tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37188099437474441822024-03-05T14:46:01.649+08:00spilt Teh Ais on papyrusLaugh and life goes on. Really.teh ais limeihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13723578582495409229noreply@blogger.comBlogger71125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3718809943747444182.post-71230391658524113102012-06-22T16:16:00.002+08:002012-06-22T16:16:18.190+08:00Last minutes of being 24<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I spent it being a coward. I spent it doing exactly what I've been doing for the past two decades. Being unsure. Being scared. I'm not afraid of growing old. I'm afraid of how young people would see me as. How frivolous. How immature. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I'd written something about the last few minutes of being 24, half spontaneous and half caffeinated, and could not bear the thought of posting it up. It was written off the top of my mind, which can usually pass off as what's in the deepest of heart. It feels too unmeasured, too callous, too reckless. What if I make a fool of myself? What if I make a fool of other people? I don't like consequences because I feel responsible for everything. I don't like spontaneity because I can't feel responsible.</span><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">But this wasn't what 24 taught me. 24 taught me to let go, to be free. 24 had me loosen my grip off the handles by the swimming pool, had me jump into the middle of the ocean to touch the fishes, had me drop my Baggages to embrace the one Happiness that til today, I know I do not deserve.</span><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">And today, I sit here in Starbucks with the person who can make me laugh the hardest and love the deepest, sharing a drink that I have never heard, and a song that's unfamiliarly soothing, and I'll say - </span><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">"25 can be the way the cookie crumbles". I have no idea what it means, but it's off the top of my head, and as 24 had taught me, that's all that matters.</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><br />teh ais limeihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13723578582495409229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3718809943747444182.post-91666585629283908742012-02-21T00:37:00.002+08:002012-02-21T00:42:59.805+08:00Number. Adventure. Blank Paper.<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Looking at property listings is as sobering as, well, as a hobo having run out of alcohol under a sobbing evening sky.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; "><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; ">Not that I’m planning to add a house to my current list of assets soon (my laptop, childhood bolster and Pratchett collection don’t take too kindly to newcomers. Especially those that cost more than them). Not that I can.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; ">It was probably a bout of adulthood hitting me between the eyes, because I sure as heck felt the slam when the living daylight left me. Those prices had so many zeroes that I was pretty sure it’s a health code violation in several countries, and a stigma in at least one. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; ">But it was something perfectly sensible to do, wasn’t it? In another 4 months or so, I would be 25 years old. Doesn’t matter that my 14-year-old inner self is writing angsty songs about it. Doesn’t matter that I have no idea how to be 25. Doesn’t matter if I think 25 is but a number, except that with this one we get cake, which is definitely more than what you can ask of, say, 3.14159265. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; ">I would be 25. And still making it up as I go along.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; ">And one of the things I managed to make up was perfectly adulty things like looking through property listings. And feel depressed. And complain about feeling depressed. And drive people insane by repeating myself, in this case, one “and” at a time.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; ">I also started thinking in timelines again. You know, that unwritten decree that you must be married by this age, and get a promotion by that age, and pop a baby out by some other age, etcetera. Not that there is anything wrong with thinking like that. It got some people somewhere – family, career, a nice house, a shiny car, mid-life crisis… hey, it’s not my kind of life, but heck, my life probably involve a telephone-booth sized apartment and irregular meals, so it may not be to your taste either. We’d both be even, in a way – although you’d be richly smooth, while I’m merely spread thin. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; ">What bothers me is that this was precisely the kind of mentality that I vowed not to fall into. I do not want to live my life by a schedule that was chiselled into the psyche by culture and customs. This is not to say that I’m against marriage, or promotion, or procreation. In fact, these are all things that I would celebrate with fanfare and noisemakers and a costume party for at least one of them. But if these happen to me, I want it to be meaningful, not merely punctual. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; ">Thinking in timeline felt like a grid pressed into my mind, grating it into a colony of work ants with only one obsessive purpose; one Queen to feed. And the Queen breeds. She breeds more sterile, wingless slaves. And she doesn’t care who dies. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; ">One of my biggest fears is that one day, when I look in the mirror, I would see the zombie in my eyes. A zombie that wants no brains, because it knows not what to do with them. A zombie who forgot how to be hungry.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; ">Is that what adulthood looks like? Are the grids finally clamping down? Will it all be a wingless, barren chase for survival from here, for the fulfilment of a fertile future?<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; ">Is it the right thing to do?<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; ">Perhaps. But not this year. 25 can be just another number, another adventure, another blank paper. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; ">And if I toss the damn watch into the lake, 25 can be the best.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span >We make it up as we go along.</span></i><span style="font-size: 100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>teh ais limeihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13723578582495409229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3718809943747444182.post-52854960571984117622012-01-19T00:12:00.005+08:002012-01-19T00:36:56.395+08:00Ouch. Who put that here? Had someone done something to the decor?<p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>I have been staring at the same blank page for two weeks. Granted, I’m not knee-deep in fortnight stink (suspend imagination, please, if you ever want to look at me without gagging) and the state of my tummy has not been compromised. I blame it on living with the parents. They seem to unable to stomach the idea that a writer with a block would just want to hunch over the beckoning prompter, damning in its every blink, and wallow in no certain amount of self-pity and 9Gag posts. It would, however, have been better for my heroic agony if they had come around to force me to take a shower and swallow bread. But no, their mere presence commanded my sensitivity to body hygiene and food pyramids and the calls of Kuih Kapit, because my holistic upbringing was designed to suit the path of a 9am-5pm future, not hobo writer. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>In between all that I also managed to hold down a full-time job, berkecoh-ed with a few of the most awesome people I know on Cameron Highlands, and generally tried to have a social life. I know, my tortured-writer-with-no-fun-and-salary street cred is in shreds. What else can I depend on to sell any of my books? </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>In my defence (because I really want to sell my books), the blank page have been hovering before me in all these two weeks. It haunted me, casting a semi-transparent veil over my visual. I saw it when I eat, I saw it when I sleep. I saw it when I Facebook-ed, I saw it when I emailed my boss. I sometimes forget to see it when I am too busy laughing my ass off at whatever Jee/Wan Qi/Eileen/Roya/etc said, but I will compensate by seeing it doubly hard afterwards. I promise.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>On rare occasions when I actually sit down and type on the blank page, I saw it most. All its whiteness. And space. And potential. And risks.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>I retreated, unable to remember how the words form and the fingers tap. I tried to wrap my head around the page but the rust of un-writing had long arthriticked my mind. I can no longer tell people that I am a writer without the certainty that the lie was written all over my face. I read other people’s prose and wondered how the hell they did it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>It was all very dramatic.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>My worst fear had come true. I left the States wondering if I will now be immune to the suffocating mentality that seems to pervade the Malaysian air. The same mentality that had me fumbled my column every month, developed a strong dread for writing, and blind-folding myself to what is now clear as day. I wondered if I could maintain that spontaneous voice and borderless thinking which the Americans have taught me – the same one that had me discovering that I actually love making up stories as much as reporting them, and whipping off that darkness which I insisted on groping in. I wondered if I can still be curious, wide-eyed, eager and inspired.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>For a while, I thought I could. My first few months back was amusing, and refreshing, and comforting. I could find food and company after 12 am. I could pronounce water and not ‘warer’. I could relish the joy among familiar loved ones with their familiar sense of humour. I could be pampered, and pamper in return. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>But I did not write my blog.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>It slowly became I <i>could </i>not write my blog. It was supposed to be my journal, where I record life and all its life-ness, but I wrote nothing. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>It was like a brain-constipation. I had so many things I want to express, but it just won’t come out. I live my life with the engorgement in my mind that could never find the smooth exit. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>You did not just read me equating my thoughts to crap. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>Anyway, brain-constipation was major discomfort, as anyone with the bowel equivalent would understand. My mind was suddenly filled with things that I cannot do. Boundaries and bonds. I thought, this is it. The gated mindset had finally caught me. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>Or maybe, I was the one who caught it instead. After all, it is probably far more convenient to whine about writer’s block than filling a blank page with words that at least looked like it had passed through the lobes. It was easy to blame it on "the limiting Malaysian mentality" than to admit that I’m just not doing my best.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>I had thought about giving up blogging. Giving up on my journal. But I read once that “Don’t give up on the thing that you cannot spend a day without thinking about it.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>So, here I am. If none of the above makes sense, don’t worry. I will explain it once it starts making sense to me. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>If I’m lucky, you’ll see me here again. If you're lucky, this would be my last whining-about-writing post. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>In the meantime, I need to nurse that Drummer-Boy-shaped absence in my heart with some Pratchett. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>Good night, y’all.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p></p>teh ais limeihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13723578582495409229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3718809943747444182.post-91086591831149417252011-08-12T12:36:00.001+08:002011-08-14T12:40:32.988+08:00Homebound<div>I am currently 9, 754 meters above ground, flying at the speed of 854 km per hour towards Kuala Lumpur. Rumours have it that one is inclined to feel something at this point. Intense reluctance, perhaps – for I am going back from the Great Capitalistic Yes-We-Can America to the Aiyah-Out-of-Stock What’s-the-Point-lah Malaysia. Annoyed, even, for I am leaving a year of freedom and autonomy to go back to Living with The Parents. Terrified, most likely, for I am currently unemployed, crossing the roads like a Californian (pedestrians are god, no? Hey, why are you still driving towards me?!), have the defense mechanism of a wide-eyed person living in the a safe American suburb with houses that seemed to be designed by burglars (my brother-in-law calls it My Little Pony Land), and could possibly choke from humid heat and contract something deadly (like Extreme Irritance. I never said it was deadly to whom.)</div><div>
<br /></div><div>In short, this should be a flight I’d hate to take.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Which is why I found my cheeriness a little unsettling. I am more used to freaking out and going bananas, and worrying about everything and then consoling myself that it is nothing, but go on worrying anyway, just in case. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>Except I can’t remember how to do that. I remember the general worrying and conjuring up what-ifs in my head, but somehow my heart didn’t seem to be in it. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>It’s probably because my heart is actually… pretty excited to go back to Malaysia. It also probably because this flight has so many awesome movies waiting to be seen and the refreshments just kept coming (Singapore Airline rocks!) It is also likely that I’ve just had the most amazing travel month, especially the last two weeks, that the giddy residue of it all is still pumping in my veins.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Call me optimistic, but I am really just looking forward to some nasi lemak done right. I sometimes suspect that I would fight for the betterment of our country just so that prawn mee have a place to exist. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>But even I, in my less hungry moments, realise that while Malaysian food is Something, it’s not everything. One day, I may too get disillusioned again and complain about the government and shed longing tears at the miniature Lady of Liberty statue I bought for my mom. One day, I may regret coming back. One day, I may become bitter and reminiscent about the good old year that was America.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>And that would be the day I forget what it really means to live.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>It is not about the place, the food, the weather, and the people. It is not even about the government, and the policies, and the facilities, and the economy.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Life is what you make it – the place that you allow yourself to see, the food that you allow yourself to savour, the weather you allow your body to get used to, the people you allow yourself to love. It may even be about the government you allow to rule, the policies you fought to be made, the facilities you make the best of, and the economy you help to flourish. And – because we all need to maintain sanity – the complaints we love to dispense.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>I have known Malaysia all my life. It takes leaving it to realise that everything I know is nothing – not about my own country and the potential and beauty it has, not about living in it, and definitely not about deserving it.</div><div>I know nothing.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Luckily, that’s a good start to Learning.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>An even luckier thing is that I found Someone to learn it with (I wanna fly a Wau next! *hint* :P)</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Malaysia is as imperfect as a country gets. But whaddyaknow, imperfection is my defining trait. Looks like we’d hit it off just fine, don’t you think?</div><div>
