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Waking up with a yearning

A cure before a malady

a twitch before a limb

a cry before a vibration

a croak before a life.

Purple Orchids

Yesterday was the 20th anniversary of my mother's passing. In the lunar calendar, at least. We've got another day to commemorate in about a week's time, in our modern-gregorian time.

It's tradition. Every year, we head to the nearby temple to pay our respects. It's not as stuffy and chinese as it sounds when it becomes habit. Like you find new meanings in symbols each time, you will also find those new meanings in rituals. Spreading out a full meal before her picture, some beehoon, some fruits (oranges and apples, the kind I grew up with), a cup of hot milo. And as a treat, a bouquet of fresh orchids, the ones with the petals that fade towards the centre, from the richest purple to the faintest of lavender.

And after we get the religious, joss-stick stuff out of the way, we chat. Kind of like an annual call back home to update the parents.

Hi ma-ma. It's me again. I have PSLE's coming up. I'm very nervous, but da-jie's been drilling me in math. I hope I get an A, and she won't be angry at me.

Hi ma-ma. It's me again. I got into the school I wanted! My friends are coming with me too. Pa-pa's in a bad mood again. If you could talk to him for me...?

Hi ma-ma. So, I broke up with my boyfriend. Kind of sad now, but I'll get over it. Hoping to survive finals!

That's how I've fostered a relationship with her, even if it is kind of a one-sided. It seems kind of ridiculous, after all, to ask - Hey ma-ma, how's not living treating you?

This year, as usual, we set up the food, put the flowers in a vase, do the joss-stick thing, and look up at her as my father says into my ear - tell ma-ma how you've graduated! After some time, My brother takes out his camera to snap pictures of the temple, and my dad wanders off. Leaving me alone with her. And we begin.

Hi ma-ma. It's me again.

Yeah, I graduated. Looking for a job, feeling kind of nervous. Keep an eye out for me?

Pa-pa said in the car today - "It's been twenty years. I don't know how we got past these twenty years." I couldn't really empathize - these twenty years is pretty much my whole life, I just lived it. I hope that doesn't make me a horrible person, I hope you don't mind that I grew up without you. I hope I made you proud.

Watch out for Pa-pa, would you? He's doing better now, and he's moved on. But it'll keep me at ease knowing you're looking out for him.

As we pack up to leave, I feel odd and uneasy. Perhaps I am the odd one out in the family, the only one who hasn't felt the weight of these twenty years. Does that make me bad, or different?

But when I reach home, a rush of warmth courses through me. A bouquet of bright purple orchids, in a glass vase, bathed in sunlight from the dining room window, sits stilly. My dad bustles about to put the food away, and I, in a naive Z-Gen style display of affection, snap a photo.

She is to me what purple orchids are. Or a cup of warm milo. Or apples and oranges. She is all these things, every year of my life.

A Moment of Silence

I hate articles on the MH370 flights.

I follow all the local news channels, the BBCs and the NYTs and the STs and Todays. I watched it grow with the grief and the anxiety of first the families and then the world with them. It bubbled and boiled over into political frustration and freshly-buttered conspiracies and theories and criticisms and rage. But now I'm tired, and frustrated, and I'm getting pissed off.

People, unless you have something important to say, please stop talking about the MH370.

It's not that I don't care about what happened. Like everyone, I scrapped up bits and pieces that they fed us on who was on board and the families that were waiting for them at home. I imagine the various reasons why they left, and the feeling they had going home or flying off on an adventure. I teared over the Liverpool fan whose daughter tweeted when they won that match, and the couple who were flying home to their sons from their holiday. I care, as much as I dare to for complete strangers. I can't understand what they're going through, I admit, but god if I could return children to their mothers and husbands to their wives, I could.

This tragedy is now being comicalised. Every scrap of political agenda and warped terrorist conspiracy that floats around only seems to shade the horrible truth in some colourful and more comfortable light. Even reading headlines make me feel physically sick, for the families going through the pain, and even - selfishly - for myself. It makes me not want to know anymore, to forget and hide and ignore, even at the risk of missing any real progress that could be going on, that could give everyone some hope for success, or closure.

So, dear media, my message is simple, and I promise this will be the end of this issue. I don't feel like you owe me information. I don't need daily updates on what the world is doing, which country is doing what, or which country is yelling louder. By all means, speak to the families. They need information more than we do. But when you have something real, and not fluffy commentary pieces or it-could-possibly-be-there stories, I'll be listening. Nothing before.

