Snooze-a-lot

When I had my old Nokia, and this was years ago, I had a snooze button that actually worked. With any length of time I could choose to set, the snooze buzzer was set at 20mins interval. This was an excellent choice as I soon realised 20 mins was neither here nor there. It was both too long and too short and the discomfort of it made sure I more often than not, awake before that button even had a chance to work. Irritated by the thought of being rudely awakened at the 20 min mark - which is about just the time for me to get properly asleep (again), I get up to switch off the thing before it has a chance to grate my ears a second time. Getting up. Clicking many buttons to disable the snooze function. Who wouldn't actually stay up. Your eyes may be drooping and your actions slow, but you're more or less conscious and in the realm of being awake.

But those were the days. My Sony Ericsson, as all SEs, have only ONE option for the snooze buttong. 9 minutes. Too short by far. I keep falling asleep. Repeatedly even after I set two alarms, each with their respective 9 min snooze. I end up waking an hour after my alarm goes off. Or later. It doesn't work. Maybe that's the point of the SE snooze button, it not working. But maybe it does for some people. Perhaps I've been pampered by the 20 min snooze, or I'm feeling my age. Or maybe it's FY-Syndrome. Whatever the reason[s], I am sleeping in more, and it grates slightly that I'm getting up later and later than I want to.

B.A. in Idiocy

Introduction:

Welcome to the year 2009. It is ending now but I wanted to say a few friendly words before we part ways, forever, temporally speaking. I can only physically move forward, even if I think that I'll always have an eye turned over my shoulder to this point in time. Now that we are nearing the end, it is a time for reflection, for thought and for internalizing. The added bonus is unburdening, but we'll see about that.

Chapter 1: Zetsubo-sensei

Do not despair. Please kindly refrain from ever using this word (except in jest) if you ever have to mark someone's essay. I believe my professor was being kind but such things just kills. It doesn't help when at the same time, you're undergoing a crisis when you've suddenly to take on a majority of household chores because your mom's injured her arm. 

It may seem very sad for me to say this but I really agonized over which to prioritize. I felt that my essays were very important, but my mom felt a shiny floor and not eating out was. And one of my deep core beliefs that my parents cared about my education sustained a deep and irreparable crack. They certainly cared, they want me to have a stable job and money and a comfortable life, insofar as their own convenience was not unduly jeopardized. As, I was, naturally thinking the same, though in reverse (I didn't want to jeopardize my essay grade), I can't say I can fault them too much.

The fact is also that I wasn't always working on essays, which I had half given up the battle for made the guilt of not helping out more even more aching. It was a relief to hear somebody, anybody tell me that I had helped out more than enough even if I didn't believe it, it was nice to hear. Naturally I felt even worse because it indicated simply, the minutiae I can do for my parents, especially since I took on the housework very grumpily and fanned the flames of discontent a lot at home.

I'm a disappointment, really. Which is why and here is a lesson to all future parents: Never tell your child that she is useless. It is damning. It is also contractual. There was a point in time, when I ought to have been thinking about my ISM proposal that I was thinking more of a 5000 word essay on Tyranny.

Chapter 2: Bitter Fruit

This one is a joke made by another person. Every time we meet up and I've an opportunity to explain why I wasn't doing a thesis, she'll laugh and say, "Leong sounds so bitter every time". I don't. It was probably a good thing as I on average, score better grades in fields outside my major. The proposal exercise proved that I wouldn't have been able to sustain the rigor of a thesis. I lost interest in my topic. It was a struggle just explaining what I had in my head and I became frightened that I had sustained some kind of permanent mental damage. There is no way you can write clearly if you can't even articulate coherently your own ideas to yourself. 

My CAP went back up this semester, but just when I seriously needed a confidence booster, my grades were on a downhill slide. I would have liked to believe that I could do a thesis. I might have been less unsure of myself. But all those mights don't account for anything in the here and now, other than that in a way it is tedious the way it, like the early string of As I was getting this semester buoys hope up when all I had wanted was the peace of having accepted that I was an average student and average person.

I understand that I've not made as sustained a description of what bogs my academic life but some things remain too sore a point for me to talk about. Then I discovered that my opinion matters very little in the great scheme of things and that I should not be so concerned that I was wasting people's time having to bear through listening to my bewildered proposal.

Chapter 3: Death Wish

This has nothing to do with family or my education. It has to do with the only other thing left. This involves a person I knew from school, though only as an acquaintance. In a way, what I'm writing here is so watered down that it isn't even what transpired but I shall summarize pithily. It involved a bench, my idiocy, and a suspected perv. I don't know. I felt sorry for him but that has, in increasing days, turned to blood boiling. I was asked if I had a death wish following the idiot to the park at night. In a way I was outmaneuvered but still - I spent most of it being very uncertain if I was mistaking a fellow schoolmate of unholy designs or if he just liked me and was just stupid. And I was too polite. And nice. As usual. I have a very big range for accepted idiocy and strangeness in people you know. Just... don't take advantage of my open-mindedness. You'll induce me to feel pity - not very flattering for the person and anger. You would think alarm bells would be going off in my head and they were. And which goes to show how right Freud was when he spoke of the uncanny. I simply believed that Singapore was very safe and I was with someone I sort of knew, even if that someone was giving off very strange vibes. But everyone knows "safe" and "know" are easily turned on their heads. I just didn't think I would be the sort of person to attract creeps.

