it came rushing back.
without warning, it did.
you are punished for being slow.
without warning, it did.
should i allow it to
take me? or should i
swim against it?
without warning
it came rushing back.
but i have to act. do i?
why should i? will i be
swept away if i don't?
what will be left of me?
just when i'm rebuilding
the house, it comes
rushing back, gushing.
and it will not pass with the
initial storm; the flood will linger.
do i have to do things
right? or do the right thing?
what is it?
in His hands, i
commend my spirit.
Uncle T
17 Jan 2009
15 Jan 2009
a man is possibly his strongest when on his knees in prayer 8:13 am
"Prayer is not asking. It is a longing of the soul. It is daily admission of one's weakness. It is better in prayer to have a heart without words than words without a heart". - Ghandi
"Pray as though everything dependend on God. Work as though everything depended on you." - Saint Augustine
Uncle T
"Pray as though everything dependend on God. Work as though everything depended on you." - Saint Augustine
Uncle T
14 Jan 2009
neil gaiman, on london 6:07 pm
"Three years in London had not changed Richard, although it had changed the way he perceived the city. Richard had originally imagined London as a grey city, even a black city, from the pictures he had seen, and was surprised to find it filled with colour. It was a city of red brick and white stone, red buses and large black taxis (which were often, to Richard's initial puzzlement gold, or green, or maroon), bright red postboxes and green grassy parks and cemeteries.
It was a city in which the very old and the awkwardly new jostled each other, not uncomfortably, but without respect; a city of shops and offices and restaurants and homes, of parks and churches, of ignored monuments and remarkably unpalatial palaces; a city of hundreds of districts with strange names - Crouch End, Chalk Farm, Earl's Court, Marble Arch - and oddly distinct identities; a noisy, dirty, cheerful, troubled city, which fed on tourists, needed them as it despised them, in which the average speed of transportation through the city had not increased in three hundred years, following 500 years of fitful road-widening and unskilful compromises between the needs of traffic, whether horse-drawn or more recently motorized, and the needs of pedestrians; a city inhabited by and teeming with people of every colour and manner and kind."
- Neil Gaiman
Uncle T
13 Jan 2009
Gaza Crisis: getting lost in the numbers 8:47 am
910 dead; 292 children, 76 women. For the past 17 days, each time I awake to BBC Radio, or read the news, it will be a new number that is mentioned. 30 air strikes in a night, more women and children dead, hospitals overflowing...
When it first happened 17 days ago when Israel launched retaliatory missile fire on Gaza, I was still holidaying in Singapore. I sat up. Watched the videos, scanned the photos. My heart honestly ached. I prayed, especially hard since it was fast approaching the New Year; don't all peoples deserve a decent start to a new year, wherever you are?
But soon, the videos online would be the same; either more smoke and debris, whistling rockets or more blood and crying. I either was numb or couldn't be bothered; I just wasn't affected anymore. I got lost on the numbers, forgetting that these were individual lives lost, mostly innocently.
And then, it all came rushing back again. By setting an example, the Catholic chaplain here in the university asked us all to say prayers for the people of Gaza, who whilst the world ushered in the new year with fireworks, saw the new year come and go as missiles light the sky. The only resolution they get to make is to make sure they stay alive as best as possible; even then that is taken out of their hands.
Human lives are being lost. Individual lives. I don't know how to help. The righteous political bantering amongst the two sides, Hamas and Israel, trying to justify their view is sickening and pathetic. Yet, I am not sure how else I'll act should I be in their position.
All I am asking is for you, me, us, to be aware that there is a disaster going on in Gaza. And should the chance arise for us to help, let's do so.
Click here for more info on the crisis. Let's not turn our backs on the photos, and not get lost in the numbers.
Uncle T
When it first happened 17 days ago when Israel launched retaliatory missile fire on Gaza, I was still holidaying in Singapore. I sat up. Watched the videos, scanned the photos. My heart honestly ached. I prayed, especially hard since it was fast approaching the New Year; don't all peoples deserve a decent start to a new year, wherever you are?
But soon, the videos online would be the same; either more smoke and debris, whistling rockets or more blood and crying. I either was numb or couldn't be bothered; I just wasn't affected anymore. I got lost on the numbers, forgetting that these were individual lives lost, mostly innocently.
And then, it all came rushing back again. By setting an example, the Catholic chaplain here in the university asked us all to say prayers for the people of Gaza, who whilst the world ushered in the new year with fireworks, saw the new year come and go as missiles light the sky. The only resolution they get to make is to make sure they stay alive as best as possible; even then that is taken out of their hands.
