the Blob

Blogpost 2, and also, no internet for a few days.

2011-09-01T09:47:00.000-07:00

This is another afternoon page because I have no internet at home, and had to rush to Collage Ave for a free T-shirt. Instinct to grab free things still strong and present, but toned down due to lethargy and general craving for non-free bananas.

I suppose it's a childish and bad habit of mine to start something and not finish it. Like the stories I used to write. I will write them and finish them (eventually), but right now I can't seem to steer the plot to something remotely readable.

This goes to the wolves and unicorns that have magical adventures in my head at night before I go to sleep. That way, my dreams are always epic.

I will now continue my Afternoon Page story:

The wolf turned around and found another wolf glaring at it. This wolf was Odean, but he liked to be called Lord Odean because he was, after all, high and mighty and had an impressive black staff made of some exotic tree. The wolf glowered at the other wolf. Confusion arose because there is ambiguity in which wolf was staring at which.

“I hope you've gotten the... 'merchandise' I .. 'ordered' a week previous,” growled (Lord) Odean. The dimension-traversing wolf smiled and threw him a satchel. (Lord) Odean glared.

“This isn't what I asked for.” He said.

“You haven't even checked!” said the dimension-traversing wolf.

(Lord) Odean glared at his agent. “Ten elephants?” He deadpanned. The dimension-traversing wolf shrugged.

“I can traverse dimensions.” He said, as if it was some sort of explanation.

“So what, this thing is bigger on the inside?”

“No, I had your elephants desiccated and ground up into ten-elephant-powder.”

(Lord) Odean snorted, and snapped the string that held the satchel shut.

Ten elephants, in their pachyderm glory, burst out of the satchel with a roaring trumpet. Gold and silver confetti, shaped like stars and birthday cake, accompanied the ensemble. So did real trumpets. And a purple tuba.

Half the street was crushed. The other half was reduced to squid from residual magic.

The dimension-traversing wolf shook his head and walked away.

Rant + Story + Modified Morning Pages or Afternoon Page because I woke up late

2011-08-31T11:45:00.001-07:00

This is my first attempt at 'Morning Pages'. I Googled it and I was supposed to write it in pen and paper. But this saves time and I have not developed the habit of going back and editing blocs of text yet. Also since I'm not doing it exactly as it is, I'll do one page a day instead of the usual three. One page is good enough for a blogpost too, I gather. I am not sure how long I will keep this up, because I like to take the excuse of 'real life' getting in the way of all things creative and amusing and beautiful. Notice how I did not capitalized 'real life'. This either shows that I do not consider it as notable as Whales, or have gotten bored of directing sarcasm at its importance. Like 'Life' and 'School' and 'Exams' and stuff. I like school and life and exams, but they have gotten old and repetitive and the young and stupid side of me yearns for more.

That concludes one paragraph. Now on to another paragraph. Maybe I'll write a story now. Here goes.

One day there was a house and in that house was nothing because the house was old and dilapidated. No one lived in that house, but the house was not sad because it was not alive and technically did not have feelings. However, no one had ever bothered to ask if the house had feelings, so even if it did, no one would know anyway. If no one knew, the house probably did not have feelings. It was something like that riddle; 'If a tree falls in an empty woods, will it make a noise?' I would think it does, because noise requires the vibrations of air particles (and other particles. Tree particles? Ground particles?). But what about noise? Is the presence noise dependent on a person feeling annoyed by it? Of is something noise if it has no use? Well, I still think that it makes a noise, because if I imagine it and then it exists in my head and I'm hearing the noise. This brings to mind St. Anselm's argument about the Existence of God. The Ontological Argument. It contains arguments like 'if god exists in your imagination, but then god is so awesomely greater than what you can conceive, then god must exist in the real world because existing in the real world is awesomely greater than existing in your mind. I won't go into my stand on the existence of god and gods right now. We have a story to continue.

