There is nothing as pointless as 'Time Warp', that show on Discovery channel where they show things happening in slow motion. I mean, I like slow-mo as the next person, but...a whole show on it? Half an hour of slowing down drops of water or a slap across the face?
I'm guessing they had to pay for those expensive cameras one way or another and decided, hey! Let's make a show about it!
'Coz it feels like one! Or rather, like a weighted one-tonne ball they use for demolition. You know that one? THAT'S WHAT MY HEAD FEELS LIKE! Ow.
Despite the fact that nobody likes a rambling sick person talking ramblingly about their illness, I am going to do so anyway. Besides, people probably don't understand the overwhelming urge for less-than-healthy persons to indulge in verbal diarrhoea. And since I'm ill and y'all out there are happy, healthy and wise, you can muster some sympathy and lend your ears (eyes) to my plight.
You know how when you're ill it's like you regress back into childhood and sometimes all the way back into babyhood? You're vulnerable and slow and dependent on others. You're given non-solids, like porridge (which I love) and sleep 16 hours a day. Actually, that's a lie. I sleep way more than that, once passing out for TWO days on my friend's bed because she had an electric blanket and my room felt like a freezer (Thanks, Az!). On top of that, your eyes are constantly teary and snot freeflows down your nose (too much information?). I wish this virus would just leave me alone.
Moving on. Why have I not been updating as of late, you ask.
1) I've been job-hunting instead. It's been a pretty productive week or so. Thus far, I am focusing on freelancing, and thankfully I have secured TWO jobs now. Woop! I start Monday.
2) I've been procrastinating. Self-explanatory. I'm the self-proclaimed Queen of Procrastination. I was only doing what I do best.
3) I've been doubting myself. I wish I could attribute the recent hiatus in activity to writer's block (yes, that convenient scapegoat all writer's inadvertently blame), but I think I can be more honest than that. I can credit it to self-doubt. And fear. I have been paralyzed by the fear that I don't have any thoughts of importance. I doubted my own ability to string a couple of words together. Some of you must think, all this self-doubt over a blog? But it isn't just about the blog. It's about my personal project: a novel in the works. I want nothing more than to complete it.
The world is a strangely lonely place. Even with 6.7 billion people crawling about the planet, one can feel so isolated and detached. It gets even lonelier when even your faith in yourself leaves you.
So, I've decided not to be too harsh on myself. I'm not exactly sure how to do that, but the way I see it, I stand to lose more just being paralyzed by fear than if I just followed through and then fixed the faults. Also, emo-ness just doesn't become me.
And now, for some reason I think Red Bull might be the panacea for my flu. Mmm...Red Bull Bulleh! (Lol, the Malaysian tagline always cracks me up. Always.) Someone give me wings!
If this song was a tangible object, I'd totally do it.
STRAW-berr-y SWING.
Two delicious words. I love strawberries. I love the swing. Heck, I love to swing. Nah, jokes (or am I?)
Rolling Stone pegged Coldplay's strange guitar sounds (unsure of actual instrument) as a 'North Pacific Japanese lilt' -- but all I hear is the enthusiasm (and influence) of the Irish in it.
I feel like tap-dancing and whirling around giddily (kinda like how Kate & Leo did in that steerage party on Titanic).
I love Bjork. I realise most people think she's a tad odd, if not completely off her rocker, but I love her for it! She is true to her art and has a style that is inimitable and completely her own. But I had pegged her as that artiste with the weird videoclips and haunting voice and certainly did not expect her to be able to act at all, much less in an emotionally demanding drama like the ones Lars von Trier is so renowned for.
If you can't read this, you need an eye test. For reals.
She was able to capture the innocence and simpleness of Selma Jezkova. In fact, she was the embodiment of cute -- I wanted to cup her in my hands and put her in my pocket!
I bet Catherine Deneuve was thinking of the EXACT SAME THING.
I won't spoil the story for you -- I hope you'll find out for yourself. Be warned though, this is: 1) a musical; and 2) one of those movies which people either love or hate; no middle ground.
And now if you excuse me, I have to find the soundtrack to the movie.
When upset, I pull up all the walls around me—a reflexive habit borne out of self-preservation to protect/hide my vulnerable state. I become hardened; cruel; impervious; reducing countless numbers of people to tears with my conduct, including my loved ones. Amendment: especially my loved ones. Among the unfortunates: my parents, siblings, ‘lovers’ (current, former or otherwise) and my closest friends.
