a mad's postcards to nobody

bus

thewildflower — Thu, 28 Aug 2008 03:04:23 GMT

I now comprehend just why the bus bay is located at the extreme end of the interchange. Let's imagine it as a rectangle. A huge one at that. The mouth of the train station exit pours forth people in the middle of the breadth of this rectangle. I awoke earlier so I wouldn't have to fight for the bus. As Murphy would have it, instead, the queue extended way beyond the mouth. Like Russian bread queues. Of students. It snaked the entire interchange, from the corner of one breadth. To an entire length. To the extreme other end where the first in the queue stood. Doubtlessly, by the time I boarded, 35 minutes had passed. No way in hell could I make it to class. My next seminar is 4 hours away. Now I feel robbed of my sleep, thanks to the abnormally long queue today. I am heading to the bookstore. In pants.

i would. .

thewildflower — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 16:23:25 GMT

really love one of these http://www2.victoriassecret.com/commerce/application/prodDisplay/?namespace=productDisplay&origin=onlineProductDisplay.jsp&event=display&prnbr=9C-225081&page=1&cgname=OSSHUDSSZZZ&rfnbr=4782&cm_mmc=CJ-_-1909792-_-2178999-_-Product%20Catalog I get dizzy whenever I look at shoes. I hyperventilate. It's torture not to be able to have any.

act

thewildflower — Tue, 26 Aug 2008 17:00:46 GMT

Act without striving. Work without interfering. Find the flavour in what is flavourless. Enlarge the small, increase the few. Heal injury with goodness. Handle the difficult while it is still easy. Cultivate the great while it is still small. All difficult things begin as easy things. All great things begin as small things. Therefore, the True Person never attempts anything great, and accomplishes great things. Lightly made promises inspire little faith. Trying to make things easy results in great difficulties. Therefore, the True Person regards everything as difficult, and is never overcome by difficulties. -The Tao

cold noodles

thewildflower — Tue, 26 Aug 2008 16:45:36 GMT

I am half-dead and tucking into a bowl of herbal chicken soup. Of which the soup is medicinally brewed. And the chicken, uneaten; because I don't like chicken. I'll just keep them and others will eat them. Even though this practise has been starring me in the face for my entire life, I had no idea that in Chinese culture, food and medicine are highly related. Until today. Talk about being knowledge impoverished. I cower in shame. There is a fight going on in the neighborhood. I think it comes from the Fierce Man's house. It sounds brutal. Do I suffer from bystander's effect, that alienated state of being, when I face these fights; after all that I've witnessed? Maybe. But I think the onus is on an abused wife to walk out on her own when she is resolute enough, rather than have an anonymous neighbor sound the alarm. It's past midnight, and a cacophony and a racket and a din fill my ears. Lulu and I snuck off to shop. For my first time in a very long time. (Well, it is long to me). But you know what, misery is when you can afford, but you have taken the most bitter of vows. I.e. the vow of frugality. Much as all the dresses (except the white ones) titillate you, you cannot do your usual thing and walk out with three dresses each from a few stores. Much less two boxes of frivolous shoes. Every few days, I feel the urge to run into Christian Louboutin's. I shouldn't have let slip my plan. The folks say they'll throw my shoes away. It's unfair. I discounted the price to six hundred bucks, and The Father used to spend five hundred on a pair of Bally's. I obviously picked up my shoe fetishism somewhere. Murphy-Sod, my big boss, has decided there are almost no white dresses available. As in, plain white dresses. The only ones will make me look like I'm going to a baptism or going to be confirmed, and that is the last look that I need. The dresses I fervently sketched out last night remain on paper. Even the tops failed to meet my expectations. It sucks when you know specifically what you want, and are not allowed to get anything. I told Lulu specifically that most of the others are going to look simple. Therefore, I cannot upstage them. She said, "No matter how simple you wear, you're already upstaging everybody". Therefore I wanted to cry and found myself sulking in misery. It's rare that I sulk and pout. And so I'll just look insane-decent. If I look simple and become an upstager, I wouldn't be able to live with myself. And so it's a different story with the dresses that remain sketched on paper. So Lulu remembered she has a white dress. A simple one but of a stiffer material. Linen blend, I think. So I'll look adorable-sleek in it. I caved in and got the prettiest and most vibrantly-colored maxi-dress for the dinner. If I divide it by the weeks I haven't bought a single thing in, it's permissible. Just why did I buy a maxi-dress beats me. I normally steal The Mother's. I suppose, the shorter dresses I saw made me look like I was acting in Joseph and the Technicolor Dream Coat. The long one makes me look almost like a divine being. And then I remembered later on, shit, I'm supposed to be wearing my Shelli Segal dress with some red feathered headpiece. Of which the latter remains a figment of my imagination because I can find nada here. If only I bought them whilst in Brunswick. Damn darn gawdamnit. Work ended at ten. As in p.m. Which leaves me bushed. An unexpectedly long day. I suppose, I cannot complain. it pays me well. The weird stuff I have to do like become some walking-dictionary-of-obscure-words and sentence maker and math-genius and faced with all sorts of really weird stuff that tease and eff the hell out of your mind makes you thank heavens you have a brain. After all, that is how I earn a living. That is the only thing that truly feels that it belongs to me, that I can legitimately earn money out of. I still look at my face and my body as though they are detached from me, as though I am an ape that has just looked into the mirror for the first time and discovered that I have a distinct self. Despite tens of thousands of face shots, I still feel detached from my own face. The feeling goes, "Is this really my face?" I get a perverse pleasure out of dolling the face up. One that I am truly unable to comprehend. Tomorrow is the only weekday I don't have to work. It's bad enough working from 10am to 10pm on Sundays. So I feel happy about tomorrow, even if I have to wake up early for research. It's weird. My first paper. My first conference. My trip to Chicago. All unable to have my presence linked to them all because I have examination dates that clash. Murphy, Murphy, qué he hecho yo para merecer esto? No entiendo. Todos. So tomorrow I hope that I will find the fiercest black shoes of my dreams in Bebé. Tonight I also realized that that year of ballet might have made me obsessed with walking en-pointe and with strap-up ribbons. Shit. Imagine if I did it for years? I'd be capable of the most mindboggling splits ever. Damn. Rich looks at Bebé as though it just hurtled into existence. He thinks, the stuff there are way oversexed. And that me in them makes me look sinful. But that's the whole point. If I didn't look good in them, then I'd have wasted my money. Way better than being a woman who buys Bebé and makes it look un-nice. So eventually she has a pretty Bebé dress that looks devalued on her. Like, "You should really wear more classic cuts". But, "Wait till I work full-time". Let's face it, perhaps (even if there is no perhaps here) Bebé is oversexed. But it's hawt. I like their stuff. They're delectable. Edible. I have my inclinations towards fetishistic-looking stuff. My noodles have turned cold.

plea!!!!

thewildflower — Mon, 25 Aug 2008 16:30:10 GMT

I am looking for a dress rather urgently. It's somewhere in my mind, I haven't had time to even remotely shop, neither have I been allowing myself to spend. But I need this desperately urgently. It has to be white, flowy, longish-sleeved and loose. Short, but not as obscenely short as my shortest stuff. Maybe made of vintage lace. Or chiffon. Or silk. My options are pretty varied. Like, picture it with a white orchid, very large loose curls, leather cords around the neck, a black vintage clutch and fierce black lace-me-up or zip-me-up shoes. As in, extremely fierce black leather heels. But not studded. If you manage to find something like that, and can hand it over to me by Tuesday (2nd Sept), I'll barter trade my undying gratitude for the dress. I don't care if it's second hand, third hand or with a million hands. Text me or mail me. Ashotglassofblood(at)gmail(dot)com

