Some late night thoughts.

Now that my blog has a new look, though it looks worse, I might, for a while, take up the blogging thing again. Look! you have three new entries in just one night. Two of them are complaints or close to it anyway. It's better then nothing, though.

Anyway, I thought I'd just post about the Gospel reading for today. It's from Matthew 16:13-20, wherein Christ commissions Peter and the apostles to start his Church with the promise that it will never fall. It's one of my favourite passages, herein lies the power of the sacrament of confession, which I take great comfort in. Herein lies the might of the Church. I shan't write to much about it because I am not a theologian, but I'm sure if you look through the regular spots, you'll find a great deal of posts in the Catholic Blogosphere regarding this passage.

Unfortunately, in Singapore, we use the Jerusalem Bible for our lectionary. Thankfully it's not the New Jerusalem BIble, what with all it's Yahweh's and all. Though the JB is in itself, rather horrid. It essentially tried to pull a Luther on the bible and went back past the Septuagint and used the Torah as it's base for translating the Old Testament, and so instead of the more credible Koine Greek, we have the Hebrew from the 2nd century onward. Also, they dropped all the exclusive language and thus ending the Thous and Thys which were attributed to God. The translation is also rather clumsy to read and doesn't have the flow that the King James Bible has. So much for doing a Luther. Though another pet peeve was the translation of Luke 1, which didn't have the Angel telling Mary she was 'full of grace', which is far accurate, but that's for another day.

The passage, you can easily find online, however I like the way the latin sounds. So I shall post that here.

Et ego dico tibi, quia tu es Petrus, et super hanc petram ædificabo Ecclesiam mean, et portæ inferi non prævalebunt adversus eam. Et tibi dabo claves regni cælorum. Et quodcumque ligaveris super terram, erit ligatum in cælis: et quodcumque solveris super terram, erit solutum et in cælis.

I hate how my blog looks now, but at least, I can now have comments. urgh. To think 10 years ago, I was really good with html.

Had one of those forever alone laments with a friend of mine. It went something like:

'you're pretty, smart and nice, don't see why you should have trouble finding someone'

'thanks that's nice of you'

'I, on the other hand, look like some sort of literary monster.
Tall, big, fat, scary and knows physics and does calculus'

In light of the fact that probably no one reads this blog, I am shameless willing to humiliate myself in such a fashion. Of course, the sentiments above are true. So hopeless.

Pity party over.

I also wish that I could stop thinking about you.

I miss...

I hate nothing more than being injured. Recovery and rehab time are always an eternity and something greatly to be suffered. Injury means you have to start from scratch with your fitness, which if you’re like me, was never there in the first place means a few months of pain and humiliation trying to bring up your stamina to run 5km again, never mind getting back on the track to do intervals for anaerobic stamina. Of course, there’s being left out. Everyone else is having fun, while you pace the side of the field, looking on. Finally, aside from your game, there’re all the little things in life that I miss being able to do.

I miss being able to
- keep up pace with my friends when we’re walking
- brisk walk
- change in less than 3 minutes
- run up and down stairs
- tiptoe
- roll around in bed
- shake my left leg, though it’s a very bad habit
- stretch my left foot and pointing my toes
- wriggle my left toes
- not have pain under my arms from the crutches
- jump about all of the place
- to get a snack anytime i wanted
- to walk to church for Mass

In fact, I’m not sure if it’s because of the injury, but I am really earning to go for daily Mass now. One of my worries is that when I go for Mass this Sunday, I won’t be able to kneel properly and adore the Lord and thus won’t be able to commune. Of course, I might be being scrupulous, but I guess you could say that I refuse to commune unless I may treat the Lord, my God with the greatest respect possible.

There’s still spiritual communion! And, what a treat to be chosen by God’s grace to be at the Lord’s Supper. http://fisheaters.com/TLMmissingmass.html

If We Hold On...

I'm miserable. I can't believe that another calamity could befall me, and what a vicissitude it is. Before, I had to slow down a bit, and I was fine, things were picking up again, and now everything has come to a sudden stop. This new issue is costing me much greater that its predecessor, far too much. I might be overreacting, and I hope I am not wrong here with regards to the extent of the damage. I know I'm far too stubborn not to take it easy all the way, I'm going to do my best and everything I can to make it back by the 3rd. I must, I have to. It will probably be my last locally.