They say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned—I think they meant me.
I transform into a merciless witch only because the alternative is (in my mind) an emotional wreck void of spine or pride. Once I give in, the floodgates open. And everyone knows (and by everyone, I mean myself, and of course, the Sex and the City girls) that once a woman shows her tears they are never again taken seriously. Tears are a sign of weakness, and the only way to avoid that discomfiture is by hardening one’s heart. I am much too proud to be seen as weak.
I realise I am ego-on-legs; the only time I met my match was when I dated a guy whose ego was as large as mine. That made logging heads resemble a WWF match, only I got the courtesy of a handicap (translation: I was allowed to hit, as long as it was above the belt). Verbal abuses flew from our mouths—I never knew I was capable of such vulgarity till then. We were a charming pair who loved as fiercely as we fought. Sadly, our brief affair couldn’t last—though exciting, it was too tempestuous; too volatile. The emotional drama proved to be too draining for me.
So here I am: furious and indignant with my current amour. He lies at the other end of the spectrum: patient and sensible, allowing me time to cool down when I’m being ridiculously hot-headed. I am the little kid who needs time-out to reflect on my thoughts and actions, and he knows it. Even as I write this, my umbrage melts away into something akin to shame.
In the light of sobriety, my initial thoughts/reactions—ignore him for a week, never pick up his calls, give him the wintriest of receptions if I do pick up, break it off—are revealed for what they truly are: IRRATIONAL.
I suppose I will pick up my phone when he calls. I might even sound happy.
So here I am, 3 days prior to my ordained ‘reporting for duty’. I am unsure how to break the news to my other friends; tell them that, no, I won’t be doing it; I refuse! —especially considering a majority of them are in the same predicament. All those ‘reporting for duty’ within this state are supposed to congregate at a specified venue this Monday for a briefing (at an ungodly hour, I might add) — and, if they (The Authorities) were the least bit human, they would hand out joints to lessen the hysterics and anxiousness of my comrades.
So how exactly do I tell my friends that, hey! I made it out, guys. Tough luck for you…but I’m FREE! Free as a bird!
Even in my wildest imagination that doesn’t seem to go down so well. In the past, my seniors have been quick to condemn those who slip away from service. It doesn’t matter if you paid it back, ho, they say, the point is I’m still in this sinkhole of a situation! I can understand their sentiments—I’ve passed on the same judgement to other friends who were braver and luckier than myself and freed themselves much, much earlier.
I can’t even bring myself to just whisper the fact that I won’t be joining their ranks and participate in the camaraderie of being in the frontlines of our education system—not even to my closest friends in college. Although I am ashamed to admit it, I fear their rebuke and judgement. These are my companions—people I have transitioned from adolescence to young adulthood with—the people who know my hopes, my dreams, my fears. They are the ones who’ve had a peek past my frosty exterior, seen me break down, seen me cry. There is more at stake here than a salaried income. I could lose my friends.
But perhaps I’m too quick to abuse them with my trepidation. Maybe they will stand by my decision and, if not actively supporting me, at least taking a step back and allowing me to go in peace. Maybe they will bite back the diatribes at the tip of their tongues and hold back their sentiments, pegging my personal decision to another one of my quirks.
In return, I will be there when they want to feel superior and tell me, Let’s just say I don’t see you shovelling no five hundred unmarked books from your corridor, bitch! And I will applaud them for their bravery, for their unparalleled effort to teach yet another generation of kids resistant to the idea of growing brain cells, and more interested in gunning a host of creatures down via their game consoles.
Good luck, my friends! My ears are all yours (unless they fall off from so much wear, in which case I will allow emails. Only ONE a day!)
To borrow a well-chosen (and wildly popular) closing phrase from our eminent director: I love you all.
But ciggies don't taste as good, do they? Seeing as how a hookah is so unwieldy and not quite mobile, I think re-packaging the fragrant fumes could be a good move, not to mention an opportunity to tap into a yet-unexplored market. They could be sold with a long-stemmed cigarette holder, which could double as a receptacle for the water so important in shisha-smoking (apparently a Mughal physician thought tobacco smoke passed through water would be rendered harmless-- I believe him!)
