spilt Teh Ais on papyrus

Ouch. Who put that here? Had someone done something to the decor?

2012-01-19T00:12:00.005+08:00

I have been staring at the same blank page for two weeks. Granted, I’m not knee-deep in fortnight stink (suspend imagination, please, if you ever want to look at me without gagging) and the state of my tummy has not been compromised. I blame it on living with the parents. They seem to unable to stomach the idea that a writer with a block would just want to hunch over the beckoning prompter, damning in its every blink, and wallow in no certain amount of self-pity and 9Gag posts. It would, however, have been better for my heroic agony if they had come around to force me to take a shower and swallow bread. But no, their mere presence commanded my sensitivity to body hygiene and food pyramids and the calls of Kuih Kapit, because my holistic upbringing was designed to suit the path of a 9am-5pm future, not hobo writer.

In between all that I also managed to hold down a full-time job, berkecoh-ed with a few of the most awesome people I know on Cameron Highlands, and generally tried to have a social life. I know, my tortured-writer-with-no-fun-and-salary street cred is in shreds. What else can I depend on to sell any of my books?

In my defence (because I really want to sell my books), the blank page have been hovering before me in all these two weeks. It haunted me, casting a semi-transparent veil over my visual. I saw it when I eat, I saw it when I sleep. I saw it when I Facebook-ed, I saw it when I emailed my boss. I sometimes forget to see it when I am too busy laughing my ass off at whatever Jee/Wan Qi/Eileen/Roya/etc said, but I will compensate by seeing it doubly hard afterwards. I promise.

On rare occasions when I actually sit down and type on the blank page, I saw it most. All its whiteness. And space. And potential. And risks.

I retreated, unable to remember how the words form and the fingers tap. I tried to wrap my head around the page but the rust of un-writing had long arthriticked my mind. I can no longer tell people that I am a writer without the certainty that the lie was written all over my face. I read other people’s prose and wondered how the hell they did it.

It was all very dramatic.

My worst fear had come true. I left the States wondering if I will now be immune to the suffocating mentality that seems to pervade the Malaysian air. The same mentality that had me fumbled my column every month, developed a strong dread for writing, and blind-folding myself to what is now clear as day. I wondered if I could maintain that spontaneous voice and borderless thinking which the Americans have taught me – the same one that had me discovering that I actually love making up stories as much as reporting them, and whipping off that darkness which I insisted on groping in. I wondered if I can still be curious, wide-eyed, eager and inspired.

For a while, I thought I could. My first few months back was amusing, and refreshing, and comforting. I could find food and company after 12 am. I could pronounce water and not ‘warer’. I could relish the joy among familiar loved ones with their familiar sense of humour. I could be pampered, and pamper in return.

But I did not write my blog.

It slowly became I could not write my blog. It was supposed to be my journal, where I record life and all its life-ness, but I wrote nothing.

It was like a brain-constipation. I had so many things I want to express, but it just won’t come out. I live my life with the engorgement in my mind that could never find the smooth exit.

You did not just read me equating my thoughts to crap.

Anyway, brain-constipation was major discomfort, as anyone with the bowel equivalent would understand. My mind was suddenly filled with things that I cannot do. Boundaries and bonds. I thought, this is it. The gated mindset had finally caught me.

Or maybe, I was the one who caught it instead. After all, it is probably far more convenient to whine about writer’s block than filling a blank page with words that at least looked like it had passed through the lobes. It was easy to blame it on "the limiting Malaysian mentality" than to admit that I’m just not doing my best.

I had thought about giving up blogging. Giving up on my journal. But I read once that “Don’t give up on the thing that you cannot spend a day without thinking about it.”

So, here I am. If none of the above makes sense, don’t worry. I will explain it once it starts making sense to me.

If I’m lucky, you’ll see me here again. If you're lucky, this would be my last whining-about-writing post.

In the meantime, I need to nurse that Drummer-Boy-shaped absence in my heart with some Pratchett.

Good night, y’all.

Homebound

2011-08-12T12:36:00.001+08:00

I am currently 9, 754 meters above ground, flying at the speed of 854 km per hour towards Kuala Lumpur. Rumours have it that one is inclined to feel something at this point. Intense reluctance, perhaps – for I am going back from the Great Capitalistic Yes-We-Can America to the Aiyah-Out-of-Stock What’s-the-Point-lah Malaysia. Annoyed, even, for I am leaving a year of freedom and autonomy to go back to Living with The Parents. Terrified, most likely, for I am currently unemployed, crossing the roads like a Californian (pedestrians are god, no? Hey, why are you still driving towards me?!), have the defense mechanism of a wide-eyed person living in the a safe American suburb with houses that seemed to be designed by burglars (my brother-in-law calls it My Little Pony Land), and could possibly choke from humid heat and contract something deadly (like Extreme Irritance. I never said it was deadly to whom.)

In short, this should be a flight I’d hate to take.

Which is why I found my cheeriness a little unsettling. I am more used to freaking out and going bananas, and worrying about everything and then consoling myself that it is nothing, but go on worrying anyway, just in case.

Except I can’t remember how to do that. I remember the general worrying and conjuring up what-ifs in my head, but somehow my heart didn’t seem to be in it.

It’s probably because my heart is actually… pretty excited to go back to Malaysia. It also probably because this flight has so many awesome movies waiting to be seen and the refreshments just kept coming (Singapore Airline rocks!) It is also likely that I’ve just had the most amazing travel month, especially the last two weeks, that the giddy residue of it all is still pumping in my veins.

Call me optimistic, but I am really just looking forward to some nasi lemak done right. I sometimes suspect that I would fight for the betterment of our country just so that prawn mee have a place to exist.

But even I, in my less hungry moments, realise that while Malaysian food is Something, it’s not everything. One day, I may too get disillusioned again and complain about the government and shed longing tears at the miniature Lady of Liberty statue I bought for my mom. One day, I may regret coming back. One day, I may become bitter and reminiscent about the good old year that was America.

And that would be the day I forget what it really means to live.

It is not about the place, the food, the weather, and the people. It is not even about the government, and the policies, and the facilities, and the economy.

Life is what you make it – the place that you allow yourself to see, the food that you allow yourself to savour, the weather you allow your body to get used to, the people you allow yourself to love. It may even be about the government you allow to rule, the policies you fought to be made, the facilities you make the best of, and the economy you help to flourish. And – because we all need to maintain sanity – the complaints we love to dispense.

I have known Malaysia all my life. It takes leaving it to realise that everything I know is nothing – not about my own country and the potential and beauty it has, not about living in it, and definitely not about deserving it.

I know nothing.

Luckily, that’s a good start to Learning.

An even luckier thing is that I found Someone to learn it with (I wanna fly a Wau next! *hint* :P)

Malaysia is as imperfect as a country gets. But whaddyaknow, imperfection is my defining trait. Looks like we’d hit it off just fine, don’t you think?

The Year that Did, Did Not, and Did-I-really

2011-07-28T23:32:00.003+08:00

I came to the States with my life in two pieces of luggage. I was 23.

Now, I’m leaving with double the amount of luggage, and feeling twice as old – even though it has only been just a year.

A year I still could not believe had happened.

A year in which I got shoved into the big black hole of Growing Up.

A year in which I made some of the toughest decisions; paid for the price, harvested the fruits, sometimes all at once.

A year which taught me more about human relationships, both the romantic and the platonic, than any hanging-out-and-yum-cha session could ever impart.

A year that picked up my beliefs, my principles, my worldview, my perspective, my assumptions (this constitutes the majority chunk), and threw it back on my face. Somehow, face dripping with the remains of the old Me, I am the better for it.

A year which I could finally breathe in my own skin, and wondering why the heck I lugged all those layers around for so long.

A year which I wronged, apologized, lost.

A year which I gained.

A year that dragged this coward into a ride of her worst fears, and pulled out a bedraggled, dazed person-thing who couldn’t believe she survived. (No, I’m not talking about those darn roller coasters – unlike mine, those rides hardly make you wiser. Just look at the amount of people who kept going back for more.)

A year that I saw the Jesus in many around me, those who extended their hand, their saving hand, to this undeserving, eternally grateful sinner.

A year which took me to places I’ve only dreamt of, met people who made all the difference, saw amazing sights that, as my brother-in-law would like to say, caused some serious mind-fuchuk-ness. Yet, YET, for some reason, I still manage to come to a conclusion that if you get right down to it, Everywhere is the Same.

A year that made me see my country with new eyes, and discovered that truly, despite everything, I love my home. Warts, inefficiencies, corruption, dirty politics, questionable economic standards, and all – for I realise that these made me angry and sad, more than the Amazing America can ever make me.

To me, Home isn’t where the heart is. Home is where the hurt is.

For what it’s worth, for New Dreams and Seasoned Friendships, for filial piety and sisterly promises, for obligations and optimism, for better or worse – I’m coming home.

And the awesome bit? The adventure continues lah!

Meeting Ol' Mel

2011-06-03T15:55:00.005+08:00

Hey, Melancholy. I’ve been expecting you.

I had thought you would come earlier. It’s already June, and in about two months I would be leaving the States, leaving a dream that I had since I was seventeen, only now the dream has undressed into Reality – or at least, I hope it has, though sometimes I still find it a little surreal. You know, come to think of it, I never really bothered to double-check what was the medicine that shrink prescribed to me. Hmm.

Anyway.

I had thought you would march in when I was playing with the kids, enjoying the rare moments when they forgot to kill each other, and realising that man, I’m really gonna miss my Rowdyruff Boys.

How Little Boys are Created

And I thought you would sink in during those many times I immerse myself in Red Rock café, breathing the intellectual aroma (you can tell by the way the smell of caffeine practically knock you between the eyes).

I curled up at my favourite spot with my laptop opened in front of me, the Microsoft Word prompter blinking in anticipation of the next word – which is usually “zombie” – while a gig plays in front, and promised myself that if I ever leave that seat, it would be because someone had pried my cold dead body (the caffeine is that potent) away.

Sometimes, Red Rock feels more like home than home does.

I had also thought that you would pop by when I roamed the streets of San Francisco, where the Weird and Wonderful combined (though in Make-Love-Not-War-Hippie-Happy-San-Francisco, the right word would probably be consummate…) into something that explode into, well, Awesome. The people, the culture, the spirit of the city – its artsy and colourful and vigorous and, best of all, it’s Odd and OTT.

China Town, San Francisco

The pub/tavern outside Steampunk band Abney Park's concert. This is not in San Francisco, but in Oakland, which is about 20 miles away. But yarr, everyone was dressed like a matey. Odd and OTT.

St Patrick's Day Parade, San Francisco

Latino Parade, San Francisco

Latino Parade, San Francisco

It’s my third favourite city in the world, after Klang Valley, which is technically a cluster of cities, which makes it a cluster of Chun-ness.

But no, you didn’t come. I didn’t feel you much, except during the times when I concentrated and really tried, because it seemed like the right thing to feel. Instead, I panicked because I didn’t feel panicky at all. It was like I was okay with going home. Which is all fine and dandy, except I wouldn’t want it to sink in all of a sudden when I’m checking in at the airport. I wouldn’t want the realization that I’m really leaving the States to hit me like a ton of overweight luggage. I want to be mentally prepared now.

Then, just now, in my last class in Stanford, when my classmates were talking about coming back for another course in the summer, the sadness finally dawned on me. I can’t join them, because I would be gone. I am just a passer-by in their world.

My usual route to classes

I had, on occasion, drove down the roads of Stanford University, passing by the dorms and the Pi Beta Kappa Etc signboards, watching the students threw football or laid in the sun, and sitting in student cafes listening to these young intellectuals in their Stanford merchandises debating on subjects I couldn’t even fathom (I lump them all in the category of Quantum, because General Logic is full). I realised, after a while, that I was envious.

Memorial Church, Stanford University

Yet, that isn’t my world. Sure, I study there, but only for the adult classes. I am where they are, but not who they are. It was like a bubble that I could not penetrate.

It always just feels like a peep

I am surprisingly fine with that.

But I will miss Stanford. It is the place that I came to the States for. To find a Voice for my writing. I got more than that. Infinitely more.

The melancholy came from the reality check that I have to leave Stanford behind, and that it was something that was wonderful while it lasted – nothing more, nothing less.

I am, also, surprisingly fine with that. Now, at least, after that pleasant 30-minute-drive back.

A big part of me being so nonchalant is perhaps this: I’m not leaving the States. I’m moving on. Because after almost one year here, you realise that truly, Everywhere is The Same – the bad, and the good. You just need to know where to look.

There will be other places. But for now, I’m coming home.

Bridge and Magic

2011-05-23T15:15:00.004+08:00

It’s been a while since I blogged.

Heck, it’s been a while since I even open with that line.

I’ve been writing, though. Extensively, frustratingly, obsessively, nonsensically. As usual. One can say that I have rediscovered the joy of writing, ever since taking up that fiction writing class in Stanford University (Conquering the Blank Page is the name of my class. I’d say I’ve done the Conquering bit. It’s the Controlling and Making Sure It Doesn’t Try to Overthrow Me that needs some work). I realise I really like making things up, even though my inner journalist is kicking my ass. I had tried to find a balance between the two, between fiction and non-fiction; the two ends of story-telling.

These days, I’m starting to think what I need isn’t a balance.

I need a Bridge.

******

I was never sure why I love circuses so much. The mystic charm? The razzle-dazzle? The death-defying stunts? The surreality? The clowns?

I remember my parents took me to my first circus show when I was 12. We had some free vouchers for the Royal London Circus, and even though I was sitting way back like us free vouchers holder deserved, the tingle down my spine when I watched the trapeze artists swinging through the air, the vibration of my heart to the roar of the motorcycle in the wire ball, the enthrallment overwhelming me as I stared at the magic that was happening on stage… these are the things that I could still remember.

Magic; that was the word. It was unreal; in the way they smile, in the way they move, in the way they command the impossible. It was like entering a world I can never be part of; a world much better than my own. A world where Romance and Poetry swing to grasp the arms of Peril and Excitement.

It was The Show – the kind that Must Go On.

On my first month in the States, I had the honour of catching Circus Vargas (the one the old man wandered into in Water for Elephant). It was a spectacular evening of gasping and laughing, sometimes both at once. From the point when the Ring Master thrust open his hands under the spotlight to the point when everyone beamed and bowed, my eyes were bulging with wonder and my breath short with disbelief. It was beyond good.

Therefore, one could imagine my elation when I had the opportunity to catch Cirque Du Soleil that happened to be touring near my city. I paid a whopping $70 bucks for my seats, which were way back, but heck, it’s Cirque Du Soleil. Just being there should be sending chills down my spine. They are the top dogs of the circus industry. People who knew I’m going to the States always asked if I’m going to watch Cirque Du Soleil, and now, I could nod with glee.

Except I fell asleep some time during the middle of the show.

It had storyline. It had the most elegant dances I’ve ever seen in a circus show. It had seamless choreography. It had trippy characters in even trippier costumes. It had the right clowns. It was held in a proper stadium, with speakers and seats and all.

And I realise, therein laid the problem. Those things are great, but they are not my kind of circus.

I like my circus performance simple and straight to the point – “I’m darn good at this, blink for a second and whoop, you missed it!” There is no plot or elaborated elegance to it, just pure energy and rhythm and acute timing for humour. I like my circus in a makeshift tent with rickety benches and smells like popcorn graveyard. I like my circus characters stock - the trapeze artist, the over-the-top and insane clowns, the motorcycle daredevil, the cheeky jugglers, the manically enthusiastic Ring Master, etcetera.

But I never understood why I love circuses.

And today, at the San Francisco Circus Center Spring Carnival, watching the students and instructors perform in their modest gymnasium, I realise I can love circus without the works too.

There was no razzle-dazzle, no elaborated make-up and majestic set-up. There were just the performers in their costumes, putting on a show for a bunch of adults and kids sitting in plastic chairs and gym mats.

It was the most beautiful performance I have ever seen.

It was not because the contortionists were so amazingly nimble. It was not because the aerial performers had all of us gaping and clapping and gasping and, at one point, blushing (it was two females sharing a swing. Enough said.) It was not because the jugglers had such crazy sense of timing – both for gravity and for humour. It was not because the clowns had us in stitches and –when they suddenly demonstrated their balancing act – disbelief.

It was because being so close, with no mood magic and light fantastic, you could see the shiver in their limbs, the buckling of knees, the strains on their forcefully cheerful faces, the popping veins of their muscles, the quick sweep of panic on their faces.

You could see the pain. The mistakes.

The Luck.

It was because when they messed up, the audiences were still forgiving and cheered for their effort. And the performer, no matter how embarrassed they were, still grinned, lifted their arms and took a deep bow.

It was because the kids in the audience were absolutely howling with laughter.

Effort. Sacrifice. Forgiveness. Appreciation. Impossible. Possible. Joy.

They could be illusions that circuses gives. Behind those curtains may lay humanity in all its dullness and ugliness and weaknesses.

But my love of circuses could just be my stubbornness in wanting to believe - that once you put on the make-up and turn on the lights, once the applause roar and the music booms, there will be Magic.

And I can be a child again.

Ten, owing two

2011-04-05T14:08:00.002+08:00

The long arm of law...

...has feelings too.

Nine

2011-03-18T15:15:00.004+08:00

"If you stand too close to a painting — all you see are patches of color, if you stand too far back, you can't see any of the detail."
-- Dead Like Me: Nighthawks (Season 1, Ep 12)

Eight. Dead.

2011-03-07T14:36:00.006+08:00

What a coincidence to be meeting a dad trying to teach his son to spin tops.

What a rarity.

I just had a chat recently about childhood games, as in the ones that don’t involve buttons. The ones that are powered by nothing but a little ingenuity and kiddish egos. The ones that don’t try to add your dexterity or gold, nor unlock any new skills that make you feel vaguely awesome. Until the battery runs out, anyway.

He told me about kite-flying, and how his dad would balance the wing-tips with ribbons. I never knew that about kites. He told me about the game galah-panjang, and how the game was played with such intricate strategy. I never knew there was such a game. He told me about playing with marbles, and how the marbles would actually break if they were rough enough (and being boys, they usually were). I never had enough marbles to know what to do with them. He told me about spinning tops, and how he and his friends would try to wreck (or “tikam”) each other’s tops by spinning it with a certain force and angle. I never knew a seemingly harmless game of top-spinning has such a, ahem, twist.

What did I do with my childhood?

Perhaps my obsession with living-life-to-the-fullest is a sort of compensation – for times lost, and laughter unknown.

At least he promised to show me all of them. Recaptured innocence seems more appealing than premature maturity.

*****

If I may be allowed to make an honest observation, living life to the fullest can wear you thin.

(Now, now, put down that pitchfork before you hurt someone. Unnecessary excitement is never healthy. I promise that I’ll climb into the meat grinder by myself as soon as I explain my seemingly obnoxious statement.)

With only a year in the States, I sometimes feel like I’m not doing enough with my seconds. What do you mean I cannot write/feed/chauffeur/scream on a roller coaster/photograph the streets of San Francisco/cheer to a gig/skydive/sing lullabies/comb through the motherlode of movies that is Netflix/take a road trip/calm nightmare scares all at once? There ain’t no limit to the “multi” in multi-tasking, innit?

And therefore, every weekend, I promised myself that I would do something new. Something exciting. Something American.

I’d like to say that my weekends have been fulfilling. I feel quite proud of dragging myself out of the room before the lumpiness settled, and See and Did things. Sometimes it isn’t worth it. There were some things I saw and did which were, really, nothing to shout about. But at least I felt like I lived.

Feeling alive, however, was another matter altogether.

This weekend, the blues caught me by surprise. I could feel the lethargy in my body, the heaviness of my heart. It wasn’t as if something happened. I just didn’t feel like doing anything. And heaven forbid, I did nothing.

And then I realise, boy, am I tired.

I may eat my words several months from now, but I actually had fond thoughts about going home, to recuperate from this… pressure, for want of a better word, of always having to Experience the World. I’m not complaining, no. It’s a privilege to be living your dream.

I’m just a little worn out from trying to keep up with that privilege.

It’s probably a personality flaw. I have lots of them.

This weekend, I just lazed. And I thought about all the things that I didn’t do. I didn’t go to the Mardi Gras parade in San Francisco. I didn’t work on my Challenge for this month. I didn’t wash the car. I didn’t take my Smena Symbol out for a stroll.

But gosh, it’s too darn depressing to measure life by what you didn’t do, no matter what Mark Twain said. So I decided to think about what I did, instead.

I Dreamt, and that was doubtlessly the best. I napped, and it was sheer bliss.

But the most significant thing, I suppose, is that I fell in love with the world again.

And all I really did was just watched the tv series Dead Like Me, and cried.

(I realise, that could actually be my achievement for the weekend: shedding tears for a story well-told. Sure, I didn’t set out to do it. But heck, life is too short to spend the days making the goal. Sometimes, making up the goal as you go along would have to do.)

Dead Like Me is, essentially, a dark comedy about an uninspired, sulky 18-year-old Georgia being killed by a flying toilet seat (as freak accidents go, this one isn’t even the most bizarre one in the show). However, she doesn’t have the convenience of being dead. She got recruited as an undead – a grim reaper. Yes, “a”, because she is not alone in her duties to escort newly-expired souls to their Destinations. Along with an eclectic and experienced bunch of undeads, who have to hold day jobs or a life of crime to survive and squat in dead people’s houses (grim reapers are not paid because it’s considered public service), Georgia, as Netflix wrote, “doesn't quite know what she's doing -- or even why she was chosen for the job in the first place. But soon, she grows to recognize the poetry in her purpose.”

In short, it’s totally my kind of TV series.

I’m a sucker for humanization of the supernatural and mythical. That is why I’m so hooked on Pratchett’s Discworld – be it dragons or trolls or dwarves or vampires or werewolves or witches or humans or Corporal Nobbs (who has papers to prove that he’s human), everyone is just trying to live the best way they know how, and even if that involves selling you Dragonland souvenirs or counterfeits (or in Corporal Nobbs’ case, rummage about in your pockets), then so be it.

The motley crew of soul escorts in Dead Like Me is no different – they do laundry, smuggle drugs in their asses (it went horribly wrong) to pay the rent, order the cheapest things on the menu and keep pets because that’s the closest they can have for a friend. They also have to put up with the Rules of being a grim reaper, i.e. no messing about with fate. Ask Georgia; she tried.

In other words, being an undead has all the peskiness of being alive, with the added disadvantage that you can’t have contact with your loved ones, lest they can’t deal with the excitement. There are Inconveniences that you can’t run away from, like money issues, and Rules, and human relationships and well, death.

But as Episode 5 “Reaping Havoc” showed, even if you can’t run away from these certainties, you can find poetry in them – in money issues, in Rules, in relationships, and yes, even Death. It’s not that hard. I mean, it’s gotta be easier than finding poetry in, say, Taxes, at least.

So a grim reaper left a post-it note on the door of a victim’s sister. It says,
“M.J.’s okay.
:), Jesus.”

And a grim reaper buried a lone, old woman whose children do not visit her anymore, even though she can be haughty, when she’s not making him smirk.

And a grim reaper shut down one building’s electricity, so that the alarm clock of a resident – who had remained jolly and kind even though the undead wrote him a parking ticket in her day job – would not ring, and therefore he would not wake in time to meet his ill fate.

And two grim reapers watched a man having the time of his life doing an Irish dance on the bar table before his time was up. One of the grim reapers took a last polaroid of the man smiling in mid-dance, just like she did to every other soul she escorts, before they died.

And I watched all this, with tears streaming down my cheek, and found myself stubbornly believing that this is what the world is. A world I can really love; a world where everyone is just, really, human.

And because the Bible said that everyone is created in God’s likeness…

... therefore, maybe everyone is just, really, God.

*****

I can do with more weekends like this.

Seven, etc.

2011-02-28T16:31:00.005+08:00

You’re gonna get a peace of me.

The ironic thing is not the dissonance between her actions and her agenda.
The ironic thing is that she was trying to punch an octopus tree.

Unreasonable. Unsolicited, and most likely, unrequited. Unfair. Unnecessary.

Some people’s actions are.

They sit atop their Moral Mountains and pass judgment. And sometimes, for good measure perhaps, they found it necessary to smite you with their Rod of Righteousness, lest you forget that their Opinions matter.

Even though sometimes they aren’t even sure what the heck they are attacking. It’s got eight legs, and it’s covered with green bits of stuff, and it’s rooted to the spot minding its own business … but damn, let’s just show it who’s boss anyway. For good measure, and wossname.

Back off, will ya?

Because seriously, in all sincerity and with all due respect (which amount, to be honest, is dipping by the dozen every passing moment), you don’t know shit.

I know better than anyone that I deserve Judgment for the heart that I have wounded, and the mess I created. If I’m lucky, it would be the kind of Judgement that involves a meat grinder and some sterilized cans. But heck, I probably don’t have enough karma for that kind of luck.

It would, however, not be the kind of judgement that you are qualified to pass. Your opinion is not my sentence, because you did not live our lives. All you knew was just what you saw. All you decided was just what your mind was able to feed. You. Do. Not. Know. Period.

I owe to the people I have hurt. I will answer to them. If they punch me, I would not retaliate. If they do not punch me, I would do so for them.

I am already doing so.

But you. I owe you nothing.

I write this not to make you change your mind about me. Shove your Moral Meatpie in my face, or rather, as you did, behind my back – I have a big enough towel. Let’s see who gets tired first.

I wrote this to remind you that everyone has a reason for the things they did, and everyone is just trying to live the best way they know how. And really, we do not owe you an explanation about why we did what we did. That doesn’t mean you can wave your ignorance about and impose your values on us.

I wrote this, with the hope that you will remember to live and let live. Perhaps, even just one person in the future would be able to breathe easier without you huffing down their neck. Goodness knows we have enough monsters within already.

But of course, you can disregard all the above as a self-redeeming ramble. To which I will reply, “Go on, cast that stone.”