The next day, the house was still there. The house was not rotting because it existed in a place where time did not pass. It sort of did, but didn't, because while there were days, nothing changed. It was sort of like existing in a perpetual state of preservation. A museum piece that never rusted, never got dusty, never got eaten by moths or prodded by over-eager fingers. Another day, a dimension-traversing wolf stumbled upon the house, and regarded it with a sniff of his snout.

“Whose idea was it,” he said, “to build a house here?”

There was no one there, so no one replied. The wolf shook his head, and entered the house. In the house was a bottle of magic elixir, a panacea, a cure for all ailments. But then, the house was not supposed to have anything, and since now it had something in it, the dimension it existed in became unstable and started to collapse. “Whoops, that's my cue,” said the wolf, and he grabbed the glowing blue bottle and dashed out into a dimension with sky-whales and muffin-waffles.

The instability of the blue bottle followed the wolf.

The dimension with sky-whales and muffin-waffles had a seaport empire built on trade, and the wolf was one of its many familiar vendors. The wolf donned his coat of a hundred murdered birds and melted into the crowd of merchants and fortune-seekers, their wares and offerings clinking and clanking in suspicious-looking gunny sacks promising wonders. The wolf's sack did not promise any sort of wonders, and was dull gray. This was sort of a rule in seaport trading squares and fantasy stories; the showier you are, the less impressive or important your wares, and the duller, shabbier you are the more magical, exotic, mindblowing, I-have-the-potential-to-save-the-world are your things.

The wolf felt a tap on his shoulder.

2011-06-20T21:03:00.000-07:00

Alas, it is I. Wandering in the land of the Thoughtless and Desolate. What will become of this weary world?

2011-04-14T21:32:00.001-07:00

What do you do when you are angry for no real reason?

There are days like these. There are always days like these. And has anyone figured out how to get over them yet?

Fun fun fun

2011-03-24T07:04:00.000-07:00

Almonds! Nuts! Ice rain!

Walking through ice rain, being pelted in the face by little flecks of ice! It makes me grin, so happily. Why though? It's like walking in the little snow storm.

How much can one say?

2011-03-21T14:24:00.000-07:00

Enough maybe, but all I can think of is a sad smile.

Two weeks without

2011-03-19T19:19:00.000-07:00

Missing philosophy class. Literally, that little ache there. Could be missing the caffeine, but let's be a little wishful here.

Midsem Reflection

2011-03-18T21:52:00.000-07:00

After half a semester, I've learnt that a lot of people like to sit down and think up things that won't really happen, but it would be nice if it did anyway.

That's a good thing to learn, actually. : D

Happy List #1

2011-03-08T22:41:00.000-08:00

What's sadder than a blog with a happy list?

There are sadder blogs for sadder people. Here's one.

The happy list follows no order.

1. Drastic changes in weather when you don't plan to go out

2. Odd-looking plants

3. Animals being animals

4. Sweet potatoes

5. Shutting up

6. Vanilla

7. Green highlighters

8. Oatmeal

9. Milk (of cow)

10. Useful plastic cups.

The happy list is pointless. So is this post. This was made to spite people and waste their time.

The blogger is not entirely happy (quite angry actually) but don't know how to react.

The above resulted in the happy list.

Happy lists don't make anyone happy. Some use it to spite people.

The happy list beats tantrums because it is not a direct attack.

The happy list allows dissatisfaction to be shown, but doesn't solve anything.

Bump post

2011-02-09T18:46:00.001-08:00

This post is to bump down the previous post.

Now I’ve been telling a few who’d bother to listen that I want to change my major to sociology. It is very tempting, but like a unicorn, it is there but not real. Sort of.

A Question

2011-01-23T20:48:00.000-08:00

Why this despair?

Another unfinished beginning of a sort of story

2011-01-10T20:11:00.000-08:00

I don't think I've ever posted this before. This, I think, was supposed to be the beginning of some long story about crazy heroes. How original. -_-

I'll write short stories first before I go all ambitious to write a whole series of children's fantasy books. Hm.

Enjoy if you will. If you can, please criticize.

