Plays after plays I see them on stage, while I sit quietly in the audience. My buttocks hurt, the benches aren't cushioned and it is cramped up in this Pit. I smell the woman next to me, she is wearing black. We're in a vault, the trains running above us. The spotlight bounces off of her face and I wonder if one day the ceiling would give way and the train would slip through the cracks. The stage is small, very small. I suppose I wouldn't pay to be here though it isn't half bad. A place that catches one's attention, yes, underneath the Underground, but the plays... Maybe I'd just explore the bar next time, with him. I didn't pay today, no, I was invited by my flatmates, extra tickets because a friend bailed: hoes before bros. But I don't know him.
On going on night walks through this city I know not well enough to describe: The bridges, so many to choose from, all within a walking range from where I am and will be for a few months more. With who, that is the question? But it is out of the question. In the night when the wind blows, only behind doors will I feel satisfied. Those strolls that I have taken after dark with another I know not well enough to speak of, they still bother me. The possibilities that they lay bear before me-- endless. How many days and how many nights and how many of them could there be if-- only if. I don't suppose I'll ever forget a name like that. I still buy grapes every time I visit the supermarket.
"爱在月光下完美"
I listen to Jay more and more these days, though I replay the same old songs that I loved and love. Should I venture more into the world of Mandarin pop? There certainly is no harm in doing so as my mind is already as corrupted as the regrets that inspire their work. Maybe I'm just afraid of finding disappointment in that world.
The emotions are strong this evening. I look at the bus ticket that has been pinned up since Monday and the crooked crosses marking down the days to the Friday I would leave this town until the next Monday morning. I'd say I'm going home but home is far away but it feels like home to me and I feel at home: I know the smell, I love its scent and I love the people there who trust me with their keys, dog and son.
0004: "Do you want Domino's?"
Supper. It reminds me of my nights in Malaysia, the months I refused to go home because of sheer stubbornness and pride. Arabic food, Mamak food and that one unfortunate time at that Korean bar with alcoholics who wanted to play a drinking game. My African brother needs to join me in this part of the world.
0025: There is no reply.
Off, off, I go. Glittery eyes, but puffy.
Sunday, 31 January 2016
Friday, 29 January 2016
Week
Sunday: To wake up free but to go to bed enslaved by the remembrance of responsibility.
Monday: Tom.
Tuesday: At first there were many... Now, we are with six. Who to enter the oral examinations with?
Wednesday: To not leave the flat, pretend to be busy-- do assigned readings; distraction as guide.
Thursday: To see her hair.
Friday: DR's head is always so shiny.
Saturday: I'm a little piece of shit.
maandag: Winkelen of niet?
dinsdag: Beetje Japanse.
woensdag: Ik heb tijd...
donderdag: Haar haar is heel leuk.
vrijdag: Ik heb niet lekker geslapen.
zaterdag: Met Jor? Maar hij werk of niet?
zondag: Opa en Oma en soep.
日曜日：べんきょうします。
月曜日：ともだちはげんきですか。
火曜日：あ、にほんごのクラスに行きます。
水曜日：朝ごはんと昼ごはんと晩ごはんは何を食べますか。
木曜日：ぜんぜんわかりません。
金曜日：眠い眠い眠い眠い．．．
土曜日：私は何をしますか。そして、何時におきますか。
Wednesday, 13 January 2016
On Salty Dessert, a Glimpse at University Life, Destroyed Bread and Other Irrelevant Lines
Did you think that I'd forget you? Of course not. I rarely forget those I love, or who have loved. Neglect them, I do, but not forget; no, never. And thus I am back here, with you, you that never deserts me. Today, I bought some salted caramel ice-cream because I've stopped resisting temptations. Every now and then, I still do, only rarely. If I had the self-discipline that I claim to have, I wouldn't be seeing you right now and you wouldn't be seeing me.
What have I come to discuss today? As always, my stream of consciousness is a stream that never lets me go against it, forever associating this with the next and the previous with similitudes-- ah! Het regent. This is irrelevant.
It is awfully quiet at Moonraker this evening, I only hear the loud shouts of one woman and it only lasted a second. Next, I hear the wind, and-- what is that? That incessant noiseless noise. It is the wind? Is it the wind? Is it? It is? It is.
