We have reached the end of the Vancouver 2010 olympics.
With 26 medals in total, we came in 3rd right after the United States and Germany. And with 14 gold, we not only have earned our 1st gold on home soil, but also 1st place in terms of gold, plus the record for the winter olympics!
It's patriotism at its finest in the recent months/years.
I would ramble on more about it, but there's just so much to say. Plus, the closing ceremony is on.
So, more information on their website:
http://www.vancouver2010.com/
GO CANADA! ▌♥ ▌
(p.s. US vs CANADA hockey today! I think caused about a billion mini heart attacks. That, and facebook went wild with olympic spirit for the last two weeks.)
*Edit:
Next up, summer olympics in London and winter olympics in Sochi.
The Russian handover/presentation is so pretty!!!!
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Okay, yeah, I'm procrastinating......
So I made a mouse ^____^
So I made a mouse ^____^
The model is the Joisel rat, and the instructions can be found online.
Birthdays of today: Carl Czerny (my student's been playing a lot of his songs... =.=), Hurbert de Givenchy and Alan Rickman <3.
Deaths: Malcolm X, Tim Horton.
And it is International Mother Language Day.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
I swear, composers have these days where they think, "Hmm.... how shall I torture my students today?". Then they go and make up something like this infamous piece below:
At least they are fun to look at....
Though, some of these torture pieces are actually possible, and sound just so lovely.
For example, this one that I attempted (while procrastinating on some other work) the other day.
Hard? A little, but it's really fun to play.
And without further ado, I give you, Prelude and Nocturne for the left hand, by Alexander Scriabin.
Today is the World Day of Social Justice.
And then, when the students complain about the impossibility of the piece, he would then make them play and memorize the piece's cousin:
Though, some of these torture pieces are actually possible, and sound just so lovely.
For example, this one that I attempted (while procrastinating on some other work) the other day.
Hard? A little, but it's really fun to play.
And without further ado, I give you, Prelude and Nocturne for the left hand, by Alexander Scriabin.
Today is the World Day of Social Justice.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Ash Wednesday
Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?
Because I do not hope to know
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again
Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice
And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us
Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.
Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.
II
Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree
In the cool of the day, having fed to satiety
On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been contained
In the hollow round of my skull. And God said
Shall these bones live? shall these
Bones live? And that which had been contained
In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:
Because of the goodness of this Lady
And because of her loveliness, and because
She honours the Virgin in meditation,
We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled
Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love
To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
It is this which recovers
My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions
Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn
In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.
There is no life in them. As I am forgotten
And would be forgotten, so I would forget
Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said
Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only
The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping
With the burden of the grasshopper, saying
Lady of silences
Calm and distressed
Torn and most whole
Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden
Where all loves end
Terminate torment
Of love unsatisfied
The greater torment
Of love satisfied
End of the endless
Journey to no end
Conclusion of all that
Is inconclusible
Speech without word and
Word of no speech
Grace to the Mother
For the Garden
Where all love ends.
Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining
We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other,
Under a tree in the cool of the day, with the blessing of sand,
Forgetting themselves and each other, united
In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye
Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity
Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.
III
At the first turning of the second stair
I turned and saw below
The same shape twisted on the banister
Under the vapour in the fetid air
Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears
The deceitul face of hope and of despair.
At the second turning of the second stair
I left them twisting, turning below;
There were no more faces and the stair was dark,
Damp, jagged, like an old man's mouth drivelling, beyond repair,
Or the toothed gullet of an aged shark.
At the first turning of the third stair
Was a slotted window bellied like the figs's fruit
And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene
The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green
Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.
Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown,
Lilac and brown hair;
Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind over the third stair,
Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair
Climbing the third stair.
Lord, I am not worthy
Lord, I am not worthy
but speak the word only.
IV
Who walked between the violet and the violet
Who walked between
The various ranks of varied green
Going in white and blue, in Mary's colour,
Talking of trivial things
In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour
Who moved among the others as they walked,
Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs
Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand
In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary's colour,
Sovegna vos
Here are the years that walk between, bearing
Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring
One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing
White light folded, sheathing about her, folded.
The new years walk, restoring
Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring
With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem
The time. Redeem
The unread vision in the higher dream
While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.
