number one 2010

CALIFORNIA GURLS IS NUMBER ONE

MY DREAM COMES TRUE

YES
YEEEEEESSSSSSSS
LOVE YOU KATY PERRY

the seventh day

Day 7: Four Songs That Describe Your Life Right Now


I can't exactly put the songs here...so I'll have snippets of lyrics.


1. "So if you care to find me, look to the western sky! 
As someone told me lately: "Ev'ryone deserves the chance to fly!" 
And if I'm flying solo, at least I'm flying free 
To those who'd ground me, take a message back from me--
Tell them how I am
Defying gravity

I'm flying high 
Defying gravity" - Defying Gravity, Wicked

2. "You've got opinions, man

Everyone's entitled to 'em

But I never asked

So I'll thank you for your time

And try not to waste anymore of mine

Get out of here, fast

I hate to break it to you, babe, but I'm not drowning

There is no one here to save

Who cares if you disagree? You are not me

Who made you king of anything?

So you dare tell me who to be?

Who died and made you king of anything?" - King of Anything, Sara Bareilles

3. "On the hills of lore and wonder

There's a stormy world up there

You can't whisper above the thunder

But you can fly anywhere

Purple burst of paper birds, this

Picture paints a thousand words

So take a breath of myth and mystery

And don't look back" - To the Sky, Owl City

4. "Do you know that there's still a chance for you
Cause there's a spark in you
You just gotta ignite the light and let it shine
Just own the night, like the Fourth of July
Cause baby you're a firework, come on show 'em what your worth
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!" as you shoot across the sky-y-y
Baby you're a firework, come on let your colors burst
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!", you're gunna leave 'em fallin' down-own-own" - Firework, Katy Perry

the epic 100

As before, I have my yearly fixture of 987 Top 100 Countdown. We're at 19 (OMG by Usher), and so far, three Adam Lambert and two Owl City things have passed. One more Adam Lambert song to go 8D I'm wondering if there's anymore Owl City, though...sort of sad that he no longer has anything as high as Fireflies.

...

Well, now we're at 13, and it happens to be Telephone by Lady Gaga and Beyonce--I love this song! Why wasn't it higher? Well, 13's not bad. But this is really my favourite of Gaga's songs :D

I will probably close my post at this point, and blog about it again at the end--otherwise it'll get rambly.

Brb, browsing Inception memes 8D

the sixth day

Day 6: Five Things You Can Eat Everyday


I'm not an eater at heart, though I'll try my best.


1. Bread. Because I do eat it everyday.
2. Rock melon. My favourite fruit of all time--nope, not the mango, not the watermelon, not even the ever-popular apple. Rock melons rock.
3. Honey O's. The breakfast cereal. Best I've ever tasted.
4. Mashed potato. Everyday. Because it wins over whole unmashed potatoes so much.
5. Waffles. Oh, I miss those guys.

the fifth day

Day 5: Six of Your Favorite Books


Sorry, I forgot about this after my long holiday.
Oh, yes.


1. Flora's Dare. And its prequel. The history, the politics, the locations, the sheer imagery, the colours, the twists, the themes, the echoes, the makeup, the clothes designs, the characters. Oh, the characters. I could read this all day (I actually did).


2. The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King. Together with its two fellows: half the epic in the world packed into less than a kilogram.


3. The Hunger Games. Again with its two fellows: I finished all 1,200 pages in two days. 48 hours. That's how much it captured me. The politics, the pain, the reality of it all. The fire and the songs. If anything, this captured me deeper than any other book I've ever read. Whether or not it's my favourite.


4. Time Ghost. A memory full of tears. Circling time. Paradoxes and dodging them. The birds that have returned. It was been my favourite book for a good three years (until I read the above three this year).


5. Artemis Fowl and the Eternity Code. Because Eoin Colfer knows how to tangle an immensely complex chessmaster contest plot up to the point of despairing the reader--and then proceed to straighten it perfectly out by the end. This installment was particularly divinely ingenious.


6. The Castle of Dark. I've read it three times through, which makes it my third most-read book. The images and strong theme of dark and light and the blurring in between was just...just amazing.

the fourth day

Day 4: Seven People Who Inspire You, and Why?


I'll take this question to mean my idols--because if it were about inspiring friends, there'd be no end to this list.


1. Whoever composed the MapleStory OST: No body of music has singlehandedly transformed me the way this has. Every single one of these 200-odd works has shaped me, my art and my life in some way or another. Whoever was responsible, please please please stop hiding in anonymity. I'd list you as my number one idol of all time.


2. Yan Wenqing/yuumei (artist on deviantART): Her pain inspires her art. She might be suffering, but her art is true to herself. And she's utterly talented. To be able to hold on to this even beneath the stress of reality is purely inspiring.


3. Michael Giacchino (composer): His words at the 2010 Oscars, when he won, were what kept my dream of becoming a film score composer alive.


4. J.R.R. Tolkien (author): The master of world-creation. He gives me hope, in the influence that an imaginary place, an imaginary story, can have upon events in the real world. Never before has creation made so much sense to me.


5. Adam Young/Owl City (singer/songwriter): Who doesn't love his story? He makes me believe, both through his story and his songs, that the possibilities are limitless within creativity.