I think that, just maybe, we owe the missing a moment of silence, for respect, for hope, and eventually for peace.

#mh370

Female Idolization and Carrie Bradshaw

I've just reach this article called "Why Carrie Bradshaw is the Worst Possible Person a Woman Could Idolize" on Thought Catalog by Chelsea Fagan. While I have long ago begun to doubt the ability of Thought Catalog to invoke true intellectual thought (since that time I read an article that made me cry non-stop for days, I had for a while self-invoked a TC Ban). This one, despite it's topic on a TV show I have never watched in my life and have no intention to whatsoever, struck a chord in me. I don't particularly care about Carrie Bradshaw, or any of the heavily made-up glammed up ladies who seem to whine constantly, but the idea that women have begun to see her as an idol, and this article's critique on what makes a good or bad female idol made me think - why do women have idols at all?

I've had my fair share of idols. They come in all different forms, from the Audrey Hepburns and Tilda Swintons to the Jane Eyres and Elizabeth Bennets. Idolization seems to invoke a self-bettering mentality. In girls, they come in a much wider range. Parents or teachers may try to encourage Marie Curie or Jane Gooddall, but girls prefer Blair Waldorf and Miley Cyrus. We might laugh in retrospect, but by ignoring or even making fun of the girls in the world who idolise Kim Kardashian or Miley Cyrus, we are ignoring not only the aspirations but also the insecurities that young teen girls, or adult females may have.

A lot of it is the peacocking of confidence. When I'm feeling insecure about my looks or my abilities, nothing fills you with motivation like a model strutting down the catwalk effortlessly. Women have a tendency to self-project. They are more likely to have moments where they imagine what they look like, or sometime have to know exactly what they look like. And when they see someone with the confidence they want, they will tend to project themselves onto that person - and idolization begins. They see an exact match of the person that they want to be in them, especially in the public sphere. They see a fictional character ruthless enough to get what she wants and not get pushed around. They see a rich lady who wears whatever she wants and looks great in everything. They see effortless charm, beauty, and capability that they seem to see lacking in themselves.

Growing up in a girls school, this happens ALL THE TIME. We project our own aspirations and insecurities onto a senior who looks amazing in the same uniform that makes us look like sweaty penguins. They're the captain of the tennis team. The brown streaks in their hair from swimming looks frickin amazing. The fact that they are, in fact, real manifestations extends from the fictional TV characters and the unattainable Hollywood stars to actual people with attainable goals. And when those goals become more salient, obsession begins. Or as Jenna Marbles calls it, the Second Tier Girl Crush. And we always seem to be able to find self-substantiating evidence that these girls are absolute perfection. That's where the danger comes in.

Why Carrie Bradshaw is a horrible idol for women would be written with any other woman that people idolise. Marilyn Monroe was criticised for having bad work ethic and a history of mental illnesses. Jane Goodall was accused of plagarism and a lack of a true scientific eye (stuff that I read somewhere, I swear). That senior from school may be a huge slut, or have an inflated sense of entitlement that makes her push people around. People, being people, embody mistakes and flaws. I adore Jane Eyre for her critical pursuit of her faith and her individuality, but I hated her obsession with Mr. Rochester, which in my view is one the most chauvinistic male leads ever to be romanticised. But it doesn't make me admire her strength and her individuality any less. On some levels, I guess that I wish I had her strength to walk away from the man I loved in favour of my own individuality.

After all, the root of idolisation is the acknowledgement of insecurities, and the craving of self-betterment. We see a physical manifestation of what we want. If we are able to isolate that motivation from the person being idolised, our faith and hopes may be more easily grounded in reality, and our aspirations more readily achieved. Carrie Bradshaw embodies the "glamourous, thrilling moments of success", and even if Carrie is one of the "very worst stereotypes of femininity", it shouldn't lessen our hope to ever achieve our very own 'Carrie Moment'.

gif sources: tumblr.com

Imagining Competence

It congeals and collects within me, a messy pool of blacks and reds and whites. And I close my eyes, wishing for that peace and that stillness from my fears and my self-doubt.

But stillness is a paradoxical solution. The more you rest, the less you do, and the more you blame yourself. The best solution, at this point, seems to be exhaustion. Exhaustion past the point of caring. Exhaustion that justifies rest.

I'm exhausted. But not quite as exhausted yet.

I need a job.

On Human Consciousness

I love being in love with beautiful things. To write when there is nothing to say. To kiss when there is nothing to show. I am all there is to offer, the shell of a girl (albeit imbued with the necessary functioning human parts). And all my human parts and my human loves are unreliable, confused, and unsustainable. Especially unsustainable, as all humans tend to be.

