Hey guys, as some of you know, I'm shipping out to townsville to study med next year. JCU is a really epic place, and I was thinking of doing vlogs so I can show you around and stuff. WHat do you guys reckon? I think it will be a lot more interesting than reading text, pictures and video are fun :D Leave a comment below!
Loz
Friday, December 24, 2010
Monday, December 20, 2010
A work by my friend Marcus Little(big)wood
Hey everyone, if you're still there. I know it's been a while since my last post, but don't be despaired! I have returned, and what better way to do so with someone else's work XD Well regardless, my friend Marcus wanted to share with the world his piece of writing. I don't think it has a title, but it is in response to the prompt "it is in a relationship we find ourselves". Enjoy guys!
Untitled- Marcus Littlewood.
The girls sat on the oval while the boys trained for the next Aths meet. The fresh mown grass was in neat, concentric piles close to the jocks that gathered near the maintenance shed. Men, like lines of ants, donned white and red, cutting past the green backgrounds of the forest that lay behind the grounds. They ran as ants climbing the great mountain that separated the school from the green fields of the sports grounds. They sprinted and leapt along the damp ground as they sped along to keep up with their mates, tight bonds holding the team together but no real individuality is shown. At the tree line, a tight group of friends sat, well out of earshot from the rest of the ‘popular kids’.
“You guys up to anything on the weekend?”
“Just work, got a few tests next week. You up to much Jack?” The scrappy figure enquired.
“Same old, same old.”
Jack and his best mate Tom continued on like this most days, mostly ignorant to the other three in their circle. They just carried on with the same old trivial crap lest they were given the seemingly rare chance to speak of heavier matters on the mind.
Placid conversation broken by the same harsh bell that rung for the same twenty seconds. End of lunch, same subjects as last week, same old teachers spewing the same old crap. Between the lecture up the front of the room and his friend Tom, Jack struggled to stay focused, most days were like this. After the usual struggle through class, the same bell went and school was done for the day: the snapping sound of locks, coupled with the hectic slams of lockers as students rushed out of school. Tom waited for Jack as packed his bag for the weekend. As they left for home, they crossed over the hill and moved through to the forest lying behind the school. It was the best shortcut for them to get home fast. As they entered the forest, Jack turned around to see the diaphanous streams of water vapour, leading the black anvil of the cold front towards the dark and seemingly endless forest. As they walked they spoke “I’m just tired of it all I guess, same routine day in, day out.”
“That’s the way you’re gonna get through it Jack.”
“I know but it doesn’t make me feel better about anything else. I just wanna be something different. I wanna be someone.”
“But what can you do? Look at the aths captain, he isn’t any different from you or me; he just stepped up to the plate. Like the guy before him and the guy before him. It’s nothing we can’t do.”
“It’s the school Tom, it’s the system, it’s just all crap… I think... I think we’re lost.”
Jack wasn’t wrong. The friends came upon a clearing unfamiliar to them both. They looked for a way through the thick undergrowth but no path was clear; even in turning back to see where they came from the track seemed obscured and patchy.
“What now then?”
“Let’s just take a break here for a while then find our way back to school.”
They sat in on the sweet smelling soil in the middle of the slightly uncanny clearing. The leaves on surrounding bushes were calm as the high sun played and flickered through the canopy onto the soft ground. Their peaceful silence was broken. “You ever felt that you wouldn’t really be anyone?”
“I think I know what you mean.”
“You know how much you mean to me don’t you Jack?”
“You’re my best friend man...”
“I know, but, I just wouldn’t be anyone without you.” Tom said whilst his head fell.
“Hey, mate... I’m here for you, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just wondering though, who would we be if we weren’t mates?”
“We would be as we are now, stuck with nowhere to go but back to the start. Like your first day of school, you were just sitting, alone... We wouldn’t be anybody.”
“Yeah, we best head off. Mum’s gonna be pissed if I’m late Jack.”
Moving back up through the forest, they both moved with a slight bounce to each step. The understanding between them allowed for a comfortable silence as they walked together. The path along to school became obvious and easy to follow, each step a crunch over fallen pine needles. The two neared the edge of the school. “Tom, can you wait for me here...”
Jack moved ahead, he didn’t catch his mate’s response, nor did it really matter. He collapsed to the same oval, the school day long passed. With light fading, the sky deep red, he felt the caressing earth scream at him. But he roars, while rising, in exaltation at the internal conflicts won and beautiful truth realised. Standing on the oval, centre of his world, indifferent to it as it is to him.
So if you liked it, tell me and I'll tell Marcus what you think of it :) I promise to blog more often and soon! With pictures maybe! :D I'm excited! Are you?
Untitled- Marcus Littlewood.
The girls sat on the oval while the boys trained for the next Aths meet. The fresh mown grass was in neat, concentric piles close to the jocks that gathered near the maintenance shed. Men, like lines of ants, donned white and red, cutting past the green backgrounds of the forest that lay behind the grounds. They ran as ants climbing the great mountain that separated the school from the green fields of the sports grounds. They sprinted and leapt along the damp ground as they sped along to keep up with their mates, tight bonds holding the team together but no real individuality is shown. At the tree line, a tight group of friends sat, well out of earshot from the rest of the ‘popular kids’.
“You guys up to anything on the weekend?”
“Just work, got a few tests next week. You up to much Jack?” The scrappy figure enquired.
“Same old, same old.”
Jack and his best mate Tom continued on like this most days, mostly ignorant to the other three in their circle. They just carried on with the same old trivial crap lest they were given the seemingly rare chance to speak of heavier matters on the mind.
Placid conversation broken by the same harsh bell that rung for the same twenty seconds. End of lunch, same subjects as last week, same old teachers spewing the same old crap. Between the lecture up the front of the room and his friend Tom, Jack struggled to stay focused, most days were like this. After the usual struggle through class, the same bell went and school was done for the day: the snapping sound of locks, coupled with the hectic slams of lockers as students rushed out of school. Tom waited for Jack as packed his bag for the weekend. As they left for home, they crossed over the hill and moved through to the forest lying behind the school. It was the best shortcut for them to get home fast. As they entered the forest, Jack turned around to see the diaphanous streams of water vapour, leading the black anvil of the cold front towards the dark and seemingly endless forest. As they walked they spoke “I’m just tired of it all I guess, same routine day in, day out.”
“That’s the way you’re gonna get through it Jack.”
“I know but it doesn’t make me feel better about anything else. I just wanna be something different. I wanna be someone.”
“But what can you do? Look at the aths captain, he isn’t any different from you or me; he just stepped up to the plate. Like the guy before him and the guy before him. It’s nothing we can’t do.”
“It’s the school Tom, it’s the system, it’s just all crap… I think... I think we’re lost.”
Jack wasn’t wrong. The friends came upon a clearing unfamiliar to them both. They looked for a way through the thick undergrowth but no path was clear; even in turning back to see where they came from the track seemed obscured and patchy.
“What now then?”
“Let’s just take a break here for a while then find our way back to school.”
They sat in on the sweet smelling soil in the middle of the slightly uncanny clearing. The leaves on surrounding bushes were calm as the high sun played and flickered through the canopy onto the soft ground. Their peaceful silence was broken. “You ever felt that you wouldn’t really be anyone?”
“I think I know what you mean.”
“You know how much you mean to me don’t you Jack?”
“You’re my best friend man...”
“I know, but, I just wouldn’t be anyone without you.” Tom said whilst his head fell.
“Hey, mate... I’m here for you, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just wondering though, who would we be if we weren’t mates?”
“We would be as we are now, stuck with nowhere to go but back to the start. Like your first day of school, you were just sitting, alone... We wouldn’t be anybody.”
“Yeah, we best head off. Mum’s gonna be pissed if I’m late Jack.”
Moving back up through the forest, they both moved with a slight bounce to each step. The understanding between them allowed for a comfortable silence as they walked together. The path along to school became obvious and easy to follow, each step a crunch over fallen pine needles. The two neared the edge of the school. “Tom, can you wait for me here...”
Jack moved ahead, he didn’t catch his mate’s response, nor did it really matter. He collapsed to the same oval, the school day long passed. With light fading, the sky deep red, he felt the caressing earth scream at him. But he roars, while rising, in exaltation at the internal conflicts won and beautiful truth realised. Standing on the oval, centre of his world, indifferent to it as it is to him.
So if you liked it, tell me and I'll tell Marcus what you think of it :) I promise to blog more often and soon! With pictures maybe! :D I'm excited! Are you?
Monday, May 24, 2010
Disconnected
Back straight, eyes forward, you observe with little interest or connection but your face betrays nothing. Why are you here in this stuffy run down funeral parlour? You don’t care; it’s not the loss of anyone you know. You could use the time better for something else, but obligations….
