20030502
Reading: The Future of Freedom: Illiberal Democracy at Home and Abroad
Paying close attention: Buffy (series finale) and Angel (season finale)
Paying close attention: Buffy (series finale) and Angel (season finale)
20030501
I have this inexplicable ability to make people not want to talk to me anymore. After a chat, we don't even say "hi." Or at least, other people don't. Other people with functioning XY chromosomes don't. Is it something I write? Is it the way my sentence and structure are together boring?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention on a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth, and where they did proceed?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention on a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth, and where they did proceed?
20030430
I am not a good poetry writer, I guess I'm always confined to the idea that I must write in structured verse, with potential rhyming at the end of each line. I guess to my perception, poets who can do that, along with being able to provide deep meanings in those very poems are excellent writers.
Here's a structured poem, "haiku."
this here is my school
there, the university
my home's right between
Here's something unstructured, "free verse."
Everyday, I commute to this place
Which teaches me, prepares me for working,
For a career that I too must commute to
Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth
What provides the variation,
The unpredictability to the routine?
What else but social life? What else, indeed?
But this place is taking up my time,
Being a place for commuting, I cannot live there
People cannot. Most of them hail from home,
Apartment, a separate residence far from this place.
I must look for college residency, learn to do laundry
All by myself, with help of friends.
I know both of these poems are uninspired. They're just talking about a dull topic. Actually, a great poet can make great things out of everyday life. Maybe I should just stick with prose. Every time I try to write, I always get old poems stuck in eternal loops in my brain: Shakespeare, Emily Dickenson, Robert Frost, etc. I remember bits of lines: "For whose dear love, I rise and fall." "Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me." "Whose woods these are, I think I know." "Come live with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove"
When full eclipse of powers
Do engage in making wrong
And overthrows in short hours
Progress made in so long.
As these flowers which weeks may show
To grow sweet petals that will bloom
May with a shear alter the way they grow
And so they wilt, as we to what may come.
*SIGH*
Here's a structured poem, "haiku."
this here is my school
there, the university
my home's right between
Here's something unstructured, "free verse."
Everyday, I commute to this place
Which teaches me, prepares me for working,
For a career that I too must commute to
Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth
What provides the variation,
The unpredictability to the routine?
What else but social life? What else, indeed?
But this place is taking up my time,
Being a place for commuting, I cannot live there
People cannot. Most of them hail from home,
Apartment, a separate residence far from this place.
I must look for college residency, learn to do laundry
All by myself, with help of friends.
I know both of these poems are uninspired. They're just talking about a dull topic. Actually, a great poet can make great things out of everyday life. Maybe I should just stick with prose. Every time I try to write, I always get old poems stuck in eternal loops in my brain: Shakespeare, Emily Dickenson, Robert Frost, etc. I remember bits of lines: "For whose dear love, I rise and fall." "Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me." "Whose woods these are, I think I know." "Come live with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove"
When full eclipse of powers
Do engage in making wrong
And overthrows in short hours
Progress made in so long.
As these flowers which weeks may show
To grow sweet petals that will bloom
May with a shear alter the way they grow
And so they wilt, as we to what may come.
*SIGH*
20030429
I can't believe it, I swam with my left-ear hearing aid on. Damn. It's ruined, the $1,500 piece of machinery designed to help me hear better, ruined by a moment's stupidity of getting into the water too soon. I don't think it's waterproof.
Well, at least I didn't ruin my right-ear hearing aid as well. I didn't wear it because I have a pimple in that ear. *SIGH*
Sometimes I wonder whether I should be learning how to swim, but I felt better when Ken Mikos, my ASL professor, told me to tell the group in order to "have them learn more about Deaf Culture." I guess it happens pretty often that people just forget to take off their hearing aids before they go into any place with a large pool of water to swim in.
Alan
Well, at least I didn't ruin my right-ear hearing aid as well. I didn't wear it because I have a pimple in that ear. *SIGH*
Sometimes I wonder whether I should be learning how to swim, but I felt better when Ken Mikos, my ASL professor, told me to tell the group in order to "have them learn more about Deaf Culture." I guess it happens pretty often that people just forget to take off their hearing aids before they go into any place with a large pool of water to swim in.
Alan
20030427
Gosh, I really haven't talked about my families, right?
I live in a house with my mom and a stepdad. I love my mom, no matter how much she complains about me. I don't really have love for my stepdad except in the sense that he has greatly made my life convenient. We don't talk that much, not like with Mom, I talk to her all the time.
So that's it. As for friends, I don't have that many, don't know how, don't know why. It could be because I'm deaf and gay, and both of these personal qualities shied me away from interpersonal contact.
I love reading blogs. Of course, some blogs aren't that interesting, and other blogs just grapple me into a person's life so deeply that although that author doesn't really know or care about me, I'm the one that does the caring.
I live in a house with my mom and a stepdad. I love my mom, no matter how much she complains about me. I don't really have love for my stepdad except in the sense that he has greatly made my life convenient. We don't talk that much, not like with Mom, I talk to her all the time.
So that's it. As for friends, I don't have that many, don't know how, don't know why. It could be because I'm deaf and gay, and both of these personal qualities shied me away from interpersonal contact.
I love reading blogs. Of course, some blogs aren't that interesting, and other blogs just grapple me into a person's life so deeply that although that author doesn't really know or care about me, I'm the one that does the caring.