The silent sister veiled in white and blue
Between the yews, behind the garden god,
Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke no word
But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down
Redeem the time, redeem the dream
The token of the word unheard, unspoken
Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew
And after this our exile
V
If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
If the unheard, unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.
O my people, what have I done unto thee.
Where shall the word be found, where will the word
Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence
Not on the sea or on the islands, not
On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land,
For those who walk in darkness
Both in the day time and in the night time
The right time and the right place are not here
No place of grace for those who avoid the face
No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the voice
Will the veiled sister pray for
Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee,
Those who are torn on the horn between season and season, time and time, between
Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait
In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray
For children at the gate
Who will not go away and cannot pray:
Pray for those who chose and oppose
O my people, what have I done unto thee.
Will the veiled sister between the slender
Yew trees pray for those who offend her
And are terrified and cannot surrender
And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks
In the last desert before the last blue rocks
The desert in the garden the garden in the desert
Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.
O my people.
VI
Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn
Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings
And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth
This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.
Blessed sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated
And let my cry come unto Thee.
~ T.S. Eliot
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?
Because I do not hope to know
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again
Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice
And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us
Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.
Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.
II
Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree
In the cool of the day, having fed to satiety
On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been contained
In the hollow round of my skull. And God said
Shall these bones live? shall these
Bones live? And that which had been contained
In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:
Because of the goodness of this Lady
And because of her loveliness, and because
She honours the Virgin in meditation,
We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled
Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love
To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
It is this which recovers
My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions
Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn
In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.
There is no life in them. As I am forgotten
And would be forgotten, so I would forget
Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said
Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only
The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping
With the burden of the grasshopper, saying
Lady of silences
Calm and distressed
Torn and most whole
Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden
Where all loves end
Terminate torment
Of love unsatisfied
The greater torment
Of love satisfied
End of the endless
Journey to no end
Conclusion of all that
Is inconclusible
Speech without word and
Word of no speech
Grace to the Mother
For the Garden
Where all love ends.
Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining
We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other,
Under a tree in the cool of the day, with the blessing of sand,
Forgetting themselves and each other, united
In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye
Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity
Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.
III
At the first turning of the second stair
I turned and saw below
The same shape twisted on the banister
Under the vapour in the fetid air
Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears
The deceitul face of hope and of despair.
At the second turning of the second stair
I left them twisting, turning below;
There were no more faces and the stair was dark,
Damp, jagged, like an old man's mouth drivelling, beyond repair,
Or the toothed gullet of an aged shark.
At the first turning of the third stair
Was a slotted window bellied like the figs's fruit
And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene
The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green
Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.
Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown,
Lilac and brown hair;
Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind over the third stair,
Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair
Climbing the third stair.
Lord, I am not worthy
Lord, I am not worthy
but speak the word only.
IV
Who walked between the violet and the violet
Who walked between
The various ranks of varied green
Going in white and blue, in Mary's colour,
Talking of trivial things
In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour
Who moved among the others as they walked,
Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs
Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand
In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary's colour,
Sovegna vos
Here are the years that walk between, bearing
Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring
One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing
White light folded, sheathing about her, folded.
The new years walk, restoring
Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring
With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem
The time. Redeem
The unread vision in the higher dream
While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.
The silent sister veiled in white and blue
Between the yews, behind the garden god,
Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke no word
But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down
Redeem the time, redeem the dream
The token of the word unheard, unspoken
Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew
And after this our exile
V
If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
If the unheard, unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.
O my people, what have I done unto thee.
Where shall the word be found, where will the word
Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence
Not on the sea or on the islands, not
On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land,
For those who walk in darkness
Both in the day time and in the night time
The right time and the right place are not here
No place of grace for those who avoid the face
No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the voice
Will the veiled sister pray for
Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee,
Those who are torn on the horn between season and season, time and time, between
Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait
In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray
For children at the gate
Who will not go away and cannot pray:
Pray for those who chose and oppose
O my people, what have I done unto thee.
Will the veiled sister between the slender
Yew trees pray for those who offend her
And are terrified and cannot surrender
And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks
In the last desert before the last blue rocks
The desert in the garden the garden in the desert
Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.
O my people.
VI
Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn
Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings
And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth
This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.
