brother's things, he leaves his things crushed in his schoolbag so that the remains are often not found until months later.

It is one of those things that breaks your heart, really. There was message printed on it (by the Community Chest of course):

Hello, my name is Luqman.

I am 4 years old and I have
Down's Syndrome. I'm learning
to talk and play with my
friends. My teachers and
Sharity Elephant are helping
me. Can you help me too?
I will try my best.

Firstly, it's the Down's Syndrome. It's terrible that people have to be born that way; it makes you wonder, what is life, really? What is life if you are not yourself, if you do not know yourself? I am glad to be alive, to be whole...and am I glad not to be like these people, not one of them? Yes, I am. Very much.

There is so much sadness in the envelope. Call me sentimental but yes, it is so. I have felt this kind of sadness, silent, still, bright in all things ever since early childhood, but this must be one of the worst. They even provided a picture of this dribbly little boy, mouth open, eyes down. What is he? What is he? Stare all you like. What is he? Sharity Elephant is standing next to him. They are a freak show, unreal and as sharp and cutting as pixels.

It is an appeal for Help, please (!). He's so far away but the picture does not fail to grind itself into my mind. Is it his suffering, or is it ours since it is we who can sense his lack? Does he know his lack? These questions will follow me...for so long after.

It is all our sufferings perhaps; humans have a keen sense of pain if they are bothered at all to put it into use. The Message there is to hurt a person enough to put a bit spare change in the envelope, dammit.

One down...an umpteen more to go!

2006-10-26T06:47:00.000-07:00

26th October 2006. 9: 43 PM. (I've developed the habit of writing down the proper date and time 'cos blogger always gets this WRONG.)

I've just finished my physics O' Level practical exam today. The timing of this is really sick, today is/was(?) the last day of school for the secondary one, two and three kids. Yuck.

The exam was difficult as it required much precision. One involved finding out the focal length of a lens using two very finicky methods (one was measuring the thickness and diameter of the lens using a ruler and two set-squares). The other was about rolling marbles down a rickety ramp (made with two rulers, a wooden block and some Blu-Tack (the name is copyrighted). I think I just as good as botched the (2) whole darn experiments. For the lens thing, I had to keep on adjusting the retort stand and it was--just a little this way...no, more, more...fuck, moved it too much...move it back...shoot, overshot...palms getting sweaty and wrists are sore...damn, just a little more, just a little more...yes, just right, just a bit... I was so slow that I couldn't finish the questions that came with this experiment in the first forty-five minutes. After that, we had to go on to the next experiment--marble on the ramp.

Double F_ _ _.

My reaction time was very slow as I could not see exactly when the marble stopped and all that. I took readings over and over and over again. And still, when I got down to drawing that graph... ...it came out wonky. And even before any actual graph-drawing had taken place, I mucked up my scales (x-axis and y-axis, kids, and both being equally Ee-vill). I tried asking for another piece of graph paper, so the invigilators scurried around asking each other if it was possible to give me another piece...in the end, no one came back with a piece of shitty graph paper (gee, I knew the MOE was stingy, but not that stingy...shades of my skin-flint grandpa). So I had to draw a graph which had a ~squiggly~ border all along its sides.

I took so long that I didn't finish the paper...

...almost. That was close. I was just putting the finishing touches to my design-experiments question when the time was up. And I left another one-mark question out. Typical. I have never finished a science experiment within the given time.

I was shaking all over when we left the room. Jelly on a plate.

My O'Levels are cumyng!

2006-10-22T17:23:00.000-07:00

In the Secular Night
Margaret Atwood

In the secular night you wander around
alone in your house. It's two-thirty.
Everyone has deserted you,
or this is your story;
you remember it from being sixteen,
when the others were out somewhere, having a good time,
or so you suspected,
and you had to baby-sit.
You took a large scoop of vanilla ice-cream
and filled up the glass with grapejuice
and ginger ale, and put on Glenn Miller
with his big-band sound,
and lit a cigarette and blew the smoke up the chimney,
and cried for a while because you were not dancing,
and then danced, by yourself, your mouth circled with purple.
Now, forty years later, things have changed,
and it's baby lima beans.
It's necessary to reserve a secret vice.
This is what comes from forgetting to eat
at the stated mealtimes. You simmer them carefully,
drain, add cream and pepper,
and amble up and down the stairs,
scooping them up with your fingers right out of the bowl,
talking to yourself out loud.
You'd be surprised if you got an answer,
but that part will come later.

There is so much silence between the words,
you say. You say, The sensed absence
of God and the sensed presence
amount to much the same thing,
only in reverse.
You say, I have too much white clothing.
You start to hum.
Several hundred years ago
this could have been mysticism
or heresy. It isn't now.
Outside there are sirens.
Someone's been run over.
The century grinds on.

Well anyway, I'm going to have to work like... ...hell when I get my arse off the chair. My chemistry practical O'Level is on the 26th, that's like three days away.

Wonder if I'm in deep shit or anything, feel free to inform me if I am--leave a comment.

I'm going to re-read The Blind Assassin after my O's, my idea of a beach read. First read it when I was in sec one, but I don't think I got all of it.

My next few days will be terribly rushed...

2006-10-07T22:28:00.000-07:00

...so pray for me. Do hope that I will survive.

With the O' Levels drawing closer by the day, the rush to prepare for them is really hotting up. I'm going to be totally worked to the bone--don't know if that's good or bad, I hope it produces results.

On the fate of Man:

1) "naked I came howling in, like the moon into the cold sky"

2) Toilet-trained and weaned.
Abused by kindergarten teachers.
Rejected by peers for not being able to turn a cartwheel like the rest of 'em.
Experience existential angst and wonder whether or not to Believe.

3) Go to REAL school. Majorly homesick for hours. Go home and study.

4) Years go by.

5) Major exam.

6) Cycle repeated one or two more time/s.

7) Graduate. Get rid of angst. Become "gainfully employ".

8) Marry and have children and start a new cycle.

9) Years go by.

10) Retire and pray that CPF will tide you over.

11) Become senile, arthritic, demented etc.

12) Die.

Grrr...you OWE me, Indonesia

2006-10-06T22:44:00.000-07:00

Right now, in Singapore, the haze is terrible.
The newspapers this morning reported that the PSI is 80.
The air is clouded up by smoke and dust.

It's the forest fires from Indonesia. The trees are burning, the land is burning. The forests look densely grown with fire.

Burn, baby burn.

They're clearing land for houses and farmland I guess. The people there have been doing this each year for years and the fires are so serious that it'll take a sustained period of heavy rains to wash it all away. The Indonesian government either can't or won't do anything about it.

I'm getting a sore throat. I know it already. It might be due to the late nights but I feel that this is part of the problem too. And my O' Levels are less than a month away. I hope the haze and my throat both clear up soon.

My sympathies for the people of Indonesia too. The forest burners as well as the city-dwellers.

It's really late at night...

2006-10-04T09:42:00.000-07:00

...and I feel kind of guilty. It's 12: 43 am--Thursday-f_ _ _ing-morning for F_ _ _'s sake! Ahhh!

Really guilty for staying up so late. It's not good for me, especially with my eyes going funny and all that. I always promise myself to sleep early but I never do.

My dad's asleep on the chair behind me; the computer's in the livingroom, so this is pretty normal.

The house was quiet and the world was calm.
--Wallace Stevens; The house was quiet and the world was calm

On flipping through a Versace book

2006-09-23T21:16:00.000-07:00

I noted some very interesting things while looking through a Versace pictorial book--titled "The Art of Being You"...very ironic--my mother bought for my sister and I about a year back (as it was on discount, $10 from the original hundred-odd).

There are pictures of both male and female models, and one can divide the style of the pictures taken by the gender of the models as there is such a great disparity in attitude (of both the subject and the photographer/stylist/possibly Versace himself? well, with whoever took those pictures).

The women are beautiful. Perfect in every way imaginable, whether they're smiling, gazing soberly at the camera in the awareness that it's there, or looking away as if they thought they were alone. There's one startling similarity though, none of them are human. They look frigid in the untouchable way, almost like abstract pictures of...something else. Fitzgerald would have described their eyes as "absent of desire" (like his women, in The Great Gatsby particularly).

But the men, they're different. The photographs of the male models are more organic, whether in obscenely bright colours or in black-and-white, whether they're wearing Versace's totally impractical clothing (meaning that no real man would even think of wearing them) or glorying in their butt-nakedness with just 3 inches of that bit and the bum concealed by just the camera angle or through some other, more innovative means that I shan't go into here (no, seriously, just buy the bloody book and see for yourself--you wouldn't know what you were missing otherwise). They actually have that gleam in their eye, yes, of course they know what's going on. Of course, they're like, so totally aware that this is all an exercise in very Italian, very high camp in the tradition of the big daddy of all lovers of naked men--Michelangelo. They resemble
the giant nude figures sitting around the scene of the Creation of the world, doing nothing but revelling in their sheer size. Bigger than life.

In your face. Yes, you just can't look away, never mind if it makes you feel uncomfortable or anything. It stands out, it's a "very happy, very snappy, very gay" shout-out against the ordinary.

It never fails to put a smile on my face. It's just so unatural and humorous and bawdy and unexpected. It is wonderfully ridiculous. It laughs at itself, which is indeed very rare in this rapidly darkening, over-serious age.

Just finished up my prelims

2006-09-22T06:08:00.000-07:00

It's Friday again and I've finally finished up my prelims! The last exam (today's) was a Physics practical, which also entailed the horribly boring "quarantine period" when we had to stay in this big, empty, cold room from 9: 20 am to past 1:00 pm. What a waste of time--we could have GONE HOME! Classmates decided to spend that time watching movies (some of them had brought the DVD disks).

But that's not important. I've finished my prelims...so now I'm on the internet as I've got free time tonight before I turn in EARLY (for the first time in weeks as I'm a typical nightbird who keeps on procrastinating on bed-time for the darndest reasons...such as brushing my teeth). And to celebrate, I will bring forth poems.

And then I will go on to make some confessions as I ride bravely tonight...with a mask upon my face.

Firstly, the poem.

By Kate Northrop, a new poet whom I found just last week while riffling through a poetry site.

Unfinished Landscape With A Dog

Not much of a dog yet,
that smudge in the distance, beyond the reach

of focus. It's just an impressionist
gesture, a guess. From the edge of the clearing, the farmhouse
materializes, settles

into wall & stone. The water,
making the surface

of the stream, makes
reflections. So why shouldn't the dog

accept limits, become

a figure? Is it like the girl who sits
in the hall closet and says she's not
hiding? She's inside—

listening without the burden
of sight, letting locations
release hold. Out of body,they seem lighter: her parents' voices no longer

hooked to their mouths. They seem
cleaner. Even the electric can opener;
the sounds of children

that rise from the yard, and fall; the opening window, these are no longer

effects, things expected
of a subject and verb. The world anyhow is too
straightforward.

Maybe the dog
does not want to be a dog, does not want
to be turned into landscape

but to remain in the beginning, placeless:

with the wind opening, the wind a vowel, and the stars and waters
that flash, recoil, and retch

unnamed as yet, unformed, unfound.

Her poems are great. They're out of this world.

They seem reluctant to obey the laws of this world; she seems determined on deconstructing the world, piece by piece to make us look at reality and our lives in a completely different way and see more. It's almost as if she were peeling layers of the world off, stripping life of it's firm lines, introducing doubt and telling us where to look and then leaving the revelation to us.

And now for my confession...you've been waiting for this, now aren't you? I'll bet you even scrolled all the way down, ignoring the poem and the other stuff just to see it. Well, I shan't disappoint you...

I DISLIKE Francesc Fabregas.

Yes, the footballer, yes.

Before you tell me that the WC's over and that I must be a little slow on the uptake, I must tell you that this has been inside me for ages. And this from a girl who doesn't even watch football.

The reasons:

1) Because he's rich and I'm not.

2) Because folks who don't even know him are fawning on him.

3) Because he's so smarmily perfect that he reminds me of the bright, pretty little kids whom the teachers in kindergarten (and all the way up from then...) drooled all over and favoured over me, and ignored me to fawn some more on. Not that I WANTED their attention, please. I'm not so needy, I just felt the bite of such unfairness.

4) Because he's got a promise of free shoes (I hear he has an endorsement contract with Nike or some other shoe company).

5) Because people on yahoo! Answers ask a billion questions about whether or not he has a girlfriend.

6) Because he has a fun life and I don't--I have to go to school and it's a lousy one at that.

7) Because he's likely the type that my mum would rave about in front of me if she even knew who he was...she already does that with her friends' kids (who are very smart and who study very hard). Of couse, I don't blame her and I understand...but I find it irritating.

8) Because he's nineteen years old and thus, just THREE years older than myself. It's just way too close for comfort...we're comparable on the success scale.

9) Because he's inescapable. Singapore newspapers keep a close watch on the EPL and he plays for Arsenal.

10) Because the above nine make such a huge dent in me that I'm actually typing up this shitty list.

Hey! Kaka really HAS a little brother!

2006-09-20T22:45:00.000-07:00

...well, yeah, of course he has.

From Wikipedia:

Digão

Rodrigo Ifrano dos Santos Leite (born August 14, 1985 in Brasilia, Brazil), simply known as Digão, is a Brazilian footballer who plays in defence for Serie B team Rimini after having spent some time in the AC Milan youth squad.

Family
Digão's older brother Ricardo Izecson dos Santos Leite, better known as Kaká, plays for Serie A team AC Milan and is one of the stars of the Brazilian national football team.He was on the 2002 World Cup winning team.

Trivia
He wears number 31 for Rimini.
Height: 194 cm
Weight: 93 kg

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dig%C3%A3o

More here: Profile at RiminiCalcio.com

A poem I wrote

2006-09-20T22:16:00.000-07:00

Seeing that I'm not going to be published anytime soon...

This is a poem I wrote awhile ago:

Columbus, circa 1990s

A monument in the grass, knee-high as
a gnome, still as a shadow as the sun
gains a quarter-inch and as foreign as
the conquistador who sweats it out in
his shiny armour, impenetrable
as the terrible chain-mail found only
on the armadillo. This is alien territory,
marked only by flown huts and ash-white bones
of things with wings. He has come to claim it;
the explorer is a brave one and there
is nothing to fear, really. He only
cried when he was angry or frightened, and
now, presently, this land is all his for
the taking. The sun shines brightly and the
field grown with such mighty blades of steel is
drawn with the cold blackness of fainting sight;
this is the past of the earth, memory,
flown. He knows nothing of those who landed
before himself, the parched noise beneath
his feet; they say nothing, are nothing: the
language of ghosts is not a conscious one,
purely crafted of Nature's compulsion.
To him, it is the one place yet untouched
by God and the knowledge of God. Amen.

River Blindness

2006-09-18T23:53:00.000-07:00

River Blindness

or,
Onchocerciasis

Onchocerciasis or river blindness is the world's second leading infectious cause of blindness. It is caused by Onchocerca volvulus, a parasitic worm that can live for up to fourteen years in the human body.

Life cycle
The life cycle of O. volvulus begins when a parasitised female Black fly of the genus Simulium takes a blood meal. Saliva containing stage three O. volvulus larvae passes into the blood of the host. From here the larvae migrate to the subcutaneous tissue where they form nodules and then mature into adult worms over a period of one to three months. After the worms have matured they mate, the female worm producing between 1000 and 1900 eggs per day. The eggs mature internally to form stage one microfilariae, which are released from the female's body one at a time.

The microfilariae migrate from the location of the nodule to the skin where they wait to be taken up by a black fly. Once in the black fly they moult twice within seven days and then move to its mouthparts to be retransmitted.
[edit]

Causes of Morbidity
When the microfilariae migrate to the skin they are a target for the immune system. White blood cells release various cytokines that have the effect of damaging the surrounding tissue and causing inflammation. This kills the microfilariae but is the cause of the morbidity associated with this disease.

In the skin this can cause intense itching that leads to the skin becoming swollen and chronically thickened, a condition often called lizard skin. The skin may also become lax as a result of the loss of elastic fibres. Over time the skin may lose some of its pigment; on dark skin this gives rise to a condition known as leopard skin.

The symptom that gives the disease its common name river blindness is also caused by the immune system's reaction to the microfilariae. The surface of the cornea is another area to which the microfilariae migrate, where they are also attacked by the immune system. In the area that is damaged, punctate keratitis occurs, which clears up as the inflammation subsides. However, if the infection is chronic, sclerosing keratitis can occur, making the affected area become opaque. Over time the entire cornea may become opaque, thus leading to blindness.

Treatment and control
The treatment for onchocerciasis is ivermectin (mectizan); infected people can be treated once every twelve months. The drug paralyses the microfillariae and prevents them from causing itching. In addition, while the drug does not kill the adult worm, it does prevent them from producing additional offspring. The drug therefore prevents both morbidity and transmission.

Since 1988, ivermectin has been provided free of charge by Merck & Co. through the Mectizan Donation Program (MDP). The MDP works together with ministries of health and non-governmental development organisations such as the World Health Organisation to provide free mectizan to those who need it in endemic areas.

There are various control programs that aim to stop onchocerciasis from being a public health problem. The first was the Onchocerciasis Control Program (OCP), which was launched in 1974 and at its peak covered 30 million people in eleven countries. Through the use of larvicide spraying of fast flowing rivers to control black fly populations and, from 1988 onwards, the use of ivermectin to treat infected people, the OCP eliminated onchocerciasis as a public health problem. The OCP, a joint effort of the World Health Organisation, the World Bank, the United Nations Development Programme and the UN Food and Agriculture Organization, was considered to be a success and came to an end in 2002. Continued monitoring ensures that onchocerciasis cannot reinvade the area of the OCP.

In 1992 the Onchocerciasis Elimination Programme for the Americas (OEPA) was launched. The OEPA also relies on ivermectin.

In 1995 the African Programme for Onchocerciasis Control (APOC) began covering another nineteen countries and mainly relying upon the use of ivermectin. Its goal is to set up a community-directed supply of ivermectin for those who are infected. In these ways, transmission has declined.

Recent research suggests that the Wolbachia bacteria carried by O. volvulus may actually provoke the damaging inflammatory response rather than the worm itself, opening the possibility for antibiotic treatment.

See also
Carter Center River Blindness Program

External link
Pathology of Onchocerciasis(River Blindness)
Retrieved from "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Onchocerciasis"
Categories: Parasites Roundworms Tropical disease Parasitic diseases Neglected diseases

from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/River_blindness

What I'll share with you...

2006-09-18T23:17:00.000-07:00

I like sharing the links that I find. It helps people with the same interests save some time...provided they find this place.

One Zero Zero Virtual Library
http://www.ccca.ca/history/ozz/english/books/rising_fire/rising_title.html
Some poems by Gwendolyn MacEwen, there's quite a number of them on the site, but it does not offer anything to go with them. So, if you're looking for notes, search up the same name on my blog and you'll find a previous entry with her links there.

I also tried copy-pasting the poems (as the site is really, really unattractive, huh?) but it all came out as jumble.

Also my school library has finally bought us kids some new books. Three of them were reccommended by me. Well, that's my legacy to them (yeah, the school's been trying to squeeze more and more and more money out of us of late for all kinds of nonsense that nobody even needs (eg. an arts conservatory for the silly dancing club and dopey school band; a Performing arts theatre before that, meant for the same bunch of noise-making folks, but which turned out to be too small, so...nobody uses it!). The three titles are:

1) A Dead Man in Deptford Anthony Burgess
2) The Memoirs of Hadrian Margeurite Yourcenar
3) Austerlitz* W. G. Sebald

*Not exactly what I reccommended, but by the same author. I had asked for After nature, but I guess they couldn't find it.

But, in addition to buying those three wonderful books (which I cannot borrow now as I shall be leaving the school soon), the school also bought a whole load of rubbish like the "Princess Diaries" series by Meg Cabot (it's more like "Royal Bastard" really, if you know the story) and other books which likely read the smae but just have different covers and which are purportedly written by different people.