*****

Okay, enough of that venting. Here are some innocuous floral pics from the Tulipmania festival in San Francisco to balance it out.

Tulips are, I thought, the happiest flowers ever. If God knew Photoshop (he probably uses something infinitely more complex), Tulips would be the test subjects where He bumped up the contrast with.

And God saw that it was good.

Just a few personal favourites. The angles aren’t even original, for crying out loud.

Six

2011-02-21T15:00:00.003+08:00

San Francisco, Feb 2011.

This Chinese New Year actually came and went quietly, with me hardly noticing it.

The key word here is “quiet”. The fact that it occurred in the same sentence with CNY makes it a novelty, and that is a fresh change from the usual scarlet festivity, which had always been just a novel – the kind that has more drama than you can keep up with, but still manages to be several hundred pages too long.

It’s not that I hate CNY. In all honesty, I actually enjoy going back to my Grandma’s for some home-cooked spread, soaking in the camaraderie and witty banters unique to Ipoh-town folks, and take full advantage of the homely love that Uncles and Aunts seem to be more inclined to dish out when they have not seen you for a year. And Kuih Kapit. Oh man, how I miss the sweet aroma teasing my senses when I levered open the Milo tins filled with those pieces of crispy, folded wonders. And lion dances. And wearing red for gung-ho’s sake. And holidays, except I always ended up working anyway, because a procrastinating workaholic (yes, they do exist, but the government hushed it up) should never end up as a freelance writer.

But I could really do less with the spring cleaning, and the noise level, and the stress, and the visiting, and the scorching heat pervading the air, and the songs. Gosh, especially the songs.
This year, however, CNY was a negligible affair. Granted, I baked the cornflake-cookie thing with my host kids (my first time baking okay!) to show some gusto, but other than that the day went on with a different kind of drama, stress and noise level (firecrackers stand no chance against the kids’ screams). I even forgot to wear red.

I did, however, shivered in the cold rainy evening for several hours in San Francisco to watch the CNY parade, which was supposedly among the top ten parades in the world.

My verdict? Meh. The lion dances were half-hearted at best, the marches were mostly unsynchronized, and some of the costume designs were just plain, well, plain. It could be that the whole spirit of CNY was dampened by the rain, which has the nipping potential to freeze anyone into immobility. There were times when I thought my hands went dead, which would be a bummer, considering that I was trying to push the shutter button on my camera.

And that was how I learnt to appreciate the things I never found the reason to. Like the warmth of the festivity in Malaysia, both in family and in weather. I realised that part of the fun of CNY is that it makes you want to tear your stinky, sweat-stained shirt out. And being able to stomach any chilled beverages, even Sarsi (diabetes in a can, that). I also realise that there are some things that Malaysians still do best, lion dances being one of them.

Most of all, I realise that my CNY in America lack a certain noise level, stress, visiting and general red-ness. And songs. Gosh, especially the songs.

I kinda, perhaps, miss them.

Next year, I’ll be eating my words. But I bet they wouldn’t taste so bad with Kuih Kapit.

Five

2011-02-11T16:46:00.002+08:00

Won·der

[wuhn-der]
–verb (used without object)

1. to think or speculate curiously
2. to be filled with admiration, amazement, or awe; marvel (often followed by at )
3. to doubt

(Taken from Dictionary.com)

Being a nanny puts a lot of things in perspective. The importance of paying attention in class, for example.

This is not to say that nanny-ing is, an inferior job compared to those that you need to blowtorch half your brains and numb the other half over (wait wait, they have a word for it… Yep, Education). I always think the value of a certificate, like many other forms of paper in the working world, is highly overrated. It’s just that, it would have been handy if I had listened to the droning of my Biology teacher. And actually commit to mind the Chemistry chaos.

Gosh, I would have carefully filed my notes and stored them in alphabetical order, had I know that I would be one day taking care of tiny human beings who have interest ranging from the uses of chemicals (dang the Powerpuff Girls and the mention of Chemical X) and the names of all the bones in the body. My boys, they seem to be held together by questions and the stubbornness to Get Answers, no matter the threat (which usually goes like:

“If you ask me one more question, boys… I’d… play dead.”

“What is ‘dead’?”

“Arrrgh!”

“Why did you say aargh?”

“Please, have mercy!”

“What’s ‘mercy’?”

“*foams*”

“What’s that white stuff?”

“*whimpers*”

“What’s that white stuff? What’sthatwhitestuffwhat’sthatwhitestuffwhat’sthatwhitestuff?”)

Yet, at times, their childish wonder and curiosity in the world keeps me from getting too old for my own good. They are so new, so fresh; everything fascinates them. They poke, they probe, they push every button (mostly mine) and pick up EVERY DARN THING from the ground.

Kids probably make the best journalists, mostly because they are oblivious to the popping vein on their victims’ necks, and that they probably invented Follow-Up Questions, and fortified them with steel stubbornness. And you have to admit, those huge eyes staring expectantly up at you have its effects. In a way, you feel like they believe that you Know. And goodness knows we don’t get enough votes of confidence like that.

And while I cringe whenever I feel the question mark creeping up, the kids have taught me to be fascinated about the world we live in. They have reminded me that living is pretty darn amazing, and life is so much stranger than we dared to hope for, if only we look in the right places. Or rather, don’t bother looking in the right places. Just poke your head into every place that looks fun, and let other people do the fretting for you about possible danger and death and, because you’d never know with kids, dynamites.

Where am I going with this? Heck, I don’t know. But as one mentor/friend once taught me, life is not about getting the right answers, but by asking the right questions.

Her

2011-02-04T17:51:00.006+08:00

Three, Four, Shut the Door

2011-02-02T15:51:00.008+08:00

The problem with trying to write after taking care of kids all day is that only small words tend to come out. Worse, they are all in CAPS.

Nonetheless, I shall have to get this third entry for Project 52 out, seeing as I’m already a week late, because Pratchett said that if you bail on a commitment for a good reason, soon you’d be bailing on it for a bad one. And because he’s Pratchett, he’s always right. Kinda like a god, but with less irony.

So yes, even though I have to have a thesaurus opened on my browser, and even though I may have to exercise restraint from the region of the Caps Lock button, and even though after each paragraph I type I’m taking a ten minute break to stare into space (it’s slightly livelier than my brains), I’m gonna get it out. Yosh.

If you are reading this, I am utterly sorry. This is painful for the writer, but even more so for the reader, who doesn’t even have the obligation to like it.

Anyway.

Life is like ice cream, sometimes. Live the moment, lick it while its frozen, and Happiness (or at least, it’s younger brother Contentment) makes your taste buds bloom. Leave it to its own demise, saving it for later, and the creamy heaven melts into soured puddle of ick. It perhaps does no good to you, too, if you get right down to it.

Where am I going with this? To quote the sage, “I was hoping you can tell me.”

******

Do our books reflect us, or do we reflect our books?
What a conundrum.
I wonder what Calvin and Hobbes have to say about this.

I should perhaps be reading something more substantial.

Something with more philosophical depth, perhaps. Something argumentative. Something political. Some social commentary. Something brilliant.

Thus, I chucked my “50 Philosophical Ideas You Need to Know” aside and curled up with some good ol’ Calvin and Hobbes.

It’s philosophical.

It’s argumentative.

It’s political.
It’s social commentary.

It’s brilliant.

Calvin’s mind jumps from metaphysics to madness, and stops to poke at everything in between until something explodes. Hobbes is wry, devious, and only probably stuffed with cotton. Together, they made, well, Calvin and Hobbes – possibly the most fantastic comic strip ever written in the history of Humans. That’s an understatement, by the way, but that’d have to do for now.

Granted, I’m a late Calvin and Hobbes fan. In fact, the addiction only started about several weeks ago (but already it has invaded a large part of my consciousness. I now believe that snowmen do turn into Deranged Mutant Killer Monster Snow Goon if you try to bring them to life. And that bicycles are Evil - I always knew it’s not my fault that I can never ride them properly.)

I never really got into Calvin and Hobbes when I was younger. In fact, I wondered what the hype was all about. I remember being really into Peanuts at one point, but the jokes got old and Charles Schulz got older. Eventually, I discovered Zits and read it whenever I can, and Baby Blues always got me chuckling. But none of them really registered like Calvin and Hobbes do now.

Perhaps it’s because none of them had Deranged Mutant Killer Monster Snow Goons.
The charm (again, an understatement) of Calvin and Hobbes to me is that Calvin, despite the restrictions and realities of being a six-year-old, just set out to have the best damn fun he can get away with. That, and grossing out Susie Derkins, a Girl who lives on the same street. His mind is his playground, and although he is sometimes bitter and grouchy about inconveniences of life such as school, vegetables, blockhead bullies, bedtime, and parent-teacher conferences, he still lives life on the fastest track he can put his wagon on, i.e. a steep hill straight down to the river.

And that is perhaps what being alive is all about. It doesn’t matter who you are, or how old you are, or where you are, or even what you are. You will have restrictions, you will have frustrations, and you will have reality. However, it is up to you to turn the Vegetables of Life to a murderous green blob that is trying to eat your face, because heck, it’s inevitable anyway, so you might as well have fun fighting it.

It’s about the Imagination, and the World it opens.

*****

Sometimes I think I should be doing more with my time here in the States. I feel like I should be soaking in all the American experiences that I can possibly get my hands on. I should be leaping onto roller coasters (except I hate them), riding the waves (except I can’t swim, let alone surf), jumping off planes (that’s even worse than roller coasters), and err, other exciting stuff which I would not be doing save for the feeling that I should be doing more with my time here in the States. I should be sleeping less.

The spirit may be willing, but the body is weak. And don’t get me started on the wallet.

The funny thing is, as I was watching the live cast of Barely Legal gyrating to the Rocky Horror Picture Show, it hit me. Granted, Tim curry singing “Sweet Transvestite” didn’t gain a cult following without causing some pain, but this is a different kind of “hit”.

It dawned upon me that hey, I’m actually doing okay in the States. I am in a cinema room full of people yelling things at the screen, and I just saw a dancer flashed her boobs, and in a while, when the character of Dr. Frank-N-Furter yells “Great Scott!” we were all supposed to send rolls of toilet paper sailing through the air.

It was oddly beautiful, sailing toilet papers.

Now, how many people can say that?

My point is, although sometimes I wish I can have some fantastically mind-blowing experience to take home with, I guess it counts to just be happy with what I can do.

To stop yearning, and start living.

Because Contentment deserves some credit too.

Well said, Watterson.

Two

2011-01-19T16:35:00.003+08:00

Looking Stupid: the mark of things worth doing.

“Well… swim.”

I stopped typing in mid dissent-diarrhoea, and stared at the two words in bold red fonts.

There is that, of course.

****************

I’m in my sixth month here. And I’m frustrated.

Every day, I wake up a nanny, and go to bed a zombie. The most fulfilling part of my day is, when circumstances decide to be kind, the precious moment I steal to dream. This is when Time melts away and Distance goes for a ride, creating a vacuum of isolation where dreamers can rent and be left alone to their romantic reverie.

These dreams – they sustain me. But deep down I know that I have to do more than that. I’m in friggin’ America, for crying out loud (no actually, don’t. I’ve got enough of that during the day as it is). There has got to be more to life than just drowning in little boys’ tantrums all day long.

The truth is, I haven’t been writing anything truly substantial these days. Okay, there was NaNoWriMo, but it was so fun that it practically didn’t count. Of course, I also padded so much that “writing” would be an overstatement. I wrote one article for my Stanford class, which garnered mixed reviews during the workshop session, but for some reason, I am just not happy with that piece. I blogged – though the more accurate description would be I spewed thoughts all over here without the decency to make sense, or to wipe my mouth afterwards, but brevity, you know.

Yesterday, as I stood in the shower, letting the rush of water dissolve the day’s lethargy and drown out the tantrum tornadoes outside that little boys reserve especially for mummy and daddy, I thought to myself, “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t just be a nanny, and nothing else.”

I have told myself that I would, like every other person struggling for their art out there, write after my work hours. I would send my articles to the publications here. I would pursue the Stories, write travel essays, analyse humanity, change the world and wossname.

The truth is, I’m so worn out every day that I can’t muster the energy to arrange my thoughts, let alone laying them out on paper. Whatever is left standing in my body would be trying to commit suicide, once they discover how to do that while dozing off.

Yes, I don’t have the stamina to be a struggling artist.

I do have the frustration, though. I know I have to get out of this rut of idle mindedness, but I don’t know how. There are a million avenues to try and break through, but I’m rooted on the spot.

I felt like I was fretting upon a fast-melting ice berg, knowing that if I don’t jump to another floating piece of ice, I would sink – into oblivion, into mindlessness, into complacency. But the floating ice pieces around me looked a little too far to leap to. I’m scared shitless. I could see the ice berg shrinking, but I could not bring myself to take the leap.

What if I miss?

“Well… swim.”

Two words.

The sage, who have words like “genuflect” and “ruminative” and “pervasive” and “rapple” and for some reason, “lobotomy” in his repertoire, just gave me two words.

And that two words was enough to push me from my shaky, dissolving, and self-pitiful refuge. I crashed into the water, and it was cold, as cold as Reality, and it woke me up.

It just totally made my whole situation with the melting iceberg and the floating ice things and the leaping anxiety a tad ridiculous, and very obnoxious. Like dressing in Edwardian ball gown to a casual house party.

My first thought was, “Damn. I took a while to think of that iceberg analogy too.”

My second thought was, “Why the heck didn’t I think about swimming?”

I was too caught up with the leap. I was too fixated upon landing at the right places. I forgot that there are other ways – practical, simple and straightforward ways – to reach your goals. I forgot that when it comes to writing, you need to get yourself wet, and you need to work those muscles.

Like my boy reminds me in the picture above, sometimes you just gotta clamber to reach for whatever lofty goals you have, even though you have to look a little stupid doing it. Especially if you look a little stupid doing it.

Because heck, stupidity is fun. And it makes the best pictures.

One

2011-01-12T13:51:00.007+08:00

Once upon a time, there was a girl who wants to tell stories.

And so she picked up a pen, which according to urban legends, is mightier than the sword (okay, it’s really because pure steel with ruby-studded handle was heavier than she thought), and set out the treacherous path of looking for Tales.

Obstacles abound, but that was really a mark of a road worth taking. She thought, anyway. Not too deeply though, lest she bump into the lair of Logic and Reason, who thirst for dreams like a baked sponge thirsts for moisture. Dreams were all she had, and have her insides sucked dry would be a tad dampening – or in this case, the exact opposite – to her quest.

And it’s not like she didn’t have other problems already. She had to wade through the icy Waterfall of Collective Doubt from Others, ride – or at least, maintain upright most of the time – in the Whirlpool of Filial Guilt, survive the Delirium of Premature Confidence, hack through the Tangled Vines of Darn-Who-Am-I-Kidding, only to run headfirst into a wall.

Who put the effing Writer’s Block there?

But seeing stars was worth it, once the bleeding subsided, because she did find Stories. In fact, they were pretty much all over the place, if you knew where to look. Some required digging (for politics is a lot like potatoes; it powered the masses, albeit tastelessly), while others you picked with ease, and still others even needed you to do the planting first. There were also those suspicious-looking ones which were jumping up and down desperately to be noticed, and the obnoxious ones that were shoved down her throat simply because they have the purchasing power to buy, err, whatever that is the poetic equivalent of Advertising Space.

So, Pen in tow (or rather, several pens, with the hope that one of them would work), she Wrote.

And then she stopped. Got lazy. Got blind. Got swept away by Life and its Smoulder. Got impatient.

Got stupid.

Writing became merely a pain, a past, a possibility, a perished pride. The blank Microsoft Word page and beckoning prompter is a blatant reminder that her mind was not what it used to be. It is no longer a fertile ground for Words to flourish. Even the bad puns shrivelled, and she had a lot of them.

It is a rocky terrain of a conscience in there, and the jagged hardness give the sloshing brain cells a pretty bloody time. She can only deal with so many howling synapses at a time.

The saddest thing of all is that she stopped looking for Stories. Or rather, she stopped bothering to pick them up. She let them go. And went they did.

For example, the picture above was a street violin player she had the honour to bump upon in New York City. She was just hurrying past with her sister and brother-in-law, when the violin player yelled a question.

“Which country are you from, guys?”

“Malaysia,” her brother-in-law answered, while the patter of their feet grew more urgent.

And then they stopped.

And turned around, mouth agape.

The violin player, with a kind of smug nonchalance, was playing “Negaraku” on his violin. Tone perfect. There was no music sheet in front of him.

“But how--?” they asked in disbelief.

The violinist shrugged. “I like to study the national anthems of different countries.”

The brother-in-law tipped the violinist. They walked away – she with considerable difficulty, seeing that she was trying to kick herself at the same time, for not asking more questions, for not pursuing a Story when it was sitting right in front of her, for being stupid.

Inside every writer there is a story-teller wanting to come out. Mine did, but has, it seems, lost her way in the dark.

Sigh, now where did I put my flash light?

****

And because projects really only mean something when you get right down to doing it, the nonsense above managed to see daylight. This is my first post for Project 52, a writing/photography commitment that HafutotaJE and I are going to undertake (yes, we are ill-advised. Thanks for trying, though). Basically, we upload a picture we‘ve taken and write something, anything, about it, once per week for a year.

Yes, we are still the same people with deadlines/kids to chase and closing week to conquer and procrastination to overcome etc etc. You can tell that sanity and rationality have never been our strong points. For some reason, that is HafutotaJE’s charm, and my demise. Life is so unfair.

Join us in this joy ride if you are ever so inclined. Oh, but do bring your own sandwiches.

And drop us a line if you are hoping on, so that we can also go drool at your stuff ^^

Read-tail Therapy

2011-01-05T17:10:00.002+08:00

Today, I decided that it would be quite a good day to shop for books.

Because, gosh, the kids were annoying today.

And ‘cause hey, it’s Tuesday!

And ‘cause, look, I’m wearing mismatched socks!

Okay, I ran out of excuse. I just need to shop okay. And just because my retail therapy happens in a bookstore doesn’t mean I’m a hopeless nerd okay.

Fine, I don’t care if I’m a hopeless nerd, okay.

Anyway, with my Borders discount voucher (which they send you ALL THE TIME, God bless America) in hand, I drove to my favourite bookstore. I heard Barnes and Nobles is boss in Nerdism here, but frankly, I fear too much for my wallet to even venture in that three-storey skyscraper of a bookstore.

I promised myself that I will only spend $10 in Borders. Because yes, that amount is possible here.

I ended up spending close to $20.

It’s not so bad, considering I actually bought only two books out of the six I was considering (among them, Scott Pilgrim vs The World, Gaiman’s The Wolves in the Walls and The Graveyard Book), after carefully skipping most of the aisles, afraid of what gems I may find.

Behold: my first Neil Gaiman novel.

Okay, to be honest, I bought it really because I wanted to own something that is drawn by Dave McKean. Which is not to say that Gaiman isn’t awesome (he is, immensely). But Dave McKean’s artwork just blows me away and sucks me back in; a sort of visual orgasm, complete with excitable noises.

You didn’t just hear me describe a children’s book with all that.

On the subject of children’s books, I ended up picking this up as well.

I’m not anywhere near a fan of Hans Christian Andersen, but for Joel Stewart’s illustrations, I can very well be. Flipping the pages in the bookstore, I held my breath as the quirkily intricate drawings did nasty things to my brains.

Like shutting it down, leaving me defenceless against my heart.

And the problem with following your heart is that it is never as good at budgeting as your brains. But other than that, there really is no downside.

When I go back to Malaysia, I foresee myself shivering in American-bookstore-withdrawal.

They have rows after rows of all the awesome stuff that you would possibly ever need to read, don’t need to read but nevertheless want to read, and don’t need to read and don’t even want to go near it.

He looks contagious.

I have more things on my mind that I should probably pen down. Like that obligatory New Year post. And the trip to NYC. And Tangled. Alas, dreams beckon, and it seems like tonight, it will be another fantastic one :)

Merry Cry-stmas

2010-12-30T17:26:00.004+08:00

I have, on the days when I’m not busy pinching myself to check if I’m dreaming, imagined what will be running through my mind when I land in New York City for Christmas this year.

They are usually thoughts that come accompanied with exclamation marks, occasionally question marks, and during my more sober hours, dollar signs.

In reality, however, all I was thinking while the plane bumped on the runway was “PLEASE don’t let me puke all over the place.”

So yeah, it was a little of an anti-climax, if climaxing at touch down is not contradictory in itself. However, the fault was mine. I had, in my haste and cotton-candied mind (thanks to recent events), completely forgot to select my flight seat upon checking in.

Life has a special kind of punishment for this kind of ditzy. It’s call The Worst Seat in the Plane.

Actually, it wasn’t that bad. But it was the last row of seats, pretty close to the wings, and definitely too close to the cranky baby crying and whining throughout the six-hour midnight flight. The leg room was practically non-existent, and the air was stuffy. Towards the end of the journey, the ride got bumpier, hence my pressing concerns with seeing my dinner from last night again. That turkey sandwich looked like the type to hold a grudge.

Like I said, it was my fault.

(But you know that I’m living a special kind of dream when despite having slept a total of probably two hours in the most neck-breaking position ever after a whole day of work, with the colicky baby’s cries looping in the background, I still woke up smiling like an idiot. ^^)

Now, I’m typing this in JFK Airport, a little dazed and disorientated. I’m lugging around a baggage equivalent of the volume I packed when I moved from Malaysia to the States, only this time its stuffed with bulky winter clothing, which I’m currently feeling rather dumb about, because I’m now only wearing a thin Forever 21 trench coat and the stuffiness is already getting to me. Where’s the blistering winter cold of NYC that everyone was warning me about? The negative degree Celcius weather that the pilot announced before landing? I’m looking out the window now and NYC looks as sunny as California.

Okay, to be fair, I have not stepped out of the airport. I will eventually do so, when my sister’s flight arrives. Right now, I just want to sit down and stone. I have, in my quest for Wifi in JFK, dashed about with the crazy weight of my baggage, before finally giving up and resort to just sit down to reminiscence the good ol’ yesterday of San Francisco International Airport’s free wifi.

Oh, did I mention that you have to pay to get a luggage cart here? As the huge signs on the carts say, “Welcome to New York”.

So, yeah, all in all, not all that superb a morning. But heck, I’m in NYC. Time to put on that empire state of mind. Right after I round up my marbles.

******

I had thought that spending Christmas in New York City was a dream-come-true. Now, it seems like one of those biting realities that someone should have muzzled before it got out of hand.

To be fair, a white Christmas does look dreamy. There is something oddly warm and fuzzy about seeing the blanket of fluffy white covering roof tops and shop signs and tree branches – it’s one of those scenes where you wish someone close to your heart would share it with you. And the Malaysian in me is still trying to wrap my head around the memory that I was actually playing in the snow and throwing snowballs at my crazy sister, and laughing at my brother-in-law as he rolled down a snow hill, and building a snowman, no, a snowmidget, more like, in Central Park.

But after a few hours of almost slipping on dirty melted slush (they looked like whipped cream being stomped on), and spending frustrating hours refreshing Delta website because the whole airline services were thrown out of whack thanks to the worst blizzard NYC has seen in decades (yes, my first encounter with snow had to be THAT dramatic), I just wanted to tell the winter wonderland what Ash from Army of Darkness told his girlfriend-turned-Deadite, “Honey, you got real ugly.”

Okay, I'll admit that Winter was a wee bit prettier than her. A wee bit.

Right now, I’m typing this in the JFK International Airport in NYC, holding a stand-by ticket for a plane bound to San Francisco International Airport at 5pm. Stand-by, meaning that there’s a high chance that the plane is actually full and I’ll be camping out on the airport floor tonight, like the rest of the passengers, some of whom had been getting up close and personal with the JFK carpets since Sunday.

The blizzard was all over the news, and the reports on flights just got scarier and scarier. People were spending hours in the airport waiting for something, but all they got was a flight notification board full of the glowing yellow “Cancelled” words, and more bad news – we may be looking at days-long delay in flight. The crowded and chaotic atmosphere in the airports was topped with reports of food and power outage there, which seemed like the perfect setting for cannibalism. Or *dramatic pause* zombie apocalypse.

Optimism has always been my strongest point. Which, if you really think about it, is kinda sad. But oh well.

This is my optimistic face.

Despite the bleak situation, I had to make my way to the JFK airport, because my flight was cancelled, and yet there was no new flights scheduled by the airline. The phone lines were completely jammed up, and the website had erred so much that its probably human. I even signed up for Twitter just so I can bug the airline with my haiku brevity (*shudders at the amount of short forms I had to use*). But there was No Response.

So when push comes to shove, I’d rather not be at the end where you get run over.

After several rounds of frustrated wailings and denial by refusing to get out of bed and bitching about Delta airlines with my sister and brother in law, I begrudgingly left the comfort of my hotel, baggage and a heavy heart in tow, and departed for the JFK airport. I knew it would be a long day, and most like, night. Due to the blizzard, thousands of flights were cancelled, and so you can imagine the backlogged of passengers who have been stranded at the airport way before I am. What chance do I have to squeeze into the pathetically few flights that are finally starting to pull out from the runway?

But heck, optimism, remember?

******

And so, my gallivanting in New York City came to a close with me making one last discovery. It is actually really depressing to be waking up from the table that you had fell asleep on, while the realization that you are still in the airport thudded down upon your bleary conscience. Holding a stand-by ticket, too. And Starbucks is closed, because it’s friggin’ 5 a.m.

Yes, I spent the night camping out in the JFK airport, because the thing about optimism is that it doesn’t pay the bills, nor score you the dream girl or guy, nor secure you a seat in an overbooked airplane. But it’s still a handy thing to have, because it’s probably the only thing standing between you and a certain urge to shoot yourself in the head.