<br /></div>teh ais limeihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13723578582495409229noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3718809943747444182.post-36105404321561228222011-07-28T23:32:00.003+08:002011-07-28T23:40:55.636+08:00The Year that Did, Did Not, and Did-I-really<div>I came to the States with my life in two pieces of luggage. I was 23.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, I’m leaving with double the amount of luggage, and feeling twice as old – even though it has only been just a year.</div><div><br /></div><div>A year I still could not believe had happened. </div><div><br /></div><div>A year in which I got shoved into the big black hole of Growing Up.</div><div><br /></div><div>A year in which I made some of the toughest decisions; paid for the price, harvested the fruits, sometimes all at once.</div><div><br /></div><div>A year which taught me more about human relationships, both the romantic and the platonic, than any hanging-out-and-yum-cha session could ever impart.</div><div><br /></div><div>A year that picked up my beliefs, my principles, my worldview, my perspective, my assumptions (this constitutes the majority chunk), and threw it back on my face. Somehow, face dripping with the remains of the old Me, I am the better for it.</div><div><br /></div><div>A year which I could finally breathe in my own skin, and wondering why the heck I lugged all those layers around for so long.</div><div><br /></div><div>A year which I wronged, apologized, lost.</div><div><br /></div><div>A year which I gained.</div><div><br /></div><div>A year that dragged this coward into a ride of her worst fears, and pulled out a bedraggled, dazed person-thing who couldn’t believe she survived. (No, I’m not talking about those darn roller coasters – unlike mine, those rides hardly make you wiser. Just look at the amount of people who kept going back for more.)</div><div><br /></div><div>A year that I saw the Jesus in many around me, those who extended their hand, their saving hand, to this undeserving, eternally grateful sinner.</div><div><br /></div><div>A year which took me to places I’ve only dreamt of, met people who made all the difference, saw amazing sights that, as my brother-in-law would like to say, caused some serious mind-fuchuk-ness. Yet, YET, for some reason, I still manage to come to a conclusion that if you get right down to it, Everywhere is the Same.</div><div><br /></div><div>A year that made me see my country with new eyes, and discovered that truly, despite everything, I love my home. Warts, inefficiencies, corruption, dirty politics, questionable economic standards, and all – for I realise that these made me angry and sad, more than the Amazing America can ever make me. </div><div><br /></div><div>To me, Home isn’t where the heart is. Home is where the hurt is.</div><div><br /></div><div>For what it’s worth, for New Dreams and Seasoned Friendships, for filial piety and sisterly promises, for obligations and optimism, for better or worse – I’m coming home.</div><div><br /></div><div>And the awesome bit? The adventure continues lah!</div><div><br /></div>teh ais limeihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13723578582495409229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3718809943747444182.post-27336420705469224782011-06-03T15:55:00.005+08:002011-06-04T03:15:09.578+08:00Meeting Ol' Mel<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHZMBUQGcf-WwUHfb7IpaDJSfwSnKwGqg_Aht9W940vzNSB6o6esSox_nnyyODvNPxFZ_Unn14ykSQ09VA2YFAbXLQGmoeePW3kkYk6r8rGTYeoBkxcXSs_8107heI282N9e95ogw_N6k/s1600/chinatown025.jpg"><br /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgWQ4Cj7TStdC0sPehiryKrTYp-6n_g_Z2SYpw5NKoqkL_uQa9rdvRxsbcHfiPWfFBiu47HWbv7CxJwTlZ9_7aQqBKFRup5rHr6J-QfphzyZLUbtBKMTvnnihAsjlBo640d-Mp_pEOkSw/s1600/abneypark1.JPG"><br /></a>Hey, Melancholy. I’ve been expecting you.<br /><br />I had thought you would come earlier. It’s already June, and in about two months I would be leaving the States, leaving a dream that I had since I was seventeen, only now the dream has undressed into Reality – or at least, I hope it has, though sometimes I still find it a little surreal. You know, come to think of it, I never really bothered to double-check what was the medicine that shrink prescribed to me. Hmm.<br /><br />Anyway.<br /><br />I had thought you would march in when I was playing with the kids, enjoying the rare moments when they forgot to kill each other, and realising that man, I’m really gonna miss my Rowdyruff Boys.<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/CWWr3wZR-8U" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" width="480"></iframe><br /><div style="text-align: left; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">How Little Boys are Created</span><br /></span></div><br />And I thought you would sink in during those many times I immerse myself in Red Rock café, breathing the intellectual aroma (you can tell by the way the smell of caffeine practically knock you between the eyes).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS1CqFFnjBqyNPDzjuU6VNjX9yEWjk-gLo7vFlpE07HlZE6qkzLK702k6vo_kDDvfQgCsCXkuq0R9X79N_XaabErqsJCVDBFZtUaShaAdD5U_joEls9Dlqn8NfsyWzWpsevIk6IoZLMrM/s1600/280520111161.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS1CqFFnjBqyNPDzjuU6VNjX9yEWjk-gLo7vFlpE07HlZE6qkzLK702k6vo_kDDvfQgCsCXkuq0R9X79N_XaabErqsJCVDBFZtUaShaAdD5U_joEls9Dlqn8NfsyWzWpsevIk6IoZLMrM/s400/280520111161.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613904895303651698" border="0" /></a><br />I curled up at my favourite spot with my laptop opened in front of me, the Microsoft Word prompter blinking in anticipation of the next word – which is usually “zombie” – while a gig plays in front, and <span style="font-style: italic;">promised </span>myself that if I ever leave that seat, it would be because someone had pried my cold dead body (the caffeine is <span style="font-style: italic;">that </span>potent) away.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOcJB2y4KRpYyPre5jGNlwpppgD0H7wqoBscogVxMd1TFG2CtC5X5fwxrtIW8iX2ILMRXIZ81EjyICYMmeTbBRPGmaDyDGZmr9PTTLGxlX_RXCD5c2gmeEwxl6XtQjiekKLTG4qb4G1Oo/s1600/260320111040.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOcJB2y4KRpYyPre5jGNlwpppgD0H7wqoBscogVxMd1TFG2CtC5X5fwxrtIW8iX2ILMRXIZ81EjyICYMmeTbBRPGmaDyDGZmr9PTTLGxlX_RXCD5c2gmeEwxl6XtQjiekKLTG4qb4G1Oo/s400/260320111040.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613904892235114546" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;" >Sometimes, Red Rock feels more like home than home does.</span><br /></div><br />I had also thought that you would pop by when I roamed the streets of San Francisco, where the Weird and Wonderful combined (though in Make-Love-Not-War-Hippie-Happy-San-Francisco, the right word would probably be consummate…) into something that explode into, well, Awesome. The people, the culture, the spirit of the city – its artsy and colourful and vigorous and, best of all, it’s Odd and OTT.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHZMBUQGcf-WwUHfb7IpaDJSfwSnKwGqg_Aht9W940vzNSB6o6esSox_nnyyODvNPxFZ_Unn14ykSQ09VA2YFAbXLQGmoeePW3kkYk6r8rGTYeoBkxcXSs_8107heI282N9e95ogw_N6k/s1600/chinatown025.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHZMBUQGcf-WwUHfb7IpaDJSfwSnKwGqg_Aht9W940vzNSB6o6esSox_nnyyODvNPxFZ_Unn14ykSQ09VA2YFAbXLQGmoeePW3kkYk6r8rGTYeoBkxcXSs_8107heI282N9e95ogw_N6k/s400/chinatown025.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613904907692873922" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">China Town, San Francisco</span></span><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgWQ4Cj7TStdC0sPehiryKrTYp-6n_g_Z2SYpw5NKoqkL_uQa9rdvRxsbcHfiPWfFBiu47HWbv7CxJwTlZ9_7aQqBKFRup5rHr6J-QfphzyZLUbtBKMTvnnihAsjlBo640d-Mp_pEOkSw/s1600/abneypark1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgWQ4Cj7TStdC0sPehiryKrTYp-6n_g_Z2SYpw5NKoqkL_uQa9rdvRxsbcHfiPWfFBiu47HWbv7CxJwTlZ9_7aQqBKFRup5rHr6J-QfphzyZLUbtBKMTvnnihAsjlBo640d-Mp_pEOkSw/s400/abneypark1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613904902960868178" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-weight: bold;">The pub/tavern outside Steampunk band Abney Park's concert. This is not in San Francisco, but in Oakland, which is about 20 miles away. But yarr, </span><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-weight: bold;">everyone was dressed like a matey.</span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"> <span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">Odd and OTT.</span></span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30504546@N03/5794497490/" title="stpatrick084 by limeichill, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3048/5794497490_039205dcd2_z.jpg" alt="stpatrick084" height="640" width="427" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">St Patrick's Day Parade, San Francisco</span></span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ZoLX2aqI1YajOdtwOJqVixdtuR_wL9ENEjphzUSgTGGUhVgKyX_1EC8spWqHUAQSQF-xO7wjTuy-D-eRZ9XBnH6yIkHawZBY_X-jCEzSU2YOOt95acvwbNbbI4oMc0ByhKRf22OTgjw/s1600/latinoparade208.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 301px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ZoLX2aqI1YajOdtwOJqVixdtuR_wL9ENEjphzUSgTGGUhVgKyX_1EC8spWqHUAQSQF-xO7wjTuy-D-eRZ9XBnH6yIkHawZBY_X-jCEzSU2YOOt95acvwbNbbI4oMc0ByhKRf22OTgjw/s400/latinoparade208.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613904916972179538" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;" >Latino Parade, San Francisco<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30504546@N03/5793916935/" title="latinoparade324 by limeichill, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3174/5793916935_b7c3a1e894_z.jpg" alt="latinoparade324" height="640" width="594" /></a><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">Latino Parade, San Francisco</span></span></span><br /></div><br />It’s my third favourite city in the world, after Klang Valley, which is technically a cluster of cities, which makes it a cluster of Chun-ness.<br /><br />But no, you didn’t come. I didn’t feel you much, except during the times when I concentrated and really tried, because it seemed like the right thing to feel. Instead, I panicked because I didn’t feel panicky at all. It was like I was okay with going home. Which is all fine and dandy, except I wouldn’t want it to sink in all of a sudden when I’m checking in at the airport. I wouldn’t want the realization that I’m really leaving the States to hit me like a ton of overweight luggage. I want to be mentally prepared now.<br /><br />Then, just now, in my last class in Stanford, when my classmates were talking about coming back for another course in the summer, the sadness finally dawned on me. I can’t join them, because I would be gone. I am just a passer-by in their world.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30504546@N03/5793917217/" title="stanford by limeichill, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5175/5793917217_6ca804f753_z.jpg" alt="stanford" height="480" width="640" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />My usual route to classes<br /></span></div><br />I had, on occasion, drove down the roads of Stanford University, passing by the dorms and the Pi Beta Kappa Etc signboards, watching the students threw football or laid in the sun, and sitting in student cafes listening to these young intellectuals in their Stanford merchandises debating on subjects I couldn’t even fathom (I lump them all in the category of Quantum, because General Logic is full). I realised, after a while, that I was envious.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30504546@N03/5793925911/" title="stanford1 by limeichill, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5142/5793925911_205a8b1b6f_z.jpg" alt="stanford1" height="640" width="427" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />Memorial Church, Stanford University<br /><br /></span></div>Yet, that isn’t my world. Sure, I study there, but only for the adult classes. I am where they are, but not who they are. It was like a bubble that I could not penetrate.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30504546@N03/5794489662/" title="stanford2 by limeichill, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3044/5794489662_03880618a4_z.jpg" alt="stanford2" height="427" width="640" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"><br />It always just feels like a peep </span></span><br /></div><br />I am surprisingly fine with that.<br /><br />But I will miss Stanford. It is the place that I came to the States for. To find a Voice for my writing. I got more than that. Infinitely more.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30504546@N03/5793939241/" title="stanford3 by limeichill, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2390/5793939241_c43aca355f_z.jpg" alt="stanford3" height="427" width="640" /></a><br /><br /><br />The melancholy came from the reality check that I have to leave Stanford behind, and that it was something that was wonderful while it lasted – nothing more, nothing less.<br /><br />I am, also, surprisingly fine with that. Now, at least, after that pleasant 30-minute-drive back.<br /><br />A big part of me being so nonchalant is perhaps this: I’m not leaving the States. I’m moving on. Because after almost one year here, you realise that truly, Everywhere is The Same – the bad, and the good. You just need to know where to look.<br /><br />There will be other places. But for now, I’m coming home.teh ais limeihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13723578582495409229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3718809943747444182.post-60585063560649218772011-05-23T15:15:00.004+08:002011-05-23T15:21:29.891+08:00Bridge and MagicIt’s been a while since I blogged.<br /><br />Heck, it’s been a while since I even open with that line.<br /><br />I’ve been writing, though. Extensively, frustratingly, obsessively, nonsensically. As usual. One can say that I have rediscovered the joy of writing, ever since taking up that fiction writing class in Stanford University (Conquering the Blank Page is the name of my class. I’d say I’ve done the Conquering bit. It’s the Controlling and Making Sure It Doesn’t Try to Overthrow Me that needs some work). I realise I really like making things up, even though my inner journalist is kicking my ass. I had tried to find a balance between the two, between fiction and non-fiction; the two ends of story-telling.<br /><br />These days, I’m starting to think what I need isn’t a balance.<br /><br />I need a Bridge.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">******<br /></div><br />I was never sure why I love circuses so much. The mystic charm? The razzle-dazzle? The death-defying stunts? The surreality? The clowns?<br /><br />I remember my parents took me to my first circus show when I was 12. We had some free vouchers for the Royal London Circus, and even though I was sitting way back like us free vouchers holder deserved, the tingle down my spine when I watched the trapeze artists swinging through the air, the vibration of my heart to the roar of the motorcycle in the wire ball, the enthrallment overwhelming me as I stared at the magic that was happening on stage… these are the things that I could still remember.<br /><br />Magic; that was the word. It was unreal; in the way they smile, in the way they move, in the way they command the impossible. It was like entering a world I can never be part of; a world much better than my own. A world where Romance and Poetry swing to grasp the arms of Peril and Excitement.<br /><br />It was The Show – the kind that Must Go On.<br /><br />On my first month in the States, I had the honour of catching Circus Vargas (the one the old man wandered into in Water for Elephant). It was a spectacular evening of gasping and laughing, sometimes both at once. From the point when the Ring Master thrust open his hands under the spotlight to the point when everyone beamed and bowed, my eyes were bulging with wonder and my breath short with disbelief. It was beyond good.<br /><br />Therefore, one could imagine my elation when I had the opportunity to catch Cirque Du Soleil that happened to be touring near my city. I paid a whopping $70 bucks for my seats, which were way back, but heck, it’s Cirque Du Soleil. Just being there should be sending chills down my spine. They are the top dogs of the circus industry. People who knew I’m going to the States always asked if I’m going to watch Cirque Du Soleil, and now, I could nod with glee.<br /><br />Except I fell asleep some time during the middle of the show.<br /><br />It had storyline. It had the most elegant dances I’ve ever seen in a circus show. It had seamless choreography. It had trippy characters in even trippier costumes. It had the right clowns. It was held in a proper stadium, with speakers and seats and all.<br /><br />And I realise, therein laid the problem. Those things are great, but they are not my kind of circus.<br /><br />I like my circus performance simple and straight to the point – “I’m darn good at this, blink for a second and whoop, you missed it!” There is no plot or elaborated elegance to it, just pure energy and rhythm and acute timing for humour. I like my circus in a makeshift tent with rickety benches and smells like popcorn graveyard. I like my circus characters stock - the trapeze artist, the over-the-top and insane clowns, the motorcycle daredevil, the cheeky jugglers, the manically enthusiastic Ring Master, etcetera.<br /><br />But I never understood why I love circuses.<br /><br />And today, at the San Francisco Circus Center Spring Carnival, watching the students and instructors perform in their modest gymnasium, I realise I can love circus without the works too.<br /><br />There was no razzle-dazzle, no elaborated make-up and majestic set-up. There were just the performers in their costumes, putting on a show for a bunch of adults and kids sitting in plastic chairs and gym mats.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKNJ_19YfCGGHue1P50GnyUX_hAgeATxgaKD__TRdeXXvi_FAwbChCcy3Jo5KZ65QawpN_7YUahAYgKSvhrhOsRyOGNq05jCd6OtR2jZj9RAkyZduyXwE4ri6xxTiABHVYy3Sw-H7LeVE/s1600/circusspring6.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKNJ_19YfCGGHue1P50GnyUX_hAgeATxgaKD__TRdeXXvi_FAwbChCcy3Jo5KZ65QawpN_7YUahAYgKSvhrhOsRyOGNq05jCd6OtR2jZj9RAkyZduyXwE4ri6xxTiABHVYy3Sw-H7LeVE/s400/circusspring6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609807646748273570" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It was the most beautiful performance I have ever seen.<br /><br />It was not because the contortionists were so amazingly nimble. It was not because the aerial performers had all of us gaping and clapping and gasping and, at one point, blushing (it was two females sharing a swing. Enough said.) It was not because the jugglers had such crazy sense of timing – both for gravity and for humour. It was not because the clowns had us in stitches and –when they suddenly demonstrated their balancing act – disbelief.<br /><br />It was because being so close, with no mood magic and light fantastic, you could see the shiver in their limbs, the buckling of knees, the strains on their forcefully cheerful faces, the popping veins of their muscles, the quick sweep of panic on their faces.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE6z3tplqaK8NWpq0nS9EaDrh8azVOXImlBnowLRhq88oz5Vu4PBGRoGpv3dnONp-PY_Vepob8B2NEnrXcsQy9XubWTPoePmFYd2mdxpWIlCMDeDi8ovw5e9RShpuR98iYuiUzO7vVZe0/s1600/circusspring51.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 370px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE6z3tplqaK8NWpq0nS9EaDrh8azVOXImlBnowLRhq88oz5Vu4PBGRoGpv3dnONp-PY_Vepob8B2NEnrXcsQy9XubWTPoePmFYd2mdxpWIlCMDeDi8ovw5e9RShpuR98iYuiUzO7vVZe0/s400/circusspring51.