Ambitions

I was just thinking today, what if I could really make it as a writer. Surpass all the Singaporean writers, whose books, I admit I don't really read a lot about because I find their book synopsis... a little mundane. People don't rave about them and people don't really get themselves on bestseller lists.

The paper kind of looks too new.
The stitching is too hard.
The covers are just photographs or illustrations you can't connect with.
Or perhaps we're just Asian, and the culture was never meant for us to think in this language.
Of English.
It's another man's language.
Isn't it.
You are just scribbles and pen-marks with no sense to them.
You weren't made to write like this.
Write. In. Your. Own. Words.
But all words are borrowed.
How do you string them up and choke the very life out of them
When they aren't even your own property?
You only do that to slaves.
Words can control you, manipulate you
Speeches can convince you, sway you, or down-right
Ignite a passionate fire
Essays can go to the trash bin
Who likes reading them?
News articles tell you the vogue but nothing more
Novels are decent; the most modest of the lot.
But most of them are channels of the cloaca
That is human thought.
Mostly for sewage.
Then some are crotchet-filled dumps.
Then some are just for people like me.
Lusting to live in some big old city that's not here
Sounding just like the latest pop star sensation

I'm going to change that if I can. If I don't dream BIG now, there will never be any dream that I'll fulfill next time.

At the Dentist

With all the crisis going on lately in Japan and the rest of the world, I thought it might be nice to post something vaguely related to calamity but with at least validated humour in it. Don't blame me for this choice of a post, blame that Superfreakonomics book I'm reading now. It's very good.

AT THE DENTIST; notes for a short story

1) enduring the process, and the unfortunate thing of seeing a harried dentist in a blue shirt and black pants (he looked like an average property agent, only without the winning smile and extra layer of material which is a coat) beginning of the ardupus process plus the dreaded air sucker placed perpetually at the corner of your left lip which becomes numb when you realise it takes an effort to close and open them when rinsing your mouth out

2) thinking about literature Okonkwo's role and all and failing miserably, annoyed at Mama's voice from Raisin in the Sun, Dad is silent in the room

3) hoping like anything that I have no cavities

4) GLEE girls and the HAWT dentist, compared to my very old looking in comparison dentist who is my dad's age... ah long deprived teenage dreams

5) After the initial fear is gone; no immediate cavities; what if I made denatal appointments my spa treatments

6) taking the X-ray and feeling like a baby with a sucker in my mouth, fears of electromagnetic waves and all that stuff in the physics text

7) enjoying the whole scaling and polishing

8) x-ray results out and realising that i have a missing wisdom tooth and one that will most likely cause problems (calculating the risks involved and remembering my mother's extraction = not a very sound state of mind)

9) A lecture on the dangers of sweets on my dear back teeth and the possibility of braces (the stark reminder that the kind gentleman who spent the better part of forty minutes peering into my very unsightly mouth and all, just wants to make money out of a very costly aesthetic service which renders the eating of most gummies and sweets impossible, plus no eating of whole apples and difficulties talking as my friend has told me)

that about sums up my hour from two to three today. all the "free" time you get on a holiday week!

My Mom's "Funeral"

I know in Asian cultures and possibly others as well, many exasperated parents will tell their kids "Do you want to see me dead?" whenever the rebellious little twit tries something naughty (and forfeits his Christmas presents). In my home, things are a little bit stranger.

My mom doesn't need to threaten me like that because I'm quite obedient. But she always talks about what she wants me to do for her funeral. Like: I don't want crysenthanums, they look so dead and they don't look nice. Or even more worrying for my future pocket, she wants champagne roses and actual champagne to be served for her funeral.

Sounds more like a wedding reception.

Today probably beats all of her other suggestions.

We were in the car when we passed a procession of people who walk behind the funeral car as a mark of respect (I believe its a Taoist ritual). Like any funeral procession, they were the usual grim faced and grieving category.

My mom had a brain wave.

"For my funeral, I want everyone to be in dancing shoes. They'll dance when following the funeral car."

I'm a filial daughter, and I imagine I'll be in tears at my mother's death, so naturally her tone made me not a little irritated.

"Isn't it kind of strange," I added, going cautiously, because she's quite capricious. "People are going to wonder how horrible the deceased person is, that everyone is ready to celebrate when they die."

Since she started laughing, I ventured on. Hoping that my words would convince her what a bad idea this was.

"And if it rains on that day, the yellow raincoats and yellow umbrellas will come out of nowhere." Thankfully my dad remembers stuff like this better than my mother, and said out loud, just to make sure she understood the joke. "Singing in the Rain"

Actually, it does sound like a good song.

"I'm singing in the rain

our best friend is dead

what a wonderful feeling

I'm happy again."

I think I'm going to make sure instructions for her funeral never make it to her will.

After being cremated, she wants me to bury the ashes in the National Botanic Gardens. I managed to talk her out of throwing the ashes into the sea. If the breeze happens to be blowing towards me, I'm going to be covered in my mother.

The Agony of Finding Information on Asian Artists

Ibrahim Hussein, My Father and the Astronaut, 1970, acrylic.

Question 1a: Using what you know, why do YOU think that Ibrahim Hussein has juxtaposed the image of his father with an astronaut? What is the relationship between the two (also think about the title)?