Despite the depressing news reports, the atmosphere in the airport is surprisingly chilled, even though many, like me, have no inkling on when we will actually leave this dastardly expensive place. When we are not gawking at the screen showing the seats assigned to those in the stand-by list with a certain madness in our eyes (gosh, you do not wanna know what’s in our heads), we are a bitter-but-not-beaten crowd, lurching about in the airport with the remnants of restless sleep shrouding our crestfallen faces. Much like anyone you see on the streets, really.

That said, emotions are at an all-time high, and I have not seen so much raw humanity for a long time.

There was a lady who, after waiting in line at the Delta Help Desk for about an hour, promptly sat down and sobbed. I handed her a bag of tissue, knowing that if I don’t get on a plane in another 24 hours, I would probably be sobbing even louder.

I watched a little girl, about 8 or 9, sitting on the ground with her belongings and a blanket. With despair and weariness in her eyes, a wave of crimson started spreading throughout her face, and as her mouth pouted tears started rolling down her cheek, which she wiped profusely with her hoodie sleeve. It was a sort of quiet desperation that should never cross a nine-year-old’s face.

I talked to a Canadian dad with a wife and a five-year-old daughter in tow. He had, prior to flying out of his parents’ place in Florida, checked that his transit flight in JFK would be departing on time. Upon arrival at the airport, however, he found out that all flights bound to his destination had been cancelled, with no reason other than bad weather. He had no idea when he could fly out; his daughter is having a meltdown, and he is spending about a hundred bucks a day to pay for the meals of his family in the airport. He tried getting meal vouchers (which basically lets you buy airport food at a cheaper price), but after being sent from one crowded help desk to another, he still couldn’t find someone who could provide him with one.

“I don’t have unlimited funds, you know,” he chuckled, but without humour in his tone.

Another girl, who was queuing up behind me at the help desk, told me that she had to lug her baggage and ran from terminal to terminal, and from one airline operator to another, because no one could tell her where her flight was supposed to depart from. It was already 6.30pm, and her flight was scheduled to fly at 7 p.m., and she was already on the verge of tears as she begged the officers to please find her flight. In the end, they promptly told her that the flight simply does not exist. In desperation, she forked out another $1500 to buy another air ticket to LAX, thinking that it would help her make it for her transit flight to New Zealand the next day. But, as luck would have it, her new flight was delayed as well.

“I have no more money, everything went to the air ticket. And now it looks like I still won’t be able to make it for my transit flight,” she said, staring dejectedly on the ground.

Further behind in the line, a guy about my age was cursing into his cell phone.

“I just want to get out of here. I don’t want to be sitting in this airport, f***ing j**king myself off anymore. I was on the stand-by list and I saw someone just paid $3000 for a ticket and got on the plane [angry pause] I don’t care, the bottom line is someone f***ing bought my seat with three thousand bucks.”

To twang our already raw nerves even further, the help desk line was barely moving. I had only about 5 or 6 people before me, but had to wait for about an hour before it was my turn. There were only three counters opened in the beginning, and one counter was hogged by this couple throughout the whole time I was in line. People were throwing angry glances at them – what kind of problem could they be having to justify the attention of the agents for an hour, while the rest of our feet are dying beneath us? To be fair, the agents were probably weary as well. People were probably being bitchy to them the whole day.

Thankfully, they opened two more counters, and after another century of waiting it was finally my turn. And while the agent was processing my requests, a girl suddenly showed up beside me and pleaded someone to help her retrieve her saxophone, which she had left in another terminal. She needs to board her plane shortly, and was willing to pay someone for their trouble.

“How much are you willing to pay?” The agent attending to me asked her.

“$40,” the girl said.

“I’ll do it,” said the agent, who practically shoved my tickets to me, mumbled some instructions and then promptly got up and left the counter. I glanced at the long line of people waiting for their turn, while the girl bound for New Zealand smiled bitterly at me. I sighed, and smiled back.

Despite the general air of hopelessness, heightened by the sound of shops and restaurants closing their shutters for the night, people were still trying to maintain a certain light-heartedness. They chatted, make jokes and generally looked out for one another. We may not know each others’ names, but when stuck in the same boat, friendships need no formalities.

And thanks to that quiet camaraderie, and thanks to the phone calls that helped me stay sane, I pulled through the otherwise lonely and scary night in the airport. Granted the whole place was still brightly lit, with cheery Christmas songs playing in the background, and security guards were patrolling the place, and nobody tried to eat anyone yet… but the sort of fear you experience comes from the uncertainty on when you can actually leave this place, how much trouble you’re gonna get from your employers when you’re not back in time for work, and the fast disappearing balance in your debit card. Honestly, I was in the position where I could not leave the airport and find somewhere else to stay, because (1) I don’t have enough money for the cab fare to keep coming and leaving the airport, and (2) the hotels around the airport are probably going to cost a bomb, due to New Year’s Eve and the whole flight-cancelling chaos that has hit all the airlines. Another gnawing worry is that I would soon run out of money to buy airport food. I would really regret having to eat my own leg, because to quote Willy Wonka in the most recent Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory movie, “humans don’t taste so good.”

It was, however, sheer luck that this morning, I was squeezed into the last seat in a flight bound to San Francisco despite being No.10 in the waiting list. I don’t know what exactly happened. I was sitting on the ground, trying desperately not to doze off while watching the stand-by list board like a hawk, err, trying not to doze off. It was impossible, anyway, because there were only five available seats. An incoming phone call, and I dreamily drew relief from the comforting voice, and it must have been really a dream because suddenly I heard my name being called – wrongly, of course, but it was my name! I scarcely had time to pinch myself. Dream or reality, I’m getting on! I dragged all my belongings to the boarding gate, shoved my boarding pass and passport towards the officers and after a while, found myself seated in a Delta plane, where I promptly fell asleep again.

It was a most wonderful feeling to be wake up from the window you were leaning on, as the realization that you are still in an airplane dawned upon your bleary conscience.
When I touched down at San Francisco, I very nearly dropped to my knees on the dry and snowless California ground and kiss its sun-lit surface. But of course, I really do not want to attract anymore weird stares, seeing as I’m probably gaining some attention for my hobo smell (okay one night in the airport is not so hobo but the romantic drama queen in me like to imagine that I’ve experienced hobo-ness, just for something to tell my grandchildren. Don’t mind me, unless you’re my grandchildren). Thus, I resort to just march proudly outdoors without having to suffocate in a bundle of thick winter clothing.

That said, I kinda sorta a wee bit miss the snowy scene. Ah well, once my memory fails me again (it’s bound to happen one of these days), I might attempt winter traveling again. In Japan, probably. I’ve heard that the sakura is worth it =)

*****

New York City was, despite everything, pretty darn amazing. Seeing my sister and my brother in law again was even more so! Will be blogging about that later, once I got around to processing the pictures. That will be soon. I hope.

And because I have that much faith in myself, here's the disclaimer.

Writing Withdrawal

2010-12-03T05:08:00.009+08:00

This marks the end of my 30 days and nights of literary abandon.

I had dived into my first NaNoWriMo pledge with nay a plot, and came out with nay an ending.

Because 50,000 words are just not enough to conclude the awesome-ness that my writing partner and I had jointly created (he was responsible most of the awesomeness; I was just there to pass the coffee and occasionally, the word count. Better cheat than never, I guess). And because, I think, neither of us had any idea what the hell is going on in those pages right now.

But what can you expect when you have characters which consist of a boy and a girl and a zombie and a badass leather babe (except she’s not) and a snarky hip uncle (except he’s usually a doll) and a robot (named after Dr. Seuss) and a few ghostly girls (always with The Ring’s Sadako feel to them, for some reason) and two combat-ready teachers who would feel right at home in Professor X’s mutant school. And a salesman.

Yes, we wrote like there’s no tomorrow. With false assumptions like that you tend to throw in everything that sounds like a great idea in your head and see which stuck. All of them did, shame on them. That posed several conundrums, but none that we can’t overcome with the wonders of padding and blatant killing of some characters by completely failing to mention them in the next several chapters.

But of course, there is always tomorrow. That’s the whole point. We live to write another 1.667 words, come what brain-deadness may.

It had been a hell of a ride; a journey of self-discovery. For one, I realise that I can actually make things up. At 4-bloody-a.m. And loving every moment of it, even the bits that I fell asleep in, with the laptop teetering on the edge of my lap.

I came to realise how much I love writing fiction. I’ve always considered myself a journalist, with a kind of rock-hard conviction for the Truth. And of course, a novelist seem to require a kind of amazing ingenuity for creating Something out of nothing, and not to mention the ability to look dashingly romantic in a moustache/beard (sorry, blame my stereotype on staring at Terry Pratchett’s mug too much) and a beret. I was sure the Truth would be easier. You just dig and dig and piss everyone off and dig some more. Nothing to it, to quote a dear friend and respectable journalist.

The funny thing is, I’ve always found more truth in fiction. Pratchett’s novels can strike a chord deeper than any news or analytical piece can. Sometimes I find myself reading the newspaper just because I need to.

Heck, I got into writing because of Pratchett. He had said that “writing is the most fun anyone can have by themselves”. I bought his words. And a whole bunch of Discworld novels.

Then of course I realise that I am no Pratchett. My writing doesn’t bear wit like his – most of the time I have to glue the bad puns on and hope that no one would notice. And writing is actually painful for me. It drives me nuts. It made me feel both intoxicated and depressingly sober at the same time.

And then there is the whole thing about the Truth. I wonder if I’m any good at getting them.

Of course, as the years go by I also came to realise that writing is as much of a pain to even the best of writers (they just get paid a whole lot more). And you get better at digging, for Truth is a lot like turnips, but without the practicality of the latter.

It was not until NaNoWriMo that I actually felt Pratchett’s words. Making things up is a whole new universe of fun, especially when you’re doing it at unearthly hours with a support system in a different time zone cheering you on. It’s an opportunity to sit back without having to have 500 Firefox tabs opened on various research materials, and just let the brains and fingers foxtrot into free-fall fantasy.

Of course, I still love journalism as heck. Because it's so damn hard. I'm probably a masochist.

Here’s to all who stood by me when the writing bumped along, and sometimes crashed into walls. I was hanging on to the rope entwined with your encouragements, and that was the only thing that has saved me from being swallowed into the dark abyss of Giving Up.

And here’s to my partner, for being a genius and a wonder-friend :)

Now, to finish the novel! Synchronizing plot ninja!

Streams of unconciousness

2010-11-25T16:02:00.000+08:00

It was yet another defining moment for me as I sat in the pitch darkness, listening to two tiny noses breathing noisily.

I had, for the first time in my au pair life, put my host kids to bed. And they actually slept. It was the kind of feat that you had to do it by yourself to understand how hard it was. As I finally managed to haul them all onto their beds, get them to stop talking and kissed them goodnight, my inner self ran victoriously around the field with arms outstretched – tip-toeing, of course, while hysterical fans whispered their cheer. Four-year-olds have better hearing than you think.

And then I was hit by a wave of misery. Come on, my biggest achievement these days is putting kids to bed? Oh wait, no, my greatest gratification is when they finished all their vegetables. Uh huh. Very important, vegetables.

I buried my face in my hands.

It’s my fourth month in the States now, and these “what-the-hell” moments have been more often – especially when I looked at the state of the living room and realise that if this wasn’t hell, then someone had just raised it. Yes, I now think that eternal damnation means an eternity of picking up toys and stray pop corns and melted lollipops off the carpets. And a never-ending surround sound of childish shrieks. And being gratified by things like how well the kids pooped. And having to say “good job!” until Judgment Day.

Apologies for having been on hiatus for so long. To those of you who still like me, I just want to say, from the bottom of my heart and with hot grateful tears rolling down my cheeks, “What’s wrong with you guys?” Nonetheless, I’m here now. Got some rotten eggs to throw? Sure, but do get in line.

So much had happened for the past few months. So much that I’m having trouble believing them. I have made new friends as quickly as I lost them. I have gasped at the quirks and characters of America as much as I have gotten used to them. I have understood the realities of life as deeply as I had been baffled by it. I have taken spontaneous risks as often as I have passed up rare opportunities. I have discovered the beauty of true friendships and buried some of them.

I have broken hearts, promises, and trusts.

I have put my money in the wrong things, and paid the price.

I have come to realise the preciousness of friends who doesn’t let 9000 miles of distance, my incessant ranting about being lonely and our completely different lives now get in the way of nonsensical banters, lengthy conversations and juicy gossip exchanges.

I have seen America in all its immensity and intensity, and decided that this country really has no use for me, other than to probably put its next generation to bed.

I have lived; a little exhausted, but too high-strung to sleep.

I came to the States to learn how to be a better writer; I did everything but write. I came to the States to figure out my path; I am more confused than ever.

It had, however, been one crazy ride. During my early months here, I felt like I was running on sheer momentum – if I slowed down, I may hit the kind of wall that marathoners talk about, the kind that cripples you and drags you down. With the aid of some disappointing friendships and a minor car accident, my momentum did get thrown out of whack, and I did run headfirst into concrete.

It was an unpleasant jolt, but one that I needed. I was burning out, while everything around me went past in a blur. Perhaps that is why I did not blog for so long. My mind was a mess – it was no telling what may come out of it. Most of all, writing required a kind of ability to make sense, which was beyond what my state of mind could have mustered.

This month, I’m learning to slow down. I am currently in my 30 days of writing exile (NaNoWriMo rawr!) and had never been happier. There may be so many things I’m confused about, but at least I’m sure that writing will always be the thing that can both stitch my broken pieces up and tear me apart from within.

There’s a song that goes “It’s gotta be like falling in love; there’s something to believe in.”
The line encapsulates why I still love writing even though it strains me so, love my messy life even though it tires me so, love the even messier Malaysia even though she pains me so.

I believe. It’s a whole lot like optimism, except way more stubborn.

Like a ton of bricks

2010-08-19T14:21:00.002+08:00

When I saw a truck with the cheery words “Bimbo Bakeries” emblazoned on it, the realization hit me – I’m in America. Like, really.

I’m known to be prone to delayed reactions. But even I would admit that one month is too long for a reaction to register. Nevertheless, the past 37 days have been so full of new discoveries to be made, new people to meet and new roads to get lost in, that I have neglected to hyperventilate. Sure, there was the brief moment of elation when I first landed, but the ZOMG moment is ruined by yet another airport security check.

It’s hard being a fan girl in a paranoid country.

But today, while sitting next to my host dad, who was driving the whole family to the San Diego Wild Animals’ Park, I was swollen with sudden pride that I made it to the States – this is my dream since I was 17.

Okay, so my dream didn’t include three tantrum-prone boys who, when the right mood graces them, say and do the funniest things. But hey, I was never a specific dreamer – wishing upon a star while pointing in the general direction of the States works too. Ask me, I should know.

I’m kidding. I was wishing upon a star and pointing in the general direction of the States frantically, while my other hand tried to shovel an airway out of the humongous pile of Au Pair paperwork.

It was not easy. But that, according to rumours, is the mark of things worth doing.

So far, the rumour is right.

Within a month, I have met people so interesting that they are probably only found half way across the globe. I have seen crazy sights and breath-taking landscapes, did embarrassing touristy things and living like a local. I taught foreign friends the charming usage of “lah”, learnt their ways and challenged them to spice-eating contests (I pwn-ed them, of course). Heck, I’m driving on the right side of the road.

I also haven’t had Nasi Lemak and Teh Tarik for a month. Them pastas are starting to get to me.

I have to remember to not end my sentences with “lah”, because I’d get weird stares. I mean, I’m used to weird stares, but I’d rather not have to explain myself, because I don’t even understand myself, ya know what I mean? Lah?

(What? I can’t have verbal diarrhoea after dealing with three boys all day?)

Right now, I’m sitting in a room with huge windows overlooking the pacific lagoon. I’m on vacation with my host family in San Diego, though when I say vacation, it just generally mean the same amount of childish screams and drama, taking place in a home that does not belong to us. When I’m not busy stopping the kids from killing themselves by leaning too far out of the window, I always marvelled at the beauty of the lagoon, its tide sloshing up the shore below the blue green California sky.

As the sun sets every evening, its orange glow spills over the rippling lagoon waters against the purplish pink horizon, I always feel so blessed, yet so insignificant.

Who am I to set eyes upon a beauty such as this?

I am a dreamer.

In a perfect world, dreams come true.

In this not-too-shabby world, dreams come true, too – you just gotta make it work.

Die die also must make it work.

Written amidst childish screams

2010-08-09T23:49:00.000+08:00

“So, what did you do before you came to the States?”

I always tell people that I’m a writer. But judging by the situation of late, I may be lying.

I’m no writer. I’m Having Written.

The distinction between the two? The former is haunted by deadlines, while the latter is just haunted – by the past and all its glories.

Not that I wrote anything particularly glorious. But like all haunted beings we cling on to whatever sliver of the bygones we can find.

I have no time to write. I tell myself that, in the hope that a full schedule can occupy the emptiness of my pages. Who has time to write when you’re so busy living? I didn’t travel all the way to the States to hole in my room and slouch in front of the computer.

Or so I told myself, while the hollowness within my heart spreads and spreads.

The truth is, I have no time to think. I jam-packed my life, not willing to slow down for the fear that every moment unlived is a moment wasted. I have done, see, feel and do so many new things for the past few weeks, but I did not take my time to chew at them and savour their succulence.

I’m a gobbler. I did not digest. Perhaps that is why I don’t feel fulfilled, just stuffed – like a toy with cotton for brains.

I read a line somewhere – Never give up on something that you can't go a day without thinking about (yeah it took me a while to figure out this triple-negative sentence, but it’s just as well because now it is ingrained in my head).

I need to keep writing. Chapter 23 needs meaningful prose, not unintelligible scribbles.

America, among others

2010-07-27T15:11:00.002+08:00

So all my lobes are finally in the same timezone, give or take a few hours. I apologize for the hiatus. This is going to be long, and possibly confusing post. To aid things a little, the sections below follow a chronological order, from the neverending airport transits to my first official weekend since I start my au pair work in the States.

***

35, 000 feet up in the air is a great place for putting things into perspective. For example, I was struck with how incredibly lonely I was, never mind that I was sandwiched among many other Chinese (as in, they’re really from China), who managed to remain a bustling population even in a crammed United airplane.

It was one big “oh shit” moment, with the added disadvantage of having an echo.

The flight was 11 hours too long. My behinds may have evolved due to sheer environmental pressure, and the lobes of my brains feel like they’re operating from different time zones as my mind refuses to believe it is subjected to pests like jet lags. I tried readjusting my anatomy to fit the chair (which, surprisingly, is more comfortable than the MAS seats) so that I can get some snooze, but this proves to be an uphill battle as sleeping horizontally turns out to be a habit too hard to break. I sampled the infamous United Airlines food, and well, all I have to say is I’ve never tasted rice this crunchy.

On the whole, I was calmer than I expected. The panic is pacified by a mad fascination for all things strange and new around me, and I cannot risk the anxiety exploding now, lest I break down beyond repair.

Time and again, though, the thought floated in my mind – I’m all alone. I find it hard to believe that my parents, my sister, my boyfriend and my friends are half the globe away, living different lives in different time zones. I looked at the passengers around me, mostly families, some friends and at least one PDA-prone couple (right in front of me, like it doesn’t hurt enough already), and wondered what the hell I was doing there.

But then again, I can’t imagine myself back home typing either.

As I touched down and saw the airport sign “Welcome to San Francisco”, I smiled and patted my 17-year-old self in the back. Welcome, indeed. We’ve come a long way, and we are finally here, in the USA.
(Actually, what I really said to my 17-year-old self was “ZOMG ZOMG ZOMG THIS IS, LIKE, SUPER AWESOME! We made it! *squeals, hyperventilates, faints*”)

And then it sank in. I felt like crying. I’m in the USA, alone, out of my comfort zone. Now what?
I suppose I’ll just use my tried and tested formula – figure it out as I go along. Right now, I do not dare to think ahead. Everything is just so raw – the accent around me, the American flags, the foreign brands, the price tags that start with “$”, and the difficult goodbyes back at KLIA.

To be frank, I don’t even feel like myself. I looked at the foreigners around me and had to remind myself that now, I’m the foreigner. Only I don’t feel that foreign. I just feel like I walked right into a Hollywood movie, albeit one that does not have drop dead gorgeous Americans at every turn. Sometimes, I suspect that the one typing this now is just a figment of my imagination, born out of my bored mind in my real body playing Sims in the stuffy, messy room back home.

But I’m here. Really here. In San Francisco - a place I have always dreamed to be at but never really believed that it would come true. The funny thing is, on our way to KLIA, my dad told me that my great granddad had also embarked on the same journey to San Francisco as a slave, though he never quite made it (he got cheated and landed in London instead).

I’m here, great-grand dad. I never knew you, but it’s cool how a dream can resonate through several generations.

Well, here’s a little weather report: San Francisco is actually 17 degree Celcius now, despite being right smack in the middle of summer. Cool eh? Okay, even the lame me have to admit that that was a desperate pun.

Next up: Au Pair orientation programme, where I meet au pairs from all over the world. *dies*

***

Au Pair orientation was last week. It was fascinating to meet so many people from so many parts of the world. All of a sudden I have friends aplenty with names I can’t pronounce. The whole orientation was like a walking dream, its surreal-ness facilitated by the jetlag, and the fact that I was surrounded by gorgeous German and Brazillian supermodels with legs that go on forever (what do their mommies feed them?).

I also had never been in a room where so many different languages were being spoken. Scratch that – I have never been in a room where so many different languages that I don’t understand were being spoken.

The three days in New Jersey went by in a swoosh, while my lethargic body struggled to keep up. Powered by sheer momentum, I lurched through a hectic mix of classes and getting to know new pals and TRIPS TO NEW YORK CITY *hyperventilates*. It was really tiring, but really fun. Everyone was friendly and open, which was awesome and a huge relief to the lone Malaysian – me.

And then orientation came to an end. I found myself waiting by the shuttle to Newark Airport again with two luggages, a couple of postcards bearing the glories of NYC, and three notebook pages worth of contact details from new friends.

I taste panic. I’m only two domestic flights away from the place I will be living for the year. No time for emotions though. We were ushered onto the shuttle, and we’re off.

Closing my eyes, I chanted the most important thing I learnt from the orientation – This year is what you make out of it.

***

My first week in California was filled with warmth, kindness, excitement, kids screaming, cultural differences, irritation, driving on the wrong side (or, if you must, the right side) of the road, kids saying hilarious things, more kids screaming, au pair friends to the rescue and, lo and behold, kids screaming – in that order. Slot a few secret tears shed in the bedroom, and you have basically gotten a pretty accurate summary.

I will, in all probability, survive.

On a sunnier note, the weather here is awesome. Sure, the summer sun is piercing to the skin, but the air remains cool. It’s like walking around with an air-conditioner attached to your waist. They don’t even use fans here! Come night, the air is so chilly that I usually jump straight into my comforter.

So if you see a freak wearing a jacket (usually with a pair of twins in tow) walking under the blinding afternoon sun, do wave. It would most likely be me.

***

I escaped from a household full of screams into another house full of screams.

The second one was punctuated by laughter, though, which was a nice change.

It was the much awaited weekend and I followed an au pair friend to a Guatemala birthday party in Oakland. The baby daughter of her friend is celebrating her first birthday.

Before we started our journey, the au pair warned me, “Oakland is not a very good neighbourhood. Not like the place we live.”

Gulp.

But we went anyway, because just staying at home (where peace is pretty much volatile too) day after day would be a little like a death sentence in itself. I didn’t travel this far to be a chicken.
And boy, I’m glad I went.

True, Oakland seems more run-down than the “rich” neighbourhood we au pairs live and work in. The houses are modest and more tightly packed, and the streets unkempt and narrow. We reached the home where the birthday party was held, and I noticed the bare backyard, save for a Dora the Explorer bouncing house that was rented for the afternoon celebration. Back in the city we are in, the backyards of the houses have lush trees and plants, humongous flowers and at times, a fountain gushing away like nobody’s business (except the gardener, of course. And the fountain dealer.).

The party was simple and homely. While everyone spoke Spanish around me, the family warmth and camaraderie around me touched my heart deeper than comprehension can. We had home cooked rice and salsa meat, which was awesome stuff. Gosh, I miss simple rice-and-vege meals.

You would not believe my agony of seeing this picture now. I crave rice with gravy!
(and yes, in the States you eat rice with a fork. Go figure.)

I also sampled Guatemalan’s equivalent of bread. It was sticky (like our kuih back home) and made of corn – there wasn’t much taste to it (which is a relief to my tongue, considering that American food is either too sweet or too salty or too cheesy). My au pair friend told me that this is the typical food the Guatemalans eat for breakfast, and other meals too. Thanks to my ailing memory, I cannot remember its name -.-“

One thing that really amazed me and the other au pairs is how wonderful the kids were at the party. No one threw a tantrum. And they seem quite capable of having fun for an hour without running to mummy about a boo-boo (a wound, or a bump, or a tiny scratch, or at times, nothing at all) every five minutes. Sure, they made a lot of noise in the bouncing house, but those are playful, healthy noises. There were little whines, no fights, and no adults chasing a kid around.

The mood was light with the warmth of friendship and family. Contagious laughter rang all around, punctuated by staccatos of Spanish. Some of them tried to speak to me with the little English they know, while I struggled to reciprocate with the limited amount of Spanish vocabulary that I know (like two – hola and gracias).

An ear-to-ear grin, however, bridged all cultural gaps.

So there I was, a lone Chinese in the midst of Guatemalans and Mexicans who speaks in a strange tongue, in a possibly “dangerous” neighbourhood. The funny thing is, I felt more at home there than in the modern, “safe”, English-speaking city that I currently live in.

Bare in luxuries, bountiful in love – gracias, my Guatemalan host, for reminding me the simple happiness of being in a family.

The Day before I Leap

2010-07-10T14:18:00.004+08:00

I think I need to write this down. Even though I have only approximately 10 seconds to spare. And even though I'm having the biggest writer's block that you can carve the Lady of Liberty out of my brain and still have enough to repair, err, whatever it is that's needed to be repaired in our country. There's always something.

