Intermission III: there you go, 2oo9.

its with a warm feeling that i remember the night before of the last new year, so ripe with expectations, so full of promise.

has it truly been a good year?

looking back at a day a year from now, scattered pieces have been glued back, some preserved like the treasures they are, more've been broken, or are cracked and close to breaking. will those be able to tahan till next year? we'll see.

these last months, there've been days where life was so bleak i simply wanted to curl up and shrink into the walls, melt into the floor, times when fury nearly got the better of me and turned me into a monster, and had lots of pebbles i tripped over and felt like taking a sledgehammer to, or shrews i'd have happily have tossed into a cellar and locked away.

having said that, it can be quite sharp a jolt, looking into and around yourself, and finding you dont like what you see. and quite a wake up call it was.

still, i'll take the bad with the good. as far as vision goes, its definitely clearer than its been in the entire 21 years of my living. Not just that, found lots of new fun to indulge in, gone through some pretty whacky and bizzare episodes, all of which total up to some very satisfying moments; had more files and stuff chucked into my long term memory, and i hope they're there to stay, even if i cant manage to lug them back up front. its enough knowing its stored somewhere in those folds of neurons.

for better or for worse, its also taken this year for me to finally comprende that certain fears're simply unfounded, and that sometimes the easiest way to beat a demon is just to close my eyes, have faith in the Father above and take a nice big leap. and for that, i thank Him, for the little bites of insight He's given me, for all the peace of mind that He filled my heart with, for every prayer He granted, for the strength He's given me through those genuine companions He's given me.

also, there're someone elses i would thank, for all the patience shown me, all the short tempers put up with, all the trouble i've given. you, you and you, you mean just about the world to this child who's still finding her footing in this world.

yes. i've grown up, and not just only a little bit more. wish me luck in growing up another bit more.

oh, one final thing... isnt it funny how a grown-up still needs to have grown up in order to be considered grown up? sorry, i couldnt resist one last bit of wordplay. ;)

Happy New Year, everybody!

P.S to all those who've left this world, i pray that you may find peace and solace in the world you're in now, whichever one you believe in. May God be with you always.

Chapter Twenty Three: Deep, Deep, Deep As A Pavement Puddle.

Deep are the thoughts you have in your head
To buy, to spend, to splurge on that dress?

Deeper are they up in your mind
Should I, should I not, oh, I digress!

Deep they are in the back of your brain
Can I wear it once, or twice, or thrice?

Again you think, in the recess of your head
I was so close to buying it, to be precise

Here and there, its right in your mind
If I wear it once, can I do it again and again?

Such deep thoughts flit all over your brain
They torture, they flutter, they drive me insane

(Ah, i see.)

(If these are the thoughts that you call deep,)

*shakes head*

(I guess intellect just isn't something you bother to keep.)

Chapter Twenty Two: The Quack Crow of Teachin'.

This one is based on the song 'Phony King of England' from Disney's Robin Hood, played on the blog. Sing along, if you want.

O the world would sing
Of an ancient queen
In all the years from now
And all because she made her law
Whilst acting like a crow
While bonny good Sir Galahad yon
He leads the fight along
For her we've had to slave away
With naught to show but yawns
The Incredible that she is: inept
Thus in memories she will be kept
And so we call her the quack old crow of teachin'

A POX on the quack old crow of teachin'!

Too late to be known as one of the first
We sure do know her as top of the worst
A POX on the quack old crow of teachin'!

While she tires us to pieces
And she robs of of our wits
Her name and fame
Are further maimed
And puddle at her feet, aha!
But while she makes some merry men
In the world of limp wee minds
We'll find a way to shake her away
And peace of mind to find

She may come to hear of this..............................

Hah! Its a chance I hope not to miss!



I apologize to the writer of the original lyrics for mangling his well written words. But you see, yours were so well done that i felt compelled to use them as a template for my own rant against a tyrant.

Chapter Twenty One: le Pompadous.

Once upon a nose up high
There was a little man
He fancied himself a giant
As much as a hot air balloon can

Airs he effects to distraction
Diverting from his uncouth pride
To Arum maculatum he grovels
And pushes the Calotropis aside

Look about him the glitter
He sees not honest steel
Only shiny shimmery estincele
Fie! He sees not what is real

What goes up, will soon roll down
At the end of its glorified days
And I hope ‘twill be, that he’ll come to see
The end of such erroneous ways.

Chapter Twenty One: Birds Flock Together, Not Of A Feather.

I sat there watching
Bright hope, shining stars
And I feel so empty
I haven’t gone that far

And I watch your talents
I know, I have none
And I feel so empty
Only doing things for fun

Why is there a chasm
Over which I stand
Never only on either bank
One foot in both lands

Fiery words all
I’ve heard them before
Set fire on dry kindling
To inspire us more

Where, where
Is the recognition
That strong sense of pride
Why, why only confusion?

Where should I be
In this vast space on earth
Fit into a pigeon hole
Prepared from my birth?

Tell me why I feel lost then
When flocking a-feather
Why I am separated
Even as I stand together

Where are my roots
Neither here nor there
Please, someone tell me
Someone, just tell me where...

Chapter Twenty: That's All It Takes.

I

What nuances, so subtle
Teaches us to presume
That a visage affixed will stay in place
The intensity daily resume

II

That one look, one glance
And so ever more
Enough, to mesmerize
A thousand times more than before
Just then, how it struck me
Such beauty on a profile
I have seen so often
That to me it was hidden for a little while
III

Look you there, blind as a mole
You could not see beyond your tunnel
Or the world as a whole
And when it whispered to me
I replied gladly
And from there
Does my story unfold.

Chapter Nineteen: It's Ashamed I Am of You.

