The lady glared from her waiting seat. She was late by 45minutes and I had been finishing up some business before calling her into the consulting room, making her wait maybe 5 minutes. I wasn't sure, because I was rushing to get around to her and didn't even stop to have a look at the clock. She wore a loose tunic and very tight tights that cut into the flesh about the knees, causing the skin to bulge out like an extra appendage.
"You made me wait," she spat, a little spray of saliva landing in my eye. Tapping her wrist, she said, "Do you know what time it is?"
"I'm sorry," I said, trying not to take an obvious breath and wipe the spit off my face, "but you were late and I was trying to get something I'd started finished before calling you in. Just come right this way."
"I was late? So? You people sit on your arses all day doing nothing. I have sore legs and have to walk all the way across the road from the car park to get here."
"I'm sorry, ma'am," The distance from the car park across the road to the clinic was maybe 30 metres away. I really didn't want to show her into the room now, but gestured for her to go in and take a seat anyway, "but I wouldn't count seeing 18 patients a day as nothing. Now, you've said you have sore legs. Is that the reason you wanted to see me today?"
"No," she sneered. "I came because I had nothing else to do, but to hobble around and wait for you. I have multiple medical problems, but you people can never seem to do anything about them."
"There's a lot we don't know about the body yet. In any case, would you like to describe your problems for me to see if I can help you then?"
"What I need," the lady declared, sniffing and wiping her nose on the back of her hand, which was then wiped upon the chair she was sitting on, "is a massage right now. One that will last at least 2 hours and loosen up all the tight muscles from here to here," she indicated from the base of her neck to her feet. "Shall I take my clothes off now?"
"The maximum time one of these appointments can go for is half an hour and I am a doctor, not a masseur." I was beginning to feel somewhat irked and was starting to feel my hands itch with the need to slap her as if she were a rude child. "Why don't you describe your problems for me and then I will have a better idea of how I can help you?"
She talked about her multiple medical conditions from top to toe in a high, indignant voice, stating more than once that the government owed her a massage at least once a fortnight. Why the government owed her anything at all, I could not work out, as she had never had a job before in her entire life. She concluded with, "... all I really have is knee pain and if you refuse to give me a massage, then what use are you?"
And with that she flounced out of the consulting room, declaring loudly to the other patients in the waiting room that they were wasting their time in seeing me. I watched her go with a sigh of relief, hoping I would never have to see her again. One of my other patients, a regular with terminal cancer, chortled from her corner where she was steadily knitting.
"Maybe if she weren't wearing such tight pants she wouldn't be such a tight arse today."
I tended to agree.
(Please note that the characters in this story are entirely fictional and any resemblance they may bear to anyone in real life are entirely coincidental.)
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
02 March, 2012
29 January, 2011
shower time... and a little about writing stories
PINK: Hey, can you call me back later? I'm about to have a shower.
BLUE: Sure. So... in half an hour?
Pink: Maybe make that 3 hours.
Blue: You got something else on tonight?
Pink: No.
Blue: You take 3 hours to have a shower?
Pink: Yes... I mean, NO! I'm usually clean in 5 minutes.
Blue: Then what? Is there an elaborate moisturising ritual?
Pink: Most of the time is spent psyching myself up.
Blue: Does that mean you're scared of showers?
Pink: The rest of the time is spent either calming down or trying to get out of the drink.
Blue: You're scared of showers.
Pink: Not so much of showers. More of deluges.
Blue: Showers aren't deluges. They're little sprinklings of water that - what is that noise?
Pink: My shower.
Blue: Ok. That sounds like a serious deluge.
Pink: Yeah. Every time I go under it, I'm at serious risk of drowning.
Blue: You must be using so much water! Have you thought of changing the shower head?
Pink: I would if there was a shower head. Rivers don't exactly allow you to turn down their water flow.
Blue: Rivers?
Pink: Yeah. My shower is a waterfall. How cool is that? ... I mean, it's cool to look at and it sounds cool. It's not so cool when I'm in it and it's trying to kill me.
Blue: Where did you say you lived again?
Pink: I didn't. If I don't turn up to work tomorrow, you'll know I've drowned or been hit on the head by flotsam and drowned or caught by the current and drowned. Anyway, wish me luck!