I think it was used to juxtapose the different cultures and aspirations of different men in the world, more specifically, that of Asian and Western with this painting. The artist's father is most likely a man from a rural village (which comes from the words pisang (banana) and durian mentioned in the painting and his malay kudong worn without a shirt) and it shows the poorer background the artist came from. His father would represent the generation just before the one which is more exposed and accepting towards Western ideas and one which was primarily concerned about keeping the family held together and getting food on the table.

The astronaut conversely represents the Western ideas of gaining more, (the money the camera the film) and of a higher aspiration and knowledge than the father. The technology and modernism attached to the astronaut speaks of crossing new boundaries and things which are unexplored. 

In the same way, Asian views are more conservative, searching more for sustainability than really making it big as the astronaut would in the year 1936 when it's still three decades from the first man on the moon. 

It is possible that the astronaut represents the artist, as the date written on this piece of art was the artist's birth date. The idea that the astronaut's helmet reflects the rural countryside of Malaysia (most likely) probably was to show that this wasn't an entirely Western figure. Since it is most probably a depiction of the Malaysian countryside he grew up in and the title was "My Father and the Astronaut", the astronaut could have been the artist's persona. 

It was the American dream of reaching the moon which the author may have adopted to represent his own differences with his father. The artist most probably faced strong opposition from his father when deciding to become an artist (generally seen as unprofitable at that time) and since he always had a "knack" for art, there would already be this destiny of achievement that could be his. Most people also thought that reaching outer space and the moon was impossible too back in the 1939 period till the Russian team managed to get a contraption into space. So it could have been an analogy to describe his relationship with his father.   

Question 1b: Why do you think that the text that is placed between the figures relates to the artist's birth? Where does the relation lie between this and the rest of the work?

The text refers to the place where he was born in Malaysia and separates itself from the more lofty sayings on the right referring to the "magnificent desolation" and the idea about destiny. I guess it reflects two opposing views which similarly contrast the difference between the older era and the present which is changing (the artist growing up). The artist probably sees himself stuck between the two views of the text, one of the more practical scene of rice fields and where the artist is supposed to make his life and the other a bit more stretched in thinking.

Between the astronaut and his father, it's more of a relation between a comparison of two different viewpoints. One of a more tired, care-worn generation and one with new hope and ideas for tomorrow. The text to the left is more factual and fragmented, like it's not really thought through and symbolises a very simple way of life and language. The text to the right is more thought out and has a more sophisticated air to it. Then it explains the differences between the astronaut and the man.    

Question 2: DESCRIBE the mixed-media artwork:

Answer these questions as a guide for ALL 2-D mixed media works (some questions do not apply to every painting):

• What is the artwork an image OF? (What are the identifiable things IN the artwork?)
• An astronaut with a lot of things hanging off his arms and a more aged man in the rural malay dressing.

• Where are these things located IN the artwork?
• Text and the images.
• Where does the subject of the artwork take place? (in a room, at a festival, etc)
  
• On a piece of maroon colored wall. In a museum explanation chart with a timeline type of background.
• What COLORS are used & what do they look like? (bright, dull, earth tones, etc)
• Earth tones which are duller and white. 
• What type of PERSPECTIVE is used in the artwork?
• Flat, 2D, like a copy and paste of the images onto the background.
• What materials are used? Is there a unique effect that these materials create?
• Paint- a hazy impression and a blend into the background.

• What texture (if any) does the artwork have?
• Flat, wall paint.

The Half an Hour Assignment

1. Mark Dion dulls the line between artist, scientist, and historian. In his artwork,Neukom Vivarium, he focuses on re-creating nature in a lab/classroom-like environment.

a. Recall some of the steps that were used to recreate the environment of a tree underneath the canopy.

1) The fallen tree was found in the forest

2) With the biologists, students, experts, advisors, Mr. Dion collected specimens from the ecosystem existing around the tree. Insects, soil, ferns, moss, leaves, rocks, photo-documentation (done throughout the process)

3)The cranes and transporting vehicles (the type used for trade containers) brought it to the exhibition site.

4)The tree was cut down to size and assembled within the concrete perimeter of the installation with the original soil and the environment inside the canopy remaking the original forest conditions, after which, the canopy with its light filters, sprinklers, water reserves was built around the exhibit. The place is built like a greenhouse around the tree which is preserved to allow the original inhabitants of it found in the forest to continue to exist in the stimulated environment. Drawers like those found in a laboratory and tiles with illustrations of the biodiversity in it were added in.

b. Dion stated that each time this artwork is visited, it would be a different experience. Why is this? (also recall where the work is located).

The artwork is created in an art exhibition space where sculptors and installation artists are exhibiting. The area is also near a more commercial district, so externally, the surroundings are ever changing.

Inside, the biodiversity is continuously growing and changing, because its a living ecosystem. As the tree/log decays, more bacteria, fungi and plants will grow on it. Each time one goes there, there will be a new addition to the artwork.

c. How does this artwork create a commentary on how we treat our environment? Make sure to use supporting elements from the artwork itself, artist intent, and process to justify your answer.

