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.