I feel myself deteriorating and depreciating, and my ever-sensitive consciousness of being keep me doubting my parts and my loves. The only thing that differs all us conscious-ones are the varying degrees of honesty regarding this consciousness.

I'm trying to be honest. It's pretty hard.

#consciousness #honesty #thoughts

Questions of stuff

For the sake of writing -

I've had so many ideas and thoughts that I have neglected to pen down. Like many ideas, if you do not catch them they are prone to sneaking away, leaving behind little shadows of themselves for you to grasp at with no substantiality.

I'm going to be frivolous. Maybe I should be like my secondary school blogger self, writing about everything and anything, and occasionally coming up with bits of gems from an obligation to write.

Obligation, I guess, is better than stagnation.

What is this best way to deal with a break up? Cleanly. With a few months allowance to moan and go hysterical. And then a good friend to tell you when you've moaned enough.

What’s your favorite thing to cook? Grilled cheese french toast sandwiches.

What country do you want to visit? England

Do you have a hobby? This?

Do people think you’re crazy? I prefer the word "Weird"

What topic of conversation do you consider boring? This question is surprisingly difficult. Anything that becomes too technical? I can always relate to a topic if I can see the value it brings to others, but when it gets to the nuts and bolts I'm always lost.

what you gonna do if it’s raining outside and you’re all alone in the house? Bundle up in my blanket with a book, or nap, or just sit and watch the rain.

5 things (not including people, inanimate objects please!) that you can’t live without?

I don't really believe that you can live without something. Humans are amazingly resilient creatures, able to adapt without any lifestyle they were accustomed to before. I like (and am terrified with) the idea of consciously uprooting yourself to a new lifestyle, breaking any bounds that keep you stagnant. It's painful, but I'm sure it will reveal more about yourself than any inanimate objects.

But for the sake of being interesting: Coffee, Sashimi, Books, Eclipse, and Pens

Whats your favourite zoo animal? Otters!

Whats your favourite sport? eck. Basketball? Or does running count as a sport?

Whats your favourite food? Sashimi. or Hot Dogs. or Chocolate covered raisins.

Whats your favourite pizza topping? Mushrooms!

Whats your favourite film? I used to say Elizabethtown. Currently I'm a little obsessed with Mansfield Park.

"Life is like a quick succession of busy nothings" Whats your favourite song? And so it goes, by Billy Joel

Whats your favourite non-alcoholic drink? Piccolo Latte

Whats your favourite boyband? ..... backstreet boys.

Favourite Muppet? MANNA MANNA. Do you want children? Yep.

Do you want a church wedding? Eh, not necessary.

Have you ever built a snowman? Yup!

Have you ever been sledging? Does tobogganing count?

What colour socks are you wearing? The colour of air. And starlight (my feet sparkle, yes)

Whats your favourite smell/scent? Vanilla! And someone's cologne. And maybe the occasional freezer or two.

Can you blow bubbles with bubblegum? Yup

What was your favourite birthday? 22nd :) along with the best birthday present I could have asked for

If you could live anywhere, where would that be? Taiwan's not bad.

What phobias do you have? GRASSHOPPERS. HATE THEM. Bugs. Falling.

Have you ever been to see stand up comedy? Not live ):

Whats the best way to your heart? Intellect.

Whats your favourite physical thing you like about yourself? My eyes.

Whats the craziest thing you’ve ever done for someone? Played the penis game in a shopping mall to cheer someone up.

If a loved one was to serenade you, what song would you most like them to sing? Refer to "favourite song"

Which fictional character do you wish was real? Mr. Knightley from Emma :D

What would you do if someone proposed to you tomorrow? erm.... depends on who.

Can a hetrosexual male ever wear pink? Yeah why not?

What makes you nervous? Crowds.

What was your favourite school subject? English!

Are you good at keeping secrets?

Yeah I think so!

On something or another

Shame is a strange and horrible concoction, that hides in silence what only words can free. It poisons and shrouds the mind from rationality, which only action can amend, yet silence makes comfortable. It paralyses the notion of solutions into nothing.

No one speaks of being hurt more than necessary. And I am ashamed of feeling hurt. More than necessary.

On Insecurity

Insecurity is like a large persistent rash,

it spreads visibly across your skin. And as you look upon

the scabs that form on your skin, they itch in your mind,

and the redder and more obtuse it grows, the more layers you put on.