I however take this as a learning point and wake up call. There were several very strange things leading up to this 

Conclusion:

This might come across as a surprise to some people but, no, I don't trust myself. I said that maybe I ought to start but there are a lot of difficulties, and not two days after telling myself that, I committed the same mistake. No, I don't trust myself because I believe that people are inherently selfish and that includes me, of course. Being magnanimous is actually a struggle and a pain and it doesn't come easily and this year has been a dry year. I told a friend over prata that it would hardly matter if I simply disappeared; the world will go on and possibly even be the better for it. Less humans is always a good thing, these days and I point out, as a current example, Avatar. A human directed film where blue aliens trump humans - doesn't that say something? 

It has been an eventful year for me and I am grateful for small things. Tuition, while a sore point in terms of time constraints and aggravating children are all the better for making me feel happy and satisfied. I feel like I'm doing something for somebody, and the satisfaction it brings cannot be measured. I hope I will like teaching. The horror of my mom's friend's daughter when she heard me say that I was going to teach is priceless. 

So, too bad. This person doesn't want to be a blue alien. I want to finish my education. I want to see how chapter 3 turns out. I want to watch movies. Rediscover my love for books. I want to feel sunshine, listen to the rain and enjoy the sharp smell of wind. A salute to Life, and to Art. 

The Book Post: The Favourite

For the longest time, if anyone asked me what my favourite book was, the answer I had given was Yann Martel's Life of Pi. The story of an Indian boy (the epnoymous Pi) whose ship capsizes enroute to Canada to start a new life with his family, Life of Pi was no regular castaway tale. It can't be, not when one of Pi's liferaft companions is a full grown Bengal tiger. The book was special to me for a few reasons. It was funny, humurous and one of the few thoughtful and life affirming books I had read. What is writing? What is life? Why is art important? This book was the stuff of books and one of the few which I had re-read with pleasure time and again and I still urge people who haven't read it to go and give it a try.

But lately, I find that I do not immediately think of this book except as a fond memory. What is my favourite book? This is a tough one. I have many books that I love but none which I can say moved me above the others. I have moved on since I declared Life of Pi to be my favourite book. I am probably not much wiser or sadder than I was two years ago, when I was asked in an MOE interview what my favourite book was and I gave an admittedly unflattering answer because I was so stunned that they were asking weird things like this. But two years is a long time and even if it is only a little, I've moved on from then, taste wise.

I can however think of a few authors whose work(s) have given me that special feeling. Diana Wynne Jones. Eoin Colfer. Susanna Clarke. Neil Gaiman. Phillip Pullman. Yann Martel. Daniel Keyes. Eva Ibbotson. Margaret Atwood. Jane Austen. Oscar Wilde. T.S. Eliot. Edgar Allan Poe. J.R.R. Tolkien. J.K. Rowling. Enid Blyton. Isabel Allende. Georgette Heyer. Joanne Harris. The list goes on. And on. Not of all these can profess to being very literary. They can however, all profess to be books that people have enjoyed and possibly even loved and cherished by someone out there. If there is something I entered my major believing and will go out of it thinking, it is that books are meant to inspire and move its audience in all spectrums of emotion and thought.

So what is my favourite book? This is a difficult question with no forthcoming answer. In all honesty, there won't probably ever be just one again. There are too many good things out there for me to just like one.

Note: Martel has not published for a while and in lieu of this post, I did a google to find out what he has been up to and to my delight, it seems that he'll have a new work, Beatrice and Virgil out next year (which is another reason why 2010 will be a good year in terms of books and movies for me)

The Week in Three.

1. Ice

Welcome November,

Good friend to wind, rain and ice.

A time to reflect.

2. Loathing

Come, essay time,

Like some rank, o'ergrown carpet

Requiring a trim.

3. After rain

There is much to love

In watery days, milky light,

And murmuring of chimes.

October Meltdown

Ok. Long post coming up. I've several things I want to talk about but which I hadn't for the past month because my vanity wouldn't allow it. The month of October is allowed only 5 posts, and as you can see, I made use of the first 4 in the first 4 consecutive days of the month. Those of you in the know would know why 5 posts. Remember - vanity. Anyway, onward!

#1 Ang Mo Kio Fiasco

Out of the goodness and kindness of my soul I attempted to help this nine yr old girl who was crying on the streets outside AMK Hub. Oh the meanness of the Singaporean soul! Nobody else walking up and down the crowded streets even bat an eyelid at her!

For good reason it seems.

I asked her where her mom was and she said 'at home'. I then asked her where she lived and she told me she lived in the very er, "very far away" Ang Mo Kio Ave 10. However, I suppose, when you're 9, anywhere more than 10 mins from your front gate is far. Being unfamiliar with the suburbia of AMK, I asked if she knew what bus to get home and we then proceeded to walk to this bus stop ahead (88 bus stop) which she claimed had her bus. Which, as it turned out did not in fact. We wandered back to another bus stop perpendicular to it (159 bus stop via Sengkang). Which also didn't have the bus. Mercifully, before I decided to resort to a cab (at the taxi stand outside the train station), I spotted one of the buses she mentioned turning into the very Hub which we had walked away from. My heart bled.

