It's Okay

My little kitten, it's okay that no one
Came to your piano recital.
My bright sunshine, it's okay that the only one
Who clapped to your Debussy title
Was the 7th grader's aunt.
My fair rose, it's okay that your lottery won
But you are not eighteen yet.
My gentlest tempest, it's okay that your pun
Got counted off twenty-seven points net
And made you a naught.
My iciest blade, but it's not okay that your gun
Fired at your own silhouette.

What made you think that, dear?




Fail, and this is my first English poetry ever. I hate poetry.

Jesus

Jesus Christ was a very talented child when he was young. The letters his teachers sent to his parents read like this:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Christ,
Jesus is doing well in school. He is a delight to teach. Encourage him to keep up the good work. We are very surprised at his extensive knowledge about God.

Jesus’ mother, Mary Christ, was very pleased.
“Jeez, I’m so proud of you. I always told you, you are son of God.”
“Mom, please, how many times did I tell you not to call me Jeez?”
“But, Jeez, that’s such an adorable name!”

Jesus’ father, Joseph Christ, was a carpenter. He was proud of his son as well because he wanted Jesus to be a white-collar worker.
“Jesus, I have something very important to tell you.”
“What is it?”
“I think your Mom cheated on me. I think you aren’t my biological son.”
“What is that?”
“You know how your Mom always calls you son of God and stuff?”
“Dad, she didn’t cheat on you with God.”

“Oh.”


Jesus graduated Bethville High School with a GPA of 4.3. With his outstanding academic achievements and preaching activities, he was admitted to Honors College at Nazareth University and majored in theology. Mary Christ was very concerned about her son’s college life.
“Jeez, don’t drink and don’t do drugs.”
“Mom, I thought I was going to college.”
“And don’t hang out with atheists.”
“Mom, I won’t be able to make any friends at all that way.”
“And don’t have premarital sex. Women are evil, Jeez, understand?”
“Mom, you are a woman.”
“Don’t marry at all.”
“Mom, actually, that is a very valid argument.”
“Oh, Jeez, I’m too worried. College is evil.”
“Bye, Mom.”



I'm liking this. My parents are going to be very offended when they see this. Fortunately, they don't speak English.

Marlow's Account on Okonkwo

             “In Nigeria, years later, I encountered a black man who told me about his dear friend who had died twenty years ago. It led me to a strange reminiscence, almost like a déjà vu, of the dark incidence of Kurtz.

             “The man had a sad, old face, every wrinkle filled with dull sorrow, unable to be explained in any way, and full of experiences which were useless now. He talked in a strikingly clear voice. His grandson worked at the local court as a translator. ‘My grandfather used to be a leading man in my tribe,’ said his grandson. ‘Now the place has changed too much.’ ‘Tell me,’ I demanded. ‘What was the place like before the missionaries came?’ The old man spoke something to his grandson. ‘It is our art of speech to speak in proverbs and stories. He wants to tell you about his friend.’

             “It was a tragic story about a man who was, with the old man, one of the leaders of the tribe. I immediately found the remarkable resemblance between him and Kurtz. Had Kurtz been an African man, he would have been this man. Suddenly, I remembered of Kutz’s last words and shuddered. Their deaths were tragedies induced by themselves, the outsiders’ fate, the psychological effects of one another. I had no desire to recall what Kurtz’s death had been like, yet I could not stop myself listening to the old man. Did I consider telling them about Kurtz? Yes, yes—I did. I decided against it because—because it would have been too much. For me. I was thinking about Kurtz’s intended and how much I was disgusted to keep myself from telling the true story. I thought, in the old man’s eyes, I saw the same look the woman had, for a second.”

I never revise my journals. This was a lame attempt at imitating Marlow from Heart of Darkness.

Flicker

Imagine a stack of paper as high as the Empire State building. The thickness of one sheet of paper would be a life span of a human compared to eternity.

The fearful and fascinating definition of eternity has mesmerized me since I opened up an encyclopaedia and read it through as if it were a murder mystery. Whereas Western minds think of eternity as something measureless, Eastern shamanist religions define eternity as a measure of time like the year or the century. One eternity is defined as follows. A massive rock, as big as a mountain, is believed to sit at the end of the world. Once in every thousand years, an angel would descend to the Earth and touch the rock with one gentle sweep of her thinnest and softest silk dress. When the rock finally wears into nothing, one eternity would have passed.