It's ashamed, ashamed
Ashamed I am of you
That you could do such a thing
And to your comrade too
Tis sad, just sad
Sad I am to see
Such conduct from a child
Who shares a race with me
It's despair, despair
Despair I feel to think
That at your tender age
You've tied unsavoury links
It's time, nigh time
Many do agree
What monsters are we creating;
Open your eyes and see!

Chapter Eighteen: It All Died With You.

It all died with you
The sun and hills and all
When you went so suddenly
Their world did crash and fall

So much joy you brought
And sorrow in your wake
The floods of tears we wept
No less than for your sake

Once upon your lifetime
The stage was at your feet
While you played with melodies
Made wide margins meet

Now that you have gone
Leaving us mere memories
A legend in your time
And in future legacies

May you live on forever
In the bright star of your name
Revered for your raison d'etre,
The true reason for your fame.

Rest in peace, Michael, King of Pop. The world laments for you.

Chapter Seventeen: From Hence and Before

A thousand years ago
I believed in forevermore
Where one thought not of endings
Or aught farewells ever before

A hundred years ago
Still the world was sweet
Vast, wide, a playground
Never did bleakness meet

A century ago
A child no longer small
Whence came the crippling things
That force me still to crawl?

A century from now
Will I yet be crawling
Tied together, my steps
Will shields withstand mauling

A hundred years later
If rosy it no longer be
Whence has it changed
What doth yon innocent see?

A thousand years hence
Will I be yet alive
Gone, or living
In spirit or in life?

Chapter Sixteen: Cuckoos in the Nest.

Once upon a time, there lived a little robin in a village right in the heart of the country.

Now then, this little robin lived happily in her nest with her mate, and they were content, for they had a brood of little ones to feed and care for.

Day and night, the robins toiled hard, feeding their hungry chicks with the healthiest worms they could find. The little mother groomed them carefully, often singing to them, teaching them to keep their feathers straight, their beaks polished, and taught them to keep the little nest neat and respectable.

By and by, the chicks all grew into adult robins and left the nest to find their own mates, leaving the two old ones to a quiet life.

Ah, how quiet it was, the little robin thought! Once, she'd had her little ones to keep her on her wings, but now they'd gone, and so she decided to use her spare time to fly about the village, exploring places she'd never been before and searching for pretty flower petals to cheer her little home up.

And so she lived on in her nest, with only her mate as companion.

Ah, but what is this? One fine day, she opened her eyes to a little brown chick sitting in her nest! She who had a tender heart, she took it upon herself to care for the little one, although old age had made her feeble, and searching for food was twice as difficult as before.

But what is this again? The next day she found yet another brown chick crying in her nest, its little beak open, waiting to be fed. Again, she took the little one into her heart, and cared for both as though they were her own.

And when one day she found a little brown speckled egg in the nest, nestled between the two chicks, the little robin sighed, wondering what mother was heartless enough to throw her own little ones away, and sat her tired little body upon it to hatch it.

Ah, but then, she found these little ones unruly and unmannered (unlike her own brood), for they often coughed out the worms she brought them, and liked to peck at the nest, pulling out twigs, quite ruining it.

What is a robin to do?

Intermission II: somehow, i had a feeling this was coming.

when i'd decided that i'd dedicate this blog to entirely poetry and prose, i think somehow deep down inside i knew i'd end up changing my mind, and start chunking conversational bits in. after all, i got bored with switching blog colours once a month, so who's to say i wont get bored writing P and P all the time?

yesss... it does get very tiring and mind-crashing writing stories and poetry all the time (or turning incidents and thoughts into them anyway. its easiest when the words fall together themselves); having said that, when i was with BP, i found it infinitely easier to churn out the above, rather than a piece of hard news.

i'm glad i went. i really am, because that one month pointed out my path clearer than any course counselor could. you see, a doubting thomas like me has to experience things for myself (when i can work up the guts to) or else forever i'll be wondering if i could handle it, and end up not doing anything at all.

with the intention to digress, i've suddenly gotten a sudden urge to dissect my behaviour in relation to the doubting thomas infliction: i used to refuse to eat eggplant until once i had it, and found it incredibly delicious, and have been enjoying it ever since then. oh, black mushrooms too. and multiple other vegetables, bitter ones excluded.

good God, why am i rambling about vegetables? i must've had my brain addled with all the research terms miss W was tossing at us just now. i will NOT want to do anything with research, ever. i can barely even catch up with that machine brain of hers; Lord knows, not being able to catch on quickly's pretty damaging to the pride of someone who considers herself relatively quick.

the jester often laughs at me for saying 'if only' (if only Dr M'd chosen a better successor), but now all i can think about are the so many 'if onlys' that've been bothering me in the recnt weeks.
if only we'd followed our instincts when we first met PD.Q, if only Dr N would still be teaching us, if only i'd known that Group Processes was under Dr A, if only we didnt have to get separated for PSY208, if only DKF hadnt been such a stubborn fool, if only he'd thought to use his brain, if only L didnt behave like that, if only i knew how to help them, if only she didnt have to suffer and go through all this, if only, if only, if only.

i hope this semester isnt going to turn out rainy. by the looks of it, i'm sensing dark clouds ahead already.

if only, if only.




P.S you see? rhymes come to me when i least need them. =.=

Chapter Fifteen: Friday's Child.

Once upon a Friday, there lived a bonny child.
She was fair of face, and full of grace,
Loving and giving, and mild.
This little lassie, she ran to the woods to play
And guess what she found, no trees around,
For they all had been chopped away.
With tears of snow, full of sorrow,
Down the paths she wandered.
And there she saw, a woodcutter braw
Chopping an old gnarled oak.
Gentle words to him she spoke;
Her entreaties were made in vain
And still it groaned in pain.
Poor heart of gold, sweet tender soul,
She knew not what to do.
But her eyes lit up
For in that instant, she knew!
Off ran she, to her pretty house
And brought from hence her favourite blouse,
To and fro, bending down low
She gathered acorns dear
High and low, far and near
Many a seed she found.
Back to the deeper woods she went
Full of good intentions bound
Finding a spot, planting the seeds she'd got
She watered them with spring water clear
At that the gruff woodcutter,
To himself did mutter, 'That was useless, to be sure!'