This feeling, this nervewrecking sensation of the day before flying long-distance for the very first time - one only gets to experience this once in one's lifetime (I did warn you about the writer's block). So I gotta write it down, in the hope that one day I can look back and laugh at myself.

If I can still laugh at that time.

For the first time in my life, I have zero idea on what is going to happen next week. I have always known. Always. But now, my mind is a blank. My imagination, which usually runs on overdrive (though sadly, in useless directions), has failed me.

Mum took me to eat hawker food just now. I stared at the Malaysians around me, with their feet up on the chair, their clothes mismatched and their table manners going the direction of their spits. I looked at the unwashed vegetables being thrown into the wok and stir-fried in too much oil for our consumption and possibly, constipation. I looked at the pirated DVD peddler counting his stock (omg he still has Toy Story 2). I looked at workers with various nationality preparing our food at the many stalls, and wondered if Malaysians realise that if we piss off migrant workers too much we may find ourselves swimming in a nationwide food poisoning (pardon the choice of words).

I tried replacing all these images with my impression on what America would look like.

That caused a headache.

And a heartache.

I will miss Malaysia. But I will always be a Malaysian.

I have vowed that wherever I stand, that spot of ground is occupied by a Malaysian.

Should I forget this one day, do give my head a good knocking. But do explain why afterwards, or I may get too American and decide to sue your pants off.

Please take good care of yourself, everyone! Enjoy yourself and we'll be in touch!

Fare thee well

2010-07-02T00:14:00.008+08:00

Twelve more days and it’s my turn to the jet plane. Since the end of Form 5, I have farewell-ed so many friends who were flying off to all corners of the world. While I hugged them goodbye and wished them a safe arrival, my heart ventured the question, “When will it be my turn?”

Circumstances always laughed at me for asking such a naive question.

Thankfully, though, I’ve never cared much about what Circumstances think.

Now, at the age of 23, I am the one packing my bags and worrying about the customs regulations. It may not be a usual path of going to the States – I’m doing an Au Pair programme, a way cheaper option compared to studying there – but it’s my shot to experience the U.S. all the same. My only shot, to be exact. At the age of 17 I harboured the dream of studying there – it was such a fervent dream that it filled most of the pages of my angsty journal. But alas, there was the dream, but there was also the financial difficulty.

“It’s just not possible,” I was told, over and over again, and each time my heart died a little.

But I’m not the type of person who likes to see good dreams go to waste. Having “possible dreams” is an oxymoron that I recognised later, and it is as laughable, and perhaps as genetically modified, as “chicken tuna”. Plus, I’m wired with the Chinese kiasu-ness that will make my ancestors proud (except that I always defy my parents, so maybe they won’t be so proud). The more you tell me “Oh, no”, the more I wanna say “Oh, yeah?”

So it is with this almost-suicidal-but-don’t-blame-me-blame-genetics stubbornness that I wind up filling up countless forms for the Au Pair programme. It took me a whole year to prepare – completing the paperwork while gaining experience in childcare. And suddenly, as abruptly as I started, the preparation is almost complete. On July 12, it is my turn to soar for the sky.

Do I feel like a hero (or heroin, but I hate to sound like a najis masyarakat aka drugs) who defeated Fate? I dunno. Do heroes often feel like they should have, perhaps, sat quietly like everyone else? Do heroes feel so nervous about the path they take that sometimes they thump their heads for choosing it? Do heroes feel the guilt, oh, the damned guilt?

I thought not. I’m not hero material – in fact, I have a whole lot of talent for being a chicken, except I can’t even cluck as proficiently.

While I prepare for my year in the US, I have also developed a kind of crippling anxiety. The fear of the unknown, coupled with the guilt of leaving my aging parents, becomes a kind of anti-climax for a trip that I have dreamed of since forever. It takes a lot of walk away from people who needs you, in order to pursue what you need.

This is the reality of following your dreams, if you are anything like me. Coming from a family that has always try to make ends meet, buying a dream incurs a cost to people you love. I have always lived with this tug of war between being selfish, or being a sacrifice. I made the choice many years ago to follow my heart and be a writer, but this would mean that my parents may never enjoy a life of luxury, or just not needing to worry about money. Now, I made the same choice of going to the US, but this translates to the fact that my parents would be alone in KL most of the time, with no one to keep them company.

The pattern emerges – I am always selfish, and my parents always become the sacrifices. To add to the guilt, my parents have been supportive sacrifices.

I wrote about a similar topic in my column a while back, and a reader wrote to me, asking “Why is it that when we want to be ourselves and follow our heart, people think the worst of us and calls us selfish?”

Why, indeed? Up until now, I have never found the answer. But that could have been because of the self-imposed mental block - part of me is reprimanding myself for asking such a question in the first place. Sigh, self-censorship a vicious cycle.

Many times, I kneeled in church, asking God why my heart would tell me to do things that hurt the people around me. I stared at the portrait of Jesus, His face warmer than a painting should be capable of, and asked, “Should I really leave, Lord?”

And He just stood there, smiling his knowing smile, as if He already knew things that I don’t. Well, He does, actually.

Last week, the priest I love dearly said in his sermon, “We get so used to our comfort zone that we forgot that we are on a mission.”

And he recited this prayer by adventurer Sir Francis Drake:

Disturb us, Lord, when
We are too pleased with ourselves,

When our dreams have come true
Because we dreamed too little,
Disturb us, Lord

When we arrived safely
Because we sailed too close to the shore.
Disturb us, O Lord, disturb us.
(Full prayer here)

And that was my answer.

I have been too caught up with feeling guilty, too preoccupied with the future that I failed to see how far God has brought me. My dream of going to the States is coming true, a dream that I have been told would not happen – not with my financial background.

God has disturbed me, over and over again, so that I may never cowardly and comfortably settle for less. He has made me for something, God knows what, and perhaps that is what I really need – not just a year in US, not just a writing job, but to know what I’m really made for.

*********************

Thank God for friends, and one big fat liar as a boyfriend.

Knowing anxiety about leaving, they decided to help me face my fear by plopping me right into the Departure Lounge. It’s a method endorsed by psychologists, called “gradual desensitization”, which showed you that my friends are actually really intelligent people. It’s just that we happened to like to talk about zombies and gossip a lot.

But of course, being so intelligent and thoughtful, the gang knew that they couldn’t plop me into the REAL departure lounge at the airport, lest I turn hysterical and get pinned down by security (we really don’t need any more attention, thank you, being as famous as we are already). So, they took me to a mock Departure Lounge in Solaris, Mont Kiara.

It was the most kick-ass surprise farewell party ever (but of course, I may be biased :P). I had a five-car convoy driving to the destination, and that in itself was exciting. We kept losing each other as other cars, and at one point, a bus kept joining into our convoy because we are attractive like that. But eventually, we all made it to Solaris in one line. Hail to awesome PJ, Subang Jaya, Damansara and Nilai drivers, and Pauline’s iPhone GPS!

Oh yeah, I also discovered my boyfriend can make up stories with a straight face. Not exactly a comforting trait for a boyfriend to have, but since he threw me such a sweet party I let him off the hook. I’ll just add a lie detector to the shopping list muahaha.

Anyway, we arrived at Departure Lounge and did what we do best – talking too loud, laughing too hard, camwhoring too much, and forcing guys to pose with pretty pink cupcakes, courtesy of darling Pauline! We also discovered the freaky accuracy of the Magic 8 Ball, which dear Jee-sama bestowed upon me for my birthday :)

I also got a call from “Grandpa” Bear from Kelantan! Happy to hear from you, and don’t forget to give me my inheritance!

Mucho thanks, Bryan, Pauline, Jee, Eileen, Wan Qi, Dr. Carmen, Matthew, Seok Ping, and Goh! You guys sure know how to make me fly!

(Oh yeah my Brainz Assembly buddies/Familia - minus one workaholic :P - also gallivanted in Melaka for me birthday! Haven't processed the pictures yet but will talk about that soon! Brainz.)

*********

Thank God for sister and brother-in-law too.

Last month, I spent a whole week at my sister’s place in Penang, where I was treated to all the yummy local stuff that I’m so gonna miss, posed for way too many pictures, berkecoh with my sis and bro-in-law, fell into the sea and got flown up into the sky.

Whee! That's me!

Yes, I went parasailing in Penang, thanks to the persistence of my sister and the financial support of RM50 from my brother-in-law. We went to the Batu Feringghi beach, where there were businesses for every sort of beach activities imaginable. Anything that can float, be eaten, fly, sail or be played with, they sold it.

It was terrifying to think that I’m going to be dragged half way up into the sky with nay a life insurance. The parasailing guy, of course, had an airtight guarantee for customer safety which I found hard to argue with.

Me: Uncle, what happens if I drop into the sea when parasailing?
Parasailing Uncle: Oh, no worries! I guarantee you won’t drop wan. If you drop into the sea, we won’t charge you a single cent! *grins*

How to argue with such a solid policy? Thus, I paid the guy, got strapped on to the colourful parachute thing, listened to another guy barking the instructions to me, suddenly got told to RUN!, trotted clumsily on the sand, felt the great woosh of wind and the feeling of sudden lightness, like all my troubles have been blown away, and there I am – high in the air, the sea right below me.

It was exhilarating and dream-like at the same time, as if I couldn’t believe how high I am, and how nonchalant can the rest of the beach-goers be, minding their own business, camwhoring with their boyfriends, building sand castles, playing volleyballs... I mean, hello? Can’t you see? I’m in the friggin’ sky! This is big deal!

It was about five minutes of having the sky all to myself, no traffic and no people to avoid. Just a huge chunk of space, all mine. The breeze was mine, the scene was mine... unfortunately, the back-breaking pain was mine too. I may not have strapped on the parachute properly, so I was in a pretty weird position.

All in all, it ended too quickly. Soon, it’s time to get down. But you know me, I always generate unnecessary excitement for even the most mundane tasks. In my 2-second journey of landing, I almost took out a family playing on the sand, bumped my pinky finger and had two parasailing workers chasing at me hysterically because I touched down too far from where I was supposed to.

Now, that’s what I call going down in style.

(No lah, actually you’re supposed to pull a string to steer yourself downwards, but I didn’t pull at the correct position so the force wasn’t enough to land me at my designated spot. I would have flown right into the forest, but thankfully I saw the parasailing guy waving dramatically while yelling “PULL HIGHER! HIGHER! AAAARGH HIGHER AND HARDER!” So, that saved an embarrassing trip to the forest.)

Mucho thanks to my sister and bro-in-law for being such awesome hosts! Both of you also know how to make me fly! Very good very good, “murderers”! :D

22

2010-06-21T23:12:00.005+08:00

Chapter 22 is in its last page. I sit before the computer while the remaining lines materialise into place.

It’s not particularly interesting, as last pages go.

I imagine it would go something like this:

She sits in front of her computer, typing, like she did almost every time a chapter ends. Except during the close of Chapter 20, that was crazy. But the ones before and after, well, they involve her sitting alone in her room, navel-gazing without much enthusiasm.

For some reason, she muses, Jack Johnson’s easy tunes are always accompanying her during – as she would dub 21st June from now on – her Dark Day. Ironically, all he’s repeating now is “You better hope you’re not alone, you better hope you’re not alone, you better hope you’re not alone (etc etc)”. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Jack, she thought with a tiny smile, the facial effort being all she can manage right now. It’s the same song she listened to last year at this very moment – she has the blog post to prove it. Coincidence or cosmic joke? She chuckles silently, amused that a punch line can be so literal.

This year, however, it’s a little different. She can deal with being alone, for twenty odd Dark Days have thought her a thing or two about having no expectations. She is neither sad nor bitter. She isn’t even numb. Perhaps the correct description is that she has accepted, surrendered, let go. The ending of a chapter and the beginning of another – everyone does it differently. Some celebrate, some mourn; some get high, some slump low. Perhaps it has been written somewhere that she will always spend hers alone, in her room, listening to Jack Johnson, sipping a glass of melancholy – both shaken and stirred.

It’s not so bad, actually. There are worse places to spend it. All in all, she has it easy.

The biggest difference, of course, lies in how empty Chapter 23 is. The fresh, spotless pages scare her. For the first time, she has no story draft – the plot can go anywhere, the characters can develop into complete strangers, and the setting, oh she knows too little about the setting. The book can propel into a completely different direction, even cross several genres, and she can’t decide if that’s a bad thing or not.

Nevertheless, the pages must be filled. She’ll have to make it up as she goes along.

******
It is a Dark Day. Pudu Jail is to be demolished today. When development bulldozes its way through, nothing survives – not a historical site, not the longest painted wall recorded in the Guinness Book of Records, and definitely not our pride.

Read story here.

I am repulsed by this statement: “The government is of the opinion that [the Pudu Jail] is not something we can be proud of. There are many other things we can be proud of compared to a jail.”

Yes, we are proud of many things in Malaysia, and they happen to include a jail. In fact, we may be holding a jail in higher regards than we are with politicians who decide what we can or cannot be proud of.

Read “Pudu Jail: Walls come tumbling down, history bypassed — Badan Warisan Malaysia” in the Malaysian Insider.

I was only half my current height when my parents first took me on a tour to Pudu Jail. We looked into the barren cells that inmates used to live in, watched a disturbing video on how whippings were carried out, and sat in a dark room while listening to an eerie audio re-enactment of a hanging process.

We peered into the hole which death row inmates dropped to their demise, imagining their bodies abruptly dragged down by gravity and, possibly, guilt. We read the explanation written by the side of each type of noose.

The place reeked of grim hopelessness. And then I saw the wall – a mural of lush green forest painted by the prison inmates.

Even at that young age, the peaceful artwork so full of life struck me as a stark contrast of what the wall held within – Death, and its companion, Despair.

An otherwise intimidating architecture, softened by gentle strokes of colour. It’s like someone has painted Hope, and couldn’t stop, until he ran out of wall.

Now, every time I pass by Pudu Jail, I’m reminded of the day my Dad held my little hands as I stared in awe at the wall, forgetting to close my mouth as always.

Now, the building is gone, save for a small section of the wall flanking its main gates. Will I still remember the hope, the childish wonder, the warmth of my father’s hands?

If a developed nation can only step on the wreckage of its yesterdays to go higher, tell me, how high is enough?

Baggage

2010-05-21T22:15:00.002+08:00

Looks like hiatuses have become a habit for me, and blogging when I have no internet connection has become a fine tradition.

Yesterday I asked God to help me be less distracted. And poof goes my DSL light (not right after my prayer, of course. Heaven practise less dramatic sense of timing than most people think). So there, my doubts were confirmed - Facebook hasn’t got divine approval.

Anyway, plenty of things have happened since I last blogged. I shall try to recount them quickly, or slowly, my longwinded-ness being something expected by my loyal readers (yes, I have one or two, as baffling as it sounds. They must really like my blog layout).

First of all, I’m going to the USA. Don’t be duped by the nonchalant full stop. My mind is actually so full of exclamation marks and question marks and, for some reason, parentheses that they reached a bottleneck on their way to my fingers (What to do, my internal motorway is made in Malaysia. Ooo look, a pair of parentheses squeezed its way out via the emergency lane, tsk tsk).

Thankfully, I still have a little less than two months to get used to the idea that I AM LEAVING.

My Au Pair programme will start on early July. I shall have to be prepared to take care of three super adorable but possibly naughty kids, live with a host family and in a country half the globe away, making new friends, adopting a new lifestyle and making my own path.

Most of all, I will be stuffing as much of my life as possible in a suitcase and bid goodbye to those that would not fit.

I would really, really like them to fit, though. But hauling two parents, a hyperactive sister and her dramatic husband, a noisy boyfriend and a bunch of whimsical buddies through the departure gate would just make the customs have a fit. Loading them all onto the bomb-scan-conveyor-belt thingie would be problematic too.

So I suppose I just have to settle on wiping the tears off and sucking it in.
It’s just as well, too, for this is a trip where I test my mettle. When out of my comfort zone, who will I be? How far can I go?

I don’t really know why it is important to find out about this. I don’t even know whether I’d like what I find. But I want to know all the same.

Am I me? Or am I the people around me?

Plus, I’m dying to see the States. Perhaps I really am selfish.

***

I had a nervous breakdown last night.

The US trip was suddenly becoming too real. If reality bites, this one nibbles. Slowly. Discreetly. And one day when I look down my right leg is gone.

Reality burps.

As I lay on my bed last night, thoughts filled my head, none of them pretty. The thing about thinking too much in the middle of the night is that monsters come to haunt you. There’s a line about heroes in Pratchett’s Wintersmith, “...someone must go into the Underworld to find the real Summer Lady... and he must do it in fear and terror like a real Hero should, because a lot of the monsters he must overcome are the ones in his head, the ones he brings in with him.”

I’m no hero. But that’s no excuse to act like a wuss.

So I push all the monsters away and fell asleep. It was a fitful night.

Then Bryan called me this morning. “You are at the point of no return,” he pointed out, along with some analogies to do with airplanes and flying too far from base and not having enough petrol to fly back and other aeroplanes already taken your place. He sounded mighty intelligent for 7 am, but too bad my head was still half-buried in my pillow.

When I got a bit more sober, the truth of what he said hit me. I am at the point of no return. Any form of wallowing and self-doubt should have been done months ago, before I hit the application button. Now, it’s a straight road ahead.

And it’s wide open.

So yeah, maybe I’ll never be ready to leave the life I know here. Maybe I’ll never be ready to let go. Maybe I’ll never be ready for the possibility that when I come home, everyone may have moved on with their lives. Maybe I’ll never be ready to take that cross-continental leap.

But maybe I don’t have to be ready too. There must be a reason why faith is often associated with leaps, and not marathons.

Bite this

2010-04-29T12:20:00.003+08:00

If you are going to buy, borrow, beg or steal a book soon, make it Yasmin Ahmad’s Films by Amir Muhammad.

(The stealing bit was a joke. Usually I tend to avoid blatant disclaimers like this, but you’d never know, the same people who got Nose4News’ writer into trouble may be reading this and get unnecessarily excited. My holistic upbringing teaches me that it is better to be safe than sued.)

Now, I’m never very good at reviews – so many things these days hardly deserve one. But then again, so many gems out there do, and I always have a fear that whatever I say would not do justice to them. So I kept quiet. After all, I can always post the link to Facebook and tag the whole world.

However, Yasmin Ahmad’s Films is so good that I figured no amount of lame gushing from me would be able to screw it up for you. So, OMG OMG GET THE BOOK I *HEARTS* IT LONG TIME!

I may be biased though. I’m the type of person who loves reading anthologies and interpretations of artworks. I love having people point out, highlight, circle, and double underline the symbolism, the subconscious messages and the cheeky hints that writers, filmmakers and artists sprinkled in their work. This is perhaps why I read Otaku Zone in The Star although I have no patience for manga. Or why I can be engrossed in Bryan’s PC Gamer magazine for hours although I have no brain cells for those super-strenous games that they review.

And I always have a soft spot for wit. And gosh, Amir Muhammad is witty. Five minutes into the book and three of them have been spent laughing and then re-reading those clever lines and laughing again.

I also cried. Yasmin always had that effect on me. Now, I discovered that Amir does too.

The book is, of course, about Yasmin Ahmad’s films. But it is not just about Yasmin Ahmad’s films. Some people may think, like I did before I bought the book, why would we want to read something that we have watched? And then I started reading it. And I couldn’t stop.

I would like to think that this book is more about the story behind Yasmin Ahmad’s stories. It tells of Yasmin’s life, her philosophy, her vulnerability, her support group, and her disarming cheekiness. Rather than tediously over-analysing her scenes, the book actually accentuated them, helping us see things that we have never appreciated, and unveiling inspiring messages that we may have missed. Like I said, I’m a sucker for these things.

Amir also inserted his own notes about Malaysia’s various concepts, quirks, camaraderie, and contradictions, and those are the parts that I really like about the book. Don’t get me wrong – he did not gloss about the muhibbah-ness and the 1Malaysia-ness (I accidentally typed 1Malaysia-mess. Perhaps my fingers are bolder than my brain in accepting the obvious. I suppose it’s because finger-washing never quite caught on as well as brainwashing). His notes are honest, insightful, enlightening, down-to-earth, and best of all, funny like hell.

Flipping through the pages in the bookshop, I had that ZOMG MUST GET THIS feeling, which I always consider as an approving sign from the above to blow my budget for the month.

Perhaps it was divine intervention. I have no regrets buying it. I do not want to go into the details of describing it, because revisiting the memories of Yasmin Ahmad is something that is so personal, you have to experience it on your own.

According to the back cover, “all the writer’s royalties from the first edition will be donated to the MERCY – Yasmin Ahmad Fund for Children”. Think of the little kiddos and reach for your wallet already. They will thank you for it. Best of all, you may thank yourself – and goodness know you need to do that more often.

Flaps hands

2010-03-27T00:02:00.003+08:00

Apparently you can get an award by nagging other people about deadlines and taking long hiatuses in the name of Writer’s Block. I know, because I got one.

Thank you, Shareen Mohd Salleh for passing on the award to me, and congratulations on winning it yourself =) Although we’ve never met before, I’m sure that you, a most sweet and witty soul, totally deserves the award above.

I, on the other hand, accept this honour with a deep bow and a deeper bafflement. I mean, Beautiful Blogger Award?

First of all, I’ve been associated with many things (“weird” and “lame” remain the popular favourites). But “beautiful”? Have you even met me? Okay, so I hear some of you say beauty is also about having a heart of gold and sweet nature etc, which is all great except for one question – have you even met me?

Secondly, the word “Blogger” – have you seen the dates of my sporadic posts? And have you seen the way I insistently whine about deadlines and writer’s block, in the hope that no one will notice that my brain is actually dry? No, I don’t deserve the word “blogger”.

So, “Beautiful Blogger” would have been a double negative in my case, which is a big-no-no according to one of my English lecturers. It confuses people, he cautioned, which is rather far-sighted of him, in light of my current affairs.

The fact that I got the award anyway shows that there really is no justice in the world, just a whole lot of forgiving people - like Shareen Mohd Salleh =D Yes, I’m shamelessly plugging you, because you selflessly plugged me.

And what would an award be without some thank-you speech, right? So, here goes, for the sake of protocol (actually, I’ve been waiting all my life for an opportunity like this, but what would the world be if award-recipients go around telling the truth, eh?).

Thank you, all you readers who have encouraged, pushed, nudged, kicked, dragged and threatened me in the right/write direction. You have been my source of strength and inspiration. You’re the reason I still write. And for that, I owe you my lifelong gratitude.

And before you yell “is there no end to this syok-sendiri post?!”, let me assure you that you’re right – the end isn’t nigh. I have the privilege to pass this award to another 15 bloggers out there!

Sadly, I don’t read blogs that often, so I only know a handful of really good bloggers. Nonetheless, here goes the List of Awesome (in no particular order):

Twisted Transistor for her ability to add drama and humour into any topic, especially the ones about her dogs.
The Pragadissio Notebook for his eloquence and wit, and his persistence to blog come-what-closing-week-may has been my constant inspiration.
Kaki khayal for their quirky, fun and clever concept. Keep it up, girls!
On the Street for her pictures that always reach deep into my heart and giving it a tickle, or a cosy squeeze. Woi mana update?
Table 28 for her ass-kicking pics and even better captions – gripping souls since 2005 (when she was still clicking around with a tiny “i”camera ^^)
mimpiiiii !!for her ability to make me laugh, think, nod and shake my head, sometimes all at once.

Okay, I’m out. To the 6 bloggers above, grab your award! And here are the rules for the award (courtesy of Shareen):
1. Thank & link the person that gave you the award.
2. Pass this award onto 15 bloggers you’ve recently discovered and think are ~~fantastic~~ beautiful too
3. Contact said Blogs and let them know they’ve won the award
4. State 7 things about yourself.

Now, I am required to tell 7 random facts about myself, or I may risk being disqualified (DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH MY AWARD!):

1) I am hooked on zombies, especially plant-eating ones (but I’m not really picky, because what would the world be if you go around picking on zombies, eh?). I mean, enough of celebrating monsters that charm young, front-heavy ladies, live forever and ever and most recently, glitter in the sunlight. Too much drama. Zombies never judge their victims, die graciously when their time is up, and are made out of (or covered with) flesh and blood – probably not much different from heroes, if you ask me.

2) I can be very long-winded.

3) I am the founder of the Brainz Assembly – an enlightened organization dedicated to both worship and fight zombies, whichever mood strikes us. In a better world, we would be revered and spoken in hushed whispers. Alas, in this bewildering dimension, people just point at us and laugh. But it’s okay, my trusted aide Pauline and I have a sense of humour. Taking over the world, one silly act at a time, is fine by us too. The goal justifies the mean.

4) I can be very long-winded, and redundant.

5) I write to live, so that one day I can afford to live to write.

6) Satire, Terry Pratchett, TimBurtonandJohnnyDepp make me happy.

7) Strawberry ice cream, hot air balloons and pretty but useless stuff make me happy too.

Gosh, 7 random things about myself is so not easy to write. That’s because I’m held together by sheer randomness (and stubbornness), and listing only 7 is like playing favourites. It’s like asking me which part of the skin on my body that I like most.

Okay winners, get cracking.

No signal

2010-03-26T23:52:00.002+08:00

The chronicles of me losing my computer and connection, which I can only upload now:

Day F-ing One

I have a corpse of a computer in my room.

Well, not exactly a corpse yet. A vegetable, more like.

A freshly fried one.

I don’t really know how to deal with fried computers. It’s like this soul-less crate with its innards unabashedly exhibiting itself. My Dad and I removed the CPU covers, unable to accept that my tool of trade for 5 years is now barely smarter than my keyboard. So we yanked off the covers and peered purposefully into it for ten minutes, before realizing that we are not even sure what we were looking for. The torchlight merely illuminated more gibberish.

