Epiphani

Valentine's.

2012-02-10T20:47:00.000Z

A different valentine.

So I heard people love sunflowers. :)

If you, like me, often find your heart tipping precariously on a cliff, just take one step back at a time. Pretty soon, you will reach that point in the middle where looking back or front bears no difference and that vast rocky plain will be your oyster; there will be no regrets.

Happy Valentine's Day to all. No hate, no hate.

The Moon

2012-02-05T17:00:00.001Z

I do not know how I would sustain this lifestyle. I do not know if I would stay afloat or succumb to heavy doubts. I do not know if that fear of backbenching life's exciting chapters is actually coming true. But light alcohol and snow, you make me high and wondrous on the blazing white floors.

See and touch snow for the first time: check.

The Quiet Ushering.

2012-01-23T20:13:00.001Z

newlook, vintage, bonia, miscellaneous, if you are wondering.

4 months of silence, small voices, helplessness, vulnerable moments scraping for comfort, scent and warmth; I congratulated myself for never once faltering to the affliction typical of the lonesome in the foreign land. Slowly, the news feed came trickling in and then they just poured. So what do I do? I wear red, that is what I do. I wear so much red you may make inappropriate, distasteful analogies of me resembling used sanitary pads. And if you happen to be better with words, maybe to the neglected lanterns adorning Chinatown, caked with too much gunk and dirt for too long to retain meaning. Or to the indiscernible pile of red packets, disembowelled heartlessly by carnivorous children too busy relishing in competition of who had reaped the most returns. But nothing is the same here. My fortune cookie tells me to forget everything that is not here and now. But how can I? When everything that made me, tolerate me, love me and want me isn't here, isn't now. Uncongratulation, Ida, for faltering; succumbing to the sickness of home. Your proxy to everything that is there, was then- it isn't here, isn't now.

每逢佳节陪思亲，我懂了。

A Note to Self.

2012-01-12T23:56:00.000Z

Like they say in Chinese, 要对得起自己啊！

It just hit me that I am starting from ground zero and I need to buck up for debating. I feel the familiar frustration with myself rising again.

要对得起自己, 知道吗？

Don't Fix It.

2012-01-09T00:56:00.001Z

I was feeling awful and rather self-loathing at the prospect of mucking my exams up. I don't even know why I am so stressed out over a practice exam which doesn't count at all. I suppose the knowledge of my panic system (i.e: I never panic for an exam if I know I will be okay. Not spectacular, but okay.) and that this is not high school anymore made me double over. I am actually doing a degree here, which my parents paid for. I can't let my parents down. Moreover, no longer can these notes be gleefully chucked out of my mind once (if) I graduate because they might actually have relevance to my future. And what of my future when I barely feel deep-seated happiness in the present? Its swimming about in an unreachable depth below. Why am I writing this now then if I still have so much to do? Partly, I have given up on Property. Mostly, I had a brief flash of epiphany halfway through that I may just belong to that pool of people who might not find fulfillment/satisfaction in life for a very long while. I have many counter-arguments and advice I can conjure up against that. Everybody can. But thoughts like these never used to shake me so much because I was ready (not surrendering, mind you) to face those possibilities. How did I drift to a point where I am closing opened doors, sealing up crevices, turning off lights and sitting here in the inky darkness, where hands and legs and lips and eyes become this indistinguishable black mould, and when I proceed to stand up, turn on the lights, peel the plaster and nudge the doors open, and the light spills onto this long sentence and turns it golden, that I feel indifference to the shimmering sheen? And all I can see are and and and and and and and.

And then I came across this on one of those uplifting sites I seek solace in:

Melody The Black Mess

2012-01-04T18:24:00.004Z

Tank: FOS, Belt: Padini, Skirt: Random shop on sale in Camden, accessories: Camden market, H&M.

There was no reason for the pictures to be in color. Everything on me were black, white and grey. There were, however, many reasons why they should be in black. One, I didn't want to draw attention to my pathetically angled room which made taking pictures a chore (refer to my other Melody post for more gripes about how my room is hampering my inspiration to follow through with any outfit post.). Two, as of typical London weather, it got dark in that span of time between me taking my camera out and turning my head towards the balcony. Sigh. Three, I was procrastinating on my work (case in point: my messy hair which I beseech you to ignore.) and officially surrendering to the notion of mucking up my exams next week. Four, this has absolutely nothing to do with the first 3 reasons but I now have a profound respect for girls who put make-up. I have an inbred aversion towards putting gunk on my face. I need an absolutely pressing reason to do it (say Amanda forcing me down during one of our sleepovers while she jabbed at my eye with her eyeliner, procuring more tears than the time I fell into a drain.). So it rather surprised me that I was willing to try on that stick of eyeliner which I have fearfully hid in a corner all these months. God knows why I even bought it. Probably went through a Korean popstar phase only to realize how terrible I am at putting them on. Please refrain from teasing me about it. :(

But yes, finally, a Melody! Now that is not such a bad start to the new year!

Till the next time,
Ida.

2011 & A Half

2012-01-03T14:17:00.001Z

I found it amusing that everyone was looking up when this man started pointing ahead.

I initially just wanted to take a picture of the boy.

This was accidental.

I was specifically requested to reserve the first post for 2012 to a Melody. And since I can argue that these photos were taken in that gap between the 2 colliding years, I am quite sure I am taking advantage of a legit loophole in her request. :3 These were taken at Embankment where I stood for 4 hours, bracing wind and rain, to watch a 10-minute fireworks display. Worth it? For that moment of bated breath, forgiveness, understanding that, at this unbecoming age, I cannot start from a clean slate just because the clock struck 12 and still be perfectly fine with scrubbing rust: Worth it.

2011

2011-12-30T23:58:00.002Z

This year was about growing up. I walk out of 2011 with a weariness lingering behind. If I turn back, I can see all the faces, all the voices- all a little tired.

As much to you as to myself: Have a better year and a worthier love. It will be beautiful.

My Hair

2011-12-28T01:32:00.005Z

I didn't grow up liking my hair. No normal chinese girl whom I knew then had the great tangled mess I had. My hair used to stand on ends. In the morning when most people were more bothered about the crust in their eyes, I would be left to deal with hair defying gravity so grievous its as though they were throwing a little tantrum, declaring 'why do I have to stick to her scalp? It has goddamn cooties." (Okay, I don't have cooties. Oh dear, that may not have been a very good analogy. )

I accrued a sling of nicknames, ranging from the time-honored "Puffy" to "Lion" to "afro", you name it. Funnily enough, most of those nicknames were invented by my older relatives. You would think they would be more mature about something as trivial as a recessive gene. But no, they weren't. The younger kids picked up on it and my fate was sealed (along with 'fat' even though I was far from that. I suppose its given when cousins from my generation happen to resemble emaciated sticks beside me. And the world wonder why girls are so fucked up now). I didn't give two hoots for people calling me fat. I ate whatever I wanted and thought everybody were just big, fat liars about my weight. Strangely enough, that gung-ho acceptance I had for my weight never reflected when it came to my mane. I had my hair cut like a tomboy and used copious hair gel way earlier in my life than any douchebag should be permitted to.

Far right: In case you forgot what a Mick Jagger I used to be. And that was just one of the early years before the mane unleashed its full potential.

I turned 11. And then I realize no matter how big my metaphorical dick was compared to any boy I knew then, it would remain metaphorical. I started to wish I was half as pretty as all my female friends. There you go, proof that I am still inherently human and I have superficial inadequacies at times as well. But along with the story: I grew a deep dissatisfaction for my mane so much that my mum let me had it chemically straightened. The hairdresser was so amazed by the...resilience of my hair it took her close to 9 hours to tame it. Thats approximately the duration of a flight to New Zealand. So I conceded to societal pressure and depiction of beauty, turned my back on staying true to one's natural God-given features yadayadayada. All terrible, but the biggest mistake I must have made then was this: I didn't think it was a big mistake. In fact, I thought I looked just brilliant: my dead hair battered so badly it clung by my face, resembling more Morticia than L'oreal ads. Whatever, I was allowed to be an idiotic 11-year-old.

I continued this hairy abuse up till I turned 14 when I experienced my first existential crisis and had other problems to deal with (presumably more important, but really just blown out of teenage proportion.). I developed this addiction (??) to cutting my hair. I had this warped idea that I could 'start anew' every time I went for a haircut. I know, and I thought I was so mature. I stopped going for my touch-ups and for a period of several months, I sported a hairstyle which could aptly be summarized in one word: indecisive. Half frizz, half dead. Like a zombie. Only sassier.

The only picture I have on my laptop to demonstrate this point. I solemnly swear I did not look this impaired on normal days.

Then my friends staged an intervention. Or rather, they dared me in a game of Truth or Dare to not go for a haircut for the next year. I stopped. And picked up a new habit after of never going to a haircut when I should. But that's another story altogether with laziness as its running theme. The gist of it is, I began to treat my hair better. I became more convinced that I didn't have to look like most asian girls to be normal. I am unclear which came first: the acceptance or the eventual softening of the mane. Either ways, my hair tamed significantly over the years. And I learn to work with what I have. I am quite sure there is a bigger lesson to be learnt here that I should be applying in other areas of my life if I were to delve deeper into this issue. Something along the cheesy lines of 'change starts from within' or 'attitude matters' but its 1.35am, on Christmas eve- I only have so much days left in 2011 to write what might be the most self-indulgent/superficial/shallow post of the year. Throw a blonde joke in and we are done.

Among other unproductive things I have done over the week, I have also discovered how much fun my hair provides me with.

At first, I just tested with a headband.

Then a Christmas request from Julie motivated me to perform a botched dye.

Unconvinced that DIY may not necessarily be the most brilliant idea, I decided to cut my fringe. Luckily this time, I sobered up quick enough to whack the scissors out of my hands, horrified at the murder scene. Or something along the line. Not much damage done. So I concocted this genius of an idea to cover up the more botched up area with darker hair from the back.

And then I decided to go short. I tend to have brief spells over the year where I would be tempted to chop my entire length off. Obviously, not a great idea from past experience. So I resorted to pins. I managed to fool Cedric in the first five minutes of our gtalk conversation, of which he would never had guessed if it weren't for my unconvincing speech about how this was a product of my own hands. At dinner, I fooled another 2 guys. One of them is still fooled.

A slight tweak.

At the end of the day, I took off the pins, expecting nothing: only to be surprised by what curls can do when you have them pinned up for the entire day. They magically curl even tighter to this bouncy length above my shoulder and have been staying at that state for the past 2 hours. WIN.

Oh dear I can't believe I actually wrote this post. :S I feel an urgency to apologize.

I Let the Water Take Me

2011-12-23T23:27:00.006Z

A token of Vicky's selfless contribution to art and culture: RM1=20pence.

This.is.a.CLOCK. /mindfugked

HOW CLICHE IS THIS PHOTO?!

Did I just scare you with the last picture? My bad. I have lost my bootlegged photoshop due to, surprise surprise, licensing problems. I was on the verge of tears when the program promptly shut down every time I smashed the living hell out of my touchpad by clicking on its little blue icon as though my life depended on it. Wait, scratch that, my life does depend on it at this phase in time. Until I figure a way around retrieving another copy of the program, I will not be posting my drawings on my posterous for awhile. /le sigh. And in the mean time, I will arse my way around the photos through Aperture. Not that I ever take editing seriously anyway. With ceremonial excuses aside, Vicky came down to London today and we played tourists. Most of the pictures here were taken at the museum before the rain set in and I had to hide Origami away. I think I was more concerned about Origami than the fact that my dressing was blatantly inappropriate for the early set-in of winter. I now have some suspicious-looking smudges and stains on the back of jeans, the components of which I dare not hazard to guess. I am in love with museums. Of every kind. Just the other day, I listed down all the museums and libraries I intend to visit over this christmas break. And just a once-over of my list gave me more tangible excitement (and purpose) than my daily concoction of reasons why I should be studying. On that note, I may have descended to the same level as every scum on earth who expends more energy convincing herself of the work she has to do than actually doing it. At the same time, every other aspect of her life seems to come to a standstill. A faint creak into regression.

Its Christmas eve tomorrow. But my personal pace has not so much as faltered. Boopboopboopboop I am deathly afraid of 2012 boopboopboop God help love me more.

Dyead.

2011-12-21T13:08:00.001Z

Things I did thus far into the Christmas holiday:
1) Get a hangover.
2) Read a comic about family and homosexuality.
3) Bought 3 stacks of chocolate supply. Oh dear.
4) DIY botched my hair as a christmas present request from a friend and now resemble a tramp, broke with no business, who got her front tuft of hair doused in chlorine. Stupid dye.
5) Felt no urgency to dye my hair black again.

Merry Christmas.

Delete

2011-12-17T23:48:00.000Z

Eating alone isn't always as mortifying as many people would think. In a long line at this asian restaurant I went to today, I got picked out first from the back of the queue to be served. It could be that they had more seats for single patrons. Or that people in groups tend to linger around and be merry. Or that lonely people eat quicker. When I am caught in between the twilight of hollowness and morose pangs, I am often told that I really should not feel too upset that I am not going back home. I am in London! The wide-eyed child, the exuberant youth and the wistful old folk whose life was spent on another would look at me with such envy. But behind the Big Ben centerpiece, the notably british accent floating in and about your unacclimatized body wrapped under layers of cloth shielding the icy wind, the dazzling Christmas decorations along the high street not dissimilar to every other urban, glossy commercial areas you could think of, that jarring separation between you and everything else is too apparent to deny. London is as loud as it can be lonely. And I suppose I have not been specific when the nuances of my expression let slip the twang of yearning I have for home: I am not so much homesick as I miss company. And the best companies I have happen to be 6000miles away from me. I don't have to try really hard to imagine what they are doing right at this moment: asleep in a land on the cusp of dusk, duller but infinitely warmer (both literally and more). I also think I may be developing an unhealthy case of trust issue: I seem to think anybody I talk to is too messed up or detached to be trusted. It's winter coursing in my body and I have been adding more layers than I ought to.

Happy Birthday, Onigiri!

2011-12-14T20:27:00.000Z

Guilting me to write a post while you are tipsy actually works! :) Notwithstanding the fact that I was the first person to call you all the way from London to remind you you turned 22 today, I promised to do this so I did.

Happy Birthday, Onigiri.

You will do great things in 2012. So sit back for what is left of 2011 and relax! And attention to any friends of Cedric Chin back in Kuching, please drag his programming butt out more often to remind him to chill a little.

