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June 20, 2003
Suffering From Aphasia
Sometimes I do think langauge is like fire; it can be both our master and our slave.
Right now, it's my tyrant, and I'm crushing under the weight of it.
I've thus been rendered rather speechless.
And since I can't speak, I will let others do the talking.
In the beginning was the Word, and since then there's been a quote.
-- Thomas McEvilley, 1984
Running up against the limits of language? Language is, after all, not a cage.
--Ludwig Wittgenstein, 17. December 1939.
We lack words, and we have too many of them.
-- Susan Sontag, The Aesthetics of Silence, 1967.
"When I use a word," Humpty Dumpty said,
in rather a scornful tone, "it means exactly
what I chose it to mean--neither more nor less."
"The question is," said Alice, "whether you can
make words mean so many different things."
"The question is," said Humpty Dumpty,
"which is to be master--that's all."
-- Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass
A monk asked Fuketsu, "How can one express truth
without speaking or remaining silent?"
Fuketsu replied, "I always remind myself of spring in south China.
Birds sing in the midst of countless varieties of fragrant flowers."
-- Mu-Mon-Koan, no. 24
Posted by lainey at 10:30 AM | Comments (0)
June 15, 2003
Distractions
...he feels envy toward those who now believe they have once before lived an evening identical to this and who think they were happy, that time.
-Invisible Cities, Italo Calvino
Posted by lainey at 01:05 PM | Comments (0)
June 14, 2003
Dreams Are Made of These
Love and the imminence of love and intolerable remembering,
Dreams like buried treasure, generous luck,
And memory itself, where a glance can make men dizzy-
- Matthew XXV:30, Jorge Luis Borges
My tongue just curls with his words, absolutely beautiful. Reading his poetry takes my breath away. Jorge Luis Borges was an Argentinian who worked as a librarian at the city of Bueno Aires. He went blind in his latter years. And it justifies my ambition of wanting to become a librarian. It's discouraging these days to be laughed at when I tell people I want to be a librarian. I want to be the guardian of books, keeper of knowledge. Is it any ludicrous? Do I deserved to be mocked or be considered boring?
Oh well, while writing my paper on Calvino and McCarthy, I shall smile and live in my dream world with Jorge Luis Borges.
-secret smile-
Posted by lainey at 09:05 AM | Comments (0)
June 09, 2003
Tangents
A weekend of garage sales, fluffy-feel-good-movies, study-nights-turned-into-slumber-parties and packing. The garage sale saw some decent sales, thank goodness; and Mel came over for abit, which was good too (because distractions are most welcomed to fill in the gaps of silences). Movie-watching was fun; and, for a moment, for a while, it didn't seem like there are deadlines looming ahead and issues aplenty to deal with.
But they always come back in their strange little ways. In between reading Mary McCarthy's dry travelogues on Venice and Florence, I attempt to pack up three years of my life and have interesting conversations with Mel. Packing up is never easy. Sorting through my papers and my old letters, I feel immense pain having to decide which are must-haves; and which ones can be squeezed in. Each piece of filmsily scribbled note comes with a memory. Each letter etched in my brain and sometimes, my heart. His letters. His photos. His envelopes. I can't throw. And I begin to miss. Letters, presents and notes from old friends. Movie stubs, receipts, catalogues. I can't throw. And I begin to miss. Memories from friends no longer, I throw, I have to. And I begin to miss too.
Some stuff, I throw. And I feel incredibly sad. A part lost. A memory doomed to fade sometime soon.
I wish I can remember things. Then throwing wouldn't have to be so painful.
But still, I have to grit my teeth and move on. Two more papers, 6000 more words. Mary McCarthy's tough shit to deal with, and perhaps, Lacan would be worse. Packing is traumatising. Not to mention an entire backlog of humans I have to meet up with before I leave. All that in two weeks' time.
Three years or so of a life to be packed up in storage boxes.
Three years of so of a life to be packed up in two weeks.
It doesn't quite make sense. It is not easy. Because I'm overly sentimental? Or what?
It's harder to leave Melbourne, than to leave Singapore.
There's nothing to look forward to. Just plain foreboding.
And in Singapore, you know you can/will go back to the people you've left behind.
In Melbourne, you run the risk of never seeing them again.
I will miss them. And because of that, I am obliged to meet up with them a final time.
Does it make any difference?
Will it make the missing any less?
And all in all, amidst everything, I miss you still.
Listening to:When Can I See You Again - Babyface
Posted by lainey at 09:53 AM | Comments (1)
June 07, 2003
I Miss You Presently.
1. How many times have you truly been in love?
Once.
2. What was/is so great about the person you love(d) the most?
He makes me smile, laugh and want to change the world.
3. What qualities should a significant other have?
He should love you as much as you love him.
4. Have you ever broken someone's heart?
I'm not too sure.
5. If there was one thing you could teach people about love, what would it be?
No matter what we say, be gentle with our hearts.
Posted by lainey at 11:19 PM | Comments (0)
June 06, 2003
WOW!
I swear I didn't cheat and I answered all questions honestly.
Hey. I'm not an anglophile for nothing. :)
Jolly good, wot! Anyone for tennis? That'll be ten ponies, guv. You're the epitome of everything that is english. Yey :) Hoist that Union Jack!
How British are you?
this quiz was made by alanna
Posted by lainey at 02:30 AM | Comments (0)
June 04, 2003
Oh dear.
While doing my research on Postcolonial fictions, I saw this journal article:
"Singaporean poets have not found an audience. Although the actual size of the poetry-reading public is difficult to ascertain, it is inducbitably very small, and confined pretty much to people educated in the English department of the University of Singapore. Poetry is consequently associated with a certain sort of elitism, though one not officially encouraged. Indeed, the official view puts poetry firmly in its place as frivolous activity, 'a luxury we cannot afford,' as Mr Lee Kuan Yew said in 1969, suggesting the paramount importance of material development..."
Fodder for discussion? Definitely.
Posted by lainey at 05:36 PM | Comments (0)