Click.
Blue: A waterfall? For a shower?
:P
A lot of people write stories. They talk about how difficult it is to write and how hard it is to stay on track on the one same story and how other shiny ideas come flitting to distract them. They talk about how they procrastinate and how they sometimes just can't be bothered.
I think it depends on whether writing is their trade or whether, like me, they just do it for fun. Shiny new ideas? Excellent. Find me a piece of paper and a pen to capture it. Store it for another time. Can't think of anything to write? Continue with another story or go do something else. Can't be bothered to write? Fine. Don't bother. Do something fun. Writer's block? Play with the block and make a tower of them. Want to really finish a story and can't be bothered? Imagine a boss standing over your desk, roaring, "Where is my story?" Keep procrastinating? Procrastinate away! There's still the rest of my life to - squirrel! finish the story.
It depends on your audience. If your audience is an audience of one, namely you, enjoy your writing time. Splurge. But if writing is your trade, your sole means of financial income... well... ignore everything I say here. Don't read any further. I mean it!
If you have a deadline for a written piece or writing is your trade. Then. This is what I would do (or do when I do have a deadline coming up for something). Imagine myself into an office environment. High rise buildings. Glass windows everywhere. Enclosed desk upon desk upon desk in the work room you share with your fellow minions. Typing or talking on phones feverishly. Slavishly. There is professionalism here. Expectation. And if you don't get your work done or your quota completed for that day, the boss will come calling. You'll be called in on an efficiency report. They'll reduce your pay and you will be reduced to the shrimp ranks shared by the beginners. And you don't want to have your work constantly interrupted by the more advanced workers demanding you make them a cup of coffee. Now.
Too scary?
You and your boss are good friends, even if you are his employee. Your office is situated directly outside his office and he's a very lenient understanding sort of man. He knows how much to expect of you and understands if sometimes, you don't quite meet deadlines. Even if he gets that disappointed light in his eyes. You don't want to fail your friend. It's his business after all. And if you don't get your work done, he has to take the fall for you. If he loses business, how is he going to pay you?
OR how about this?
You are a Roman slave. If you don't get this done and if you don't please your master, you will either be (a) whipped severely and thrown into the circus for the lions; (b) put in solitary confinement with a disgustingly dirty fellow slave covered with boils and all sorts of contagious diseases, not to mention the fleas and lice; (c) hanged and thrown into the circus for the lions; (d) sold to another master that will throw you in the circus for the lions at the slightest mistake; (e) killed somehow, like being tossed to a pack of hungry, goaded, angry, wild dogs or thrown into the circus for the lions.
Come on. Where's your imagination? You're a writer! You're meant to one of the world's most creative and imaginative people! You're the sort of person, who looks like a grown up, but still does play-acting in your free time when the house is empty and no one's in. You fight dragons with a sword one evening and are on the other side of the world performing espionage the next. You explore dripping caves in the shower and sink ships in a naval battle when you're washing the dishes.
Wait. Didn't I tell you to stop reading earlier? Oh. You're like me? You're writing stories for yourself because you've run out of books in the house (having read each one at least 10 times and new books are finished in a night, losing their attraction)? You don't care if your stories are never published and never seen by anyone other than yourself? Ah, then. Welcome my friend. You're welcome to read on.
Writing should be fun if it's your hobby. Like doodling pictures. Don't kill yourself over it. Don't put on weight, get carpal tunnel syndrome, have to get new super strong owl glasses, neck, shoulder and back strain just to write one measly story. This is writing practice. It's fun. It's only a first draft. It's about the art, the craft, the polishing to perfection and then stepping back in the end to admire it's beauty.
It's about creation. Entertainment. Having fun. Enjoying the sensation of building, making, forming, molding. Rollicking in the word play and smithing of the correct imagery. Surfing on the emotions and moods. It's about having adventure and the sort of people you have always wanted to meet come to life and becoming 3-dimensional amidst their 1-dimensional descriptions. New places! New worlds to explore! The familiar and the unfamiliar meeting in a maze of netting.
Forget the rest. It's all about story.
Without story, all your scribblings are exactly that. Scribbles.