2006-09-15T22:13:00.000-07:00

An Arundel Tomb
by Philip Larkin

Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone,
Their proper habits vaguely shown
As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,
And that faint hint of the absurd -
The little dogs under their feet.
Such plainness of the pre-baroque
Hardly involves the eye, until
It meets his left-hand gauntlet, still
Clasped empty in the other; and
One sees, with a sharp tender shock,
His hand withdrawn, holding her hand.
They would not think to lie so long.
Such faithfulness in effigy
Was just a detail friends would see:
A sculptor's sweet commissioned grace
Thrown off in helping to prolong
The Latin names around the base.
They would no guess how early in
Their supine stationary voyage
The air would change to soundless damage,
Turn the old tenantry away;
How soon succeeding eyes begin
To look, not read. Rigidly they
Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths
Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light
Each summer thronged the grass. A bright
Litter of birdcalls strewed the same
Bone-littered ground. And up the paths
The endless altered people came,
Washing at their identity.
Now, helpless in the hollow of
An unarmorial age, a trough
Of smoke in slow suspended skeins
Above their scrap of history,
Only an attitude remains:
Time has transfigured them into
Untruth. The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love.

I love this poem. I first read it when I was thirteen, in an anthology of "Mourning Poems".

Larkin does not indulge in much sentimentality or sink into high rhetoric and drama, a deep sense of poignancy is evoked within every line. Just like the effigies he describes, the poem's "plainness of the pre-baroque hardly involves the eye", but brings our attention to something beyond the surface, beyond the apparent that is so easily seen, into what really matters--"our almost instinct [that] what will survive of us is love".

It makes me wonder what the Earl and Countess truly felt for one another, did their marriage count for something more than "the Latin names around the base", written in an archaic tongue no longer used, meaning that the names, "their identity", counts for nil in this day and age? The couple are lost, out of their own time into our day, it seems that only the love, or the image of love, between them still makes sense.

Perseus, by Sylvia Plath

2006-09-15T01:16:00.000-07:00

My second post of the day.

The spacing is not quite right as I just copy-pasted. Click on Sylvia's name down there and you'll get the poem just as it was written.

Perseus
Sylvia Plath

The Triumph of Wit Over Suffering

Head alone shows you in the prodigious act
Of digesting what centuries alone digest:
The mammoth, lumbering statuary of sorrow,
Indissoluble enough to riddle the guts
Of a whale with holes and holes, and bleed him white
Into salt seas. Hercules had a simple time,
Rinsing those stables: a baby's tears would do it.
But who'd volunteer to gulp the Laocoon,
The Dying Gaul and those innumerable pietas
Festering on the dim walls of Europe's chapels,
Museums and sepulchers? You.
You
Who borrowed feathers for your feet, not lead,
Not nails, and a mirror to keep the snaky head
In safe perspective, could outface the gorgon-grimace
Of human agony: a look to numb
Limbs: not a basilisk-blink, nor a double whammy,
But all the accumulated last grunts, groans,
Cries and heroic couplets concluding the million
Enacted tragedies on these blood-soaked boards,
And every private twinge a hissing asp
To petrify your eyes, and every village
Catastrophe a writhing length of cobra,
And the decline of empires the thick coil of a vast
Anacnoda.
Imagine: the world
Fisted to a foetus head, ravined, seamed
With suffering from conception upwards, and there
You have it in hand. Grit in the eye or a sore
Thumb can make anyone wince, but the whole globe
Expressive of grief turns gods, like kings, to rocks.
Those rocks, cleft and worn, themselves then grow
Ponderous and extend despair on earth's
Dark face.
So might rigor mortis come to stiffen
All creation, were it not for a bigger belly
Still than swallows joy.
You enter now,
Armed with feathers to tickle as well as fly,
And a fun-house mirror that turns the tragic muse
To the beheaded head of a sullen doll, one braid,
A bedraggled snake, hanging limp as the absurd mouth
Hangs in its lugubious pout. Where are
The classic limbs of stubborn Antigone?
The red, royal robes of Phedre? The tear-dazzled
Sorrows of Malfi's gentle duchess?
Gone
In the deep convulsion gripping your face, muscles
And sinews bunched, victorious, as the cosmic
Laugh does away with the unstitching, plaguey wounds
Of an eternal sufferer.
To you
Perseus, the palm, and may you poise
And repoise until time stop, the celestial balance
Which weighs our madness with our sanity.

TGIF! And Juventus...

2006-09-15T00:55:00.000-07:00

Thank God It's Friday!

Yesss!!! Thank God it's Friday.

I've got a little time to spare, so I'm up here again. My literature tutor postponed the usual lesson (from 4.00 to 6.00 pm) to tomorrow.

Today I'll write about the seriously brave guys down at Juventus. I read an article about them in the newspaper yesterday. They're not doing too well in Serie B, not winning any matches. Wonder why.

I think it must have come to a shock to those who followed the club from Serie A to B, even to those who stayed voluntarily (Gigi, del Piero, Camoranesi...). Apparently, the stadiums that they're currently playing in are small (10,000 seats is counted as small) and are so old and dinged up that the paint is peeling off the walls. But...oh well, t'will be an experience to remember. I hope they can turn themselves around and go back to Serie A by the end of this season, they're such nice guys, so I think that they deserve it. Anyway, it'd be a terrible waste of their time as the career of a footballer is an awfully short one. It's already a tragedy (although I would only go as far as to say, a personal one) that they're NOT wowing the fans in the major tournaments.

However, I think that everyone should make it a priority in their lives to Live and die a decent person. After all, that's what we were all born human beings for, huh?

So I congratulate Gigi and company for having such integrity and loyalty. I hope that youth today can learn from such people.

Yup, I read all about the Euro 2008 qualifiers

2006-09-07T18:59:00.000-07:00

Yes, I read all about how France beat the shit out of Italy in the highly anticipated Euro 2008 qualifiers. I mean, WOW, the score, 1-3. Sad.

I feel sorry for the Italians. Now, all because of a trivial match, silly, biased football fans and sports writers are going to say: The Italians did not deserve to win the World Cup, France (Zinedine headbutter Zidane) deserved it. Look at them now.

I mean, Oh, puh-lease! Just come off it already Francophiles. The WC was long over, you can't change the past. The fact remains is that your beloved Frenchmen chose the wrong time to totally fluff things (or rather, Zidane chose to throw a tantrum and get sent off, and Trezeguet's foot subsequently obeyed the rules of probability). Whatever their mistake was, France is not going to get the 2006 World Cup title back although they've won this match. Life's like that.

Also, I feel that the way in which football fans (France fans rather) treat this as a rematch and will go on to discount Italy's now long forgotten win is just plain stupid. If one were to treat it that way, and say that France would have won had Materrazzi had not provoked Zidane, then that opens up many more factors as to why a team would win or lose (besides the theoretically correct "The best man wins" thing). Say, wouldn't Spain have won over France if Thierry henry hadn't done his diving act, awarding his team a penalty and seriously, seriously demoralizing the Spaniards? wouldn't Portugal have won over France if the referee had not awarded France that penalty (and instead, had done as Carvalho later suggested, "play the advantage")?

If people are going to pick at things they should have let go of long ago (as a kind of excuse as to why they failed), then competition of any sort will inevitably lose what little meaning it ever had as it no longer proves who the better man is.

There, I've done my bit in offering some proper fan support.

Tuh, what a bunch of sore losers!

Article on Global Warming: Warming worry: Potent gas bubbling up faster

2006-09-06T22:55:00.000-07:00

I always get worried when I see this kind of thing, it's enough to put me off my food and various other comforts of suburban life--literally. And very rightly too.

Look,

Guess what this is...

Methane 'coming out a lot, and there's a lot more to come out,' expert says. Methane bubbles are seen trapped in lake ice in Siberia. A glove is used to give a sense of their size.

Link:
http://msnbc.msn.com/id/14696694/?GT1=8506

Lebanon is important, so is 911, so is AIDS, but pay attention to this too!

7th September 2006.

Thoughts on W. G. Sebald

2006-09-06T15:49:00.000-07:00

As much as I love this writer, I have very little to say about him. Oh really, I often surprise myself! I've read two of his books (after After Nature, I was starving for more more MORE).

I can't figure myself out. I guess I just never had very much to say on anything...since I'm always like this for practically everything.

So why do I like him?

I found the book, After Nature in the library as the previous year was drawing to a close (or at least the school year was) and checked it out without an inkling as to whom he was. Was, regrettably, he died in 2001, meaning no more books from his remarkable hand, no more visions and passions of his different sort.

Early this year, I bought his book The Rings of Saturn. I enjoyed it as well. It was a considerably denser book than the former.

His books, on reading, induce a terribly narcotic feeling. I'd liken it to being high on opium. Dreamlike. Like gazing at those half-musty misty portraits of nobles from an age ago; the sixteenth century, if you would believe me, smelt of the dust of libraries, which grows in old books, off the ink and the thoughts and the words. History and memory.

History and memory: that's what his books are about. About the nature of rise and fall, very natural patterns of the universe. However, Sebald's writings are anything but existential. More like metaphysical.

Sebald never wrote novels in the conventional sense, no characters, no John and Lily and Rose and Coriolanus. He didn't really write essays either--not in the pure sense at least. Whenever I read him, I feel that he is, or was, saying something. But then again not. He'd tell you something, elaborate but never drill a point hard into your skull. This makes getting his point an exhausting activity as the words just wash right over the reader like thoughts in the periphery of the mind sprouting from the subconscious.

He had an odd way of looking at the world. Like no other. His books are a little like geological rock formations, full of the history of the world that is with you, under you all the time but has never come to light. Until now.

The memory of life will wound the soul forever.

Peter Crouch

2006-09-05T03:14:00.000-07:00

Since I can't talk about him in public... My sister says that it's embarrassing since people might think that I actually like the guy.

Well, I do like Crouchy. But knowing people, they always misinterpret the intentions of others, and knowing my classmates and parents, they'll be insane enough to imagine that I have the hotttts for him. No. No way. I'm far too young for that, and I also believe that I've got better taste.

Peter Crouch is definitely NOT a good player. Not even with his recent international goalscoring record, a lovely 10 out of 13 games. Those were scored against totally crap opponents. Of course he would have to score, he'd have to be really fourth-rate not to score.

But I like him. As a person. During the World Cup (the only time I saw him play), he seemed to be one of the only England players (along with Owen Hargreaves) who really cared and put in effort.

Go Crouchy!

Foreign talent? No--Oo!

2006-08-26T19:13:00.000-07:00

Ignore the date. It's Sunday, August 27.

Disaster! The government is now getting up to all kinds of hijinks to persuade us to believe that foreign talent is good for us. Apparently, we're needing these folks 'cos the local mummies and daddies just aren't multiplying fast enough, so we don't have enough workers (who can do the work the government wants), so we've got to import them.

Besides the national day rallies, this "foreigners for the good of the nation" message has also been hitting the headlines. Over the past few days, the newspapers have been carrying articles on how many (successful) foreigners have opted to take the Singaporean "Red passport", and also on the number of foreigners who have made it in The Land of the Merlion. Even today: IMMIGRANT MADE GOOD: Born in China, now an SAF scholar from the Sunday Times. Oh and yes, yesterday: in the Saturday section of our Straits Times paper (also responsible for the Sunday times), there was this huge spread on the "immigrant debate" telling us just how good these foreigners will be for us, yes, they will be patriotic and luv Singapore; yes, they will do this country a service. And yes, all the local people who shun foreigners are DUMB.

I should wonder if they don't think that we are stupid. They're mired way up in their ivory towers and forgetting just how many of us Singaporeans don't have jobs, are worrying about whether or not we will have jobs and failing at school. I can vouch for the last one at least. MY school (and every other school in this nation) is offering scholarships to Chinese (China) students, the teachers disappear for like two, three weeks every year to go scouting for little geniuses in order to push up the overall O'level grades instead of teaching us.

Shoot. Digressed there.

But what I feel is that the government is taking us for fools. They feel that they can foist whatever nonsense they want on us and still get away with it. While they tell us that foreign talent is good and that we must accept them, they also tell us that "Singapore is your HOME," and so if we're earning big money, take it HERE.

But we're not going to listen to that crap, now are we?

YAY, OWEN HARGREAVES!

2006-08-18T05:30:00.000-07:00

Owen Hargreaves, Owen Hargreaves!

I've been keeping an eye out for this guy ever since England went out to Portugal in the World Cup this year. (Only in the papers though, I don't watch football--not religiously.) So I was really pleased for him, and with him as well after I read about the England-Greece friendly (a few days ago).

Hargreaves shows why club and country want to build around him

"Hargreaves inherited the former captain's No7 shirt and went on to match the kind of industry Beckham showed the last time Greece visited Old Trafford"

Richard Williams at Old Trafford
Thursday August 17, 2006
The Guardian

Only one man was entitled to pick up last night exactly where he left off in Gelsenkirchen six weeks ago and Owen Hargreaves did not disappoint a nation of recent converts to his cause. In front of a crowd that booed the mere mention of his name back in May England's outstanding player of the World Cup finals received the man of the match award for a performance encapsulating the virtues that now make him probably the team's least dispensable individual.

Once again he chased, tackled, harried and distributed with a speed, alertness and tenacity that should have been allowed to set the standard for the entire squad in Germany. Had he spent the last few years playing for a Premiership club, the England captaincy might have had another credible candidate when Steve McClaren came to choose the successor to David Beckham last week.

Hargreaves inherited the former captain's No7 shirt last night and went on to match the kind of industry Beckham showed the last time Greece visited Old Trafford for a memorable World Cup qualifying match almost five years ago. Like Beckham, Hargreaves appeared to cover every blade of grass between the penalty areas, his example doing much to establish England's high-tempo game.

A pinch of spice was added to his display on this particular pitch by the knowledge that Manchester United are attempting to lure him from Bayern Munich in order to form a central midfield partnership with Michael Carrick. The curious thing is that it has taken so long for a Premiership manager to respond to Hargreaves' frequently expressed desire to move to England. He was a member of Sven-Goran Eriksson's squad from the early days and in Japan four years ago he was fittest member of the group. His maturity and professionalism have never been in doubt. While he was being restricted to cameo appearances as a substitute, usually during England's incoherent performances in friendly matches, he was unable to demonstrate the range of his talents. Once Eriksson finally turned to him in Germany, however, he seized the opportunity.

As the 45,000 spectators produced a spontaneous chorus of the national anthem to start last night's second half, with McClaren's team already four goals to the good, it seemed as though an easy victory might be taken as the excuse for an instant revival of England's dreams of glory. But the excellence of Hargreaves' contribution, and decent displays from two or three others, should not fool anyone into believing that it marks a turning point.

This was supposed to be a meeting of the reigning European champions and the new champions of the world. As with a lot of the Football Association's recent plans, something went missing along the way. But as a first test for McClaren's reshuffled team, Otto Rehhagel's Greeks ought to have offered serious opposition, not least because they are still smarting from their failure to follow up their success in Portugal with qualification for the World Cup finals.

Yet if there was a measure of bite in their early play, it proved to be an illusion. Greece's smothering five-man defence, on which their European triumph was based, might have promised a difficult night for a reshuffled attack, and for a lightweight such as Jermain Defoe in particular, but long before half-time they had presented McClaren with the sort of start for which he must have been praying.

The current flood of inside stories from England's World Cup campaign makes it clear that the senior players were bemused, and in some cases horrified, by Eriksson's decision to include Theo Walcott in the party at Defoe's expense. Last night represented the 23-year-old Tottenham striker's chance to show McClaren what England had missed.

His ability as a pure finisher has often been praised but, as England ran up their four-goal lead, it was in linking the play that he showed his value, making himself available as the midfield men drove forward in search of an outlet and offering a foil to his partner, Peter Crouch.

Greece's defensive system relies on outnumbering their opponents and Defoe knew that even when he managed to outwit his marker, Konstantinos Katsouranis of Benfica, he would encounter a sweeper ready to block his path. As the half developed, however, it became clear that Greece's marking of Crouch was haphazard in the extreme and that a supply of crosses from either flank would bring profit for England.

This was not greatly to Defoe's individual benefit but he kept himself busy by pulling Katsouranis from side to side while making troublesome little runs down the channels and by making sure that he was there to pick up the odds and ends provided by sloppy clearances.
His beautifully weighted through-ball to Frank Lampard provoked the deflected shot that gave England a second goal and it was his persistence in winning possession in the penalty area, and his coolness in playing it back to Stewart Downing, that preceded the confusion which enabled Crouch to force the ball home for the third.

Last night's result will have lifted his spirits, and those of the squad as a whole, but not to the extent that harsher realities can be conveniently avoided. England are not suddenly a great side, or even a good one. In Hargreaves, however, they now have a cornerstone.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Okay, this is totally unrelated, but I just thought of it and told my sister. And, yeah well, I just couldn't resist--football is basically the business of twenty-two men chasing balls.

If you don't get it, I'll help you along--what's a skirt-chaser?

A Grave--by Marianne Moore

2006-08-16T03:30:00.000-07:00

A Grave

by Marianne Moore

Man looking into the sea,
taking the view from those who have as much right to it as
you have to it yourself,
it is human nature to stand in the middle of a thing,
but you cannot stand in the middle of this;
the sea has nothing to give but a well excavated grave.
The firs stand in a procession, each with an emerald turkey—
foot at the top,
reserved as their contours, saying nothing;
repression, however, is not the most obvious characteristic of
the sea;
the sea is a collector, quick to return a rapacious look.
There are others besides you who have worn that look—
whose expression is no longer a protest; the fish no longer
investigate them
for their bones have not lasted:
men lower nets, unconscious of the fact that they are
desecrating a grave,
and row quickly away-the blades of the oars
moving together like the feet of water-spiders as if there were
no such thing as death.
The wrinkles progress among themselves in a phalanx—
beautiful under networks of foam,
and fade breathlessly while the sea rustles in and out of the
seaweed;
the birds swim through the air at top speed, emitting cat-calls
as heretofore—
the tortoise-shell scourges about the feet of the cliffs, in motion
beneath them;
and the ocean, under the pulsation of lighthouses and noise of
bell-bouys,
advances as usual, looking as if it were not that ocean in which
dropped things are bound to sink—
in which if they turn and twist, it is neither with volition nor
consciousness.

This seems to be something of a reflection on the human consciousness and on human life and death. Everything is bright on the surface, where the everyday is, but underneath is deep and quiet and one's human ego no longer matters. the surface is transitory, like how

The wrinkles progress among themselves in a phalanx—
beautiful under networks of foam,
and fade breathlessly while the sea rustles in and out of the
seaweed;

as if nothing had ever happened.

The sea is a huge, immeasureable thing--

it is human nature to stand in the middle of a thing,
but you cannot stand in the middle of this;
the sea has nothing to give but a well excavated grave.

One cannot "stand in the middle" of it. I guess this could be pointing at how the human ego always places it in the middle of the universe as if one were The One who knew everything and were Everything. But we cannot stand in the middle of the sea.

Lastly, the poem coud also be on how humans are not too conscious of death in life. the sea is a "well-excavated grave", but

men lower nets, unconscious of the fact that they are
desecrating a grave,
and row quickly away-the blades of the oars
moving together like the feet of water-spiders as if there were
no such thing as death.

We do not know that those before us, who are now dead

have worn that [rapacious] look—
whose expression is no longer a protest; the fish no longer
investigate them
for their bones have not lasted

Instead, "the sea is a collector, quick to return a rapacious look" that we give it.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Now for some professional help,

I haven't come close to understanding the poem myself.

On "A Grave"
Elizabeth H. Davis
In nearly all transformations of syllabics, deletion disturbs the stanzas into free verse. That process is physically evident in typescripts of "To a Snail" and "A Grave."
. . .
A pivotal typescript/manuscript of " A Grave" also shows the close relationship between excision and free verse (Rosenbach I:02:14). The key syllabic draft, itself a revision, begins the same way the final draft does—"Man looking into the sea." Four types of marks are handwritten on the typescript: deletions, alternative wordings in the margins, five slash marks in the first two stanzas, and an editorial comment—"All redundant." The next draft, on another page, excludes material deleted on the previous typescript, for example, "each with an emerald turkey foot at the top"; it replaces excised material with revisions pencilled in the margin of the previous typescript, for example, "their contemporaries row across them"; and it divides the poem as free verse, following the slash marks in the first two stanzas. The remarked-on redundancy triggers the change to free verse.

Although free verse line divisions are conveniently associated with deletions on this typescript, other factors may also have influenced the revision of "A Grave." The deletions are not as numerous as is typical with Moore's other free verse transformations, two deletions totalling 29 syllables out of a 333- syllable draft, and one of those deletions is replaced with alternative lines. Yet the one real deletion, "each with an emerald turkey foot at the top," is in the middle of the cluster of five slash marks which indicate all the divisions of lines 3 through 8 in the next draft, the first free verse version. It is ironic that this deleted material, apparently so crucial in the transformation of the poem, reappears in subsequent drafts, but by that time "A Grave" was settled in its free verse format.

