Monday, December 19, 2005
Friday, December 16, 2005
Sleepless before dawn
It is almost 5am and I am unable to sleep. There is music in my head and my mind won't be quiet. All the soft words I need to hear, the yearning melodic strains I want to hear, the gentle touches I need to feel in the lonely hours of the morning - all undulating inside my head. It is quiet and I'm alone at this ungodly hour. There's no one to talk to now, and the silence feels empty against the fullness of my thoughts. I'm not sure about the purpose of me blogging all this at this point. I guess it's the thought that maybe someone somewhere will know what I'm feeling now, so I don't feel so alone.
I realised one of the most heartbreaking feelings in the world is to be next to someone you love and still feel utterly lonely, when holding their hand won't take away the yawning gulf that lies between the two of you. You may reach out, but while your hand may touch their skin, all you feel are the bricks of the fortress they've built around them to keep you out. You may speak to them, but it may feel like calling into a broad canyon and all the response you get is the fading echoes of your own voice.
Emotional independence is something I realised I can never let go of, even if I want to, even if I'm in a relationship. For the moment I start to loosen my grip, the hurt is sure to follow very closely. It is tiring, depending only on yourself in all your times of need. But I find it's even more tiring to depend on someone else. Still, sometimes, when I find it hard to keep tears away, when my will has been weathered down, when my own arms can't keep me warm enough, I find myself wishing so much that I could lie helpless in comforting arms, curled up in the security of someone who will be strong enough for me to be vulnerable with, just for that moment. That someone will see my need and draw me to him, simply because he knows I need it. It's like being able to unclench a muscle that's been tensed for far too long and the unspeakable relief and comfort that it brings.
But vulnerability and dependence, no matter how fleeting, are luxuries few can afford.
It's hard knowing there will always be only myself to rely on.
I realised one of the most heartbreaking feelings in the world is to be next to someone you love and still feel utterly lonely, when holding their hand won't take away the yawning gulf that lies between the two of you. You may reach out, but while your hand may touch their skin, all you feel are the bricks of the fortress they've built around them to keep you out. You may speak to them, but it may feel like calling into a broad canyon and all the response you get is the fading echoes of your own voice.
Emotional independence is something I realised I can never let go of, even if I want to, even if I'm in a relationship. For the moment I start to loosen my grip, the hurt is sure to follow very closely. It is tiring, depending only on yourself in all your times of need. But I find it's even more tiring to depend on someone else. Still, sometimes, when I find it hard to keep tears away, when my will has been weathered down, when my own arms can't keep me warm enough, I find myself wishing so much that I could lie helpless in comforting arms, curled up in the security of someone who will be strong enough for me to be vulnerable with, just for that moment. That someone will see my need and draw me to him, simply because he knows I need it. It's like being able to unclench a muscle that's been tensed for far too long and the unspeakable relief and comfort that it brings.
But vulnerability and dependence, no matter how fleeting, are luxuries few can afford.
It's hard knowing there will always be only myself to rely on.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Photos!
We always knew Sean was a little devil in disguise! This was taken on Halloween evening as we were having dinner after trick-or-treating (notice the little tail sticking up behind). Yes, that's the cauldron in which he collected candy. No pictures of myself, though - the photographer/videographer is, as a rule, almost always left out of pictures. Sigh. Anyway, me in a fringed mini-dress and electric blue feather boa ain't exactly a sight for cameras, even for Halloween.Finally done uploading some of the photos from my trip here:
http://community.webshots.com/user/andromeda_carina
Couldn't fit everything as Webshots has a 240-photo limit, so these are the ones I like better. Enjoy!
Monday, December 12, 2005
Missing
My sister just flew off today, bound for home in Santa Cruz, after two and a half weeks here in Singapore. Before that, I'd spent three and a half weeks with her in Santa Cruz. So total time spent together was six weeks. You'd think that'd be enough to make one happy, innit? Not quite. It now feels all weird and quiet without her and little Sean around. Everything feels a little dead now in the house, and I can't help feeling like there's suddenly not very much to look forward to.
The 3.5 weeks in SC was a rare chance, and it'll be a long while more before another (those who know me and my situation well would understand). I guess it's hard to be almost permanantly thousands of miles away from the person I'm closest to in my life.
I tried not to cry at the airport as they were leaving, and held it in all day after that. I waited through the evening and night, and finally cried in the shower where no one would see me. It felt almost like I was 12 years old again and my sister was just about to leave Singapore to study in Iowa. It almost felt like I was back at the airport 14 years ago, holding on to that tiny stuffed lamb that she'd given me as a going-away present, holding back the tears and then spending the next few weeks bawling my eyes out. If I'd known then that she'd never be back to stay, I bet I'd have been a whole lot more upset.
When I got back from the airport earlier and stepped into the house, it was too quiet. The mess of toys Sean left behind was almost done being cleared away, the sofa bed had been folded away and the shuffled furniture shifted back into their original places. It was strange stepping out of my room later and not see my sis sitting at the dining table reading a magazine or with a kooky grin on her face and a corny wisecrack, and not hear the clatter of toys and Sean's garbled chatter.
My sis had also said it'd be weird for her going home and not having me there. Sigh. The Pacific Ocean is too large for us. July will take too long to come when I'll be visiting again.
I've got to go look for that little lamb, which I suspect, with a sense of dread, has been misplaced over the years.
The 3.5 weeks in SC was a rare chance, and it'll be a long while more before another (those who know me and my situation well would understand). I guess it's hard to be almost permanantly thousands of miles away from the person I'm closest to in my life.
I tried not to cry at the airport as they were leaving, and held it in all day after that. I waited through the evening and night, and finally cried in the shower where no one would see me. It felt almost like I was 12 years old again and my sister was just about to leave Singapore to study in Iowa. It almost felt like I was back at the airport 14 years ago, holding on to that tiny stuffed lamb that she'd given me as a going-away present, holding back the tears and then spending the next few weeks bawling my eyes out. If I'd known then that she'd never be back to stay, I bet I'd have been a whole lot more upset.
When I got back from the airport earlier and stepped into the house, it was too quiet. The mess of toys Sean left behind was almost done being cleared away, the sofa bed had been folded away and the shuffled furniture shifted back into their original places. It was strange stepping out of my room later and not see my sis sitting at the dining table reading a magazine or with a kooky grin on her face and a corny wisecrack, and not hear the clatter of toys and Sean's garbled chatter.
My sis had also said it'd be weird for her going home and not having me there. Sigh. The Pacific Ocean is too large for us. July will take too long to come when I'll be visiting again.
I've got to go look for that little lamb, which I suspect, with a sense of dread, has been misplaced over the years.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Who did I meet today? Loads of people - I watched Rent today at Kallang Theatre. Rather muffled sound system, I must say. Anyway, let's pick one person. A young woman with short hair and a peach-coloured blouse sat in front of me. Who is she? Maybe she's a Lynn.
The Trip Home
The house lights came on and Lynn stood up, feeling her legs stretch satisfyingly after the long performance she'd just sat through. She patted her short, cropped hair, carefully making sure that no errant strands stood out. Her fingers encountered her left ear and she gently grasped the little hairs on her sideburn between her middle and ring finger and, making a delicate little arc around the curve of her ear, tucked the hair behind it. She brought her fingers back and tucked the same little hairs behind her ear, following the same little arc. And she repeated. Arc, tuck. Arc, tuck. Arc...
"Your sideburns are gonna look the same no matter what you do with them, dearie." Her friend's teasing made her pause for a moment; and then she finished her fifth and final tuck before reluctantly putting her hand down.
The walk up the aisle towards the auditorium exit was relatively easy as there were no steps. She had a single phrase from the musical stuck in her head, and it repeated itself over and over in her head like a broken record. Seasons of loooooooove. Seasons of loooooooove.
Upon reaching the foyer, she stopped in her tracks to examine the floor. Good - it wasn't tiled.
She headed for the stairs, and then paused again at the top, causing a few annoyed people behind her to step aside to go around her. Lynn looked at the long, continuous flight of stairs, wondering how on earth she should know which foot to take the first step with. Uncomfortably, she realised she would just have to take a chance. Alright, left foot first. As she approached the bottom of the stairs, she was mildly dismayed to see that she had made the wrong choice. Firmly holding on to the handrail, she gingerly skipped the last step, hence succeeding in ending the flight of stairs on her right foot. Relieved, she bade her friend goodbye and set out to find the bus stop.
Small cracks and occasional fissures on the pavement kept her looking downward most of the way to the bus stop, fixedly scanning the white concrete for imperfections. She carefully stepped over every line and crack, always with her right foot, never making any contact with the lines, tiptoeing where necessary. It was a long walk and a bright, hot day, and she started to feel tense and tired of squinting at the pavement. She was relieved when she finally reached the bus stop.
Once under the comforting shade of the bus stop, she checked her watch - it was exactly thiry-eight minutes past five in the evening - then looked up to watch for the bus. Under her breath, she counted, "One, one thousand. Two, one thousand. Three, one thousand..." When she reached sixty, she checked her watch again. It was exactly thirty-nine minutes past five. With a small smile of satisfaction, she started counting again without pausing. "One, one thousand. Two, one thousand..." Before she was through with her sixth set, the bus arrived. She checked her watch - it sixteen seconds shy of forty-four minutes past five in the evening.
The bus door opened and she saw there were three steps leading up, so she took the first step up with her right foot - right, left, right. Just right. Walking down the bus aisle, she was annoyed to find her Usual Seat by the fourth window on the right side taken. Annoyed, she sat down in the seat next to it, taking care not to touch the arm of the passenger sitting next to her. As the bus rumbled along, she felt increasingly insecure sitting by the aisle. She gave a sidelong glare at the offending person who had taken her Usual Seat. She started tucking her little sideburn hairs behind her left ear repeatedly in sets of five, growing more nervous with each passing minute.
Seasons of loooooooove. Seasons of loooooooove. She had liked the tune when she first heard it, but now it was like a housefly buzzing around your face that you couldn't get rid of. Seasons of loooooooove. Arc, tuck. Seasons of loooooooove. Arc, tuck...
When her stop came, she gratefully dashed off the bus, embarking on another five minutes of flight-footed avoid-the-pavement-lines fun.
When she finally arrived at her front door, she took off her left shoe, then her right, and then placed them on the shoe rack, shifting them about until she was sure they were perfectly parallel to each other.
She fished out her key and put it into the keyhole. She held her breath, and then quickly turned the key counterclockwise, shoved the door open, hurried inside and slammed it shut.
She released her breath and twisted the latch. That was one. Remember, we only need one. She regarded the latch for a moment, her hand hovering over it. Unable to resist, she unlatched the door, and latched it again. Two. Unlatch, latch. Three. Unlatch, latch. Four. Unlatch, latch. Five. Done.
She turned around to find her father watching her over his newspaper from his couch in the living room. He shook his head and muttered something about her being a silly girl before looking down at his paper to continue reading. Relief washed over Lynn. She was finally home.
The Trip Home
The house lights came on and Lynn stood up, feeling her legs stretch satisfyingly after the long performance she'd just sat through. She patted her short, cropped hair, carefully making sure that no errant strands stood out. Her fingers encountered her left ear and she gently grasped the little hairs on her sideburn between her middle and ring finger and, making a delicate little arc around the curve of her ear, tucked the hair behind it. She brought her fingers back and tucked the same little hairs behind her ear, following the same little arc. And she repeated. Arc, tuck. Arc, tuck. Arc...
"Your sideburns are gonna look the same no matter what you do with them, dearie." Her friend's teasing made her pause for a moment; and then she finished her fifth and final tuck before reluctantly putting her hand down.
The walk up the aisle towards the auditorium exit was relatively easy as there were no steps. She had a single phrase from the musical stuck in her head, and it repeated itself over and over in her head like a broken record. Seasons of loooooooove. Seasons of loooooooove.
Upon reaching the foyer, she stopped in her tracks to examine the floor. Good - it wasn't tiled.
She headed for the stairs, and then paused again at the top, causing a few annoyed people behind her to step aside to go around her. Lynn looked at the long, continuous flight of stairs, wondering how on earth she should know which foot to take the first step with. Uncomfortably, she realised she would just have to take a chance. Alright, left foot first. As she approached the bottom of the stairs, she was mildly dismayed to see that she had made the wrong choice. Firmly holding on to the handrail, she gingerly skipped the last step, hence succeeding in ending the flight of stairs on her right foot. Relieved, she bade her friend goodbye and set out to find the bus stop.
Small cracks and occasional fissures on the pavement kept her looking downward most of the way to the bus stop, fixedly scanning the white concrete for imperfections. She carefully stepped over every line and crack, always with her right foot, never making any contact with the lines, tiptoeing where necessary. It was a long walk and a bright, hot day, and she started to feel tense and tired of squinting at the pavement. She was relieved when she finally reached the bus stop.
Once under the comforting shade of the bus stop, she checked her watch - it was exactly thiry-eight minutes past five in the evening - then looked up to watch for the bus. Under her breath, she counted, "One, one thousand. Two, one thousand. Three, one thousand..." When she reached sixty, she checked her watch again. It was exactly thirty-nine minutes past five. With a small smile of satisfaction, she started counting again without pausing. "One, one thousand. Two, one thousand..." Before she was through with her sixth set, the bus arrived. She checked her watch - it sixteen seconds shy of forty-four minutes past five in the evening.