6. Grace Guo: The only person here who is remotely likely to read this. Her works have taught me how to bring colours and tastes and music into my writing.


7. Kal Ancalas (author on FanFiction.net): He was my idol back in the days when I was starting in the MapleStory archive. He made me realise that I wanted to write sad stories. I'm glad I did that, instead of going the generic-kid-on-adventure-with-prophecy-to-save-the-world way.

the third day

Day 3: Eight Places You Want To Visit


1. Seville, Spain. My co-favourite composer Turina wrote some of the most amazing music about this place, his hometown. Only a breathtaking place could inspire such music.


2. Tokyo, Japan. Because that's where Akiabara is. And because I shall see the actual 地下鉄 in our textbooks. And because it's in Japan. If anything, it'd be the reason I learnt Japanese for three years.


3. Anywhere in Australia. I lived there for a year of my life, and I miss it like my home (and it's been ten years).


4. Los Angeles, USA. Because it just sounds so darned good. My favourite fantasy author's story setting is a steampunk parallel of LA--if it's that good, then I've got to see it.


5. Paris, France. Goodness, I've wanted to as long as I've known the name of that place. "Paris" is always accompanied by a description, a picture, a story of some kind. Never a name spoken on its own.


6. Mallorca, Menorca or Ibiza, Spain. I've read great things about their cultural diversity and their seaside scenery. Plus, Ibiza architecture is awesome.


7. London, England. You can't deny that literature and popular culture has made it sound like a very respectable, charming place. And the train stations, oh the train stations. I need to see those.


8. THE BATHROOM. NOW. ><

tagboard

...has moved to one of my blog pages. The link is on the right, somewhere.

as is obligatory

Unfortunately, I will be in Malaysia for the next week or so, and hence I will not be able to finish the ten day meme in the allotted time. Whoops.

My maternal grandmother's turning 80, and there will be a big dinner for that.

We're leaving at 7 am tomorrow morning, so I will leave now. It's late.

the second day

Day 2: Nine Things You Can’t Live Without


Fascinating, fascinating, wonderful question. I won't take it literally, because where's the fun?


1. A computer.
2. Paper and stationery.
3. Music.
4. A home.
5. A window to the sky.
6. Creating something.
7. People to share my creations with.
8. Loving someone.
9. A dream, a desire, something I don't like about this time, this world.

the first day

Day 1: Ten Things You Wanted/Want To Be When You’re Older

I think this prompt leaves you the space to list multiple desires, even if you can only have one. So I'll go ahead and list. "Wanted", after all.

1. Somewhere far off, far high, I dream of being a crazy pop star--wearing whatever I want, performing my heart bare and waiting for people to rip it open, sparking flames and dreams, crying behind a locked door because they won't leave me alone. I will die young. I will die chained; it doesn't matter. I will die free.

2. Most recently, I had an image of myself designing things that actually exist. No more people who breathe paper. Something that I will actually walk within. I come to realise I very much want to be an architect--even though it's never once struck me before.

3. Right now, my grandest, most deeply-rooted and most hopeful dream is to be a film score composer. You'll have to pin that ambition on Michael Giacchino, composer of the Up soundtrack.

4. A secondary dream beneath the film score dream, would be that of game background music composition. And possibly the most feasible, because I (very much to my own disgust) fancy myself at a sufficient standard. Go ahead, shoot me.

5. The original music dream was songwriter. But I think that was killed when I realised: I don't know the name of any songwriter unless he/she sings his/her own songs. This evolved into ambition 1.

6. When I started writing, I felt like I could go anywhere with it. Maybe it's true; I wanted to write for a living. But reality is such a terrible thing sometimes. Novelists don't get anywhere without another job around.

7. There is this deep-rooted love for birds in me, and maybe being an ornithologist wouldn't make me happy. But there's nothing in me that seems to point remotely in that direction.

8. Back in the times when I drew only Pokemon that you couldn't tell were Pokemon, I dreamt of being an artist and selling my works for thousands.

9. If I'm not wrong, my very first dream was to be a veterinarian. I buried that dream, right where it should stay.It's gone. When you're young, you're stupid. It's gone.

10. I want to be remembered. Leave a mark. Have my name spoken at least twenty generations, until we vanish forever. Then I will be nothing: and wanting to be nothing, though the wisest thing to aspire towards, never happens.

the prize of the sword

I am astounded.

Today, I found a novelette I completely forgot existed. It's probably a full 200 novel pages long by estimate, and took maybe three months of my life to write. And I forgot it existed.


How it happened: today I was listening half-attentively to Power Rangers on TV, thinking about MacGuffins (this triggered by Power Rangers, no less), and about how stories about those are so common. Then because I've been thinking about the Hunger Games so much, I wondered what would happen if the plot had gone a different way--if the game had been about finding a small object in a vast place and fighting for it, instead.

At that point, a bell rang, like I'd heard that plot somewhere before.

Then I realised that I'd written that plot before. And four months before Hunger Games was published--so I probably didn't get the idea from there, or from any ambient discussions regarding that.

In fact, no, I remember where the idea came from. It was from Oban Star-Racers.

