/ 6:42 PM

Hey I'm back! Next wk, I only have off days on Tues, Wed and Sat I think.. And gdness knows what else I have to make time for.. Too much time on my hands isn't gd either though.. Not that I make gd use of it :P

Juz finished reading one of the best bks I've ever read! It's a movie novel, Mystic River, written by Dennis Lehane. And this post is gonna be on the bk yeah.. Took my breath away at some points in time when reading it.. Coz it's REAL good.. Perhaps even better than the movie, not lacking in details at all.. It's a deep angsty story.. And I'm lovin' it.. The angst genre..:P Violence is included, but the angst is what makes the story different.. So it's unlike violent bks/movies which only focus on bringing out cool combat moves and cooler weapons.. Angst brings in a psychological point of view, and so it's damn good to read, which is all I can say and what I've repeatedly said already.. Haha, highly reccommended that u read!! =]

Instead of a sypnosis, I think I'll type out an extract.. I'm willing to do this coz I'm that impressed by the author's writing as well as how the story unfolded.. Guaranteed satisfaction *winkz*

The following is abt one of the characters in the story, Sean Devine. He's a police detective who's investigating a murder of a teenage girl, and also trying to hold his marriage together.

Lately, though, he'd just been tired in general.

Maybe he was simply tired of life, of the absolute effort it took to get up every goddamned morning and walk out into the same fucking day with only slight variations in the weather and the food. Too tired to care about one dead girl because there'd be another after her. And another. And sending the killers off to jail - even if you got them life - didn't yield the appropriate level of satisfaction anymore, because they were just going home, to the place they'd been heading all their dumb, ridiculous lives, and the dead were still dead. And the robbed and the raped were still the robbed and the raped.

He wondered if this was what clinical depression felt like, a total numbness, a weary lack of hope.

His marriage, what was that if not shattered glass? Jesus Christ, he loved her, but they were as opposite as two people could get and still be part of the same species. Lauren was into theater and books and films Sean couldn't understand whether they had subtitles or not. She was chatty and emotional and loved to string words together in dizzying tiers that climbed and climbed toward some tower of language that lost Sean somewhere on the third floor.
.
.
.
She fit in the theater world, first as a college actress, then as a director in local, black-box houses, and eventually as a stage manager of larger, travelling shows. It wasn't the travel, though, that overextended their marriage. Hell, Sean still wasn't sure what had done it, though he suspected it had something to do with him and his silences, the gradual dawn of contempt every cop grew into - a contempt for people, really, an inability to believe in higher motives and altruism.

Her friends, who had once seemed fascinating to him, began to seem childish, covered in a real-world retardant of artistic theory and impractical philosophies. Sean would be spending his nights out in the blue concrete areas where people raped and stole and killed for no other reason but the itch to do so, and then he'd suffer through some weekend cocktail party in which ponytailed heads argued through the night (his wife included) over the motivation behind human sin. The motivation was easy - people were stupid. Chimps. But worse, because chimps didn't kill one another over scratch tickets.

She told him he was becoming hard, intractable, reductive in his thinking. And he didn't respond because he had nothing to argue. The question wasn't whether he had become those things, but whether the becoming was a positive or a negative.

But still, they'd loved each other. In their own ways, they had kept trying - Sean to break out of his shell and Lauren to break into it. Whatever that thing was between two people, that total, chemical need to attach to each other, they had it. Always.

Still, he probably should have seen the affair coming. Maybe he did. And maybe it wasn't the affair that truly bothered him, but the pregnancy that followed.
.
.
.
When the phone rang, he knew somehow - even before he lifted it off the kitchen counter and pressed 'Talk' - that it was her.

'This is Sean.'

On the other end of the line, he could hear the subdued rumble of a tractor-trailer idling and the soft whoosh of cars speeding past on an expressway. He could instantly picture it - a highway rest stop, the gas station up top, a bank of phones between the Roy Rogers and the Mcdonald's. Lauren standing there, listening.

'Lauren,' he said. 'I know it's you.'

Someone passed by the payphone jingling his keys.

'Lauren, just say something.'

The tractor-trailer ground into first gear and the pitch of the engine changed as it rolled across the parking lot.

