tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-798842879212918792024-03-08T11:43:00.953+05:30Bachelor Yearsfive years at the University of Peradeniya reading for a Bachelor of ArtsAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14040259601636462754noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79884287921291879.post-44310700574886203712012-06-24T00:04:00.001+05:302012-06-24T00:04:03.396+05:30Wala Sathiya<p> </p> <p>“Review” posted on <a href="http://bleedingpencil.blogspot.com/2012/01/glf.html">Scribbled Ramblings</a>. Click the link, fools!</p> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14040259601636462754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79884287921291879.post-19293399031980682202011-09-26T21:19:00.000+05:302011-09-26T21:38:39.343+05:30ENG 306: Theory in Practice<div align="justify">
The Day After Tomorrow shall be the penultimate examination of the End of Semester Examinations comma Second Semester 2010stroke2011 for the seven Third Year English Honours Students at the Faculty of Arts at the University of Peradeniya fullstop The examination paper titled openparathesis write carefully as on the examination paper closeparanthesis ENG 303 colon Semantics comma Pragmatics and Discourse Analysis will be administered at precisely 11colon30 am openparanthesis UTC addition 5colon30 closeparanthesis two hours openparanthesis many whispers comma scratchingshyphenofhyphenhead comma jigglingshyphenofhyphenleg comma clearingshyphenofhyphenthroat closeparanthesis after which slim booklets of scribblings will be retrieved from the patients students for assessment of their aptitude for memoryhyphenmaking comma parroting comma bullshitting comma academizing English studies paragraph Their lecturer comma the young openparanthesis and just graduated closeparanthesis Chathurika Senanayake paranthesis whoinvertedcommas new hair style one of the males of the said seven is rather impressed with closeparanthesis comma has strikeoutperformedstrikeout taught well comma keeping her head above water in the face of having to teach the strikeoutradical and revolutionarystrikeout worst-reputed batch of English students since the famed English Department had openparanthesis and lost closeparanthesis its heyday fullstop In the hope of securing strikeoutthe status-quo and perpetuating the capitalist ideals of the academiastrikeout a strikeoutboring and predictablestrikeout good future the said seven strikeoutfacebookstrokeblogstrokecallstroketextstrokewatch moviesstrokemake out in secretstrokemasturbatestrokeorganize gayhyphenprotestsstrokesweatstrokesmokestrokecrystrokescreamstrikeout study throughout the night fullstop In the light of their oppression by the taxhyphenpaying masses that expect an educated generation of the said seven comma their representative had this to say colon openquote!@*^$%&@#$*(&@#$&!!*@&$^!#&$#%*&&………….closequote paragraphparagraph #static# paragraphparagraph endoftransmission fullstop</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14040259601636462754noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79884287921291879.post-77985014026050848372011-02-15T10:49:00.004+05:302011-02-15T11:47:53.866+05:30WTF?So there was this birthday party last night. Yes, it was a monday but there was this birthday party last night. It was a small thing, just a bunch of us girls, very sober but very single and horny on Valentine's night.
No I'm not giving details of what happened. NOTHING HAPPENED! What on earth but a perverted mindset would give <em>anyone</em> the idea anything <em>happened</em>?
So yes, we were out late and I had trouble getting up in the morning. Surprise, surprise. I go to bed at 11pm and can't wake up in a decent state at 10am the next morning (no I don't have sleeping problems, I sleep like a baby!), so bed at 3am and waking at 8am is literally impossible. It was made easier though, by the men on my ceiling pounding and hacking away at some electrical wiring, sending clods of century-old dust descending onto my bed.
But of course I missed my first lecture, I was expecting to. Only I didn't expect <em>four</em> of the other six in my class to do the same. One has a sick dog, the second too great a distance to travel, the third is suffering from a hangover on TUESDAY morning, and the fourth just plain forgot. Whatever right? Only the lecturer is not too happy, and our class is developing a reputation. A bad one. Despite the democratic and unbiased nature of <em>everything</em> going on at the Department of English and the University of Peradeniya, this can reflect badly on our final grades. And since I care about my final grades (most probably jeopardised by my erratic behaviour last semester) I allow my mother to yell me into not skipping the next class (which starts in 15 minutes) as well, brush my teeth, remember to take a leak, forget to brush my hair, put some clothes on (yes I remembered) and arrived at faculty in a huge rush, shoving food down my throat, very sleepy and very reluctant... to find the time's been changed to two hours later.