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609807652555372578" border="0" /></a><br />You could see the pain. The mistakes.<br /><br />The Luck.<br /><br />It was because when they messed up, the audiences were still forgiving and cheered for their effort. And the performer, no matter how embarrassed they were, still grinned, lifted their arms and took a deep bow.<br /><br />It was because the kids in the audience were absolutely howling with laughter.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiATxGzJAu7YJNK2cBoOPEDpsOKyAWxZ_lEDdcJKY7x_FIS3otWXE_MkFeEETVjATACIICOX6ZR8Ami24CYkcCUtKro1b2naLe1gvcYvGIHF1R1nYVtn94iwfgc9JUWg9745SVeAD7w6ZY/s1600/circusspring94.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 307px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiATxGzJAu7YJNK2cBoOPEDpsOKyAWxZ_lEDdcJKY7x_FIS3otWXE_MkFeEETVjATACIICOX6ZR8Ami24CYkcCUtKro1b2naLe1gvcYvGIHF1R1nYVtn94iwfgc9JUWg9745SVeAD7w6ZY/s400/circusspring94.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609807658396831746" border="0" /></a><br />Effort. Sacrifice. Forgiveness. Appreciation. Impossible. Possible. Joy.<br /><br />They could be illusions that circuses gives. Behind those curtains may lay humanity in all its dullness and ugliness and weaknesses.<br /><br />But my love of circuses could just be my stubbornness in wanting to believe - that once you put on the make-up and turn on the lights, once the applause roar and the music booms, there will be Magic.<br /><br />And I can be a child again.teh ais limeihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13723578582495409229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3718809943747444182.post-10243592024198052312011-04-05T14:08:00.002+08:002011-04-05T14:13:11.398+08:00Ten, owing two<span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-style: italic;">The long arm of law...</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXHqlqDLY45PwVQXmYxIIG19v7br1uORBJFr4KCJ1aclkk-AcXHX9t0rqXnapsMq41I123EX79-JKmY-PRbTjrfiP9NRidSpnWBvSnbLCa8FphgGZlgbOeSZZFpg-U3HoF5NuRJEO0arg/s1600/tenth1.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 278px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXHqlqDLY45PwVQXmYxIIG19v7br1uORBJFr4KCJ1aclkk-AcXHX9t0rqXnapsMq41I123EX79-JKmY-PRbTjrfiP9NRidSpnWBvSnbLCa8FphgGZlgbOeSZZFpg-U3HoF5NuRJEO0arg/s400/tenth1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591977660356600978" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-style: italic;">...has feelings too.</span><br /></div></div>teh ais limeihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13723578582495409229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3718809943747444182.post-34382722080463098502011-03-18T15:15:00.004+08:002011-03-18T15:25:05.143+08:00Nine<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtg_ayXHZF1njTddK0gh2BXNuUSWSgHFBVfoAQfuOOki2AEuRx1Pt72WbuWJSBK72TehEy9U0AGnLSsIfll5FAbmJvetLLoJzXJN0C9jugRhgQ1f5e5QlH5TjzLb0OOEgjzIVOoQgfRKc/s1600/nycxmas0204.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtg_ayXHZF1njTddK0gh2BXNuUSWSgHFBVfoAQfuOOki2AEuRx1Pt72WbuWJSBK72TehEy9U0AGnLSsIfll5FAbmJvetLLoJzXJN0C9jugRhgQ1f5e5QlH5TjzLb0OOEgjzIVOoQgfRKc/s400/nycxmas0204.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585315356500317954" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><hr style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); height: 2px;" width="50%"> <dl style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"><dd><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"</span>If you stand too close to a painting — all you see are patches of color, if you stand too far back, you can't see any of the detail."</span></dd><dt style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:85%;">-- <span style="font-style: italic;">Dead Like Me</span>: <span class="mw-headline" id="Nighthawks_.281.12.29">Nighthawks (Season 1, Ep 12)</span></span></dt></dl>teh ais limeihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13723578582495409229noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3718809943747444182.post-78790730092730600602011-03-07T14:36:00.006+08:002011-03-07T14:58:09.967+08:00Eight. Dead.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmPJ2_iRPQBtw_Zobdi3IBLGAHbnWC4_tS_QkU866NCdx_gc8M6XCwnKUo5cM_AnzN9mPojjTpj-cyTlmt57tMOmnzo1wf_HUtlf8sV0zMyUyjhGeduUp8q3LZ7sacwWiyTmnsjEehgKQ/s1600/Eight2+copy.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 310px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmPJ2_iRPQBtw_Zobdi3IBLGAHbnWC4_tS_QkU866NCdx_gc8M6XCwnKUo5cM_AnzN9mPojjTpj-cyTlmt57tMOmnzo1wf_HUtlf8sV0zMyUyjhGeduUp8q3LZ7sacwWiyTmnsjEehgKQ/s400/Eight2+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581223514901113442" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">What a coincidence to be meeting a dad trying to teach his son to spin tops.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">What a rarity.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">I just had a chat recently about childhood games, as in the ones that don’t involve buttons. The ones that are powered by nothing but a little ingenuity and kiddish egos. The ones that don’t try to add your dexterity or gold, nor unlock any new skills that make you feel vaguely awesome. Until the battery runs out, anyway.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">He told me about kite-flying, and how his dad would balance the wing-tips with ribbons. I never knew that about kites. He told me about the game </span></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-size:85%;" >galah-panjang</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">, and how the game was played with such intricate strategy. I never knew there was such a game. He told me about playing with marbles, and how the marbles would actually break if they were rough enough (and being boys, they usually were). I never had enough marbles to know what to do with them. He told me about spinning tops, and how he and his friends would try to wreck (or “tikam”) each other’s tops by spinning it with a certain force and angle. I never knew a seemingly harmless game of top-spinning has such a, ahem, twist.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">What did I do with my childhood? </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Perhaps my obsession with living-life-to-the-fullest is a sort of compensation – for times lost, and laughter unknown.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">At least he promised to show me all of them. Recaptured innocence seems more appealing than premature maturity.</span><br /></span><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*****<br /></div>If I may be allowed to make an honest observation, living life to the fullest can wear you thin.<br /><br />(Now, now, put down that pitchfork before you hurt someone. Unnecessary excitement is never healthy. I promise that I’ll climb into the meat grinder by myself as soon as I explain my seemingly obnoxious statement.)<br /><br />With only a year in the States, I sometimes feel like I’m not doing enough with my seconds. What do you mean I cannot write/feed/chauffeur/scream on a roller coaster/photograph the streets of San Francisco/cheer to a gig/skydive/sing lullabies/comb through the motherlode of movies that is Netflix/take a road trip/calm nightmare scares all at once? There ain’t no limit to the “multi” in multi-tasking, innit?<br /><br />And therefore, every weekend, I promised myself that I would do something new. Something exciting. Something American.<br /><br />I’d like to say that my weekends have been fulfilling. I feel quite proud of dragging myself out of the room before the lumpiness settled, and See and Did things. Sometimes it isn’t worth it. There were some things I saw and did which were, really, nothing to shout about. But at least I felt like I <span style="font-style: italic;">lived</span>.<br /><br />Feeling alive, however, was another matter altogether.<br /><br />This weekend, the blues caught me by surprise. I could feel the lethargy in my body, the heaviness of my heart. It wasn’t as if something happened. I just didn’t feel like doing anything. And heaven forbid, I did nothing.<br /><br />And then I realise, boy, am I tired.<br /><br />I may eat my words several months from now, but I actually had fond thoughts about going home, to recuperate from this… pressure, for want of a better word, of always having to Experience the World. I’m not complaining, no. It’s a privilege to be living your dream.<br /><br />I’m just a little worn out from trying to keep up with that privilege.<br /><br />It’s probably a personality flaw. I have lots of them.<br /><br />This weekend, I just lazed. And I thought about all the things that I didn’t do. I didn’t go to the Mardi Gras parade in San Francisco. I didn’t work on my Challenge for this month. I didn’t wash the car. I didn’t take my Smena Symbol out for a stroll.<br /><br />But gosh, it’s too darn depressing to measure life by what you didn’t do, no matter <a href="http://thinkexist.com/quotation/twenty_years_from_now_you_will_be_more/215220.html">what Mark Twain said</a>. So I decided to think about what I did, instead.<br /><br />I Dreamt, and that was doubtlessly the best. I napped, and it was sheer bliss.<br /><br />But the most significant thing, I suppose, is that I fell in love with the world again.<br /><br />And all I really did was just watched the tv series Dead Like Me, and cried.<br /><br />(I realise, that could actually be my achievement for the weekend: shedding tears for a story well-told. Sure, I didn’t set out to do it. But heck, life is too short to spend the days making the goal. Sometimes, making up the goal as you go along would have to do.)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiG0uMLmsclHV78atsJ52PQLPeEIDW5ZetQ5cHR7l4eib-9a4UghEBoo5JANoczG1FS6ZtRVwS1B312S8vYkQ_kNJ1QonFP41oQ0kPoLOJoKmAwjmoSLaUbMss19NKJqD7A35xPblggFM/s1600/60036792.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 210px; height: 270px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiG0uMLmsclHV78atsJ52PQLPeEIDW5ZetQ5cHR7l4eib-9a4UghEBoo5JANoczG1FS6ZtRVwS1B312S8vYkQ_kNJ1QonFP41oQ0kPoLOJoKmAwjmoSLaUbMss19NKJqD7A35xPblggFM/s400/60036792.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581224091345069794" border="0" /></a><br />Dead Like Me is, essentially, a dark comedy about an uninspired, sulky 18-year-old Georgia being killed by a flying toilet seat (as freak accidents go, this one isn’t even the most bizarre one in the show). However, she doesn’t have the convenience of being dead. She got recruited as an undead – a grim reaper. Yes, “a”, because she is not alone in her duties to escort newly-expired souls to their Destinations. Along with an eclectic and experienced bunch of undeads, who have to hold day jobs or a life of crime to survive and squat in dead people’s houses (grim reapers are not paid because it’s considered public service), Georgia, as Netflix wrote, “doesn't quite know what she's doing -- or even why she was chosen for the job in the first place. But soon, she grows to recognize the poetry in her purpose.”<br /><br />In short, it’s totally my kind of TV series.<br /><br />I’m a sucker for humanization of the supernatural and mythical. That is why I’m so hooked on Pratchett’s Discworld – be it dragons or trolls or dwarves or vampires or werewolves or witches or humans or Corporal Nobbs (who has papers to prove that he’s human), everyone is just trying to live the best way they know how, and even if that involves selling you Dragonland souvenirs or counterfeits (or in Corporal Nobbs’ case, rummage about in your pockets), then so be it.<br /><br />The motley crew of soul escorts in Dead Like Me is no different – they do laundry, smuggle drugs in their asses (it went horribly wrong) to pay the rent, order the cheapest things on the menu and keep pets because that’s the closest they can have for a friend. They also have to put up with the Rules of being a grim reaper, i.e. no messing about with fate. Ask Georgia; she tried.<br /><br />In other words, being an undead has all the peskiness of being alive, with the added disadvantage that you can’t have contact with your loved ones, lest they can’t deal with the excitement. There are Inconveniences that you can’t run away from, like money issues, and Rules, and human relationships and well, death.<br /><br />But as Episode 5 “Reaping Havoc” showed, even if you can’t run away from these certainties, you can find poetry in them – in money issues, in Rules, in relationships, and yes, even Death. It’s not that hard. I mean, it’s gotta be easier than finding poetry in, say, Taxes, at least.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">So a grim reaper left a post-it note on the door of a victim’s sister. It says, </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">“M.J.’s okay.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">:), Jesus.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">And a grim reaper buried a lone, old woman whose children do not visit her anymore, even though she can be haughty, when she’s not making him smirk.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">And a grim reaper shut down one building’s electricity, so that the alarm clock of a resident – who had remained jolly and kind even though the undead wrote him a parking ticket in her day job – would not ring, and therefore he would not wake in time to meet his ill fate.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">And two grim reapers watched a man having the time of his life doing an Irish dance on the bar table before his time was up. One of the grim reapers took a last polaroid of the man smiling in mid-dance, just like she did to every other soul she escorts, before they died.</span><br /><br />And I watched all this, with tears streaming down my cheek, and found myself stubbornly believing that this is what the world is. A world I can really love; a world where everyone is just, really, human.<br /><br />And because the Bible said that everyone is created in God’s likeness…<br /><br />... therefore, maybe everyone is just, really, God.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*****<br /><br /></div>I can do with more weekends like this.teh ais limeihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13723578582495409229noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3718809943747444182.post-86432894095794821922011-02-28T16:31:00.005+08:002011-02-28T16:49:07.758+08:00Seven, etc.<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDotyZhxCRe81MK7NZ-TsW7wLkR6sIsWeCogvgYP3yRVQr4whkaIkohEY12ekuytGfiDWtZcbUjeisCalonFjsZoqZ0meYhif1apebM8sBIPoo9OkzWpKap6co2rZFKZR7DKCR_xpDycY/s1600/seven.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDotyZhxCRe81MK7NZ-TsW7wLkR6sIsWeCogvgYP3yRVQr4whkaIkohEY12ekuytGfiDWtZcbUjeisCalonFjsZoqZ0meYhif1apebM8sBIPoo9OkzWpKap6co2rZFKZR7DKCR_xpDycY/s400/seven.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578655423970967106" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">You’re gonna get a </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">peace </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">of me.</span></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">The ironic thing is not the dissonance between her actions and her agenda.<br />The ironic thing is that she was trying to punch an octopus tree.</span> </span></div><br />Unreasonable. Unsolicited, and most likely, unrequited. Unfair. Unnecessary.<br /><br />Some people’s actions are.<br /><br />They sit atop their Moral Mountains and pass judgment. And sometimes, for good measure perhaps, they found it necessary to smite you with their Rod of Righteousness, lest you forget that their Opinions matter.<br /><br />Even though sometimes they aren’t even sure what the heck they are attacking. It’s got eight legs, and it’s covered with green bits of stuff, and it’s rooted to the spot minding its own business … but damn, let’s just show it who’s boss anyway. For good measure, and wossname.<br /><br />Back off, will ya?<br /><br />Because seriously, in all sincerity and with all due respect (which amount, to be honest, is dipping by the dozen every passing moment), you don’t know shit.<br /><br />I know better than anyone that I deserve Judgment for the heart that I have wounded, and the mess I created. If I’m lucky, it would be the kind of Judgement that involves a meat grinder and some sterilized cans. But heck, I probably don’t have enough karma for that kind of luck.<br /><br />It would, however, not be the kind of judgement that you are qualified to pass. Your opinion is not my sentence, because you did not live our lives. All you knew was just what you saw. All you decided was just what your mind was able to feed. You. Do. Not. Know. Period.<br /><br />I owe to the people I have hurt. I will answer to them. If they punch me, I would not retaliate. If they do not punch me, I would do so for them.<br /><br />I am already doing so.<br /><br />But you. I owe you nothing.<br /><br />I write this not to make you change your mind about me. Shove your Moral Meatpie in my face, or rather, as you did, behind my back – I have a big enough towel. Let’s see who gets tired first.<br /><br />I wrote this to remind you that everyone has a reason for the things they did, and everyone is just trying to live the best way they know how. And really, we do not owe you an explanation about why we did what we did. That doesn’t mean you can wave your ignorance about and impose your values on us.<br /><br />I wrote this, with the hope that you will remember to live and let live. Perhaps, even just one person in the future would be able to breathe easier without you huffing down their neck. Goodness knows we have enough monsters within already.<br /><br />But of course, you can disregard all the above as a self-redeeming ramble. To which I will reply, “Go on, cast that stone.”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*****<br /></div><br />Okay, enough of that venting. Here are some innocuous floral pics from the Tulipmania festival in San Francisco to balance it out.<br /><br />Tulips are, I thought, the happiest flowers ever. If God knew Photoshop (he probably uses something infinitely more complex), Tulips would be the test subjects where He bumped up the contrast with.<br /><br />And God saw that it was good.