beautiful Angel

I'm in shock

Sun, 06 Sep 2009 11:49:25 GMT

firstly, I just realised that my French glosary volume is delapedating itself in the last 20 minutes without me noticing it.
secondly, I was mucking about on facebook with Renee when I discovered that Kath has a facebook to!

More useful uses of Braille textbooks

Mon, 27 Jul 2009 01:24:11 GMT

1. Cushion: if you’re tired of studying,, use the Braille bext book as a cushion and slump on your desk. It can be guaranteed that it will feel softer than print textbook.
2. foot stool: after a particularly long and tiring walk, just put your Braille textbook on the floor and use it as a foot stool.
3. Massage: if you’re feeling borred or couldn’t afford remedial massage, just rub your sore limb on the Braille text book.
4. Bug crusher: if you’re annoyed at a bug, just crush it with your Braille textbook.
5. platemat: if you always find your plate rolling or sliding off the table, stop it by putting an open Braille textbook underneath it. (thermophorm books would work better)
6. weapon: you can chuck Braille textbook if you’re getting attacked on the street. Heavy textbooks such as French dictionaries would be more effective
7. mat: the unused papers such as scribbles could very well be use to clean your feet.
8. table levelers: thin volumes such as past papers could be used as table levelers (when one of the table leg is not as long as the others) just stuff the Braille textbook underneath the shorter leg.

stars

Tue, 21 Jul 2009 12:06:02 GMT

I was listening to a recording of Emily's poems earlier tonight and just realised how beautiful this particular one sounds like
STARS.

Ah! why, because the dazzling sun
Restored our Earth to joy,
Have you departed, every one,
And left a desert sky?

All through the night, your glorious eyes
Were gazing down in mine,
And, with a full heart's thankful sighs,
I blessed that watch divine.

I was at peace, and drank your beams
As they were life to me;
And revelled in my changeful dreams,
Like petrel on the sea.

Thought followed thought, star followed star,
Through boundless regions, on;
While one sweet influence, near and far,
Thrilled through, and proved us one!

Why did the morning dawn to break
So great, so pure, a spell;
And scorch with fire the tranquil cheek,
Where your cool radiance fell?

Blood-red, he rose, and, arrow-straight,
His fierce beams struck my brow;
The soul of nature sprang, elate,
But mine sank sad and low!

My lids closed down, yet through their veil
I saw him, blazing, still,
And steep in gold the misty dale,
And flash upon the hill.

I turned me to the pillow, then,
To call back night, and see
Your worlds of solemn light, again,
Throb with my heart, and me!

It would not do--the pillow glowed,
And glowed both roof and floor;
And birds sang loudly in the wood,
And fresh winds shook the door;

The curtains waved, the wakened flies
Were murmuring round my room,
Imprisoned there, till I should rise,
And give them leave to roam.

Oh, stars, and dreams, and gentle night;
Oh, night and stars, return!
And hide me from the hostile light
That does not warm, but burn;

That drains the blood of suffering men;
Drinks tears, instead of dew;
Let me sleep through his blinding reign,
And only wake with you!

chased by Snape

Mon, 20 Jul 2009 00:20:25 GMT

may be I watched "Snape's diary" too much yesterday that I got this dream.

I was at hogwards trying to find a way to get out. like all dreams, I couldn't find any. it didn't help that Harry kept bugging me on and on about couldn't get out of the castle because of dementors swarming around the places and so on and so on.

anyway, just when I tried to prize open a mirror on the wall that believed to hide a secret passage way out, I became aware that I got Riddle's diary in my pocket. I heard harry said "Guard this with your life". but what was I suppose to do with it! I didn't know how to do magic or to dfend myself from dementors. he keps saying "Guard it with your life or the bomb might explode". so I thought that in order to keep the bomb from exploding, I have to destroy the diary. I started a fire once I was out of the castle and put it there. then Harry and Snape yank me from the fire, hang me in a tree and said "We've told you to guard it with your life".

I didn't know what happened next because I woke up.

3 poems

Wed, 03 Jun 2009 11:01:03 GMT

I just had a long day with school and tutoring. this was my last session with my tutor as the Uni students are shortly having their exams and holiday. holiday! I want some too!

anyway, my computer didn't work very well today so Alex and I had a lengthy conversation about HSC, study skills and UAI. she went to a private school and got 99.2% UAI. how could anyone manage to do that I don't know! but she looks really smart. as Nutella says "my smartness is rubbing on you" I feel that it helps to have someone like her around. the great improvement in modern history is the result of it.

anyway, I've been doing this for over, a week? can't keep count. this guy (don't know him except in facebook universe) and I had been sending stanzas to each other. it's a fun game and we like it. the point is: who can get the hardest poetry. so far, with the aide of google, it's not too hard although I must admit I wandered into dangerous waters (infected sites) today before finding the next stanza to the one he sent me. anyway, by trick or by click, I managed to unearth these two poems during the course of this game.

On Monsieur’s Departure
By Queen Elizabeth I

I grieve and dare not show my discontent,

I love and yet am forced to seem to hate,

I do, yet dare not say I ever meant,

I seem stark mute but inwardly do prate.

I am and not, I freeze and yet am burned,

Since from myself another self I turned.

My care is like my shadow in the sun,

Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it,

Stands and lies by me, doth what I have done.

His too familiar care doth make me rue it.

No means I find to rid him from my breast,

Till by the end of things it be supprest.

Some gentler passion slide into my mind,

For I am soft and made of melting snow;

Or be more cruel, love, and so be kind.

Let me or float or sink, be high or low.

Or let me live with some more sweet content,

Or die and so forget what love ere meant.

anyway, that was like Elizabethan. the next one is not so Elizabethan, merely next door to it. and I guess I should've take this as a complement, perhaps he realised through my various status update that I'm blind. although it is related to death as the poet aged and disabled by his blindness.

When I Consider How My Light Is Spent
by
John Milton
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide;
"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work or His own gifts. Who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at His bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait."

and just out of chance (open a wrong document whilst I tried to copy and paste the last poem) this is a poem that I found accidentally. it is also holds the tone of death and the hope beyond. oh, don't think I'm dying because I don't want to die before completing my education which is a kind of struggle.

When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.

ok, I must go now and practise these stuff for my approaching ameb exam next wednesday.
chao

The Way of the Cross and The Break Through

Sat, 02 May 2009 11:57:41 GMT

these are the two last stories on Daphne's collection of "Not after midnight and other stories".

for a salient on the collection, "The Way of the cross" is proved to be a bit of disappointment. there is not many things supernatural about it although people might believe so. everything is explained or sensible/logical. but for once, I felt relieve by it because then I don't have to think the end-bit of the story.

"The Break Through" is more disturbing and not very much amusing. but despite all its gloom, the story is strangely touching and "heart-breaking".