Also, as Holley has suggested (83), line length may be especially important in "A Grave," which has three 32-syllable lines in the first syllabic draft. In the crucial second syllabic draft, Moore divides up the 32-syllable lines, creating another regular syllabic pattern with shorter lines. The slash marks on that draft may indicate other syllabic alternatives considered while Moore reworked the line lengths. Unsettled line length may be as significant as displacement by deletion in this poem. However, when Moore breaks up the 32-syllable lines, she produces another syllabic draft with an alternative regularity. The slash marks in that second draft, clustered around the only simple deletion marked on that crucial typescript, point to the deletion as the key element breaking up the form.

from "Marianne Moore's Concentrated Free Verse: 'Starve it Down and Make it Run.'" SAGETRIEB 10.3 ... ...more here: http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/poets/m_r/moore/grave.htm

Alessandro Farnese, Duke of Parma--a few images

2006-08-10T04:55:00.000-07:00

Farnese, the man.

Alessandro Farnese, the Duke of Parma

Alessandro Farnese, the Duke of Parma, was the George C. Patton of his time: a stalwart, reliable, consistent general whom his troops trusted and his enemies feared. Parma’s extraordinary reputation and significance as a military leader can be discerned in the way that the Spanish Armada engagement overall—for the Spanish invaders and English defenders alike—centered fundamentally on Parma and his professional army. He was revered by the Spanish as one of the greatest assets in their forces, their ace in the battlefield hole, and tremendously feared by the English, whose defensive plan focused essentially on thwarting a landing by Parma’s armies. While it is extremely doubtful that Parma’s soldiers could have “conquered” England upon alighting on British soil, the presence of such an intimidating professional army alone could well have helped to guarantee King Philip II of Spain some of his war aims—chiefly, cessation of English aid to the Dutch Protestant rebels and a clampdown on buccaneering by English pirates.
Parma is an intriguing figure, and not only as the answer to common trivia questions about the Spanish Armada; he was, hands down, the most masterful military figure of his age, and his victories had consequences of historic proportions. Parma fought under and alongside his cousin, Don John of Austria, in one of history’s pivotal battles—the naval victory of the Spaniards and their Christian allies against the invading Muslim Ottoman Turks at Lepanto, in 1571. He distinguished himself as a courageous and resourceful soldier here, and six years thereafter he was assigned to the Netherlands, where Philip II entrusted him to crush the growing Dutch Protestant revolt against Spanish rule in the Low Countries. Parma confronted and won numerous victories against the wily and elusive William of Orange, “the Silent,” the Protestant leader of the Dutch Revolt who had proven to be such a thorn in Philip’s side. Despite his undoubted skill and audacity, Parma was never able to entirely subdue the Dutch provinces and crush the revolt, particularly the more northerly regions and the island of Zeeland in particular. (This is one reason that a “conquest” of England following the Armada is such an extremely dubious scenario—Philip’s forces were unable to quash Dutch resistance despite all their advantages there.) Nevertheless, Parma was able to recapture many of the Dutch provinces and, through military strength and adroit negotiations, ensure that they remained within the Catholic fold, under the control of Philip II and his Hapsburg relatives. Parma was even able to besiege and capture Antwerp in 1585—an astonishing military success and a severe setback for both the Dutch and the English, who had recently begun to assist the Dutch in earnest with the landing of troops under the control of Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester. Parma was later reassigned to France, where he managed to lift the sieges of both Paris and Rouen by enemies of the Catholic League; it was in 1592, during his effort to aid Catholic forces in Rouen, that Parma suffered a mortal wound.
Besides being a fascinating figure to military historians and a remarkable tactician and strategist, Parma’s victories had important historical consequences. Besides helping to defeat the Turks in 1571—for whom a victory at Lepanto may have meant control of the Mediterranean, and substantial inroads for Muslim Turkish forces in southern Europe—Parma’s accomplishments in the Low Countries helped to prevent William the Silent’s unification of the Dutch provinces under a Protestant banner. Many valuable regions in the Low Countries remained Catholic and French-speaking, resulting in the eventual formation of the nation of Belgium in the 19th century. Parma in more ways than one was a pivotal figure in the 16th Century in Europe.

From http://www.people.fas.harvard.edu/~ulm/history/duke_of_parma.htm, at Wes's Spanish Armada page

Alessandro Cardinal Farnese, Parma's uncle

From the left: Cardinal Farnese(also depicted in portrait above), Pope Paul III (Parma's great-grandfather), Duke Ottavio Farnese (Parma's father)

The last two paintings are by Titian.

Marlowe and A Dead Man in Deptford--a few thoughts

2006-08-09T03:47:00.000-07:00

Great book.

My assessment of it a few months ago was rather...hmm...unfair, one-sided, partial? Well, not very insightful or intelligent and so not too useful. Here's a new one--short too, I've got things to do now--

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

A main theme of the book is that of free-will and whether or not the individual is free (or purely controlled by God). One reason for this could be because the book was based on Burgess's thesis on Marlowe, written when he was in university, and that would in turn have touched on Kit's play, Doctor Faustus.

The play itself is also strongly focussed on the subject of free-will. The first act begins with Faustus in his study,

Settle thy studies Faustus, and begin

to sound the depth of that thou wilt professe,

Hauing commenc'd, be a Diuine in shew,

Yet leuell at the end of euery Art,

And liue and die in Aristotles workes.

Sweet Analitikes, tis thou hast rauisht me,

he brags about his accomplishments in every field--Logic, Physicke (medicine), Law...etc. And Divinity:

When all is done, Diuinitie is best:

Ieromes Bible Faustus, view it well:

Stipendium peccati, mors est:" ha, stipendium, &c.

The reward of sin is death? that's hard:

Si peccasse, negamus, fallimur, & nulla est in nobis veritas:

If we say that we haue no sinne

We deceiue our selues, and there is no truth in vs.

Why then belike we must sinne,And so consequently die,

I, we must die, an euerlasting death.

What doctrine call you this? Che sera, sera:

What will be, shall be; Diuinitie adeiw.

But he's done that too. So it will be...

These Metaphisicks of Magitians,

And Negromantick bookes are heauenly,

Lines, Circles, Letters, Characters.

I these are those that Faustus most desires.

O what a world of profite and delight,

Of power, of honour, and omnipotence,

Is promised to the Studious Artizan?

All things that moue betweene the quiet Poles

Shall be at my command: Emperors and Kings,

Are but obey'd in their seuerall Prouinces:

But his dominion that exceeds in this,

Stretcheth as farre as doth the mind of man:

A sound Magitian is a Demi-god,

Here tire my braines to get a Deity.

Magic.

So, he knows that the "reward of sin is death", but yhe refuses to listen. Why? I was rather bewildered by this on my first reading as Faustus's behaviour was really very uncharacteristic of a man of that time's. But after reading a book on Marlowe (David Rigg's The World of Christopher Marlowe), it all became clear to me. At that time, England's religious identity was still very muddled up and Marlowe, as a scholar of Divinity (at that time, England experienced a shortage of trained Protestant preachers as the previous ruler, the Catholic Mary I had burnt the lot of them, so scholarships for bright young people like Marlowe were introduced) was required to study religion and the books said that only certain people were able to recieved God's teachings and others were simply damned to hell, through no fault of their own. (Just a shot in the dark here, but I expect it must have been due to some religious debate on why some people did not follow God's ways despite having been created by him.) This undoubtedly had quite an effect on the young Marlowe, and with the conflict of beliefs between Catholics and Protestants still going on in England at the time, this must have shaped in him a certain cynicism toward religion. Also, as a scholar, he studied the works of pagans such as Aristotle who obviously did not believe in God and this must have shaken his faith as well.

And, as a scholar himself, Marlowe most likely sympathised with Faustus's frustrations at not having any power.

And thus, the theme of free-will in Burgess's book. Also, Burgess was a great admirer of James Joyce who (so my sister tells me) was an atheist as he would rather go to Hell on his own free-will than go to Heaven as a vessel of God's--he felt that strongly about the importance of the individual in his own life (as an action is meaningful only when the individual has a choice in it).

One of Marlowe's struggles is between himself and the belief in God, it's got a hint of existential angst--a metaphysical struggle, perhaps that's a better way to put it--in it. There's the conflict over free-will (and I guess one on personal identity as well).

Marlowe himself is basically an artist inhabited by a tragically self-destructive creative force (a parallel with Faustus), maimed by his lack of faith in God (the disbelief and metaphysical dissatisfaction that made him question and, well, be an artist), and a man who is alienated by his genius.

Note: Faustus was not an original invention of Marlowe's, the story originated from Germany (at that time a group of small duchys, all Protestant). The book took England by storm and Marlowe was just inspired by it (and it's saleability--don't look so shocked, Kit was a playwright, his job was to sell tickets!).

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Okay, found a link to some other Marlowe-related books: http://www.osmond-riba.org/lis/MarloweBks.htm.

The non-fiction is fine. The fiction is awful. Don't read it.

Parmigianino--Parts of his life

2006-08-08T05:39:00.000-07:00

Top: Bitter old age; he became obsessed with alchemy towards the end of his life.

Bottom: Still young. A virtuoso at the age of twenty-one. This self-portrait was done for Pope Clement VII/VIII.

Continuation of the last post:

2006-08-06T06:12:00.000-07:00

Written on the same day. There was so much stuff there that the whole programme was pretty overloaded and slow so I decided to publish it and write a new post here:

This happened just after the period of the Religious Wars of France between the Protestants and the Catholics. (I guess the world has not changed too much since then--"Axis of Evil", are you getting me?)

Farnese was Philip's nephew through his mother, Margaret of Austria, the illegitimate daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V--Philip's father. He grew up in the Spanish court as a hostage of Philip's to ensure the loyalty of his father, Duke Ottavio Farnese, Duke of Parma.

He was a brilliant military and statesman and, in my opinion, a very complex character.

Alessandro Farnese, Duke of Parma and Piacenza

2006-08-06T05:45:00.001-07:00

Like I said before, I am in awe of this man.

Unfortunately, I have been unable to find any "modern" biographies of him and have had to make do with an old one (written in the nineteenth century and not really a biography, it just features him prominently).

From John Lothrop Morley's History of United Netherlands, 1592-1594--courtesy of Project Gutenberg, which provides e-copies of books with expired copyrights totally free-of-charge.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Title: History of the United Netherlands, 1592-94

Author: John Lothrop Motley

Release Date: January, 2004 [EBook #4865]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on April 9, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII
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CHAPTER XXVIII.

An extract on how the duke's reputation was blackened in the eyes of Philip II of Spain, his master:

For the king was quite determined--in case his efforts to obtain the
crown for himself or for his daughter were unsuccessful--to dismember
France, with the assistance of those eminent Frenchmen who were now so
industriously aiding him in his projects.

"And in the third place," said he, in his secret instructions to Feria,
"if for the sins of all, we don't manage to make any election, and if
therefore the kingdom (of France) has to come to separation and to be
divided into many hands; in this case we must propose to the Duke of
Mayenne to assist him in getting possession of Normandy for himself, and
as to the rest of the kingdom, I shall take for myself that which seems
good to me--all of us assisting each other."

But unfortunately it was difficult for any of these fellow-labourers to
assist each other very thoroughly, while they detested each other so
cordially and suspected each other with such good reason.

Moreo, Ybarra, Feria, Parma, all assured their master that Mayenne was
taking Spanish money as fast as he could get it, but with the sole
purpose of making himself king. As to any of the House of Lorraine
obtaining the hand of the Infanta and the throne with it, Feria assured
Philip that Mayenne "would sooner give the crown to the Grand Turk."

Nevertheless Philip thought it necessary to continue making use of the
duke. Both were indefatigable therefore in expressing feelings of
boundless confidence each in the other.

It has been seen too how entirely the king relied on the genius and
devotion of Alexander Farnese to carry out his great schemes; and
certainly never had monarch a more faithful, unscrupulous, and dexterous
servant. Remonstrating, advising, but still obeying--entirely without
conscience, unless it were conscience to carry out his master's commands,
even when most puerile or most diabolical--he was nevertheless the object
of Philip's constant suspicion, and felt himself placed under perpetual
though secret supervision.

Commander Moreo was unwearied in blackening the duke's character, and in
maligning his every motive and action, and greedily did the king incline
his ear to the calumnies steadily instilled by the chivalrous spy.

"He has caused all the evil we are suffering," said Moreo. "When he sent
Egmont to France 'twas without infantry, although Egmont begged hard for
it, as did likewise the Legate, Don Bernardino, and Tassis. Had he done
this there is no doubt at all that the Catholic cause in France would
have been safe, and your Majesty would now have the control over that
kingdom which you desire. This is the opinion of friends and foes. I
went to the Duke of Parma and made free to tell him that the whole world
would blame him for the damage done to Christianity, since your Majesty
had exonerated yourself by ordering him to go to the assistance of the
French Catholics with all the zeal possible. Upon this he was so
disgusted that he has never shown me a civil face since. I doubt whether
he will send or go to France at all, and although the Duke of Mayenne
despatches couriers every day with protestations and words that would
soften rocks, I see no indications of a movement."

Thus, while the duke was making great military preparations far invading
France without means; pawning his own property to get bread for his
starving veterans, and hanging those veterans whom starving had made.
mutinous, he was depicted, to the most suspicious and unforgiving mortal
that ever wore a crown, as a traitor and a rebel, and this while he was
renouncing his own judicious and well-considered policy in obedience to
the wild schemes of his master.

"I must make bold to remind your Majesty," again whispered the spy, "that
there never was an Italian prince who failed to pursue his own ends, and
that there are few in the world that are not wishing to become greater
than they are. This man here could strike a greater blow than all the
rest of them put together. Remember that there is not a villain anywhere
that does not desire the death of your Majesty. Believe me, and send to
cut off my head if it shall be found that I am speaking from passion, or
from other motive than pure zeal for your royal service."

The reader will remember into what a paroxysm of rage Alexander was
thrown on, a former occasion, when secretly invited to listen to
propositions by which the sovereignty over the Netherlands was to be
secured to himself, and how near he was to inflicting mortal punishment
with his own hand on the man who had ventured to broach that treasonable
matter.

Such projects and propositions were ever floating, as it were, in the
atmosphere, and it was impossible for the most just men to escape
suspicion in the mind of a king who fed upon suspicion as his daily
bread. Yet nothing could be fouler or falser than the calumny which
described Alexander as unfaithful to Philip. Had he served his God as he
served his master perhaps his record before the highest tribunal would
have been a clearer one.

And in the same vein in which he wrote to the monarch in person did the
crafty Moreo write to the principal secretary of state, Idiaquez, whose
mind, as well as his master's, it was useful to poison, and who was in
daily communication with Philip.

"Let us make sure of Flanders," said he, "otherwise we shall all of us be
well cheated. I will tell you something of that which I have already
told his Majesty, only not all, referring you to Tassis, who, as a
personal witness to many things, will have it in his power to undeceive
his Majesty, I have seen very clearly that the duke is disgusted with his
Majesty, and one day he told me that he cared not if the whole world went
to destruction, only not Flanders."

"Another day he told me that there was a report abroad that his Majesty
was sending to arrest him, by means of the Duke of Pastrana, and looking
at me he said: 'See here, seignior commander, no threats, as if it were
in the power of mortal man to arrest me, much less of such fellows as
these.'"

"But this is but a small part of what I could say," continued the
detective knight-commander, "for I don't like to trust these ciphers.
But be certain that nobody in Flanders wishes well to these estates or to
the Catholic cause, and the associates of the Duke of Parma go about
saying that it does not suit the Italian potentates to have his Majesty
as great a monarch as he is trying to be."

This is but a sample of the dangerous stuff with which the royal mind was
steadily drugged, day after day, by those to whom Farnese was especially
enjoined to give his confidence.

Later on it will be seen how-much effect was thus produced both upon the
king and upon the duke. Moreo, Mendoza, and Tasais were placed about the
governor-general, nominally as his counsellors, in reality as police-
officers.

"You are to confer regularly with Mendoza, Tassis, and Moreo," said
Philip to Farnese.

"You are to assist, correspond, and harmonize in every way with the Duke
of Parma," wrote Philip to Mendoza, Tassis, and Moreo. And thus cordially
and harmoniously were the trio assisting and corresponding with the duke.

But Moreo was right in not wishing to trust the ciphers, and indeed he
had trusted them too much, for Farnese was very well aware of his
intrigues, and complained bitterly of them to the king and to Idiaquez.

Most eloquently and indignantly did he complain of the calumnies, ever
renewing themselves, of which he was the subject. "'Tis this good Moreo
who is the author of the last falsehoods," said he to the secretary; "and
this is but poor payment for my having neglected my family, my parents
and children for so many years in the king's service, and put my life
ever on the hazard, that these fellows should be allowed to revile me
and make game of me now, instead of assisting me."

He was at that time, after almost superhuman exertions, engaged in the
famous relief of Paris. He had gone there, he said, against his judgment
and remonstrating with his Majesty on the insufficiency of men and money
for such an enterprise. His army was half-mutinous and unprovided with
food, artillery, or munitions; and then he found himself slandered,
ridiculed, his life's life lied away. 'Twas poor payment for his
services, he exclaimed, if his Majesty should give ear to these
calumniators, and should give him no chance of confronting his accusers
and clearing his reputation. Moreo detested him, as he knew, and Prince
Doria said that the commander once spoke so ill of Farnese in Genoa that
he was on the point of beating him; while Moreo afterwards told the story
as if he had been maltreated because of defending Farnese against Doria's
slanders.

And still more vehemently did he inveigh against Moreo in his direct
appeals to Philip. He had intended to pass over his calumnies, of which
he was well aware, because he did not care to trouble the dead--for Moreo
meantime had suddenly died, and the gossips, of course, said it was of
Farnese poison--but he had just discovered by documents that the
commander had been steadily and constantly pouring these his calumnies
into the monarch's ears. He denounced every charge as lies, and demanded
proof. Moreo had further been endeavouring to prejudice the Duke of
Mayenne against the King of Spain and himself, saying that he, Farnese,
had been commissioned to take Mayenne into custody, with plenty of
similar lies.

"But what I most feel," said Alexander, with honest wrath, "is to see
that your Majesty gives ear to them without making the demonstration
which my services merit, and has not sent to inform me of them, seeing
that they may involve my reputation and honour. People have made more
account of these calumnies than of my actions performed upon the theatre
of the world. I complain, after all my toils and dangers in your
Majesty's service, just when I stood with my soul in my mouth and death
in my teeth, forgetting children, house, and friends, to be treated thus,
instead of receiving rewards and honour, and being enabled to leave to my
children, what was better than all the riches the royal hand could
bestow, an unsullied and honourable name."

He protested that his reputation had so much suffered that he would
prefer to retire to some remote corner as a humble servant of the king,
and leave a post which had made him so odious to all. Above all, he
entreated his Majesty to look upon this whole affair "not only like a
king but like a gentleman."

Philip answered these complaints and reproaches benignantly, expressed
unbounded confidence in the duke, assured him that the calumnies of his
supposed enemies could produce no effect upon the royal mind, and coolly
professed to have entirely forgotten having received any such letter as
that of which his nephew complained. "At any rate I have mislaid it," he
said, "so that you see how much account it was with me."

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Approaching the end:
During the first French expedition-in the course of which Farnese had
saved Paris from falling into, the hands of Henry, and had been doing his
best to convert it prospectively into the capital of his master's empire-
-it was his duty, of course, to represent as accurately as possible the
true state of France. He submitted his actions to his master's will, but
he never withheld from him the advantage that he might have derived, had
he so chosen, from his nephew's luminous intelligence and patient
observation.

With the chief personage he had to deal with he professed himself, at
first, well satisfied. "The Duke of Mayenne," said he to Philip,
"persists in desiring your Majesty only as King of France, and will hear
of no other candidate, which gives me satisfaction such as can't be
exaggerated." Although there were difficulties in the way, Farnese
thought that the two together with God's help might conquer them.
"Certainly it is not impossible that your Majesty may succeed," he said,
"although very problematical; and in case your Majesty does succeed in
that which we all desire and are struggling for, Mayenne not only demands
the second place in the kingdom for himself, but the fief of some great
province for his family."