My baby won’t load. And it’s probably the mobo (hah! I know geek lingo. I just don’t know what a mobo looks like). Oh please God let it be the mobo. If it’s my hard disc that’s just got whacked I’m going to cry. I’ll lose 5 years worth of, well, stuff. Important, definitely. I just can’t really remember what they are. And when I do remember what they are, I AM really going to cry.

But until we get the expert’s verdict (that’d be Bryan doing another round of purposeful probing before he nags me about my dusty CPU interior), I’m stuck with a gaping casing. I can’t even look at it in the bulb. I’m responsible for its vegetative state. I fried its brains because I didn’t turn it off in time when the lightning strike. I killed it, and when its cursor stared at me for the last time, cold and frozen, right after the lightning, the last words I said to it was “Oh shit nonono shit.”

And when my lost has sunk in (right after the hit I actually went and did some filing, which shows you how crazy a shock can make you), I actually felt a little relieved. Like, yay, I’m free to do anything now because I have no more obligations to work. I have no computer, no connection! So I went to finish up with my filing. And when that is done, I watched Gilmore Girls. And when I had enough of Gilmore Girls, I sit down here and blog on my parents’ computer. Or rather, I type on my parents’ computer, because it can’t go on the internet.

And then it really sunk in, like a hammer. How the hell am I going to work tomorrow? I have no computer, no connection! How do I type out my article? How do I Facebook? How do I check my emails? What do I wake up to? Who will make my breakfast?

Oh wait, my mum makes my breakfast. But its funny how losing a machine creates a similar feeling of losing your loved ones. Suddenly, I have this huge computer-shaped hole in my life. I cannot imagine how would I live without it, yet at the same time, I’m curious to know how would I live without it. I feel like the strings that bind me to my computer have been cut loose. Technically, I am free. But really, I am balancing the strings on my wrists and pretending that the noose is real. Because anything else is unimaginable.

If you think I’m being melodramatic, let me fry your computer. Then we can together-gether be melodramatic, because misery loves company.

Gosh, so this is withdrawal symptoms.

Day Two:

Hurgh. It’s amazing how gung-ho I am to blog when I have no internet connection. Must be all the extra free time I have. Sometimes I can’t remember how I used to spend my time back when I had no broadband. Watching televisions and reading books I supposed. But the internet has overwritten my page-flipping abilities and toleration for commercial breaks, replacing it with a kind of stubborn patience for eternal buffering.

Price of modernization, they say.

Okay, I’m suffering from withdrawal symptoms. My computer has, as it turned out, just a fried network card. Which means I can actually use my computer like normal, just not for connecting with the outside world. Which means I did not kill it; it’s just having social issues due to some nasty shock (lightning bolts can do that to you). Which means I’m good.

But I’m also greedy. I have been kinda sick of my computer running in snail pace for a while now, and this lightning strike has just been my excuse to finally pump up those specs. So, now my CPU lies forlorn in the backroom while Bryan’s old machine takes up its throne. And so far, so good. Bryan’s computer can run Windows 7 with ease, which means the programs now fade in and out so gracefully and the taskbar is not cramped with my multitasking mess.

Except this isn’t my computer. My computer doesn’t have programs fading in and out gracefully, nor a designer task bar complete with the whole clean, unlived-in look. Heck, my computer doesn’t even have Microsoft 2007, which I am currently using to type on.

My computer drags its programs up at its own pace, and if you click on the buttons too many times it hangs, just to show you who’s boss. My computer has an eyesore of a taskbar, with opened documents strewn all over and a rotting webpage from last week still lying inconspicuously beneath the pile. My computer makes Bryan wanna scratch his eyeballs out, which is fun to watch. My computer still uses Microsoft 2003, which is a darn good version, if I may impose my opinion.

This isn’t my computer. This is Bryan’s computer (you can tell from the LEDs in all colour and coolness glowing from it).

Should I embrace change, or get comfortable with my old skin?

A question that I have been asking myself consistently lately, as my pen hovers over the contract for Au Pair. A question that I have no answer for. Or rather, a question that I have been scared shitless to answer.

I am pacing to and fro in front of the rabbit hole, wearing a path on the ground and growing a beard (metaphorically, for now). I need someone to push me down.

I am really, really afraid of change. Which is kinda weird, because I really, really want it at the same time. I have a life here – a life I have always dreamt of having. Writing for a living, supportive family and friends, fulfilling days etc. Do I forgo this dream for another dream?

A sage told me in bright red fonts that change is inevitable. Things will change no matter I choose to stay or not. And he didn’t sip his Pepsi this time, so it means he’s really serious. We didn’t even mention his loincloth. It’s that solemn.

And the sage is right, again. Change will take place no matter what I choose to do. I’m not afraid of change, I’m afraid to cause the change. I’m afraid that my life will spiral out of control because of me and my actions. Better to blame life than to blame myself.

Except that it’s not better. In fact, it downright sucks. I want it and it’s right in front of me, but I lack the courage to reach out and grab. I am just staring at it, knowing that it will disappear, but afraid to seize it, lest it bursts in my palm – like a delicate bubble in the afternoon sun.

I need a shove. I need to let go. I need this.

The Man Who Can't be Moved

2010-03-22T00:03:00.002+08:00

Sometimes, people tell me “I don’t understand how you can love Malaysia. It’s so [insert negative expressions/profanities/frustrated screams here]!”

And I would smile, thinking to myself, “I don’t know either. But if you love something, you don’t need a reason, because no reason is sufficient anyway.”

Yes, I do love Malaysia. And no, I have never stepped out of this country. I have not seen the rounder moons in foreign lands, nor have I rolled on the greener pastures on the other side. I have never witnessed how clean, well-managed, exhilarating, or liberating other country is. Neither have I enjoyed the freedom, the respect, the tranquility, the romance and the opportunities that they promised.

But you don’t have to caress a thousand different lovers to know who you belong with. Sometimes, you just know. Sometimes, you are just happy and you can’t explain it – as the best kind of happiness often is.

That is not to say I am a Malaysian without complaints. In fact, complaining about everything is what makes being a Malaysian fun. It’s our national identity. It’s both our root, and our route. I once tried to imagine what it would be like if suddenly, our government becomes perfectly brilliant, and our country runs without a glitch, and the rakyat all live happily ever after together with equal respect and equal opportunity… and I shuddered at the thought. That’s not Malaysia lah. That’s a Matrix plot.

But today, I had a tiny idea of why I love my country.

Malaysia always has the ability to tug the strings of my heart, play a note, and keep me completely hooked.

I was driving to Roya’s house, a neighbourhood that has joined many others to plant guard houses and gates in the name of security and peace (i.e. the robbers roam free while the righteous lock themselves up – did I mention that I also love Malaysians for our logic?).

As I turned the corner, I was expecting the usual old but enthusiastic Pak Guard, who would painstakingly double-confirm the street and number of the house I’m visiting, only to repeat the wrong house number back at me. And I would always nod with a smile, and wait patiently for him to grin widely while handing me the visitor’s pass, which he always does.

However, reaching the guard house today, the first thing I noticed was the wide open barrier. My Pak Guard was not guarding the peace and upholding the sanctity of the SS18 streets. He was doing something far holier.

My Pak Guard was praying.

Arms held at eye level and palms opened heavenward, Pak Guard’s wizened eyes were transfixed towards the endless sky, while the soothing morning sunlight shone on his face. The glimmer of divinity, reflected on this simple, devoted being wearing a humble khaki uniform and standing in front of a modest, tiny guard house.

Feet on the brakes, I stared. I wanted to cry.

But my Pak Guard, with all the solemnity of a Man of God, interrupted my melancholic moment with a curt wave of the hand, signaling me to pass. His gazes never broke from his Higher Power; his lips never stopped mouthing the inaudible prayer.

I stepped on the accelerator, and mentally kicked myself for not having a camera, or the free hand to snap the picture perfect moment.

But frankly, I wouldn’t have the courage to capture such a sacred episode. I had neither the right, nor the skill to do justice to that magical instant.

The funny thing is, a picture could tell a thousand words, but some stories are best told in much less.

The funnier thing is, while we complain and vent, a security guard found the reason to praise God.

And maybe, I've found my answer.

Warning: Incoherencies ahead

2010-03-19T23:32:00.001+08:00

Yesterday, I laid down my pen. Today, I picked it up again, because you can only ignore a deadline for so long.

I went for a talk on the history of Malaysian student’s movement back in the pre and post Merdeka era, which was enlightening and thought-provoking. A veteran student leader from the 60s was also there as special guest, and when he went on the stage – a casually-dressed Malay man, probably in his 50 or 60s, with a mildly amused, occasionally cheeky expression – something in me bowed.

This man has seen history. Heck, he’s made history. The talk showed newspaper pictures of him protesting and giving talks and sitting in the office of the student body with piles of files (yes, back then UM student body has their own building, cafeteria and even their own scholarship. In comparison, we are fighting for our own parking space in the uni).

And he said something I very much needed to hear. Or rather, he said something that induced me to think of something else, which turned out to be what I really needed to think about. Erm. Well, it happens to me all the time. Song lyrics that I misheard turned out to be inspiring (imagine my embarrassment when I realise the singer has meant something entirely different), and quotes that I remembered wrongly motivated me during my down days.

Perhaps my mind knew the answer all along, it just needed something to explode out of my thick skull. I’ll admit, this is a flimsy explanation. But I’m never much good at figuring out myself.

Anyway, I won’t quote the veteran student leader because I don’t remember what he said exactly. But he was telling us how he had wanted to study medicine but could not afford it, and one of his friends (or teacher?) told him that actually, one more doctor in the world wouldn’t make much of a difference. But if you really believe in being a doctor, then you should change the system so that more poor people can afford to study medicine and be doctors. Something like that.

And that, somehow, answered my inferiority as a writer. Yeah, ingenious writers are abundant in this world. I am but one writer, and wouldn’t really make a difference. The world doesn’t need more writer, but it does need more people who believe in Writing. People who will write because it is what is right, and not merely because it is a job, or a venting tool, or…

Okay, this sounded better in my head. I thought I was inspired, but now I’m not so sure. Everything above reads like blabber.

I’m a writer without a pause.

So why am I posting this other than to waste your time? Because I can. It’s my blog, and high time I start believing it.

Dawn

2010-03-18T08:30:00.002+08:00

And today, I lay down my pen.

Jam-min' with meself

2010-02-08T21:40:00.000+08:00

With zero idea on where I was going, I managed to find my way back from Bangsar Village.

Some of you may scoff, “So? Bangsar Village is an oxymoron! It’s in the middle of the city – a filthy rich one too! Who can get lost?”

And that, will determine if you actually know me well, or just accidentally stumbled into this blog despite the warning sign.

Oh wait, I never got around to putting that warning sign. I’ll just drop a quick one here.

Warning: Website may contain crap, which may develop into verbal diarrhea.

There, all obvious and legal.

Okay, back on topic, I found my way home! And yes, it’s such an achievement it totally deserve an exclamation mark! As all my lovely buddies have probably found out (to their misfortune), my sense of direction is, at its best, faulty. At its worst, all directions look like nonsense.

But behold the Malaysian road sign! It has not failed me for the umpteenth time now. I always manage to find my way back by following the road signs (if it’s not blocked by a tree).

True, they always take you through the most congested way, and perhaps even a huge detour. Like just now, I was taken through a huge circle to arrive at the National Museum way, and subsequently the Kuen Cheng school way, and basically it means I am stuck right in the middle of the KL rush hour traffic, with nothing but cheesy, overplayed hits blaring on the radio.

Except it doesn’t sound so cheesy anymore. I, err, may have even laughed in awe and sang to them – tunelessly, of course, and with all the rock-star impersonation I can muster while driving a manual car, to my credit.

But yeah, I actually relished the cleverly rhyming and sickly sweet lyrics of “Cupid Chokehold” by Gym Class Heroes, wholeheartedly belted out “Here in my Home” with all the brilliant Malaysian artistes, screamed to Aerosmith’s “Jaded” with all the facial effort, and bopped my head extra hard to a community message/song on the importance of saving water (hey, the lyrics were pretty smart ok! There was some honest ingenuity going on there, without the whole engineered pretentiousness of modernized community messages).

I also kept my hands on the steering wheel, checked my rear view mirror every five minutes and wore my seat belt, in case anyone is wondering. And carefully avoiding the worried gazes from neighboring drivers.

Heck, the traffic jam was fun. Which is worrying. Is my life is so hectic these days that the only solo time I have for myself is during a road congestion? Am I so deprived of entertainment these days that the best things in life are the same things that I used to hate (except Here in my Home, of course)?

If yes, who cares? I found my way home, had a good laugh and perhaps, let a lot of things go today – which is more than what can be said for most days.

Just a little unwell

2010-02-03T23:03:00.001+08:00

“I promise after I finish diploma I will not take bus again I will have my own car and business”

This community message was brought to me in the form of blue marker ink scrawled on the back of a Bas Mini seat - the struggling handwriting betraying the writer’s lack of arm, perhaps even wrist space; the determined tone betraying the writer’s desperation for fresh, or at least odorless, or okay fine, enough air to breathe.

It’s the most inspiring thing I’ve read in weeks.

For too long now, I’ve been struggling. And for too long now, over the same old thing. Me and my writing, we have an unhealthy relationship. It forces me to work, and in turn, I force it to work. And gosh, how I wish my writing would work. I would painstakingly stare at my computer screen, trying to come up with something even remotely funny, sometimes entertaining the idea of just hurling a blueberry pie on its face.

See, I know how to be funny; I’m just in the wrong industry. Hand me a red nose and a pair of cheery overalls and I’d be a hit, I’m sure.

See, I even bring my own insanity.

Anyway, I’m not even sure what the point of this post is. But a sage* I know, who wears a loincloth that never gets dirty and stashes chilled Pepsi under his rock, told me in his forever wise tone that sometimes I need to force myself to write.

And then he sipped his Pepsi, with all the solemnity of a sage onna rock.

So, here I am, forcing myself to write, if you haven’t already established that.

Oh right, about the scrawling at the back of the Bas Mini seat. Well, it’s inspiring because dreams can be so simple. You’re so stuck, therefore you grab something solid and heave yourself up.

Because when you get right down to it, all we want to do is drive our own destiny and run our own lives. Cars and businesses would be nice too, of course.

We want out from the stinky, suffocating and crawling environment, which is what my writing passion is turning out to be these days. Oh, and buses too, but everyone knows that already.

I’m being illogical here, I know. But someone once said that irrationality is what separates humans from, say, a sunflower. Plain bullshit, if you ask me. Smelling nice naturally is what separates a human from a sunflower.

On a lighter note: I’ve finally dragged my blog over to the new year!!! And it’s not kicking and screaming!!! But you can’t kick and scream if you ain’t breathing too!!! Wheee!!! Yay!!! Hahahaha!!!

Now, tell me if that’s not the lightest note you’ve seen, huh? Huh?

* Name have been concealed to protect his identity (and also to screw with you. Happy wondering who he is~ V^.^V)

Seven-Hour Itch (to go home, dammit)

2009-12-19T23:27:00.002+08:00

After a good seven hours at the mechanic’s, it is hard to believe that you are anything else other than an adult – and a rather unfortunate one, at that.

For it was something so dull that only someone who had no other choice would do so. And adults can tell you all about “having no other choices”.

But of course, I had it easier. I had Pratchett, and for a good five hours I was having too much fun throwing chocolate eggs at grey-shaped figures with Death’s granddaughter Susan Sto Helit and confusing watchmen to open the doors to the crime scene with journalist William de Worde. I only return momentarily to the physical world of bolts and nuts and the faint smell of gasoline when my mechanic barge in to grab auto-ish stuff, and when my bladder threatened to pull an embarrassing episode.

But as adult as going to the mechanic’s on your own can be, it is also highly infantile – in a big, bad, baffling world of cars, you just wish there is someone you absolutely trust.

Uncle Fatt is that person for my family. He and my dad go way back, when my dad put his first air-conditioned car, a Proton Wira, into the hands of this jovial, pink-faced foreman more than 10 years ago. My dad is highly paranoid and impossibly fussy, but with Uncle Fatt he never looked back. Since then, every car in the family would have to be looked over by this man who has watched me and my sister grow up.

It was a Relationship, honoured by both Time and Men, and maintained by my dad’s insistence that this and that should be done, and Uncle Fatt’s firmness that this and that should not.

As ass-flattening as the seven-hour wait at Uncle Fatt’s workshop can be, I did enjoy watching the foremen bustled back and forth. There was something in the way they tug and fiddle at the mechanics, wearing their hearts on their sleeves and cussing without a care. There was something… comforting about the grime under their fingernails and soot on their tattered jeans.

These are the men earning an honest day’s pay with sweat and strength and a whole lot of skill. These are the men who may not be at home with the snazziest in-car entertainment or performance parts, but throw them a beat-up piece of junk and they can whip up a roaring machine again.

These guys are sawbones, not cosmetic surgeons.

They get the job done, which is more than what can be said for jobs these days.

Cos' I wanna beat Twilight to a Trilogy

2009-12-14T21:49:00.003+08:00

I thought that having spent six months as a teacher, I have seen everything.

This is not an easy conclusion to make – I had to tread the treacherous waters of entertaining 30 plus restless kids kept in a room, watching them gingerly jab spatulas into the wok during cooking class, frantically stopping them as they confused death-defying stunts with “fun”, gaped at fathers trying to teach their sons a lesson with their fists, laughing at the anguished groans of twelve-year-olds when a six-year-old beat them in a PS2 racing game twice, and trying not to laugh as one kid described to me in detail how her dad runs from cockroaches.

However, it appears that even on my last week of work, there are still refreshing sights. For example, one should try watching horror movies with a dozen of kids.

I, for one, do not fancy scaring myself (hence I am especially grouchy after looking into the mirror every morning). I never saw the appeal of horror movies since the ill-fated day that I sat innocently (yes, I was once capable of that) beside my sister to watch “a show about a clown”.

The movie It scared the daylight out of me. I was so freaked out that my sister even got a scolding from my mum for watching horror movies. And since then, I swore off things that crawl out of televisions and make sure I only explore mysterious creaky noises with the lights on.

Of course, I had watched The Exorcist and some low-budget Hong Kong horror movie some years after It. The experience was eye-opening – in the sense that my sister and I could not sleep the whole night, not because it was so scary, but because we may be the only two people on earth who would drink a whole pot of coffee right before watching a devil child spins her head 360 degrees. So, there we were, laying in the dark, all hyperactive and imaginative – a torturing concoction if you had just witnessed some skin-crawling scenes.

So yeah, I do not have good experiences with horror flicks. If I want to watch disfigured corpses floating around, I’ve got … wait, why the hell would I wanna watch disfigured corpses floating around?

This afternoon, however, the kids decided that they do fancy watching such a thing.

I checked with them, “Really? Not scared? Really really?”

They replied, “Really wan. Not scared! Really really.”

So I off the light and got a Japanese horror film (their choice) running. Unsurprisingly, as one coward, the class inched towards the corner and huddled together, peeping at the screen warily through their fingers, even when the screen was just showing a green background with a warning message that illegally copying the movie is a crime.

Finally, the movie started – and more kids joined those at the corner, presumably because they are social chickens. About half an hour into the movie, ghosts appeared once or twice, and usually I would have covered my eyes by then. But this time, I was too busy hushing up some kids debating how proper ghosts ought to appear, while trying to convince other shaken children that the blood are just ketchup (“Lipstick also can, teacher!” One boy offered).

Of course, the whole eerie atmosphere is considerably diluted when one boy, who had watched the movie before, kept telling us when the scary parts are happening (“You see ah how she die! You see ah! You see you see!”).

I never thought that I’d say this, but thanks to the kids, I don’t feel so scared about horror movies anymore.

**********************

Slowly, it is sinking in.

I no longer have to deal with childish complaints.

I no longer have to have small human beings fighting for my attention.

I no longer need to endure the traffic jam at 7 p.m. to go home.

The truth is I don’t actually mind all of the above.

The truth is also I am getting a little too attached.

The truth is I feel very protective over them.

The truth is I cannot protect them forever. They do not need me to.

The truth is it makes no difference to a child that a teacher is leaving.

The truth is that I will miss the “Teacherteacherteacherteacherteacherteacherteacherteacherteacherteacher”.

I suppose the truth hurts.

*********************

I was cleaning my room the other day while singing a little song.

Then, I realized that I have never heard of the song before.

In fact, I was still making up the lyrics when I came upon that realization.

So, I had to do the right thing. I had to do the writing. *anticipates three lines from readers*

Here is what I managed to catch coming out of my mind when I finally found a pen – I have no recollection about the words before. Do insert your own tune, because it’s fun, and because I damn well can’t remember mine.

It’s not the fire that burn
The brightest
It’s not the heart that beat
The hardest
It’s the love you give
So suddenly
It’s the path you take
Unknowingly
For we are full of wonders
But the wonderful – can never see

We live in a world we can’t
Understand
We seek the distance but
Forget our stance
We love the bravest
But give up – our fighting chance

Because we
Just want to dance
Because we
Just hate the fence
Because we
Do not make sense

The moral of the story is that cleaning rooms instills insanity, and should be avoided at all cost. Now if only I can pitch this theory to my mum.

Dropped

2009-12-06T01:04:00.001+08:00

You’d never know how tensed you are until you know how relaxed you can be.

For too many weeks now, I was a string puppet in suspended performance. I hung in mid-air, carrying a smile that wasn’t mine, staring ahead with lifeless eyes, while flailing around in routines that I may or may not recognize. It’s okay, just, haha, hang on – I told myself. I did not object when my puppet masters hoisted me up and made me dance, even when my seams were tearing, and the strings were hurting. After all, my puppet masters treat me well – better than what I could ask for. And they needed me. I think.

But this week, I finally refused to budge. It was that, or risks my threads coming apart and spill yellowing cotton on stage like a low-budget production that could not even afford proper guts. So this weekend, I am finally able to lie in my own corner, lifting my arm for no one, and smiling for no one but myself.

God knows I need this.

I have, save for tendering a formal resignation letter, been relieved of my teaching duties. I don’t feel particularly relieved. I also don’t know what I really feel and think right now, except for “Will they remember me at all?” while watching the kids playing catch. Things have been so hectic this few weeks I really haven’t had time to properly let my leaving sink in yet. But in my heart I know I have to leave, because US is still calling out to me, and I’m not sure if teaching is anymore.

This is not to say that I hate teaching. In fact, refusing to listen to my senses and leaping into a teaching job may be the smartest decision I’ve made. I just don’t know if this is what I want to do, and I think in order to find out, I have to leave the job. I know, this sounds as ludicrous as the notion of having to move to an exotic country in the name of “finding yourself” (I mean, how do you find yourself in a place that previously contained none of said self?). But nevertheless, ludicrous actions are what separates humans from, say, sunflowers.

This teaching experience is… well, I have no words for it. I have learnt infinitely more than I taught, I’m sure. I now believe that you’d never really see something unless you’ve seen it through children’s eyes.

I will miss them. I will miss their chubby cheeks, their laughter, their complaints, their fighting, their smiles, their helplessness, their strength, their honesty, their dishonesty, their individuality. I will miss the darndest things they said. I will definitely miss the darndest things they said about their parents.

Other than an urge to laugh and cry at the same time, I really don’t know what I’m feeling now. I have always referred to them as “my kids”. Perhaps that is my biggest mistake.

It made us snapped.

2009-10-18T22:22:00.008+08:00

Canon Photomarathon 2009 was amazing – I am utterly stumped by how the event can be even more poorly managed than last year’s.

However, with my selective memory activated, I have little recollection on the event. There are some vague images of major screw-ups with the photo uploading system, the frustrating AND fruitless wait, empty promises by the event organizers, and Jee letting out a bloodcurdling scream before leaping headfirst onto the emcee, who was waxing lyrical about yet another Canon-suck-up shot (wait, you mean Jee didn’t do that? Dang these Taiwan-made stuff *thumps selective memory machine*).

Of course, not the whole day was wasted. The good bit was working that leg muscle while sticking my lil’ Nikon in people/animals/flowers/pinwheels/balloons/Pauline and Jee’s faces and went snap-crazy. And laughing at those DSLR-lugging photographers trying to change lens with one hand while their subject ran/flew/wandered away (wait, you mean I was actually turning green with envy? Sheesh I demand my money back for that memory machine!).

But seriously, nothing like one deadline, two buddies and three themes to motivate the shutter bug in me! Oh, we bumped into Chew Mong and Jerick too =D Thank goodness they were there, so it was more like a fun gathering than a weekend wasted.

Oh, the PR people were pleasant too – but it may be because I was Press (yes, we Press People command the capital letter).

8-ish a.m. We were waiting to kick some ass.

Flagging off~ woot!

Sadly, my lil Nikon can't fit 2,500 participants into its lens. This'll have to do.

These are the standard expressions when seeing the price of the food and drinks in Sunway Lagoon - =( and o.O

The theme for this year:

My entry for Splash:

The narcissistic part in me says that its graininess is the charm.

My submission for Red:

My attempt for Shooting in Progress:

None of them wow-ed the judges enough to give me those tickets to Japan and semi-pros. But hey, 'twas fun =D

What my lil' Nikon saw...

... broke my heart.

... yet also made me grin (Sensible uncle with crazy balloons - I like!)

Balloons don't make everyone happy... especially not when your mother's
scolding you in front of everyone.

This kid have no idea what's waiting ahead *evil cackles*

Ah, Pauline, remember this? Piece of cake ain't it.
We also had fun verbal-harassing Jee for making us go through the longest suspension bridge in the world (he even had the nerve to persuade us with "Come on it's one of the shortest around la!").

He sells happiness, relief, and diabetes =D

Balls of Furry.

Poor bunny. Got grabbed up for photoshoot (in an awkward position too).
Plus the kid was going "yeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrr". Talk about dignity-loss.

*Turns attention back to ignored deadline*

What the F?!

2009-09-25T19:14:00.003+08:00

I sense trouble.