Hence the post. Happy day!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14040259601636462754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79884287921291879.post-6091852776123585702010-10-19T00:23:00.001+05:302010-10-19T00:23:51.311+05:30When shit hits the fan, I duck.<span xmlns=''><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:10pt'>We've all heard some version of what happened when S. B. Dissanayake decided he was going to come back to the place he spent his undergraduate days. Most say the students neatly organized themselves (as they are very used to doing) in an orderly fashion and happily hooted the Minister of Higher Education off the premises. Some more inclined to dramatic moments say they even threw stones, in an organized fashion. <em>Some</em> say the minister was "taken hostage". Either way, we all know the University Students' Union is currently very unhappy (as they are used to being) about the consequences of what happened that day.
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:10pt'>Last Thursday, us 3<sup>rd</sup> years from the English Department coolly walked into Dr. Wickramagamage's lecture on Jane Austen's <em>Emma</em>, oblivious (by choice) to what was going on around us. The Peradeniya Student's Union had declared a token strike and organized a protest rally in Colombo, followed by demonstrations in Kandy over the next few days. The seven of us (and a number of others) still went to class.
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:10pt'>Who went to class? Those who call themselves 'anti-rag', or more diplomatically, 'non-rag'.
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:10pt'>Why did they go to class? Some say "protests don't work", others, that it's "political". If protests don't work then what does? Do we, who stay away from the protests, have better ideas about how to deal with these situations? If taking part is political, is <em>not</em> taking part <em>not </em>political? Are we naive enough to think we can be neutral? Where does all the cultural theory we learn in class go? What happened to you political activists and rebels fighting against the "frustration" of our generation that has nothing to "fight for"? Where were you that day?
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:10pt'>Hiding.
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:10pt'>Hiding behind flesh and bone, conformity and the fear of the unknown.
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:10pt'>I didn't take part because I just didn't give a shit beyond an indignant comment while passing the TV. Half of <em>you </em>didn't, simply because you're anti-rag, or more diplomatically, 'non-rag', and therefore anti-student-union. Tell me it just didn't bother you; it just didn't bother you because you're anti-rag.
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:10pt'>Yes, I differentiate myself from those who call themselves 'anti-rag', or more diplomatically, 'non-rag'. But I am no different: I was not part of the protest; I was not even part of the token strike. I was part of the distinctly 'anti-rag', or more diplomatically, 'non-rag' group of students attending class that day. It never struck me that if I was to be considered a thinking individual, I must needs have known why I was in class that day.
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:10pt'>Why was I in class that day? I didn't know. I had not thought about it.
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:10pt'>So I thought about it.
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:10pt'>Now that I <em>have </em>thought about it, I still don't know where I stand. But I have thought about it, and that makes me that much better than all of you who have not.
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:10pt'><em>Have</em> you thought about it? Thought about it for yourself, as an individual not belonging to a group? Have you thought about it as someone concerned, someone affected, someone in the direct line of assault? However else you'd like to put it, we have this much in common with the accused: we are students of the Sri Lankan University system.
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Georgia; font-size:10pt'>Take a stand; take some responsibility. Decide. If you're going to be undecided, be decidedly undecided.</span></p></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14040259601636462754noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79884287921291879.post-57062074883899686332010-06-22T00:00:00.001+05:302010-06-22T00:00:13.057+05:30Taking God Everywhere<span xmlns=''><p style='text-align: justify'><span style='font-family:Bell MT'>By the time most of us get to university, we've been completely brainwashed. First our parents, then our teachers and to some extent our friends play such a huge role in determining what we believe that by the time we're undergraduates we don't know how to differentiate our own thoughts from those of others around us. So university, they say, is going to undo all this "teaching" and train us how to "think". Once we leave with a rolled up piece of paper that gives us yet another label (that of "educated degree-holder"), we're supposed to be the sole owners of our own minds. Sounds good so far.
