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?