the scribe

yesterday, while unpacking the 101th box that lay in my new apartment, i discovered my old literature text.

was introduced to Ms Austen, a decade ago in high school and was reacquainted once again at the Institute  . god, i hate the name change, still needs getting used to, but loved the 2 years i spent there and wonderful people i've met. we used to have lit crit on the roof deck which overlooks the soft-ball and soccer fields, devouring passages of Belinda's exploits and Gulliver's travels while the cool breeze whiffed sounds of laughter and chatter from the classrooms below. i wholey support the idea of bringing the books out of the classroom because afterall, an education is not about memorizing text and figures but a broadening of the mind through everyday experiences and observations.

 and observe we did in class, as i re-read all the little notes and doodles that slipped in and out of the passages.

"i think XX is so cute with his new haircut! lets stay back to watch his softball match"

"i think YY is wearing bright yellow underwear, can see it through his pants, ewwww!!"

"s**t, still haven't done math homework! can i copy yours?"

.....

and the list goes on.

it reminds me of the time when i came across my dad's secondary school text, the Hounds of Baskerville and read the notes that he wrote in rich dark ink that stained the yellowed rice-paper thin pages-- injecting his thoughts of not only the text but also of his feelings. and for someone like me, the errant daughter, it was a rare glimpse into his inner being before i even came into being. sometimes i wonder what he was like as a boy, the dreams he had and if the life he had aspired to lead at that time turned out in the end. whether he's disappointed, whether it turned out to be beyond his expectations. afterall, life's trajectory is fluid, one that takes many twists and turns, and the career, love and life that you had an image of in your teens maybe very much different  from what one leads in reality.

maybe that's how i got into the habit of writing down notes on random things whenever a thought or inspiration hits. i actually love the dog-ears, scribbles and doodles that mess up the pages of a book because they are the markings of an absorbing narrative or how one was feeling at that moment in time.

like a image diary of our thoughts and experiences, it refreshes one's heart and soul with its pool of memories.

in the end, i think i will leave no jewelled heirlooms for my children, but a stack of books and letters bound by a single satin ribbon.