You take a deep breath, but it is relinquished as an extended and silent sigh. Well, you didn’t want to let it all out quickly and noisily; that would have caused dozens of glaring faces to scrunch up in disgust. It may even cause a few disappointed shakes of a head. You would know, you made it happen before. It happened 2 years ago, when you were 14 in fact. It was not to your parent’s delight. They scolded and disciplined you pretty harshly for that. The agonizing memory of your spanking remains like a permanent souvenir, the searing pain on your buttocks almost reoccurring every time you contemplate exposing your boredom. But it was true though, it was goddamn boring, why were you persecuted for telling the truth?
The idleness batters on your sanity, your youthful vigour catalysing the violent bubbling of your frustration. Your helpless gaze drifts from your scruffy leather shoes and slack covered legs across the aisle to a seemingly endless row of identical wooden pews which seat the other half of the guests. Your attention drifts to a lady sitting in the back row, directly across from you. She is young, short and dons entirely black apparel; face partially covered by a lopsided charcoal veil and dark mascara. You notice her because she was crying. She looks pitiful there by herself as she weeps, the mascara bleeds from her eyes like black tears, neutralizing the tan foundation powder, forming veins of mercury down the obliques of her reddened face. The sight of it damn near kills you. The guilt of feeling bored almost disappears. You look up and see the speaker burst out in tears almost in synchronisation with the woman; 2 actors in an emotional drama. Soon the whole room is filled with sniffles, painful wallowing and sobs, as if everyone had contracted a virus which was eating them from the inside out.
But all you do is just sit there. You feel that you should cry as well but you can’t. You feel nothing for that man whose body lies lifeless and beautifully dressed in an intricately carved wooden box. The deathly pale and cold aura which he emanates does not make any connection with your sentiments; all you feel is utter detachment. People in the row behind you pat your back and reassure its ok to cry for the man who had died, as he was a true “hero”. You wouldn’t want anyone to cry at your funeral, you wouldn’t want them to embarrass themselves. You feel trapped, helpless and alone, the thought of it prompts a bead of water to escape through the corner of your eye. Why were you crying for someone who you have and never will know? The thought rattles your mind as you close your eyes and mutely hang your head as if to weep, anxiously awaiting the bitter snivels to slowly but inevitably die away.
The wake awaited in an adjacent room plastered with white paint. Silverware and bulging plates were stacked with a plethora of fine food which lay pre-prepared in the glow of the morning sun on a long wooden table that stretched to almost match the width of the room. Waiters and waitresses in identical uniforms flanked the table with their hands behind their backs, gaze wandering innocently but impatiently around the ceiling of the room, oblivious to the emotional suffering of the guests they were serving. You take a seat next to your watery eyed parents, the luxuriously cushioned dining seat a great relief from the cold and hard surface of the pew. You watch as the sniffles and pained tears are soon muffled and replaced by clattering of cutlery, furious munching and jovial chatter. An old man who sits in front of you roars in laughter, one arm swilling an over filled glass full of wine while the other wrapped around the initially crying young woman. She is laughing now. The sight disgusts you and your eyes drift away. Your fork pierces into a shank of meat and you chew it slowly, careful to make as little noise as possible. A flat and bland taste of overcooked beef dulls your taste buds; you had no appetite for such an occasion. Your father turns from his happy conversation and asks you about the food. “It’s great right?” he says. You smile and reply “yeah, pretty good”. Before you can finish he has turned around already.
The crying, the eating, the sudden happiness; it is all a bit too much. You throw your glass of wine on the floor and it shatters, sending shards of glass spinning on the marble floor. You hold your head with both your hands. Heads immediately turn to look as if in some fascination something interesting had happened. You can feel their cold eyes, filled with disapproval, bore into you as the chatter silences. All that comes to your mind as the glass is propelled across the now pinot covered marble is an ice skater. You think of an ice skater as they effortlessly glide across the ice, delicate in their motion, gracefully transitioning from spin to skating; free and without constraint. You want to say how you felt, scream to the world how sickened you are with their performance. You could, but you didn’t; you just apologize and say your elbow slipped and you continue eating your steak. Anything otherwise would have been rude.
You take a deep breath, but it is relinquished as an extended and silent sigh. Well, you didn’t want to let it all out quickly and noisily; that would have caused dozens of glaring faces to scrunch up in disgust. It may even cause a few disappointed shakes of a head. You would know, you made it happen before. It happened 2 years ago, when you were 14 in fact. It was not to your parent’s delight. They scolded and disciplined you pretty harshly for that. The agonizing memory of your spanking remains like a permanent souvenir, the searing pain on your buttocks almost reoccurring every time you contemplate exposing your boredom. But it was true though, it was goddamn boring, why were you persecuted for telling the truth?
The idleness batters on your sanity, your youthful vigour catalysing the violent bubbling of your frustration. Your helpless gaze drifts from your scruffy leather shoes and slack covered legs across the aisle to a seemingly endless row of identical wooden pews which seat the other half of the guests. Your attention drifts to a lady sitting in the back row, directly across from you. She is young, short and dons entirely black apparel; face partially covered by a lopsided charcoal veil and dark mascara. You notice her because she was crying. She looks pitiful there by herself as she weeps, the mascara bleeds from her eyes like black tears, neutralizing the tan foundation powder, forming veins of mercury down the obliques of her reddened face. The sight of it damn near kills you. The guilt of feeling bored almost disappears. You look up and see the speaker burst out in tears almost in synchronisation with the woman; 2 actors in an emotional drama. Soon the whole room is filled with sniffles, painful wallowing and sobs, as if everyone had contracted a virus which was eating them from the inside out.
But all you do is just sit there. You feel that you should cry as well but you can’t. You feel nothing for that man whose body lies lifeless and beautifully dressed in an intricately carved wooden box. The deathly pale and cold aura which he emanates does not make any connection with your sentiments; all you feel is utter detachment. People in the row behind you pat your back and reassure its ok to cry for the man who had died, as he was a true “hero”. You wouldn’t want anyone to cry at your funeral, you wouldn’t want them to embarrass themselves. You feel trapped, helpless and alone, the thought of it prompts a bead of water to escape through the corner of your eye. Why were you crying for someone who you have and never will know? The thought rattles your mind as you close your eyes and mutely hang your head as if to weep, anxiously awaiting the bitter snivels to slowly but inevitably die away.
The wake awaited in an adjacent room plastered with white paint. Silverware and bulging plates were stacked with a plethora of fine food which lay pre-prepared in the glow of the morning sun on a long wooden table that stretched to almost match the width of the room. Waiters and waitresses in identical uniforms flanked the table with their hands behind their backs, gaze wandering innocently but impatiently around the ceiling of the room, oblivious to the emotional suffering of the guests they were serving. You take a seat next to your watery eyed parents, the luxuriously cushioned dining seat a great relief from the cold and hard surface of the pew. You watch as the sniffles and pained tears are soon muffled and replaced by clattering of cutlery, furious munching and jovial chatter. An old man who sits in front of you roars in laughter, one arm swilling an over filled glass full of wine while the other wrapped around the initially crying young woman. She is laughing now. The sight disgusts you and your eyes drift away. Your fork pierces into a shank of meat and you chew it slowly, careful to make as little noise as possible. A flat and bland taste of overcooked beef dulls your taste buds; you had no appetite for such an occasion. Your father turns from his happy conversation and asks you about the food. “It’s great right?” he says. You smile and reply “yeah, pretty good”. Before you can finish he has turned around already.
The crying, the eating, the sudden happiness; it is all a bit too much. You throw your glass of wine on the floor and it shatters, sending shards of glass spinning on the marble floor. You hold your head with both your hands. Heads immediately turn to look as if in some fascination something interesting had happened. You can feel their cold eyes, filled with disapproval, bore into you as the chatter silences. All that comes to your mind as the glass is propelled across the now pinot covered marble is an ice skater. You think of an ice skater as they effortlessly glide across the ice, delicate in their motion, gracefully transitioning from spin to skating; free and without constraint. You want to say how you felt, scream to the world how sickened you are with their performance. You could, but you didn’t; you just apologize and say your elbow slipped and you continue eating your steak. Anything otherwise would have been rude.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Rat Race
For Kristi :)
The harsh electronic buzz of the alarm rings in your ear. You blindly reach for the snooze button and tumble back to sleep. You repeat this 2 more times but you should have left 30 minutes ago. Now not only do you have the buzz of the clock in your ear but also the barking of an anxious woman (we know how bad that is) and the wailing of a child, as well as 4 eager hands pushing you out of bed. This makes you fall onto the ground and see bowl of mouldy cereal under the bed; reality hits; responsibility hits; it sucks. You’ve made your son late for the 3rd time this week and he’s gonna get a detention, which means he’s not going to talk to you for a couple of days, perfect.