*********************************

In the end of a cave in a mountain under a sea in the middle of a desert of a floating island sat the weaver of souls. It was a she, and she weaved the tapestry of life in the odd old way of ancient cats - with a cuttlefish bone - except her tool never went dull. Her wool was the finest and it was in the stitches that one reads the ephemeral tale of each creature, and only in the rarest of occasion was the coarse threads used. She weaved away at a pace that found time negligible, and some say she had been weaving since the world began, or that it was she who weaved the world to life.

She had a companion, a chimerical beast of a dog with two tails, who would pull at the woven strings if he were compelled to, for if she finished weaving the world would end.

She didn’t really need him, however, for there were heroes in their world.

She had started at a neat patch, branching away, away, away neatly to other lives and other times of many many other creatures. She wove in great feats and interesting times and patterns that the eyes can scarce comprehend or mortal hands replicate. Then she wove the heroes, and was stuck with an unruly corner ever since.

She wove a straight path for a hero, to an early and painful death because that was how heroes went if they were to be remembered, and left it at that. From the frayed strings of his moribundity she started with a new life that would end the same.

The day came and passed, and she faltered. She looked at the pattern for the hero, and knew all was not right. There was a stitch out of place – fate has shifted somewhat. She unpicks the thread with a deer antler and weaves another. From the ending of that thread she begins another one anew.

The next day passes, and she finds another one, out of place in an awkward corner – little and barely there. She unpicks it with skill and weaves with her cuttlefish bone.

More days passed in the world and more knots were displaced. She unpicks those with the patience of a saint and weaves again.

The beast of a dog sits and watches with disinterest.

Heroes lived and died, but there were far more that lived these days. The weaver weaved and picked and weaved again.

Great Big Fish

2011-01-10T11:54:00.000-08:00

The new day is a great big fish

Thank you, Terry Pratchett. Thank you, various humorous writers who make reading funny as heck, who make stories that make you pause and sit in silence and then laugh so hard when you remember a silly line. Thank you for the quotes, too, that make you think and in some obscure way give you motivation because they are just so catchy (and meaningful).

This won’t be a post about amazing writers so here goes:

The new day is a great big fish. It is some sort of proverb of the fictional land of Borogravia in the fictional land of Discworld born of the mind of the very real Terry Pratchett, that means something like the new day is full of opportunity. At this time of my life, I think it’s true. What will happen when I reach another ‘low point’ in life I won’t speculate, but right now not everything is fine and dandy, but a whole lot of it seem to have some shine at the end, so I’ll keep on working and looking and when you’re busy you’re usually not wont to despair at every little unfine bit.

Not to say that I’m not happy. I’d rather be contented than be happy, because everyone’s got to come down sooner or later from the high. I am, for the lack of better words, at peace.

This is something to bump down that rather depressing stuff I posted last year, so, that’s it. I’ll sum it up with that emoticon thing that seems to me a little hopeful, a little peaceful, perhaps a little pained and a little well-meaning and very clueless:

: )

Ramblings of a Distracted and Procrastinating Mind

2010-12-16T06:14:00.000-08:00

Here I am, quite the wreck. Not surprising. My composure has been unravelling since the end of SPM. What do I want with life?

For now a quiet spot in a library with no distractions will suffice. Well, more of a private collection anyway. But I'd rather a library, so the responsibility of owning thousands of books won't be weighing on me, and I'd have a wider field of books because just picking the books you like is no fun.

Oh, and probably a nice spot and a big TV and all the episodes of Mythbusters, Ancient Discoveries, Animals A to Z, foreign movies and some instrumental music.

That's me, hoarding and doing nothing with my hoard.

Well, why am I so distracted? Three years ago I'd be mortified if I were this distracted, disgusted at myself perhaps, ashamed that I would be so blase about my studies. Reading the Genetics textbook still give me excited tingles but other than that, it's just a bunch of blah.

Three years ago I wouldn't have used 'a bunch of blah'.

I've read somewhere, most people overestimate the changes that would happen in the span of five years, and overestimate what could happen in ten. Three years, where did I see myself in? Probably some place Not Here, some alternate reality where I could actually be excited to learn things and do well and be more animated than I am now. How odd.