<br /><br />Just a few personal favourites. The angles aren’t even original, for crying out loud.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ9HkNlFdSU0cUtgdsULpR11anb6InbIQzKfdQG7TUsnScuhcBkkukIuR0ftofh4ejkmyBtBToZda-_9Sdkw2WkYC22S_IiUEGHiNYp9pa3rzIWuQ0i0h-iOUyIo4tufOtAJXlfrfBIJQ/s1600/tulip051.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 274px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ9HkNlFdSU0cUtgdsULpR11anb6InbIQzKfdQG7TUsnScuhcBkkukIuR0ftofh4ejkmyBtBToZda-_9Sdkw2WkYC22S_IiUEGHiNYp9pa3rzIWuQ0i0h-iOUyIo4tufOtAJXlfrfBIJQ/s400/tulip051.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578658780061583250" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDXUd1qfZ1-N2aPYElwEznYWpwQLQNPsfp6VTqCEyYcY4v_iq-qHK7bo4pluWnTswWaglAK4OVNjnu6y8LXNF2DZkg5kPMPyTQUX4RFHUG6qUlYtGZc1rvJRnl46vtzS-UpcszeAz73e4/s1600/tulip114.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDXUd1qfZ1-N2aPYElwEznYWpwQLQNPsfp6VTqCEyYcY4v_iq-qHK7bo4pluWnTswWaglAK4OVNjnu6y8LXNF2DZkg5kPMPyTQUX4RFHUG6qUlYtGZc1rvJRnl46vtzS-UpcszeAz73e4/s400/tulip114.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578658788902163746" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTBt-xRYHC7aFblp-beKREUogMybtJoPfdnsd9c1bclqlHYXCIet-VXEmVHKCMEISHZxfhtvqMSPERN2_SlYRMxzOQSdBT5gzElnfTprMuMkraWaKjbhu3dznK7ZK9r1xdTVZgI0AeXrM/s1600/tulip132.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTBt-xRYHC7aFblp-beKREUogMybtJoPfdnsd9c1bclqlHYXCIet-VXEmVHKCMEISHZxfhtvqMSPERN2_SlYRMxzOQSdBT5gzElnfTprMuMkraWaKjbhu3dznK7ZK9r1xdTVZgI0AeXrM/s400/tulip132.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578658794418861922" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4JNDPaov1TlXTP4dJF8jMEtKwxDL-lEfeAKAFG6z5vRokzSAD-Gqe1aHiJOFYEKvuyZFTSW4w-HkOGrw4qzwoc1z4V64a3Zvpr60QP56E6V37GjCRe_luJ6YCU4g01i4m_P9e1WGGbEw/s1600/tulip052.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4JNDPaov1TlXTP4dJF8jMEtKwxDL-lEfeAKAFG6z5vRokzSAD-Gqe1aHiJOFYEKvuyZFTSW4w-HkOGrw4qzwoc1z4V64a3Zvpr60QP56E6V37GjCRe_luJ6YCU4g01i4m_P9e1WGGbEw/s400/tulip052.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578658782273327650" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUBH_bAojyEK9l5uqZCqkfhZhl1CBxka76TpkWtHiRpCDorzJUADnXFWTazqjusK4liLUY1URlXNTAm4HRSE9DYhzmfzbA-3fDC8j-6ToHZcsvTm64nbKiRF_wKORJBWTxqCiNWlax3cU/s1600/tulip109.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUBH_bAojyEK9l5uqZCqkfhZhl1CBxka76TpkWtHiRpCDorzJUADnXFWTazqjusK4liLUY1URlXNTAm4HRSE9DYhzmfzbA-3fDC8j-6ToHZcsvTm64nbKiRF_wKORJBWTxqCiNWlax3cU/s400/tulip109.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578658785021824546" border="0" /></a>teh ais limeihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13723578582495409229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3718809943747444182.post-86108764104828899412011-02-21T15:00:00.003+08:002011-02-21T15:14:30.442+08:00Six<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHQuPb7G0WgR8k-e4XaU325frbYnQEP3KuGSo5jkpnh1l79TNqpBunczD3zJJYtjuJ96UHgYCAaHVPhTmL4T3zi_QrGXclp8Rc1Tl-2JH-G2pOcxgKU4ozsZySng_ujA3cxaiC7MNfjPE/s1600/six.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHQuPb7G0WgR8k-e4XaU325frbYnQEP3KuGSo5jkpnh1l79TNqpBunczD3zJJYtjuJ96UHgYCAaHVPhTmL4T3zi_QrGXclp8Rc1Tl-2JH-G2pOcxgKU4ozsZySng_ujA3cxaiC7MNfjPE/s400/six.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576037219250963714" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">San Francisco, Feb 2011</span></span>.<br /><br /><br /></div>This Chinese New Year actually came and went quietly, with me hardly noticing it.<br /><br />The key word here is “quiet”. The fact that it occurred in the same sentence with CNY makes it a novelty, and that is a fresh change from the usual scarlet festivity, which had always been just a novel – the kind that has more drama than you can keep up with, but still manages to be several hundred pages too long.<br /><br />It’s not that I hate CNY. In all honesty, I actually enjoy going back to my Grandma’s for some home-cooked spread, soaking in the camaraderie and witty banters unique to Ipoh-town folks, and take full advantage of the homely love that Uncles and Aunts seem to be more inclined to dish out when they have not seen you for a year. And Kuih Kapit. Oh man, how I miss the sweet aroma teasing my senses when I levered open the Milo tins filled with those pieces of crispy, folded wonders. And lion dances. And wearing red for gung-ho’s sake. And holidays, except I always ended up working anyway, because a procrastinating workaholic (yes, they do exist, but the government hushed it up) should never end up as a freelance writer.<br /><br />But I could really do less with the spring cleaning, and the noise level, and the stress, and the visiting, and the scorching heat pervading the air, and the songs. Gosh, especially the songs.<br />This year, however, CNY was a negligible affair. Granted, I baked the cornflake-cookie thing with my host kids (my first time baking okay!) to show some gusto, but other than that the day went on with a different kind of drama, stress and noise level (firecrackers stand no chance against the kids’ screams). I even forgot to wear red.<br /><br />I did, however, shivered in the cold rainy evening for several hours in San Francisco to watch the CNY parade, which was supposedly among the top ten parades in the world.<br /><br />My verdict? Meh. The lion dances were half-hearted at best, the marches were mostly unsynchronized, and some of the costume designs were just plain, well, plain. It could be that the whole spirit of CNY was dampened by the rain, which has the nipping potential to freeze anyone into immobility. There were times when I thought my hands went dead, which would be a bummer, considering that I was trying to push the shutter button on my camera.<br /><br />And that was how I learnt to appreciate the things I never found the reason to. Like the warmth of the festivity in Malaysia, both in family and in weather. I realised that part of the fun of CNY is that it makes you want to tear your stinky, sweat-stained shirt out. And being able to stomach any chilled beverages, even Sarsi (diabetes in a can, that). I also realise that there are some things that Malaysians still do best, lion dances being one of them.<br /><br />Most of all, I realise that my CNY in America lack a certain noise level, stress, visiting and general red-ness. And songs. Gosh, especially the songs.<br /><br />I kinda, perhaps, miss them.<br /><br />Next year, I’ll be eating my words. But I bet they wouldn’t taste so bad with Kuih Kapit.teh ais limeihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13723578582495409229noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3718809943747444182.post-63284213769231616442011-02-11T16:46:00.002+08:002011-02-11T16:57:41.425+08:00Five<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB3WWR8p6bFPPeo_3W27cGxUgGqMtM9xAcE5DvWMnSPCEg_zTG4JVLuU6FKI5LB-6cHahVSTeBk6w3Yx8vnomPACBjU0JzXX1sBVz4HsNPn5R87ywl8FiKdxJ4SKBKVB4RvhcPI6ZyP_0/s1600/Five+copy.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB3WWR8p6bFPPeo_3W27cGxUgGqMtM9xAcE5DvWMnSPCEg_zTG4JVLuU6FKI5LB-6cHahVSTeBk6w3Yx8vnomPACBjU0JzXX1sBVz4HsNPn5R87ywl8FiKdxJ4SKBKVB4RvhcPI6ZyP_0/s400/Five+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572353220108481074" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:85%;" ><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Won·der</span><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"> [wuhn-der]</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">–verb (used without object)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">1. to think or speculate curiously</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">2. to be filled with admiration, amazement, or awe; marvel (often followed by at )</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">3. to doubt</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">(Taken from Dictionary.com)</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Being a nanny puts a lot of things in perspective. The importance of paying attention in class, for example.<br /><br />This is not to say that nanny-ing is, an inferior job compared to those that you need to blowtorch half your brains and numb the other half over (wait wait, they have a word for it… Yep, Education). I always think the value of a certificate, like many other forms of paper in the working world, is highly overrated. It’s just that, it would have been handy if I had listened to the droning of my Biology teacher. And actually commit to mind the Chemistry chaos.<br /><br />Gosh, I would have carefully filed my notes and stored them in alphabetical order, had I know that I would be one day taking care of tiny human beings who have interest ranging from the uses of chemicals (dang the Powerpuff Girls and the mention of Chemical X) and the names of all the bones in the body. My boys, they seem to be held together by questions and the stubbornness to Get Answers, no matter the threat (which usually goes like:<br /><br />“If you ask me one more question, boys… I’d… play dead.”<br /><br />“What is ‘dead’?”<br /><br />“Arrrgh!”<br /><br />“Why did you say aargh?”<br /><br />“Please, have mercy!”<br /><br />“What’s ‘mercy’?”<br /><br />“*foams*”<br /><br />“What’s that white stuff?”<br /><br />“*whimpers*”<br /><br />“What’s that white stuff? What’sthatwhitestuffwhat’sthatwhitestuffwhat’sthatwhitestuff?”)<br /><br />Yet, at times, their childish wonder and curiosity in the world keeps me from getting too old for my own good. They are so new, so fresh; everything fascinates them. They poke, they probe, they push every button (mostly mine) and pick up EVERY DARN THING from the ground.<br /><br />Kids probably make the best journalists, mostly because they are oblivious to the popping vein on their victims’ necks, and that they probably invented Follow-Up Questions, and fortified them with steel stubbornness. And you have to admit, those huge eyes staring expectantly up at you have its effects. In a way, you feel like they believe that you Know. And goodness knows we don’t get enough votes of confidence like that.<br /><br />And while I cringe whenever I feel the question mark creeping up, the kids have taught me to be fascinated about the world we live in. They have reminded me that living is pretty darn amazing, and life is so much stranger than we dared to hope for, if only we look in the right places. Or rather, don’t bother looking in the right places. Just poke your head into every place that looks fun, and let other people do the fretting for you about possible danger and death and, because you’d never know with kids, dynamites.<br /><br />Where am I going with this? Heck, I don’t know. But as one mentor/friend once taught me, life is not about getting the right answers, but by asking the right questions.teh ais limeihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13723578582495409229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3718809943747444182.post-83274926104017073182011-02-04T17:51:00.006+08:002011-02-05T01:23:52.520+08:00HerYou may like me<br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: left;">(but really, what’s wrong with thee?),<br />or you can hate me<br />(by golly, what’s wrong with yours truly?),<br />but who I have turned out to be,<br />I like to think that I owe no one an apology.<br /><br />But if you seek to praise a deserving name,<br />Or, more likely, finding someone to blame,<br />For crafting my odd personality that is prone to various levels of lame,<br />And, when not losing my shoe, as is my fame,<br />Would most probably clumsily set something aflame,<br />Let me tell you that this is all thanks to one amazing dame,<br />My infinite gratitude is hers to claim.<br /><br />Without her as my sister,<br />My world would never be filled with the laughter,<br />That puts hyenas to shame.<br /><br />For you must know,<br />That despite the early years of sisterly row,<br />The seeds of awe and wonder she still sow,<br />In my childish, awkward soul that was more graceless than a crow,<br />She was the Big Sister in which perfectness and brilliance flow,<br />She carried herself with such confidence, such glow,<br />She was popular in school, with impressive achievements in tow,<br />While I struggled to survive the primary-school low,<br />I looked up to her, occasionally my friend and mostly my foe,<br />And by secretly parroting her personality, my character found a way to grow.<br /><br />The years went by, and as sisters do, we grew inseparable,<br />The fun we have; we guffaw more than we chuckle,<br />Together we survived various degrees of terrible,<br />For instance, Mum’s anger when our wee-hour -chats were not so subtle,<br />And the college years when our combined net assets worth only slightly more than rubble,<br />And when we caffeinated ourselves after watching a possessed child cackle,<br />And when we pigged out at a <span style="font-style: italic;">mamak</span>,<br />with workers that like to soundlessly appear beside our table,<br />And how about the time when we were rolling in hunger,<br />waiting for Dad and the lunch in his motorcycle?<br /><br />Thank you,<br />For saving my ass,<br />And saving my shoe,<br />For being my conscience,<br />And my cheerleading crew,<br />For standing by me,<br />Even when there was no reason to,<br />For Being There,<br />The difference it made, you have no clue.<br /><br />To my uber awesome cool sister,<br />With her very own brand of humour,<br />One day the world we shall take over,<br />For Pinky and the Brain is born to conquer,<br />But for now a toast is in order,<br />Here’s to your spirit, your enthusiasm, your character,<br />May your strength and energy continue to inspire,<br />And although this will be that big 30th year,<br />I wish you never lose that <span style="font-style: italic;">joie de vivre</span>,<br />For age is really but a number,<br />Ignore the details and we’d all be happier.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ8umQGszuPg1Dy6dTaoL8gYGtSS4JSXnzL11aI7yfBIJPf5pALZ0XD9S1sJX6_Yn-MljiIBDrx48vTbBSmb6GWcAO59LmDKScWr-cKrFz41O71TbpO0Z3XQBBrSeYIBwFYallM2hsxkU/s1600/pg00091small.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ8umQGszuPg1Dy6dTaoL8gYGtSS4JSXnzL11aI7yfBIJPf5pALZ0XD9S1sJX6_Yn-MljiIBDrx48vTbBSmb6GWcAO59LmDKScWr-cKrFz41O71TbpO0Z3XQBBrSeYIBwFYallM2hsxkU/s400/pg00091small.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569773971409293490" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(255, 204, 255); font-weight: bold;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);">Happy Birthday, Pinky.</span><br /></span></div><br /><br />(This post will also serve as a reminder to myself: never attempt to rhyme past midnight again.)<br /></div><br /></div>teh ais limeihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13723578582495409229noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3718809943747444182.post-22956873121708719182011-02-02T15:51:00.008+08:002011-02-02T16:28:21.651+08:00Three, Four, Shut the DoorThe problem with trying to write after taking care of kids all day is that only small words tend to come out. Worse, they are all in CAPS.<br /><br />Nonetheless, I shall have to get this third entry for Project 52 out, seeing as I’m already a week late, because Pratchett said that if you bail on a commitment for a good reason, soon you’d be bailing on it for a bad one. And because he’s Pratchett, he’s always right. Kinda like a god, but with less irony.<br /><br />So yes, even though I have to have a thesaurus opened on my browser, and even though I may have to exercise restraint from the region of the Caps Lock button, and even though after each paragraph I type I’m taking a ten minute break to stare into space (it’s slightly livelier than my brains), I’m gonna get it out. Yosh.<br /><br />If you are reading this, I am utterly sorry. This is painful for the writer, but even more so for the reader, who doesn’t even have the obligation to like it.<br /><br />Anyway.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCvL-A3QhyBVMuXnczpBIIwvVRxC-92IesVyu64Wj1B_PG3A685EP9ZJQDKUpVSRNHQpPueYAwPlxqPNO4JVfa4p1Uu6KwCPSPIcndyM18KQVhofrbh6ylUl9VX89iWKi_nKA36HL7NWg/s1600/_MG_0784.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCvL-A3QhyBVMuXnczpBIIwvVRxC-92IesVyu64Wj1B_PG3A685EP9ZJQDKUpVSRNHQpPueYAwPlxqPNO4JVfa4p1Uu6KwCPSPIcndyM18KQVhofrbh6ylUl9VX89iWKi_nKA36HL7NWg/s400/_MG_0784.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568997973611752066" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">Life is like ice cream, sometimes. Live the moment, lick it while its frozen, and Happiness (or at least, it’s younger brother Contentment) makes your taste buds bloom. Leave it to its own demise, saving it for later, and the creamy heaven melts into soured puddle of ick. It perhaps does no good to you, too, if you get right down to it.</span><br /></span><br />Where am I going with this? To quote the sage, “I was hoping you can tell me.”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">******<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic8xh3riyhX_Ac1YCcqQWHL2HvMuFPoizIjTTZv89MknAInXPSOTXoqqKfb1GZH8f0-XmI-BqLgU9gLoLOMDDu6NDTc1WPTsfaaJpLg8fAnB9iXqFtkVMrDAOKwErzWyE355k6gewVBmU/s1600/campbell024.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 270px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic8xh3riyhX_Ac1YCcqQWHL2HvMuFPoizIjTTZv89MknAInXPSOTXoqqKfb1GZH8f0-XmI-BqLgU9gLoLOMDDu6NDTc1WPTsfaaJpLg8fAnB9iXqFtkVMrDAOKwErzWyE355k6gewVBmU/s400/campbell024.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568997977328765218" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" >Do our books reflect us, or do we reflect our books?<br />What a conundrum.<br />I wonder what Calvin and Hobbes have to say about this.</span><br /></span><br /></div>I should perhaps be reading something more substantial.<br /><br />Something with more philosophical depth, perhaps. Something argumentative. Something political. Some social commentary. Something brilliant.<br /><br />Thus, I chucked my “50 Philosophical Ideas You Need to Know” aside and curled up with some good ol’ Calvin and Hobbes.<br /><br />It’s philosophical.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaM0auCnjE5svRP0mCsdgni9UnV-cklHDqtWcogzSnno_FNa9CcqsivyuisQFPEsyrEks_Y6RgfDcSt8zdBqdsjthu9bFkgtiFzm4jZDjztFoAwvrDUF0HT8aa54uJ62V5GgP7Xtsri_Q/s1600/3.