You bolt out the door, tie half mast and toast hanging out of your mouth, the jam sliding down your chin and coagulating in your thick stubble. The birds chirp merrily as to encourage your inarticulate juggling act to the car. You rush back in because you forgot to grab the house keys, and again because you forgot the car keys. By now, it’s 8: 45am and young Jim is already 15 minutes late for school.
“Aaand welcome back to triple Q radio, totally not a rip off of triple j”. As you skip from lane to lane on the freeway, the phone goes off. It’s Mr Mazelli, your new boss. He’s wondering why you are 5 minutes late for your 1st day at your new job, and why he is even chasing you up. Maybe because he liked your jokes and how you complimented how his fashion sense accentuated his rugged looks. You couldn’t help but snicker at the thought of it, the bald fart. Before he could tell you off, your wife is shouting down the other end about how Jimmy is getting bullied at school. The cars zoom by you as you struggle to get to grips with the situation. “Screw etiquette” you say and turn off the phone without saying goodbye. You weren’t in the mood. Jimmy was still in the car, dammit. You watch in the back mirror as he just puts his face in his palm and shakes his head. It was pleasant to hear nothing but Queen blasting through the radio anyway. You cruise along in your Lamborghini Galado as “Don’t stop me now” blares though the empty roof and through your hair. Except it isn’t a sportscar, but a v6 KIA minivan with the sunroof panel slid back. Pretending is kind of nice sometimes. But it wasn’t pleasant to have a brooding and angst teen in the back; hmm trouble.
You’ve arrived, Parktree High. You double park and drop off Jimmy, you know it’s ok because all the eager parents had dropped off their children 40 minutes ago. You wish him a nice day and how you’d talk to him after school about his ‘bullying problem’. You don’t even face him as you know he’s too mad to respond right now. You start to feel kind of guilty but then you look at your watch. The gruilt instantly disappears.
Now back to the freeway, zooming to work. You call Mr Mazelli and apologize, trying to justify your cause with the beautiful excuse of having to talk to your son. Works every time. You rock up and he asks who are you and your name. For a moment, you think of all the things you are; a father, a husband, a shrink, an accountant, a chauffeur, a lazy couch potato, a teenage enemy, a nuisance, a careless and clumsy twit; but you feel loved. You reply “I’m John, John Smith, the new guy”.
You are assigned a sterile white cubicle among 20 identical others. You sit down and disappear in it. You look at the fat stack of work that squats on your to do tray; and the emptiness of the “done” tray. You hate it already. You lean back and day dream, thinking about the hell you’d have to go through when you got to go back. Being stuck in the 6pm jam on the road, being told off by the wife and the kid, eating the same mediocre dinner, retelling the same wise words your parents told you when you were in the same situation; being a dad. You smiled and looked forward to it. People asked you what you were smiling about, you replied “Nothing”. They turned away and melted back into their cubicle, their white shirts acting almost like camouflage against the bleach coloured wall. You proudly and gently place a family photo in the corner of the table, knowing exactly where to find yourself in a sea of faces; standing behind Jimmy and next to your wife in the 3rd row. More importantly, you focused on how stunning you looked in that pinstripe suit. You revelled in the triumph of knowing and having something your colleagues didn’t. You have a stupid smug look on your face as you lean back in your chair to assume your position as king of the world but then you tumble backwards. As you lay on the ground, half conscious and head throbbing, a thought drifts into your head.
“Stop dreaming kiddo, and get back to work. The boss is coming over and he’s pissed.”
The harsh electronic buzz of the alarm rings in your ear. You blindly reach for the snooze button and tumble back to sleep. You repeat this 2 more times but you should have left 30 minutes ago. Now not only do you have the buzz of the clock in your ear but also the barking of an anxious woman (we know how bad that is) and the wailing of a child, as well as 4 eager hands pushing you out of bed. This makes you fall onto the ground and see bowl of mouldy cereal under the bed; reality hits; responsibility hits; it sucks. You’ve made your son late for the 3rd time this week and he’s gonna get a detention, which means he’s not going to talk to you for a couple of days, perfect.
You bolt out the door, tie half mast and toast hanging out of your mouth, the jam sliding down your chin and coagulating in your thick stubble. The birds chirp merrily as to encourage your inarticulate juggling act to the car. You rush back in because you forgot to grab the house keys, and again because you forgot the car keys. By now, it’s 8: 45am and young Jim is already 15 minutes late for school.
“Aaand welcome back to triple Q radio, totally not a rip off of triple j”. As you skip from lane to lane on the freeway, the phone goes off. It’s Mr Mazelli, your new boss. He’s wondering why you are 5 minutes late for your 1st day at your new job, and why he is even chasing you up. Maybe because he liked your jokes and how you complimented how his fashion sense accentuated his rugged looks. You couldn’t help but snicker at the thought of it, the bald fart. Before he could tell you off, your wife is shouting down the other end about how Jimmy is getting bullied at school. The cars zoom by you as you struggle to get to grips with the situation. “Screw etiquette” you say and turn off the phone without saying goodbye. You weren’t in the mood. Jimmy was still in the car, dammit. You watch in the back mirror as he just puts his face in his palm and shakes his head. It was pleasant to hear nothing but Queen blasting through the radio anyway. You cruise along in your Lamborghini Galado as “Don’t stop me now” blares though the empty roof and through your hair. Except it isn’t a sportscar, but a v6 KIA minivan with the sunroof panel slid back. Pretending is kind of nice sometimes. But it wasn’t pleasant to have a brooding and angst teen in the back; hmm trouble.
You’ve arrived, Parktree High. You double park and drop off Jimmy, you know it’s ok because all the eager parents had dropped off their children 40 minutes ago. You wish him a nice day and how you’d talk to him after school about his ‘bullying problem’. You don’t even face him as you know he’s too mad to respond right now. You start to feel kind of guilty but then you look at your watch. The gruilt instantly disappears.
Now back to the freeway, zooming to work. You call Mr Mazelli and apologize, trying to justify your cause with the beautiful excuse of having to talk to your son. Works every time. You rock up and he asks who are you and your name. For a moment, you think of all the things you are; a father, a husband, a shrink, an accountant, a chauffeur, a lazy couch potato, a teenage enemy, a nuisance, a careless and clumsy twit; but you feel loved. You reply “I’m John, John Smith, the new guy”.
You are assigned a sterile white cubicle among 20 identical others. You sit down and disappear in it. You look at the fat stack of work that squats on your to do tray; and the emptiness of the “done” tray. You hate it already. You lean back and day dream, thinking about the hell you’d have to go through when you got to go back. Being stuck in the 6pm jam on the road, being told off by the wife and the kid, eating the same mediocre dinner, retelling the same wise words your parents told you when you were in the same situation; being a dad. You smiled and looked forward to it. People asked you what you were smiling about, you replied “Nothing”. They turned away and melted back into their cubicle, their white shirts acting almost like camouflage against the bleach coloured wall. You proudly and gently place a family photo in the corner of the table, knowing exactly where to find yourself in a sea of faces; standing behind Jimmy and next to your wife in the 3rd row. More importantly, you focused on how stunning you looked in that pinstripe suit. You revelled in the triumph of knowing and having something your colleagues didn’t. You have a stupid smug look on your face as you lean back in your chair to assume your position as king of the world but then you tumble backwards. As you lay on the ground, half conscious and head throbbing, a thought drifts into your head.
“Stop dreaming kiddo, and get back to work. The boss is coming over and he’s pissed.”
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Playground; A different spin on things.
Hey guys, another short thing I did for eng hw. Not my best work, but interesting never the less. You know the drill :)
“The roar at 12:45pm, as usual, was terrible. The harsh ununiformed sound of runners hitting the ground rang in my ears. The noise was sharp like the shards of tanbark which grazed my scrawny legs, displaced by a frantic herd of students stampeding by me towards the playground. As I just stood petrified, I was engulfed in a moving sea of people, creating a bulge in the flow where I stood as people slowed and tried to clamber around my shaking figure. As the last of the mass rushed by me, I was forcefully pushed, sending me sprawling over and cutting my knee. Tears welled in my eyes and I wanted to cry but I saved my breath; I knew no one would care; they were too caught up in the happiness of creaky slides and rusty swings, the elements of the school I hated the most and avoided. And again I lay there alone, holding my bandaid covered shin as the crimson kept leaking through my fingers. It was marginally worse than when the students rushed by, at least someone was around me. This was the place I had learnt the brutality of social rejection. “
You wouldn’t have believed how loudly the class laughed at me after I said that for my English assessment. The topic was personal reflection. “Thank you so much Lawrence” the teacher snorted, barely but politely suppressing his laugh with a masking hand. “Harden up you wimp” someone jeered as I walked back to my seat. You could see my face redden and I felt like it was ablaze, as liquid emotion trickled from my eyes, my head sunk to my chest and a bitter plaque of anger and embarrassment crept down the back of my throat. The trek to my chair seemed indefinite, accompanied by cold arrows of mockery that hurtled and speared me from every angle of the classroom. Head down, I was reduced to the reading graffiti on the desk; further eye contact would have damn near killed me. Apart from the usual profanities etched in capitals in the wood, I noticed the words “Play the game”; the 3 words which my parents, the teachers, the principal, my peers, practically everyone in my life have been repeating nonsensically. “Play by the rules, conform to the expectations, be normal” they all said. I reflected to myself as I sat in the chair, oblivious to the students and our teacher who stared critically at me. They burned with an expectation for me to clap as students finished their presentations, but I stayed idle; I didn’t want to. Each time one of the boys stood up to give their speeches; I nearly suffocated by scoffing. Predictable sagas of “pleasant” and happy moments of the past polluted the air, such as when dad used to bring us down to the lake to fish or when we and mum went shopping for my first computer. After a while, it was all a bit samey and boring. But every time a presentation was finished, the students would cheer and clap, even the teacher would, no matter how bad it was. But what do my thoughts matter? I’m just a weirdo right?
