from the soccernet.com Team of the Weak:

At left-back we have the versatile Djimi Traore a young Liverpool man with plenty of talent but the concentration of a three-year-old at a church service. Error-prone and positionally poor, the Frenchman was a major part of the Liverpool collapse of the winter months. His end-of-term report from former schoolmaster Houllier would probably say 'could do better'.

one month till i'll get to hold a copy of it in my hands. for those of you who can't wait, here's another teaser (and one to make flea smile):

flight of the pixie queen.

pixie queen, juggle sweet words for me,
and pour my endless sorrow into little pills,
we’ll share them, till we’re once again healthy,
with these, we’ll soon be cured of our ills.
dance a little dance for me, will you please?
the moon’s out and it beckons you to come,
to spread your word over the sky and seven seas,
and to shine your light on us and deny the sun.
it has no place here, as envious as it does grow,
for i have your lips now to gently ease the pain
of yesterday and that place we call tomorrow;
once loved, one is never the same again.
like a butterfly you flit from flower to flower
my eyes are not quick enough to follow your flight
and with each and every passing hour
the darkness ascends until it is no longer night
paint your love on the canvass of my eye,
and watch as my tears smudge your perfumed ink.
i call for you to stay and teach me to believe in love’s lies
but you disappear with a mischievous wink.
“why do you play games with me, o queen of this world?
don’t you know how much i believe in you?”
“i do!” you cry out as you vanish for good with these words:
“but you still do not believe that i feel what you feel too.”

--

forever

i stumble my way through the smoke and flashing lights
half-dazed by all the dancing that i’ve done tonight
i’ve subdued enough temptation to corrupt any soul
now i wander aimlessly, seeking to escape the cold
a strange sensation overcomes me, and i’m compelled to stay
to not leave this place; to further lose my way
i’m dragged across the room to a blue velvet two-seater
and the shape slumped across it is so much sweeter
she’s no older than i, i suppose, a gorgeous wreck of a lady
her eyes are bloodshot and watery; with her own tears, maybe.
there’s an air of innocence about her that i can’t explain
and it would make no sense to say that i’ve gone insane
i’m sober; i’m over myself enough to fall in love once again
and she’s in need of a quick fix to save her from the pain
i tap her shoulder gently and ask if i may sit next to her
all the while, my eyes question those that will not answer
she breaks into a weak smile; she’s such a beautiful thing
to think she doesn’t know me; it’s a futile life i’ve been living
she leans over and whispers something into my ear and laughs
and this beautiful darling of a drunk tears my heart into halves
with the words, “take me to the place you’re at right now, and
i’ll show you a man who loves me for who i really am.”

i spent this morning practising french. it's a bit tricky when you get started but when you get the hang of it.. it's truly beautiful.

scrabble.
sons 4, parents 0

today was a good day. PORTENDS got me a 149 points in one play. that's the scrabble equivalent of a hole-in-one. final score: 218-338

word of the day:
(well, not really, but it was allowed for entertainment's sake)
TOYOTA


blue: my ma, orange: me

i'd say:

michigan. six out of six.

but this one's not over yet. they haven't rejected me. they've deferred my application to next year because they didn't see my 'o' level certificate. even though my dad sent it to them by fedex and that we have lots of proof. my dad, being the raging-bull-class fighter that he's always been, is gonna hound the dean of admissions till the end of time. and he's gonna blast them on the phone like only he knows how to. way to go, michigan. you've asked for it.

of course, i'm thankful that i have a father who does these kind of things. for sure. my bro can testify that it really really really helps.

on the cover of my book:

for years i have been running away,
and it only took one moment with you
to realise what it is to truly escape.

from my brother's scrapbook:

i'm so busy with other people and other things that i don't have time for me. i was in the darkroom developing this photograph when i realised that i am the only me there ever will be, so i better take some time to find me, or nobody in the world will know where to look for me.

--

there were so many beautiful things that i missed every morning because i forgot to stop and look in a direction i wasn't going in.

--


for all those of you who would like to submit marriage proposals to my brother, please leave your name, address and contact info. thank you.

blogworld... meet kofi. he's from coffee cartel at raffles city. and yes, that's a 'fro.

sign the guestbook, people!
<------

lyrics:
it's times like these you learn to live again,
it's times like these you give and give again,
it's times like these you learn to love again,
it's times like these, time and time again.
- times like these, foo fighters

in your house i long to be
room by room patiently
i'll wait for you there
like a stone i'll wait for you there
alone
- like a stone, audioslave

listening:
times like these, foo fighters
seven nation army, the white stripes
session, linkin park
bring me to life, evanescence
like a stone, audioslave

wondering: why

feeling: optimistic

wishing: presence

waiting.

patiently.

so i was walking down orchard road alone yesterday night, and it was about an hour to midnight. this lady in front of me approaches this white-uniform-clad girl walking in the opposite direction and says, "Hi. I just want to say that I really appreciate the part that you're playing in this whole SARS problem. Thank you." She then smiles at the very obviously shocked girl who, without a word, then lowers the bun she was holding to her mouth with both hands to reveal these words sewn in bright orange on the chest region of her uniform: bread talk.