The novel is about a girl named Maisha (oh GOODNESS) from a broken family of gardeners. She enters a tournament of six nations, where the prize is anything you want (now why are the bells ringing?), and consists of an elimination round as described above (finding an object) that narrows the competition pool from a thousand to sixty-four. Then they go fighting one-on-one, and more often than not, murder is victory.

I just thought the idea of competition at the heart of a story was nice, no, awesome. Triggered by the wonderful-ness of OSR, no less.

The Prize of the Sword, the title I gave it. I see why I can't remember it. Oh goodness.

I think another part of the reason it slipped from my memory is that I never let anyone read it. Trash stuff.

I think it needs a new title. Badly.

the ten day game

The bandwagon has been waiting at my gate for a long, long time. :B


Day 1: Ten Things You Wanted/Want To Be When You’re Older
Day 2: Nine Things You Can’t Live Without
Day 3: Eight Places You Want To Visit
Day 4: Seven People Who Inspire You, and Why?
Day 5: Six of Your Favorite Books
Day 6: Five Things You Can Eat Everyday
Day 7: Four Songs That Describe Your Life Right Now
Day 8: Three favorite Cartoon Characters
Day 9: Two Movies You Absolutely Love
Day 10: One Quote That Describes Your Life Right Now

the quotedump

NaNoWriMo--it's over!
Final word count: 68,303 (OpenOffice word count algorithm)
Final page count: 273 (word count/250)

I've been keeping everyone almost totally in the dark about the actual contents of my NaNoWriMo piece Umbrella Story. Finally going to be posting stuff for viewing.

Some attractive quotes from the novel, which don't happen to be attractive at all.

1._____
We’re not all about physics and mechanics and material science. We have to find a way to make it acceptable to the public mind. Such is the task accorded by such a vast mission. We are sociologists, philosophers; we are hopeless dreamers.

She is a mechanic from a pro-Science revolutionary group.

2._____
On her walk across the room to the doorway, the mechanic felt her foot thump on the trapdoor in the floor, humble and half-concealed by the shadows of the shelves. Why Rutherford had included it in the design, she didn’t know—unless her brother thought falling half a mile with half a chance of landing outside the river and among the rocks was a crucial activity in daily life.

Still, Ruthenia ran her foot over the catch with some appreciation, feeling the wind rattling gently against its hinges. She had heard enough stories about trapdoors to believe that she would find something to do with it eventually.

There's half a mile of sky underneath her floorboards. In Astra, houses float in midair.
And, her brother is an architect. *_*
And, their names were ripped off the periodic table. :B

3._____

Just considering the possibility that it was dead—it felt like a ton of ice in her gut. The seed couldn’t be dead. This belief had suddenly become connected with her belief in the world. Connected, even, to the unnamed force at work in the sea. And to the cause she was fighting for. Somehow.

The mechanic gave the soil a small pat, before she went to her desk and took worksheet thirty-six to complete.

She just received a stack of 60 Flight Physics worksheets.

4._____

She finished breakfast opposite Tanio, grimacing furiously at the taste of his undercooked eggs.

“Well, why don’t you try cooking for yourself for a change?” asked the man, obviously still sore from yesterday’s events. Not that she wasn’t either.

She sighed growlingly, forcing another mouthful of peppery egg into her mouth with her fork. “Me? Cook? Oh, alright, then maybe you can see how it feels to be forced to eat someone else’s failed cooking!”

Unlike me, she isn't vegetarian. 

5._____

So this was what her life had come to. This was how desperate she was for company—so desperate that she would ask an emotionless royal brat with a book glued to his nose to spend tea with her.

My drawing of Aleigh does him no justice. He is far less sociable than suggested. But not emotionless. Ruthenia loves her sweeping statements.

6._____
He kicked at something that stood to the right of the door; it made hollow plywood thumps. Ruthenia turned. And behold, there was the source of that thumping—a crate that could only spell more work. In BIG CAPITAL LETTERS.

Ruthenia's suspicion, it turned out, was spot-on. “Some guy's motor unit broke down,” explained Tanio. “He brought it all the way here by himself—and for a chair guy, that is one tough feat. So you'd better make his efforts pay off. He wants it back within a week.”

MORE WORK.

All-caps words! Well, this is the story with dingbats (→!), pictures, script format (and bracket overuse). None of these are particularly uncommon.


If you're interested--wait till June next year.
I am going to feel very guilty for putting OTDOTS on hold for this.
No, I'm actually working on both at the same time--but Chapter 11 is stuck at 3k words.

the mirror corridor

(it was grey yesterday.)

The sea is blue today... Is that a good sign?

So I got dragged into this attachment thing with my mother's lawyer friend. I have not much to say about it; all I know is that it's convinced me that I do not want to be a lawyer in my life. In fact, I don't much fancy an office job. Bleh.

Signed a contract of confidentiality, so I can't give details on what's going on.



Posting from my mother's friend's workplace right now. Just killed my fingers typing out a Licence Agreement thing. They blocked all email sites, yet conveniently missed FanFiction.net. And Blogger. Hooray for dumb site blockers.

---

In other unrelated news, I met Asparaguy at the library yesterday. I-SPY funness. I think we spent an hour looking for stuff, and still FAIL TO FIND THAT **** RED CRAYON.