Should it not be possible for Philip to obtain the crown, Farnese was,
on the whole, of opinion that Mayenne had better be elected. In that
event he would make over Brittany and Burgundy to Philip, together with
the cities opposite the English coast. If they were obliged to make the
duke king, as was to be feared, they should at any rate exclude the
Prince of Bearne, and secure, what was the chief point, the Catholic
religion. "This," said Alexander, "is about what I can gather of
Mayenne's views, and perhaps he will put them down in a despatch to your
Majesty."

After all, the duke was explicit enough. He was for taking all he could
get--the whole kingdom if possible--but if foiled, then as large a slice
of it as Philip would give him as the price of his services. And
Philip's ideas were not materially different from those of the other
conspirator.

Both were agreed on one thing. The true heir must be kept out of his
rights, and the Catholic religion be maintained in its purity. As to the
inclination of the majority of the inhabitants, they could hardly be in
the dark. They knew that the Bearnese was instinctively demanded by the
nation; for his accession to the throne would furnish the only possible
solution to the entanglements which had so long existed.

As to the true sentiments of the other politicians and soldiers of the
League with whom Bearnese came in contact in France, he did not disguise
from his master that they were anything but favourable.

"That you may know, the, humour of this kingdom," said he, "and the
difficulties in which I am placed, I must tell you that I am by large
experience much confirmed in that which I have always suspected. Men
don't love nor esteem the royal name of your Majesty, and whatever the
benefits and assistance they get from you they have no idea of anything
redounding to your benefit and royal service, except so far as implied in
maintaining the Catholic religion and keeping out the Bearne. These two
things, however, they hold to be so entirely to your Majesty's profit,
that all you are doing appears the fulfilment of a simple obligation.
They are filled with fear, jealousy, and suspicion of your Majesty. They
dread your acquiring power here. Whatever negotiations they pretend
in regard to putting the kingdom or any of their cities under your
protection, they have never had any real intention of doing it, but their
only object is to keep up our vain hopes while they are carrying out
their own ends. If to-day they seem to have agreed upon any measure,
tomorrow they are sure to get out of it again. This has always been the
case, and all your Majesty's ministers that have had dealings here would
say so, if they chose to tell the truth. Men are disgusted with the
entrance of the army, and if they were not expecting a more advantageous
peace in the kingdom with my assistance than without it, I don't know
what they would do; for I have heard what I have heard and seen what I
have seen. They are afraid of our army, but they want its assistance and
our money."

Certainly if Philip desired enlightenment as to the real condition of the
country he had determined to, appropriate; and the true sentiments of its
most influential inhabitants, here, was the man most competent of all the
world to advise him; describing the situation for him, day by day, in the
most faithful manner. And at every, step the absolutely puerile
inadequacy of the means, employed by the king to accomplish his gigantic
purposes became apparent. If the crime of subjugating or at least
dismembering the great kingdom of France were to, be attempted with any
hope of success, at least it might have been expected that the man
employed to consummate the deed would be furnished with more troops and
money than would be required to appropriate a savage island off the
Caribbean, or a German. principality. But Philip expected miracles to
be accomplished by the mere private assertion of his will. It was so
easy to conquer realms the writing table.

"I don't say," continued Farnese, "if I could have entered France with a
competent army, well paid and disciplined, with plenty of artillery, and
munitions, and with funds enough to enable Mayenne to buy up the nobles
of his party, and to conciliate the leaders generally with presents and
promises, that perhaps they might not have softened. Perhaps interest
and fear would have made that name agreeable which pleases them so
little, now that the very reverse of all this has occurred. My want of
means is causing a thousand disgusts among the natives of the country,
and it is this penury that will be the chief cause of the disasters which
may occur."

Here was sufficiently plain speaking. To conquer a war-like nation
without an army; to purchase a rapacious nobility with an empty purse,
were tasks which might break the stoutest heart. They were breaking
Alexander's.

Yet Philip had funds enough, if he had possessed financial ability
himself, or any talent for selecting good financiers. The richest
countries of the old world and the new were under his sceptre; the mines
of Peru and Mexico; the wealth of farthest Ind, were at his disposition;
and moreover he drove a lucrative traffic in the sale of papal bulls and
massbooks, which were furnished to him at a very low figure, and which he
compelled the wild Indians of America and the savages of the Pacific to
purchase of him at an enormous advance. That very year, a Spanish
carrack had been captured by the English off the Barbary coast, with an
assorted cargo, the miscellaneous nature of which gives an idea of royal
commercial pursuits at that period. Besides wine in large quantities
there were fourteen hundred chests of quicksilver, an article
indispensable to the working of the silver mines, and which no one but
the king could, upon pain of death, send to America. He received,
according to contract; for every pound of quicksilver thus delivered a
pound of pure silver, weight for weight. The ship likewise contained ten
cases of gilded mass-books and papal bulls. The bulls, two million and
seventy thousand in number, for the dead and the living, were intended
for the provinces of New Spain, Yucatan, Guatemala, Honduras, and the
Philippines. The quicksilver and the bulls cost the king three hundred
thousand florins, but he sold them for five million. The .price at,
which the bulls were to be sold varied-according to the letters of advice
found in the ships--from two to four reals a piece, and the inhabitants
of those conquered regions were obliged to buy them. "From all this,"
says a contemporary chronicler; "is to be seen what a thrifty trader was
the king."

The affairs of France were in such confusion that it was impossible for
them, according to Farnese, to remain in such condition much longer
without bringing about entire decomposition. Every man was doing as he
chose--whether governor of a city, commander of a district, or gentleman
in his castle. Many important nobles and prelates followed the Bearnese
party, and Mayenne was entitled to credit for doing as well as he did.
There was no pretence, however, that his creditable conduct was due to
anything but the hope of being well paid. "If your Majesty should decide
to keep Mayenne," said Alexander, "you can only do it with large: sums of
money. He is a good Catholic and very firm in his purpose, but is so
much opposed by his own party, that if I had not so stimulated him by
hopes of his own grandeur, he would have grown desperate--such small
means has he of maintaining his party--and, it is to be feared, he would
have made arrangements with Bearne, who offers him carte-blanche."

The disinterested man had expressed his assent to the views of Philip in
regard to the assembly of the estates and the election of king, but had
claimed the sum of six hundred thousand dollars as absolutely necessary
to the support of himself and followers until those events should occur.
Alexander not having that sum at his disposal was inclined to defer
matters, but was more and more confirmed in his opinion that the Duke was
a "man of truth, faith, and his word." He had distinctly agreed that no
king should be elected, not satisfactory to Philip, and had "stipulated
in return that he should have in this case, not only the second place in
the kingdom, but some very great and special reward in full property."

Thus the man of truth, faith, and his word had no idea of selling himself
cheap, but manifested as much commercial genius as the Fuggers themselves
could have displayed, had they been employed as brokers in these
mercantile transactions.

Above all things, Alexander implored the king to be expeditious,
resolute, and liberal; for, after all, the Bearnese might prove a more
formidable competitor than he was deemed. "These matters must be
arranged while the iron is hot," he said, "in order that the name and
memory of the Bearne and of all his family may be excluded at once and
forever; for your Majesty must not doubt that the whole kingdom inclines
to him, both because he is natural successor, to the crowns and because
in this way the civil war would cease. The only thing that gives trouble
is the religions defect, so that if this should be remedied in
appearance, even if falsely, men would spare no pains nor expense in his
cause."

No human being at that moment, assuredly, could look into the immediate
future accurately enough to see whether the name and memory of the man,
whom his adherents called Henry the Fourth of France, and whom Spaniards,
legitimists and enthusiastic papists, called the Prince of Bearne, were
to be for ever excluded from the archives of France; whether Henry, after
spending the whole of his life as a pretender, was destined to bequeath
the same empty part to his descendants, should they think it worth their
while to play it. Meantime the sages smiled superior at his delusion;
while Alexander Farnese, on the contrary, better understanding the
chances of the great game which they were all playing, made bold to tell
his master that all hearts in France were inclining to their natural
lord. "Differing from your Majesty," said he, "I am of opinion that
there is no better means of excluding him than to make choice of the Duke
of Mayenne, as a person agreeable to the people, and who could only reign
by your permission and support."

Thus, after much hesitation and circumlocution, the nephew made up his
mind to chill his uncle's hopes of the crown, and to speak a decided
opinion in behalf of the man of his word, faith and truth.

And thus through the whole of the two memorable campaigns made by
Alexander in France, he never failed to give his master the most accurate
pictures of the country, and an interior view of its politics; urging
above all the absolute necessity of providing much more liberal supplies
for the colossal adventure in which he was engaged. "Money and again
money is what is required," he said. "The principal matter is to be
accomplished with money, and the particular individuals must be bought
with money. The good will of every French city must be bought with
money. Mayenne must be humoured. He is getting dissatisfied. Very
probably he is intriguing with Bearne. Everybody is pursuing his private
ends. Mayenne has never abandoned his own wish to be king, although he
sees the difficulties in the way; and while he has not the power to do us
as much good as is thought, it is certainly in his hands to do us a great
deal of injury."

When his army was rapidly diminishing by disease, desertion, mutiny, and
death, he vehemently and perpetually denounced the utter inadequacy of
the king's means to his vast projects. He protested that he was not to
blame for the ruin likely to come upon the whole enterprise. He had
besought, remonstrated, reasoned with Philip--in vain. He assured his
master that in the condition of weakness in which they found themselves,
not very triumphant negotiations could be expected, but that he would do
his best. "The Frenchmen," he said, "are getting tired of our disorders,
and scandalized by our weakness, misery, and poverty. They disbelieve
the possibility of being liberated through us."

He was also most diligent in setting before the king's eyes the dangerous
condition of the obedient Netherlands, the poverty of the finances, the
mutinous degeneration of the once magnificent Spanish army, the misery of
the country, the ruin of the people, the discontent of the nobles, the
rapid strides made by the republic, the vast improvement in its military
organization, the rising fame of its young stadholder, the thrift of its
exchequer, the rapid development of its commerce, the menacing aspect
which it assumed towards all that was left of Spanish power in those
regions.

Moreover, in the midst of the toils and anxieties of war-making and
negotiation, he had found time to discover and to send to his master
the left leg of the glorious apostle St. Philip, and the head of the
glorious martyr St. Lawrence, to enrich his collection of relics; and it
may be doubted whether these treasures were not as welcome to the king as
would have been the news of a decisive victory.

During the absence of Farnese in his expeditions against the Bearnese,
the government of his provinces was temporarily in the hands of Peter
Ernest Mansfeld.

This grizzled old fighter--testy, choleric, superannuated--was utterly
incompetent for his post. He was a mere tool in the hands of his son.
Count Charles hated Parma very cordially, and old Count Peter was made
to believe himself in danger of being poisoned or poniarded by the duke.
He was perpetually wrangling with, importuning and insulting him in
consequence, and writing malicious letters to the king in regard to him.
The great nobles, Arschot, Chimay, Berlaymont, Champagny, Arenberg, and
the rest, were all bickering among themselves, and agreeing in nothing
save in hatred to Farnese.

A tight rein, a full exchequer, a well-ordered and well-paid army, and
his own constant patience, were necessary, as Alexander too well knew,
to make head against the republic, and to hold what was left of the
Netherlands. But with a monthly allowance, and a military force not
equal to his own estimates for the Netherland work, he was ordered to go
forth from the Netherlands to conquer France--and with it the dominion of
the world--for the recluse of the Escorial.

Very soon it was his duty to lay bare to his master, still more
unequivocally than ever, the real heart of Mayenne. No one could surpass
Alexander in this skilful vivisection of political characters; and he
soon sent the information that the Duke was in reality very near closing
his bargain with the Bearnese, while amusing Philip and drawing largely
from his funds.

Thus, while faithfully doing his master's work with sword and pen, with
an adroitness such as no other man could have matched, it was a necessary
consequence that Philip should suspect, should detest, should resolve to
sacrifice him. While assuring his nephew, as we have seen, that
elaborate, slanderous reports and protocols concerning him, sent with
such regularity by the chivalrous Moreo and the other spies, had been
totally disregarded, even if they had ever met his eye, he was quietly
preparing--in the midst of all these most strenuous efforts of Alexander,
in the field at peril of his life, in the cabinet at the risk of his
soul--to deprive him of his office, and to bring him, by stratagem if
possible, but otherwise by main force, from the Netherlands to Spain.

This project, once-resolved upon, the king proceeded to execute with
that elaborate attention to detail, with that feline stealth which
distinguished him above all kings or chiefs of police that have ever
existed. Had there been a murder at the end of the plot, as perhaps
there was to be--Philip could not have enjoyed himself more. Nothing
surpassed the industry for mischief of this royal invalid.

The first thing to be done was of course the inditing of a most
affectionate epistle to his nephew.

"Nephew," said he, "you know the confidence which I have always placed in
you and all that I have put in your hands, and I know how much you are to
me, and how earnestly you work in my service, and so, if I could have you
at the same time in several places, it would be a great relief to me.
Since this cannot be however, I wish to make use of your assistance,
according to the times and occasions, in order that I may have some
certainty as to the manner in which all this business is to be managed,
may see why the settlement of affairs in France is thus delayed, and what
the state of things in Christendom generally is, and may consult with,
you about an army which I am getting levied here, and about certain
schemes now on foot in regard to the remedy for all this; all which makes
me desire your presence here for some time, even if a short time, in
order to resolve upon and arrange with the aid of your advice and
opinion, many affairs concerning the public good and facilitate their
execution by means of your encouragement and presence, and to obtain the
repose which I hope for in putting them into your hands. And so I charge
and command you that, if you desire to content me, you use all possible
diligence to let me see you here as soon as possible, and that you start
at once for Genoa."

He was further directed to leave Count Mansfeld at the head of affairs
during this temporary absence, as had been the case so often before,
instructing him to make use of the Marquis of Cerralbo, who was already
there, to lighten labours that might prove too much for a man of
Mansfeld's advanced age.

"I am writing to the marquis," continued the king, "telling him that he
is to obey all your orders. As to the reasons of your going away, you
will give out that it is a decision of your own, founded on good cause,
or that it is a summons of mine, but full of confidence and good will
towards you, as you see that it is."

The date of this letter was 20th February, 1592.

The secret instructions to the man who was thus to obey all the duke's
orders were explicit enough upon that point, although they were wrapped
in the usual closely-twisted phraseology which distinguished Philip's
style when his purpose was most direct.

Cerralbo was entrusted with general directions as to the French matter,
and as to peace negotiations with "the Islands;" but the main purport of
his mission was to remove Alexander Farnese. This was to be done by fair
means, if possible; if not, he was to be deposed and sent home by force.

This was to be the reward of all the toil and danger through which he had
grown grey and broken in the king's service.

"When you get to the Netherlands" (for the instructions were older than
the letter to Alexander just cited), "you are," said the king, "to treat
of the other two matters until the exact time arrives for the third,
taking good care not to, cut the thread of good progress in the affairs
of France if by chance they are going on well there.

"When the time arrives to treat of commission number three," continued
his Majesty, "you will take occasion of the arrival of the courier of
20th February, and will give with much secrecy the letter of that date to
the duke; showing him at the same time the first of the two which you
will have received."

If the duke showed the letter addressed to him by his uncle--which the
reader has already seen--then the marquis was to discuss with him the
details of the journey, and comment upon the benefits and increased
reputation which would be the result of his return to Spain.

"But if the duke should not show you the letter," proceeded Philip, "and
you suspect that he means to conceal and equivocate about the particulars
of it, you can show him your letter number two, in which it is stated
that you have received a copy of the letter to the duke. This will make
the step easier."

Should the duke declare himself ready to proceed to Spain on the ground
indicated--that the king had need of his services--the marquis was then
to hasten his departure as earnestly as possible. Every pains were to be
taken to overcome any objections that might be made by the duke on the
score of ill health, while the great credit which attached to this
summons to consult with the king in such arduous affairs was to be duly
enlarged upon. Should Count Mansfeld meantime die of old age, and should
Farnese insist the more vehemently, on that account, upon leaving his son
the Prince Ranuccio in his post as governor, the marquis was authorised
to accept the proposition for the moment--although secretly instructed
that such an appointment was really quite out of the question--if by so
doing the father could be torn from the place immediately.

But if all would not do, and if it should become certain that the duke
would definitively refuse to take his departure, it would then become
necessary to tell him clearly, but secretly, that no excuse would be
accepted, but that go he must; and that if he did not depart voluntarily
within a fixed time, he would be publicly deprived of office and
conducted to Spain by force.

But all these things were to be managed with the secrecy and mystery so
dear to the heart of Philip. The marquis was instructed to go first to
the castle of Antwerp, as if upon financial business, and there begin his
operations. Should he find at last all his private negotiations and
coaxings of no avail, he was then to make use of his secret letters from
the king to the army commanders, the leading nobles of the country, and
of the neighbouring princes, all of whom were to be undeceived in regard
to the duke, and to be informed of the will of his majesty.

The real successor of Farnese was to be the Archduke Albert, Cardinal of
Austria, son of Archduke Ferdinand, and the letters on this subject were
to be sent by a "decent and confidential person" so soon as it should
become obvious that force would be necessary in order to compel the
departure of Alexander. For if it came to open rupture, it would be
necessary to have the cardinal ready to take the place. If the affair
were arranged amicably, then the new governor might proceed more at
leisure. The marquis was especially enjoined, in case the duke should be
in France, and even if it should be necessary for him to follow him there
on account of commissions number one and two, not to say a word to him
then of his recall, for fear of damaging matters in that kingdom. He was
to do his best to induce him to return to Flanders, and when they were
both there, he was to begin his operations.

Thus, with minute and artistic treachery, did Philip provide for the
disgrace and ruin of the man who was his near blood relation, and who had
served him most faithfully from earliest youth. It was not possible to
carry out the project immediately, for, as it has already been narrated,
Farnese, after achieving, in spite of great obstacles due to the dulness
of the king alone, an extraordinary triumph, had been dangerously
wounded, and was unable for a brief interval to attend to public affairs.

On the conclusion of his Rouen campaign he had returned to the
Netherlands, almost immediately betaking himself to the waters of Spa.
The Marquis de Cerralbo meanwhile had been superseded in his important
secret mission by the Count of Fuentes, who received the same
instructions as had been provided for the marquis.

But ere long it seemed to become unnecessary to push matters to
extremities. Farnese, although nominally the governor, felt himself
unequal to take the field against the vigorous young commander who was
carrying everything before him in the north and east. Upon the Mansfelds
was the responsibility for saving Steenwyk and Coeworden, and to the
Mansfelds did Verdugo send piteously, but in vain, for efficient help.
For the Mansfelds and other leading personages in the obedient
Netherlands were mainly occupied at that time in annoying Farnese,
calumniating his actions, laying obstacles in the way of his
administration, military and civil, and bringing him into contempt with
the populace. When the weary soldier--broken in health, wounded and
harassed with obtaining triumphs for his master such as no other living
man could have gained with the means placed at his disposal--returned
to drink the waters, previously to setting forth anew upon the task of
achieving the impossible, he was made the mark of petty insults on the
part of both the Mansfelds. Neither of them paid their respects to him;
ill as he was, until four days after his arrival. When the duke
subsequently called a council; Count Peter refused to attend it on
account of having slept ill the night before. Champagny; who was one of,
the chief mischief-makers, had been banished by Parma to his house in
Burgundy. He became very much alarmed, and was afraid of losing his
head. He tried to conciliate the duke, but finding it difficult he
resolved to turn monk, and so went to the convent of Capuchins, and
begged hard to be admitted a member. They refused him on account of his
age and infirmities. He tried a Franciscan monastery with not much
better success, and then obeyed orders and went to his Burgundy mansion;
having been assured by Farnese that he was not to lose his head.
Alexander was satisfied with that arrangement, feeling sure, he said,
that so soon as his back was turned Champagny would come out of his
convent before the term of probation had expired, and begin to make
mischief again. A once valiant soldier, like Champagny, whose conduct in
the famous "fury of Antwerp" was so memorable; and whose services both in
field and-cabinet had, been so distinguished, fallen so low as to, be
used as a tool by the Mansfelds against a man like Farnese; and to be
rejected as unfit company by Flemish friars, is not a cheerful spectacle
to contemplate.

The walls of the Mansfeld house and gardens, too, were decorated by Count
Charles with caricatures, intending to illustrate the indignities put
upon his father: and himself.

