Songs of Fish

"It is considered unwise to whisper one's secrets to the wind," I said.

She looked at me after a long reflection and asked sombrely, "Are you the wind?"

"Part of it," I said.

- The Fish Can Sing (1957)

Christus Resurrectus Est

The Sunday before, and before Mass comenced, the parishoners congregated at the front deck place in St. Joseph's, each wielding a palm leaf, green, fresh and pricky. I hadn't recalled such a starting for my previous years; maybe I had missed it, maybe I wasn't at church, or maybe I was too young. The palm leaves now adorn the main door and the living room piano. It was Palm Sunday.

Happy Easter, everyone!

Sandro Magister: Easter in Vietnam

A stór, a stór an dtiocfaidh tu?

A stór, a stór, a ghra
A stór, a stór an dtiocfaidh tu?
A stór, a stór, a ghra
An dtiocfaidh tu nó an bhfanfaidh tu?

Bhi me la brea samhraidh i mo sheasamh ar an mhargadh
'S is iomai fear a duirt lion: "Monuar, gan tu sa bhaile agam".

Gheall mo ghra domsa cinnte go dtiocfadh si
Ni raibh a culaith Déanta agus sin an rud a choinnigh i

Thart tóin an gharrai, a Mhaire, bhfuilan fhidil leat?
Aicearra na bpratai go dtéimid' sair an fhidileoir

Mhi mise lan den tsaoil is bhi cion amuigh is istigh orm
Nach mór a dathraigh an saol nuair nach bhfuil eion ag duine ar bith orm?

[In English]
My darling, my darling, my love
My darling, my darling, will you come with me
My darling, my darling, my love will you come with me or settled be
My true love promised kindly that she would surely come with me
Her wedding dress not ready, delayed her in joining me.
We have got water from the Eirne, and green grass from the heaven’s stems
Cows udders are near rending from the overflow of milk in them.
By the bottom of the garden, a Mary, is the fiddle there?
The shortcut by the praties, we’ll hasten to the fiddler.
At one time in my life I was dearly loved by everyone
Haven’t times changed when no one cares a whit for me?

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I have missed out a lot in my chronicling, or has it been that this page has fallen from a proper journal to merely a punchbag for my wordwrangling, to an outlet for my unsatisfied passion, to a dried and crumbling library of the events of weeks past, to simply nothing at all? Maybe that was how I felt twelve months ago, but I was blogging profusely and without much prudence. Nevertheless, I start this entry not knowing how long it will stretch, with the hypnotising ballad that had just entered my music library yesterday.

There are a lot of things I can bring myself in to write, although there seemed some persistent eddy currents preventing me from actually writing them down. Some were so petty it would seem an insult to pen them, while others are as usual plain embarrassing. The song above, however, is not plain embarrassing, even if only vaguely embarrassing.

Notice how such a song, so charged with sentiment, isn't sung by a lonely wretch yearning for the girl of his life. Like most Altan songs this one is sung by Mairéad, with the rich, earthly-coloured voices of men backing hers.

A Thought: A relationship between two isn't just their business, but also of those around them. Indoctrinated as I am to the popularised dogma that even the sanctity of puppy love is inviolable, it surprised me to learn that the friends of a couple play a large part in preserving or breaking such bonds. Whereas, my view generally dictates me to stay away from such affairs of other people, bringing with this isolation a sour jealousy.

Listen again to the chorus, even if you don't know the words. It is enlightening.

(Maybe you should stop reading here)
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For the record, in this fortnight and last I have taken to obsessively add entries into my GP scrapbook, covering subjects ranging from governance, religion, the environment, comics and the weather. Where commentary paragraphs are concerned however, I have done nothing.

But maybe it could have helped, because for the General Paper block test this Monday I did inundate my essay with wide and disparate examples when one wonders if it would be better to seriously write instead.