If I can get back by the 3rd with a lot of tape, then the damage will be minimal, I can still recover after that, however, if it is to the worst extent, then I am out for months. Everything I've done for the last three months will be for nothing. A miserable winter awaits me ahead. I can't stand the bleakness.

I want to be mobile again, I want to independent, up and about. Invisible chains have me.

Hamlet

Lately, I've been going through a lot of obstacles in my life. Just when you think everything might be going smoothly for once, suddenly, life throws you an earthquake. Of course, that might be a fair bit of melodramatic exaggeration, however, things are certainly not looking great for me. Well, superficially anyway.

Everyone has their own problems, certainly, definitely. Everyone of course thinks the crosses they carry are the heaviest, at least at some point in time in their life. Lately, I have been pondering the famous soliloquy from Shakespeare's Hamlet.

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered.

I haven't actually read the play proper, but I remember the plot. It is a such a dark and macabre tragedy, akin to the Duchess of Malfi. The protagonist, Hamlet, discovers that his father, the King has been murdered by his cousin Claudius after receiving a message from the ghost of his father. The ghost then commissions Hamlet to avenge him. Like any loyal son, he does, and across the story pretends to fall deeper into madness. Depressed greatly by the events unfolding around him, he considers suicide and utters the above text.

He considers deeply whether it is worthwhile to succumb to all the pains and sufferings of life or to fight them to the death. How easy does it seem to simply die, it would be the end of all suffering and end of life's unjust and unfair schemes.He has even convinced himself that in suicide, true courage is found.

Somehow I wonder if I am running, alone, on a similar path. I know where it is going, but I am so stubborn that I cannot stop myself. It is most self-destructive and eschews any concerns of the future. Or perhaps, even dispels any possibilities of the future before they make themselves available. Maybe, I'm just waiting for someone to save me from my foolish stupor, though experience tells me otherwise.

I always tell my friends in similar situations that they're very lucky they don't have full knowledge about the possible extents it could lead to. I wonder where I will be heading to…

and in that sleep of death, what dreams may come….

Knee worries.

My knee is injured again. The same one with the lateral mensicural tear that I had operation to fix two years ago. Same pain shooting through the joint, same swelling, same tightness. The operation was to shave off the bits of frayed meniscus, and quite a bit was shaved that i have little left linking the lateral horn to the medial horn, if it tears, then I am at great risk of accelerated arthritis.

This injury could not have come a worse time. I'm stronger than ever, I feel fitter than ever and I'm improving so much. There is a match on the 3rd, and the season would have started when I touch down in Dublin later that month. I don't know how I got it because i have been pain free for the last two years since the op. I think it is a combination of very quick weight gain, getting much fitter and using metal studs on astroturf. I hate astroturf, but then again, who doesn't?

I hate the feeling of complete hopelessness as I watch my dreams of actually getting real good at my favourite sport while I'm away. It doesn't help that the country is crazy over it and that season will just be starting since it's a winter sport. The six years that I'll be in Dublin will the prime of sporting tour if anything, since once thirty hits, everything slows down. Sure, I'd love to be like Elvis, my fifty, that's right FIFTY, year old teammate who still plays after two heart bypasses. Elvis is actually japanese, but wears his sideburns like his famous namesake, hence the nickname. Damn, those Japs are hardy. Also, once housemanship and the working life start, I'll never be able to commit the same amount of time too it.

Furthermore, through all the waves of despondency that wash over the shores of mind as I question the future of my knee, I can't help wondering why me? Why does God have to pick me to have the torn meniscus. Why can't I have a torn ACL? I could live with that, in fact, I think it's a far better injury to have than a torn meniscus. I don't know. But still, why me? I hate asking that sort of question, as if I'm challenging his infinitely greater wisdom.

Honestly, I don't know what I'll do without it. It's a huge part of my life, my identity. Nothing gives me the same rush as being on the field. Perhaps, all my hobbies are just psycho-analytical proof of some self-destructive behaviour since I can't see any bright future ahead. Maybe I just wish someone would save me from all these destructive addictions. Maybe I'm just being melodramatic. I don't know. In the immortal words of Hamlet,

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

I just want to run and hit people. ):

Melancholic Munch

Rainy days are for sleeping. Really.

And I über late for work cause of the rain. Thank God for a nice boss.

Also, it really sucks when the only thing on my mind this morning is the one thing I shouldn't be thinking about.

No, it is not sex. Yes, it is someone.

A rare snippet into my daily life on this blog. Be grateful.