Eh?

Is it skepticle or scepticle?

I thought it was the latter, until I realised it would make the c silent. But then I saw my Literature teacher use the word scepticism, and by dictionary, it said it was a variant of skepticism.

So which is it??

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‘Of Human Bond’

NOTE: It says that some language is prohibited. Just add "age" to bond, and you’re fine.

I finally finished “Of Human Bond”- a 700 page book (with tiny
writing) about a very much ordinary life. It seems a lot to dedicate to thirty
years of trite existence.

A boy, Phillip Carey, went through childhood and adolescence
with a clubbed foot, and when he was a man, made many a poor turn in the
winding roads of life. Nothing about him was extraordinary, and it continued on
and on and on for aeons on end. I did gain a few lessons from it though,
surprisingly. The one thing I can say I learned is that Human nature can be put
into words. Not everything needs an explanation. It can be said of man, and man
could understand and empathise. It needed nothing more than being said. I’ve
also realised that all people are intelligent, whether they choose to act it or
not. Sometimes they just lack the means of showing it.

After a decent thirty years of misery, I began to grow
restless towards the last 60 pages or so, counting them down eagerly. It was
with this anticipation that I could appreciate the words so much more, because
they were the final I would read of Maugham’s (the author). I was ever so
frightened of a sad ending, after all the misery Phillip had endured. I had
read enough to anticipate a vicious twist of fate that Phillip had suffered so
commonly, but was shown mercy at last when he could give up all his dreams and
settle down to marry.

The main reason, I think, Mr Mueller asked me to read it was
because I asked him about the meaning of life one day. He smiled, as he does,
and we walked together at lunch while he thought it over. He directed me to ‘Of
Human Bond’ as a means of answering it for myself, and Carey worked it out to
be very much meaningless. Under the right conditions, humans were born. They
lived, and suffered, and died, and then it was over. Knowing this, every pain
brought about by living was dulled, and every joy that could be found in the
world was simple, but without reason. Beauty now had meaning, rather than being
an ideal to be spoken of as aesthesis.

The irony is that the book too place over a lifetime, and
indeed a lifetime it took to read. So it was the realisation Mr Carey made at
the end can be related to my future. I don’t so much believe in happy love
stories as happy endings, for I also realised that love is painful as well as
nourishing. It is the agony of being without a loved one, in opposition to the
relief of being with them anyway. And relief truly is a wretched feeling,
because it means your weary heart had something to yearn for.

I learned that you see beauty with your heart, not your
eyes, and that art is only your view of how things look like. I learned that
“normal” is the rarest thing in the world, because everyone has problems,
whether physical or mental.

To put it short, over the past 5 or so grueling weeks in which
I struggled to keep on reading, it’s finally off my chest. One of the most
boring books I’ve ever read, but a good one all the same. The lessons I learned
will hopefully stay with me for life. I also can appreciate living in poverty,
and those whose chief concern is money (though I detest the idea. Then again,
that’s only because I have enough of it to live on at the very least). I also
learned a decent 240 words or so, which is almost half of my little booklet of
new words I come across. Now that’s worth something, surely?

It’s interesting to note, that a century after it was
written, Maugham still thanks those who made it possible for so many people to
get a hand on his book. For that much, I thank his publishers for bringing it
to Mr Mueller’s light.

Copies

I like to keep a second record of things, just in case something happens to the first. I’m more comfortable when my documents are saved on both my laptop and the family PC, and if I’ve written something down that’s worth remembering, I like to type it up. Important files are sent to myself through email so I can access them anywhere, and anything I can’t be bothered putting onto paper goes on my space.

Likewise, I’m also mildly amused at my own paranoia. Safety is an illusion. A weak piece of ceiling might break off from the roof and hit you in such a way you become paralysed for life. Your chair could break and you’d fracture a leg. A man could come charging into your house and shoot everyone for no discernable reason. It’s an open possibility. So just in case something happens to me, unlikely but possible, I’m concerned that I won’t get to say goodbye to certain people. That things I’ve planned will never come to pass. That people will get the wrong impression about who I really am. So, in case of my death, I give whoever reads this permission to break open my locked drawer. For everything else, ask Ivy. She knows me best.

Thoumadw

What is the price of a dream? Think about each of the following questions long and hard before moving on.

Is there anything you would devote your life to? Is there something you want to be? Something you live for, something you dream of? How much would you give to get it?

I’ve often prayed at night that I would find something worth dying for. Jesus acquiesced to being tortured and crucified. He believed in something. Do you?

 

EDIT: Yes, I know it’s better to find something worth living for than dying for, but that’s the beauty of it. Finding something worth dying for is finding something worthy of living for, and more.

