Thursday, May 26, 2011
Thursday, May 12, 2011
HELLO.
i have been experimenting with various blogging platforms lately. don't like wordpress. don't like typepad. trying posterous and well...livejournal seemed dreary. actually wordpress was fairly pleasant but i didn't know how to change the font or even the SIZE of the font. and since i refuse to admit the fact that i am unsavvy with blog platforms, i shall adamantly call it non user-friendly. posterous seems nice. it has a attractive ring to it like you know, POSTEROUS like THAT'S PREPOSTEROUS. you don't go like 'hey i am blogging at live - *YAWNNNNNNNS*' or 'hey check out my blogge- *DUDE WE HAVE A LOOKER*' but when you enunciate P-O-S-T-E-R-O-U-S in a boisterous manner, it's like WHOA, W-WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY? okay i was just being unnecessarily dramatic.
i wanna know more of the obama administration's future fiscal policy. don't you? see if it stands up to paul ryan's?
i wanna know more of the obama administration's future fiscal policy. don't you? see if it stands up to paul ryan's?
Monday, May 09, 2011
Emilie Autumn.
I've known her songs for quite some years now but I never really did read her biography before. She does have quite a number of intriguing attributes.
Now if only I can get my hands on her autobiography novel, The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls.
Der Selbstmörder.
we have been inoculated with the idea that life is an ineffable sanctity all our lives. but is it really?
Saturday, May 07, 2011
Chasing.
In always trying to be someone else, a lodestar for example [ a number of people actually ], I think I am beginning to lose myself in the process.
Zuerst werde ich das nicht mehr machen. Ich möchte ich sein, nicht jemand anders. Aber schau mal, ich bin Mensch. Natürlich will ich jemand anders dann und wann sein, weil ich denken würde, das er oder sie viel besser als ich ist. Warum muss das passiert?
Zuerst werde ich das nicht mehr machen. Ich möchte ich sein, nicht jemand anders. Aber schau mal, ich bin Mensch. Natürlich will ich jemand anders dann und wann sein, weil ich denken würde, das er oder sie viel besser als ich ist. Warum muss das passiert?
Friday, May 06, 2011
Time.
Every time I pick up the Time magazine, I would flip straight to my favourite section, "In the Arena" which is, well, consummately written by my favourite writer [ in the Time magazine ], Joe Klein. True, he is extremely left-biased but readers should know where their personal allegiances lie. Plus, I feel that one who writes without a clear stance appears at best monotonous. There is just that touch of complexity to each article and-..I can go on and on up till the point of adulation but you wouldn't believe me till you read it yourself. So why don't you?
Bonne lecture!
Bonne lecture!
The Little Match Girl.
The Little Match Girl
The Little Match Girl" is a story by Hans Christian Andersen. The story is famous not only because of its poignant tragedy, but also because of its beauty. Our imagination (and literature) can give us comfort, solace, and reprieve from so many of life's hardships. But, literature can also act as a reminder of personal responsibility. In that sense, this short story reminds me of Hard Times, the short novel by Charles Dickens which instigated change in the age of Industrialization (Victorian England). Or, perhaps we could compare this story to The Little Princess, the 1904 novel by Frances Hodgson Burnett. Does this story make you re-evaluate your life, those things you cherish most?
The Little Match Girl
It was terribly cold and nearly dark on the last evening of the old year, and the snow was falling fast. In the cold and darkness, a poor little girl with bare head and naked feet, roamed thru the streets. It is true she had on a pair of slippers when she left home, but they were not of much use. They were very large, so large, indeed, for they had belonged to her Mother and the poor little girl had lost them in running across the street to avoid two carriages that were rolling at a terrible rate.
One of the slippers she could not find, and a boy seized the other and ran away with it saying he could use it as a cradle when he had children of his own. So the little girl went on with her little naked feet, which were quite red and blue with the cold. In an old apron she carried a number of matches, and had a bundle of them in her hands. No one had bought anything of her the whole day, nor had anyone given her even a penny. Shivering with cold and hunger, she crept along, looking like the picture of misery. The snowflakes fell on her fair hair, which hung in curls on her shoulders, but she regarded them not.
Lights were shining from every window, and there was a savory smell of roast goose, for it was New-year's eve yes, she remembered that. In a corner, between two houses one of which projected beyond the other, she sank down and huddled herself together. She had drawn her little feet under her, but could not keep off the cold. And she dared not go home, for she had sold no matches.
Her father would certainly beat her; besides, it was almost as cold at home as here, for they had only the roof to cover them. Her little hands were almost frozen with the cold. Ah! perhaps a burning match might be some good, if she could draw it from the bundle and strike it against the wall, just to warm her fingers. She drew one out- "scratch!" how it sputtered as it burnt. It gave a warm, bright light, like a little candle, as she held her hand over it. It was really a wonderful light. It seemed as though she was sitting by a large iron stove. How the fire burned! And seemed so beautifully warm that the child stretched out her feet as if to warm them, when, lo! the flame of the match went out!