us, first

thewildflower — Mon, 25 Aug 2008 04:36:43 GMT

True spirituality is not about 'me first' BYLINE: Andy Ho, Senior Write SECTION: REVIEW - OTHERS LENGTH: 932 words THE Singapore women paddlers who won a silver in the Olympics Games were said to reflect the Singapore spirit. But how can bodily achievements be 'spiritual'? In his National Day Rally speech, the Prime Minister dwelt at length on economic, social and political concerns - but not the spiritual. Perhaps that is because the former set of concerns is outer and thus public, whereas the latter is inner, religious and thus private. A 2000 review of the literature on development issues turned up no articles that delved into spiritual concerns. And yet these concerns obviously have an impact on the lives of numerous people. In our public discourse, we still tread on spiritual issues like egg shells. But attitudes towards spirituality have changed a great deal over recent decades. Thirty years ago, mainstream culture endorsed a 'scientific' dismissal of the incorporeal and transcendent. Faith and science did not mix, it was said. Today, however, while we still look to science for solutions, the culture rejects brazen scientism and the crass materialism associated with it. Spirituality - religion's fuzzy offspring - is in fashion and the non-material is embraced. This is a response to the crisis of meaning - what sociologists, following Max Weber, call the 'disenchantment of the world'. Culture remains desacralized, but many educated folk are no longer ashamed to admit that they desire to connect with the contemplative. Today's spirituality - decked out with crystals, chanting and channelling though it might be - is a search for a fully human existence. In this endeavour, people tend to look inwards, taking for granted that spirituality is inner, personal and private. By contrast, religion is seen as being of the outer life - a matter of doctrines, institutions and community. But how did this notion of spirituality as being essentially 'inner' come about? It can be traced to the Gnostics of the second century who believed that the soul had fallen from a high into the natural world only to be trapped in the body. The soul thus seeks to transcend the body so that it might attain to its original state of pure knowledge. Canadian philosopher Charles Taylor says in his 1989 classic, Sources Of The Self, that this notion was passed on to the Western world by St Augustine, who urged people: 'Do not go outward; return within yourself. In the inward person dwells the truth.' This interiorisation was later confirmed by Rene Descartes, who argued that there was an 'I' that stood apart from and is external to the world out there: 'Cogito, ergo sum' (I think, therefore I am). Being able to stand apart from his natural and social environments, the individual was said to possess a true inner core. This inner self was taken to be located in some quasi-spatial sanctum inside one's body and consciousness. Spirituality consisted of the moral perfecting of this inner self. Thus, one had separate outer and inner lives. By contrast, interiorities characterised Eastern religions from the very start. Whereas the divine confronts Man from the outside in Western religions, the Eastern religionist seeks 'within himself the divine ground of his own being and the cosmos', as Boston University sociologist of religion Peter Berger puts it. 'Once the divine ground of being is grasped, both man and cosmos pale into insignificance or even illusiveness,' he says in his 1979 work, The Heretical Imperative. Consequently, individuality in the Eastern religionist 'is not sharpened but absorbed, and both history and morality are radically relativised'. Either way, both Eastern and Western spiritualities featured the self-absorbed individualist in search of inner light. The post-modern pursuit of spirituality has taken all this on board. What this inward turn leads to, however, is a spirituality that abstains from the civil life of our communities. It is a me-first approach, and the material, social and political circumstances of the community become irrelevant to morality. To battle this inward turn, German philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein pointed out that we all originally had no inwardness, as such. As children, we merely responded to whatever happened to us. What we experienced inside was something that we built up as we acquired language. Thus inwardness is something we construct using language; it is not something that existed originally on its own. There is no inner chamber to which my self has privileged access, no inner self that gives rise to my outer life. Wittgenstein argued in his book Philosophical Investigations that the 'outer' - my body, actions, customs and community - forms the basis of everything 'inner'. There is no self inside that is independent of my body, community and culture. Or as the University of Notre Dame philosopher Alasdair MacIntyre put it in his 1984 classic, After Virtue: 'I am my body and my body is social, born to those parents in this community with a specific social identity.' If so, true spirituality cannot refuse to grapple with the social, economic, political and cultural problems of the community. Rather than personal introspection, true spirituality should work itself out in relationships of care within communities of flesh-and-blood people. Spirituality is not about fulfilled personal lives. Instead, it is living life to its fullness for the common good - weeping together in sadness and feasting together in thanksgiving. andyho@sph.com.sg

the name of the rose

thewildflower — Sat, 23 Aug 2008 18:30:11 GMT

Why does the name haunt me everywhere I go, the flicker of recognition even in the mildest and most innocuous of sentences. Can one live on hope fed by the vestiges of a memory. Or are memories sustained vampirically by the tenacity of the human spirit.

thursday

thewildflower — Thu, 21 Aug 2008 19:53:21 GMT

I nearly jumped out of my skin this morning. I thought I was so clever, setting my alarm clock five minutes early so I wouldn't be late. Funnily enough, it was 'pm' not 'am'. At 840 a.m. The Father went into my room where I was sleeping like a lazy cat and a dead baby and asked me, "Hey you're skipping school again today?" This is what happens in my household. It is normal to skip school. Since I was six or so. It's understood that I'd not go to school so I could watch the Grammys, American Music Awards, Miss Universe, yadayadayada live. Or when I didn't feel like going. In exchange, the silent contract was that I'd produce As. All the while I always thought that As were the only grades possible. For the record I have not watched the Grammys for years. Nor AMA. What's worst is that ever since I went to uni I can stumble out of bed on some mornings and The Father will tell me, "Lectures today? Go back to sleep. You look so tired". I am highly vulnerable to suggestion when I'm half dead and half awake. It's limbo. And so I will stupidly go back to sleep. I swear they are not helping much when I decide to be a relatively better student and actually show up in school. Nonetheless, I jumped out of bed. Shit. My day was supposed to be jam-packed. And what. I had 20 bloody minutes to go from the 70-or-so actions from brushing my teeth to applying mascara to pulling off clothes to gulping down my breakfast. The last time I perversely timed myself, it was a 35-minute low. Just try doing so many things and living in a sea of so many things. I could beat anyone who has the same regiment, hands-down. This is why I hold on to my namesake of Sonic The Hedgehog with pride. But I made it. I defied gravity. It's fucking weird. As it is, one hour from the time I awake (which includes snooze-time) to get all primped is considered little. I know those who take two hours and they aren't even remotely dressed up nor have a scrap of makeup on their faces. And one-hour oft includes checking my email and reading the news. Time works for me in the strangest ways. But what is my Thursday like? Wake up at 8 a.m. 1.5 hours of commute. An hour of tutorial. 3 hours of brain research with a quick lunch. 3 hours of a seminar. 1.5 hours commute. 3+ hours of tuition. By the time it's way over 10 p.m. Dinner, laughter, whatever. Then home. Then work to catch up on. Insane. But I'm actually loving this entire thing. I must be nuts. I actually feel invigorated like anything so much so that I joke with R if I die of exhaustion soon you know it's excessive adrenaline. I made it to tutorial anyway. We were supposed to talk about life satisfaction versus happiness. Everyone seemed to say that if they met their goals they'd be happy and satisfied. Something like that. And alot of it seemed to be about grades. I bit back my brain trying hard not to let Salvador Dali come out of my mouth. Fuck knows how deep down the throes of obscurantism am I. So all I said was I think they might be mutually exclusive, even if one comes with the other. Happiness can come from little things, can be in the form of euphoria, cheer, etcetera. Satisfaction, to me, is the calm I get. The feeling of being at peace, and being able to sleep at night. So the professor looked at me a little quizzically. "How about academic grades, or relationships?" she asked. I said it's the entire amalgamation and that I'm not delusional enough to think that everything's going to be perfect as per ideal. As long as it operates within the limits of what gives me a sense of peace, I am satisfied. She must have thought I am a girl of no ambition. Afterwhich, she asked those in the back row to summarize what they thought were that which make the other students who have spoken happy and/or satisfied. Obviously, they all went, "They all have different things". What bemused the hell out of me was how often my name was quoted. About the satisfaction bit, about the need to be at peace. They actually sounded bemused themselves by what I said, as though I have no aims. Or am not driven. I can imagine just how these girls might be thinking, "the way she looks, no wonder". I won't go into how little (relatively speaking) time I spend on my looks or how little money I spend on my stuff. I don't buy big ticket big-brand items that are en-vogue and I wear things ten seasons out-of-date all the time. It's just too bad that when you look good you get automatically mistaken for being this-and-that. Unsavory. Later on, I related it to Lulu, who went, "You're so screwed. She's going to go back and check your academic records. And get a shock". Lulu, who thinks that the whole world stalks each other. Anyway all I could think of is that even if my records are checked, people are going to disconnect the face and the grades. It's like how people check my identity card where my fugly mug-shot taken when I was fifteen stands in its glory, and chide me irritatedly for lying to them and producing a fake i.d. It is me. I don't know whether to think it a compliment or not, but there were people who asked me who my surgeon was upon looking at that photo. I simply grew into my own skin, that's all. Remember how when I had the teething pains of the battle between appearances and intelligence, and you told me there was more to come over the years? That beauty when combined with intelligence can be the greatest curse and the most blessed gift at the same time. Now that I've blossomed even more, I realize that all I can do is harness the power of this curse. But it got me thinking, why doesn't achievement figure much within my measure of life satisfaction. I shouldn't begin, especially not in class, to reveal the obscene heights of all my aims and my ten-year plans that have been inspired by Jesef Stalin's. But to me those are separate. They are part of the package which give a person meaning in life-- i.e. something to work towards--- a good challenge to my sadomasochistic self and simply because I am a quite a high-flyer especially when I wish to fly. But it isn't part of that which will give me that peace-- that peace which I found, and that peace that made me unpeaceful because I couldn't come to terms with being at peace, weird as I am. Achievement is another issue altogether. It is the Duh! part of life. Come to think of it, I don't do that badly after all. Life's been colorful in a weird sense; let's face it without those sissy existential issues and those religious fights, I wouldn't be what I am. At 22 and in school, I have achieved relative financial independence with alot more to spare and some to contribute to my family. I'm proud of me, in that sense. Inner peace, contentment, and love. I scribbled that down when I was eighteen, when we were asked what were our goals in life. Most of my peers scribbled down stuff like high pays and cars. Those, to me, were the Duhs! It's the importance of being at peace that I need and I seek. Especially when I move to a different phase of my life. I always question Lulu, am I warped. She, too, finds so many so simple and seemingly so happy to just engage in this-and-that. We concluded that what you don't know is actually good for you, even if you start to face your whole life at 80 on your deathbed and regret this-and-that, it's okay. You didn't start questioning life at 3 years old. Therefore, you had 80 years of relative bliss. Perhaps, I'd die in my sleep healthily, so I wouldn't even need to introspect on my life and face questionable regrets. Or perhaps, the unquestioning soul might die healthily in his sleep, therefore, the plausible regrets elude him. To think and to feel and to know is to be shortchanged. It is the crisis of knowing. A crisis that actually is quite hilarious when you realize it might be a crisis, but no longer a crisis en-soi to you. Anyhows, the professor asked the graduate student from China, "Just what would the people in your country describe differently compared to those you've heard here" She said, "They would talk about achievement. Some different things. But they wouldn't talk about the importance of sleep". But I know, I face my sleep with a big brave heart. I face my conscience undisturbed when I lie down anytime. Even if I have existential pangs to quell during the day, even if I have little bouts of unhappiness to voice and even more collections of peace and happiness that I don't voice (what for destroy its symbolic wholeness?) I can sleep. Very well. I drift into sleep unworried.

