Saturday, December 30, 2006
today went to COI for (shui xui) class phyllis didnt turn up ....anway now she and guan peng like become better together so happy for them....but whenever their relationship gets better pyllis will forget that i am her friend..... i beleive in fate...and i feel that both me and phyllis no fate to be friends ....anyway as a friend she didnt give me the kind of respect the i should have so hack care....without a friend i still can survive...... i fine without anyone around ...dont care her she dont treat me as friend i also dont mind ...phyllis and i cant be friends de....
no one is perfect.
[4:37 AM]
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Saturday went to see phyllis and guan peng perform ...ahaha guan peng iron every ones' costume ahaha....then saw syafiqah she very nice.. she told me wad happen on their tryp to india.... Today went to the Singapore Orchid Festival ...wahaha very nice orzz and saw alot of new type of flowers and see how people paint all de flowers ....its so fun..anyway really enjoy myself there haha heres all the pic
no one is perfect.
[4:15 AM]
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Grandpa's birthday!!!!!! ^.^
no one is perfect.
[6:35 AM]
As Children Together
by Carolyn Forche
Under the sloped snow
pinned all winter with Christmas
lights, we waited for your father
to whittle his soap cakes
away, finish the whisky,
your mother carry her coffee
from room to room closing lights
cubed in the snow at our feet.
Holding each other's
coat sleeves we slid down
the roads in our tight
black dresses, past
crystal swamps and the death
face of each dark house,
over the golden ice
of tobacco spit, the blue
quiet of ponds, with town
glowing behind the blind
white hills and a scant
snow ticking in the stars.
You hummed blanche comme
la neige and spoke of Montreal
where a quebecoise could sing,
take any man's face
to her unfastened blouse
and wake to wine
on the bedside table.
I always believed this,
Victoria, that there might
be a way to get out.
You were ashamed of that house,
its round tins of surplus flour,
chipped beef and white beans,
relief checks and winter trips
that always ended in deer
tied stiff to the car rack,
the accordion breath of your uncles
down from the north, and what
you called the stupidity
of the Michigan French.
Your mirror grew ringed
with photos of servicemen
who had taken your breasts
in their hands, the buttons
of your blouses in their teeth,
who had given you the silk
tassels of their graduation,
jackets embroidered with dragons
from the Far East. You kept
the corks that had fired
from bottles over their beds
their letters with each city
blackened, envelopes of hair
from their shaved heads.
I am going to have it, you said.
Flowers wrapped in paper from carts
in Montreal, a plane lifting out
of Detroit, a satin bed, a table
cluttered with bottles of scent.
So standing in a platter of ice
outside a Catholic dance hall
you took their collars
in your fine chilled hands
and lied your age to adulthood.
I did not then have breasts of my own,
nor any letters from bootcamp
and when one of the men who had
gathered around you took my mouth
to his own there was nothing
other than the dance hall music
rising to the arms of iced trees.
I don't know where you are now, Victoria.
They say you have children, a trailer
in the snow near our town,
and the husband you found as a girl
returned from the Far East broken
cursing holy blood at the table
where nightly a pile of white shavings
is paid from the edge of his knife.
If you read this poem, write to me.
I have been to Paris since we parted.
no one is perfect.
[6:22 AM]
By Night when Others Soundly Slept
by Anne Bradstreet
1 By night when others soundly slept
And hath at once both ease and Rest,
My waking eyes were open kept
And so to lie I found it best.
2 I sought him whom my Soul did Love,
With tears I sought him earnestly.
He bow'd his ear down from Above.
In vain I did not seek or cry.
3 My hungry Soul he fill'd with Good;
He in his Bottle put my tears,
My smarting wounds washt in his blood,
And banisht thence my Doubts and fears.
4 What to my Saviour shall I give
Who freely hath done this for me?
I'll serve him here whilst I shall live
And Loue him to Eternity.
no one is perfect.
[5:57 AM]
At Mass
by Vachel Lindsay
No doubt to-morrow I will hide
My face from you, my King.