The plot follows the experience of an Englishman called Steven/Steve who undergone a strange and disturbing experiment with Mac (a scientist). the whole story is about capturing life on the point of death. needless to say, the experiment went badly and at the end, everything has to be abandoned.

what I like about this story is: at the end of life and the sense of lost, there is a hope, a life and a future to look for; the brightness of the days ahead.

Cosi and my life

Fri, 01 May 2009 13:33:58 GMT

I feel so slack because I haven't updated this thing for ages!

I've returned to school and now suffering from preasure all around (as expected). there'll be no mercy in this term so I have to be really careful with my marks and so on.

however, it's Friday night and I've been having some funs tonight. my friends and I went to the theatre and watched Cosi which is our English Text. compared to the rest of year twelve (they're doing Crusibil), I feel quite thankful that I don't have to deal with witch-hunt and witch-craft.

ah well, I got Cosi instead. and I am now trying to describe the plot summary of the play.

it is written by an Australian writer: Louis Nowra; about a young man called Lewis Riley who just graduated from university. as his first job, he was asked to direct a play and working with people in a mental asylum. Lewis is shy and very diffident; he also have no control whatsoever to his subjects. as the result, his "subjects" especially Roy managed to steer him to direct an opera buffa called "Cosi fan tutte" by Mozart. not only that it is an opera, it is also in Italian. The play explores the challanges faced by Lewis to make a successful production of it.

the patients/the actors made of a spectrum of mentally ill subjects. Roy is an enthusiat (although most of the time he doesn't know what he is on about but only pretending to be professional), Doug who is a pyromania, Cherry who is a sex addicted and a compulsive lier, Ruth who likes to count things and Julie who is a drug-addict (Junkie). besides these major characters, the minor parts are comprised of: Nick (Lewis's friend and housemate), Lucy who is Lewis's girlfriend and shares a house with him and Nick, Justin (a social worker with indicisive views about mad people), and Zac: a drug-addict pianist who is obsessed with Wagner.

How Lewis managed to train and prepare these people to perform an opera by Mozart, only Louis Nowra could imagine how to do it.

I got front seat which was quite strange. the actors and actresses are rampaging the stage which is located only half-a-metre from where I sat. during the performance, the cardboard (wrapped with selophane to make some light-effect) fell down twice and they just made the most of it. it also went in accordance with the setting, which is a burnt out theater next to the mental asylum.

I've finished "Not after Midnight and other stories" and I'll write down the plot summaries of the two last stories. needless to say, they are disturbing and full of suspence (not in "The Way of the Cross").

I have to prepare for my AMEB examination which is creeping nearer, and also a "half-way MADD" at school. hopefully I'll be able to sing one of those pieces I am doing for the ameb so I don't have to work doubly.
I also reedit the complete works of Emily Bronte but didn't get very far yet.

lastly, to those who live in Australia or New Zealand, I'd like to tell a sad news that I'm not going to camp this year because it is during school-term. I might come on Friday night, but could not give any promise about that. it will be a very good opportunity to watch you guys from the audience point of view and get some rest from all the performing stuff (the upside and the downside of it).

with that particularly bad piece of news, I'll take my departure. although how am I going to bed with my head full of stuff from the performance tonight I don't know.

The Old Stoic

Tue, 21 Apr 2009 09:24:22 GMT

I've been deeply effected by this poem.

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RICHES I hold in light esteem
And Love I laugh to scorn
And Lust of Fame was but a dream
That vanished with the morn--
And if I pray--the only prayer
Is--'Leave the heart that now I bear
And give me liberty.'
Yes, as my swift days near their goal
'Tis all that I implore--
In life and death a chainless soul
With courage to endure!
Emily Brontë
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I went to Sydney Uni with my cain instructur today and spent half of the day there learning the rute and sitting over Donought King plus a cup of capuchino. on the overall thing, I didn't do too badly. to my surprise, I managed to gulp down most of my kapuchino without complaining too much. I think my mum has done really well in this field because she is the one that makes me gulp down some coffee regardless whether I like it or not (well I have no choice I was thursty).

a pathetic attempt at writing

Sat, 18 Apr 2009 10:44:16 GMT

I've been very distractive for the last 10 days since the holiday had started. oh my goodness! 10 days already! time's fly!

every time I tried to do some school work, I got distracted by many things either by the desire to eat, facebook or finishing off the book I'm reading.

so, here it is, to help me concentrating, and partly because I haven't written any creative writing for the last ages, I wrote this. it is very bad sample of writing as bad as it could be. full of reticence (heritage of Daphne du Maurier and Emily Bronte). nevertheless, I won't throw this on the bin in vain.

I put it under cut just for the sake of practising how to use lj cut.

Water Colours

Red, yellow and blue ink-pots stood in a row upon a wooden desk. Beside these, a pale full of mixture and two other pots: white and black. There was no brush to be seen anywhere. In fact, there was no brush at all … there was also no drawing; only a bit of wet patch in the surface of the wood that indicated that there was a drawing earlier.

A girl sat in front of the desk, her back turned towards it and her face was hidden in her hands. She was weeping bitterly. Outside, the crystal-blue sky hurt her eyes and wounded her still further more. She has no friend now. No distraction from her only enemy: despair. For the past month, drawing has become her panacea to pain; distraction from despair. But now, all had been torn away from her.

The brush she had used earlier lay broken and burnt in the waste-paper basket on the corner of the room, along with her attempt at drawing the vista around her house. These pieces she gathered slowly, weeping all the more. On one of the torn pieces, a red mark of other paint caught her eye. It was not the soft watery colours she had been working on. It was a smooth, glittering paint of a red nail-polish; so vividly red that she could not help herself to let out a small shriek. She flung away the offended piece back to the waste-paper basket and wrapped the rest carefully with a soft tissue-paper. After stood listening for some times, she walked to her room and put it away in a bottom drawer.

“These are dreams that must be stored away. Unremembered, unfulfilled.” She said to herself as she got up. Crossing to the mirror, she whipped away her tears and forced a smile. Her eyes were blotchy and her face swollen; not so much by her weeping as by the violence she received. She gazed for some times and moved away to pick up her books.

A slight noise was heard behind the girl’s back. Light, careful foot-step designed to catch her by surprise. But she was used to this now; her ears had been trained to catch any noise however faint it was. She paid no attention whatsoever and continued her study.

“What are you doing, young lady?” asked a voice, cold and demanding.
“I am studying,” she answered equally coolly.
“Lyer!” the woman hissed and seizing the book she was holding told her that she was no good.
The girl responded coolly that she had already told her that for a hundred times. At this, the woman’s passion was flared. She glared at her and, seizing her hair dragged her around the house, deliberately banging her head against the wall in a door-way and forcing her to sit down, panting in the garden.
“You have no respect,” the woman spat through her clenching teeth. The girl kept her silence. “Answer me!” the woman shrieked, boxing her ears at the same time.

The scene ended about half an hour later. The girl’s lips was swollen from all the pulling; her hair was disarranged from all the tearing; the tip of her nose was red from all the pinching and from the folds of her ears a trickle of blood ran down her hair-line. Red claw-like marks appeared on her forehead and between her hairs. She walked tremblingly; her head bowed and her eyes looked at the floor.