看破

thewildflower — Thu, 21 Aug 2008 17:26:23 GMT

还记得许多年前我曾屡次对外婆说，“阿嬷做人的懂得看开”。以潮州话说，就是说要看破。那时我随小，可是敏感的我却感受得出她心内重重郁闷，也晓得她对过去的贫困所造成的心结无法打开。外婆已一年半年前与世长辞了。我有时还后悔没机会和她永别。每当听起萧煌奇的福建歌，阿嬤的話，就不禁感触深奥，思潮起伏。到底究竟什么才是‘看破’呢。我想起了成语中的‘井底之蛙’。那只青蛙也许在井里是看不到扩大的天空的，它想像中唯一的世界可能是井墙。或许生处如此，在自己渺小的世界里感到欣然。不过对于经历过海浪及无边际的沙滩的乌龟，它是不会在看不到天空的井内开心的。一尝试过较精彩的生活后，一品尝不一样的滋味，一个人可能是无法回头转；圣经传说中的夏娃一咬到苹果的那一刻起，已踏上无可回头的路途。若看不到天空，一个人如何看破。一些心理学家观察，每当问候一个华族‘你还好吗？’，他将答，‘还不错’或者‘马马虎虎’。反而以同一个问候面对个美国人，他会答，’好极了’或类似乐观主的。本身每当去奥洲吃风，似乎感到一个人不管愉快或郁闷，总得给予乐观性的回答。这也许让人际间的关系添加了些亲切感，不过太过关注正确的乐观性答案好像有点虚伪。身于东西合屏的处境，也感到华人的答案也较属于悲观性。可能是我们的作风，必须有缺陷的存在才能使一个人向上高升。不过总是不会辨出以珍惜能给自己满足感的，总是不懂得自爱，也不是一样做个井底之蛙呢。一个人到底的怎么说，怎么想。是否已被教的 ‘正确答案’回答呢？我想，一个人虽重年累月面对一些字或词，不过总会在不同的时间，经过人生中的烤炉而对它有个更深奥的剖析，取得新的领悟。现在，似乎听到阿嬤告诉我，‘要看破’。我们在每天的繁忙中不知不觉地在头上和肩膀上堆上了不少的累赘。那是埋伏心灵的瓦片，使我们变成了井底之蛙，在也看不到蓝空，更加不懂得看破。究竟该过于乐观到虚假的地步，或太讲究缺陷而不懂得珍惜眼前的一切，而把这和使个人进步的那股气搞扎了。什么才是看破呢？我想，老子在数千年千还是对的。人生唯一的天法就是一切得历尽瞬息万变。我们是得怎么回答 ‘你还好吗？’。可能，最好的教诲藏卧于无言之教。

bianca

thewildflower — Wed, 20 Aug 2008 18:20:51 GMT

Looks like I won't be getting any free dresses for being my cousin's Jie Mei on her wedding. Boohoo. I have to wear a white dress. Do I break my vow of frugality and buy a new dress? Let's see. I have three white dresses. The first one makes me look like a schoolgirl. It is obscenely short. I think my uncle would murder me for wearing stuff like that to his daughter's wedding. The white dress would be for the customary tea ceremony. Which behooves tradition. Conservatism. The negation of short, schoolgirl white dresses. The second one makes me look like a nurse. As in, a nurse in a short uniform. It's cute and innocent and nurse-like. I think I'm not supposed to look like a nurse, though. Oh, just why do I keep looking themed without meaning to. The last one is a silk dress. Flowy and longer. It looks decent. The last time I wore it I bumped into my cousin and her fiancé and as usual, he looked at me as though I am some mad escapee from the asylum. Which means, do I wear it? Even my other cousin's (her sister) boyfriend looked at me as though I came out from the asylum for the both times I ran into him. I can hazard a guess they must be thinking, "Just how the hell can my feminine, sweet, safe, normal, simple, nice girlfriend have been brought up together with this nut". And so all I can do is flash a goofy smile to break the ice. And you see, I have absolutely no idea what I'm supposed to wear for her dinner either. Since I'm supposed to be her Jie Mei for that too. I'm quite scared of my uncle. He's strict. If I were a normal guest hiding in the background, it'd be okay. That way I could always go in my mad mish-mash accessories and pull them all off, having random people asking me just where the hell I got (insert item) from when I really just pinned them all up together. But accompanying her around means I've got an eighth of the spotlight which means I cannot screw things up. This is stressful. You know how you don't want to be responsible for that tiny little detail gone wrong in somebody's happy occasion. I can't wear my Shelli Segal dress. It's so gorgeous and so . . appropriate. So formal yet feminine. But it's black. I think you can't wear black for a Chinese wedding. I have no idea what kind of wedding customs they have over here, spread over all the different ethnicities and branching out into the different dialect groups. It's tedious; I'm never marrying a local. All I know is that black is taboo. My uncle would slaughter me. When she told me, too, to do her church reading saying she couldn't think of anyone more perfect for the job, I wondered if she was mad. Like, getting the Mad Asylum Escapee to do that? It's different when you're absolutely adored for your madness/dark musings/happy optimism-- some men fall in love with madness, that's what I've concluded. It's good to be madness personified. You're also well-loved at home because your whole family is insane. But when faced with wider family customs, madness is a no-no. But how do I look tame. As in, tame like my cousins. I haven't even gotten the reading yet since she's overseas at present. And my other cousin disturbs me if I'm going to buy new dresses. You might as well say, "Get new shoes" because.. oh God, just how many shoes have I been buying for weddings, i.e. using the weddings as excuses. Next year when The Freudian gets married, I'll just get a real Malay costume. That way I won't have to fret. You know. . . qipaos are soo hawt, the way they wrap around your body; I've never worn one but I can guess they'd look farking splendid. Headache.