Joy

She smiled.

Raising her hand, full of birdseed, she offered it coyly to a willy-wagtail. It chirped and hopped, its tail ever-swinging as it flitted by and by. The girl laughed, a rich melody, sweet as a golden harp as she followed it, hopping on one leg, her hand outstretched. It eyed her, wagging and wagging incessantly, letting out a mellifluous chirp. Still giggling, she tossed the seed into her garden, and it fell like droplets of earth and grain. She sat back with a delicate smile set on her lovely face, her cheeks touched by a rosy countenance. The sun filtered through the swaying trees, causing shifting beams of gold to dance across the ground. A pool of liquid sapphire shimmered like a mirage, the little flecks of light weaving in and out one another as if in dance. The flowers had never smelled as sweet, nor the grass quite ever as green.

She crossed her eyes as she glared at a few strands of hair that had fallen loose from her hairband. Laughing flippantly, she tossed her head and tucked the golden threads behind her ears. She curled her toes through the grass, shivering as a wave of pleasure ran through her spine. The willy-wagtail pecked at the seed, and in return, chirped for her- a sweet and rolling melody as private thanks.

A hand rested on her shoulder, not at all startling her (for what was there to be startled by?) and she turned to look up at its owner. A fair man stood behind her, his eyes kind and his touch warm. A loved uncle, probably, who had come to admire the day. Their mouths did not move, except to smile, but the message was unmistakable.

“My, how beautiful is life, no?”

“The Author”

Tis an interesting life, being a pen.

Over the years, I have felt many caresses.

I’ve brought smiles to naïve faces,

And broken different hearts.

I have cried inky tears, and bled ruby blood.

 

I have been old,

I have been meek.

I have been bold,

I have been weak.

 

A hidden message for a lover’s heart,

The anguish of a broken soul.

A list of names, soon complete,

Precious moments I’ve stole.

 

And yet, only one of these come to mind,

If pens have minds that is to say.

I remember, once, a hold,

A tender lamb, and yet so bold.

The penship, striking in its cryptic slashes.

Defining, insightful in its calligraphic dashes.

 

A passionate font that flitted with finesse,

Like static lightning, on a page.

A supple rose that bent and swayed,

And spoke of things aghast.

Of love and joy and happiness,

These things forbidden so yearned.

But more, of fear and shadow,

An unfrequented sorrow, eternally begotten.

But foremost of beauty. Such virtuosity!

The aesthetic heart untold.

 

Writing that snared mystery and intrigue.

Elusive yet lithe as it glowed with endeavour-

But stranger still, it would always sign,

“Willow
Wisp – Forever.”

e=mc

Sweet mother of mercy, I just got my report.
 
And it’s the worst report I’ve ever had.
 
Religion: A (Excellent)
Chemistry: C (Satisfactory)
Economics: C (Satisfactory)
English Literature: B (High)
Human Biology: B (High)
Introductory Calculus: C (Satisfactory)
Music: B (High)
 
 
I started out with an average of around 80% in all of my subjects, bar intro calc. And something’s gone wrong.
 
I am no longer an academic achiever. I’m mediocre mainstream, but hey, whatever. Marks don’t count, I know that. But I’m still fucking pissed that I could do so badly. One A, three B’s, three C’s. I feel like I should be whipped.

I know that some people reading this will tell me that I shouldn’t care. And I know I shouldn’t. I know how tiny this notch is in my expansive future (if I have one, that is to say). But I feel as if I’ve performed less than average. I know my potential is, well, limitless. I’m just depressed (now that the rage has left me- depression is anger without will) that I did so dismally when I tried so hard. Not hard enough, I guess, but hey.

 
If my efforts weren’t enough, I’m not going to put more in, because I don’t need to. I gave it a shot, didn’t quite make the basket, but I’m still in the game. I’m no longer an academic achiever- something I’ve always been, to a limited extent. That hurts a little, but I have more important things than academics in my life. Besides- I’ve forgotten most of what they taught me since Year 1-10, and I’m having serious doubts about the necessity of what we learn in Years 11-12. Seeing as I’ve gotten on without everything I was supposed to never forget, I guess this won’t kill my future. Afterall, Einstein got through college by studying his friends’ notes.
 
EDIT: I also have an interview with Mr Shackleton- the chemistry teacher I’ve had for three out of four years at Trinity. He was the reason Eugene (and myself) struggled through chemistry, when juxtaposed (put next to and compared with) Mr Hay- allegedly the greatest teacher in Perth. All the same, harsh words will be said on both sides, as Eugene is coming to the interview. With some luck, I’ll have Mr Hay for the next two years and will hopefully pass chemistry. Just like Einstein.