Inadequately OverCome

CORDELIA
How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty?

KING LEAR
You do me wrong to take me out o' the grave:
Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears
Do scald like moulten lead.

CORDELIA
Sir, do you know me?

KING LEAR
You are a spirit, I know: when did you die?

CORDELIA
Still, still, far wide!

GENTLEMAN
He's scarce awake: let him alone awhile.

KING LEAR
Where have I been? Where am I? Fair daylight?
I am mightily abused. I should e'en die with pity,
To see another thus. I know not what to say.
I will not swear these are my hands: let's see;
I feel this pin prick. Would I were assured
Of my condition!

CORDELIA
O, look upon me, sir,
And hold your hands in benediction o'er me:
No, sir, you must not kneel.

KING LEAR
Pray, do not mock me:
I am a very foolish fond old man,
Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less;
And, to deal plainly,
I fear I am not in my perfect mind.
Methinks I should know you, and know this man;
Yet I am doubtful for I am mainly ignorant
What place this is; and all the skill I have
Remembers not these garments; nor I know not
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me;
For, as I am a man, I think this lady
To be my child Cordelia.

CORDELIA
And so I am, I am.

KING LEAR
Be your tears wet? yes, 'faith. I pray, weep not:
If you have poison for me, I will drink it.
I know you do not love me; for your sisters
Have, as I do remember, done me wrong:
You have some cause, they have not.

CORDELIA
No cause, no cause.

KING LEAR
Am I in France?

KENT
In your own kingdom, sir.

KING LEAR
Do not abuse me.

_____________________________________________________

But He said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness."

2 Corinthians 12:9

Mrs Goh was all smiles.

So was I. At least in the end.

Wonderful Worship, But Not Without Woes

The youth worship committee never fails to make me smile and warm my heart. Thank you guys so much for staying back so late. I pray that the Spirit takes full control tomorrow. And interestingly, I thought our virgin attempt at liturgy felt flexibly structured, somehow.

Also, the moment in which Uncle Matthew barged into the basement while we were babyishly posing away will be quite an unforgettable scene - a medley of comedy, shock and embarrassment. Even though we didn't manage to get the photo there and then, I'm pretty certain that that memory has found its place in my mind as an indelible snapshot of sweet sepia. Besides, he was surprisingly patronising by later helping us take a(nother) photo at the lobby, after we'd ascended from the depths of overtime. Kudos Red Ranger. Your request was a daring one.

On the other hand, God help me with IOC. There's still so much to cover.

Visions Of Rapture

Currently at the mercy of my SGC, Bio PSOW, History SPS essay, 风铃 article, 敬拜方式 II, all of which I must fulfill with quality before my IOC, which is in less than five days. And I thought the worst nights had come to pass. Progress is slow. This is desperately worrisome. About 20 more extracts to go. Not writing in complete sentences. One big fat paragraph of disconnected prose. Just heard the thunder reverberate - twice in five minutes. It is oddly comforting, probably because an impending rain is really the least of my vexations now. I hope it purges the air of the rancid smoke which has been just singeing my sclera and sandpapering my throat over the past seven hours or so. That's one good it can do. The joy of the Lord is my _________. Not that easy to fill in the blank now, eh?

Telephone Conversation

I came home half an hour ago to find both Mum and Dad talking on the phone. No, not to each other. I guess it's a rare sight that doesn't really have a significance to its rarity. But it did evoke some interesting memories.

When I was young, I enjoyed indulging in pranks to the fullest extent, as some of you would know. I think it was probably a way of getting the attention, and to some extent, the recognition that I needed, being the only child. Perhaps it was to waive off the loneliness. Naturally, my parents were constant (and patronising) victims. And unlike how I was able to formulate more intricate and tactical stunts in church with the help of accomplices including Duck I and Duck II, the home hoaxes were more of solo, espionage kind of missions. They were all exciting in their own ways.