“No water-colours now,” she thought gloomily. Her only distraction from sorrow.

Seated herself at her writing desk, safely after the hour of midnight had past; she took a pen and paper and began to write:

Dear Diary,

It’s a very bad day. Marilyn was very nasty and demanding. Father went out all day and he took Nigel with him; so I was left alone with Marilyn. I thought of concocting some plan to go out with friends, but who would go with me? They all too busy with themselves to notice a girl with red, swollen face and awkward way of talking. Only the other day L told me that K and Y were gossiping about me. Well, I met them in the morning and chatted with them for awhile. Then, when I went up to the class, they were still there talking to some other girls from Y’s class. They were talking about me; of me having flees in my hair. L continued with saying “next time, don’t be overconfident with them.” reminded me of my outrageous behaviour when she felt forsaken because I chose to befriend J more than her. J was very amusing and very kind. She was also very witty. So, what was wrong with my desire to make better acquaintance with her?

Oh Diary, the hour of midnight had long past. Yet I could not sleep. I could not take off my mind from this terrible life. Marilyn took my brush-paint away today and burnt it in the kitchen stove. She tore my drawing and threw it as if it was a particularly nasty bit of dirt on her shoes. She told me I have a very “wrong” inside because I like painting rather than what she approves: music, book-keeping and other profitable interests. I could not help it. I liked painting from my soul and I could not shake it off. Even when I played my piano pieces, I did not enjoy it. She had turned my fondness of it to the most detestable thing of all! So, why blame me for disliking it?

I realized I am a bad breeding. Bad blood, bad character, bad sort. And all handed down to me from my mother’s side. But am I really that worst? I feel some times, only for flickering moments when I am drawing that life held a meaning to me. A minute hope: to see tomorrow; to be free.

******

A row of ink-pots stood in a table. Red, yellow and blue respectably with black and white stood a little a part. The big paper which covered most of the table was wet with water-colours. A drawing of a wasteland with all its charms; the starry flower that grew amidst the greens, a bracken languishing under the sun, a solid rock protruding to form a crag and the blue sky covering them all with blinding sunlight. There was beauty in this painting. A tragic beauty that nonetheless held some magic to the eyes of the beholder. On the bottom of the page was written:

Elena, 14 March 2001

*****

Dear Diary today is my 21st birthday. A bright day. I finished another painting and was about to begin another one when I wanted to take a little walk. So, I spent my day roaming around the countryside.

I am free as free as it can be. But you know what I wanted? I wanted to fly like a bird. To be free from all bonds and to fly high in the air never to come down again to earth.

a practise

Fri, 17 Apr 2009 04:30:37 GMT

THE PHILOSOPHER

ENOUGH of thought, philosopher !
Too long hast thou been dreaming
Unlightened, in this chamber drear,
While summer's sun is beaming !
Space-sweeping soul, what sad refrain
Concludes thy musing once again ?

‘Oh, for the time when I shall sleep
Without identity.
And never care how rain may steep,
Or snow may cover me !
No promised heaven, these wild desires
Could all, or half fulfil ;
No threatened hell, with quenchless fires,
Subdue this quenchless will ! '

' So said I, and still say the same;
Still, to my death, will say
Three gods, within this little frame,
Are warring night and day;
Heaven could not hold them all, and yet
They all are held in me;
And must be mine till I forget
My present entity !

Oh, for the time, when in my breast
Their struggles will be o'er !
Oh, for the day, when I shall rest,
And never suffer more ! '

'I saw a spirit, standing, man,
Where thou dost stand an hour ago,
And round his feet three rivers ran,
Of equal depth, and equal flow
A golden stream and one like blood;
And one like sapphire seemed to be;
But, where they joined their triple flood
It tumbled in an inky sea.
The spirit sent his dazzling gaze
Down through that ocean's gloomy night;
Then, kindling all, with sudden blaze,
The glad deep sparkled wide and bright
White as the sun, far, far more fair
Than its divided sources were ! '

'And even for that spirit, seer,
I 've watched and sought my lifetime long;
Sought him in heaven, hell, earth, and air,
An endless search, and always wrong.
Had I but seen his glorious eye
Once light the clouds that 'wilder me,
I ne'er had raised this coward cry
To cease to think, and cease to be;

I ne'er had called oblivion blest,
Nor stretching eager hands to death,
Implored to change for senseless rest
This sentient soul, this living breath
Oh, let me die that power and will
Their cruel strife may close;
And vanquish good, victorious ill;
Be lost in one repose!’
Emily Bronte

[Error: Irreparable invalid markup ('<lj/cut>') in entry. Owner must fix manually. Raw contents below.]

<lj-cut>THE PHILOSOPHER

ENOUGH of thought, philosopher !
Too long hast thou been dreaming
Unlightened, in this chamber drear,
While summer's sun is beaming !
Space-sweeping soul, what sad refrain
Concludes thy musing once again ?

‘Oh, for the time when I shall sleep
Without identity.
And never care how rain may steep,
Or snow may cover me !
No promised heaven, these wild desires
Could all, or half fulfil ;
No threatened hell, with quenchless fires,
Subdue this quenchless will ! '

' So said I, and still say the same;
Still, to my death, will say
Three gods, within this little frame,
Are warring night and day;
Heaven could not hold them all, and yet
They all are held in me;
And must be mine till I forget
My present entity !

Oh, for the time, when in my breast
Their struggles will be o'er !
Oh, for the day, when I shall rest,
And never suffer more ! '

'I saw a spirit, standing, man,
Where thou dost stand an hour ago,
And round his feet three rivers ran,
Of equal depth, and equal flow
A golden stream and one like blood;
And one like sapphire seemed to be;
But, where they joined their triple flood
It tumbled in an inky sea.
The spirit sent his dazzling gaze
Down through that ocean's gloomy night;
Then, kindling all, with sudden blaze,
The glad deep sparkled wide and bright
White as the sun, far, far more fair
Than its divided sources were ! '

'And even for that spirit, seer,
I 've watched and sought my lifetime long;
Sought him in heaven, hell, earth, and air,
An endless search, and always wrong.
Had I but seen his glorious eye
Once light the clouds that 'wilder me,
I ne'er had raised this coward cry
To cease to think, and cease to be;

I ne'er had called oblivion blest,
Nor stretching eager hands to death,
Implored to change for senseless rest
This sentient soul, this living breath
Oh, let me die that power and will
Their cruel strife may close;
And vanquish good, victorious ill;
Be lost in one repose!’
Emily Bronte<lj/cut>

I am the only being whose doom no one No tongue would ask no eye would mourn

Sat, 11 Apr 2009 09:47:54 GMT

I'm feeling quite poetic at the moment; the result of rereading the biography of Emily Bronte.

Emily and Daphne. the two writers that influence me the most.
so, there it is.