Lesson #31: How to smoke in style
So which tobacco tycoon is going to produce this highly awesome product for the masses?
I forced myself to stay up for this show 'coz I've been wanting to watch it since it debuted on Astro 3 years ago. It was worth it! Here are some of the highlights:
1) Probability of conceiving identical quads - 1:16 000 0000
2) "Identical" twins are not really identical. A.k.a monozygotic twins, they can even be of different sexes! This happens if the fertilized egg carries an XXY chromosome, and during the split, one of the egg loses an X chromosome, while the other loses a Y; leaving it with an XY and an XX chromosome! Amazing!
3) Probability of Asians getting fraternal twins - 1:400; probability of Caucasian Americans conceiving fraternal twins - 1:88; probability of Nigerians getting fraternal twins - 1:25. Do we somehow have an inbuilt network of our ethnicity and its global spread? I mean, it appears as if nature is conspiring to slow down the Chinese from over-reproducing.
4) You can actually give birth to twins sired by different fathers. Rare, but possible. Just like a litter of pups/kittens.
5) Mirror-image twins occur when the egg splits late (9 days into conception). By that time, the egg has already decided its' left from right. The twins will have mirror-image sensibilities-- like one would be right-handed, and the other left-handed. Sometimes, even their organs are mirror-images, so one of the twins will have their heart on the right!
6) Womb-behaviour: In multiple births, foetuses in the womb have little real estate to themselves. Sharing a womb, separated only by placenta, chorion or sometimes, nothing, every action carries a reaction. Foetuses display their first social behaviours in the womb through play or touch.
Belly-bullying: In a pair of twins, one of the twins was more aggressive than the other, constantly kicking and hitting out at the other twin. The 'victimized' twin, who is also more passive, will retire to the far end of the placenta and lay its head against it (probably for comfort). 4 years later, whenever a fight breaks out between the twins, the quieter one would retire to the bedroom and lay his head on the pillow. So sad!
Foetus-play: Another pair of twins liked to caress each other through the chorion and placing their cheeks against each other. Fast-forward to 1 year later, their favourite 'game' is to stand on either side of a thin curtain and caress each other, giggling as they do so. How precious!
One 4-D ultrasound scan showed a pair of twins sharing an amnion looking like one of the twins was kissing the other! Probably they just got tangled up with each other and the twin bumped his lips into the other's cheeks. Ah well. (Cute) accidents happen.
7) The woman in labour is a rock! She's giving birth to twins and all she's doing is grimacing as they're crowning! WTF?? Oh ok. Now she's groaning. A little. Well. That makes me a little less terrified of the prospect of pushing Object A: an object roughly the size of a bowling ball, through Object B: an opening no larger than a coin slot.
It's magic I tell you. How else would it be physically possible for the above phenomenon to take place? The miracles of Life. That's what it is.
Today is Sunday, the 4th of January, 2009. I realise I could have read that from the dateline above; I only mention it because the days are drawing ever closer to D-Day.
As schools nationwide open tomorrow, I am forced to face the overwhelming weight of my decision. On the one hand, I am certain this is the right move—I do not have the heart for the vocation offered, nor am I prepared to mediate a system I do not believe in. On the other hand, these are tough times; to turn my back on the promise and security of a consistent pay packet seems like snubbing a divine privilege that have till now intervened in providing me with comfort. I fully expect some form of karmic retribution later in life; in fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if I was smote upon on this sofa right this very moment for sheer impertinence.
…
Phew! Nothing. (Yet).
I have 7 days before I am asked to report for employment.
My future hangs on my decision—I could either be gainfully employed or go against the grain and forge my own path in life.
The last time I had to make a decision, I faltered and let others decide for me. Had I strengthened my resolve and insisted on a different education, I would not be in this precarious position. The fault is entirely mine; I have to own up. Besides, wasn’t it J.K. Rowling who said “…there is an expiry date for blaming parents”?
And here I am again—at crossroads. ‘Overwhelmed’ does not provide an adequate descriptor for my emotional state. ‘Hysterical, nauseated and disoriented’ is a little closer to home, though still not quite apt. My body feels like it is collapsing upon itself, crushing my lungs and constricting airflow, while unbidden tears spring to my eyes (yet again!). Unfortunately, this isn’t an isolated incident—every time I think/talk about a future in this profession not my calling, this happens. During practicum, it occurred with such alarming regularity, I feared I had sunk into a depression so deep I would never be able to see light again. My body itself showed its rejection through numerous ailments, with the result that I had to go back to school for an extra week (when everyone else was done) in order to complete my practicum.