Let me rejoice this Sunday noon,
And kneel while gray priests sing.
It is not wisdom to forget.
But since it is my fate
Fill thou my soul with hidden wine
To make this white hour great.
My God, my God, this marvelous hour
I am your son I know.
Once in a thousand days your voice
Has laid temptation low.
no one is perfect.
[5:55 AM]
ME HAHA (SO UGLY!!!!!!!!)
no one is perfect.
[5:44 AM]
From The Triumph of Love
by Geoffrey Hill
I
Sun-blazed, over Romsley, a livid rain-scarp.
XIII
Whose lives are hidden in God? Whose?
Who can now tell what was taken, or where,
or how, or whether it was received
how ditched, divested, clamped, sifted, over-
laid, raked over, grassed over, spread around,
rotted down with leafmould, accepted
as civic concrete, reinforceable
base cinderblocks
tipped into Danube, Rhine, Vistula, dredged up
with the Baltic and the Pontic sludge
committed in absentia to solemn elevation,
Trauermusik, musique funebre, funeral
music, for male and female
voices ringingly a cappella,
made for double string choirs, congregated brass,
choice performers on baroque trumpets hefting,
like glassblowers, inventions
of supreme order?
XIV
As to bad faith, Malebranche might argue
it rests with inattention. Stupidity
is not admissible. However, the status
of apprehension remains at issue.
Some qualities are best
left unrecognized. Needless to say,
unrecognized is not
unacknowledged.
Unnamed is not nameless.
XVII
If the gospel is heard, all else follows:
the scattering, the diaspora,
the shtetlach, ash pits, pits of indigo dye.
Penitence can be spoken of, it is said,
but is itself beyond words;
even broken speech presumes. Those Christian Jews
of the first Church, huddled sabbath-survivors,
keepers of the word; silent, inside twenty years,
doubly outcast: even so I would remember
the scattering, the diaspora.
We do not know the saints.
His mercy is greater even than his wisdom.
If the gospel is heard, all else follows.
We shall rise again, clutching our wounds.
XXXV
Even now, I tell myself, there is a language
to which I might speak and which
would rightly hear me;
responding with eloquence; in its turn,
negotiating sense without insult
given or injury taken.
Familiar to those who already know it
elsewhere as justice,
it is met also in the form of silence.
XXIX
Rancorous, narcissistic old sod what
makes him go on? We thought, hoped rather,
he might be dead. Too bad. So how
much more does he have of injury time?
XL
For wordly, read worldly; for in equity, inequity;
for religious read religiose; for distinction
detestation. Take accessible to mean
acceptable, accommodating, openly servile.
Is that right, Missis, or is that right? I don't
care what I say, do I?
XLI
For iconic priesthood, read worldly pique and ambition.
Change insightfully caring to pruriently intrusive.
Delete chastened and humbled. Insert humiliated.
Interpret slain in the spirit as browbeaten to exhaustion.
For hardness of heart read costly dislike of cant.
XLII
Excuse me excuse me I did not
say the pain is lifting. I said the pain is in
the lifting. No please forget it.
XLIII
This is quite dreadful he's become obsessed.
There you go, there you go narrow it down to obsession!
LI
Whatever may be meant by moral landscape,
it is for me increasingly a terrain
seen in cross-section igneous, sedimentary,
conglomerate, metamorphic rock- strata, in which particular grace,
individual love, decency, endurance, are traceable across the faults.
LII
Admittedly at times this moral landscape to my exasperated ear emits
archaic burrings like a small, high-fenced electricity sub-station of uncertain age
in a field corner where the flies gather and old horses shake their sides.
LXVI
Christ has risen yet again to their ritual supplication. It seems weird
that the comedy never self-destructs.
Actually it is strengthened if attenuation is strength. (Donne said as much of gold. Come back, Donne, I forgive you; and lovely Herbert.)
But what strange guild is this that practises daily
synchronized genuflection and takes pride in hazing my Jewish wife? If Christ
be not risen, Christians are petty temple-schismatics, justly
cast out of the law.