So what do you do? Keep calm and carry on. But I have a knack of ignoring things I am not comfortable with. Bad habit. Trying to get over it.

Also have a bad habit of wanting everything to be 'just right' from the beginning. Hence a pile of crap at the beginning is more depressing than a screw-up halfway. Trying to get over that too.

Didn't I say that I was the kind of person who knows what's wrong, knows how to get over it, but won't?

Yes, trying to get over that too, mind you. It's so easy to trick yourself.

I have to get over 'next time for sure', and start with 'this time, this time for sure'. Might be a rocky start, but I think I am getting there.

The Lights are too Bright

2010-12-08T19:54:00.000-08:00

Aren't you glad that you were born before the rise of mobile phones, ipods and the internet? When lugging around a CD player that played your song CD's, and modest, cheerful people dancing and colorful captions for karaoke music videos, the Recycle song, and owning a bicycle was cool? When ice cream was chocolate, strawberry and vanilla, and maybe yam and durian and corn, and not exploding mango, brownie and ribbons of odd flavors and cheesecake, and when Rainbow was radical enough? When candy was 5 sen? (I think it still is, somewhere) When TV's were small and boxy and you knew things inside were not real because the picture wasn't so sharp you could hurt your eyes? When the films of the 1980's were grainy, washed-up, far away, and seemed so real yet not real enough, that you want to return to the real world after? When Disney made cartoons that made sense? When Pokemon was the coolest thing in the world, when blackboards and chalk and paper and pencil and wooden desks and chairs were your life? Before everyone had a mobile phone, when you had to schedule your appointments face-to-face and you had to get there on time because there wouldn't be a way to contact the other person to tell them that you'll be late?

When food was real. When people were real. When I still felt that we had an identity, a vision, a place to head to. Perhaps then I was a carefree child full of nothing and worry-free.

Why did it felt like the world went to waste at around 2004, to 2005? Why did it seem a sharp decline? The first things I noticed were the goods. Suddenly they felt cheaper in quality. They tore easier, lasted shorter. Then the colors became more vivid. Bright, unreal, hurting. Suddenly the distinction between the real world and a created one, one that told stories and one that marketed goods, was blurred. Suddenly two pots of soup were mixed, poured onto the ground, stomped on and mixed. Suddenly the world was a mess.

It has been a mess since. What happened? Why did the food taste stronger, but more bland? Why did the lights become too bright, piercing almost? Why did the smiles seem so out of place, the tone so fake, the people so distant and unsatisfied? Why does nothing last?

The lights are too bright. That's what I use to describe this most. They hurt my eyes, then they hurt my ears. It's like that buzzing, whining sound you hear, off those fairy lights. It's so bright and so loud and so hot, and the smell is so sharp that I want to smother myself and hide away under my 1998 blankets and 1998 mattress, maybe crush some flowers in my 1998 garden and smell the smell of dead leaves. 1998 felt more real than the world now.

Great Big Giant Fishsticks

2010-11-24T00:00:00.001-08:00

Oh to miss them so!

Giant fishsticks. Now that's something that was done right. Fish, in the shape of sticks. Who would've thought?

2010-11-21T13:12:00.000-08:00

As they ascend higher,

Abscond they from the rules.

2010-11-18T21:31:00.000-08:00

The lot of them are liars

The rest of them are fools

Five stages of Orgodeath

2010-11-17T01:10:00.000-08:00

Five stages of Orgodeath

Which varies slightly from the Kübler-Ross five stages of death.

Denial – “I got X (where X < 60) marks for Orgo! I’m awesome!” *huge grin*

“Wait, that can’t be right. I’m sure I’ve studied and did my part well. It must be a glitch in the system."

Anger – “OMGWTFBBQ???!!! What kind of stupid question is this? What the heck are they asking? Why the hell did they mark me wrong for this?”

Depression – “I h8 you werl O orgo whaii whaii mai brain melts outta mai ear arrrgh”

Bargaining – “Goddammit, they counted my points wrong. I’m so sending this for regarding.”

