"sic erit;
haeserunt tenues in corde sagittae, et possessa ferus pectora versat Amor.
Cedimus, an subitum luctando accendimus ignem?"
(Thus it will be; slender arrows are lodged in my heart,and Love vexes the chest that it has seizedShall I surrender or stir up the sudden flame by fighting it?)
And thus began my love/hate relationship with that glorious yet diabolic embodiment of English. Pure, unadulterated English.
His teasing chestnut macho-sultry locks and lightly toasted pleasing complexion seemed seductive, yet his eyes, deep, brilliant green eyes were cold, metallic and harsh.
Why are you doing this to me? I yell in desperation, torn apart by vividly contradicting emotions.
My unstable hormone-raging adolescence makes me more perplexed, bewildered, flummoxed.
He grins, his teeth glimmering in magnificent pearly radiance. Yet each teeth, though carved beautiful seems dangerous; sharpened to razor points- poised to kill.
His finely toned, lithe yet muscle-bound body though attractive to the eye holds concealed abilities. He is a master of deception. His life is a masquerade. He is a double agent, a winner both ways.
My lust and my loathe intermingle and fog my sense of discretion, blinding and ensnaring my senses. My heart? My head? Which to chose? Which to let go?
He smiles. And I melt into a puddle of ecstasy. In his arms, fear has no mantle.
Yet, against his beating heart, head against chest, I can sense the silver dagger that lurks inches away from my own.
To love or to leave. That is the question.
And yet despite the disappointing low grade etched on my English exam paper, I cannot help fall in love with that charming, lucid, chivalrous and engrossing man- English.
Blog Bubble: "Odi et amo. quare id faciam, fortasse requiris?nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior":
I hate and I love. How can I do that, you might ask me perhaps?I do not know. But that's what I feel and this is torture. ---Catullus LXXXV
Friday, May 29, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
The Scribbler Kid strikes!
When the moon is full and the night is pitch dark, a cloak is thrown on and the music gets pumped up with stealth...
The Scribbler Kid strikes!
Henceforth, shedding the pseudonym 'Padfoot' taken from, undoubtedly, the Harry Potter Series, I have donned another more unique pen name... The Scribbler Kid!
From now on, posts will be signed in said name, pictures will be captured under the same name and I will be, the one, the only 'The Scribbler Kid' , scribbling notes and sketches, comics and caricatures, slapping on some photographs and videos and bringing you controversial opinions!
The Scribbler Kid--- Out!
The Scribbler Kid strikes!
Henceforth, shedding the pseudonym 'Padfoot' taken from, undoubtedly, the Harry Potter Series, I have donned another more unique pen name... The Scribbler Kid!
From now on, posts will be signed in said name, pictures will be captured under the same name and I will be, the one, the only 'The Scribbler Kid' , scribbling notes and sketches, comics and caricatures, slapping on some photographs and videos and bringing you controversial opinions!
The Scribbler Kid--- Out!
Unlimited Words
Word Limits have always frustrated me.
My English Answer Script would total to less than expected for the sole reason of crossing that parameter.
I have never been able to control the amount I write because for me, writing is synonymous to thinking; I write the thoughts that flood my brain. And this often ends in a catastrophe.
Most of my posts till now have indeed been long which by the look of it may seem wary to any reader. I understand.
So from now on, I shall try to curtail my posts and other snippets of writing to a reasonable length. Well... I said TRY!
Hmm... not bad. I think this post is pretty short. Getting there!
My English Answer Script would total to less than expected for the sole reason of crossing that parameter.
I have never been able to control the amount I write because for me, writing is synonymous to thinking; I write the thoughts that flood my brain. And this often ends in a catastrophe.
Most of my posts till now have indeed been long which by the look of it may seem wary to any reader. I understand.
So from now on, I shall try to curtail my posts and other snippets of writing to a reasonable length. Well... I said TRY!
Hmm... not bad. I think this post is pretty short. Getting there!
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Twitter for Help!
The bird hobbled onto the court. We blinked, perplexed for a moment- the basketball forgotten and the other team, oblivious to the bird's plight, went on dunking baskets.
Poor little thing, the bird was. A sorry state- feathers ruffled, eyes half closed in the sun's glare and quite visibly traumatised by the injury.
Its gait suggested a broken leg or a fractured wing. Either way, the bird was more or else immobile with a respite of waddling a metre or so. We crowded around it, some in awe, some, like me, in anxiety and yet others simply because the rest were conglomerated at half court.