I get more high from conjuring one-liners with a well-placed full stop in my Facebook status update than blogging in paragraphs.

And I spent an afternoon replying to comments in FB, racking my brain for witty (I hope) comebacks and having a hell of an unlicensed (I bet) fun.

What is a writer to do with the lures of publishing short lines that say so much with so little, with the added euphoria when someone “liked” it? No doubt, the sense of achievement is fleeting, what with it being pushed back by newer posts in the news feed page. It may quite possibly never see daylight again… but the gratification of seeing it published can rival that of updating my blog. It means at least I’m still capable of making sentences.

What happened? I used to be a paragraphs kind of girl – the whole slow and steady relationship, not this sort of exciting but temporary quickies. Writing used to be a slow simmer, with a dash of spice, a sprinkle of nice and taken, ideally, with a pinch of salt. It’s supposed to be craftsmanship. Now, my writing is just mass-produced nonsensical banters, packaged in glitter to pass off as gold. The manufacturing is too quick, too painless, too easy – one status update replacing the other with just a click.

Heck, you can even “unlike” something that you’ve “liked” a moment ago. Where is the loyalty, the principle, the attention span?!

Okay, I’m getting too worked up. It must be the heat.

I just need to get back into the spirit of blogging again. I need to write like it matters, because it does, even if only to me =)

* * *

It is liberating to roam the streets of KL in bumpy bus rides again.

Taking the public transport is a hassle that I have learnt to love. Of course, like anyone who has walked out of peak-hour KTM rides alive, I can recite the perks of driving my own car in one breath (though I must admit I can hold my breath pretty long, what with all that training in the, haha, trains). However, part of me is still the same girl who takes pride in knowing which bus goes where and the trick to stand in a moving vehicle without holding onto anything.

After all, I have been relying on public transports for as long as I can remember. The loud chatters among the passengers, the ghostly wails from the train as it speeds through the tunnels, the fight for personal space, the invasive odor from someone’s economy rice or cologne (amazingly, they can smell exactly the same), the couples who clings onto each other, the fashionable crowd (of course, it depends on which country you are viewing them from), the selekeh majority, the expressionless faces staring into fake iPods, or cellphones, or newspapers, or Novel Cinta, or that girl’s legs… Ah, it’s good to be home… I mean, on the way home.

As much as I hate public transport for the crowd, I also love it for the people. You never get such colourful mass anywhere else. And every time I watch them, their antics and energy, their conscious and subconscious behaviours, their little Malaysian quirks, it was like an education about reality, and life.

It also reminds me that heck, we are never truly alone.

Not when my back keeps bumping on the man’s behind me, no matter how I tried to keep still.

And not when the guy next to you in the train publicly shared his arguments on why Zouk is better than other clubs (apparently it’s cheaper and you still score chicks). I’m sure it was meant to be a private conversation between him and his pal, but you know how it is, sound travel and the dude made no attempts to stop the journey.

Also not when a granny motioned at me enthusiastically to take the seat beside her once I board the bus, and launched into discussing her daily travels using her senior citizen card (she was quite proud of it. 50% off all rides sial), my line of work, and inevitably, the horror crime stories – each more dramatic and unbelievable than the last.

And especially not when a woman in the next row of seats kept turning her head to give me and the granny very obvious, very puzzled stares.

The granny, like any self-respectable senior citizen can, also handed me a slice of Reality.

After filling me in on the latest crazy crime tactics that would inspire investors in the direction of CSI: Kuala Lumpur, granny told me that “If I see young people like you in trouble, I will not help. If you all get hurt, you can heal. But if the bad guy starts chasing me and I fall down, I may not heal at all. So, I better take care of myself first.”

She also went on to enlightened me about how all her friends will do the same. She even has Examples.

The granny was dignified. Worse, she is also right.

How do you argue with an argument like that? Boy, this human ethics thing surely is mind-boggling.

oh oh, my attempt towards fake polaroids =D

Nah, a bit the too fake. Here's a proper pic.

I feel like I've grown up, or at least, stretched wiser.

2009-09-14T21:23:00.002+08:00

"I’ve tried my best; so where did I go wrong?"

The question was played over and over in my head like a bad tape (not that anyone uses tape anymore. Perhaps that’s why it’s gone bad). Don’t worry, I’m not grilling myself over a break-up. A break-down, now that is much more imminent.

And like most people who ask these questions in their heads – although unlike them I’m not pointing a revolver towards my naked spouse and his secretary – it soon hit me that I have not been trying my best. I have been trying too hard.

I have been exerting myself to write a column that is argumentative, analytical and intelligent. I have been working too hard to fulfill the expectations of those who believe that I could do it. I have been aiming for people to sit up and take notice in whatever I’m writing. I have been dying to make a difference.

I have also been getting throbbing headaches, a lack of appetite, and some serious honks for swerving into others’ lanes without realizing it.

Worse, I have heard disappointed sighs – from me, my editor, and I’m pretty sure, from my readers.

It shouldn’t be this hard.

Admittedly, it shouldn’t be easy either. There’s gotta be some sweat and grueling hours involved when you’re given the mandate to Write What You Believe In. Upon knowing that I will be getting my own space in the paper, and after doing a victory dance that I have no intention to repeat, I told myself, “Steady now. It’s gonna be hard. There’s going to be writer’s block, criticisms, lots of research, sleepless nights thinking of a powerful lead… all that jazz.”

Except I got heavy-metal. That threw me off balance. It should be hard, but not this hard.

I mean, writing under this pressure is not fun. And fun is the perk in writing – if you take out the fun, then all you really get is perhaps uninspiring pay and hours of confinement in front of the computer.

The frustrating part is not that I didn’t write well enough. The frustrating part is that right now, I have no idea how to make my column better, so that it’s worth readers’ time. They say, write what is closest to your heart. Write what you believe in. Write with honesty.

I thought I was doing that. I really do.

Or maybe it was all syok-sendiri.

But you know what, despite my disappointment in myself, I want to see how far I can go. There are some who think that I can’t do it. Maybe they are right – but I’d be damned if I ever admit it.

Joy and tears

2009-07-27T00:41:00.005+08:00

Mix the inability to sing with a gagged self-consciousness and you get a deadly, or at least deaf-ly concoction.

You get me, too.

Had my virgin karaoke session with Bry, Vic (she's leaving for Aus! *WAILS*), Kelv, Jee and Pauline and I had these cool peeps to thank for the eye-opening, as well as ear-drums ripping experience. I never knew discovering that I lack the ability to keep on tune can be so fun. I should do more of such self-discoveries (they are already talking about an ice-skating session, which I would inevitably meet my two left feet. Blood will spill, mostly on my part. Can’t wait!)

The best part is this karaoke session charged through my stereotypes of what “singing K” is all about, leaving me high and dry (poor throat, traumatized by the sudden rush of unfamiliar work it had to undertake today). I always thought karaoke is a bit cheesy, and consists of a few people in a room swinging their bodies left and right to overplayed hits. The reality, of course, is not very much different – save for the fact that in our room, it was much cheesier, way more swinging than was healthy for our age, and the overplayed hits generally oversang.

I screeched more than I sang. It was too fun to be polite. Sorry, hons, that your ears had to go through such atrocity such as my voice. Next time, I’ll bring everyone earplugs – with colours that match the “mike-doms” of course =P

Note to gang - we gotta do this again! You can’t possibly let me sing “Hot and Cold” and “Wannabe” only once. And I haven’t had enough of that Mika falsetto yet!

On a somber note:

“Too lazy lah”

This is the only quote from Yasmin Ahmad which I remember – it was published a while ago, when the reporter asked Yasmin why didn’t they correct the lighting in Sepet, as some complained that the lighting was too dark in certain scenes.

And Yasmin answered along the lines of, “Lazy lah.”

When it came from Yasmin, it was not an excuse. It was honesty, confidence, and a refreshing surprise – just like her movies and her advertisements. It was Malaysian, through and through.

We lost her today. May we never lose her spirit.

Rest in peace, Yasmin Ahmad.

And in the spirit of Malaysia:

The Love of Tan Hong Ming
(By Yasmin Ahmad and the team of Leo Burnett)

Overdue - Thoughts on Dark Knight

2009-07-09T13:06:00.002+08:00

I wrote this for my blog a looong while back, but it never got around to seeing daylight. Just rummaging through some old saved posts and found it again. Oh well, time for its' resurrection :)

It’s kinda scary when freaks start philosophizing.

Most of the time, it is because we are afraid that, this time, they might have gotten us really figured out.

Maybe it really takes someone out of our little system to see what’s wrong.

Maybe the joker really knows the truth.

I like Dark Knight. Not for the storyline, the characters, the things that blow up, the things that are better off blown up, nor the Christian Bale whom everyone gushed about on their MSN personal message. Not even the witty exchange between Wayne and Alfred, although I’m usually a sucker for these things.

I like Dark Knight because it isn’t as corny as its name. I like the questions it posed; the open challenge to our beliefs of heroes, of truth, of loneliness, of freaks.

And I like this Joker. A being not in control of his tongue, let alone his mind. A mind so brilliant that it could only burst out of its skull; an outlook on life so blunt that it could only made him laugh. Personally, I believe the Joker killed Heath Ledger. The character was too surreal, too disturbing, that perhaps the only way to be it is to put on the make-up, and in a way, put on its mind.

Dark Knight stripped humanity bare, seemingly to humiliate it, but in actual fact to test it.

Remember the whole scene of which-ship-will-bomb-which-ship-first? In the spur of the moment when morality, ethics, and humanity lay in the mercy of a single button, my breath dangled before the abyss. And when the bulky inmate threw out the bomb detonator and chose not to kill anyone, not even when he himself could be killed, I felt a wash of relief and felt my inner devil strangled. A feeling incomprehensible to people who haven’t just watched that scene.

“Just do it” is a myth – sometimes the right thing to say is actually “just don’t do it”.

As one wrestler in Tony Parson’s novel said, sometimes you just gotta do the human thing.

Every good movie has A Moment. The whole scene of who-will-push-the-button-first is The Moment in Dark Knight.

I’m glad humans disappointed the joker, so he could not have his last laugh.

17 again

2009-07-04T23:24:00.001+08:00

I forgot it was so simple.

Being crazy, acting kecoh, wasting money, vandalizing, laughing too hard – happy are those who are 17, and lucky are those who have not forgotten how to relive it.

Roya and I had the blessing to be the latter today. We went back to our alma mater – SMK Subang Utama for its Hari Keluarga and man, it was a whole lot of fun. The best part is, I am not even sure why. Seems to me, after certain retrospection while shampooing my hair just now, that all we did was just wasting too much coupons on sugar, talking too much during the magic show we decided to catch, recognizing people that we probably never knew (though we weren’t sure), posing stupidly for too many pictures, drooling over the students’ “I ♥ SU” t-shirts (OMG I SO THE WANT ONE!!!) and generally trespassing into all the places that we shouldn’t be at (nyahahaha five years in a place which never has enough pas keluar in a class forces you to know the secret entrances and exits).

It was a trip down the memory lane. We visited old classrooms which, by the look of it, still get the same treatment from students even after all these years – for example, there are still dried tissue papers stuck to the ceilings and the paint on the lab tables was partially peeled off. We scoffed at the newly built blocks that are sitting on what was previously our hockey and volleyball court. We laughed at all the notice boards of clubs and societies, and went o.O at the fact that Interact Club marked a “Count-your-eyelashes-day!” and “Say-Hi-to-A-Bug Day!” on their club calendar. We read tables well-scribbled and commended the authors/artists/wordsmiths efforts in keeping up with the fine traditions of Xpressing Yourself. We bumped into our ex-teachers and the canteen lady, and they all said that we looked the same after all these years.

Oh, and we thought that Taylor’s College should learn the word “overkill”, because its name popped out all over the school, on every signboards that it sponsored. And boy, it sponsored A LOT of signboards.

It was our school. Those were our tables. There sold our favourite Nasi Goreng Pedas – still the best nasi goreng ever, IMO. Granted, something is different about the school. The wall murals have changed and looked more gorgeous than ever, the toilets have been renovated and looked tackier than ever, and well, Roya observed that kids are getting hotter these days. That is true – everywhere we look there seems to be teens of mixed ethnicity (probably the exotic kind) on the loose.

I miss being 17. I miss my friends. I miss being kecoh with them in school. I miss playing ballet/hip-hop/feng-tau football. I miss recess time. I miss all the dingy bengkel and back-breaking stools in the lab. I miss complaining about them with my friends. I miss having angka giliran (almost forgotten the existence of that word). I miss being nerd with my species Tau Foo and being sarcastic with my other species VV. I miss face-painting during Hari Keluarga and got a bad sun-burn and freaking Wan Qi out.

Viva la 17!

Happy-can't-remember-what

2009-06-21T21:15:00.003+08:00

It’s an annual thing now.

Not only my birthday, but also the moping.

Another year older in three hours time.

Another day in three hours time, too.

I don’t feel excited, or miserable. In fact, it would feel like just any other night, save for the incessant inner nagging that I should be feeling excited, or miserable.

Nothing is happening. And I don’t expect anything to. Truly. Yeah, I said that too many times. “I don’t expect anything to happen” – and then went on to bawl my eyes out when nothing did. I remember last year - I was so emo because no one seemed to remember my birthday. Then, my friends went and do their magic and it became my best birthday ever. For that, I am still thankful (and bashful, thanks to The Amazing Roya).

But this year, I don’t feel a thing.

I just sit in my room, preparing my lesson plan for tomorrow, doing the obligatory birthday post, too drugged with paracetamol to write anything remotely funny, bopping my head to Jack Johnson’s Hope.

Your reflection is a blur
Out of focus
But in confusion
The frames the sun did burn
At the end of a roll of dellusions
A ghost waiting its turn
Now I see can right through it
It's a warning that nobody heard

It will teach you
To love what you’re afraid of
After it takes away
All that you learn to love

But you don’t
Always
Have to hold to your head
Higher than your heart

Lyrics so deep I’m still struggling to understand.

Even though I’m just paddling on the surface of the song, somehow it feels like it is speaking to me. I feel like I’m missing something.

Oh yeah, my birthday. That’s what.

My birthday wish is that I am not having H1N1 flu.

Try and top that for Ways to Keep People Away during Your Birthday.

SMSes still welcomed though. Virus doesn’t spread virtually, unless you are talking about computer bugs and stupidity.

By the way, thanks for the early wishes =)

And thanks to all of YOU for helping me reach where I am today. If there is one thing worth celebrating for, it is YOU.

*Blows a virtual, virus-free kiss*

Anak

2009-06-06T21:50:00.002+08:00

At the rate my blog updates are going, you’d think nothing interesting has happened to me of late.

Bugrit. I hate it when you’re right.

But its okay, bloggers like me have survived our diminishing volume in the cyberspace by reporting on interesting things that we saw happened to other people. And boy, have I seen a lot since I start working.

The thing is, when I said that being a teacher means everyday is a new surprise, I had every intention to make it an exaggeration. Which explains why a large part of the surprises everyday consist of the surprise that I can still be surprised.

Working with kids put me on my toes in the same way as teetering on the brink of insanity and undue violence can. Children are capable of ideas, behavior, complaints and excuses that adults hadn’t even discovered yet (although that’s probably a logical fallacy). Whoever think that teachers are boring people clearly leads a misinformed, sheltered and quite possibly, hating-my-job kind of life. Teachers are happening, especially when things tend to happen all around them, sometimes accompanied by cries of “teacher teacher you see him no he beat me first no he laugh at me first no no NO I DON’T CARE!”

A handful they may be, but teaching them was worth it. I suspect that I learn from them even more than they learn from me (the glazed look they give me in class is a hint). They are amazing, exciting and very much adorable.

And what I witnessed yesterday tugged at my heart even more.

The kids had an indoor motivational camp that lasted for two days and one night. It was really fun, and the kids had enjoyed themselves thoroughly while bringing home some important life lessons. Attending this camp with the kids made me appreciate my job even more, because it was an invaluable opportunity to learn and understand children – actually, people in general.

At the end of the camp, the parents joined in for a session where the trainer explained what their children had learnt. The kids then produced a letter they had written for their parents, and loudly sang the song Anak, by Freddie Aguilar, in praise of parents’ sacrifice and love.

It was moving, and a few parents wept.

As I scanned the room, smiling at the children safe in their parents’ embrace, the song went on

Child, you don't know, you'll never know how far they'd go
To give you all their love can give
To see you through and God it's true
They'd die for you, if they must, to see you here

And I saw him. One of our naughtiest boys, standing at the front of the room, unconsciously swinging one leg back and forth, his mouth slightly opened. He was not singing. He was staring at the children in their mummies and daddies’ hugs - a strained look in his wide eyes.

Clutched tightly in his hands were his letter to mummy and daddy, who were not there.

They'd die for you, if they must, to see you here

As the song rang around me, I stared at his yearning face and felt a stab in my heart.

I salute the parents who would slave for their children, even die for their children. I just hope that they remember to reserve some time for their children, too.

Because next time may be already too late.

Alive and Teaching

2009-05-20T23:49:00.000+08:00

I used to tell people that if I ever became a teacher, the national mortality rate will go up.

Ye gawds, I was right.

Don’t worry, the kids are fine and alive. I made sure of that before joining the statistics.

Yes, I started my teaching job three days ago at a kids centre – basic job include homework guidance, and teaching some subjects, plus Creative Writing (whee~). The children are in primary school, and everyday they drove me right up the wall and right down again to make sure they stop fighting/arguing/trying to kill each other.

To their credit, they are too adorable.

Honestly, despite my knackered state of being (this explains the lame jokes and silence-inducing stuff I said during yum-cha session just now. Sorry peeps!), teaching at the centre has been quite fun. My bosses are cool, understanding and VERY BIG on creativity, which is great. The kids, well, most of them are friendly, talkative and generally being kiddy. I’m also happy to say I’ve passed the “Teacher Teacher Remember What’s My Name?” test today.

I still have heck lots to learn. My basic strategy now is just turning my voice a few octaves lower and bellow at the naughty ones. I’m sure there are much more new-age, cool techniques out there and I plan to learn some tricks. I really don’t want to be the hated teacher whose car lays in the peril of begrudging kids. Besides, my voice is cracking.

It is heartening to know that people who say “kids nowadays are so different” are wrong. Kids have always been kids; it is just that a different lifestyle is forced upon them now.

Because a kid just whipped out his Motorola Razr, put on the earphones and ran round and round the playground while giggling and going “waaarrraaaaaaaaagghh”.

Because a 6-year-old boy did not know how to use a swing. Yet, he created his own technique – lying stomach first on the swing and twirl round and round with it while going “wheeeee” – a method which later gained quite a large following from the Older Boys.

Because a bunch of boys chased a remote-controlled helicopter around the field and after a few rounds, they huddled together over the battery-dead toy, waiting for it to recharge.

Because the childish taunting, teasing and insulting never stopped.

Because a 12-year-old boy with emotional problems was teaching a younger boy with ADHD how to play badminton.

Because the ADHD boy had no friends; and his father watched him being taunted, laughed at and complained on by the Other Boys.

Because a mother cried hearing about her son misbehaving.

Because a young girl handed me her cell phone number, carefully written on a flowery and cutesy piece of paper.

Because they have endless tuition, extra classes and not enough time to live.

Because a boy showed me a page in his textbook with wide, pleading eyes – it’s about the steps to make a kite. He wanted to make one, but There Is No Time.

Because he eagerly showed me the next page – children flying kites at a vast, open meadow.

Because my heart melted into a puddle of goo at the sight of them. Quite often.

To all parents and educators, thank you for your battles. Thank you for sticking by us even when we were monsters. Teaching children is really a feat for the fittest.

Time will tell if I am counted within the honourable rank of a teacher, or just someone who passed through these children’s lives. Either way, let’s hope this is one great ride.

Subangite again

2009-04-30T22:55:00.002+08:00

In a whirl, I’m home.

And behind me trails a nation of junk, dust and stuff. I never knew half a room can tuck away so much of mess. My stuff in PJ filled plastic bags after plastic bags, and it just keeps coming. As I dragged the wretched amount of bursting plastic bags to the front door, my mind was a total blank.

Now, it sank in a little. I’m back in Subang, junk attached, PJ key returned.

This is my home, now. No where else.

Hmm.

Okay it probably hasn’t reaaaally sank in yet ‘cos I’m actually feeling pretty calm about it. I mean, yeah I miss PJ and I especially miss the unrestricted freedom to pak toh, yum cha and generally hang out, but I’m not exactly in hysterics yet. Three years of not staying at home and suddenly move back to home-cooked food, fresh laundries and well-mopped floor? I must be insane to feel this sane.

To the chagrin of my friends who are still in exam, I need to announce something: I had my last paper. I officially graduated.

If it’s any consolation, I’m not celebrating. At least, not until I get this eyesore of a junk mountain cleared out and stashed away first.

I’ll party, but first let me pack. Gosh, I really am my mother’s daughter.

Okay, that’s it. I’m done getting these incoherencies off my chest. Excuse my crusted brain - they say you are what you eat and I’ve been eating dust all afternoon.Just want to announce that I am back in Subang so PLEASE DRAG ME OUT.

**Special thanks to mummy for wading through the ancient dune in my room to help me pack my stuff, and hardly nagged at all. ^.^

Blame the heat

2009-04-21T00:17:00.009+08:00

In the risk of repeating the recent cliché, I want to scream – THE WEATHER IS TOO DAMN HOT.

It melted my determination to churn out the two writings for my boss – come what temperature may my foot. It fired up my desire to just procrastinate.

To cool myself down (the other option is to kick myself, but it will cause me to sweat even more and procrastinate even more and kick myself even more and gosh, I’m babbling. It’s the heat.)… Anyway, to cool myself down, I went to Deviantart to search for pictures of cooling, pictures of cold, pictures of hot weather, pictures of ice and finally, pictures of ice creams.

Every search result was an educational ride of the human anatomy, which, in their creative range of possibilities (I never knew there were so many angles to a… protruding region) were all contented to be filed under “artistic nude”.

In the Internet, you don’t search for sex. Sex comes knocking on your desktop, even though what you really ordered was ice cream (or any ***-damned pictures to make the weather marginally more inhabitable).

Anyway, in the spirit of pushing important work till the last minute, I conducted an over-enthusiastic search for a picture that I could put on my MSN display. Something that feels refreshingly cool and breezy and up-lifting.

Okay, maybe something that’s refreshingly cool and breezy.

Erm, something considerably chilly, perhaps?

Fine, give me a nice ice-cream pic.

Argh anything that’s wearing clothes, then.

I gave up.

(Okay that was perhaps exaggerated. There were a lot of pictures that were not sexually motivated, and I even found a pretty good picture of an ice cream. But you know lah in this irritable climate if you see soooo many bodies that are so much hotter than yours you will feel as potong stim as me. Or maybe you will feel exactly the opposite. =X)

Anyway, in the spirit of giving up, I happily went to pimp an ice cream:

Whee~ I pimp wan. Not easy okay I have to arrange the marshmallows one by one and surround the cherry with multi-coloured beans thingie – all in the absence of having an actual ice cream to eat. Damn torture I tell you!

Oh, then in the spirit of pimping (what can I say, I’m a spirited young woman), I decided to pimp a monster too.

Is this considered artistic nude? Can see belly button wor.

I also pimp-ed my own stick man. Wa-chaa!!!

And finally, I pimp-ed a pastry (yes it was a pastry before the eyes and all. Whoever knew you can do that?)

Maniacal confectionary monsters that is both scared of and craving for a balloon is sooo my thing.

Well, I eventually forced myself out of DA and completed one work. Woohoo! Sometimes you really have to let the procrastination kick in and go with the flow I guess. Okay, guess I shouldn’t encourage you guys more eh? XD

Emo Goodbye

2009-04-15T22:08:00.000+08:00

Tomorrow is my last class as an EL undergrad.

Yesterday was our last afternoon badminton game as uni-mates.

Last Friday was the last time Yi Huieh, Seok Ping, Jacq and me typing to each other frantically through MSN discussing assignment, presentation, and how we are all going to die.

The end of this month would be my last day staying in PJ.

I am, in want of a more intense description, overwhelmed. There are too many “lasts” on things that I’ve been taking for granted. The classes in the bare but kecoh PC block, the wobbling mountains of assignments, the immense pressure of juggling academics, activities, DSA affairs and procrastination – they all seemed never-ending. Until now.

Pardon me if I’m incoherent. I can barely manage typing now. My brain is trying to refrain from crashing due to the sudden realization that I Am Really Going to Graduate.

The memories of the past three years cannot be condensed into one blog entry, nor can it be translated into mere writing. It would do no justice to the people who have made it all wonderful and great for me. It would also do no honour to the heights that we managed to scale – together.

I am also afraid to recount the memories, because the dam may crumble.

All I can say is – Thank You. I never expected uni life to be this good. It was a complete privilege to have all of you in my life. It was marvelous, and it’s a pity we could only be undergrad once.

Bye, and take care. Do keep in touch!

Now, excuse me while I attempt to hammer some online journalism theories into my emo brain.

Picture Memory

2009-02-12T23:36:00.001+08:00

With all due suspicion on zodiac predictions, apparently 2009 is a bad year for us Rabbits.

Case in point – my almost-trampled plan to go US for one year. I’ve dreamt about landing in the US for as long as I can remember. There is just something in that country which draws me. I want to work and travel there, and maybe do my Masters programme. Malaysia’s cool (not literally, of course), but there is this burning desire to see a world so different from the life I had known. And now, I finally, finally, earned enough money for me to join the au pair programme, and also got my parent’s support.

And wham – recession rolled over my dream; resulting in my now-paper-thin chances of being hired as an au pair.

Oh well, to quote the cliché: OMGWTFBBQ (actually as cliché goes I actually think this one is pretty cool. The “bbq” is ingenious to add that extremely frustrated feeling that no coherent speech can express, and implies that in tulan-ness, stuff coherence. But of course as usual me over-analysing stuff just kills all fun. Hrmph, wtf. And bbq, of course.)