I just shook my head; it was all a bit phony. I closed my eyes and stayed in my chair as the bell for lunch rang, followed by a rustling of books being stacked and people rushing out the door. Again, I was alone, but for some reason I was glad. Some things never change.
~L Ling
“The roar at 12:45pm, as usual, was terrible. The harsh ununiformed sound of runners hitting the ground rang in my ears. The noise was sharp like the shards of tanbark which grazed my scrawny legs, displaced by a frantic herd of students stampeding by me towards the playground. As I just stood petrified, I was engulfed in a moving sea of people, creating a bulge in the flow where I stood as people slowed and tried to clamber around my shaking figure. As the last of the mass rushed by me, I was forcefully pushed, sending me sprawling over and cutting my knee. Tears welled in my eyes and I wanted to cry but I saved my breath; I knew no one would care; they were too caught up in the happiness of creaky slides and rusty swings, the elements of the school I hated the most and avoided. And again I lay there alone, holding my bandaid covered shin as the crimson kept leaking through my fingers. It was marginally worse than when the students rushed by, at least someone was around me. This was the place I had learnt the brutality of social rejection. “
You wouldn’t have believed how loudly the class laughed at me after I said that for my English assessment. The topic was personal reflection. “Thank you so much Lawrence” the teacher snorted, barely but politely suppressing his laugh with a masking hand. “Harden up you wimp” someone jeered as I walked back to my seat. You could see my face redden and I felt like it was ablaze, as liquid emotion trickled from my eyes, my head sunk to my chest and a bitter plaque of anger and embarrassment crept down the back of my throat. The trek to my chair seemed indefinite, accompanied by cold arrows of mockery that hurtled and speared me from every angle of the classroom. Head down, I was reduced to the reading graffiti on the desk; further eye contact would have damn near killed me. Apart from the usual profanities etched in capitals in the wood, I noticed the words “Play the game”; the 3 words which my parents, the teachers, the principal, my peers, practically everyone in my life have been repeating nonsensically. “Play by the rules, conform to the expectations, be normal” they all said. I reflected to myself as I sat in the chair, oblivious to the students and our teacher who stared critically at me. They burned with an expectation for me to clap as students finished their presentations, but I stayed idle; I didn’t want to. Each time one of the boys stood up to give their speeches; I nearly suffocated by scoffing. Predictable sagas of “pleasant” and happy moments of the past polluted the air, such as when dad used to bring us down to the lake to fish or when we and mum went shopping for my first computer. After a while, it was all a bit samey and boring. But every time a presentation was finished, the students would cheer and clap, even the teacher would, no matter how bad it was. But what do my thoughts matter? I’m just a weirdo right?
I just shook my head; it was all a bit phony. I closed my eyes and stayed in my chair as the bell for lunch rang, followed by a rustling of books being stacked and people rushing out the door. Again, I was alone, but for some reason I was glad. Some things never change.
~L Ling
Monday, May 3, 2010
"Boys need to steal the key from under the pillow of his sleeping mother"- Robert Bly
Hey guys, I came across this quote through english hw and I found it really interesting and insightful in the themes it explores; independence and our constant quests for identity. If you want, have a read of my discussion I wrote, hope you enjoy :) (PS: It's quite a read so get comfortable :))
Bly's quote is an exploration of a child's growing quest for independance that comes with a growing age. The physical act of "stealing" is rebellious and frowned upon; possibly being a new source of exhilaration and exploration which children crave at such a young age.
The very fact it is from their mother, the breathing reason the child exists in the first place, amplifies the gravity of this act. The children are betraying the trust of the most powerful figure in their lives and thus demonstrating a thirst for independence and control. They reveal an unwillingness to be controlled and dominated by committing such an ungrateful act which they believe may carry positive repercussions.
This 'probing' of their authorial space is a thirst never quenched if allowed to continue and mutate into the behavioral scope of "delinquency". However, by testing these boundaries, they learn through their parents' usually negative reactions where they truly stand and the correlation of between challenging and disrespectful behavior and the unpleasant consequences that follow it.
Although it may seem brutal and painful to punish a child, it is a crucial stage of learning. The wisdom of the old saying "you can lead a horse to water, but you cannot make it drink" is especially true in this case. As a parent, your role is to guide and provide the best conditions for a child's future. However, the child's existence and behavior is in their hands. You may be the catalysts in their development, but it is their will that makes them who they are.
It is only through personal experience will they learn what is good and bad. Only pain and suffering (of a safe limit) will serve as a constant reminder forever in their minds that will shape and mould their behaviour into a form hopefully more acceptable and socially desirable.
In terms of the quote, the rebellion of stealing this object is literally the "key" from which the child can learn his morals and thus a stepping stone in unlocking the complexity of becoming a more respectable person.
~L. Ling
Bly's quote is an exploration of a child's growing quest for independance that comes with a growing age. The physical act of "stealing" is rebellious and frowned upon; possibly being a new source of exhilaration and exploration which children crave at such a young age.
The very fact it is from their mother, the breathing reason the child exists in the first place, amplifies the gravity of this act. The children are betraying the trust of the most powerful figure in their lives and thus demonstrating a thirst for independence and control. They reveal an unwillingness to be controlled and dominated by committing such an ungrateful act which they believe may carry positive repercussions.
This 'probing' of their authorial space is a thirst never quenched if allowed to continue and mutate into the behavioral scope of "delinquency". However, by testing these boundaries, they learn through their parents' usually negative reactions where they truly stand and the correlation of between challenging and disrespectful behavior and the unpleasant consequences that follow it.
Although it may seem brutal and painful to punish a child, it is a crucial stage of learning. The wisdom of the old saying "you can lead a horse to water, but you cannot make it drink" is especially true in this case. As a parent, your role is to guide and provide the best conditions for a child's future. However, the child's existence and behavior is in their hands. You may be the catalysts in their development, but it is their will that makes them who they are.
It is only through personal experience will they learn what is good and bad. Only pain and suffering (of a safe limit) will serve as a constant reminder forever in their minds that will shape and mould their behaviour into a form hopefully more acceptable and socially desirable.
In terms of the quote, the rebellion of stealing this object is literally the "key" from which the child can learn his morals and thus a stepping stone in unlocking the complexity of becoming a more respectable person.
~L. Ling
Sunday, April 11, 2010
A thought at 12 AM
When we care about something and we love it to bits, we all inevitably think and imagine the day that we will eventually lose it. It’s a guilty thought which lurks in the darkest recesses of our mind and harshly plagues our consciousness. We try to shunt and block it out, but only for it to regrettably remerge during the brief moments of time where we aren’t distracted by our busy lifestyles, like during the brief moment of serenity as we lay in our beds, our minds desperately exploring and rerunning our day’s experiences before we shut it down and let the subconscious dreaming sequence take over. It could be a hobby, a toy, a special time, a person, hell it could even be the state of your perfectly sculpted body for all we know. But it’s something about that raggedy old teddy bear or something about the beat of that song. It is something which may seem so insignificant to others which means the world to us. These little personal treasures which carry a special meaning bring us a feeling that only we can enjoy. An experience that is indescribable and unparalleled to anything we have ever felt. It is a feeling that words can never encapsulate, no amount of money can buy or neither substitute; nor any scientist could make better with research. It is old, it is aging, it is flawed, yet it is beautiful in its own special way; it is human. It is this trait that makes them so appealing to us. It is a constant reminder to us as humans that nothing, whether organic and so complex like us, or engineered synthetically after much thought by evolved species like us, is ever perfect. This imperfection that connects us serves as a portal from which we can reflect and ponder. A position from where we can relive the joys of that specific moment of the past. It is like an intangible storybook where the ink is our memories and whose pages are the vast expanses of our mind. It almost seems like we can project and replay that scene of our lives, where we know the twists, where we know the jokes and the funny parts, sometimes even the nail biting and undesirable parts. For that feeling I have been harping on about, we get a sense of value. For such a thing so precious to us, we learn to treasure and marvel at the joy such an object brings us. And sometimes we just need to step back from our busy lives and bask in their significance; for they hold a key to a fraction of our past; a little bit of our life lives in them, forever trapped but always open to reflection. In the hectic and rapidly developing lifestyle of the 21st century while we must constantly be concerned with our future development, we must never forget the past. No matter how bad or how good, how lucky or unfortunate, we must learn to occasionally reflect and re familiarise ourselves with our past. After all, without the past, there would be no future, but if there is no future, there is still the past from which people can revel on. A blinkered and strange view maybe, but then again, I’m only human.