</span></p><p style='text-align: justify'><span style='font-family:Bell MT'>But what really happens? As a student of the humanities, all I can say is that what you see is <em>not</em> what you get. Typically, or ideally, a university will teach you the accepted norms, and then teach you to question it. So we learn about racism and political anarchy, language and hedgemony, sexism and contradictory ideologies; we also learn about the body and the mind, truth and falsehood, God and man. Then we are told: there is no right and wrong, you make your own 'Soup a la Life' and try to impress us. So we undergraduates who were so comfortable being brainwashed are suddenly forced to make choices we don't know whether we even want to make. The freedom is ours, but the whole thing is really a trap.
</span></p><p style='text-align: justify'><span style='font-family:Bell MT'>Now I see you raising your eyebrows. University is a period of freedom where the mind-shackles are removed, where you become adults, and you let your soul become what <em>you </em>want it to be. But think about this:
</span></p><ol><li><div style='text-align: justify'><span style='font-family:Bell MT'>How many of us feel comfortable holding on to the traditional belief that there are fundamental differences between men and women?
</span></div></li><li><div style='text-align: justify'><span style='font-family:Bell MT'>How many of us feel comfortable saying that "I believe my mother knows best for me"?
</span></div></li><li><div style='text-align: justify'><span style='font-family:Bell MT'>How many of us feel comfortable saying that the universe was created in seven days by an all-powerful God, and then admitting that we don't really know <em>how exactly</em>?
</span></div></li><li><div style='text-align: justify'><span style='font-family:Bell MT'>How many of us are comfortable saying that at the end of the day there <em>are</em> fundamental truths, and there is one ultimate Truth?
</span></div></li></ol><p style='text-align: justify'><span style='font-family:Bell MT'>I don't think there are many of us in these groups. Even if there are, there are even <em>less </em>of us that are comfortable holding and <em>asserting</em> these opinions in the classroom where the mantra is feminism, post-modernism, post-structuralism, agnosticism, sexual liberalism, relativism and every other <em>"ism"</em> anybody ever came up with. True we have the freedom to choose what we want; but we are also subtly told what we <em>should </em>want.
</span></p><p style='text-align: justify'><span style='font-family:Bell MT'>Colossians 1:19-20 tells us that <em>"it pleaseth the Father...by him to reconcile <span style='text-decoration:underline'>all things</span> to himself"</em>; does this not mean that these issues we face in the classroom <em>can </em>be reconciled to God? Then if through Christ all things <em>are </em>reconciled to God, do we see the truth of this statement in our classrooms at university? If we don't, then what are we doing about it? What are we doing to gain the necessary knowledge and Biblical understanding that allows us to reconcile these apparently irreconcilable issues of "modern education"? Do we even <em>care</em>?
</span></p><p style='text-align: justify'><span style='font-family:Bell MT'>As Christian Students struggling to hold our ground on a firm faith in God and Christian precepts, in a world that is constantly changing, life is full of contradictions. But we need to start facing these contradictions and figuring them out for ourselves, just like we do with everything else that we come across in our studies. We need to stop separating the classroom text from the Bible and the Bible from the rest of our lives. We need to start incorporating Christian values into what we discuss in classrooms, what we write in our essays and what we say in our exam answers. We need to start being Christians <em>every </em>where we are.
</span></p></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14040259601636462754noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79884287921291879.post-66365094045608049312010-02-06T22:03:00.001+05:302010-02-06T22:03:26.241+05:30New Delhi: Headed for…<span xmlns=''><p><span style='font-family:Charis SIL Compact; font-size:10pt'>We understand that when somebody else pays you to do something which is of no benefit at all to them, there's gotta be a catch. It's just that we don't think about what that catch might be. At least I don't. After loitering around at the Katunayake Airport for roughly three hours (we HAD to be there that early – what if a hippie wearing sunglasses at 3 in the morning brought in an explosive joint of Himalayan weed? We'd need the time to come back to – right?) we finally boarded what seemed like the 1:16 model of a regular commercial air-plane. Take off was shaky to say the least, and honestly, I was nearly peeing in my pants. The flight and landing itself were not so bad, but Chennai was.
