Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Life of a Rafflesian
Jan '99: Felt proud to be feeling tiny standing in the huge RI hall in the full white uniform, the difference from the Maris Stella one was microscopic but significant - the more branded metallic batch given by the big brother Peer Suppot Leader and even a sew-on brand name above the rear pocket made the kid brim with ego.
Jan '01: Went through the ceremonial change from shorts to pants, the rite of passage to being a more confident young man. Hated wearing them because the stuffiness inside was mythified to enhance the growth of forests of fur on our lower limps.
Nov '02: The Raffles Certificates made all the parents glow with pride as they gazed with heads raised high at their young boys receiving the extra thickened pieces of paper in the hall that seemed somehow to have shrunk in size, and of course a hard-covered file to 'preserve the school colours'.
Jan '03: Boys meet world. It was the new day of new discovery for some, that actually half of the homo sapiens on earth are girls. Winston Hodges' logically fallacious sentence "RJC is the people." was saved in our Pentium 4 processors.
Nov '04: Everyone felt sad as they were supposed to, after two years spent at the Mount Sinai campus which was singing its swan's song that went out of tune, some didn't even know others existed in the college till the day of graduation, while others didn't even care to say goodbye to make up to not saying hi on more than seven hundred occasions before the morning flag-raising ceremonies. Yeah, people. One for all, all for one. This tells I'm warm-blooded after all: I do feel nostagia filling up my mind, reminiscence racing down the memory lane, and wonder if I can ever forget Raffles in my next life if there is still; the batch kept in my closet is still the one I wore since the day the PSL pinned it on my shirt.
The life of an Old Rafflesian has already begun.
Jan '01: Went through the ceremonial change from shorts to pants, the rite of passage to being a more confident young man. Hated wearing them because the stuffiness inside was mythified to enhance the growth of forests of fur on our lower limps.
Nov '02: The Raffles Certificates made all the parents glow with pride as they gazed with heads raised high at their young boys receiving the extra thickened pieces of paper in the hall that seemed somehow to have shrunk in size, and of course a hard-covered file to 'preserve the school colours'.
Jan '03: Boys meet world. It was the new day of new discovery for some, that actually half of the homo sapiens on earth are girls. Winston Hodges' logically fallacious sentence "RJC is the people." was saved in our Pentium 4 processors.
Nov '04: Everyone felt sad as they were supposed to, after two years spent at the Mount Sinai campus which was singing its swan's song that went out of tune, some didn't even know others existed in the college till the day of graduation, while others didn't even care to say goodbye to make up to not saying hi on more than seven hundred occasions before the morning flag-raising ceremonies. Yeah, people. One for all, all for one. This tells I'm warm-blooded after all: I do feel nostagia filling up my mind, reminiscence racing down the memory lane, and wonder if I can ever forget Raffles in my next life if there is still; the batch kept in my closet is still the one I wore since the day the PSL pinned it on my shirt.
The life of an Old Rafflesian has already begun.
Saturday, November 20, 2004
Low printing resolution
Invigorated and rejuvenated again. Talking was good last night. Or perhaps I’m just deprived of these kinda tiny things in life that makes its art, following the motion and living like a zombie every day.
Wenta play pool with Hongkai once more in the afternoon though we swore to sit down in Orchard Library and really study hard after that disastrous Economics paper which was rated as pretty-much-alright (meaning very easy) by Keat Loon. Dang. Looking at so many J1s in town enjoying their last truthful school holiday before their turn to survive the showdown made me felt, unsurprisingly, sore. And perhaps a tat nostalgic. Can still remember all that fun and joy last year after open house and everything. But now it’s no better than hell. Even pool became pressuring during this “festive” exam period when Christmas jingles are already been played along the streets. The further you go, it seems, the sadder it’s turning out to be. And after exams, it’d be no time when we’re gonna be shaved bald and head to the camps and grow muscles (for a large probability even in our heads) for 730 days or so. Bah.
And who knows what we’re gonna get in Pulau Tekong and beyond? Who knows if we’ll still be tortured and get our heads dipped in water for hours? Haha. Accidents, especially the negative ones somehow, do happen all the time. Reckon hafta enjoy now or never. Anyways, that Gauguin painting called “D’où venons-nous? Que sommes-nous? Où allons-nous?” is very much contextually inspiring at the moment.
By the way, I’ve been suffering from a new phobia of sending smses recently. For some unknown reasons messages I sent out always find their way in to inboxes of the wrong recipients somehow and that is incorrigibly no good. Need a new phone.