That is all.

Love,
Ida :3

Somebody, save the drunks.

2011-12-10T22:35:00.002Z

Beer bong HAHA.

Happiness is finally finding a pair of jeans that doesn't make my butt look like its conceding to gravity prematurely.

Has anyone ever noticed how depressing a dance floor can get? All booze and loneliness.

2011-12-09T00:08:00.000Z

I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.

We are all okay.

Walls

2011-11-27T23:16:00.000Z

It's my neighbour's birthday today. There was a birthday song and many balloon-popping. Occasionally there ~~were~~ are deafening screams, and then incessant chatterings. A girl's voice, then a boy's, then a mishmash of both. At intervals, the door slams open and I can hear people tumbling out into the corridor, yelling incoherent things. And the voices always come in layers. Above this, someone calls out suggestions to go to a strip club, a casino... then it drowns and merges with the lower layer of more incoherent gibberish. Silence. Shuffling of the feet, opened doors, more human surprises. Sometimes they break out into songs. Right now, they are singing Beatles' 'I want to hold your hand". I am trying to study on the other side of these thin walls, but I find myself lowering my itunes volume often, just so I can catch an audible update of what is happening next door. This flimsy concrete would ameliorate into a translucent veneer, and I am the only audience watching the unfolding of an unspectacular, typical birthday celebration. Unspectacular and warm, all at the same time.

That heat will not penetrate these thin walls. It's my neighbour's birthday today.

Melfail

2011-11-20T22:13:00.003Z

Blouse: MNG, Skirt: Glasson, Belt: F Block, Tights/Boots: H&M, Cardigan: Primark, Bangles: random shop in Changi Airport, Ribbon: bento box wrap cloth.

Wore this on my nth trip to Costa to study. I feel so bad about not having done a Melody post since I got to the UK I am willing to post this batch of awful photos up. I remember slumping myself on the floor of my room, exasperated at how impossible it was to 1) self-time photos when your camera refuses to auto-focus at the right spot 2) find a presentable corner in my narrow room to pose feebly in. The only photo that barely passed had my mobile phone charger dangling about unsightly over this empty sanitary pad box my mum used to send her parcel in. No, I have yet to ask my mum why, among all abandoned boxes that could be picked up in a supermarket, she had to choose a box for sanitary pads.

But I am on the precipice of puking blood laced with legal terms from reading my contract law textbook. I need a distraction before going back to my tutorial work once more. And, I really had to show Melody how impossible it is to do a self-photoshoot without a friend like her ~~and her ringo~~ here. :(

On other news, I might not be blogging for a bit. As you all could probably infer from my previous less-than-ambiguous post, I am on a quest to clog all my free time with distractions. The last thing I need is another random burst of emotion coupled with 'whathaveidone'-esque self-reflection. I will not write a damp, weepy post. I will not.

Till happier times,
Ida.

Life

2011-11-10T15:11:00.000Z

Thank you for the years, love.

Better

2011-11-06T15:55:00.002Z

Hello. Just a short one to say 3 things:

Sorry Melody, I will do a Melody post soon...during reading week. Oh dear I should really pull my act together. /bows down to Melody in apology.

Thank you Sean noobhek, for the amazing sewn book cover. Your parcel made my otherwise dull day so much brighter. I really miss you, buddy. :'(

I am doing better. Hence, I bombard this space with gratuitous photobooth pictures of myself. :) Have a productive week, everybody!

Love,
Ida

Autumn, Warwick & Some Really Bad Photos.

2011-10-31T21:08:00.001Z

The Boat Racing Competition at the pub.

The only group picture that came out right. From left, I present you Joe, Danitza and Zal.

By this point, everything became a blur.

Origami usurped by Danitza. Dodged too many debate bullets with this guy. Too many.

Admittedly some really pathetic pictures here. I don't really have much to say except that I am really glad I didn't give up on myself even through some difficult periods this past month. I seem to fall back on Debate when I feel down in the dumps each time. The temptation of going back in time to whack a brick on 14-year-old Ida crying about being forced into debating just becomes stronger by the year. Warwick was the most fun I had ever had since coming to the UK. It was rather surreal coming back to London after. Still feels surreal.

Pardon this really half-baked post. I shall go back to contract law now. I may have officially lost my mojo to study. Oh no.

Day

2011-10-27T13:02:00.000+01:00

Kiss

Four ladies in hats.

Scooter cleaning.

These pictures were taken by a combination of Origami (that is my camera) and Bobold (that be my phone) when Origami promptly blacked out halfway through. I found myself in Russell Square last Saturday. It was a beautiful day; cool with pouring sun rays, an anomaly in Autumn London. Sometimes, you got a brief bout of strong wind to remind you of what the true weather should be: cold and wet and dense and grey. But most of the day, it reminded me of love. The festival was charming with quirky crafts, and looming trees with stories dangling upon each branch, the lawn dotted with lounging adults sipping coffee and children struggling in autumn coats consuming their small sizes. It was the kind of festival fit for all: family, significant other, friends, and alone. And often, I caught my sight lingering too long upon a particular part of the garden whilst my mind sketched out the silhouettes of loved ones beckoning me over. Sometimes, I saw him on the poetic path, pondering on which words to connect, and at the sight of the perfect word he would turn over and he would see me engulfed in the bristling creepers of words circling with the breeze, and he would pull me in, laughter, a kiss, gone. Sometimes, I saw mum engrossed in the craft tent, struggling to find the right coins (because British coins are terrible to deal with), some arduous minutes later she would reappear with a unique item, satisfactory smile, gone. I saw my brother at a corner, brooding. At a sight of a squirrel, he would follow its trail until it disappears. Backtrack, gone. I saw dad at the expresso bar, edging me to get him a cuppa. No, two. Because more is always good for him. Sip, gone. Often, I could see her, him and I at the children's corner and we would work furiously on our little cards. He would get distracted by two kids playing ball and go over to say hi, because he loves children like that. He would come back exclaiming how furry they were in his own bizarre vocabularies. We would hang our cards on the tree. An excited clap, she would pull out Ringo. Snap, snap, gone.

I had hot chocolate. Spent inordinately large amount of time imagining I was a fairy among the words in the poetry path. And left a humble message upon the cardboard, to all I love and care.

What a day.

Night

2011-10-24T20:20:00.003+01:00

My eyes are rather heavy at the moment. And I am pretty sure my bra strap has nothing to do with the ache I am feeling at the crook of my back. I don't have much to say here except that Samantha is supposed to be in these photos as well. But words fail me on why I have forgotten to take a picture with her. It may or may not have to do with distracting M&M colours and the fact that she was holding my Origami.

Secondly, I am so ridiculously in love with my earcuff. Don't convert it to ringgit, and I can pretend it was not a guilty buy. But then again, it can't be a guilty buy because I had a good reason to get it, it was my birthday. Wow, I may just be able to pass off as a brat there. On that point, it took me an hour to self-shoot a photo of it on my ears. My God, fixed lens and no photographer= very time-consuming.

Thirdly, I had qualms about naming this post a Melody because I really didn't have any photos for a Melody. I just wanted to flash my earcuff (cue exhibitionist behaviour) smugly at everybody out there. And also, I knew that if I named this a Melody, the actual Melody would holler at the top of her ~~boobs~~ lungs and call me a cheater.

Fourthly, on outfits, the receptionist of my hall cannot recognize me on days when I dress better. Every single time, without fail. He would stop me, squint at my face and then proceed to demand for my Hall ID. By the fourth time he stopped me, I just gave him a look I can only summarize as "=.=", of which he broke into an apologetic smile and asked "You live here, don't you?" No I don't, I just happen to be a doppelganger of that other Ida you see padding around in her hoodie, glasses, dishevelled hair and pair of jeans she has been wearing for 2 weeks. I need the jeans back, you see.

Fifthly, my weekends have been better. :)

I arrived.

2011-10-18T16:39:00.000+01:00

This day, this week, this month, have not been well. I drift from class to class, audience only to the scuffling of students and the glaring separation between them and I. I stare at my feet gloved in newly-acquired boots during break times, I often make my way to the toppest of the main quad, away from the crowd of meandering, chatting people, pass the old,carved statue and relieve my bag upon a long chair propped right underneath the dome to have lunch with the strong autumn breeze. And I relish in the temporary dispel of social awkwardness for here on top, at the back, there is no one to judge me or my solitude from behind. I wander the library, happily obliging to a silent code. Often, as I am now, I feel down reflecting upon what I have not accomplished, the feelings I have left as my partner and the lingering thought of what would happen if I disappear in a fashion I am most known for: without words. But I look up now from my fading, grand mahogany table at the amber lights bouncing off the magnificent ceiling, at the old grandfather clock looking matronly below and the rows and rows of books, dense with history, breathing and sighing upon dusty brown shelves, and I recall how much I wanted this as a child: to sit as where I am in a building as old as time and indulge in a fantasy about ancient academies and forbidden books peeling from age. Alone as this is, I have arrived.

Why do I bother?

2011-10-09T18:21:00.001+01:00

People don't blog anymore. In a much more inferior manner, it is akin to the time when the internet/email/text was invented, and we all sighed cumulatively at the fading art of snail mails. Now with the advent of tumblr, people are moving away from lovingly-crafted blogposts. I am not shy to declare my treacherous hate for this 'micro-blogging' platform, allowing even the laziest soul to 'express' himself by reposting and then declaring on his tumblr 'I have updated my blog'. My arse. Cue for a short rant so that the number of measly readers I have left will not flame me: I have nothing against Tumblr per se, I have a problem with people who use it as an exclusive blogging platform. No honey, reposting, while this might shock you, is not blogging. Having said that, I used to make hypocritical exceptions to themed tumblrs like 'fuckyeah' blogs because they made me laugh. I can flesh my argument out for ages but I detest writing a thesis on this phenomenon. All I have to say is, why are you so friendly, Tumblr?! I can love and hate you at the same time. I am sure this ambiguous relationship is not good for my heart.

I remembered a time when I dedicated a large amount of time reading blogs. Occasionally, we did vapid things on our blogs, like taking on challenge posts and then tagging more friends to do equally mindless things on their blogs. But most of the times, we wrote about things that mattered to us. We took time to deliberate which words to use and a post could have taken days to produce. We were storytellers. Barely a handful of them writes now. Most of the blogs that I still follow now are strangers, albeit famous ones at that. I feel like the old folk grasping for what is left of the community he used to be in, while everybody moved on to bigger, not necessarily better things. I must have no life to fret over something like this tonight as I struggle with the notion that not being on Facebook is suddenly a crime, and the great joy of reading about other humble lives other than through status updates is robbed from my hands. "Want to know more? Join Facebook!" is the response I seem to attract.

In the same inferior sense, why do I bother writing?

A Sad Day For Apples

2011-10-06T19:38:00.001+01:00

True story.
RIP Steve Jobs.

From Blake.

Mechanism.

2011-09-29T14:51:00.000+01:00

Just a short one to say that I am blogging this from my patch of grass. Everybody is on patches of grass.There have been ups and downs since I arrived in UCL. While most others are already forming static groups, I am still unfortunately (or fortunately depending on how you look at it) flying solo. I have made attempts at making friends, some which ended up so excruciatingly awkward I am still ignoring said person, others surprisingly successful (like post-it noting people's rooms). In the end, still pretty much going around alone. I joined an infinite numbers of clubs, some of which I am convinced I will drop (haha) and am crossing my fingers for better luck then. I have to blog about several things, like my trip around london and Edinburgh with my parents, my quiet birthday and some other observations of my university. Blake is bursting with photos waiting to be edited, no thanks to my procrastinating ways. Do not ask about my freshers or attempt to advice me to talk to people. Okay? thx.

So how is the week so far? In the magical phrase of ambiguity: it has been alright.

Far

2011-09-18T21:34:00.000+01:00

A lump of envy at people walking two by two on walkways and in photos.

Sigh. I have nothing to say, except that I am still wrestling with the idea of getting a printer for school and not leaving this quaint little secondhand bookshop I was in this evening.

Curious place could be curiouser with a geek along.

Printer or not to printer.

Animals

2011-09-13T09:00:00.001+01:00

It didn't matter if it were falling asleep or awake, it always happens at the cusp of consciousness, at this in-between place where dream and reality crisscross each other seamlessly. There are muted sounds about me, sounds from the real world. If ever they sound too vivid, they are more often than not a culmination of the dream state. Sometimes, I can't open my eyes. Sometimes I can. And when I can, the image in front always drifts in pale light, hazy and obvious at the same time. It is really quite terrifying. I can't move. That is the worst. I see my limbs and I whisper for them to twitch, and my heart is pounding in panic, wondering if this is how the paralysed feels, wondering why all my focus on making my limbs move could feel so exhaustive, yet everything remained as though I was heavy in sleep.

Right now I am in the plane heading to the UK, probably complaining about my chair and suffering from a degree of discomfort. Yes you got it, this is an autopost. A brief one about Singapore, at that, as I don't feel the urge to write copious amount of words lately. I think it may be from worries and nervousness about my big transition to a new country up north. As of press time, I have been having jumpy eyelids and a couple of sleep paralysis-esque episodes. Now that may come across like some serious disorder but rest assured, it isn't and you probably had a few of these episodes yourself. But really, leaving those feelings aside because I am not at all lyrical enough to make them as haunting as they actually are, Singapore was happy.

My mum and I planned to visit this legendary H&M opening on the first night, but was so taken aback by the lines outside the store we scrapped it. The lines were mad, snaking the periphery of the store with many onlookers out on the pavement peeking in. We did manage to get in the next morning, when it was still bubbling under with the red-taped pathway absent of overeager shoppers. Little did I know how the numbers would multiply so fast in the next hour! It didn't matter if they were 12 year-old prepubescent girls, 20 year-old university students or even the 50 year-old mums; they were all picking clothes like how the aunties fight for discounted toilet paper here. And the Indonesian mums I encountered must really take the cake. One particular mum stood out: slathered with make-up the thickness of the grime you accumulate from not washing for a few weeks, I could barely make out the line between her actual eyes and that whole other gradient of black that is supposed to be the eyeshadow. They didn't give much second though to prices, I reckon, picking clothes off the rack at one glance, even while lining up to the dressing room. Off they scoot for a few seconds with their daughters securing a spot in line, and poof they appear with more clothes. I had the least to try. And I remember Waffel asking me why didn't I just try everything, of which I gave a rather blunt reply: "because they are all above my budget". I ended up not getting what I tried anyway.