I am the only being whose doom
No tongue would ask no eye would mourn
I never caused a thought of gloom
A smile of joy since I was born

In secret pleasure--secret tears
This changeful life has slipped away
As friendless after eighteen years
As lone as on my natal day

There have been times I cannot hide
There have been times when this was drear
When my sad soul forgot its pride
And longed for one to love me here

But those were in the early glow
Of feelings since subdued by care
And they have died so long ago
I hardly now believe they were

First melted off the hope of youth
Then Fancy's rainbow fast withdrew
And then experience told me truth
In mortal bosoms never grew

'Twas grief enough to think mankind
All hollow servile insincere
But worse to trust to my own mind
And find the same corruption there

[Error: Irreparable invalid markup ('<lj/cut>') in entry. Owner must fix manually. Raw contents below.]

I'm feeling quite poetic at the moment; the result of rereading the biography of Emily Bronte.

Emily and Daphne. the two writers that influence me the most.
so, there it is.

<lj-cut>I am the only being whose doom
No tongue would ask no eye would mourn
I never caused a thought of gloom
A smile of joy since I was born

In secret pleasure--secret tears
This changeful life has slipped away
As friendless after eighteen years
As lone as on my natal day

There have been times I cannot hide
There have been times when this was drear
When my sad soul forgot its pride
And longed for one to love me here

But those were in the early glow
Of feelings since subdued by care
And they have died so long ago
I hardly now believe they were

First melted off the hope of youth
Then Fancy's rainbow fast withdrew
And then experience told me truth
In mortal bosoms never grew

'Twas grief enough to think mankind
All hollow servile insincere
But worse to trust to my own mind
And find the same corruption there<lj/cut>

the last stanza of this poem bothered me somehow. "corruption" as the last line suggested is planted everywhere. not only with manipulation or economy, but through lot's of other things such as honesty. and indeed, it is a tragedy when we thought that we're the most honest, or, to be pricise, the most incorruptible, when we plunge to the depth of our mind, we realised we're corrupt ourselves. Emily rather resent this fact.

experiment

Sat, 04 Apr 2009 10:32:44 GMT

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now - A E Housman
Alfred Edward Housman

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
by
A E Housman

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

[Error: Irreparable invalid markup ('<lj/cut>') in entry. Owner must fix manually. Raw contents below.]

<lj-cut>Loveliest of trees, the cherry now - A E Housman
Alfred Edward Housman

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
by
A E Housman

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.<lj/cut>

view on the subject of love

Fri, 03 Apr 2009 10:47:41 GMT

I haven't been doing anything productive today. doesn't matter. I want to be critical tonight.

for centuries, and I think, since the dawn of time, "love" has become the most discussed subject of human kind. how and why, I myself couldn't give an answer to that.

but let's discuss some of the great work about love along the history. in this entry, I want to talk about "Cupid and Psyky", "Romeo and Juliet", "Anthony and Cleopatra", "Tristrum and Iseult", "Wuthering Heights", and "othelo".

to me, these works encompass all the love theme there is to be discussed. and what a broad subject it is to cover!

in this entry, I will talk only about human relationship (God's love is unquestionable and more complecated to talk about).

first: Cupid and Psyky. two lovers, fall in love accidentally because of Cupid's errow and finally married under secrecy to prevent/delay the wrath of Venus. jealousy from the other sisters brought her to find out what sort of husband she got. curiosity resulted on desaster.

the story ends with reunion and happiness after such long and laborious tasks, nearing to mere impossibility.

second: "Romeo and Juliet".

Shakespeare's "Romeo and Juliet" is the work of art. whether it is based on fact, I don't know. through centuries of handed down legacy, the story is regarded: more as a romance than as a tragedy. I know many people who live unaware of what happen at the end of the play and think that they end up together happily ever after, just like the Snow White or Cinderella.

yet, every time I hear the word "Romeo and Juliet", I am left with a question: is it true love which killed them both? or is it just hot passion? my biasness and passion judge that it is not love that had driven them to despairity, but their longing to break away from the tradition and having a bit of adventure. yet their very earnestness baffled me, especially the comitment to change their name. knowing me, it might just an ordinary thing but I don't think so. people don't change their name because of sheer interest and sense of adventure, aren't they?
yet the fact that one lover could not live without the other and their determination to die is another matter. for that very desire (to die) is their final destroyer.
I could not stop thinking that: if Romeo waited half an hour longer, Juliet would have wake up and they could be happy. but he did not wait. Juliet, driven to despair and horror of what she had done and what had happened; perhaps thinks that her life was worthless from now on and killed herself a few seconds before the arrival of other people (the entrance, rather).
the play end with the reconciliation of the two families. but what use of that either? the play is finished! the tragedy had been told!
and I think the greatest tragedy throughout the play is not the fact that Romeo and Juliet could not be together. it is their act of rushness which ended their lives.

I leave out Paris somehow. he is also a rushed man. asking Juliet's hand without her permission. thinks that she is his lady even before they were married.

who were to blame for all of these tragedies and deaths? I think everyone. all of them are guilty and have a part in contributing to the end of those three.

third: "Anthony and Cleopatra".
another Shakepeare. but this time, it is love against fedelity. I find it hard to call the relationship between Mark Anthony and Cleopatra a true love. her very beauty confirms that. "Age could not wither her etc.". and nayway, if they are having a "true love" relationship, why would Mark Anthony marry someone else? and don't forget that at the beginning of the play he had a wife who died in some rebellious uprising. "a faithful true lover has one love alone".

on the other hand, to prove Cleopatra's fedelity, I find it hard to call it the true one because she fled with all her fleets when Mark Anthony needed her mostly. this was not done once only but twice. what had prevent her to go fourth with the battle? lack of courage? or is it lack of fedelity and the placing of importance in her life?

once she had been defeated, she killed herself with an asp. apparently because she could not bear to be marched along the streets of Rome. so, where is all her courage? no matter how beautiful she is, she lacks courage and fedelity.