Acceptance – “O SHIT! ORGO TEST 3 IN ONE WEEK! Meh.”

Right Ear Aching

2010-11-16T10:55:00.001-08:00

There is an

Ache

In my

Ear

And I will Google it

To see

Whether

There is something wrong

Or maybe it’s the itch

Which

I thought

Wasn’t real

Back now

For I have

Disregarded

It wants

Revenge

They're Lining Up at the Bus Stop

2010-11-08T21:05:00.000-08:00

One hero said to another, “Which route are you taking?” The hero who knows his trade will know what the other is talking about.

At the bus station of all heroes, all heroes set out to trod their paths and plot their courses – in that order – though usually there was no use in watching* the maps and schedules because they’d end up one way or the other in some situation. It’s in the roads.

There used to be a time when there was just the path, that many paths that were already there and the hero/es set forth to their adventure. Those were the first heroes, the founding fathers, or maybe mothers, though maybe he or she was just one person, masquerading as many others.

Then there were more, and wider roads, and perhaps a dirt path or two winding away into the woods; a scenic route that brought you back to your tarmac and deliver you (safely) to your destination. The self-serving hero might bring the odd horse or two, but all that did was muck up the roads.

Roads were there because of cars, but sometimes the car came first.

There were too many cars to carry all of the heroes, so they had trains, taxis, busses, though it was high time they’d gotten a ferry or a jet-plane. The busloads of heroes are carted every day to their destination, taking the same road over and over again.

-------

* I know, not the right word, but it's intentional.

Short

2010-11-04T00:33:00.000-07:00

I am embarrassed by the essay I just wrote. It's shoddy and terrible and full of holes. But being a bitter child that I am I don't really care. It pisses me off just to write the dang thing. When had I ever hated writing something for English so much?

Probably once or twice, or three times, if you will. It's sad and disappointing, but it's close to four and I want to sink into slumber and dream and get away from all the silly things.

But I'm not tired. I'd like to read something, draw something, learn something new. But I have to sleep to keep up with the annoying workload, and do some social things I have committed myself to.

Itch

2010-11-03T08:08:00.000-07:00

There is an itch
In my ear
That won't go away
I fear that it's becoming a routine
This itch
Is a bitch
And I know it's not real
Because it's really
An irritation
At you
While I could while my time
Away, it's fine
Or better
If I wrote my essay
Instead of describing
Antagonizing
And aggravating
This itch I have
At you

Half-Hearted Translation of Annoying Self-Doubt into Bloggable Text

2010-10-31T18:20:00.000-07:00

What am I good at? Why must I be good at anything? Why do I set such high standards for myself, then repeatedly fail to reach them? Is this the product of too many childhood praises? Of slow, churning thoughts in the middle of the night, concocted in solitude and unchecked by the people who anchor everyone else to reality? Of ego and pride and stubbornness? The need for acknowledgement and recognition? The simple need to make something of life? Magic unicorns?

Where are the dreams? Why are there dreams? What is the value of your dream, when pitted against the world? WE HAVE LOST SIGHT OF GOALS and hence, banged into the lamp post.

I have suspected for a long time that, under all my ~~wit~~ silliness and ~~weirdness~~ ~~stupid stuff I spout that make people laugh~~ craziness, I have nothing. No intelligence, no useful kind-heartedness, no ability to help others, nothing that allows me to advance myself in whatever social/academic/real life/*insert.. thing* setting that I find, and will eventually find, myself in. Sure I can doodle, sure I can rant. Sure this happened and that. But what about now? I do not draw well; I'll need to improve myself. I do not do well in academics; I should study more. I am not nice or helpful; I'll need to try and be. But to what end? Nothing is ever enough. There shouldn't be a question of 'was it/is it enough?' No one can have such an overblown ambition and be contented all their lives.

Hm. This self-doubting thing is such an annoying mess. I wonder why anyone wants to be friends/put up with me, dear readers. I wouldn't like myself. Maybe sometimes I am likable and ca make you ignore things that are more important. But I'm pretty sure, if I met 'someone who is like me' to have a nice relationship with, we'll hate each other, because someone who's like me wouldn't like to see him/herself in another person, doing stupid things over and over again, right before their eyes.