With so many people about, there were bound to be the shoppers that just on your nerves. Exhibit one: the woman who dumps her 20 pieces on the floor in front of the mirror, proceeds to try them one by one while hogging the mirror, not giving a shit that you want to use the mirror too. Exhibit two: the woman who tears the wrapping and the cardboard off every tights on the rack, test the elasticity of said merchandise like she knows the difference between an 80 denier and a 90 denier, throws them back below the rack, not giving a shit about ethical handling of merchandises that other people might potentially want to buy, oh I don't know, in their original pristine condition. God, I hate my gender sometimes. As you can see, I am spending more time complaining about the human condition than actually talking about clothes. Because by the second day of opening, three quarters of everything are gone already and you are left with, yes, you got it, remnants of exhibit one and two.

As you can tell, shopping wasn't the highlight of the trip (but oh, snakeskin prints how I wish I could afford you. Funny story here, my dad says I shouldn't wear snakeskin prints or faux fur because I am an animal lover. I vehemently retorted that I never considered wearing real animal parts before. And he essentially said this: any semblance of animal-like materials would be an offense to my animal-loving status, even if they were fake or printed. Also, that PETA people cannot tell the difference and will throw eggs at me. T-T) The real highlights were exploring Singapore with Waffel. I had my first Carls' Junior IN A YEAR, took very long mrt rides, left random notes in the Waffel's crib and I explored Chinese Garden for the first time. It was a very aged garden, with little abandoned pouches of trees, shrubs and bushes. Nearing the mid-autumn festival, there were an assortment of decoratives lining the pathways: lanterns, Zodiac animals, big chinese suns, butterflies, dragons and oriental bridges; bright lights piercing the plastic-paper materials, giving all of them that distinctive chinese glow. Among other lovelier surprises, like the add-on charms to my bracelet, and then some.

I also returned to my much-loved Soup Spoon, partly because I had such fond memories over a soup meal before. People-watching in Singapore is also much more entertaining than back home. And I am eagerly looking forward to quirkier humans prancing about London so that I can fully indulged in this favourite pastime of mine.

I must be watching a movie on the plane by now. Or writhing in my seat in an attempt to improve blood circulation. Either ways, I must be in suspended hell. Goodbye Kuching. :'( And see you all in London!

Love,
Ida

Goodbye

2011-09-13T06:52:00.000+01:00

Kuching, my home, goodbye and wait for me.

I love you all.

poor fruit, sweet flesh

2011-09-11T11:36:00.001+01:00

Those were the days when black was black and white was white, when giving a pencil to someone meant getting a pencil in return, when fairness seemed obvious and the world was just, when rewards were always on how good a girl you were, when deserving people seemed to get what they should have gotten, when jealousy was as far as it went and bitterness an unthinkable realm. Those were the days when love was predictable and ever kind, when a poor fruit cannot bear sweet flesh, and sweet flesh bore definitely from a laden tree, when the biggest change was learning to go potty, and the barometer of a friendship was calibrated on the frequency of hide-and-seek and masak-masak executed. Those were the days when 'values' was a foreign word, when conversations were genuine, raw and childish, but be damned if they were coated in saccharine sickness to hide the ague burning underneath. Those were the days when relationships were not wrought in ague, shivering in its mucus, its sweat-its fatality. Those were the days when the future was far and long. Those were the days when we flew instead of walked laboriously forth. Those were the days I have left. Those were the days.

It is incredibly hard to be a person without judgments. How many times have we wished misfortunes upon someone who thoroughly deserves damnation but seems to be getting more love than you can ever have? How they have wronged so many people, hurt and never confronted their ways, driven their way into a pitch black tunnel of denial yet are still bestowed upon with gifts far beyond yours. And the irony is, someone just behind you would be looking at you with the same lens. But the line goes on. You are ungrateful. I am ungrateful. This world churns and crunches because of our greed, our inability to comprehend what we have done wrong and the lack of humility to pay up our dues.

We are evil little children lavished with fortunes. And we point to another and we huff "Please don't judge me. I am a pained being, unlike her. She has a perfection I do not have." But with our backs turned, she looks at us with the same melancholy, maybe more.

We are evil little children.

Pumped Up Melody

2011-09-08T09:48:00.000+01:00

Details:

Shirt: Gifted from Kevin

Shorts: Zara

Bracelets: Gifted from Chonfan & Cedric

Poncho sweater: H&M

So I was mistakenly believed that the last batch of Melodies were the final ones done by a walking, talking person as opposed to a tripod. They were apparently not, due to a spontaneous trip to Singapore a few days back, thanks to my dad's bank-related errands over yonder. Incidentally, H&M's grand opening was on the very day I arrived and I am reminded of how crazy Singaporeans (and Indonesian mums. No really, I can explain. But well, I will save that for a proper post next :) ) can be when it comes to bright shiny new things. Amidst the torrent of very well-dressed shoppers ravaging the store, I did manage to come out alive, grasping in my hand, what may be the most colourful merchandise I have ever set my hands on. It was also the only spending I indulged in, socks notwithstanding. And food. Every night hence forth, I would don this poncho, lunge into my hotel bed and roll about, pretending I live on remnants of rainbow and leprechauns. Every night. Without fail.

Melody Moves Like Jagger

2011-08-25T16:59:00.003+01:00

Details:

Top: Dockers, hand-me-down from mum

Oversized top: Lee, hand-me-down from dad

Belt: F Block

Shorts: gifted from Shirley

Cuff: Diva

Sunnies: random mart

Hairtie: a bento wrap cloth from a 100yen store

Socks: Cotton On

Shoes: Bata

Yes I did it, Melody. I have assembled your 2 worst nightmares on the surface of this earth in this post in an attempt to spite you (:3)- Loud floral shorts and checkered patterns. HAH. My affinity for baggy floral shorts sprouted at the cusp of tomboyhood, when I discovered these magical pairs of male board shorts splattered with the loudest orange prints. And when they gloved me, my god, my hand went a-smacking my forehead at how bloody comfortable they were, how airy it was and how much mobility it granted me to act like a complete sloth. And they were cheap. Always cheap. You find them in the piles of neglected fabrics in dodgy, dimly lit supermarkets priced somewhere between 5 to 20 ringgit. How the vulgarity could I not like them? Heck, my affinity was so mindlessly obvious my cousin got me a pair for Christmas.

I never really realized what was so wrong about it. I was deadset sure that everybody were into these comfy shizz. And then one day in college last year, it was a heady morning of which rendered me crippled at decision making. I pulled on the two most comfy things in my closet: my squirrel debate shirt and this other pair of pink floral shorts together and trudged my way to college. I almost made it to my destination when along came Melody. She scanned me one-up and froze. And in a deliberate manner, she asked horrifically, "What on earth are you wearing?!"

So it was then when the glass in my mind broke, and the fashion divide between me and the common female body of the school became too apparent. Incredulous dawn of epiphany: you mean nobody likes them? The blasphemous fugk?!

I now have Melody's wails assaulting my ears whenever I come close to anything floral. Or checked (which for some odd reasons, also fails to impress her.) While I have long left the floral phase, I still love my little collection of shorts to bits. They are comfy, easy to wash, quick to dry and most of all, the bright colours are a beacon among a mountain of clothes; godsend on the weary indecisive days, I swear.

And thus my lesson in Melody fashion began. I occasionally wear such shorts just to spite her. On rare times, I dress up nicer to please the woman. On a side note, this be my first Melody post done on a tripod, which frankly, was as exciting as watching paint dry (at which point I should really be explaining to people about that white patch in my room which I never got to paint). It was also rather lonely. Perhaps what helped me waddle through the shoot was the knowledge of a distant voice, whining as I eagled in on a bright chocolate fabric within the deepest ends of my closet as I reached my hand in...

A Wonderful Dream

2011-08-22T05:24:00.001+01:00

Today I had a dream in which I found myself clad in the turquoise uniform, back straining from a heavy bag, and hands clutching a stack of books. There were younger students edging their way in both directions and amidst that, a call from above that it was alright for the prefects to let us in now. As I made my heaving way up the stairs riddled with canteen rubbish, its walls printed with shoe stamps, I couldn't help but to realize that I was struggling with all the weight upon me. If this were me a couple years back as a rule-abiding 14-year-old (before morphing into the other version of me who always broke the rules, and yet, somewhat, still stayed by the rules. They were the little details I went against. And no one notices little details. :) ), I would have breezed through the steps as though all the weights are merged with me, a part of me my whole life that I was so accustomed to carrying around. Which brought me to the conclusion that this was not a reliving of my memory. I was there and then as an impending university student going back to high school. And in that dream, I walked past an administrative room on the 3rd floor of Block H, and my Sec 1 english tuition teacher was peering from inside. Funny it didn't strike me as odd that there were no such rooms and definitely no such tuition teacher in Green Road. You would think I would have retained some memory in the dream realm but no, I went up to her and asked for directions to, to, and I paused to recall what class I was in, "5A", I said. She oh-ed and pointed me to a stairs. Another testament to the total lack of factual accuracies, I was from 5Sc1.

So I walked. And it was then as "5A" began to loom in front of me that the dream became vivid and I could sense the smell of morning dew in a deadly mix of student scent and soggy french fries. Then the noise of excited chatters, shoes scrapping on ground, tables shifting and then the arrangements, which were not quite right. Augustine skipped towards me as I entered the classroom and exclaimed, "You still got your name tag! I lost mine." And a friend from the side my dream refuses to register chirped in about losing his name tag too and how they weren't prepared to come to school once more after all these times. I sat with Siaw Wee throughout Form 5, so it was only natural that I looked for her bag and rested mine beside it. Everyone was huddled over some papers and seemed to be hard at work with pens sprawled across the boundaries of their tables and over. I leaned over another friend and asked what was everybody up to. And he said: "Oh, these are for the sports' meet!"

I oh-ed as a tuition teacher once oh-ed and the scene melted to the edges and I was awake. And I was smiling.

Karaoke

2011-08-21T14:21:00.000+01:00

I never took to the idea of karaoke, not since I first had my oral lessons for my piano examination about the time I turned 8. Contrary to many childhoods, mine was void of anything musical. I used to declare to my mum in gusto that I hated singing and will never ever sing. Even relished in that thought. I was much too preoccupied with the whimsical realms of cartoons and the great possibilities one could conjure up on paper with a mere tool of a pencil. Art and writing were my primary sanctuary. Of course, now that I have grown older, that haven has expanded to accommodate music. I don't have a preconceived bias for any genre, though I suspect any music that passes my imaginary barometer seems to be all of good taste. Heh. Heh. Heh. You didn't think I would write a post without throwing in some stellar self-praising jibe ae? Kidding aside, somethings don't change. My self-consciousness when it comes to being shoved with a microphone in my face remains. I pull on my most incredulous expression and flinch from any advancing microphones, and then let out a series of "no, no, I don't sing!" gasps. As far back as I could remember, I have let this guard melted away in the booming walls of karaoke rooms only twice. Once, it was with close friends, where half of the group were already gone anyway, and I sang (well, yelled, to be technically accurate) desperately to 'Cookie Jar' to cheer up a friend.

The second time was two nights ago. What started out as an ordinary dinner, transpired into a fullblown disco session. What was so amazing about the night was the participation. My cousins, uncles, aunts, dad and mum all joined in the most infectious karaoke session I have ever been to. Needless to say, I went ballistic on the microphone. My uncle had a problem with following tempo, and after countless futile attempts to right his mistakes, he flung himself off the chair and started to do some very awkward Beatles moves, and in the spirit of 'tohellwithit', gave some awfully comical off-tuned renditions of "Dancing Queen", "Massachusetts" and "Morning has Broken", among others. The karaoke menu was obviously outdated, almost blasphemous. Good lord, no Justin Bieber? But really, I haven't had such incredible fun with music in awhile.

It's making it hard for me to leave this place. :')

2011-08-18T15:44:00.001+01:00

Oh these times are hard
And they're making us crazy
Don't give up on me.

An Ode to Food.

2011-08-12T09:40:00.002+01:00

Today marks exactly one month before I jet off to London. And do you know what I plan to do? No you don't, because if you did, I won't have asked. Exactly, that's why you gotta read this post. I am unveiling my (not-so)magnificent plan to fulfill my food bucket list. I am going to sought out all my favourite spots in Kuching and eat them out. After I have finished eating them out, I will proceed to eat them out.

I have even acquired exclusive permission from my mum to eat like a hog this month, though that may have just been an obvious result of my constant whining of not being able to eat spicy food ever ever again in London for the past week. On every dinner table past and henceforth follows the structure of me stroking my cili padi and chilli sauce morosely, bereaving their impending absence. I will be at McDonalds or KFC and I will stare each spicy fried chicken with a wee tear in my eye, gut wrenching at the prospect of never having that burning aftertaste in my mouth and tummy ever again when I leave. And my dad shall proceed to console me by telling me what amazing meat UK will offer, and my eyes, oh, my eyes only exist for my spicy McChicken Deluxe, and my spicy chicken wings topped off with more pepper and thai chilli sauce. I even eat my vegetable more soulfully now I practically feel them. Stir fried kailan with your itty-bitty garlic sprinkled all over, the undeniably Asian taste of oyster sauce, vegetable given more love than merely being butchered and boiled to a bland mesh, I weep at my departure for you. LUICHA LAKSA FTW. Such little vocabulary and care for proper spelling, and yet it still reduces me into fits of seizures just thinking about losing them.

Someone once told me that you can indulge yourself in the biggest, most sumptuous dinner in that measly span that is your existence (okay, not really in those words but I decided to jazzle it up myself. Oh yes, why, you're welcome.)and the morning after, still feel like you should have appreciated it even more. Yeah well, since that is going to happen anyway, I might as well supersize the feast spanning a month's time. Maybe the aftertaste can linger longer (linger longer hah my uncanny ability at rhymes. tsk) and may the death of me be extended further down the arduous road of frosty London.

And when London rises up in yet another fickle riot, when the sky constricts into a grey rumble, and fires hop about in a menacing dance, and the sounds of insanity become muffled by the walls of my crib,

Maggi Mee, you will be my buddy.