One of the girls managed to gingerly pick the bird up in cupped hands after the bird's futile attempts to take hasty flight out of fear.
After the game came to an unsavoury end after ten minutes or so, I hurried to the four girls who had decided to take the bird away from the court and harm's way.
They were standing in a ring, looking expectantly at the bird. Watching the bird.
"A little water might do him good," I suggested, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice; for before me, curled in the girl's palm lay a fragile, broken bird, weak and in need of immediate assistance.
They provided the water and the bird drank. It drank; gulped gratefully and opened a bleary eye while vigorously shaking his/her head clear. Hope.
The bell rang a dismal note signalling the end of the class. We had a dilemma.
How were we supposed to explain to our Physics Professor the reason for bringing a bird to class?
That's when it went wrong. I did something utterly stupid.
We left the bird there. In the shade, near a big, bright, lush green plant. If we ever got the chance, we'd come back for the bird, we thought. So we thought. Yet, it never happened.
I went home, muddling what was to come for that poor little bird and what fate had in store for him/her.
The next day, rushing to its hideout, I found the bird missing. It had gone.
Maybe Nature took its course and the bird healed and took flight. Maybe it wandered to a safe haven to nurse itself back to prime health. Maybe it went looking for nourishment and kept safe and secure. Maybe. Hopefully.
My heart goes out to that little, pathetic, poor, battered bird (who I have christened Hedwig/Hermes).
Get Well Soon and Be Safe, Lil Birdie!
Poor little thing, the bird was. A sorry state- feathers ruffled, eyes half closed in the sun's glare and quite visibly traumatised by the injury.
Its gait suggested a broken leg or a fractured wing. Either way, the bird was more or else immobile with a respite of waddling a metre or so. We crowded around it, some in awe, some, like me, in anxiety and yet others simply because the rest were conglomerated at half court.
One of the girls managed to gingerly pick the bird up in cupped hands after the bird's futile attempts to take hasty flight out of fear.
After the game came to an unsavoury end after ten minutes or so, I hurried to the four girls who had decided to take the bird away from the court and harm's way.
They were standing in a ring, looking expectantly at the bird. Watching the bird.
"A little water might do him good," I suggested, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice; for before me, curled in the girl's palm lay a fragile, broken bird, weak and in need of immediate assistance.
They provided the water and the bird drank. It drank; gulped gratefully and opened a bleary eye while vigorously shaking his/her head clear. Hope.
The bell rang a dismal note signalling the end of the class. We had a dilemma.
How were we supposed to explain to our Physics Professor the reason for bringing a bird to class?
That's when it went wrong. I did something utterly stupid.
We left the bird there. In the shade, near a big, bright, lush green plant. If we ever got the chance, we'd come back for the bird, we thought. So we thought. Yet, it never happened.
I went home, muddling what was to come for that poor little bird and what fate had in store for him/her.
The next day, rushing to its hideout, I found the bird missing. It had gone.
Maybe Nature took its course and the bird healed and took flight. Maybe it wandered to a safe haven to nurse itself back to prime health. Maybe it went looking for nourishment and kept safe and secure. Maybe. Hopefully.
My heart goes out to that little, pathetic, poor, battered bird (who I have christened Hedwig/Hermes).
Get Well Soon and Be Safe, Lil Birdie!
Friday, May 15, 2009
The Sum of the Surreal and the Spatial
Numbers swirl
In lateral imagination
They squirm and writhe
My angst, My vexation.
Addition, Subtraction,
Multiplication, Division,
Unreal operations
In an arena beyond vision.
Transposing, confusing
A diabolical play
Of numbers, Of signs
Stewing my brain, crushing it to pâté.
Symbols and units,
Quantities not plausible,
Rearranging into Simultaneous Equations
Solutions are impossible
Figures etched in sand,
Scribbled and Scratched,
Faint with the waves' ebb and flow;
Both sides of the equation don't seem matched.
And in this number void
More hypothetical numbers yet
Irrational, Unreal, Imaginary, Complex;
Mathematical Scrutinization on each set.
This farrago of figures
Jumbled in space
This delving into math vortex
This quest, curiosity and chase
Math, concentrated, calculated and cracked,
The ultimate playtime of a mastermind
Prodding higher thinking order,
Searching for things no one can find.
I do not see, I do not hear,
I do not understand.
The laws, theories and axioms,
That Mathematics does command.