The bus door opened and she saw there were three steps leading up, so she took the first step up with her right foot - right, left, right. Just right. Walking down the bus aisle, she was annoyed to find her Usual Seat by the fourth window on the right side taken. Annoyed, she sat down in the seat next to it, taking care not to touch the arm of the passenger sitting next to her. As the bus rumbled along, she felt increasingly insecure sitting by the aisle. She gave a sidelong glare at the offending person who had taken her Usual Seat. She started tucking her little sideburn hairs behind her left ear repeatedly in sets of five, growing more nervous with each passing minute.
Seasons of loooooooove. Seasons of loooooooove. She had liked the tune when she first heard it, but now it was like a housefly buzzing around your face that you couldn't get rid of. Seasons of loooooooove. Arc, tuck. Seasons of loooooooove. Arc, tuck...
When her stop came, she gratefully dashed off the bus, embarking on another five minutes of flight-footed avoid-the-pavement-lines fun.
When she finally arrived at her front door, she took off her left shoe, then her right, and then placed them on the shoe rack, shifting them about until she was sure they were perfectly parallel to each other.
She fished out her key and put it into the keyhole. She held her breath, and then quickly turned the key counterclockwise, shoved the door open, hurried inside and slammed it shut.
She released her breath and twisted the latch. That was one. Remember, we only need one. She regarded the latch for a moment, her hand hovering over it. Unable to resist, she unlatched the door, and latched it again. Two. Unlatch, latch. Three. Unlatch, latch. Four. Unlatch, latch. Five. Done.
She turned around to find her father watching her over his newspaper from his couch in the living room. He shook his head and muttered something about her being a silly girl before looking down at his paper to continue reading. Relief washed over Lynn. She was finally home.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Back from the other side of the Pacific
Back from Santa Cruz on Saturday, and still jet lagged now...which is how I've come to be writing a post before 8am. Just a short note for now, and little something from the trip.The cloud formation in the picture above was from an imposing front that was passing through, which had brought with it rain and chill those 2 days. I was a lucky witness to its edge passing through at sunset, which produced yellow skies, a double rainbow and unstable, boiling clouds like these. Think I must have taken almost 30 photos in the 20 minutes I was outside, beneath this behemoth. Was pretty awesome, especially since I've only seen clouds that look remotely like these when I saw pictures of tornado-producing systems, but tornadoes extremely rarely occur in California.
Will post the rest of my photos when I have time. And it WILL take some time, as I took more than 400 photos!
[Update: I've since learned that these are mammatus clouds.]
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
I've decided to write little stories about people I meet every day, or at least the possible stories.
Red
The young woman behind the counter looked up from her cash register and laughed as the customer in front of her wondered aloud if she was buying too many red things for her boyfriend. "He looks great in red, you see," the customer explained. The cashier grinned and proceeded to fold the red sweater and stuff it into a yawning plastic bag. "Thank you for shopping here and see you again," she chirped as the customer walked away from the counter.
Allison hadn't laughed because the customer's boyfriend looked great in red. What stirred her mirth was the memory of herself, not too long ago, having once bought too many red gifts for the one she loved. Oh yes, the personage of her affections looked divine in any item of red, be it red shirts or red shoes. Allison once had her life saturated with sights and thoughts of red. After all, red was the colour of passion, and of love. And Allison certainly loved with a passion. Thoughts of her love consumed her waking moments. She woke each morning never remembering her dark, troubled dreams in the night, and she liked to think that her dreams were of her one true love. She went out each day looking forward to seeing her love resplendent in red.
But she also learnt one thing - that red, not green, was the colour of jealousy. She knew the hot, pulsing redness that enveloped her mind and the world around her upon the realisation that the one she loved would look in every other place for love except with her. She found that red was the only colour she saw behind her eyelids whenever she shut her eyes to drive out the sight of the one she loved caught in tender, intimate moments with another.
Red was also the colour of rage, and of blood. Allison learnt this all too well in the times when jealousy turned to anger, and she could hardly bear the heat that seared inside her. She also learnt this each time she slowly and lovingly etched the name of the one she loved onto the pale skin of her wrist. She found that the trick was to draw blood each time she carved over cuts that had healed - each new scab would make the beloved letters of that cherished name stand out thicker and clearer.
Allison remembered the Saturday she arrived home to find a pile of returned gifts sitting at the foot of her front door. She felt her heart grow hot as she stood looking down at the haphazard stack of objects in shades of scarlet, burgundy, cherry, wine, rose, coral, russet, vermillion, sanguine and rust. Among the gifts, every item in dizzying shades of red, were woven bracelets, hand-drawn cards, soft toys, heart-shaped boxes, scented candles, cloth roses, pretty slippers, dainty little panties, and one lock of strawberry blonde hair bound with a crimson ribbon. The sting of rejection spread its poison over her rapidly until she felt her entire body on fire. She knew all the gifts had been returned by one person - the woman she loved and desired for her own. One item stood out from the rest; it was not a returned gift. It was a simple sheet of white paper and it stood out pale and sober among the tumble of red madness. Allison picked it up and read the three lines written on it. "You sicken me. Stop sending me things. I'm not like you, you lesbian shit."
Vehement scarlet flooded her senses as her rage loosed in a stream of lunatic screams. She lunged at the pile of returned gifts and dug her fingers into them, ripping some, hurling others, pounding at whatever remained. She hardly noticed the arms that came to encircle her and restrain her thrashing limbs. The following chain of events never stayed in her memory, and all she could now recall was coming to her senses and realising that she was in the living room of her home, her arms and legs held down by her father, her mother and her brother who were grimacing with the effort. As she stopped struggling, she saw the expression on her mother's face change from distress to horror and disgust as she slowly moved her hand away from her daughter's left wrist where the long sleeve had hiked up during the struggle, staring at the bulging, pink lines that marred the skin there.
A shake on her shoulder broke her from her reverie. "Closing time, Ally. Stop dreaming," muttered the store manager before walking away.
Allison tucked a stray lock of her strawberry blonde hair behind her ear and, with a heavy sigh, closed the counter for the night.
Red
The young woman behind the counter looked up from her cash register and laughed as the customer in front of her wondered aloud if she was buying too many red things for her boyfriend. "He looks great in red, you see," the customer explained. The cashier grinned and proceeded to fold the red sweater and stuff it into a yawning plastic bag. "Thank you for shopping here and see you again," she chirped as the customer walked away from the counter.
Allison hadn't laughed because the customer's boyfriend looked great in red. What stirred her mirth was the memory of herself, not too long ago, having once bought too many red gifts for the one she loved. Oh yes, the personage of her affections looked divine in any item of red, be it red shirts or red shoes. Allison once had her life saturated with sights and thoughts of red. After all, red was the colour of passion, and of love. And Allison certainly loved with a passion. Thoughts of her love consumed her waking moments. She woke each morning never remembering her dark, troubled dreams in the night, and she liked to think that her dreams were of her one true love. She went out each day looking forward to seeing her love resplendent in red.
But she also learnt one thing - that red, not green, was the colour of jealousy. She knew the hot, pulsing redness that enveloped her mind and the world around her upon the realisation that the one she loved would look in every other place for love except with her. She found that red was the only colour she saw behind her eyelids whenever she shut her eyes to drive out the sight of the one she loved caught in tender, intimate moments with another.
Red was also the colour of rage, and of blood. Allison learnt this all too well in the times when jealousy turned to anger, and she could hardly bear the heat that seared inside her. She also learnt this each time she slowly and lovingly etched the name of the one she loved onto the pale skin of her wrist. She found that the trick was to draw blood each time she carved over cuts that had healed - each new scab would make the beloved letters of that cherished name stand out thicker and clearer.
Allison remembered the Saturday she arrived home to find a pile of returned gifts sitting at the foot of her front door. She felt her heart grow hot as she stood looking down at the haphazard stack of objects in shades of scarlet, burgundy, cherry, wine, rose, coral, russet, vermillion, sanguine and rust. Among the gifts, every item in dizzying shades of red, were woven bracelets, hand-drawn cards, soft toys, heart-shaped boxes, scented candles, cloth roses, pretty slippers, dainty little panties, and one lock of strawberry blonde hair bound with a crimson ribbon. The sting of rejection spread its poison over her rapidly until she felt her entire body on fire. She knew all the gifts had been returned by one person - the woman she loved and desired for her own. One item stood out from the rest; it was not a returned gift. It was a simple sheet of white paper and it stood out pale and sober among the tumble of red madness. Allison picked it up and read the three lines written on it. "You sicken me. Stop sending me things. I'm not like you, you lesbian shit."
Vehement scarlet flooded her senses as her rage loosed in a stream of lunatic screams. She lunged at the pile of returned gifts and dug her fingers into them, ripping some, hurling others, pounding at whatever remained. She hardly noticed the arms that came to encircle her and restrain her thrashing limbs. The following chain of events never stayed in her memory, and all she could now recall was coming to her senses and realising that she was in the living room of her home, her arms and legs held down by her father, her mother and her brother who were grimacing with the effort. As she stopped struggling, she saw the expression on her mother's face change from distress to horror and disgust as she slowly moved her hand away from her daughter's left wrist where the long sleeve had hiked up during the struggle, staring at the bulging, pink lines that marred the skin there.
A shake on her shoulder broke her from her reverie. "Closing time, Ally. Stop dreaming," muttered the store manager before walking away.
Allison tucked a stray lock of her strawberry blonde hair behind her ear and, with a heavy sigh, closed the counter for the night.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Unseasonable warmth
I guess the weather here in Northern California (and maybe even the rest of the US) has decided to be nice. It's been unusually warm these two weeks, with lots and lots of sunshine, and not-too-cold evenings. It's been warmer than when I came in late summer! I wonder if I'll get a right-side tan from sitting on the passenger side of the car for long hours...
Finally got a chance to see Big Sur, or at least the northern part of it. Did a short drive (about 45 minutes) down to Big Sur from Monterey where we went to see the truly amazing aquarium (yes, again). The view from one of the land's-end points is really breathtaking, and standing almost on the edge of the sheer, towering cliff was rather dizzying. I spent a lot of the drive with my camera out the window and trying to catch the best of the scenery. The curving, winding coastline with its huge cliffs, sheer drops, crashing waves and historic bridge crossings made for exquisite views, even with the sun utterly merciless on that hot, hot day.
I would've spent more time outside the car just enjoying being there, but travelling with a toddler comes with a price, and little Sean was obviously unhappy at being cooped up for the long drive - the drive was made long by ridiculous roadworks that made our car ride over an hour longer than it should have been, and Santa Cruz is 40 minutes away from Monterey as it is. But at least I finally did the drive down, which was something I'd wanted to do for a long time. Well, my sis did the driving, anyway - I just sat there snap-happy and gawking out the window.
Today we went to West Cliff...again. The seals were out in full force, whooping away while clamouring on and off their favourite little Seal Rock just slightly off the coast. The surf was so-so, but that didn't stop a sprinkling of surfers from taking advantage of the glorious weather (then again, awful weather doesn't seem to deter them either). Walked maybe half a mile down the beautiful cliffside (which is contantly eroding - seven years ago when I first visited it, the coastline was at least 30 metres out from where it currently stands). After that, drove down to see the monarch butterflies at the Natural Bridges State Park. It wasn't a fantastic turnout today, compared with other times when they covered the trees with their lovely orange wings. Still, it's nice to just look up at them and wonder at their extraordinary lives.
Saw another fireball during the drive back from Gilroy the other night. That meteor was pretty amazing, lasting a few seconds and so brilliant that I initially thought it was an aircraft in the sky. At first, it barely registered in the corner of my peripheral vision as a bright spot like an aircraft coming in our direction. Then, after shining for a couple of seconds, it suddenly did a super-speed nose dive and vanished in a flash, causing a stir of excitement in the car and exclamations of, "Did you see that?!!" I love California.
Finally got a chance to see Big Sur, or at least the northern part of it. Did a short drive (about 45 minutes) down to Big Sur from Monterey where we went to see the truly amazing aquarium (yes, again). The view from one of the land's-end points is really breathtaking, and standing almost on the edge of the sheer, towering cliff was rather dizzying. I spent a lot of the drive with my camera out the window and trying to catch the best of the scenery. The curving, winding coastline with its huge cliffs, sheer drops, crashing waves and historic bridge crossings made for exquisite views, even with the sun utterly merciless on that hot, hot day.
I would've spent more time outside the car just enjoying being there, but travelling with a toddler comes with a price, and little Sean was obviously unhappy at being cooped up for the long drive - the drive was made long by ridiculous roadworks that made our car ride over an hour longer than it should have been, and Santa Cruz is 40 minutes away from Monterey as it is. But at least I finally did the drive down, which was something I'd wanted to do for a long time. Well, my sis did the driving, anyway - I just sat there snap-happy and gawking out the window.