At the end of the day, despite collapsed arches and bruising sling-bags, I managed to lug 11 books home from the library, including material for a second reading of Flora's Dare, a certain highly-acclaimed and recommended adventure novel, three architecture-related volumes, one on rearing chickens, three preschooler puzzle books (I-SPY IS AWESOME OKAY >:), third volume in a series I never finished and something that will perhaps make OTDOTS more enjoyable.

Go ahead and make wild guesses. :P

Never played Portal--downloaded it, installed it, have all the files. But I never played.
Blame parental interference.
Anyway, epically hilariously beautifully awesome song.

This was a triumph.
I'm making a note here: HUGE SUCCESS.
It's hard to overstate my satisfaction.
Aperture Science
We do what we must
because we can.
For the good of all of us.
Except the ones who are dead.
But there's no sense crying over every mistake.
You just keep on trying till you run out of cake.
And the Science gets done.
And you make a neat gun.
For the people who are still alive.
I'm not even angry.
I'm being so sincere right now.
Even though you broke my heart.
And killed me.
And tore me to pieces.
And threw every piece into a fire.
As they burned it hurt because I was so happy for you!
Now these points of data make a beautiful line.
And we're out of beta.
We're releasing on time.
So I'm GLaD. I got burned.
Think of all the things we learned
for the people who are still alive.
Go ahead and leave me.
I think I prefer to stay inside.
Maybe you'll find someone else to help you.
Maybe Black Mesa
THAT WAS A JOKE.
HAHA. FAT CHANCE.
Anyway, this cake is great.
It's so delicious and moist.
Look at me still talking
when there's Science to do.
When I look out there, it makes me GLaD I'm not you.
I've experiments to run.
There is research to be done.
On the people who are still alive.
And believe me I am still alive.
I'm doing Science and I'm still alive.
I feel FANTASTIC and I'm still alive.
While you're dying I'll be still alive.
And when you're dead I will be still alive.
STILL ALIVE

moony, wormtail, padfoot and prongs

"Mr. Moony presents his compliments to Professor Snape, and begs him to keep his abnormally large nose out of other people's business. 

Mr. Prongs agrees with Mr. Moony, and would like to add that Professor Snape is an ugly git. 

Mr. Padfoot would like to register his astonishment that an idiot like that ever became a professor. 

Mr. Wormtail bids Professor Snape good day, and advises him to wash his hair, the slimeball."

a reason

SAM: I wonder if we’ll ever be put into songs or tales.

FRODO: What?

SAM: I wonder if people will ever say, ‘let’s hear about Frodo and the Ring.’ And they’ll say, ‘yes, that’s one of my favorite stories. Frodo was really courageous, wasn’t he, dad.’ ‘Yes, my boy, the most famousest of hobbits. And that’s saying a lot.’

FRODO: You left out one of the chief characters. 'Samwise the Brave. I want to hear more about Sam. Frodo wouldn’t have got far without Sam.’

SAM: Now Mr. Frodo, you shouldn’t make fun. I was being serious.

FRODO: So was I.

SAM: Samwise the Brave. 

And I like to believe I'll be there when the world dies.
What I do might not matter to eternity, but it mattered at a certain point, to a certain heart, and that makes it enough. 
I have a life. I will do something with it, because life is a miracle in itself, and I will not throw it away.

the stories that matter

"I know. It’s all wrong. By rights we shouldn’t even be here. But we are.

It’s like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo; the ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes, you didn’t want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was, when so much bad had happened?

But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something. Even if you were too small to understand why.

But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back--only, they didn’t. They kept going...because they were holding on to something."

--Samwise Gamgee from The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers

For me, this was the single most beautiful speech in the trilogy.

remember?

SAM: Do you remember the Shire, Mister Frodo? It'll be spring soon, and the Orchards will be in blossom. And the birds will be nesting in the hazel thicket and they'll be sowing the summer barley in the lower fields. And eating the first of the strawberries with cream. Do you remember the taste of strawberries?


FRODO: No, Sam, I can't recall the taste of food. Nor the sound of water. Or the touch of grass. I'm naked in the dark. There's nothing…no veil between me and the wheel of fire. I can see him with my waking eyes!


SAM: Then let us be rid of it, once and for all! Come on, Mister Frodo. I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you! Come on! 

Because this movie was so quote-worthy. Is it a habit for most main characters of epic fantasies to start reminiscing about home  at the heart of doom?


In any case, such remembering is just beautiful.

and it hit me

Sometimes it's painful, I know
Watching these memories die
But till you learn to let go
You'll never know how to fly


Birds don't forget how to sing
No matter how far they might stray
Don't you know there are some things
That time can't take away

Goodness. This is so strange.

I suddenly understand what my song is about.

I think I'm going to cry, because it's far too late to understand.

I feel like such a dolt for being so thick and writing a song without knowing what I was writing about.
I feel so stupid for making so many people cry without crying myself.
Gah.

in commemoration of my first nanowrimo

There, so I have finished my 50,000 word count for NaNoWriMo (I actually did so yesterday, and presently the word count stands at 56,422).

It has been so, so, so refreshing. I never thought writing a novel by force would be so enjoyable an experience--in fact, I was afraid at first because I hate forced inspiration.