Yet, the human mind looks
Looks for answers with no question
Scavenging for the food
That pains the digestion.
Alas! We must, ironically, surrender
And prop open the vividly unclear
And peer into the vast murky depths,
Of the omnious, foreboding Math
I fear ──Χ
In lateral imagination
They squirm and writhe
My angst, My vexation.
Addition, Subtraction,
Multiplication, Division,
Unreal operations
In an arena beyond vision.
Transposing, confusing
A diabolical play
Of numbers, Of signs
Stewing my brain, crushing it to pâté.
Symbols and units,
Quantities not plausible,
Rearranging into Simultaneous Equations
Solutions are impossible
Figures etched in sand,
Scribbled and Scratched,
Faint with the waves' ebb and flow;
Both sides of the equation don't seem matched.
And in this number void
More hypothetical numbers yet
Irrational, Unreal, Imaginary, Complex;
Mathematical Scrutinization on each set.
This farrago of figures
Jumbled in space
This delving into math vortex
This quest, curiosity and chase
Math, concentrated, calculated and cracked,
The ultimate playtime of a mastermind
Prodding higher thinking order,
Searching for things no one can find.
I do not see, I do not hear,
I do not understand.
The laws, theories and axioms,
That Mathematics does command.
Yet, the human mind looks
Looks for answers with no question
Scavenging for the food
That pains the digestion.
Alas! We must, ironically, surrender
And prop open the vividly unclear
And peer into the vast murky depths,
Of the omnious, foreboding Math
I fear ──Χ
Monday, May 11, 2009
Principals, Assemblies and Other Things That Suck
The title would have irked your curiosity or arched your skeptical eyebrow. Or both.
I'm not a pompous, air headed, fashionista, do-my-nails-match-my-eyes cheerleader nor am I a prehistoric, thick skulled, drooling, guffawing Jock.
I'm a... I'm a... Well, I'm ME. That's it.
(I'll be blogging soon about the status quo)
I don't go complaining about the lack of pink in the hallways, the crunched up lockers or even the population of nerds, dweebs and geeks. (Jocks have probably never evolved after the cavemen stage and still find unexplainable delight in picking on small fry.)
I don't whine in a fake French accent and I definitely don't keep fingering a curl of dumb blond whilst saying in a snotty voice- "This School Sucks."
Then WHY the blasphemous title, you ask?
Well, apart from the 'comic incident' and the face that the CBSE system is warped and the mentality of our teachers is twisted, today's outrageous display puts the cherry on the top.
Monday Assemblies is a Code Word. If Susan Fletcher or Artemis Fowl does happen to stumble upon this encrypted word, they'd probably decipher:
Death By Boredom
As usual, the toneless comperes droned on, brainwashing us to be better, greater individuals(to no avail).
The usual stupor wafted through the silent nearly brain dead audience, drugging them into a listless short-lived coma.
These weekly gatherings are usually concluded by a meaningless, incomprehensible speech by our Principal whose 'wise'(read:Cheap magazine ripped words) words echoed through the unresponsive auditorium.
Today, however, he did things a little differently.
No, he did strew out some pointless garbage at the end, so no need to keep your hopes up.
After the awarding of athletic achievements, he shuffled to the microphone and in his gruff, nerve wrecking, lazy voice, he said:
"I would like to call upon two girls to the stage and I would like to award them. Though I have no cups or certificates, they still need the recognition."
At this point, he raised a languid hand and gestured to two unfortunate girls in the row across from ours.
They spilled out of line and made their way,self-consciously to the centre of the stage. There, they stood, blushing in the light of hundreds of eyes watching them intently.
He continued, speaking through clenched teeth as always and through his beard:
"I would like to contribute some fils from my salary to these two girls. How generous of me. I would like to donate some money."
He paused and then grinned, cheap and cruel, his yellow teeth barred in self-appreciation.
"To purchase, for them, a pair of socks."
If the girls on stage were pink with embarrassment, I was brick red with fury and disgust.
Angry little hisses broke out through the auditorium.
We were appalled.
There he was, basking in self-content, clearly believing that he had said something 'amusing, hilarious, drop-dead-funny.'
Sick. That's the only word that swirled around my head. Sick.
Is this how the very idea of school has been distorted? Has school become a place, not where we learn, but where we are criticised for our tiny faults and slip-ups? Does it now preach sarcasm and spite instead of understanding and correcting?