~L. Ling
~L. Ling
Saturday, April 3, 2010
The end- An experimental short story
When I looked into your eyes that final time, I could see there was no more. No more sparkle, no more passion, no more love; only a dull and icy ocean of blue that stared back coldly. That piercing glare only intensified the harsh winds that whipped around us as we braved the snow storm in my backyard, as we had done for an hour now, without saying a word. The gale whipped at our hair, tugging and slapping it against our foreheads, leaving raw and red stinging scars across our faces. The biting cold had sucked our fingers and toes dry of the healthy red glow it used to possess; when we were warm, when we were happy. Grey, shrivelled, freezing, our hands remained stagnant by our sides. Was it the cold, or was it just that we didn’t care anymore? I wanted to place my hand across your face to shield your dulling and gentle cheeks. I wanted to hold you to myself so that you could cannibalize my warmth so you wouldn’t shiver helplessly like that. I wanted to gaze deep into those once lively and loving eyes and say I loved you. I wanted to, but I didn’t. I couldn’t, but neither could you. The storm raged on as our 2 figures stood unwavering in the snowy barrage, eyes wavering from the ground, sneaking nervous glimpses of each others mute but pained faces. “It’s over” we both said in unison, both in a trembly, yet forceful voice. Was it the blistering cold or did we still care? With this, the wind had hushed and the whipping stopped. A rising and warming sun, blocked by the aging white wooden fence that cut us off from the outside world, crept across the jagged top and illuminated our faces, making us wince and recoil slightly. I thought I saw a tear run down your face, but it was probably just a shard of snow that had by chance fallen on your cheek and melted. I pretended not to notice and I looked away. The chatter of people emerging from their houses heralded the harsh sounds of shovelling and the predictable gasps of how fortunate they were nothing was damaged. They all began to clean up, and soon after, there would be no evidence of a storm at all, all apart from the stray and pestilent flecks of ice that continued to drizzle across this sleepy town, but its always done that, and always will. Knowing this, we returned to sit on the wooden planked patio, turning our parka clad backs to each other when we got there. Our mouths were stained with a plaque of bitterness that slowly crawled to the back of our throats as we stared deep into the misty horizon. For all the times we were happy, for all the times we were sad, for all the times when we got on, for all the times we fought, the times when we gave, the times when we received, the times when we were disappointed, the times when we understood, for all it was worth, together, we wept. We cried as the flakes of snow kept falling, slowly filling the craters we created as we stood in the storm together, making it seem like they were never there.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Convention
Convention
L.Ling
We are here
You are me
We are to the kind of people you want to be
Paradigm citizens, individuals of humility,
We are the members of civility.
By the code
We lead our lives
Sets of rules we constantly abide.
For they are right and right is good
It dictates all that we should.
Never faltering, never failing
In our paths there is no strange flailing
Only confident swings of sure fast arms
Destroying and conquering all that do us ‘harm’.
Eradicate, destroy and silence
The crowd that opposes our truthful cause.
There is only mighty applause
As their blood stained bodies paint the floors.
Every day of every year
Every morning of dawn you hear
The monotone grumble that brainlessly repeats
The iron fisted rule we all must greet.
They confidently drone:
“When wounded;
Do not cry and do not weep
Kill the pain and bury it deep
Break the confines of skin and heat.
Burrow it into the fleshy heart
And warehouse the bitterness that boils and scars.
Bottle the pressure, grit the teeth
Evidence of weakness you must sheath.
Never its exposure to scrutinizing eyes
Must ever occur if you seek the alpha male prize
A rule you must maintain if you wish to survive.
Battling the new,
We must fear and hate what we do not know.
Animal, plant, human, machine,
To all alien life we must appear obscene.
These foreigners are truly cursed;
In them have no faith and suspect the worst.
To strangers we must never ever greet,
Show any warmth or let our eyes meet.
With a dagger like stare we must let them know
We have shut our iron willed hearts;
Delivering onto them a painful and silent blow.
Potential companions, prospect wives and husbands
Possibility is destroyed as their duplicity will mean our end.
When one dies
Whether a beggar, a tyrant, a stranger, a thief or a traitor
You must be sad and you must lie
You must force yourself to care and cry.
For lacking of this broken emotion
Is cruel and cold
Harking angry outbursts from young and old.
These explosive jeers
Are brutal riots that will batter down your ears;
Leaving you to be forever consumed by your fears. ”
Living in their classes,
Marks in history they seek to carve
The gluttons indulge while the scrawny starve.
Lower to middle, middle to high
‘Such distribution is only fair’ experts reluctantly sigh.
Underpaid and Underpriviliged
Mandated to support, yet their work understated
Some enslaved and some whipped,
While some branded and some domesticated.
Some forced to satisfy our lust, some forced to work in toxic haze
But all are fatally trapped in a never ending maze.
Free to speak, Free to hear
Free to write and free to fear
Free to search, Free to find
But never free to hold one’s own mind.
L.Ling
We are here
You are me
We are to the kind of people you want to be
Paradigm citizens, individuals of humility,
We are the members of civility.
By the code
We lead our lives
Sets of rules we constantly abide.
For they are right and right is good
It dictates all that we should.
Never faltering, never failing
In our paths there is no strange flailing
Only confident swings of sure fast arms
Destroying and conquering all that do us ‘harm’.
Eradicate, destroy and silence
The crowd that opposes our truthful cause.
There is only mighty applause
As their blood stained bodies paint the floors.
Every day of every year
Every morning of dawn you hear
The monotone grumble that brainlessly repeats
The iron fisted rule we all must greet.
They confidently drone:
“When wounded;
Do not cry and do not weep
Kill the pain and bury it deep
Break the confines of skin and heat.
Burrow it into the fleshy heart
And warehouse the bitterness that boils and scars.
Bottle the pressure, grit the teeth
Evidence of weakness you must sheath.
Never its exposure to scrutinizing eyes
Must ever occur if you seek the alpha male prize
A rule you must maintain if you wish to survive.
Battling the new,
We must fear and hate what we do not know.
Animal, plant, human, machine,
To all alien life we must appear obscene.
These foreigners are truly cursed;
In them have no faith and suspect the worst.
To strangers we must never ever greet,
Show any warmth or let our eyes meet.
With a dagger like stare we must let them know
We have shut our iron willed hearts;
Delivering onto them a painful and silent blow.
Potential companions, prospect wives and husbands
Possibility is destroyed as their duplicity will mean our end.
When one dies
Whether a beggar, a tyrant, a stranger, a thief or a traitor
You must be sad and you must lie
You must force yourself to care and cry.
For lacking of this broken emotion
Is cruel and cold
Harking angry outbursts from young and old.
These explosive jeers
Are brutal riots that will batter down your ears;
Leaving you to be forever consumed by your fears. ”
Living in their classes,
Marks in history they seek to carve
The gluttons indulge while the scrawny starve.
Lower to middle, middle to high
‘Such distribution is only fair’ experts reluctantly sigh.
Underpaid and Underpriviliged
Mandated to support, yet their work understated
Some enslaved and some whipped,
While some branded and some domesticated.
Some forced to satisfy our lust, some forced to work in toxic haze
But all are fatally trapped in a never ending maze.
Free to speak, Free to hear
Free to write and free to fear
Free to search, Free to find
But never free to hold one’s own mind.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
An Ode to the fallen- "Hero"
Hero
For Matt and J. McNeil
“Your country needs you”
They left their families and lovers for this
They trained for this
They suffered for this
They died for this.
This band of brothers
Walk along the barren wasteland,
The earth’s pallid and arid flesh stretches interminably.
The sand vengefully whips at them again.
The crumbled carcasses of cars,
Punctuate the desert, cannibalized.
They burn and weep thick blankets of ebony
Suffocating the sky, and strangle the sun.
A spindly country boy,
walks among them.
He stops and wipes his narrow forehead,
With battered and cut arms that
once harvested and handled hay.
Cluttered brown fleece covers
His eyes, an ocean of soft baby blue
As they gaze upon the harsh wastelands.