Today we went to West Cliff...again. The seals were out in full force, whooping away while clamouring on and off their favourite little Seal Rock just slightly off the coast. The surf was so-so, but that didn't stop a sprinkling of surfers from taking advantage of the glorious weather (then again, awful weather doesn't seem to deter them either). Walked maybe half a mile down the beautiful cliffside (which is contantly eroding - seven years ago when I first visited it, the coastline was at least 30 metres out from where it currently stands). After that, drove down to see the monarch butterflies at the Natural Bridges State Park. It wasn't a fantastic turnout today, compared with other times when they covered the trees with their lovely orange wings. Still, it's nice to just look up at them and wonder at their extraordinary lives.
Saw another fireball during the drive back from Gilroy the other night. That meteor was pretty amazing, lasting a few seconds and so brilliant that I initially thought it was an aircraft in the sky. At first, it barely registered in the corner of my peripheral vision as a bright spot like an aircraft coming in our direction. Then, after shining for a couple of seconds, it suddenly did a super-speed nose dive and vanished in a flash, causing a stir of excitement in the car and exclamations of, "Did you see that?!!" I love California.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Meteor madness
I saw a meteor from the plane the other night (it was probably a Leonid, maybe a Taurid), which is rare since the shades had to be drawn on every night flight I'd previously taken. I was gawking at the starry display from above the clouds when I saw the fleeting silver streak, ending in a quick, bright fireball (it's not as dramatic as it sounds; it's a way of describing the type of meteor). Another moment of perfection and awe, sealed behind my eyes for a long time to come.
Hope this year's Leonid shower will be a decent show, though estimates predict only a moderate display at best. The peak is forecasted for around 10am EST on this coming Thursday (17th Nov), which would be 8am for me here and way after sunrise. Moreover, the moon will be full and outshine many of the meteors during the dark hours, and the peak ZHR probably won't be much more than 15. Anyway, I don't hold much hope that Tom will be able to bring us out to the hillside or a darker spot along the coast, considering that someone will have to stay home with little Sean.
2001 really takes the cake as the best Leonid show ever for me and for many other viewers, breathtakingly spectacular during the peak with several meteors streaking across the sky at any given time, some ending in magnificent fireballs that left long-lingering trails. I was really lucky to be out at a dark spot facing the ocean at the time; it had been horribly cold and I was sick (the whole time, I clutched a flask of Throat Coat to ease my cough), but it was still one of my most unforgettable experiences. Having to pee during that trip wasn't much fun, though - there was no public commode anywhere near so I had to do it in the dark on the grass just off the road. It's no fun having to take off my pants in the cold, to be careful I didn't splash on my shoes, and to make sure I didn't step on the spot where my sister had gone before I did. And to hope no other car came by right at that moment and shine its headlights on my pale, freezing butt.
Hope this year's Leonid shower will be a decent show, though estimates predict only a moderate display at best. The peak is forecasted for around 10am EST on this coming Thursday (17th Nov), which would be 8am for me here and way after sunrise. Moreover, the moon will be full and outshine many of the meteors during the dark hours, and the peak ZHR probably won't be much more than 15. Anyway, I don't hold much hope that Tom will be able to bring us out to the hillside or a darker spot along the coast, considering that someone will have to stay home with little Sean.
2001 really takes the cake as the best Leonid show ever for me and for many other viewers, breathtakingly spectacular during the peak with several meteors streaking across the sky at any given time, some ending in magnificent fireballs that left long-lingering trails. I was really lucky to be out at a dark spot facing the ocean at the time; it had been horribly cold and I was sick (the whole time, I clutched a flask of Throat Coat to ease my cough), but it was still one of my most unforgettable experiences. Having to pee during that trip wasn't much fun, though - there was no public commode anywhere near so I had to do it in the dark on the grass just off the road. It's no fun having to take off my pants in the cold, to be careful I didn't splash on my shoes, and to make sure I didn't step on the spot where my sister had gone before I did. And to hope no other car came by right at that moment and shine its headlights on my pale, freezing butt.
Stars
It is cold tonight where I am in Santa Cruz, CA. And although the fog didn't roll in tonight, a gossamer layer of clouds is slowly gathering more substance and obscures more of the night sky by the minute. It didn't rain today, though, so the chill isn't as bad as last night.
I miss the stars. I saw them the first night I arrived back here, but, as usual, only first night lucky - every other night has been either foggy or rainy. Otherwise, when it is clear, the night sky here is embroidered with a shimmering canopy of stars. It's certainly not free from light pollution here, but it's a great deal better than in Singapore where you'd be lucky to spot anything fainter than 2nd magnitude. In the hills of California is where I caught my first, breathtaking sight of the Milky Way like silver mesh stretched out across the sky of black velvet.
I've had a long love affair with the stars. Their luminous beauty drew me to them and, like a truly attractive lover, it is their depths, complexity, being and character that made me fall in love with them. I love to know how, like us, they're formed out of minuscule almost-nothingness, thrown into being by either the gentle persuasion of gravity or the violent collision of colossal forces, sometimes both. I love to know how nebulae, their nurseries, can both glow in dazzling colours and throw black curtains over the light of those behind them.
Many nights I spent lying on hammocks or with my head tilted back over a chair or simply raising my face to the heavens while standing up, just gazing up at those seemingly perfect points of light, knowing them to be imperfect, and loving them for it. In my days of deep darkness and despair, I raised my eyes upward on clear nights, and my soul lifted in joy both serene and passionate at the same time, peaceful and bursting with celebration at once. Armed with maps and my trusty 10x50 binoculars, I learned how only one kind of love can be one-sided and yet be nurturing, fulfilling and all-encompassing.
If stars could sing, I can almost hear the music they would conjure. I imagine them in serene chorus, alto and mezzo-soprano voices joined in wordless aural beauty, their long-sustaining chords ever-changing and never-dying. Not some strange, celestial ringing as some artists have conceived, but each heavenly body having its own distinct voice and its own emotion, blending seamlessly with those of its sisters.
I miss the stars. I saw them the first night I arrived back here, but, as usual, only first night lucky - every other night has been either foggy or rainy. Otherwise, when it is clear, the night sky here is embroidered with a shimmering canopy of stars. It's certainly not free from light pollution here, but it's a great deal better than in Singapore where you'd be lucky to spot anything fainter than 2nd magnitude. In the hills of California is where I caught my first, breathtaking sight of the Milky Way like silver mesh stretched out across the sky of black velvet.
I've had a long love affair with the stars. Their luminous beauty drew me to them and, like a truly attractive lover, it is their depths, complexity, being and character that made me fall in love with them. I love to know how, like us, they're formed out of minuscule almost-nothingness, thrown into being by either the gentle persuasion of gravity or the violent collision of colossal forces, sometimes both. I love to know how nebulae, their nurseries, can both glow in dazzling colours and throw black curtains over the light of those behind them.
Many nights I spent lying on hammocks or with my head tilted back over a chair or simply raising my face to the heavens while standing up, just gazing up at those seemingly perfect points of light, knowing them to be imperfect, and loving them for it. In my days of deep darkness and despair, I raised my eyes upward on clear nights, and my soul lifted in joy both serene and passionate at the same time, peaceful and bursting with celebration at once. Armed with maps and my trusty 10x50 binoculars, I learned how only one kind of love can be one-sided and yet be nurturing, fulfilling and all-encompassing.
If stars could sing, I can almost hear the music they would conjure. I imagine them in serene chorus, alto and mezzo-soprano voices joined in wordless aural beauty, their long-sustaining chords ever-changing and never-dying. Not some strange, celestial ringing as some artists have conceived, but each heavenly body having its own distinct voice and its own emotion, blending seamlessly with those of its sisters.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Beslan Bedlam
I feel so stupid. The Beslan school siege occurred more than a year ago and it barely even registered in my mind till today. I only vaguely recall reading a bit about it in the news last year, but it didn't seem as big a deal as the theatre incident further back.
Then today, I saw a 2-hour programme on Discovery Channel about the Beslan incident, and it totally shocked me. Somehow, reading about the blah-blah numbers who died in blah-blah incidents doesn't register as strongly as seeing them for yourself, even if you're seeing them second-hand.
Images of ordinary, living people being thrown into such abject tragedy can be very powerful, especially when they are children. Watching a small girl casually point out where her friend had been sitting before getting shot is profoundly unnerving. Right about the point where half-naked, filthy, wounded kids were shown being rushed to the hospital in tears, I started to cry. It was difficult to stop myself from bawling while watching the dramatic show-down footage when hostages, kids, gunmen, weeping relatives and dead bodies started to flood the screen in chaotic succession.
This picture of these schoolboy hostages weeping just following their rescue really struck me. It is the enormity of what they were witness to and barely survived, and what will haunt them for the rest of their lives.
There's little to say when faced with violence and political crappiness like this. It reaffirms my belief that humankind is pretty much an awful species. I love my mind inside that oversized brain, but the same grey matter produces such appalling behaviour in this particular species of animal. I think we evolved so far that we're starting to devolve.
Images courtesy of www.beslan-2004.front.ru
Then today, I saw a 2-hour programme on Discovery Channel about the Beslan incident, and it totally shocked me. Somehow, reading about the blah-blah numbers who died in blah-blah incidents doesn't register as strongly as seeing them for yourself, even if you're seeing them second-hand.
Images of ordinary, living people being thrown into such abject tragedy can be very powerful, especially when they are children. Watching a small girl casually point out where her friend had been sitting before getting shot is profoundly unnerving. Right about the point where half-naked, filthy, wounded kids were shown being rushed to the hospital in tears, I started to cry. It was difficult to stop myself from bawling while watching the dramatic show-down footage when hostages, kids, gunmen, weeping relatives and dead bodies started to flood the screen in chaotic succession.
This picture of these schoolboy hostages weeping just following their rescue really struck me. It is the enormity of what they were witness to and barely survived, and what will haunt them for the rest of their lives.
There's little to say when faced with violence and political crappiness like this. It reaffirms my belief that humankind is pretty much an awful species. I love my mind inside that oversized brain, but the same grey matter produces such appalling behaviour in this particular species of animal. I think we evolved so far that we're starting to devolve.
Images courtesy of www.beslan-2004.front.ru
Monday, October 10, 2005
Eye see you
I realise there's a type of eyes that really has an effect on me. Hint: it's in the eyelids.
This is my left eye.
The type of eyes that strikes me is of those that have eyelids rather like my own - begin single-eyelided but un-taper to double. The more pronounced the un-tapering, the more striking I find them.
I was reminded of that this evening at a wedding as I saw an old acquaintance that I'd always thought rather cute. (I digress: My friend said an odd thing when I told her so. "But your boyfriend looks nothing like him." To which I replied, "Just because I like pretty wallpaper doesn't mean I want to date it." So yeah, I may be attached but I'm not dead, and eye candy remains purely eye candy. Takes more than a face to fire my engine, kiddos.) Cute guy in question has eyes somewhat like that, as does an ex-colleague of mine. I find eyes like that rather unnerving actually, almost like their gaze is more intense, more soulful, more searching, like they're trying to tell you more than their mouths are saying.
I was once in love with a guy with eyes like that. His eyes would haunt me even long after I'd closed my eyes and he'd gone. Each time he looked at me silently, I found myself in the uncomfortable position of being frozen by his gaze and feeling naked before it, almost making me want to break the silence by enquiring aloud, "What are you asking me?"
But that is another story and shall be told another time, if ever.
This is my left eye.
The type of eyes that strikes me is of those that have eyelids rather like my own - begin single-eyelided but un-taper to double. The more pronounced the un-tapering, the more striking I find them.
I was reminded of that this evening at a wedding as I saw an old acquaintance that I'd always thought rather cute. (I digress: My friend said an odd thing when I told her so. "But your boyfriend looks nothing like him." To which I replied, "Just because I like pretty wallpaper doesn't mean I want to date it." So yeah, I may be attached but I'm not dead, and eye candy remains purely eye candy. Takes more than a face to fire my engine, kiddos.) Cute guy in question has eyes somewhat like that, as does an ex-colleague of mine. I find eyes like that rather unnerving actually, almost like their gaze is more intense, more soulful, more searching, like they're trying to tell you more than their mouths are saying.
I was once in love with a guy with eyes like that. His eyes would haunt me even long after I'd closed my eyes and he'd gone. Each time he looked at me silently, I found myself in the uncomfortable position of being frozen by his gaze and feeling naked before it, almost making me want to break the silence by enquiring aloud, "What are you asking me?"
But that is another story and shall be told another time, if ever.
Saturday, October 08, 2005
Hotmail booboos
Hotmail did it again. The 250MB inbox promised by Hotmail has been brewing for the longest time and yet most of us don't have it yet.
Not that I'm complaining, since I don't use it for personal stuff. Junk mail accumulates there too quickly - I gave up my REALLY long term Hotmail email account because I was getting a minimum of 50 junk mail a day...and a lot of it didn't go into the junk mailbox, and when I set junk filters to maximum, my personal emails got filtered there too. When you can't win, screw it and get a new one.
Anyway, to get back, I find myself amused by their declarations once more. The first was the same experience as Kelvin, who penned it here: http://darkholme.blogspot.com/2005_09_04_darkholme_archive.html#112614619590212692. I'd received that email in September which promised the inbox upgrade "by the end of August". Interesting concept of time.
The other was the email received today.
And this is the current size of my inbox (the 2nd email in my inbox with the subject "Your Inbox is Growing!" is the abovementioned email):
C'est le Hotmail.