Needless to say, not only were the girls thoroughly humiliated at their 'sock-less' attire, (Our uniform is complete with a pair of navy blue long, not ankle, socks.) we seemed to despise the Principal even more, if that's possible.
If it had been a movie, I would have spit ferociously on the ground with an ugly expression on and I would have rubbed my combat boot hard against the floor with the sole, shaking my fist and yelling a few carefully picked swear words. But Alas, it was not.
Ahh..well.
*Twirls six-barrel-gun on index finger and jabs it back into its artificial leather hilt on my belt with its burnished, glinting buckle. Doffs cowboy head gear in spectacular Old Wild West fashion. Tennessee accent against a growing sunset, perched upon a magnificent chestnut brown horse with a silky, glittering mane:
"There will be another day, my friend." *
I'm not a pompous, air headed, fashionista, do-my-nails-match-my-eyes cheerleader nor am I a prehistoric, thick skulled, drooling, guffawing Jock.
I'm a... I'm a... Well, I'm ME. That's it.
(I'll be blogging soon about the status quo)
I don't go complaining about the lack of pink in the hallways, the crunched up lockers or even the population of nerds, dweebs and geeks. (Jocks have probably never evolved after the cavemen stage and still find unexplainable delight in picking on small fry.)
I don't whine in a fake French accent and I definitely don't keep fingering a curl of dumb blond whilst saying in a snotty voice- "This School Sucks."
Then WHY the blasphemous title, you ask?
Well, apart from the 'comic incident' and the face that the CBSE system is warped and the mentality of our teachers is twisted, today's outrageous display puts the cherry on the top.
Monday Assemblies is a Code Word. If Susan Fletcher or Artemis Fowl does happen to stumble upon this encrypted word, they'd probably decipher:
Death By Boredom
As usual, the toneless comperes droned on, brainwashing us to be better, greater individuals(to no avail).
The usual stupor wafted through the silent nearly brain dead audience, drugging them into a listless short-lived coma.
These weekly gatherings are usually concluded by a meaningless, incomprehensible speech by our Principal whose 'wise'(read:Cheap magazine ripped words) words echoed through the unresponsive auditorium.
Today, however, he did things a little differently.
No, he did strew out some pointless garbage at the end, so no need to keep your hopes up.
After the awarding of athletic achievements, he shuffled to the microphone and in his gruff, nerve wrecking, lazy voice, he said:
"I would like to call upon two girls to the stage and I would like to award them. Though I have no cups or certificates, they still need the recognition."
At this point, he raised a languid hand and gestured to two unfortunate girls in the row across from ours.
They spilled out of line and made their way,self-consciously to the centre of the stage. There, they stood, blushing in the light of hundreds of eyes watching them intently.
He continued, speaking through clenched teeth as always and through his beard:
"I would like to contribute some fils from my salary to these two girls. How generous of me. I would like to donate some money."
He paused and then grinned, cheap and cruel, his yellow teeth barred in self-appreciation.
"To purchase, for them, a pair of socks."
If the girls on stage were pink with embarrassment, I was brick red with fury and disgust.
Angry little hisses broke out through the auditorium.
We were appalled.
There he was, basking in self-content, clearly believing that he had said something 'amusing, hilarious, drop-dead-funny.'
Sick. That's the only word that swirled around my head. Sick.
Is this how the very idea of school has been distorted? Has school become a place, not where we learn, but where we are criticised for our tiny faults and slip-ups? Does it now preach sarcasm and spite instead of understanding and correcting?
Needless to say, not only were the girls thoroughly humiliated at their 'sock-less' attire, (Our uniform is complete with a pair of navy blue long, not ankle, socks.) we seemed to despise the Principal even more, if that's possible.
If it had been a movie, I would have spit ferociously on the ground with an ugly expression on and I would have rubbed my combat boot hard against the floor with the sole, shaking my fist and yelling a few carefully picked swear words. But Alas, it was not.
Ahh..well.
*Twirls six-barrel-gun on index finger and jabs it back into its artificial leather hilt on my belt with its burnished, glinting buckle. Doffs cowboy head gear in spectacular Old Wild West fashion. Tennessee accent against a growing sunset, perched upon a magnificent chestnut brown horse with a silky, glittering mane:
"There will be another day, my friend." *
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Innocent Until Proven Guilty? Damn, No. I'm not American.