Fourth: "Tristrum and Iseult"
when I first became acquainted with this story, I was struck by the lovers' determination. it is also similar to a chinese legend where the male character died and the female character followed suit. from their grave grew two trees, intertwine with each other that any attempt to separated them was useless. so did the case with Tristrum and Iseult.

there are two version of the legend concerning Tristrum and Iseult. the first is that they drank a love potion so powerful that they were not responsible for all their adulteries, and the other version, which was more likely was that they did it according to their own act/responsibility. in the phantacy land, the first version is more possible and romantic while in reality, the second one is more plossible. but both of them stated that Tristrum died when his wife (another Iseult) told him that the first Iseult did not love him anymore. the first Iseult died, grieving over the corpse of her lover. King Mark and the second Iseult became "third party" in the story.

what had separated those two? fate and marriage. Iseult was married to King Mark and Tristrum was married to the second Iseult. I believe that such powerful feelings are exists and they are able to drive anyone out of themselves. perhaps, this is the so called "the effect of the potion" which left them irresponsible for their very action of adultery. passion is a very dangerous thing and I believe it is passion which had driven them together. the fact that they could not be together was, perhaps, the most attractive part. once again, we are faced by the choice whether to regard this as a feeling of true love or passion. in this case, both of them are equally likely. I don't know if the wording of the story matters. at any rate, both lovers ended up dead, just like the story of "romeo and Juliet". being somewhat older than the tale of "Romeo and Juliet", this could be an inspiration to whoever had invented the tale (not Shakespeare).

fifth: "Wuthering Heights"
I can't believe I did four of these! and I'm doing the fifth!

the notion of "love" in "Wuthering Heights" differs from other tales which I have criticised. this time, it is more like the love of two twins rather than two lovers.

the barrier was: society, money, and marriage. Catherine refused to marry Heathcliff because he had no money and no importance in the ranks of society. later, when he had procured these things, she was already married to Edgar Linton. the curious thing about this tale is: that both Heathcliff and Edgar blamed each other for Catherine's death! and they remained enemy till the end of their days. the enmity was resolved with the blossoming of another love: the heir of Wuthering Height fell in love with the heiress of Thrushcross Grange.

another strange thing about "Wuthering Heights" is that the love between Heathcliff and Catherine resolved them to consider themselves two halves of the same being. and whilst marriage could not break the feeling of Catherine towards Heathcliff and vise versa, death did the job.

to a reader that expected romantic exchange such as kissing, dark corners etc. they are let down because in the book, such things are scorned by Emily Bronte: proved by Nelly's reactions when such things happen. when Cathy and Edgar was wooing in Wuthering Heights, she scorned both of them. later on, when Heathcliff kissed Isabella Linton, she cried with indignation that such act was indecent. she even called her master to finish Heathcliff and to ban him from the house. it is note worthy that in the same night, Catherine broke her temper and ended up mentally broken. as for the death of Catherine, it is a mixture between her sheer determination to die, and to revenge on Heathcliff and Edgar for hating each other and breaking her heart. I believe this is a mere selfishness on her part. yet, the scene of their last meeting is one of the saddest thing I've ever known, and it haunts me still by its very sadness.

if Romeo could not live without Juliet, Heathcliff proclaimed the same notion about living without Catherine. but Emily has a notion of "living without the aide of joy" which kept Heathcliff and Edgar alive, bearly concious of their surroundings and long for death to end their miseries. whilst awaited their deaths, both filled their time with productive doings, according to their idea of productive. Edgar busied himself with the education of young Cathy, and Heathcliff with his revenge to Edgar and to Isabella and his own son plus his nephew: Ernshaw.

by this time, he had laid his hand upon Wuthering Heights, the house of his enemy: Hindley Ernshaw; taking it by force from the rightful hier: Hareton Ernshaw. meanwhile, he planned to inherit Thrushcross Grange tohrough the marriage between Linton Heathcliff (his son) with the young Cathy. such a life would have been regarded as unhealthy, moreover: cruel, wicked, ruthless. but he lives without the aide of joy and took pleasure in the pain of his enemies; without realising that he inflicted an incurable damage upon himself. when he saw that the widowed Cathy fell in love with Hareton, he could not bear the thought and died as a broken man.

in this case, love has turned into hatred and bitterness. and whether Heathcliff is the child of the devil himself, he certainly crave love. crave it so bitterly that he resolved to have revenge on the persons who had prevented him to be loved. ironically, he became so estrange to "love" that when it did cross his threshold it broke him.

sixth: "othello"shakespeare again! I think the theme of "love" plays a great deal on Shakespeare's mind and therefore his plays. I would make this short because there is not much to be said here, because I haven't read the play.

Othello charmed Destimona (his wife) by telling her about his life. and Destimona charmed Othello by her eagerness when listening to his stories. this makes a perfect match. it was slunder and distrust that broke the couple and turn the play into tragedy. I might change my view after I read the play, but now, I pitty them because they are the perfect model of true love.

so, that is my view on so called "love". and what an anticlimax to end this entry thus!
comments will be appreaciated.

"how to make gravy"

Mon, 30 Mar 2009 09:30:47 GMT

strangely enough, this doesn't tell me how to make gravy. I have to learn it from Mrs. McD and forgot how to do it.

anyway, I did this in English today as a "related text" to Harry Lavender. it's a sad song but at the same time extremely helarious (for me).

How to Make Gravy
Paul Kelly

Hello Dan, it's Joe here  
I hope you're keeping well  
Its the 21st of December  
now they’re ringing the last bell
if I get good behaviour
I'll be out of here by July  
Won't you kiss my kids on Christmas day   
Pleeeease don't let them cry for me  
 I guess the brothers are driving down from Queensland
and Stella's  flying in from the coast  
They say it's gonna be a hundred degrees,
even more maybe, but that  won't stop the roast   
Who's gonna make the gravy now?  
I bet it won't taste the same

Just add flour, salt, a little red wine and don't forget a dollop of  tomato sauce for sweetness and that extra tang  

And give my love to Angus and to Frank and Dolly,
Tell 'em all I'm sorry I screwed up this time

And look after Rita,
I'll be thinking of her
early Christmas morning  
When I'm standing in line  

I hear Mary's got a new boyfriend,
I hope he can hold his own
Do you remember the last one? What was his name again?  (Just a little too much cologne)  

And Roger, you know I'm even gonna miss Roger
'Cause there's sure as hell no one in here I want to fight  
Oh praise the Baby Jesus,
have a Merry Christmas,  
I'm really gonna miss it,
all the treasure and the trash  

And later in the evening,
I can just imagine “they say it’s gona be a hundred degrees” “who’s gona make the gravy now”
 You'll put on Junior Murvin and push the tables back
 And you'll dance with Rita, I know you really like her,  
Just don't hold her too close,
oh brother please don't stab me in the  back   
I didn't mean to say that,
it's just my mind it plays up,
Multiplies each matter,
turns imagination into fact  
You know I love her badly,
she's the one to save me,
I'm gonna make some gravy,
I'm gonna taste the fat  
Tell her that I'm sorry,
yeah I love her badly,
tell 'em all I'm  sorry,  
And kiss the sleepy children for me  
You know one of these days,
I'll be making gravy,  
I'll be making plenty,
I'm gonna pay 'em all back.