The Last Waffeled Melody

2011-08-05T15:22:00.014+01:00

Details:
Hairtie: Heart Attack
Necklace: Forever21
Ring: Forever21
Belt: F Block
Dress (tucked): Kitschen
Skirt: Random store
Loose Jumper: Mum's hand-me-down, Anne Kelly
Socks: Cotton On
Shoes: Bata

This is the 2nd post written on friday, the day before Waffel leaves for Singapore, leaving us counting down what could possibly be 10 months before I get to see him again. I am praying that isn't the case but what will be will be, ae? sigh. These were taken after my debate at Swinburne. Thankfully, ego was not scarred beyond repair.

Yet. I don't have much to say here, except that these will be the last Melody posts with photos personally taken by Waffel who has served as my photographer for the past 3 months. After this, I will be reduced to having my Origami mounted on a tripod, sneaking my shoes into my room and snap myself with a timer. In fact, this might stretch into my days in London until I find friends who are as willing to do this for me as Melody and Waffel without judging these posts as a false attempt at vanity. Au contraire, Melody posts are the one thing connecting me and Melody down under at the moment. We have something in common despite of the distance lying between us; these posts are our go-to reasons behind excited conversations about clothes, events, happenings and shoes (yes shoes deserve an entire category by themselves!) before we begin our mull over not-too-farfetched plans to cross borders and, simply, see each other again. The other significance of Melody posts lies in the renewed purpose for me to blog more frequently. But well, I supposed it didnt need to be said, considering how much more active I have been on the blogosphere ever since our pact was put into motion.

A lot of my relationships have turned long-distance. Sometimes I looked at Waffel as he laid beside me during one of our humming afternoons and I felt a tinge of unfairness. For the last 3 months, he was my physical go-to confidant. It was my only tangible friendship: the kind that operates unconstrained by distance, complete with touch, immediacy and warmth. I had that concrete to lay my heart on, not some flimsy data crossing synthetic fibres to the screen of my Blake. Grievously, many of my other friendships are tethered to places scattered across borders, some on the verge of negligence. And tomorrow, yet another one of my relationships resume as just another soulless packet of data.

Hey Love,

2011-08-05T13:47:00.001+01:00

how 3 months flew. I will miss you.

The Gackt Dance & The Flurry McDerby

2011-07-30T14:46:00.002+01:00

Disney, Tom & Jerry, Disney.

I got Cedric the Donald Duck shirt because Donald has big feet, a big behind and loves to be the center of attention. :D

Cute die.

Pioneer of the Clonies and the Rehabiliation Center. :3

Pig-up point courtesy of the Squirrels.

It was the brief period between the 2nd opposition and the 3rd government when Melanie leaned in to me and whispered: 'So should it be about rehabiliation?' I corrected her: 'Yes, and its rehabilitation, not rehabiliation.' Melanie nodded her head and made her way up to the podium (which really is just a wobbly, terribly abused table from one of our classes). With her eyebrow arched, she enunciated in that typical anxious tone of hers:

"When you want to talk about rehabiliation..."

Our heads went straight to the table. Then Melanie launched into her point about punishing clonies ( I swear we taught her it was cronies!), and we couldn't take it anymore. The burst of hearty giggles erupted, all at the oblivion of Melanie as she soldiered on, each word more intense than the one before. And thus, I present you a small fragment of a day in a life of a Green Road Squirrel Debate Coach. I have not been through a day of training with these lot without shaking my head, chuckling and wondering how can such genuine cuteness be permitted to exist.

Of course, it hasn't just been about the adorable gestures, lovable quotes and silly little mistakes that these squirrels conjure out of their unexpected hat of all-things-impossible. I respect them, for the drive and determination that they exhibit; the kind that reminds me of how ashamed I should be to have chickened out of SWSDC '07, the kind that many other older debaters should emulate. One can only wish to be as inquisitive as these self-proclaimed squirrels.

I remember how this nickname began in our batch, which started as jokes shared with seniors and juniors alike, and grew into prominence with the creation of our first ever debate t-shirt by yours truly featuring a POI-ing squirrel. I never thought that the legacy would remain but it has: it is mirrored in my juniors' faces: lit at the very mention of the sports. Much more astonishing is how similar they are to how we were like in the past: from the feist of Melanie, the calm of Jaan Ee, the maturity of Hui Mei to the antics of Malachi. Observing them talk animatedly with each other gives me great comfort, to know that a part of what we did in high school never faded, and that golden era when debate meant so much to us has now passed on to the juniors. And I am incredibly proud of them.

Today was a day of Mcflurries and buffet before we adjourned to Swinburne for an unexpected session of British Parliamentary style debate. Malachi, Melanie and HuiMei eagerly challenged themselves to go up against university debaters. HOW THESE 15 YEARS OLD SHAME US HOW?! HOW DO WE COMPARE?!

Slight loss of composure aside, Cedric and I decided to debate as well. I have never done BP debate, and certainly not at university level. But it went well. I credit it to beginner's luck and Kevin that I left the debate relatively unscathed. :) I do need to think faster in debate though, aiyo.

You know what? I feel sentimental now. Sigh. So below shall be a general rant that you may skip if you are not interested in me waxing lyrical about debate (hah, debate lyrical hah):

I didn't start my debating career with a golden spoon. I.e, I did not possess the gift of spontaneity, wit, oration or even the ability to string a sentence together. I shook and stalled. I left every round of debate I was in with a self-beaten ego, angry at myself for having been such a burden to the team. I remember working hard one night before my 2nd debate in form 2, penning down everything I could think of about the motion, and it totalled to 2 full pages of notes (preparations such as this are obviously unrecommended anymore). The next day I spoke as aggressively as I could to mask my ineptitude and at the end of it, Fook Ann shook my hand and told me: "Good Job". That was the first affirmation I have ever gotten.

For a very long time after, I played second fiddle to my team, especially to my teammate, who was recognised almost immediately as the most promising talent among us. I had many encounters with adjudicators who told me we could have lost if it were not for my teammate. So you can imagine how bad I used to put myself down. It took me a long time to stop pitying myself. My last year in high school became my final salvage in which I grabbed every opportunity available to improve, to hunt down adjudicators for feedback and to beat myself up furthermore (eh highly not recommended either) whenever I made a slip. As slow a learner as I was, it really paid off.

I do not have the audacity to say that I am a good debater now. However, I do know the sweat that I have shed to achieve this milestone. And even then, some remnants of my past still affect me, particularly my confidence in this area. But it never hindered my drive to improve nor has it diminished my gratitude towards the sport for having blessed me with literally everything I own now. I see this willpower as well in my juniors. And as a reliable enough source, I know they will go far.

Thank you for letting me be part of that golden times again, Squirrels. And thank you for reminding me to bite my tongue the next time I say something as silly as I had when I first joined debate: "I will never ever debate ever again."

Look how well that turned out. :)

Ps: I have reverted to the old days of blasting Blake with J-rock tunes from the likes of Gackt and Luna Sea. Music elitists, do not judge me. :)

Aiga hoshii Aishite hoshii

2011-07-29T17:44:00.002+01:00

I rediscovered submerged gems of melody bubbling beneath the layers of age these 2 days. I have been in a trance, abandoning some fiery hurt and tiredness by letting myself fall pass music after music, have them coat the sadness and shield it away from the sun.

何処へ行けば何をすれば.

Melody & Lennon

2011-07-18T15:49:00.001+01:00

Outfit Details:

Dress: Gifted from Julie
Feather earring: Diva
Rings: Combination from Melody + Heart attack
Bracelets: Mishmash of gifteds, self-made & bought.
belt: F Block
Sunnies: No brand bargain
Hair: Intricate process of frizzing. I kid.

Give me a pat on the back! I am on some Melody+Blog roll. Or maybe I just want to get as many posts chugged out before my drive fizzles out like opened bottled coke. I present you an oversized version of what I am adamant are John Lennon's glasses. Although there was that moment of awkwardness when I waltzed into the kitchen half-blind, hair down in all its frizzy glory, with this sunnies propped on my nose bridge and my mum raised her head and said "Hi Yoko."

Nevertheless, I firmly believe I just inflated my coolness on my self-calibrated 70s-cool-o-meter by a factor of 5, and then I took off my shoes and went barefooted, and the meter immediately jumped by a factor of 10. Ha.Ha.

Today, I watched Pom Poko, another Ghibli film chronicling a forest of raccoons' crusade to take their homes back from humans. It involved many ingenious plans. Most prominently, get this, a call for abstinence during mating seasons to achieve population control. My impression of raccoons just skyrocketed on the very same meter I used to gauge my coolness.

Sense in this post? I woke up in a horrible mood, put this outfit together, telepathically glared at any Kuchingite who dared looked at me dressed like this for longer than 5 seconds and now am somewhat Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. Am intellectually deficient.

PS: Debate squirrels, I am still incredibly proud of you guys. :')

Lazy Melody Double Post

2011-07-16T07:50:00.000+01:00

Outfit details:

Top: Kitschen
Jeans: MNG
Belt: PDI
Feather earrings: Diva
Permanent bunch of bracelet/bands: Gifted by Waffel & Samuel
Rings: Heart Attack + gifted by Melody
Shoes: tattered, old, I really can't remember.

Okay, this isn't a very unique outfit, I geddit. But this is one of those rare times I wear rings. Never been much of a ring person before I met Melody and we end up looking at rings more often than not when we trapeze our way to the nearest mall in college. I used to think rings were for married couples and I could never fathomed having such obtrusive metals clasped around my fingers, like hardened dirt or some kind. I am developing an increasing fondness for rings now (as is my never diminishing fascination with earrings and any kind of hair wear.), though still struggling with trying not to smash someone's nose with them when I fool around with people, or restraining myself when diving my hands into a sinful plate of fried chicken. I really have no proper dining etiquettes. :S

As some of you have known, I have been preoccupied with coaching debate with Waffel and Kevin at both Green Road and St Thomas (Well, more Green Road than the later). The Green Road squirrels are already residing in Gombak for their first ever trip away from home for a debate competition. The first day they were there held much amusement for me and my phone as my juniors actively texted me every moans and groans they have about living in a hostel, exaggerating their plight to such an extent that you would believe they are being tortured in the most deplorable of conditions. It makes me really happy too when I receive adorable texts about what food they had and their current activity and requests for tips before their rounds. I believe I may have encountered the most rambunctious bundle of cutesy and silliness in these 4 15 year olds. My regards and very best luck + faith be with them!

On another note, I bought myself a pair of Lennon sunnies- which my dad thinks too cool, my brother thinks too small, and my mum thinks too much a waste of RM10 (3USD) of- to be revealed in a post soon to come ahah!

Remains of Pie & Sean

2011-07-16T07:11:00.001+01:00

This will be a double-post. It was a week long preparation with Samantha which started off with her opening another Facebook account dedicated to the birthday boy, Sean. Then, the invitations to post videos were sent out. To be honest, I have not felt so purposeful in other areas of my life aside from coaching debate lately, and this tiny project just filled me with bubbling excitement! I got my handphone hooked on this silly little account in the bid to extend video length cap. Till now, with the birthday afterglow subsiding, I still receive updates from Facebook, which, frankly, both annoys and amuses me at the same time. The videos were loaded. I remember fixing mine and it took hours and hours of preparation, takes (one of which had Waffel and I out of the camera frame a bit =.=) and some tiny editing before we high-fived at the completed masterpiece, only to be gnawed by Facebook's low quality videos. Those photos above are some of the loudest reactions we got out of Sean when we premiered the videos to him (no candy to guessing which video in particular had Sean in stitches /chuckle at YungHung), anteceded by close celebrations with friends and me raping a big white bear.

The last 2 pictures: I present to you the easiest, unhealthiest cheat of a lime pie concocted by yours truly and Waffel a couple of days ago. Comprising ritz crackers, whipped cream, condensed milk (haz you cringed yet, dieters?) and lime all mashed into a baking tray, this little mob was surprisingly delectable, albeit needing some cuts on the sweetness level. And thus, the lazy pie is born.

For some strange reasons, there are increasing amount of friends adding Sean's new fab account. And I am coming to suspect that they are under the impression that Sean is actually behind this account, as opposed to a group of friends convening there one-off for the birthday showdown of the year. Goes to show how eventful this year has been.

Now on to the laziest Melody I have ever accomplished.

It doesn't matter.

2011-07-12T12:20:00.002+01:00

I had some reservation about writing this post. For one, I try to keep political content minimal. And the second more cowardly reason- I am due for an interview. Then the righteous child in me yelled at the top of her lungs: be damned lest you go against your principles! So here goes:

I teared up watching the march. The comradeship seeped through arms to arms and heart to heart. There was a particularly heart-stopping moment when everybody stood still, with only the national anthem reverberating through the grey air. And the video panned onto the people: there were children too young to understand why the magnitude all this rally holds so dear to the rakyat and may read about it when they mature enough to grasp the idea behind 'power to the people', there were handicapped men adamant in might, uncles and aunties, the youths in gusto and the dear lady of liberty cradling her stalk of flower. Many skeptics have questioned the purpose of this rally: some ranging from the insensitive to the cynical. Some questioned the political agenda behind it. Some wondered about the impending possibility of more broken promises, that the ends of an electoral reform will never be achieved. And all echoing the same doubt:

What is the point?

For awhile I pondered about this, finding difficulty to enunciate thought. Somehow, all was answered in that moment of standstill, with 10000 odd mouths coming to a unison. It doesn't matter, to me, whether or not political agendas were achieved, nor does it matter if the government continues with repression. For the longest time, I had a deep-seated disappointment at myself and the people, thinking that we were made of nothing stronger than cotton. Standing up for a cause bigger than oneself seemed like such a rarity, relegated to 'overtly political' people. There was a tiny part of me who thought that the rally would be a total failure. The moment promises were backtracked and support vanished at the crucial point when the nation needed a leader most, I almost seized to care anymore.

Then the people rose. And you see those false advertisements of 1Malaysia, with the Chinese,Malay and Indian girls, and not to mention the convenient slip-in of representatives from that community our application forms love to call 'Lain-Lain'? They exist. More than they exist, they are better than we ever could imagine. You doubt the sincerity and then you read stories of true unity and the only appropriate reaction shall arise from your eyes: that tears shall glisten and fall in celebration of the biggest show of grace and camaraderie this country has ever witnessed since the declaration of independence.

I am merely 18. I am yet enabled to vote. By the time that I am, I may still be overseas pursuing an education and all I would pray is that the election coincide with my holidays. It is a common comment thrown about, usually laced with a tint of bitter, that people leaving this country are the deaths of patriotism. But we were proven otherwise, with the most amazing shows of support from so many comrades across the globe.