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The Computing papers have never adhered to Cambridge standards, which would make me feel a little cheated at times. Plus I certainly hope that in the real big thing questions would not come out so ambiguous and panic-inducing when somewhere in the paper mentions something you have never learnt at all, but is necessary to remember nonetheless.

My brief go at generating a Mandelbrot Set in a character array helped, at least, in the long tiring questions of writing bunches of C++ codes by hand; namely, the ones concerning classes. I got myself a complex number class in the header file, and wrote two other functions, one for the Mandelbrot set and the other for the Julia. And the results, after a few hours of blindly debugging, was truly gratifying.




The piccy is the product of screenshots, taken for different numbers of iteration and put together in Adobe Imageready.

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Friends in the library has increased this fortnight.

Regina seemed to shun that place where mugging is concerned, saying that it's best for her to study home. And alone. Enough to make me groan and give up pursuing alternatives.

She was afraid of distractions in the library. I really get less distractions from the library. It is only at home when my sisters watch those silly cartoons on kids central, or turn the music on too loudly next doors. At other times the house would be filled with deafening silence, which draws me to the piano.

I set off thinking the library would be deserted, but on Wednesday Kar Weng was there, and so were Calvin and his girlfriend, Yee Chien and Yeen Seen, Jessica from 7B, Xiangjun, Yuan Yi and Juliana, Regina's sister. Thursday saw quite less people, and today there were Zhang Hao, Chun Hao, Wei Jun and Victor whose table I promptly crashed.

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A Catharsis
I will return when I find more urge to write. And more sleep.
Goodnight.

The Muse of Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

"One day, as he and Rachou were going to lunch at Boivin's, they met a girl whose simple dress was that of a worker, but whose copper hair caused Lautrec to stop and entusiastically cry out:

"She's swell! She looks like a proper bitch! Wouldn't it be marvellous if we could have her as a model! You should ask her."

"Her name was Carmen Gaudin and she was a sweet, slightly sickly worker. Lautrec who had pictured her as a formidable bitch was very surprised when he heard that her lover gave her some sound beatings. She was punctual and remained his favourite model for a long time."

-- François Gauzi

The Old Scene Four

SCENE FOUR
In which Diotallevi encounters a robbery, defies the Script, and is arrested.
Being rather antisocial with the other scenes in the Dramafeste play, the Old Scene Four has Forty times the irony and makes about one-tenth the sense of the current play we use. Despite being so supremely stupid, it has found landing place on this blog, of all places.

{Diotallevi walks dejectedly along the street. Out comes Robert, who is a robber, and who is called Robert for precisely that reason, although he does not realize that such a connection exists. Robert has covered his face with a wool hat and scarf, leaving only the eyes. He confronts Diotallevi.}

