postcards to nobody

duvets of snow

thewildeflower — Sat, 19 Dec 2009 03:19:48 GMT

A blanket of snow has covered the place and C is officially Winter Wonderland. I want to laugh at how sumbardy and I were walking and suddenly the snow started blowing into our faces and into my eyes, as I hobbled and held on to The Bed and The Support Post and The Sofa for dear life, 'walking at snail speed' according to certain gripes. He who laughed at me for being mad and wearing thigh-high socks (hey, as though certain people were not looking lasciviously and smiling idiotically; plus it kept me warm and snug) and high heels (I really did not know that it was snowing. . the weather report said 'light snow', not 'mad snow'; and come on, who told me to bring all my shoes to C?) Sometimes you wonder if the past few days really happened, although you are quite sure they did. He has left me with his toys which I will set up and have fun playing with the keyboard tomorrow. Yay! And I am pretty sure I can set the whole thing up on my own, no matter how he insists this is more complicated than your standard gadget. It's like the whole deal with 'boy's shower gel' and 'boy's __'. Oh God, if he were ten years younger (which would still be older than me), imagine how much of that 'boy's stuff' would I be hearing. Creepy, amusing and endearing all the same, I must be going mad. Just like how I am accused of enticing him to travel back asap by showing him white stockings and white suspenders. I mean, really, I was being nice and showing . . my loot. Girl's toys. Jumping into the shower for fun is. .fun. I realise I speak very little. Either always in bed asleep (not my fault for being exhausted) or fixated with work. And he'd keep coming back to the room and reporting to me on the snow. Or I'd watch the world go by. Ahhhh, I love my silent mutism and hope it is not too glaring. I mean, to be fair, I don't always keep quiet. And I don't mean those times when I am teasing. Of which I have no idea just what the fuck I am saying. And it also really wasn't my fault when I really wanted to wake him up to make business calls, and ended up getting squashed. So how now brown cow. How am I going to wear my heels now!? Oh, as though that is the most of my troubles. Maybe. . I could wear em whilst the chef cooks. Ahhh, fantastique idea. It is quite amusing to entice/convince people to do the dishes *too*, later offering to rinse em. It's like. .there is Bath Sponge service, Brushing Teeth service, and Dishwashing service. I think, not bad. Nobody is left in this wing. The Racist and his shady counterpart have gone! Maybe W is still left, I think. He says he's not going back. So this is officially Singers wing. And then I am left to clean up . . coffee mugs with half-drunk coffee (and salty coffee stories AHAHAHAH), dirty teaspoons, messy beds, dirty floors, dirty teapots, etcetera . Fine, I am anal in my own ways and obsessed with flicking off the switches.. because, you don't want fire hazards and having all my beautiful things destroyed, eh? Some people are dirrtier than I am, it's like tumbling out of bed and realising you smell like him lol (which isn't a bad thing, just amusing)-- I swear I used to think I was dirty for not washing my teapot for three days, and I realise. . ahh, I am not alone. Except that I have gotten used to washing my teapot everyday. Apparently too, I am fierce for prohibiting food on a certain side of the bed. Oh God. So that is fierce. So yesh, I clean. Like the good little mail-order Thai bride I allegedly am. I don't think I will ever not be amused. Err. . there are two roles, eh? Domestic, and nawti. Nawti, and domestic. Should be quite easy. Somehow, I always had these creepy feeling that by strange association, his friends would misconstrue something of that sort. First, being young. Second, being Asian. Luckily they don't know how I look like or they would instantly. . think they were right. Even more luckily, they don't know how I dress around in high heels and fur coats. Oh God. And then I tell myself again, "Luckily I am educated in C". Phew. There is so much of that carapace of ol'-skool intellectual oldfartism you can cower under. Wellll, amusement derived from shifting blame and laughing aside, he makes me morning/afternoon/evening/night/midnight tea, cooks and is a genius with the oven. And a genius with many other things. So I blast my music and start to dance. A bellydancing piece comes on. And wait a minute. Why the fuck am I dancing whilst holding a piece of soapy laundre? And realise, too, the neatest thing about him is the way he arranges his towel. Unlike my unsightly lump. To be fair, it is like getting used to each other's borborygmi at all times. Or. . . getting used to the fact that I often do not know what I bought. (Like how I swear I will never show him my stash of handbags.) The man who makes me shiver just. .thinking. And smile. And then he keeps calling me smiler. Five six seven eight. Oh God I want more. Sometimes after the mad rush-- assignments, applications, meetings, getting everything ready-- and days later, you get to settle down. . you find your head back again and your rhythm, and realise. . ooh, ahh. Get ready for more. Who else would wait for the buses and pretend to keep warm with your fur coat (me insisting absolute innocence. .again; operational word being 'absolute') look around and tell you he is looking for some woods to hide in for purposes of molestation. And I settle down to eat bananas (why do they spoil soo quickly here), seedy bread (yesh, my latest christening), and nutella. . . . . . Everything will be more-than-okay. Everything will be par excellence. Everything will be fanfuckentastique. I command it.