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 128px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaM0auCnjE5svRP0mCsdgni9UnV-cklHDqtWcogzSnno_FNa9CcqsivyuisQFPEsyrEks_Y6RgfDcSt8zdBqdsjthu9bFkgtiFzm4jZDjztFoAwvrDUF0HT8aa54uJ62V5GgP7Xtsri_Q/s400/3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568997987638731298" border="0" /></a><br />It’s argumentative.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6d5_3CI6bTqrx0V3HV1pC2CQn8TwmLvlW7QYSxVWUDKQL0jweGAfWqOkby9scq9Zpp4-a-gP2ZfZRqj2nZW0aDdWSr-wd01qpdd77fncBkEkLUIZDTyrldy9yEGdK1SkWiHaJLCWHJMM/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 202px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6d5_3CI6bTqrx0V3HV1pC2CQn8TwmLvlW7QYSxVWUDKQL0jweGAfWqOkby9scq9Zpp4-a-gP2ZfZRqj2nZW0aDdWSr-wd01qpdd77fncBkEkLUIZDTyrldy9yEGdK1SkWiHaJLCWHJMM/s400/images.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568997991733486738" border="0" /></a><br />It’s political.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEnxD7ZAPtXbsJxc97q9TXwAeUWvG8sJGXsj28q7P4IS8PbgTVELcdNjdp2wDJ5G2PQK5tt9hDE40HSNS_4n-TKLfo3OjnFuRBFNAL2rCwFREuUm8SupNbe37Yj5gIQpSvw-0YQGVFi34/s1600/Calvin-And-Hobbes-Comic-Strip-calvin--26-hobbes-70617_950_668.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 281px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEnxD7ZAPtXbsJxc97q9TXwAeUWvG8sJGXsj28q7P4IS8PbgTVELcdNjdp2wDJ5G2PQK5tt9hDE40HSNS_4n-TKLfo3OjnFuRBFNAL2rCwFREuUm8SupNbe37Yj5gIQpSvw-0YQGVFi34/s400/Calvin-And-Hobbes-Comic-Strip-calvin--26-hobbes-70617_950_668.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568999145633605106" border="0" /></a>It’s social commentary.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAOX16qO4iKt1YrKTMQ35zGm6XVkc4Xp7UTef43KcXszAjpzmkJ67HNxcoJV_jqXlPudRNR3wymZEbTt0-slKLOkab7IPr9hNm1g9Fo4K5xiUmU9mPFHLxuwnoSK0ZjiaDc3JDCNVOt2c/s1600/Calvin---Hobbes--TV--Strip-calvin--26-hobbes-152197_700_290.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 166px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAOX16qO4iKt1YrKTMQ35zGm6XVkc4Xp7UTef43KcXszAjpzmkJ67HNxcoJV_jqXlPudRNR3wymZEbTt0-slKLOkab7IPr9hNm1g9Fo4K5xiUmU9mPFHLxuwnoSK0ZjiaDc3JDCNVOt2c/s400/Calvin---Hobbes--TV--Strip-calvin--26-hobbes-152197_700_290.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568999153586767234" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It’s brilliant.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUg1kjINrThlUeEPuAJ_YdfeQCClIC2uQtrE-yLnP-9-JJ5M2_WYUEg0YtrI7SBCrMIbPZMYd8R_965r2PlWy2izwESbLRMPh89HW22oaPbOj3eFg2cr99s3jNEopV8v1JDe6oxtvHJvg/s1600/2zdup38.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 278px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUg1kjINrThlUeEPuAJ_YdfeQCClIC2uQtrE-yLnP-9-JJ5M2_WYUEg0YtrI7SBCrMIbPZMYd8R_965r2PlWy2izwESbLRMPh89HW22oaPbOj3eFg2cr99s3jNEopV8v1JDe6oxtvHJvg/s400/2zdup38.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568997980251062850" border="0" /></a><br />Calvin’s mind jumps from metaphysics to madness, and stops to poke at everything in between until something explodes. Hobbes is wry, devious, and only probably stuffed with cotton. Together, they made, well, Calvin and Hobbes – possibly the most fantastic comic strip ever written in the history of Humans. That’s an understatement, by the way, but that’d have to do for now.<br /><br />Granted, I’m a late Calvin and Hobbes fan. In fact, the addiction only started about several weeks ago (but already it has invaded a large part of my consciousness. I now believe that snowmen do turn into Deranged Mutant Killer Monster Snow Goon if you try to bring them to life. And that bicycles are Evil - I always knew it’s not my fault that I can never ride them properly.)<br /><br />I never really got into Calvin and Hobbes when I was younger. In fact, I wondered what the hype was all about. I remember being really into Peanuts at one point, but the jokes got old and Charles Schulz got older. Eventually, I discovered Zits and read it whenever I can, and Baby Blues always got me chuckling. But none of them really registered like Calvin and Hobbes do now.<br /><br />Perhaps it’s because none of them had Deranged Mutant Killer Monster Snow Goons.<br />The charm (again, an understatement) of Calvin and Hobbes to me is that Calvin, despite the restrictions and realities of being a six-year-old, just set out to have the best damn fun he can get away with. That, and grossing out Susie Derkins, a Girl who lives on the same street. His mind is his playground, and although he is sometimes bitter and grouchy about inconveniences of life such as school, vegetables, blockhead bullies, bedtime, and parent-teacher conferences, he still lives life on the fastest track he can put his wagon on, i.e. a steep hill straight down to the river.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2kmntYwTdg3HHDyiSlhPLxUSWLG5a0RrD83BqVvoakUHVmBPNnTU0J1Oj7H_P9SW2cBUWwck6SHLeFgIIxt-VrCrTGOezk9zaTajuLZIskWbAfXvrj7FNZ5PJruLzQ-zP3uH6WGwg8iA/s1600/6a00e55180ed5c883401310f805aab970c-800wi.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2kmntYwTdg3HHDyiSlhPLxUSWLG5a0RrD83BqVvoakUHVmBPNnTU0J1Oj7H_P9SW2cBUWwck6SHLeFgIIxt-VrCrTGOezk9zaTajuLZIskWbAfXvrj7FNZ5PJruLzQ-zP3uH6WGwg8iA/s400/6a00e55180ed5c883401310f805aab970c-800wi.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568999145357203314" border="0" /></a><br />And that is perhaps what being alive is all about. It doesn’t matter who you are, or how old you are, or where you are, or even what you are. You will have restrictions, you will have frustrations, and you will have reality. However, it is up to you to turn the Vegetables of Life to a murderous green blob that is trying to eat your face, because heck, it’s inevitable anyway, so you might as well have fun fighting it.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDXhN4_NTb0aFh2T4Ae7_MdilRbKAaQcqQFQ62UR-8esMY23Ya2qJNfEUlKWefyavdLlYRtJD6kgrdDaNgKECVDyOWjKKCmnYt7nIUsaTaZLbWEwWIqE9639a7ko1FGDo6e9Rs1dfdyUg/s1600/green-vegetables.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 279px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDXhN4_NTb0aFh2T4Ae7_MdilRbKAaQcqQFQ62UR-8esMY23Ya2qJNfEUlKWefyavdLlYRtJD6kgrdDaNgKECVDyOWjKKCmnYt7nIUsaTaZLbWEwWIqE9639a7ko1FGDo6e9Rs1dfdyUg/s400/green-vegetables.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569000642527323410" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It’s about the Imagination, and the World it opens.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*****<br /></div>Sometimes I think I should be doing more with my time here in the States. I feel like I should be soaking in all the American experiences that I can possibly get my hands on. I should be leaping onto roller coasters (except I hate them), riding the waves (except I can’t swim, let alone surf), jumping off planes (that’s even worse than roller coasters), and err, other exciting stuff which I would not be doing save for the feeling that I should be doing more with my time here in the States. I should be sleeping less.<br /><br />The spirit may be willing, but the body is weak. And don’t get me started on the wallet.<br /><br />The funny thing is, as I was watching the live cast of Barely Legal gyrating to the Rocky Horror Picture Show, it hit me. Granted, Tim curry singing “Sweet Transvestite” didn’t gain a cult following without causing some pain, but this is a different kind of “hit”.<br /><br />It dawned upon me that hey, I’m actually doing okay in the States. I am in a cinema room full of people yelling things at the screen, and I just saw a dancer flashed her boobs, and in a while, when the character of Dr. Frank-N-Furter yells “Great Scott!” we were all supposed to send rolls of toilet paper sailing through the air.<br /><br />It was oddly beautiful, sailing toilet papers.<br /><br />Now, how many people can say that?<br /><br />My point is, although sometimes I wish I can have some fantastically mind-blowing experience to take home with, I guess it counts to just be happy with what I can do.<br /><br />To stop yearning, and start living.<br /><br />Because Contentment deserves some credit too.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrWVAhX0ns9b_oFXkhZBefHzP-7IIhW5m1Me1QmMOCA27H93J9i1XF9EBQbGobLVGYTzXR1VAjde7d1vrmfRWJ8LCRFltiJyF16TBvf15zP9f_x-LRYiN5ZGLt2rgePoAVTr0mHo_atXg/s1600/6a00e55180ed5c88340133ecf069e7970b-800wi.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrWVAhX0ns9b_oFXkhZBefHzP-7IIhW5m1Me1QmMOCA27H93J9i1XF9EBQbGobLVGYTzXR1VAjde7d1vrmfRWJ8LCRFltiJyF16TBvf15zP9f_x-LRYiN5ZGLt2rgePoAVTr0mHo_atXg/s400/6a00e55180ed5c88340133ecf069e7970b-800wi.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568999163617981650" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Well said, Watterson.</span><br /></span></span></div>teh ais limeihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13723578582495409229noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3718809943747444182.post-56157671577079478842011-01-19T16:35:00.003+08:002011-01-19T16:45:15.628+08:00Two<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMDwgmBB1dVulTeNZyHmfDW9q_rX5qccY2bCLrR3vXGJK0Fgez31eEC777lmZuonP8EJmaizcUVjq0zcOjnaDqxn6t-tUQLeEXpRzmgf7Rbh9o3-mfPSbjbm6o2Z3OJ8rYUyYb1OoEG5k/s1600/two.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 244px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMDwgmBB1dVulTeNZyHmfDW9q_rX5qccY2bCLrR3vXGJK0Fgez31eEC777lmZuonP8EJmaizcUVjq0zcOjnaDqxn6t-tUQLeEXpRzmgf7Rbh9o3-mfPSbjbm6o2Z3OJ8rYUyYb1OoEG5k/s400/two.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563813395273540370" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-size:85%;" >Looking Stupid: the mark of things worth doing.</span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">“Well… swim.”<br /></span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />I stopped typing in mid dissent-diarrhoea, and stared at the two words in bold red fonts.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />There is that, of course.<br /><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">****************<br /><br /></div>I’m in my sixth month here. And I’m frustrated.<br /><br />Every day, I wake up a nanny, and go to bed a zombie. The most fulfilling part of my day is, when circumstances decide to be kind, the precious moment I steal to dream. This is when Time melts away and Distance goes for a ride, creating a vacuum of isolation where dreamers can rent and be left alone to their romantic reverie.<br /><br />These dreams – they sustain me. But deep down I know that I have to do more than that. I’m in friggin’ America, for crying out loud (no actually, don’t. I’ve got enough of that during the day as it is). There has got to be more to life than just drowning in little boys’ tantrums all day long.<br /><br />The truth is, I haven’t been writing anything truly substantial these days. Okay, there was NaNoWriMo, but it was so fun that it practically didn’t count. Of course, I also padded so much that “writing” would be an overstatement. I wrote one article for my Stanford class, which garnered mixed reviews during the workshop session, but for some reason, I am just not happy with that piece. I blogged – though the more accurate description would be I spewed thoughts all over here without the decency to make sense, or to wipe my mouth afterwards, but brevity, you know.<br /><br />Yesterday, as I stood in the shower, letting the rush of water dissolve the day’s lethargy and drown out the tantrum tornadoes outside that little boys reserve especially for mummy and daddy, I thought to myself, “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t just be a nanny, and nothing else.”<br /><br />I have told myself that I would, like every other person struggling for their art out there, write after my work hours. I would send my articles to the publications here. I would pursue the Stories, write travel essays, analyse humanity, change the world and wossname.<br /><br />The truth is, I’m so worn out every day that I can’t muster the energy to arrange my thoughts, let alone laying them out on paper. Whatever is left standing in my body would be trying to commit suicide, once they discover how to do that while dozing off.<br /><br />Yes, I don’t have the stamina to be a struggling artist.<br /><br />I do have the frustration, though. I know I have to get out of this rut of idle mindedness, but I don’t know how. There are a million avenues to try and break through, but I’m rooted on the spot.<br /><br />I felt like I was fretting upon a fast-melting ice berg, knowing that if I don’t jump to another floating piece of ice, I would sink – into oblivion, into mindlessness, into complacency. But the floating ice pieces around me looked a little too far to leap to. I’m scared shitless. I could see the ice berg shrinking, but I could not bring myself to take the leap.<br /><br />What if I miss?<br /><br />“Well… swim.”<br /><br />Two words.<br /><br />The sage, who have words like “genuflect” and “ruminative” and “pervasive” and “rapple” and for some reason, “lobotomy” in his repertoire, just gave me two words.<br /><br />And that two words was enough to push me from my shaky, dissolving, and self-pitiful refuge. I crashed into the water, and it was cold, as cold as Reality, and it woke me up.<br /><br />It just totally made my whole situation with the melting iceberg and the floating ice things and the leaping anxiety a tad ridiculous, and very obnoxious. Like dressing in Edwardian ball gown to a casual house party.<br /><br />My first thought was, “Damn. I took a while to think of that iceberg analogy too.”<br /><br />My second thought was, “Why the heck didn’t I think about swimming?”<br /><br />I was too caught up with the leap. I was too fixated upon landing at the right places. I forgot that there are other ways – practical, simple and straightforward ways – to reach your goals. I forgot that when it comes to writing, you need to get yourself wet, and you need to work those muscles.<br /><br />Like my boy reminds me in the picture above, sometimes you just gotta clamber to reach for whatever lofty goals you have, even though you have to look a little stupid doing it. <span style="font-style: italic;">Especially </span>if you look a little stupid doing it.<br /><br />Because heck, stupidity is fun. And it makes the best pictures.teh ais limeihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13723578582495409229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3718809943747444182.post-34715003476089078092011-01-12T13:51:00.007+08:002011-01-23T13:57:19.012+08:00One<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqO9JS-iDG53xDVpZR-DBUyt9aY5GFwYy6Nmk9mK8LIHS_kE0EgiB-DzZ9c3ovm3YmSXYMMm8mia4i0Ot6oglIsojLChjORMrVaICk0HKvbbkLaF55TXnWgAmXcQMGa2gZI6QBnB85PRE/s1600/nycxmas0121.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqO9JS-iDG53xDVpZR-DBUyt9aY5GFwYy6Nmk9mK8LIHS_kE0EgiB-DzZ9c3ovm3YmSXYMMm8mia4i0Ot6oglIsojLChjORMrVaICk0HKvbbkLaF55TXnWgAmXcQMGa2gZI6QBnB85PRE/s400/nycxmas0121.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561176370882897826" border="0" /></a><br />Once upon a time, there was a girl who wants to tell stories.<br /><br />And so she picked up a pen, which according to urban legends, is mightier than the sword (okay, it’s really because pure steel with ruby-studded handle was heavier than she thought), and set out the treacherous path of looking for Tales.<br /><br />Obstacles abound, but that was really a mark of a road worth taking. She thought, anyway. Not too deeply though, lest she bump into the lair of Logic and Reason, who thirst for dreams like a baked sponge thirsts for moisture. Dreams were all she had, and have her insides sucked dry would be a tad dampening – or in this case, the exact opposite – to her quest.<br /><br />And it’s not like she didn’t have other problems already. She had to wade through the icy Waterfall of Collective Doubt from Others, ride – or at least, maintain upright most of the time – in the Whirlpool of Filial Guilt, survive the Delirium of Premature Confidence, hack through the Tangled Vines of Darn-Who-Am-I-Kidding, only to run headfirst into a wall.<br /><br />Who put the effing Writer’s Block there?<br /><br />But seeing stars was worth it, once the bleeding subsided, because she did find Stories. In fact, they were pretty much all over the place, if you knew where to look. Some required digging (for politics is a lot like potatoes; it powered the masses, albeit tastelessly), while others you picked with ease, and still others even needed you to do the planting first. There were also those suspicious-looking ones which were jumping up and down desperately to be noticed, and the obnoxious ones that were shoved down her throat simply because they have the purchasing power to buy, err, whatever that is the poetic equivalent of Advertising Space.<br /><br />So, Pen in tow (or rather, several pens, with the hope that one of them would work), she Wrote.<br /><br />And then she stopped. Got lazy. Got blind. Got swept away by Life and its Smoulder. Got impatient.<br /><br />Got stupid.<br /><br />Writing became merely a pain, a past, a possibility, a perished pride. The blank Microsoft Word page and beckoning prompter is a blatant reminder that her mind was not what it used to be. It is no longer a fertile ground for Words to flourish. Even the bad puns shrivelled, and she had a lot of them.<br /><br />It is a rocky terrain of a conscience in there, and the jagged hardness give the sloshing brain cells a pretty bloody time. She can only deal with so many howling synapses at a time.<br /><br />The saddest thing of all is that she stopped looking for Stories. Or rather, she stopped bothering to pick them up. She let them go. And went they did.<br /><br />For example, the picture above was a street violin player she had the honour to bump upon in New York City. She was just hurrying past with her sister and brother-in-law, when the violin player yelled a question.<br /><br />“Which country are you from, guys?”<br /><br />“Malaysia,” her brother-in-law answered, while the patter of their feet grew more urgent.<br /><br />And then they stopped.<br /><br />And turned around, mouth agape.<br /><br />The violin player, with a kind of smug nonchalance, was playing “Negaraku” on his violin. Tone perfect. There was no music sheet in front of him.<br /><br />“But how--?” they asked in disbelief.<br /><br />The violinist shrugged. “I like to study the national anthems of different countries.”