I'm off to catch more of the shiny ideas floating around my head. I may never use them. Some are completely worthless, but some are real gems. The fun is in the chase and then the capture and then the carving and polishing to make them really shine.
BLUE: Sure. So... in half an hour?
Pink: Maybe make that 3 hours.
Blue: You got something else on tonight?
Pink: No.
Blue: You take 3 hours to have a shower?
Pink: Yes... I mean, NO! I'm usually clean in 5 minutes.
Blue: Then what? Is there an elaborate moisturising ritual?
Pink: Most of the time is spent psyching myself up.
Blue: Does that mean you're scared of showers?
Pink: The rest of the time is spent either calming down or trying to get out of the drink.
Blue: You're scared of showers.
Pink: Not so much of showers. More of deluges.
Blue: Showers aren't deluges. They're little sprinklings of water that - what is that noise?
Pink: My shower.
Blue: Ok. That sounds like a serious deluge.
Pink: Yeah. Every time I go under it, I'm at serious risk of drowning.
Blue: You must be using so much water! Have you thought of changing the shower head?
Pink: I would if there was a shower head. Rivers don't exactly allow you to turn down their water flow.
Blue: Rivers?
Pink: Yeah. My shower is a waterfall. How cool is that? ... I mean, it's cool to look at and it sounds cool. It's not so cool when I'm in it and it's trying to kill me.
Blue: Where did you say you lived again?
Pink: I didn't. If I don't turn up to work tomorrow, you'll know I've drowned or been hit on the head by flotsam and drowned or caught by the current and drowned. Anyway, wish me luck!
Click.
Blue: A waterfall? For a shower?
:P
A lot of people write stories. They talk about how difficult it is to write and how hard it is to stay on track on the one same story and how other shiny ideas come flitting to distract them. They talk about how they procrastinate and how they sometimes just can't be bothered.
I think it depends on whether writing is their trade or whether, like me, they just do it for fun. Shiny new ideas? Excellent. Find me a piece of paper and a pen to capture it. Store it for another time. Can't think of anything to write? Continue with another story or go do something else. Can't be bothered to write? Fine. Don't bother. Do something fun. Writer's block? Play with the block and make a tower of them. Want to really finish a story and can't be bothered? Imagine a boss standing over your desk, roaring, "Where is my story?" Keep procrastinating? Procrastinate away! There's still the rest of my life to - squirrel! finish the story.
It depends on your audience. If your audience is an audience of one, namely you, enjoy your writing time. Splurge. But if writing is your trade, your sole means of financial income... well... ignore everything I say here. Don't read any further. I mean it!
If you have a deadline for a written piece or writing is your trade. Then. This is what I would do (or do when I do have a deadline coming up for something). Imagine myself into an office environment. High rise buildings. Glass windows everywhere. Enclosed desk upon desk upon desk in the work room you share with your fellow minions. Typing or talking on phones feverishly. Slavishly. There is professionalism here. Expectation. And if you don't get your work done or your quota completed for that day, the boss will come calling. You'll be called in on an efficiency report. They'll reduce your pay and you will be reduced to the shrimp ranks shared by the beginners. And you don't want to have your work constantly interrupted by the more advanced workers demanding you make them a cup of coffee. Now.
Too scary?
You and your boss are good friends, even if you are his employee. Your office is situated directly outside his office and he's a very lenient understanding sort of man. He knows how much to expect of you and understands if sometimes, you don't quite meet deadlines. Even if he gets that disappointed light in his eyes. You don't want to fail your friend. It's his business after all. And if you don't get your work done, he has to take the fall for you. If he loses business, how is he going to pay you?
OR how about this?
You are a Roman slave. If you don't get this done and if you don't please your master, you will either be (a) whipped severely and thrown into the circus for the lions; (b) put in solitary confinement with a disgustingly dirty fellow slave covered with boils and all sorts of contagious diseases, not to mention the fleas and lice; (c) hanged and thrown into the circus for the lions; (d) sold to another master that will throw you in the circus for the lions at the slightest mistake; (e) killed somehow, like being tossed to a pack of hungry, goaded, angry, wild dogs or thrown into the circus for the lions.