I wouldn't need a stern word or kind words or a hug. I just need to tell myself to shut up and do things instead of whinewhinewhine and rantrantrant and complaincomplaincomplain. I just need to tell you what I feel, inform the world, inform everyone who reads, to know what sort of person I'm like so when they finally see it, they won't be disappointed. I don't like to be a disappointment. But maybe I already am.

If I wrote Like This In Class

2010-10-28T20:30:00.000-07:00

"Elephantfuseboxthecolorblue and Nothing Worth Mentioning"

The key to everything is balance, and family reunions are annoying because you have to be there. You would like to retreat into your brain and play Pokemon, but it would be disappointing because the console and pixilated monsters are not real. The human mind treads the very line between the abstract mind, soul, emotional self and the concrete body, physical being, and appendix that brings no end of trouble. Why we do it have left scientists puzzled for centuries, but back then they were called philosophers because ancient Egyptians, advance in medicine as they were, threw the brain away and marinated the physical body in hopes that their dead relatives will get resurrected. We as the living, however, would perhaps love to exist in a non-physical state like a cloud – a cloud of emotions and feelings and the occasional thunder to zap another cloud that annoyed you – and discard altogether what us higher beings regard as sometimes pointless, like when you bash your knee on the corner. But alas, the Pokemon, a mere concept brought to life by programmers and pixels, are concrete. We cannot exist in either state - as a zombie or as a dead, freeflying soul – because we are human.

But what does this all mean to us, as humans? Let us examine the intricate web of roti jala that we live in. Each person is in effect a strand, and each strand is connected to the other. If you get enough of these strands tangled up, you’d get a ball of lint – dirty grey – that you fish out of your pocket and wish to discard. It’s a mess, and sometimes, it seems useless. But then you realize, after throwing your wad of lint away, that your house keys were stuck in it. Conflict. Drama. Cathartic experience. Don’t throw your lint away, especially when it is suspiciously big and heavy.

Still, what does this all mean? And what do elephants have to do with anything? Everything, says the wise man. Go fix the fuse box, it’s malfunctioning again, says the wise woman. Silly woman, I can’t do that, says the man. O why not? Says the woman. Drama. Conflict. The house burns down. The elephants watch from afar, pounding the wires they pulled out of the fuse box into the dirt. They are smart, after all.

In the end, it means nothing, because the Egyptians’ culture died out and no one threw out the brains anymore. This has brought no end of trouble, because there are debates on what blue means, but in the end, there will always be someone who insists that the sky is blue and the clouds are white or grey even if you see it as yellow with purple speckles.

So, writing

2010-10-28T18:42:00.000-07:00

So, writing. Apparently I am a good writer. I am tempted to take creative writing and see how well my 'creativity' and 'writing' holds up in an academic setting, since I've never won any story-writing competitions except the ones you have in school. For marks. In the span of one hour and a half. During exams. Hur hur.

Apparently I am not doing well in expository writing because I don't answer the question. But ~~insert course~~ seems to only want specific things which I cannot seem to provide, either because I gloss over them or I don't see the point. But that's the problem, isn't it? I can't see it in my own perspective. I suppose I shouldn't spend so much energy and time trying to please ~~insert course~~ because it's not a problem that can be solved by reviewing grammar or changing my writing style. But it's such a waste, isn't it? To do terribly because of how you think. Maybe this time I'll do something predictable, and maybe that will work.

Why does it even matter?

After a moment of thought, I found out that I place my ability to put my leg behind my head higher than my expository writing skills. And my extensive bibliography of Diana Wynne Jones books higher than those meaningful prize-winning, cathartic books that I've read. DWJ's books are brilliant, by the way, because you might end up hating everyone, for good reason.

Oh how priorities have changed.

Hello, Blog 2.0

2010-10-27T21:39:00.000-07:00

There's something satisfying about having things real and tangible; if you can't make it to fit, you can grab it and bend it and twist it and pummel it until it's the right shape and size.