Blessed sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated
And let my cry come unto Thee.
~ T.S. Eliot
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
El Desdichado
Je suis le Ténébreux, - le Veuf, - l'Inconsolé,
Le Prince d'Aquitaine à la Tour abolie :
Ma seule Etoile est morte, - et mon luth constellé
Porte le Soleil noir de la Mélancolie.
Dans la nuit du Tombeau, Toi qui m'as consolé,
Rends-moi le Pausilippe et la mer d'Italie,
La fleur qui plaisait tant à mon coeur désolé,
Et la treille où le Pampre à la Rose s'allie.
Suis-je Amour ou Phébus ?... Lusignan ou Biron ?
Mon front est rouge encor du baiser de la Reine ;
J'ai rêvé dans la Grotte où nage la sirène...
Et j'ai deux fois vainqueur traversé l'Achéron :
Modulant tour à tour sur la lyre d'Orphée
Les soupirs de la Sainte et les cris de la Fée.
~ Gérard de Nerval
Le Prince d'Aquitaine à la Tour abolie :
Ma seule Etoile est morte, - et mon luth constellé
Porte le Soleil noir de la Mélancolie.
Dans la nuit du Tombeau, Toi qui m'as consolé,
Rends-moi le Pausilippe et la mer d'Italie,
La fleur qui plaisait tant à mon coeur désolé,
Et la treille où le Pampre à la Rose s'allie.
Suis-je Amour ou Phébus ?... Lusignan ou Biron ?
Mon front est rouge encor du baiser de la Reine ;
J'ai rêvé dans la Grotte où nage la sirène...
Et j'ai deux fois vainqueur traversé l'Achéron :
Modulant tour à tour sur la lyre d'Orphée
Les soupirs de la Sainte et les cris de la Fée.
~ Gérard de Nerval
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Of Valentines and New Years
February 14th, Valentine's Day. This year, today also happens to be Chinese New Year (which technically was yesterday because it originated in Asia; time zone differences, etc, etc).
It is intended to be a day for loving couples, peace / family time, good luck, traditions, and so on. It's a special day, to be celebrated, to cherish things. However, and maybe I am just being my usual 'gloomy' self here, I don't feel anything special about it.
Now, I love the idea of traditions, different dates, memorials, rituals. I love learning about them, studying them, even celebrating them. But, I've been getting this anticlimatic feeling for almost all the holidays/celebrations recently. It is almost like there's no spirit behind it.
Valentine's Day for example; if you are with someone, first of all, you should be (most of the time anyway) treasuring that person no matter what time of the year it is. If that seems to be a bit too cliche, you should at least be able to show your affection, when you want. Valentine's seems to be this giant obligation that everyone must follow. It's too commercialized, just like Christmas and Easter and all those other holidays. The meanings and values behind are lost in the mist of mass production of roses and chocolate hearts. If you are involved, it seems like you are obligated to empty your pockets and take the extra time to do something special right on that day, because your partner would be expecting it. If you are single, well, there seems to be social pressure for you do either join some cult with other singles and mourn your lack of a partner (which, if you were truly that desperate, would be doing the other 364-5 days of the year anyway), or to say that you are proud to be single. Or some other idiocy that springs up on this day that everyone who's past puberty must follow. Even in grade school, when we used to make those Valentine's day cards and buy chocolate hearts to send them to our classmates. It is a well meaning gesture, and I encourage the tradition of doing so (social connections and what not), but it does usually lead into a small competition of who got the most cards and candies.
Onto New Years. I like those mass New Years celebrations, I like the fact that families and friends try to get together on this day*, in this family connections wrecked time in our history. But, again, I don't feel the specialness behind it. At the stroke of midnight, nothing feels changed. In fact, in most of our lives, nothing have changed. We are still in the same crappy situations we are in, unfinished work still needs to be done, our relationship with the rest of the world have not changed a single bit. Life still goes on. The most significant thing is that we'll have to get used to writing 2010, instead of 2009. I think, in an almost archtypical kind of way, this passage of time should be something sacred. Like shedding a layer of skin, burning the old, unwanted, and embracing the new. But it does not feel this way, like something is lost....