'And pray dear sir, why should that be,
'For will a seed not soon grow into a tree?'

‘I tell ye lass, ye plant in vain,
For time will come, when nothin' remains.
Them trees'll all be taken down and chopped,
'Tis how life is, it canna be stopped.'

'I say, dear sir, so may it be,
But yet from each seed will grow a tree
And new acorns then I shall have
To plant and water, to grow as needs be
That the wood may yet grow lush as before
And that will make
All the difference or more.
So pray dear sir, now do you see
Why we must not
Lose faith entirely?'

And the braw woodcutter,He nodded his head,
For he knew the truth of what she'd said,
And he gruffly conceded to agree.

Chapter Fourteen: What Salt Makes a Good Soup?

Once upon a world of quarrels, there was a grand old dame.

She lived in a world far beyond her years, and yet she carried much weight with her name.

Now then, while walking pass a shady old tree, this old dame overheard several youngsters who were sitting under the tree arguing over salt, and so she took it upon herself to teach them, for was she not was advanced in her years? Had she not eaten enough salt in her years, enough to be able to tell them how it tasted like?

And so she marched up to them, clambering onto one of the stubbly roots on the ground, and opened her mouth to speak to them.

'Salt is good, but it is only good when you put the in right amount. If you put too much into your soup, then it tastes bad, and you will be thirsty.'

A boy amongst them opened his mouth to speak, 'But grandmother, we are not arguing about how salt tastes, we are arguing about what makes it....'

'Ah, but you see, there are many many ways of solving it. You can choose to put in less salt, or you can choose not to put salt. Ah, then would you no longer be thirsty?'

The children tried to tell her that it was the composition of salt, and what made salt salty that they were discussing.

She heard them not.

'You must argue the problem as Socrates did. Oh, do you know who Socrates is? He was a great philosopher and you must learn from him. So how do you resolve the problem of whether too much salt will make you thirsty?'

And she spoke on and on, not realizing that the youngsters were all shaking their heads and slowly slinking away.

'You must think more. You must think of more ways to solve the problem. Then, your soup will taste better. Now do you know how to make your soup better?'

But when she looked down from, nary a child was there sitting at her feet. Instead, all she saw were the soft grasses slowly shaking their heads at her.

And so she said to herself. 'Ah, that is what happens when you eat too much salt. Too much salt makes you thirsty. No wonder the children went home.'

And so pleased that she had taught the children a new strain of thought, she began to make her way home, whistling merrily on her way.

Chapter Thirteen: Know Ye?

Know ye what a story be?
As sung by bards of old
Words oft spoken
Taken and woven
Into a web unfold

Know ye what history be?
As told by auld grandmother dear
When words fly past
Still time will last
And olden times seem so near

Where is the past
A legacy cast
That made a mould of me?
Would ye take
Hide away and break
The truth, my heritage
From me?

Chapter Twelve: Long Time Away.

Long has it been
Since I last saw you
Aches, the memory
Do you feel it too?

Long has it been
Since I heard your voice
Rich notes ringing
Proclaiming your joys

Long has it been
Since I felt your strength
Warm, secure
A haven at length

Long will it be
Before time thus ends
Till then, sit I here, waiting
Solitary figure, just beyond the bend.

Chapter Eleven: If This Be A Land of Ones

If this land be a land of Ones
Why am I a Two?
If this be where equality runs
Why then, sit I under you?

You call out yet for your people's rights
Where are mine own then?
You accuse us oft of picking fights
But when have you shared, when?

If my tongue be one of ours
Why should it be silenced?
Who are you to misuse your powers
Yet condemn us of violence?

One of name yet not one in truth
For you bind me at your feet
You with lies and propaganda sooth
Are we curs to be given rotten meat?

Hark ye then you prideful men, one day you shall see
Angry dogs shall not be soothed with promises empty
Call me then, ungracious cur who loves not my country
Yet again, my question remains

How much does my country love me?

Chapter Ten: The Homesick Elf.

Once upon a time, there lived a little elf in the land of Gatto.

Now then, this little elf grew up in a sheltered little glade, where she was surrounded by her family, and never had to worry about having enough to eat or a roof over her head. She had too a little carriage that would bring her to where she wished to go, so as not to tire her little feet. And so she grew up as a sheltered child who knew nothing about the world.

As the days passed, the little elf grew bigger, and soon it came to a time where she was told that she had to leave home and travel to the city of Fango, for that city was the biggest city in the country, and there she could learn a trade in which she could make herself useful. And so, after her 19th birthday, she set out for Fango, riding on the back of a dragonfly who had promised to bring her there.

Poor creature, who had never lived away from her family for long , she was filled with a peculiar mixture of dread and wonder as she contemplated the thought of having to live on her own, in a strange city, and among strange people. But there was nothing that had to be done about it; she had to go.

Ah, but then, she discovered, the city of Fango was not such a cruel, frightening world as stories would have her believe. She made new friends with whom spent time daily. Her new-found friends taught her to ride on the buzzing beetles that scuttled about the city carrying their tiny passengers where they wanted to go for a penny or two. Here also did she see for the first time the great centipedes whom the city's people had tamed to be ridden to far off distances,. Good it was, and she began to enjoy living in the city and settled to learning her trade. Not long after, she met and made a dear friend, Canard, and they often played together, learning their trade, and going about the city together.

Now then, after living a year and a half in Fango, the little elf was told by the teaching master of her school that she would have to go to another city, for learning at a desk in school was not enough. Ah, woeful was she, for she had wanted to go home and stay with her family for a spell, and play with her pet white rat. Still, she consented to go, and packed her things into a neat little bundle.

