for · the · sake · of · a · single · verse

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

It's June 4th.

Food for thought...

China's New Rebels, NYTimes.
Ma Jian, The Guardian.
Video of the Tank Man, Daily Kos.
Graphic pictures from Telegraph.co.uk, The People's Forum.

A lot of of young people in China my age, who were either born after the event or too young to remember, don't actually know much more about it or care a lot less than they should. Knowing that, I will call my parents tomorrow, and ask them to talk to me. Uncomfortable things are not easy to talk over, and even easier to forget.

I am twenty years old, and so is the Tiananmen Square massacre that occurred on June 4th, 1989. Here's to remembering.

“The honor of the political leader, of the leading statesman, however, lies precisely in an exclusive personal responsibility for what he does, a responsibility he cannot and must not reject or transfer. It is in the nature of officials of high moral standing to be poor politicians, and above all, in the political sense of the word, to be irresponsible politicians.” – Max Weber, Politics As A Vocation

And there you have it, folks. The difference between Eddard Stark and Roose Bolton, theorized and formulated long before George R.R. Martin was a squalling baby. Oh, to be a fly on the wall of Winterfell!

I love all Bee ventures circadian,
Purposeful, at times nomadian,
There is no aimless jive,
It is all for the Hive,
In their pastoral pursuits arcadian.

— Larry Eisenberg , Let's Hear it for the Bees

Comment found on the YouTube for "Love Story" (Taylor Swift).

if you want you wish to come true
-cross your fingers
-close your eyes
-whistel one time
-make you wish
-post this on two taylor swift songs
-the next day your wish should come true

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

That is all.

The true test of being busy (at least for this week) has turned out to be the fact that I didn't take a single nap. Possibly since I'm actually getting a solid 7 hours every single night from about 1 a.m. to 8/9 a.m.

But possibly also because my schedule leaves no time for sleep in the middle of the day. =(

Watch pouting college student pout. Pout, college student, pout.

I am Very Bothered

I am very bothered when I think
of the bad things I have done in my life.
Not least that time in the chemistry lab
when I held a pair of scissors by the blades
and played the handles
in the naked lilac flame of the Bunsen burner;
then called your name, and handed them over.

O the unrivalled stench of branded skin
as you slipped your thumb and middle finger in,
then couldn't shake off the two burning rings. Marked,
the doctor said, for eternity.

Don't believe me, please, if I say
that was just my butterfingered way, at thirteen,
of asking you if you would marry me.

-- Simon Armitage

Wow, guys. Wow, guys.

Nearly half of Boston-area teenagers say Rihanna was responsible for pop star Chris Brown's alleged Grammy night attack that landed her in the hospital, according to a new survey by the Boston Public Health Commission.

Official media release from the BPHC here.

All I can say is... I had better not know any of those kids who thought Rihanna was responsible. *facepalms* ... I mean, really? Really, Boston?

I made biscuits. (Biscuits! Fluffy savory flaky crusted things! From scratch!) I really enjoy cooking. Especially as procrastination. Also, Rachel Getting Married is really funny and really depressing, simultaneously. Also, I might be an olive convert.

Also, I'm going home in less than a work. What awaits, you ask? Road trips to Maine, lots and lots of cat time, being with my mom again (finally), shopping for jeans, and sleep, ad infinitum. But there are certain hurdles in the way. Aah.

That is all. Bedtime now. You may now return to your regularly scheduled programming.

For the sake of a single verse, one must see many cities, men, and things. One must know the animals, one must feel how the birds fly and know the gesture with which the little flowers open in the morning. One must be able to think back to roads in unknown regions, to unexpected meetings and to partings one had long seen coming; to days of childhood that are still unexplained, to parents whom one had to hurt when they brought one some joy and did not grasp it (it was a joy for someone else); to childhood illnesses that so strangely begin with such a number of profound and grave transformations, to days in rooms withdrawn and quiet and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of travel that rushed along on high and flew with all the stars—and it is not yet enough if one may think of all this. One must have memories of many nights of love, none of which was like the others, of the screams of women in labor, and of light, white, sleeping women in childbed, closing again. But one must also have been beside the dying, must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open window and the fitful noises. And still it is not enough to have memories. One must be able to forget them when they are many, and one must have the great patience to wait until they come again.

For it is not yet the memories themselves. Not till they have turned to blood within us, to glance, and gesture, nameless, and no longer to be distinguished from ourselves—not till then can it happen that in a most rare hour the first word of a verse arises in their midst and goes forth from them.

- Rainer Maria Rilke

《孟母三迁》("The Three Movings of Meng Zi's Mother") is an old Chinese story. It tells the tale of the mother of Meng Zi, the great philosopher, who, when Meng Zi was small, moved home three times. First, they moved near a blacksmith's shop. When Meng Zi's mother found him playing with metal scraps, she decided to move. Next, they moved near a graveyard. Meng Zi's mother found him imitating the mourners and holding mock funerals. Finally, she moved them to a house beside a school. Meng Zi discovered a great interest in studying, and eventually became a great scholar. The story is supposed to express the extent to which parents go for the sake of their children.

As an assignment in Chinese class, we were supposed to take a well-known proverb in Chinese, and write a new story based on the original meaning. Here's my new rewriting (and translation) of "The Three Movings of Meng Zi's Mother". If Meng Zi saw this, he might turn over in his grave.