Worse things have befallen Israel. But since he is risen, he is risen even for these
high-handed underlings of self- worship who, as by obedience,
proclaim him risen indeed.
LXVII
Instruct me further in your travail, blind interpreter. Suppose I cannot
unearth what it was they buried research is not anamnesis. Nor is this a primer
of innocence exactly. Did the centurion see nothing irregular before the abnormal light seared his eyeballs? Why do I take as my gift a wounded and wounding introspection? The rule is clear enough last alleluias forte, followed by indifferent coffee and fellowship.
LXIX
What choice do you have? These are false questions.
Fear is your absolute, yet in each feature infinitely variable, Manichean beyond dispute, for you alone, the skeletal maple, a loose wire
tapping the wind.
LXX
Active virtue: that which shall contain its own passion in the public weal do you follow? or can you at least take the drift of the thing? The struggle
for a noble vernacular this did not end with Petrarch. But where is it?
Where has it got us? Does it stop, in our case, with Dryden, or, perhaps,
Milton's political sonnets? the cherished stock hacked into ransom and ruin; the voices of distinction, far back, indistinct.
Still, I'm convinced that shaping, voicing, are types of civic action.
Or, slightly to refashion this, that Wordsworth's two
Prefaces stand with his great tract on the Convention of Cintra, witnessing to the praesidium in the sacred name of things betrayed. Intrinsic value I am somewhat less sure of. It seems implicate with active virtue but I cannot say how, precisely. Partaking of both fact and recognition, it must be, therefore, in effect, at once agent and predicate imponderables brought home to the brute mass and detail of the world; there, by some, to be pondered.
XCVI
Ignorant, assured, there comes to us a voice Unchallengeable of the foundations,
distinct authority devoted to indistinction. With what proximity to justice stands the record of mischance, heroic hit-or-miss, the air so full of flak and tracer, legend says, you pray to live unnoticed. Mr Ives took Emersonian self-reliance the whole way on that. Melville, half-immolated, rebuilt the pyre. Hoist, some time later, stumbled on dharma. What can I say?— At worst and best a blind ennoblement, flood-water, hunched, shouldering at the weir, the hatred that is in the nature of love.
CXVIII
By default, as it so happens, here we have good and bad angels caught burning
themselves characteristic antiphons; and here the true and the false
shepherds discovered already deep into their hollow debate. Is that all? No, add spinners of fine calumny, confectioners of sugared malice; add those who find sincerity in heartless weeping. Add the pained, painful clowns, brinksmen of perdition. Sidney: best realizer and arguer of music, that ‘divine striker upon the senses’, steady my music to your Augustinian grace-notes, with your high craft of fret. I am glad to have learned how it goes with you and with Italianate-
Hebraic Milton your voices pitched exactly— somewhere—between Laus Deo and defiance.
CXIX
And yes bugger you, MacSikker et al., I do mourn and resent your desolation of learning Scientia that enabled, if it did not secure, forms of understanding, far from despicable, and furthest now, as they are most despised. By understanding I understand diligence and attention, appropriately understood as actuated self-knowledge, a daily acknowledgement of what is owed the dead.
CXX
As with the Gospels, which it is allowed to resemble, in Measure for Measure moral uplift is not the issue. Scrupulosity, diffidence, shrill spirituality, conviction, free expression, come off as poorly as deceit or lust. The ethical motiv is so we may hazard opportunism, redemptive and redeemed;
case-hardened on case-law, casuistry's own redemption; the general temper
a caustic equity.
CXXI
So what is faith if it is not inescapable endurance? Unrevisited, the ferns are breast-high, head-high, the days lustrous, with their hinterlands of thunder.
Light is this instant, far-seeing into itself, its own signature on things that recognize salvation. I am an old man, a child, the horizon is Traherne’s country.
CXLVII
To go so far with the elaborately-
vested Angel of Naked Truth and where are we, finally? Don't say that we are nowhere finally. And nowhere are you nowhere are you any more more
cryptic than a schoolyard truce. Cry Kings, Cross, or Crosses, cry Pax, cry Pax, but to be healed. But to be healed, and die!