Wenta play pool with Hongkai once more in the afternoon though we swore to sit down in Orchard Library and really study hard after that disastrous Economics paper which was rated as pretty-much-alright (meaning very easy) by Keat Loon. Dang. Looking at so many J1s in town enjoying their last truthful school holiday before their turn to survive the showdown made me felt, unsurprisingly, sore. And perhaps a tat nostalgic. Can still remember all that fun and joy last year after open house and everything. But now it’s no better than hell. Even pool became pressuring during this “festive” exam period when Christmas jingles are already been played along the streets. The further you go, it seems, the sadder it’s turning out to be. And after exams, it’d be no time when we’re gonna be shaved bald and head to the camps and grow muscles (for a large probability even in our heads) for 730 days or so. Bah.
And who knows what we’re gonna get in Pulau Tekong and beyond? Who knows if we’ll still be tortured and get our heads dipped in water for hours? Haha. Accidents, especially the negative ones somehow, do happen all the time. Reckon hafta enjoy now or never. Anyways, that Gauguin painting called “D’où venons-nous? Que sommes-nous? Où allons-nous?” is very much contextually inspiring at the moment.
By the way, I’ve been suffering from a new phobia of sending smses recently. For some unknown reasons messages I sent out always find their way in to inboxes of the wrong recipients somehow and that is incorrigibly no good. Need a new phone.
Sunday, November 14, 2004
Bored, duh
Been watching quite a bit of football again, and this is my new first eleven. Haha.
Goalkeeper:
Kirkland (Liverpool)
Defenders:
Carlos (Real Madrid)
Hyypia (Liverpool)
Salgardo (Real Madrid)
Midfielders:
Pires (Arsenal)
Gerrard (Liverpool)
Zidane (Real Madrid)
Beckham (Real Madrid)
Munitis (Deportivo la Coruna)
Forwards:
Baros (Liverpool)
Torres (Athletico Madrid)
Substitutes:
Given (Newcastle United)
Cannavarro (Juventus)
Lampard (Chelsea)
Rooney (Manchester United)
Ronaldo (Real Madrid)
Goalkeeper:
Kirkland (Liverpool)
Defenders:
Carlos (Real Madrid)
Hyypia (Liverpool)
Salgardo (Real Madrid)
Midfielders:
Pires (Arsenal)
Gerrard (Liverpool)
Zidane (Real Madrid)
Beckham (Real Madrid)
Munitis (Deportivo la Coruna)
Forwards:
Baros (Liverpool)
Torres (Athletico Madrid)
Substitutes:
Given (Newcastle United)
Cannavarro (Juventus)
Lampard (Chelsea)
Rooney (Manchester United)
Ronaldo (Real Madrid)
Saturday, November 13, 2004
Life in a woodblock print
No, this ain't exam stress nor is it teenage angst.
Been feeling that life's monotonously wasted without much meaning in it as days pass by like sheeps in a calendar. Hours are clocked like the last digit of a recurring decimal and things happen the same way they do in yesterdays and yesteryears. And I don't know why. Beginning to hate the city, detest the inverted commas on words like "friends" and "foes" and the way everyone lives including myself disgusts me these days. My mind's working completely all right but my heart's somehow substancelessly painful.
Perhaps I need a new injection to life. But truly I don't know what it is. Friend. Nepal. Deceleration. Happiness. Beats me hard.
After reading my previous entry, reckon I'm either having something like a mood swing or I'm really going mad.
And, I don't need a psychiatrist.
Been feeling that life's monotonously wasted without much meaning in it as days pass by like sheeps in a calendar. Hours are clocked like the last digit of a recurring decimal and things happen the same way they do in yesterdays and yesteryears. And I don't know why. Beginning to hate the city, detest the inverted commas on words like "friends" and "foes" and the way everyone lives including myself disgusts me these days. My mind's working completely all right but my heart's somehow substancelessly painful.
Perhaps I need a new injection to life. But truly I don't know what it is. Friend. Nepal. Deceleration. Happiness. Beats me hard.
After reading my previous entry, reckon I'm either having something like a mood swing or I'm really going mad.
And, I don't need a psychiatrist.
Monday, November 08, 2004
Wonderful, nearly
During the trip to Ikea, I spotted a lovely little flower at the roadside that took my attention immediately. Little but lovely. Its sheer beauty was not at all consumed by its size. Defined are its petals and sweet its fragrance, so annoyingly attractive that I could not but stop and stare over with an unrestrained gaze. Damn it but its so unique, outstanding in the mist of the everyday crowd. Many times had I wanted to pluck it out from its parent stem, and I could even faintly sense it praying hard to be taken. But across my mind a more familiar flower appeared, one beauty I have already been admiring at, back home, whose inscrutable mind I could not read, if I should leave it wither and go for the new. Perhaps that was what you would call a wishful thinking in my fantasy story, but it almost became an accidental truism. Quite an accident it was today.