I want to come back. Kuching is my home. And I know I have a part to play in the eventual days towards a better nation. I do not know how, just yet,but I pray terribly hard that my sentiments shall never falter once I leave.

Thank you rakyat of KL and all around the world, for proving to me patriotism truly exists, that this country is not a lost cause and that there are more people than I thought existed, who love this beautiful, beautiful land fraught by unfortunate circumstances.

life is great.

2011-07-06T16:36:00.003+01:00

the long break is actually screwing holes into my mind. i am not like how i used to be, ticking at things i usually brush so easily off. how have i been this long break? i have been too melancholic and cracking my head, my skull- overdrive.

where is the break? i need to release it.

Basic Melody

2011-07-04T13:38:00.003+01:00

Roasted chicken with basil and avocado paste in foccacia bread. My mum pwns you.

Basil and seafood aglio olio. My mum pwns you again.

Another Melody.

Hunting for supplies.

The details:

tank: bargain from random department store
jacket: from China (tis the shizz jacket!)
jeggings: MNG
heels: Charles&Keith, gifted from friends
permanent gold phoenix/dragon necklace: gift from parents when I was born
feather necklace: Forever21
turtle metal cuff: gifted from Waffel
bag: teetoo

My new favourite pose.

Monks and macs.

Rejected mannequin.

Hello! I feel very motivated to do another Melody post today. I wore this when I went hunting for supplies (discounted sharpies!) with Waffel. It was hot and wet and I didn't feel particularly up for colours. And thus, the lazy with a pint of lady look was hastily conjured up. That took me a grand total of 5 seconds to come up with that phrase. I love this jacket since the moment my mum gave it to me from her China trip. I truly think it is the shizznit (something is wrong, I'm trying to talk gangster.) and from a distance away, it might even be able to pass off as a fancy pansy leather jacket (on my list of to-get). A.very.long.distance.away. At the distance where you can imagine you are holding me by my head and feet with the tip of your fingers, push down and pretend you just crushed the living guts out of me. That distance. And only in that manner. Do not say you never did it before. But this jacket burns me. You would think it looks lightweight enough for the indoors, but no, the fact that it was bought during autumn must have been a very big indication of when its supposed to be worn.

My point to make before I diverged was this: it is easier to dress up in colder countries, or at least, countries with more climatic offers than just one bloody long, hot summer. After perusing enough fashion blogs so that I don't look like a complete ass ('complete' here is necessary, giving me leeway to be a partial ass) when I conduct a Melody post, I conclude that our weather limits style. There's only so many layers you can put on before you admit yourself into the A&E for a heatstroke. Boots? For the olfactory sake of others, forget about it. Is it, therefore, impossible to look awesome in this heat? Of course not. But there is quite a bit of predictability that latches on to what you wear. After all, it is just one season, and the season of the least fabric to boot.

I just attempted to defend myself against the part of me which is complaining how bland I look. Yes, wait till I go to London where the steady stream of layerings and coats and boots and tights and hats opens up. Or it may just be a steady path downhill where I wind up wearing hoodies and surf pants over thermal undies to school, never leaving my law books for anything less important than nature's call.

Ah fashion.

A Wedding & Half A Melody

2011-06-25T18:09:00.000+01:00

Purple White

Mum and daughter

5am

Preparation

The groom's entourage: His super old hand-me-down indisputably endearing Austin Mini.

Bridesmaid with odd shoes choice

Groom's entourage masterminding a plot to enter the gates.

Step 1: Drink green tea from hospital bags. That's a pretty big giveaway as to the professions of the couple now. :)

Step 2: Face your bro.

Into the bride's lair.

Exchanging of rings.

Heh, this is the funniest part. 2 boys from the family have to roll on the newlyweds' bed and then one of them has to pee into a potty. I know the origin is supposed to be grossly sexist, but I suspect no one really does it for a serious purpose now. :)

Shirley and I once took a similar picture when we were their age, the longer baby being her and the rounder one I.

Long with flats and short with heels.

Cue for Half a Melody:

Dress: Hand-me-down from mum
Belt:Vincci
Socks: Soxworld
Heels: Bata
Cardigan: Somewhere in China
Bag: Mum's
Ring: Gifted by Melody

Shake hands

Flower girls. This was also the part where we popped poppers when the newlyweds entered. In the past, we had a 0% history of successful popping in a cumulative of 2 weddings. In this one, we failed once more. The difference being: we finally uncovered the problem- unreliable China instructions.

Champaigne

Yamseng

Mum

I love weddings. More than that, I love being part of it, from the preparation to the decoration to the early morning bustle right to the grand dinner. 2 weeks ago, my cousin wedded her long-time fiance just next door, with the new couple's house behind. With 3 family houses connected adjacent to each other, I often peer at my neighbour from the back, wondering if any member from my extended family would one day take possession of it. And for those brief moments of looks, I think I understand the works of a colonialist.

We convened a night before the big day to set up the decoration. Under jurisdiction, we started pumping purple and white balloons, breaking 3 cheap China-made pumps in the process, twisted strips of pink ribbons and acquiring rubber band burns.

The wedding itself was a lovely affair. It's quite envious how far the two have come together; I can't remember a time of drama or dry spell. It had always seemed like content sitting on a bobbing boat. No crashing waves or thundering rains. But knowing better now how relationships function from within, I come to learn that storms rarely show on the outside. No one can quite know enough to call my relationships of any nature fine or dandy. I know we work on ours so persistently that I won't allow anyone to undermine our toils, or the fruits which may or may not proffer. But weddings, especially weddings of such kinds, where the love has simmered to a steady bubble over years of patching fabrics, never fail to warm the cockles of the heart.

I was told that an angel stands guard by the bedroom of newlyweds on the night of their (errr) union. But honestly, I often wonder if anything actually happen with all the exhausting events preceding the night. And don't you dare call me a pervert, because I know each and everyone of you out there who has ever attended a wedding wondered the same question before. Physical exertion isn't a very cheeky idea to ponder, okay!

Well, do they??

Tiramisu

2011-06-25T07:35:00.000+01:00

I have been feeling terrible this week. I went out everyday, spending time with friends and cousins, coaching junior debaters, only to return with the lowest, softest sighs. Something went wrong the past few days; I went into a blender and whirl whirl whirl, I was leaving traces about but not much for myself. There was a groggy call this morning with Waffel, who talked me through constricted thoughts. Arms sore, blue sheets and 'I really want a tiramisu." He hung up and I was with newspaper and pajamas, whirl whirl whirl.

Sometime later, I hear the sound of a chugging car, then opened gates and unlocked doors. And Waffel stood there emanating a sense of accomplishment.

Exchanging hands, hugs and a cup of tiramisu, sitting precariously in plastic.

I am sitting here muffling myself silly in tiramisu mush, washing the sighs down. I now feel ridiculously bubbly over. Thank you so much for the loveliest surprise of the morning, elephant. :')

Awkward Melody, Robot & Bubble

2011-06-23T13:22:00.003+01:00

So how do seasoned outfit posters do it again? Oh yes:

Top: MNG
Bottom: Cotton On
Belt: F Block
Shoes: Bata
Socks: Soxworld
Robot: Forever21
Hair Chopsticks: Irrelevant
Dog named Bubble: Waffel's
Waffel: Ownership may be disputed.

Those in the dark, Melody and I made a passing promise to each other to create outfit posts when either of us leaves. In commemoration, our posts will be titled each others' names. Melody left for Perth and incited my conscience by completing two Ida posts. Although I feel a bit self-conscious about doing a post which requires so many photos of my face, I am held onto my promise.

Taken with Origami, in Waffel's residence with Bubble, the disarming dog. I am too used to taking photos of this nature with Melody that it felt a tad awkward doing this with someone else. Its as though I am sharing a very private moment away. Feeding Bubble icecubes, on the other hand, reminds me so strongly of my hopes of owning a dog again in the future.

The past 2 weeks have been about a wedding, catching up with friends, debate coaching and reliving some nasty debate-related fears. I have been busy. And that equates more posts soon. Very soon.

Till then,
Cheers to Melody. I missus you much.

The Coddling & The Complaint

2011-06-11T09:23:00.006+01:00

Malaysia to ban file-sharing websites.

“The unauthorised use of copyright work is destroying the industry. If everyone feels that works should be shared, then there is no value in these works,” he said.

You know, when I go into the bookstore, pick a book I always wanted to buy, regardless of whether I have read it or not, I probably would fight tooth and nail and offer a liver to get it. If I pick another book I never intended to buy, take a seat and proceed to read it and place it back to the shelves without purchasing it, I probably never intended to buy it in the first place. If I read the same book, realize I like it and proceed to buy it, I would think I offer more business for the industry, constitute more fans for the book.

First, the government promises no censorship to the internet, then decides to pull the rug under the people and expect us to take things as it is? There are wayabouts people will figure out, because as much as the government doesn't like to admit, they can't control the internet.

Yes, this issue will explode into mega debate proportion. And pissed off the people are.

Thank you for such a popular move, government.
*

Lawyer to sue Khazanah for denying Son Scholarship

I need a tactical facepalm as I reiterate:
A scholarship isn't a right. It's a privilege. It is every family's wish to get a scholarship, but there may be a need to assess oneself first before one jumps too fast to a conclusion that one deserves a scholarship so resolutely just because

a) You want one.
b) That you fit the bill.

First of all, nobody ever knows what are the specific criterion to clinch a scholarship are. Essentially, there are no fixed factors. There are all too many real-life cases where the selection of scholars or admission into universities may surprise you. And it would be too arrogant to dismiss such selections as unfair just because you did better than the selected candidates in one aspect (and Malaysians seem to think there is only one worth considering: academics). Khazanah Oxbridge Scholarships would face candidates who probably can cross that aspect out the window. If offers to either of the institutions already warrant a candidate a scholarship, then every single applicants of the programme will have as much weight of argument to rob you of your supposed rightly-deserved Khazanah scholarship. Non-academic performance, charisma, personality, ambition, financial situations, that 'oomph' factor and even just pure luck count just as much. If for naught, why would there there even be a selection process in the first place? Variables can happen. Thus is life.

“I will also lodge a complaint with the Malaysian Anti-Corruption Commission and request it to investigate the scholarship programme,” he said at a press conference yesterday.

Of course, it is common to point to the selection process of the programme which could be faulty or less than transparent. But by that basis and even by the noble intentions of changing the landscape of scholarships fraught by biasness, a lawsuit against it does not offer much on the table. The inconsistencies and unfairness of it branches out to many other scholarship programmes, right up to the PSD, rooted in the doctrine of propaganda and racially-disparate implementation of policies. Tackling this may require years of re-education and removal of too many racist politicians currently holding power. Moreover, this particular lawsuit may be driven towards a more selfish agenda than that. In defense, wanting the best for oneself, in itself, isn't wrong, but the manner of this demand requires some introspection.

--

I am sorry but the newspaper really hit too many a nerve in me today.

Flag Day

2011-06-02T05:41:00.000+01:00

I was walking pass the supermarket before dinner last night when I spotted a male figure standing in front of the entrance with a tin in hand. He had on a white St. John shirt and black trousers. Shoppers were walking pass him. I was about to do the same when, about then, I saw more of these figures standing even further outside the supermarket, mostly girls; huddled together while whispering to each other, presumably about which of the passerbys to approach. I stopped in my tracks, opened my bag and hunted for small change. Nil. I turned to Waffle and he spared me one very confused dollar. I went back to the boy at the entrance. He still had on a rather nervous disposition, with half of him doing the donation drive and another half of him occupied with looking both awkward and apologetic to everyone around.

He reminded me of my time as a Red Crescent member in high school going rounds just as he was doing. It was an event to be gloriously despised, not because we weren't willing to humble ourselves to the suspicious eyes of the public shifting from our tags to the tins. But because there were always inter-unit competitions to bag in the most massive donations, of which would earn your unit a praise and a flimsy plastic reward from the headquarters. I never took to that concept of turning a virtuous donation drive into a rat race, even if it were the noble intentions of encouraging participation within the lot of members. Inadvertent consequences of not 'receiving enough donations' included, and weren't restricted to, feelings of failure, anger at security officers and blame. And I say that with a tinge of melancholy because I cannot take away the unique times I had being part of Flag Day, which included, and also weren't restricted to, asking for donations in the shower at Sunday Market (you would be surprise at the haul of the day when a crowd of people become cornered by overeager RC teenagers and the wall of rain.) and walking from the MJC centre to Boulevard in a fiery afternoon only to be kicked out due to lack of a permit (which stands to reason the resentment for security officers). It was one of the most frustrating aspects of Flag Day. On better days, you meet empathizers. It was on a bustling road downtown where a man stopped his car, rolled down his window and handed us 10 dollars because 'he was once like us'. And it felt terribly amazing to be understood.

He wasn't looking as I folded the dollar. Not until he felt me lightly tapping the money into his tin that he quickly fumbled for his St John stickers and peeled a piece for me. I empathized with the new breed of Flag Day participants. And Waffle was right: the best way to get donations would be to target people like the man in his car and I. We were once like each other.

The boy thanked me, again with that apologetic smile. I returned the gesture and walked away.

I is for Ida who drowned in a Lake.

2011-05-26T10:17:00.002+01:00

I am smugly proud of myself at the moment. I have done pretty much everything I wanted done on my list today. I only have reading left to be completed when night falls. :) Things seem to fall into place today. Just this morning, I floated out of sleep to my mum excited calls from over the door. Opening it sent my mum pattering towards my desk with a black parcel wrapped possessively in several layers of brown tapes. Before I could say anything, my mum tore it open, took out the content and started gloving herself in it. To understand this, I have to backtrack a bit to about 3 weeks ago when I found myself reconsidering my resignation to a once-fact-now-happily-challenged-myth that I am luckless in giveaways. I remember joining a colouring competition as a child, of which my parents didn't have much faith in me clinching anything. Due to that lack of faith, we left before the winners were announced. I did win something, as I was told later. My first ever prize...only to be mysteriously snitched by a girl mistaken by friends to be my sister. Sad I was. I know what you are thinking, how begrudged am I? VERY.