'How is she?' Sean said. He almost said, 'How is my daughter?' but, then, he didn't know if she was his, only that she was Lauren's. So, he said again, 'How is she?'

The truck shifted into second, the crush of its tires on gravel growing more distant as it headed for the mouth of the plaza and the road beyond.

'This hurts too much,' Sean said. 'Can't you just talk to me?'
.
.
.
The conversations - if you could call them that - could last as long as fifteen minutes depending on how much he said, but tonight Sean was exhausted in general and worn out from missing her, a woman who'd disappeared on him one morning when she was seven months pregnant, and fed up with his feelings for her being the only feelings he had left for anything.

'I can't do this tonight,' he said. 'I'm fucking weary and I'm in pain and you don't even care enough to let me hear your voice.'

'Bye, baby,' he said, the words strangling on the phelgm in his throat, and then he hung up.

He'd broken the ritual. He'd hung up on her. What if just as he'd been doing it, she had parted her lips to speak, to say his name?

Jesus.

The image of that got him walking through the shower, if only so he could run away from it, from the thought of her standing by those payphones, mouth opening, the words raising in her throat.

Sean, she might have been about to say, I'm coming home.

write about yourself here like how you lived through a crisis like the morrocian crisis. erps, have you studied about that before and about your test, how easy it is and how much confidence you have to pass and get all A1s for all subjects, add in your own wish here, and what you would do if target is not reached, like slash your wrist, eat many many painkiller pills at one shot and die. lol it's suicidal thoughts. stay away from that. but you need to enter a reality, everyone's doing that- it's the trend, so why not follow it. unless you want to be an odd one out. cause slashing wrist is soo common in girls school not in boys school. boys suicide, just like die gracefully from 30th storey, just look on the bright side, maybe you have lived in a lie too long and so you have found out the turth now, just think. optimist wins. you have entered into a world of reality



We know life's hard, truth is hard, lies are hard, they are all hard to accept when they have been found out, and i'm rushing history homework on the Abyissian Crisis about Italy and Abyssia going into war and that the League Of Nations cannot stop this from happening, and beacuse they are formed by means to stop war and peace-keep the countries together, they have thus failed to achieve that. I think i tend to hold a class for history instead of telling you about me, i'm basically a what subject-realted lover (humanities) and thus I am more analytical and critical about things, and likes to study about dead people, haha. lol. it's history what can you expect and also geography, it amazes me. I really like it alot, so what have you? Again to find this answer you need to enter into your own reality and reflect




it's amazing. amzing how people change the way of things, like how I used to hate outdoors in Band felt it was a complete waste of time, i've acquired to like it more, i guess people change, their thereotical means and applications in life just goes on into a new direction, and see things in another perspective, i guess- it's all in the mind. It really amazes me how these comes into action, from someone so pessimistic has changed his own view of things, and thus my friend is scoring much better, being more optimisitc and not think of his old way of suicidal thoughts, which are pretty daunting. and thus we need to see things, in another light, another perspective and another new way, to enable us to open up our minds, and make more new things, the new way it is. done with the old back with the new

i've hiatus-ed.

/ 6:42 PM

Hey I'm back! Next wk, I only have off days on Tues, Wed and Sat I think.. And gdness knows what else I have to make time for.. Too much time on my hands isn't gd either though.. Not that I make gd use of it :P

Juz finished reading one of the best bks I've ever read! It's a movie novel, Mystic River, written by Dennis Lehane. And this post is gonna be on the bk yeah.. Took my breath away at some points in time when reading it.. Coz it's REAL good.. Perhaps even better than the movie, not lacking in details at all.. It's a deep angsty story.. And I'm lovin' it.. The angst genre..:P Violence is included, but the angst is what makes the story different.. So it's unlike violent bks/movies which only focus on bringing out cool combat moves and cooler weapons.. Angst brings in a psychological point of view, and so it's damn good to read, which is all I can say and what I've repeatedly said already.. Haha, highly reccommended that u read!! =]

Instead of a sypnosis, I think I'll type out an extract.. I'm willing to do this coz I'm that impressed by the author's writing as well as how the story unfolded.. Guaranteed satisfaction *winkz*

The following is abt one of the characters in the story, Sean Devine. He's a police detective who's investigating a murder of a teenage girl, and also trying to hold his marriage together.