Among others, one picture represented Count Peter lying tied hand and
foot, while people were throwing filth upon him; Count Charles being
pourtrayed as meantime being kicked away from the command of a battery
of cannon by, De la Motte. It seemed strange that the Mansfelds should,
make themselves thus elaborately ridiculous, in order to irritate
Farnese; but thus it was. There was so much stir, about these works of
art that Alexander transmitted copies of them to the king, whereupon
Charles Mansfeld, being somewhat alarmed, endeavoured to prove that they
had been entirely misunderstood. The venerable personage lying on the
ground, he explained, was not his father, but Socrates. He found it
difficult however to account for the appearance of La Motte, with his one
arm wanting and with artillery by his side, because, as Farnese justly
remarked, artillery had not been invented in the time of Socrates, nor
was it recorded that the sage had lost an arm.

Thus passed the autumn of 1592, and Alexander, having as he supposed
somewhat recruited his failing strength, prepared, according to his
master's orders for a new campaign in France. For with almost
preterhuman malice Philip was employing the man whom he had doomed to
disgrace, perhaps to death, and whom he kept under constant secret
supervision, in those laborious efforts to conquer without an army and
to purchase a kingdom with an empty purse, in which, as it was destined,
the very last sands of Parma's life were to run away.

Suffering from a badly healed wound, from water on the chest,
degeneration of the heart, and gout in the limbs, dropsical, enfeebled,
broken down into an old man before his time, Alexander still confronted
disease and death with as heroic a front as he had ever manifested in the
field to embattled Hollanders and Englishmen, or to the still more
formidable array of learned pedants and diplomatists in the hall of
negotiation. This wreck of a man was still fitter to lead armies and
guide councils than any soldier or statesman that Philip could call into
his service, yet the king's cruel hand was ready to stab the dying man in
the dark.

Nothing could surpass the spirit with which the soldier was ready to do
battle with his best friend, coming in the guise of an enemy. To the
last moment, lifted into the saddle, he attended personally as usual to
the details of his new campaign, and was dead before he would confess
himself mortal. On the 3rd of December, 1592, in the city of Arran, he
fainted after retiring at his usual hour to bed, and thus breathed his
last.

According to the instructions in his last will, he was laid out barefoot
in the robe and cowl of a Capuchin monk. Subsequently his remains were
taken to Parma, and buried under the pavement of the little Franciscan
church. A pompous funeral, in which the Italians and Spaniards
quarrelled and came to blows for precedence, was celebrated in Brussels,
and a statue of the hero was erected in the capitol at Rome.

The first soldier and most unscrupulous diplomatist of his age, he died
when scarcely past his prime, a wearied; broken-hearted old man. His
triumphs, military and civil, have been recorded in these pages, and his
character has been elaborately pourtrayed. Were it possible to conceive
of an Italian or Spaniard of illustrious birth in the sixteenth century,
educated in the school of Machiavelli, at the feet of Philip, as anything
but the supple slave of a master and the blind instrument of a Church,
one might for a moment regret that so many gifts of genius and valour had
been thrown away or at least lost to mankind. Could the light of truth
ever pierce the atmosphere in which such men have their being; could the
sad music of humanity ever penetrate to their ears; could visions of a
world--on this earth or beyond it--not exclusively the property of kings
and high-priests be revealed to them, one might lament that one so
eminent among the sons of women had not been a great man. But it is a
weakness to hanker for any possible connection between truth and Italian
or Spanish statecraft of that day. The truth was not in it nor in him,
and high above his heroic achievements, his fortitude, his sagacity, his
chivalrous self-sacrifice, shines forth the baleful light of his
perpetual falsehood.

From my Newsweek magazine: On blogs

2006-08-04T07:22:00.000-07:00

THE DEBUNKER

Ever since Weblogs became known as blogs, there's been a steady drumbeat that the so-called pajamas mediawould soon make reporters and the MSM obsolete. A new survey from the Pew Internet Project dispels that notion.

WHO READS IT: Turns out that most of the 12 million American bloggers write for themselves, and their biggest readers are Mom and Dad.

NOT SO JOURNALISTIC: Nearly 40 percent of bloggers describe their journals as personal diaries; 65 percent don't consider their musings journalism at all; 78 percent are mostly inspired by personal experience.

ALMOST PRO: Eighty-four percent say blogging is a hobby. And the top 100 bloggers--those who get the most traffic--are almost all professional writers or journalists already.

From Slate.com

This is Democracy.

Gotta find something new to talk about. I don't talk crap.

Why do girls always put each other down?

2006-07-29T07:36:00.000-07:00

Okay, not all girls are like THIS, but many are:

From The New Paper, a long time ago during the World Cup season:

Soccer dudes women love...
and wives & girlfriends they hate
THEY are one of the world's most famous celebrity couples.
But while one name sets many a heart fluttering, the other drives women to clench their fists and turn up their noses.
By Avis Wong

04 June 2006
THEY are one of the world's most famous celebrity couples.
But while one name sets many a heart fluttering, the other drives women to clench their fists and turn up their noses.
We're talking about the Beckhams, of course - David and Victoria.

'I think Beckham is too good-looking for her. She's got a funny nose,' Beckham fan administrator Shimah Jailanie, 33, told The New Paper.
Added football fan Amy Seow, 18, a student: 'She seems to be always concerned about glamour and being in the limelight.'
The New Paper susses out other footballers whose wives and girlfriends other women love to hate.

Kaka and Caroline Celico

'Kaka's very quick and creative as a midfielder. He's versatile in terms of setting up goals for his team mates,' said Rachel Isabel Yang, 24, a student.
This Brazilian dude doesn't just look yummy, he has a big heart too - he's the youngest ambassador of the United Nations World Food Programme against hunger.
Too bad that the 23-year-old midfielder, whose real name is Ricardo Izecson dos Santos Leite, is already taken.
The object of his affections: 18-year-old Caroline Celico, a nubile model fresh out of high school. The couple tied the knot in December after dating for three years.
'He's really young and to get married at such a young age is shocking. When I saw her picture, I thought he could get a better girl. I don't know why he chose her,' said student Izyan Mellyna Ishak, 19, who's a Kaka fan.
NUS student Chow Jiexin, 20, would love to be in Celico's shoes.
'Why not? He's cute and he's powerful with his shots and skilful in his dribbling,' she said.

Rafael van der Vaart and Sylvie Meis

Married in June last year, 23-year-old van de Vaart and his 28-year-old TV presenter and ex-model wife recently had their first child, Damian Rafael.
'He's big and strong and he holds his position well,' said sports manager Kim Lau, 36.
But remarks about his wife have not been as kind.
Miss Ajax said in Soccerpages Forum: 'I think Rafael isn't the good player he used to be. And my opinion is that he misses his good form because of... Sylvie Meis! She sucks!'
Another footie fan, AFCA 1900, thinks Meis is a tyrant and a diva, saying: 'She will turn into a tyrant and a militant control freak and she will not rest until she has made absolutely sure that she will be treated like a princess.'

Francesco Totti and Ilary Blasi

'He commands respect from his team mates. If he's around, they seem to be more confident,' said sports manager and soccer fan Kim Lau said of Totti.
In keeping with his status, he is married to one of the most beautiful Italian celebrities, Ilary Blasi, 25. They married last June amd had their first baby, Christian, early this year.
The sex bomb, who currently works as an announcer and host on several TV shows, was in the limelight just three months ago for a 'Janet Jackson moment' - her plunging neckline dress slipping open to reveal her nipple. It happened on national TV on the opening night of Italy's top TV show of the year, the Sanremo Song Fest.
The boo-boo only reinforced the image some soccer fans have of her.
'She looks trashy and fake... so many footballers marry women like her though,' said Natasha on SoccerPulse Community.

Andriy Shevchenko and Kristen Pazik

The Ukrainian striker may not have spoken a word of English when he met American model Kristen Pazik at a Giorgio Armani party but that didn't stop him from hitting it off with her (they speak Italian).
The couple married in July 2004 and had a son, Jordan, that same year.
'Sheva is so sexy, I tell you. But his wife is too skinny. I can't stand all the bones, and she doesn't look that great. He has a lot of money. He should buy her more food or just get himself a sexier wife,' said student Izyan.
Shevchenko, or Sheva as he's known, has recently set fans talking about his move from AC Milan to Chelsea, with some attributing it to arm-twisting from his wife.
'I don't really know much about this Kristen Pazik but she seems like a really manipulative bitch,' said Scotsman on The Red & Black Forums.

Theo Walcott and Melanie Slade

Pictures of the Arsenal striker and girlfriend Melanie Slade, who is currently studying for her A levels, have been drawing eyeballs.
The couple are both 17.
'She's a nice intelligent girl who knows what she wants to do. Melanie doesn't seem to me like somebody who will embrace being a footballer's wife and only a footballer's wife,' said Michelle Gayle, wife of ex-professional footballer Mark Bright.
Even so, Slade has her detractors.
A local football fan, student Dyl Lee, 19, griped: 'She's about my age and she has such a dishy boyfriend. I just want to kill her for being so lucky as to pick the right guy!'

The girls like the guy, but not the girl whom he is with; so guess what? They trash her. I feel that all this is terribly ironic. How many times have we heard it already? I often wonder why women have to put each other down in this way. It seems as if they think that their only competition is other women, and because of this, they have their heads filled with so much shit that they allow the men to have the upper hand in deciding just how good they are.

When is a girl not good enough for a guy?
1) When she is too skinny.
2) When she is too slutty.
3) When she is too bitchy.
4) When she is too controlling.
5) When all the other women L-O-V-E love him.

This is just like what you find on all those Discovery Channel "nature" documentaries where the animals are all humping like crazy and fighting like crazy to get the right to do that humping. Except that there, it's the males who do all the knocking down of the same sex, HERE, it's the females.

I doubt if any woman would really care what another one is like (anorexic or whorish or anything like that), especially if they don't know her from Adam (let's forget female empowerment, the average lady who takes to the streets these days for this kind of thing is just incredibly busybodied about the way Other People lead their lives, not really championing a Good Cause). I mean, really, in this world it's every man for himself, if a girl lands herself in a crap-hole, who's to care? Unless of course the ones who care actually have some kind of ulterior motive and are still pretty much in denial over it.

Honestly, by no means am I saying that it's wrong of these people to like a guy, in fact, it's even good as it proves that they're normal. What I don't understand is how it becomes a matter of competition with other women for the same guy. These women don't say--it's a pity I don't stand a chance with him; rather, they say--she's not good enough. Why put a total stranger down in that way? It doesn't make sense. It's mean and dishonest, makes them appear like fools and totally misses the point of Women's Liberation, whatever that was supposed to mean in the first place.

Part of Women's Liberation, I think, is not to fight over a man. It's about being a thinking individual who's good enough for anyone and anything and letting other women have the freedom to be the same.

Parmigianino's Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror

2006-07-28T05:10:00.001-07:00

I fell in love with this guy when I was thirteen years old. That happened in the library at Woodlands; I was wandering along pretty aimlessly and then I stopped to look through an art book, and then...there he was.

It was a self-portrait done on a wooden semi-sphere when he was twenty-one years old.

The colours were pale--not vivid or lifelike--as if the entire scene had been limned in quicksilver, the effect was to make it look as if it were a reflection of the painter in a mirror. it was absolutely breathtaking, one hand looming large at the edge of the picture and the face and the rest, body and fancy dress all drawn in, tiny, tiny, the parts of the image nearest us physically and yet shrunken and distant. It was a curious piece.

I still wonder now if the artwork had just been a small contrivance by the artist to show the pope his tricks with the brush or whether it ever meant anything deeper.

This is the poet John Ashbery's interpretation of it:

look for it on www.poemhunter.com--http://www.poemhunter.com/p/m/poem.asp?poet=12981&poem=182576

This is a short account of the life of Parmigianino:

Italian Mannerist painter and etcher (real name: Girolamo Francesco Mazzola), born in Parma, from which he takes his nickname. He was a precocious artist, and as early as 1522-23 painted accomplished frescoes in two chapels in S. Giovanni Evangelista, Parma, showing his admiration for Correggio, who had worked in the same church a year or two before. The originality and sophistication he displayed from the beginning, particularly his love of unusual spatial effects, is, however, most memorably seen in his Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror (1524, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna), in which Vasari said he looks 'so beautiful that he seemed an angel rather than a man'.
In 1524 Parmigianino moved to Rome, possibly via Florence, and his work became both grander and more graceful under the influence of Raphael and Michelangelo. The Vision of St Jerome (National Gallery, London, 1526-27) is his most important work of this time, showing the disturbing emotional intensity he created with his elongated forms, disjointed sense of space, chill lighting, and lascivious atmosphere.
Parmigianino left Rome after it was sacked by German troops in 1527 and moved to Bologna. In 1531 he returned to Parma and contracted to paint frescoes in Sta Maria della Steccata. He failed to complete the work, however, and was eventually imprisoned for breach of contract. Vasari says he neglected the work because he was infatuated with alchemy — 'he allowed his beard to grow long and disordered ... he neglected himself and grew melancholy and eccentric.' His later paintings show no falling off in his powers, however, and his work reaches its apotheosis in his celebrated Madonna of the Long Neck (Uffizi, Florence, c. 1535). The forms of the figures are extraordinarily elongated and tapering and the painting has a refinement and grace that place it among the archetypal works of Mannerism.
Parmigianino's range extended beyond religious works. He painted a highly erotic Cupid Carving his Bow (Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, 1535), and was one of the subtlest portraitists of his age (two superb examples are in the Museo di Capodimonte, Naples). The landscape backgrounds to his religious works have a mysterious and visionary quality that influenced Niccolo dell' Abbate and through him French art. Parmigianino, whose draughtsmanship was exquisite, also made designs for engravings and chiaroscuro woodcuts and seems to have been the first Italian artist to produce original etchings from his own designs.

More here--Links:
http://www.haberarts.com/parma.htm:
An Era's Portrait in a Convex Mirror
John Haberin New York City
A Beautiful and Gracious Manner: The Art of Parmigianino

http://www.people.virginia.edu/~djr4r/parmigianino.html

Art History at Loggia the Artist Parmigianino at a GlanceThe artist Parmigianino at a glance, with information about art books ... Parmigianino at a Glance. Self Portrait, by Parmigianino. artist Parmigianino. lived 1503-1540 ... www.loggia.com/art/artists/parmigianino.html More pages from loggia.com

A little bit on the poem:

http://www.pupress.princeton.edu/titles/8016.html

www.hum.utah.edu/hgc/papers/blitch.pdf :
Blitch 1File type:PDF - Download PDF Reader... Ashbery uses formal poetic techniques at the level of the line in many ways ... the identity of Ashbery sometimes merges with that of Parmigianino. And because Parmigianino's ... www.hum.utah.edu/hgc/papers/blitch.pdf More pages from hum.utah.edu

http://www.lacan.com/leadash.htm:

Lead in the Looking Glass: A Lacanian Approach toJohn Ashbery's "Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror"
Jack Bedell

http://www.d.umn.edu/~jjacobs1/utpictura/parm.htm:
Self-Portrait in a Convex MirrorAs Hollander notes in The Gazer's Spirit, in John Ashbery's long and complex poem. ".. ... in repose. It is what is. Sequestered . . . Self Portrait in a Convex Mirror. John Ashbery. Hollander also notes that "The ever-problematic gaze of the subject in self ... www.d.umn.edu/~jjacobs1/utpictura/parm.htm More pages from d.umn.edu

Now do me a favour...write me some comments.

4c1, you're a class of arseholes...

2006-07-26T23:36:00.000-07:00

Thursday--ignore the above date--it's the 27th of July

...this comes from your classmate.

I'm saying all this because I am being perfectly honest and I don't give a shit about what you lot will do to me as you will not do anything and I'm absolutely proud of what I'm saying.

You are a class of arseholes. Here is why:

YESTERDAY--Physical Education class. You all know this one. What is wrong with you? Don't know? I'll give you a recap and I'll let the rest of you all (innocent bystanders) know exactly what happened.

Okay. Time to be civil now that my initial anger is gone anyway. Our school got it into their heads that they would let us choreograph dances for our twice-a-week all-Crescent morning exercises. They instructed us with just this: Short and simple, eight counts. All nine secondary four classes have to do one and teach it to the rest of the level.

Are you clear, people?
Alright.

So the school already said SHORT AND SIMPLE, but apparently/obviously, 4c1 no undastan ingalese, make dans so fukkyng difikul, musta be-a tha' Rain ah? (Korean fellow, big and tall, "fabulous" dancer with BIG muscles--hope that's not the only thing that's BIG about him, I seen sum pix of tat gi an' he dress like no balls'a--fags are IN, is it?) So it took a long time for ALL of us to learn it, especially ME (my dad told me a long time ago that my sister and I have no coordination at all, I'm inclined to believe that). But that was all right. I can't fault others for not being able to FOLLOW instructions if that basic level of IQ hasn't been bred into them. No hard feelings there.

That was last week.

It's this week's events that made me angry. Yesterday's PE class was a total bomb, a total waste of my time--no, not really. I learnt alot about the TRUE nature of TEAM spirit and that of the ego, and sadly, none of the former really exists within the class despite the number of bl_ _dy times they have sung Happy Birthday to a classmate or yelled the class name in unison. This week's PE lesson was to rehearse the dance, or at least I imagined that it was until the PE teacher supervising the lot of us clapped her hands and said that we needed a "close" to our routine. Fine. But after that, some bright sparks came up with this absolutely ridiculous idea of arranging ourselves in some formation or other, first, they ("they" because I don't know WHO thought of it first) wanted a pattern of two concentric squares.
And then a group of classmates whom all suddenly gave themselves "leadership", spoke louder than anybody else (even if that anybody undoubtedly had the better brain) and commanded the rest of us to "go there...go there...NO, GO THERE..." and after like fifteen minutes of tussling, the teacher interjected again and said that we were SO STOOPIT, CAN WE NOT SEE IT? And then it was "this way and this way and there...go there..." That kind of shit.
And then came the shouting. Everybody--the arseholish ones--assumed authority and started yelling and staring self-righteously at everybody else and yelling and screaming--like: I'm the only samrt one here, I'm clever'n'right'n'tite and you all are positioned WRONG so LISTEN to ME. They were all yelling and no one was listening even though I had long ago concieved the brilliant idea of a SIMPLE square block formation. Honestly, I have never seen my class get so F-ing excited over something, they're the type who clam up and giggle and sulk during our literature classes. It seems as if they only get excited over the teeny-tiny trivial parts of life--well, that'd explain Rain, huh?

Yeah.

And THEN, as if it weren't all enough, so idiots came up with a 4c1 formation for class pride. Thankfully, they dimissed that silly suggestion, but instead, started changing the dance moves so that we could yell "4c1!" or something like that. (On a side-note, "Fuckin' 4c1" would have been very appropriate, but it occurred to no one.) So my sister and I and other poor folks who have good brains but lousy dancing skills lost track and were chided by the Rain-dancing fanatics. Oh Lord. That's what I felt like.

They value this "class spirit" so much that they take every chance to yell the class name--they think it affirms identity (or some other crap like that), but unfortunately, all these girls have absolutely no understanding of other people, no empathy, no sensibility. They think only for themselves, they only know "me me ME", what THEY like, what THEY want, what THEY think. And they think that things are perfectly fine, A-Okay that way. It's sad that they're so small-minded, sure, when it comes to parties and birthdays, they're great fun, but when it comes to giving, when it comes to being responsible and actually making a CONTRIBUTION (1, see below), they never do it.

Note:
1) When it comes to doing LITERATURE notes as a class especially. No one does their part, everybody makes totally shit notes. They're most likely afraid that the next person will take their notes and do better than themselves.

4c1, I demand to know when things will get better. I demand to know what's wrong with you all.

More reasons--Coming Soon...

Robert Penn Warren

2006-07-26T01:49:00.001-07:00

Evening Hawk

From plane of light to plane, wings dipping through
Geometries and orchids that the sunset builds,
Out of the peak's black angularity of shadow, riding
The last tumultuous avalanche of
Light above pines and the guttural gorge,
The hawk comes.
His wing
Scythes down another day, his motion
Is that of the honed steel-edge, we hear
The crashless fall of stalks of Time.

The head of each stalk is heavy with the gold of our error.

Look! Look! he is climbing the last light
Who knows neither Time nor error, and under
Whose eye, unforgiving, the world, unforgiven, swings
Into shadow.