But I was lucky this year, and received inspiration right before NaNoWriMo started. And thus I stand with a 33% complete novel, written in a quarter the time it would have normally taken. I think it's safe to say I've mastered the art of focusing on the job at hand. I'm going to be eternally grateful for this gift.

So, for people who don't know or can't be bothered to find out, I wrote a fantasy (it's not like I've ever written a novel in any other genre). Specifically a Steampunk fantasy (it fits majority of the features, at least). The main character is a mechanic--a very, very controversial job.

If I were allowed to summarise it, it's about about the conflict between religion and science, societal divisions, the definition of freedom and the cage of nostalgia. That's just to make it sound good.

As for the rest: the antagonist is a giant flying fish with family problems, the main character rides on an umbrella, and there are koi in the drains. (Better Than It Sounds? Really?)

The country is flight-based, their religion is flight-based--pretty aesthetically but all so impossible.

I like impossibility. It's yummy.

emyn arnen

I want to take this second, this feeling, and imprison it forever.

This post, from now onwards, will sound ridiculous to those who don't believe that imaginary things can carry the same weight as things in reality do. I will go on anyway, because, for what it's worth, I need to. It will not be a scholarly discussion, nor will it be treated with informality. This is my own way of paying tribute to things I love.

The Lord of the Rings trilogy has, from the moment I encountered it, been easily the best work of high fantasy I've ever experienced—in any medium and any age. It was all a single amazing point in the history of mankind, made up of amazing moments of brilliance strung together, and I in all honesty believe that this is one of the best, if not the best, series in the world—that has ever existed, that exists, that will exist—now and forever. It's no wonder that it has been immortalised—the only fantasy work from the 1950s that is still remembered as dearly as it is.

And the movie, I like to believe against common opinion, did the books justice; in fact, they elicited a greater emotional response in me than did the three novels. (Perhaps it's the result of circumstance, and perhaps because it is fresh in memory, and you can bash me on this point if you want.) And it is the movies I will be referring to primarily here, but that does not in any way exclude discussion of the content of the book.

---

Art and its forms are mirrors. It is a mirror of our world, a mirror created within the world of another's mind--with features and components that will carry a story—and a story is a mirror of life. These are worlds and stories that maybe seem very different from ours, but are populated and progressed, ultimately, by the same as ours—beings like us, who think like us, feel like us. Love like us. 

Art is about a moment, a distance, a fragment of time long or short that a human mind has conjured and cannot be crossed twice, made twice—an idea that is there suddenly and strains in the bonds of the creator's mind, and has to take physical form somewhere. Because a single mind isn't enough to contain it. It needs to move, and it needs to take a physical form so another can see.

This is Tolkien's moment, his time, the world and story that came from his mind. He knew it best, and now we know a little of it too. If this is his painting, his story, then he has succeeded beautifully in bringing it to the viewer.

The trilogy made up of many arcs, countless arcs of story, and all of them are amazing to the core. But there's a particular piece that I love in its own way, the precise way that strikes the chord of heaven: a particular story of people who never existed, and yet must exist because I believe it is so. Imagination is as real as reality in that way. They must exist, if my senses can believe it so. Even if they don't.

I feel, now, something so beautiful that my words cannot do it justice.

I need to keep it safe. It will fade, it always fades—but I will record here so that I can find it when it is lost.

Like one of my friends said when we were watching the movies—the less of something you have, the more you treasure it.

There is a tale in the third installment of the series that has brought me to my knees in shame that I didn't discover it earlier. It is, very clearly put, the love story of Eowyn and Faramir. Don't start calling me shallow yet, for snatching and savouring the only romance in this book as if I were desperate for some! I'm here to explain why my love for this particular romance goes beyond the good feeling that comes from reading any other romance—why it is my favourite arc in the story, resolute and persistent beyond the flames and glory of the entire work.

Poignant and silent and unimportant in comparison—and that is what I love most.

It does not stand on its own; it is the extension of previously-started stories, stories that eventually intertwine and create a new story together, making magic as they do. It's hard thus to explain this love without giving some of what has gone behind it—but I'm here to explain it, so I will do this as best I can.

It's hard to explain why you love something, when you love it this much.

(For those who already know the story, please bear with me.)

---

In The Lord of the Rings, there is a couple, and there is a love story between them. A story that is woven when they meet. It is a love story like any other love story, but it is bold and rare and beautiful, almost echoing the fairytales and their untouchable endings, calling back those childhood days when we could believe the best.

The tale of love between a shieldmaiden of Rohan, Eowyn—whose heart is wild and entangled in a thirst for glory, glory she has always been denied; and the captain of Gondor, Faramir son of Denethor—who has never been enough to his father for the sake of the one born before him, who has persisted and yet has not been rewarded—who has grown to love the ways of peace more than battle and glory.

Most don't remember who they are. They were barely mentioned in the original movie. Never at all. Before this, I already loved, absolutely loved, their tale—I read it four times over on the night I finished the book. Then the extended movie came, and sealed my utter adoration for it.

It might be because of the characters, but it's not just that. It's the story, the things that the story represents, the echoes of the world that are within the story.

It doesn't do for me to describe either book or movie without talking about the other, but it seems like a sin to combine the two into one. Even so, the fact is that my love comes from this very combination, so I'm doing just that.