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Charis SIL Compact; font-size:10pt'>See, I had been warned (roughly fifty-two times) that if there's one place in the world you don't want to be – it's Chennai. Of course, as with all other pieces of valuable information I get in the form of warnings, I didn't take much notice. But, I discovered for myself later (as with the follow-up to all other pieces of valuable information I get in the form of warnings) that I wished I had listened. Why?
</span></p><ol><li><span style='font-family:Charis SIL Compact; font-size:10pt'><strong>Chennai is hot</strong>. Especially immediately after getting off a plane. The heat hits you like a very heavy pillow wielded by your sixteen-year-old brother who is just discovering his physical prowess. Then it wraps you up like a blanket, sticks to your skin and makes you want to puke. It's not nice, I say.
</span></li><li><span style='font-family:Charis SIL Compact; font-size:10pt'><strong>Chennai is noisy</strong>. The airport is shielded from the rest of the city by a plastic wall (ongoing construction) and the effect is really eerie. Beyond the wall is left to your imagination, which will be complemented by the sound of five-thousand car horns tooting roughly fifteen different tunes each second, fifteen babies crying in the immediate vicinity and one-hundred women and men (each) shouting coarsely in an unintelligible language. All this happens at roughly one-thousand-two-hundred decibels.
</span></li><li><span style='font-family:Charis SIL Compact; font-size:10pt'><strong>Chennai is boring</strong>. First, there are the queues. You can stand behind one-hundred-and-fifty people of different colors, shapes, sizes and smells for close upon half an hour while the immigration guy checks your visa at the rate of one letter per minute. Then there are the lounges. The airport has all of four duty-free shops at the departure lounge. There's lots to do including staring at the shiny tiled floor and staring at the shiny tiled floor and staring at the shiny tiled floor.
</span></li><li><span style='font-family:Charis SIL Compact; font-size:10pt'><strong>Chennai steals</strong>. Ok, here's where I admit my whole view of the trip is a little biased. My case got opened either at Colombo or Chennai. Either way, I discovered it at the latter and decided to be rude to a check-in officer on those grounds. I understand that these things (always) happen, and I also understand that most people are unable to control their completely rational urges to look inside other people's bags and take anything worth taking. But I can't understand why these things must be done so obviously. It colors a persons whole future! (A persons whole future in that airport at least!) The tiny (and obviously very effective) padlock which was entrusted with guarding the whole of my belongings was missing. Not only had it been picked and taken off my bag, it had also been LOST. (NOTE: if any of you reading this are regular airport pick-bags, please remember to pick the locks <em>carefully</em> and replace them once the deed is done). If the damned thing had been there I wouldn't have noticed that the bag had been opened. My whole problem was with the fact that who ever did it wasn't scared enough of me to bother with hiding it. <grr…> At least my stuff was where I had put it – ignoring the little bits of dust between the layers of clothes – so my ego wasn't hurt too much. I can't say the same for Leo though, whose case (being more firmly locked – with a four-digit code etc. – and therefore more permanently broken) had been popped open on our return flight and came bouncing down the conveyor belt half open and held together with plastic tape. I was told at Chennai that my complaint was too late since I was already out of arrival and in departure (transit). Apparently I should have checked my bag as soon as I got it (after all, I AM imagining that some psycho at the airport has nothing better to do than rifle through my underwear and other such belongings). My complaint should have been made at the baggage claim, where passengers are not alerted to the regular procedure of making such complaints because "these things don't happen daily". People <em>regularly </em>carry guns, explosives and manure in their hand luggage, and <em>this</em> is why passengers are alerted every ten feet to remove such items from their belongings before checking in. Remembering this, Leo immediately complained to some slut bathed in make-up who was hanging around in a Sri-Lankan Airlines sari. She promptly brought two security officers and two airline officials who each weighed Leo's case in turn, to determine if anything had been taken (something had – a pretty jersey which was not heavy enough to make a detectable change on the airport baggage scales), tried very hard to fix it and did precisely nothing about the fact that it had been opened at all. I stood around wondering why it was morally wrong for me to pick up the case and hit these people with it. Leo's face told me she was thinking of worse.