Lately, though, he'd just been tired in general.

Maybe he was simply tired of life, of the absolute effort it took to get up every goddamned morning and walk out into the same fucking day with only slight variations in the weather and the food. Too tired to care about one dead girl because there'd be another after her. And another. And sending the killers off to jail - even if you got them life - didn't yield the appropriate level of satisfaction anymore, because they were just going home, to the place they'd been heading all their dumb, ridiculous lives, and the dead were still dead. And the robbed and the raped were still the robbed and the raped.

He wondered if this was what clinical depression felt like, a total numbness, a weary lack of hope.

His marriage, what was that if not shattered glass? Jesus Christ, he loved her, but they were as opposite as two people could get and still be part of the same species. Lauren was into theater and books and films Sean couldn't understand whether they had subtitles or not. She was chatty and emotional and loved to string words together in dizzying tiers that climbed and climbed toward some tower of language that lost Sean somewhere on the third floor.
.
.
.
She fit in the theater world, first as a college actress, then as a director in local, black-box houses, and eventually as a stage manager of larger, travelling shows. It wasn't the travel, though, that overextended their marriage. Hell, Sean still wasn't sure what had done it, though he suspected it had something to do with him and his silences, the gradual dawn of contempt every cop grew into - a contempt for people, really, an inability to believe in higher motives and altruism.

Her friends, who had once seemed fascinating to him, began to seem childish, covered in a real-world retardant of artistic theory and impractical philosophies. Sean would be spending his nights out in the blue concrete areas where people raped and stole and killed for no other reason but the itch to do so, and then he'd suffer through some weekend cocktail party in which ponytailed heads argued through the night (his wife included) over the motivation behind human sin. The motivation was easy - people were stupid. Chimps. But worse, because chimps didn't kill one another over scratch tickets.

She told him he was becoming hard, intractable, reductive in his thinking. And he didn't respond because he had nothing to argue. The question wasn't whether he had become those things, but whether the becoming was a positive or a negative.

But still, they'd loved each other. In their own ways, they had kept trying - Sean to break out of his shell and Lauren to break into it. Whatever that thing was between two people, that total, chemical need to attach to each other, they had it. Always.

Still, he probably should have seen the affair coming. Maybe he did. And maybe it wasn't the affair that truly bothered him, but the pregnancy that followed.
.
.
.
When the phone rang, he knew somehow - even before he lifted it off the kitchen counter and pressed 'Talk' - that it was her.

'This is Sean.'

On the other end of the line, he could hear the subdued rumble of a tractor-trailer idling and the soft whoosh of cars speeding past on an expressway. He could instantly picture it - a highway rest stop, the gas station up top, a bank of phones between the Roy Rogers and the Mcdonald's. Lauren standing there, listening.

'Lauren,' he said. 'I know it's you.'

Someone passed by the payphone jingling his keys.

'Lauren, just say something.'

The tractor-trailer ground into first gear and the pitch of the engine changed as it rolled across the parking lot.

'How is she?' Sean said. He almost said, 'How is my daughter?' but, then, he didn't know if she was his, only that she was Lauren's. So, he said again, 'How is she?'

The truck shifted into second, the crush of its tires on gravel growing more distant as it headed for the mouth of the plaza and the road beyond.

'This hurts too much,' Sean said. 'Can't you just talk to me?'
.
.
.
The conversations - if you could call them that - could last as long as fifteen minutes depending on how much he said, but tonight Sean was exhausted in general and worn out from missing her, a woman who'd disappeared on him one morning when she was seven months pregnant, and fed up with his feelings for her being the only feelings he had left for anything.

'I can't do this tonight,' he said. 'I'm fucking weary and I'm in pain and you don't even care enough to let me hear your voice.'

'Bye, baby,' he said, the words strangling on the phelgm in his throat, and then he hung up.

He'd broken the ritual. He'd hung up on her. What if just as he'd been doing it, she had parted her lips to speak, to say his name?

Jesus.

The image of that got him walking through the shower, if only so he could run away from it, from the thought of her standing by those payphones, mouth opening, the words raising in her throat.

Sean, she might have been about to say, I'm coming home.