So one of my favourite pranks was this - I would call Mum and tell her, "Mummy, Daddy's looking for you!" Then I would go to Dad and tell him, "Daddy, Mummy's looking for you!" I would then hide behind a small niche in the wall next to the living room, and observe the comedy unfold. It was very entertaining, and I don't think I ever got sick of that prank. It had to be done periodically though, because I saw that it could get quite irritating. Interestingly, it seems that I was pragmatic enough to think about how to maximise fun-profit by minimising the chances of getting a rap over the knuckles, which was not really fun. I still earned a fair amount of chiding though. Sigh, I think I miss the Paddy in me.

I was also reminded of this, which I must know inside out by the 25th, amongst 23 other extracts across 2 plays, 1 novel plus 5 more poems. This is an examinable conversation. No laughing matter.

The Price of Flowers

Often,

The big things are not the things that flood and pierce the heart.

No, it is too careless for that.

It is like

A vase - Large, round, smooth, humbly brown

Save a collection of cracks and crevasses that line its surface

Like tributaries, like tall tempting trees

Entrenched in clay.

His words, her actions

His silence, her neglect,

His formality, her normalcy

Collect in a deathly moat, a sanguine pool of regret, mainly.

And it seeps through the cracks, slowly.

The heart at hand is big, thick, but not any less

Hollow or fissured.

It takes longer than most people

But the liquid rises and eventually over-

flows

A blossom of tears and voices in the head.

~tc

The Dungeon Flamed With Light

I was very moved by the afternoon worship session during the worship ministry's retreat today. And Can It Be brought tears to my eyes, although no one was quite quick enough to catch it. It was a humbling surprise, loaded with Wesleyan warmth against the frosty air-conditioning of the worship hall. Interestingly, I later realised that it was a moment I had once anticipated.

I recall scrutinising the lyrics of the hymn and acquiring a perfectly rational amazement about it not so long ago - I thought it was hard to imagine a worshipper devoid of emotional response toward the elegant presentation of such majestic truths. You can see the irony of the notion. So there I was, feeling quite useless about my newfound understanding. And I prayed to be enkindled, not just enlightened.

Let's put it this way. There is a reason why non-bible-believing bible scholars simply don't get the bible right. In the spirit of Babel, they start producing bilge like Higher Criticism, and in the process create even more gobbledygook. I believe God must be glorified inasmuch as truth must be analysed.

So today, I got what I wanted, owing to the grace of God and the ministry of the Holy Spirit. There is an overshadowing power about the gospel that makes tomorrow's Hendon Camp assessment (dis)appear like a vapour in the face of a solar wind. It is that powerful.

No condemnation now I dread;
Jesus, and all in Him, is mine;
Alive in Him, my living Head,
And clothed in righteousness divine,
Bold I approach th’eternal throne,
And claim the crown, through Christ my own.
Bold I approach th’eternal throne,
And claim the crown, through Christ my own.

Black, Red and White

I was quietly excited after receiving Gramophone's call yesterday afternoon. Lungs by Florence + The Machine was finally in stock. I think the expressions I wore when I first heard it on the iTunes store must have appeared quite comical. Really, the digital album's 30-second previews were the first pieces of good music I had tasted in a long time. But that is quite understandable, I think. One reason would be how recent focus on coursework has been noticeably denying my ears of their privileges. Another reason would be how paying $20 dollars for a pack of empty DVD-rewritables would actually give you better music compared to the pop-junk that sit on the shelves these days. So I went down to collect it this morning after Discipleship class. And finally, on the train ride to Bugis, I got my chance to start reading I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou. Which is really the point of this post.

I don't know if it's just me, but I just couldn't quite appreciate Angelou's writing. The physical novel is roughly the same size as that of Paddy Clarke, same font, same thickness of cover - same publisher, but clearly has a completely different appeal altogether. I was honestly quite disappointed, but I'm not sure why. Maybe it was because I was unconsciously looking forward to reading it somehow.