Looking up the definition of eternity, I caught a glimpse of the possibility of the infinitesimal existence of an individual in the universe for the first time. The thought of being nothing but dust in the vast universe still makes me shudder. We live in a flicker.

As an effort to start posting the real writings.

Ultimatum

I set up this blog because my adviser said he would like me to have one and write a little bit every day. What he meant by "write a little bit" probably isn't something I'm doing (the bitchybitch posts). I feel the need to write the proper stuff. Maybe this movie I've just rented off iTunes might give me some inspiration to write something (Stanley Kubrick, after all). If this ever does download. In fact, I don't even know why I'm caring about writing well at all. 1. English is a foreign language for me. 2. More than likely my career won't be too related to how well I write.

Why do I sound like someone with ADHD? I really don't have it.


Addition after about two hours:
I looked at my old blog (you can find it on my profile page... I think) and it's basically same as this one, but I'm keeping this one because I think "Haywire Reality" is such a cool phrase. Yes, I am that sketchy.

Why We Die

I think I finally figured out why every life on the earth has to die while drinking weird-tasting and soap-smelling coffee from a freshly washed cup. The bitterness is still on my tongue. I open the lid and find out there's still a bit of bubbles from the soap on the lid. "Whatevah." I pour the coffee in. "I can wash the lid when I get to my room." And I totally forget what's on that lid by the time I do get to my room. I drink the coffee. "Friggin' hell, what on earth is this?" Oh yes, it's the soap. Stupid me.

This isn't the point. The point is that on the way from the dining hall back to the dorm, I said to my friend, "A couple milliliters of soap can't possibly kill me." (By the way, there're two L's in milliliter. Need to remember that.) Now I'm brilliantly sure that the things that "won't kill you" will eventually deposit to kill you. That's how everyone dies. Yes, I am sure. The candy you picked up from the floor and put in your mouth will kill you. And really, don't pick up a candy from the floor and eat it. That's gross. Candies are sticky.


Oh, my mom and dad just told me once again about how scary swine flu is and to buy masks. I don't dare tell them that I was sick on Saturday.

The Yellow Wallpaper

Oh, dear. What a creepy story.
(Wait, I'm using the phrase "oh dear." This is what you pick up when you have too many classes with Will T.)

There is good creepy and bad creepy. This is bad creepy. I don't even approve it creepy, because the word "creepy" is used so many times in the story. I am serious. A true creepy story mustn't have the word "creepy" in it, just like a scary story can't have the word "scary" in it. I guess I think this way because, as a teenager of a particular background, I had access to a lot of gothic/horror/whatever literature (you get it when you live right beside Japan). Wait, really? Didn't Edgar Allan Poe die before Charlotte Perkins Gilman was even born? I take it back. By the way, I love how I can refer to writers by their full names. I like calling people by their full names.

I didn't like the way the writer had to separate every sentence into paragraphs. It bugged me so much that─I admit─I couldn't pick up much of the first quarter or so.

I also don't understand what this has to do with what we've been studying this trimester which is Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe (an awesome book, by the way) and "A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings" by Gabriel Garcia-Marquez. Allegory? "The Yellow Wallpaper" is more like an explicit reference to Charlotte Perkins Gilman's personal experience of confinement. Moreover, now that I've finished it, it's very funny that Friday in class, I said "paranoid" when the teacher asked what the protagonist sounds like in the first few sentences. Oh yes, she is paranoid.


Addition upon Monday:
In class.
Me: Why are we doing this? What's the link?
Teacher: None. What do you think it is?
Me: I don't know. That's why I'm asking you.
Teacher: Y'all don't have the book. We need something to do until y'all get the book.
Me: Yay.

Obsession Fuels Me

Things that are okay to be obsessed with:

• Food
• Radiohead
• Summer
• Dogs
• Getting good grades
• Weird science fiction

Things that are not okay to be obsessed with:

• God
• Cats
• Miley Cyrus
  
• Japan
• World of Warcraft
  
• Cheesy romance novels