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by comrade commissar | Thomas | @ Wednesday, July 25, 2007, 5:36:00 AM | permalink |
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I've been writing essays for two years and fully understand exactly how to help students succeed within the academic arena.
- by comrade do my math hw for me @ times 6:20 PM, May 25, 2018
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...by comrade commissar | Thomas | @ Saturday, June 02, 2007, 4:09:00 AM | permalink |
Its 4:12am at the moment, I'm stoned, beat, my eyes are sore and dry. I smell of a club/pub, cigarettes, smoke machine, alcohol, sweat, the works. I'm wearing a silly grin that don't seem to be going off soon, but damn am I TIRED. One of these days, I'm going to spend friday night like a good boy should - Quiet evening with milk, cookies and an engaging novel. I'm gonna just chill out and have a little bit of brain-nourishing privacy. But for now, for this friday, the night's been done. So really, what I should be doing now is get a little sleeps. |
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...by comrade commissar | Thomas | @ Wednesday, May 23, 2007, 8:52:00 PM | permalink |
About 2 months ago my friend B was involved in a car accident. Sitting in the backseat of this n00b driver friend's car, he watched as the speedometer climbed to 100, 120, 140. Of course, B's friend, trying to speed on a meandering 2-lane road, lost control, skidded, 'drifted', spun twice, finally stopping after a hard solid bang into the roadside kerb. The cost to this idiotic Initial D wannabe was a detached bumper, dead engine and a sear in his wallet. But then again, all that's pretty chicken feed, especially considering that the car with 3 lives in it narrowly missed plunging into a nearby construction pit 30 metres deep. Having listened to his near-death experience, I told B that he was the luckiest bugger on earth, because this was a high point in his life. It was as obvious a divine message as it can ever get, because it was simply not his time to go. That meant that he has yet to achieve his greatest moment(s) in life, and that tomorrow held purpose and direction. Because God wanted him to emerge from the car unscathed, he's got something to live for tomorrow. The point in the whole grandfather story above is this - Despite how I personally feel about Wayne's passing, how I want to ask why he has to leave now when there should have been were so many years ahead, I have to trust that God in His infinite wisdom and vision knows what is best. Wayne lived a beautiful fulfilling life in his short time with us. The great number of people who were at the wake was a statement to how he was a great person who was a friend and inspiration to others, who had an impact on so many other lives. Wayne's life is an open challenge to every single one of us. Its a challenge to not live the 9-to-5 existence, to not be numbed, to savour the beautiful things that simply cannot be bought with material goods, to pursue our own passions, to love life every single day, to live such that when the time came and mortal man had to die, other stood up and said, "This was an individual who made a difference." |
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...by comrade commissar | Thomas | @ 12:24:00 AM | permalink |
If you could see us tonight. If you could only see all the people who came forth. We stood still, unspeaking, amidst the Hail Maries that echoed into the dark night. We stood in silent protest, unsure of our emotions, the tears that simply flowed down some cheeks. We stood as a black bloc, passively indignant, at a life's journey abruptly ended. We patted each other, we hugged and said consolatory words. We did all this in your honour, because of your contributions, and your unconditional friendship. We admire who you were, and respect what you have accomplished, in the far-too-short time that you were unfairly given. I stood there, thinking how I first came to know you through a CD that a friend asked me to sample. Through the years you reminded me that life is not merely about bread, butter, bills, credit cards and conformation. You dared to dream; more importantly, you dared to pursue your passions. It was a sad moment, but there was a quiet beauty amidst the sorrow. All these people who love you... The wake was a testimony to a fulfilling life, to one that made such a great impact in so many lives. Seriously, how can one be considered dead, when he lives on in the minds of so many people? You are a star, supernova. Even now I can still hear the flashing thumping terror excitement of percussion thunder. Thank you for having been part of our lives. It has been an honour on my part to have spoken to you in person, to have watched you perform, to have experienced the great things that you did for all of us. RIP Wayne, we miss you. |