But 3 weeks ago, I randomly entered a draw and won myself a gift-card. I used it up almost immediately and ended up paying $21 (inclusive of $16 shipping, so yes, you are right: making the coat only $5) for a $113 black wool coat. What a steal! And I wasn't hoodwinked to boot because there it sat upon my mum's short built. I am considering posting about it soon enough under the title 'Melody' to fulfill that pact Mel and I made to do outfit posts tagged with each other's name. But it surely would be a short photoshoot (Waffle, I need your help!) with the coat, because I couldn't bear 10 minutes in it without feeling roasted. Till London, to the closet it goes.

On top of that delivery, my books came in the mail too. So did my mum's kettle. Come to think of it, popping a kettle out of your mailbox isn't an ordinary daily occurrence. :) Today is officially Perfect Parcel Day. And we shall celebrate it by giving offerings to the Gods of the Governance of Parcels and hold candlelight vigils in front of mailboxes singing solemn hymns of mail delivery. But most of all, we shall forgive past sins of the postal office/custom department for all the precious mails they have lost and stolen and damaged and istillwantmycreatureearsbeaniedamnyou - you know, I still can't quite achieve this last part, so scratch that. Again, how begrudged am I? VERY.

I have had a sweet 2 weeks thus far catching and cuddling up. It was lovely up till a point when I heard 'the end of July'. Then the sinking sensation that this isn't as long as I would like it to be. What is long, however, is the time ahead and the time apart, of lingering thoughts and gazes at photos or screenshots. It would be back to compartmentalising yearnings into a compressed box snuck into the knook of the heart. If ever I could successfully do that without damaging the rest. Last night was a sobering conversation about facing up to less than appealing possibilities.

Pointing to an elephant in the room is the hardest decision to make. We have done it twice. The first time, we got each other. The second time, prospect of the otherwise. I slept it off thinking that I could resume looking at us prior to the talk when I wake up. It is wearing upon me again with each word I am typing. But we won't know until we try.

I have a very short to-do list until I leave. And I will do them repeatedly. Again and again. Rinse and repeat. Cross out and cross out cross outs. I promise I will never get tired of this.

Systematic fail

2011-05-23T06:32:00.001+01:00

Origami has gone on hibernation mode for too long and I have left my blogs and my doodles a little too neglected.

NO FEAR

I SHALL BLOG.

tomorrow.

Oh mien, I need to stop procrastinating. It's just somewhat difficult to recuperate from this mental block. Allow me to wash it clean and empty with some 'Community' first. Now all I need is someone to tape my mouth from whining about how hard it is to hold a pencil or to sign into Blogger. Prior to that, I need to create a vacuum space for my reading so that I can abstain from the temptation that is my Blake. I should be reading now, not typing this on Blake. You see what I just did there? Nothing, because I am too busy whoring myself to my laptop.

But a short update on my life: Waffles has returned with an additional bundle of joy, resembling a cuddly -though somewhat too small (kecewa) to be brought to slumber- cheetah, now baptized 'Inches the Meerkat'. Yes, 'Inches the Meerkat' the cheetah. I have also seized to reply emails because it requires my fingers to punch in more than 140 characters per email. I don't have a twitter because it requires me to punch in less than 140 characters and I don't like the restrictions. I don't feel a sense of loss not having facebook anymore because I can't muster myself to even poke people. Now you know what I am usually occupied with? Making up names and squishing my brain. Among others, I also am highly trained in staring vacantly into pages of words, staring vacantly at the ceiling from my bed and my specialty: staring vacantly at Chrome's Angry Birds page without playing until it automatically defaults me a 'level failed'.

I have reduced myself to a 14-year-old angsty adolescent spending her summer holidays in the least constructive and purposeful way.

So first of all, I am so sooooorrrryyy Melody I will reply your email PROMISE.

Secondly, I need to go write a similar apology to myself on my other project so that I can feel good about my lack of discipline.

Thirdly, its nearly 2pm. I need to bath.

Till the next more sanely structured post,
I bid farewell and beckon the suds.

2011-05-05T16:01:00.000+01:00

This was a 3-picture sequence until I deleted the third picture completely forgetting that it has not loaded yet onto blogger. Oh well. It shows what I am up to now. Utter void. Its a sluggish week.

喂，我们现在不在家。

2011-04-27T08:55:00.001+01:00

Sigh, loveliest mermaid dress in nyonya detail.

this is me playing O2 Jam, the chinese PC version of Tap Tap. Tap tap is child's play compared to this one. mastering 02 Jam is now my new life goal.

I am floating from one song to another, one language to another, one strum to one drum.

Off Colour

2011-04-22T18:11:00.002+01:00

My dad said that only children get scraped on the knees. Yesterday, while unwisely jogging on the moss-covered side of the park, I slipped and found myself dressing my own wound. Now, I have dressed quite a number of wounds throughout high school as a Red Crescent member and later, as a quartermistress. Yet, never had I appreciated the skill as much as I did when I gathered gauzes (which are lousy substitutes for the cotton balls we used to make in the sick room) and an expired antiseptic cream onto the table before me, trying to recall the familiar steps of first-aid still lingering at the back of my hands. On a side note, I don't recommend expired antiseptic cream. So far, my skin has not exhibited sign of rotting or oozing of funny liquid, but readers shall take no risk. Dad was propped on the Ikea stool, hovering over me and dishing out too many a wrong advice on cleaning wounds.

'Dad, I have been doing this for five years. I would think I know what I am doing." I didn't add, however, that I was almost always thanking the Big One Up There that no student complained of infection or, er, death after my touch (not that it would be physically possible to complain about death when you are already dead, mind you). So on deduction alone, I must have been a decent enough nurse. I think I bruised my dad's ego, but he had to concede to me this once.

It feels both sadistic and nostalgic, having a scraped knee. I dread showers because water burns and stings the wound, just as I dreaded my baths as a kid who scraped her knee a little too much. I used to think I was uber smart, slapping 2 plasters over the raw, bloody wound, thinking I was the wisest of 8-year-olds. Then the next day as I readied for a bath, I would find the plasters embedded into the wound, and the peeling process second only to breaking bones, or child birth, or many other incidents I suppose. But when you face the daunting task of peeling a combination of adhesive and raw skin, nothing compares. I never learn from mistakes. This morning, I found that last night's cotton pad has morphed and melded into my skin.

I may be disgusting you with this account about something so trivial as a scraped knee but certain aspects of my life have been off colour in recent times. It isn't even in the static air of everyday's mundanity. I am no longer hard to impress. No blood is pumping, nor buildings crashing but my heart rushes and the lights illuminate. Little things look so neglected for a moment. The last post was an unplanned ramble about these frustrations that I had, though somethings are less obvious than the others. There were no mails to read, no special dates to celebrate and no little surprises. I made peace and then I waged war. Nothing felt truly like mine, just negotiations for short-lived security which dissipates too quickly out of grasp.

I have been reassured these 2 days, by an overwhelmed bearer who needs and deserves to be given the loveliest of love as we exchange our most unspectacular news of the day. But I came to terms with the limits of a relationship bounded by distance and understood there are works to be done.

Duplicity is on television now. The memories come.

I think

2011-04-16T10:02:00.001+01:00

I am listening to Bruno Mars and am thinking of Usher-why again oh yeah- and this post serves no purpose except to let me ramble about the first things which come to my mind and trickle out of my fingers. I want those little toys which fly in the air and shoot dozens happy lights after you pull out this long stick from it in one swift motion. Come to think of it that sounded highly suggestive. I think I saw little kids playing them on Orchard Road. I want Soup Spoon. I want macaroons why didn't i get them when I saw them in KL and Singapore?! I want Yotsuba?! and Gashlycrumb Tinies. I want my two-earred present from the lost dept of abandoned mails/parcels. I want my letters from the same dept. I want the lost cat pendant back. I want silly awesome elephant surprises or some kind. some kind. some kind. I want a double rainbow. I want shoes. I want a goddamn fox.

fudge, do you listen to me?! Make me happy. fudge.

SWSDC '11 [The Photos]

2011-04-10T09:15:00.006+01:00

Zero editing because I have a headache. Scroll down for my thoughts on the tournament.

A Discourse on SWSDC '11 [No Photos]

2011-04-10T08:43:00.002+01:00

SWSDC '11 came to a close on the 7th of April, last thursday. As you all know, I volunteered myself as an adjudicator at the tournament for the second time. (You may view my experience as a judge in SWSDC '10 here. Though frankly speaking, there isn't much content-wise in that post, probably due to my semi-comatose state of fever around that time :3) It's safe to say I am not new to WSDC considering I have been involved in it one way or another since 2008.

There are several reasons to why I am in WSDC '11. The most obvious would be that I am on a 9 months break until university starts and helping out makes me feel useful, less lethargic etc. The most embarrassing of reasons would be that I have never quite let go of WSDC, but I believe I speak for a large majority of debaters by saying so. I don't get enough of that wave of nostalgia hitting me every time I step into Swinburne. WSDCs were the strongest of my happiest memories. And the most important reason of all is this: I realized a part to play in improving standards of adjudication in local tournaments. Unlike in the West (I can testify from my experience in IIUM), WSDC has never had enough of quality adjudicators. And if you, like me, had been in the joke that is Inter-school debate, you would understand what it means to lose by injustice. WSDC is the sole tournament worth going in this part of the country. And even then, surprise surprise to WSDC newbies, the tournament (which is remarkably professional this year. I will get back to that.) did have a year of errors in 2009. I was part of that. I do not boast of being a great debater nor a great judge, but I do know where my contributions would matter, and this is how I offer my help.

If you had been there in 2009 and 2010, you would notice a great leap in emphasis on adjudication between the year. Particularly due to many slip-ups in 2009, the adj core took extra measures in 2010 to up the standards. Adjudicators did not undergo the meticulous filtering until 2010, even more so this year. The judges debaters see in each room are no longer a product of random allocation but a result of careful placement based on how well we did in areas such as discerning cases, constructing reasons for decisions and the quality of our oral adjudications. The fact that swinburne could rope in so many more volunteers to judge this year made it all the sweeter. The tabulation was fantastically faster this year than ever before. And the lucky bastards whom are the debaters of 2011 (how tinged in jealousy is this :3 ), you guys get the most professionally organized tournament with minimum flaws to date. I have nothing but commendation for the progress WSDC has undergone. No seriously, a dedicated gamemaster? That is a long way from the times of last-minute spontaneous chicken dance and human bingo to stall time!

So we see an incredible level of participation this time around, with close to 70 teams of debaters, a far cry from the days of 36 teams or less. No longer is the tournament held in the auditorium. Instead, it was shifted to the multi-purpose hall, which reminded me faintly of the hall in IIUM. I remember the first day was filled with tension and awkward whispers around the hall. Debaters stayed within the safety circle of their school, never venturing out. The roll-call was as spirited as an overworked mule, with only the regulars screaming and adding some excitement to the day. As the tournament progressed, debaters became braver. People were actually crossing that invisible line between the two ends of the hall, making friends ~~and flirting~~. Not being part of the audience anymore, I couldn't quite tell if animosity between rival schools still held this year. From the point I took, debaters seem friendlier to each other this year. Regardless, Samantha kept baiting me with Monopoly Deal, of which I am hopeless in. Kasun has the most rad of initials and there seem to be a craze going around the debaters over Sailesh' french accent and that Tunku Putra caucasian junior (his name fails to cross my underused brain).

It was a great time to see my juniors again. I love them to bits. There were several fresh faces, which is a good sign that Green Road debate isn't doing as bad as I used to think. The greatest of discovery is to realize that my juniors have held on to something I am quite proud as a squirrel to have: they have balls. Balls, my friend, are the compounding factor of what differentiates between debaters. Balls, my friend, are the stepping stones of improvement. The best of debaters have them even when they hold the biggest of disadvantages in terms of skills. Balls are really what you only need. And by golly, how the green road juniors brushed away fear, iron-plated themselves after brief bouts of failure and reeled on regardless, with no intentions of chickening out! Pride.

I remember at one particular instance when an OnionNews video of whales flashed across the screen, karen and I exchanged looks and laughed. It was the exact video we were shown in a humour round back in IIUM 2009. Only back then, we actually did debate about whale education ( see how we crashed and burnt in humour round.) and some other motion about Ronaldo's moustache. At the time, I really missed Sean and Julie. I always considered us as lucky because we never had to learn team dynamics nor did we ever had conflicts. We were a team before a team. Debating with your 2 best friends, how amazing was that? :')

But I am going off-tangent.

A short summary of the tournament: There were 6 prelims this time around. Junior finals with Green Road edging Lodge National to clinch champion, and Hui Mei garnering herself best speaker of the finals (Though I must say, Malachi, you impressed me quite a lot too!). The Senior finals saw CHMS triumphing over St Teresa with Dimitri awarded the best speaker for the round. Best overall speakers of the tournament went to the Chiew siblings: Daniel in junior category and Emmeline in senior category. If I might add, Daniel is, by far, the most polished junior first speaker I have ever seen, with speech structure that many seniors can't match up to. While there were disbeliefs at certain points of the tournament, like when the top breaking team got ousted by the 8th breaking team in the senior category, there was a general concession that the results were fair to deserving debaters.

I am concerned, however, with an emerging problem in the high school debating scene. In interschool debate, teachers usually put the weakest speakers as the first, for the simple reason that if you were prime minister, you could literally write down an entire speech for the speaker. And even if the team were opposition, there was less impromptu spontaneity required from the first speaker than the others. Of course, we all know that these are complete bull. And after WSDC has finally changed that mindset of many, we begin to see strong first speakers as well. Best speakers were no longer dominated by third speakers. As great as that is, I noticed a problem that was also apparent in 2010.

There is lack of teams with consistent members. What you end up with are good individual speakers but no good overall teams. There were a significant number of teams in which most of the substantive debating was being done by one speaker alone. It concerns me because debaters in a team should function as a whole. The burden of the team should never be relegated to one speaker. And that consistency between teammates has diminished in the past 2 years. It was easier to discern good teams in the past, where the standards between debaters in a team varied little. There were less dominance by a single debater and more distributive power then. Now, its no longer accurate to say 'team A is good' because technically, its 'that speaker in team A is good'. I am not sure how this could be fixed other than to keep debating. But judging from the spirit and interest in debate now amongst high school students, I think it would be easier than ever before to achieve that.

Why do I sound so matter-of-fact in this post? Well, I was no longer part of the emotions of the tournament. Instead, I only aided with the mechanism. I watched from afar, envied and indulged in occasional flashbacks of time back then. I am sad that this may be the last WSDC for me, sadder still that I will never have the same experience as many of these younger debaters do anymore. And if I had a word to every participant in WSDC it would be this: debate will change your life. Appreciate it when you can because debate seizes to be this magical after high school, post-WSDC.