It creates a commentary on how difficult it is for us to recreate the conditions made for ecosystems to function. The thesis of Mark Dion is that despite all the money and technology that humanity has, when we destroy a natural system, it's virtually impossible to get it back. This is emphasized by the great extents of technology and materials that were used to recreate the set-up already made in the natural environment to sustain the standards which the tree used to be in. It's also in a way the idea that we can do something to sustain the environment artificially after we destroyed, however, it will require gargantuan effort to sustain just a small ecosystem as compared to the natural world.

Another aspect of this artwork is that the trees bring life through their death in a continuous cycle of life in the natural environment as the nutrients from the tree sustains all the seeds and smaller life forms now inhabiting it. It's location in the city is to bring something of the world far removed from our daily life closer to the cosmopolitan society to show how much we've lost of the natural world and as a contrast the environment we now have to live in. The exhibit serves then as an informative showroom of the natural habitat, a laboratory of the science involved in the ecosystem and a classroom where the artist hopes visitors will leave with more questions than they had before they experienced the artwork.

For his artwork Rats and Tar, please answer the following:

1. What is the historical background of this work?

Rats were not native to the one of the islands off the coast of Wales. When people visited the island and inhabited it, the rats came along and because of their behavior and the micro-organisms they transported, destroyed many natural species in the island.

The use of tar to coat the rats dates back to the Middle Ages where it was coated on corpses as a sort of retribution and a sign of intolerance. It was similarly done in America when settlers who executed criminals and pirates coated the corpses with tar to preserve them longer for public display, a deterrence to the public and to demean the person the body represents.

The idea of hanging the rats on the tree similarly comes from humanity's horrible history of tying the said criminals to trees as warnings.

2. Depending on who you are, you may find this work humorous or offensive. Dion's work is creating a commentary. What is the work a commentary about, and do you believe that he is successful in getting his point across? Why or why not?

The work was a commentary of how rats was a species which wiped out other species and are as such seen as criminals in natural history. However, a human practice has been used against the animals, which was a warning to people previously. The irony is that the humans were the ones who introduced the rats to the environment in the first place. This work is then a warning to people that we are criminals with regard to the way we treat the environment and that we are no better than the rats, and possibly even worse because the extent of our damage far outstrips the "crime" that the rats were coated and hung up for in the installation.

I think he was successful in provoking people because of his unconventional use of rats' cadavers, and as with the pickled animals, often stimulates a lot of debate among people. But its only as successful as the extent that the viewers are willing to research and know about the criminal execution methods linked with the tar which is a strong symbol about the not so pristine records of the human race. The artwork carries a lot of weight with it but if its taken in the literal sense without any explanation, it is not an easy piece to interpret.

Don't recall the video? Catch it again @ PBS.org. Search Mark Dion.

VISUAL CULTURE AEP

Hello everyone! I'm back! Thank my art teacher, but I'm only going to be artsy for now on in case I rant in a blog post or something.

1. Christo and Jeanne-Claude have been made famous by their large wrapped installations. They are well known both in the art world, and by the general public. Is it ethical for AT&T to use a similar idea in their advertisement without the artist's endorsement? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QddkHo1X5qY

Please consider the following in your answer: how do you define ethical, how do we know that the artists do not endorse the product, supporting rationale. Also take into consideration Cristo and Jeanne-Claude's stand on having patrons for their own art, as well as the purpose of their art.

I define ethical as being of a right conduct. In the case of art, there are so many ideas and pieces of work which have been reproduced or tweaked to be used in other pieces of work or by marketing agencies. The whole idea of evolution of art was when people used certain ideas and changed it slightly to suit a different purpose and in doing so, advancing the art form, such as in the case of Pop Art where the media took ideas from Andy Warhol and used it till it became an icon. It is then ethical for AT&T to use a similar idea in the advertisement without the artist's endorsement.

In most cases, it is hardly ever possible to truly get endorsements from the artist himself, as in the case of the Singaporean mall which literally lifted Piet Mondrian's Compositions into their advertisements. More recently, the artist Richard Serra's painting of former President George Bush, which was a near copy of Goya's Saturn Devouring His Son. Most of the artists don't get recognition in many cases and they are acknowledged. In the case of AT&T using the idea of covering up buildings, Christo and Jeanne-Claude were mentioned, but in today's world, the idea of stopping a piece of art by not endorsing it because it contains certain elements of your own is almost unheard of.

If the artist has an objection to raise, then why not? But it shouldn't become a thing of ethics about whether it is right or wrong. In the artistic sense, plenty of our recent day singers and game producers would be campaigning against YouTube videos giving us parodies of top hits. I suppose the controversy comes because the firm was making money out of the idea by putting it into an advertisement, which is a perfectly valid point if someone took references from books and sources for a research paper, but with something as hard to pin-point as that idea, it's hardly possible. Besides, while the idea of wrapping a building was thought up by the duo, AT&T expanded it to include whole cities in America. By that logic that it would be unethical to use the ideas from another artist's work, even something as basic as a style from Vincent Van Gogh or the fashion sense of Lady Gaga.

