mercredi 11 mai 2005

Tout est rien, rien est tout, tout sans significance - rien exclu

Nostalgia keeps haunting me now and then. To my specific case, it is the longing for reaffirmation of meaning I think. Sont les amis distractions or reassurances? Naturally, I hope its the latter. The version of Nostalgia (as in the poem) that Shawn sent me still doesn't seem to cut it though. I might resend it in to the school magazine later when I make some slight modifications. Reaffirmpation and empathy, that's it. And it has to be diverse , to strengthen the concept.

Just a few days ago, I completed a 15,000 word, 27 page packet that I had to make notes of and summarise for biology about cancer. It was dreadfully exhausting. Did raise a few interesting points about apoptosis and programmed cell death though, which is quite fascinating really.

I'm also being plagued by dandruff. No matter how many time I try to scratch it off, it always reppears a minute later. Puzzling. Anyhow, I'm supposed to write a "thesis" - or at least a 3-argument 1-main argument essay about a historical topic I chose. The main difference between this and say...any other essay I write is I now have to cite sources. Even if I know its true. Even every single miniscule detail must be referenced, I think. This is what makes it so different, and its due the day after tomorrow.

Anyway, that Direct Democracy vs Representative Democracy essay I did, I got a 40/40 on it. I think that's the first time I ever got full marks for an extensive piece of writing. Plus, it only goes to show who's ideologically right, right?

I also have to read this French book. I'd feel so much less guilty if the teacher assigned us some questions to do, not simply leave us alone to wallow in the pits of self studying French literature. Oh well.

Yes, my post is rather disjointed than usual, that's because my thoughts are rather disjointed right now. I'm trying to fix this....I know, I have to write a poem of sorts. I'll see to this. I've been fantasising about a lot of political scenarios recently as well. I'll need to accomodate that. Or my own painting, like that I did the other year...

jeudi 14 avril 2005

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.

Well I'm not particularly old yet, but I find this poem really addresses nostalgia to its core. Except its quite specific (concerning Portland et al.) so a more generalised poem could also be much better sometime in the future, but it suits for now. Portland is after all, a city I was intensely familiar with during my six year stay in Cape Elizabeth. It is written by one of my favourite poets, Henry Wordsworth Longfellow. I'll just post this for now, maybe something later.

OFTEN I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
And catch, in sudden gleams,
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
And islands that were the Hesperides
Of all my boyish dreams.
And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

I remember the black wharves and the slips,
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

I remember the bulwarks by the shore,
And the fort upon the hill;
The sunrise gun with its hollow roar,
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er,
And the bugle wild and shrill.
And the music of that old song
Throbs in my memory still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

I remember the sea-fight far away,
How it thunder'd o'er the tide!
And the dead sea-captains, as they lay
In their graves o'erlooking the tranquil bay
Where they in battle died.
And the sound of that mournful song
Goes through me with a thrill:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

I can see the breezy dome of groves,
The shadows of Deering's woods;
And the friendships old and the early loves
Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves
In quiet neighbourhoods.
And the verse of that sweet old song,
It flutters and murmurs still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the schoolboy's brain;
The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part
Are longings wild and vain.
And the voice of that fitful song
Sings on, and is never still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,
And a mist before the eye.
And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

Strange to me now are the forms I meet
When I visit the dear old town;
But the native air is pure and sweet,
And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street,
As they balance up and down,
Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

And Deering's woods are fresh and fair,
And with joy that is almost pain
My heart goes back to wander there,
And among the dreams of the days that were
I find my lost youth again.
And the strange and beautiful song,
The groves are repeating it still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'