And so I took her back there, making yet another perpendicular right, though this time utilising the underpass as I could not bear waiting for the traffic lights anymore. Those of you familiar with that area would realize that I spent a precious 30 mins walking from one bus stop to another around the traffic junction near AMK Stn, trailing a sniveling girl with me under the evening sun. So yes, I hereby permit you to indulge in envisioning this pathetic sight for personal entertainment as long as you want.

On reaching, she recognized her bus and walked eagerly towards it, and leaving me to stare bewildedly at the board and wondering why the bus she wanted to take did not actually go to AMK Ave 10. Anyway, I was done with her. After giving her some bus money, I hastily fled to the upper floors, not daring for an hour to come back down in case she had taken an entire round trip on the feeder service and ended up at the interchange again.

#2 The Death of Duckie, aka Sheep-like Sotong, aka hamster

Rest in peace fat Duckie! You were always the stupidest. But that's ok. We still love you very much.

He is a sheep-like sotong for the simple reason that he was the fattest hamster with the longest fur and sheep appearance. He was also, in local parlance, very 'blur', like sotong.

Allow me to indulge in one reminiscence.

Once, I put him on this long wooden bench at home for walk. He trotted along the edge of the seat happily and then suddenly slipped off. He hung for a split second by his paws, blinked and then fell. Bottom too heavy I suppose. There was no strong sudden gust of wind. Nobody pushed/pulled him. He just trot and fell. So clumsy.

#3 Birthday
Spent it wretchedly with essay submissions. Thank you the lovely ladies who got me Chewy Junior and my presents!! I heart you all.

#4 Halloween Post
I posted some of my favourite poetry that had some relation to Halloween for the past 2 years. Stands to reason I'll do it again this year. I had originally intended Keats's The Eve of St Agnes but it's too long if it's sharing a post with other things. Keats incidentally was born today in 1795, if Wikipedia is to be believed. So, what I have is an excerpt instead:


I
ST. AGNES’ Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was!

The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;

The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass,

And silent was the flock in woolly fold:

Numb were the Beadsman’s fingers, while he told

His rosary, and while his frosted breath,

Like pious incense from a censer old,

Seem’d taking flight for heaven, without a death,

Past the sweet Virgin’s picture, while his prayer he saith


’Hark! ’tis an elfin-storm from faery land,

“Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:

“Arise—arise! the morning is at hand;—

“The bloated wassaillers will never heed:—

“Let us away, my love, with happy speed;

“There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,—

“Drown’d all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead:

“Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be,

“For o’er the southern moors I have a home for thee.”


XL.
She hurried at his words, beset with fears,

For there were sleeping dragons all around,

At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears—

Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.—

In all the house was heard no human sound.

A chain-droop’d lamp was flickering by each door;

The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound,

Flutter’d in the besieging wind’s uproar;

And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.


XLI.
They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall;

Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide;

Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,

With a huge empty flaggon by his side;

The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,

But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:

By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:—

The chains lie silent on the footworn stones;—

The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groan.


XLII.
And they are gone: ay, ages long ago

These lovers fled away into the storm.

You can see for yourself how long it is from the numbering above the stanzas. The original can be found here.

October. The Crazy Month. For all kinds of reasons.

Quote of the Day

"were all men always attentive to life, were we constantly to keep in touch with others as well as with ourselves, nothing within us would ever appear as due to the working of strings or springs" Henri Bergson, "The Comic in Situations" trans. Brereton and Rothwell

And quite, quite suddenly, I think I might be beginning to understand Deleuze and Guattari from 19th Century class

To live in tabula rasa

Yesterday, I attended my first archi seminar (aka what we at Arts call tutorials). We were discussing Koolhaas's vision of Singapore's architecture as being built on a tabula rasa. According to Wiki, (less reliable source that it is), tabular rasa (blank slate) refers to, among other things, "the epistemological thesis that individuals are born without built-in mental content and that their knowledge comes from experience and perception".

In discussing architecture specifically, this term "has been used in arguments against what were criticized as insensitive design strategies employed by a monolithic Modern Movement" since the 1950s (Wikipedia). Ahah! One wants to cry out - "This is exactly what happened to Singapore in the fifties!" No one who has gone through the Singapore Education System needs to be reminded of our nation's struggle with problems both of a practical and metaphysical nature. Well, okay, the textbooks mostly chronicle the practical ones but I do think how it's impossible for anyone designing the textbook not to have some ulterior motive pertaining to the latter.

Insensitive - yes - mostly because to start on a blank slate is not as pretty or easy as it sounds (the textbooks and I concur on this point). It means a determined bulldozing of the land's past. As Koolhaas suggests, it is hard put to find any building more than thirty years in Singapore (1011). Shocking, to anyone who has lived in Paris (for example), where the charm of the city is built partly on its carefully preserved architectural past. Everything else is shiny and new in contrast here.