Come on. Where's your imagination? You're a writer! You're meant to one of the world's most creative and imaginative people! You're the sort of person, who looks like a grown up, but still does play-acting in your free time when the house is empty and no one's in. You fight dragons with a sword one evening and are on the other side of the world performing espionage the next. You explore dripping caves in the shower and sink ships in a naval battle when you're washing the dishes.
Wait. Didn't I tell you to stop reading earlier? Oh. You're like me? You're writing stories for yourself because you've run out of books in the house (having read each one at least 10 times and new books are finished in a night, losing their attraction)? You don't care if your stories are never published and never seen by anyone other than yourself? Ah, then. Welcome my friend. You're welcome to read on.
Writing should be fun if it's your hobby. Like doodling pictures. Don't kill yourself over it. Don't put on weight, get carpal tunnel syndrome, have to get new super strong owl glasses, neck, shoulder and back strain just to write one measly story. This is writing practice. It's fun. It's only a first draft. It's about the art, the craft, the polishing to perfection and then stepping back in the end to admire it's beauty.
It's about creation. Entertainment. Having fun. Enjoying the sensation of building, making, forming, molding. Rollicking in the word play and smithing of the correct imagery. Surfing on the emotions and moods. It's about having adventure and the sort of people you have always wanted to meet come to life and becoming 3-dimensional amidst their 1-dimensional descriptions. New places! New worlds to explore! The familiar and the unfamiliar meeting in a maze of netting.
Forget the rest. It's all about story.
Without story, all your scribblings are exactly that. Scribbles.
I'm off to catch more of the shiny ideas floating around my head. I may never use them. Some are completely worthless, but some are real gems. The fun is in the chase and then the capture and then the carving and polishing to make them really shine.
03 January, 2011
unscheduled
Some days writing something here is not a top priority - like when you need to go save the world from being blown up by megalomaniacs or when you've been royally summoned by the current monarch of Terebinthia or when there's been a dalek invasion or when someone is trying to bring cybermen back to life and the Doctor's no where in sight. Then there are the times the Queen has ordered you to go on a super-secret mission and you might disappear for weeks; times SG10 have lost their DHD and can't dial home from a hostile planet and need rescuing; times Atlantis is under attack again and Rodney McKay has accidentally been locked in a room that he is having trouble getting out of because there is a saboteur fighting him over the network systems; times Brennan and Beckett have gotten themselves kidnapped, into deep water and you're the only person who can tell Booth and Castle where to find them - then there's the trouble of getting through the bad guys to get to them. There are also the times when the toilet falls apart or you've forgotten to muck out the chickens' stalls and feed or water them for three days and they are in danger of dying or the washing machine is bubbling or the microwave blew up or the pressure cooker blew up or you just plum need some rest from all the work you've been doing (such as the above).
Yeah. Sometimes this becomes a much less priority when you have to fight to keep your job and to avoid having to repeat a whole 4 years of training all over again... and haven't been well for the entirety of the first holiday longer than a day that you've had this year. Ok. So what if I'm exaggerating? You get the gist.
It's not like anybody bothers even staring at my ants marching across the screen. I mean, where does that get fun? No colours, no pretty pictures, just using your imagination to see the landscape from the top of the steep cliff where the clouds are your neighbours, icy breezes comb their fingers through your hair and below you... well. Below you are clouds of green. Like the tops of broccoli. A whole sea of them. They could well be a mass of green-dyed, afro-style hair-dos. Every now and then, a warmer whiff of air rises from below and brings the smell of wet earth, growing things and ammonia. From this position, you can see the edge of the forest and what direction you should be going in, but once beneath the trees you know you are likely to lose all sense of orientation as the sun goes hides behinds layers and layers of clouds, dooming you to wander lost in the bush/forest for the rest of the days of your life - forcing you to become a wildman/woman that scavenges and fights with the animals for survival in this place so unlike the city with its shops and fast food. You don't even know what plants are likely to be edible, much less animals and you don't even want to think of what insects might taste like, although the thought of grubs and giant beetles is beginning to seem rather meaty - more and more edibly appetising. This thought makes you want to cry. You might never see your new yellow Bumblebee car again.
It's like when we had DOS. Everything was words on the screen and you couldn't even scroll to see what it said before. If you forgot the instructions from the screen before, well, too bad. Either you had to repeat the command and read 200 words per second or you just made something up and went with the flow. Now we can have multiple windows, scroll up and down and even have dinky things like hyperlinks in the form of a picture button thing. Guess times change.