the treatise on nut

thewildflower — Wed, 20 Aug 2008 17:39:39 GMT

This evening I headed to the library with Lulu to look for animal behavioral ethology books to do more reading up, where I told her I will one day become a writer like Kundera (he has officially confused her after I gave her a copy) and write about "My friend called Lulu". In all fairness, Lulu is so colorful I can bloody imagine her as a Kundera-in character. Of course, I was greeted with 'idiot', and told that Lulu sounds like a prostitute. That's what I love that name, I say. So we pull out book by book, after wandering around. "Oh my God, P!!!!! Sage's book!" she squeals. And then poses happily with those Sage books we pull out. As always, everytime we go to the library we close our eyes and guess which books were donated by Sage. And then we open the spine and voila. Prediction bingo. It actually is immensely ludicrous. We go even to comparative psychology, and Sage's books are there. And I mean plural. Just what does that man not read or know. It's like he haunts us, and it's as though there's some silent mocking, "Ho ho ho Perp you are Sage-impoverished this semester". Shit, what if I turn stupid. In a relative sense. I go, "If only there were more young sages around. Intelligent and humble" "Stupid girl. There can only be one sage. The old one." But she likes old in an absolute sense. I, in a relative sense. And then she runs off to teach, I decide my evening is free as a bird. Unable to withstand it anymore, I decide I need to hit the bookstore for another book. The cellphone's alien lights blink merrily. So I text back, "Ok, I'll meet you later. I need to grab a book". "Didn't you just get one two days ago?" "Yeah. I finished it. Shit, I look like a pin-up girl today" I reply. "You always look like one" I know this is my cue not to retort. It's designed to make me rebut. So I take the long train ride. And when I have to change trains later, I realize that it's about to leave. I tear down the flight of steps since everyone on the moving stairs seem to be suffering from Escalator Paralysis. Sometimes I amuse myself realizing I'm running in my heels. Running down a pretty steep flight of steps. One day I might die that way. But I don't want to wait for another train. And I manage to dash in. So many of the stores in the shopping complex are still having sales. My heart lurches. Warehouse's new range has the most Victorian-looking stuff. And then I see short skirts everywhere. They'd look bloody good on me, I think sadly. But my hands are tied. It's hard to be frugal. Stupidly, I walk into the laundre store. I know it's the most idiotic thing to do because I cannot buy any more laundre. Because they do not have any more sizes for me, it's so sad. At least, I'm sad. It's apocalyptic. I'm choking to death in whatever I have. Sometimes the costs of genetic inheritances have a price too steep to be paid. Anyhows, I try my luck, looking at how gorgeous the rows and rows and rows of bras in the Bra Bar (what a cute name, isn't it?) are. I ask, "Do you have (insert size)?" The salesperson looks at me as though I just told her, "There's a bomb in the store". I should have known. Even La Perla's designers didn't think there were freaks of nature who would walk this earth. What more the cheaper La Senza. I am affirmative even Dolly Parton has less trouble finding her size. At most, because she's so rich, she can custom-make them. Dejectedly, I walk out. I'm not even taking Mango's catalogue's this season. If I get them, I'll drool at them. Then I'll mentally earmark what I want, and haunt the stores weekly for the appearance of said item. Get the smallest size, sign for them. And then. I'll have had my vow of frugality broken. And I will be punished with no Louboutins. Sad. Up the escalator. My heart thumping, I walk into the bookstore. Asian literature section. I cannot bloody find it. So I look again. Nada. I see every author except the one I want to find. And this is a bloody huge bookstore. I do the most un-P thing and walk to information. "Do you have a biography section?", I ask, suddenly inspired. The girl says yes. She walks so fast, and then she stops, looking a bit uncertain. "The biographies are all. . here" she says tentatively. Yeah, right. It's politics. Not biographies. Bookstore attendants here are really bad; no point complaining about bad service or that you pay and therefore you ought to be the recipient of good service, because in general here, service levels are bad. This is why I never side with the many locals who cry foul at the alleged-invasion of China-born or Malaysia-born workers. You see, they provide good service. They are attentive without being pesky houseflies. And they really know their stuff. Whether you are buying clothing or makeup or food. They have some sort of work pride. Ours don't. Ours only complain about everything. Demanding excellent service when they provide lousy standards. And demanding better pay, blah blah blah. Yawn. A little saddened, I go to the Kundera section and decide I need a new novel by him. Maybe by the end of the year I'd have read all his works. Reading is such an expensive habit, but when weighing books over food, I am willing to go hungry. I can't choose both because I need to save. I wander everywhere. And it hits me that everytime I go to a bookstore (these trips are mostly unplanned), I'm in some short skirt or short dress. Which makes it annoyingly tricky to squat. I just thank my lucky stars I never wear ugly underwear. There are books on very low shelves that necessitate squatting down or bending down. It's a good thing that few people haunt the bookstores. I have decided the next time I go to any bookstore, I will be in jeans. So I can squat all I want, and can finally hunt down the Chinese sections for the Taoist Philosophy books I'm digging for. I love going to the bookstore alone, nobody is there to annoy me. Unless it's a pit-stop when you're out with another, it's never advisable to be with others because they slow you down or they never understand your zeal. Also have I concluded it would be wise to buy a book written in Chinese. My mother cannot read Chinese characters so she won't go pale upon discovering it's Taoist or Buddhist. My father will be happy because he'll think his daughter's finally a full-fledged Chinese. And people who see me with a Chinese book will have no reason to stupidly ask me and guess my ethnicity with all sorts of ridiculous suggestions. Plus I'll finally read real Mandarin original writings. My email says that the iPhone is officially here. This Friday, at midnight, it will be launched. I can cry because the 8GB one is only $348. I was hoping it'd be soo expensive I'd have no reason to buy it. But apparently, I need to top up this-and-that because my home lines and internet bills are tied together with my existing cell phone so I have no idea. All I know is that, no iPhone for me. I'll just hafta watch all those Mac-haters suddenly ooh-and-ahh over their iPhones. So I pay for my book. And then I run off, realizing I'm took quite a bit of time. "I'm bloody hungry" I say. "Didn't you feel hungry at the bookstore?" "No. It fills the lacuna". "You're bloody nuts". I think, that's rhetoric.

the groping hours

thewildflower — Wed, 20 Aug 2008 04:58:57 GMT

Groped by a Beatle. Good grief. You hafta admit she looks really hawt in there. I don't like skinny nerdish men. But Lennon. I don't know why his skinny nerdish mournful look drives me ballistic. I'm used to men with pouts. He has insanely thin lips. Or maybe it's also because he's dead. I have a thing for already-dead men, as apparently pointed out by the friends who go, "Jesus, P, you're obscene". Or "P, he's dead". In my defense, I didn't know or forgot they were dead. P.S. It's nothing necrophilic. I like alive things. But yes, Lennon. This careless look. Only when he was younger. I didn't like him when he's older. He looked like a cross between a real hippie and Barry Mannilow The Crow then. The Father would flip if he knew I was into Brits. (He is convinced I will marry an American.) Ho ho ho. But really, the accents. Drive.Me.Nuts. Let's just hope that they like my Accent From Nowhere. I mean, I would be crushingly devastated if they preferred an unintelligible Singlish accent to my AFN. In class, Grampapa was talking about British tunnelers and Lulu's eyes were shining with mine as she nudged me insanely. She's the only one who might share this penchant-obsession-fascination. And then she went, 'You want? P next time marry one" and I retorted, "Missy, I'm not marrying a tunneler. British or otherwise." I mean, it's nothing proclaiming White Man Supremacy. I'm paradoxical because I'm vehemently anti-that and anti all who perpetuate this disgusting relic of colonialism; yet I seem to like more Whites. Rather than a matter of ethnicity, it's a matter of accent. And the stiff upper lip. And the satire. Just something that is like catnip. Kinda like, TFV. I swear I have no idea how the fuck he pulls off those colorful embroidered jeans. It defies all laws of reality. I have no idea just why he can look so hot in those low-slung jeans that make his ass look so colorful, whilst smoking a cigarette. If it was a cigar, I would be dead meat. Like Shing says, I'm stuck in the 1920s. Maybe I am. But I like men who know how to hack into computer systems as well. That most certainly is not 1920s. I have no idea why I turn red like a bloody schoolgirl. It is insanely embarrassing. Next thing I know I will start to stutter and that would be the end of me. It's like those inexplicable things like accents and satire. Or colorful embroidered jeans that clash so delightfully with the wild stubble-beard. They are really filed under, "I really don't know why", but I suppose, just like sudden flashes of being groped by a skinny nerdish mournful-looking Lennon (well, yes I'm sick), these make life a little more embroideredly colorful, more so than perpetual strawberry fields.

in the silence

thewildflower — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 17:38:34 GMT

I learnt that the phrase 不言之教, is rooted in Lao Zi's teachings. It got me realizing that I have found the perfect and most succinct articulation of state of being that I have never been able to describe. LIterally, the phrase can be translated to 'wordless teachings'. Personally, this is what I've always felt. The calm, that fulfilling emptiness yet fullness, that awe and that Everything Yet Nothing. This, too, as I learnt, can be used to understand the phrase, "God is in the Silence". Remember how Elijah experienced the fire, the earthquake and the storm; and that God was in none of them. Rather, God was in the gentle breeze that followed. The phrase, "God is in the silence:, means a lot to me. That feeling of something transcendental. As earlier refracted upon, this larger-than-yourself feeling might actually be the externalization of self-- of one's highest hopes and dreams and desires. Even as an atheist it cannot be denied that there are those feelings of The Rush. Or Awe, that Einstein speaks about, that I quote from memory-- "The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead. His eyes are closed". This unspeakable sense of Everything Yet Nothing that I get in solitude. In my runs. When I watch the sunrise or the sunset. Or hear the morning sounds start to creep in. Or when I stay there in the silence. I get it now. It is 不言之教, and no words are needed. I now comprehend that I have it within me to master myself without mastering myself overtly. To do without doing, and to seek without seeking. To attain that balance and to learn to walk in the middle of the path; or to play with both extremities till they balance themselves out. That It will come. I have become more selective of company and of the people I surround myself with. Even if I still hold on to my belief that we have to constantly enter chaos and the fire to attain new heights of perfection that is in the constant state of perfecting, not for the sake of perfection en-soi or for being a better human being, but rather an It-Just-Is. The kilns I choose to enter, now, are those that will burn me but I will come out polished. And those kilns and company who might be difficult to negotiate because of teething problems, will be those with whom I will be able to enter into a state of dynamic equilibrium. And so, it is within me to experience the 不言之教. The wordless teachings. You don't need carefully-constructed Zen gardens for to ignite this feeling. Nor do you need to overtly search for it. It is here, even in the most chaotic of chaos. I don't need to stand in front of a mountain to feel that sense of awe or to be overcome by it whilst still keeping my ground. But I understand that I can now articulate that feeling of Zen walking in a drizzle with a stupid smile on my face, to feel at one with being, and to feel at one with watching the waters flow down gently-inclined drains, the breeze in my face, and the drizzle misting my skin. It is now comprehensible-- that drive that makes me walk in the literal storm even if I get soaked to the bone. The peace you get is nonpareil. It dawned upon me the reason I enjoy the busyness or the mundaneness at times. Why do I sometimes, even, masochistically enjoy the shit and company. It creates a balance that makes the silence all the more precious. Something to look forward to. Sometimes we seek noise to crowd out the silence. We are afraid of the silence and of having nothing to do. Maybe that is why you came to me, telling me I taught you the Silence again. I didn't understand what you meant, I thought it was inherent in all of us. We seek company and boisterousness and confuse them with our genuine peace or happiness. We think that might be what happiness feels, and we say we are happy; but are we really happy. Or more importantly, are we at peace. External factors aside, and people-factors aside. it is also the quest to look inwards. And then you start to find it. In the Silence. That lost castle.