And so, she was sent to the city of Montagna, where she was put to recording down the things that happened around her, so that the people in the city could read it, and know what happened amongst them.

Strangely, contented was she, for she had a little room above the shop where she worked, and was allowed to leave early, for the work was not heavy. Yet, oftimes she felt as though time hung heavy on her hands, for she missed her family, her pet white rat and her dear friend dreadfully.

Shall the weeks be long, or pass by in a flash? Ahh. Woe is me, for how time flies, and yet oft it sits heavy upon one's brow when there is naught to do.

Chapter Nine: The Shield, the Sword, and the Dagger.

Once upon a time, there was a little soldier in the army.

Now this little soldier owned a fine sword, and a shield. He was immensely proud of them, and often spent his time polishing the sword carefully, making sure it stayed shiny. He did the same for the shield, carefully cleaning it, making sure no dirt stayed on it. These things he did everyday, for what better friend hath a soldier than his trusty sword and shield?

Now then, there was man in the army, who used neither sword nor shield, but a dagger. Hated was he by the little soldier, for he thought the dagger a sign of stealth, and he did not consider stealthy battle to be honourable. And so the little soldier shunned him, believing him to be a creature of the shadows, for the man hid his face in his cloak oft, that others could not see his true visage. Yet, deadly was his dagger, and many feared him for it.

One fine day, the little soldier wandered a little farther from camp, for the weather was hot, and he wanted to search for a cool little spot to rest in. Taking the path winding neatly through the forest, he came to a little glen, where the trees' bended limbs formed a little shelter in which he could rest. Sweet flowers grew profusely, and pretty butterflies flitted gaily about. Here the little soldier chose to stop, for a sweet breeze blew through the wood and cooled the sweat upon his brow. Using his shield as a pillow, the little soldier lay down his head; very soon, he fell fast asleep, his trusty sword tucked safely against him.

Ah, but did he know? In the sweet bower where he slept so peacefully, a viper lived. Now then the little soldier had placed his shield right above the burrow of the creature, and it hissed upon finding its nest covered by a strange metal thing, and began to slide its way out from beneath it.

Upon hearing a strange hissing sound, the little soldier awoke in time to see the viper slide out from under the shield. With a great yell, he leapt up, whereupon the creature began to coil upon his shield, its eyes glittering dangerously. And so he called upon his trusty sword to defend him, for a shield lying useless upon the ground could not protect him.


Ah, woe is me! Try as he might, he was not able to pull his sword out of its scabbard! The sword refused to budge even an inch, and in despair, he threw it down onto the grass, and resolved to face his death, thinking bitterly how unhelpful his fine sword and shield were, for they had failed to defend him in his hour of need. And so, he closed his eyes, waiting for the fatal blow, for the creature was poised to strike, and death seemed inevitable.


Ah, but then, the creature bit him not! Upon hearing a hiss, the little soldier opened one eye, and lo, behold, the snake was no longer poised on its shield, but pinned neatly against a nearby tree, the glittering hilt of dagger quivering from its head. Turning in shock, the little soldier observed a cloaked figure standing quietly behind him, a hand outstretched, for it was he who had thrown the dagger. And the little soldier knew not what to say, for no other was he but his most hated nemesis.

Yet, it was he who saved his life, while his own trusty sword and shield had not.

Chapter Eight: The Peacock and The Snake.

Once upon a time, there lived a peacock in the forest of Rimouthoud.

Now, deep in the forest stood a tree, with many branches growing from it. Upon each branch grew nine twigs; for many years, many a weary one had stopped by this old tree to rest, or hide from the sun in the delighful shade under the swinging boughs.

One day, the peacock chanced upon the tree, and stopped to rest in its shade. Finding the spot pleasant, the peacock decided that the tree should belong to it, for most comfortable a place it was to rest and listen to the little sparrows chatter high in the branches. Happily, it declared to itself, 'This shall be my tree, it shall!' and spread out its bright tail feathers, strutting by the tree importantly.

Day after day, the peacock would come to sun itself by the tree, enjoying itself immensely. However, the peacock would not allow the other animals of the forest near it, chasing them all away with piercing shrieks. Ah, but then, one fine day, the peacock strutted happily to the tree as it was wont to do, only to find a snake coiled around it, blithely sunning itself. Its tail shaking with indignance, the peacock left in a huff, returning home in a very bad mood indeed, for it did not want to share the tree with anyone else.

Ah, but then, back at its own nest, the peacock could not rest at all, for the thought of the snake enjoying itself on the peacock's very own tree angered it to no end, and it decided to return to the tree and chase the snake away. So return it did.

By now, the snake had uncoiled itself and draped itself comfortably along the roots of the tree, taking a nap. Huffing its way up to the snake, the peacock flapped its wings and shook its tail hard, hoping to scare it away. Upon hearing the noise, the snake opened one eye. Finding the noise a nuisance and unable to fall asleep again, the snake decided to return to its burrow, and slithered unhurriedly away. Triumphantly, the peacock shrieked in delight and spread its tail in celebration of its victory, before settling down once again to listen to the sparrows gossiping above, now and then adding a shriek or two of its own.

Days passed quietly, and the peacock continued to visit the tree. Now then, one day, the peacock went down to the tree rather late, for a neighbour had come a-visiting, and the peacock had stopped to chat, before setting out to visit the tree. Imagine its anger at finding someone else there before it!

Ah, never has the forest seen such a furious peacock!

No other was it but the snake, lithely coiled around the tree trunk. Shrieking in a piercing voice, the peacock rushed up to the snake, and quite forgetting its manners, rudely pecked the snake as hard as it could. In anger, the snake raised its head to gaze upon the peacock with unblinking eyes, hissing dangerously. All the animals of the forest hid behind the bushes, gazing at the snake in shock, for none before it had dared to rebuff the peacock. Oblivious to the anger radiating from the snake, the peacock went on shrieking and flapping its wings. O, what a shock it was for the peacock when the snake spat back at it, sending a glob of venom its way. Alarmed, it finally ceased shrieking, at which the snake gave a final hiss before gliding away.