University education is a disappointment. I'm not saying this because I think that I'm better or smarter than everyone else, but because I simply do not enjoy it. I love my course: I love what I learn and I love learning what I learn but how I learn it is not how I want to learn it and how I want to learn it is not how they say I should learn it because I have to think like them even though they say not to think exactly like them but think like them anyway because that's the way things are. To be original you first have to be unoriginal-- there is no originality here, because we're scholars, not artists! Everyone is always asking us for citations and I really really really really just want to... Bloody hell, if God was the word, then can I just list God in my bibliography? AND DID ANYBODY ASK GOD FOR A CITATION!? I THINK NOT!
I am 19, I write like I'm 6 and act like a 4-year-old.
Grammar and syntax are irrelevant after learning much about language in time and language itself. I start to find bad English interesting instead of thinking of them as headaches, though reading such works do give me headaches, I have to admit.
The only course I am serious about is my Japanese, and of course I treat my Dutch lesson on Duolingo with utmost seriousness as well. You know, I have a three-hour examination tomorrow that I've had a month to prepare for but I've only just started leafing through the cheap photocopied and plastic bound course pack an hour ago. Barely an hour later I am here blogging. I should be studying. On a page on the bed, "Saussure's Theory of Language". There are some bits and pieces that still cling to my memory from three months ago.
They know that some people like salt with their dessert. The other day, I sprinkled some salt onto my store-bought Tiramisu that shocked the folks I was having dinner with. ''Huh? Zout?" they said. The meal went on as usual and I ate in silence-- I'd accidentally poured in too much salt and it hurt, but I wasn't about to tell them I didn't enjoy it! The person next to me poured even more salt on his ice-cream; oops.
Someone destroyed my bread, the bread that Tom made, the bread that I hugged for 8 hours in my canvas bag, the bread that I thought would get me through the week, the bread that has dried at the sides, the bread that is now destroyed.
Is this the reason why nobody visits me, here, because my entries are unnecessarily long? What does this big body of text hold, exactly? Nothing relevant, nothing at all, and even the style... There is no style, or is there? Could you tell from my words that I am me and not you and not the other? How do you know that I am me and not another? The spaces between my words, gaps? The silence and what's not been uttered but only implied? But what can you infer from anything at all, if I do mean something at all? It is all quite pointless, really. I sign my work, that is my mistake. You wouldn't have to know that it is me because you expect that it is me. But then again, I could also be someone else, using this name only. What's in a name?
I use a swimming cap as a shower cap and it is blue.
I use a cup in the shape of a milk bottle complete with a rubber nipple but the body is of ceramic and it has a handle for me to hold.
I have a year planner on my notice board and I use it as a calendar and a calendar only with no plans marked, though I have tried.
I have a shelf full of books but the books I don't use as books but as dust collectors.
I'm in the home of Fish and Chips but I think the Australians make them better and the Dutch Kibbeling is a thousand times more Godlike.
I want fried chicken but there's Nando's in the fridge because Brits are crazy about Nando's for whatever the fuck reason I don't know.
It is not snowing, but my dandruff makes up for the lack of white falling from above.
Enough with the Is I say, they are starting to bore me.
Have you come this far, just to groan and exit this page? At least say goodbye.
Hair is falling, hair is falling!
Red is fading, red is fading!
Erase not what brought us where we have come.
What have I come to discuss today? As always, my stream of consciousness is a stream that never lets me go against it, forever associating this with the next and the previous with similitudes-- ah! Het regent. This is irrelevant.
It is awfully quiet at Moonraker this evening, I only hear the loud shouts of one woman and it only lasted a second. Next, I hear the wind, and-- what is that? That incessant noiseless noise. It is the wind? Is it the wind? Is it? It is? It is.
University education is a disappointment. I'm not saying this because I think that I'm better or smarter than everyone else, but because I simply do not enjoy it. I love my course: I love what I learn and I love learning what I learn but how I learn it is not how I want to learn it and how I want to learn it is not how they say I should learn it because I have to think like them even though they say not to think exactly like them but think like them anyway because that's the way things are. To be original you first have to be unoriginal-- there is no originality here, because we're scholars, not artists! Everyone is always asking us for citations and I really really really really just want to... Bloody hell, if God was the word, then can I just list God in my bibliography? AND DID ANYBODY ASK GOD FOR A CITATION!? I THINK NOT!
I am 19, I write like I'm 6 and act like a 4-year-old.
Grammar and syntax are irrelevant after learning much about language in time and language itself. I start to find bad English interesting instead of thinking of them as headaches, though reading such works do give me headaches, I have to admit.
The only course I am serious about is my Japanese, and of course I treat my Dutch lesson on Duolingo with utmost seriousness as well. You know, I have a three-hour examination tomorrow that I've had a month to prepare for but I've only just started leafing through the cheap photocopied and plastic bound course pack an hour ago. Barely an hour later I am here blogging. I should be studying. On a page on the bed, "Saussure's Theory of Language". There are some bits and pieces that still cling to my memory from three months ago.