Not that I'm complaining, since I don't use it for personal stuff. Junk mail accumulates there too quickly - I gave up my REALLY long term Hotmail email account because I was getting a minimum of 50 junk mail a day...and a lot of it didn't go into the junk mailbox, and when I set junk filters to maximum, my personal emails got filtered there too. When you can't win, screw it and get a new one.
Anyway, to get back, I find myself amused by their declarations once more. The first was the same experience as Kelvin, who penned it here: http://darkholme.blogspot.com/2005_09_04_darkholme_archive.html#112614619590212692. I'd received that email in September which promised the inbox upgrade "by the end of August". Interesting concept of time.
The other was the email received today.
And this is the current size of my inbox (the 2nd email in my inbox with the subject "Your Inbox is Growing!" is the abovementioned email):
C'est le Hotmail.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Echoes of a piano
I hadn't heard the theme from The Piano for a long time. I'd even forgotten to put it under "Favourite Music" in my Friendster profile. It's been an even longer time since I stopped to think about what it used to mean to me, the effect it used to have on me.
I'd loved it from the moment I heard it when I watched the Jane Campion movie, but wasn't a profound part of me yet at the time. It took a lonely piano and the soft voice of the first man-boy I fell in love with.
It wasn't my fingers moving over the keys, nor the rousing music that they conjured. It wasn't the warmth of the afternoon nor the unique smell of someone else's home, the kind that you never find in another. It wasnt the feel of the cool tiles under my left foot nor the brass pedal under my right, nor the little ornaments and photo frames that lined the top of the piano which fleetingly crossed my gaze.
It was the feel of his gaze on my back, the electric awareness of his presence a few feet behind me. His gaze was almost a physical sensation, a gentle warmth on the back of my head, following the length of my hair, flowing over my shoulders and down to the small of my back and the back of my arms.
"The Heart Asks Pleasure First" is its name. Its music was pure, flowing torrents of passion that filled you and lifted you, creating such longing that you felt like your heart would break. And when it was your hands that made such music, you could feel its power through your fingers and your arms as you raced through its depths, its crests and its rip tides.
I played it on the day I found love, on the piano that sat in the house of the man-boy. That night, he whispered that his piano still lay uncovered and that he watched it, remembering the day, remembering my fingers on it.
From then, whenever I heard it, I thought of him and his voice. Whenever I heard his voice or was with him, I heard it in my head. Memories of lying next to him watching him sleep, the music playing softly on the hi-fi, washing over me in those moments of timeless perfection.
That love is long gone, so completely that it no longer so much as tugs when I think about it. When the music plays, it is not the man-boy that I remember. It is not the strains of a once perfect love that dominated my life so completely and destructively that fills my mind. It is the image of a time gone by, of a part of me that lives but has metamorphosised, of the power of the music that holds sway over my mind and my soul as I let myself drown in its depths and mourn as its last notes trail to its end.
I'd loved it from the moment I heard it when I watched the Jane Campion movie, but wasn't a profound part of me yet at the time. It took a lonely piano and the soft voice of the first man-boy I fell in love with.
It wasn't my fingers moving over the keys, nor the rousing music that they conjured. It wasn't the warmth of the afternoon nor the unique smell of someone else's home, the kind that you never find in another. It wasnt the feel of the cool tiles under my left foot nor the brass pedal under my right, nor the little ornaments and photo frames that lined the top of the piano which fleetingly crossed my gaze.
It was the feel of his gaze on my back, the electric awareness of his presence a few feet behind me. His gaze was almost a physical sensation, a gentle warmth on the back of my head, following the length of my hair, flowing over my shoulders and down to the small of my back and the back of my arms.
"The Heart Asks Pleasure First" is its name. Its music was pure, flowing torrents of passion that filled you and lifted you, creating such longing that you felt like your heart would break. And when it was your hands that made such music, you could feel its power through your fingers and your arms as you raced through its depths, its crests and its rip tides.
I played it on the day I found love, on the piano that sat in the house of the man-boy. That night, he whispered that his piano still lay uncovered and that he watched it, remembering the day, remembering my fingers on it.
From then, whenever I heard it, I thought of him and his voice. Whenever I heard his voice or was with him, I heard it in my head. Memories of lying next to him watching him sleep, the music playing softly on the hi-fi, washing over me in those moments of timeless perfection.
That love is long gone, so completely that it no longer so much as tugs when I think about it. When the music plays, it is not the man-boy that I remember. It is not the strains of a once perfect love that dominated my life so completely and destructively that fills my mind. It is the image of a time gone by, of a part of me that lives but has metamorphosised, of the power of the music that holds sway over my mind and my soul as I let myself drown in its depths and mourn as its last notes trail to its end.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Who lights up who?
I'm suddenly reminded a single, radiant moment when happiness ruled true and pure, even for a moment. It wasn't some dramatic event. It wasn't even like I'd won any lotteries, gotten any presents, received any compliments or had any wishes fulfilled.
It was a smile. Or rather, two smiles.
I no longer remember what Kelvin was saying that made me break into a smile. I didn't think that it was anything extraordinary until I saw the look of pure delight that suddenly lit up his face in reaction to my mirth. He looked as if he was so utterly charmed by the way my smile had dawned on my face. His own face was radiating with untainted joy, the type that requires no rhyme nor reason, nor requires any conscious thought. As I looked at him, I felt his smile light up my heart and complete my own smile. We sat there in that moment of circular joy, delighting in each other, enjoying the voiceless, senseless happiness that flowed between us.
All this in a strange, unforgettable, inexplicable moment.
It was a smile. Or rather, two smiles.
I no longer remember what Kelvin was saying that made me break into a smile. I didn't think that it was anything extraordinary until I saw the look of pure delight that suddenly lit up his face in reaction to my mirth. He looked as if he was so utterly charmed by the way my smile had dawned on my face. His own face was radiating with untainted joy, the type that requires no rhyme nor reason, nor requires any conscious thought. As I looked at him, I felt his smile light up my heart and complete my own smile. We sat there in that moment of circular joy, delighting in each other, enjoying the voiceless, senseless happiness that flowed between us.
All this in a strange, unforgettable, inexplicable moment.
Friday, September 30, 2005
Freeeeeeeeedom!!
(I couldn't help thinking about Mel Gibson's blue face when I typed that header)
I slapped my resignation letter on my boss's desk on Wednesday, and I couldn't feel better about it. I've finally quit after I first said I "didn't intend to stay for long" about a year ago. So you can say that my resignation is one year overdue. But my reasons back then were different from what they are now. Noting that this is a blog for anyone to freely read, it's probably not a good idea delve into the specifics of my reason for leaving. Suffice to say I've had it right up to here.
Intense workload aside, it had been an enjoyable job with lots of potential. However, it's never easy to navigate around Someone who maintains a bias against you through no fault of your own. Some may say it was bad luck, but I think it's just the nature of Someone that attracted a rojak of ass-kissing, back-stabbing, favouritism, hypocrisy and standoffs that resulted in me being caught in a crossfire. In any case, this is a really ridiculous amount of politicking in such a tiny company (there're seven of us currently, including 2 directors). I realised not matter how much effort I put in, no matter how much I try to ignore Someone, no matter how well I produce, I'll never come to anything here because Someone doesn't want me to.
I'm really not used to be prejudiced against. If anything, I'm more used to blending in with the wallpaper than being pressed down by biases. Hence, it totally mystifies me that someone can have it against me. For what? I've no idea. A product of Someone's biased nature I suppose, which manifests in every aspect of Someone's life anyway.
Hence, I'm outta here as soon as I humanly can. I'll leave the rest of them to their politics while I enjoy a well-deserved break.
I slapped my resignation letter on my boss's desk on Wednesday, and I couldn't feel better about it. I've finally quit after I first said I "didn't intend to stay for long" about a year ago. So you can say that my resignation is one year overdue. But my reasons back then were different from what they are now. Noting that this is a blog for anyone to freely read, it's probably not a good idea delve into the specifics of my reason for leaving. Suffice to say I've had it right up to here.
Intense workload aside, it had been an enjoyable job with lots of potential. However, it's never easy to navigate around Someone who maintains a bias against you through no fault of your own. Some may say it was bad luck, but I think it's just the nature of Someone that attracted a rojak of ass-kissing, back-stabbing, favouritism, hypocrisy and standoffs that resulted in me being caught in a crossfire. In any case, this is a really ridiculous amount of politicking in such a tiny company (there're seven of us currently, including 2 directors). I realised not matter how much effort I put in, no matter how much I try to ignore Someone, no matter how well I produce, I'll never come to anything here because Someone doesn't want me to.
I'm really not used to be prejudiced against. If anything, I'm more used to blending in with the wallpaper than being pressed down by biases. Hence, it totally mystifies me that someone can have it against me. For what? I've no idea. A product of Someone's biased nature I suppose, which manifests in every aspect of Someone's life anyway.
Hence, I'm outta here as soon as I humanly can. I'll leave the rest of them to their politics while I enjoy a well-deserved break.
Saturday, September 24, 2005
Music fuels the savage appetites
Isn't it amazing how much effect music has on us? I thought about this as I told my friend that I was laaaaaaaaaaaazy to do something - that made me think of that silly song that contains this line: "Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii'm thinkin' that I'm laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaazy".
Music is so absolutely potent, and has the potential to dictate what we feel as we listen to it. Listening to Yo-yo Ma's rendition of Bach's cello suites can make you melancholy one moment and make your spirit soar the next. Popping in jazz can make you slump back and chill in a matter of seconds. Modern Talking can make your feet lead you reluctantly but irresistably to the dance floor (this is called a guilty pleasure). Sade's husky voice may well make you wanna pounce on your partner and start making out.
And Harry Connick Jr makes my skin tingle with his sexxxxxy voice!
When I'm out, I have this weird thing where I'm very aware of whatever music is playing...which is why I suffer for the 10 minutes that SIA airplanes take to taxi from the runway to the terminal - SIA insists on playing muzak while the plane is taxiing. Even in crowded, noisy eateries, I can always perk up when I hear a fave tune or suppress a barf reflex when I realise it's Michael Bolton's constipated exertions.
I have a theory, based on what I think I'm observing:
When I was a teenager, (teeny bopper boy bands aside,) the grunge movement was in full swing, and radiowaves were filled with the sounds of angsty bands talking of hurt, pain, anger, suicide, the dark side of human nature, and whatever made you listen and think, "OK, I think I'll go slit my wrists now." The result is as Bart Simpson so aptly put it: "Making teenagers depressed is like shooting fish in a barrel." Depression was the hallmark of being a teenager, slouches, pouts and all.
These days, the mainstream popular music that teenagers like is mostly R&B with their "gigolos", "ho's" and general boyd fest. And the way I see it, it seems to have coincided with the general sexualisation of youths these days. No longer do I see the genre of the angsty teenager moping about with their underwear showing. Now I see that showing as much skin as possible is the rage, and being as sexy as possible is the main preoccupation, at least compared to eras before (hmm....except maybe the Roaring 20s, and that never quite took place in full swing in Singapore).
On the plus side, the Ah Beng and Ah Lian subspecies seem to have died out, except for their cheesy techno-pop music that still plays in some stores - the last Ah Lian hold-outs, I reckon.
This is not to say teenagers aren't angsty or suffer from unhappy identity crises anymore, just that the emphasis has shifted according to tastes, and, I believe, music. Music has such effect on how people feel about themselves and the world, and surely affects general moods and perceptions. (By the way, I think that the 90s hoo-haa about subtle messages being played backwards in heavy metal music is a load of crock - talk to me backwards and see if I know what the hell you're saying.)
R&B is certainly not what it used to be. It was absolutely fab in the 60s and 70s with blues-type bands and groups that called themselves The-Somethings. It took a dip in the 80s with sappy, Lionel Richie-type crooning, but was still not too bad. It was almost fab again in the 90s with groups like En Vogue, Salt-n-Pepa, and the even the ballads were pretty good, or at least OK. These days, I'm not sure if they're singing or rapping about anything else except prostitutes, sex and guns. Whatever happened to classy divas like Sade? Bring back Aretha Franklin and Wilson Pickett!! If you can raise Ella from the dead, that'd be absolutely loverly...but that ain't really R&B anymore anyway.
Music is so absolutely potent, and has the potential to dictate what we feel as we listen to it. Listening to Yo-yo Ma's rendition of Bach's cello suites can make you melancholy one moment and make your spirit soar the next. Popping in jazz can make you slump back and chill in a matter of seconds. Modern Talking can make your feet lead you reluctantly but irresistably to the dance floor (this is called a guilty pleasure). Sade's husky voice may well make you wanna pounce on your partner and start making out.
And Harry Connick Jr makes my skin tingle with his sexxxxxy voice!
When I'm out, I have this weird thing where I'm very aware of whatever music is playing...which is why I suffer for the 10 minutes that SIA airplanes take to taxi from the runway to the terminal - SIA insists on playing muzak while the plane is taxiing. Even in crowded, noisy eateries, I can always perk up when I hear a fave tune or suppress a barf reflex when I realise it's Michael Bolton's constipated exertions.