you know you are insane when. .

thewildeflower — Tue, 15 Dec 2009 17:38:13 GMT

Every week you tell yourself "Oh less groceries these week, I only have six things on my list" and after grabbing miscellaneous snacks. . . . You cannot even hoist up your grocery bag. AHHH. Poor body of mine. This is why I say those who sell their strengths. . my heart goes out to them. They are paid the worst. Throw in 4 pints of milk, 1 liter of juice (I wanted to buy two, phew). . 10 eggs, a kilogram each of bananas (mini, but nothing beats Thai and Malaysian bananas I swear) and carrots, one large cabbage, loads of prawns, and miscellaneous other stuff, It is a wonder how I even reached home without a cab.

twenty one

thewildeflower — Tue, 15 Dec 2009 02:23:32 GMT

Unconsciously . .. it hits you that you are counting down unconsciously. Yet somewhat consciously.

you realise

thewildeflower — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 13:11:29 GMT

That when you lack sleep coupled with all that adrenaline, your body hurts like hell. .. You wake up with your stomach all flat, although you know you're gonna eat loads. You pick out clothes randomly in a fuzzy haze, look at yourself in the mirror in over-knee socks and laundre, thinking you look better that way than with more clothes. And wonder why you keep mistakenly remembering your black socks are navy blue, and your navy blue black. And then, you keep crossing and crossing and crossing your fingers. Light snow on Wednesday. Yay!! Maybe it's finally time to break out The Winter Coats.

dear universe,

thewildeflower — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 06:22:48 GMT

This is a scary week. Big things are happening. Do expedite. As I pop 'em in in a few hours, and then in some few hours after that. . . Amen.

oh god

thewildeflower — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 06:21:24 GMT

The next time I go, "Just a few hours will do" I will never believe myself again. 3099 words. Frankly I am not sure if I incorporated a complete essay on Singers into it or what. I swear I am mad. Well, as long as madness helps. Amen.

the tadah! effect

thewildeflower — Sat, 12 Dec 2009 14:54:58 GMT

Suddenly it hits you that Christmas is almost here, and shit. Will you have time to get presents back in time!!?!? Okay, don't panic, you tell yourself. At most you just pay extra for expedited delivery (Oh God I am so glad for work, seriously, otherwise I would still be eating cheap butter, 29p-for-four-tubs yoghurt with virtually no fruit in it [now they are used to mask my legs lol] and 60p-for-one-kilo cereal that tastes like cardboard. . ) And it hits you . . Oh shit, Lulu's engagement. What to get!? In between her wishes for the H and other miscellaneous kinds of surgery-- which I obviously can't afford, unless my doc in Singers [whom I *don't* use for surgery but for this fickle skin of mine] allows me pay in installments, and even then, he can't do the H; or I am unwilling to shell out on vaser for her lol-- and her telling to give her body lotion which she would use up in one weeks walking around smelling like an overripe cranberry, I scream at her that body lotion packages are like anonymous presents that you give to someone you don't care about or don't know much about. Even if when I was younger, I'd kill for that, because they were considered a luxury. Finally I think she gets the message after I tell her that would be the sort of present I would give for (insert names). And I feel like Archimedes running out of the bathtub shouting "Eureka!". SHIRTS! Yesh, the classic English shirt, I tell her. Ahhh, Jermyn Street shirts. What __ and __ and __ wear, always talked about, and which I always drooled at. I have this sick thing for shirts. What more large shirts. Just a large shirt and a pair of heels. Mmmm. You know I actually suspect I drool more at man's shirts than the men in them. I mean, apart from sumbardy. I am sure I drool at the shirt, but more at him. Whilst she threatens me and sounds faux-miserable, telling me not to spend on her, to stop spoiling her (I mean, she is my good friend who spoils me too and gives me rides everywhere. . so duh, you hafta get stuff for your friend who talks nonsense, eats non-stop, and who constitutes your Band of Brothers when you're doing assignments late at night) . . all I have to do is warn her this better be her only engagement. Everyone must have a good shirt, I tell her. Before realising, I don't have any. I have semi-good ones and not-good ones. The only good shirt I have is the classic Raoul which I really got for sumbardy but never (/have not) gave him. So after erroneously mixing up her hip and waist measurements, making me all confused, and telling me that Mr Az has arms the length of a chimpanzee-- luckily I am perceptive enough to double check-- I finally get it sorted. AHH shit. How? Presents for the family. Oh no. Oh shit. Not to forget, the other day TB just gave me a whole list of things to buy and I called him a bloodsucker (again). Can you believe it? I got my mom Victoria's Secret (because I don't know any good English brands, the only thing I know the Brits are good for are high street, and men's shirts; bespoke even better) without even ordering anything for myself! I hope it reaches in time. Anyway I was good. I even calculated whether it would be more worthwhile to pay in SGD or GBP. .so there, a nice pat on my back. So whilst I text back TB to ask for their sizes, he gets all polite and sweet. Which is odd, but we know what instrumental needs he has in mind. Apparently, he has become a caroller, saying he wants to emulate Mark F. And I can faint and die. It's plain weird that he is actually replying overseas texts. Previously, he'd tell me, he'd waste 15cents. And guess what, when asked whether he wanted a formal or casual shirt, he went, "One casual, one long-sleeved [read: formal]" and. . I would kill him. It is easy getting stuff for TF since he is colourfully adventurous, whilst TB would go "This one a bit gay" blah blah. Indoctrinated by whatever tasteless informational cascades bombarding him. Now I am left with so many to shortlist from. Fine shirts bombard my world. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Ahh yesh, have I mentioned how much I love shirts? Ahh yesh, my oversized shirt wardrobe is officially expanding. Courtesy of sumbardy. Yay!!!!