So this is me ranting. Ranting for no particular reason. Crying to deaf ears that cannot hear me through this screen and to blind eyes who will read this post and do a double take. 'What is this mad woman going on about? She can't even spell appetising right!' Americans and their obsession with being different from the rest of the world. I don't have to spell it with a 'z' if I don't want to, ok? I'm feeling particularly stubborn today, so don't get me in the mood - cos I will fight you with a chainsaw. Maybe an axe. Or a sword and shield. Shield would be a good idea. Ok then. A longbow. Nah. Machine gun would be better. Over faster and less way you can run and hide.
Listen to me talk! I am in a murderous mood aren't I? I may have to run and hide from myself if that keeps up. I have found the majority of the Series 5 Doctor Who transcripts here: http://jpgr.livejournal.com/ But you will have to trawl through their archives to get it. I don't like their journal set up, because you can't search through past posts easily, but who am I to judge? It's not like my blog's set up any better. Still looking for 'A Christmas Carol' transcript. I've got all the other transcripts for the new Doctor Who to date. You can find them somewhere if you search google. There's a guy that has done 2005+ and has an archive of the classic series as well. I think. Go find it yourself. I can't be bothered right now finding out his web address (largely because I haven't yet learnt how to make links in HTML yet). I'll get to it one day. If anyone finds someone who has transcripts for the tv series Castle, please let me know. I'll be happy to hear from you.
For a long long day
And a long long night
We can sing this song
Give ourselves a fright
Until we're sick of it
And will have a fit
At least it's not
'This is a song that never ends...'
Yeah. Sometimes this becomes a much less priority when you have to fight to keep your job and to avoid having to repeat a whole 4 years of training all over again... and haven't been well for the entirety of the first holiday longer than a day that you've had this year. Ok. So what if I'm exaggerating? You get the gist.
It's not like anybody bothers even staring at my ants marching across the screen. I mean, where does that get fun? No colours, no pretty pictures, just using your imagination to see the landscape from the top of the steep cliff where the clouds are your neighbours, icy breezes comb their fingers through your hair and below you... well. Below you are clouds of green. Like the tops of broccoli. A whole sea of them. They could well be a mass of green-dyed, afro-style hair-dos. Every now and then, a warmer whiff of air rises from below and brings the smell of wet earth, growing things and ammonia. From this position, you can see the edge of the forest and what direction you should be going in, but once beneath the trees you know you are likely to lose all sense of orientation as the sun goes hides behinds layers and layers of clouds, dooming you to wander lost in the bush/forest for the rest of the days of your life - forcing you to become a wildman/woman that scavenges and fights with the animals for survival in this place so unlike the city with its shops and fast food. You don't even know what plants are likely to be edible, much less animals and you don't even want to think of what insects might taste like, although the thought of grubs and giant beetles is beginning to seem rather meaty - more and more edibly appetising. This thought makes you want to cry. You might never see your new yellow Bumblebee car again.
It's like when we had DOS. Everything was words on the screen and you couldn't even scroll to see what it said before. If you forgot the instructions from the screen before, well, too bad. Either you had to repeat the command and read 200 words per second or you just made something up and went with the flow. Now we can have multiple windows, scroll up and down and even have dinky things like hyperlinks in the form of a picture button thing. Guess times change.
So this is me ranting. Ranting for no particular reason. Crying to deaf ears that cannot hear me through this screen and to blind eyes who will read this post and do a double take. 'What is this mad woman going on about? She can't even spell appetising right!' Americans and their obsession with being different from the rest of the world. I don't have to spell it with a 'z' if I don't want to, ok? I'm feeling particularly stubborn today, so don't get me in the mood - cos I will fight you with a chainsaw. Maybe an axe. Or a sword and shield. Shield would be a good idea. Ok then. A longbow. Nah. Machine gun would be better. Over faster and less way you can run and hide.