tough chicken

thewildflower — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 17:01:27 GMT

Like "You're so pretty" or "You're so beautiful" or "You're so hot", I've long stopped reacting to "You're so strong". Or, "You're the toughest girl I've ever met". I don't know whether these are just like half-fucked maxims rolling up easily from people's tongues, excuses to render contrast in order to legitimize their weakness, or as a way to get you to open up to them. I cannot deny that I'm tough. I've managed to maneuver around quite a few things, and I've picked myself up many a times. After all, in the grand scheme of things, what's a little affliction. It's nothing. I mean, compared to a man who's lived through Auschwitz or a rape victim, I'm some infant crying. We're not comparing victim-hood here. It's in how we deal. But I can say that a girl might not see being strong all the time as a compliment. It is only when things push her that she has no choice but to learn. The other choice is to wallow and languish and keep making excuses. But some of us cannot afford to live that way. Call it inclination, character, personality or whatever, I do not see why some of us have to be faulted for our strength. All that happens is that we learn we have deep reserves of strength to dip into. Much as these lessons and challenges might serve to make us stronger and more resilient, if being strong entails the hurt and the pain we suffered, the times we had to be tough, I don't think many of us would have really wanted that. The tears, the fears, the anguish. It's not the easiest thing to be strong. You have to prevent yourself from crumbling and put on the bravest front. Because then only would you start to believe you are strong. The world goes on, you just have to move along too. I've never believed that perfect unhappiness exists. I have my happy moments. Even when moody, I am not unhappy. So this entire deal with being strong, I suppose we learn to go on, sometimes stopping and reflecting or refracting. Until one day we learn how to do these all concomitantly, we learn to flow and to live. But to those who do not understand these, they will laugh nervously as though to negate what you said. I have come to terms with the fact that if you have never seen a giraffe, you would not know what a giraffe looks like. I swore never to be bullied. Sometimes when I was about to be bullied, I'd turn tables and be the bully. That was in the past. I've settled into alternating waves of jaded cynicism, and then waves of placidity. But drawing from what I know-- and the responsibility placed upon me-- I swore nobody would ever step on me. And nothing would bring me down. My mother was subject to the most horrendous abuse that still makes me shudder. It takes on the physical anguish in her body that she battles everyday, that scares me and that worries me. It takes on other manifestation in her two other siblings. Everytime I meet the man responsible for all these atrocities, I cannot believe that this is the same person. The actions are deplorable; but the divorce between the human being whom I knew way before I learnt his actions and the actions per se make it a gulf. He does not know that I know. But I cannot hate him, and I don't understand why I do not feel any hatred; although I've made peace with the fact that I am unable to feel any of this hate. I still view him and respect him as a human being. After all, I grew up looking up to him both literally and figuratively. He taught me alot of practical life lessons, I even fondly remember how he taught me how to draw, make models and all, bringing me to explore so many places and teaching me how to think. I owe it to him how he wrenched my mind into learning and grasping absurdity, of pushing its limits and essentially, if there's one person who made me think extremely quickly in parallel streams all concomitantly, it's him. A young child's mind picks things up extremely quickly. A young child's mind is extremely malleable. Mine was programmed, in part by him, to move at insane speeds and be too fast for my own good, beyond the ways my parents trained me to think and exposed me to life. He brought me to hangars to look at the way planes operated, he thought me how to look at life holistically, at flowers, at fishes, and even how to slaughter pigeons. I learnt these lessons way before I went to school where learning gets compartmentalized and pigeonholed. He's an incredibly talented and intelligent man. And later on, taking on the role of family historian in secret, whilst trying to understand my roots and understand my connection with the paranormal, I dug up the reasons why he became that way. Or was that way. For that, I don't blame him. I only abhor his actions. I should blame the person who made him that way. And then I should also blame the person who made that person treat him that way. I don't suffer form Stockholm Syndrome; but rather have come to the realization that we could have a lot of shouldas, wouldas and couldas. We could point fingers, but the blame game will never stop. Perhaps the only thing that really traumatizes me personally is this disjunction between person and action. But I see what poverty does. It deprives people of opportunities. It makes a mother entrust her child to the care of another person whom she taught she could have faith in. A person who voluntarily offered to help. A person who shares half of her genes. This is because a young mother, subjected to the customs of her epoch, marries in an arranged marriage extremely young. She then takes on the role of a daughter-in-law. In a South-East Asian context and in that time and age alien to me, it means a daughter-in-law is a servant. Tasked to cook, clean and manage the household of an extremely demanding mother-in-law-- who is no longer a daughter-in-law, but her time has come to be served, and so the vicious cycle perpetuates-- and her very large family of many children. How do the people of their generation have time to think or learn the art of parenting or being, I do not have an answer. Their problems are contingent, not existential. She also has to work, and so her child is taken care of by another. And then the chain of events come into operation. Here, we do not turn a snub nose at their culture. Their times. Their practices. What right do we, in our elevated moral pedestals, have to say about the lack of human rights or civility or graciousness or whatsoever ideals. We do not. Thrust yourself into that time and into that age and into those conditions. And then try to survive. If you do, make an attempt at trying to exercise some judgment at the individual people and their actions. Just try. And see if you can. Poverty has also deprived so many of my elders of having proper opportunities. The erstwhile first few decades of their lives have embittered some. I see so much intelligence in some of them, and so much potential. Coupled with those years of invaluable experience that life has thrown one. For this part of my own life, I have been able to segregate real intelligence from the faux package that is designed to impress. For that, I feel fortunate to what I have. I feel I have learnt so much. And for these, I can understand what it means by complicated family backgrounds that Lulu shares. Mine is not specific to me-myself; but rather to the people close to me. Still, it might be a matter of vicarious living, without wanting to. I cannot complain they are burdens as in something I absolutely deplore, but they are burdens in the sense that they can weigh on one, and the knowledge of these makes one grow up a little more quickly. Because you now understand that the ugliness of life is not in Cinderella's story, as penned by Hans-Christian Andersen, or in the many screenplays that have been produced. You understand that monsters walk in your midst, and so the story of Josef Fritzl did not shock you as much as it should have. You understand why the person who implores your assistance all the time actually is plotting against you and sleeps with your boss to get your position, whilst painting malicious stories of you. Stuff like that, to unleash them in tiny dosages. I know more things than my older cousins do. The dark secrets that I should not know. I know who suffers from what, and we're still close. I know these not from morbid curiosity or from intentionally forcing them to spill-- things just get told to me. Also, I have never allowed growing up or anything else to alienate any relations, so I'm still close to my wider family. Being talkative helps too, I reckon. I talk the most amongst us all. My brother talks a lot, but often, it is not sense that he talks, although still very much enjoyed. I've always found it easy to talk to my wider family, slipping into dialect as the flow goes. I feel it easy to take about alot of things, or to simply catch up; I've never found it queer to speak to my elders, unlike how we seem to have been taught that. Just think of how so many often throw in terms like 'generation gap' as excuses, even for people four years younger than myself. It's strange, as though we have age and generational specific cliques that we seek to maintain and hold. It's funny to actually realize this, but apart from those who feel threatened by me or the small-hearted people who come with ulterior motives, most people who know me actually do take to me alot and love me. I suppose, in the long term, you cannot fake genuine-ness. Or maybe the dimples help. People melt at times, I don't mean to exploit this. The secrets, I suppose, were not suppose to pass on to my generation. But somehow they did, and somehow I grasped them with a sensitivity that might have been beyond my years. Some still live with that horrible hatred. My mother still lives with that fear. But I know the hatred has to stop with my time. Maybe this is why I learnt how to burn off all the Little Black Books with their names inside. Sometimes I get angry upon remembering the stupid senseless things that people do, I hate it even more when weakness is condoned and exploited. All I know is that I have to be tough, and that you don't step on me. Especially not when you exploit the society's soft-spot for pitying the weak. I might scrape off all plans of retaliation, but my immediate reflex might be to slap you really hard and punch you. Kick you and hurt you. I sometimes suspect about my inclination for stiletto heels might be in-part as weapons. Then I grew a little older and learnt unsavory things about men and the things they do to hurt you because you refuse to respond. I also learnt about perverse bastards. But my heels and quick thinking always protected me, even if I got a little traumatized. Whenever they tell me I have this don't-mess-with-me thing about me, I laugh. Because it's true. It's only those who are in temporary positions of power (relatively speaking) that manage to hurt me these days. But it's temporary. I just feel sad that you have to resort to these. But then again do I remember that hatred hurts. It drags you down. It makes you tired, bitter, and it colors your world a dreary shade of gray. It prevents you from seeing the beauty in life, from seeing the beauty even in brutality. Much as prudence comes from experience, viewing everyone with paranoia doesn't work. You stop opening yourself up to the possible beauty. Beauty, for want of a better all-encompassing word. You start to fear, you start to hollow yourself up. Do you know how compost comes about? You dig a hole in the ground and empty rubbish into it. Then you add some water and you compress it. Then pile more. It rots. And it rots. And then you get a pile that slowly reduces to almost nothing whilst you add more rubbish onto it. Bacteria and other saprophytic organisms work to decompose. This is what happens when you're bitter. Inside that vacuum and that void that you create, you get sucked in. Somehow, a few dimensions come together and you dig the black hole greater into infinity-- this is when it becomes irreversible. And every good thing that happens to you, you fail to see. They get reduced to nothing. But unlike compost which can nourish the earth, this can't. We could debate why some people are small-hearted, unkind and malicious. Why they are paranoid and obsessed with hurting others, and destroying every bit of good in their lives. There are people like that, sadly. Somebody once asked me, "Just why do people like that exist". I suppose, where there are human beings there will always be people like that. People who are beyond mere phenomena. And I suppose, we could also debate just why some people have a lot of good things in their life, and still seem so bitter all the time. I could say that some of these do not have much to work for, they don't have alot to slog for, they have alot provided for them; yet by comparing with others all the time, not as a catalyst to improve, but rather as an excuse to bitterly go "life is mean to me", I feel sorry for them. What Nietzsche said "That which does not kill you will make you stronger" or that one must have chaos within to give birth to a dancing star makes a lot of sense to me. I'm still learning and stumbling most awkwardly, I can be kind, but I have to be tough to protect myself. I might feel sorry for you and often is this exploited, but if you hurt me you're out. Silly is the one who never learns lessons. I would love to trust completely, but it is in me not to give a hundred-percent trust, because I've experienced how people can hurt you when you don't give them what they want or demand. Maybe some of these people have gotten away from hurting others similarly, but I am sharper than that. I notice and infer more than the average person, not because I'm superior in abilities, but because many a time, we choose to shut our minds and our beings. I've wiped off all thoughts of vengeance and let's just say the past is done. I'll always be happy if you change your ways for good and start having some hope in your life. I cannot deny that malice is around. I cannot pretend to be shocked about something that doesn't shock me too much because it's long been drummed into my being that everything is possible. I seek honest beings, but I'm not very sure just how honest a person I am. We never know the depths of what we are capable of, and I've done things I'm not proud of. Maybe they're blood under the bridge. But I face my conscience every night before I go to sleep. And I can sleep well. It's not fun to be forced to be tough. Even though I always think that innocence has been robbed from me prematurely, I also never understand this paradoxical part wherein I've never lost that luster, that mad joie de vivre. Some of these are not in deliberate response to keeping my sanity. They just come. I can tell you, too, that I am innocent and wide-eyed at times. It is something you will never believe. I know good people exist, I know love exists. I also know that there are moments of inarticulable elation and unparalleled calm, supreme bouts of inspiration that writers and artists search for which the Chinese call 'yuan qi'. Small little things make me happy as a little child. This strange inarticulable innocence is something that I hold so dearly. It takes me courage to hit the submit button. But I will do that.