The stove vanished, and she had only the remains of the half-burnt match in her hand.
She rubbed another match on the wall. It burst into a flame, and where its light fell upon the wall it became as transparent as a veil, and she could see into the room. The table was covered with a snowy white table cloth on which stood a splendid dinner service and a steaming roast goose stuffed with apples and dried plums. And what was still more wonderful, the goose jumped down from the dish and waddled across the floor, with a knife and fork in it's to the little girl. Then the match went out, and there remained nothing but the thick, damp, cold wall before her.
She lighted another match, and then she found herself sitting under a beautiful Christmas tree. It was larger and more beautifully decorated than the one she had seen thru the rich merchant's glass door. Thousands of tapers were burning upon the green branches, and colored pictures, like those she had seen in the show-windows, looked down upon it all. The little one stretched out her hand towards them, and the match went out.
The Christmas lights rose higher and higher till they looked to her like the stars in the sky. Then she saw a star fall, leaving behind it it a bright streak of fire. "Some one is dying," thought the little girl, for her old grandmother, the only one who had ever loved her, and who was now in Heaven had told her that when a star falls, a soul was going up to God.
She again rubbed a match on the wall, and the light shone round her; in the brightness stood her old grandmother, clear and shining, yet mild and loving in her appearance.
"Grandmother," cried the little one, "O take me with you; I know you will go away when the match burns out; you will vanish like the warm stove, the roast goose, and the large glorious Christmas-tree." And she made haste to light the whole bundle of matches, for she wished to keep her grandmother there. And the matches glowed with a light that was brighter than the noon-day. and her grandmother had never appeared so large or so beautiful. She took the little girl in her arms, and they both flew upwards in brightness and joy far above the earth, where there was neither cold nor hunger nor pain, for they were with God.
In the dawn of morning there lay the poor little one, with pale cheeks and smiling mouth, leaning against the wall. She had been frozen on the last evening of the year; and the New-year's sun rose and shone upon a little child. The child still sat, holding the matches in her hand, one bundle of which was burnt.
"She tried to warm herself," said some. No one imagined what beautiful things she had seen, nor into what glory she had entered with her grandmother, on New-year's day.
The first time I read this, I was six. Amongst other short stories like Hansel and Gretel or Thumbelina or Rapunzel or Rumpelstiltskin [ I like this one too ], this one moved me the most. I think I was reduced to a heap of contemplating mess back then. Reading this again brings about a solemn mood.
The Little Match Girl" is a story by Hans Christian Andersen. The story is famous not only because of its poignant tragedy, but also because of its beauty. Our imagination (and literature) can give us comfort, solace, and reprieve from so many of life's hardships. But, literature can also act as a reminder of personal responsibility. In that sense, this short story reminds me of Hard Times, the short novel by Charles Dickens which instigated change in the age of Industrialization (Victorian England). Or, perhaps we could compare this story to The Little Princess, the 1904 novel by Frances Hodgson Burnett. Does this story make you re-evaluate your life, those things you cherish most?
The Little Match Girl
It was terribly cold and nearly dark on the last evening of the old year, and the snow was falling fast. In the cold and darkness, a poor little girl with bare head and naked feet, roamed thru the streets. It is true she had on a pair of slippers when she left home, but they were not of much use. They were very large, so large, indeed, for they had belonged to her Mother and the poor little girl had lost them in running across the street to avoid two carriages that were rolling at a terrible rate.
One of the slippers she could not find, and a boy seized the other and ran away with it saying he could use it as a cradle when he had children of his own. So the little girl went on with her little naked feet, which were quite red and blue with the cold. In an old apron she carried a number of matches, and had a bundle of them in her hands. No one had bought anything of her the whole day, nor had anyone given her even a penny. Shivering with cold and hunger, she crept along, looking like the picture of misery. The snowflakes fell on her fair hair, which hung in curls on her shoulders, but she regarded them not.
Lights were shining from every window, and there was a savory smell of roast goose, for it was New-year's eve yes, she remembered that. In a corner, between two houses one of which projected beyond the other, she sank down and huddled herself together. She had drawn her little feet under her, but could not keep off the cold. And she dared not go home, for she had sold no matches.
Her father would certainly beat her; besides, it was almost as cold at home as here, for they had only the roof to cover them. Her little hands were almost frozen with the cold. Ah! perhaps a burning match might be some good, if she could draw it from the bundle and strike it against the wall, just to warm her fingers. She drew one out- "scratch!" how it sputtered as it burnt. It gave a warm, bright light, like a little candle, as she held her hand over it. It was really a wonderful light. It seemed as though she was sitting by a large iron stove. How the fire burned! And seemed so beautifully warm that the child stretched out her feet as if to warm them, when, lo! the flame of the match went out!