They know that some people like salt with their dessert. The other day, I sprinkled some salt onto my store-bought Tiramisu that shocked the folks I was having dinner with. ''Huh? Zout?" they said. The meal went on as usual and I ate in silence-- I'd accidentally poured in too much salt and it hurt, but I wasn't about to tell them I didn't enjoy it! The person next to me poured even more salt on his ice-cream; oops.
Someone destroyed my bread, the bread that Tom made, the bread that I hugged for 8 hours in my canvas bag, the bread that I thought would get me through the week, the bread that has dried at the sides, the bread that is now destroyed.
Is this the reason why nobody visits me, here, because my entries are unnecessarily long? What does this big body of text hold, exactly? Nothing relevant, nothing at all, and even the style... There is no style, or is there? Could you tell from my words that I am me and not you and not the other? How do you know that I am me and not another? The spaces between my words, gaps? The silence and what's not been uttered but only implied? But what can you infer from anything at all, if I do mean something at all? It is all quite pointless, really. I sign my work, that is my mistake. You wouldn't have to know that it is me because you expect that it is me. But then again, I could also be someone else, using this name only. What's in a name?
I use a swimming cap as a shower cap and it is blue.
I use a cup in the shape of a milk bottle complete with a rubber nipple but the body is of ceramic and it has a handle for me to hold.
I have a year planner on my notice board and I use it as a calendar and a calendar only with no plans marked, though I have tried.
I have a shelf full of books but the books I don't use as books but as dust collectors.
I'm in the home of Fish and Chips but I think the Australians make them better and the Dutch Kibbeling is a thousand times more Godlike.
I want fried chicken but there's Nando's in the fridge because Brits are crazy about Nando's for whatever the fuck reason I don't know.
It is not snowing, but my dandruff makes up for the lack of white falling from above.
Enough with the Is I say, they are starting to bore me.
Have you come this far, just to groan and exit this page? At least say goodbye.
Hair is falling, hair is falling!
Red is fading, red is fading!
Erase not what brought us where we have come.
Tuesday, 30 September 2014
If I said that this is actually my THIRD blog post in the last 15 minutes, would you believe me? If you need to SEE it to BELIEVE it, then you're a moron. This is indeed my third blog post, the other two just isn't on Rachel's Life. With the new MPU course that started 3 weeks ago, we are required to create an e-portfolio or blog or whatever you want to call it, to track our progress at the Canadian Pre-U (CPU). I am supposed to take it seriously. Take. It. Seriously. Hah! NO! NO! NO! I WILL NOT!
Taylor's College, a prestigious 6-star college... Let me rephrase that: a kiss-ass 6-star college. They want to produce graduates who are DIFFERENT than those of other universities. The other day when my MPU(I honestly do not know what the hell this stands for) teacher was blabbering at the front of the class with her sweet and genial voice about how the college wishes to produce graduates who are able to ... I sat slumped in my chair, thinking: you can't change a person's ways by enforcing a certain code of learning and you certainly will not be able to 'produce' a school of graduates with the capabilities that YOU want them to have! That is just plain ridiculous! I am a student, not a lump of meat. Even the word 'produce' insults me. I think of cows in a barn and the milk that they produce.
It's not a bad thing that the college tries hard to... you know, PRODUCE high-quality graduates (now we sound like organic or vitamin-infused eggs), but they can't expect everyone to become arrogant assholes. The way they phrase it is as if they expect us all to become proud leaders full of optimism and energy. How is that a bad thing? I'm not saying that it is, but some people just don't like it. People like me. I prefer subtlety. Perhaps I belong to a group of people who silently acknowledge our own qualities, instead of wearing them by our lips. Of course I get aggravated when people look down on me, but that doesn't happen often with people I work with-- strangers are excused, because I look homeless with my uncombed hair, dark circles and simple clothes. There's no need to reflect the light when you're shining from the inside.
Another senseless post this has been, it seems. I haven't been writing much lately, save for my assignments. They are enough to entertain me, I suppose. Hmm... Haven't been able to write much about what's been going on or how I feel. I tend to rely on songs these days, sing them out loud, though, nothing can really describe how I feel other than my own words. There's always so much on my mind, but so little that I can, or want to write. Stories, dramas, research analysis-- these are what I've been writing. I incorporate my feelings and thoughts into my stories and plays, the frustration and love, the hate and senselessness, the things which I can only want as a character, the truths which I can only reveal through another person.