My point on tabula rasa is that it is a brutal process - modern skyscrapers standing cheek to jowl with matchbox like shophouses, and now, contemporary structures in the most flamboyant shapes like Vivocity, the Esplanade, Ion Orchard and the upcoming gambling dens springing up in rejection of the . In these different types of buildings, one can almost map the way Singapore has changed to suit the times. It's not merely that the grey slabs are ugly or are vastly inhuman in scale, they represent the stripping away of a past, literally built on the ghost of the old shophouse, the dirt and squalor. I don't know about you, but when I step into the market in Chinatown, the one that has been recently opened again after all these years, I still subconsciously smell the horror of the damp, wet market when I first visited it as a kid. I also still mince my way between the stalls even though the smell is almost all gone, and the floor is much drier. Ghost of the old building? Check. Tabula rasa is not built on a clean slate - it's a slate that bears the tenacious traits of The Past. In psychoanalysis, it is suggested that which we keep under the carpets boils over all the worse the further it is buried. The same can be said of the anxious way in which living in tabula rasa all my life boils over constantly - progress and develop, but never forget the tenets of our little island home - we are yet always four races at potential loggerheads. We must never fall behind. Don't be complacent. Don't get left behind. We must always strive towards the light! (No rest for the good orthe bad.) We are simply, an eternal work in progress, absorbing and rejecting what's good for this little island without ever being sure where this light is (First world status, maybe?)

But perhaps, that is all changing - we've begun to build monuments to our glorious state -Ion, gambling rules relaxed (if hypocritically), the Durian etc. This is where, in a slice of tabula rasa, I see as the first steps to building permanence rather than change - the Fullerton and Raffles Hotel of the present. What they may mean to you and me is a different thing altogether, something which has not altered while bulldozing. We look back at the shophouses that have survived the demolitions and cranes and heave a sigh of relief - we then go on to insist that they're haunted - by what? A more exciting past, when the threat of death was far more real? When the piss and garbage filled streets which we abhor have been lent the nostalgic tinge of rose tinted distance? I am sinking to the low of rhetoric, but there, I've made my point: I may hate the bulldozing, but I am grateful for it. I may regret that my physical environment is denuded of its history but then, I don't want to live in the past either.

Reference:
Rem Koolhaas, ‘Singapore Songlines: Portrait of a Potemkin Metropolis… or Thirty Years of Tabula Rasa’, in Rem Koolhaas and Bruce Mau, SMLXL (New York: The Monacelli Press, 2005), pp.1008-89.

Anecdote for Educators

O dearest, dearest boy! my heart
For better lore would seldom yearn,
Could I but teach the hundredth part
Of what from thee I learn.

-- W. Wordsworth

Ah, Wordsworth. What were you thinking? Much as you love your son and children in general, I cannot say the same.

I was teaching my tuition class as per usual on Saturday when I encountered my first crying new student who refused to enter my den. As expected, my class wanted to know why I kept disappearing outside after they'd caught wind of a rumour that they would be having a new classmate and they all trooped outside to gawk as me and L attempted to persuade her to join the class.

Attempt #first and last went down like a lead balloon.
I had gotten the class to all give her a very warm welcome by simulataneously saying hello and waving as she walked in, but all she did was shrink back. (mouse! mouse!)
Shit! Shit! I mentally cursed and went back outside to try and placate her while being tailed by multiple monkeys.

L suggested that I go back and try and teach something because I did afterall, have 9 other kiddies to supervise and I agreed. Back in the classroom, no, den, I was faced with wretched hobbit-height terrors running amok. "Teacher, teacher!" some of them shouted. (And for pity's sake, I am not Miss Long) "Why is she crying?"

"Well, she's scared because this is the first time she's gone to tuition." I replied. Most of them scoffed at this. "I wasn't scared," they said. Sure. Loud and noisy beings like you would have happily reduced your first classroom to debris. "Well," I persisted, "didn't you feel scared on the first day of school?" "Noooooooooo!" was their delighted reply. "I even made friends on my first day," someone added proudly, and which was followed by a dozen more incoherent accounts of first days. Ok. "Okay, okay!" I cried above the excited horde. "But if you saw someone who was scared, would you help them?"

"Noooooooooo!" came the second delighted answer.
Oh gee.

The boys in particular, except for one who openly declared he liked them and got roundly teased and maybe two, dislike fairytales. Is that somehow connected to why their moral compass is as screwed up as it is? Or maybe it's their fey-like amorality that J.M. Barrie more rightly captured? But that, is a musing for another day.

Grandfather Story

This week, my mom once again brought up reminiscences about her dad, who is also my maternal grandfather, a man whom I never knew because he died a week before I was born. Among the things that he is remembered for is the following situation.

Now, my grandfather was a loner. He detested large company, and during chinese new year, had been known to flee as soon as he got wind that visitors were coming. As someone who kept to himself, there were some times, when out of the blue, he would disappear from home without anybody's knowledge of him leaving. It remains a mystery how he is capable of such stealth that no one, not even my grandmother noticed when he packed at the crack of dawn and left the house, not to be seen for the next few days.