</span></li></ol><p><span style='font-family:Charis SIL Compact; font-size:10pt'>Regardless of out reservations about the place, we got back on our flight, this time to Delhi. Let me explain my opening. The India-Sri Lanka Foundation was sponsoring our trip to Miranda House College New Delhi, because it was an "international forum" for "Deconstructing the Millennium Development Goals". They supplied us with air-tickets on a flight which served 200ml of (hard) water per person and nothing else. If you <em>really </em>needed more water (say, if you were seriously dehydrated or something), you could pay for it – with Indian rupees or your ass (I really don't know if they'd accept even your ass though). They gave you eight to ten inches of space between your knees and the seat in front of you, if you were short like me. If you happened to be taller, your knees got cushioned.
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Charis SIL Compact; font-size:10pt'>I'm sorry I'm complaining. The flight attendants were not bad; the guys were very friendly, and very tall. They also had very nice Indian accents. The India-Sri Lanka Foundation people were awesome. There's not enough thanking we can do them. They are patient, helpful, friendly, understanding and also very rich with very little spending opportunity. They went to a lot of trouble to get visas done, flights and accommodation arranged and hospitality taken care of, and our asses packed to New Delhi. We thought we didn't deserve the opportunity. Only the opportunity didn't deserve us.</span></p></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14040259601636462754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79884287921291879.post-51199391788996896282010-02-05T22:34:00.001+05:302010-02-05T22:34:09.040+05:30Something Happened<span xmlns=''><p><span style='font-family:Corbel; font-size:10pt'>S!gh… after being cyberologically dead for a (very) long time, a drastic dose of inspiration has hit me:
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Corbel; font-size:10pt'>New Delhi, India.
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Corbel; font-size:10pt'>I would first like to issue a warning to those of you who are planning a trip to the mentioned area anytime soon enough to remember what you read here: DO NOT READ THIS. Move to the next interesting thing.
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Corbel; font-size:10pt'>To those of you who are <em>thinking </em>of going but have not decided yet, READ THIS AND BASE YOU DECISION TO GO ON THIS POST AND THIS POST ALONE.
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Corbel; font-size:10pt'>When magazines tell you about the dirt, smell and dust of the Indian cities it all sounds very romantic. You can feel it right? When you actually see it, smell it and get it in your eyes, the only thing you want is to be boarding the next flight home. Because?
</span></p><ol><li><span style='font-family:Corbel; font-size:10pt'><strong>The dust is everywhere</strong>. It's in the street, inside the car, between the pages of your book and under your well-dressed-and-highly-made-up friendly Indian girl's nails. There is no escaping it. Two hours in an enclosed place and the soap won't bubble in the shower cus you're so dirty. It's even on your plate and your glass. It floats on your water and dissolves in your tea. It paints the city a ghostly grey-and-brown. The trees are ashen, and it has nothing to do with the fact that it's winter. It's like being in a cobweb. You don't want to sit in it and do nothing, so you struggle to get away from it, but the more you struggle the more in smothers you. You're literally breathing it, and sometimes even tasting it.
</span></li><li><span style='font-family:Corbel; font-size:10pt'><strong>The people are dirty</strong>. This is not a figure of speech. True, 15-degree weather doesn't prevent the girls from baring their cleavage and half their legs, and friendly conversations are carried out in the form of light humping, but they are literally dirty. When you look at somebody, you need to just look at them in the face, be duly inspired by their beauty and not look further. Unfortunately no one gave me this advice. From the khol on the eyes to the rings on the toes is a HUMONGOUS transition in hygiene levels. The average female toenail is 2.5cm long, chipped, painted pink or green at the bottom and bordered by a 0.3cm thick line of dirt at the top. People don't change their clothes. I'm serious. And the smell of stale sweat follows 70% of the population. Note; I am not talking about street-hawkers and beggars. I am talking about college kids and professors.
</span></li><li><div><span style='font-family:Corbel; font-size:10pt'><strong>The food is disgusting</strong>. As my unfortunate friends who accompanied me on this trip will bear witness, Indian food in Sri Lanka is the real thing. It must be. Seems the average Indian's inability to distinguish between 500g and 0g of salt (or any condiment for that matter) in 500ml of curry has chased all decent cooks and chefs out of the country. Rice is boiled for four hours so all flavor is absorbed by the water, then the water is thrown out. Vegetables are boiled in water until they reach a semi-solid consistency and then allowed to cool before serving. Meat and fish are rare, and when available taste like vegetables anyway. Eating habits are similar to those of monkeys and crows, and exercising etiquette will guarantee you no food, and when you have food, no eating. Some pointers:
</span></div><ol><li><span style='font-family:Corbel; font-size:10pt'>Buffet queues do not exist. Run your eyes over the available mashes; pick one, run for it. Start eating from the dish itself.