In the above examples, the artists probably never intended for such uses for their art, but we can't exactly wake some them up in their graves to ask them. They just made the Mona Lisa talk, one of the most renowned paintings in the world, and it's going to be very vague to see whether it's really ethical to do that. It is relevant to talk of such works of art in this context because ethics is more than just law, the way a person would respect a dead man's body even if he wouldn't know or feel any mutilation one does to the body. If we would have a law requiring artists to endorse the product, there would be some logistical problems not just with the deceased, but also with how much a person needs to use from an idea to require the endorsement of the original artist.

AT&T while they used the idea of covering the building as Christo and Jeanne-Claude did, the technique was quite different from that of the original artists who painstakingly planned the drape of the fabric over whichever landscape or building they were going to create the artwork with. The cloth in this case was simply rolled off the edges of building and hung straight down.

Christo and Jeanne-Claude wanted to be self-sufficient in their artwork and they accept no sponsorship or commissions or public funds. Their stance to their work was that they wanted to just enjoy it with their friends and among themselves and if the public was interested, that was a bonus. In that sense, I think it's safe to say that they wouldn't have any qualms with AT&T using their idea of wrapping the building.

Therefore, I think that it was ethical for AT&T to use a similar idea as do many designers and artists when seeking inspiration for their own work. For the sake of allowing a more conducive environment for art and allowing the free market of ideas, it is a step backward to label the use of another person's idea as unethical. In someway or another, ideas will overlap, and if this principle were to be applied throughout the mainstream of art, it would be very difficult to change the trend of over-protectiveness.

eth-i-cal  adjective

1.

pertaining to or dealing with morals or the principles of morality; pertaining to right and wrong in conduct.

2.

being in accordance with the rules or standards for right conduct or practice, esp. the standards of a profession: It was not considered ethical for physicians to advertise.

Please tell me that the answer made some sense.

Cleaning Out the Dust Pod

Really sorry about not blogging for the past few months, but I was taking a computer break, and its done wonders for my "boring zone" stamina and, surprisingly, horrors for my weighing scale and my computer stamina.

________________

Today I cleaned out some of my drawers and shelves, you'd be surprised how much junk I have that I'll probably never refer to in my life. I toke my mother's words nearly literally. "Don't hoard."

The moment I heard that I thought about that line in the Bible which says that you should store up treasures in heaven because earthly possessions will be eaten by moths.

Other than the junk, I was glad to collect a boxful of good memories with my friends. Letters, notes, drawings, gifts. Each of them had a bit of a bitter past attached to it. I made a lot of mistakes in my relationships with friends and I've always found it so difficult to socialise well in a big group, my attention always seemed diverted in such situations.

I've still got a lot more to clear out from my room and some new things to put in place once I make, not find, time to do what I want.

Ever since the church camp and all the rest of the spiritual walks, I feel as though I don't really spend enough time with God, and that my mind is just too focused on the unimportant. Max Lucado's book, God Came Near, is really an eye-opener, putting things that I knew and simply swallowed down into perspective.

Take my hair dressing appointment today. I nearly headed for the Teenage magazine as I normally do there to get my fashion and teenage quiz and how-to-do fixes. But I had brought along that book, which I'm still reading. I don't think i would have been able to face those words after having read the commercialised glossy pages. Any sin is as bad as the next, because it makes no difference in God's sight. It was what He carried to the cross.

My relatives from Melbourne (where we went for a wonderful holiday), gave me this book titled Bras and Broomsticks thinking it would be the sort of thing a fourteen going on fifteen girl would read. Well, it would be. only reading novels with steamy scenes and lusting for the cool lists and It-Girl positions seem to turn me off now, even though I have some sort of innate desire to read about them. Like the book said in the first chapter. "Is it wrong to?" At least I've put it down before advancing to the third chapter.

I've said it before and I'll say it again, I want that sort of thing sometimes. To be considered popular and not a boring goody-two-shoes, which I am definitely not. I'm still only one of the few people in art class who can look at a nude painting without feeling like its anything t0 be ashamed of. Although it does seem like pornography. All these hazy gray areas!!! Begone!

What about being a witch? I would like to be able to cast spells and all, but the Bible firmly says no. I used to imagine I was in Harry Potter's world when I was younger and in desperate need for a bedside companion at night, having no siblings to chat with until sleep overcame me.

Or how about a heiress or a superstar who can fling money wherever whenever? Right.

When am I ever going to get it even remotely straight set for myself?

The Difficult Crossing

Alright, the exams will start on Friday, two days away and today is Wednesday. Gosh, I am so worried about my comprehension for the English paper. And the essay, and oh, for every subject which comes my way until next next tuesday. Can't even remember the dates for my exam, much less History dates.

But beyond that, I think there's a terrible storm brewing right under everyone's royal noses. With exam pressure, relationship tensions are reaching near breaking point with some secrets let out and very candid gossip sessions during recess. Just escaped one, but I think that I participated too much yesterday. Its hard when you have a "cold war" with the said and mention person. I didn't initiate it, but seriously, you can't help but worry. I fear that my other friends might see me as an infiltrator and a liar. Ah well, what can I do. I just need to be less liberal on my blog.

Haven't blogged in ages, there is such a thrill in it.

Opps there goes the bell. I'll be writing more after the exams. I mean tests. I mean, distinguishing factors.

Help me with Chinese. Someone give me a potion or spell for it. A concoction which will work wonders would be just the thing.

