philos
liberté
princeps
memoria

I have two secrets to share with the whole global network system. So shh don't tell.

The first being- I haven't practised poulenc for 2 weeks. Yes, two whole weeks. I can imagine my teacher hyperventilating as she contemplates the demolition of my piano-playing actuality. Kevin and debra suggested I not go anymore since it hardly makes me day, but somehow something is pulling me back from just throwing the towel and quitting piano. Maybe it's the way music moves people. Or maybe it's the huge connection I feel with the western development of music, or maybe I'm just better at hanging on than letting go.

Either way, whatever force that's keeping me going (and wasting tons of money) has this Herculean strength, and I'm not about to forgo a diploma just because I have a lazy brain and lazy fingers and lousy stamina.

The second secret shall remain a secret. Because I realise that if I were to even remotely suggest any possibilities here, it will blow up and become something so unrecognizable that I really shouldn't bother. This self-censorship will get to me, but I suppose there really is a limit to free public speech. hmm.. a dinner is not a real dinner by definition.

I was thinking about postmodernism for a while, simply because I felt like it and had nothing better to do other than feel my brain degenerate into nonsensical pulp. (I do realise I blog almost every day, which is a first for me.)

But anyway, I think what is really amazing is the paradigmatic shift from the idea that language is transparent to the disclosure of its intimacy, its QUOTE obdurate persistence, its paradoxical fragility UNQUOTE. I wasn't marveling at the manner which tanya described postmodernism, but more of the a particular choice of word she used.

Fragility.

I suppose there will be certain people who have issues with the word. Femininity, fragility, futility, fertility. It seems a little far-fetched to me, but in a way, I guess you can really see certain connections.

Then again, as Immanuel Kant believed, everything looks rosy when we put on our rose-tinted glasses, doesn't it.

Like I said, the relapse of my brain does weird things to me. Now I begin to enthusiastically translate some chinese lyrics into English on Microsoft word. I don't believe I am getting anywhere with this. It sounds shallow and obtuse in English. Then again, there isn't anyway I can pull myself out of the mushy randomness that comes with sleeping for a measly 4 hours for a week is there.

you can't get any weirder than that..

/

The rose is obsolete
but each petal ends in
an edge, the double facet
cementing the grooved columns of air--The edge
cuts without cutting
meets--nothing--renews
itself in metal or porcelain--

whither? It ends--
But if it ends
the start is begun
so that to engage roses
becomes a geometry--

Sharper, neater, more cutting
figured in majolica--
the broken plate
glazed with a rose


Somewhere the sense
makes copper roses
steel roses--

The rose carried weight of love
but love is at an end--of roses

It is at the edge of the
petal that love waits

Crisp, worked to defeat
laboredness--fragile
plucked, moist, half-raised
cold, precise, touching

What

The place between the petal's
edge and the

From the petal's edge a line starts
that being of steel
infinitely fine, infinitely
rigid penetrates
the Milky Way
without contact--lifting
from it--neither hanging
nor pushing--

The fragility of the flower
unbruised
penetrates space

-William Carlos Williams
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