Listen to me talk! I am in a murderous mood aren't I? I may have to run and hide from myself if that keeps up. I have found the majority of the Series 5 Doctor Who transcripts here: http://jpgr.livejournal.com/ But you will have to trawl through their archives to get it. I don't like their journal set up, because you can't search through past posts easily, but who am I to judge? It's not like my blog's set up any better. Still looking for 'A Christmas Carol' transcript. I've got all the other transcripts for the new Doctor Who to date. You can find them somewhere if you search google. There's a guy that has done 2005+ and has an archive of the classic series as well. I think. Go find it yourself. I can't be bothered right now finding out his web address (largely because I haven't yet learnt how to make links in HTML yet). I'll get to it one day. If anyone finds someone who has transcripts for the tv series Castle, please let me know. I'll be happy to hear from you.
For a long long day
And a long long night
We can sing this song
Give ourselves a fright
Until we're sick of it
And will have a fit
At least it's not
'This is a song that never ends...'
13 November, 2010
the dead mystery and an apology
What would happen if you died? Everyone wonders about it sometimes. Everyone has different theories. My theory has to do with a trumpet, clouds, a city that will never see corruption and the whole of eternity to learn cool stuff.
Mostly, people don't reckon on these things... that is until they've had an Experience that often has to do with coming close to death themselves. Whether personally or somebody close to them. For some other people, it's just an intriguing mystery.
Sometimes, I ask God, 'Who made this world anyway?' after which I usually have to repent before I actually say that the whole of creation is stupid, thereby implicating that its Creator is also stupid... because whether or not you believe in God, it is awful scary if you think about it. The one being with the power to create the whole entire universe or destroy it with a word or a look or a thought... that is scary. I'm fairly sure insulting is unwise.
So, God, knowing You can probably read this post and know what I'm gonna say before I've even thought it, here is my official apology: I sincerely apologise for even thinking such a thing. You are great and awesome and have a reason for everything that has happened and that has been done. I am the one who has behaved foolishly, for even putting the blame on You. It wasn't You who decided to betray their Creator and all their friends. It wasn't You who just tried to kill my sister and I in a very close call of a car accident. It isn't You who makes my life go wrong whenever I try to do what's right... Instead, it was You who saved out lives; it was You who walks me through life so I don't fall in every single pit and trap; it is You who tries to teach me wisdom (bad student though I am); it is You who have shown me what is right and then given me the ability to get right back up everytime I get knocked back down. No backing down. Whatever happens I know it's not Your fault. If anything, it's my inability to see or understand or hear or act as You do... that and the enemy.
Of course, I must be doing something right if my enemy is trying to kill me. So. Whatever. Just keep sailing. This day we fight! Stuff close calls with death.
For me to live is Christ and to die is gain.
God can't do bad stuff. He has a law against it. Since He wrote the law and can't be a hypocrite, well... but let us, my friends, not get into any theological or religious debates regarding the reality of the truth, perception and the fallibility of the beings called human.
The best thing about this world is the anticipation. The hope. The expectancy, knowing that all I see, all I know is but a shadow of what is yeat to come. Something bigger, something greater.
All people need to live for something. Whether it be their friends, their family, their study, their life's dream, their government, their people, themselves... or something much GREATER than they are.
"Tolerance!" they say. "Tolerance!" And yet they are intolerant.
"Discrimination! Prejudice!" they cry. "Political correctness!" And yet they perform corruptions, perversions and injustices that are in truth, morally unambiguously incorrect, based upon their own wishy-washy perceptions and understandings of the laws they live upon, looking for self-gain.
What am I living for?
I live to give my utmost for the exultation of God's glory. I live to expand the Kingdom of God and speak out the Truth. Only One is the Way, the Truth and the Life... and none come to the Father, but by Him. I live to fight and stand in the gap for my generation, to stand and proclaim His Mercy and Grace. I live to fulfill the Mission given to me, my life's job, my life's dream, so that when I die, I will hear, 'Well done, my good and faithful servant,' and not see disappointment upon His face.
I live wholly and utterly for Jesus. My utmost for His glory.
What do you live for?
Mostly, people don't reckon on these things... that is until they've had an Experience that often has to do with coming close to death themselves. Whether personally or somebody close to them. For some other people, it's just an intriguing mystery.