Shaken, the peacock returned to its nest to arrange its feathers, for the glob of venom had quite ruined it.

Ah, but the next day, when the sun rose over the sky, the peacock once again spread its feathers, making its way to the forest clearing. There, in piercing shrieks, it loudly called for justice against the snake. But did anyone heed it?

I know not. or all I heard,

'There it is yet, still calling away,

Never to stop, till its dying day.'

Chapter Seven: The Apple Tree.

Once upon a time, a girl planted an apple tree in her yard.

The girl took good care of her tree carefully, with help from her mother and her father; they helped her water the seed carefully, and it grew into a small, healthy shoot.

As the years passed, the little shoot grew into a strong and healthy little tree. The girl continued tend to her tree lovingly; the tree's leaves grew shiny, as though the girl had waxed them, and it often bore beautiful white blossoms, which everyone admired prettily. When the girl grew older, her father and mother told her that she was growing up, and she must learn to care for the tree herself.

As the years passed, the tree bore its first small crop of apples. The girl was quite disappointed, because she had looked forward to seeing a treeful of apples, but she cheered up, for the taste of the first harvest is always sweet. She picked all the apples she could find, and gave them away; the children whom she longed to play with let her join them, for she had given them some apples.

Ah, but then, as she grew older she began to pay less attention to the tree. Often she would forget to water it, or to feed it with fertilizer. The poor tree began to look rather tired and miserable; the leaves were no longer shiny and fewer and fewer blossoms appeared. Soon, the tree stopped flowering altogether. It was a sad sight. Meanwhile, little girl spent all her time playing games with her new friends, and in no time at all the poor tree began to look dry and withered. She had forgotten all about it.

One day, the girl's father felt like eating some apples, and so he asked his daughter for an apple from her tree. The girl ran out to pick one for him, but to her dismay, she found the tree withered and dying, and not a single apple to be seen. Seeing how she had neglected her tree, her father spanked her soundly, whilst her mother cried bitterly, for she had not imagined her child to be so irresponsible.

Angry at her parents, the girl went back to her friends, but alas, they began to shun her, as she had no more apples to give them. How lonely she felt! She crept back home, still weeping, and her parents wept with her. Together, they tried to save the tree by tending it with the care that they had neglected to give it earlier.

Soon, the tree began to grow healthy again. The leaves were once again shiny and plump, and in no time at all the little yard smelled sweet, for the tree began to flower again. The seasons passed, and glossy red apples sprouted abundantly; happily, the little family set to picking them, and had a merry feast to celebrate the harvest.

Sadly, the little tree had to face yet another trial, for weeds sprouted madly about it, and stole its water. Try as she might, the girl was not able to pull any of the weeds out, for she was not strong enough, and neither was she able to heft enough water for both the weeds and the tree. The tree began to bear less and less fruit, and the apples grew smaller, and less sweet.

What is she to do? If apples are no longer sweet, what can make them sweet again?

Intermission I: The Ruffian Coach Driver.

What shall one do, when one crosses the road, only to have a ruffian of a driver force his way through the crowd, and continue driving, heedless of the safety of the pedestrians?

What should one do, when said vehicle knocks into you?

Has he not broken the law?

Would you not say that a kick on said vehicle was well deserved?

Think on it.

What should one do then, if the ruffian parks his vehicle and chases after oneself, dragging one out of the line one is standing in, shouting and cursing one for kicking his vehicle (conveniently forgetting his own fault in causing this sorry mess), loudly proclaming one as being insolent?

And what ought one do, if he continually tries to goad one into a fight, though one attempts to ignore him?

And what when he still strikes one on the face, although one has apologized?

Should one strike back?

But someone did not. Someone walked away, instead of demeaning himself to the level of such lowlife ruffians, for he knew, understood that to talk common sense and righteousness to a blockhead was akin to preaching morals to a cow.

And so, he lowered down the fist poised to strike back, allowing the guard to lead the blockhead away.

Never has this author been prouder of him than then; fortunate I am, parce que j'ai trouvé ont un véritable gentilhomm.

Chapter Six: The Humble Gift.

Once upon a time, there lived a little girl who wanted to give her mother a present. Now one fine day, this little girl ran out to the fields, thinking hard about what to give her mother, and what her mother would like. So she walked by the stream, pondering. Suddenly, she saw a beautiful stone lying in the stream, so wonderful that she wanted at once to get it for her mother. Ah, but then, try as she might, she could not wade to the stone, as the stream was too deep, and neither could she haul it in to the bank, for it was too far away.

And so, with a big sigh, she walked on sadly, trying not to think about the beautiful stone. She walked and walked, and finally stopped to rest under a big tree. Now suddenly the little girl looked up, and saw some shiny delicious looking fruit hanging on the tree. She thought to herself, 'I'll pick some for mother; she'll like to eat these, they look sweet. And so she tried to climb the tree. but try as she might, she could not climb the tree, for the trunk was too smooth, and she was too short to reach the branches. The little girl sat down to think, and thought to use a stick to poke the fruit down, but in the end she gave up, for still she was too short to reach the fruit. And so she walked on.

On and on she walked. By and by, she stopped by a clear pool. In it she saw many colourful fishes swimming gaily, lovely to look at. And so she thought, 'Aha, I shall catch one of these for mother instead, and put it in a bowl, it will soothe her eyes.' Ah, but then, try as she might, she could not catch any of the fish, for they were clever, and swam to hide deep in the weeds as she tried to grab them with her small hands. And so the little girl climbed out the pool wet, disappointed, and even sadder still.