intuit

thewildeflower — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 03:45:44 GMT

Intuition is our capacity to see everything as one thing only. When we dive into this kind of perception, we can allow ourselves to be guided by omens. Intuition is not enemy fr reason, but a strong ally, that will help us to walk the path that life expect us to take. - Paulo Coelho

chasing pirates

thewildeflower — Wed, 09 Dec 2009 05:16:47 GMT

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uTxythHY09k

somehow

thewildeflower — Wed, 09 Dec 2009 04:39:55 GMT

It is rather comforting to listen to Pavarotti at 430am when you've just finished cleaning up, bathed and groomed. Knowing you should really go to bed but you woke up at 8pm. And then starting cleaning the place up, and spraying eucalyptus everywhere, over the shoes and clothes even. Doing about 3 rounds of laundry because I've not done it for a week and after handing up my stuff I realised that. And the fact that I hadn't changed my sheets or disinfected my lenses. Wiping down and disinfecting the whole place. Pouring bleach down all sinkholes. And making space for sumbardy (yesh there is loads of space, surprisingly. . I swear I am a space magician). Going to others' houses makes you so happy you have a tap that can produce the temperature you like. . rather than to struggle between two taps. So you can heat up and steam up all your beauty equipment. It is then when you look at the floor and realise that 9 weeks of no-vacuuming (not my fault!) is way too much to stand. There is so much hair on the floor (well, if I shaved bald I wouldn't have that problem, but then I would look like Thai boxer. . I'm not sure Thai bride or Thai boxer is worse), which made me take out the lint roller. As you roll and roll and roll you use up more than half of the roll. That is how much hair you realise you have. (Ahh yesh the alternation between you-I. I'm either schizo or am royalty. Being schizo, I would choose the second option). And all the hair gets rolled around the wheel mechanism of the roller. AHHHH. Madness. But the floors are clean now and the whole room is smelling good after massive cleaning. I clean so well after midnight, it is madness. Ahh yesh, iTunes has shuffled to Brian McK now. Whilst I arrange the innards of MacB to backup. Re-reading this, I sound anal. Nah, I am just. . organised. You cannot live in a sty, seriously. Oink. Meow.

high priestess

thewildeflower — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 20:38:23 GMT

Another one to add in. . I've always thought that priest collars were funny in a strangely good way. It's like this mad snap of band that look like some mahjong tile stuck in the wrong place. http://www.mariasjodin.com/en/priest.asp

twenty four

thewildeflower — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 10:49:57 GMT

Having been awake for 24 hours straight, I can no longer go back to bed. My friends have either flown off, or are busy with applications, being more stressed out than I will ever be. It wouldn't be so bad, if I wasn'taroundtheracistsallthetime. I secretly wish that they would fly away.