Thursday, November 04, 2004
Boxed
Packed my two-years’ worth of GP notes and books into a paper box after the exam today. Time to dispose of the useless stuff from my room. Yay. The rightmost corner of my shelf’s cleared. :)
So it was all right after all. Quite a scare during the essay paper when I realized there was hardly any question asked on the arts and culture, something that I’ve always written in my RJC days (or perhaps excluding those few months spent under Ms Pereira who would force me take on some less challenging topics like education and media which, trust me, actually induce sleep while you write about). But at least there was something unfamiliarly attractive, “Discuss the appeal and value of fantasy stories and films.” After the paper classmates gave me quite a startled look, like I’m a madman. Or perhaps I am one. But reckon everything was saved in the comprehension paper later. Prayers for easy vocabulary questions came true and they sorta worked extra on the other questions as well. Thank the above! That’s destiny saving me from failing.
And now I’m full of remorse for quarreling with my teammates. My dearest men. Yeah admit that it’s my fault not asking for your reasons but perhaps swearing would’ve never left my mouth if you guys told me beforehand. Okay. I’m sorry, brothers.
Dang. Wanted to take a stroll to Ikea and Anchorpoint to rest my strained brain (which isn’t sorta working at all at the moment and thus I’m turning to blogging) but it’s suddenly pouring insanely outside. Arghz. How timely. Now, that reminds me of something.
So it was all right after all. Quite a scare during the essay paper when I realized there was hardly any question asked on the arts and culture, something that I’ve always written in my RJC days (or perhaps excluding those few months spent under Ms Pereira who would force me take on some less challenging topics like education and media which, trust me, actually induce sleep while you write about). But at least there was something unfamiliarly attractive, “Discuss the appeal and value of fantasy stories and films.” After the paper classmates gave me quite a startled look, like I’m a madman. Or perhaps I am one. But reckon everything was saved in the comprehension paper later. Prayers for easy vocabulary questions came true and they sorta worked extra on the other questions as well. Thank the above! That’s destiny saving me from failing.
And now I’m full of remorse for quarreling with my teammates. My dearest men. Yeah admit that it’s my fault not asking for your reasons but perhaps swearing would’ve never left my mouth if you guys told me beforehand. Okay. I’m sorry, brothers.
Dang. Wanted to take a stroll to Ikea and Anchorpoint to rest my strained brain (which isn’t sorta working at all at the moment and thus I’m turning to blogging) but it’s suddenly pouring insanely outside. Arghz. How timely. Now, that reminds me of something.
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
Mao II by Don DeLillo
A modern writer may deem this as out of the norm and out of their range and a classical would classify it under incoherent, incomplete and absurd texts; a contemporary reader however would find the post-modernist strangely interesting. Addictive. Can’t believe this is how I’ve spent the week preparing for General Paper examination tomorrow. Hahaha.
Tellingly this book’s totally irresistible and enjoyable. Humorous, imaginative and historical. Except for perhaps the few parts about Christianity which a freethinker would not exactly know how to appreciate, the relation between today’s America, yesterday’s Lebanon and yesteryears’ China has been unusually represented in a thoughtfully weaved storyline about a writer, his assistant and a photographer, and their search for the meaning of life. Reckon DeLillo’s either not a completely post-modernist writer or a extremely virtuous one who hides most of his post-modernist elements in everyday prose, between which I’d accept more of the latter, as even a thick-head like me can vaguely reconstruct the plots of the novel while drowning in the abstraction of the unorthodox modern American language.
So much for the post-modernist prose, hafta thank DeLillo for pushing me into the right mood for constructing a piece of GP argument tomorrow. Just feel like writing at the moment. Dang. I’m high. Hi.
Tellingly this book’s totally irresistible and enjoyable. Humorous, imaginative and historical. Except for perhaps the few parts about Christianity which a freethinker would not exactly know how to appreciate, the relation between today’s America, yesterday’s Lebanon and yesteryears’ China has been unusually represented in a thoughtfully weaved storyline about a writer, his assistant and a photographer, and their search for the meaning of life. Reckon DeLillo’s either not a completely post-modernist writer or a extremely virtuous one who hides most of his post-modernist elements in everyday prose, between which I’d accept more of the latter, as even a thick-head like me can vaguely reconstruct the plots of the novel while drowning in the abstraction of the unorthodox modern American language.
So much for the post-modernist prose, hafta thank DeLillo for pushing me into the right mood for constructing a piece of GP argument tomorrow. Just feel like writing at the moment. Dang. I’m high. Hi.
