(no subject)
Hello all.
First, an early warning: I've just signed up for NaBloPoMo. Expect the worst. ;)
(I have the worst timing, no? The day before my H1 Chinese exam, the usual distraction strikes.
Shall we call this a brief study break? Hopefully yes, if I am able to kick myself off and continue revision in ten minutes flat.)
Now, why've I done this?
I suppose I relish the thought of the writing exercise. It's nice to have a good (validated, perhaps?) reason to regularly inflict my ramblings onto any and all who may suffer them.
Also, I'm curious to see
So here goes: the first post of November.
I cannot help but wonder why I am only able to organise my thoughts when I'm relaxed and writing self-indulgent (and nearly useless, academics-wise) flights of fancy. Stream-of-consciousness is perfectly acceptable when there's nobody who needs to know about these thoughts. There's no reason why I need to make any good sense here.
Yet my blogposts tend to take the form of carefully delineated, well-reasoned writing. My essays, under stress, turn tail and run from both organisation and rational sensibility.
The brainjam does not Bode Well. There still seems to be very good reasons why the Humanities Programme would have likely never suited me.
(Yet I do wonder what kind of a person I would be, had I been placed in such an environment.
It would've probably been comfortable, with like-minded people. Far more likely, it would have been exponentially harder to be pushed beyond what I can cope with, and far more devastating to have to compete with ex-classmates of mine who had gotten things together a long time back, and then some.
Maybe things are the way they are, because it's the best way in the long run. But how can we compare our circumstances to what might have been?)
To round off, a few thoughts on a couple of books I've been thinking about, but not been able to read.
A couple of weeks ago, I was reading Lee Kong Chien's copy of Anne Fadiman's Ex Libris, on one of the sporadic treks I've taken down to there, to turn bookworm with just my mum. (Good times.) It's a beautiful collection of essays on her love of books. Each is shaped by gentle wit and warmth, and seem to reflect a . I miss it. I want to curl up inside its pages, to soak in their goodness. Most definitely on the Christmas/birthday wishlist.
Next, I'd really like to return to A Ring of Endless Light by Madeleine L'Engle. A perennial favourite of mine. ( tintinvoyageur can attest that at one time during P6, I was carrying it down to recess every day.) I'm not sure why, but every time I read them, L'Engle's speak to me anew.
Not just these, but I borrowed La's Orchestra Saves the World by Alexander McCall Smith, Perilous Power by Noam Chomsky, and Coffee with Shakespeare, and a smattering of books on architecture.
So many books, so little time. Very depressing.
And indeed, time ticks on.
First, an early warning: I've just signed up for NaBloPoMo. Expect the worst. ;)
(I have the worst timing, no? The day before my H1 Chinese exam, the usual distraction strikes.
Shall we call this a brief study break? Hopefully yes, if I am able to kick myself off and continue revision in ten minutes flat.)
Now, why've I done this?
I suppose I relish the thought of the writing exercise. It's nice to have a good (validated, perhaps?) reason to regularly inflict my ramblings onto any and all who may suffer them.
Also, I'm curious to see
So here goes: the first post of November.
I cannot help but wonder why I am only able to organise my thoughts when I'm relaxed and writing self-indulgent (and nearly useless, academics-wise) flights of fancy. Stream-of-consciousness is perfectly acceptable when there's nobody who needs to know about these thoughts. There's no reason why I need to make any good sense here.
Yet my blogposts tend to take the form of carefully delineated, well-reasoned writing. My essays, under stress, turn tail and run from both organisation and rational sensibility.
The brainjam does not Bode Well. There still seems to be very good reasons why the Humanities Programme would have likely never suited me.
(Yet I do wonder what kind of a person I would be, had I been placed in such an environment.
It would've probably been comfortable, with like-minded people. Far more likely, it would have been exponentially harder to be pushed beyond what I can cope with, and far more devastating to have to compete with ex-classmates of mine who had gotten things together a long time back, and then some.
Maybe things are the way they are, because it's the best way in the long run. But how can we compare our circumstances to what might have been?)
To round off, a few thoughts on a couple of books I've been thinking about, but not been able to read.
A couple of weeks ago, I was reading Lee Kong Chien's copy of Anne Fadiman's Ex Libris, on one of the sporadic treks I've taken down to there, to turn bookworm with just my mum. (Good times.) It's a beautiful collection of essays on her love of books. Each is shaped by gentle wit and warmth, and seem to reflect a . I miss it. I want to curl up inside its pages, to soak in their goodness. Most definitely on the Christmas/birthday wishlist.
Next, I'd really like to return to A Ring of Endless Light by Madeleine L'Engle. A perennial favourite of mine. ( tintinvoyageur can attest that at one time during P6, I was carrying it down to recess every day.) I'm not sure why, but every time I read them, L'Engle's speak to me anew.
Not just these, but I borrowed La's Orchestra Saves the World by Alexander McCall Smith, Perilous Power by Noam Chomsky, and Coffee with Shakespeare, and a smattering of books on architecture.
So many books, so little time. Very depressing.
And indeed, time ticks on.