Gravy is a symbolic representation of family gathering.

the lost art of keeping secrets (plot summary)

Sun, 29 Mar 2009 06:37:58 GMT

the book opens with Penelope's (the main character) encounter with Charlotte Feris, in a bus stop at London. she asked her to share a cab with her and Penelope accepted the invitation (half unwillingly). at the cab, Charlotte invited Penelope to have tea with Aunt Claire and Harry (Aunt Clair's only son)
"Is he the most handsome boy in London?" asked Penelope. Charlotte's answer is: "Of course not. but he is far the most interesting".

the tea with Aunt Clair became a revelation to a country girl such as Penelope who live in a very traditional way. during this tea, she met Harry which was infatuated by Marina Hamelton, an American actress who lived in Dorsit House, one of the most grandure houses in London at the time.

back at home, Penelope was haunted by her economic crisis and her mother's afflictions about not having enough moeny to keep the house going. her family lived in a grand house called Milton Magna, a medieval house, partly ruined by the soldiers who used it as one of their bases during World War II. Penelope, her brother Inigo and their uncommonly beautiful mother Talitha struggled after the death of their father during the war. Talitha was left to pine over him while his children soon learnt how much they had lost.

during the course of the novel, Penelope was engaged to pretend to be Harry's Lover at several parties of Marina to "win her back through jealousy". one night at Marina's birthday party, Harry kissed Penelope (reluctantly) and gave her two tickts of Jonny Ray (her favourite singer) as her payment.

the book ends with "Everything will work out" theory from Aunt Claire and the distruction of Magna, reminiscently like the distruction of Manderley in "Rebecca".

review had claimed that the plot is somewhat shapeless. this opinion is strengthened by the fact that every values in the book is contradicted, one from the other. at the beginning of the book, Penelope is introduced to a more suffisticated London's social life whilst at the end of the book, she seemed to think that it is valueless, after all.

there is a twist in the book where Penelope falls in love with Harry and Aunt Claire met her father 20 years ago. "He was to become the only man I've ever love".

despite the length of the book and Rice's confusing shapeless plot, the book is note worthy because of its wittiness and humour. throughout the book, Penelope's view is constantly challanged and changed by Charlotte and vise versa. the figures of Charlotte and Harry also become the comic relief of the work. this is Eva Rice's debut and, I hope there are many more to come...

for full review, go to
http://www.curledup.com/lostartk.htm

the hound of heaven

Thu, 19 Mar 2009 08:46:35 GMT

The Hound of Heaven
by
Francis Thompson
from Poems (1909)

I FLED Him, down the nights and down the days;
I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter.
Up vistaed hopes I sped;
And shot, precipitated,
Adown Titanic glooms of chasmèd fears,
From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.
But with unhurrying chase,
And unperturbèd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
They beat—and a Voice beat
More instant than the Feet—
‘All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.’

I pleaded, outlaw-wise,
By many a hearted casement, curtained red,
Trellised with intertwining charities;
(For, though I knew His love Who followèd,
Yet was I sore adread
Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside).
But, if one little casement parted wide,
The gust of His approach would clash it to.
Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue.
Across the margent of the world I fled,
And troubled the gold gateways of the stars,
Smiting for shelter on their clangèd bars;
Fretted to dulcet jars
And silvern chatter the pale ports o’ the moon.
I said to Dawn: Be sudden—to Eve: Be soon;
With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over
From this tremendous Lover—
Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see!
I tempted all His servitors, but to find
My own betrayal in their constancy,
In faith to Him their fickleness to me,
Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit.
To all swift things for swiftness did I sue;
Clung to the whistling mane of every wind.
But whether they swept, smoothly fleet,
The long savannahs of the blue;
Or whether, Thunder-driven,
They clanged his chariot ’thwart a heaven,
Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o’ their feet:—
Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.
Still with unhurrying chase,
And unperturbèd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
Came on the following Feet,
And a Voice above their beat—
‘Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me.’

I sought no more that after which I strayed
In face of man or maid;
But still within the little children’s eyes
Seems something, something that replies,
They at least are for me, surely for me!
I turned me to them very wistfully;
But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair
With dawning answers there,
Their angel plucked them from me by the hair.
‘Come then, ye other children, Nature’s—share
With me’ (said I) ‘your delicate fellowship;
Let me greet you lip to lip,
Let me twine with you caresses,
Wantoning
With our Lady-Mother’s vagrant tresses,
Banqueting
With her in her wind-walled palace,
Underneath her azured daïs,
Quaffing, as your taintless way is,
From a chalice
Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring.’
So it was done:
I in their delicate fellowship was one—
Drew the bolt of Nature’s secrecies.
I knew all the swift importings
On the wilful face of skies;
I knew how the clouds arise
Spumèd of the wild sea-snortings;
All that’s born or dies
Rose and drooped with; made them shapers
Of mine own moods, or wailful or divine;
With them joyed and was bereaven.
I was heavy with the even,
When she lit her glimmering tapers
Round the day’s dead sanctities.
I laughed in the morning’s eyes.
I triumphed and I saddened with all weather,
Heaven and I wept together,
And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine;
Against the red throb of its sunset-heart
I laid my own to beat,
And share commingling heat;
But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart.
In vain my tears were wet on Heaven’s grey cheek.
For ah! we know not what each other says,
These things and I; in sound I speak—
Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences.
Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth;
Let her, if she would owe me,
Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me
The breasts o’ her tenderness:
Never did any milk of hers once bless
My thirsting mouth.
Nigh and nigh draws the chase,
With unperturbèd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy;
And past those noisèd Feet
A voice comes yet more fleet—
‘Lo! naught contents thee, who content’st not Me!’
Naked I wait Thy love’s uplifted stroke!
My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me,
And smitten me to my knee;
I am defenceless utterly.
I slept, methinks, and woke,
And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep.
In the rash lustihead of my young powers,
I shook the pillaring hours
And pulled my life upon me; grimed with smears,
I stand amid the dust o’ the mounded years—
My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap.
My days have crackled and gone up in smoke,
Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream.
Yea, faileth now even dream
The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist;
Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist
I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist,
Are yielding; cords of all too weak account
For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed.
Ah! is Thy love indeed
A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed,
Suffering no flowers except its own to mount?
Ah! must—
Designer infinite!—
Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it?
My freshness spent its wavering shower i’ the dust;
And now my heart is as a broken fount,
Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever
From the dank thoughts that shiver
Upon the sighful branches of my mind.
Such is; what is to be?
The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind?
I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds;
Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds
From the hid battlements of Eternity;
Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then
Round the half-glimpsèd turrets slowly wash again.
But not ere him who summoneth
I first have seen, enwound
With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned;
His name I know, and what his trumpet saith.
Whether man’s heart or life it be which yields
Thee harvest, must Thy harvest-fields
Be dunged with rotten death?

Now of that long pursuit
Comes on at hand the bruit;
That Voice is round me like a bursting sea:
‘And is thy earth so marred,
Shattered in shard on shard?
Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me!
Strange, piteous, futile thing!
Wherefore should any set thee love apart?
Seeing none but I makes much of naught’ (He said),
‘And human love needs human meriting:
How hast thou merited—
Of all man’s clotted clay the dingiest clot?
Alack, thou knowest not
How little worthy of any love thou art!
Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee,
Save Me, save only Me?
All which I took from thee I did but take,
Not for thy harms,
But just that thou might’st seek it in My arms.
All which thy child’s mistake
Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home:
Rise, clasp My hand, and come!’
Halts by me that footfall:
Is my gloom, after all,
Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly?
‘Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,
I am He Whom thou seekest!
Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me.’

*******

well, I found a piece of this poem on one of the pages of "Rebecca". it is pretty although quite menacing in certain way. to flee from the hound of heaven is something anyone should not do. some critics labels the hound as God and the hare as Us. and it is clear it would not do for us to flee from God. like that guy who ended up swallowed by a fish, we could not fly from His presence.

I am not thoughtful tonight, because I am rather tired. so, enough on the poem.

events on wednesday

Sat, 14 Mar 2009 11:27:19 GMT

now that my thoughts are more organised than before, I'm going to relate my wednesday here.

in the morning, I went to school carrying my French textbook which is huge. rall-call went as boring as usual. then I spent my morning trying to decipher musical features without the aide of any music braille. we were going through all of the pieces we were going to watch that evening. then, I just realised how great stave notation it. because without it, there would be no bach or mendelson or every composers that just don't pop up in my head right now.

on break, I met Sam and Nutella and she was complaining about me not telling her I was not going to go to English. "I could have read twilight or something!"

we then proceeded to Learning Centre and on the way, we met Tessa. she was verry agitated and rushed. it turned out that she has two different shoes on. one was pink with laces and the other one was a sort of blueish colour. unable to bear the thought of meeting the boys from the boys' school with those on, she beggd Nutella to tell the teacher present that she was meeting some other teacher. she went home and changed those. when she came back, we all call her Cinderella because of the shoes story.

Fri, 06 Mar 2009 11:33:58 GMT

I stuffed up my French asignment. there were 4 passages and the first one was about this type of mayonnaise called "aiolie". if you don't know what mayonnaise is, or if I misspell it by mistake, it's a type of sauce that you put on sandwitch or salade.

I really didn't know that "aiolie" is a type of food that could be Anglisise. and I wandered off tangent. a clue lead me into believing that it's a type of profensial food and I wrote it down.

but I should not be too hard on myself. after all, that particular passage is only worth 5 marks out of 35 marks. and I should congretulate myself for guessing the word "wish" in French and for putting together some pieces here and there into a translated paragraph.

we have music in the other music-room today. and just for the fun of it, I'm going to describe the picture of the room because it's unique.

well, the music-room I usually use is located at an end of a coridor. it is very hot, stuffy and very obnoxious some times because there were occssions when all the instruments were strewn all over the floor. if you walk into one of them, Mrs. C will yell and scream.

this other one is the home-room of the other music teacher Ms. Fisher. the room is deprived of musical instruments despite the fact that it's a music room. I remembered doing one of my French speaking assessment there.
the absence of instruments gives it an appearance of more room to breathe and do things which are either considerate or inconsiderate.

the tables are arranged in a letter U form with a wide space in the middle (for the teacher to roam around as she pleased I suppose). once one goes to the middle, one has to walk around all the tables to get to a chair. I didn't abide that law. instead, I got on to the other side from under the tables (fortunately there was no teacher around)

this particular teacher is famous for her "nazi's insistance" for any girls who dare to stick chewing gum under the desk in her room or within her sight or her knowledge, she obliges herself to scrape up all the chewing gums from every table on that coridor (which I'm sure are incalculable).

the most peculiar of all about this room and why I enjoyed so much is the presence of the trolls. Ms. Fisher is very fond of trolls and she displays a great colection of them in her room. on the teacher's desk, at the top of her cupboards, everywhere! they are in all sizes from large to small. I suppose they're made out of plastic or perhaps some of them are made out of china.

once, I managed to persuade Mrs. C to show me one of them and oh! they have ugly hair! it's curly and goes in different direction. it has two large feet, fat, short in hight and has two enormous eyes!

and since I've been at school, I always call that room "the trolls room" instead of "music-room I" or "b14" for it's official name.

despite of the trools in the visinity, we have a very good lesson of jazz. and in my free period, I managed to persuade Mr. Wilkens: the new music teachers to help me with my asignment which is to identify each style of jazz. there are 10 tracks in the CD and we have to identify which one's which.

so, that made up most of my day.

I saw Sam today and I'm glad she was well again. she was sick yesterday. I've found out what I'm going to give her for her birthday which is next thursday.

some things are meant to be

Wed, 04 Mar 2009 11:19:59 GMT

some things are meant to be
words by Mindi Dickstein

let's pretend we're riding on a kite.
Let's imagine we're flying through the air.
we'll ascend until we're out of sight.
light as paper we'll soar.
let's be wild, up high above the sand.
feel the wind, the world at our command.
let's enjoy the view and never land.
floating far from the shore.

some things are meant to be:
the clouds moving fast and free.
the sun on the silver sea.
a sky that's bright and blue.
and some things will never end:
the thrill of our magic ride.
the love that I feel inside for you.

we'll climb high, beyond the break of day.
sleep on star dust and dine on bits of moon.
you and I will find the milky way
we'll be mad and explore.we'll recline, aloft upon the breeze.
dart about, sail on with windy ease.
pass the days doing only as we please.
that's what living is for.

some things are meant to be:
the tide turning endlessly.
the way it takes hold of me.
no matter what I do.
but some things will never die:
the promise of who you are,
your mem'ries when I am far from you.

all my life I've lived for loving you.
let me go now.

from the stage production "Little Women".

unlike my usual self, I know very little about this song apart from it is from the stage production stated above and the composer. it is sung moderately and flowingly.

what's the background? I have no idea!

spiritual entry

Sat, 28 Feb 2009 11:52:28 GMT

for those of you who have other belief, I suggest you might skip this entry and go on with your life.

I went to a spiritual meeting just now. it is in Indonesian and I am trying to convey the meaning as best as I can in English. we call these things: Building spiritual service. usually, it is accompanied with healing session. when my Dad told me that I could come, I prayed to God that "I don't want to be healed phisically. I want to be healed spiritually."
what I mean is: I don't want to get physical sight but I do want to get spiritual sight.

I was feeling very low and far from God lately and tried my best to be present at every opportunity gathering. but somehow the message was always: "God loves you. whatever you're doing He loves you" that sort of stuff over and over until, up to a point, I feel that going to church is a duty, not a pleasure. but the message tonight was simply good! it doesn't talk about love (I already know that God loves me and I think I've got enough reminder). after all, one could not get stuck at something and not moving on.

it was about the end of the world and what would happen. and I am determine to record this in my journal!
the verse that based the sermon is from Hibru 12 verse 26 which is:
When God spoke the first time, his voice shook only the earth. This time he has promised to shake the earth once again, and heaven too.

the crisis that shook the world right now is only the beginning of greater miseries that will be caused by many more crisis, especially financial crisis. amidst all these chaos, there will be something or someone who will emerge from the world and appease all the trouble. this is not God however, but the Antichrist. he proffesed that the figure will come from somewhere in Europe and revive the old kingdom of Rome (not literally. look at the European Union with their Euro). this figure will overcome all the trouble (just like Hitler promised to bring Germany out of the crisis in 1920's). if the holocost in the World War II was considered the most terrible thing that ever happen to humanity, this time the scale will be greater.

