Sunday, February 15, 2004

So compre is over --

I was sooo tired even before the exam started -- couldn't sleep! (Videoke marathon was happening somewhere in the building, plus I kept waking up to check if it was time to wake up =P)

I was right about the questions for this exam (trace the development of fiction, trace the development of poetry) -- the third question caught me by surprise -- it was a question on Shakespeare. (This comforted me because I love Shakespeare -- hell, spent nearly a month being immersed in his works)

Trip to the spa was amazing! Good thing my friend made reservations two weeks before -- they were booked! (Guess a lot of people thought that was a good way to spend Valentine's Day) Bumped into college friends who were also there for treatments -- realized that it's been 10 years since I was a freshman at AdMU (gads, am old). F and I are planning to meet up with our old freshman block in June (to re-live our Orsem -- hahaha)

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Going to Mei-Ah in a bit -- hoping to find a copy of Takeshi Kaneshiro's Turn Right Turn Left(ohpleaseohpleaseohplease) and will meet up with sibs at Powerplant (yay! I get to buy the rest of the Princess Diaries series)

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Just got back and I'm in the middle of watching Takeshi Kaneshiro in Turn Right, Turn Left -- this poem by Wislawa Szymborska is featured in the movie and I thought I'd share it here --

Love at First Sight
by Wislawa Szymborska

Both are convinced
that a sudden surge of emotion bound them together.
Beautiful is such a certainty,
but uncertainty is more beautiful.

Because they didn't know each other earlier, they suppose that
nothing was happening between them.
What of the streets, stairways and corridors
where they could have passed each other long ago?

I'd like to ask them
whether they remember--perhaps in a revolving door
ever being face to face?
an "excuse me" in a crowd
or a voice "wrong number" in the receiver.
But I know their answer:
no, they don't remember.

They'd be greatly astonished
to learn that for a long time
chance had been playing with them.

Not yet wholly ready
to transform into fate for them
it approached them, then backed off,
stood in their way
and, suppressing a giggle,
jumped to the side.

There were signs, signals:
but what of it if they were illegible.
Perhaps three years ago,
or last Tuesday
did a certain leaflet fly
from shoulder to shoulder?

There was something lost and picked up.
Who knows but what it was a ball
in the bushes of childhood.

There were doorknobs and bells
on which earlier touch piled on touch.
Bags beside each other in the luggage room.
Perhaps they had the same dream on a certain night,
suddenly erased after waking.

Every beginning
is but a continuation,
and the book of events
is never more than half open.

- (translated by Walter Whipple)

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