I have a theory, based on what I think I'm observing:
When I was a teenager, (teeny bopper boy bands aside,) the grunge movement was in full swing, and radiowaves were filled with the sounds of angsty bands talking of hurt, pain, anger, suicide, the dark side of human nature, and whatever made you listen and think, "OK, I think I'll go slit my wrists now." The result is as Bart Simpson so aptly put it: "Making teenagers depressed is like shooting fish in a barrel." Depression was the hallmark of being a teenager, slouches, pouts and all.
These days, the mainstream popular music that teenagers like is mostly R&B with their "gigolos", "ho's" and general boyd fest. And the way I see it, it seems to have coincided with the general sexualisation of youths these days. No longer do I see the genre of the angsty teenager moping about with their underwear showing. Now I see that showing as much skin as possible is the rage, and being as sexy as possible is the main preoccupation, at least compared to eras before (hmm....except maybe the Roaring 20s, and that never quite took place in full swing in Singapore).
On the plus side, the Ah Beng and Ah Lian subspecies seem to have died out, except for their cheesy techno-pop music that still plays in some stores - the last Ah Lian hold-outs, I reckon.
This is not to say teenagers aren't angsty or suffer from unhappy identity crises anymore, just that the emphasis has shifted according to tastes, and, I believe, music. Music has such effect on how people feel about themselves and the world, and surely affects general moods and perceptions. (By the way, I think that the 90s hoo-haa about subtle messages being played backwards in heavy metal music is a load of crock - talk to me backwards and see if I know what the hell you're saying.)
R&B is certainly not what it used to be. It was absolutely fab in the 60s and 70s with blues-type bands and groups that called themselves The-Somethings. It took a dip in the 80s with sappy, Lionel Richie-type crooning, but was still not too bad. It was almost fab again in the 90s with groups like En Vogue, Salt-n-Pepa, and the even the ballads were pretty good, or at least OK. These days, I'm not sure if they're singing or rapping about anything else except prostitutes, sex and guns. Whatever happened to classy divas like Sade? Bring back Aretha Franklin and Wilson Pickett!! If you can raise Ella from the dead, that'd be absolutely loverly...but that ain't really R&B anymore anyway.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
I just ate a muffin. Feeling surprisingly full after, especially since I ate no lunch to speak of, unless you count a cup of carrot-and-apple juice and a few sips of soy milk. Was a nice-ish chocolate muffin...but then again, anything tastes great when you're hungry I suppose.
Am on a probably futile attempt to lose some weight before my friend's wedding next month. Haven't seen this group of friends for years, and the last time I met them was 5kg ago. Sigh, the ravages of time...and too much festive and holiday and stress-relief and PMS eating. Yeah, PMS really sends my appetite through the roof, and chocolate suddenly gives me meaning in life for a week each month.
Geez, I'm sounding like a weight-conscious neurotic. Sad but true that many of us are. Really worried when I grow older I'll get afflicted with stuff like diabetes, cardiovascular disease, die of angina at age 40, have half my bowels yanked out due to colorectal cancer, etc. Most of all, I'm worried that I'll have a waistline to rival Henry VIII's by the time I'm middle aged.
Funny, but that got me thinking about a silly poem I wrote when I was 11 about the ghost of a queen (I had been picturing Anne Boelyn while I was writing that). The teacher questioned me if I'd written that myself, the first of a string of teachers who asked me the same thing at various points in my academic life. It's kinda flattering on one hand, yet rather miff-ing on the other not to be trusted at the only thing I'm sure I'm good at.
Am on a probably futile attempt to lose some weight before my friend's wedding next month. Haven't seen this group of friends for years, and the last time I met them was 5kg ago. Sigh, the ravages of time...and too much festive and holiday and stress-relief and PMS eating. Yeah, PMS really sends my appetite through the roof, and chocolate suddenly gives me meaning in life for a week each month.
Geez, I'm sounding like a weight-conscious neurotic. Sad but true that many of us are. Really worried when I grow older I'll get afflicted with stuff like diabetes, cardiovascular disease, die of angina at age 40, have half my bowels yanked out due to colorectal cancer, etc. Most of all, I'm worried that I'll have a waistline to rival Henry VIII's by the time I'm middle aged.
Funny, but that got me thinking about a silly poem I wrote when I was 11 about the ghost of a queen (I had been picturing Anne Boelyn while I was writing that). The teacher questioned me if I'd written that myself, the first of a string of teachers who asked me the same thing at various points in my academic life. It's kinda flattering on one hand, yet rather miff-ing on the other not to be trusted at the only thing I'm sure I'm good at.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
7.37pm, mid-September
Am sitting in the office now, eyes feeling goddarned tired, probably because I'm not used to wearing both mascara and tinted moisturiser for half a day. That, and the confounded airconditioning. Am wearing a black knit top that I thought I looked great in when I first got it, but took a look in the mirror earlier and realised that I look remarkably different in it after a pasta meal.
Bummed a little of my time in the office just now, just very much not in the mood to work. Decided to see if anyone else on the internet remembers how the "When the Jews return to Zion" prophesy got fulfilled in The Omen (1976 horror classic about a freckled kid who turns out to be the devil's son). Googled it, no help anywhere. Am too lazy to watch the entire movie to look out for it. Anyone knows? Anyone? Never mind.
Bummed a little of my time in the office just now, just very much not in the mood to work. Decided to see if anyone else on the internet remembers how the "When the Jews return to Zion" prophesy got fulfilled in The Omen (1976 horror classic about a freckled kid who turns out to be the devil's son). Googled it, no help anywhere. Am too lazy to watch the entire movie to look out for it. Anyone knows? Anyone? Never mind.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Sunday, September 04, 2005
I'd been out of touch with the news of late, so I got a shock when I read about the huge disaster in New Orleans and the Mississippi. I knew there was some hurricane somewhere, but for it to finally wreak havoc in the Big Easy was a fatalistic shock. Not that it's unexpected, really. New Orleans was an accident loooooong waiting to happen, what being in the hurricane zone and a large part of it being below sea level. It's spooky because I just saw a documentary on a plane ride just a month before that spoke about New Orleans being at huge hurricane risk.
Double spook by the fact that one of my oldest and dearest friends pretty damn near went to live there. Grace had been engaged to Liam, who lives and works there, but broke off the engagement some months before the wedding, which would have been in September last year. We're a little worried, since she hasn't been able to contact him since we heard about the disaster, and I hope it's only because of the power and phone outage - hope he's fine and well. In the meanwhile, I'm pretty glad Grace averted this herself, though it took an unfortunate circumstance.
Double spook by the fact that one of my oldest and dearest friends pretty damn near went to live there. Grace had been engaged to Liam, who lives and works there, but broke off the engagement some months before the wedding, which would have been in September last year. We're a little worried, since she hasn't been able to contact him since we heard about the disaster, and I hope it's only because of the power and phone outage - hope he's fine and well. In the meanwhile, I'm pretty glad Grace averted this herself, though it took an unfortunate circumstance.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Mundane Schmundane
Seems like almost everyone around me is going through some sort of upheavel or exciting phase. The tally:
2 office romances
1 new relationship with an older woman (ok, slightly older)
1 'one day stand'
1 job lost (accompanied by heaps of office drama)
1 working for free in an office with EVEN more drama than Days of Our Lives
1 person passed away (sincerest condolences to the Goh family)
Do weddings count? If so, make that 2.
And these are just the friends I've managed to stay in contact with the past 1 or 2 months through my crazy schedule. I seem to be the only one leading a 'steady' life at the moment! While steady is good sometimes, it gets boring after awhile. So it adds spice to hear about my friends' interesting lives! It's great to hear people you care about telling you about their latest adventure, and to share in their joys or sorrows.
And people, there's no such thing as "gossip" - only "collective sharing of experiences". So fire away to this listening ear!
2 office romances
1 new relationship with an older woman (ok, slightly older)
1 'one day stand'
1 job lost (accompanied by heaps of office drama)
1 working for free in an office with EVEN more drama than Days of Our Lives
1 person passed away (sincerest condolences to the Goh family)
Do weddings count? If so, make that 2.
And these are just the friends I've managed to stay in contact with the past 1 or 2 months through my crazy schedule. I seem to be the only one leading a 'steady' life at the moment! While steady is good sometimes, it gets boring after awhile. So it adds spice to hear about my friends' interesting lives! It's great to hear people you care about telling you about their latest adventure, and to share in their joys or sorrows.
And people, there's no such thing as "gossip" - only "collective sharing of experiences". So fire away to this listening ear!
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Indulgence galore
I got a slightly botched pedicure during my trip. My sis and I were trying out this new place that had some opening offer. The first sign that all was not well was when I kept feeling little stings as the pedicurist was trimming my cuticles. Next sign was when I noticed a drop of blood welling at a spot on the big toe on my right foot. Undeterred, she dabbed off the blood, not a word said, then continued. Not only did the rest of the pedicure sting (try dabbing nail polish on an open cut and you'll see what I mean), she didn't bother sterilising the cut. I would've said something if I weren't feeling so cold, courtesy of the salon leaving the door open on a chilly day, and if only the Vietnamese lady actually spoke any English. She didn't seem to comprehend "Ow!" very well.
Next sign was an hour after I reached home. Apart from realising that the colour wasn't quite what I thought it'd be (I don't usually go for sweet colours), I noticed a wee bit of base coat that was applied a little beyond my right pinky toenail and had dried on the skin. I gently started to use my fingernail to try to peel that bit off...and the entire coat of nail polish came off - see exhibit
on the left. So I've been going around for a week with one bare nail on my pinky toe.
Today I'm gonna treat myself to...GODIVA!! Got four pralines, two for me, two for Kelvin who's being a sweetie and accompanying me for dinner tonight. Ah, just the sight of that little yellow and gold bag gets my heart a-flutterin'.
Just went to a product launch today - VGO's V12 Cyber Relax massage chair. It's less 'cyberish' than it sounds, and what's cool is that I got to try it out! Oh man,
if only my folks hadn't already bought that other chair last year! This one was pretty awesome, with rollers that kneaded my back all the way down to the small of my spine. The number of massage combinations is pretty amazing, and the lovely young lady that sat next to me explained every little detail of the massages she let me sample and patiently answered my dozens of questions. I felt kinda bad, though, as I was the first to sit down to try and the second-last to get up! I could certainly use more of that as part of work!
(Image courtesy of worldofsports.com.sg)
Next sign was an hour after I reached home. Apart from realising that the colour wasn't quite what I thought it'd be (I don't usually go for sweet colours), I noticed a wee bit of base coat that was applied a little beyond my right pinky toenail and had dried on the skin. I gently started to use my fingernail to try to peel that bit off...and the entire coat of nail polish came off - see exhibit
on the left. So I've been going around for a week with one bare nail on my pinky toe.Today I'm gonna treat myself to...GODIVA!! Got four pralines, two for me, two for Kelvin who's being a sweetie and accompanying me for dinner tonight. Ah, just the sight of that little yellow and gold bag gets my heart a-flutterin'.
Just went to a product launch today - VGO's V12 Cyber Relax massage chair. It's less 'cyberish' than it sounds, and what's cool is that I got to try it out! Oh man,
if only my folks hadn't already bought that other chair last year! This one was pretty awesome, with rollers that kneaded my back all the way down to the small of my spine. The number of massage combinations is pretty amazing, and the lovely young lady that sat next to me explained every little detail of the massages she let me sample and patiently answered my dozens of questions. I felt kinda bad, though, as I was the first to sit down to try and the second-last to get up! I could certainly use more of that as part of work!(Image courtesy of worldofsports.com.sg)
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Hardware makes me tick
Woohoo! I've got a new keyboard-and-mouse set! They're both wireless and ergonomic, and the keyboard comes with a whole lotta buttons for the ultimate lazy computer user. Check it out.
Yes, I know it's a cheap thrill. But hey, hardware always gets me ticking. Excuse me while I salivate at the sight of a new gadget.
It's excellent to shop for computer stuff in San Jose as it's cheaper there than in Singapore for most things. Fry's is this big electronics place that always has deals and mail-in rebates. I was so tempted to get a 100GB hard drive and casing for less than US$200, but didn't get to go to Fry's this trip. Anyway, hand-carrying it would've been less than a lark, as I had to carry this baby (above) back as well - the keyboard is longer than it looks and didn't fit into the roll-along bag I had. So instead, I carried it on a cheapo canvas bag whose straps ripped even before I boarded the flight.
Yes, I know it's a cheap thrill. But hey, hardware always gets me ticking. Excuse me while I salivate at the sight of a new gadget.It's excellent to shop for computer stuff in San Jose as it's cheaper there than in Singapore for most things. Fry's is this big electronics place that always has deals and mail-in rebates. I was so tempted to get a 100GB hard drive and casing for less than US$200, but didn't get to go to Fry's this trip. Anyway, hand-carrying it would've been less than a lark, as I had to carry this baby (above) back as well - the keyboard is longer than it looks and didn't fit into the roll-along bag I had. So instead, I carried it on a cheapo canvas bag whose straps ripped even before I boarded the flight.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Excuse me, are you a hypochondriac?
I'm 26 years old and I just had cholesterol, blood glucose and uric acid tests done at my annual visit to the gynae last week. Yes, you read me right - the gynaecologist. Some years back, I figured I might as well make sure everything down there is alright all of the time. So yearly, I head to that freezing little office to be peered at, poked and prodded, and ultrasound-imaged inside and out (literally).