Weird Dreams

I woke up today with the strangest dream. And about all the people...

And I forgot about it until now, four-o-eight in the afternoon.

I dreamt I was trying to evacuate or somthing. Some evil dominating thing, perhaps George Orwel's 1984 has got into me, either that or Kim Possible cartoons. With my mom and dad, we were trying to pack things up into suitcases and I remember looking at some books.

So, we appear at a large courtyard of some sorts, like the middle of Times Square, only with buildings looking more Asian and toned down. I get this notion of helping out at Michael Jackson's performance. Only thing is: No crowd and no bodyguards or media personnel. Only children who are being fed spagetthi with meat balls.

I was holding onto my velveted journal and I wanted to get his autograph. I think I saw an elongated version of it in my dream. I may have seen Michael Jackson's face, but he didn't sing. There were definitely barricades and a white stage. One moment there were a lot of children and people and someone swinging on a swing, then the next, there would be a haunting quality to the scene.

Can dreams get much weirder? I think it was due to the "Heal the World" song they repeatedly played during breaks at a course I went for yesterday.

And no, Michael Jackson did not mean anything more to me than a good singer who supported humanitarian causes.

Journal Entry 04

Shame. That's the word I picked from the book of psalms today. Quite appropriate, since our class was defeated in the literature drama competition. But that's okay with me. I was the mere costumes' designer.

There must be something wrong with me, otherwise the same problems can't keep hitting a person. Why do people seem to exclude me so much and make claims that I'm excluding them? Well, I don't write private notes or sit next to the person and make-believe an invisible wall and pretend to be a psychaitrist and ask my friend to humor me. Sorry, I've gotten over this, but its a very classic example.

Well, I don't hide things. I feel guilty when I do. People know what I think of them, but I don't see why friends won't come clean to me. I guess I'm not the confidant people want. Too something-something or lacking in something-something. Its even harder when talking to you, God. I know I'm special, that I'm really important to God, that I shouldn't judge or assume or bother about what other people whisper in my full knowledge (hey, i don't hire private investigators or have loyal people to glean such information out). Its impossible to find the equipoise for this relationship.

I can't wait for Sunday, where I'll be my family. The world is a hard place to live in and one just whishes that we could live protected and sheltered, nto subject to shame or ridicule. Like me, to a certian extent, when I was emcee for the play, only told of the role less than 12 hours before, and decided to wear the tent like skirt Portia was supposed to wear but dumped for a more tailored suit. Not that I can blame anyone. that's the thing about it. Are people afraid that they'll hurt me or blatantly disregarding my feelings. Screaming "MY EYES, THEY BURN!!!" while running out of the bathroom... yeah. But I'm quite over that too, I'm thankful that I had fun all the same.

Maybe I'm just too proud, as Mrs. Wong says our generation is. I just don't want to feel like a pigmy when in truth, classmates in school push you around anyhow. Lesson learnt then. I just have to let go. Disconnect but stay ready for any erson who needs a ear or a hand.

Amen

I'm quite worried. There's a debate (practice) tomorrow with another school and yesterday's debate made me feel so inadequate. I wonder how much is enough. Of course one can always do better than the next person, but is that enough? What do people expect of me? I know that I can think on my feet better than some, but I get frustrated when I get a technical glitch with my computer or someone says something really out of point in a debate.

That's unimportant, the thing is that I sometimes dream really weird things. Last night I dreamt I was in my school P.E. shirt and shorts and started moving my legs around a lot on top a table in the teacher's staff room, while I was talking to the teacher. Someone later commented that I looked like a hooker or something to that extent. I only felt vaguely embarrassed and ashamed. Like I was Charlie Gordon in Flowers for Algernon. As I think back, I can't decide if I really saw my classmates and a teacher there. Or if its just my sub-conscious mind working, whatever theory that is. Dreams are peculiar. But I do hope they don't reflect real life. But I've never been comfortable in the P.E. attire.

I think Flowers of Algernon has really influenced me this week. I can't help wondering if I'm mentally or emotionally retarded. Or if I am an incompetent person doing something trivial which is of great importance to me. What about God's will? Oh, freedom of choice sometimes hampers your own decision. Oh Lord, why is it so difficult sometimes to get weird things like dreams and events sorted out.

Please help me. I need the safety that David talks about in the book of Psalms. I wish that I could curl up into a ball and ignore the Literature test, the friends, the exams, the expectations, the numerous events being thrown onto me. Bu that's life ain't it. Shall just live with it.

journal entry 03

Deliverance. Sigh, if only it were so simple. I’m thankful that I went for L.T.’s talk. At least I won’t be tempted into thinking that I’m not following Your will any longer. But Lord, please give me signs and open and close doors to tell me. I’m glad that I don’t have to be worried about not hearing you per se in the verbal sense.

Thanks for brining me through this reasonably alright week. Friends have remained at tolerable levels. The tests should have gone well. Bless me for the Mother Tongue oral and the Merchant of Venice test and drama night. Oh, and please, please, please, the debate team really needs divine intervention. Okay, this is a bit too plead-y, but just help the juniors and me debate well, clearly and with structure.