she loves

thewildflower — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 08:33:33 GMT

self-declared holidays.

young girl

thewildflower — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 06:45:51 GMT

I was moved by the simple wisdom of a ten-year old child. . "Their kids do it and they say "Hey boys, girls! You are big enuff to stop fighting! So why fight when you can TALK IT OVER?" And now, they fight. Some kids out there in Georgia and Russia are just fighting the unbelievable urge to just shout , "Hey you told us we were big enough to stop fighting and you people, who are like twenty years older than us don't even want to talk you just shoot and punch." Ok, I admit, governing problems between countries are pretty big. But, if you just don't fight, just sit down for a nice chat, have some coffee or tea, you can find a solution without even having to result to things like wars! So, there are kids out there who are underestimated and just ignored. But if you listen, you'll find, their solutions are the very ones needed! I know there are. If there aren't, where do little geniuses come from if their relatives or parents aren't?"

episodes

thewildflower — Sun, 17 Aug 2008 17:36:32 GMT

Maybe it's simple Episodic. With a little too many seasons. How do I know and how do I tell. And why do I even want to know remains the greatest mystery of all. Axe.

skeletal muscles

thewildflower — Sun, 17 Aug 2008 17:33:53 GMT

All the while, it's been the subject of many a bemused quip, "You are expensive to feed, you know?" and I've always protested. Given how I've never gone broke feeding myself. Frugality has made me realize that I am extremely expensive to feed. If we put aside quality since I can be an easy eater (this is why my extremely-frugal mother loves me) we have the issue of quantity. It takes quite a bit to keep me un-hungry. And I don't mean full here. I simply mean, not hungry. This is bad news. When I never counted my pennies, I never realized just how much everything adds up to when it comes to me feeding myself. But after I realized that if I never spent excessively, I might have been the proud owner of at least fifteen pairs of Louboutins, I hung my head down in shame and started to count. Work descends in a crazy avalanche, at the rate I go, I'm going to turn skeletal. I only have time for two normal meals a day. Breakfast and a late dinner. I am a workaholic, and I'm actually bloody enjoying this, I must be going a little more than mental.

your next steps

thewildflower — Wed, 13 Aug 2008 17:54:31 GMT

Speaking of roads and routes and Milan Kundera-- the man whose writing haunts me in an entirely different way from Oscar Wilde's, the man whom I read and seem to be reading an Encyclopedia that flows, staccatos and legatos-- I think I've never had much respect for the phrase, "It was the next step to do". Or "the next logical step". Used in careers, people relations, advancements, the transitions in marriages, acquisitions, etcetera. Perhaps it is yet another half-fucked maxim; still I've only used it when I have nothing else to say. You know how some things you do are merely inexplicable, you are propelled or drawn towards it. Things that rewrite, "I think, therefore I am" to "I feel, therefore I am" even if I am wary about talking about emotions all the time. Because to do something because it seems right or because it seems like a proper goal or a proper means (like talking about emotions) negates the action in itself. It flips it on its head and fucks it up beyond wildest despair. To live life marching to the beat of 'cogito, ergo sum' might mean you've never felt the pain of a toothache. Or the dentist sawing away at your molar roots, slicing your gum slowly. The few times I've actually used "the next step to do" as a reason or sentence-filler, I've always felt strange. And so I've never used it since. Imagine being part of something or being the digit in question as part of the equation of 'the next logical step'. I don't think I'd ever like that feeling.

roads

thewildflower — Wed, 13 Aug 2008 17:45:22 GMT

Depuis huit jours, j'avais déchiré mes bottines aux caillous des chemins. . . For eight days I had been scraping my shoes on the stones of the roads. . . writes Rimbaud. Road: a strip of ground over which one walks. A route differs from a road not only because it is solely intended for vehicles, but also because it is merely a line that connects one point with another. A route has no meaning in itself; its meaning derives entirely from the two points that it connects.A road is a tribute to space. Every stretch of road has meaning in itself and invites us to stop. A route is the triumphant devaluation of space, of which thanks to it has been reduced to a mere obstacle to human movement and a waste of time. Before roads and paths disappeared from the landscape, they had disappeared from the human soul: man stopped wanting to walk, to walk on his own feet and to enjoy it. What's more, he no longer saw his own life as a road, but as a route: a line that led from one point to another, from the rank of captain to the rank of general, from the role of wife to the role of widow. Time became a mere obstacle to life, an obstacle that had to be overcome by ever greater speed. Road and route; these are also two different conceptions of beauty. When Paul says that at a particular place the landscape is beautiful, that means: if you stopped the car at that place, you might see a beautiful fifteenth-century castle surrounded by a park; or a lake reaching far into the distance, with swans floating on its brilliant surface. In the world of routes, a beautiful landscape means: an island of beauty connected by a long line with other islands of beauty. In the world of roads and paths, beauty is continuous and constantly changing; it tells us at ever step: "Stop!" --Milan Kundera, Immortality