I don’t know if the slim chance of going US is an indication of a bad year ahead. All I know if that I’m not going to let some Feng Shui spoil my spirits.

I think I’m laughing a lot more these days, anyway, considering sueh year and all.

I just had a heck lot of laughter over dinner with my ex-boss and ex-colleagues. Technically, they’re still my boss and colleagues because I’m freelancing for them as well. I can’t remember what on earth we laughed about, but my chest got this residue of giggles left. No wonder they say laughter is the best work out. You just sit down and talk crap – I can do that all day.

Speaking of work out, I took a walk in KL for a while just now, and boy, it feels good.

I love KL. If I have the money I would buy the t-shirt. But alas, it’s the thought (not the t-shirt) that counts. I love looking at this city caught between modern architecture and nostalgic stubbornness. I love the shops and houses that aged on their own pace. I love the people that just carelessly spill into every street without putting on manners, charm or even, matching clothes. I love roadside pisang goreng stalls that smell of heavenly grease and dust since morning.

I saw so many things while walking, waiting for the bus, taking the bus, waiting again for the bus, and finally, walking to the office. I took zero pictures, because somehow, it seems like I had no right to freeze any of these scene.

Or rather, taking a picture would spoil the moment. Some things are meant to be immersed in.

I saw a lone, tiny house sandwiched between rows of factories. Chickens were crossing the road. I didn’t ask why.

I saw a postman, in his full uniform, riding a motorcycle with his girlfriend clinging on to his back. I never associated postmen with anything other than mails. Half-covered face bringing us the daily bills. For some reason, the postman-and-girlfriend-on-motorbike scene perked me up.

Followed closely behind, another motorcycle. A middle aged man with his pillion rider - wrinkly, frail, but beaming toothlessly. And without a helmet. Dangerous bugger, I smiled to myself.

I saw a taxi-driver laughing while his passenger gestured animatedly.

I saw many more taxis. The drivers glanced at us at the bus-stops, all hopeful and possibly, tweaked meters.

I saw an ice-cream seller whizzed pass, followed closely by a putu mayam seller.

I made small talks with an auntie at the bus stop, complaining about the buses that take forever to come, the baffling traffic jam at 4 p.m., the hot sun, and the busses that take forever to come.

I watched an old man watched me from the rubbish pile he was sitting on. No one won because I crossed the road. No chicken asked why.

The bus I was on followed an old truck carrying recyclable materials.

An old lady was bending by the roadside, under the searing sun, picking up worthy trash from the smelly pile. Global warming laughed at her.

A well-dressed executive was reading a newspaper, teapot and cup laid out in front of him on a mahjong table. The fan whirred above him. In the not-so-distant afternoon heat, his car was being examined by a lone mechanic.

Graffiti was scrawled hurriedly on a wall. To paraphrase, the author used mere two words to describe his thrusting excellence in areas where productivity and pleasure meets – but, in his humbleness, chose to leave out his signature.

Walk on, babeh.

Typing diarhoeaaasjuehbvrigurhgikrjgne

2009-01-20T23:53:00.001+08:00

I just ran the full 15 pages in my personal FYP Marathon.

12 hours of typing and brain-squeezing and groaning is 12 hours too long.

I need to play a game now. I can’t decide what.

I should really stop typing. 12 hours was all it took to instill a habit in me.

Oh ya I’m supposed to be reminding myself to stop procrastinating because today is an experience I do not want to re-live.

But woot lookie I’ve got sore fingers and 15 pages full of things I can’t remember and an urge to hit ctrl+a and del. Like you watch a fire burn and your fingers are itching to touch it. Like you see engine oil and got an urge to drink it. Like you see doors creaking for no reason and got a chilly wind making all your hair stand and got light bulbs going on and off and got blood all over the wall and you still want to investigate it. Like you see deserted back alleys and you still want to walk it, preferably while dangling your bag and gossiping on the phone.

I’m not suicidal. I’m just Malaysian – nothing will happen to me wan lah.

Can ctrl+z also mah.

Why is undoing easier than eliminating? That’s like teaching bad culture.

I need to stop typing.

Almost forgot, Obama!

Project: Woman? (test shots)

2009-01-16T23:57:00.007+08:00

When the Canon Photomarathon event was announcing the winning shots, I overheard a dialogue:

Fashionista-cum-DSLR-holder 1: [upturned, well-plucked eyebrow] Ini gambar-gambar yang menang? Macam tak best pun.

FCDH 2: Ah? Yalah... Oh ini kategori Compact Digital Camera lah. Nanti baru DSLR punya.

FCDH 1: Oh betul? Cheh... Macam ni gambar tu not bad jugak lah. Kan guna camera macam ni saja kan [points to her friend's Sony compact camera].

Upon eavesdropping on the conversation, I wanted to applaud really loudly. I mean, really really loudly. Preferably right beside their ears - with a megaphone.

Because it does not mean that when we use a smaller camera with lesser resolution and functions to match, we have smaller passion (and ego).

Because photography is about the photographer, not the gear.

I wanted to applaud the conversation, because it gives me the resolution to prove them wrong.

I don't know if my skills can ever prove them wrong - but who cares? I have friends who already did (you know who you are ^^).

I present Project: Woman? - for want of a better name.

It's political, it's subjective, it's spontaneous fun.

It's not bad jugak, IMO.

Dedicated to the Simon Cowells in all of us. So go on, do tambah/tembak ais.

Sticky Issues... Stop fussing.

Battery Low... No one can go on forever.
Have you recharged a loved one today?

Up?... When life strikes you down,
look up and see the light.

Prickly Weight... Smile for the camera,
nevertheless, 'cause that's what ladies do.

Admire... "... Men act and women appear . Men look at women. Women watched themselves being looked at... The surveyor of woman in herself is male: the surveyed female. Thus she turns herself into an object - and most particularly an object of vision: a sight."
- John Berger in Ways of Seeing

Carbon-copied... 'Cause beneath it all we are branded, marked, and mass-produced - especially in areas that we never checked.

The Stiletto Condition... Who needs to beat us into submission? We gladly step into it.

Denial is Bliss... All is well.
Yes, it must be.
I'm just gonna pull this lower.

Cover me Beautiful... We always feel that we need to cover ourselves with something better. Maybe you're born with it. But who cares? Use Maybelline.

Survive... Trudge on - past attached.

No DSLR was exploited in this photo shoot*

* If me crouching in various awkward positions in front of the dolls in my dingy room counted as a photo shoot, that is.

23 more shots of Project: Woman? in my Deviantart.

Happy Mew Year

2009-01-02T21:41:00.003+08:00

No amount of dread could hold back the coming of 2009.

So what the heck – HAPPY NEW YEAR KAKI-KAKI SEKALIAN!

Well, actually I’m not dragging my feet that much anymore into the new year. It was scary at first to think that 2009 will be the year I take my FINAL semester, graduate and err, blank. I don’t have my life figured out, and for the first time that is fine – and I say this without bursting into tears and start spamming Job Street with resumes (come to think of it, you can do that right? Right?). But of course, the prospect of me washing toilets is still very real, to the extent that I read it in the headlines everyday – right between the lines of “More Economic Pain in 2009”. So, yes, new year very scary.

But as always the habit of new year is to stride in no matter how unprepared you feel, or how depressed you are, or how you are still stuck in the jam trying to remember why countdown on new year’s eve sounded like a good idea, or how little beer you have to serve your barrel of guests, or how you can’t even remember what was your last year’s resolution to recycle it. And as the clock hits 12, the fireworks blasted and the sigh released, I realized that well, it’s also just another new day. Live well; one day at a time. Even the Bible say must okay. So, new year, fear not! Much!

With that load in the chest removed, Sayang and I went around chasing fireworks.

Yep, we didn’t plan to see any fireworks or do any countdown. Come to think of it, I’ve never count down before. My holistic development ensured that I went straight from curfew-at-6p.m. to too-old-for-this-stuff. So, Bryan and I just spent New Year’s Eve in each other’s arms watching some bloke movie that is so dumb I had to laugh non-stop. I laugh at anything these days.

Now, I’m not going to do a disclaimer like “yeah we’re boring” unless you show me any rulebook in this world that decreed “fun” as partying, boozing and go crazy only. Even if there is such a rulebook, I’ll probably ignore it. So celebs, please don’t keep telling the world that you are boring because you “prefer to stay at home and watch DVDs/cook/read/take bubble bath/surf for PO…litics”. If it’s fun for you, then so be it!

Anyway, I digressed. So yeah, Bryan and me, the a-bit-like-old-couple-but-NOT-boring duo did not count down. But as he was sending me home we caught glimpses of fireworks in many directions so we just drove around trying to find out where it’s coming from. After that we had some heart-to-heart talk in the car, and he kissed me goodnight and voila! 2009 is here.

What We Did on New Year’s Day:

Just before Bryan was supposed to bring me to dinner, I opened the door and heard loud and urgent “mews” from my longkang. Sounded something like MEWMEWMEWMEWMEWMEWMEWMEWMEW and the list goes on. And since everybody knows curiosity only kills the cat and not humans, Bryan and me decide to investigate by paying a visit to my much-neglected, weed-infested longkang. There it was, a shivering kitty struggling to climb out.

And all… motherly instincts broke loose.

Bryan ‘rescued’ it from the longkang. The mew-ing got even louder and urgent. We decided that there was probably a misunderstanding – kitty didn’t seem happy being ‘rescued’. No harm done. We decide it was probably hungry. Rushed out to buy some milk. Poured out milk into a plastic spoon so that Kitty can drink from it. Misunderstanding again, it appears, as Kitty didn’t seem to have grasped the concept of ‘drinking’ yet. A little more pestering, and KITTY DRANK! LICKED! WHATEVER YOU CALL IT!

Got Milk?

And Bryan melted into a puddle of goo.

A few minutes later, Kitty didn’t want anymore milk and it just kept mew-ing. And we are so inexperienced in taking care of stray animals that we had no idea what to do. I can’t keep it – either my Dad or my landlord will flip; and Bryan’s dog would probably eat it or become emo (it just haaaates cats). So in the end, hoping that Kitty’s mommy will come back soon, we put Kitty back where we found her.

When I got back, Kitty was gone. Well, I hope its safe with its mummy now. I hope that we had been a little help to this poor, cute kitten, and hopefully, it will look back one day as a grown cat and remember how two inept adults tried to save its life on New Year’s Day.

Bryan, on the other hand, was heartbroken that Kitty was gone.

In his anguish, Bryan unleashed his artistic prowess.

Nothing like starting the new year with a MEW.

Enjoy 2009 people!

Which direction is Oregon?

2008-11-22T00:46:00.001+08:00

It’s been four days since she left.

I miss her.

Actually I’ve started missing her since I watched her walk into the boarding area with her lou kong.

Yet, I’m happy for her ^.^ At least one of us gets to go to the USA.

She’s gonna be awesome there, I’m sure. She deserves to be awesome there, and anywhere else for that matter.

She deserves the best, because she is the best. At least, in this heart that once occupies an awkward, chubby and bewildered body (still apply. dang!), she is the greatest sister one can ever have.

Chin up! It’s the land of dreams, a place where people make their dreams come true. Enjoy the snow, enjoy the people, enjoy the cool malls you’ve told me about, enjoy Obama!

Still miss you, though =)

Midnight Musings

2008-11-12T00:58:00.003+08:00

Only a writer knows how great a loser she is.
Only a writer can foresee how lonely is her personal journey into a world constructed with strokes and syllables.
Because the writer knows that no matter who she brings along with her, no one can truly share the same experience. Same ride, same conversation, even. But never the same landscape. Their eyes, not hers. Vice versa.
Because the writer would brush off all compliments and confidence in her ability, as only writers can.
Because the writer thinks she does not deserve it. She, who has no bridge between a fleeting inspiration and a perfected tale. No message between the scrawled outlines to the typed full-stop.
Because the writer wants to believe that they have the hardest job in the world.
And, from one writer to another, I recommend the movie “Adaptation”.
It begins with flowers. It ends with flowers too. Orchids, actually.
And in between, you get frustrations. Self pity. Guy with no front teeth. Confusion that guy with no front teeth can be so dashing. Nicholas Cage. Two Nicholas Cages, to be exact – both with bad hair. Meryl Streep, very messed up. Blood. Gunshots. Brotherly love. Funny lines. Sex. Porn.
Your average Hollywood movie, save for the fact that it isn’t.
It’s about adaptation, in a world so, I quote about everyone in the movie, “f***ed up” (asterisks added. Adaptation, you know).
It’s about not being able to write. It’s about false starts in writing. It’s about more false starts. And then, the writer gets desperate. Everything starts to sounds good. Then, everything starts to sound bad.
And then, everything starts to sound simple.
Pardon my inability to make anything clear now. My mind is still processing this dark comedy, and this usually means my thoughts are synapses having private conversations - arguments, even. Somewhere in the midst I thought I saw a flying chair.
So let me make this clear. Don’t waste time reading me. Go watch the movie. If you love it, let’s have coffee. If you hate it, go watch it again.
Or, just try to write something.
I just love it because in its attempt to not preach anything, it preaches about everything.

I'm alive and running.

2008-11-09T23:43:00.012+08:00

Note: This is supposed to appear last week, but hehe was a bit slow in churning out the pics. Here ya go!

Note 2: Some pics, when seen in original size, can be grainy and blur. Pardon my shaky hands and faulty flash. =(

Confession: I love Sungai Wang.

Okay, now you can hit me over the head several times with those huge bright gold handbags with polka-dot ribbon thing.

Well, admittedly I don’t LOVE Sungai Wang. I particularly don’t love any bit of Sungai Wang that hung la-la clothing, which was pretty much the whole of Sungai Wang except the bit which hung that white summer dress I was drooling on. And that nice LBD. And that sexy green, cheongsam-inspired minidress. And another summer dress. And the smart-looking shirt-dress. And that funky belt. And those “70% SALES!” signs…

Wants and money-in-wallet imbalance = hormonal imbalance = more wants.

How do we put a stop to this vicious cycle? YOU can make a difference.
*Open wallet big big*

Go on, whack me over the head again, if it makes you feel better. I’m having such a massive headache that I probably won’t even notice.

* * *

Until recently, I’ve never ran a marathon in my life.

It was one of the many reasons why I still have a life.

I was never a runner. In school, my 400 meter run was a disaster. The 100 meter dash was better – it was a shorter disaster. If I had any stamina, I probably exhaust it dragging myself out of bed in the morning. If I run at all, I was probably catching up with my breath.

And goodness knows why I decided to join the Canon Photomarathon Asia. I mean, come on, a marathon is still a marathon even if it’s attached to the word photo! Just because one probably goes Photomarathon Asia doesn’t mean there’s no footwork involved!

Well, thank goodness it’s probably the slowest marathon in the world.

I mean, we were given a couple of hours to walk from Timesquare to Pavillion, and another couple of hours from Pavillion to KLCC. And then back to Timesquare again. If you were busy looking for photo subjects all the way, you practically bump into your destination. I was like “WTF? Walk to KLCC?! Kanasaitamadesibatposibatkongchaofankungfuchao eh we sampai already wor.”

It was a hell lot of fun. Wearing the bright red Canon Photomarathon t-shirt gave me the license to shoot, with my cute little non-threatening Nikon compact camera. And I just literally take pictures right in front of people’s faces. It’s so funny, some actually posed! Some just smiled, some pretend you weren’t there and your camera was just an illusion, and an old ah pet on motorbike laughed at me and say “yeng meh? (“take what take?” in Cantonese).

Amused

Most people were polite. No one chased me with a mop. A few even tried to run away from me.

It's one breath-taking graffiti. Rebellion is beautiful.

This one confirm Malaysia.

Fortunately, this too, confirm Malaysia.
(The mural at the back was composed entirely from F&N cans!!!)

I just heart her bag. And her short pants. And her nonchalance when visiting Pavillion.

But after seeing this, my heart sank.

Old sweeties.

For irony's sake.

We are famous for our confusion-causing signs.
Topped with our Engrish, of course.

Meleleh.

Why do I get the "semangat terkobar-kobar" feeling watching him drink Milo?

Okay okay. So I have a thing for little girls in tudungs. And kids gobbling up their food. Sue me.

On second thought, please don't sue me. I'm perfectly straight, and I love big, strong guys.
*drags Sayang out*

Eh, that sounds wrong too.

Oh, and photographers make the best photo subjects.

We've got photogs who looked up.

We've got photogs who searched low.

We've got Malaysian-traffic (roughly translated as "death") defying photogs.

We've got hungry photogs.

We've got emo photogs.

We've got oblivious photogs.

We've got maverick photogs.

We've got selambe photogs.

We've got naughty photogs.
( I took a pic of the Pavillion manager telling the photog not to take pictures in the premise. The manager must have had a field day trying to restrain us from clicking our cameras.)
We've got sneaky photogs.

We've got lonely photogs *play er hu*

Oh, I didn’t win, of course. Else you would have heard me scream from Berjaya Timesquare. But it was good fun.

And I realized something – I LOVE photography, and no amount of blur, grainy pictures could refute that. Even if I went home empty-handed, and had to fork out RM15 to join the competition (because my little Nikon is not a bulky mean Canon XD), and had to wait for about 4 hours for the results, and had to be enveloped by idiotic smokers who thought that they can get away with puffing in the middle of a 1000 strong crowd, it was all worth it. I look back now, smiled and tell myself, “Blardy hell let’s do it again!”

And next time, I’ll stuff the idiot’s cigarettes into his DSLR. Pity (the DSLR), but necessary for the good of the common lungs.

And a great big thanks to Chew Mong for giving me free rides, and be my "voice" for the day. I was muted by my violent coughs that poor CM had to read my lips the whole day and helped me answer phone calls. Muaks!

**MORE PICS UP SOON IN MY DEVIANTART! ^^*

Nothing is perfect

2008-11-08T21:54:00.000+08:00

For the most part of today, I did absolutely nothing.

It feels great.

It seems that I’ve been too busy living life lately. Or at times, helping someone else live their lives (directing your Sims to go toilet, go sleep, go mop up their own pee, go woo hoo, go grab the maid’s butt, stop signaling me to shove something down their throat and go woo hoo some more, is strangely addictive *shrugs*).

For too long a time, I’ve been doing things. All sorts of things. Some I like, some I love, some I hate, some that almost killed me but made me stronger, stranger but on the whole, suicidal. I occupy myself, or I let life occupy me. If there’s nothing to do, I’ll feel like a lump. A very anxious lump.

But today, I let myself go. I played no games, I napped for goodness knows how many hours (usually I’ll painstakingly set the alarm clock lest I waste too much precious breathing moments lying down), I watched an eye-candy of a teen drama about basketball and hot dudes, I chatted with my mum for a bit, I’m sitting in front of the computer and blogging.

It’s like spinning around madly in the circuit and finally finding my brakes.

People have told me that I take things too seriously, on more than one occasion, in more than one way. Passion and zest and ambition and dreams are all great, necessary, even. But sometimes, it’s good to just slump forward into my bed. Let the world move on, I’ll catch up later.

Don’t confuse procrastination with rest. I believe that we do the former all our life, but always forgot about the latter.

Trust me. I, with my ignored pile of work, would know.

Equal Fights

2008-10-24T15:15:00.000+08:00

Mediocrity is something hard to stomach when you’ve had big, ambitious dinners all these while.

I used to be a dreamer. I sew the seams of these fantasies, sealing in the air of hope which I breathe, and set them down a current for an escape from my humdrum, suffocating cage.

And one by one, I did make these dreams come true. The elation of a job well done, the pat on my own back for not settling for something lesser, the smile I see in the mirror each day knowing that I’ve done them, and myself, proud.

I forgot how that feels like.

Now, the more I trudge, the more it hit me. I stood my ground, wondering what the hell happened, wondering where it all went, while the raining thuds of my conscience give me a bad headache and overflowing eyes.

I’ve surrendered. In my comfort zone, I missed a move Reality made. In my victory, I did not see the gleam in Its eyes. In my smugness, I forgot that what I have now is not forever mine. We work at it, we improve it, we work at it some more – and I forgot all about this as my personal champagne flows.

Writing took hard work, photography took constant alertness and a missing self-consciousness, TT Night took sleep and peace and pak-toh hours, UTAR Ball took hours in front of the computer panicking. Etcetera.

But it was, as they say, a good game. If you ask me, I’ll tell you it’s a bloody f-ing great game. I mentally run through the field with my hands up-stretched while my cells gave me uproar of cheers, whenever these tasks were completed with a sense of satisfaction.

Now, I’ve appeared to be further and further away from my passion. If you can still call it my passion, since I rarely engage in it anymore. I spend my days, all right, but perhaps they are not as well-spent as I intended it to. Heck, that’s just a longer way of saying I’m wasting my days.

I have settled for mediocrity. If you pair Nike’s “Just Do It” and the Malaysian “Lah” it actually has very different spirit in it. “Just do it only lah” – my motto these days. And then I get jealous seeing other people churn out blog posts after blog posts of humourous and great writing, pictures after pictures that tug at my heart, and generally, living a heck of an exciting life. I hit rock bottom when, guess what, I see people taking The Sims 2 so seriously as well. They created beautiful, creative and ingenious objects and mods; they have intricate, or at least, quirky storyline for their towns; they have passion. Compared to them, I Sim in shame.

No time for all this lah – my motto again. Funny statement, coming from someone who has six months to do her FYP, no classes and an (temporarily, I stress) abandoned freelance stint.

I believe in balance, like a paralysed tight-rope performer does.

Oh dear, I’m talking way beyond my age. I’m only 21, for goodness sake. Am I gonna write emo post like this for the rest of my life? Nah, at this rate, I’m most probably going to quit blogging at the age of 23.

In truth, there will always be work that needs to be done, money that needs to be earned, loved ones that needs to be taken care of. I could balance it before, why not now? What am I afraid of? Too little eggs in the basket again? To hell with baskets. And to hell with eggs. Get some balls instead.

80 percent heart, 20 percent talent – that’s what you need to sustain what is precious. Thank you, Szetoo. I wish I’d asked you sooner, though.

eeep.

2008-10-12T20:55:00.000+08:00

My expectation for tomorrow range from zero to 249,657.

One part of me wanna go berserk and die with anxiety (I’m very dramatic on paper; in reality I just wanna laugh hysterically in my seat). Another part of me forgot that tomorrow I’m going for a new job (a part-time stint in a PR firm, thanks to Jolene’s recommendations ^^). Well, not exactly forgot. But more like the okay-cool-what’s-for-dinner kind of nonchalance.

I’ve never mastered nonchalance.

I’m very good at going berserk.

Don’t mind me. I feel like this everytime I’m going to work/study at a new place. The food sloshes around in my stomach and my skull suddenly shrank, pressing out my brain (dramatic and disgusting; you got a Sweeney-Todd-wannabe here).

The anxiety, for what its worth, is actually kinda fun.

Not too much of it, of course. Else I’ll look like a zombie with deformed head suffering from severe indigestion. But it’s exciting and nerve-wrecking at the same time to meet new colleagues and work in a new environment.

The previous job experiences that I had were fruitful. I learned tremendously and met some really great people; a few of them my cherished mates now. Yes, there were dramas, complaints, screw-ups, the deep-throat-bellow of “LIMEI”, and the si-poon and calot jokes, but looking back, it was all worth it. It made who I am today.

So, wish me luck for tomorrow! *Go berserk*

Phony me

2008-09-11T14:21:00.003+08:00

I’m eating my own words – embarrassed, but secretly relishing it nonetheless.

When it comes to handphones, Nokia vibrates my world (Shit that sounds wrong. Oh well, a writer salvages whatever she assumes to border on being pun-ny, so bear with me). I loudly declare everywhere that Sony Ericsson is overrated, un-user friendly and seems to be made in a hurry. Then I will produce my vintage little number (a Nokia 1100, boasting a black-and-white screen that will soon be certified UN Heritage) and dares anyone to race me in retrieving a message. I’ve beaten Matthew so far and am now feeling incredibly boastful and egoistical.

Yes, this sworn nemesis of Sony Ericsson just wants to put a dent to its sales (ok lah even an egoistic me would admit that I won’t cause a dent lah. More like a nudge – by an ant).

Sayang and I used to bicker over whether SE or Nokia is more geng. I defended my vintage little number and its simple user-friendliness; while sayang will boast about how his SE camera capture awesome photos and blast crystal clear music and now…

Sayang wants to give me his old SE W810i.

He’s using his Dad’s Nokia N95.

The irony!

“Dowan la sell it lah get back the money lah give your mother lah,” I replied, brimming with sincerity and a nagging conscience.

A few hours later, the SE W810i’s screen is coated with a morbidly cheerful theme with maniacal monsters (one seems to be farting heart-shapes o.O).

It’s not my fault ok! Sayang said he don’t want to sell the phone because he would not get a good price for it, and it is still working perfectly. So, don’t waste right? And the theme is so morbidly happy that I can’t stop looking at it.

I still love Nokia though. If machines can understand people then my Nokia 1100 understands me. But of course, what do you expect after a five-year relationship? =) After playing with the SE for a while I realize that some of the functions are a little, sorry to say, idiotic. I mean, the alarm clock will automatically snooze itself ONCE you move the phone! It’s like saying “Oops sorry, I accidentally tried to wake you up. All’s good now. I'll quietly pretend that you don't have a class. Go back to sleep.” And it’ll snooze for 10 whole minutes! Wth??? I will sooooo late for class man. And then there are some minor frustrations here and there as well, which showed how much I took my Nokia for granted. The designers of the phone really thought through the whole process of how a phone will be used, and depended upon.

The same cannot be said for the newer generation Nokia, I guess, since Bryan seems to have complaints about his N95 too.

But heck, I’ll admit that the W810i has its great functions. The 2MP camera does its job well and the walkman sings wonderfully. AND MY THEME IS SO CUTE GAAAAH. Sorry *clears throat* can’t help it. I got a thing for nonsensical monsters.