wow

thewildeflower — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 07:47:02 GMT

The sun has risen already. Officially my first sunrise over in C. I keep forgetting how long it takes to do references, especially when you have about 50 (which I know is an abnormal amount). Short of a forty-minute nap yesterday, I have taken two breakfasts without proper sleep. And I don't mean my greed of eating a few meals at once. So I shouldn't sleep, I will delete about fifty more words, proofread ten more times, pack my things, and hand it up. Oh, and I still have applications to do. AHHHH. And apparently I am too kiasu for applying to Singers too early. AHHHH. And I still have two more essays for the holidays. AHHHH. Beware the cat that bears a grudge, and beware the cat with vengeance in her mind. For, fermentation really is fermentation. Neither excessive nor a state of pretense.

tragedy, o tragedy

thewildeflower — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 02:09:43 GMT

I survived on soup and eggs the whole day, drinking loads of milk, now I have run low on all of them. Did I finish two pints today?

sometimes,

thewildeflower — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 15:44:15 GMT

I think I am terrible. I skip every piece of text has Youth Justice/ Adolescence/ Feminist stamped all over it. How do you explain 'no interest'

easy peasy baby

thewildeflower — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 15:40:20 GMT

Over the last twenty-four hours has the full appreciation-- the type that makes you drop to your knees-- of easy food sunk in. Canned soup? Ahh.. Just throw in pasta, some herbs, and your frozen tomatoes. Boil for a while. Voila. Even better would be powdered soup. You don't even need to leave your room to make it. Boil water. Dump in an egg, pepper, and your frozen tomato. Top it up with frozen double cream. Then slurp it up with great relish, making sure you don't get heartburn in the process, whilst feeling like that sumo wrestler in that instant soya ad you watched two decades ago. I don't know whether it was foresight to buy these stuff, given how at the cusp of change, I stood at the supermarket and deliberated on the cheapest soups. Hey, people say that's what you eat all the time when you are in uni. Uni students eat frugally and poorly, I was told.

padeophile, padeophile

thewildeflower — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 14:14:08 GMT

http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/news/2760619/Mouse-toy-recalled-over-claims-it-sings-paedophile.html Seriously, if you set yourself out to hear 'paedophile', you will. If you want to hear, 'jingle bells', you will. Too.

taking shape

thewildeflower — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 00:15:03 GMT

I am trying to tell myself to be stressed, and that it is already Monday, 1213am. I feel like going to sleep. This really isn't the process of condensation or stringing beans together. It lies closer to the process of making broth. Powerful essence concentrated for a punch. Fermentation, broth-brewing. Why do I relate everything to food.

soft toys, soft toys

thewildeflower — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 22:42:56 GMT

The most intense stare in the world, and the most gorgeous creature in the whole world. AHHHH P do your introduction up!

bids and pieces

thewildeflower — Sat, 05 Dec 2009 18:13:16 GMT

Inadvertently, we have to sell our souls one day. Whatever we are taught, the notion of developing our dreams and everything we believe in, our moral principles and our guiding ethos, are just a farce. Because eventually, to get co-opted back into the system, means, you disown everything you once held on strongly to. The practicalities and pragmatism, so deeply embedded. So, I'd like to put my my soul for auction right now before I get hauled in again. At least, there would be that slightest chance that the highest bidder would be a lesser evil or a force of good.

ahhhhhhh

thewildeflower — Sat, 05 Dec 2009 15:33:32 GMT

Because I wanted to keep extra icecream, I turned the fridge up to max. Which freezes up things directly below the compartment. Which means, my new pack of tomatoes is. . frozen. Oh God. Again.

tootsy leeetle teething pains

thewildeflower — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 12:28:09 GMT

An upper-right premolar is starting to ache, and I have no ulcers, meaning this could not be an epiphenomenon of ulceration. Which means, oh God. . . .. . I don't want to go to the dentist. I have never been to the dentist's for a toothache. There are times when I wished I were a shark-- even if my signature connotes me as one, ahem ahem-- my teeth would replace themselves if they fell out. Sans the multiple layers of teeth.

the chain of operations in a vineyard

thewildeflower — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 03:22:07 GMT