If you want, I could upload my works here. Also, I'll be writing a novel in November as part of the National Writing Month. Wish me luck!
Taylor's College, a prestigious 6-star college... Let me rephrase that: a kiss-ass 6-star college. They want to produce graduates who are DIFFERENT than those of other universities. The other day when my MPU(I honestly do not know what the hell this stands for) teacher was blabbering at the front of the class with her sweet and genial voice about how the college wishes to produce graduates who are able to ... I sat slumped in my chair, thinking: you can't change a person's ways by enforcing a certain code of learning and you certainly will not be able to 'produce' a school of graduates with the capabilities that YOU want them to have! That is just plain ridiculous! I am a student, not a lump of meat. Even the word 'produce' insults me. I think of cows in a barn and the milk that they produce.
It's not a bad thing that the college tries hard to... you know, PRODUCE high-quality graduates (now we sound like organic or vitamin-infused eggs), but they can't expect everyone to become arrogant assholes. The way they phrase it is as if they expect us all to become proud leaders full of optimism and energy. How is that a bad thing? I'm not saying that it is, but some people just don't like it. People like me. I prefer subtlety. Perhaps I belong to a group of people who silently acknowledge our own qualities, instead of wearing them by our lips. Of course I get aggravated when people look down on me, but that doesn't happen often with people I work with-- strangers are excused, because I look homeless with my uncombed hair, dark circles and simple clothes. There's no need to reflect the light when you're shining from the inside.
Another senseless post this has been, it seems. I haven't been writing much lately, save for my assignments. They are enough to entertain me, I suppose. Hmm... Haven't been able to write much about what's been going on or how I feel. I tend to rely on songs these days, sing them out loud, though, nothing can really describe how I feel other than my own words. There's always so much on my mind, but so little that I can, or want to write. Stories, dramas, research analysis-- these are what I've been writing. I incorporate my feelings and thoughts into my stories and plays, the frustration and love, the hate and senselessness, the things which I can only want as a character, the truths which I can only reveal through another person.
If you want, I could upload my works here. Also, I'll be writing a novel in November as part of the National Writing Month. Wish me luck!
Wednesday, 24 September 2014
What we desire most, we cannot simply achieve. There, sacrifices have to be made. In many ways, it's comical, how throughout history, people fight and die in vain for the same things. Money, freedom and equality. We don't learn-- we NEVER learn. Though the latter may seem to be for the greater good, they are not-- not in the slightest way-- for their roots also stem from the damnable seed of selfishness that bloom within every single one of us. Ask yourself then, why are people willing to shed blood for money? Because of the power that money brings? If so, ask yourself again, why do we strive to break free from whatever that's holding us down? So we could become more, do more and live however we want to, be our own masters? Isn't that the same as being greedy, yearning for money to be powerful, to rule? Equality, too. It doesn't exist, and it never will, for equality doesn't mean justice. It's just another excuse to be acknowledged.
If the world is indeed a stage and we are all but muppets and fools, then I curse the puppet master who wields the strings. It is not funny. It's not-- that's what I have to tell myself, anyway. Even so, I find it hard to keep my inappropriate laughter to myself. Ridiculous, absurd and undoubtedly maddening. It seems as if it is embedded into our very nature that we strive for what we know will never be ours. It's sickening. At the end of the day, I ask myself again, why... Why do I have to be so selfish? You too.
Because nobody will have it any other way than their own. I will not compromise my pride, nor will you. An understanding cannot be achieved when neither wishes to point the gun at themselves. What for do you fight with a being who will bring about its own destruction? Violence is not always the answer, but then, peace does not exist. Then, we follow in the footsteps of the other, which is to use their own weapons and weaknesses against them, the way they do to us. How... However is that productive..? Another man's meat is another man's poison. And though I prefer my own poison to your meat, your taking to my preference is ludicrous.
If I am to admit defeat... That is very unlikely. The same seed of selfishness and pride dwells within me, and it is forever blooming, all the more so with the extra raging fertilizer that's been supplied to it in the recent months. If pain is a sense of glory, then I would kneel before my own flag and shed plain tears of defeat of yet another loss that I have brought upon myself. I am never satisfied, that much I know. When you can't love right, you're going to be the only one left-- that, I know too well. But I don't mind. Solitude, and the touch of the soulless breeze could be so comforting, yet intimidating at the same time. At that, I shall shudder as my regrets come by me once more.
The same problem persists. Neither will let their guard down.
Suffer on... Suffer on... or end it, only to get caught up in the cycle anew.
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