Imagine this: You're lying down, naked from waist down and spreadeagled; the airconditioning is set to deep freeze; the gel thing that the doc spreads on my tummy for the ultrasound is cold; the (plastic or metal?) external ultrasound instrument is cold; the internal ultrasound instrument she sticks in is cold. And she has the cheek to tell me, "Relax"??
Two weeks ago, the last two fingers on each hand started to become slightly numb, especially when I held up the phone for more than a few minutes at a time. The numbness extended from the fingers down the sides of my hands. Since numbness is one sign of diabetes, I got worried.
The nurse at the reception had trouble comprehending that it was I, and not my mother, who wanted the cholesterol and glucose tests done. Pray, what is wrong with wanting to know if the stuff that sloshes through my veins is going awry? I have a friend my age who actually does have high cholesterol. Since I don't have the healthiest of diets and a strong family history of diabetes, I figured it's high time to check on myself.
Hence, I found myself at the nurse's office, staring at two test tubes full of my blood. Dark, viscous and the colour of red velvet, sitting pretty in their little coffins of glass.
I never understand why people don't like getting tests done simply for fear of what they might find out. You mean, it's easier finding out later than finding out now? So to avoid the torture of a one-week wait for potentially disheartening news, they go through another few years of background suspense, before being hit with potentially devastating news?? That's utter rot, if you ask me. I'd rather know now and be able to do something about it.
Being a health writer has its pros and cons I suppose. Pro: I actually take the trouble to research find accurate information and am more concerned with my own state of health. Con: I'm becoming more paranoid. I now scan the ingredients list on every facial wash, moisturiser, toothpaste and snack I buy. Trouble is, how do you avoid things like trans fats and high-fructose corn syrup when almost everything has them? How do you not use alcohol on your skin when there almost isn't a single skin product that (truly) comes without it? Even 'natural' products come with all sorts of crap in them.
Children and young adults get cancer, cardiovascular disorders and other colourful ailments. How does one live with peace of mind with all these at the back of their head?
Guess I'll just have to go through life kinda hoping that I won't have to suffer anything too chronic.
Imagine this: You're lying down, naked from waist down and spreadeagled; the airconditioning is set to deep freeze; the gel thing that the doc spreads on my tummy for the ultrasound is cold; the (plastic or metal?) external ultrasound instrument is cold; the internal ultrasound instrument she sticks in is cold. And she has the cheek to tell me, "Relax"??
Two weeks ago, the last two fingers on each hand started to become slightly numb, especially when I held up the phone for more than a few minutes at a time. The numbness extended from the fingers down the sides of my hands. Since numbness is one sign of diabetes, I got worried.
The nurse at the reception had trouble comprehending that it was I, and not my mother, who wanted the cholesterol and glucose tests done. Pray, what is wrong with wanting to know if the stuff that sloshes through my veins is going awry? I have a friend my age who actually does have high cholesterol. Since I don't have the healthiest of diets and a strong family history of diabetes, I figured it's high time to check on myself.
Hence, I found myself at the nurse's office, staring at two test tubes full of my blood. Dark, viscous and the colour of red velvet, sitting pretty in their little coffins of glass.
I never understand why people don't like getting tests done simply for fear of what they might find out. You mean, it's easier finding out later than finding out now? So to avoid the torture of a one-week wait for potentially disheartening news, they go through another few years of background suspense, before being hit with potentially devastating news?? That's utter rot, if you ask me. I'd rather know now and be able to do something about it.
Being a health writer has its pros and cons I suppose. Pro: I actually take the trouble to research find accurate information and am more concerned with my own state of health. Con: I'm becoming more paranoid. I now scan the ingredients list on every facial wash, moisturiser, toothpaste and snack I buy. Trouble is, how do you avoid things like trans fats and high-fructose corn syrup when almost everything has them? How do you not use alcohol on your skin when there almost isn't a single skin product that (truly) comes without it? Even 'natural' products come with all sorts of crap in them.
Children and young adults get cancer, cardiovascular disorders and other colourful ailments. How does one live with peace of mind with all these at the back of their head?
Guess I'll just have to go through life kinda hoping that I won't have to suffer anything too chronic.
Friday, July 22, 2005
The Sandman Cometh
Neil Gaiman fans got a treat earlier this month when the man himself showed up on our shores. The fans were evidently VERY happy too, judging by the ridiculously long lines of people queueing for the book signings (I hear there were about 1,000 people each evening!). Thank goodness I had a press pass and had my stuff signed during the considerably quieter press conference.
I was going to ask some general public-friendly type questions so I could say something about it in the next issue, but the hardcore questions that shot from the aggressive and kiasu journalists in the front were pretty discouraging, so I ended up not asking any of my questions anyway.
At least I got a nice signing on Coraline and Dream Hunters. He drew a rat in a jacket in my Coraline, though I've no idea whether it is Wilkinson (from Sandman: A Game of You) or one of the Coraline rats (I don't remember those wearing any clothes). His signing in Dream Hunters got a bit smudged as silly me closed the book before the silver ink had dried completely. Still, at least it's quite clear if you hold it at an angle.
Hmm, didn't get a good photo of him though. This one is the best shot I got, even with the fancy big camera I loaned.
Latest rave: Snow, Glass, Apples. It's Gaiman's re-telling of the Snow White tale, and how! For someone who loves dark, gothic tales, this one is right up my alley, from open to end. Told from the queen's point of view, it lends a whole new perspective to the story. The Snow White here certainly ain't the two-dimensional little saccharin sweet princess. "Snow, Glass, Apples" is the last story in the book Smoke and Mirrors.
I'd always believed that the 'fairy tales' that we read as kids were descended from far darker lore, and turns out I was right when I got old enough to read up more about their origins. The fairy tales themselves are often dark, disturbing and sometimes downright sadistic. But kids don't get the full impact of the notion of getting eaten by a wolf even if they understand the idea of it. If adults re-read the story, they may get nightmares, imagining the process of being painfully chewed, a slow, wet descent into the animal's gut, and the extreme, suffocating claustrophobia of being inside the wolf.
Oh, but how I love how twisted these tales are!
Monday, June 27, 2005
A moment with myself
"Have you ever had the feeling
That the world's gone and left you behind?
Have you ever had the feeling
That you're that close to losing your mind?"
~Angel Eyes~
I left my last phase of depression long behind me; probably my only major phase. Clinically depressed? I don't know, I don't think so. When you're feeling so low and you're convinced there's no way you can crawl back out, you don't really stop to think about what a shrink would classify you as.
No, I never saw any shrinks, never took any pills. Pills would not have done any good as long as the cause existed. Well, causes, anyway.
I remember what it was like. Feeling so utterly low and tragic that it was hard to breathe. Sitting up nights on darkened corridors with a single candle and a cup of tea, weeping my eyes out. Long walks alone in the wee hours on lonely roads, thinking, thinking and thinking. Lying next to a sleeping male body, feeling utterly alone. Looking into another's haunting eyes and seeing the world lying in between us. Mourning the death of true, intense love, believing it gone forever. One heartbreak after another in rapid fire, clamouring and tripping over each other. Staggering down a flight of stairs with my head spinning wildly, alcohol raging in my blood, self-pity in front of me and a worried friend behind me. The constant fear that there was no way out of this, no salvation imminent, all self-worth a distant memory.
It's a strange feeling, remembering who I was, what it was like during an entirely different state in my life. It isn't that far removed, just a few years ago, but feels a world away. Maybe it's because I don't see the people who remind me of it anymore, maybe it's because I'd moved on to a new life situation, making it easier to distance myself from the soap opera that occurred before.
So young, so stupid, so vulnerable. Growing up doesn't take as long as some people think. I believe that the moment you get your heart broken, you grow up; and each time it gets broken again, you grow somemore. That makes me quite an aged hag, I suppose.
Why am I thinking back on all this? I'm not even thinking about the individual incidents on their own, the numerous times I had my heart diced, sliced and chucked into blenders. I'm hardly even thinking of the men and boys who whirled in and out, leaving destruction in their paths, their cruelty and/or apathy taking a part of me with them. I'm now considering them as a whole, a faceless generality (is there such a word?), collectively a part of my past and a part of who I am now.
What would I have been if I had never met them all? Don't think that's possible - I think I would have met all of them eventually, due to my nature and temperament. I've learnt and grown from all these experiences...but I do sometimes find myself wishing my youth could have been happier.
I'm in the last decade of my youth, and fighting hard to make the most of it. My first two decades was wasted on pleasing people, most of whom did not deserve the least of it, even those who loved me most. I'm much happier now, and am able to look back without feeling the pain in the same way, though I never forget how it felt. But I wonder sometimes, how long before I make an unforeseen turn and start down another street of sorrow?
"I walk along the street of sorrow
The boulevard of broken dreams"
~Boulevard of Broken Dreams~
That the world's gone and left you behind?
Have you ever had the feeling
That you're that close to losing your mind?"
~Angel Eyes~
I left my last phase of depression long behind me; probably my only major phase. Clinically depressed? I don't know, I don't think so. When you're feeling so low and you're convinced there's no way you can crawl back out, you don't really stop to think about what a shrink would classify you as.
No, I never saw any shrinks, never took any pills. Pills would not have done any good as long as the cause existed. Well, causes, anyway.
I remember what it was like. Feeling so utterly low and tragic that it was hard to breathe. Sitting up nights on darkened corridors with a single candle and a cup of tea, weeping my eyes out. Long walks alone in the wee hours on lonely roads, thinking, thinking and thinking. Lying next to a sleeping male body, feeling utterly alone. Looking into another's haunting eyes and seeing the world lying in between us. Mourning the death of true, intense love, believing it gone forever. One heartbreak after another in rapid fire, clamouring and tripping over each other. Staggering down a flight of stairs with my head spinning wildly, alcohol raging in my blood, self-pity in front of me and a worried friend behind me. The constant fear that there was no way out of this, no salvation imminent, all self-worth a distant memory.
It's a strange feeling, remembering who I was, what it was like during an entirely different state in my life. It isn't that far removed, just a few years ago, but feels a world away. Maybe it's because I don't see the people who remind me of it anymore, maybe it's because I'd moved on to a new life situation, making it easier to distance myself from the soap opera that occurred before.
So young, so stupid, so vulnerable. Growing up doesn't take as long as some people think. I believe that the moment you get your heart broken, you grow up; and each time it gets broken again, you grow somemore. That makes me quite an aged hag, I suppose.
Why am I thinking back on all this? I'm not even thinking about the individual incidents on their own, the numerous times I had my heart diced, sliced and chucked into blenders. I'm hardly even thinking of the men and boys who whirled in and out, leaving destruction in their paths, their cruelty and/or apathy taking a part of me with them. I'm now considering them as a whole, a faceless generality (is there such a word?), collectively a part of my past and a part of who I am now.
What would I have been if I had never met them all? Don't think that's possible - I think I would have met all of them eventually, due to my nature and temperament. I've learnt and grown from all these experiences...but I do sometimes find myself wishing my youth could have been happier.
I'm in the last decade of my youth, and fighting hard to make the most of it. My first two decades was wasted on pleasing people, most of whom did not deserve the least of it, even those who loved me most. I'm much happier now, and am able to look back without feeling the pain in the same way, though I never forget how it felt. But I wonder sometimes, how long before I make an unforeseen turn and start down another street of sorrow?
"I walk along the street of sorrow
The boulevard of broken dreams"
~Boulevard of Broken Dreams~
Monday, May 30, 2005
A study in new beginnings
"A light January shower veiled the street, the trees fidgeting and shuddering under the drizzling droplets. The sultry smell of wet soil and tar softly drifted over the road, now a concrete mirror gleaming in the grey light. The rainwater trickled over the leaves, wood, pavement, concrete, seeping into the soil and storm drains, on its way to carry on its journey elsewhere. A new beginning was about to take place."
Sunday, May 29, 2005
The Neurosis of Sk8ter Girl
But think about it: In fact, the song is not really about little Miss Ballet (we’ll call her that for simplicity) – it’s in fact about the girl singing the song – Sk8ter Girl. It’s an ode to her neurosis, insecurity and immaturity.
Saturday, May 14, 2005
Mei Niang
I thought about my grandma today. This picture above was from when she was still in school - wasn't she cute? I've been told that I got a lot of my features from her, which is nice to know.
She died in 1996. Some of my cousins barely even knew her, which is incredibly sad as she was an amazing woman. I wonder how many of them asked their parents about her, if they even think about her anymore. A person is never really dead until everyone who knew them has forgotten about them, so I guess she's still living in our memories.
Her story sounds unremarkable when you first hear it: she was a midwife. But when I hear my parents start to enthusiastically talk about the people whose lives she touched, it touches me too. She often midwifed for free or accepted only a small token from families who couldn't afford expensive healthcare. I figured this is the reason for her legion of god-children and grateful pseudo-relatives who bombarded our house during Chinese New Year in past years - in fact, some of them still visit us, even though they are of no blood relation to us at all. Her midwifing 'precinct' apparently spanned at least a three-neighbourhood radius. My dad would tell me about all the food the happy families would press her to accept in return for her services. He'd tell me how their tiny, crowded home was often crammed with kids that she would help to look after and feed. It was eye-popping to hear about the number of people that filled the humble abode at any one time.