Sometimes, I ask God, 'Who made this world anyway?' after which I usually have to repent before I actually say that the whole of creation is stupid, thereby implicating that its Creator is also stupid... because whether or not you believe in God, it is awful scary if you think about it. The one being with the power to create the whole entire universe or destroy it with a word or a look or a thought... that is scary. I'm fairly sure insulting is unwise.
So, God, knowing You can probably read this post and know what I'm gonna say before I've even thought it, here is my official apology: I sincerely apologise for even thinking such a thing. You are great and awesome and have a reason for everything that has happened and that has been done. I am the one who has behaved foolishly, for even putting the blame on You. It wasn't You who decided to betray their Creator and all their friends. It wasn't You who just tried to kill my sister and I in a very close call of a car accident. It isn't You who makes my life go wrong whenever I try to do what's right... Instead, it was You who saved out lives; it was You who walks me through life so I don't fall in every single pit and trap; it is You who tries to teach me wisdom (bad student though I am); it is You who have shown me what is right and then given me the ability to get right back up everytime I get knocked back down. No backing down. Whatever happens I know it's not Your fault. If anything, it's my inability to see or understand or hear or act as You do... that and the enemy.
Of course, I must be doing something right if my enemy is trying to kill me. So. Whatever. Just keep sailing. This day we fight! Stuff close calls with death.
For me to live is Christ and to die is gain.
God can't do bad stuff. He has a law against it. Since He wrote the law and can't be a hypocrite, well... but let us, my friends, not get into any theological or religious debates regarding the reality of the truth, perception and the fallibility of the beings called human.
The best thing about this world is the anticipation. The hope. The expectancy, knowing that all I see, all I know is but a shadow of what is yeat to come. Something bigger, something greater.
All people need to live for something. Whether it be their friends, their family, their study, their life's dream, their government, their people, themselves... or something much GREATER than they are.
"Tolerance!" they say. "Tolerance!" And yet they are intolerant.
"Discrimination! Prejudice!" they cry. "Political correctness!" And yet they perform corruptions, perversions and injustices that are in truth, morally unambiguously incorrect, based upon their own wishy-washy perceptions and understandings of the laws they live upon, looking for self-gain.
What am I living for?
I live to give my utmost for the exultation of God's glory. I live to expand the Kingdom of God and speak out the Truth. Only One is the Way, the Truth and the Life... and none come to the Father, but by Him. I live to fight and stand in the gap for my generation, to stand and proclaim His Mercy and Grace. I live to fulfill the Mission given to me, my life's job, my life's dream, so that when I die, I will hear, 'Well done, my good and faithful servant,' and not see disappointment upon His face.
I live wholly and utterly for Jesus. My utmost for His glory.
What do you live for?
12 November, 2010
to be or not to be
The question is not 'to be or not to be'.
The question is 'how to be what you ought to be'.
Discuss.
The question is 'how to be what you ought to be'.
Discuss.
04 February, 2010
today
Today, I have nothing to say. Why? Because there is too much to say.
Few people bother to read poems these days and yet they teach us how to write them in school. They don't really teach us cool plays on words or really great puns beyond the cliched ones everyone knows. We have to learn about cinquains and haikus, but don't get taught the ballads or the sonnets. You have to go to university for that... and it can be boring unless you're really passionate about poetry.
I only write poetry, because it's interesting to see how my words will flow without much thought. Patterns emerge. Some more common, some less common, some boring, some without meaning. You understand. That's why this blog is unseen (besides the erratic posting). But that's fine with me, because that's how I want it to be. There, but unseen. A bit like an optical illusion. Hidden.
I begin uni soon. My last year. The hardest, most difficult, easiest-to-fail year. Next week in fact. Am I ready? I don't know much of the real world, but that's what school is for. It prepares you (or is supposed to) for the real world where people work and don't stay within the protected walls of definite rules. Society's rules are always changing. Always changing. What is rude to one is polite to another and vice-versa.
My problem is that I have not been taught some of the common courtesies used in today's society and those that I do not find important are all important to others. The world is strange.
It's funny how when a blog like this is written off the top of my head, it can be so awful. Makes me sound as if I grew up with English as a second or third language. That's why there's the poetry. You won't notice my hasty bad English so badly.
