"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
...
29.9.10
28.9.10
because someday
The sorrow of parting is nothing compared to the joy of meeting again.
-Charles Dickens
-Charles Dickens
24.9.10
stress is a strange entity
I just realised that I'm dreading my weekends nowadays. They're always busier than school days.
Blah.
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.
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.
21.9.10
totems
Inception. I wonder why I haven't posted about it yet.
All I can say now is, if you like movies that don't act as if all their viewers are idiots, with witty characters and parallel plots complexly-linked along both axes of space and time--and you haven't watched Inception, why haven't you?
If I had a totem, it'd be a compass. Not that anyone didn't see that coming. It reminds me of where I live, because we're almost the same distance from the north pole and south pole.
Heh, that reminds me of Flora Segunda.
17.9.10
enfp again
ENFP - "Journalist". Uncanny sense of the motivations of others. Life is an exciting drama. 8.1% of total population. |
12.9.10
circular flights
Going round in a circle and finding yourself back where you began. There's something frustrating about it, but there's something utterly poetic still. Perhaps you've travelled miles wide, but if you find yourself in the same place at the end, then you haven't actually gone anywhere, have you?
Will us humanity end that way? Rising and rising, only to destroy ourselves with our own prodigiousness and send our flimsily-constructed artificial world crumbling back to its foundations with nothing but tainted rocks on which to build again?
If you keep moving straight, will you end up arriving back where you started? Maybe across the Bering Straits in winter, from Russia to Alaska, and then on a ship to Portugal? Has anyone done it before?
As the crow flies; such a pretty, pretty phrase. It carries this air of disregard of the synthetic and natural boundaries, of bypassing it all by taking to the air, as a crow, as a shadow across the sun...
Holding patterns are amazing. When weather conditions or other things the prevent safe landing of planes, they go into a holding pattern--a looping flight pattern over the airport--until conditions become favourable. Our plane to Seoul was put into one, thanks to the fog. It was surreal, somehow, being on the plane while it circled the airport.
Will us humanity end that way? Rising and rising, only to destroy ourselves with our own prodigiousness and send our flimsily-constructed artificial world crumbling back to its foundations with nothing but tainted rocks on which to build again?
If you keep moving straight, will you end up arriving back where you started? Maybe across the Bering Straits in winter, from Russia to Alaska, and then on a ship to Portugal? Has anyone done it before?
As the crow flies; such a pretty, pretty phrase. It carries this air of disregard of the synthetic and natural boundaries, of bypassing it all by taking to the air, as a crow, as a shadow across the sun...
Holding patterns are amazing. When weather conditions or other things the prevent safe landing of planes, they go into a holding pattern--a looping flight pattern over the airport--until conditions become favourable. Our plane to Seoul was put into one, thanks to the fog. It was surreal, somehow, being on the plane while it circled the airport.
10.9.10
Rurutia: Lost Butterfly
I'm ashamed that I haven't shared this video yet!
The images are astounding. Seeing the sky within reflective objects has always been one of my favourite images--and here, within the violins and within the piano and within the percussion..it's just breathtaking.
Rurutia's voice is...amazing in this very strange, very fresh way. I met someone with a similar voice in real life before; hearing her sing was wonderful. If I could, I'd translate this song. But for now I can only pick up snippets, and I'm already in love with these little pieces of the story.
By the way, OTDOTS Chapter 10 has come to 17,975 words. It's going very nicely now; we're approaching the climax. Though I do fear I have done too little development towards it...
riding another's world
A film composer will compose better if the material given to work upon is powerful in the first place. Comparing Kung Fu Panda and How to Train Your Dragon, for example--I do think HTTYD was the better movie of the two--better concept, better ending, better character development...and naturally, the soundtrack went a lot better with the scenes, even though KFP's was very melodically appealing. Plus, it was so much more moving, and so's the soundtrack.
If you can feel the film, inspiration comes more easily. That's why I think your fame as a composer depends on opportunity and not on talent. Being with a job in which you obligatorily ride the work of another, the quality and recognition of what you do really depends on that person whose work you build upon, your unspoken decider-of-fate in a sense. Similar is game music composing; it's about the images and feeling them, and relating to a world that another has created.
Still, this sort of job is the kind that's inextricably linked with another's story, another's fantasy, another's heart...and that, I think, is one of the most amazing feelings in the world.
Just a thought.