孟母三迁

孟子是个好孩子。从小就听话，懂事，能干。在小学班上汉语考试第一。因为孟子自然很优秀，所以孟母不太关心孩子的教育。一天孟母在电视上看到关于学英语的新闻节目。主持人说缺乏英文知识是面对今日中国儿童最严重的问题。很多公司都在向西方发展，以后想在找个好工作最好学英文。孟子回家之后孟母问儿子英文成绩如何。孟子回答不太好。

孟母几天晚上没睡好觉，为了这差事失眠。过了几个星期孟母请来了一位英语家教。教了半年之后，孟子的英文成绩依然马马虎虎。孟母急得饭都吃不了。上初中的时候孟母把孟子送去市里的特殊英文语言学校。送了两年之后孟母发现儿子在几乎每一项目的表演都非常精彩，就是英文成绩还不够满意。孟母想了好长时间，最后索性把孩子送出国。妹妹家在美国加州，答应把孟子收下来三年，在美国读高中。过了半年，孟母听说孟子英文飞跃进步，乐得合不上嘴.

三年过了，让孩子回中国上大学的时候，孟母去机场，高高兴兴去迎接长大的儿子。儿子一开口孟母就傻了。孟子的英文确实已经到了母语程度，只是可惜他的中文已经忘得一干二净了。用着结结巴巴，含有古怪口音的中文，孟子告诉母亲他已经决定在美国上大学，申请美国公民，都交了一个白人女朋友。今年夏天还能回国陪妈妈呆几个月，同时复习一下中文，已经了不起了。

( Translation. )

** This tale is in no way inspired by the author's biographical story. *cough*

... well, let's go over this again, Chicago.

I'm sure you've got some rationale or some logical way of explaining this, and I'm just too dumb to understand it, me poor college student with just a high school diploma. But could you reiterate exactly why tomorrow's daytime wind chill is going to be around -35 degrees Fahrenheit?!

Nota Bene: According to xkcd, this is dangerously close to "Spit goes 'Clink!'" temperature. Which... objectively speaking, is kind of awesome; I love when life imitates xkcd. (Subjectively speaking, however... well, let's just not go there.)

Bottom line: aaaaaaah. I have to go dancing. And DJ swing for the night (wtf?!), because everyone else bailed, fuckers. And possibly let a dancer crash on my couch. And work starts Saturday. And I didn't do any of my Chinese homework. And all my personal statements need to be done tomorrow so they can be e-mailed out to my recommenders. And I need to go to sleep now.

I'm going to say this again, because I haven't said it enough this week:

I did not sign up for this, life. You'd better check that clipboard again.

Take this entry as a pebble, thrown out into the pond of cyberspace. Instead of just listening to the music of the splash and the quieting of the waves, I want to see the ripples. If you usually read this little corner of the Internet, give over a brain cell or two to contemplating what it says about me, the world, maybe about you, and remember that once in a while, then leave a note, a blank, a heart or a few words. Anonymously, if you want.

I'm just curious, even though there is no such thing.

Edited at 2:45 a.m. EST: Now I also know how many of you browse LJ to the wee hours. Hee.

Edited again at 2:50 a.m. EST: I just realized; this is like a meme. Oh my Gawd.

Did it work? Was the audience moved by McCain’s description of the plight of Joe, the Ohio plumber, who discovered that the Obama program might mean higher taxes for him if his business were to net more than $250,000 a year? Or were they stunned by the idea that anybody still expects to make that much money in the foreseeable future?

- Gail Collins, Oct. 16th NYT editorial.

Here I'm scribbling, about to run out the door, dressed in my black flats, black cardigan, and red, white, black polka-dotted dress. I'm hoping, praying, and absolutely wanting this weekend to be the best ever. Here's to swing dancing in Vienna, and here's to hoping that it'll be wonderful. I've been waiting for this all week, and possibly all month. And it makes me thrilled to my toes that it's happening right now. Eep.

Tonight, Anneke drove me and Lisa back home, around 10:30 p.m. or so. On the long rollicking journey from West Roxbury back to my house, both Lisa's mother and my mother called.

Only afterwards did I realize that separately, without pausing, we both flipped open our phones, and responded immediately, "Hi, I'm on my way home right now."

It was just automatically the thing to do, I have to say. As Asian children, it's almost easier to read your parents' minds, because they are pretty predictable: grades, curfew, safety, etc. But it's funny how we've all adapted just like that... Anneke did exasperatedly remark that I was an adult now, and should be able to stay over at someone's house if I wanted to. It's a little more about leaving my parents alone at home, though. My mom spends enough time at home by herself, I think... and there are no younger siblings.

So there you go - the life of an Asian only-child. Twice the burdens, half the time. Or something.

It is 12:16 a.m. on Sunday before finals week. I am in the A-level of the Regenstein Library and have been here for nearly two hours now, organizing and starting to write my sosc paper, while listening to an idyllic playlist from iTunes.

I am enjoying it.

This scares me more than anyone could understand. It was my intention to get drunk again tonight, but I would strangely rather decipher Fanon and de Beauvoir than have gin and tonics with Chris. Terrifying.

I will make the most of this momentary madness, and finish as much of this sosc paper as I can. And maybe ask Sarah if it all makes sense, because it's proceeding much too smoothly and easily. Right. Back to sanity.