It all started that faithful morning. There I was, blissfully ignorant, leaning back in my wooden chair, humming to the creaking of the chair's rickety legs. The mighty ol' sun was beaming out there, little rays of light spilling into the classroom. I sat basking in a shaft of light, gazing out of the window at the dreamy building next door out of repeated fashion than absent-mindedness.
The calm before the storm? Aye.
And as I sat there, mentally absent from the room in which my physical self sat chained, my soul-self cherubically waltzing down the corridors of that fascinating building, a wall away, He strode in.
The effect would have been more dramatic had he been a foot taller with a hair padded head and dark, cold eyes and black attire. No. A more anti-villian.
He came in, snivelling in his worst green and pink striped shirt and sporting his usual half bald hair-do, complete with grey tufts of squiggly hair. His grey, watery eyes scanned the room at his immobile height of five feet. A despicable sight if I ever saw one.
He began his usual lecture. Moles, Molarity, Line Spectrum, Hunn's Basic Principle. Bizzare. Everyone stared back at, with vague expressions, half-concious. Yawning, with some even drooling or catching a quick forty winks, the room was silent as a mortuary.
Then, the girl at the front bench, turned around and asked me if I had done any more comics because she wanted to keep awake or rather alive till the next class.
I obliged. A mistake I will regret for years to come.
Before I move further into the narration of my sad, morbid tale, I must hit the pause button to take a minute to explain the 'comic' bit. You see, I DRAW comics. Not store bought. Not suscribed. HAND-DRAWN. Not very good ones though. But a harmless pasttime nonetheless.
So she sat there, reading it under her table, laughing under her breath at my funnies. Then He comes to focus; a climax approaching. And you all probably can envision what happens next.
He gestured for my comics, took it with him, yelled at the girl, threatened to take her to the principal's office and then stalked out... WITH MY COMICS!
No, don't get me wrong. It's tragic that she got yelled at. It would have stayed that way hadn't she gone back to reading Archies under her table the next day without a damn.
And me. Poor ol' me. Robbed of 6 months of comics. IT WASN'T EVEN MY FAULT!
But no amount of justifying myself or appealing to reason got me back my comics. *Sob*
They're still there; trapped, scared and flummoxed at their plight, caged in a teacher's musty drawer. And I really want them back. I created them, they belong to me, they're part of the family. They got me through Year 10 and I'm not leaving them behind. I'll get them back!
Stay Strong Samurai Peas!
The calm before the storm? Aye.
And as I sat there, mentally absent from the room in which my physical self sat chained, my soul-self cherubically waltzing down the corridors of that fascinating building, a wall away, He strode in.
The effect would have been more dramatic had he been a foot taller with a hair padded head and dark, cold eyes and black attire. No. A more anti-villian.
He came in, snivelling in his worst green and pink striped shirt and sporting his usual half bald hair-do, complete with grey tufts of squiggly hair. His grey, watery eyes scanned the room at his immobile height of five feet. A despicable sight if I ever saw one.
He began his usual lecture. Moles, Molarity, Line Spectrum, Hunn's Basic Principle. Bizzare. Everyone stared back at, with vague expressions, half-concious. Yawning, with some even drooling or catching a quick forty winks, the room was silent as a mortuary.
Then, the girl at the front bench, turned around and asked me if I had done any more comics because she wanted to keep awake or rather alive till the next class.
I obliged. A mistake I will regret for years to come.
Before I move further into the narration of my sad, morbid tale, I must hit the pause button to take a minute to explain the 'comic' bit. You see, I DRAW comics. Not store bought. Not suscribed. HAND-DRAWN. Not very good ones though. But a harmless pasttime nonetheless.
So she sat there, reading it under her table, laughing under her breath at my funnies. Then He comes to focus; a climax approaching. And you all probably can envision what happens next.
He gestured for my comics, took it with him, yelled at the girl, threatened to take her to the principal's office and then stalked out... WITH MY COMICS!
No, don't get me wrong. It's tragic that she got yelled at. It would have stayed that way hadn't she gone back to reading Archies under her table the next day without a damn.
And me. Poor ol' me. Robbed of 6 months of comics. IT WASN'T EVEN MY FAULT!
But no amount of justifying myself or appealing to reason got me back my comics. *Sob*
They're still there; trapped, scared and flummoxed at their plight, caged in a teacher's musty drawer. And I really want them back. I created them, they belong to me, they're part of the family. They got me through Year 10 and I'm not leaving them behind. I'll get them back!
Stay Strong Samurai Peas!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)