CXLVIII
Obnoxious means, far back within itself, easily wounded. But vulnerable, proud
anger is, I find, a related self of covetousness. I came late to seeing that. Actually, I had to be shown it. What I saw was rough, and still pains me. Perhaps it should pain me more. Pride is our crux be angry, but not proud where that means vainglorious. Take Leopardi's words or to be accurate BV's English cast of them when he found Tasso's poor scratch of a memorial barely showing among the cold slabs of defunct pomp. It seemed a sad and angry consolation. So Croker, MacSikker, O’Shem I ask you: what are poems for? They are to console us
with their own gift, which is like perfect pitch. Let us commit that to our dust. What ought a poem to be? Answer, a sad and angry consolation. What is
the poem? What figures? Say, a sad and angry consolation. That's
beautiful. Once more? A sad and angry consolation.
CXLIX
Obstinate old man senex sapiens, it is not. Is he still writing? What is he writing now? He has just written I find it hard to forgive myself. We are immortal. Where
was I?
CL
Sun-blazed, over Romsley, the livid rain-scarp.
no one is perfect.
[5:36 AM]
Saturday, December 02, 2006
MY OATH TO YOU...
When you are sad...I will dry your tears.
When you are scared...I will comfort your fears.
When you are worried...I will give you hope.
When you are confused...I will help you cope.
And when you are lost...And cant see the light
I shall be your beacon...Shining ever so bright.
This is my oath...I pledge till the end.
Why you may ask?...Because you are my friend.
no one is perfect.
[5:48 AM]
IF ONE DAY...
If one day you feel like crying...Call me.
I don't promise that i will make you laugh,
But I can cry with you.
If one you want to run away-----
Don't be afraid to call me.
I don't promise to ask you to stop...
But I can run with you.
If one day you dont want to listen to anyone...Call me.
I promise to be there for you.
And i promise to be very quite.
But if one day you call...
And no one answer...
Come fast to see me.
Perhaps I need you.
no one is perfect.
[5:40 AM]
Something i think it will be nice to share to everyone of you!
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
ONE. Give people more than they expect and do it cheerfully.
TWO. Marry a man/woman you love to talk to. As you get older, their conversational skills will be as important as any other.
THREE. Don't believe all you hear, spend all you have or sleep all you want.
FOUR. When you say, "I love you," mean it.
FIVE. When you say, "I'm sorry," look the person in the eye.
SIX. Be engaged at least six months before you get married.
SEVEN. Believe in love at first sight.
EIGHT. Never laugh at anyone's dream. People who don't have dreams don't have much.
NINE. Love deeply and passionately. You might get hurt but it's the only way to live life completely.
TEN. In disagreements, fight fairly. No name calling.
ELEVEN. Don't judge people by their relatives.
TWELVE. Talk slowly but think quickly.
THIRTEEN. When someone asks you a question you don't want to answer, smile and ask, "Why do you want to know?"
FOURTEEN. Remember that great love and great achievements involve great risk.
FIFTEEN. Say "bless you" when you hear someone sneeze.
SIXTEEN. When you lose, don't lose the lesson .
SEVENTEEN. Remember the three R's: Respect for self; Respect for others; and responsibility for all your actions.
EIGHTEEN. Don't let a little dispute injure a great friendship.
NINETEEN. When you realize you've made a mistake, take immediate steps to correct it.
TWENTY. Smile when picking up the phone. The caller will hear it in your voice.
TWENTY-ONE. Spend some time alone.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
A true friend is someone who reaches for your hand and touches your heart.
no one is perfect.
[5:34 AM]
no one is perfect.
[5:17 AM]
Friends they are what they are
nothing more
they are there when you don't need them
gone when you really need them
life's so hard but u gotta believe in friendsonly
the true ones stay by your side through everything and fake ones leave you when times get hard
no one is perfect.
[4:49 AM]