Australia, please teach your children proper grammatically used English before we have generation after generation with degenerating pieces (both poetry and prose, full of atrocious spelling and grammar mistakes) so commonly seen on internet sites and now in novels as well. Some of those people are over 30, some over 40. Many aspiring writers. Quite a few with awful English despite having grown up in an English speaking country.
I enter some primary and secondary schools now and the children can neither read nor write. They don't even know their times tables. Our education compared to many other countries of the world is awful and yet parents will complain that their children have too much homework, the work is too difficult. Kindergarten children in Malaysia and Singapore are able to tell me their timetables (albeit in terms of 'if X number of people have Y number of objects, how many altogether') when I ask them. Some Year 8's here can't even do that! Much less spell the word 'English' correctly.
Granted some are less adept at the language and slower in learning, but some are extremely bright... just untaught as yet. Untrained.
Now I've gone on a rant... And I said that I had nothing to say today. Honestly, some people.
Bring the cheeses to the pleasers
So the tasters can smell pasters.
Hide the wire in the lyre
Where the doters will catch the noters.
Count the apples
1, 2, 3
Spell the letters
A, B, C
Read the grammar
Colon-semi
Seed the learning
Period.
Teachers have some of the hardest work
At which some balk and others shirk
Yet the best will stay prepared to do
All that duty calls them to.
Responsibility doesn't let them leave
But holds them until they have reprieve.
Few truly notice their master pieces
Slow to form and growing reaches
But today I will acknowledge them
Their work, their heart, their academ.
Bad poems. I know.
Few people bother to read poems these days and yet they teach us how to write them in school. They don't really teach us cool plays on words or really great puns beyond the cliched ones everyone knows. We have to learn about cinquains and haikus, but don't get taught the ballads or the sonnets. You have to go to university for that... and it can be boring unless you're really passionate about poetry.
I only write poetry, because it's interesting to see how my words will flow without much thought. Patterns emerge. Some more common, some less common, some boring, some without meaning. You understand. That's why this blog is unseen (besides the erratic posting). But that's fine with me, because that's how I want it to be. There, but unseen. A bit like an optical illusion. Hidden.
I begin uni soon. My last year. The hardest, most difficult, easiest-to-fail year. Next week in fact. Am I ready? I don't know much of the real world, but that's what school is for. It prepares you (or is supposed to) for the real world where people work and don't stay within the protected walls of definite rules. Society's rules are always changing. Always changing. What is rude to one is polite to another and vice-versa.
My problem is that I have not been taught some of the common courtesies used in today's society and those that I do not find important are all important to others. The world is strange.
It's funny how when a blog like this is written off the top of my head, it can be so awful. Makes me sound as if I grew up with English as a second or third language. That's why there's the poetry. You won't notice my hasty bad English so badly.
Australia, please teach your children proper grammatically used English before we have generation after generation with degenerating pieces (both poetry and prose, full of atrocious spelling and grammar mistakes) so commonly seen on internet sites and now in novels as well. Some of those people are over 30, some over 40. Many aspiring writers. Quite a few with awful English despite having grown up in an English speaking country.
I enter some primary and secondary schools now and the children can neither read nor write. They don't even know their times tables. Our education compared to many other countries of the world is awful and yet parents will complain that their children have too much homework, the work is too difficult. Kindergarten children in Malaysia and Singapore are able to tell me their timetables (albeit in terms of 'if X number of people have Y number of objects, how many altogether') when I ask them. Some Year 8's here can't even do that! Much less spell the word 'English' correctly.
Granted some are less adept at the language and slower in learning, but some are extremely bright... just untaught as yet. Untrained.
Now I've gone on a rant... And I said that I had nothing to say today. Honestly, some people.
Bring the cheeses to the pleasers
So the tasters can smell pasters.
Hide the wire in the lyre
Where the doters will catch the noters.
Count the apples
1, 2, 3
Spell the letters
A, B, C
Read the grammar
Colon-semi
Seed the learning
Period.
Teachers have some of the hardest work
At which some balk and others shirk
Yet the best will stay prepared to do
All that duty calls them to.
Responsibility doesn't let them leave
But holds them until they have reprieve.
Few truly notice their master pieces
Slow to form and growing reaches
But today I will acknowledge them
Their work, their heart, their academ.
Bad poems. I know.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