</span></li><li><span style='font-family:Corbel; font-size:10pt'>If you are <em>very </em>particular and <em>have </em>to serve your food on a plate, then go for the paper plates. That is of course unless you just love that taste of stale oil mixed with dust and the saliva of whoever it was that ate from that particular plate last.
</span></li><li><span style='font-family:Corbel; font-size:10pt'>Eat a lot of gravy (colored water mixed with vegetables from last nights' left-overs) so you don't have to drink water.
</span></li><li><span style='font-family:Corbel; font-size:10pt'>If you <em>really need</em> to drink water, then drink straight from the filter or your hand. Chances are 1 to 99 that'll be cleaner than a glass.
</span></li></ol></li></ol><p><span style='font-family:Corbel; font-size:10pt'>Urgh, I'm sleepy and bored. Chances are you are too, considering the levels of creative-genius I've displayed in my writing skills…
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Corbel; font-size:10pt'>More on 'Gods own country' later… whether you like it or not.</span></p></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14040259601636462754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79884287921291879.post-42538865980733169032008-10-11T10:11:00.002+05:302008-10-11T10:26:02.112+05:30Something New<span xmlns=''><p>I was inspired this morning to share my thoughts on my daily Bible reading. So I began <a title='Verses Daily' href='http://bibleversedaily.blogspot.com'>my little ministry</a>.</p></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14040259601636462754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79884287921291879.post-2348143573486123932008-10-08T19:08:00.001+05:302008-10-08T19:09:53.764+05:30New World<span xmlns=''><p><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'>I started the language component of my ENG101 course on the wrong footing by missing the first class. Woe unto me. AP now takes the class and he is everyone's nightmare. (Not really, but we'll talk about him at length some other time.) Today was the second class, and the discussion was on our assignment due at the end of the semester, before the exam. According to the hand-outs we were given; "Assignments should focus on the language used by a clearly definable social group or specific practice/activity, and include a 'field-work' component". Now, AP's idea of a good report must involve a group of people that are of immediate interest to us AND push us out of our comfort zones.
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'>Our group started by listing interests and the list is something like this:
</span></p><ul><li><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'>Wild-life
</span></li><li><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'>Writing
</span></li><li><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'>Clubbing
</span></li><li><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'>Drug/alcohol abuse
</span></li><li><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'>Campus culture
</span></li><li><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'>Internet
</span></li><li><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'>Criminology
</span></li><li><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'>Oriental dance
</span></li></ul><p><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'>Tomorrow we meet to discuss what we're going to focus on and how we push ourselves out of our comfort-zones in that respect.
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'>AP is dedicated to making new people of his students. It's endearing and in a way frustrating. He is trying, unlike most of our lecturers, to give us the real university experience; something different from what we were doing in school. He wants us to get 'out there' and learn something <em>real</em>, so we leave with a BA and a heap of experiences which drastically change who we are from who we were. He <em>cares</em> for us. All this is well, but his projects leave us stranded. The two most conservative kids in class were asked today to prepare a presentation for next Monday on the <a title='Wikipedia' href='http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Khajuraho'>Khajuraho</a> sculptures. One is a shy boy from a rural village in Ratnapura who as the lecturer points out seems "keen on remaining a virgin all his life" and the other is a Muslim girl who doesn't know what <em>baduwa</em> means. Both probably believe god dropped them in their mothers' arms at birth. The boy might actually enjoy preparing for his presentation, but the girl no doubt is going to be in a lot of trouble.
</span></p><p style='margin-left: 72pt'><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'><em>A nineteen year old girl wearing a hijab sits hunched in front of a computer with a stunned and scared expression on her face. Her mother enters the room. The girl is startled and attempts to close the window. The mother has already seen what she is looking at. Kama sutra diagrams.