<br /><br />The brother-in-law tipped the violinist. They walked away – she with considerable difficulty, seeing that she was trying to kick herself at the same time, for not asking more questions, for not pursuing a Story when it was sitting right in front of her, for being stupid.<br /><br />Inside every writer there is a story-teller wanting to come out. Mine did, but has, it seems, lost her way in the dark.<br /><br />Sigh, now where did I put my flash light?<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">****<br /></div><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);">And because projects really only mean something when you get right down to doing it, the nonsense above managed to see daylight. This is my first post for </span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Project 52</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);">, a writing/photography commitment that </span><a style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 204, 0);" href="http://hafutota.blogspot.com/">HafutotaJE </a><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);">and I are going to undertake (yes, we are ill-advised. Thanks for trying, though). Basically, we upload a picture we‘ve taken and write something, anything, about it, once per week for a year.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);">Yes, we are still the same people with deadlines/kids to chase and closing week to conquer and procrastination to overcome etc etc. You can tell that sanity and rationality have never been our strong points. For some reason, that is HafutotaJE’s charm, and my demise. Life is so unfair.</span> <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"><br /><br />Join us in this joy ride if you are ever so inclined. Oh, but do bring your own sandwiches.<br /><br />And drop us a line if you are hoping on, so that we can also go drool at your stuff ^^</span>teh ais limeihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13723578582495409229noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3718809943747444182.post-72992723930266372872011-01-05T17:10:00.002+08:002011-01-05T17:18:54.803+08:00Read-tail TherapyToday, I decided that it would be quite a good day to shop for books.<br /><br />Because, gosh, the kids were annoying today.<br /><br />And ‘cause hey, it’s Tuesday!<br /><br />And ‘cause, look, I’m wearing mismatched socks!<br /><br />Okay, I ran out of excuse. I just need to shop okay. And just because my retail therapy happens in a bookstore doesn’t mean I’m a hopeless nerd okay.<br /><br />Fine, I don’t care if I’m a hopeless nerd, okay.<br /><br />Anyway, with my Borders discount voucher (which they send you ALL THE TIME, God bless America) in hand, I drove to my favourite bookstore. I heard Barnes and Nobles is boss in Nerdism here, but frankly, I fear too much for my wallet to even venture in that three-storey skyscraper of a bookstore.<br /><br />I promised myself that I will only spend $10 in Borders. Because yes, that amount is possible here.<br /><br />I ended up spending close to $20.<br /><br />It’s not so bad, considering I actually bought only two books out of the six I was considering (among them, Scott Pilgrim vs The World, Gaiman’s The Wolves in the Walls and The Graveyard Book), after carefully skipping most of the aisles, afraid of what gems I may find.<br /><br />Behold: my first Neil Gaiman novel.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ys4j-M_qOIUTlCJJyuxpZilKfEJM4jLPkLQaIH5rI514olmotivdMu1m2S7tbvDoo9oNc0h5ni-nWXjD2JtI3IMozdrGzat1MXwes2bVjLdcvlevgo2WqogPoBKZgPDgQ6muTBiag3E/s1600/Coraline-book-coraline-7645797-1815-2560.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 284px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ys4j-M_qOIUTlCJJyuxpZilKfEJM4jLPkLQaIH5rI514olmotivdMu1m2S7tbvDoo9oNc0h5ni-nWXjD2JtI3IMozdrGzat1MXwes2bVjLdcvlevgo2WqogPoBKZgPDgQ6muTBiag3E/s400/Coraline-book-coraline-7645797-1815-2560.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558627322590561010" border="0" /></a><br />Okay, to be honest, I bought it really because I wanted to own something that is drawn by Dave McKean. Which is not to say that Gaiman isn’t awesome (he is, immensely). But Dave McKean’s artwork just blows me away and sucks me back in; a sort of visual orgasm, complete with excitable noises.<br /><br />You didn’t just hear me describe a children’s book with all that.<br /><br />On the subject of children’s books, I ended up picking this up as well.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimbzzixfKs3w5Gq8kqVNAiKMu95NDhbb-kHecz0WO_KtY6chNFv0T2mV6GeX25qd6DFOXjOIc6Za2B_PsYWI3YUUtrXbQ_xJbJfmbt-7MPqk_2t1Tf4DPZFfVvRsbnozkfHd6KJLjfsjY/s1600/51x19oADQdL._SS400_.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimbzzixfKs3w5Gq8kqVNAiKMu95NDhbb-kHecz0WO_KtY6chNFv0T2mV6GeX25qd6DFOXjOIc6Za2B_PsYWI3YUUtrXbQ_xJbJfmbt-7MPqk_2t1Tf4DPZFfVvRsbnozkfHd6KJLjfsjY/s400/51x19oADQdL._SS400_.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558627320623506098" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I’m not anywhere near a fan of Hans Christian Andersen, but for Joel Stewart’s illustrations, I can very well be. Flipping the pages in the bookstore, I held my breath as the quirkily intricate drawings did nasty things to my brains.<br /><br />Like shutting it down, leaving me defenceless against my heart.<br /><br />And the problem with following your heart is that it is never as good at budgeting as your brains. But other than that, there really is no downside.<br /><br />When I go back to Malaysia, I foresee myself shivering in American-bookstore-withdrawal.<br /><br />They have rows after rows of all the awesome stuff that you would possibly ever need to read, don’t need to read but nevertheless want to read, and don’t need to read and don’t even want to go near it.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFOgkC2g1MmdSvTK0MU8J6nAuD-TQGHKRT61TTZqJJTSMo-cqQ2zxnzSOslJzFM_Q7NhmGHGxO_1D1RDA7nqY53hVDVhyphenhyphenOEwyEsN2oC22IudCOUvZwaS_MXB9HSiWz2S5jlFn84UNlayI/s1600/63312823_b.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 170px; height: 219px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFOgkC2g1MmdSvTK0MU8J6nAuD-TQGHKRT61TTZqJJTSMo-cqQ2zxnzSOslJzFM_Q7NhmGHGxO_1D1RDA7nqY53hVDVhyphenhyphenOEwyEsN2oC22IudCOUvZwaS_MXB9HSiWz2S5jlFn84UNlayI/s400/63312823_b.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558627322082376146" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">He looks contagious.</span></span><br /></div><br />I have more things on my mind that I should probably pen down. Like that obligatory New Year post. And the trip to NYC. And Tangled. Alas, dreams beckon, and it seems like tonight, it will be another fantastic one :)teh ais limeihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13723578582495409229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3718809943747444182.post-66521390866924303672010-12-30T17:26:00.004+08:002010-12-30T17:41:43.502+08:00Merry Cry-stmasI have, on the days when I’m not busy pinching myself to check if I’m dreaming, imagined what will be running through my mind when I land in New York City for Christmas this year.<br /><br />They are usually thoughts that come accompanied with exclamation marks, occasionally question marks, and during my more sober hours, dollar signs.<br /><br />In reality, however, all I was thinking while the plane bumped on the runway was “PLEASE don’t let me puke all over the place.”<br /><br />So yeah, it was a little of an anti-climax, if climaxing at touch down is not contradictory in itself. However, the fault was mine. I had, in my haste and cotton-candied mind (thanks to recent events), completely forgot to select my flight seat upon checking in.<br /><br />Life has a special kind of punishment for this kind of ditzy. It’s call The Worst Seat in the Plane.<br /><br />Actually, it wasn’t that bad. But it was the last row of seats, pretty close to the wings, and definitely too close to the cranky baby crying and whining throughout the six-hour midnight flight. The leg room was practically non-existent, and the air was stuffy. Towards the end of the journey, the ride got bumpier, hence my pressing concerns with seeing my dinner from last night again. That turkey sandwich looked like the type to hold a grudge.<br /><br />Like I said, it was my fault.<br /><br />(But you know that I’m living a special kind of dream when despite having slept a total of probably two hours in the most neck-breaking position ever after a whole day of work, with the colicky baby’s cries looping in the background, I still woke up smiling like an idiot. ^^)<br /><br />Now, I’m typing this in JFK Airport, a little dazed and disorientated. I’m lugging around a baggage equivalent of the volume I packed when I moved from Malaysia to the States, only this time its stuffed with bulky winter clothing, which I’m currently feeling rather dumb about, because I’m now only wearing a thin Forever 21 trench coat and the stuffiness is already getting to me. Where’s the blistering winter cold of NYC that everyone was warning me about? The negative degree Celcius weather that the pilot announced before landing? I’m looking out the window now and NYC looks as sunny as California.<br /><br />Okay, to be fair, I have not stepped out of the airport. I will eventually do so, when my sister’s flight arrives. Right now, I just want to sit down and stone. I have, in my quest for Wifi in JFK, dashed about with the crazy weight of my baggage, before finally giving up and resort to just sit down to reminiscence the good ol’ yesterday of San Francisco International Airport’s free wifi.<br /><br />Oh, did I mention that you have to pay to get a luggage cart here? As the huge signs on the carts say, “Welcome to New York”.<br /><br />So, yeah, all in all, not all that superb a morning. But heck, I’m in NYC. Time to put on that empire state of mind. Right after I round up my marbles.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">******<br /></div>I had thought that spending Christmas in New York City was a dream-come-true. Now, it seems like one of those biting realities that someone should have muzzled before it got out of hand.<br /><br />To be fair, a white Christmas does look dreamy. There is something oddly warm and fuzzy about seeing the blanket of fluffy white covering roof tops and shop signs and tree branches – it’s one of those scenes where you wish someone close to your heart would share it with you. And the Malaysian in me is still trying to wrap my head around the memory that I was actually playing in the snow and throwing snowballs at my crazy sister, and laughing at my brother-in-law as he rolled down a snow hill, and building a snowman, no, a snowmidget, more like, in Central Park.<br /><br />But after a few hours of almost slipping on dirty melted slush (they looked like whipped cream being stomped on), and spending frustrating hours refreshing Delta website because the whole airline services were thrown out of whack thanks to the worst blizzard NYC has seen in decades (yes, my first encounter with snow had to be THAT dramatic), I just wanted to tell the winter wonderland what Ash from Army of Darkness told his girlfriend-turned-Deadite, “Honey, you got real ugly.”<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgameisS9uXDoapjyJPTSWifSDjfNElWY8rO639_3SVE8j0NlCSt5B9u_5x367ps9OSXbc21z5EYSXAozwmNOkIqEVpZtLG5zxr1ncJmIGpw-iuZrwyo6mVNZg9zV4NkrBK-h6C6G-9-m4/s1600/Sheila-After.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgameisS9uXDoapjyJPTSWifSDjfNElWY8rO639_3SVE8j0NlCSt5B9u_5x367ps9OSXbc21z5EYSXAozwmNOkIqEVpZtLG5zxr1ncJmIGpw-iuZrwyo6mVNZg9zV4NkrBK-h6C6G-9-m4/s400/Sheila-After.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556405462336707378" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-weight: bold;">Okay, I'll admit that Winter was a wee bit prettier than her. A wee bit.</span><br /></span></div><br />Right now, I’m typing this in the JFK International Airport in NYC, holding a stand-by ticket for a plane bound to San Francisco International Airport at 5pm. Stand-by, meaning that there’s a high chance that the plane is actually full and I’ll be camping out on the airport floor tonight, like the rest of the passengers, some of whom had been getting up close and personal with the JFK carpets since Sunday.<br /><br />The blizzard was all over the news, and the reports on flights just got scarier and scarier. People were spending hours in the airport waiting for something, but all they got was a flight notification board full of the glowing yellow “Cancelled” words, and more bad news – we may be looking at days-long delay in flight. The crowded and chaotic atmosphere in the airports was topped with reports of food and power outage there, which seemed like the perfect setting for cannibalism. Or *dramatic pause* zombie apocalypse.<br /><br />Optimism has always been my strongest point. Which, if you really think about it, is kinda sad. But oh well.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgHJ9cDaLyvlMoHEcs0xrUhhMthasSnPS57XsvCntiG0OVSr2n3cBubLKw_slogqYpQOjy-b6gZv77HS0AjoHkxxvrCROKeI11JjO5xwpcyt9sGSZXZAIqEVEi7PDXfp2qiz_fjOzIzDM/s1600/51YHNWKE9JL._SL500_AA300_.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgHJ9cDaLyvlMoHEcs0xrUhhMthasSnPS57XsvCntiG0OVSr2n3cBubLKw_slogqYpQOjy-b6gZv77HS0AjoHkxxvrCROKeI11JjO5xwpcyt9sGSZXZAIqEVEi7PDXfp2qiz_fjOzIzDM/s400/51YHNWKE9JL._SL500_AA300_.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556405465973385170" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" >This is my optimistic face.</span><br /></div><br />Despite the bleak situation, I had to make my way to the JFK airport, because my flight was cancelled, and yet there was no new flights scheduled by the airline. The phone lines were completely jammed up, and the website had erred so much that its probably human. I even signed up for Twitter just so I can bug the airline with my haiku brevity (*shudders at the amount of short forms I had to use*). But there was No Response.<br /><br />So when push comes to shove, I’d rather not be at the end where you get run over.<br /><br />After several rounds of frustrated wailings and denial by refusing to get out of bed and bitching about Delta airlines with my sister and brother in law, I begrudgingly left the comfort of my hotel, baggage and a heavy heart in tow, and departed for the JFK airport. I knew it would be a long day, and most like, night. Due to the blizzard, thousands of flights were cancelled, and so you can imagine the backlogged of passengers who have been stranded at the airport way before I am. What chance do I have to squeeze into the pathetically few flights that are finally starting to pull out from the runway?<br /><br />But heck, optimism, remember?<br /><div style="text-align: center;">******<br /></div>And so, my gallivanting in New York City came to a close with me making one last discovery. It is actually really depressing to be waking up from the table that you had fell asleep on, while the realization that you are still in the airport thudded down upon your bleary conscience. Holding a stand-by ticket, too. And Starbucks is closed, because it’s friggin’ 5 a.m.<br /><br />Yes, I spent the night camping out in the JFK airport, because the thing about optimism is that it doesn’t pay the bills, nor score you the dream girl or guy, nor secure you a seat in an overbooked airplane. But it’s still a handy thing to have, because it’s probably the only thing standing between you and a certain urge to shoot yourself in the head.<br /><br />Despite the depressing news reports, the atmosphere in the airport is surprisingly chilled, even though many, like me, have no inkling on when we will actually leave this dastardly expensive place. When we are not gawking at the screen showing the seats assigned to those in the stand-by list with a certain madness in our eyes (gosh, you do not wanna know what’s in our heads), we are a bitter-but-not-beaten crowd, lurching about in the airport with the remnants of restless sleep shrouding our crestfallen faces. Much like anyone you see on the streets, really.<br /><br />That said, emotions are at an all-time high, and I have not seen so much raw humanity for a long time.<br /><br />There was a lady who, after waiting in line at the Delta Help Desk for about an hour, promptly sat down and sobbed. I handed her a bag of tissue, knowing that if I don’t get on a plane in another 24 hours, I would probably be sobbing even louder.<br /><br />I watched a little girl, about 8 or 9, sitting on the ground with her belongings and a blanket. With despair and weariness in her eyes, a wave of crimson started spreading throughout her face, and as her mouth pouted tears started rolling down her cheek, which she wiped profusely with her hoodie sleeve. It was a sort of quiet desperation that should never cross a nine-year-old’s face.<br /><br />I talked to a Canadian dad with a wife and a five-year-old daughter in tow. He had, prior to flying out of his parents’ place in Florida, checked that his transit flight in JFK would be departing on time. Upon arrival at the airport, however, he found out that all flights bound to his destination had been cancelled, with no reason other than bad weather. He had no idea when he could fly out; his daughter is having a meltdown, and he is spending about a hundred bucks a day to pay for the meals of his family in the airport. He tried getting meal vouchers (which basically lets you buy airport food at a cheaper price), but after being sent from one crowded help desk to another, he still couldn’t find someone who could provide him with one.<br /><br />“I don’t have unlimited funds, you know,” he chuckled, but without humour in his tone.<br /><br />Another girl, who was queuing up behind me at the help desk, told me that she had to lug her baggage and ran from terminal to terminal, and from one airline operator to another, because no one could tell her where her flight was supposed to depart from. It was already 6.30pm, and her flight was scheduled to fly at 7 p.m., and she was already on the verge of tears as she begged the officers to please find her flight. In the end, they promptly told her that the flight simply does not exist. In desperation, she forked out another $1500 to buy another air ticket to LAX, thinking that it would help her make it for her transit flight to New Zealand the next day. But, as luck would have it, her new flight was delayed as well.