And so she walked on. After a long while, the little girl turned to go home, as she had been out for a long time, and the sky was growing dark. Suddenly, she threw her her head up to look at the sky, and saw many beautiful jewels embedded in the velvet clouds, shining, twinkling in the dark. She reached out her hand to grasp them, but try as she might, she could not reach a single one of them, for they were too high up, far out of her reach. In despair, she sat down to cry, for she really wanted to bring back a wonderful present for her mother, yet all her efforts had been in vain, and she had not been able to get the stone, or the fruit, or the fish.

And so the little girl went home, and lay down to sleep sadly in her little bed.

The next morning, the little girl woke up feeling a little happier, and she went out to play with her ducklings. Suddenly, her eye fell upon some wildflowers that grew by the path, and reaching out to pick them, she saw more daisies and dandelions and bluebells further down the path. Excitedly, she ran along the path, gathering as many flowers as she could, tying them into a pretty bundle, saying to herself, 'There. I hope mother will like these, but they are so simple'. And so, she ran back to the house to give them to her mother.

And how did her mother react? Dear Reader, you shall decide the ending yourself. Good night.

Chapter Five: Soured Wine.

A wine that is aged
Beyond two and a score
Should it not be mellowed
More matured than before?

Yet this wine, alack
Is sour, tart of taste
And methinks that no honey
Could such unpleasantness replace

It seeks to prove its splendor
By raiment rich and fair
But appearance deceives not
Ye gentle folk, beware

And so avoid it if you may
With all your earthly might
For such a wine is apt
To spoil the appetite
And ruin a lovely day.

Chapter Four: Sing a Song of...

Sing a song of sixth sense
And a bucket full of sighs
Four and plenty absurds
Falsehoods, bluffs and lies

When the eyes were opened
The truth began to stink
Wasn’t that a dainty way
To break the way I think?

I was in the counting house
Counting all the funnies
You were in the parlour
Bright cheer and sunny

Wasn’t it you in the garden
Doing goodness knows
Then came crawling a centipede
And bit you on your toes

There was such a doodle
That this poor wretched wren
Had to come and labour
To soothe them back again

And for all my soulful efforts
She gave me with her hand
Nothing but a heavy bag
In which was only sand

So I thought to pull her nose off
And run away with it
But in the end my conscience won
For all the good it did.

Chapter Three: The Faithful Minister.

Hark, listen to me, for I have a story to tell.

Once upon a time, in a Kingdom not far away, there lived a faithful Minister.

Now this Minister was very hard working; day and night she toiled for the sake of the people of the country and beyond, teaching them to hoe the soil of their fields. Now then, this Minister kept some wonderful seeds in a golden bag; these she gave away generously. With tender care and love, she nurtured the seeds till they grew into big strong trees that sheltered the people against the harsh rays of the yellow sun. Wonderful was her work, for although she planted the same seeds in the same soil, often beautiful flowers would spring forth from her seeds to please the eyes of the people, or yield forth sweet thick grasses that for the people to stuff their pillows to rest their weary heads. And the people loved her in return for the love she gave to them. Ah, but then, even as she tried to teach all the people to love the wonderful trees and flowers and grasses that she grew, there were many lazy people who did not like her because she made them work with her to hoe the soil in which she grew the wonderful trees, flowers and grasses.

Now then, one day these lazy people went to the King of the land, and spoke against the faithful Minister, for they were powerful with their words, and sought to twist the King's goodwill against the faithful Minister. So strong were their words that the King got angry, and called to the faithful Minister and sternly told her not to work for the people, and not give them harvest from the lands, for they paid very little tithes, and so he thought that they should not have so much given to them.The poor Minister was very sad, for she could not understand why the King could not see how beautiful were her wonderful trees and flowers and grasses, and how happy they made the faces of the people who enjoyed them. She wept bitterly at the rebuke she had received, and the people who loved her cried along with her.

Yet, still again she took up her hoe to till the soil.

Ah, but then, no longer was she happy, for her heart was heavy. The King had again listened to the lazy people, and had taken her fields from her, and she could no longer plant as many wonderful trees and flowers and grasses as before. She watched in great sadness as the King's men built a wall around the fields, and she could no longer plant in them, for she could not climb the wall. And so, she went back to the fields she had left with a broken heart.

The people who loved her tried to make her happy again by bringing her water for her trees and flowers and grasses to drink, but she no longer had the heart to plant the fields. Ah, but then, the seeds in the soil of her mind began to grow, and she thought and thought hard of how she should make the best of things. One fine day, she decided to pack her things and leave the Kingdom to wander the great wide world, in search for a new patch to grow. But she did not forget the people who loved her, and sought to teach them one last thing before she left. The people who loved her were very grateful, and tried not to weep as they sent her on her way. Ah, even then, they watched sadly as she walked towards her new life with a spring in her step and a smile on her face, and silently promised to themselves that they would follow in her footsteps someday.

As for the old King, whose unjust anger had driven the faithful Minister away, he saw now that there was nobody left to tend the fields, for the other people had all run away. The last I saw him, he was forced to till the soil himself, and so, here to myself I say, 'Alack, good man, had he not sent the faithful Minister away, here he would not be toiling by himself today'.

And that is the end of my story.

Chapter Two: The King of Fools.

Disclaimer: i know the blog name says no poetry. but i'm gonna break the rules anyway. maybe even change the blog name.
Once a upon a Century
There was a King of Fools
Who sat on upon yon Throne of velvet red
And cleverly (he thinks) he rules

His Crown perched upon a lofty brow
Mighty Pen he waves
Still as yet I cannot fathom how
Nor why so attentive are his Slaves

Oft he struts past the troubled lot
In robes of Righteousness
But methinks one thing he forgot
That he in Invisible robes did dress

He issues Edict and Decree
On a Web of fragile thread
Yet still all who read and agree
Are Goons set under his stead

He sits oft at his Table of Truth
And speaks Law to his Fools
With wonderful words to sway and soothe
Enchants them as his Tools

O Fools of the highest degree
By virtue of face white and fair
With his Majesty they mindlessly agree
With nary thought nor care

O King who owns a booming voice
And stands nose-high with magnanimous poise
He who waves hands with deceptive grace
And speaks his Law with a vivacious face

Point not your Scepter-Pen at me nor mine
For only knit wits a-plenty shall ever be thine
For methinks ever the King of Fools are you
And all the more Fool you are, for thinking us as foolish too.