he (the Antichrist0 will ruled the financial of the world and control it. and now we come to an interesting passage of the bible. it's about the 666 number. personally, for me, this symbol is a symbol. when John wrote the book, he addressed it to some nation around Greek (or somewhere about there). for these people the number 6 was considered unlucky; just like the Chinese dislikes number 4.

the 666 idea is not something that people will brand to your skin with red hot iron (I am reminded of the dark-mark in Harry Potter). it's not that kind of idea. the world is moving with the development of technology. very possilby, it is a kind of myckro-chip (some kind of electronic system) that will enable people to do things such as: paying using credit card, used as an ID card, to locate people and to make life easier basically. in the Book of Revelation, there are consequences for getting this technology. it is described as:
The first angel emptied his bowl on the earth. At once ugly and painful sores broke out on everyone who had the mark of the beast and worshiped the idol. (book of revelation 16, verse 2). the servant of God thinks that these sores might be a deadly cancer that will infect everyone's skin as the cause of using the high-tech product which I don't think I spell it rightly.

there is other consequence also for the figure, like Hitler and others before him wanted to be worshiped and considered as "The All Mighty" which is an honour only worthy to be bestowed on God Himself. the consequences are written in the book of revelations 14 verses 10-11:
Finally, a third angel came and shouted: Here is what will happen if you worship the beast and the idol and have the mark of the beast on your hand or forehead. You will have to drink the wine that God gives to everyone who makes him angry. You will feel his mighty anger, and you will be tortured with fire and burning sulphur, while the holy angels and the Lamb look on. If you worship the beast and the idol and accept the mark of its name, you will be tortured day and night. The smoke from your torture will go up forever and ever, and you will never be able to rest.

but if you do not accept the beast's way of controling you, this is what will happen. revelation 13 verse 10:
If you are doomed to be captured, you will be captured. If you are doomed to be killed by a sword, you will be killed by a sword. This means that God's people must learn to endure and be faithful!

besides the sign of the appeasement from all crisis, the other sign of the coming of the antichrist is: the rebuilding of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. that means that somebody will help the Israelites (the jews now) to rebuild their Holy Temple and then asked them to worship him (possibly in that temple). when they refuse, they will be put under torture greater than the holocost.

there is a power which is preventing this figure of Antichrist to emerge from the recesses of the world. this power is the church. and God won't let all of these happen until all Gospel are heard from one end of the earth to another (end is not literal). perhaps I should say: from one pole of the earth to another, in every corner and nook, every lonely mountain and every valley (the list can continue and I will spend 5 hours writing this entry). as believers, we have to beware of all these thing and be prepared. in the meantime, be the outlets of the blessing of God (like a pipe). don't be a container which, when God's blessings/graces/gifts pour, you contain and not let it flow like a plug on the bath-tub.

so, that's the message tonight and I am glad I have done my duty to record it here because it means that I won't forget. however, my memory is not perfect so one or two things might slip.

pizza, choir, choir, pizza

Tue, 24 Feb 2009 08:57:51 GMT

I made pizza this afternoon with rochelle. and then, I went to choir rehearsal. then, I came home and ate more pizza.

what would that be?

a whirl of colours

Sat, 21 Feb 2009 07:50:24 GMT

whau! that sounds like a nice subject. hahaha.

I had a prolonged singing lesson today and we finished up "Caro Mio Ben" which wasn't particularly difficult. but I have to deal with schubert's "haidenroslein" or something like that nayway. it's in German so I have to ask someone to teach me how it is pronounced. in the meantime, I'm reading "The Three Brontes" by May Sinclair which is quite good. she's quite objective regarding the Brontes. she creates a judgement based on facts, and not tales. however, she has some misleadings; which are not her faults.

and I am proud of myself because I've unearthed a poem by Emily which was jibberish in the scanned text. it's in May Sinclair's book. she printed there for some reason and I'm grateful to her.

I also have to finish up reading "The Life and Crimes of Harry Lavender" before the end of next week because we're going to analyse it and probably: another assessment task on the subject.
I wonder why she has chosen a book which have never been used before in English. the next door english did The Crusible. but I don't envy them seeing that it's a very difficult book; and until now, I don't remember how it goes and how it ends!

well, apart from book-reading, singing and a bit of research task to procure my mum a new job, Frenching Sam until she got headaches, there's nothing else to say!

so, before I do some more crazy things, I better leave.

ON its bending stalk a bonny flower

Sun, 15 Feb 2009 11:19:22 GMT

On its bending stalk a bonny flower
In a yeoman's home-close grew;
It had gathered beauty from sunshine and shower,
From moonlight and silent dew,
Till the tufted leaves of the garden bower
Like a star it sparkled through.

It was a little budding rose,
Round like a fairy globe,
And shyly did its leaves unclose
Hid in their mossy robe,
But sweet was the slight and spicy smell
It breathed from its heart invisible.

Keenly his flower the yeoman guarded,
He watched it grow both day and night;
From the frost, from the wind, from the storm he warded
That flush of roseate light,
And ever it glistened bonnilie
Under the shade of the old roof-tree.

The morning sunshine had called him forth,
His garden was full of dew,
And green light slept on the happy earth,
And the sky was calm and blue.
The yeoman looked for his lovely flower;
There were leaves, but no buds, in the sheltering bower.

The rose was borne to another land,
And grew in another bed;
It was cultured by another hand,
And it sprung and flourished;

And fair it budded day by day
Beneath a new sun's cheering ray.
But long lies the dew on its crimson leaves,
It almost looks like tears;

The flower for the yeoman's home-close grieves
Amid a King's parterres.
Little moss-rose, cease to weep,
Let regret and sorrow sleep.

The rose is blasted, withered, blighted,
Its root has felt a worm,
And like a heart beloved and slighted,
Failed, faded, shrunk its form.

Bud of beauty, bonnie flower,
I stole thee from thy natal bower.
I was the worm that withered thee,
Thy tears of dew all fell for me;

Leaf and stalk and rose are gone,
Exile earth they died upon.
Yes, that last breath of balmy scent
With alien breezes sadly blent.
by Emily Bronte

get happy

Sat, 14 Feb 2009 08:51:06 GMT

it's a rainy day in Sydney and it is extremely cold. I'm not bother to find out what temprature it is but it is cold.

according to some people today is called "The Valentine's day". I don't know exactly to St. Valentine and why the tradition of sending roses and cards come from but yeah, there it is.

I have tons of work to do but I have no will to do it. hopefully it will not mount for too long, otherwise I'll procrastinate!

anyway, there isn't anything else to say!
so, with that indefinite rambling, I'll depart.
happy valentine's day for all of you who celebrate valentine. don't forget to send me chocolates.

an awful tuesday

Tue, 10 Feb 2009 10:21:41 GMT

I watched in TV how much damage has been made in Victoria from the fire.
and it's terrible to think that it all started with little flares such as unextinguish cigarette buds, or other inflictions.