He lugs a killing tool as thick as his legs,
Loaded with slugs the length of his fingers
And struggles with a back breaking pack
That dwarfs his figure.
The pleasure ran empty long ago.
Now the fear gripping ever so tightly.
Now he is running on bravado.
Behind them, some of the earth’s flesh jumps high into the sky,
An all too familiar ear splitting roar
A bicycle sized crater erupts and lying there is the country boy.
Legs but bloody stumps, arms but crimson confetti, torso but pulp.
He cries in helplessness, his comrades flock
In silence they meet his glassy stare and glare in morbid fascination
Those folk at home never mentioned the heat, the killing,the cruelty.
Heads dip In a silent salute.
Fires of raw emotion and compassion muted.
Crimson leaks from his wounds and coagulates in the dust.
Some cry, some shout in anguish, some pray, others simply walked away.
They do not eat or speak further that night.
What’s left of him is bagged, tagged, and sent home.
Back home.
Hundreds of lifeless words printed on paper, fed to the masses,
Translate the boy’s honorable death.
They sit in the middle, right next to the weather and oddspot, reading:
“Young hero cut down in the prime of his life by terrorists while defending country”
Eyes scan through the page long collection of Meaningless phrases:
“heroic death”, “national hero”, “national funeral”, “thousands attending”, “Awards given” “memorial built”.
Heads shake, tears well amiss the chatter and the coffee.
The hands tick on,
Slowly but surely.
Coldly, they continue and move on.
two crumpled figures.
A female rocks in the corner of a padded cell
Gently stroking a linting bear.
The male stares in stony stillness at the setting sun
Through an opaque slit in the wall.
A tear is bled and it rolls down his cheek.
Their heads are buzzing.
First born,
First gone
Soon forgotten.
For Matt and J. McNeil
“Your country needs you”
They left their families and lovers for this
They trained for this
They suffered for this
They died for this.
This band of brothers
Walk along the barren wasteland,
The earth’s pallid and arid flesh stretches interminably.
The sand vengefully whips at them again.
The crumbled carcasses of cars,
Punctuate the desert, cannibalized.
They burn and weep thick blankets of ebony
Suffocating the sky, and strangle the sun.
A spindly country boy,
walks among them.
He stops and wipes his narrow forehead,
With battered and cut arms that
once harvested and handled hay.
Cluttered brown fleece covers
His eyes, an ocean of soft baby blue
As they gaze upon the harsh wastelands.
He lugs a killing tool as thick as his legs,
Loaded with slugs the length of his fingers
And struggles with a back breaking pack
That dwarfs his figure.
The pleasure ran empty long ago.
Now the fear gripping ever so tightly.
Now he is running on bravado.
Behind them, some of the earth’s flesh jumps high into the sky,
An all too familiar ear splitting roar
A bicycle sized crater erupts and lying there is the country boy.
Legs but bloody stumps, arms but crimson confetti, torso but pulp.
He cries in helplessness, his comrades flock
In silence they meet his glassy stare and glare in morbid fascination
Those folk at home never mentioned the heat, the killing,the cruelty.
Heads dip In a silent salute.
Fires of raw emotion and compassion muted.
Crimson leaks from his wounds and coagulates in the dust.
Some cry, some shout in anguish, some pray, others simply walked away.
They do not eat or speak further that night.
What’s left of him is bagged, tagged, and sent home.
Back home.
Hundreds of lifeless words printed on paper, fed to the masses,
Translate the boy’s honorable death.
They sit in the middle, right next to the weather and oddspot, reading:
“Young hero cut down in the prime of his life by terrorists while defending country”
Eyes scan through the page long collection of Meaningless phrases:
“heroic death”, “national hero”, “national funeral”, “thousands attending”, “Awards given” “memorial built”.
Heads shake, tears well amiss the chatter and the coffee.
The hands tick on,
Slowly but surely.
Coldly, they continue and move on.
two crumpled figures.
A female rocks in the corner of a padded cell
Gently stroking a linting bear.
The male stares in stony stillness at the setting sun
Through an opaque slit in the wall.
A tear is bled and it rolls down his cheek.
Their heads are buzzing.
First born,
First gone
Soon forgotten.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Beach- My very first poem
A toast to my first joust at the world of poetry, and also to my first published work- "Beach".
‘Beach’
A poem by Lawrence Ling 10FD
I walk along the jagged wasteland
Where sharp stone reaches out of the earth’s sandy flesh,
Where white wisps float around without objective,
Careless and free.
Foaming water gently embraces the earth,
Running up and down the stretching sand,
Consuming more territory with every lap,
Dragging the land further into the watery abyss.
The tortured sand, billions of grains peppered with broken purple shells,
Reddens the merciless sea.
The soft, grainy ground sinks and crumbles beneath my feet
Leaving a small crater in front of the hundreds behind it in single file.
The sea soon reaches out once more, taking with it my footprints,
The only evidence of my presence, washed away and gone forever.
‘Beach’
A poem by Lawrence Ling 10FD
I walk along the jagged wasteland
Where sharp stone reaches out of the earth’s sandy flesh,
Where white wisps float around without objective,
Careless and free.
Foaming water gently embraces the earth,
Running up and down the stretching sand,
Consuming more territory with every lap,
Dragging the land further into the watery abyss.
The tortured sand, billions of grains peppered with broken purple shells,
Reddens the merciless sea.
The soft, grainy ground sinks and crumbles beneath my feet
Leaving a small crater in front of the hundreds behind it in single file.
The sea soon reaches out once more, taking with it my footprints,
The only evidence of my presence, washed away and gone forever.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Poem- "Devotion"
Devotion
A work by L.L.
Without you;
Put simply, it hurts.
Your eyes, your nose, your hair,
Your smile, Your laugh, Your hips,
Your kiss….
Everything that you are;
Is everything i need
To sustain this faceless existence.
Thief of my breath
Pupeteer of my heart
Purger of my desolation….
If you only knew.
When you leave me,
You cut my cord of security; ecstasy; hope.
Leaving me to drift helplessly;
To struggle and flail in a monsoon of rocky despair and isolation;
Memories of past trivial small talk
my buoy.
When you leave me,
The thought of you pollutes my mind.
An ever encompassing cloud shrouds my soul;
Consuming my judgement,
Commandeering my focus,
Shuffling my morals,
Sparking my lust;
My stasis from time’s cold and firm grasp;
Forever young.
When you leave me,
My heart plummets to my stomach
Crashing into a pool of caustic pain and suffering.
My soul burns and corrodes
Adding another deepening wound
At every splinter of time without you.
The scars are cauterized by a sympathetic passing glance;
Blots of ink that time can only fade
But never erase.
Sometimes I stand outside in the rain.
Sometimes for hours on end
Watching you;
A stationary figure immersed in a
moving sea of scampering people.
Pouring and drenched and Patient;
Hopefully you’d spare a wave.
It hurts more every time
Why do I even bother?
I must stand aside in the dark and wait.
I can’t ever let you know
I must handicap our relationship
Prevent it from blossoming
Let you grow and move on
Let others take you away from me, my love.
It’s for the better,
It’s not you….
In the pouring rain,
All I can do is stand in bitter silence and pathetic longing,
While my tears and dreams are swept away.
Because no matter how hard I try
You and I can never be.
It hurts.
A work by L.L.
Without you;
Put simply, it hurts.
Your eyes, your nose, your hair,
Your smile, Your laugh, Your hips,
Your kiss….
Everything that you are;
Is everything i need
To sustain this faceless existence.
Thief of my breath
Pupeteer of my heart
Purger of my desolation….
If you only knew.
When you leave me,
You cut my cord of security; ecstasy; hope.
Leaving me to drift helplessly;
To struggle and flail in a monsoon of rocky despair and isolation;
Memories of past trivial small talk
my buoy.
When you leave me,
The thought of you pollutes my mind.
An ever encompassing cloud shrouds my soul;
Consuming my judgement,
Commandeering my focus,
Shuffling my morals,
Sparking my lust;
My stasis from time’s cold and firm grasp;
Forever young.
When you leave me,
My heart plummets to my stomach
Crashing into a pool of caustic pain and suffering.
My soul burns and corrodes
Adding another deepening wound
At every splinter of time without you.
The scars are cauterized by a sympathetic passing glance;
Blots of ink that time can only fade
But never erase.
Sometimes I stand outside in the rain.
Sometimes for hours on end
Watching you;
A stationary figure immersed in a
moving sea of scampering people.
Pouring and drenched and Patient;
Hopefully you’d spare a wave.
It hurts more every time
Why do I even bother?
I must stand aside in the dark and wait.
I can’t ever let you know
I must handicap our relationship
Prevent it from blossoming
Let you grow and move on
Let others take you away from me, my love.