If you can feel the film, inspiration comes more easily. That's why I think your fame as a composer depends on opportunity and not on talent. Being with a job in which you obligatorily ride the work of another, the quality and recognition of what you do really depends on that person whose work you build upon, your unspoken decider-of-fate in a sense. Similar is game music composing; it's about the images and feeling them, and relating to a world that another has created.
Still, this sort of job is the kind that's inextricably linked with another's story, another's fantasy, another's heart...and that, I think, is one of the most amazing feelings in the world.
Just a thought.
makes you love your own so much more.
“This is Berk. It’s twelve days north of Hopeless and a few degrees south of Freezing to Death. It’s located solidly on the Meridian of Misery. My village. In a word? Sturdy. And it’s been here for seven generations, but every single building is new. We have fishing, hunting, and a charming view of the sunset. The only problems are the pests. You see, most places have mice or mosquitoes. We have...dragons.”
— Hiccup.
— Hiccup.
9.9.10
head throb
Oh the head throbs, indeed.
And I'm not even past Magnetism yet.
I wish I knew how to change the default font of all my posts--it gets so utterly depressing to see Times New Roman every time I enter here. If only I knew more about blogskin editing, yet I don't think I'll ever find the time. Blarrh.
Epic day today. I don't believe it; I cried at two kiddy shows. And I mean kiddy like target audience = 3-6-year-olds. First one was Dinosaur Train; the whole story about the Velociraptor who has feathers but can't fly, because those feathers are only for show--it's so heartrending when kid show characters have tragic stories...
Then there was Jazzberries, and I was certain I was going to be laughing my way through it. Well, wrong. Who knew that pianos and their wheels could be so saddening? I never realised that because she's so huge she can't travel with the other instruments...
"The beat is in your feet!" ;_;
I don't even know if I got the wording right.
I need to work on OTDOTS, I really do. It was due this week, but...buhbye. 16,812 words is barely two-thirds. Well, I'm hoping it'll finish before mid-October, but even by then the exams won't be over.
Reminds me...I really should get on with my practice of Reverie, or I'm never going to pass Practicals...
And I'm not even past Magnetism yet.
I wish I knew how to change the default font of all my posts--it gets so utterly depressing to see Times New Roman every time I enter here. If only I knew more about blogskin editing, yet I don't think I'll ever find the time. Blarrh.
Epic day today. I don't believe it; I cried at two kiddy shows. And I mean kiddy like target audience = 3-6-year-olds. First one was Dinosaur Train; the whole story about the Velociraptor who has feathers but can't fly, because those feathers are only for show--it's so heartrending when kid show characters have tragic stories...
Then there was Jazzberries, and I was certain I was going to be laughing my way through it. Well, wrong. Who knew that pianos and their wheels could be so saddening? I never realised that because she's so huge she can't travel with the other instruments...
"The beat is in your feet!" ;_;
I don't even know if I got the wording right.
I need to work on OTDOTS, I really do. It was due this week, but...buhbye. 16,812 words is barely two-thirds. Well, I'm hoping it'll finish before mid-October, but even by then the exams won't be over.
Reminds me...I really should get on with my practice of Reverie, or I'm never going to pass Practicals...
7.9.10
the never-ending ride
And we will dance together, just you and I, to the rhythm of a night that will cradle our wishes forever.
Don't you hear the trains rumbling, far away? They're carrying all our dreams, dreams we don't even know we have—running away with them, and hanging them among the stars.
To this I sing my ode: which dream ever ends? Because long as it's never granted, it lives forever, immortal like the petals of the lotus-that-never-blooms. The finale is at the double bar-lines, when your dreams have all come real and the da capo has faded and the cadence is perfect. But till then, will you first see how the music sparkles through its bars, like starlight between your fingers as you raise them to the night?
Like a star is this dream of yours—it will never shine brightest, until the moment it dies.
And I know I can sing forever, gazing on as those crystal lights swing upon the boughs of the fir tree at the window. Her bark is sweet and strong, but she a tree of the snowfields above; how can it be that she's never tasted the snow before? Lost in a land that isn't hers; why is she standing here, so hopeful and so certain, so glad to spread her branches to a sky that will never give the snow she dreams of? Does she know her way home to the north, as her branches sway in the brilliant lights of a passing train?
Does she know where north is, for that matter?
You said once that phoenixes don't fade; they only fall out of sight, then rise again in a place we don't expect. I think you've made me realise that my sorrows are phoenixes; I shed the tears and think they're gone, extinguished forever, but then in the strangest times, they rise again from the ashes I left them to be.