The only time he left a note, it was to remind my mother to water his plants.

While my grandfather never disappeared for more than a week each time, my grandmother would fret each day until he returned, laden with the booty from neighbouring countries. Once, he even brought back what looked distinctly like Thai souvenirs, including a nude sculpture of a female dancer. This figurine soon had its modesty recovered when my grandfather made a Tarzanesque outfit out of some furry and spotted material that he found. The dancer was also simultaneously equipped with a mini dagger at the hip, perhaps against would be molesters and pervs.

And, my grandmother would greet him with a mixture of relief and anger, and demand, "Where did you go? Why didn't you tell anyone you were leaving, you had me so worried." To which, my grandfather would retort, "What's there to worry about? If anything happened to me, you'll hear from the matah (police)." And that would be the end of the matter.

Mistaken Identities

Yes. Me. As per usual.

People that I have been mistaken for up till now:

• A student at Mayflower, or now that I think about it, maybe it was St Marg's
• This was when I was attempting (and mostly failing) to sell Encyclopedias at the World Book Fair a couple years back. But, hey, this case of mistaken identity caused the family who thought they were speaking to a well-loved family friend aka me, to sit down and be subjected to a pleasant chat, or well, sales pitch.

• A neighbour when this tuition kid's mom stayed in Ang Mo Kio
• This was at the staircase when I smiled at a mother bringing her child to tuition and she said I looked familiar and asked if I stay at AMK. When I said no, she insisted that I must have at some point or other stayed there before.

• Caroline
• When we were introducing ourselves in tutorial, and my professor who said I looked familiar (and well I should since I took his module the previous semester) asked if I was such a person.

• That I am Malay
• This, coming from tuition kids who don't know better and thinking they can talk behind my back in chinese. This, also coming from a Malay auntie only just yesterday, is a little too much.

• That I am Eurasian.
• Also, this again from tuition kids who don't know better. I pretend not to be either. "Hey, teacher can understand chinese!". I feel like I'm not there, or conversely, that I am there, as a lab show.

Yesterday in Three.

14 Feb

Midnight slinks unseen

Past. Some things may change, but this

Would last forever.

Hot nights

Screw this bloody sore

It hurts so much even as

I enjoy ice-cream.

Tuition

Ink stains, the mark of

Industrious scribbles that you

Write, with unsure hands.

The First Post of the New Year

In which one signposts for the year ahead.

Initially, I had one of those romantical, resolution-y sort of post in mind, but as the year passed from one to the other, the mood for a nice, proper post just vanished. Instead, I will begin 2009 with a flashback, not to 2008, memorable though it has been, but to 2001, the year of bemusing, nightmarish home economics lessons with a certain Mrs G.

On that fateful day, Mrs G., who is usually a tyrant in the kitchen, appeared to be slightly more mellow than usual. We were told to start heating the fryin pans in our separate groups while we watched Mrs G. at a demo before we er...decimated the recipe by ourselves later on. Indeed, the lecture had gotten on to a fairly good start, seeing as Mrs G. did not seem inclined to scream or yell threats at us as she did on a regular basis and that everyone sitting in front of the classroom was behaving sanely.

Then. One of the frying pans abruptly erupted in flames.
We stared on, partly startled but mostly amused as Mrs G. began screeching indignantly about the many times she had reminded us to be careful when heating oil in the pan. She bustled over to the offending frying pan and switched off the cooker, all the way muttering accusatory things at my friend and her partner, the two unfortunate souls which the pan belonged to.

This memory remains burned in my brain and talking about it on the bus with Kappa only served to polish further the weirdness of the event. Yes, Morphie, if you're reading this, you remain the unfortunate source of our jokes till this day.

Speaking of which, I am glad that I am beginning the new year with the people who have been close to me, whether in the form of the butt of the joke or otherwise.

Go along with every year,
Bring with you your joys,
And leave behind your fears.

Vampires

Now really, this post is essentially me trying to put the Twilight posters further down my blog so that whenever I look at my own blog I don't have to see it immediately. Also, given several more postings and it'll exist only in the archive. So, in order to achieve that happy notion, here is a theory of mine about how vampire lore came about. This is unresearched. I have never been to Transylvania nor taken a module in linguistics as anyone can tell you.

We all know that the vampire legend came about because of the nasty habit of a very bloodthirsty and violent prince aptly known "Vlad the Impaler" of staking his enemies. Arguably, it is also poetic justice that Vlad or at least, his vampiric incarnation would be staked by future generations, a practice entrenched by popular culture, with its own legendary capability of swaying hearts and mind.

But has anyone wondered why vampires are always portrayed as suave, mysterious, and above all, aristocratic? Unless Dracula is very fussy, and he would have to be nowadays as aristocrats are a dying breed, he'll have scarce food to rely on if he only fancies blue-blood. Kidding aside, but why blood-suckers specifically? Could, perhaps, the myth of vampires have a marxist background?!