To my juniors in Greed Road, I am not sure if you guys would read this but I have a few words for you:

1) Continue to have balls. Because its really the single most effective counter to the nerves and the fears.

2) Think on your own feet. Your capabilities reaches out far more than you think.

3) Take initiatives. Karen and I discussed this and we agreed that you guys need to start taking more initiatives. Liaise with other schools, hound the swinburne debaters for help, organize workshops, if you want something go for it even if all parties refuse to help, if the teacher does not tell you things, hunt those information down yourself. Don't fear stepping on toes. Initiatives will take you a long way ahead.

4) Judge. And I don't mean deciding who should win in a debate. Period. I mean doing exactly what all those adjudicators do when they judge you, including giving oral adjudications. When you receive oral feedbacks, notice the kind of things adjudicators usually mention and implement that as you practice giving your own oral adjudication. When you do that frequently enough, you would finally understand what judges would want out of your speech as a debater. Several of your seniors began judging the moment they started debating. Save for the ridiculous margin of win we used to give debates in inter-classes, we learnt that judging enables another perspective for you to preempt in your speeches.

5) Finally, as Fook Ann used to say to us: Win. Do not misunderstand, I do not mean that you guys should start adopting a kiasu mentality. Rather, when you go into a debate with a full intention of winning, you will naturally give it your all. Telling yourself to 'do the best you can' usually becomes an excuse when things don't go the way they should. So don't let that be. However, in failure, accept it and move on. Winners are not sore losers. They are just very good at leveraging failure and milking some lessons out of it. Never be complacent. Have squirrel pride. :)

That is all. Till after Sophie's World, I will blog again.

I

2011-04-04T16:50:00.003+01:00

am in SWSDC for the next 4 days. Doodles deadline extended. Will blog about the tournament.

Lennon

2011-03-28T16:15:00.001+01:00

I began imagining about a world with no religion and no heaven when I first heard John Lennon. About the same time 'Imagine' graced itself upon my ears, my black and white world started melding into a grey puddle of bubbling questions. As far as I could remember, that was the song which first introduced me to the concept of a fairytale. John played the piano so quietly on the video as he sang. I can never get over how much I love the strikes on the piano for that particular song; how they could maintain the floaty undertones beneath the strength. I could see bright lights and aging skies. But when the song ended, I shook my head, mulling over John's lyrics. He was singing of impossible things.

More than that, he sang them with hope; which really isn't the problem. I was, however, very bothered that hope was necessary in the song. It meant that the world isn't a beautiful place, that many tragedies and blood have been shed for beliefs I hitherto was taught to be great, honorable- peaceful. If not, why would we have to imagine? Thus began a mental battle and a soul struggle. Why are people so evil? Why is religion so angry, insecure and violent? Why do we celebrate differences and then persecute them, abhor conformity and then conform to it anyway? I asked and I asked and I blame John for making me ask. Several of you would know how that spurred rants like this post and my ongoing search for faith, unfaith or really, just a peace of mind. I am not even sure if I would be kidding if I were to say that John made me smarter and hungrier. He obliterated naive happiness for me. And I should thank him for that.

I did a paper on Lennon for an assignment last year. His name was the first which popped into my head when I was sifting through potential subjects. I read extensively, hunted down interviews on the internet and even bought a monstrous biography (which I never got to finish in time for the assignment but finished anyway, fueled completely by curiosity after.) just for it. I listened to his songs more closely, and soon enough, I was enamoured by him. I wasn't quite as interested in The Beatles. When I was first told of his membership in The Beatles, it didn't augment John's image in my head one bit. The fact that he was in The Beatles was just the interesting side fact for me. It wasn't the main course. I first got acquainted with this odd man, as a singular artist with the funniest Harry Potter-esque spectacles. So I never fathomed him to be part of something. He was him. It may not be good, even conceited, for me to pass judgment on his character based of what little I know of him. But what little I know of him, he was a jug under an ever flowing tap. He just kept flowing with new ideas. As the ideas tipped the edge and became too eccentric for most to stomach, I wanted to take a cup and scoop them up, not letting a single drop down the drain. Though some out of fascination and admiration more than approval, not that he needs any at all!

Maybe if I had known about John when he was alive, I won't have been as impressed with him as I am now. The dead often takes on an ethereal quality. You know that that is it. The end has been reached and you can only look back on his life to pick up what has already been there. In a way, it is easier to like someone who has passed on because they become easier to judge. There are only past records. All that is to be offered has already been offered. When the full stop is there, then can you read the sentence as a whole and feel it glide effortlessly on your tongue before settling on a definitive end. If I were to read John Lennon's sentence, oh how it would glide.

Pipe

2011-03-23T17:52:00.002Z

I often made up reasons to make myself draw. I used to indulge in it and then I lost that feeling of indulgence too. The only times I drew were for other people. And there is very little burden about drawing for someone else as a gift, because gifts are meant to be accepted with gratitude, not criticized by harsh tongues. It isn't polite to do so, you see. They disallow themselves from seeing the careless strokes, the half-hearted mess and the withering enthusiasm. In my defense, I almost always only draw for people I love. So if you are in possession of any of my doodles, I vouch that it never lacks in sincerity and care. Its just that it has progressively become mechanical for me to draw.

I drew happily today. It felt fluid, like all the great luck and excitement trickled through my tool and bled on the paper effortlessly. My pencil practically danced to the sound of bleeding colours. :) Maybe all is not gone. I had a silly grin of accomplishment walking out of the study. My mum wouldn't believe me when I told her it was just because of a cat called Pipe.

The 3-day-headache is now gone. I wonder why.

Unwell

2011-03-20T18:01:00.001Z

First thing you would notice is the change of layout. Second thing you would notice are the bigass photos, of significantly different quality than before, from the last post. Its true that I have been on a short hiatus. I was tempted to blog a couple of times throughout that brief period, but resisted because I couldn't bring myself to hasten a blogpost simply for this place to exist once more. I wanted it to start living again. In order to do that, I waited and devised a plan. It so happened to coincide with my purchase of Onigiri (which, contrary to some assumptions, is neither a compact nor a dslr.). After loading the photos onto Blake, I had somehow managed to threaten Waffel/Onigiri/whatever other nickname I have given him during his tenancy here into quickening my blog design. It may have to do with the fact that I have more contact time with him, ie: I get to hound him more often about the design, or rather, rant about how I want my doodle on the right of my blog. It seemed to be what my life was revolving around at that point in time: getting my doodle on the right of my blog. Sigh. I apologise if I jumped an imaginary queue for blog design. :/ By my words, he shall complete all pending designs! /jabs him. Anyways, they all came together, perfect for a fresh start.

So hello, world. How am I doing? I was, and still sort of am, unwell. What that implies is that while I have already recuperated at press time, I am still battling with that giddy heaviness behind the neck from lying down and sleeping too much trying to cure a fever. There is soft rain outside my window, with the occasional cricket sounds coming in as accompaniment. My hair is an utter mess. My brain is ticking and turning about whether the latest Glee episode, or the entire politically incorrect show for that matter, might only clock in at 30 minutes when it airs on Malaysian tv due to the huge chunk of materials I could picture the censorship board going cuckoo over with their snipping.

I may have digressed.

Life has been normal to me lately. On the academic side, I have been accepted to UCL. I am suspicious that it might be a fluke, so don't be surprised if I give the 'oops, my bad' post a few weeks later about this piece of news. You could probably tell by now that I am unbelieving of my ability or luck. Also quite fearful of it. The place is far, with a strange time zone, dry weathers and harsh seasons. But words and life, they have a wicked, sick sense of humour. As of now, my place in UCL, at least digitally, has been confirmed. It took me about 2 weeks to accept that offer. In that 2 weeks, I was having an internal debate with myself. The selfish, cowardly (or maybe it isn't) side said that I didn't want to go to the UK. In riposte, the more rational I asked myself: Do I have a legitimate reason to forego a good university and settle for second best? Did I really fear the changing seasons and the foreign land?

No. I was afraid of many things, some fears more trivial than others. A running theme though, seems to resemble a terrified me holding dearly to a figurative rope of safety and security with friends, love, family or even my lovely bedroom. I am batshit scared of the challenges ahead in a new place. I am scared I would change for the worse, or that my priorities become askew. I let myself be swallowed whole by business and alienate myself from the people I care so much about. Otherwise, I would put myself under rigorous bout of lonely sickness that I cannot for the life of me concentrate on work. And these are only the tip of my worry iceberg. In fact, sitting right in front of me right now is an inspirational scroll my dad gave me on my eleventh birthday to remind me not to worry so much. It is wired in me to worry. I worry. I fret. I overthink. Wheels in my head go screech, bang, hickety boom and repeat. I might die young. :( Luckily, I always have a someone to calm me down, or find the worries endearing even. Sigh.

This post is to bring myself out of my yet another existentially-conflicted well I have dug myself for the past week. I read of achievements and motivated youths and I felt miserable. I thought things, not do things. I waddled in really gay puddles of 'i-used-to' trying to salvage that incredible feeling of aimfulness I think I used to have. I can't really remember. Thats how aimless I have been. The point isn't that I don't feel purposeful anymore. That is a fact. The point is, waddling in that longer than it takes to ferment food is just pathetic to the nth degree.

I am not quite aimful yet, world. But I am blogging.

Hello, blog.

Onigiri's Origami Test Drive.

2011-03-18T16:20:00.085Z

Cliques

Eyes

Mum

Birthday

Food

Chaos

Grandma

Argument

Mad

This unsettles me.

Puppy

Twister

Twisted

Tamama

These are the first tries of my Origami. Special thanks to Onigiri for teaching and forcing me to put pictures in 620. The rationale behind the dino-sunflower-unknown mammal smacking itself deadset in the reader's face no matter how you scroll is this: I used to put little doodles on my footer. Then I realized no one actually scrolled that far down. Wise one.

I feel like a sack of horse manure atm, ie: crappy. :(

Ida.

Blur Photos Speak Clear

2011-02-19T18:10:00.021Z

Is the gf2 really an improvement of the gf1 or just a completely different product aimed at a new category of consumers, marred by poor marketing? The debate continues, or never came to a logical conclusion, between Fan and I.

Someone thought its 'unChristian' to watch a lion dance. To evade that statute, the parents secretly brought the children and the lion dance to the narrow street of grandma's. This was where belief didn't pounce on family members. My nephews/cousins are all feisty boys. When the troupe set the firecrackers boom bang snap alight, they jostled to touch the heads of the lions- an action that augurs good luck. Even then, they flinched and ran back to the safety of their dads' arms at every motion of the lions, or the sudden clangs of loud cymbals.

It's funny. I knew full well they were just 2 scrawny-looking guys under the fiery costume. But just as the feline heads turned toward my camera, I felt a small surge of the childhood fear against these monstrous faux lions. My nephew yelped at the other end. And it was good to know I wasn't the only one who found the red piece of sewn together material a scary sight. Also equally good to know that God was probably very entertained by the display of men cutting oranges under the lion garb. Those oranges would bring much luck, you see.

I have had surprises these couple of days, some great and some sobering. But I have no words to speak of those surprises. Maybe some other time. I operate with a clunky p&s camera. Unfortunately, it churns out better photos in blurriness. Enjoy. Enjoy.

Terrifun Melody

2011-02-18T04:39:00.004Z

When you said you didn't want me to go UK because its so far away, you don't know how comforting those words were that night, albeit a little heart-wrenching to hear. Kuching is lonely without you. I miss you terrifunnably.

:( /parallel fistbump.

What to do in an LDR on Feb 14th.

2011-02-14T17:22:00.006Z

Ugliest shot of me. Bleh.

Egypt is an inspiration. I am saying that with the fullest, most genuine sense of awe. Tonight, I admire the people who put their loved ones and their lives at stake to push for changes much bigger than, and sometimes unconcerned with, themselves. I never truly felt that admiration. Usually, its just a word I attach to things common people do not do, things for the greater good. It seems like a given word to courageous acts of selflessness.

And now, by golly, I am both amazed and stunned by changers. The world is very real and hopeless tonight. That feeling can be so crippling. It begs, no, slams the question into your face: What have you done in this life? I have not done anything. Suddenly so aware of the amount of grit involved, I now understand why people refuse to remove themselves from their comfort zones. I understand the mental turmoil of a coward wishing to be more. But that's just a melancholic excuse to lead an easy, complacent life, isn't it? I make an active decision not to express my views about my country or politics in my blog. It is ugly and it only serves to stoke the hatred in you and I.

However, has Egypt not made you think: What happened to Malaysia and what have I done?

It makes me ashamed.

How did pictures of Valentine's Day led to a small self-inquisition about Malaysia? It is all in a day's conversation between us. Though, in hindsight, it may have been too heavy an ending to a supposedly light-hearted mushy day. :S I am waltzing out of a charming (pathetic to some, but I call it making the best out of distance) virtual dinner date feeling like I had a heady lesson on Malaysian Problems 101.

ON THE BRIGHTER SIDE, such downers generally make me appreciate small precious moments.

You know, when I quoted Lauren from Glee, I didn't expect such an amusing opening to Skype. Thank you Waffel. Keep the evidences for me to collect. To make up for that first time I pretended to be 'busy' when you asked 2 years back,

I am your Valentine's. :)

Thank you for being such a joy.

Special shoutout to JULIE for being my date at Secret Recipe 2 years back when I told aforementioned geek I was 'busy' on Valentine's. I love you even if you get too hip at times for a grandmother. Less than 3!

Happy Valentine's Day, loves. And may Tuesdays be as blessed.

I'm so glad I met you before I die

2011-02-11T17:43:00.001Z

To anyone who misses someone. :)

In steps I draw.

2011-02-07T17:00:00.004Z

Something ahead of Valentine's.

Ida.

新年快乐

2011-02-03T12:13:00.004Z

New year reunions get less and less memorable each year. When I was young, Chinese New Years (or any school holidays for that matter) were never spent in Kuching. For the occasion, we retreated from the hustle and bustle of the city to my dad's hometown in Saratok. The semi-wooden house would be home to 6 families for a week or so and all chinese new year preparations were done together. Phone signals appear at odd places and seem more prominently around long poles, I believe. Now, 6 families under one roof were probably not so fine and dandy, come to think of it. Maybe that accounted for the hushed grumbles passed between moms in the kitchen or the bath which I never could fathomed at that age. Come on! CNY is an awesome awesome time!