It’s for the better,
It’s not you….
In the pouring rain,
All I can do is stand in bitter silence and pathetic longing,
While my tears and dreams are swept away.
Because no matter how hard I try
You and I can never be.
It hurts.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
New Poem- "Last Love"
Last Love
For R.B.
A man can be blind
He can be deaf
He can be lame.
But as long as he breathes
His heart will forever feel
That joy or that pain;
And the memories will always remain.
I won’t lie,
I liked the way that
The earth’s green hair tickled our naked heels;
How it uniformly rippled and ruffled
With each passing breath from the whimsical clouds.
I liked the warmth of
the burning golden gem
that hung high on a necklace of clouds.
Its glowing radiance we shared together silently;
A moment too profound to defile with words.
I liked the gentle “splish splash” of the creek we used to sit by
As running water eagerly toppled over smooth rock;
And playfully jumped out to moisturize our golden skin.
It was this time I drifted into your baby blue eyes
A vast ocean of childish enthusiasm and simplicity;
Yet slightly swayed by an undercurrent of mystery.
That youthful gaze betrayed an innocence;
An ignorance to what we were falling into.
Our love was a duet;
A legato melody of ecstasy
A running scale of contentment
A bounding arpeggio of fulfilment
Each of our actions a perfect harmony;
A musical masterpiece
Our love was
Flavoured like the molten gold that leaks from honey comb
Fragrant as spore if tiger lily
Soothing as warm water’s caress
Necessary as the oxygen we gulped
And the blood that coursed through our veins.
I never felt so good.
But we were too young
It was too much too fast.
Young of heart
Young of judgement
Young of fidelity….
Young of strength…
A heart doesn’t break even…
Today;
The haunting sight of his hand in yours
The smile I once knew being reflected in his eyes…
Still stabs and rips.
I watch mutely
As the memory of me is voided
Deep into the recesses of your mind.
I step backwards into the darkness while
My heart melts into the shadows
And I fade to black.
Without you
Lies a searing incompletion in my heart;
A building with no base
A door with no hinges;
A man with no purpose.
Empty and wanting and broken;
Fix me.
As I write these pained words
That few eyes will glance over and forget,
A distant autumn wastes away
A muted sun creeps through the rotting wood and dripping glass.
Sweet nocturnes of a happy ending but shards
Trapped in my bleeding heart.
Confused shivers plague me.
Is it the frosty air or just the
Bitter blood that pulses through my body?
Light and dark;
Good and evil;
Democracy and dictatorship.
Soft like the virgin snow
Yet harsh like the thorn of a rose.
Intense and passionate like the death of a star
But also playful and whimsical like the lapping of the waves.
It is the giver and taker of life;
The uniter of lost souls
Yet the condemner of many.
What was our love my dear?
It is now the end of me, but just another beginning for you.
For R.B.
A man can be blind
He can be deaf
He can be lame.
But as long as he breathes
His heart will forever feel
That joy or that pain;
And the memories will always remain.
I won’t lie,
I liked the way that
The earth’s green hair tickled our naked heels;
How it uniformly rippled and ruffled
With each passing breath from the whimsical clouds.
I liked the warmth of
the burning golden gem
that hung high on a necklace of clouds.
Its glowing radiance we shared together silently;
A moment too profound to defile with words.
I liked the gentle “splish splash” of the creek we used to sit by
As running water eagerly toppled over smooth rock;
And playfully jumped out to moisturize our golden skin.
It was this time I drifted into your baby blue eyes
A vast ocean of childish enthusiasm and simplicity;
Yet slightly swayed by an undercurrent of mystery.
That youthful gaze betrayed an innocence;
An ignorance to what we were falling into.
Our love was a duet;
A legato melody of ecstasy
A running scale of contentment
A bounding arpeggio of fulfilment
Each of our actions a perfect harmony;
A musical masterpiece
Our love was
Flavoured like the molten gold that leaks from honey comb
Fragrant as spore if tiger lily
Soothing as warm water’s caress
Necessary as the oxygen we gulped
And the blood that coursed through our veins.
I never felt so good.
But we were too young
It was too much too fast.
Young of heart
Young of judgement
Young of fidelity….
Young of strength…
A heart doesn’t break even…
Today;
The haunting sight of his hand in yours
The smile I once knew being reflected in his eyes…
Still stabs and rips.
I watch mutely
As the memory of me is voided
Deep into the recesses of your mind.
I step backwards into the darkness while
My heart melts into the shadows
And I fade to black.
Without you
Lies a searing incompletion in my heart;
A building with no base
A door with no hinges;
A man with no purpose.
Empty and wanting and broken;
Fix me.
As I write these pained words
That few eyes will glance over and forget,
A distant autumn wastes away
A muted sun creeps through the rotting wood and dripping glass.
Sweet nocturnes of a happy ending but shards
Trapped in my bleeding heart.
Confused shivers plague me.
Is it the frosty air or just the
Bitter blood that pulses through my body?
Light and dark;
Good and evil;
Democracy and dictatorship.
Soft like the virgin snow
Yet harsh like the thorn of a rose.
Intense and passionate like the death of a star
But also playful and whimsical like the lapping of the waves.
It is the giver and taker of life;
The uniter of lost souls
Yet the condemner of many.
What was our love my dear?
It is now the end of me, but just another beginning for you.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
(Re-Post) 2nd post: SFA (Sports first aid) Camp
Hey guys, it's Lorry again with my 2nd post on livejournal (oh gawd, again?). Thanks to those who read my last post (which was about 3 people, which is quite sad). So now with the great success of last post, I have been motivated to write yet another...a month later, haha.
Now, with the intro out of the way, let's continue to the selfish and unorganized ramblings.
SFA (is) camp(e.g. GAY)
Haha, the titles funny cause it has a pun in it! Not really.
Well, to give everyone a heads up, I went on sports first aid camp around 3 weeks ago. And I'll tell you what, it was an experience alright.
Yet again, we would be travelling down the freeway, past all these 'whoop whoop' suburbs (Research? I didn't know it existed) to the ever popular Scotch site on Cowes. It's a beautiful, yet suprisingly primitive, place, great for relaxation.
You must be asking, is there any real point to this? 60 or so burly and strapping young men cramming themselves into 12 tents? Sounds hot, but anyway.
Lemme give you a rundown of what I do every thursday afternoon (pity me? sigh....). As a yr 11 SFA'er, I teach a group of yr 9's. Woah, you must be saying, that would suck right? The buggers run up the walls, set fire to the tables, eat each other, etc. Well, to tell you the truth, it was actually really fun. My mate Zach (we'll call him z dizzle) and I had a great group of boys (the rejects went into the other groups, funny,lololol).
These 5 yr 9's combine with 5 yr 10's and 2 yr 11's to form a squad. We're squad 4! yay!
Theoretically, we go to camp to test how well yr 11's have taught the yr 9's. However, as you guys know with most "special focus" camps, this never ends up to be the case.
Here is an extract from a typical convo between yr 9 and yr 12's.
Yr9: What does (insert sport activity)-> Glow stick hunt (I'll get to it later) have anything to do with taping people up and stuff?
Yr12:Um...(Tries to look for a reason) just shut up and enjoy it.
Right,
So the timetable ended up looking something like this (since I ceebs commenting on everything). Actually, I can't be bothered making a table.
Thurs went like this:
Digging in the sand for a bag of lollies at the beach- Jibbed cause there were no lollies in our section and we dug literally a 1 metre into the sand (???!!!)
Module (assesment)- Awesome our boys owned it. Good work
Beach cricket- Ha, it was about 14 runs to 6, so yeah, we owned in that too.
Module- Epic fail. 11/20. We taught them it.
Duster Hockey- (e.g. the improving man's hockey. Tables flipped to form a arena. Rolled up newspapers used to push puck into goals at end of arena) -1 points for losing to yr 12's with actual hockey sticks (!!!).
Module- Not bad.
Dins- Hmmm, greasy chicken parma? Not really.....
Trivia night- A slaughter.
Fri:
Half the day was similar to thurs, but in the afternoon we got to go bowling and outdoor laser forcing. Well, laugh all you want, but in bowling I got 69 points. Yes, quite a shocker. Then we went laser forcing. It was fun, we got dressed up in army fatigues and got heavy weapons to shoot at people. Downside was, the place was full of crap. Seriously, like everywhere.
At night we went out to town, bought some heart clogging, diabetes inducing foods and returned back for the glow stick hunt.
You and a friend were tied up at the wrist via tape and had to run around in the dark picking up glowsticks. Seems boring hey? The interesting part is who lurks in the dark. Yr12's sussly hide in the shadows and pounce you with water guns, so you better run or you'll be drenched.
My legs killed after that night.