I remember her as a gentle, positive person who never stopped finding something to do, save for her short afternoon naps. Even with a maid in the house, she'd pick up a broom and start sweeping up fallen leaves, find something to tidy up, or stop to chat with her grandchildren. I remember her and grandpa showing up at our doorstep with bundles of fruits each time they came to stay. I was rather disappointed when they stopped coming to stay regularly. As a kid, I was impressed that she could speak a few languages and many dialects (not too wonderfully, but hey, let's hear YOU speak more than two languages). From all accounts, she was the main person of the household, handling the multitude of people that came in and out of the house and keeping everything running well. I also remember she loved drinking sweet packeted drinks. She survived her first brush with cancer.
I remember the first time I saw her cry. Grandpa had died some weeks before and his picture hung in my study room. I was doing homework when she came in and sat down to talk. She looked at his picture and started to cry as she spoke about him. I had never seen her sad before.
The second time I saw her truly sad was at a time when she could hardly cry even if she'd wanted to. She was lying on a bed in Singapore General Hospital, dying. Going by the signs, she was simply hanging on that week, and there was no reason why she should still be alive at that point. Her moment of sadness was when my father held his mobile phone next to her ear and she pleaded my sister to come home. I remember her exact words (in Hokkien): "Ah Tieng, come home. Ah Ma is going to die." After that day, she could no longer speak. My sister flew 13,673 kilometres across the ocean and arrived two days later and rushed to the hospital to see my grandma the last time. Grandma then died the next day.
I still think about the stories told about her. I remember Grandpa's story of how he liked her and wanted to get her family to let him marry her. I remember my mum chuckling about how she heard about how sought-after she was, apparently the prettiest girl in the kampung (village). In my mind, the only other woman who measures up to her in capability, gentleness and strength of character is maybe Mother Theresa (and then again).
I'd glad I took the time to ask my grannies about their stories before they were gone, and that my parents are still glad to tell me more when I ask. I can't decide if my favourite story is my grandpa's dramatic tale of his flight from his village in China to Singapore during the war, or any of his half-baked funny stories told in broken Mandarin.
Everyone that has lived has a story. Learn their stories before you regret not having cared at all.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Volume 2 is out!! So much sweat and hard work went into this, I can scarcely imagine I'm still sane. Some of us practically camped out in the office to get this through. I think my record for the number of hours straight spent in the office was 31 hours....after which I went home at 4pm for a quick shower and then immediately headed to a meeting. Gotta admit it's immensely rewarding to finally have the magazine in my hands. Will have to stock up on more Red Bull and supper snacks for the next round.... One good thing that came out of it is I found out the downstairs noodle stall in the Beach Road food centre is the only stall open that late with decent food and good mee pok. (Psst! Bit of advertising here: Check out the mag at www.livewell.com.sg)
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
California dreaming
Sunset over Monterey Bay in Santa Cruz, CA
Pretty amazing huh? You can take a look at my California vacation photos at http://community.webshots.com/user/andromeda_carina if you like. Got some good pics of some of that great scenery that the West Coast is famous for.
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Sean da cutie!!
I'm so excited, I just have to mention this. Sean, my cutest little 19-month-old nephew, tasted durian for the first time, and he liked it!! Which is great, considering his ang-moh dad also loves it. Little Sean has certainly acquired likings for a few edibles during this trip to Singapore – pineapple tarts, Yakult (he doesn't seem to like Vitagen Less Sugar as much, though), durian.
It was pretty interesting to watch him try to suck through a straw for the first time. He saw me sipping at Yakult and kept staring, so I let him try. He couldn't quite get the mechanics of sucking it up all the way at first, and it was funny watching the stuff go up and down the straw but never reaching his mouth. He put the straw too far up his mouth at first, though; my sis says it's a throwback from the instinct babies have, where touching the palate of the mouth activates their sucking reflex.
You can so tell when he likes something and wants more of it: "MMMMPH!!" while leaning forward as far as he can. He looks pissed when he does that, but we all know it's because he wants something. Think he's gotten a bit spoilt while in Singapore – so many people to play with him and so much attention. It's so hard to get to work – the moment he sees me all dressed up, carrying my bag and heading to the door, he clings on to me, refuses to let go, and cries the house down if I leave. My dad and I had resorted to sneaking out the back door. You can see his noggin working each time we come home throught the front door. He should've caught on by now - us disappearing through the kitchen door and reappearing 10 hours later through the front door.
He's got this face that makes him look like a Precious Moments doll: those large doe eyes, cheeks that curve just like those characters and tiny lips that keep making weird expressions.
He's so cute.
It was pretty interesting to watch him try to suck through a straw for the first time. He saw me sipping at Yakult and kept staring, so I let him try. He couldn't quite get the mechanics of sucking it up all the way at first, and it was funny watching the stuff go up and down the straw but never reaching his mouth. He put the straw too far up his mouth at first, though; my sis says it's a throwback from the instinct babies have, where touching the palate of the mouth activates their sucking reflex.
You can so tell when he likes something and wants more of it: "MMMMPH!!" while leaning forward as far as he can. He looks pissed when he does that, but we all know it's because he wants something. Think he's gotten a bit spoilt while in Singapore – so many people to play with him and so much attention. It's so hard to get to work – the moment he sees me all dressed up, carrying my bag and heading to the door, he clings on to me, refuses to let go, and cries the house down if I leave. My dad and I had resorted to sneaking out the back door. You can see his noggin working each time we come home throught the front door. He should've caught on by now - us disappearing through the kitchen door and reappearing 10 hours later through the front door.
He's got this face that makes him look like a Precious Moments doll: those large doe eyes, cheeks that curve just like those characters and tiny lips that keep making weird expressions.
He's so cute.
Friday, March 11, 2005
UNGROOMED!!
I wish there was a word for the phenomenon where, on the one day you decide to go out totally ungroomed, you bump into people whom you wish could see you looking hot instead of frumpy. Then I'd actually have a term to describe my Wednesday night!
I met two people I really didn't want to see ever again in my life....well, one of them anyway, the other just comes attached to him. The last time these people saw me was when I was at least 5kg lighter and dressed better. I went out earlier that day thinking, "Hey, no one's gonna see me anyway, so why bother." So I head out without make-up, wearing an ugly, ugly cardigan over an unflattering outfit (hey, it was comfortable, ok?).
Sigh....this is almost worse than the foot-in-mouth disease that people get in similar situations. I was thankfully spared that when I had to rush off to meet my dad and couldn't (and didn't wanna) stop to talk to those two people, whom I might add seemed to have actually lost weight (rather than gained like the rest of us), making their already thin frames almost disappear. After my majorly self-esteem-killer experience with the dude in question in the past, the least I could do is look hot on front of them. But noooooooo, SOMEbody had to go out looking like a bloated, middle-aged fish with no eyebrows.
I know what you're thinking. Hey, even perfect people are entitled to frivolous grousing every now and then, let alone an excessively self-conscious neurotic like me.
I met two people I really didn't want to see ever again in my life....well, one of them anyway, the other just comes attached to him. The last time these people saw me was when I was at least 5kg lighter and dressed better. I went out earlier that day thinking, "Hey, no one's gonna see me anyway, so why bother." So I head out without make-up, wearing an ugly, ugly cardigan over an unflattering outfit (hey, it was comfortable, ok?).
Sigh....this is almost worse than the foot-in-mouth disease that people get in similar situations. I was thankfully spared that when I had to rush off to meet my dad and couldn't (and didn't wanna) stop to talk to those two people, whom I might add seemed to have actually lost weight (rather than gained like the rest of us), making their already thin frames almost disappear. After my majorly self-esteem-killer experience with the dude in question in the past, the least I could do is look hot on front of them. But noooooooo, SOMEbody had to go out looking like a bloated, middle-aged fish with no eyebrows.
I know what you're thinking. Hey, even perfect people are entitled to frivolous grousing every now and then, let alone an excessively self-conscious neurotic like me.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Lip smackers
Let's talk about lip locking. Here are some milestones in my chequered kissing career.
Most disgusting kiss
This has got to be kissing a guy who'd just smoked. Why? Ever licked an ashtray? I didn't think so. And guys, popping in mints and sweets DOESN'T help; it just makes it more.... how shall I say, multi-dimensional?
Most virginal kiss
No, not my virginal kiss, someone else's. It's a very strange feeling to be kissed by someone who thinks he's frenching you but isn't. This dear, innocent boy didn't seem to realise that french kissing involves tongues – he apparently thought it was just open-mouthed.... and empty.
Most exhilirating kiss
The first, obviously. It's that moment just before, when I looked at those lips and thought, "Wow, am I gonna kiss THOSE lips??" Nothing prepares you for your first real one. At the rate it was going, I thought my heart was going to just pop out of my chest and start skittering away on little feet.
Cutest kiss
This has got to be a tie between butterfly kisses (where you flicker your eyelashes against your partner's) and Simpsons-type looooooooong-puckered kisses. In case you haven't seen the Simpsons in lip lock before, they pucker up such that their mouths look like little balloon-ends (the part where you place your lips to blow into the balloon) – when they kiss, it's like two little balloon-ends joining up.
Most uncomfortable kiss
Try kissing while your body is tilted backwards at about a 45-degree angle, with no support underneath, all the while you're trying to balance yourself by pushing upwards, but the numb guy is thinking that he's being super romantic by pushing you backwards while kissing like in a vintage Hollywood movie. At least in movies, the romantic dude would bother to support his lady's back. Strangest way to get a backache, probably.
Most disgusting kiss
This has got to be kissing a guy who'd just smoked. Why? Ever licked an ashtray? I didn't think so. And guys, popping in mints and sweets DOESN'T help; it just makes it more.... how shall I say, multi-dimensional?
Most virginal kiss
No, not my virginal kiss, someone else's. It's a very strange feeling to be kissed by someone who thinks he's frenching you but isn't. This dear, innocent boy didn't seem to realise that french kissing involves tongues – he apparently thought it was just open-mouthed.... and empty.
Most exhilirating kiss
The first, obviously. It's that moment just before, when I looked at those lips and thought, "Wow, am I gonna kiss THOSE lips??" Nothing prepares you for your first real one. At the rate it was going, I thought my heart was going to just pop out of my chest and start skittering away on little feet.
Cutest kissThis has got to be a tie between butterfly kisses (where you flicker your eyelashes against your partner's) and Simpsons-type looooooooong-puckered kisses. In case you haven't seen the Simpsons in lip lock before, they pucker up such that their mouths look like little balloon-ends (the part where you place your lips to blow into the balloon) – when they kiss, it's like two little balloon-ends joining up.
Most uncomfortable kiss
Try kissing while your body is tilted backwards at about a 45-degree angle, with no support underneath, all the while you're trying to balance yourself by pushing upwards, but the numb guy is thinking that he's being super romantic by pushing you backwards while kissing like in a vintage Hollywood movie. At least in movies, the romantic dude would bother to support his lady's back. Strangest way to get a backache, probably.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
My top movies for 2004 to Feb 2005
Best movies watched:
1) Being Julia
2) Before Sunset (see rave below)
3) Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
4) The Incredibles
Worst:
1) Kungfu Hustle
2) Troy
3) Spider-man 2
I'd love to continue this list, but I'm glad to say I seldom catch bad movies
What I wish I'd watched:
1) Super Size Me
What could have been wonderful if only the 3 main actors could actually act:
1) The Phantom of the Opera
1) Being Julia
2) Before Sunset (see rave below)
3) Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
4) The Incredibles
Worst:
1) Kungfu Hustle
2) Troy
3) Spider-man 2
I'd love to continue this list, but I'm glad to say I seldom catch bad movies
What I wish I'd watched:
1) Super Size Me
What could have been wonderful if only the 3 main actors could actually act:
1) The Phantom of the Opera
This film has my vote: Before Sunset
This was one of the most enjoyable movies I caught in the past year. It's so outstanding because of its unconventional approach, which is totally unseen in mainstream movies churned out by the Hollywood and HK big screen machines.
Anyone who mistakes this for just another rose-tinted love story is sadly misinformed (in spite of what the posters look like). I'd never been so intrigued by continuous small talk in a movie than I'd been in Before Sunset. It's more about the synergy of minds and what it's like to totally hit off with someone simply because you had the right chemistry and complementary characters, and you can rattle off about just about anything under the sun (and beyond) just 2 minutes after meeting each other.
This movie has far more interesting elements to it than its prequel, Before Sunrise. While Before Sunrise had been about new beginnings and discoveries, youth and hope, Before Sunset has more undertones. It has a lot more to work with, especially the kind of undercurrents and tension that stem from the experiences of both characters, both in terms of their individual paths and their link to each other. There is also a greater sense of immediacy and reality.
It's interesting to watch the characters' exchanges while being at the age I am. While I'm not in my thirties (...yet – patience, my pet), I'm already some way down that road of experience-borne cynicism, emotional baggage and growing worldliness from having been through heartbreak, disappointment, disillusionment, and just generally knowing more than you want to know about the world...yet holding on to sparks of hope, yet despairing that they are mostly just sparks of hope, not of possibility.