kids

thewildflower — Wed, 13 Aug 2008 17:29:00 GMT

My head has a bump on it, and I have no idea just why. I didn't sleep on the trains today, so I most certainly did not bump my head. I sneezed and I bit my tongue. Ouch. It bloody hurts, I am going a little cuckoo. The world must have ended, I actually had some strange dream I was buying the weirdest but most delectable shoes. Was it a projection? It felt like. I can't remember, all I know is that there've been exceedingly strange projections the past few nights, some of which leave me wondering upon the slightest recollection, "Oh my God, did that really bloody happen". [1] The Brother has decided that to look a little more appealing, he'd get his eyebrows shaped. As in, plucked. Which made me widen my eyes, given how he's so scared of pain, before you even hit him, he cries out loud with an Oww. And so he sat down and forced me to shape them. Which is easy. I love to pluck eyebrows for people (hey, you have to pay between $10 to $30 outside!) but it was funny. The reason? "To attract more girls". I wonder just where the hell his one-track mind comes from. But speaking of eyebrow plucking, I think there's nothing wrong for males to pluck them. When (insert name) told me he plucks his, I was massively delighted. I mean, we all like nicely shaped eyebrows, don't we? Gives the eyes a tad more definition. Still, what took the cake was how The Brother told The Mother. And I wasn't scolded for planting that idea in his mind. I think The Mother has gone a bit cuckoo too. Other mothers would have slapped me upside down. [2] The Thai kids I'm teaching are freaking funny. This brother-sister pair cracks me up all the time, they amuse me with the contents of their mind as the deliver in faltering English. Girl: Teacher. . your ring. . very nice P: Oh thank you! G: I like this. . flower ring. . Teacher, how come. . you always have big big rings? P: Oh I love big rings. I think I have fifteen. Maybe more. G: So. . many!? P: Yup! G: The first time. .you come. .that ring. . got snake. I . . very scared. Like witch ring like that. Scary. .very scary Ho ho ho. So to scare them into listening to you, all you need is a snake ring. In my defense it is a very gorgeous ring. Black onyx ring, with a gold carved snake snaking through it. [3] The boy, on the other hand, keeps declaring he's going crazy. Which he pronounces with a krrrraaazy sound, rolling his tongue. So I reply "I know doctors for mad people in the mental hospital" They both look a little scared, as though I am really going to refer them there. I wonder what will happen if I tell them that when I grow up I'm going to be one of those doctors. For now, all I need to do is shoot them my most venomous stare and they become more obedient. [4] Lulu keeps going, "Why J & J keeps laughing with you upstairs, then KGB Jr keeps bullying me" "You're screwed. He's twelve years younger than you and you get bullied all the time. Hey, your boyfriend's 12 years older than you. Hahahaha. All the 12-years difference keep bullying you" And then. . L: "KGB Jr same birthday month as you! 3rd July!" P: "That's my mom's birthday!" L: "Why do you Cancerians keep bullying me" P: "Cancerians are supposed to be lovely and nurturing. They don't bully. I am a warped Cancerian" L: "No no. Cancerians bully me" But seriously the bulk of my gurlfriends are Virgos, it's fucking scary; and unlike Lulu who is Virgo too, I doubt they'll ever say that I bully them. So it's not a Cancerian thing. Geminis bully me all the time. But I'm smart. I terrorize them. Yo soy terrorista. [5] The other Thai girl, A, who seems to idolize me is even funnier. "I like you. You good. You never give me worksheets. And your bag. . so small. Other teachers.. . they come with . . big big bags and soooo sooo many books and worksheets. I don't like! If I teach. . I only carry small bag. Like you" I look at my Chloé handbag which has been my mainstay since I flew off because I'm so lazy to change handbags, the only modifications are clutches I use sporadically. That bag is not that small. It can carry part of my life within it. Like my big fat wallet (which I have since cleared of receipts and cards), tons of lipglosses, an eyelash curler, three notebooks-- planner, research, and musings--, a storybook, a water bottle, an umbrella-- you get it, a lot of stuff. It's a good thing she's never seen me going to teach carrying the tiniest of clutches. I do that quite often, then I feel a bit bad because I look like I'm going out. Which I will be, but . . I sometimes wonder just what the hell I look like. But seriously, I've always thought that to tutor, all I needed was my mouth and my brains. That's what I'm paid for, right? I think. Lulu, on the other hand, has all sorts of strange stuff. Like tons of worksheets! The way she expertly furrows her brows at bookstores buying assessment books and the way she chooses them with her expert critique scares me. I've only bought two assessment books for the kids in all these years and in the dozens of kids I've taught. All I say is, "Do your school homework and understand your textbook". And then I make up questions on the spot. As in, come up with new stuff; not fictitiously invent things to palm people off with. She even has those "tuition schedule" cards that I am utterly shellshocked at discovering their existence. Kinda like how I told her, "Didn't you know you can top up your EZ-link card (transport card) automatically with Visa? I've been doing that since Year One!" and she was stunned; and then she told me, "Didn't you know you can top up your cashcard at an ATM machine?" and I was amazed at that discovery. So we decided, I am NETS- stupid and she is Visa-stupid. I top up Cashcards at underground carparks when I don't even have a car. Like, "Hang on, don't go to the car first and drive off without me" and I hurriedly top up my card. "Can't you do that at libraries?" "I don't go to libraries". I am an idiot who haunts bookstores all the time. If I had a laser printer at home, I wouldn't even go to the school computer labs. [6] I keep forgetting that these are Thai kids. I keep throwing in Bahasa Indonesia when I speak to them, like some idiot. It's a good thing they don't understand English well, they might mistake Bahasa for English. And they keep insisting I'm not Singaporean nor Chinese. It's ludicrous, why would I lie about that. I know there are people who do, but not me. A keeps insulting the local fashion scene. And then she smacks my knees and keeps telling me, "I not talking about you. You dress very very good and very pretty but why so many Singaporeans. . they dress soooo ugly". Sometimes I look at this precocious misunderstood 13-year old and I wonder how she's going to turn out. So to steer her away from eternally talking about hair and fashion and boys, I tell her, "Pass your entrance exam. Must be smart and pretty". She agrees. "Yes! Like you" she says. Which is pretty much the same thing she was telling Lulu about me. But should I tell her that smart and pretty can give you alot of misery as well? Nope, I should make sure she studies; chances are her life ain't as warped as whatever knocks at my doors and my windows. And then, "Why only when you come then I can . .understand the question. I upstairs.. read.. I don't know how to do. Maybe I take a photo of you and put in my room then I can do. Or maybe. .I take a photo of you and bring to my exams". "Don't be crazy, I'm not your God." [7] Alright, The Bimbo is not a kid, but she's so tiny, sometimes I mistake her for one; I suspect that kid's clothes will fall off her. She whispers to me, "You going out today?" "Yup" "No wonder you wear like that" "What. I look decent today" "Yes, I was thinking you look a bit decent" Sometimes I'm confused as to whether I really look decent or not. In my delusional little head, I had pieced together two items as I curled my eyelashes, thinking I'd look dressed down in them. Only to be utterly disappointed that I looked extremely dressed-up and then I gave up. But legs. If you have it flaunt it. Amen. "31 or 38" "31" "Why you so. . why 31 and 38" She's aghast to know my case is way worse than Lulu's, and I forgot that it's really 32 and 39. And they're not bra sizes, FYI; neither prisoner numbers. I mean, 39's no more. Anymore. The numbers just happened, and let's face it, I sound like a bloody idiot amongst my peers, I don't even dress like them, when I meet coursemates at the lift, it's very superficial talk. I'm not pointing out I'm superior to them or they're superior to me, I simply don't share the same giddy excitement about love and boys or gossiping about other coursemates. Like Lulu and The Bimbo, alright, we talk frivolous stuff because that's the common shared language. The Bimbo is innocent like anything, I wish I was that way, a simple girl who loves manicures and going to salons and stuff like that. Sometimes we talk about life; but what I really crave for the bulk of the time are people who staccato everywhere and know a lot of things. Who can understand what the fuck I'm talking about. I have come to the conclusion that even if I'm being stupidly reductionistic here, European culture translates to one sort of people in general, American to another type, Russian to yet another, and of course Asian-Chinese to its own brand. Culture is the most diverse thing, but there are stable pockets of traits that run across certain groups; and I fall into none, I need to talk to internationally-minded people who are independent of their prescribed culture. Figuratively speaking. I detest self-absorbed people whose views are so. .tiny and pigeonholed, it's always through their own bent lenses. That is why 39 and all the 32s and whoever are bad habits I keep recoursing to. I need to talk to people about things that engage me rather than to talk to brick walls all the time and drive myself nuts. When anyone hears me talk to my coursemates or even to Lulu (sometimes) or The Bimbo, it's hard not to mistake me for dumb bimbo. Imagine if I were blond. All you hear of me speak of might be some sizzling excitement about some pair of shoes, because shoes come from shopping, and shopping is a very safe topic to talk about. If I talk about ambition, I look insane. Like some deranged over achiever. I don't just want to talk about school topics, about my teachers or about whatever's en-vogue. Or worry about sounding morally-correct. I can't insert allegories or make references to this-and-that. It's painful. This is why I need to talk to certain people before I go mad. The chocolates help too. I can be insane, mad, witty, crazy, anything. Even if you think I'm nuts, it's okay for me to be nuts around you. Because you understand what the hell I talk about, and you actually enjoy it rather than think I'm some deranged lame brainbox. And I have something to learn from you. It maintains my sanity, which is my insanity. Amen.