Long now,
The last thrush is still, the last bat
Now cruises in his sharp hieroglyphics. His wisdom
Is ancient, too, and immense.
The starIs steady, like Plato, over the mountain.

If there were no wind we might, we think, hear
The earth grind on its axis, or history
Drip in darkness like a leaking pipe in the cellar.

Robert Penn Warren

And from http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/poets/s_z/warren/evening.htm
On "Evening Hawk"

Harold Bloom (1984)
[Bloom’s overview of Warren’s career finds its focus on the images of the hawk or hawks repeated over several poems. Among a number of things it represents, the hawk is, Bloom suggests, "an emblem of certainty in pride and honor."]
… ["Evening Hawk"] is surely one of his dozen or so lyric masterpieces, a culmination of forty years of his art.
[Bloom quotes the whole poem.]
The hawk’s emotion is that of a scythe reaping time, but Warren has learned more than his distance from the hawk’s state of being. I know no single line in him grander that the beautifully oxymoronic "the head of each stalk Is heavy with the gold of our error." What is being harvested in our fault, and yet that mistake appears as golden grain. When the poet sublimely cries "Look! Look!" to us, I do not hear a Yeatsian exultation, but rather an acceptance of a vision that will forgive us nothing, and yet does not rejoice in that stance.
From Harold Bloom, "Sunset Hawk: Warren’s Poetry and Tradition," in Harold Bloom, Ed., Modern Critical Views: Robert Penn Warren (New York: Chelsea House, 1986), 203-204.

Calvin Bedient (1984)
Warren’s most strenuous "Platonic" poem, "Evening Hawk," is torn between image and idea. As image, the hawk enshrines the poet’s Nietzschean love of heroism: as idea, it is the Platonic Good, the Platonic True. The poem attempts to break into allegory with
Look! Look! He is climbing the last lightWho knows neither Time nor Error, and underWhose eye, unforgiving, the world, unforgiven, swingsInto shadow.
The poet cannot know all this except by wanting to believe it; here the mind ceases to be wholly realist, universal, and manly and becomes sharply, universally judgmental.
With its rhythmical loveliness – an evening lull quickened by hawk-motions – and its unrepentent sensory vividness, which triumphs at the end, and most of all the hawk’s animal vigor, the poem stays alive, however fought over from inside. The emotion remains true and intact, because the poet is not contemptuous of vitality per se, but only of vitality that fails. Here, vitality in its full power is consonant with Platonic freedom from death and error.
From Calvin Bedient, "His Varying Stance," Chapter 4 in In The Heart’s Last Kingdom: Robert Penn Warren’s Major Poetry (Cambridge: harvard U P, 1984), 166-167.

John Burt (1988)
Audubon’s birds, this is to say, are the stern celestials Warren himself celebrates in "Evening Hawk" and "The Leaf," those not-angels who know everything but mercy, of which they neither feel nor see the need, and who stand outside of time even as their motion is the motion of time’s ruthlessness. …
The bird of prey is not an emblem by means of which the necessity it embodies may be examined. If it stands for anything it stands for that contempt with which necessity spurns comprehension.
from John Burt, "Audobon and Evasion," Chapter 6 in Robert Penn Warren and American Idealism (New Haven: Yale U P, 1988), 103-104.

From http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/17

A Way to Love God
by Robert Penn Warren

Here is the shadow of truth, for only the shadow is true.
And the line where the incoming swell from the sunset Pacific
First leans and staggers to break will tell all you need to know
About submarine geography, and your father's death rattle
Provides all biographical data required for the Who's Who of the dead.
I cannot recall what I started to tell you, but at least
I can say how night-long I have lain under the stars and
Heard mountains moan in their sleep. By daylight,
They remember nothing, and go about their lawful occasions
Of not going anywhere except in slow disintegration. At night
They remember, however, that there is something they cannot remember.
So moan. Theirs is the perfected pain of conscience that
Of forgetting the crime, and I hope you have not suffered it. I have.
I do not recall what had burdened my tongue, but urge you
To think on the slug's white belly, how sick-slick and soft,
On the hairiness of stars, silver, silver, while the silence
Blows like wind by, and on the sea's virgin bosom unveiled
To give suck to the wavering serpent of the moon; and,
In the distance, in plaza, piazza, place, platz, and square,
Boot heels, like history being born, on cobbles bang.
Everything seems an echo of something else.
And when, by the hair, the headsman held up the head
Of Mary of Scots, the lips kept on moving,
But without sound. The lips,
They were trying to say something very important.
But I had forgotten to mention an upland
Of wind-tortured stone white in darkness, and tall, but when
No wind, mist gathers, and once on the Sarré at midnight,
I watched the sheep huddling. Their eyes
Stared into nothingness. In that mist-diffused light their eyes
Were stupid and round like the eyes of fat fish in muddy water,
Or of a scholar who has lost faith in his calling.
Their jaws did not move. Shreds
Of dry grass, gray in the gray mist-light, hung
From the side of a jaw, unmoving.
You would think that nothing would ever again happen.
That may be a way to love God.

From New and Selected Poems 1923-1985 by Robert Penn Warren, published by Random House. Copyright © 1985 by Robert Penn Warren. Used by permission of William Morris Agency, Inc., on behalf of the author.

Mortal Limit
by Robert Penn Warren
I saw the hawk ride updraft in the sunset over Wyoming.
It rose from coniferous darkness, past gray jags
Of mercilessness, past whiteness, into the gloaming
Of dream-spectral light above the lazy purity of snow-snags.
There--west--were the Tetons. Snow-peaks would soon be
In dark profile to break constellations. Beyond what height
Hangs now the black speck? Beyond what range will gold eyes see
New ranges rise to mark a last scrawl of light?
Or, having tasted that atmosphere's thinness, does it
Hang motionless in dying vision before
It knows it will accept the mortal limit,
And swing into the great circular downwardness that will restore
The breath of earth? Of rock? Of rot? Of other such
Items, and the darkness of whatever dream we clutch?

From New and Selected Poems 1923-1985 by Robert Penn Warren, published by Random House. Copyright © 1985 by Robert Penn Warren. Used by permission of William Morris Agency, Inc., on behalf of the author.

We Love You Gigi

2006-07-25T19:50:00.000-07:00

My sister and I just wanted to say this--We Love You!

It wasn't really the WC that did it for us, or your reputation as the world's best goalkeeper, no. (We don't know the first thing about football.) It was really your decision to stay at Juventus and play in Serie B--very brave of you. I could come up with one hundred and two not-so-complementary reasons as to why you would want to do something like that, but I won't. I was rather surprised when I read about your decision to stay, it's not terribly good for one's career now is it? But, since I tend towards the sentimental, I commend your choice, it's sincere, from the HEART not the HEAD (nor from the POCKET). Even if no one else does, I'll remember you for this.

Also, we're very sincerely sorry for calling you a ratface and we promise we'll never do it again.

The problems with my school...

2006-07-21T04:44:00.000-07:00

...and those of the entire Singapore education system

Yes, in case no one's noticed, I'm a Singaporean.

I notice that I am often furious with my school, oh, it's for little things; little, little things on paper that translate into big, BIG things in real life. These are problems which just about everyone ignores, the people-in-charge because no one of any importance knows about them, the students because they cannot do anything about it.

My school, Crescent Girls' School, frustrates me for numerous reasons. These are mainly to do with the people and their way of doing things.

The teachers are often sloppy, they do not seem to care about their work or about us, the students. I feel that they do not look at us as people but, rather, as just another task to finish as quickly as possible and then put away. The teachers teach us as much as possible within set periods (between about a half-hour and an hour), toss us some homework, mark and return it after it is handed in and give us tests now and then. It's not a terribly effective style of learning as the teachers just say: You got this wrong and this wrong and this wrong. Correct it. And then we're done. Although they do go through the homework and tests in class, they do it at lightning speed and students have to keep up or fall behind and never get up again. We do not get many opportunities to ask questions in class if we don't understand this or that, this is due to how little time the school system gives us to get things done. AND THEN, when we do ask questions (or myself at least), the teacher doesn't seem to think or listen to what was asked, to them, the answer is THAT way BECAUSE and only because. It is discouraging the way the teacher often tries to brush us off in that way. However, I understand to some extent why this happens as TIME is very TIGHT, and there is nothing we can do about it.

What gets me MORE is this: the teacher's attitude. Many of them do not respect us students as people with the same rights as they themselves. They have absolutely no respect for our time. As one of the Secondary Four students, I know this tendency all too well. You see, we are taking our O' Level examinations this year and as a result of this, the school gives us many mock-tests (two a week really, on Tuesdays and Fridays) and the teachers are making us come back during the long holidays for extra lessons too. (Yes, that just about sums it up--sounds exhausting, no? YES!) Ironically though, the teachers often choose to absent themselves at the last minute, when we have already made the time and cleared out all our other plans and have waited for them. And, more often than not, the teachers choose not to inform us beforehand or even at all so that we are on standby for the whole time before we gather up the nerves to leave. And then, after all our sufferings, they pop up the next time we are scheduled to see them and they inform us that we have not had the lesson, and therefore, we must all make time on Monday/Tuesday/Wednesday etc. so that we can finish up the syllabus as we are far, FAR behind all the other classes. My PHYSICS teacher, a middle-aged nobody who acts like SOMEBODY who is anybody, is a classic example. He is a certain LIM MIN CHO--that's his name and I'll say it loud as he deserves every bit of shit that is coming his way. Alright, I've had my rant, now for the story. I have so much to tell that I don't even know where to start. So, I'll tell today's example and whatever else I can remember. Today is Friday, so we had a mock test--physics--no prizes for guessing. I'll close my eyes awhile--deep breaths. Put it simply: he made things difficult for us. Our test started after our curriculum time lessons ended, at 3: 45pm. It was already very late then and I really really wanted to begin and end on time as I had already pushed my tution back so that I could do what I had to at school. So we all sat down in the classroom and waited, the teacher in charge (someone I don't know--good for her) was giving out the papers when LIM MIN CHO suddenly popped in at the classroom door and said that we had to push our desks apart, at least HALF A METRE. This was extremely inconvenient as the desks were arranged in four rows, two by eight desks all huddling close so as to get a better view of the whiteboard. All my classmates groaned and told him that it would be really inconvenient as we would have to move the desks apart and back again and promised him not to peek, but he still refused to budge and we had to shift the tables. Some other classmates were hoping he'd relent and kept requesting him not to request something so absurd of us girls--well, old LIM MIN CHO (yes, remember the name) declared that he'd be back in three minutes and we had better shift the tables, OR ELSE. Of course, he didn't say it THAT way. He didn't have to. He was just rather indulgent, self-indulgent about it all, we would have to do it whether or not it made sense because he was boss. If we didn't do it, he'd keep us back. It was his prerogative as long as we were in the school. Oh lord, I wished to give him the swearing of his life, but I shifted my desk instead and waited for the teacher to be happy. After LIM MIN CHO sauntered off, some girls were still moaning and groaning over the tables and of course the fat lady in charge of us was all too happy to assert her own authority over us. She told us to shift our desks and quick, otherwise she would not let us start and we'd go home late. My friend whispered to me that she had to go see a doctor and let her mother fetch her at 4:30 pm EXACTLY--if we started late like the old C_ _ NT told us we would, she would be late and her plans ruined. And, in the end the old f_cktard didn't come back. What does that tell you? LOADS--about our school and people in general. The teachers are cruel half-arsed loserlifes who most likely don't get a fuck a week and take all their frustration out on the kids. No. Not really. Here it is:
The teachers are insensitive to our needs.
The teachers don't respect those below themselves.
The teachers are most probably not doing what they love or do best.
They abuse us, they abuse their authority.
The teachers are uneducated in the worst possible way, do things only at their own convenience and have never given a thought to the students who have no choice but to DO AS THEY SAY or else.

The mock tests are also a waste of time. We should have done all this earlier. We shouldn't be doing this at all as the teachers don't pay attention or place any importance at all to them--so what's the point of doing them? The mock tests are a pain in the arse. the mock tests are most probably the principal's, LEE BEE YAN'S, silly idea as the school staff are too lazy and tired to do their job.

Okay. Got everything that I can recall AT THE MOMENT down. Now here's what I think of the school system.

The Singapore school system has started this new TEACH LESS, LEARN MORE scheme. It's all based on this politically correct, INNOVATIVE and SOPHISTICATED-sounding idea on creative learning. The minister (of education, not church) just said some crap about creative learning blah blah not like robots blah blah initiative...independence...cultivate love of learning. That kind of crap. It sounds all good and fine, it sounds as if the kids are going to have FUN and LOVE learning--but that's absolutely not it.

The government has come up with an impressive-seeming idea, but will it work? NO. The scheme is all flash and no substance beneath the lovely marble veneering. They don't know what they mean, they don't know what we need. They are stuck too far up in their ivory towers and are unwilling to climb down and TAKE A LOOK. We don't need more expensive equipment, we don't need new tablet PCs (certainly you've heard of that! My school made all the girls below our level--their hare-brained scheme was too slow to catch us--buy their own tablet PCs at around $2500), we need an education. Yes, an education. We need guidance, care, attention. We cannot have 38 girls crammed into one room with one teacher who cannot/will not attend to us as individuals. We need to learn how to learn. We need solutions, not distractions. We need respect and understanding from the teachers and school in general, and this we will duly give back. We don't need and don't WANT pompous fools pushing us over the edge and making us grow to dread the labour camp we call a school.

Will they give it to us?

I don't hear an answer.

Federico Garcia Lorca

2006-07-19T03:34:00.000-07:00

Lorca was a Spanish poet and playwright, and is remembered as one of the greatest poets of the twentieth century. He was born in 1898 and was killed by the Fascists in 1936 at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War.

I first learnt about him about two years ago after reading Harold Bloom's supposed book of "one Hundred Geniuses"--the man's (Bloom, not Lorca) is rather pompous but still an intruiging introduction to great literature for the uninitiated. I can't say that it was love at first sight, but I was charmed by the extracts I gleaned from the book, even if I couldn't understand them. (Which was/is understandable as he wrote after the style of the French Symbolistes, which to this day I cannot understand either.)

Okay. So the guy grew on me. Now, he's my first choice to go visit Spain with.

To me, Lorca is one of the faces of Spain and Spanish culture. His poems have the mystical charm and rythm of folk songs and the imagery and diction (perhaps not so much this, I can only read the English translations and then make up for the deficit Lost-in-Translation with my instincts) clearly reflect the "rocky gravity" of the Spanish terrain. They also encompass a quaintly dreamy, mournful romance regarding the culture and spirituality we all associate with the Iberian Penninsula; it's obsession with death and it's perfume of sleep are sublime. I also smell some Moorish influences here--Spain was once home to the Moors until the Catholic Kings drove them out, it was another very beautiful era, but bloody too--I'll have to think more about it first before I can say anything.

This is what he looks like--http://www.whitbyhs.cheshire.sch.uk/features/blood/lorca.htm--charming fellow.

Some of his poems:

City That Does Not Sleep
by Federico García Lorca Translated by Robert Bly
In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.
The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream,
and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the
street corner
the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the
stars.
Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
In a graveyard far off there is a corpse
who has moaned for three years
because of a dry countryside on his knee;
and that boy they buried this morning cried so much
it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.
Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful!
We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth
or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead
dahlias.
But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams do not exist;
flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths
in a thicket of new veins,
and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever
and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders.
One day
the horses will live in the saloons
and the enraged ants
will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the
eyes of cows.
Another day
we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead
and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats
we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.
Careful! Be careful! Be careful!
The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm,
and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention
of the bridge,
or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe,
we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes
are waiting,
where the bear's teeth are waiting,
where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting,
and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.
Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is sleeping.
If someone does close his eyes,
a whip, boys, a whip!
Let there be a landscape of open eyes
and bitter wounds on fire.
No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one.
I have said it before.
No one is sleeping.
But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the
night,
open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight
the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theaters.

Gacela of the Dark Death
by Federico García Lorca Translated by Robert Bly
I want to sleep the sleep of the apples,
I want to get far away from the busyness of the cemeteries.
I want to sleep the sleep of that child
who longed to cut his heart open far out at sea.
I don't want them to tell me again how the corpse keeps all its blood,
how the decaying mouth goes on begging for water.
I'd rather not hear about the torture sessions the grass arranges for
nor about how the moon does all its work before dawn
with its snakelike nose.
I want to sleep for half a second,
a second, a minute, a century,
but I want everyone to know that I am still alive,
that I have a golden manger inside my lips,
that I am the little friend of the west wind,
that I am the elephantine shadow of my own tears.
When it's dawn just throw some sort of cloth over me
because I know dawn will toss fistfuls of ants at me,
and pour a little hard water over my shoes
so that the scorpion claws of the dawn will slip off.
Because I want to sleep the sleep of the apples,
and learn a mournful song that will clean all earth away from me,
because I want to live with that shadowy child
who longed to cut his heart open far out at sea.

More here: http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/163

Now, I know that most Spanish people are NOT like him unless perhaps you count the really old ones living in the countryside or something. I know that most of them like football and beer and coke and movies like other normal people.

I just feel that Lorca brings out the mythical, wounded side of this country for he could find it within himself in his struggle as an artist and fear and worry as a homosexual.

He was killed by the Spanish Nationalists for his sexuality; the murder was made to look like an indecent assualt.

Gotta love these videos

2006-07-17T02:32:00.000-07:00

1) A collection of Man of the Moment Marco Materazzi's fouls.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WJPKM5aJGW8&search=shevchenko

I watched this over YouTube some time before the WC Finals, so I was thinking: Is this, like, a joke? Well, now I know it isn't, he's for real.

2) Nonsense, Frosties make you fat. They're totally encrusted with sugar.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xC8aQrn0neM&search=fernando%20torres

featuring Spanish international footballer Fernando Torres--hard to believe this guy is twenty-two and not twelve.
But it's rather cute, I was like, So, is this Calvin 'n' Tigger, or Christopher Robin 'n' Hobbes?

3) ...and so does beer...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PMnlORJeH_c

featuring about half the Spanish national footy team

I could never understand the logic of advertising for the life of me! Just a whole load of crapped-out fallacies.

Why I dislike discussing my weight with other people

2006-07-14T18:20:00.000-07:00

The World Cup is OVER, people. Now it's back to me, even if Zidane is going to go round appearing on national TV to complain about Materazzi--Oh, that naughty, NAUGHTY boy...

OK. I know, I know. Now it's back to me until when I say so:

RE: Why I dislike discussing my weight with other people

I am a fifteen year old Chinese girl am I'm on the short and fat side of society. I'm pretty used to this and I accept it:

1) I don't go clothes shopping in places like ESPRIT where Fat People Really Aren't Allowed To Shop in the illusion that "if I just lose a couple of pounds, I WILL fit these clothes and I WILL look as good or even better than all my skinny classmates." No, I'm not like that.

2) I'm not anorexic and never will be. I'm big-boned and gain weight very easily. Anyway, I think it's stupid, vain and irrational. I get annoyed at anorexic people, especially if they're self-pitying and emo like the ones in all those children's storybooks that basically tell IMPRESSIONABLE young girls like me that " anorexia is B-A-D BAD. U MUST LUFF URSELF". Yup. That's about how MORONIC they are.

3) What else? Hmm. I hate exercise?

However, I do get annoyed whenever people react to my weight.

Some of them, I suspect, treat it like a bloody joke when I having trouble squeezing through the aisles at school and ask my classmates to kindly tilt their chairs up a little higher.

Some of them don't bother to hide their utter shock at how much I'm eating or how large my clothes are. Fortunately, this does not happen very often.

Worse still is when people becoming condescending/start pitying me. When I get comfortable, I'm pretty nonchalant about my size (the pain only comes when I'm out shopping for clothes with my mother, I'll tell you this a little later on--down). So I say something like: "oh, dear god I'm fat. That's why I can't eat too much" to explain (This happened when I was trying to lose enough weight to get out of my school's compulsory twice-a-week weight-loss boot camp) why I'm only eating two slices of bread for recess.

This is when my friends/accquaintances (can't tell them apart no more these days) say stuff like: "Oh, you're not FAT, I'm fat, I eat five times a day", all the while making no effort to hide their stick thinness. I dislike that. Do they think I'm stupid? And will it make things any better? No.

Yet, I dislike it when people make rude comments about my weight or even say: You're fat. This is because I don't know why they're saying it. The INTENTION largely characterizes the ACT.