My theory (or one of my bad ideas as kappa calls them), is that aristorcrats (or your bourgeoisie) literally sucked the masses dry by 1) not working 2)living a life of indulgence. Yup. This convenient pun lends even further credence to how vampires are coldblooded aristocrats - Counts and Princes and what not - because, they sucked their victims dry of the blood (and sweat) spent tilling the lands for a no-good boss who not only didn't pay you but demanded tithes all the time.

See. It fits in too. Vlad can't have been the only source for the legend. Perhaps some other little thing added to it too?

Today in Three.

1. Hail

All hail December!
White snow, eggnog and sharp stones,
Tomorrow’s herald.

2. A Snail's Requiem

Poor poor little snail.
Humans, please watch where you step,
or i'll go crack crack.

3. City Lights

The shape of Jurong
Is etched in glimmers of light,
Islands dreamt awake.

Today in Ten.

Today.
Watched Manhattan glitter across the screen in monochrome splendour and felt strangely empty.

Today.
The bus broke down 2 stops from Harbourfront and I didn’t even get a souvenir ticket. Maybe I should have waited?

Today.
It started raining while I was walking to the MRT station and then the escalator tried to eat my foot.

Today.
I wondered what it would be like to shoot Singapore in black and white too, and decided that all the different shades of green on the trees wouldn’t come out nice against the cloudy sky. Or maybe it would.

Today.
Why hasn’t anyone discovered how beautiful Jurong Island looks at night? And it’ll look great in black and white footage too.

Today.
My nose is plugged, and there is phlegm in my throat. I feel ill, though better than yesterday.

Today.
Someone should discover if pathogens have developed a malicious genetic strain that leaves its victim weak and miserable right before and during exams.

Today.
What is love in contemporary urban living? Woody Allen has left me more perplexed and unsatisfied with second viewing.

Today.
I think the phlegm is messing with my brain. After all, if the ancient Egyptians could squish out dead brains through the nose, the two parts must be somehow connected.

Today.
I suck at the game Bubble Town on Msn.

Wedding Furore

After hearing my alarm go off early for my jog, I determinedly ignored my conscience and went back to bed - which was just as well as it started pouring minutes later. My slight guilt resolved, I had just snuggled comfortably into my blanket when minutes later, a car horn sounded loudly. I ignored that. If you live next to a carpark, you get used pretty soon to the sounds of motocycles firing up, speed demons raring about (occasionally), school buses looming in and of cause, car honking.

This morning was different.
First, one car honked, then followed by another and then another in a rising crescendo. I stumbled out, not as blearily as I would have liked, which shows how futile my snooze had been, and went to the window, convinced that some large vehicle like a lorry or van must be blocking the only exit/entrance to the carpark. Of course it wasn't. There was a wedding SUV parked outside the lift entrance to my block, and I knew then which twits had been the cause of my less than tranquil time in bed.

Muttering to myself, and still wrapped in my blanket, I stalked out of the room, slightly amused and rather annoyed. A quick glance at the other bed in the room indicated that my sister was apathetic to all noises and still asleep - I suspected on purpose.

And, so, grumbling about how the groom and gang was likely still high from their stag party, I went to the kitchen and found my mom at the window there. I joined her there and being busybodies, began commenting on their choice of wedding carriage, flowers, colour scheme etc. For the record, the SUV was silver, and bundled in white flowers on white ribbon. Apparently, the wedding planner had anticpated well in advance the uncooperative weather (more fit for a funeral) and the wedding entourage were sheltered from the elements by a matching pair of large black and white umbrellas and several smaller blue ones. Additionally, the men were all, as I noted with a snort, togged in palish pink-lavender shirts. Pants were black; they were clearly not that insane yet.

All normal so far, and I couldn't help but make snide comments about how men were generally idiots. My dad on the other hand, as the only male in the house and a misanthrope, was making his usual cynical comments that the bride was likely from China. I doubted it very much. Firstly, it wouldn't be the bride's fault, as she is the one waiting for her groom to appear, and such failure to abide by the usual custom seemed more the work of a contemporary Singaporean. Secondly, my dad tended to blame anything and everything on either the Government or China. My theory was that these lot had probably in their life up til then been part of some wretched well-meaning if ridiculous student council for them to commence with the further stupidity that would come next:

They got into their cars (I make that about 5 or 6) and getting into line with the wedding car in front, began a roundabout round the rubbish dump next to my block, honking for their worth and I suspect, grinning inanely at the cameraman, who squatted in the middle of the road to take their pictures. Then, abruptly, when the honking had reached its zenith, somebody in the block, to my right and downwards suddenly yelled in what appeared to be either a sleepy or drunken slur, "You B******! ASS****! Damn F****** P****S!" My dad, who has a puritan mindset worthy of the Aunts of the Victorian period, triumphantly uttered, "They deserve it! Probably from China!" The wedding entourage, which had still been attempting the slow roundabout came to a standstill, and the honking stopped. The rude yelling went on, and one could almost sense the wedding party wilting from the searing criticism they were receiving.