<br /><br />“I have no more money, everything went to the air ticket. And now it looks like I still won’t be able to make it for my transit flight,” she said, staring dejectedly on the ground.<br /><br />Further behind in the line, a guy about my age was cursing into his cell phone.<br /><br />“I just want to get out of here. I don’t want to be sitting in this airport, f***ing j**king myself off anymore. I was on the stand-by list and I saw someone just paid $3000 for a ticket and got on the plane [angry pause] I don’t care, the bottom line is someone f***ing bought my seat with three thousand bucks.”<br /><br />To twang our already raw nerves even further, the help desk line was barely moving. I had only about 5 or 6 people before me, but had to wait for about an hour before it was my turn. There were only three counters opened in the beginning, and one counter was hogged by this couple throughout the whole time I was in line. People were throwing angry glances at them – what kind of problem could they be having to justify the attention of the agents for an hour, while the rest of our feet are dying beneath us? To be fair, the agents were probably weary as well. People were probably being bitchy to them the whole day.<br /><br />Thankfully, they opened two more counters, and after another century of waiting it was finally my turn. And while the agent was processing my requests, a girl suddenly showed up beside me and pleaded someone to help her retrieve her saxophone, which she had left in another terminal. She needs to board her plane shortly, and was willing to pay someone for their trouble.<br /><br />“How much are you willing to pay?” The agent attending to me asked her.<br /><br />“$40,” the girl said.<br /><br />“I’ll do it,” said the agent, who practically shoved my tickets to me, mumbled some instructions and then promptly got up and left the counter. I glanced at the long line of people waiting for their turn, while the girl bound for New Zealand smiled bitterly at me. I sighed, and smiled back.<br /><br />Despite the general air of hopelessness, heightened by the sound of shops and restaurants closing their shutters for the night, people were still trying to maintain a certain light-heartedness. They chatted, make jokes and generally looked out for one another. We may not know each others’ names, but when stuck in the same boat, friendships need no formalities.<br /><br />And thanks to that quiet camaraderie, and thanks to the phone calls that helped me stay sane, I pulled through the otherwise lonely and scary night in the airport. Granted the whole place was still brightly lit, with cheery Christmas songs playing in the background, and security guards were patrolling the place, and nobody tried to eat anyone yet… but the sort of fear you experience comes from the uncertainty on when you can actually leave this place, how much trouble you’re gonna get from your employers when you’re not back in time for work, and the fast disappearing balance in your debit card. Honestly, I was in the position where I could not leave the airport and find somewhere else to stay, because (1) I don’t have enough money for the cab fare to keep coming and leaving the airport, and (2) the hotels around the airport are probably going to cost a bomb, due to New Year’s Eve and the whole flight-cancelling chaos that has hit all the airlines. Another gnawing worry is that I would soon run out of money to buy airport food. I would really regret having to eat my own leg, because to quote Willy Wonka in the most recent Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory movie, “humans don’t taste so good.”<br /><br />It was, however, sheer luck that this morning, I was squeezed into the last seat in a flight bound to San Francisco despite being No.10 in the waiting list. I don’t know what exactly happened. I was sitting on the ground, trying desperately not to doze off while watching the stand-by list board like a hawk, err, trying not to doze off. It was impossible, anyway, because there were only five available seats. An incoming phone call, and I dreamily drew relief from the comforting voice, and it must have been really a dream because suddenly I heard my name being called – wrongly, of course, but it was my name! I scarcely had time to pinch myself. Dream or reality, I’m getting on! I dragged all my belongings to the boarding gate, shoved my boarding pass and passport towards the officers and after a while, found myself seated in a Delta plane, where I promptly fell asleep again.<br /><br />It was a most wonderful feeling to be wake up from the window you were leaning on, as the realization that you are still in an airplane dawned upon your bleary conscience.<br />When I touched down at San Francisco, I very nearly dropped to my knees on the dry and snowless California ground and kiss its sun-lit surface. But of course, I really do not want to attract anymore weird stares, seeing as I’m probably gaining some attention for my hobo smell (okay one night in the airport is not so hobo but the romantic drama queen in me like to imagine that I’ve experienced hobo-ness, just for something to tell my grandchildren. Don’t mind me, unless you’re my grandchildren). Thus, I resort to just march proudly outdoors without having to suffocate in a bundle of thick winter clothing.<br /><br />That said, I kinda sorta a wee bit miss the snowy scene. Ah well, once my memory fails me again (it’s bound to happen one of these days), I might attempt winter traveling again. In Japan, probably. I’ve heard that the sakura is worth it =)<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*****<br /></div>New York City was, despite everything, pretty darn amazing. Seeing my sister and my brother in law again was even more so! Will be blogging about that later, once I got around to processing the pictures. That will be soon. I hope.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxohedK0ueIUeq8rDjadAAee8ohygzbSslLq8y3tzvslNLMYnYh7Cgt5lO5WCwf5_bd9xiqrv412yjwgmINQpuknePVEXz_tHW66_M7fxh7olnUFr-P8ANak0VNwn68t4A27qW9qKE7vA/s1600/pinocchio.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 281px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxohedK0ueIUeq8rDjadAAee8ohygzbSslLq8y3tzvslNLMYnYh7Cgt5lO5WCwf5_bd9xiqrv412yjwgmINQpuknePVEXz_tHW66_M7fxh7olnUFr-P8ANak0VNwn68t4A27qW9qKE7vA/s400/pinocchio.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556407138101316370" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-weight: bold;">And because I have that much faith in myself, here's the disclaimer.</span></span><br /></div>teh ais limeihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13723578582495409229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3718809943747444182.post-69955778209356675792010-12-03T05:08:00.009+08:002010-12-03T05:30:16.338+08:00Writing Withdrawal<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9qykjJZQHna9Dq3L0mZvzTP0b3tUInu7C8PePXFew5s-FB6bhv-xivGkF5NTedm_vS6-rXEBPpweoQkHzONmZ-5UqUiL8mOqKMDDTIQ8c2o5GTuy3GpfN2xUj3jST5WLAd3htmamK8Mg/s1600/nano_10_winner_120x390-8.png"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 120px; height: 390px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9qykjJZQHna9Dq3L0mZvzTP0b3tUInu7C8PePXFew5s-FB6bhv-xivGkF5NTedm_vS6-rXEBPpweoQkHzONmZ-5UqUiL8mOqKMDDTIQ8c2o5GTuy3GpfN2xUj3jST5WLAd3htmamK8Mg/s400/nano_10_winner_120x390-8.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546196703633110578" border="0" /></a>This marks the end of my 30 days and nights of literary abandon.<br /><br />I had dived into my first <a href="http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/whatisnano">NaNoWriMo pledge </a>with nay a plot, and came out with nay an ending.<br /><br />Because 50,000 words are just not enough to conclude the awesome-ness that my writing partner and I had jointly created (he was responsible most of the awesomeness; I was just there to pass the coffee and occasionally, the word count. Better cheat than never, I guess). And because, I think, neither of us had any idea what the hell is going on in those pages right now.<br /><br />But what can you expect when you have characters which consist of a boy and a girl and a zombie and a badass leather babe (except she’s not) and a snarky hip uncle (except he’s usually a doll) and a robot (named after Dr. Seuss) and a few ghostly girls (always with The Ring’s Sadako feel to them, for some reason) and two combat-ready teachers who would feel right at home in Professor X’s mutant school. And a salesman.<br /><br />Yes, we wrote like there’s no tomorrow. With false assumptions like that you tend to throw in everything that sounds like a great idea in your head and see which stuck. All of them did, shame on them. That posed several conundrums, but none that we can’t overcome with the wonders of padding and blatant killing of some characters by completely failing to mention them in the next several chapters.<br /><br />But of course, there is always tomorrow. That’s the whole point. We live to write another 1.667 words, come what brain-deadness may.<br /><br />It had been a hell of a ride; a journey of self-discovery. For one, I realise that I can actually make things up. At 4-bloody-a.m. And loving every moment of it, even the bits that I fell asleep in, with the laptop teetering on the edge of my lap.<br /><br />I came to realise how much I love writing fiction. I’ve always considered myself a journalist, with a kind of rock-hard conviction for the Truth. And of course, a novelist seem to require a kind of amazing ingenuity for creating Something out of nothing, and not to mention the ability to look dashingly romantic in a moustache/beard (sorry, blame my stereotype on staring at Terry Pratchett’s mug too much) and a beret. I was sure the Truth would be easier. You just dig and dig and piss everyone off and dig some more. Nothing to it, to quote a dear friend and respectable journalist.<br /><br />The funny thing is, I’ve always found more truth in fiction. Pratchett’s novels can strike a chord deeper than any news or analytical piece can. Sometimes I find myself reading the newspaper just because I need to.<br /><br />Heck, I got into writing because of Pratchett. He had said that “writing is the most fun anyone can have by themselves”. I bought his words. And a whole bunch of Discworld novels.<br /><br />Then of course I realise that I am no Pratchett. My writing doesn’t bear wit like his – most of the time I have to glue the bad puns on and hope that no one would notice. And writing is actually painful for me. It drives me nuts. It made me feel both intoxicated and depressingly sober at the same time.<br /><br />And then there is the whole thing about the Truth. I wonder if I’m any good at getting them.<br /><br />Of course, as the years go by I also came to realise that writing is as much of a pain to even the best of writers (they just get paid a whole lot more). And you get better at digging, for Truth is a lot like turnips, but without the practicality of the latter.<br /><br />It was not until NaNoWriMo that I actually felt Pratchett’s words. Making things up is a whole new universe of fun, especially when you’re doing it at unearthly hours with a support system in a different time zone cheering you on. It’s an opportunity to sit back without having to have 500 Firefox tabs opened on various research materials, and just let the brains and fingers foxtrot into free-fall fantasy.<br /><br />Of course, I still love journalism as heck. Because it's so damn hard. I'm probably a masochist.<br /><br />Here’s to all who stood by me when the writing bumped along, and sometimes crashed into walls. I was hanging on to the rope entwined with your encouragements, and that was the only thing that has saved me from being swallowed into the dark abyss of Giving Up.<br /><br />And here’s to my partner, for being a genius and a wonder-friend :)<br /><br />Now, to finish the novel! Synchronizing plot ninja!teh ais limeihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13723578582495409229noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3718809943747444182.post-54762547395072883552010-11-25T16:02:00.000+08:002010-11-25T16:03:46.888+08:00Streams of unconciousnessIt was yet another defining moment for me as I sat in the pitch darkness, listening to two tiny noses breathing noisily.<br /><br />I had, for the first time in my au pair life, put my host kids to bed. And they actually slept. It was the kind of feat that you had to do it by yourself to understand how hard it was. As I finally managed to haul them all onto their beds, get them to stop talking and kissed them goodnight, my inner self ran victoriously around the field with arms outstretched – tip-toeing, of course, while hysterical fans whispered their cheer. Four-year-olds have better hearing than you think.<br /><br />And then I was hit by a wave of misery. Come on, my biggest achievement these days is putting kids to bed? Oh wait, no, my greatest gratification is when they finished all their vegetables. Uh huh. Very important, vegetables.<br /><br />I buried my face in my hands.<br /><br />It’s my fourth month in the States now, and these “what-the-hell” moments have been more often – especially when I looked at the state of the living room and realise that if this wasn’t hell, then someone had just raised it. Yes, I now think that eternal damnation means an eternity of picking up toys and stray pop corns and melted lollipops off the carpets. And a never-ending surround sound of childish shrieks. And being gratified by things like how well the kids pooped. And having to say “good job!” until Judgment Day.<br /><br />Apologies for having been on hiatus for so long. To those of you who still like me, I just want to say, from the bottom of my heart and with hot grateful tears rolling down my cheeks, “What’s wrong with you guys?” Nonetheless, I’m here now. Got some rotten eggs to throw? Sure, but do get in line.<br /><br />So much had happened for the past few months. So much that I’m having trouble believing them. I have made new friends as quickly as I lost them. I have gasped at the quirks and characters of America as much as I have gotten used to them. I have understood the realities of life as deeply as I had been baffled by it. I have taken spontaneous risks as often as I have passed up rare opportunities. I have discovered the beauty of true friendships and buried some of them.<br /><br />I have broken hearts, promises, and trusts.<br /><br />I have put my money in the wrong things, and paid the price.<br /><br />I have come to realise the preciousness of friends who doesn’t let 9000 miles of distance, my incessant ranting about being lonely and our completely different lives now get in the way of nonsensical banters, lengthy conversations and juicy gossip exchanges.<br /><br />I have seen America in all its immensity and intensity, and decided that this country really has no use for me, other than to probably put its next generation to bed.<br /><br />I have lived; a little exhausted, but too high-strung to sleep.<br /><br />I came to the States to learn how to be a better writer; I did everything but write. I came to the States to figure out my path; I am more confused than ever.<br /><br />It had, however, been one crazy ride. During my early months here, I felt like I was running on sheer momentum – if I slowed down, I may hit the kind of wall that marathoners talk about, the kind that cripples you and drags you down. With the aid of some disappointing friendships and a minor car accident, my momentum did get thrown out of whack, and I did run headfirst into concrete.<br /><br />It was an unpleasant jolt, but one that I needed. I was burning out, while everything around me went past in a blur. Perhaps that is why I did not blog for so long. My mind was a mess – it was no telling what may come out of it. Most of all, writing required a kind of ability to make sense, which was beyond what my state of mind could have mustered.<br /><br />This month, I’m learning to slow down. I am currently in my 30 days of writing exile (NaNoWriMo rawr!) and had never been happier. There may be so many things I’m confused about, but at least I’m sure that writing will always be the thing that can both stitch my broken pieces up and tear me apart from within.<br /><br />There’s a song that goes “It’s gotta be like falling in love; there’s something to believe in.”<br />The line encapsulates why I still love writing even though it strains me so, love my messy life even though it tires me so, love the even messier Malaysia even though she pains me so.<br /><br />I believe. It’s a whole lot like optimism, except way more stubborn.teh ais limeihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13723578582495409229noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3718809943747444182.post-2944866565908399732010-08-19T14:21:00.002+08:002010-08-19T14:24:49.405+08:00Like a ton of bricksWhen I saw a truck with the cheery words “Bimbo Bakeries” emblazoned on it, the realization hit me – I’m in America. Like, really.<br /><br />I’m known to be prone to delayed reactions. But even I would admit that one month is too long for a reaction to register. Nevertheless, the past 37 days have been so full of new discoveries to be made, new people to meet and new roads to get lost in, that I have neglected to hyperventilate. Sure, there was the brief moment of elation when I first landed, but the ZOMG moment is ruined by yet another airport security check.<br /><br />It’s hard being a fan girl in a paranoid country.<br /><br />But today, while sitting next to my host dad, who was driving the whole family to the San Diego Wild Animals’ Park, I was swollen with sudden pride that I made it to the States – this is my dream since I was 17.<br /><br />Okay, so my dream didn’t include three tantrum-prone boys who, when the right mood graces them, say and do the funniest things. But hey, I was never a specific dreamer – wishing upon a star while pointing in the general direction of the States works too. Ask me, I should know.<br /><br />I’m kidding. I was wishing upon a star and pointing in the general direction of the States <span style="font-style: italic;">frantically</span>, while my other hand tried to shovel an airway out of the humongous pile of Au Pair paperwork.<br /><br />It was not easy. But that, according to rumours, is the mark of things worth doing.<br /><br />So far, the rumour is right.