I miss my friends. Those in primary school and in church, past and present. Melanie. Shannon. My whole discipleship group. I feel like I am living for Sundays sometimes. I feel so at home with them its odd. But that’s fellowship and accountability isn’t it?

I’ve been thinking back to that Christian self-help book. Every Young Woman’s Battle by Shannon Ethridge; guarding your mind in a sex saturated world. I’m going to keep the off week, which means no weird videos, no fiction books which I have read over and over again, no music with such and such implications. I’ve been battling it and I think it is helping. I don’t intentionally look for such-and-such books as my friends imply. Its just that sometimes you don’t know what you are getting yourself into. Ah well, play safe with the classics.

It’s getting a bit difficult. In tuition class the two students who sit next to me are the really trendy sort. Short shorts (not too short but still past the thigh’s mid point) and well, some people at church too. I mean, I can’t criticize it or anything but I still get irked out over such things. It shouldn’t be an overactive conscience right? Sometimes I just wish that I could still fit in a little more, but ah well, that only happens sometimes. So long as I am others-first at the same time I’m sure it’ll show through. Someway, somehow.

It sounds really superficial, what I’ve just written. But I feel like I can talk to you about anything and everything. And so openly that I don’t mind showing this on my blog. I still can’t think of you all the time and I’m still not so sure if I want to go for the WOW camp. Urgh. Sometimes it is just so tricky. I just feel like relaxing but with my home with such a close proximity to church I think I won’t have a clear conscience. That article on mind-your-body, people can only guess how different people process their thoughts and morals and ethics.

I liked Fantasia from Greensleeves. To imagine You allowed a folk song to be created around four centuries ago to be sustained till today in this epithet in the classical genre. And it becoming a beautiful Christmas carol.

Sometimes I feel like getting away from this life. But I’m sure I have some work here to do. Bless my mom, she seems so stressed with her work becoming a teacher. And my dad. Who knows what will happen tomorrow but you? And yet, we still have free will. It’s a beautiful thing, the right to choice.

Amen

journal entry 02

Well, blogger isn't up to standard today.

I've been thinking a lot about family. And about my life.
Today I asked my parents a question: If you had to lose one of your senses, which would it be? My mother said taste, which was my answer too. My dad said touch, so that he wouldn't feel pain. I guess we're different, but I can't imagine not touching all the things God gave us. The rain, the cotton sheets, a friend's warm touch, a firm handshake, flower petals, the brush of a stranger,and the wind. Oh the wind. Perhaps it was Paulo Coelho's Alchemist that made me love the wind so much, but since I read On Angel Mountain by Brian John, I can't get the word "zephyr" out of my life.

I'm thankful for all those comments that have been appearing on my blog, even if some are anonymous. I won't go out of my way to find out who it is though. Some things like tests and problems with friends and Alessa, our debate trainer being mad at us. I have it easy compared to a lot of other girls, and compared to a lot of other people in the world. Sometimes though, I wish that I could understand the acceptance some people so gracefully allow in their lives.

I was thinking though, how much would I be willing to sacrifice for Christ. Alright, the time I'm using now or those precious Sunday mornings could be better used for something, but they are very rewarding. I feel energized by them. If someone chooses religion as the topic for discussion on the bus (Gwen), I like renewing my faith in the midst of Christians from other groups of Christians. Its confusing with the Catholics and the Protestants and the Anglicans and the Presbyterians and us Methodists, but I think I simplify things to a simple, "We're all Children of God". I'm kind of fearful that I take church as just a recharging point, I want my relationship with god to be much more intense and stronger than me getting a wake-up call which subsides by Monday morning. The quiet time has been helping.

I guess I've been dalliant with my time, but I think sometimes that I had rushed through childhood. One of my more vivid memories was when I was in kindergarten and we were all at the playground somewhere in Jurong. It was those old brown tile skeletal slide plus bridge type playgrounds located on a huge sand pit. Then a stranger, which was wearing black and honestly, now that I look back, looks like Michael Jackson. I was about four then? He was giving out those fruit flavoured heart candies after walking out of a taxi. The rest of the kids except me and a boy, with stubble hair on his head, went over jumping and skipping, clamouring for one. Both of us remembered the teacher's rules before they left for a while: Do not go near strangers. We faced each other and repeatedly shouted "STRANGER!" over and over and over. The teachers, two of them, one was a caucasion lady with cropped copper-gold hair, came forward and we rushed down the slide to expalin what happened.

Later, back in a class on the the second floor with blue carpeting, the students had to throw away the sweets into the waste-paper basket, saying "I will not accept sweets from strangers again". This is my most vivid memory of my childhood to date. That same boy had to go through the ritual even though he hadn't taken the sweets. I loved those candies and felt a little pang, but I was wondering and thinking up all sorts of poison that a person could put into a sealed sweet. And I remember that I wasn't called up to do it.

My parents say that I was always rather well-behaved and that friends would come and wonder how there could be so many breakable items on the shelves with such a little girl tottering around. In my grandparents' place last time, there was a whole shelving kept under lock full of small, exquisite bottles of purfume. I asked my dad why they were locked up. At my other grandparents' place, I would play dolls and the most long-term plot I had was the circus, where a guy would admire the girl balancing on the tightrope which was nothing but air.