Actually, a better reason would be how I've been quite smothered by black literature (or just novels concerning black culture) this year. On top of Caged Bird, I have to soak up the genius behind the famous Huck Finn, and the infamous Color Purple. In a nutshell, one could say that all three books create an impression of black culture intended to rectify culturally-biased misconceptions, especially with regard to black savagery in the form of illiteracy from a lack of formal education. Huck Finn and Color Purple are honest and touching. Caged Bird, at least as what it appears to me currently, is a little pretentious and ethnocentric. There is a hint of egoism about the way Angelou exploits her accomplished literacy to create expressions that are as varied as possible, such as by inserting parentheses here and there to elevate the complexity of the mind of a six-year-old girl.

Well, I admit that this was probably why it was so successful when it was published in the 1960s. It was very timely. It would have been unexpected and shocking for Angelou's target audience, the immodest white readership. But is this arrogance for arrogance?

Whatever it is, it doesn't quite work for me. Angelou was one of a kind, but at that time, the rest of her people were quite far from her measure of accomplishment. Diachronically, Huck Finn was true to its context, The Color Purple was true its context. Caged Bird...I just don't feel obliged to swallow the cup of White pride on the table, no matter how fired up Angelou must have felt during composition. Ain't intended for me anyways. And in my wrestling with that, I guess my appreciation of the text is inevitably compromised along the way, unfortunately. The great irony is that among the students studying these three texts, many of them are beginning to have sentiments that are similar to those that these books had originally intended to subvert. It's probably out of stress and ennui.

Nevertheless, I still hope I can finish the book by Wednesday, then start working on the key passages. 3 out of 24 IOC extracts come from the book, and I want to be ready for Murphy's law.

That aside, I must say that I quite enjoyed the Hitler-Boenhoeffer discussion with the choir earlier this afternoon. It was one the few times where the issue at hand was neither too complex nor too simple. It was edifyingly manageable. And I hope the reading material at the end was helpful.

Finally, given that I'll be attending a party tomorrow night, I have a feeling that my hands will be quite occupied with food, entertainment and the like at 8:22pm. Is that...wrong?

It is finished.

Admittedly, this is partially about showing off. It is also partially about victory, stress-relief, catharsis, short-lived happiness and the like, you name it. In chronological order of submission:

SL Mathematics Portfolio 1 - 700 words

English A1 Individual Oral Presentation - 15 min

HL Chemistry Design IA - 700 words

SL Mathematics Portfolio 2 - 3500 words

HL Chemistry IA: 100 Readings - 2000 words

HL Chemistry IA: Faraday's Constant - 2500 words

TOK Oral Presentation - 20 min

SL History IA - 2000 words + not so many drafts

HL Chemistry Design IA - 1000 words

TOK Formal Essay - 1600 words + numerous drafts

HL Biology IA: Practical 27 - 6000 words

Extended Essay - 4000 words + numerous drafts

HL Biology IA: Practical 31 - 7000 words

HL Chemistry Design IA - 1000 words

World Literature Assignment 1 - 1500 words + not so many drafts

World Literature Assignment 2 - 1500 words + not so many drafts

I say, it's been a formidable list. But I'm DONE. Believe it baby.

Things I've learnt in the process:

1. How to type faster

2. How to fight panic effectively

3. How to pull an all-nighter and laugh about it in the morning

4. How to fall sick in a timely manner

5. How to draw encouragement from others by comparing backlog

6. Why I should press Ctrl-S every second

7. Why I shouldn't procrastinate (so much)

Just one more - IOC on the 25th. Arguably the scariest method of assessment IB has ever invented. Then it's back to papers, like it has always been for my luckier-than-thou Cambridge counterparts.

This came into my mind as I was typing.

"When Jesus had received the sour wine, He said, 'It is finished,' and He bowed His head and gave up His spirit."

John 19:30

It's quite amazing. All my blood, sweat, tears and dreams, and even more, were shed at Gethsemane. Something unimaginable was achieved because of that. And today, none of my achievements really matter except my being part of that something unimaginable, which was always never quite an achievement on my part. Along the same lines, I feel irresistibly compelled to tell you why. So I will, next time, if That which controls it permits.