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...by comrade commissar | Thomas | @ Thursday, April 19, 2007, 11:04:00 AM | permalink |
1944, and I was only 15 years old at the time. The winter that year was particularly brutal. The biting, biting cold. We barely survived on crumbs of bread and watery soup for meals. Reduced to skin and bones, we had no fats to keep ourselves warm. We had to work outside, in the open, everyday, no exceptions. When the winds stirred up and howled through the quarries, people would stopped involuntarily, shivering, rubbing themselves in vain to generate warmth. But we were told not do that. The beatings, for fear of the beatings. You work or you die. You work and you'll die from it. You work until you're dead. We knew that but we forced ourselves onward. The numbing numbing cold, that constant growl in the stomach, fighting people for scraps of meat tossed out from the slaughterhouse like dogs. We grew less human each day and became more like beasts, the death of logic and reason, driven more by instinct and fear. But the beatings continued nevertheless. Some people managed to overcome these things of the flesh. They will not dig anymore, not even when they're kicked and punched, over and over and over. They're oblivious to the pain now, they'll not be cowered anymore. Lying unconscious, collapsed upon the white snow, they no longer cared about the heavy blows raining down on them, they can no longer hear the cursing and swearing of the guards. Their bodies will neither get up nor move, only spasms and vomiting of blood Finally, the guards stopped. In their thick black coats they stood there for a moment, the body still on the ground, red blood upon white snow. The body pale, pale like a porcelain artifact, still. Hopeless, fear, anger, fear, sorrow, fear, bitterness, fear. A voice within told me to do something. I stood still. I stood and watched them beat the life out of his body, but their curses seemed to be intended on stifling his soul too. I was 15 years old. In our secret gatherings at night we cried out, embraced only by the comforting darkness. We whispered our cries, we dared not speak any louder. "Why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, so far from the words of my groaning?" I survived, I studied, I did research, I taught. I teach Fluid Mechanics and Aerospace Engineering. But meaning and purpose eluded me. I knew how to make a hulk of metal fly but I did not know why I survived, when all those years ago that man did not. I am 77 years old, and about to start a class with some undergraduates. Then, loud bangs. Everyone got down to the ground instantaneously, eyes darting about, uncertain. We waited, hoping it was nothing. It wasn't. More bangs followed, along with the screamings echoing from the corridor outside. We did not move, for fear. And then the bangs became louder and louder. I could now tell what it was - gunfire. The bangs rang out again and again, and amidst the indistinct shouting and screaming one voice now stood out, a young man's. I wanted to stay there on the ground, hidden, protected, The bangs grew even louder. That voice inside me spoke out again. Get up. Get up. "Get out through the windows guys" I said calmly, fear welling up inside me with every step forward. I got hold of the door and closed it shut- just in time for someone to hit against it hard from the outside. Angry yelling. The young man. I leaned and pushed against the door. Some of my students were still dumbfounded, looking at me from the ground. The hard thumpings on the door, the angry screams of the man. "Get out now guys. GO!" YOU FUCKING BASTARD The last few kids snapped out of it, scampering and helping each other out the broken windows. I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU Not everyone was out yet! DIE ASSHOLE DIE I no longer cared about myself, my kids had to escape. I leaned my body, weary and tired and frail after all these years, hard against the door. I no longer heard the cacophony of everything around me, nor the man's screaming. I will not budge, no matter what. This is my body's silent protest. I did not see the rounds, only the splinters of fragments exploding from the door. I did not feel pain, only the blood spilling out from everywhere. I fell, no longer able to move my body. My flesh gave way and the door was forced open. As I fell, my vision turned to the windows for a split moment, before hitting the ground. The room was empty. They have escaped. I was 77 years old. |
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http://www.marlathemovie.com/
this might interest you.
- by comrade @ times 12:18 AM, April 30, 2007
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recent entries (in order) |
<--latest post-- trip to kl (20-22 july 2007)--one of these days--death and purpose--eulogy for a Sun--protest: a story--sparring--twenty-one--time to kickstart that dead engine--simple pleasures--nerd rock inadequacy-- --last post--> |