I can say for certain that I have never seen anything more beautiful than this, movie especially. Maybe it's because my experience of the scene involves external things; there was a wind in the windows because of the rain, and it smelt a little sweet. It was a pure experience I cannot recount, though I will try.

---

The world is ending; the window is flooded with the storm, the sky is the same black as evil. The land hasn't seen real light for days, and hope for its return has almost faded. It's a shadow of a dream. But there must be a little hope, low as the candle gutters.

Isn't the winter coming to its end? The first whisper of spring is dancing in the snow, and there is an unseen flower, blooming on a branch of the dead White Tree. The first of spring, of a world almost dead.

Eowyn and Faramir are no different from each other. They are lying half-dead in a room away from the storm, helpless now, even though they fought and fought true. The war. It hasn't ended for the country, but it has ended for them. They fall on the same day, valorous—both taken for dead and left to be tended in the House of Healing. They have been sent by coincidence—on the same day, to the same place—to be healed from wounds they might never recover from. Orphans, both whom lost their fathers today.

Eowyn lies broken not only by the wound—but broken by hard words, by how she has only watched helpless all her life, how she has never had a hand in her fate, her suffering. And she has the love of the one she believed held the power to release her—or rather, she has never had it. It was always a lost battle. Her life was always a lost battle. She might have come out from the worst of the pain, but she will never be the same again; the sadness of losing everything is beyond herbs and magic.

Faramir's family has ended. The line of stewards lost; he is the only survivor. His father died trying to kill his own son. There was never a chance for reconciliation, never a chance with any of the three he loved more than the rest of the world. All three have vanished, too fast for him. And yet he must take it without a tear, without a frown. He cannot mourn.

They have no one left, already fading. They are in the same room, trying to live, while the winter dies around them.

"With a sigh you turn away
With a deepening heart
No more words to say
You will find that the world has changed

Forever."

There is nothing before this, nothing between them—only their own histories, histories that were shattered, and whose broken edges somehow interlock.

In the pre-dawn, Eowyn cannot sleep; she walks to the window but there is no hope there. The light is grey, like her sorrow at never earning glory, or fame. At being turned down by the one she thought she loved. The dawn is unfinished; she sees the world outside, and the first spring wind is in her hair.

"And the trees are now
Turning from green to gold
And the sun is now fading
I wish I could hold you
Closer."

A story of a fading world forms the backdrop—of the ends of lifetimes, of years moving in a current beyond reach, of a thousand seasons slipping softly into timelessness—and another story unfolds in the foreground, so painfully personal in comparison. So temporary. So insignificant.

Does that matter?

From where he is—resting too but unable to sleep either—Faramir wonders about her. He gazes back, and tries to see into her, to see more—and it might be because she is beautiful, but not only because she is beautiful. He sees her sorrows, deeper than her injury. He is moved to pity as he always is—pity that will be the ground for love.

He watches her, a little curious, a little sad. Still silent. There are shadows all around him. Morning shadows.

Those past autumns and springs, those worlds turning—the same world, but different, never again the same. Seconds that mean universes and centuries that mean nothing. This wind is a herald of the world that moves regardless of them; it comes through the windows, to this place of protection that shies away—wonder, despair, belief on its wings. It remembers to them, the world changes, the lights are shifting. Every light falls to darkness, and every darkness rises back into light—a circle. There can be the sweetness of dewy flowers and butterfly dreams, and suddenly there are no more—the leaves are changing, falling like clockwork, vanishing into the temporal mud.

Another day comes. She sees him at last, he sees her. She wants her freedom, and asks it of him—whether he knows that this request carries more than it sounds, no one knows. There can be no doubt that there is disbelief in her that he can change anything, but still she hopes. Because both have been alone and fearful till today, and the sight of each other's faces is such warmth.

Time passes. Another dawn comes, and this time they begin it together. They watch a distant battle darken—out in the plain, out of reach, just too far beyond them. They are helpless here, in this house of life when everything beneath and beyond is the field of death; they are bound by the cage they both know so well. But side by side.

She fears this will last forever; it's in the greyness of her silhouette against the morning. She fears a cage of darkness, walls that hold her in. But he swears it won't be forever. This violence won't be forever. This storm won't be forever. This prison won't be forever.

If only because he can free her, by sharing this burden. And by his warmth and his honesty and his strength, she comes to taste a little of the warmth that deserted her so long ago.

Finally, she is beginning to understand. If he will be her only freedom—or if he will help her accept this prison—then isn't this meant to be? She realises, suddenly, that without releasing her from this cage, he has brought her her freedom.

Yes, it might be freedom from acceptance that she will never be free.

But there's something about this new, this blooming love that seems better than that freedom ever will be.

He knows this darkness, just as well as she does—he has been hurt just as much, just as badly. He knows this cage well, as well. But there is a burning optimism in him that she doesn't have, that she needs.

He is willing to live this prison together with her, day after day, forever. And she accepts it—his love, his promise, and they turn two paths into one.

---

This little story is like the overture of the spring. Against the dark of battle, there must be a spark of light. It is the new life that must come to bless the carcasses of the aftermath, when the cloud has passed, when the world is in decay beneath the snow. It's the life that makes new flowers grow in the mud of death.