On ideas and inspiration

I've often wondered about the nature of ideas. The strange appearance of moments of brilliance, like the fluttering of birds through an open window - and the rush to take a photo or draw a picture to prove its existence before it flies away. The unreliability of the idea to stay, wild in nature, yet beautiful in appearance - does the nature of it's unreliability enhance its value - does the value depend on it's unreliability? I've come to realise that inspiration doesn't come for me in a room full of intellects, of proud men reciting famous poets and philosophers, spitting words made to confuse and belittle you. It doesn't come from the struggle to appear as good, as clever, as wise. Like true art, it comes from acceptance of the simpler and baser elements of life. Discarding allusions to Greek mythology and famous theologians for simpler themes of love and hatred, harmony and discord, freedom and defeat - you no longer struggle to be understood, you accept the simpler truths in yourself, and you allow simple ideas and simple beauty to fly in. When you learn to appreciate the midnight wings of the common mynah, you may by chance catch a glimpse of the nightingale.

Writing about nothing, in the middle of nothing

Nothing quite like the late night quiet, hearing the blood rushing through my limbs, the thumping of my heart in my chest, and the wonderful, wandering mind. I've always loved the word "wanderlust". I am lusting, wishing, dreaming, lusting to run and explore and find little alleys of secrets and people in cafes talking in languages I don't understand. I'm wishing and hoping to see skies of different places, where everyone is different but breaths and loves and fights and struggle all the same. I guess you could say I feel part of a global community, but I'm not an 'involver'. I don't jump in and instigate. I watch. And I appreciate. And I write about it.

Tonight, I'm listening to Bon Iver's Come Talk to Me. Justin Vernon has a fantastic way of inspiring me, of making blood rush, hearts thumb, and minds wander. And there really isn't any better way to live life than to crave it. Of course living it is a good way, but without the craving part, there isn't really much of a point.

Like they say, sometimes it's not so much the act, but the intent.

I'll always be grateful for craving life. Especially after a period of time of despising it. It's hard to describe the dark places I've hidden in, or explain them. The dark, as to anyone, can be captivating and inviting to me. But I'll never forget how hard you can fall, and nothing will ever make me feel as strong as getting myself out. If I never achieve anything else out of life, I'll always be proud of getting myself out of that. Perhaps I'll be the only one who understands and appreciates it, but that really is enough.

Well this got serious really quickly. Which I guess happens for anything you write after 12. I'm gonna sign up for NaNoWriMo this year, since I have no exams. I also have no social life now, so should be interesting!

On Love.

Love is a terrifying and wonderful thing. It squeezes you and leaves you out to dry, smelling like wet socks and softener, dripping with a dewey, cold sweat. Your hand in his feels right, and the trembles you feel within you rise and fall like waves, changing anxiety over comfort over breathlessness over sighs. It's a moment before the leap, closing your eyes and taking in the crisp, salty air, and saying yes, yes. And you tremble as you fall, slowly and gently. The salt and the sunset envelopes you. And you let it.

Love is turning back once, twice, thrice, to wave goodbye, and never wanting to stop waving.

The Way I Know You.

When I was five, I wished upon the only star I could see from my window, believing it was you. Big Sister told me it was a satellite. I spoke to it anyway, because I wanted to speak to you.

When I was six, I started crafting memories in my head of you, from photographs to anecdotes that family members would tell me about you. Till this day, I still can’t tell if which memories are real, or whether I have any real memories of you at all.

When I was seven, I saw a photograph of the two of us putting our hands on the large marble ball in Botanic Gardens. I still do it now and then, when I see it.

When I was eight, I learnt the song “On this earth mother is the best - 世上只有妈妈好”, and someone taught me the verse about how only children with mothers smiled in their sleep. I started wondering what I looked like when I slept.

When I was nine, I met Dad’s girlfriend. She bought me duck drumsticks from the nearby hawker center. No one liked her much.

When I was ten, Big Sister showed me a photo of you that she keeps in her wallet. You looked so chic and pretty. Everyone always said that I looked like you. I started looking at myself in the mirror a little longer.

When I was twelve, I asked Second Sister what you were like. She told me you were strict. When my friends complained about getting in trouble with their mothers, I envied them.

When I was thirteen, my friends told me about going bra shopping with their friends. I didn’t really know who to ask. I was really embarrassed. My aunt bought some for me eventually. I never told my friends about that.