BUT: I'm not on the other side of this fat-thin camp. I don't make FAT/LOSER an identity that I can LOVE/SEEK COMFORT from. I don't say that "Big is Beautiful"--I love beautiful people (Botticelli's women and suchlike, not so much of the Gwen Stefani variety) and they're ALL SLIM, let me tell you that (although not SKINNY).

To all fatties out there: DON'T DO THIS TO YOURSELF, DON'T LET OPRAH (YEAH, the oprah winfrey) TRICK YOU. DON'T READ BOOKS LIKE THESE: Passing for Thin: Losing Half My Weight and Finding My Self http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0767912926/ref=pd_cp_b_title/002-8892279-7692001?%5Fencoding=UTF8&v=glance&n=283155.

Appreciate, love, celebrate beauty.

And don't hate men just because they like their women thin, they can't help it (don't campaign for men to love fatsos, they might just turn gay from all that trauma).

Zidane's headbutt: I have a theory...

2006-07-13T06:13:00.000-07:00

Materazzi (snuggling up to Zizou from behind): Hi GoldenBalls.

Zidane: Get away from me you wicked, wicked man...I shall never yield my honour to you...NEVER.

M: Just a bit of sugar...please...you wouldn't say no to a nice boy like me?

Z: No means no. Look for someone your size, I'm way out of your league you little bugger.

M: Little! How dare you...you're the little one... (tosses his head and walks off)

Z: Nobody messes with me, NOBODY...you here me there you...

M: Keeps on walking

Z: I demand an apology...I will not stand for this--HEY!

Z: Runs up to the front

Z: I'm going to teach you--nobody messes with the big Z!

Z: Turns into Miss Piggy

Z: Hai....AHH! HEADBUTT

M: OUF!

M: Falls over, winded.

The rest is history.

This is again one of the theories my sister and I concocted. Hope you liked it.

+

Lukas Podolski = Adam Sandler

Gianluigi Buffon = Rat-Face

Now that the World Cup is over...

2006-07-11T00:03:00.000-07:00

A Final Summary of My Thoughts and Feelings:
Favourite Players:
1) Fernando Torres--a great player and a very interesting personality, just try looking up articles on his life. Need I say more?

2) Aaron Lennon--England-Portugal. That was the only England match I saw, but when he came on he really did get involved. Sped things up too.

3) Owen Hargreaves--Yep, there's only one of him. England-Portugal. I can't really tell whether or not he was good 'cos I don't watch football and I don't play it either, but he was working really hard on that pitch and giving it all he had. I feel that the effort must have been worth something, anyway--although I know that it's awfully naive of me--he seemed like a nice guy.

4) David Villa--I think that now I'm being totally irrational (and ignorant) here. This must all be due to my overly avid ardour concerning miners and little old hick towns in Spain (but then who wouldn't be charmed by them?). Also, from what I can tell from the pictures, he has a disturbing resemblance to my autistic brother when he grins (and the brother in question is a thirteen year-old who looks like an up-sized seven year-old), so I guess it's just all the strange thoughts floating about my unconscious mind. Funny.

5) Zinedine Zidane--don't know much about his playing, but that head-butt was fabulous, it was THE MOMENT of the game--but rather stupid too.
(more below)
6) Philipp Lahm--looks like a sparrow

7) Miroslav Klose--looks like a fox terrier

My Moment: Zidane's 111th minute header in the finals.

On the grand finale:

My sister, my dad and I were all awake at two in the morning and sitting in front of the TV. My sister said that she was so disoriented when our dad first woke her up, she thought it was time to go to school, but then it didn't seem right--until she remembered and realized that it time for the party.

The match: pretty okay. All right.

The HEAD-BUTT: My dad was like WOW and so was my sister and I was like ...huh? what? I was so busy going up and down to get a glass of water that I only caught the replay. The announcers were pretty stunned too. It seems as if Materazzi just caught Zidane back a little and then said something to him before running on ahead of him. And then Zidane just went on walking behind him until he caught up, then he ran in front of Materazzi and lowered his head and POW! knocked the other guy over. Materazzi took a few inches into the air and fell backwards.

After seeing that, we were all discussing it. My dad commented that it was so strong and sudden that it must have given Materazzi the shock of his life.
Quote: He was just like, PUNG, must have given him the shock of his life.
&
He was like an animal there, no facial expression...(the rest is kinda woolly in my head)

Really, I thought that it was quite scary seeing him like that, so much for being a "Zen Master"--that's what our papers dubbed him before that morning. He was, yes, like a rhino or something. That head is DEADLY, my dad commented that he had a very strong, hard head--"as hard as ebony". And I could see that his vein were practically POPPING out of his head. It was strange that afterwards, when he was sent off, he was totally disoriented and was like, you can't send me off...

Later, all of us agreed that the head-butt was the best moment of the entire match...pity it got the guy sent off though.

Hey! hey, hey!

2006-07-09T02:05:00.000-07:00

My sister commented on my last entry.

She said she wondered whether R. Kelly watched it.

R. Kelly, if you've forgotten, is the guy who sang the corny-o song: I Believe I Can Fly. He's better known for watching kiddy-porn and being arrested for that.

Well, anyway, my sister and I will be watching the finals. It's TONIGHT--no, NEXT MORNING!!! Monday morning! Am Excited. I like the thrill of being up that time of the night.

Here's a poem:

Seascape

This celestial seascape, with white herons got up as angels,
flying high as they want and as far as they want sidewise
in tiers and tiers of immaculate reflections;
the whole region, from the highest heron
down to the weightless mangrove island
with bright green leaves edged neatly with bird-droppings
like illumination in silver,
and down to the suggestively Gothic arches of the mangrove roots
and the beautiful pea-green back-pasture
where occasionally a fish jumps, like a wildflower
in an ornamental spray of spray;
this cartoon by Raphael for a tapestry for a Pope:
it does look like heaven.
But a skeletal lighthouse standing there
in black and white clerical dress,
who lives on his nerves, thinks he knows better.
He thinks that hell rages below his iron feet,
that that is why the shallow water is so warm,
and he knows that heaven is not like this.
Heaven is not like flying or swimming,
but has something to do with blackness and a strong glare
and when it gets dark he will remember something
strongly worded to say on the subject.

Elizabeth Bishop

Splendid, isn't it?

France vs Portugal

2006-07-07T04:39:00.000-07:00

This was supposed to be Thursday's post. But I had SCHOOL and was TOO BUSY school or no because I'm a slacker at heart and every few days I realize what totally deep shit I'm in and have to do my work. But slowly.

No, ignore that. I didn't know what I was doing...but anyway...

The match was good. Nice. Particularly because it was 3 am in the morning (Thursday morning). My sister and I and our dad watched it together.

So, France vs Portugal...guess who won...

FRANCE, on a penalty kick by Zidane. So the score is 1-o.

The Portuguese were fouling and diving and play-acting at being hurt (the French did it too, but they were obviously more successful). Referee didn't believe them. When Ronaldo did get one, he missed. He was very dramatic, and very funny. And then there was this other time he didn't get the penalty kick and that was even worse. He was pouting like some little kid. Must be the first time I've seen a grown up do it...hope it's the last. But, yes, that was the definite pederast's Golden World Cup Moment. Oh God...

Our World Cup joke

2006-07-05T03:32:00.000-07:00

My sister and I noticed that the papers were making this big fat deal over Cristiano Ronaldo and Rooney and some poor other guy's balls being stepped on.

After some careful thought-experiments and investigation (speculation), we came up with our own extra-intelligent theory. You see, it's actually not Ronaldo's fault, it was that stupid gay magazine poll that spoilt England's World Cup chances as well as a beee-u-ti-fool friendship between old Ronnie and Roo. And well, here's the story:

Back in England at the locker room of whichever club the both of them play at, all the other players are gathered round and chanting: Fight, fight...

Rooney: (grabbing Ronaldo by the shirt collar) You really f_ _ _ _ed up my World Cup. Now I'm going to clock you one!

Everybody else: Yeah stick 'um, stick 'um, the b_ _ _ er!

Ronaldo: (frantic and squealing) Ah, ah, no! No, you've gotten it wrong amigo! I'm innocent, please!

Roo: (raises eyebrow) Oh? How so?

Ron: It's all that gay mag's fault! I read this awful, awful poll in there that voted me the...the most yum football player in the World Cup. And then I got so scared that I was in a daze all the while...please, please... (whinging and whining)

Roo: (face softening) Umm, o--hey, what were you doing with that queer mag!

Ron: (pale and sweaty 'cos he knows he's in a spot now) I....I...I um

Roo: (lets go of Ron's collar at once and starts brushing his hands off on his jersey) I knew there was something unnatural about you! The hair, the boots...

Everybody: (grimaces and moves away) Eww!

Ron: (flapping his arms like a penguin trying to Take to the Sky) No, no you've got me wrong! Make friends, make friends, please, please... see (holding out a handmade card drawn with Peace, Man signs and Forever Friends stickers), I even made you a card...

The story ends with Ron running off to some other club 'cos he's afraid of getting murdered by his homophobic team-mates.

Years later:
Rooney to someone else: Now I know why he was so damn concerned about that other fella's delicate bits.

Note:
This is entirely fictional, none of it is true.

Take to the Sky is a Tori Amos song, now you go figure it out.

Lastly, I'm not at all anti-gay (even if I do sound as if it were so). I'm NON-gay. Safely neutral. In fact, it's the BRITS who are homo-haters. But no, I'm not a Brit-hater either.

W. C. Germany vs Italy results: Italy wins: 0-2

Sad. I liked Miroslav Klose and Philipp Lahm quite a bit.

England vs Portugal World Cup

2006-07-01T20:16:00.000-07:00

Sunday morning:
my blog clock is often wrong.

Watched the match last night with my dad and my sister.

Portugal won on penalty shoot-outs. Their goal-keeper (Ricardo?) was really good. He caught THREE of England's shots.

Rooney showed again that he's not too clever. He got himself sent off in a very unnecessary way. Stomped somewhere between a Portugal player's legs (but isn't that what you wear a jock-strap for, huh?) trying to get a ball that another guy was already kicking away. And then he shoved Ronaldo. The commentator speculated that that was why he was sent off, not for the stomping.--well, it was an accident...

Cristiano Ronaldo is a selfish _______. My sister and I noticed how he kept going for the goalpost when the England players were hot on his heels instead of just passing it to a team-mate. And he was a busybody too. Kept getting involved when the opponent's players fouled his team-mates as if he were the referee or something.

Guess what? He's the guy who was voted cutest/most good-looking by this gay magazine. (As a besides, I didn't find that list a very good idea. It's not nice to spring something so creepy on the players at such an important time of their lives. :] Just kidding.)

Match ended (90 minutes, then 30 minutes extra-time) 0-0. So it was penalty shoot-outs.

I went to bed at near 3 am in the morning. Nice match. I kind of like the type of violence you get on the field.

My dad stayed up for the Brazil vs France match. FRANCE won. 1-0. Thierry scored the winning goal.

My dad says that he's not too surprised. Said that Brazil wasn't too good even from the outset. Of course, I can't validate that he's not even the teensiest bit surprised, I was asleep, and my dad is (my mama told me this, it's not sign of my wickedness really, that I'm saying this) the type of guy who always has to be right and who likes to super-impose his OWN idea on what turns out to be the CORRECT answer so that they turn out to be EXACTLY the same. But well, yeah, I believe he was being honest about that anyway.

Oh yeah, forgot to tell you the other day, during the Germany-Argentina match, Miroslav Klose accidentally knee-d the Argentina goalie in the ribs (or stomach, didn't see it too well). He (the goalkeeper) was in a lot of pain and then he was carried off on a stretcher. My dad says that he might have broken a rib.

At times like these, I find myself caught between sympathy and detatched fascination.

Hope he's alright.

Germany-Argentina----Miroslav Klose kicks ass...

2006-06-30T10:21:00.000-07:00

...for that goal...and so does Borowski, for passing the ball to him. The guy deserves some credit. The penalty shoot-outs are just beginning, I'm excited.

Time---1:34 am in the morning

Me again. Time's 1:44 am. Game Over. Germany's won. Jens Lehmann (have I spelt it right?)--German goalkeeper--kicks ass too. He saved TWICE in the penalty shoot-outs, TWO times, you heard me right? Wow!

There was this really ugly, exciting scene with all the Argentinian players harangueing the FIFA officials (the guys in suits) after the match. They obviously weren't happy with something. Unfortunately, our lousy cable TV station cut off transmission just like that. Just when things were really heating up. My dad said they obviously didn't want to show us all the ugly stuff--wish they had. But, really, I guess that's exactly what you buy the ticket for, huh?

A poem:
Monet Refuses The Operation

Doctor, you say there are no haloes
around the streetlights in Paris
and what I see is an aberration
caused by old age, an affliction.
I tell you it has taken me all my life
to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,
to soften and blur and finally banish
the edges you regret I don't see,
to learn that the line I called the horizon
does not exist and sky and water,
so long apart, are the same state of being.
Fifty-four years before I could see
Rouen cathedral is built
of parallel shafts of sun,
and now you want to restore
my youthful errors: fixed
notions of top and bottom,
the illusion of three-dimensional space,
wisteria separate
from the bridge it covers.
What can I say to convince you
the Houses of Parliament dissolves
night after night to become
the fluid dream of the Thames?
I will not return to a universe
of objects that don't know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent. The world
is flux, and light becomes what it touches,
becomes water, lilies on water,
above and below water,
becomes lilac and mauve and yellow
and white and cerulean lamps,
small fists passing sunlight
so quickly to one another
that it would take long, streaming hair
inside my brush to catch it.
To paint the speed of light!
Our weighted shapes, these verticals,
burn to mix with air
and change our bones, skin, clothes
to gases. Doctor,
if only you could see
how heaven pulls earth into its arms
and how infinitely the heart expands
to claim this world, blue vapor without end.

from http://plagiarist.com/poetry/3133/

World Cup...a little news Spain vs France

2006-06-28T03:38:00.000-07:00

I don't know the first thing about football, but I just had to write this. (Well yeah, I'm not supposed to be doing this either. I should be doing my homework--O' Levels this year! Wish me luck.)

Before this afternoon (when we were finally dismissed from school), I thought that Spain would definitely smash France. And, oh god, I was wrong. (But then again, I don't know much about football.) Now the headlines are screaming stuff like : GOLDEN HEROES (I'm for real here, this is straight from our local tabloid, The New Paper--it's atrocious, but this is Singapore...and I actually read it.) and EXPERIENCE WINS OVER YOUTH and GOLDEN OLDIES (no, just kidding, I made that up myself). And before, all of those people had tipped SPAIN to win just yesterday. I dislike that.

Okay. I know this is a lousy post, but I just decided to write this as a memory to keep, so that later on nobody can say that I've missed The Best of '06.

Hey, I can ACTUALLY keep up with the times.

Gwendolyn MacEwen

2006-06-23T05:36:00.000-07:00

I barely know a thing about her, but I do know that she's truly awesome (I've read what little bits of her poetry that I could find).

I also spent some time searching her up. Here are some brilliant links:
http://www.uwo.ca/english/canadianpoetry/cpjrn/vol47/wood.htm

--From The Rising Fire to Afterworlds: the Visionary Circle in the Poetry of Gwendolyn MacEwen
by Brent Wood

http://www.canadianpoetry.ca/cpjrn/vol28/potvin.htm

--Gwendolyn MacEwen and Female Spiritual Desire
by Liza Potvin

http://www.lib.unb.ca/Texts/SCL/bin/get.cgi?directory=vol9_1/&filename=Harding.htm

--Iconic Mythopoeia in MacEwen'sThe T.E. Lawrence Poems
by R. F. Gillian Harding

and: http://www.naisa.ca/deepwireless/2002/terror.html a little write-up on her radio play Terror and Erebus.

Some of what I could find:

Flight One.

Good Afternoon ladies and gentleman
This is your Captain speaking.

We are flying at an unknown altitude
And an incalculable speed.
The tempurature outside is beyond words.

If you look out your window you will see
Many ruined cities and enduring seas
But if you wish to sleep please close the blinds.

My navigator has been ill for many years
And we are on Automatic Pilot; regrettably
I cannot forsee our ultimate destination.

Have a pleasant trip
You may smoke, you may drink, you may dance
You may die.
We may even land one day.

And:

Terror and Erebus
Gwendolyn MacEwen
Being an account of the search by Rasmussen for the remains of the Franklin expedition

here:

http://www.alsopreview.com/thecollections/macewen/poetry/terror.htm

Departures from "The T.E. Lawrence Poems" here: http://doctoralmore.spaces.msn.com/Blog/cns!41B67ADE3D607F1D!112.entry

All right. That's all I can unearth now.

Stuff to do with a friend this month; and a poet

2006-06-18T18:29:00.000-07:00

I found this cute article in the Sunday Times (a Singapore newspaper):
18-6-2006 Sunday
A song for their World Cup tickets
by Marc Lim

It is amazing what fans will do to keep their World Cup dreams alive.
For Argentinian fans Ignacio Senese (centre, with guitar) and Pablo Rodriguez (right), a dwindling bank account is not going to stop them from extending their stay in Germany.
The childhood friend have resorted to busking to fund their stay in Germany and to buy World Cup tickets.
Said Senese, 29, who works in the retail business in Buenos Aires:"We only had tickets for Argentina's first match against the Ivory Coast.
"Now, we're looking for more. You have one? I'll play any song you want."
The pair have been playing in train stations all over Germany, mostly where the Argentinian team are.
On Friday, they were at Gelsenkirchen's main train station.
Rodriguez, 26, said that on a good day, they can earn up to 100 euros (S$200). They have enough money to last them till the end of the month.
But there is one song that they will not play--Don't Cry For Me Argentina.
Said Senese:"No way. No need to cry. Argentina will win the World Cup."

Sounds fun, huh? Let's hope they get their tickets.
___________________________________________________________________

Gwendolyn MacEwen
She was a Canadian poet, not very well-known outside of Canadian literature but nevertheless a poet of the highest order. I have not managed to find a book of her poems yet, but every one of her poems is charming, witty and a deep wellspring of myth and metaphysics.

Magic Cats
From Magic Animals: Selected Poems Old and NewMacmillan, Toronto - 1974

(With acknowledgements to Susan Musgrave, whose "Strawberry" poems started it all)

Most cats, with the exception of Burmese, do not celebrate their birthdays. Rather, they are extremely sentimental about Palm Sunday and Labour Day, at which times they survive solely on white lace and baloney sandwiches.

Cats on the whole are loath to discuss God.

Generally speaking, cats have no money, although some of them secretly collect rare and valuable coins.

Cats believe that all human beings, animals and plants should congregate in a huge heap in the centre of the universe and promptly fall asleep together.

Of all the cats I have known, the ones I remember most are: Bumble Bee, Buttonhole, Chocolate Bar, Molten Lava and Mushroom. I also remember Tabby who was sane as a star and spent all his time lying on his back in the sink, thinking up appropriate names for me.

Cats see their Keepers as massive phantoms, givers of names and the excellent gravy of their days.

Cats who have been robbed of balls and claws do not lament. They become their Keeper's keepers.

When cats are hosts to fleas they assume the fleas are guests.

Most cats would rather be covered with live fleas than dead ones.

Cats hold no grudges and have no future. They invade nets of strangers with their eyes.

The patron saint of cats is called: Beast of the Skies, Warm Presence, Eyes.

Cats do not worry about the gurgling horrors of the disease listed in catbooks, some of which are Hairballs Enteritis and Bronchitis. But they do become very upset about Symptoms, which is the worst disease of all.

When cats grow listless (i.e. lose their list) they cease to entertain fleas. They mumble darkly about radishes and death. They listen to Beethoven and become overly involved in Medieval History.

When cats decide to die they lie alone lost among leaves beneath the dark winds and broad thunders of the world and pray to the Beast of the Skies, Warm, Presence, Eyes.

Broadly speaking, cats do not read Gothic novels, although they tend to browse through Mary Shelley on the day before Christmas.

The only reason cats do not carry passports is because they have no pockets.

When a black cat crosses your path it usually means that he is trying to get to the other side of the street.

Cats never get baptized. They lose their dry.

Cats only perspire during Lent.

Cats have no memory and no future. They are highly allergic to Prime Ministers, radishes, monks, poets, and death.

Just for fun...