Families lost, dreams decimated—no past behind them, only future ahead. Empty. But not really empty. There is a petal of love on the snow, love that began at the window at dawn, love like the flower that was never seen. 

When I first saw the scene, Eowyn at the window, Faramir looking back at her from beside the pillar—when I heard that song, the song of Aragorn and Arwen whose story is a tragedy, an elf once eternal unlike blissful mankind who lost that eternity for love—and I felt their joining, of the words with the story, of forever against now, everything against something so small—it was something wonderful, terribly wonderful.

The work of art that is the Lord of the Rings has, more certainly than anything else, succeeded. Both in book and in movie. The story burns in me, and this story particularly. So tiny, but it reminds me of my own life. So tiny, but worthy of forever in its own strange way.

---

I've found screenshots and the script. Oh lucky me. I love the fact that LOTR is so popular.

Éowyn: "The city has fallen silent. There is no warmth left in the sun. It grows so cold."

Faramir: "It's just the damp of the first spring rain. ... I do not believe this darkness will endure."

And...

*SQUEE*

the last thank-yous

Try to bear with the cheese...when you're feeling sad, everything you write tends to be cheesy.

This note also shows up on my blog.

---

Yesterday was just one of those days I'll take forever to forget. Who can, in the end? You only graduate four times in your life, five if you count kindergarten (though I had not that privilege because I left kindy for Australia in graduation year).

Today, we sat through five minutes of rain because it wouldn't chase us away, because farewell is oxymoronically uniting. Today, we made our last effort to leave a shred something behind for the school to remember us by--a final gasp, because we had suddenly realised that we had not done enough. That there was more to do, but no more time! We had to engrave our names deeper. Today, we put up the show of our lives. 

It happens every year. It's happened to every working adult who has ever lived. The fact that we're graduating from secondary school will not change the course of the road, the country or the world--even within the dome of humanity, it is unimportant. It's meant to happen, by system and by rule.

So why does it seem, and why do we act, as if it's the final day of a fading life?

Or perhaps it does change the course of the world. A new group of students is released to the world, to build another column in the city of learning. And it isn't an ordinary group--this year's graduating batch is weird. And it's something I've felt through my four years here. Something confirmed yesterday morning.

No other head prefect has ever pretended to bust the mike, or had lines from a Ke$sha (or any dubious pop star's) song in her Vote of Thanks speech. Or ever broken her speech just to have people dance to the aforementioned song. No one has ever claimed to have an "eye infection" on-stage when she was actually crying (yes, Nicole, I love you for saying that). No other group of house captains has ever run onto the stage to snatch the champion house trophy from the winner. No CEMU actually messed up the beginning of three cheers before (it was entertaining), or ever combined four cheers into one epic one.

Today was special, particularly, to me. I've never made so many friends in a day before--so many people were coming to me, folding my sleeves for me (cough) and telling me things that make me happy to have written this song. It was the first time I sang for the school, the first time I was asked for an encore. I didn't do it alone, and I need everyone who's heard the song to know that. It just doesn't do that, on Graduation day, I'm probably going to walk away with almost all the credit for the song. If it's the last gift I can give to my RGS schoolmates before they become "RI schoolmates" and before they leave my life, it's a word of thanks.

Thank you, teachers. This song is ultimately for you. I think, to some extent, I know how they feel--the same way I felt when we nursed a turtledove back to health in our back garden, and let it leave. It's to tell them, your teaching has come to fruition; we know what we have to do with it; we'll do you proud.

And 415. Odd that I'd be thanking a class that was never mine, but it's farewell now and in it everyone is equal. They were the first to hear the whole song, and they made me believe I could actually perform it without being laughed at! Remembering the way they cheered after I finished puts me on the brink of tears--I actually thought I had made a fool of myself there. And especially you, Xaviera; it was the first time anyone I wasn't familiar with ever singlehandedly encouraged me as much as you did.

Thank you 410, too. I'm sorry I never let you here it first. But yesterday you actually came on stage for me! and I love you, love you so much, for doing that. I'm glad that at the end of my RGS life, I sang my song among the classmates who bore me through my two longest years here.

Thank you 411 and Voon and Denise, for pulling me off the stage and into the crowd. It was a surreal, beautiful feeling to be standing in the middle of the school while we sang everyone else goodbye. And Kimberly got to sing with her class, something I admittedly would have forgotten, much to my shame.

Kimberly, whose part in this is just so darned underplayed that it frustrates me. She actually agreed to sing under the pressure of urgency, without knowing anything about the song. Kimberly, if you read this, such faith is hard to come by, and I'm utterly thankful you agreed, thankful that I've had someone like you come into my life. Without you I'd never have had this chance to share the song.

Nicole, Esther, Dionne, and everyone behind the graduation songs. You made me feel more comfortable, because I wouldn't be doing it alone. We all did it--we brought the house down, and we made RGS history by writing three graduation songs for the year! Mr. Ow says that he's proud of us, proud that there are so many "musicians with noble and generous hearts" in this batch. 2010 is special, the graduating batch of 2010 is special, whatever you might like to think.