The question they ultimately ask themselves is one many people my generation are surely asking – are they with the person they should be with? Have they chosen the right vocations? What should they do about their regretful choices?
The ending is excellent. I frankly don't feel that it could have ended any other way. The ambiguity at the end is starkly different from the first movie. The first movie ends with hope in a more distant future, though to those two young minds, it is not so distant and is brimming with expectant hope. Before Sunset's ending has that feeling of immediacy, leaving us feeling that if only we could linger another 2 minutes, we would see the choices they would have made. This ending is not about hope – there's no time for hope. They are already late, as it is. You know that whatever decision they make, it would have to be now. They're no longer as young and will not play with as much time as they did before, now fully aware of the folly of missed opportunities. They've come this far in 90 minutes and there's no time to simmer – once this is over, it's over. Moreover, there's no win-win situation. There would be repercussions, whatever they choose.
The camera work is really interesting, if you stop to notice. It is subtle, but works fully to convey unspokens. For example, a sequence of them walking up a long flight of stairs in silence is captured in a single, unbroken shot, fully capturing that minute of quiet tension and subtle hints of what's running through their heads as they trudge towards Celine's apartment. Another example I love is the scene where she languidly describes Nina Simone in concert. The camera moves out and has Celine in the middle of a wide shot while she mimicks Nina Simone. It gives the impression of Celine being in a stage performance herself. It is in that moment that she actually is on a metaphorical stage, still somewhat personal and yet distant from her audience, Jesse. It is not said or shown, but we know they are taking that moment to think and decide where to place their fates. Why else do people make slow, trivial talk at crucial moments?
I love this movie because it's much more real than most other movies. We can all find a part of ourselves and a part of our lives in the way this story is told, and we identify with it because it happens they way real life does. Yet, it maintains more than enough emotional intensity and romanticism to capture our hearts. Its tender moments tug at our hearts and remind us to be afraid of love and yet desire it.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
It's official - I'm famous!! Well, almost. My photos appears twice in this magazine, though I doubt many people who even know who the heck it is, what with the top of my head chopped off in the pics. Plus, with my sis, bro-in-law and nephew in it too, I've got 2/3 of my family in there!
Can't believe it. So much work for such a small magazine, quarterly too. Imagine if it were monthly. After writing almost half of this mammoth project and editing just about all of it repeatedly, I've gotta appreciate the madness of the publishing world. An article is never an article. Just preparing one page takes a lot of crawling through crap....especially if you meet some people who insist on dumping even more crap on you AND insulting you and your profession to your face.
At least I'm grateful that conscience isn't something I'm contending with at this moment. That's a major plus of writing for a health and wellness magazine that's not bound by pragmatic write-what-sells notions. I'd like to think that what I write helps, even if it makes me more cynical of what I read of other people's work (and I'm already very cynical to begin with).
Last week, I got a compliment on one of my articles. A small, humble little compliment, but it still feels great to be appreciated, especially for a piece that was written on a subject matter close to my heart.
The cycle has started again. Let the games begin....
Sunday, January 16, 2005
He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven
Had I the heaven's embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
~W.B. Yeats~
Had I the heaven's embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
~W.B. Yeats~
Talent and doubt
Some gifts of natural talent you get that don't go away. Right?
That's the question I often ask myself. While in school, I discovered that my gifts of prose and acting far exceeded my knack for school curriculum. While I can't say I was born with them, they certainly always felt like natural and essential parts of me, like the ability to write with my right hand and the ability to curl my tongue.
But will the lack of contact and use cause them to diminish? I'd stayed away from acting for so long, I no longer know if I'm any good at it anymore, and I can't help feeling that it doesn't come to me as naturally as it used to. I feel more stilted and uncomfortable, even though I still love it. Or is it because I just wasn't doing the right pieces for me?
I can write, that I know. Words flow from me with ease. But can I write prose anymore? I have not written a single piece of fiction or descriptive writing since I was 17. There's only one way to find out, if only there was time enough.
Simple little questions of doubt, flowing from insecurities and deep-seated fear - after all, who doesn't sometimes stop to wonder if there's a little less of themselves if they stop being able to do things that they used to be good at or love? Part of my soul is with the pen and the stage. Is there a hollow space within me where they used to fill?
That's the question I often ask myself. While in school, I discovered that my gifts of prose and acting far exceeded my knack for school curriculum. While I can't say I was born with them, they certainly always felt like natural and essential parts of me, like the ability to write with my right hand and the ability to curl my tongue.
But will the lack of contact and use cause them to diminish? I'd stayed away from acting for so long, I no longer know if I'm any good at it anymore, and I can't help feeling that it doesn't come to me as naturally as it used to. I feel more stilted and uncomfortable, even though I still love it. Or is it because I just wasn't doing the right pieces for me?
I can write, that I know. Words flow from me with ease. But can I write prose anymore? I have not written a single piece of fiction or descriptive writing since I was 17. There's only one way to find out, if only there was time enough.
Simple little questions of doubt, flowing from insecurities and deep-seated fear - after all, who doesn't sometimes stop to wonder if there's a little less of themselves if they stop being able to do things that they used to be good at or love? Part of my soul is with the pen and the stage. Is there a hollow space within me where they used to fill?
Saturday, January 15, 2005
The office panorama
The view from my office window. Pretty neat, huh? Of course, I've cropped off the part of the view that includes the dingy Golden Mile Complex carpark and what appears to be a makeshift outdoor storage area for some workers. That strange little white-&-black object in the lower right hand corner is apparently the laundry of the aforesaid workers hanging out to dry....and appears to include some underpants.
My office has had the 'privilege' of being right next to the Nicoll Highway collapse site. Right before I joined the company, Francis (my boss) told me that one day they were suddenly told to evacuate the building, though he had no idea why. He later found out it was because of the collapse on the highway that day. During that time, if you'd looked for my office in www.streetdirectory.com, you would have been pointed to a spot within a circle labelled "Accident Site"! But that also meant that if you'd travelled along Beach Road outside the office for the next six months after 5pm, you would've been trapped in horrible traffic.
Today, someone visiting the office commented, "Oh, it's quite nice and cosy, isn't it?" Whenever I hear that tone, I can't help but think that what that person really means is, "My, I never thought your office was so tiny." Each time someone waltzes in, gapes for a moment and then comments on the 'cosiness' of the place, you marvel at how polite people can be and yet be just as annoying as if they'd made a tactless comment.
My company's little workspace occupies a studio-apartment sized unit in InCity Lofts, a building that has based itself on a "live and work" concept, meaning that its units can be used as apartments to live in or small offices. This is perfect for our little outfit of five people, two of whom are hardly ever in the office (the sales gurus who bring in the moolah). We hope to move into the bigger unit next door when (and if) we expand. The next door unit is quite lovely, and includes two separate bedrooms (that can be converted into more 'private' working areas...*rubbing hands in glee*) and a kitchenette.
It's small, but quite pleasant in general. The ceilings are high, and there's a loft-like space above our huge wall cupboard. But to date, no one has brought in a ladder yet, so that space is not doing very much. It gets pretty dim too, since most of our natural light is obscured by Golden Mile Complex next to us. Even with the room lights switched on, it's pretty dim. The desk lamps don't do much except irritate my eyes. Our furniture almost entirely comprises Ikea stuff, right down to the letter holders.
There's an odd yet interesting phenomenon among the tenants here. Whenever a person is alone in the lift, and the lift stops at any floor other than the desired floor, the person will start to walk out without checking which floor it is, and look utterly shocked when someone else enters the lift. I've done that myself quite a few times! I guess everyone's so used to having few people around to share the lifts with. But it's still priceless to see the look on someone's face when they start to walk out of the lift and then have that OH!! expression when they see you walking in.
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
VJC revisited
VJC cleaned up real nice! This is the view from a landing next to the lovely stairwell next to the auditorium wing. It's got a rather ostentatious chandelier dangling down the middle, and a cool baby grand piano at the base. I'm jealous - I wanna be 17 again!
Monday, January 10, 2005
Sunday in the 'arts' library
$15 per hour for a meeting room in the Esplanade library. That's not too bad, really, if you want to compare with other places, but yeah, I guess Yan has a point that it's not very encouraging for the arts to have a charge like that. But this is Singapore, we're pragmatic people. That room mightn't necessarily have been for the 'arts'.
Arts library indeed. They didn't have ANY Christopher Durang plays there! Got there on Wednesday night to find out that all the Durang plays are in the Marine Parade library. Then pray why tout this one as the arts library if they ain't got a comprehensive collection? Folks, it's OKAY to have duplicate copies in different libraries, ya know??
Was not entirely surprised to have only Joe and Kennie show up for today's gathering at the library. Two last-minute pull-outs and no response from anyone else....we're off to a good start, aren't we? But we made some good progress I think. Spent most of the time reading snippets of the plays we dragged out of the shelves. Very promising, some, but others inspire the phrase "What the...?!". Like Agamenon, which is actually an adaptation of Poe's immortal House of Usher story. I don't know about the others, but I'm not too sure I'm keen on learning lines that come mostly in stanzas.... Then there are some other plays that seem to comprise entirely of a series of monologues. And no, they were not classical Greek ones.
Hard to pick a suitable play. Can't be too male; can't be too female; can't be too abstract; can't be too comedic; can't be too dated. Such a series of 'can'ts'. This week's exploration of the theatre shelves has shown me that, for every brilliant work of playwriting, there's a horde of seriously crappy stuff.
Browsing the music scores section was lovely, though. Even if I couldn't find the score for South Pacific (was looking for the score for that ridiculous shampoo song). Seeing the shelves of classical scores brought back memories of my college days when I used to spend hours rifling through the collection at the Stamford Road library, picking out works that look promising to try out on my Albert (my beloved piano), and then having to reluctantly eliminate some from the inevitably large pile that ends up in my to-borrow list. I doubt I ever played half of those I borrowed, though. Still was always nice making my way to the library on my own. I still like that, though the opportunity comes by far less often these days.
I don't like libraries. I don't like borrowing. I prefer owning, collecting, so I prefer bookshops. But my pockets don't run so deep, so borrowing will have to suffice till I earn my first million and fund my own private library. (uh huh.) I like to be able to read something, put it away somewhere on my shelves, and come back to it again sometime when its spine catches my eye again. Even if I don't read it again, I like the thought that I can. Compulsive consumerism? Perhaps. But the value I attach to a book I own is something that can never apply to a borrowed book that I read and doesn't seem to stay with me. The contents of the book just seem to be more a part of me when I own the book. Same reason why I hate e-books - the feeling that I can't own it, that it's not real enough for me. I'm always so hungry for books, always looking for that next work of art, be it an astronomy reference, a social dissertion, graphic novel, an irresistable coffee table book, a piece of fiction. Bookshops are death traps for my wallet.
Arts library indeed. They didn't have ANY Christopher Durang plays there! Got there on Wednesday night to find out that all the Durang plays are in the Marine Parade library. Then pray why tout this one as the arts library if they ain't got a comprehensive collection? Folks, it's OKAY to have duplicate copies in different libraries, ya know??
Was not entirely surprised to have only Joe and Kennie show up for today's gathering at the library. Two last-minute pull-outs and no response from anyone else....we're off to a good start, aren't we? But we made some good progress I think. Spent most of the time reading snippets of the plays we dragged out of the shelves. Very promising, some, but others inspire the phrase "What the...?!". Like Agamenon, which is actually an adaptation of Poe's immortal House of Usher story. I don't know about the others, but I'm not too sure I'm keen on learning lines that come mostly in stanzas.... Then there are some other plays that seem to comprise entirely of a series of monologues. And no, they were not classical Greek ones.
Hard to pick a suitable play. Can't be too male; can't be too female; can't be too abstract; can't be too comedic; can't be too dated. Such a series of 'can'ts'. This week's exploration of the theatre shelves has shown me that, for every brilliant work of playwriting, there's a horde of seriously crappy stuff.
Browsing the music scores section was lovely, though. Even if I couldn't find the score for South Pacific (was looking for the score for that ridiculous shampoo song). Seeing the shelves of classical scores brought back memories of my college days when I used to spend hours rifling through the collection at the Stamford Road library, picking out works that look promising to try out on my Albert (my beloved piano), and then having to reluctantly eliminate some from the inevitably large pile that ends up in my to-borrow list. I doubt I ever played half of those I borrowed, though. Still was always nice making my way to the library on my own. I still like that, though the opportunity comes by far less often these days.
I don't like libraries. I don't like borrowing. I prefer owning, collecting, so I prefer bookshops. But my pockets don't run so deep, so borrowing will have to suffice till I earn my first million and fund my own private library. (uh huh.) I like to be able to read something, put it away somewhere on my shelves, and come back to it again sometime when its spine catches my eye again. Even if I don't read it again, I like the thought that I can. Compulsive consumerism? Perhaps. But the value I attach to a book I own is something that can never apply to a borrowed book that I read and doesn't seem to stay with me. The contents of the book just seem to be more a part of me when I own the book. Same reason why I hate e-books - the feeling that I can't own it, that it's not real enough for me. I'm always so hungry for books, always looking for that next work of art, be it an astronomy reference, a social dissertion, graphic novel, an irresistable coffee table book, a piece of fiction. Bookshops are death traps for my wallet.
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