The stove vanished, and she had only the remains of the half-burnt match in her hand.
She rubbed another match on the wall. It burst into a flame, and where its light fell upon the wall it became as transparent as a veil, and she could see into the room. The table was covered with a snowy white table cloth on which stood a splendid dinner service and a steaming roast goose stuffed with apples and dried plums. And what was still more wonderful, the goose jumped down from the dish and waddled across the floor, with a knife and fork in it's to the little girl. Then the match went out, and there remained nothing but the thick, damp, cold wall before her.
She lighted another match, and then she found herself sitting under a beautiful Christmas tree. It was larger and more beautifully decorated than the one she had seen thru the rich merchant's glass door. Thousands of tapers were burning upon the green branches, and colored pictures, like those she had seen in the show-windows, looked down upon it all. The little one stretched out her hand towards them, and the match went out.
The Christmas lights rose higher and higher till they looked to her like the stars in the sky. Then she saw a star fall, leaving behind it it a bright streak of fire. "Some one is dying," thought the little girl, for her old grandmother, the only one who had ever loved her, and who was now in Heaven had told her that when a star falls, a soul was going up to God.
She again rubbed a match on the wall, and the light shone round her; in the brightness stood her old grandmother, clear and shining, yet mild and loving in her appearance.
"Grandmother," cried the little one, "O take me with you; I know you will go away when the match burns out; you will vanish like the warm stove, the roast goose, and the large glorious Christmas-tree." And she made haste to light the whole bundle of matches, for she wished to keep her grandmother there. And the matches glowed with a light that was brighter than the noon-day. and her grandmother had never appeared so large or so beautiful. She took the little girl in her arms, and they both flew upwards in brightness and joy far above the earth, where there was neither cold nor hunger nor pain, for they were with God.
In the dawn of morning there lay the poor little one, with pale cheeks and smiling mouth, leaning against the wall. She had been frozen on the last evening of the year; and the New-year's sun rose and shone upon a little child. The child still sat, holding the matches in her hand, one bundle of which was burnt.
"She tried to warm herself," said some. No one imagined what beautiful things she had seen, nor into what glory she had entered with her grandmother, on New-year's day.
The first time I read this, I was six. Amongst other short stories like Hansel and Gretel or Thumbelina or Rapunzel or Rumpelstiltskin [ I like this one too ], this one moved me the most. I think I was reduced to a heap of contemplating mess back then. Reading this again brings about a solemn mood.
Wednesday, May 04, 2011
!@#$%^&*
granted. i am still unable to grasp the full usage of the term "paradox". i never said i was perfect. and so i asked :
Needless to say, i gave her a piece of my mind, through an email and i GRACIOUSLY await her response.
hehe this does appear puerile does it not. FUCKYEAHHH.
lalalalala.
What is dependency to me?
The more you work against it, the deeper you get entangled. It is like..struggling in a patch of quicksand; analogous to a rat's endeavour in trying to break free from the death grip of a boa constrictor. We oppose as long and as hard as we can; till we reach the point of breakage, then we succumb. And that is not the end, for we have been impaled by Morton's Fork. In repressing the progressive flows of dependency, we suffer. Yet in yielding to it, we are left, lugubriously, to drown in self-pity during the aftermath of submission.
The more you work against it, the deeper you get entangled. It is like..struggling in a patch of quicksand; analogous to a rat's endeavour in trying to break free from the death grip of a boa constrictor. We oppose as long and as hard as we can; till we reach the point of breakage, then we succumb. And that is not the end, for we have been impaled by Morton's Fork. In repressing the progressive flows of dependency, we suffer. Yet in yielding to it, we are left, lugubriously, to drown in self-pity during the aftermath of submission.
Monday, May 02, 2011
fuck the world.
fuck egoists.
fuck egotists.
fuck elitists.
fuck capitalists.
fuck socialists.
fuck altruists.
fuck ascetics.
fuck monogamists.
fuck polygamists.
fuck misogynists.
fuck misandrists.
fuck misogamists.
fuck communists.
fuck democrats.
fuck religionists.
fuck agnostics.
fuck atheists.
fuck artists.
fuck charlatans.
fuck internists.
fuck ophthalmologists.
fuck orthodontists.
fuck orthopedists.
fuck dermatologists.
fuck MOLLUSKS.
oh. fuck misanthropists.
fuck egotists.
fuck elitists.
fuck capitalists.
fuck socialists.
fuck altruists.
fuck ascetics.
fuck monogamists.
fuck polygamists.
fuck misogynists.
fuck misandrists.
fuck misogamists.
fuck communists.
fuck democrats.
fuck religionists.
fuck agnostics.
fuck atheists.
fuck artists.
fuck charlatans.
fuck internists.
fuck ophthalmologists.
fuck orthodontists.
fuck orthopedists.
fuck dermatologists.
fuck MOLLUSKS.
oh. fuck misanthropists.
Sunday, May 01, 2011
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