Aofei/AF/Matt and Hui Ting/HT/Guy, who were just there all the time, and who were the first to hear my very first song, back in P5 when I was an antisocial emo. I hope graduation doesn't mean goodbye, severing as the term can be. We've been friends for six years, and I'm certain we can make that sixty years.

The IT department, for running the show without a hitch. You guys are awesome, under-credited, awesome, ultra-cool, awesome. If no one else will thank you (but Isabelle did, so I shall again), I will. Thank you, and I'm sorry you have to work with but once-yearly thanks. You make the show. And everyone who was on-stage at one point or another, the ones who put together the performance, our swan song, the shower of sparks at the tail of a falling meteor. You all made our last day as RGS students the best any of us could have asked for.

And thank you to everyone I've known from the batch, everyone who made my life here, everyone I didn't credit. The song was inspired by you, by the people who are leaving RGS with me. Yesterday's farewell concert was a blast; it has its own special place in my heart (and on my blog/Facebook) now. Now, it's time to take a bow, and leave for the next stop of the tour.

The world is really quite small--and as long as our roots are set here, we'll be able to find each other. Even if we change citizenship and fly all over the world, a part of each one of us was made in Singapore, made in RGS, and this is the part of us that can trace us back to each other.

It doesn't matter to the world, but it matters to four hundred hearts. Long live RGS Batch'10.

endings and beginnings

Well, today RGS Year 4's blogs will kaboom. Because it's Graduation Day. Everyone will have something to say, all of a sudden--because long as 4 years is, it isn't enough for everything. We would never have said it all in four years; it's too much, too deep, too unnoticed.

As the saying goes, absence makes the heart grow fonder. In all frankness because it's inevitable, we really don't know how important something is to us until we have lost it. A blanket never seems praise-worthy until it's taken and you're left cold.

It's too bad we had to arrive at our last day, before realising that these things we have always taken for granted slipping away so suddenly. But it's only natural.

Let's not cling to things whose departure we cannot halt. There isn't any point; it just hurts us all. I'm being rather ruthless, but there isn't any other way.

numbers

Well. I certainly feel UNlucky.

where it all began

""There's a certain poetic symmetry to the idea that the hero's journey is a circular one, and indeed, returning home for the final showdown is often referred to as "coming full circle." It also reminds the audience (and the hero, who may take a moment to reminisce) how much the hero has grown since the last time we were here."


I love TVTropes.org for this paragraph. Beware, addictive site.

the alta califa

Two self-proclaimed graffiti “artistes” were arrested last night by the City’s militia when they were apprehended in the process of decorating the walls of Casa Mariposa with the slogans: “Birdies Go Home” and “Cierra Azota”. This last commentary referring, of course, to the traitor Azota Brakespeare, also called the Butcher Brakespeare, who was executed by our Huitzil friends with good cause some fifteen years ago. As they were hauled away, the graffitos were heard to cry out seditious comments on the role that Lord Axacaya played in the Butcher’s execution, and rude reflections on the Warlord’s otherwise undisputed manliness.

---

Something from the "official website" of my new favourite book series, the Flora Trilogy as it's been called. Apparently a news article from the local newspaper in Califa. 

Oh, I love this woman. "Undisputed manliness"! This book has the (second behind Artemis Fowl) best implied humour ever. But the humour is nothing next to the pretty, awe-inspiring, glorious backdrops! If anything NEEDS to be made into a movie, it's this. Just so we can see the scenes, so imaginative and so vivid and so poetically pretty. YES.

help

Okay, I just caught onto this TV series called Monster Allergy (gah, yes) that's meant for ten-year-olds, and has been showing for quite a while now.

I admit it...I think Zick and Elena are like the cutest couple ever. EVER. Even more so than Zemyx.


What's wrong with me.

anyone can cook

"In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face is that, in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the discovery and defense of the new. Last night, I experienced something new, an extraordinary meal from a singularly unexpected source. To say that both the meal and its maker have challenged my preconceptions is a gross understatement. They have rocked me to my core. In the past, I have made no secret of my disdain for Chef Gusteau's famous motto: Anyone can cook. But I realize that only now do I truly understand what he meant. Not everyone can become a great artist, but a great artist can come from anywhere. It is difficult to imagine more humble origins than those of the genius now cooking at Gusteau's, who is, in this critic's opinion, nothing less than the finest chef in France. I will be returning to Gusteau's soon, hungry for more."


-Anton Ego, Ratatouille

because someday

The sorrow of parting is nothing compared to the joy of meeting again. 


-Charles Dickens

stress is a strange entity

I just realised that I'm dreading my weekends nowadays. They're always busier than school days.
Blah.

flagels bagels

So the first day of my Literature Options was today. My first day, because everyone else started this Tuesday, and I happily missed it thinking there wasn't a lesson.


Having fun with it, definitely. It's all about writing in its purest, and that's what I've always wanted. I'm going to love my Tuesdays and Fridays. This is something I wrote today at my very first lesson. Weirdo poem >D


1. phi

The golden dragon goddess
Decrees that you have 55 rabbits and
Stirs the seeds of sunflowers into geometrical whirlpools

She builds headstones for the crusted king
And sparkles Impressionist in scratchy tin phonographs

Then thirsty, she ascends her icosahedron ladder
While Penrose is still sunning his wings
To paint the corners of the astronomer's bookcase blue.