The sort amusement which I had not been enjoying in a while was wiped away in an instant both by the yelling jerk and my dad's comments. My mom replied by saying he was an unfeeling person, and while we both agreed that 6 cars honking early on a Saturday morning was a bit much, the wedding didn't deserved to be cursed and swore at. Someone could have just yelled, "Stop honking!" or "Quiet!" instead of all that. What could have been a funny early morning spectacle ended up being dampened by someone who clearly took life too seriously.

Then, of course, being that sort of family, the topic jumped from a vehicle of one sort to another, which is of the F1 variety. My dad still complained about the Government, I ended up on the opposite side and defended its decision to host the race... and such is one morning flown by even though I had wanted to work on my essay...

Creatively Written: Diary Entry

Welcome ladies and gentlemen! Step up this way to the first ever Borders Books and Movies Fair at the Expo!

Dear blog-san,

Today, I went to the Borders Book (and Movie) Fair at the Singapore Expo. It was a lot of fun. In the morning, after eating a delicious breakfast which consisted of bread from the bakery downstairs, I flipped through the newspaper and saw the advertisement for the fair once again. After a few minutes of indecision, I decided to just go for it, since it was so tempting. Hoping to catch a ride in my father's taxi to the bus stop, I went down quickly after dressing to meet him at the carpark.

Upon seeing my father and his relief driver there, I greeted the both of them cheerfully and settled down for the short ride. However, upon nearing the bus stop, my father made a turn towards Hougang instead, and I was left stranded in the car and headed in the wrong direction. As if to dampen my trip further, my bus loomed up just after my father had passed the bus stop. Red with silent fury, I sulked while my father dropped off the relief driver. To my relief however, my father offered instead to drive me to the Expo! I nearly jumped for joy, but recalled in time that I was in my father's cab!

Stuck on cloud nine, I could not resist grinning from ear to ear all the way there. On reaching, I made a beeline for the fair immediately. All at once, I seemed to be wading against a sea of human bodies, and it was all very exciting. As I browsed through the varied selection of fiction, all priced cheaply, I even found two copies of a school text that I needed for the coming semester. How lucky!

Here is the list of books I bought*:

The Harmony Silk Factory; Tash Aw
On Friendship; Michel de Montaigne
The Ladies of Grace Adieu; Susanna Clark
A Clockwork Orange; Anthony Burgess
The Republic; Plato
Plays; Anton Chehkov
One Hundred Great Books in Haiku; David Bader
The Secrets of a Fire King; Kim Edwards
Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell; Susanna Clark
Mozart's Journey to Prague; Eduard Morike
The Ingenious Edgar Jones; Elizabeth Garner
Perfume; Patrick Suskind

Two hours later, tired but pleased, I made my way out of the Expo with my purchases safely stashed away in my backpack. I love book shopping!

Lots of love,
XXX

*Somehow, I don't see the persona of the diary writer reading this kind of books, but nevermind
_____________________________

Now. Admit it. How many of the phrases did you come across in your youthful days of composition writing? I can't believe I have to teach phrases like "jumped for joy", "tired but pleased" and "grinning from ear to ear" in my classes. The cliches are threatening to make my eyes drop out from rolling too much. Also, I really must find something else to harp on other than tuition....

Ekphrasis

Insomnia Forgotten
=
As the sky dims, the clouds recede softly into the lengthening darkness. Down below, across the slanted bars, each window gleams, a bright faceted gem framed by concrete and steel. The descending night gently draws back a curtain of lightly falling rain, each raindrop forming a crisp rap against exposed surfaces. The shower quickens abruptly, and the rap becomes a swift rush of water from above, glinting silver and gold, melting hard lines, soldering them to the running rivulets of water making their quick way down the edges of rooftops and drainpipes. Sleep washes over, a comforting coverlet brought by the distant hiss of a car on wet roads while the last swallow of the evening chirps faintly; a sound to drift away from, insomnia forgotten.

In Defence of Pink

Warning: To be taken tongue in cheek, seriously.

So, what am I, a known loather of this stereotypically girly shade doing defending this colour against those who have shot it down repeatedly? Firstly, as someone who has no particular liking of this colour, I feel that I will be in the best position to talk about it without being biased towards it. Anyone who has heard me complain greviously about having suddenly acquired lots of pink items would understand. Secondly, having said that, I would like to add the caveat that this subconcious acquiring of pink-tainted goods seems to mean that I am no longer able to say that I fully dislike the colour, on the other hand, it seems to point to a subconcious attraction towards it.

As Hash once said long ago, it appears that I am a closet pink lover. This information I think, would fail to raise eyebrows since some of you already think I am batty and have odd taste, and Hash was only too delighted to have a good laugh at me. The rest of you probably knew that pink exacts a detrimentally addictive influence anyway... Once you start, you continue.adding to the collection.

Coming to the point above, I suppose I had better produce some valid reasons as to why Pink is a misrepresented colour.

The big one at the top of the list is of course, the centuries of being inversely socially conditioned to detest this colour. How many of you ladies out there shudder at being associated with the colour? SOME of you, as you very well know, only wear navy blues and blacks (like some funeral if you ask me), and others detest it with a passion. Speaking of passion, I would like to mention that those of you who obsess over particular colours analogous to pink on the colour wheel (such as red, Lavender, violet, crimson etc) are but one step from converting to being a Pink. Already, I suspect that some of you out there are already experiencing similar addictive habits (concious or otherwise) concerning the colour of their choice, much like a Pink lover already posesses (see above).