The memories are coming back faster now. Miss Cecilia Lim, my primary school principal asking me to talk to her in the office about the school environment when I was Primary 1 or 2. At the church carnival where I bought the exact same doll that I had to throw away some time ago, just so that I could get those deep purple stockings and touch that golden hair that curled in a ponytail. And me wondering whether or not to buy the stuff toy cat they were selling which was from Barang Barang, that furniture shop. me saying my first testimony in front of the adult congregation when I was Primary Four, where I talked about the coma I had when i was four and how I thank God for letting me live. At the end, I said, out of something in the air or my mind or heart, "Praise the Lord", like so many other people said.

Me and Joni at the cabins looking at the stars in a packet we bought for a dollar, convincing ourselves that we could wish on them. And each of us wondering how many wishes we could make. Me puting them in an age old faded mickey mouse wallet of blue and pink with multiple compartments with mickey on one side and minnie on the other. My dad reading Enid Blyton and Pody (forgot the spelling) books to me at night where mom was working late. I loved the book on texture and I could hardly get through the story The Secret Door. It took us some nights. Me reading The pig with green spots when some irritating girl by the name of Nicole proclaimed it hers and me writing and crying on the pages, my name on every page, because my mother had got it for me. Me cutting myself with Joni's swiss knife when I was in Primary two and trying to make tribal markings on lollipop sticks. Mr Morrias, then a physical education teacher, suggesting elephant glue and then the principal calling my parents with me sheepishly saying that I wouldn't need stitches. Me scraping my knee on the road on the way home with my mother. Jan and Elly enrichment with Teacher Martin and receiving fruity gel squeezing things in tubes like those for glue and the Enormous Aligator by Roald Dahl. Me and Shannon eating and talking about art and hobbies at the staircases and little nooks in the school. Me sitting and blanking out after a good meal when Uncle Steven pronounced food as the thing to keep me quiet and my mother denying it this very night.

Eleven-twenty-two. There's a sad sort of chiming in the clock in the room and the bells of the steeple too, and up high in the nursery an absurd little bird, is popping out to say cuck-oo, we really hate to say it, but we really need to say it, to say good night, to you.

Thanks for the memories, God.
Amen

Reply

I really don't know how to get this through people but please, leave a name. If you've taken the trouble to write an extra long comment, which I appreciate really, please leave a name.

Anyways, thanks for the comment. I just don't really think people ought to find or seek support. I mean, I've hit brick wall after brick wall trying that path so why shouldn't take a little less populated route? I mean, sure, no one's a COMPLETE loner in this world, but I think that having the few loyal friends is more important than trying to get the general school body to like you. There simply isn't time to worry about being liked or not. By the time it comes to that, it'll be your literature teacher worrying about giving you a pass or a fail grade.

I communicate and try to get along with people, but sometimes I feel that their attempts are a bit fake. They talk to you, give you presents etc... Like last year when I was one of the new kids, they tried. But other than birthdays they quite let it slide. I know that because I somehow keep getting left out with the same folks for groupwork. You can try but seriously, maneuvering from last table to the middle of the class is no mean feat. You're already in the "we-have-no-space-for-you-category".

Sometimes, especially when year-end-examinations are drawing near, you've got to cast aside all these sort of worries and let the Lord deal with everyone else's gossip. You can never tell who's talking about you and who's loyal in school,for sure at least. I can't help it if someone thinks I'm not doing my part for a group or the team. When someone wants to go over and above the requirements, I say, go ahead. But you can't expect everyone to follow you. With the bare requirements some people aren't helping, much less the extra.

Me

Explanation

How do I say this? I know some people wouldn’t want to be caught dead with me for a day and some people abhor the way I do things. Some friends think that I’m going to be anorexic or some wrist-slashing girl. Or rather, they see me as the number one candidate for the post of sucking up to people.

Well, all I can say is that those speculations are way off.

Do any of you know me? In primary school I was the person who was the most into romance novels and love stories. I had a fling with classical music when I was in my sixth year. I think I was the only person who carried a novel to school then with a really good kissing scene.

I think I’m the way I am, namely, the girl who doesn’t hang out much or talk to her classmates about stars and Korean dramas or anime or does facebook or dances to good music or join the group in the same sentiments for or against someone, because I’m scared. I’ve been to a point where I could see myself abandoning my old self completely and becoming a cool, popular girl who was always looked up to.

Only I don’t want that. I don’t want to lose my love for literature or art or of God. I feared myself walking into a museum one day and finding myself bored. I’m drawn to the pop culture and all, I don’t mind talking when there’s assembly, its just that there’s always this sinking feeling like when I know that someone knows that I’ve read Sabbath’s Theatre by Philip Roth and regretted it.

Most of the adults find me mature and all that. Perhaps it’s just my upbringing. Imagine a single child with parents with her almost constantly. My parents went through the best times of my childhood with me. Those good times weren’t when I played with my friends in kindergarten because they called me a pig. Those good times weren’t during my early primary school days when people on my bus called me an ABC (American-backside-cleaner). I went to them when this happened and I learnt that if you told adults, they could get something fixed, and fixed rather well.