In all honesty, I think my reaction has less to do with my default vocation than it is about the fear that my life is no longer my own. Ever since I put down my signature some six-odd years ago on a piece of contract, I had not been able to make a decision which was entirely my own. I don’t mean those daily choices like choosing a bowl of tomyam over a plate of kuey teow—but decisions like university placement, courses I’d like to take and a major of my own choosing. When I put down my signature, it was like I had sealed my soul with it.
I had put up with this for six years. I hated every single day of it, and hated myself even more for having brought it upon myself. I am not prepared to lose a decade of my life (I am bonded for a minimum of 4 years). I don’t want to regret anything anymore. Regret is possibly the worst feeling in the world—worse still than grief or bereavement. Its that question: What if…; a referent to an alternate outcome had we carved a different path—a path that could have lead to happiness.
I don’t think I can put myself through that again.
And so I’ve decided.
But with this decision comes serious implications. Having never really learnt how to swim, I am now thrown into the deep end, without support, without a lifeline; awash in a sea of uncertainty. I think they call it unemployment. Or maybe it was recession? I am one among many—just another individual seeking employment in a time where jobs are scarce.
I am terrified—and at the same time, exhilarated. The world seems a brighter place; there’s so much to do! so much to see! I could spend my days catching up on Sartre, reading Michio Kaku’s Physics of the Impossible, relearning Japanese, painting, writing (!) while sending out queries about jobs. I will have to intrude on the kindness of my parents for a while longer, but surely they’d prefer their own daughter to the empty shell of one?
Though some people view my decision as a death sentence for my future (oh, ye faithless ones!), I see it as the kiss of life for my dying soul.
Worry not, I will be fine. I am free. I am alive.
The only obligation you have in this life is to be true to yourself.
I've been bestowed with several titles throughout my years, the most popular of which are variations on the theme 'Ice Queen' or 'Emotional Zombie'.
True, I've never been one to wear my heart on my sleeve—years of being a girl taught me how dangerous it was—but of course I had feelings! Thanks to several traumatic high school dramas, I learnt to bottle up those things called feelings, which was really more nuisance than I’d care to bother with. Besides, I would not allow myself to be associated with something resembling an after-school special during those years full of pubescent angst.
Now however, several years later and free from all that adolescent rage and anguish, I find myself having trouble with these things called feelings. Perhaps I’ve bottled too much of it those 7-odd years that now it’s threatening to explode. In fact, every time I try to suppress an emotion it seems to make things worse. Having no other outlet, the feeling I tried to restrain has nowhere to go except out of my eyeballs.
Thus ends my reign as the notorious Ice-Queen.
I feel so much nowadays, it takes next to nothing to make me cry. I explode into hot angry tears when I’m tired, tear up with rage, shed sympathetic/emphatic tears in movies, and even snivel at songs. Though, it has to be said that those songs…they are very emotional songs. Seriously. For example, who doesn’t cry at Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite? Or to the Schindler’s List theme song performed by fiddler-maestro Itzhak Perlman? Really? You don’t? Are you an EMOTIONAL ZOMBIE?!
I am still proud that I am able to hold a decent conversation without bawling. That has to be commended.
I blame my emotional anarchy on my lineage, particularly my maternal roots. Legend has it my mother once bawled at a commercial. It’s no secret though that she cries at every movie she watches, even crying her eyes out for three hours straight once the credits rolled in that first LotR movie, not stopping even when fixing us Bolognese sauce to go with our spaghetti.
At a family reunion (probably Hari Raya), someone popped in a Hindi movie, and all the women in my family (on my mother’s side) wept together for a good solid two hours plus—all! My aunts, my girl cousins, even my grandma—they were all united in their blubbering solidarity, in the camaraderie of passing the tissue-box around and snivelling together. I have never been a part of that—this emotional rampage is something I gained recently—but now, I too can join in the sniffing and tissue-box pass-the-parcel!
So, pop in that Kabhi Kuchi Kabhi Gham I say, and bring that tub of keropok. Oh yes, and don’t forget that tissue box.
Post-script: See if YOU don’t cry to this song! Per Te. Performed by Josh Groban.