Chapter One: A Comedy of Pies

Prologue: The Malaysian Affliction.

Isnt perpetualpracticalunpunctualitis syndrome just one of the worst diseases in malaysia ever? imagine: a a board of commitees setting a 12 to 4 pm time for rehearsal; therefore an undiseased individual spends ten ringgit on cab fare just to reach on time, and is subjected to an hour's wait, while the afflicted parties simply waltz in and joke around, poke around, mess around half an hour late. still later, two chronically diseased specimens lightly call out: 'those who wanna practice, just practice yeah? we've got to go somewhere for a bit.' ......aaaand everything's put on hold for them.

so yeah. w'all waited fer a whole daymmmm hour, ya know.

scratch that. how bout a top-notch quality control system that filters out the acceptable ones, but leaks the rotten bit through? in which case it's the filter itself playing unfair. it was hardly sporting of it to do so. hardly sporting at all.

Chapter One: A Comedy Of Pies

Once upon a time, not far in the land of helpful Busybodies, a Body of Busy Bodies held a pie baking competition. Now, A-Body was the in the Helping Body of the Kitchen Body and so he asked Somebody, whom he knew was good at baking pies, to come along and join Everybody. So Somebody went, and there he decided to prepare a big three-piece-pie, which was duly approved by Everybody. So happy was Somebody (and This-Body, of course) that he spent days practicing until his hands were sore.

Suddenly, on the day before the Great Baking Day (the Warm-The-Kitchen-Day), One-Certain-Body told Somebody that Another-Body would be taking over the baking of the first piece from his three-piece-pie, which meant that Somebody then had with a two-piece-pie left (ah, but then Another-body thought Somebody would be preparing that piece of pie, while Somebody thought that Another-body was going to do it, so neither of them prepared anything and in the end nobody made that piece).

Then, One-Other-Body told Somebody that A-Body (who could not come for Warm-The-Kitchen-Day) was not such a good baker and was not there in body, and so would perhaps not be allowed to join in the Great Baking Day, but Somebody and This-Body pleaded for A-Body and so it was not truly decided that A-Body would not be joining. Somebody was then happy that A-Body would still be able to join the Great Baking Day.

Ah, but then you see, on the Great Baking Day itself, just an hour before the baking, to Somebody's dismay (and This-Body's) he found out that A-Body would not be allowed to join the baking, and that his second piece of pie (which was to to be made together with A-Body), had been taken out and eaten by the Filter. And so he was left with only one last piece of pie.

And here, This-Body is very very unhappy, because the piece that the Filter ate is one of This-Body's favourite pieces ever and This-Body had looked looked looked forward to it being baked together by Somebody and A-Body. This-Body had also helped them knead the dough to prepare for the baking, and isnt it just a pity the Filter ate it before it could be cooked? (Ah, but then, the Filter's pie came out horribly burnt and lumpy, it was stuffed with no fillings and was so very badly baked, that This-Body didnt even want to smell it at all, it hurt This-Body's nose so)

And so Somebody baked his one final piece of pie very very well (even though a tiny bit burnt on the top) so that This-Body enjoyed it very very much, and This-Body thinks Everybody who got a whiff of the smell liked it lots and lots too. Too bad about the first and second piece; its alright, we'll get another oven sometime.

geniuses have talent, but talents dont make a genius.

here i am, tapping away at these keys again in the wee hours of dawn, high up in a box not my own.

i wonder if students're put in university just to be tortured? with the amount of assignments they heap onto us, you'd think they believe we need less than our purported 8 hours of sleep. not that many of us do, but yeah, still. apart from that, an impeccable internet connection is indispensable to us students (for the explicit purposes of searching for silly journals and contacting your groupmates), but you think the smartasses in TM realise that? damn right they dont.

these days, sometimes i find myself wondering what the heck i'm doing here, instead of tucking myself away in some antique university slogging my way through shakespeare, jonson, and the rest of the literati. strangely though, i feel a violent disinclination at any thought of giving up with tail tucked and going elsewhere. i refuse to give up. even if i have to kill myself (i havent tried yet, really) to at least get stats down my throat, i will.

the jester once said he thinks my passion isnt for psychology, and right he is. Z too, said he felt that i'm more of a liberal arts person, whilst S tells me that i really should study literature. i like pysch well enough though; have pretty much found myself through its windows, and had some questions answered. just last week, we discovered an interesting theory talking about different types of intelligence. in which case, i'd think i possess linguistic intelligence, but am sorely lacking in analytical, logical intelligence. that very same day, miss Y'd brought us through the chapter on arts... i guess i kinda underestimated how much i missed literature, and the arts.

all these thoughts've been flying around my head for the semester, and i answer a resolute no, whenever the idea of quitting rears its ugly head. reason? i may not be doing brilliantly where i am now, but i've learnt lessons and patterns of thinking that i appreciate and value very very much. i dont think i could've learned these elsewhere; it just has to be that perfect combination of circumstances. also, though i've been blessed with some little talent here and there, is it enough? no. never enough. talent isnt genius. so here, i refuse to take up any of the arts i love but cannot excel in, and risk being mediocre. i'd rather be ordinary, but have my little talents, than attempt to shine my poor little torch at the sun and have its brilliant rays overpower me and mine till i cant be seen anymore.