I don't know about anyone else, but I would like to regain the meaning behind these celebrations. Without these moments, time feels lost. It seems like we are in this whirl of linear time, that at the same time feels like a loop and does not lead us anywhere. And there is this strictness in which we measure and place and structure events on time, that leads to this diminishing sacredness. At this rate, I'll have to agree with the existentialists.
So maybe our ancestors got it right, when we marked important stepping stones on biological indications. Sure, things would be most chaotic, but it might also seem more significant.
In conclusion.... well, I have nothing else to say.
For those of you who want to do something special, more meaningful for Valentines, here's this very cute DIY Anatomical Heart Card from Cheeky Magpie.
*plus, for Chinese New Year, we get red pockets ^_____^ (which is strangely, gold coloured for me this year).
It is intended to be a day for loving couples, peace / family time, good luck, traditions, and so on. It's a special day, to be celebrated, to cherish things. However, and maybe I am just being my usual 'gloomy' self here, I don't feel anything special about it.
Now, I love the idea of traditions, different dates, memorials, rituals. I love learning about them, studying them, even celebrating them. But, I've been getting this anticlimatic feeling for almost all the holidays/celebrations recently. It is almost like there's no spirit behind it.
Valentine's Day for example; if you are with someone, first of all, you should be (most of the time anyway) treasuring that person no matter what time of the year it is. If that seems to be a bit too cliche, you should at least be able to show your affection, when you want. Valentine's seems to be this giant obligation that everyone must follow. It's too commercialized, just like Christmas and Easter and all those other holidays. The meanings and values behind are lost in the mist of mass production of roses and chocolate hearts. If you are involved, it seems like you are obligated to empty your pockets and take the extra time to do something special right on that day, because your partner would be expecting it. If you are single, well, there seems to be social pressure for you do either join some cult with other singles and mourn your lack of a partner (which, if you were truly that desperate, would be doing the other 364-5 days of the year anyway), or to say that you are proud to be single. Or some other idiocy that springs up on this day that everyone who's past puberty must follow. Even in grade school, when we used to make those Valentine's day cards and buy chocolate hearts to send them to our classmates. It is a well meaning gesture, and I encourage the tradition of doing so (social connections and what not), but it does usually lead into a small competition of who got the most cards and candies.
Onto New Years. I like those mass New Years celebrations, I like the fact that families and friends try to get together on this day*, in this family connections wrecked time in our history. But, again, I don't feel the specialness behind it. At the stroke of midnight, nothing feels changed. In fact, in most of our lives, nothing have changed. We are still in the same crappy situations we are in, unfinished work still needs to be done, our relationship with the rest of the world have not changed a single bit. Life still goes on. The most significant thing is that we'll have to get used to writing 2010, instead of 2009. I think, in an almost archtypical kind of way, this passage of time should be something sacred. Like shedding a layer of skin, burning the old, unwanted, and embracing the new. But it does not feel this way, like something is lost....
I don't know about anyone else, but I would like to regain the meaning behind these celebrations. Without these moments, time feels lost. It seems like we are in this whirl of linear time, that at the same time feels like a loop and does not lead us anywhere. And there is this strictness in which we measure and place and structure events on time, that leads to this diminishing sacredness. At this rate, I'll have to agree with the existentialists.
So maybe our ancestors got it right, when we marked important stepping stones on biological indications. Sure, things would be most chaotic, but it might also seem more significant.
In conclusion.... well, I have nothing else to say.
For those of you who want to do something special, more meaningful for Valentines, here's this very cute DIY Anatomical Heart Card from Cheeky Magpie.
*plus, for Chinese New Year, we get red pockets ^_____^ (which is strangely, gold coloured for me this year).
Saturday, February 13, 2010
What are the chances of both buses being late, for the exact same amount of time, on a transit system that has a good track record of being on time?
...My watch must be slow....
In happier news, Canada won the first medal on home soil (silver in woman's moguls)! Yay! Though, Ms Heil was 'expected' to win gold. We are proud of you anyway :).
Also, today, Feb 13th, celebrates the birthday of Malthus! He turns 244 years old today.
Sadly, it is also the death date of Richard Wagner. So, to end this post, I leave you with the epic "Ride of the Valkyries" from Die Walkure, Der Ring des Nibelungen
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