"Anyone can become angry—that is easy. But to be angry with the right person, to the right degree, at the right time, for the right purpose, and in the right way—this is not easy."
- Aristotle, The Nicomachean Ethics

and then he just started writing. the words came to him quickly and he could barely keep up with his thoughts. line by line, a story was unfolding before him. the most remarkable tale he had ever seen. and he was writing it. he wrote of the time he spent a whole night on the beach, lying in the sand, expecting it to be calm and peaceful. how wrong he was. it was cold and damp, and the wind never stopped blowing. and there were all sorts of insects that bit him. he was barely alive in the morning. he didn't sleep. he couldn't. he swore he would never do that again. it's not like how it was in the movies. it never was.

and then he wrote about the long drives he'd take with her. she was the most wonderful person in the world to have in the passenger seat. the conversations were witty, stimulating and full of surprises. he wrote about how much he missed the twinkle in her eye when he sped. she loved to go fast. and then she'd stick her head out the window and feel the breeze in her hair. just like the movies. and she'd scream as loud as she could. why? because she could. he wished he never had to move. leaving her behind was like walking out of your house without your car keys. you've left, but you're going nowhere. and he wishes so much that he could go back for her.

the pen danced some more.

he remembered climbing trees as a child. this kid once made fun of him and he still remembered. "hey monkey boy!" was the cry, "i bet you climbed the ugly tree once, fell and hit every branch on the way down!" the laughter still rings in his ears. he's too old for that now. there's the temptation to be bitter. but it is quickly subdued. he'd sit in a tree and write in this book that aunt mabel gave him for his birthday. the words came just as easily. he went through all the things he used to write and tried his best not to get caught up in those maudlin moments. he'd pause occasionally and laugh to himself. he'd forgotten what it felt like to be silly and proud at the same time. it's never too late.

and soon he was at the end. there was nothing more to write and no more pages left in the book. it meant that he had lived to the brim, he assured himself. he smiled to himself, closed the book and flipped it over. "an autobiography", he titled it. then he opened the book and began flipping through the pages to admire his work.

and blank pages greeted him, all the way to the end.

a scream. one that has rung out many, many times before.

he is a ghost and he has no past. yet he spends his days trying to write down what he has lost forever. there is no ink in the world he lives in now. those memories were meant to be cherished always. while he was alive, he thought that there would always be a time for that later. he was wrong.

and this is his punishment.

restraint.

how i hate that word. you are stopped from doing what you really want to do. and there's nothing you can do about it. but i know there is.

and i'll prove it to you.

i'm but a mirror of those before me
it is only memories and experiences i have to call my own

duke. five out of five.

interesting thing i did today:

sitting in the bus-stop near winstedt road (just outside esso) while the rain was pouring all around me. just got off from 66 a couple of minutes before. dirty brown cat by my side, and a torn-open milk carton from which it slurps up it's dinner. it cost just 75 cents to me but being able to take some of the fear, cold and uncertainty out of a poor stray cat for just a while is something money can't really buy. sat there for half an hour, almost. wasn't watching it, though. cats hate people watching them eat. i enjoyed getting wet on the way home. sometimes rain makes me happy.

as i was walking home in the rain:

he has knowledge as his tools
and faith as his guide
with these, he will choose
where others dare not decide
he will be given light
and blessed by god with power
to fight on through this night
and to light his darkest hour

Where are you going?
With the long face pulling down
Don’t hide away like the ocean
That you can’t see
But you can smell
And the sound of waves crash down

I am no superman
I have no reasons for you
I am no hero, oh that’s for sure
But I do know one thing:
It’s where you are is where I belong

I do know, where you go
Is where I wanna be

Where are you going?
Where do you go?

Are you looking for answers to questions under the stars
If along the way, you are growing weary
You can rest with me until a brighter day, and you’re ok


I am no superman
And I have no answers for you
I am no hero, oh that’s for sure
But I do know one thing:
Where you are, is where I belong
I do know, where you go
Is where I wanna be

Where are you going?
Where do you go?

Where do you go?
Where are you going?
Where do you go?

Where are you going?
Where do you go?
And where are you going?
Where this goes

- where are you going?, dave matthews band

arata-ta-ta-ta tah! arata-ta-ta-ta tah!

four out of four. stanford has joined the congo line.

=)

and that's his hat-trick:

penn is the latest to join the les universités terriblés. 3 out of 3 so far, and 3 to go.

the epidemic continues.

2nd April:

happy birthday, bro.

sometimes we forget the meaning of friendship. sometimes we forget the meaning of love. sometimes we forget what it means to have someone who shares the blood flowing through your veins. thank god that i have you around to remind me.

it's that time of the month again:

what? oh no no. not that time of the month. the other one. cornell just sent me their condolences. 2 down (the drain), 4 to go.

the foolishness of these universities is spreading faster than SARS is. haha