Our generation of young broods were the kings of mischiefs, making each coming CNY a totally new playground. There were burnt hands from firecrackers, angry parents snatching our candles and forbidding us from playing said firecrackers because of said burnt hands, lots of screaming, scheming and haunted house hunting. The younger ones (AYE!) were bullied and the older ones gambled. The gravel compound became the site for makeshift baseball matches assembled from broken brooms, empty bottles and tattered slippers. The fun and games never seized.

After the games, we would march back to the house, 7 in a line. By then, the dinner spread would be out. Spoons and forks were handed out, plates filled and atmosphere alighted. For years, the silent rule among the kids would be to never sit with the adults. Instead, you would have found us slouched on the chairs, the floors, the staircase, outside catching cicadas with oily fingers. And it was simply no difficult task to have a nice reunion.

And then, my grandparents passed away.

There became no reason to stay back in the countryside. Initially, I was excited at the prospect of spending the new year at home. No more 5 hours car rides and best of all, I would actually have people I know over at my house! Something changed along the way. Just last week, reunion dinner was almost (the horror) held in a restaurant in half-assed fashion. Many didn't like the idea so my parents agreed to host dinner this time around. Yet, I somehow felt like we can no longer have that charm which mingled in the smoky-scented ambience of CNY circa 1998. I was big now. No more a little girl. I helped. What this entailed were countless dishwashing, preparing and looking presentable. After the feast, people left. Relatives didn't even stay for the 12 o'clock fireworks anymore. Just 2 houses of relatives, spending the night together purely by the convenience of living next to each other. Convenience, what have you done to festive seasons?

The night began to pound rain, and the warzone audiorape I expected, for the first time since those silent days in Saratok when we were the only family setting fireworks, never came to pass. Even the Ahlong behind seemed disinterested in fucking our ears this year. How sad is that?

I just had a typical first day of the Bunny Year, with chores and attending to countless guests. I haven't had my 'fun' time yet. And I am a bit put out by the fact that I need to make fun time consciously now when I could pull it off effortlessly as a tomboy child. But here's to the hongkong CNY movie I will be attending later with my brother and cousins.

May the day end sweetly and the year be kind to you and I.

Have a lovely chinese new year.

Love, Ida.

Cbox back

2011-01-29T13:37:00.002Z

I decided to bring the Cbox back after coming to terms with the reality that is:

No one would feel so compelled to leave a comment just to say 'Hi!'

At least, not with my reputation haha.

So tadaaaa say hi with zest and without ads and make an Ida's day!

2011-01-25T16:05:00.005Z

Being emotionally conjoined isn't a ride in an amusement park. Or maybe it is, on the bigass arduously long roller coaster ride. Wind pushes against your chest, air somersaults out of your mouth and the pounding sensation to puke never seems to cease. When you are down, I am down. And that kind of attachment is making me tick. I am nitpicking, snapping, and then I am happy again and then I remember you are not and then I snap and protest and argue even more.

Black out became the opportunity for cold baths illuminated by torch light bouncing off the shower screen. With self-conscious sighs at the mirror impossible, a bath finally felt more than just a clean scrub: the trickles, the splashes and the cold, dense air. What follows up is an hour of Boston Legal on Blake. While more often than not I would be doing that myself, without the electricity it narrowed the sets of things my family could do individually. So we huddled in front of my laptop as it blared the only sources of light, sound and colour. It didn't last long of course. When the lights resumed, we went back to our solitary ways. I firmly believe a routine black out may be necessary to cheese out the sentimentality in all of us and remind us of that old festive lesson of treasuring time with the family.

Sean Julie Law Chow.

Today was emotionally too weird for me to try writing a decent post. The elephant is collectively unhappy.

This better not be a rough patch. Oh look, it's raining.

The Picture Orgy Of How We Got Free French Fries.

2011-01-16T13:06:00.029Z

In chronological order, the above picture is irrelevant. Nonetheless, its very cute.

Last Friday, I went to Singapore.

On the same day, someone else was on the same plane.

So we sat together and made our sky-bound way to the lion's den. While I usually refer to him as Waffel in my blog for reasons undisclosed, Waffel will be known as Ophiuchus from this moment on for this particular post. For reasons undisclosed.

In Singapore, Ophiuchus returned to his strange new room for a strange sleep without blankets.

My family and I stayed in a hotel. We slept on one bed and a sleeping bag. We ate and walked along Orchard Road. There were a lot of people. After dinner, we slept.

It was Saturday. I had my LNAT exam. I tried my best.

And then, we went to Marina Sands. There were many interesting things in the complex. There were even flying men!

And glittery talkfolks.

Ophiuchus and I did many normal activities. Such as observing fascinating pieces of artworks.

It was a fascinating piece of artwork.

Ophiuchus got hungry. We ate.

There were also expensive things in the complex.

And the expensive things were usually seen on plastic people.

As we walked, we saw a golden statue man. He did not move a lot because he was a statue.

This statue can wave at people. I know that because I saw him waved. People don't smile when we wave. But when he waves, people laugh.

We went to the top of Marina Sands. It was 58 floors high. It was not very high. There was a long pool stretching to the edge. People hardly swam in it. Instead, they take pictures like this.

I can't take a good photo. I am sad.

Ophiuchus also took photos, like many of the non-swimming poolfolks.

The wind was strong. The day was nice.

Sometimes, the wind got too strong. And people had to find a way to stay warm.

Or they felt happy and had to show it.

Or the sun dimmed, and they sat in relaxed positions. Because that is what you do at pools.

So this was the Singapore I saw on the second day.

I do not know how to explain this picture. Except that there was a red car in front of the hotel. It was very short.

Ophiuchus and I also went to Clarke Quay. It was very beautiful at night. We had turkish ice-cream. The ice-cream man was very funny. He played tricks on us. I think the tricks made the ice-cream tasted even better! After ice-cream, we sat by the field and watched kites fly by batteries. There was one that shot green lasers. For a while, everything was green and black and light and hands.

This is the third day. We went to Bugis Junction. There were nothing that caught the eyes, except the sex shops. They had the brightest signboards.

I felt a bit under the weather that day. So Ophiuchus took me to the arcade at Ilena.

We tried to capture Carebears but we were not good enough for it. We also played drums but were not any better either. Then we battled each other at a Street Fighter-ish game. I won. Ophiucus moaned. I was happier after that.

That was the Singapore I saw on the third day.

The Singapore I saw on the fourth day consisted of rain, shops, chocolate and salmon roes.

I woke up early the next day. I took the MRT to VivoCity to meet up with Ophiucus. The purpose was to bring me around his school: NUS. NUS is quite big; some parts old (like FASS), some parts new (like dentistry). I went to math and narrative classes with Ophiucus. Math class smelled like boys. Too many of them there. Narrative had too much 'subjectivity', whatever that can possibly mean.

This is the NUS bus. There are many people lining up for it all the time. It becomes very important to get into the bus quick. Ophiuchus had a theory which he said works all the time. Ophiuchus posited that since the bus driver is male, he is perverted. So he will stop in front of pretty girls. But bus drivers can also be kind. So they would stop in front of old folks over pretty girls. There were no old folks then. So it had to be pretty girls. I didn't believe Ophiuchus. We put the algorithm (my tone is obviously breaking away from the simpleton writing style I was aiming towards but hell I need to exclaim: why do computer science people speak like this har?!) to the test.

The bus was some way ahead and reaching soon. In the sea of bus-standers, Ophiuchus left my side and rushed to the front where a group of girls stood.

The bus stopped in front of me.

Getting in, Ophiuchus sat beside me and said 'Oh I forgot there was you.'

The only way for him to validate his theory is to concede that I was a subset of good-looking girls.

Its a good theory I swear.

With that aside, we visited the music conservatory. And watched a piano recital.

Then I met Ophiuchus' ~~boyfriend girlfriend~~ friend, Zakil. He was a very nice guy. It was night. And I was sad. But it was okay after awhile.

Ophiuchus took me back to Orchard. Before we met my parents, we ordered kebabs. The customer before us forgot to take his fries. The shop owner gave them to us. We had free fries. We were happy. We looked up at the skies and said:

"Thank you!'

That was the Singapore I saw on the fifth day.

I was leaving on the sixth day. I met up with Ophiuchus for one last time in the morning.

I caught him laying down on a red bench. And we had breakfast. I made stupid faces for him to take pictures of. We talked. We even squabbled a bit. But olive branches did not prolong said squabble. My mum and I sent Ophiuchus off in the mrt station. My mum and I bought strawberries and bakgua.

My family left the hotel after that. We had a funny taxi driver who talked a lot about how he hated Singapore. He also talked a lot about how he loved Singapore.

In the airport, we checked in. In the plane, we departed.

Kuching welcomed us, wet and cold.

It has been awhile since my last post. And the last wasn't a post that should comfortably sit at the top of my blog. I had been busy with applications and an exam. Mainly, I was busy with spending the last few days with Ophiuchus before we let the distance in again.

I have been told by a friend that I am unreasonable on my blog and totally inconsiderate because I subject my readers to long, agonizing proses. "Not even a single picture!" he complained. I had to agree. So for the majority of this post, I decided to write as short and as little as possible. It was time I let the photos do the talking. I had spoken too much all these while. But there may be parts of my life which I had spoken too little about. Or I had chosen to speak about it in ambiguous ways. Or I had fretted over what photos to put up so as to avoid divulging too much. I didn't do much of that for this. It stands as one of my more honest posts. Though I still exercised a substantial amount of caution.

You know, I looked at the photos we took throughout the trip. I don't look awesome in many of them. In fact, a large portion of them featured me contorting my face like so (points above). I am painfully un-in-love with how I look in photos. Or sometimes, how I look. Though that doesn't bother me as much as it bothers me about my lack of an ambition. But that's another story altogether. So I like making stupid faces. It looks silly because thats what it is supposed to look like. :) Plus it makes friends laugh.

I digressed. My point is, sometimes I don't see myself as much of a decent human being, inside and outside. So it astounds me that a person would deem me better than I deem myself. I like to think that the kebab shop owner could see it. That's why we got free fries.

God knows what will happen in the future. Right now, God knows I am loved.

Singapore was memorable for reasons that had nothing to do with Singapore. Maybe except Diva. ;)

Back to being special.

You Owe Us An Apology

2011-01-03T17:48:00.003Z

He placed his mug on the table, leaned back on the chair and sighed: “If she feels so strongly against converting away from Christianity, then she should know how I feel about converting away from my religion. The thing is, why the blame on me to change?”

This was a light-chat-turned-serious exchange that I recently had with a close friend. He is a non-christian, like me. Also like me, he has accumulated a list of things Christians do which offend and anger him to the point of shaking madness. Today, I decided, against favour in my popularity, to write about why Christians annoy us. In many ways, this is a blunt statement. But seeing as I am treading in very sensitive waters, I will take the common courtesy to explain myself.

I am not saying that these problems are exclusively Christian. It is certainly possible to find them in other religions as well. But I write about experiences. And in my experience and reading, I only have Christian examples. They affect me the most, therefore I write about it. This is in no way an attack on Christians as a whole. I have wonderful Christian relatives, amazing Christian friends and a badass Christian boyfriend. And in all honesty, even as a spiritually-confused wreck, I find Christianity, or faith in general, a beautiful thing.

But no, I am targeting a special kind of Christians: the emotionally-high, hard-hitting, Bible-waving bigots (while giving them the benefit of the doubt, may just want all of us to go to heaven but I digress) who fling themselves upon any passing non-Christians hoping to soak us in Christianness, convinced (and truly believing that they are doing a holy deed) that they can redeem us from our destiny in hell.

First of all, I believe in reason and faith. And I may not be in a position to state, but I know many intellectual Christians who would testify against blind faith. And if there is a single common ground for these people who offend me so, it is that they are all blindly faithful.

You strive on worship highs, charismatic proofs, miracles and literal interpretation of the Holy Scripture. You do not-heaven forbids!- question your faith. You do not venture deep into answering those big questions circling every existentially conflicted being. You think in simple equations, that as long as you pray you will receive. You see God as the be all and end all to your problems, like He is your personal calculator. You do not understand the intricacies or the dilemma so many amazing Christians and non-Christians ponder about. I think about your faith more than you do, but no, you will discount my thoughts because you pray more, you go to church more and you memorize bible scriptures. Gays are evil. You debate about fickle things, like Harry Potter being a perpetrator of dark arts and the radio as a medium for the Devil to fuck our brains up. You are quick to judge. And because I just said fuck, you have sentenced me to a spiritual rung lower than yours.

Second of all, I am wrong. You are right. I am not Christian, how would I know anything about God? You are right, I do not have the truth. And I take from your words that you do. So you want to spread the word. Do it. But I plead to you:

Why do you think you are better than us?

Do you think you are doing us a favour by shoving your religion in our faces? Do you think it is amiable to demand we accommodate you without considering our stand? And what is this? Your faith propagates love, grace, acceptance and forgiveness, but you fight within your denominations. What is this obsession with proving you are the righteous among the righteous?

I have kept this anger in for too long. I will tell you what you have done to your faith. You have made us afraid. You have made us loathe your God, because you have made us assume that your God dispatched you to be the world’s moral police. I know, even in my pain and disconnectedness, through understanding Christians I am forever grateful to have met, that you are a gross representative of the faith. But many of my friends are not as lucky. You are so numerous and so loud you become the unwitting spokeperson for your faith. Now people think your faith is as thunderous as you can scream. But is that what it is all about? You are no greater nor worse than I am. The only difference lies in the fact that you think you have found your solace, and I am still groping to God for help.

Your religion is beautiful. I am sad that you have turned away so many people in your rash actions of discounting those unlike you. I am frazzled that in your quest to mass convert, you have deluded people to think that God is a form of miracle water. God becomes paper thin, alive only in the ways He perform magic. And when the miracle water runs dry, people walk away angered at the lie that you have created for them. I have walked out of many churches feeling emptier than I had before I stepped into it because I do not gain from your diluted message, jazzed up to keep with the masses.

Those non-Christians you think you are doing a favour by preaching so passionately to them? Well, they think you are mad. All we ask is that you accept that we work in different paces and vantage points. We may not agree but we don’t need your judgement. We only ask for your grace.

I write this as a troubled girl still finding her way through faith. And I confess that, even then, I have judged. But search yourself, have you not?

You owe many an apology.