Elaborating further, it doesn't help that pink is commonly demarcated as part of the blonde realm, which is rather unfortunate since that means that the colour will also be associated with anything bimbotic or brainless. Sad really, considering that the colour has a lot of aesthetic merits and shouldn't be shunted aside just because of a dubious reputation.

It is a common misconception that people who look good in pink are blonde. In fact, the colour has been known as being exceedingly good in complimenting Asian skin tones, and unless I am very much mistaken somewhere, they're not blonde the last time I checked. Having bleached hair obviously doesn't count, and it has a tendency to make people (esp if you're chinese) look pasty anyway (so said the newspaper once).

Plus, in terms of acessories, a splash of cherry or bright pink on your dark coloured bag/clothes/shoes really adds to it. And when I do have to pick a colour, pink stands out because it looks nice in small quantities. A blue pencil case just doesn't cut it compared to a pink one, because light blue looks faded after awhile. I was making a perfectly sound judgement you know, when I picked the pink one over the yellow (which I detest), the green (which I liked, but didn't look cheery) and the blue. The point is, it is possible to like pink for valid reasons. Or so I would like to think.

So yeah. Go pink!

Tagged.

#1. If your lover betrayed you, what will your reaction be ?
Indignant definitely. And I'll probably be beating an effigy of him with my best stiletto heels (if and when I own a pair, or maybe i'll just buy a pair for that purpose). Then sad. And wonder where we went wrong.

#2. If you can have a dream come true, what would it be ?
Umm. That I'll wake up one day and find that the world will be a better place? Less pollution, less political machinations, less morbid stupidity. That. And a large room with wall-to-ceiling shelves full of books, comfy and elegant armchairs and a sketchbook with nice, smooth blank paper and 2B pencils that never need to be sharpened. The view will have to be a field with long grass and a tree in the middle of it.

#3. What will your dream wedding be like ?
You're asking me here? Now? I probably could fill pages and pages with minute details (like table decorations) that no one wants to know. But yeah. I envision it with me, him (duh) and surrounded by friends and family. NOT in some hotel ballroom. I'll fly my guests to some small island booked for the very purpose of humouring two very self-indulgent (me, him) persons.

#4. Are you confused as to what lies ahead of you ?
Yeah. Somewhat. The future was a pretty solid thing till recently. But I'm still teaching, so maybe I'm not so much confused as still slightly disappointed and shaken?

#5. What’s your ideal lover like ?
*rolls eyes* The question that never fails to to be asked. Tall dark and handsome. Sweet, kind and funny. Yeah. Right. Everyone else will want him too. Actually, it goes more along the line of him being gorgeous, kind, smart, sensible, has aesthetic sense, and willing to put up with me being less than these things.

#6. Which is more blessed, loving someone or being loved by someone ?
Eh? Sounds painful either way since they both sound pretty much unrequited. Though that could be me being confused by what the question means.

#7. How long do you intend to wait for someone you really love ?
Till I'm 20? Wait... That is over already. I expect I'll change my mind tomorrow though.

#8. If the person you secretly like is already attached, what would you do ?
Siiiiiigggggghhhhhh. I'll be sad of course. Who am I to stand in Love's way, even if I strongly believe he is mistaken (blindfolded what), so I suppose I'll let them live their happily ever after lives and secretly hope that they'll break up.

#9. Is there anything that has made you unhappy these days ?
Not really. Other than vague anxieties typical of me.

#10. What do you want most in life ?
Happiness. Satisfaction with myself and the world around me. Then everything else will fall nicely into place.

#11. Is being tagged fun ?
What do you think?

#12. How do you see yourself in ten years time ?
Old. I'm already being called auntie. *pouts*

#13. Who is the current most important person to you ?
Me. Myself. And I. See #10. I believe that what one wants most reflects who you care about most.

#14. What kind of person do you think the person who tagged you is ?
That one ah.

Has curly hair and is
a great friend who should deserve
Better luck and joy

#15. Would you rather be single & rich or married but poor ?
Can't I be both married and rich?????

#16. If you could have any animal for a pet, what would it be ?
A cat. Not the persian sort which sheds all over the place of course. Or maybe a talking dragon. You did say ANY animal...

#17. What are one of those things which you would prefer not to do ?
Sit on the Tower of Doom. At least not anytime in the forseeable future. Oh yeah. I would also prefer not to meet any caterpillars by chance or otherwise.

#18. What kind of person do u think u are ?
Hopefully, a better person than last week.

#19. What do you define as a bad day ?
When everything that could and would go wrong goes wrong. And the light at the end of the day is a weak and bleak one.

#20. If you have to choose between love (as in boy-girl relationships) and friendship, what would it be ?
How should I know? I've not experienced the first one. But I think it's rather unfair to compare them, since I think they ask different things of you. There doesn't seem to be a basis for comparing. Like asking to choose between puppies and ice cream...

who are you tagging next? Ah. You. The reader.