</em></span></p><p style='margin-left: 72pt'><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'><strong>Mother:</strong> [red in the face and shaking] Allah forgive us! What on earth are you looking at you terrible child!?
</span></p><p style='margin-left: 72pt'><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'><strong>Girl:</strong> [almost in tears] Ma, it's for a University presentation. I have to prepare it for Monday.
</span></p><p style='margin-left: 72pt'><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'><strong>Mother: </strong>[now angry] Do you think I'm a bloody <em>fool</em>!? Is THIS what they teach you at that University? You think I'm <em>completely </em>uneducated to think <em>anyone</em> at a University would ask you to learn about things like THIS!?!
</span></p><p style='margin-left: 72pt'><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'><strong>Girl: </strong>Ma… it's the truth!
</span></p><p style='margin-left: 72pt'><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'><strong>Mother: </strong>[slaps the girl] Don't you <em>ever</em> say things like that again. Shameless girl! How dare you! Wait til your father finds out about this! [grabbing her head] Oh… the shame! MY daughter! Allaaaah…! What have I done to deserve this!? Is <em>this </em>what you are doing saying you're at university!? Allah! What a shame you are! Oh…
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'>Ok… I'm not exactly a playwright, just experimenting there, but you get the drift.
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'>So this class is fun, and it's interesting, and it's getting us 'out there'. We will probably learn more here than we will in ALL the other classes we attend throughout our undergraduate career. But some of us will probably have serious injuries from it; either a failed grade or a social black-mark. I'm serious.
</span></p></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14040259601636462754noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79884287921291879.post-78614740984930249462008-09-30T15:51:00.001+05:302008-10-08T19:10:06.267+05:30PSY101: An Introduction to and the History of Psychology<span xmlns=''><p><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'>First thing Monday morning after a weekend which you don't want to come out of, is Psychology 101. This is by far the most unusual class I've attended. It is boring to the lower levels of suffocation and at the same time highly interesting. The course is designed to give an introduction to Psychology and look into the History of Psychology. We have been doing this for the past few weeks under the guidance of Prof. D. Mallikaarachchi and his assistant Wathsula who teaches the English medium class in Sinhala. Our professor is a renowned one who has lectured not only at the University of Peradeniya and the BMICH but also in London. He has probably travelled around the world and been exposed to many different varieties of the English language because he speaks in a variety of different accents. Of every five words he speaks, one is tinted with Australian, one with British, two with the typical Sinhala and one with his very own unique version of the verbal execution (no pun intended – seriously!) of the language.
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'>Yesterday we were discussing "the Darwin" and how his work <a href='http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Origin_of_Species'><em>On the Origin of Species</em></a> "shut-herd" the Christian concept of The Creation. The "padamantal" ideas presented in this book were introduced during the course of this lecture. It was pointed out (with no offence to the Christians in the class) that animals were not considered psychological beings in the past due to the idea given in the book of Genesis that they were created simply "for consumption by humans". Whether it is of offence to anyone in the class or not though, the concept of God is false.
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'>Maybe it's just a first impression, but so far, it seems that our class is going to have to become worshippers of the Analytical School of thinking. The "other" school (the Behavioral) is not really a school because behavior is only PART of out psychology. After all, "we are all actors; <em>women</em> are acting <em>all</em> the time". Ha ha ha! Further reading includes articles published by Prof D Mallikaarachchi in the Sunday papers. There are also published critiques of these articles, but they are negligible.
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'>Our class last Tuesday was cancelled because the Professor had to be in Colombo on Wednesday. Our class today was cancelled because the Professor had to see <a href='http://www.aba.lk/'><em>ABA</em></a> at the Sigiri in Katugastota.
</span></p><p>
</p></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14040259601636462754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79884287921291879.post-80127906653629331972008-09-24T14:08:00.001+05:302008-09-28T22:31:09.698+05:30Introducing ELA<span xmlns=''><p><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'>The word 'ela' here has nothing to do with the word commonly used by the younger generation to express something close to "awesome", it's actually an acronym for English Literary Association. I was informed that I, along with the other 60-something students in my class am a member of this group by default. Apparently every student who reads English as part of their curriculum for a BA is automatically a member of the ELA. Now, I don't know who the ELA is, or what the ELA does, but I must pay Rs.50 to the class representative (how often I wonder?), ASAP. Apparently they "really need" the money. For what?