Also, we had a nice representation of a public execution. The yr 12's got 2 rebels (who were not conforming to their desires) and made them kneel down and take 10 seconds of concentrated water fire. Actually quite funny, for us anyway.
Sat
Pack up and long, tiring bus journey home (obviously arriving home later than specified time).
Well boys and girls, that was my camp. I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I did. I'm looking forward to running the camp next year in '10!
I'd like to end with one of my fav quotes from blade runner:
"I've seen things you people wouldn't believe.
Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion.
I've watched c-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate.
All those ... moments will be lost in time, like tears...in rain. Time to die. " - Roy Batty
Guys, this quote is a clear indication to us that we must never forget anything in our lives. We must never let our friends, family, dreams or goals be lost "like tears in the rain".
We must soldier on, however tough life maybe, because life wasn't mean to be easy. Eventually you wont be supported by your parents and will be thrust into the world to take care of your own families.
To quote a sickening cliche, "when the going gets tough, the tough gets going". I know you guys, you're all tough and you'll all be alright in the future.
Lorry
Now, with the intro out of the way, let's continue to the selfish and unorganized ramblings.
SFA (is) camp(e.g. GAY)
Haha, the titles funny cause it has a pun in it! Not really.
Well, to give everyone a heads up, I went on sports first aid camp around 3 weeks ago. And I'll tell you what, it was an experience alright.
Yet again, we would be travelling down the freeway, past all these 'whoop whoop' suburbs (Research? I didn't know it existed) to the ever popular Scotch site on Cowes. It's a beautiful, yet suprisingly primitive, place, great for relaxation.
You must be asking, is there any real point to this? 60 or so burly and strapping young men cramming themselves into 12 tents? Sounds hot, but anyway.
Lemme give you a rundown of what I do every thursday afternoon (pity me? sigh....). As a yr 11 SFA'er, I teach a group of yr 9's. Woah, you must be saying, that would suck right? The buggers run up the walls, set fire to the tables, eat each other, etc. Well, to tell you the truth, it was actually really fun. My mate Zach (we'll call him z dizzle) and I had a great group of boys (the rejects went into the other groups, funny,lololol).
These 5 yr 9's combine with 5 yr 10's and 2 yr 11's to form a squad. We're squad 4! yay!
Theoretically, we go to camp to test how well yr 11's have taught the yr 9's. However, as you guys know with most "special focus" camps, this never ends up to be the case.
Here is an extract from a typical convo between yr 9 and yr 12's.
Yr9: What does (insert sport activity)-> Glow stick hunt (I'll get to it later) have anything to do with taping people up and stuff?
Yr12:Um...(Tries to look for a reason) just shut up and enjoy it.
Right,
So the timetable ended up looking something like this (since I ceebs commenting on everything). Actually, I can't be bothered making a table.
Thurs went like this:
Digging in the sand for a bag of lollies at the beach- Jibbed cause there were no lollies in our section and we dug literally a 1 metre into the sand (???!!!)
Module (assesment)- Awesome our boys owned it. Good work
Beach cricket- Ha, it was about 14 runs to 6, so yeah, we owned in that too.
Module- Epic fail. 11/20. We taught them it.
Duster Hockey- (e.g. the improving man's hockey. Tables flipped to form a arena. Rolled up newspapers used to push puck into goals at end of arena) -1 points for losing to yr 12's with actual hockey sticks (!!!).
Module- Not bad.
Dins- Hmmm, greasy chicken parma? Not really.....
Trivia night- A slaughter.
Fri:
Half the day was similar to thurs, but in the afternoon we got to go bowling and outdoor laser forcing. Well, laugh all you want, but in bowling I got 69 points. Yes, quite a shocker. Then we went laser forcing. It was fun, we got dressed up in army fatigues and got heavy weapons to shoot at people. Downside was, the place was full of crap. Seriously, like everywhere.
At night we went out to town, bought some heart clogging, diabetes inducing foods and returned back for the glow stick hunt.
You and a friend were tied up at the wrist via tape and had to run around in the dark picking up glowsticks. Seems boring hey? The interesting part is who lurks in the dark. Yr12's sussly hide in the shadows and pounce you with water guns, so you better run or you'll be drenched.
My legs killed after that night.
Also, we had a nice representation of a public execution. The yr 12's got 2 rebels (who were not conforming to their desires) and made them kneel down and take 10 seconds of concentrated water fire. Actually quite funny, for us anyway.
Sat
Pack up and long, tiring bus journey home (obviously arriving home later than specified time).
Well boys and girls, that was my camp. I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I did. I'm looking forward to running the camp next year in '10!
I'd like to end with one of my fav quotes from blade runner:
"I've seen things you people wouldn't believe.
Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion.
I've watched c-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate.
All those ... moments will be lost in time, like tears...in rain. Time to die. " - Roy Batty
Guys, this quote is a clear indication to us that we must never forget anything in our lives. We must never let our friends, family, dreams or goals be lost "like tears in the rain".
We must soldier on, however tough life maybe, because life wasn't mean to be easy. Eventually you wont be supported by your parents and will be thrust into the world to take care of your own families.
To quote a sickening cliche, "when the going gets tough, the tough gets going". I know you guys, you're all tough and you'll all be alright in the future.
Lorry
First Post- Attitude towards 2009 (repost)
Hey guys, it's Lorry here with my very first post on blogger. Thanks for checking it out and deciding to read what could be the typical selfish rambling of one's experiences in the game of life.
This journal was essentially formed to express my experiences of major events to everyone (if anyone reads this that is), which helps me relax and keep it real.
You must be bored, so let's get started shall we?
To start off with, the main topic of the day, school of 2009. Man, compared to the holidays it was really bad. I mean really bad.
You have to wake up early, dress up in uncomfortable but respectable apparel, brave the scorching heat, learn about mass spectrometers and other massively interesting things and come home late, only to be faced with a truck which kindly backs up and tilts its 200 tonne load of homework onto you. Sounds great hey?
Well, that's a cynical view. The good side is however, equally enticing. You get to see your mates, learn new things and become less ignorant of your surroundings, take a step closer to your future and pave a bright future and yada yada yada (insert more cliched optimistic beliefs here).
Perhaps one of the most powerful drives for enduring is simply because you're not alone. You've got mates who are going through the same situation with you. They're also fighting this tough battle, also combating the stinker heat, you're all doing it together (that is if they bother turning up to school).
Your mates are there for you, so never give up hope and be demotivated by the stress. You can count on your mates to back you up whenever you need it. Besides, whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger right?
Well, 2009 will be a key point in my life. It is the time of VCE, where I will pave the path for my future. Everything I do now can effect the outcome of my future, be it positive or negative. This is rather distressing, cause you can't really bomb out or bluge out in any subject, cause it all counts. My parents aren't making it any easier either >_>.
Oh well, I suppose that's life. It's never easy. That being said, I shall leave you now so you can continue with your bright and cheery lives. I hope you've taken a little bit of insight out of this little discussion, and hope it has entertained/inspired/humored/stupefied/aggravated/affected you in some way. If it didn't, it would be a waste of my time and yours hey?
Anyway, till next time, keep it real, keep it fresh, keep it stylish.
The stylings of
Lorry.
This journal was essentially formed to express my experiences of major events to everyone (if anyone reads this that is), which helps me relax and keep it real.
You must be bored, so let's get started shall we?
To start off with, the main topic of the day, school of 2009. Man, compared to the holidays it was really bad. I mean really bad.
You have to wake up early, dress up in uncomfortable but respectable apparel, brave the scorching heat, learn about mass spectrometers and other massively interesting things and come home late, only to be faced with a truck which kindly backs up and tilts its 200 tonne load of homework onto you. Sounds great hey?
Well, that's a cynical view. The good side is however, equally enticing. You get to see your mates, learn new things and become less ignorant of your surroundings, take a step closer to your future and pave a bright future and yada yada yada (insert more cliched optimistic beliefs here).
Perhaps one of the most powerful drives for enduring is simply because you're not alone. You've got mates who are going through the same situation with you. They're also fighting this tough battle, also combating the stinker heat, you're all doing it together (that is if they bother turning up to school).
Your mates are there for you, so never give up hope and be demotivated by the stress. You can count on your mates to back you up whenever you need it. Besides, whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger right?
Well, 2009 will be a key point in my life. It is the time of VCE, where I will pave the path for my future. Everything I do now can effect the outcome of my future, be it positive or negative. This is rather distressing, cause you can't really bomb out or bluge out in any subject, cause it all counts. My parents aren't making it any easier either >_>.
Oh well, I suppose that's life. It's never easy. That being said, I shall leave you now so you can continue with your bright and cheery lives. I hope you've taken a little bit of insight out of this little discussion, and hope it has entertained/inspired/humored/stupefied/a
Anyway, till next time, keep it real, keep it fresh, keep it stylish.
The stylings of
Lorry.
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