Human lives are being lost. Individual lives. I don't know how to help. The righteous political bantering amongst the two sides, Hamas and Israel, trying to justify their view is sickening and pathetic. Yet, I am not sure how else I'll act should I be in their position.
All I am asking is for you, me, us, to be aware that there is a disaster going on in Gaza. And should the chance arise for us to help, let's do so.
Click here for more info on the crisis. Let's not turn our backs on the photos, and not get lost in the numbers.
Uncle T
From door to door. 4:16 am
With troubled bits floating in my head, I decided to go for a run. It was dark as I stepped out of the warmth into the windy evening. I winced, and my body protested with a familiar inertia. I insisted and put up my hood and earphones.
The warmth I took with me from the room still kept me sane as the wind challenged the thickness of my jacket. As I ran into campus grounds, the Gregorian chants of the Brasilian Benedictine monks eased through my earphones. On my left and on my right; fellow students either finishing classes or heading home to prepare for a night out. I jog right past them. Soon, there were getting lesser students. And it got colder too.
Running towards to the far end of campus, I heard the monks' chant more clearly as the surroundings got quiet. No one in sight but for the brake lights of a random parked car. It got colder. I was soon running on the familiar country road I always adored for my 3 years here. But at night, the country road seemed empty and intimidating.
I weaved in and out patches of light from street lamps and darkness. I raised my eyes to the glorious countryside of Coventry's outskirts, but it was now all swallowed by the darkness. Nothing. No stars either. The monks continue to chant. I see double shadows on the ground. I instinctively turn around and fine nothing but the snaking country road; I was casting multiple shadows. I try to smile away my own silliness. Soon, even the buildings were getting smaller in the distance behind me.
There were no longer alternate patches of light; there were no longer shadows as it got totally dark. The street lights were gone. I suddenly here the loudness of my breathing and pounding of the wet ground as my ipod changes tracks and goes silent momentarily. Thankfully, the monks continue to chant. I was pushing myself now to run faster, to finish off the run. I pushed on in the darkness.
Finally, I saw the down slope, and the re-appearance of street lamps. My mind went blank, the chants becoming background noise, and i pushed my lungs as hard as I could down the final slope. I could hear my breathing even through the headphones. I made the final turn and caught sight of the light coming from my kitchen.
I slowed down, feeling the sweat trickle down the side of my face, panting. I took of my hoodie and let the night breeze cleanse me. The monks were still chanting, continuous, ever faithful. The run was over. I had to walk back into my life again, with the bits of troubles here and there. They didn't go away after the run. But perhaps I'm stronger. I don't know what to expect, walking back into my room.
I made the sign of the Cross, and opened the door to my flat.
The warmth I took with me from the room still kept me sane as the wind challenged the thickness of my jacket. As I ran into campus grounds, the Gregorian chants of the Brasilian Benedictine monks eased through my earphones. On my left and on my right; fellow students either finishing classes or heading home to prepare for a night out. I jog right past them. Soon, there were getting lesser students. And it got colder too.
Running towards to the far end of campus, I heard the monks' chant more clearly as the surroundings got quiet. No one in sight but for the brake lights of a random parked car. It got colder. I was soon running on the familiar country road I always adored for my 3 years here. But at night, the country road seemed empty and intimidating.
I weaved in and out patches of light from street lamps and darkness. I raised my eyes to the glorious countryside of Coventry's outskirts, but it was now all swallowed by the darkness. Nothing. No stars either. The monks continue to chant. I see double shadows on the ground. I instinctively turn around and fine nothing but the snaking country road; I was casting multiple shadows. I try to smile away my own silliness. Soon, even the buildings were getting smaller in the distance behind me.
There were no longer alternate patches of light; there were no longer shadows as it got totally dark. The street lights were gone. I suddenly here the loudness of my breathing and pounding of the wet ground as my ipod changes tracks and goes silent momentarily. Thankfully, the monks continue to chant. I was pushing myself now to run faster, to finish off the run. I pushed on in the darkness.
Finally, I saw the down slope, and the re-appearance of street lamps. My mind went blank, the chants becoming background noise, and i pushed my lungs as hard as I could down the final slope. I could hear my breathing even through the headphones. I made the final turn and caught sight of the light coming from my kitchen.
I slowed down, feeling the sweat trickle down the side of my face, panting. I took of my hoodie and let the night breeze cleanse me. The monks were still chanting, continuous, ever faithful. The run was over. I had to walk back into my life again, with the bits of troubles here and there. They didn't go away after the run. But perhaps I'm stronger. I don't know what to expect, walking back into my room.
I made the sign of the Cross, and opened the door to my flat.
reminiscing night bus rides back home.
Uncle T