When I was fifteen, I heard a Corrine May song about her mother dying. I couldn’t stop crying, but I didn’t know why. I asked my boyfriend if not having a mother made me any different. He said “a little”. I cried some more.

When I was sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty – I filled my room with photos of you. I snuck them out of my dad’s cupboard, and started a little collage on my wall, sneaking you in between class photos and polaroids. I like the candid shots especially, when your face breaks into a genuine, way-too-big-for-your-face kind of smile. I like to think that we share a sense of humor.

Twenty-one and onwards, I still wonder about the connection I have to you. Whether it’s possible to miss someone you’re not sure you’ve met, or if I’m just craving a stereotypical mother figure that I’ve been taught to miss. I don’t care either way. I still think back to the crafted memories, ‘talk’ to you when I feel like, and cry buckets when I hear that Corrine May song. I still wish I had a chance to meet you, and I wonder if you’d like the person I had become.

But twenty-one and onwards, I continue to hear anecdotes and stories of you, discover new photographs in the chasms of old photo albums, or think about you the way I know you. It is different from the way everyone else knows you, I’m sure. There’s no avoiding that. But for the rest of my life, I’m sure I’ll still collect memories of you, my way.

(I submitted this to this awesome website. No idea if it'll be put up, but I like it all the same.)

On City-living, and Feet

It's saturday morning, and I am surrounded by noise.

Noises of grass-cutters, construction sites, babies blabbering and crying. Women speaking in high pitched voices and the clatter of metal upon ceramic. And the buzz of living, all about.

In my little space, I am still affected. There is no keeping out the city when it leaks through the cracks of windows, under doors, and through thin walls. I've grown up here, and the world around me changes - yet it doesn't really change. The buzzes still buzz, the voices still screech, and the grass cutters still cut obnoxiously loud. And while it disrupts sleep, it reminds me that I am part of something larger. A growing, living, and evolving entity that moves and thrives around me. That while I am growing and learning and changing, people and technology and buildings grow and learn and change with me, or I with them. The sentimentality that comes with a city childhood amassed into the blanket of noise teaming with a still and seemingly unmoving view.

From as long as I can remember, I have put my feet onto my window, and admired the view with them. It is not very nice to the person who cleans my windows (I'm sorry), but over the years it still comes as a natural position. To see the skyline beneath my feet, and feel like I have the autonomy to move about in this intimidating city. Through the stress of education and job-hunting and house-hunting, the clunky public transports and community that complains 80% of the time - I have still grown to love it here. And as I watch the skyline, I imagine myself sinking into the world, and becoming one of the many people inhabiting one of the many windows I can see.

Perhaps, if I look closely enough, I'll see another girl in one of the many windows with her feet up against the window.

Perhaps, despite my temperament, I remain a city girl through and through.

#city

On Bubble Happiness

How justifiable is a fear of things being "too good to be true"?

In economics, we learn about the business cycle, how there are times when things go very well, and when they are at their peak, they are usually followed by something bad. We also learn about the bubble economy, where things are just so good, that when the bubble pops - everything goes to shit.

How justifiable, then, is the fear of things going horribly wrong, simply because everything is going amazingly well?

I can be a control freak, and I can think too much. That much I am conscious of. In a situation where I can't forecast anything, where history has taught that the results are completely random by nature (plot normal distribution curve, assume central limit theorem), how much can I quell that fear of bubble happiness, and how much can I shut that voice up to allow myself these little happinesses?

If I spend too much time making sure things don't go wrong, I'll miss out on the things going right. And self-fulfilling prophecies are too whack for me to function with.

On destruction and recreation.

Someone once asked what is one thing I could never live without. I don't know the answer to that. The thing I've learnt is that the human body and mind is resilient as hell. You could throw it into any trials, break it and regrow it, take everything it wants, and it will come back. Like a lizards tail. Irrelevant, but ever-present. "The old saying, about how you always kill the thing you love, well, it works both ways." How much will you love something to let it take you over? How long will you live before the 'most important thing' destroys you from the inside out? How much can you trust what ground you stand upon to stay? Perhaps the only thing that I can't live without is change, the reliability of the best that is yet to be, the coming wave that you have to conquer to survive. The rush in your blood to struggle, to thrive, and to cry - it pumped the air into your lungs while making it harder to breathe. Drama, fighting, destruction, and re-creation. Recreation. Maybe I live to create, and for this new thing to thrive, something has to be destroyed. And it will be, inevitably. And that's okay.

likeafieldmouse-deactivated2015

Liliana Porter - Triangle (1973)

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