Diotallevi: (surprised) Robert? What are you doing here, late at night?
Robert: Well,
{A long pause}
Diotallevi: What’s the matter? I have to get home now.
{He tries to walk past him, but Robert moves to block the way}
Diotallevi: (loudly) Let me pass!
Robert: (gloomily) No, man, no.
Diotallevi: What do you want?
Robert: Do you have money with you now? I need it.
Diotallevi: (Searches all his pockets in a great show, producing only a two-euro note) Not much, Robert, two dollars, barely enough for the bus back home. Why?
Robert: (produces a gun, points it at Diotallevi and unravels the scarf) You have to help me, Dio, I’m helpless (weeps) My wife’s left me with my children, and my house burned down. Now I can’t even rent a place to live in! I know you’ll have a million dollars to give me, Dio, if I ask nicely.
Diotallevi: (sagely) You’re mad, Robert, to think that pointing this gun at me will make fortune appear in my pockets.
Robert: You’re hiding it! You’re hiding it because you don’t care about me! Everyone’s hiding things away from me! Why can’t I know the things I need to know? Why am I so confused about the world nowadays! What the hell am I talking about! You have the one million dollars. Definitely, because I say so! Get it out, or, or, I’ll shoot you!
Diotallevi: I don’t think so! The gun you’re holding is a fake.
Robert: What?
Diotallevi: Your gun is a toy, a prop. (sarcastically) The Director gave it to you, didn’t she? It can’t shoot. It can’t hurt. And it’s not supposed to.
Robert: I don’t care. I’ll shoot your face!
{Robert shoots Diotallevi, and gun shots are heard. Diotallevi squints, clutches his chest and bends down, as if shot. After Robert uses up his bullets, Diotallevi pats his body, and after finding no gunshot wound nor blood, straightens up}
Robert: Dammit, why are you still standing? The script requires you to get shot dead!
Diotallevi: No, it doesn’t!
Robert: I don’t believe this! (shakes his head fearfully, drops the gun, and backs away)
{Enter Police Officer and two constables. Constable 1 is carrying a medical kit}
Officer: Hey, hey! What seems to be the matter ‘ere?
Robert: This man… this man… he defies reality!
{Robert runs away offstage, with Constable 2 running after him}
Officer: (amiably) Oooh. How does he do that, then?
Diotallevi: (amused) Sir, that man tried to shoot me with a toy gun.
Officer: We saw it happening. In fact, he did shoot you with his toy gun. Only you didn’t get shot. (harshly) We want you to explain yourself.
{He pats Diotallevi heftily on the shoulder as Constable 1 picks up the gun}
Constable 1: Sir, I can tell you with good faith that this is a real gun. In fact, it’s an authentic Burleigh Brothers Mark 2 Musket, Collectors' Model.
Officer: I’m impressed. What’s your name, Constable?...
Constable 1: Constable 1, Sir!
{Constable 2 comes back on stage, panting}
Officer: I’m impressed, Constable 1.
Diotallevi: Oh, Constable 1. Constable 1?
Constable 1: (annoyed) Yes, Constable 1.
Constable 2: Hi, I’m Constable 2. (holds out hand)
Officer: Shut up! (stomps stage)
Constable 2: (retracts hand) Sorrysir.
Officer: Where’d you go, Constable 2?
Constable 2: I went to chase that man who’d dropped the Burleigh Brothers Mark 2 Musket Collectors' Model.
Officer: And you couldn’t catch him?
Constable 2: (still panting) No, man, he ran offstage.
Officer: It’s “sir”, you pillock.
Constable 2: Sorrysir. No, sir, he ran offstage.
Officer: Leave that guy, Constable, he’s innocent.
Diotallevi: Innocent? He was a robber!
Officer: He was following the script! You, on the other hand, weren’t! You refused to even fall! Let me have a look at your wallet.
Diotallevi: Why?
Constable 1: Just give him your wallet. We need it.
{Diotallevi hands wallet over to Officer, who pulls out a 1 million euro note. I shall not explain why it is a euro and not any other currency.}
Officer: (waving the 1 million euros at Diotallevi) One million dollars! You should have given this to him!
Diotallevi: [shocked] I didn’t know it was there!
Officer: You’re in big trouble, laddo… In fact, you’re under arrest for being uncharitable towards a fellow actor as well as undermining reality. Come with us to the station. You need some reconditioning.
Diotallevi: Uncharitable? To a robber? I didn’t know such a law exists!
Officer: Oh, now it does!
{Diotallevi attempts to rush away from scene, but the Constables hold him back and prevent him from escaping. They pin Diotallevi to the floor}
Diotallevi: I shall not be reconditioned!
Officer: Stay down, Diotallevi!
Diotallevi: Let me out!
Officer: Sedative!
{Constable 1 opens a medical kit and passes a fake syringe, whereupon the Officer jabs the imaginary point into Diotallevi’s arm. Diotallevi stops struggling and goes limp}
Constable 2: Shall we bring him to Doctor Lugh, sir? He’ll know how to sort him out.
Officer: Please do. Good job, constables.
{Exeunt with Diotallevi carried offstage by Constables.}