It hurts me, yes—but you've also taught me to see that my sorrows are just as beautiful as phoenixes are.
I lock these million wishes, thus, into the treasure chest of velvet night. Here, now, in this special time when dreams and reality kiss each other in a circle of dancing shadow, in this time when the stars aren't afraid to speak to the sun, I lay down my spirit with a smile, and hope for a tomorrow that will continue to shine this way too.
Tracks were never meant to run parallel eternally. They were drawn that way for a reason—they lead to different lands, different worlds, both of which must equally be reached. But who ever said they never converge again?
There's a grand station in wondrous Paris far ahead; we'll see if we're not there in two decades' time.
Till then we have only this dwindling night left—this night by the station, by a circular road, when all secrets must be laid bare and all answers be given. They're all here in this box, this box which I press into your palms now and wrap with a whisper of farewell.
Listen—do you hear your future arriving? It thunders in the tracks, a mechanical song, different from mine and different from his and different from hers. But then again, aren't they all are part of the very same vast symphony?
And so we will dance together, just you and I—dance to the rhythm of trains in the night. Because for all the world that's left to be seen, this is where all the journeys begin: here, at this lonely station at the start of the line, where the passengers wait huddled in their jackets for the first train to arrive.
Don't you hear the trains rumbling, far away? They're carrying all our dreams, dreams we don't even know we have—running away with them, and hanging them among the stars.
To this I sing my ode: which dream ever ends? Because long as it's never granted, it lives forever, immortal like the petals of the lotus-that-never-blooms. The finale is at the double bar-lines, when your dreams have all come real and the da capo has faded and the cadence is perfect. But till then, will you first see how the music sparkles through its bars, like starlight between your fingers as you raise them to the night?
Like a star is this dream of yours—it will never shine brightest, until the moment it dies.
And I know I can sing forever, gazing on as those crystal lights swing upon the boughs of the fir tree at the window. Her bark is sweet and strong, but she a tree of the snowfields above; how can it be that she's never tasted the snow before? Lost in a land that isn't hers; why is she standing here, so hopeful and so certain, so glad to spread her branches to a sky that will never give the snow she dreams of? Does she know her way home to the north, as her branches sway in the brilliant lights of a passing train?
Does she know where north is, for that matter?
You said once that phoenixes don't fade; they only fall out of sight, then rise again in a place we don't expect. I think you've made me realise that my sorrows are phoenixes; I shed the tears and think they're gone, extinguished forever, but then in the strangest times, they rise again from the ashes I left them to be.
It hurts me, yes—but you've also taught me to see that my sorrows are just as beautiful as phoenixes are.
I lock these million wishes, thus, into the treasure chest of velvet night. Here, now, in this special time when dreams and reality kiss each other in a circle of dancing shadow, in this time when the stars aren't afraid to speak to the sun, I lay down my spirit with a smile, and hope for a tomorrow that will continue to shine this way too.
Tracks were never meant to run parallel eternally. They were drawn that way for a reason—they lead to different lands, different worlds, both of which must equally be reached. But who ever said they never converge again?
There's a grand station in wondrous Paris far ahead; we'll see if we're not there in two decades' time.
Till then we have only this dwindling night left—this night by the station, by a circular road, when all secrets must be laid bare and all answers be given. They're all here in this box, this box which I press into your palms now and wrap with a whisper of farewell.
Listen—do you hear your future arriving? It thunders in the tracks, a mechanical song, different from mine and different from his and different from hers. But then again, aren't they all are part of the very same vast symphony?
And so we will dance together, just you and I—dance to the rhythm of trains in the night. Because for all the world that's left to be seen, this is where all the journeys begin: here, at this lonely station at the start of the line, where the passengers wait huddled in their jackets for the first train to arrive.
strange
FIRST BLOGPOST WITH MY PHONE AND I'M ALREADY FAILING; EVERYTHING COMES OUT IN CAPS (NOT THAT YOU CAN'T TELL). AS A SIDE THOUGHT, I WONDER WHY I NEVER TRIED THIS EARLIER TO SEE IF IT WORKED. AND NOW I KNOW IT DOESN'T I'M NOT GOING TO TRY AGAIN. OOH, EASTER EGG NUMBER TWO: YOU CAN'T EVEN USE THE ENTER BUTTON HERE. VERY USER-FRIENDLY, BLOGGER.COM. VERY USER-FRIENDLY. (N)
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