Feel better, friend.

"We are richer than we think, each one of us." ---  It's easier, you say,  it's easy to love and be loved -  just look to the empty sky,  that is how much God loves you.  Ah, the sky, the open blue sky.  Beyond, they've found new life.  Planets in about an infinity yonder -  How I wish we found life there,  that would shut you up wouldn't it.  Would it?  I had assume it would, but now I'm not entirely sure.  Some apologist in torn jeans and a t-shirt would probably say,  say into his wireless microphone attached to his face,  say, "Oh the wonder of our God"  " How great and awesome our God truly is for creating this marvellous universe."  "That our God would be so magnificent as to create entire other planets for us to share our love with, and his message of kindness and goodness."  Inter-planetary prophets, all the while forgetting about the time, you know,  whe

Bold and colourful, yet smooth and coordinated - followed his passions, greeted the world with a smile, treated everyone like a friend, and he did it all while refusing to blend in. --- with a crooked smile I go, crooked smiles I love, but I hate my own. I give the world a minimum curve, not unlike a cricket paralympian bowling with a pair of bowls, la. ugh. --- You made me happy so you deserve the best but what I give is crooked and therefore, cannot be. You give it to me and I receive it readily But I cannot bear to part with this disfigured gift. So I hide my teeth, I hide myself, behind this little curve that I hope accurately captures the joy you make me feel. And everyday I hope for braces, and everyday I tell myself I can live with it, and everyday I wake up in the morning and I fail, and I fail and fail and fail again to follow Sager's footsteps. I fail to remember that it is us who are sometimes our own worst critics. And that being f

Pretty but deadly (http://evolution.berkeley.edu/evolibrary/article/0_0_0/biowarfare_02)  To investigate the mystery of the hunters' deaths, Butch began by studying the newts. Rough-skinned newts, like the one found in the coffee pot, live along the west coast of the United States. The newts' brown backs blend into their surroundings; but when disturbed, the newts do something strange: they curl their heads and tails towards each other to show off their bright orange bellies. Why? Well, other brightly colored animals like monarch butterflies and coral snakes are poisonous or venomous. Their bright colors warn predators, "Back off, I'm dangerous!" Perhaps, Butch reasoned, the orange belly of the rough-skinned newt sends a similar message — perhaps the newts are poisonous. --- "Back off, I'm dangerous."  --- Person of interests,  face painted over and over,  not unlike camouflage.  The black in your eyes yell  &qu

Griot The social tasks of a griot (http://www.goethe.de/ins/za/prj/wom/osm/en9606618.htm) Traditionally, griots were a social caste, dedicated to preserving the memory of society. “ Without us, the names of kings would be forgotten, we are the memory of humankind. By the spoken word, we give life to the facts and actions of kings in front of the young generation ”, said griot Mamadou Kouyaté, quoted in Djibril Tamsir Niane’s  Soundjata ou l'épopée mandingue  (English: Soundjata or the Mandinka epos). The exact role of a griot is multi-faceted, but in general, the work is a service, particularly to the richer members of the community and for those who (at least in the traditional sense) are considered to be nobility. While griots can be called upon to work at any moment, their specialty is formal ceremonies. “When there’s a marriage, it’s for us. When there’s a baptism, it’s us. When there’s a funeral, it’s us,” says Bakary. The griot expects a reward for his services as part

"Dolphins are not automatic air-breathers like we are," he explains. "Every breath is a conscious effort. If life becomes too unbearable, the dolphins just take a breath and they sink to the bottom. They don't take the next breath." --- He was spiralling and spiralling and spiralling and.  His body found the bottom, but his mind was still going.  No need for the autonomic -  one wills death.  He invited her over for tea,  and they left together -  cups full and untouched. 

In her ten commandments for vocal health, however, Loeding says one  should never scream , not at a basketball or football game, not even for joy.

The Wannabes usually, be.

How exhilarating it was to march   along the great boulevards  in the sunflash of trumpets  and under all the waving flags—  the flag of ambition, the flag of love.  So many of us streaming along—  all of humanity, really—  moving in perfect step,  yet each lost in the room of a private dream.  How stimulating the scenery of the world,  the rows of roadside trees,  the huge curtain of the sky.  How endless it seemed until we veered  off the broad turnpike  into a pasture of high grass,  headed toward the dizzying cliffs of mortality.  Generation after generation,  we keep shouldering forward  until we step off the lip into space.  And I should not have to remind you  that little time is given here  to rest on a wayside bench,  to stop and bend to the wildflowers,  or to study a bird on a branch—  not when the young  are always shoving from behind,  not when the old keep tugging us forward,  pulling on our arms wit

I fear that I'm not delicate enough to do tragedies My hands too rough to make art The soul too fragile to handle truth These eyes too dry to cry My laughter is less, My smile worth nothing I've not read enough, Written far too little My words are good enough to make you move My voice too soft to be heard Too loud to be truly heard This story I tell is too personal, and that no one would care. No one will care, because why would they? A B for lit and a B for theatre Judged by people who judge for a living Who am I to dispute that? How could I? Too personal again, not watched enough films, can't edit, can't write, improvement? - not enough. Never enough. These, I say, are lies: I carry the lies I learn from others, from my hallowed past. Jesus tells me that I'm good, and that I will be good. I believe him a waste of time, but his message isn't. His message isn't.  Lies I tell Myself. Lies I tell others, right through them,

I fell in love with theatre again. I want every person I know to watch this play. I saw Edith wipe her eyes after it all. She doesnt understand Chinese. So much happened. I laughed, I cried, then I laughed some more. I began not catching much of the chinses: I guess I wasn't sure if I would understand. But the switching from surtitle screen to performer was far too tedious. So I forced myself to listen, going against every Fibre of body, every bad experience I have had with Chinese. But I eventually understood. I understood maybe... 85% of what she said. I checked the screens for the rest. But I understood her because... I still am Chinese.  And I learnt Chinese... once. And I am grateful and jealous at the same time, for being able to be part of that culture - but then again, I felt so much like Edith and the Indian boy next to me. I wanted to laugh only after her joke, but I would have caught a glimpse of the screen before, and the Indian boy and I  would have shar

When truth, justice, harmony – a utopia – are posited to exist in the future, the realization of this utopia located at the “end of history” becomes the sole measure of value, and any means that are thought to contribute to the actualization of it are justified; be it a denial of individual freedom, torture, or even genocide.  “If it is certain that the kingdom will come, what does time matter? Suffering is never provisional for the man who does not believe in the future. But one hundred years of suffering are fleeting in the eyes of the man who prophesies, for the one hundred and first year, the definitive city” (( The Rebel: An Essay on Man in Revolt )" ---- We are like Tantalus, who was condemned for eternity to stand in a pool of water beneath overhanging fruit which receded every time he reached for it. Our deep yearnings for a beyond to justify this earthly existence will forever remain unfulfilled, and beneath the flux of daily existence we will at our core feel like

“Look again at that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every "superstar," every "supreme leader," every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there-on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam. The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager