Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Sell Out
I got my hair rebonded on Monday. Rebonded, permanently straightened, chemically relaxed, soft straightened, straight-ironed, flat-ironed.
So many different terms to say the same thing. But none of those words really get to the heart of it. There really is only one proper phrase to use to describe the process.
The phrase is selling-out.
You know how you have a one unique characteristic that no one quite likes? You suffer for it, for years and years. You start off being teased by cousins and siblings, and you cry and turn to your parents (ironically, the very sames ones from whom you inherited such a trait in the first place). You continue to be teased for it as a child, gently ribbed by well-meaning friends. Given pointed suggestions by strangers and acquaintances.
All helpful, all nice, all good.
So tempting to throw money at the problem, listen to the ones at the sidelines telling you what you should do. They only mean well, after all.
And then you do it.
And two hours later, you regret it. You now seem to blend seamlessly into a sea of conformity. You find that what is in itself an unattractive feature actually accentuates your other features - without it everything else falls into mediocrity.
Everyone, quite kindly, says it looks good. But you know in your heart of hearts that you were fine the way you were.
So you stand in front of the mirror with curling tongs heated to a blazing 220 degrees celsius, and you ruin with deliberate intent the handiwork of a man (he calls himself a master stylist) paid $256 for 3 hours of work.
And when your hair is all bouffant and puffy and full and voluminous, and your locks are bouncy and shiny (well not all the rebonding went to waste then) and gloriously tumbling all over your face, you smile and feel like everything is whole again.
So many different terms to say the same thing. But none of those words really get to the heart of it. There really is only one proper phrase to use to describe the process.
The phrase is selling-out.
You know how you have a one unique characteristic that no one quite likes? You suffer for it, for years and years. You start off being teased by cousins and siblings, and you cry and turn to your parents (ironically, the very sames ones from whom you inherited such a trait in the first place). You continue to be teased for it as a child, gently ribbed by well-meaning friends. Given pointed suggestions by strangers and acquaintances.
All helpful, all nice, all good.
So tempting to throw money at the problem, listen to the ones at the sidelines telling you what you should do. They only mean well, after all.
And then you do it.
And two hours later, you regret it. You now seem to blend seamlessly into a sea of conformity. You find that what is in itself an unattractive feature actually accentuates your other features - without it everything else falls into mediocrity.
Everyone, quite kindly, says it looks good. But you know in your heart of hearts that you were fine the way you were.
So you stand in front of the mirror with curling tongs heated to a blazing 220 degrees celsius, and you ruin with deliberate intent the handiwork of a man (he calls himself a master stylist) paid $256 for 3 hours of work.
And when your hair is all bouffant and puffy and full and voluminous, and your locks are bouncy and shiny (well not all the rebonding went to waste then) and gloriously tumbling all over your face, you smile and feel like everything is whole again.
Labels: Hair
Two Minds
I am in two minds today.
I think its also called schizoprehnia.
----
It used to be that I needed to be here for everything to be right again.
How things change - but not in the way you imagine.
Nor is it the case that I need to be there for everything to be right again.
Rather, it's that I need to be where I cannot.
----
If he won't love me, and if I don't love him, why are we even bothering?!?!
I think its also called schizoprehnia.
----
It used to be that I needed to be here for everything to be right again.
How things change - but not in the way you imagine.
Nor is it the case that I need to be there for everything to be right again.
Rather, it's that I need to be where I cannot.
----
If he won't love me, and if I don't love him, why are we even bothering?!?!
Labels: Musings
Monday, August 11, 2008
Thy Bodieth Doth Protest too Much
I'm sick!
This is my body saying, "Enough!"
Too much to drink on Thursday night.
Too much wine, too much champagne, too much diet coke, too much Vodka, too many alcopops, too much whiskey. Too much second hand smoke and too many defiant first-hand puffs (though there was only one)
I am going on detox. No more alcohol for a month.
I had to miss my internship, a day of work, and my shopping/ baking day.
And too much panadol and porridge, when really it could have been a lovely apple soufflé.
This is my body saying, "Enough!"
Too much to drink on Thursday night.
Too much wine, too much champagne, too much diet coke, too much Vodka, too many alcopops, too much whiskey. Too much second hand smoke and too many defiant first-hand puffs (though there was only one)
I am going on detox. No more alcohol for a month.
I had to miss my internship, a day of work, and my shopping/ baking day.
And too much panadol and porridge, when really it could have been a lovely apple soufflé.
Labels: Alcohol, Baking, Sickness
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Bitten by the Baking Bug
It's all Evelyn's fault. A harmless Friday afternoon of fun baking cheesecakes at her condo has now turned me into a bit of a Batty Crocker. I was happy to let Cheryl, Elaine and Evelyn take the lead. Tell me what to do - toss those eggs in? No problemo. Cut those strawberries into vague geometrical shapes? I'm your girl.
So what happened - what gave me that little infection, that yearning, that itch, that bug for baking? The only recipes I knew off heart were a recipe for truffles I learnt in Year 12. It can look like a rather sophisticated recipe, all softly sprinkled with coconut dust just so, and if you get the dough mix right the balls won't get all crackly and plasticine looking. But truth be told, it's a kids' recipe. It's something five year olds do in between colouring time and bath time.
Cheesecakes are another matter. If it isn't a labour of love, it's a labour of lust for soft, melt-in-the-mouth cream cheese filling, bouncy jell-o, sweet, succulent strawberries and crunchy cookie crumb base mixed with hot melted butter laid to rest on the base of a striking cold teflon pan. It's an orgasm in the mouth. A multiple orgasm in the mouth.
Two sundays ago I recreated the recipe we made at Evelyn's condo. The results were excellent, although the cheese filling insufficient.
Last sunday I made another cheesecake, a honey nut macademia cheesecake that was made up of Nice biscuits crushed and mixed with warm dissolved butter. A layer of roughly chopped honey roasted macademia nuts scattered just over the base. A gorgeous mixture of cream cheese, sour cream, sugar, eggs and honey, whipped and whirred and mixed until it turned a rich, light golden hue. Baked for an hour until the surfaces turned a deep amber. Set in the fridge for three hours, and then macademia nuts sprinkled over the top with half a cup of warm, runny honey drizzled as its last finishing touch.
It's heaven, I tell you.
I should really post a picture.
And this Sunday, perhaps an apple-peach crumble. Although I'm leaning towards fruit custard tarts, like the ones you see in bakeries, that are all glossy and dreamy and shiny and sweet.
So what happened - what gave me that little infection, that yearning, that itch, that bug for baking? The only recipes I knew off heart were a recipe for truffles I learnt in Year 12. It can look like a rather sophisticated recipe, all softly sprinkled with coconut dust just so, and if you get the dough mix right the balls won't get all crackly and plasticine looking. But truth be told, it's a kids' recipe. It's something five year olds do in between colouring time and bath time.
Cheesecakes are another matter. If it isn't a labour of love, it's a labour of lust for soft, melt-in-the-mouth cream cheese filling, bouncy jell-o, sweet, succulent strawberries and crunchy cookie crumb base mixed with hot melted butter laid to rest on the base of a striking cold teflon pan. It's an orgasm in the mouth. A multiple orgasm in the mouth.
Two sundays ago I recreated the recipe we made at Evelyn's condo. The results were excellent, although the cheese filling insufficient.
Last sunday I made another cheesecake, a honey nut macademia cheesecake that was made up of Nice biscuits crushed and mixed with warm dissolved butter. A layer of roughly chopped honey roasted macademia nuts scattered just over the base. A gorgeous mixture of cream cheese, sour cream, sugar, eggs and honey, whipped and whirred and mixed until it turned a rich, light golden hue. Baked for an hour until the surfaces turned a deep amber. Set in the fridge for three hours, and then macademia nuts sprinkled over the top with half a cup of warm, runny honey drizzled as its last finishing touch.
It's heaven, I tell you.
I should really post a picture.
And this Sunday, perhaps an apple-peach crumble. Although I'm leaning towards fruit custard tarts, like the ones you see in bakeries, that are all glossy and dreamy and shiny and sweet.
Labels: Baking
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Not for Prophet
"Atheism: A non-prophet organisation"
What a brilliant slogan for a t-shirt. I would wear it, to church, out on the streets, to the corner shop, to the synagogue, or the mosque (if I'm allowed in. Which... probably not)
Last night the boyfriend came over and instead of whisking me away from ultra-conservative mother, as he usually does, he sat down on the couch and watched the World Youth Day Stages of the Cross pageant on tv with my mother.
We should have remained in the house for two minutes; instead we stayed for two hours. We chucked a pizza in the oven, made hot tea and snuggled under a blanket in front of the tv.
It was a strange sight: him on the left going "yeah! that was a good one" whenever the actor playing Jesus was kicked or prodded, my mother closing her eyes in meditative prayer, tears collecting in the corner of her eyes and lips moving in silent prayer. Then there was me in the middle torn between wondering if I could hold his hand under the blanket without my mother noticing and wanting to comfort my mother when she started crying and recounting the circumstances of my aunt's death.
Early on, when the pilgrims' spirits were high and the mood in my house accordingly so, the conversation went something like this -
Boyfriend: "Ah I get it! This is the part where they put Jesus on a motorised barge to cross the river"/ "And this is the part where the Roman soldier meets the Aboriginal man"
Me: "How very ahistorical"
Mum: "SHH... Hail Mary, full of grace..."
Like I said, atheism is a non-prophet organisation. Deities on motorised water transport vehicles and daring ret-cons with history are there to be ridiculed and made fun of.
But I'm not entirely comfortable with that. The church and whoever cares to know might be pleased that watching the play on television actually moved me somewhat, nearly to tears, and even more so when my mother started weeping for my aunt.
I don't want to go to church anymore, I still disagree heartily with the Church's stand on many issues - abortion, contraception, women's rights, physical relationships, homosexuality, the death penalty, marriage and divorce; and I would not raise my children Catholic (assuming I have any). But maybe there is truth to the saying, once a Catholic, always a Catholic. Long after one ceases to step into a church, the guilt lingers on.
What a brilliant slogan for a t-shirt. I would wear it, to church, out on the streets, to the corner shop, to the synagogue, or the mosque (if I'm allowed in. Which... probably not)
Last night the boyfriend came over and instead of whisking me away from ultra-conservative mother, as he usually does, he sat down on the couch and watched the World Youth Day Stages of the Cross pageant on tv with my mother.
We should have remained in the house for two minutes; instead we stayed for two hours. We chucked a pizza in the oven, made hot tea and snuggled under a blanket in front of the tv.
It was a strange sight: him on the left going "yeah! that was a good one" whenever the actor playing Jesus was kicked or prodded, my mother closing her eyes in meditative prayer, tears collecting in the corner of her eyes and lips moving in silent prayer. Then there was me in the middle torn between wondering if I could hold his hand under the blanket without my mother noticing and wanting to comfort my mother when she started crying and recounting the circumstances of my aunt's death.
Early on, when the pilgrims' spirits were high and the mood in my house accordingly so, the conversation went something like this -
Boyfriend: "Ah I get it! This is the part where they put Jesus on a motorised barge to cross the river"/ "And this is the part where the Roman soldier meets the Aboriginal man"
Me: "How very ahistorical"
Mum: "SHH... Hail Mary, full of grace..."
Like I said, atheism is a non-prophet organisation. Deities on motorised water transport vehicles and daring ret-cons with history are there to be ridiculed and made fun of.
But I'm not entirely comfortable with that. The church and whoever cares to know might be pleased that watching the play on television actually moved me somewhat, nearly to tears, and even more so when my mother started weeping for my aunt.
I don't want to go to church anymore, I still disagree heartily with the Church's stand on many issues - abortion, contraception, women's rights, physical relationships, homosexuality, the death penalty, marriage and divorce; and I would not raise my children Catholic (assuming I have any). But maybe there is truth to the saying, once a Catholic, always a Catholic. Long after one ceases to step into a church, the guilt lingers on.
Labels: Family, Relationships, Religion
Gone and back again
Sleep is deepest when there aren't any dreams. Or so I've found. Last night I had the deepest sleep I've had in ages. After travelling for 12 hours, 6 hours to Brisbane, four hours in transit at Brisbane airport, and then another two hours to Melbourne, I was gone - completely stuffed.
I slept at midnight and woke up 12 hours after. I had a healthy, nutritious, health practitioner-approved breakfast consisting of muesli and a hot chocolate (no additional sugar; though I suppose the original product is chock full of it), read the papers, lazed around, then went straight back to bed. And had more dreamless, life-giving, energy-replenishing sleep.
It is a sleep that can only be brought on by extreme exhaustion, complete energy depletion, and utter contentment.
Yes, I am content. I am happy and excited to be back in Melbourne. I am happy and excited that I got to go back to Singapore and see my friends and family. I am happy and excited because I had so much fun and I got to do so many things and not have to think about work, internship, club committments, anything. I am happy that I still feel close to my friends, that we still care about each other, that we still know each other, that we can still have fun, that we can still see each other after four years and still slip into familiar patterns like you do when you slip on an old glove or an old pair of jeans and find that it still fits.
It's the best feeling, ever.
--------------
Seeing the boyfriend for the first time in nearly 3 weeks was nerve-wrecking. I called him as soon as I touched down in Melbourne.
"I'm actually nervous to see you," he laughs nervously.
"Me too," I laugh nervously.
And it was strange and a little awkward seeing him again after so long.
Goshishegoingtothinki'mfatgainedweightbadhaircuthorriblecomplexionlostinterestgotusedtothefreedomgonnaseemeas
adragsickofmehadenoughofdrivingallthewayfromchadstonetomaidstonetoseemeandthenallthewaybackagainandhaveto
takemeoutanditalwaysendsupthathepaysmoreeventhoughtiinsistonpullingmyownweighttheeconomcisofitdoesn'tquitehelp
hashebeenthinkingaboutmeisheboredinterestedinotherwomeneggedonbyhismatestofoolaroundgoshwhatifhethinksi'mfat??
But nothing a good make-out session can't solve.
I slept at midnight and woke up 12 hours after. I had a healthy, nutritious, health practitioner-approved breakfast consisting of muesli and a hot chocolate (no additional sugar; though I suppose the original product is chock full of it), read the papers, lazed around, then went straight back to bed. And had more dreamless, life-giving, energy-replenishing sleep.
It is a sleep that can only be brought on by extreme exhaustion, complete energy depletion, and utter contentment.
Yes, I am content. I am happy and excited to be back in Melbourne. I am happy and excited that I got to go back to Singapore and see my friends and family. I am happy and excited because I had so much fun and I got to do so many things and not have to think about work, internship, club committments, anything. I am happy that I still feel close to my friends, that we still care about each other, that we still know each other, that we can still have fun, that we can still see each other after four years and still slip into familiar patterns like you do when you slip on an old glove or an old pair of jeans and find that it still fits.
It's the best feeling, ever.
--------------
Seeing the boyfriend for the first time in nearly 3 weeks was nerve-wrecking. I called him as soon as I touched down in Melbourne.
"I'm actually nervous to see you," he laughs nervously.
"Me too," I laugh nervously.
And it was strange and a little awkward seeing him again after so long.
Goshishegoingtothinki'mfatgainedweightbadhaircuthorriblecomplexionlostinterestgotusedtothefreedomgonnaseemeas
adragsickofmehadenoughofdrivingallthewayfromchadstonetomaidstonetoseemeandthenallthewaybackagainandhaveto
takemeoutanditalwaysendsupthathepaysmoreeventhoughtiinsistonpullingmyownweighttheeconomcisofitdoesn'tquitehelp
hashebeenthinkingaboutmeisheboredinterestedinotherwomeneggedonbyhismatestofoolaroundgoshwhatifhethinksi'mfat??
But nothing a good make-out session can't solve.
Labels: Friends, Relationships
Friday, July 04, 2008
Is it cheating if it's subconscious? Does it count if it's just in the mind?
If so. I have cheated. Dreams always feel so real.
(and lord knows he's mentally cheated for sure. He's admitted to me that XXX is on his mind every 2 minutes, and reaches a critical point when he walks past news stands selling Ralph and Zoo and FHM and Maxim)
In my dream, I was walking towards a gate with a group of people. In the distance there were people carrying rifles and shotguns. They were shooting at each other and I saw someone get shot, flip over, die. There was only one man remaining, and he turned his gun towards us, this group of people inexplicably and steadily walking towards our deaths. He started firing. The people in front of me collasped like falling timber. The people to my side tumbled to the ground. I threw myself onto the ground as well. I was not shot. I took shelter behind a dead body. Tears were leaking down my face. My instinct was to stand up, turn around and run, but I knew that if I did I would get shot. So I let the bodies of the dead preserve my life.
I don't know what happened, how the gunman got disarmed or got shot or got killed off by my dream machine in order to get to the next scene of this dream-movie. But I turned to a strange man, an unknown man, a handsome man and we kissed like I usually kissed him, and then some. And yet he appeared, and the kissing was not the same, like it lacked the passion of forbidden fruit. Or whatever.
No more watching trailers for The Strangers before going to bed. Su Xin, if you're reading this, I spoiled myself by reading the synopsis of that movie, the poster which we saw at the cinemas. As a result, I kept imagining, just before I drifted into unconsciousness, that someone in a mask and gun would ambush me in my sleep.
If so. I have cheated. Dreams always feel so real.
(and lord knows he's mentally cheated for sure. He's admitted to me that XXX is on his mind every 2 minutes, and reaches a critical point when he walks past news stands selling Ralph and Zoo and FHM and Maxim)
In my dream, I was walking towards a gate with a group of people. In the distance there were people carrying rifles and shotguns. They were shooting at each other and I saw someone get shot, flip over, die. There was only one man remaining, and he turned his gun towards us, this group of people inexplicably and steadily walking towards our deaths. He started firing. The people in front of me collasped like falling timber. The people to my side tumbled to the ground. I threw myself onto the ground as well. I was not shot. I took shelter behind a dead body. Tears were leaking down my face. My instinct was to stand up, turn around and run, but I knew that if I did I would get shot. So I let the bodies of the dead preserve my life.
I don't know what happened, how the gunman got disarmed or got shot or got killed off by my dream machine in order to get to the next scene of this dream-movie. But I turned to a strange man, an unknown man, a handsome man and we kissed like I usually kissed him, and then some. And yet he appeared, and the kissing was not the same, like it lacked the passion of forbidden fruit. Or whatever.
No more watching trailers for The Strangers before going to bed. Su Xin, if you're reading this, I spoiled myself by reading the synopsis of that movie, the poster which we saw at the cinemas. As a result, I kept imagining, just before I drifted into unconsciousness, that someone in a mask and gun would ambush me in my sleep.
You're way too cool for me
I touch my piano about once a year. This year my grandma is staying with me in Singapore, and she likes listening to me play the piano. The only scores I can find are my final fantasy ones; and as they all sound pretty floaty/ etheral, I find that I can fool a lot of people as to how good I actually am (not very) if I can just get the tumbling arpeggios just so.
But after a while, even the oldest, greyest person gets sick of 'Balamb Garden' and 'To Zanarkand', so I went digging around in the store room under the stairs for my other piano scores. I didn't find them, just my secondary school books. And while I was standing there marvelling at the sheer volume of paper that was used for just history alone (do you remember that light blue file with the diagonal etchings in the plastic material? L1, L2, L3, L4, L5), out tumbling came these pieces of paper. They had poems written on it. Specifically, angsty, angry, desperate poems only a 16-year old could write. I had to laugh when I read them. Now I know why I'm not much of a poet. If you classify these as poetry, Yeats would be spinning in his grave.
Why, here's an excerpt:
You were too cool for me.
Everything that you did -
As plain as daylight, for all to see
was way too cool for me.
You knew the latest fashions,
Wore hipsters and tight tees
Chose punk rock as your passion
Had boys over for jamming sessions.
Your phone was of a spunky kind
That had a canera rolled in it
With boggling functions that could blow your mind -
And mine? As chunky and unfunky as my behind.
The way you spoke was like "totally awesome!"
Interspersed with cool phrases
The way I spoke - too prim! Too proper!
No "chumps", "chumpettes!", "awesome!"
Or anything like that.
Your ambitions were a whole lot cooler
You wanted a radical boutique
All I ever wanted was to have
A regular job - yup - a nine-to-fiver
Your grades were in the funky range
of boderline fail to pass
While mine were in the geek-nerd zone
Just because I rarely came in last
You always were so popular
You had tons of friends
While I - already so friendless
Had a wilting social life.
You went 'tanning' every week
decked out in cool gear
While the only times I went out were
to buy groceries in my slippers
No doubt you'll be more successful
With a fuller life to boot
Cos it's plain as daylight, for all to see
That you're way too cool for me.
------
I could say that it doesn't refer to a specific person but those who know me well can instantly see through that.
My grades are edging towards boderline pass and fail - can I be considered cool now? Please??
But after a while, even the oldest, greyest person gets sick of 'Balamb Garden' and 'To Zanarkand', so I went digging around in the store room under the stairs for my other piano scores. I didn't find them, just my secondary school books. And while I was standing there marvelling at the sheer volume of paper that was used for just history alone (do you remember that light blue file with the diagonal etchings in the plastic material? L1, L2, L3, L4, L5), out tumbling came these pieces of paper. They had poems written on it. Specifically, angsty, angry, desperate poems only a 16-year old could write. I had to laugh when I read them. Now I know why I'm not much of a poet. If you classify these as poetry, Yeats would be spinning in his grave.
Why, here's an excerpt:
You were too cool for me.
Everything that you did -
As plain as daylight, for all to see
was way too cool for me.
You knew the latest fashions,
Wore hipsters and tight tees
Chose punk rock as your passion
Had boys over for jamming sessions.
Your phone was of a spunky kind
That had a canera rolled in it
With boggling functions that could blow your mind -
And mine? As chunky and unfunky as my behind.
The way you spoke was like "totally awesome!"
Interspersed with cool phrases
The way I spoke - too prim! Too proper!
No "chumps", "chumpettes!", "awesome!"
Or anything like that.
Your ambitions were a whole lot cooler
You wanted a radical boutique
All I ever wanted was to have
A regular job - yup - a nine-to-fiver
Your grades were in the funky range
of boderline fail to pass
While mine were in the geek-nerd zone
Just because I rarely came in last
You always were so popular
You had tons of friends
While I - already so friendless
Had a wilting social life.
You went 'tanning' every week
decked out in cool gear
While the only times I went out were
to buy groceries in my slippers
No doubt you'll be more successful
With a fuller life to boot
Cos it's plain as daylight, for all to see
That you're way too cool for me.
------
I could say that it doesn't refer to a specific person but those who know me well can instantly see through that.
My grades are edging towards boderline pass and fail - can I be considered cool now? Please??
Labels: Friends, Piano, Poetry
I'm back. For now.
*Takes a deep breath*
Hi there. Do you still remember me? The last time we met was almost a year ago.
Thank you, Mui Kee. You've inspired me to start blogging again. (Hopefully consistently)
Thank you, Becky. Your gentle probing seems to have worked. (somewhat)
My writing skills have become rusty. The only writing I seem to do nowadays involved name dropping a few impressive sounding names with their impressive sounding ideas, chuck in a few footnotes, and cross my fingers while some stranger scrutinises my hastily put together words and then assigns a value to it.
And when essay-time is over, the kinds of writing I do, is all "Dear John" and "kind regards" and "I'm not paying the bloody phone bill, ya' hear!" Except more polite.
And when I take the final weary steps out of the office and leave outlook emails, faxes and phone messages behind, I volunteer to write copy for a film website, a job so entirely draining and un-exciting I think I'm going to be kicked out soon.
Sometimes I write in my diary, but not often enough, and as a substitue for weepy phonecalls to sympathetic ears who can't really help me, instead of the other way round. Who/ what is the more reliable sounding board?
-------
I'm currently in Singapore.
It always takes me a while to acclimatise, the humidity just kills. I remember New Year's Eve 2007, when it hit 42 degrees in Melbourne. I felt like I was slowly being baked alive, the heat all dry and crackly and strong and relentless. In Singapore the temperature is usually hovers around thirty degrees, but the humidity provides this steam blanket than envelopes your entire body and crawls into dark places, tickles you beneath the pits and causes long trails of perspiration that just refuses to evaporate because of the moist sponge of enveloping air won't let any of its molecular brothers rise to meet them.
The question is - would you rather be a dark crispy roast, or a soft moist pao?
----------
I'm meeting a friend for lunch tomorrow. He's coming to pick me up from my house, and we are driving... somewhere. He's a friend from Melbourne. We were not on speaking terms for the most part of the semester just passed. He blocked me from MSN until (presumably) his last paper ended. And after that, he unblocked me.
It's a long story.
He's not good with women, and I'm not good with misogynists.
We'll see how tomorrow bears out.
Hi there. Do you still remember me? The last time we met was almost a year ago.
Thank you, Mui Kee. You've inspired me to start blogging again. (Hopefully consistently)
Thank you, Becky. Your gentle probing seems to have worked. (somewhat)
My writing skills have become rusty. The only writing I seem to do nowadays involved name dropping a few impressive sounding names with their impressive sounding ideas, chuck in a few footnotes, and cross my fingers while some stranger scrutinises my hastily put together words and then assigns a value to it.
And when essay-time is over, the kinds of writing I do, is all "Dear John" and "kind regards" and "I'm not paying the bloody phone bill, ya' hear!" Except more polite.
And when I take the final weary steps out of the office and leave outlook emails, faxes and phone messages behind, I volunteer to write copy for a film website, a job so entirely draining and un-exciting I think I'm going to be kicked out soon.
Sometimes I write in my diary, but not often enough, and as a substitue for weepy phonecalls to sympathetic ears who can't really help me, instead of the other way round. Who/ what is the more reliable sounding board?
-------
I'm currently in Singapore.
It always takes me a while to acclimatise, the humidity just kills. I remember New Year's Eve 2007, when it hit 42 degrees in Melbourne. I felt like I was slowly being baked alive, the heat all dry and crackly and strong and relentless. In Singapore the temperature is usually hovers around thirty degrees, but the humidity provides this steam blanket than envelopes your entire body and crawls into dark places, tickles you beneath the pits and causes long trails of perspiration that just refuses to evaporate because of the moist sponge of enveloping air won't let any of its molecular brothers rise to meet them.
The question is - would you rather be a dark crispy roast, or a soft moist pao?
----------
I'm meeting a friend for lunch tomorrow. He's coming to pick me up from my house, and we are driving... somewhere. He's a friend from Melbourne. We were not on speaking terms for the most part of the semester just passed. He blocked me from MSN until (presumably) his last paper ended. And after that, he unblocked me.
It's a long story.
He's not good with women, and I'm not good with misogynists.
We'll see how tomorrow bears out.
Labels: Friends, Singapore, Travel, Weather
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
You're more beautiful than you think you are.
Tell me who you are, my dear reader who hails from Sydney, New South Wales, Australia. Do tell, because I only know one person from Sydney, and he ain't supposed to be reading this!
Tell me who you are, my dear reader who hails from Sydney, New South Wales, Australia. Do tell, because I only know one person from Sydney, and he ain't supposed to be reading this!
Monday, September 03, 2007
I have to think very carefully if I want that last post on me being molested in a club published after all. Give me a little while. I was wondering if it's too crass and explicit, and potentially putting me in a risky position. Then I worry about censoring myself.
So until I figure stuff out, go read some erotica or something.
So until I figure stuff out, go read some erotica or something.