the f word

thewildflower — Tue, 12 Aug 2008 19:18:53 GMT

Frugality is a painful thing. Especially when forcibly self-imposed and when you're no longer that broke. My willpower might be too strong for my own good, I get a bit miserable at times. It's like denying a smoker his cigarettes. I've only had McDonald's once in the past nine months, compared to three double cheeseburgers a day, which is a jolly good improvement. It is cheap and I get beef, kinda like feeding cows grain grown on a massive scale rather than waiting for grass to re-grow. Skincare and all is still spent on, because that is a necessity; but I like shiny new things. With the McDonald's case you can switch to other healthier foods, but with a case of this, my brain is fried. I'm unused to this. I normally acquire at least a new piece of stuff-- 'stuff' being an all-encompassing blanket term-- every few days. My shopping rate-- considering how little time I spend-- is obscene, I know. I had to force myself to sit in front of the trains to read whilst waiting for Shing the other day, knowing that five minutes in a store and I can work. . wonders, figuratively speaking. This frugality. It's weird. Like cold turkey. Like frozen turkey in liquid nitrogen. It is even more painful walking past rows and rows and rows of shops. The last unveilings by Bebé, for starters, make me imagine just how I'd look in them. Let's not even start on way more expensive stuff. The telcos just mailed to say the iPhone I reserved is on its way. I'm passing up on that. It's painful thinking that I'm forgoing it. All my shoe cravings. You'll know there's something wrong with me if I actually start dreaming of shoes when I sleep.. I never have. Or limiting myself to a cab ride a week. Paying for drinks only once a month. Six new books a month. Maybe four, since all the prices keep rising. Oh God. Or maybe none of these, if possible. How the hell did I use to survive is a mystery. It's been years since I've ever had to impose on myself a spending quota-- the P version of credit limits-- on any day. The quotas used to be out of absolute necessity, now that they are of relative necessity, it's hard to adapt to it. And the erstwhile-quotas allowed me to spend on shoes, since I'd have saved up to buy them; now I have no excuse to buy shoes other than lust, which isn't even remotely valid. DV used to tell me, he'd confiscate all my earnings and keep them in an account, only handing them over to me at 30. I now wish there was such a thing-- then I would have never embarked down the journey of incurable vanity and would not feel this senseless irrational insane and admittedly, extremely stupid form of misery. I'm thinking, to reward myself, if I am successful by this Christmas, I'll get myself my first pair of Couture heels. Blahniks and Zanottis, no matter how much I love them, are too dainty and too dressy for quirky frequent usage. So I've set my sight on Louboutins. With their signature underside red soles-- like my Librarian eyeglasses. . black on the outside, red on the inside. And five inch heels. Louboutins are as insane as I am. Apparently, you can stand in them all night and not have your soles break. I've always craved Couture heels. If I'm a good girl, I will really get one. Oh God. Of course, I will have to tell a few white lies about how much they cost. Not everybody understands why some shoes are priced at a grand and up. But I do. I really do. Someday I will have a collection of at least thirty pairs. Sometimes you need goals you work towards to make the dry a little wetter, the low a little higher, and the pain a little more enjoyable. My heart is pounding and my pupils are dilating like an anxious cat's.

winners and masks and trophies

thewildflower — Tue, 12 Aug 2008 08:58:55 GMT

Am I the only one who sees into the blackness of your soul; am I being perceptive or oversensitive. Is your vulnerability real, and is your callousness real too. All the world's a stage, and the masqueradors with the most number of and the best masks are the conquistadores of life. But to cower behind the mechanism of seeking pity as the only Emmy you will ever get for your successful acts is pure cowardice.

two days

thewildflower — Mon, 11 Aug 2008 07:38:17 GMT

I never wake up in the middle of my sleep. Much less wake up to go to the bathroom. I'm a heavy sleeper, I love to sleep, and when I actually go to sleep I really sleep. Funny things happen at night-- you know the transition between almost-sleeping to actually sleeping is one that most are not aware of? I'm aware of half of the transitions in my case. Weird, huh. So the night before I was transiting fully into Sandman's turf when suddenly there was this crazy sharp tapping at my window. The only way in hell anyone can appear at my window is to climb onto my rooftop and perch on the rooftiles that slope downwards. Which isn't very easy, especially in the dead of the night. So in all my myopic and astigmatic glory, I squinted, groped for my eyeglasses. But no one was there. Yes yes yes, it's allegedly the Hungry Ghost Month now; but I swear these things appear whether it is Hungry Human Month (no such thing, by the way), when the clock strikes twelve at night, or in broad daylight. Last night I woke up halfway. And when I went back to sleep, the strangest and most hilarious projection happened, but I hold on to the premise that even if I get kidnapped (I'm speaking in extremely figurative coded speech now just in case it all sounds cuckoo like Castaneda) I want to be fully aware since I suffer from I-Must-Know. Anyhows it was pretty interesting to put it all in understatements of the century. I would have wished that the alarm never rang. 630 am on a holiday. (Technically, I have been robbed of my holidays because all holidays seem to fall on my non-school days, it's annoying, I blame Murphy-Sod). Inhumanly early all the cats were asleep. And down to the zoo I went, thinking would I be denied since it wasn't opened yet. I love my research pass. It gets me in there for unlimited times-- it's $16.50 for one admission, mind you-- and it gets me free meals. If I ever worked at the zoo, I'd get free food as well. And I've eaten quite a few there, they're pretty yummy and healthy. It was funny to be there so early. Surreal. All the strange jungle-like sounds in the morning air, unpolluted by the throngs of visitors that would soon to come. For the first time in my life, I saw the Saki Monkeys with geisha faces. They're painted that way. Normally, these creatures are hiding, all you get to see are huge posters of them. As I walked on the boardwalk, I saw a few things at the corner of my eye. They looked like those soft toys you get at the arcade. Saki Monkeys! Too bad my camera has passed away. The gibbons sang so loudly, it was entering another world. I like the freshness of the morning breeze, and this is why I always hope to wake up early for a good run or a hike or whatsoever. Or a long walk. But when I go to sleep I don't want to wake up unless absolutely urgent. So I shelve away every bits of me-time early morning plans. Most of my time is spent extended into the night hours, because when I'm awake I like being awake so much I don't want to go to sleep. It's living testament to Newton's law of inertia. He'd be rolling in his Westminster Abbey tomb. I'll just pay my respects for profaning him when I finally go there. My zebras finally groomed. And were aggressive. I could shed tears of joy. I can also die of laughter from the parallels we draw between a certain persona non grata zebra and a human being. It's awful how we collapse their identities together. But extremely relevant. I think lions in general have pretty ugly features on their faces. The other cats have it better. And so many pairs of my earrings have a penchant for falling off me or strangely turning wonky, even my clip-on ones fell off today. And so I was digging in the bushes with my fingers inside the greenery like some complete idiot. And a few keepers had to cycle by. I have come to the frightening conclusion that I am ludicrous. Every semester I tell myself not to work too hard. Work, as in work. For a living. And then I work even harder than ever without realizing it. Why I have time to play as well, I have no idea. All I know is that if I didn't blog here there and everywhere, and that if I didn't allow myself to fall deeper into literary incontinence, I would have way more time. My Sundays are all taken up. For work. I have also come to the not-so-frightening conclusion that cashing in on my looks is a no-no. I suppose, ten years or so of being gangly beyond recognition sometimes makes me wonder, "There are looks to be cashed in on?" and physicalities, as I suppose, might be a totally different matter separate from money-making opportunities altogether. Ultimately, even if I have reached the irreversible juncture wherein I am the consumer, not the provider in the service industry and the like, the survival instinct has always been very strong in me. And I have real solidness to survive with, rather than ephemeral premiums that come with expiry dates. My schedule, on the other hand, is wonky. Days and evenings are gobbled up, with only Wednesday evenings and Saturday evenings kept open for quality people-time. Not that the other nights wouldn't be, they'll just be more of a rush and living on snatches of stolen time here and there. I wouldn't say I'm happy this way-- to pretend to be overly positive is a tad daft-- but neither am I upset or indignant or anything of that sort. I feel nothing. Sometimes I need to think in order to know what I feel because of this ground zero thing. Is it worrisome or is it worrisome that I'm not worried, I have no idea. But I'm happy to know I'm surviving. I'm happy to see how profitable Sundays are-- I want to ensure that worries of the money type should be abolished as much as possible. They are tiring to deal with, and a drought in that department always causes alot of unsettlement in other departments, especially when living in a cosmopolitan environment. I did my sums and realized that if I did tutoring full-time with my current contacts I could make about twelve grand a month with the higher rates that come attached. It's a little insane, isn't it. Making all sorts of admin or general jobs seem even less attractive. Of course, this is my temporary respite as a student. Sometimes I get the masochistic streak of seeing just how much the jackpot doles out. It's kinda like the prelude to seeing how I can ever climb in my future career. I suppose, whatever the future doles, it doles. As long as I have done my own part. Wherever the die lands, wherever my counter on the Monopoly board travels to. Of course, it is not easy closing my eyes at all the sales in the shops everywhere. Vanity remains incurable as I gravitate towards the high heels on display, looking a little possessed. I estimate that in general, if I continue being relatively frugal, I should be able to make up for the years of insane expenditure. Growing closer and closer to reality isn't always fun, but I have a few years of over-the-top playing. I have replaced my camera too-- wheewy-- and for that, I'm a happy girl.

why

thewildflower — Sun, 10 Aug 2008 23:26:40 GMT

was it gold?