<br /><br />Within a month, I have met people so interesting that they are probably only found half way across the globe. I have seen crazy sights and breath-taking landscapes, did embarrassing touristy things and living like a local. I taught foreign friends the charming usage of “lah”, learnt their ways and challenged them to spice-eating contests (I pwn-ed them, of course). Heck, I’m driving on the right side of the road.<br /><br />I also haven’t had Nasi Lemak and Teh Tarik for a month. Them pastas are starting to get to me.<br /><br />I have to remember to not end my sentences with “lah”, because I’d get weird stares. I mean, I’m used to weird stares, but I’d rather not have to explain myself, because I don’t even understand myself, ya know what I mean? Lah?<br /><br />(What? I can’t have verbal diarrhoea after dealing with three boys all day?)<br /><br />Right now, I’m sitting in a room with huge windows overlooking the pacific lagoon. I’m on vacation with my host family in San Diego, though when I say vacation, it just generally mean the same amount of childish screams and drama, taking place in a home that does not belong to us. When I’m not busy stopping the kids from killing themselves by leaning too far out of the window, I always marvelled at the beauty of the lagoon, its tide sloshing up the shore below the blue green California sky.<br /><br />As the sun sets every evening, its orange glow spills over the rippling lagoon waters against the purplish pink horizon, I always feel so blessed, yet so insignificant.<br /><br />Who am I to set eyes upon a beauty such as this?<br /><br />I am a dreamer.<br /><br />In a perfect world, dreams come true.<br /><br />In this not-too-shabby world, dreams come true, too – you just gotta make it work.<br /><br />Die die also must make it work.teh ais limeihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13723578582495409229noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3718809943747444182.post-80225448392623405522010-08-09T23:49:00.000+08:002010-08-09T23:51:09.454+08:00Written amidst childish screams“So, what did you do before you came to the States?”<br /><br />I always tell people that I’m a writer. But judging by the situation of late, I may be lying.<br /><br />I’m no writer. I’m Having Written.<br /><br />The distinction between the two? The former is haunted by deadlines, while the latter is just haunted – by the past and all its glories.<br /><br />Not that I wrote anything particularly glorious. But like all haunted beings we cling on to whatever sliver of the bygones we can find.<br /><br />I have no time to write. I tell myself that, in the hope that a full schedule can occupy the emptiness of my pages. Who has time to write when you’re so busy living? I didn’t travel all the way to the States to hole in my room and slouch in front of the computer.<br /><br />Or so I told myself, while the hollowness within my heart spreads and spreads.<br /><br />The truth is, I have no time to think. I jam-packed my life, not willing to slow down for the fear that every moment unlived is a moment wasted. I have done, see, feel and do so many new things for the past few weeks, but I did not take my time to chew at them and savour their succulence.<br /><br />I’m a gobbler. I did not digest. Perhaps that is why I don’t feel fulfilled, just stuffed – like a toy with cotton for brains.<br /><br />I read a line somewhere – Never give up on something that you can't go a day without thinking about (yeah it took me a while to figure out this triple-negative sentence, but it’s just as well because now it is ingrained in my head).<br /><br />I need to keep writing. Chapter 23 needs meaningful prose, not unintelligible scribbles.teh ais limeihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13723578582495409229noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3718809943747444182.post-78828718346680165442010-07-27T15:11:00.002+08:002010-07-29T12:46:48.107+08:00America, among others<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9fFmaf_mtZLn-6P3Zk36IhUMUySmIvzoOQoijxIfPnJthTJCPmoCdxwuHIZ6PRHVLaayCDUGcrmYNSO-TQcDS7l4nJ7XSVi90iX9agW9WK0vDngzgtVcsCObNT2HXSSnbf_UIATQWK88/s1600/24072010206.jpg"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></a>So all my lobes are finally in the same timezone, give or take a few hours. I apologize for the hiatus. This is going to be long, and possibly confusing post. To aid things a little, the sections below follow a chronological order, from the neverending airport transits to my first official weekend since I start my au pair work in the States.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">***<br /></div>35, 000 feet up in the air is a great place for putting things into perspective. For example, I was struck with how incredibly lonely I was, never mind that I was sandwiched among many other Chinese (as in, they’re really from China), who managed to remain a bustling population even in a crammed United airplane.<br /><br />It was one big “oh shit” moment, with the added disadvantage of having an echo.<br /><br />The flight was 11 hours too long. My behinds may have evolved due to sheer environmental pressure, and the lobes of my brains feel like they’re operating from different time zones as my mind refuses to believe it is subjected to pests like jet lags. I tried readjusting my anatomy to fit the chair (which, surprisingly, is more comfortable than the MAS seats) so that I can get some snooze, but this proves to be an uphill battle as sleeping horizontally turns out to be a habit too hard to break. I sampled the infamous United Airlines food, and well, all I have to say is I’ve never tasted rice <span style="font-style: italic;">this </span>crunchy.<br /><br />On the whole, I was calmer than I expected. The panic is pacified by a mad fascination for all things strange and new around me, and I cannot risk the anxiety exploding now, lest I break down beyond repair.<br /><br />Time and again, though, the thought floated in my mind – I’m all alone. I find it hard to believe that my parents, my sister, my boyfriend and my friends are half the globe away, living different lives in different time zones. I looked at the passengers around me, mostly families, some friends and at least one PDA-prone couple (right in front of me, like it doesn’t hurt enough already), and wondered what the hell I was doing there.<br /><br />But then again, I can’t imagine myself back home typing either.<br /><br />As I touched down and saw the airport sign “Welcome to San Francisco”, I smiled and patted my 17-year-old self in the back. Welcome, indeed. We’ve come a long way, and we are finally here, in the USA.<br />(Actually, what I really said to my 17-year-old self was “ZOMG ZOMG ZOMG THIS IS, LIKE, SUPER AWESOME! We made it! *squeals, hyperventilates, faints*”)<br /><br />And then it sank in. I felt like crying. I’m in the USA, alone, out of my comfort zone. Now what?<br />I suppose I’ll just use my tried and tested formula – figure it out as I go along. Right now, I do not dare to think ahead. Everything is just so raw – the accent around me, the American flags, the foreign brands, the price tags that start with “$”, and the difficult goodbyes back at KLIA.<br /><br />To be frank, I don’t even feel like myself. I looked at the foreigners around me and had to remind myself that now, I’m the foreigner. Only I don’t feel that foreign. I just feel like I walked right into a Hollywood movie, albeit one that does not have drop dead gorgeous Americans at every turn. Sometimes, I suspect that the one typing this now is just a figment of my imagination, born out of my bored mind in my real body playing Sims in the stuffy, messy room back home.<br /><br />But I’m here. Really here. In San Francisco - a place I have always dreamed to be at but never really believed that it would come true. The funny thing is, on our way to KLIA, my dad told me that my great granddad had also embarked on the same journey to San Francisco as a slave, though he never quite made it (he got cheated and landed in London instead).<br /><br />I’m here, great-grand dad. I never knew you, but it’s cool how a dream can resonate through several generations.<br /><br />Well, here’s a little weather report: San Francisco is actually 17 degree Celcius now, despite being right smack in the middle of summer. Cool eh? Okay, even the lame me have to admit that that was a desperate pun.<br /><br />Next up: Au Pair orientation programme, where I meet au pairs from all over the world. *dies*<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">***<br /></div><br />Au Pair orientation was last week. It was fascinating to meet so many people from so many parts of the world. All of a sudden I have friends aplenty with names I can’t pronounce. The whole orientation was like a walking dream, its surreal-ness facilitated by the jetlag, and the fact that I was surrounded by gorgeous German and Brazillian supermodels with legs that go on forever (what do their mommies feed them?).<br /><br />I also had never been in a room where so many different languages were being spoken. Scratch that – I have never been in a room where so many different languages that I don’t understand were being spoken.<br /><br />The three days in New Jersey went by in a swoosh, while my lethargic body struggled to keep up. Powered by sheer momentum, I lurched through a hectic mix of classes and getting to know new pals and TRIPS TO NEW YORK CITY *hyperventilates*. It was really tiring, but really fun. Everyone was friendly and open, which was awesome and a huge relief to the lone Malaysian – me.<br /><br />And then orientation came to an end. I found myself waiting by the shuttle to Newark Airport again with two luggages, a couple of postcards bearing the glories of NYC, and three notebook pages worth of contact details from new friends.<br /><br />I taste panic. I’m only two domestic flights away from the place I will be living for the year. No time for emotions though. We were ushered onto the shuttle, and we’re off.<br /><br />Closing my eyes, I chanted the most important thing I learnt from the orientation – This year is what you make out of it.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">***<br /></div><br />My first week in California was filled with warmth, kindness, excitement, kids screaming, cultural differences, irritation, driving on the wrong side (or, if you must, the right side) of the road, kids saying hilarious things, more kids screaming, au pair friends to the rescue and, lo and behold, kids screaming – in that order. Slot a few secret tears shed in the bedroom, and you have basically gotten a pretty accurate summary.<br /><br />I will, in all probability, survive.<br /><br />On a sunnier note, the weather here is awesome. Sure, the summer sun is piercing to the skin, but the air remains cool. It’s like walking around with an air-conditioner attached to your waist. They don’t even use fans here! Come night, the air is so chilly that I usually jump straight into my comforter.<br /><br />So if you see a freak wearing a jacket (usually with a pair of twins in tow) walking under the blinding afternoon sun, do wave. It would most likely be me.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">***<br /></div>I escaped from a household full of screams into another house full of screams.<br /><br />The second one was punctuated by laughter, though, which was a nice change.<br /><br />It was the much awaited weekend and I followed an au pair friend to a Guatemala birthday party in Oakland. The baby daughter of her friend is celebrating her first birthday.<br /><br />Before we started our journey, the au pair warned me, “Oakland is not a very good neighbourhood. Not like the place we live.”<br /><br />Gulp.<br /><br />But we went anyway, because just staying at home (where peace is pretty much volatile too) day after day would be a little like a death sentence in itself. I didn’t travel this far to be a chicken.<br />And boy, I’m glad I went.<br /><br />True, Oakland seems more run-down than the “rich” neighbourhood we au pairs live and work in. The houses are modest and more tightly packed, and the streets unkempt and narrow. We reached the home where the birthday party was held, and I noticed the bare backyard, save for a Dora the Explorer bouncing house that was rented for the afternoon celebration. Back in the city we are in, the backyards of the houses have lush trees and plants, humongous flowers and at times, a fountain gushing away like nobody’s business (except the gardener, of course. And the fountain dealer.).<br /><br />The party was simple and homely. While everyone spoke Spanish around me, the family warmth and camaraderie around me touched my heart deeper than comprehension can. We had home cooked rice and salsa meat, which was awesome stuff. Gosh, I miss simple rice-and-vege meals.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1KPGpdqsR5CcpO_UrQJBhcQPnGVWduzKvY9g8qbNVkPlSbiFBXk1X3pviX2bv9EjYZ7__LmOyAFWQb4_6ZuYkm-c4UUNnlPSvZbooCsVKTkehNHo0r_voseSeTZ39gvBzLuJETwnWMvs/s1600/24072010207.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1KPGpdqsR5CcpO_UrQJBhcQPnGVWduzKvY9g8qbNVkPlSbiFBXk1X3pviX2bv9EjYZ7__LmOyAFWQb4_6ZuYkm-c4UUNnlPSvZbooCsVKTkehNHo0r_voseSeTZ39gvBzLuJETwnWMvs/s400/24072010207.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498775545572238098" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:85%;" >You would not believe my agony of seeing this picture now. I crave rice with gravy!<br />(and yes, in the States you eat rice with a fork. Go figure.)</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I also sampled Guatemalan’s equivalent of bread. It was sticky (like our kuih back home) and made of corn – there wasn’t much taste to it (which is a relief to my tongue, considering that American food is either too sweet or too salty or too cheesy). My au pair friend told me that this is the typical food the Guatemalans eat for breakfast, and other meals too. Thanks to my ailing memory, I cannot remember its name -.-“<br /></div></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9fFmaf_mtZLn-6P3Zk36IhUMUySmIvzoOQoijxIfPnJthTJCPmoCdxwuHIZ6PRHVLaayCDUGcrmYNSO-TQcDS7l4nJ7XSVi90iX9agW9WK0vDngzgtVcsCObNT2HXSSnbf_UIATQWK88/s1600/24072010206.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9fFmaf_mtZLn-6P3Zk36IhUMUySmIvzoOQoijxIfPnJthTJCPmoCdxwuHIZ6PRHVLaayCDUGcrmYNSO-TQcDS7l4nJ7XSVi90iX9agW9WK0vDngzgtVcsCObNT2HXSSnbf_UIATQWK88/s400/24072010206.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498775551221648946" border="0" /></a><br /><br />One thing that really amazed me and the other au pairs is how wonderful the kids were at the party. No one threw a tantrum. And they seem quite capable of having fun for an hour without running to mummy about a boo-boo (a wound, or a bump, or a tiny scratch, or at times, nothing at all) every five minutes. Sure, they made a lot of noise in the bouncing house, but those are playful, healthy noises. There were little whines, no fights, and no adults chasing a kid around.<br /><br />The mood was light with the warmth of friendship and family. Contagious laughter rang all around, punctuated by staccatos of Spanish. Some of them tried to speak to me with the little English they know, while I struggled to reciprocate with the limited amount of Spanish vocabulary that I know (like two – hola and gracias).<br /><br />An ear-to-ear grin, however, bridged all cultural gaps.<br /><br />So there I was, a lone Chinese in the midst of Guatemalans and Mexicans who speaks in a strange tongue, in a possibly “dangerous” neighbourhood. The funny thing is, I felt more at home there than in the modern, “safe”, English-speaking city that I currently live in.<br /><br />Bare in luxuries, bountiful in love – gracias, my Guatemalan host, for reminding me the simple happiness of being in a family.teh ais limeihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13723578582495409229noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3718809943747444182.post-23052384092670023722010-07-10T14:18:00.004+08:002010-07-10T14:41:30.383+08:00The Day before I LeapI think I need to write this down. Even though I have only approximately 10 seconds to spare. And even though I'm having the biggest writer's block that you can carve the Lady of Liberty out of my brain and still have enough to repair, err, whatever it is that's needed to be repaired in our country. There's always something.<br /><br />This feeling, this nervewrecking sensation of the day before flying long-distance for the very first time - one only gets to experience this once in one's lifetime (I did warn you about the writer's block). So I gotta write it down, in the hope that one day I can look back and laugh at myself.<br /><br />If I can still laugh at that time.<br /><br />For the first time in my life, I have zero idea on what is going to happen next week. I have always known. Always. But now, my mind is a blank. My imagination, which usually runs on overdrive (though sadly, in useless directions), has failed me.<br /><br />Mum took me to eat hawker food just now. I stared at the Malaysians around me, with their feet up on the chair, their clothes mismatched and their table manners going the direction of their spits. I looked at the unwashed vegetables being thrown into the wok and stir-fried in too much oil for our consumption and possibly, constipation. I looked at the pirated DVD peddler counting his stock (omg he still has Toy Story 2). I looked at workers with various nationality preparing our food at the many stalls, and wondered if Malaysians realise that if we piss off migrant workers too much we may find ourselves swimming in a nationwide food poisoning (pardon the choice of words).<br /><br />I tried replacing all these images with my impression on what America would look like.<br /><br />That caused a headache.<br /><br />And a heartache.<br /><br />I will miss Malaysia. But I will always be a Malaysian.<br /><br />I have vowed that wherever I stand, that spot of ground is occupied by a <span style="font-style: italic;">Malaysian</span>.<br /><br />Should I forget this one day, do give my head a good knocking. But do explain why afterwards, or I may get too American and decide to sue your pants off.<br /><br />Please take good care of yourself, everyone! Enjoy yourself and we'll be in touch!teh ais limeihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13723578582495409229noreply@blogger.com2