Thanks, baby. I’ll take good care of your phone. And to my Nokia 1100, viva la vintage!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Humans make things too complicated. I just wish God can open up our eyes and let us see what truly matters. What that would truly make a difference. All we have is Him now to guide our steps.

Release what you hold to Him, for He is the one true Almighty. Stay strong, stay in love, stay positive.

Chin up.

Off my chest

2008-09-09T22:14:00.000+08:00

I’ve forgotten the joy of just writing things down.

It came to a point where it’s okay not to blog anymore. It’s okay to just off the recorder and let life zoom past. It’s okay to wipe the lens while everything happens around you.

If life sucks, let me immerse in a never-ending gaming frenzy. Preferably those games that tuck my brain cells safely away and cut the leash off my adrenaline too. It’s all action and no time to think. Apparently, dashing in restaurants while cursing all the babies (only Diner Dash-ers can feel me) or dressing up models with crazy-looking but admittedly redundant clothes (squeal it with me, Eileen: “Jojo Fashion Show!”) takes your mind off the shit in life faster than you can say “f----!”

Gaming is fun, but its not fulfilling. At least, unlocking the frilly apron does not make my day (I rue the day it does). Writing used to be fulfilling. It used to be one of the very few things that I can do without breaking anything. But now, writing breaks me.

Writing became an exhausting affair, mostly draining my self-esteem. Starting every piece of writing with a bang used to be a little challenge I give myself; now it’s become compulsory - a criterion that I am less and less able to fulfill as days go on. Everything I write seems lame, unimportant, unworthy of the time. Cutesy games beckon, and I followed dreamily into a world where my words do not matter, and there are always someone who writes lamer lines (“It’s cool to serve ice cream yoghurts! Get it?”).

The very passion that helped me to heal through pains, make sense of issues and put a grin on my face is now merely my tool to survive assignments and occasionally, writing jobs. I still want to write, so badly. The good old days when I can just churn out line after the line; I miss it terribly.

I take this too seriously, I admit. When you put all your eggs in a basket, you’ll be careful about who sees your basket; lest they realize that you actually have too little eggs.

I need to let go. I need the peace which only He can give. Life sucks these days. Too much unnecessary drama. Too much hatred going on everywhere. Too much broken promises. Too much bad energy. Too much things that shouldn’t even be here at the first place.

It’s too much. I’m gonna bundle them up and give them to God. Sort it out, please. I’m drowning, they are choking, and we just need your hand, the very hand that you pulled Peter up from the water and said “why did you doubt?”

Please grant her the happiness that she deserves, Jesus. I love her so dearly. Please give us the peace which only you can give. You promised, God, two thousand years ago. Someone wrote it down and now it’s the best-selling novel in the world.

Please come for your imperfect children down here. We’re all messed up and I think some of us ate our bibs.

I don’t make sense. But it doesn’t matter, as Eileen will justify it perfectly.

How to die?

2008-07-24T23:09:00.000+08:00

Life is a such a hectic rush these days that I have no time to let yesterday’s dinner sink in yet, let alone the fact that I only have two more semesters left til graduation.

Or, more specifically, one semester left in UTAR. I’ve got a three-month break next semester. You can envy me, but I advice against it. I might accelerate with uncalled for speed into a panicky state of mind, babbling incoherencies like “I’m freaking out I don’t want to graduate I don’t want to leave UTAR not after my faculty changed into such a cool name like Faculty of Creative Industries phwoar today is Thursday die die die I don’t wanna graduate.”

I have a million things to do.

I’m trying to figure out how to chomp it all down in one bite.

One minute I’m giggling in false security, the next minute I find myself surrounded with a band of deadlines – without my copy of “Muay Thai for Beginners” (bookmarked at Pg 3) too. Awesome.

All of a sudden it’s Week 9. Pardon me, the end of week 9, I mean. I stared accusingly at the number until it shuffled away in embarrassment, quicker than I would like, actually. So, now, all of a sudden it’s going to be Week 10 while I tried to recount what the heck I did for the past 10 weeks.

Emo, birthday, emo, deadlines. Blank.

Dude, where’s my bleedin’ brakes?

I really want to burst into tears right now. But that’s a waste of precious time and honestly, trying to cram for exam while bawling my eyes out means I won’t do a good job of either. And I’m too stoned to feel emo right now. Too panic to rock on. Too sleepy to explain.

I’m just typing this for the sake of a new post on my blog. And to complain about my life simmering in deadlines. And to show myself that hey, I can still make sentences.

Excuse me, I need to go slap myself awake.

Atrocious!

2008-07-05T00:50:00.004+08:00

I just blew almost RM100 in less than an hour. That was so unlike me that when I was looking in the mirror to check out how I look with my new bag, I thought, “Who the heck are you and what have you done with the kiam siap teh ais limei but omg that is one hawt bag you have there.”

All courtesy of the birthday ang pau from me sis. I am now fabulously broke.

And the most unlikely of all was that I bought two bags. Yes, that’s the number right after one. Normally the number two would not exist in the same breath as “Li Mei bought…”, unless it’s RM2 or something of the equivalent kiam-siap-ness.

One of them is a backpack for going university. It’s got some funky designs but somehow it looks damn huge after I bring it home o.O Oh well. For RM27, I can close one eye on the little (er, in no ways literal) details. But I’ve got to admit, the design on the bag is pretty cool. Thanks, Jacq for helping me choose.

Yet that’s not my major buy. The remaining RM60++ is spent on a leather bag on 70% sale. One of those awesome ones that switches from a sling bag to a handbag with just a transformation on the strap. Genius sial. Have been eyeing those for ages. I usually treat any bag above RM50 a threat to the part of me so attached to flea markets and bargain bins. Yet for a price tag which shrunk from RM200 to RM60, I can overlook some principles that have long stood strong (and even longer beside bargain bins as I dig and dig).

Of course, I felt the guilt. Do the side effects of retail therapy affect only me? My inner gallows was waving the noose of self-indulgence. I mean, why do I feel so bad buying things I genuinely like, and wanted?

Well, I AM an adult now. While more responsibilities ensued it also counts to take certain things less seriously. To take myself less seriously. Of course, blowing RM100 in one go, for myself, may never become a habit for me – I just don’t have the kind of bank account. But I am proud that today, I decide to give myself a nice treat.

Thanks Sis! Thanks also to Sayang for his patience and contributions to Teh Ais’s retail therapy fund. Of course, thanks also to Jacq for making up my mind when I’m too busy fretting about whether the forty-year-old me would still like that bag or not.

Phew, I’m knackered. It’s one of my favourite expression to describe how drained I feel. Knackered – even the vowels and consonants seems to slump forward. My heart is still beating furiously from the retail marathon (yes yes, it’s only two bags but then again my stamina is famous for being non-existent), but the rest of my body just wanna close shop. Ta.

Love Today

2008-07-03T10:10:00.003+08:00

My heart withers easily; a rose laid out for the afternoon heat.

I feel the corner that it retreats to. I feel the scab that it picks. I saw the window that it closed. I saw the angle which its lens were focused. I know the key which it has lost. I know the moisture that it craves. I pity the envy it has over cactuses – self-contained, defensive, but also saves. I hate the thorns that it had allowed to grow – they hide behind the deceiving bloom; they hurt its lovers.

They hurt me.

Behind the camaraderie the clown applied too much make-up over a tear-stricken face. Behind the shell the cocoon could not grow wings. Behind the words the emptiness spreads and spreads.

Words failed me. Or have I failed the words?

I do not know how to describe these emotions. All I know is that they fed off my little elations and drinks from my rationalism. I focused my defenses on Gratitude, but I see their advancement and I have no war cries. I have an army, somewhere, but I’m too weak to command.

Twenty. The part where I got lost. The plot becomes chaotic, the flow disturbed. Looking forward only shoves me backward. Expectations became a personal burden; it drags me down. Not the first time.

Importance is personal. What is important to me is just not to others. Plain as that. They are beautiful, wonderful. They made it half-full. They just… forget. I love them to bits. Perhaps its better to love them as a whole.

In times like this, when emptiness booms in your ears, drowning whispers of comfort and courage, I look ahead and smile. There they are, smiling back, lifting my heart, asking if I’m okay, staying by me even if I don't make sense, giving sweet comments on my pictures, asking if I need money, laughing with me, calling me mummy with an exclamation mark, spending time untangling the mess I’ve made.

Thank You, angels.

I have issues. But this time there’s no tears, only resolution.

I will settle the issues. I will be happier. I will open the windows to let out the stench of suppressed misgivings. Emotional teh ais? I’m tired of it; and I’m sure you are too.

Announcement -

2008-06-25T18:25:00.012+08:00

I is 21!

Not a bad start for a birthday post. Simple, concise, yet the excitement rightly accentuated with an exclamation mark and the chaotic grammar. Thanks, Vic, for curing my writer’s block. If it wasn’t for your insightful suggestion, I’d still be stuck here thinking how to start writing about a birthday which I didn’t believe have happened.

I couldn’t have done all that, right?

So, why is the proof, in all its realness, obviousness and cute-ness, staring straight at me?

Shiat. I have done all that.

The most horrible part of all is that I am now grinning incredulously at the memory.

Well, as they say, be careful of what you wish for, because they might just come true. Foreseeing a bleak and lonely transition into adulthood on the eve of my birthday, I prayed to God that even though I had no idea how it would happen, I just hope it would be a memorable 21^st birthday.

Then, God’s answer came in the form of Roya’s cheerful voice over the phone saying that she would bring me out for dinner. Hallelujah. At least I have my dinosaur friend Roya Astani and her amazing ability to turn any bad situation around with a grin. So what if it was just the both of us chatting the night away? It was the part that she teman-ed me on such a short notice, and on a time when I really needed teman-ing, that meant the most of all.

But heck, have I underestimated Roya Astani. Apparently it was not enough for me to be eternally grateful that she came to her turning-21-but-emo-like-a-16 friend’s rescue. She had to make me heart her even more by having the Plan.

To uphold her position as the quality controller among us cin-cai people, Roya needed to make sure that I am qualified to be 21.

Among the stringent operation that she has devised to put me to the test:

1) Do busking (i.e. performed in public while waiting for people to give me money for my effort/shamelessness)

2) Take picture with a random hot guy

3) Greet a random stranger in a foreign language

4) Do a travel show while acting as some celebrity

5) Do obscene poses with mannequins

6) Catwalk down the corridor in front of the shops

7) Scream on the top of my lungs in whichever balcony available (“to let out your anger for the past 20 years,” said Roya, matter-of-factly).

8) Try on three most expensive dresses in the boutiques and cam-whore in the dressing room.

9) Make a list of things that I love in my life, and a list of what do I see myself in ten years time, and read back the list in ten years time

10) Last but not least, wear the bumblebee antenna she made for me all night.

(Of course, being Roya, she wrote down her list of operations on a piece of paper and then happily forgot to bring it. But, being Roya again, that wouldn’t stop her. I suspect she just made the list up as we go along XD)

So, we were in Ole Ole Bali (superb food, exotic interior, expensive bill ^^) in Sunway Pyramid when Roya announced that I was going to be audited for my age. I was like “giggle giggle wth no lah giggle giggle YOU SERIOUS AH horror horror”.

But Roya wouldn’t take no for an answer. Not even one from a bumble-bee antenna donning twenty-year-old who has confused growing old with the need to recapture innocence. Unfortunately for me, Roya has a way of waving her iron fist which convinces the world (or is it just me) that busking on the night before you turn 21 is a damn good idea clap clap clap.

So, our little rendezvous turned out to be a public affair.

Test #1: Busking at the sidewalk in front of Sunway Pyramid

Roya had to dress me up (she brought props, bless her soul) so that I look like a busker and not a drunken bumble-bee impostor. The problem was, I don’t sing, dance, do stand-up comedy or play any musical instrument (besides drums but it’s hazardous for public consumption). Not even in the dark. So, what to do to entertain passer-bys in broad street light? After nagging Roya about my lack of entertaining value, she asked me act like a rock.

“You know, just stone there, not moving.”

Me? Cannot lah. Only Eileen can be stoned and still rock people’s socks. If I’m doing it people would just think I’m constipated or playing hide and seek with myself (I do not seek, therefore I do not hide – it’s so complicated but duh… I think the end equation is that I do not move?)

In the end, I sang. Admittedly after a few false starts. I can’t seem to remember the complete lyrics of any song, and people must be thinking the weird busker can’t remember her songs. And why the heck is she laughing so much? Honestly, Roya and me looked like we were drunk. We just kept bursting into guffaws while I croon tunelessly (and unfortunately, very loudly) Aerosmith’s I Don’t Wanna Miss A Thing. Goodness knows that’s the only song I remember, because I love to annoy Bryan with it.

So, with Roya taking the video and encouraging me along (eventually joining me in singing the song), I passed my first test. Of course, no one paid me anything – except weird, terrified and stricken stares. Thank goodness I took out my specs and pulled the hat Roya gave me REAL low, so I didn’t have to see anybody’s face. Oh, the sweet Roya also donated 50 cent to me for my effort! Woot! It proved my theory wrong – you actually don’t need to give me a lot of money and a whole lot more of drugs to make me do really stupid things. I need to have another look at my values.

Test #2: Take picture with random hot guy

I actually wanted to take picture with a real hot, real cute, and real young (like, 5 years old) guy, er, boy. Unfortunately, I am without a charming gene in me. The boy was walking to and fro by our table in Ole Ole Bali, and guess how I tried to pick him up?

Me: (Waved at boy, signaled him to come, point at camera).

Boy: (Stared. Ran.)

Kena from Roya. Gave me a lesson on “How to Ask a Stranger Kid to Take Picture with You 101”. But too late lah… the boy was too scared of me already (I kept forgetting I was wearing the bumble-bee antenna, thus fulfilling all the qualities of a Weird Auntie Whom You Should Never Speak To).

In the end, I posed with Mr. Ronald McDonald. It was late and the McD staff were all doing the clean up, and there I was, trying awkwardly to hook up with Ol’ Ron. I tried sitting on his lap but it was too slippery >.<

So, I had to pretend I was giving him a peck on the cheek. Dear friends, I do not usually look or act like that. It was the whole M.A. (Marching-into-Adulthood, not middle age) crisis. On other days, I’m kind of an uninteresting lump.

Test #3: Greet a stranger in a foreign language

I tried shouting “Hola” at all the kids I see. None of them paid attention and Roya said that it would only be counted if the kids gave a response. Well, one kid eventually did. I shouted “Hola” at her and she just went stunned, holding her ice cream, and glanced quickly to her little friend beside her. It was a good enough response for me. Needless to say, I didn’t hang around to wait for more responses (in case it happens to be the Hospital Bahagia ambulance siren).

Test #4: Do a travel show acting as Paris Hilton

I’m hawt. Or, at least, I tried to be. So, I just went around introducing everything around me (for some reason I kept talking about the moon o.O), talking in a nasal voice and repeating “That’s hawt.” I don’t think I acted like Paris. For one, I forgot to give reeeeeally long pauses before I start each sentence. And to give short sentences only, as if they exhaust me. Nah, I was just applying my dumb blonde stereotype and acting like worldwide air-heads rolled into one. At least Roya had a good laugh. I think. Thank goodness no one was within earshot.

Test #5: Do obscene poses with mannequins

Yucks. Enuff said.

Test #6: Catwalk down the corridor in front of the shops

“HOW LAH?” I asked. Roya said must do with complete set of poses that models do at the end of the stage. In front of so many midnight movie-goers (eh, no need to sleep one ah you all?). In the end, I just walked purposefully down the corridor, stopped, and knocked my hips left and right. Miss. J would have whimpered.

Test #7: Scream on the top of my lungs in whichever balcony available

Actually wanted to scream somewhere in Sunway Lagoon but it looked too dangerous. So, I just stood at the balcony overlooking the bottom floor in Pyramid and let out an inaudible scream while Roya took a picture. Her skill was so damn good she actually got one of me flinging my hands like my nails broke. T.T

Test #8: Try on three most expensive dresses in the boutiques and cam-whore in the dressing room.

Shops were closed. Muahaha.

Test #9: Make a list of things that I love in my life, and a list of what do I see myself in ten years time, and read back the list in ten years time

Me: HOW CAN I REMEMBER TO READ IT BACK IN TEN YEARS TIME LA?

Roya: Ask your mother remind you.

Me: -________-''

Test #10: Wear bumble-bee antenna all night

Even though I can’t go back to Pyramid for another decade, even though I’d scare small kids and amuse adults – but since Pap Pap made it for me, I wore it. All night.

Is it even legal to wear something so cute on your 21st?

The antenna was so kawaii-desu-neh I had to wear again the next night to show off to Bryan, who went -_____________-''

***

And finally! The clock struck midnight and I was officially and eligibly 21! I can’t believe I passed all the tests (cheated in some of them though) in two hours!

It was unbelievable. Roya’s plans took my mundane expectations and danced on it. She really knows how to cheer an old girl up, and get her drunkenly mad, minus the expensive alcohol! Who said you need a party to have fun? Roya took the trouble to think up some crazy ideas, make the antenna, and made sure two persons can rock just as well!

Thanks Roya, for making the night I turned 21 truly memorable, fun and worthy to tell my grandchildren of – I’ll warn them against me.

P/S. I suspect Roya would put the pics and vids up on Facebook one of these days. Do approach with an open mind and erase it from your memory afterwards. Thank you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Well, actually, this birthday has been incredibly sweet. THANK YOU ALL YOU AWESOME PEOPLE for the lovely GIFTS and the touching sms-es/blog-post-wish/IM messages/Facebook messages/verbal wishes/birthday songs.

Muaksies! You all mean so much to me. Thank you for staying by me.

Baby sayang also brought me to the Lookout Post in Ulu Langat for dinner overlooking the sunset sky. Thanks dear~ ^___^

Spilled orange paint on sky

Heavenward

Through the metal grills

Bryan's drink - Yummy! I stole most of it
because it has nata de coco and my drink
tasted like melted chocolate ice cream >.<

My portugal chicken - sweet, sour, spicy, sticky

Flora

Illuminated

Too cute

Together - forward

Thanks baby, too, for the nice surprise! <3

Once again, thank you all for helping me grow up happily!

Humbled Un-Birthday

2008-06-21T22:49:00.000+08:00

Today is the last day of my twentieth year.

I admit, I had expectations. It was painted by the world’s insistence that the 21st birthday should be the most ass-kicking birthday ever, and framed with my somewhat shameless imagination of what constitutes ass-kicking.

However, I did not plan anything. One reason was that I was boggled with some personal problems before this, and by the time it was resolved I discovered it was kinda late to make any concrete plans. Everyone has obligations already for the weekend. Another reason was that I was kinda tired of planning. Really, I just thought I will, for once, see how things will turn out if I go with the flow.

Turns out that was a darn cocky and stupid thing to do for my 21st birthday.

As the movie Stranger than Fiction taught me, if you don’t do something about life, then don’t complain when life has its ways on you. In my case, life just sort of laughed at my face. On top of bummers like most of my friends are tied for the weekend, Baby’s mum got sick and he has to cancel our dinner tonight to care for Auntie.

I chuckled silently to myself, turned on my inner water tap and prayed hard that Auntie will get well and healthy soon.

I understand that it wasn’t anyone’s fault; it’s just that other people have their own obligations too, and honestly, my expectations were not balanced by my efforts. But as I read before, disappointments sometimes humbles. The ass-kicking celebrations that I’ve seen my friends had (even though they hadn’t planned it) happened because they are such wonderful people and they truly deserve to be celebrated. I, on the other hand, have loads to learn =)

On a chirpier note, THANK GOD for Roya. The busy dinosaur (fyi, she’s not ancient but our friendship is) buddy of mine is free tonight! So my knight-ess in shining personality is going to come in her Nissan (probably) and take me out to dinner. She may not know it but she just made my otherwise emo day.

Of course, a very special thank you to the lovely bunch Yi Hueih, Seok Ping, Jacq, Matthew, Siew, Bear Bear, Siau Koon, Nicole and Shian for the candle-onna-Starbucks Muffin and very loud birthday song in Korean BBQ Chicken. The muffin was wholesome, larger than life and sweet – just like you all ^___^

P/S. I know I seem a little down after the lunch gathering yesterday. Sorry, I was just had some issues in my mind, and then more issues appeared, just to collide with my PMS, and thus explained why I’m still not smiling widely this morning. I love you guys and I love the muffin and the surprise for my ears.

Thanks Baby, too, for hugging me even when I made no sense and becomes an ugly case of emotional turbulence.

And for all my loved ones who are beside the sick beds of their beloved tonight, I pray that God shines his power and warmth on all of you. I hope your loved ones get well soon – physically, spiritually and mentally.

Anyone still up for celebrating me getting old? Valid even after 22nd June. So’s I can impart my eternal wisdom to those underage and reminiscent the hundredth time about the good ol’ days with those already ripe and old like me. Anyone not dying to meet me already must be outta their mind, or most likely, have better things to do.

In the meantime, do I qualify for a BirthWEEK (the longer and more shameless version of a BirthDAY) like the super-awesome and super-funny Lorelai Gilmore?

Procrastination to Prolonged Speech

2008-06-20T00:20:00.000+08:00

Can I write a blog post in 10 mins?

‘Cos I certainly can’t finish analyzing a feature article in 10 minutes. I’ve been meaning to use the free time this morning due to a cancelled class to finish it. I set my alarm to 7 a.m. but I ended up drifting back to sleep until the guilt bar was filled at 8 a.m. and I had to drag myself out of that cosy, comfortable, warm, snuggly (arrrrrrrrgh) bed. Then I wanted to start doing my assignment but my computer decided it needs to check one of my file/disk/whatever you call these things. I think kena virus sudah. So I sat there dreaming and waiting and realizing that I can actually use the time to read the article properly, but nevertheless still sat dreaming and waiting. Finally, my computer is functioning again but all that waiting has reduced me to a hungry, thirsty, and pee-able soul. So not conducive for doing assignments. So I heed what self-help books have been telling me all these while – love myself. Went to look for biscuits, drank water, peed and wandered back to the computer. I managed to type two paragraphs made out of long sentences and uncertainty. Then I went to read people’s blogs. Then I realised there's 10 mins left to prepare to go uni.

Watch me procrastinate and you get something like the never-ending, season after season Desperate Housewives. Minus all the house-burning and sex – I’ll probably procrastinate that too but mostly because my Bible say cannot.

That reminds me – can I procrastinate in turning 21 too?

My sister told me that if I don’t plan something good to celebrate it, I’ll regret it. Apparently, it’s important to celebrate it because, among other things like I’M GOING TO BE AN ADULT, it is also not just another Sunday.

But I haven’t planned anything. Not that I didn’t care about the fact that I’M GOING TO BE AN ADULT, but because these few weeks I have been weighed down with several personal problems, and besides fretting and praying and battling with assignments (kicking them away real far is the last resort) I really have little time nor mood to think of anything else. Thank God that He has come to my aid, just in time before I dissolved into brokenness. Thus, now, I can sit here singing grace in my heart and talking nonsense in my computer.

But oh well, maybe it really isn’t about celebrating the day per se, but about how I am going to celebrate the age. It’s kinda sad if my birthday took off in a bang but the rest of the days just plain fizzles. Being 21 is more than being old and clubbing legally (legally does not equate willingly). It requires a new set of maturity without compromising the innocence (or what’s left of it XD).

Being 21 means growing up gracefully, knowing that our gaits were perfected by our past stumbles, and being absolutely sure that there’s room for more stumbles. It is shedding the teenage ideals and holding on to the adolescent dreams. It is giving our family and friends a tighter hug for making sure that we managed to grow this old, and giving them a wider smile to be patient while we attempt to grow older.

It is also about knowing ourselves, especially when is our bed time (old already mah cannot skip sleep). Right now my body is pouting and showing me a damn huge mogok placard. And I think I’m beginning to type gibberish. So let me go catch some beauty sleep, and may you not catch me say this too often.

And no, I can’t write a blog post in 10 minutes. I had to save this and continue at night. It seems that cheong-hei-ness is already built in my system, alongside with kiam-siap-ness and forgetfulness, so growing old should not bring too much a change in me XD

P/S. THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU to Baby, Victoria and Kelvin for the awesome earrings. Thanks also to everyone (Pauline and Mekz, especially) who helped pick it! My ears are all excited. I’ll wear it soon =D Thanks, muaksies huggies, you awesome bunch.

spilt Teh Ais on papyrus

Ouch. Who put that here? Had someone done something to the decor?

Homebound

The Year that Did, Did Not, and Did-I-really

Meeting Ol' Mel

Bridge and Magic

Ten, owing two

Nine

Eight. Dead.

Seven, etc.

Six

Five

Her

Three, Four, Shut the Door

Two

One

Read-tail Therapy

Merry Cry-stmas

Writing Withdrawal

Streams of unconciousness

Like a ton of bricks

Written amidst childish screams

America, among others

The Day before I Leap

Fare thee well

22

Baggage

Bite this

*Flaps hands*

No signal

The Man Who Can't be Moved

Warning: Incoherencies ahead

Dawn

Jam-min' with meself

Just a little unwell

Seven-Hour Itch (to go home, dammit)

Cos' I wanna beat Twilight to a Trilogy

Dropped

It made us snapped.

What the F?!

I feel like I've grown up, or at least, stretched wiser.

Joy and tears

Overdue - Thoughts on Dark Knight

17 again

Happy-can't-remember-what

Anak

Alive and Teaching

Subangite again

Blame the heat

Emo Goodbye

Picture Memory

Typing diarhoeaaasjuehbvrigurhgikrjgne

Project: Woman? (test shots)

Happy Mew Year

Which direction is Oregon?

Midnight Musings

I'm alive and running.

Nothing is perfect

Equal Fights

eeep.

Phony me

Off my chest

How to die?

Atrocious!

Love Today

Announcement -

Humbled Un-Birthday

Procrastination to Prolonged Speech

Flaps hands