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'>I admit, I didn't want to make a scene so I just kept my mouth shut and listened to this cute little senior give us this info when she strategically caught us right after a lecture on Bernard Shaw. Her words were punctuated every few seconds by an "okay?" which although written here might mean "did you understand darlings?" (when <em>looking</em> at the person who was saying it) actually seemed to mean "fuck you, just pay the goddamned money" (okay, I'm possibly disillusioned).
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'>This girl is not my favorite senior (she's so <em>fragile</em>), so I chose one closer to that to pose my questions to. Apparently the English Literary Association of the University of Peradeniya:
</span></p><ol><li><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'>Organizes Book Launches
</span></li><li><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'>Has Alumni Nights
</span></li><li><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'>Hosts <em>Peduru </em>Parties
</span></li></ol><p><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'>I see 30% of this having any connection with English Literature. I see 0% of this being beneficial to the students who are <em>compulsory </em>subscribers. Maybe I'm just ill-informed about the whole thing, but hey, all the 'representative' kept saying (very emphatically) was "just pay the fifty bucks"!
</span></p><p><span style='font-family:Tahoma; font-size:8pt'>I'm not grudging them the dough, but it seems that leaving the crucial question unanswered is a popular thing here. What are we paying for?</span></p></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14040259601636462754noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79884287921291879.post-74085289976110418042008-09-23T22:56:00.001+05:302008-09-24T13:25:36.718+05:30Fresh Starts<span xmlns=''><p><span style='font-family:Trebuchet MS; font-size:10pt'>I spent my entire mid-semester break last week trying to come up with a way of effectively fudging a research paper and getting a good grade. I failed. Not the grade, but the fudging part. I went back to school on Monday thinking I was gonna start over, work hard and put my 100% in after this. The fact that I had to hand in two papers which I hadn't produced completely thwarted my resolve. But today has proved that God is good after all. Prof. Para actually <em>voluntarily</em> gave us extra time to do our research paper since he is more interested in quality than ? (I don't know the word that goes there… suggestions?). Amazing. So I spoke to him and now I've got two fresh weeks to hand the paper in. It's going to be brilliant and ground-breaking. Really.
</span></p><p><span style='color:#a6a6a6; font-family:Trebuchet MS; font-size:10pt'><em>note: I'd like to apologize for and explain the misleading title: it refers to the five years (beginning on Monday 14<sup>th</sup> June 2008) I have been blessed (doomed) to spend acquiring a BA from the University of Peradeniya. I have chronicled (in fits and starts) the first two months of this experience of "University Life" at <a href='http://bleedingpencil.blogspot.com'>Scribbled Ramblings</a>. That's dedicated to the Bleeding Pencil which only produces in pain and intense inspiration. This is for the normal ball-point pen, to prove my professor who called me "self-indulgent" in my writing wrong, and to stick to the resolution I made in <a href='http://bleedingpencil.blogspot.com/2008/09/breaking-glue.html'>my post last night</a>.
</em></span></p><p><span style='color:#a6a6a6; font-family:Trebuchet MS; font-size:10pt'><em>Below are some of my previous posts on BleedingPencil which connect here:
</em></span></p><p><a href='http://bleedingpencil.blogspot.com/2008/07/returning-ragdoll.html'><span style='color:#a6a6a6; font-family:Trebuchet MS; font-size:10pt'><em>Returning the RagDoll</em></span></a><span style='color:#a6a6a6; font-family:Trebuchet MS; font-size:10pt'><em>
</em></span></p><p><a href='http://bleedingpencil.blogspot.com/2008/07/first-steps_15.html'><span style='color:#a6a6a6; font-family:Trebuchet MS; font-size:10pt'><em>First Steps</em></span></a><span style='color:#a6a6a6; font-family:Trebuchet MS; font-size:10pt'><em>
</em></span></p><p><a href='http://bleedingpencil.blogspot.com/2008/07/initiation-right.html'><span style='color:#a6a6a6; font-family:Trebuchet MS; font-size:10pt'><em>Initiation... Right.</em></span></a></p></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14040259601636462754noreply@blogger.com0