Tomorrow it will be time to open the cask and bottle the wine, for a superior vintage. I like how Kate Moss (I think it was her) said, in her time she would buy loads of 'vintage stuff' since it was affordable. Before adding, "We just called it 'secondhand'." Given nothing is ever original, and everything comes from something (even at t=0, I suppose, therein lying the inherent paradox; well, I am no Hawkings/Einstein/Newton, I admit, even if candidates number 1 and 3 are remotely related to me by institutional affiliation). . secondhands/castoffs/preloved/vintage makes a lot of sense.

amusica

thewildeflower — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 03:20:50 GMT

Hanging out with people highlights loads of contrasts. Like ethnicity which best manifests itself in boundary behaviour, being around people supplies the ground upon which the contrasts among most behaviours, attitudes, beliefs, values, etcetera,-- whether implicit or explicit, unconscious or not-- are most salience, explicated even by the slightest nuances. I have a friend here who is extremely interested in being cultured and classed. Hanging around her sometimes gives me the odd zing of realisation that I am uncultured and unclassy. Which harkens the mindset-- I cannot be assed about the pursuit of class or culture. "Did you see the Queen? You know. .I missed the Queen!" "Oh right, nope, I couldn't be bothered to" And then later I laughed again when she told me, "The Master served me tea […] he only served us both". "Uh huh, nice and cultured eh?" It makes you wonder how you can walk around extremely aware of things, allegedly-cynical to a fault, and be so uninformed (overtly) about notions of class, culture and the like. I am also sure that the existentialist/philosophical/psychosociologcal stance coupled with the Oriental reflexivity that awoke a few years back Is this apathy? Probably to a certain proportion that grows or decreases in sync with the situation/mindset. There, a most Barnum-like answer. The collection of experiences and subsequent compilation into a checklist has always fazed me. I don't exactly do that. Did I go somewhere to add it to the Experience Points? Hmm, I doubt that. And hence, it is hard to tell me to do something for the sake of knowing the experience or even collecting the experience. As some sort of trophy or otherwise for social adulation or psychological satisfaction, it remains the wall you see everyday and yet are not interested in its structure. You might not even know it exists, until it gets blown up, or knocked down. In other words, the taken-for-granted underlay. Which might be the result of being aware of the mechanisms and/or finding the act in-itself futile to have no further meaning. I've always suspected that is the reason why alot of people travel. If I want to do something, then I will do it. I don't think I would like to collect an experience. Since I already collect shoes. But I collect them, to wear them. Of course. And today I wore six-inch heels. I was rather happy. Ahh yes, I realise even more so, that I am so offbeat, I might be the most offbeat person I know. I have no idea nor can be assed to know which fashion model strutted down the runway, what is the latest trend blah blah blah. When I look at a VS show, for instance, I only care about liking what I see. Not the name of the model. It doesn't help that C isn't exactly fashion capital of the world, so I don't even know any trends anymore. Which is rather amusing. Loads of things are amusing here, in fact, such as that of Grace being said in Latin in an almost theatrical fashion. The other day, I was talking to a coursemate. Who was telling me about just carelessly dumping ideas into an essay and hence being shot down badly. Which really is essay hare kiri. The only time you can free flow, I said, is when you are Milan Kundera. Although I free flow insanely on my own terms, here, there, everywhere. Erratically jumping from existentialism to the shoes that I wore to the acidity of the coffee I wish to order. Perhaps, too, it might be argued that I read too eisegetically into myself.

it's rhyming, it's pouring, the ol man is wanking

thewildeflower — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 02:55:20 GMT

For no apparent reason, this song by Celine Dion started blaring in my head. You can sleep in my arms/you don't have to explain/when your heart's crying out/baby whisper my name/cus I've reached out for you/when the heavens' crashing up above/you've given me your love/when you smile like the sun/that shines through the pain/that's why i'll be there […] i will stand like a rock/ i will bend till i break/ […] / if that's what it takes. And realised . . wow, the rhyming pattern is so. . doggedly obsessed with rhyming without making much sense, even if it first sounds as though there is sense. And and, yesh, I know I can probably do Don't Forget The Lyrics. And and and, I have even less idea why it went in my head. The last time I heard this was when I was in Primary Four. That was 13 years ago. We had to memorise this song for some teacher's day concert. Those were the days, o my brothas, when even in Secondary School, it was considered hip and a huge achievement to be able to play and sing these stuff at school events because the schools would be extremely concerned about how pop songs might erode our values, as though .. nobody could listen to them privately. As though allowing the odd (+rare) Dedication Song after school mass would mean they are endorsing the 'pop values'. Like seriously, how bad could Jordon Hill's Remember Me This Way get. It was from OST Casper.