2006-06-15T22:57:00.000-07:00

Why I don't like the name "Eugene",

I've never liked that name. It sounds odd, and gives me the impression of something clumsy, never quite grown-up and still somewhat ancient. It also sounds like an accusation: You [unintelligible but nothing nice].

There, I've said my bit for the day.

And this is a poem I wrote quite a long time ago:

Farnese.
Who wore himself to nothing.

Night.
Walked to his room.
Hung up his coat.
The water rose in him.
Out of his eyes.

Meet my new/old best friend

2006-06-14T03:40:00.000-07:00

C. P. Cavafy

or, Konstantinos Petrou Kavafis

A short introduction:
I used to read this guy (casually) a few years ago (alright, one? one and a fraction? I'm not very old). Then I stopped as I never bought the book, and it was inconvenient to have to log on to the computer to do my reading, and I also got side-tracked by other things. Well, here he is again...irresistable as ever.

He was regarded as one of the best European poets (he's dead now), he wrote in modern Greek, mainly love poems and "historical" poems.

He's like nothing you've ever seen before.

Some of my favourite poems by him:

As Much As You Can
Even if you cannot shape your life as you want it,
at least try this
as much as you can; do not debase it
in excessive contact with the world,
in the excessive movements and talk.
Do not debase it by taking it,
dragging it often and exposing it
to the daily folly
of relationships and associations,
until it becomes burdensome as an alien life.

But Wise Men Perceive Approaching Things
Because gods perceive future things, men what is happening now,
but wise men perceive approaching things.
Philostratus, Life of Apollonius of Tyana, VIII, 7.

Men know what is happening now.
The gods know the things of the future,
the full and sole possessors of all lights.
Of the future things, wise men perceive
approaching things. Their hearing

is sometimes, during serious studies,
disturbed. The mystical clamor
of approaching events reaches them.
And they heed it with reverence. While outside
on the street, the peoples hear nothing at all.

Caesarion
Partly to verify an era,
partly also to pass the time,
last night I picked up a collection
of Ptolemaic epigrams to read.
The plentiful praises and flatteries
for everyone are similar. They are all brilliant,
glorious, mighty, beneficent;
each of their enterprises the wisest.
If you talk of the women of that breed, they too,
all the Berenices and Cleopatras are admirable.
When I had managed to verify the era
I would have put the book away, had not a small
and insignificant mention of king Caesarion
immediately attracted my attention.....
Behold, you came with your vague
charm. In history only a few
lines are found about you,
and so I molded you more freely in my mind.
I molded you handsome and sentimental.
My art gives to your face
a dreamy compassionate beauty.
And so fully did I envision you,
that late last night, as my lamp
was going out -- I let go out on purpose --
I fancied that you entered my room,
it seemed that you stood before me; as you might have been
in vanquished Alexandria,
pale and tired, idealistic in your sorrow,
still hoping that they would pity you,
the wicked -- who whispered "Too many Caesars."

Candles
The days of our future stand in front of us
like a row of little lit candles --
golden, warm, and lively little candles.
The days past remain behind us,
a mournful line of extinguished candles;
the ones nearest are still smoking,
cold candles, melted, and bent.
I do not want to look at them; their form saddens me,
and it saddens me to recall their first light.
I look ahead at my lit candles.
I do not want to turn back, lest I see and shudder
at how fast the dark line lengthens,
at how fast the extinguished candles multiply.

Days Of 1903
I never found them again -- the things so quickly lost....
the poetic eyes, the pale
face.... in the dusk of the street....
I never found them again -- the things acquired quite by chance,
that I gave up so lightly;
and that later in agony I wanted.
The poetic eyes, the pale face,
those lips, I never found again.

Oh dear, too many I think; the computer is having trouble copy-pasting the poems. And I haven't even finished the first page of plagiarist.com!

Now look for your favourites on http://plagiarist.com/poetry/poets/80/!

What goes on in a Boy's Home

2006-06-04T01:49:00.000-07:00

My father told me this funny story about the Boy's Home some time back. he said it was something that some one else had told him.

At the Boy's Home (this place where the courts put delinquent boys whom their parents are unable to control), the inmates do woodwork. So they use turpentine as thinner for the paint, since turpentine is a spirit, it contains alchohol. So, in order to make liquour (to drink, of course), they buy hack's sweets and dissolve it in the turpentine so as to give it a flavour.

However, this is dangerous as turpentine is poisonous (or at least not beneficial to one's health).

Bad Behaviour

2006-06-03T00:37:00.000-07:00

No no, this isn't anything about Tara Reid or Colin Farrell--the title of this post means what it says: Bad Behaviour, from teenagers (children?--I'm talking mental age here). All part of my observations at a "Literature Seminar" I attended today.

Preliminaries (since I've never told you very much about myself, ever):
I take Literature as a subject in my secondary school and one of the books I'm studying is the Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan. I personally like literature (the subject and the noun) and it's very important to me that I do well in it this year as I'm taking my O'Levels.

The seminar is the sort of "thing" where (groups of) students from different schools (which are studying the same book) come over and do a presentation of their "takes" on the subject and the audience are a couple of teachers and many (a few hundred perhaps) students from all the schools invited. I thought that it might be useful and so I jumped at the chance to attend.

Well...
___________________________________________________________________

The seminar did not provide any really useful information. Of the three "talks" (because I can't call them lectures) I attended, I asked questions at the end of the first two and I didn't at the end of the third and last as the kids were so eager to close shop and leave that they were just like: Any questions?...Nobody's got questions...right? OK, let's leave for the closing speech and just GO--for about thirty seconds. And I was still sifting among my papers for the questions I wrote down less than five minutes into their presentation. By the time I finally got hold of it, everyone was standing up to leave and so I got up and left too. I got a bit shirty asking my other two questions and I knew that I sounded really peevish, but I couldn't help it as I thought that the people presenting their stuff obviously had not thought to make the right connections and think really deeply about things. But now, I know that it was pretty rude of me to act like that, so, to any of them out there: I'm very sorry. I hope I didn't make you too uncomfortable. And I also hope that I didn't seem odd or anything. Heaven knows what everyone thought of me there (for reasons I shan't discuss now), but it's over and I'm not going to see any of them again, so it doesn't really matter at all.

Now that (above) was really all stuffing and an introduction. Here's the juice:
Whenever the presenters paused, or ended their presentations, and especially when someone asked a question, everyone in the audience started tittering. I know we've all done that at one point of time or another, and maybe some of us still do, butI feel that it's really rude. People should know when they should talk and when to keep quiet, like when someone is trying to address them. Most of the students were terribly unappreciative of the effort the host school (students) and the presenters had made, and they obviously couldn't wait to talk as they obviously had something more important to say. Most people think they're really smart, most people think that other people aren't worth listening to, and thus they don't learn anything. Plus, we should be kind to the presenters: it's very stressful to be standing in front of a crowd of people who are supposed to be paying attention but are instead, so self-absorbed that they're ignoring one. And it's frustrating too.

During the closing speech (which was a rather odd, ironic one), some of the kids (not from the host school obviously) were practically jeering. The speech went this way: ...and now all good things must come to an end..., referring to the seminar and they just yelled: What! This is a good thing! It's astounding how moronically brave and rude they were.

After the seminar ended, we filed out of the room/hall by a single corridor, and so all of us passed by this rubbish bin, and sticking out of it was the file and notes given out to us by the host school. Needless to say, all the girls (from that school) were really insulted. Whoever threw it in had an utter lack of appreciation, tact, as well as consideration for the environment. That file was a plastic file, plastics are non-biodegradable, and so, the enitre sheaf is going to end up at some landfill and cause more pollution. There are so many constructive things he/she could have done with that file and the notes if he didn't want it. He could have given it away to a classmate, he could have handed it back, he could have kept the file to keep his other stuff in and put the paper in a recycling bin. Or else, he could have just pushed the thing right into the bin so that nobody would see it. But he didn't.

I know that I'm no saint myself, but at least I try to be civil and considerate. These people just make others miserable.

Michelangelo: Dear to Me is Sleep

2006-06-01T02:09:00.000-07:00

DEAR TO ME IS SLEEP
Dear to me is sleep: still more, being made of stone.
While pain and guilt still linger here below,
Blindness and numbness--these please me alone;
Then do not wake me, keep your voices low.

Michelangelo Buonarroti

Besides being a sculptor and a painter, Michelangelo was a poet as well. His poems are, of course, not as brilliant as his more famous works. But still, I find the poem above captivating in it's gentle melancholy, and it's slight allusion (or is it?) to his main passion--the "stone". Although alot of other people use this ("being made of stone") as a metaphor for death, I'm still singling it out as I find it's use special since the man worked with stone.

Michelangelo the man
Michelangelo, who was often arrogant with others and constantly unsatisfied with himself, thought that art originated from inner inspiration and from culture. In contradiction to the ideas of his rival, Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo saw nature as an enemy that had to be overcome. The figures that he created are therefore in forceful movement; each is in its own space apart from the outside world. For Michelangelo, the job of the sculptor is to free the forms that, he believed, were already inside the stone. This can most vividly be seen in his unfinished statuary figures, which to many appear to be struggling to free themselves from the stone.

(from Wikipedia)

I do not know when Michelangelo wrote this, but I still find this a very moving, mournful and somewhat wistful contemplation of death. He seems rather accepting of death, only "blindness and numbness...please me", and it sounds as if his life and time past bring him more grief, being "pain and guilt", and he wishes to turn away from them. Michelangelo is all weariness and resignation as he turns away from the "voices" of us, the readers--perhaps later people, who will talk of him and judge him and wonder what he was thinking when he was alive.

Does anyone understand the phrase "here below"?

Two poets

2006-05-29T18:51:00.000-07:00

It's about 9: 50, coming to ten in the morning now. Ignore the time at the end of the post, the computer does it, not me and so it's wonky. In fact, it makes my sleeping patterns and I sound weird.

I'm introducing two poets--an arbitrary two--today. I'm still in a celebratory mood, so I guess I'll be making hay while the sun shines--later on, I will be tidying up my room, it's in a mess after months of living in total disorder.

These two poets have touched me immensely, and I believe that they're both really, really good and that it'll be interesting for anyone else who reads them.

The first is Wallace Stevens, he's one of the "Great American Poets", or so I'm told. You will most probably have heard of him unless you live in a place where nobody read very much (like...Singapore--!--for instance). I dicovered him two years ago in--no prizes for guessing--Harold Bloom's book of "One hundred best poems in the English Language" (I'm not plugging him though, in fact, I even reccommend that you look for the good books and poems yourself, get your own idea of them or read a less opinionated, biased commentary by somebody else--who does not ry to sound too arcane but instead, tells you what you need and want to know in a straightforward, fun and compact way), I read the poems as I couldn't really make much sense of the critique that Bloom provided--it was a help nonetheless--and I like them although they were (and still are) pretty much way over my head. They're something that will grow on you, and with you as your views and understanding of them mature.

Since I'm no scholar of literature (unless you count the Joy Luck Club I'm doing at school), so instead of treating you to a long and possibly flawed commentary on him, I'll reccomend a website where you can find in-depth material on him--have faith in me, I'm not talking about that lousy kind of baby stuff which only says that a poem is very "beautiful" or "sad". Here: http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/poets.htm, after you click and get there, you just scroll down to the "S" section or else you can click on "S" on the black and white bar just above the letter "a".

Great! Now for the next poet.

Keith Douglas: I've got an odd, friendly liking for this fellow. You might not have heard of him. He was one of the best poets of World War Two--which is often maligned by critics for not producing any poetry, unlike WWI, he and a couple of others prove them wrong. Douglas was a soldier on the front, and he got killed by a piece of shrapnel so small that one could barely make out a mark on his body. But in between that time--and even before that, I feel--he was a wonderful poet and it is a great pity that he had to die so unfulfilled. (And no, I'm not the way you think I am, I feel that the entire World War was a great tragedy--but that's another story.) I found out about Keith Douglas just two years or so ago, when I borrowed a book of "Mourning Poems" from the school library, and found the intriguing poem: Simplify Me when I am Dead. This touched me deeply, as it seemed a very personal poem--throughout his life, he did bear a "long pain" (look here: http://www.channel4.com/history/microsites/S/soldier_poets/biog_douglas.html). There is no delicacy, not even the slightest euphemism, in it, it tells it as it is, stripped, bare as bones, angry, sad and rather resigned at Death's approach. (Douglas was quite the self-mourner--in the tradition of literary great such as Keats, Dickinson and hardy. Perhaps he was even fascinated at the meaning of death.) There is a palpable pathos infused throughout the poem, that reaches you to strike you hard in the face:

Simplify Me When I'm Dead

Remember me when I am dead
and simplify me when I'm dead.

As the processes of earth strip off
the colour of the skin:
take the brown hair and blue eye
and leave me simpler than at birth,
when hairless I came howling in
as the moon entered the cold sky.

Of my skeleton perhaps, so stripped,
a learned man will say
"He was of such a type and intelligence," no more.

Thus when in a year collapse
particular memories, you may deduce,
from the long pain I bore

the opinions I held, who was my foe
and what I left, even my appearance
but incidents will be no guide.

Time's wrong-way telescope will show
a minute man ten years hence
and by distance simplified.

Through that lens see if I seem
substance or nothing: of the world
deserving mention or charitable oblivion,

not by momentary spleen
or love into decision hurled,
leisurely arrive at an opinion.

Remember me when I am dead
and simplify me when I'm dead.

Keith Douglas

... and another:

Desert Flowers
Living in a wide landscape are the flowers --
Rosenberg I only repeat what you were saying --
the shell and the hawk every hour
are slaying men and jerboas, slaying

the mind: but the body can fill
the hungry flowers and the dogs who cry words
at nights, the most hostile things of all.
But that is not new. Each time the night discards

draperies on the eyes and leaves the mind awake
I look each side of the door of sleep
for the little coin it will take
to buy the secret I shall not keep.

I see men as trees suffering
or confound the detail and the horizon.
Lay the coin on my tongue and I will sing
of what the others never set eyes on.

[? El Ballah, General Hospital, 1943]

Other poems by Keith Douglas:

Cairo Jag

How To Kill

The Knife

Vergissmeinnicht

Vergissmeinnicht (Forget-me-not)

Villanelle Of Spring Bells

For more, I guess you'll just have to buy the book, check out the titles on Amazon.com or the local library.

My hard-earned Keith Douglas links (all the un-crap ones I can find at the momen)t:
http://www.durham21.co.uk/archive/archive.asp?ID=2134 (about Douglas)

http://themargins.net/anth/1930-1939/douglas.html (an early poem by Douglas)

http://www.wwnorton.com/nael/20century/topic_2/alamein.htm

http://www.getcited.org/?PUB=100066686&showStat=Ratings (a book you might consider reading)

http://arts.guardian.co.uk/features/story/0,11710,1494038,00.html (an article on the man himself--again--click on the links at the bottom too!)

http://www.britac.ac.uk/pubs/review/_pdfs/review05-09-kendall.pdf (great article on Douglas's "vision"--might take awhile to load, though)

http://myweb.tiscali.co.uk/nova_foresta_books/douglas.htm (not particularly good, but oh well, why not?)

http://www.lrb.co.uk/v23/n03/print/hami01_.html (a review of "Keith Douglas: The Letters by Keith Douglas ed. Desmond Graham · Carcanet, 369 pp, £14.95"

http://www.utpjournals.com/product/utq/582/582_sherry.html (wonderful! read this one even if you choose to ignore the others)

http://www.warchronicle.com/eighth_army/soldierstory/douglas.htm (from "Alamein to Zem Zem"--a book by Douglas)

http://www.suite101.com/discussion.cfm/performance_poetry/104447 (a pretty lousy link, but it provides the text of his beautiful "Farewell Poem")

I think that's about all. I've been through, like, TEN pages on the Altavista search engine.

Note: There are plenty of links and great books on Wallace Stevens, just search through Amazon.com or your local library. The link I provided above has a wealth of resources--have fun!

Just finished my Chinese O'Level paper today--almost

2006-05-29T04:09:00.000-07:00

Backstory:
Yes, after like two weeks of torture, all the kids in my school are finally free (for maybe afew days or so before we go back to practising for our Oral Examinations in July plus the rest of the O'Levels). We were dismissed at around 1 in the afternoon, after a half-hour delay as the invigilators were doing something (either checking the papers or carrying on their conversations), then just about all of us headed off to Orchard Road, the local shopping district. The bus was really crowded.

Yes, so we headed off to the shopping district after which my sister and I went to a bookstore (Kinokuniya at Takashimaya)--after an unremarkable lunch, which isn't really the point of this post. After a few hours of browsing (two?), I saw this old, perhaps middle-aged, guy who was quite big and grey, sitting in the corner near where i was standing. He was reading a--car?--magazine and...picking his nose...and rubbing his dirty old grey hair, rubbing his dirty old grey feet, and rubbing the magazine, and picking his dirty old grey nose. Yep, yep, it's all true, every word of it, I swear. So I was standing by there, browsing and giving him disapproving looks and making funny old-ladyish noises in my mouth until I finally couldn't stand it anymore.

--------------------------------------The Show-down------------------------------------------
Not quite, which is really what has been happening all my life.

Me: Uh, mm, excuse me...you're picking your nose and flipping that magazine...you shouldn't do that...

guy: AHh...why cannot? (acting D-U-M-B, I could n't really hear him)

Me: Umm (now beginning to lose my nerve), because it's like umm wrong...

Then I giggle, my voice was growing softer and softer from the beginning. Not the way to tell someone off. He doesn't respond, but it really isn't my fault. I move off. I think I'm afraid of him really (I was, then), he's quite big, looks heavy and might be a rapist. No, not really, it's just my own imagination, but really, I'm far too timid to go at him again, nevermind. I hate dirty people.

This is how it usually ends when I try to be socially responsible and protect my rights/public property/other people's business/other people's rights/public health in general. My mother has always told me to be assertive, I've always told her that I can't. Well, that's over and done with. Whatever it is, i just hope that guy bought the magazine and isn't really like that with other people's property, or else, it's just a big All the best/Take care/Bless you/Wash your hands, always to the unlucky soul who actually touched or bought the magazine after he was done with it--if he even bothered to put it back in it's proper place and not just leave it lying around to be trampled to bits.

Well, when my sister and I were lining up to get a cab to get home, there was this other middle-aged man with grey hair (here we go again) who was skulking around the taxi queue rather suspiciously. I guess he was doing it so as to make us people who were queueing up wonder: Is he, or isn't he? And then, as our cab came in, he actually walked up next to it...skulking...suspiciously...again. Is he or isn't he? And then...

Me:Excuse me, there's a queue here. (Snippishly, loudly)

guy:--

lets us get in, shuffles off

next cab...

guy: tries to go for next cab

people behind + good Samaritan Sister: Hey, hey! Excuse me, excuse me!

Then G. S.G. gets in with me. Cab drives off. I'm not sure if the folks behind get their cab...no...they're still yelling for his notice.

Good luck, people.

These are the folks with no shame and no respect for other people and themselves. I was really pretty thrown on both counts here (the two incidents), I didn't expect anyone to behave in that way--it's just so outrageous and totally incredible. It's totally overblown how they could have been so brazen. I'm surprised at them, not young children but grown-ups--and old ones at that. I suppose what I saw today pretty much speaks for our modern Singapore society (and I've seen other examples too, so many other times), it's evident that people simply lack good breeding and simple consideration for others. It's not something that will bring on the apocalypse, not something that will bring civillisation to it's knees, it's what you would call "a small thing" and then advise me not to bother about, and yes it's a small thing, in a little big way. It's not just the physical action but the quality of their thoughts, their lack of consideration for other people, their selfishness, their small-mindedness.

A message for these pests (on the small scale, yes, but still a nuisance):
Yes, after all, why cannot, it's not going to kill anyone now is it? No, honestly no. But take a look at yourself, take a look at yourselves, anyone who has ever done something of this sort. The world does not operate on the X-Men scale, it's really all the little things, which are big things deep down. Please change yourselves, make yourselves people whom you can be proud of, who can provide a good role model for young people.

And the rest of you:
Stand up to these pests if you will. Please.

Note: Most of the people I know think that I'm peculiarly concerned and fussy over these things, but I think that one should care, at least to some extent.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On a happier note: I bought a volume of Dante's Purgatory, translated by Jean and Robert Hollander. Looks good.

P.S.: The dialogue is as accurate as possible only, my memory for speech is not too good.

P.P.S.: The two men today looked pretty similar...funny, huh?