sigh. i'll honestly admit that my despondent mood comes from the monday deadline for 106 (the worst subject ever), and add the fact that ebsco's giving me trouble as usual... never mind, i'll write off for now.

a woman's curse...

one of the biggest curses in a woman's life (in my opinion, entirely) is the time of the month, when her hormones run amok and disrupt her emotional processes. true, i have yet to experience such emotional upheaval as often described in chic lit by the letters PMS (vastly overrated, if i may say so) but still, it's bloody (excuse the pun) inconvenient, and definitely something i'd wish away, if only i could. in our world of no fairy godmothers however, that would mean no motherhood, cuz no menstruation means no ovulation and no ovulation means no children.

which puts into mind this thought, why were we made this way? why not like amoebas, making use of asexual reproduction? (hemm... i wonder how that would work, perhaps hydras'd be a better example) then no more pangs of childbirth, no more children who lost their mums through childbirth, and yes, no more menstruation too. still, i guess there's always a dark cloud to be found before every silver lining, since there'd hardly be any emotional bond between mother and child without those 9 months of pregnancy. would you care as much for a child who simply grew out of your arm or something, or one you went through hell to deliver? i think... for me... i think it'd be the latter. dont ask me why, i'm no mother, and have no intention of being one anytime soon; its just a gut feeling.

anyway, as a female, this's to be expected and i might as well look forward to it. miss Y asked us all about gender roles and why women should be the ones given the motherly roles; would it have something to do with carrying the baby beneath your heart for all those months? perhaps its not merely a tool of society to box the woman into doing what it thinks she ought to, but another way for her to manifest her affection towards her offspring. the greatest beast turns into a gentle giant when caring for her cubs and all that raw strength and energy's replaced by an inborn tenderness for the little ones.

so yeah, the next time i groan about being a poor unfortunate female, i'll try to remember that maybe one day the blessing of a new life'll spring from this blasted curse, and do my best to be happy about it.

blogthings says i am...

okay, i can just imagine S's or the jester's faces when either of them read this, and that alone is already too much of a temptation to pass up. lemme get this clear though, as a psych student, i dont put stock into these things. they're fun, they kill time, they have cool avatars pictures, and thats how they stay. here goes...

You Can Be Deeply Passionate Sometimes

You like people, but you're careful about who you get close to. Friendship is important to you... so important that you aren't just friends with anyone.You have cold feet when it comes to love. You have a lot of uncertainty until you convince yourself to dive right in.You are deeply passionate about several things in your life. You're not passionate about much... and the few passions you have are truly obsessions.Your sense of humor is intellectual and obscure. Only really well educated people get your jokes.

hmmm... i like this one. its the beach test, i think? i agree with the friendship bit, the passionate bit. the rest? i wonder.

Your Bed Says You Have Your Head in the Clouds

Outward appearances are a concern of yours, but not your primary concern. You try to take care of yourself and your home, but it's not an obsession.You try to be an organized person, but you often fall behind. Certain parts of your life tend to fall into chaos.You are not very high maintenance in general, but you are high maintenance about a few things.In relationships, you tend to kick back and let the other person be in charge.You tend to be a dreamy, head in the clouds type of person. You think in terms of possibilities.You are a bit of a homebody, but you can also make yourself at home anywhere.

agreed. i'm definitely not the most organized person in this side of the world, but i try (though not hard enough). agreed too, the let-the-other-person-take-charge thing. high maintenance huh? what few things would those be? lol, dreams're good. keeps me floating in the air. XD

Your Face Says You're Energetic

At first glance, people see you as warm and well-balanced.Overall, your true self is reserved and logical.With friends, you seem dramatic, lively, and quick to react.In love, you seem mysterious and interesting.In stressful situations, you seem sad and helpless.

ouch. the last sentence hits a bulls eye straight on a bingo. the jester can testify to that. he's had to dig me out of panic more than once when things go wrong.

You Are 52% Real

You're pretty real with people, but you can't help hiding a good part of yourself.You're not truly happy with who you are at times... and believe it or not, it shows.Try not to hide parts of your life from the people who matter to you.Your friends and family are probably a lot more accepting than you realize!

hmm. no comments on this one. hiding? says who eh, eh?

You Are Riding Boots

You are very sophisticated. You have refined tastes, and you don't fall for cheesy trends.You are naturally chic and stylish. You can pull together a great look in no time flat.You don't need a lot of flash or bling in your life. You prefer the glamour of the understated.You treasure wisdom. You are attracted to ideas and things that have stood the test of time.

hmmm... i wouldnt mind being sophisticated, but i think i'm a little too lackadaisy for that. and yes, i have discriminating tastes and YES i dont fall for cheesy trends, thank you. not so sure bout the next few lines but Yes i treasure wisdom and yes to the last point too.

You Are a Chocolate Shake

You are a total hedonist. You are drawn to pleasure.You are an expressive, over the top person. You're naturally dramatic.You're the type of person who always chooses quality over quantity.Life's too short to not have optimal experiences. You're proud of being picky.

ehh, anytime i'm on par with chocolate i'm happy, though i dont think 'total hedonist's' quite correct. yes i enjoy pleasures but i set limits. dramatic? smacks of JM... quality over quantity, YES!

You Are Fruit Flavored Gum

You are quirky and independent. You don't tend to follow any one style or rule book. You are a mix and match type of person, and you draw inspiration from many sources. While you're definitely a bit unusual, you get along well with other people. You're eager to welcome anyone into your world. You are not judgmental at all.You form close bonds with your friends, and your relationships tend to be very secure.You hold firm to your beliefs and values, and you don't let anyone talk you into compromising them.

what does fruit flavoured gum have to do with all this?? hmmm.. lines 2 and 3, agreed. lines 7, 8, definitely agreed.

pooh. add that all up, and i'll soon be the paragon of womanhood, eh? grow up, girlie. its time to be a lady.