I’ve been to the precipice, where I could have gone on to read every single good teenage romance novel or high school drama. Believe it or not, my mother started me on Jodi Picoult. I could have become someone who could talk about whatever it is people like to talk about when they send notes around the class, but then I didn’t want to lose the other life I lead. If I started to be more like my age, wearing trends and buying magazines or watching weird videos on YouTube, I think I would have lost it.

If I followed that path, I would be playing Maple Story (which I was once addicted to), re-reading parts of stories where the love-chatter was at a high (which I sometimes do), becoming more insensitive to the world, joining a C0-Curricular activity that wasn’t as under populated as debate, and failing. I get drawn into some things very easily and I think I know myself well enough to stay the way I am because I know that I’ll be staying back for remedial because I flunked a test. I had horrible test grades in primary school when my friends broke off from me and I didn’t want that experience again, where people would see me as so utterly desperate for friends and fitting in.

When I was unbothered by the friend-political-cycle, I could write beautiful narratives. I remember two of them most clearly. One was about a raging fire in a high storey office building, of the pictorial sort. I ignored most of it and dived straight into a plot about an aged man who had his office at one of the higher floors. His business was failing and his granddaughter, who hugged a teddy bear, was with him. I can’t remember it all but it was the ashes from the ancestral niche that caught fire, which spurred a fire nothing could stop. The man regretted and tried to save the girl. In the end, there was only a glass bead from the teddy bear reflecting the devastation around it.

The second was about a car accident. A man was drunk and trying to commit suicide on the road. He didn’t feel remorse and simply drove the car into a boy who had just won the top prize for bicycle race. The boy lived, he didn’t. But still, I didn’t want my life to end like those two.

Since I’ve got to the stage where I am, I don’t want to reverse the cycle in order to fit in. People I actually hang out with don’t mind me being that way at all. It’s not like I’m going to be stuck in the netherworld of adolescence forever. I’ve got only this span of years and I can’t add a cubit to it.

But then maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I missed the whole point about growing up.

Liberation

After all's been said and done, I needn't have worried all that much. I'm not a councillor, but I still get the jitters everytime I hear people talking. Anyways, I've got a few loyal friends and that's fine by me.

Fire

If this is the only way I can get the message across, I'll use the last weapon in my arsenal, in terms of "passive" and "condusive" ways.

Right, laying it out.

I cannot take it when people PROMISE me something and not get it done.
I cannot condone sitting at my desktop waiting for an email to come from a friend who was in the same 6 meter radius as me for a good two hours and promised to tell me when she did.
I cannot tolerate it when people are told time and time again by me that I'm willing to help and that I'm just out the door helping the class with something and yet say, "You were there?"
I cannot stand it when people do all the above and I feel like the most miserable wretch and nervouse wreck in the class.

Alright, you've used your arsenal on my emotions and I'm certainly not taught about the various methods of revenge, neither do I have the support of any other person. But for goodness sake, sometimes the onus is on someone isn't it? I'm certainly not going to chase people like that. I am a peer,a student, a friend. Or am I wrong even on that account?

If I was sui generis, I'm sure I won't be what I am now. When I got back home I was fine, ready to face my homework and happy to be with my parents again. But even angels need some recognition and acceptance. I swear that I could possibly function in school without opening my mouth so speak and no one would be able to know the difference.

Okay, snap out of it, you've ranted. It is ten eighteen and you have English and Chinese left to do. And Geography revision for Thursday. I think I'll do devotions though. Can't let the devil take over me. Honestly, it feels like I'm Launcelot Gobbo sometimes. Run, don't run. Devil or Conscience. Self or selfless.

Its like King Lear, and I'm the fool with no money bags to make my friends kind. And I know just the person who is my pretty fool and who are my darrrrliinnnggg daughters.

Oh and I'm sorry, but this post isn't meant to target anyone in particular. Take it as artistic lisence. I'm on a bit of a "self-experimental mode".

Won't be blogging till after the exams if I can help it.

Thanks, Awfully

hey there. thanks so much for the encouragement. I was just depressed these few days but never mind, there's church tomorrow and for the first time since Pierre Brosman for 007, I will be uploading photos of the surprise! Okay, people in my class, hushity hush on this, I'm just so excited about putting the things together.

Oh yeah, and today I used one of the thin cloth with about 5% spandex shirts that my aunt handed down to me. I made it into a bolero cum cape. Just slot your arms through the collar hole then slot them into the sleeves. Use a v-neck long sleeved shirt for this, it looks really nice. But don't expect to wear it as a v-neck ever again because the material will stretch too much.

ha ha. I don't have cash, I low on money, so the only thing left is to stay happy.

signing off today as Knitogether.

Okay, I know my lot in life is a lot better than most. My parents may even be over-indulging me. But right now, I'm stuck and fed up with the whole system. Or maybe I'm just fed up with myself. the student council elections aren't going at all well. I doubt I'll get in, not at the rate things are going. I have this feeling that my friends are siding up against me, but it doesn't matter too much, we hardly have "time" to talk to each other in any case.


The main point.

There have been election posters pasted in every classroom. On the first day they were pinned up, my face was fine.
Two days ago, someone had used liquid paper on my left eye and added a dot of a blue pen on top of the dried correction. The pen confirmed that it was a deliberate act.

It isn't that bad, but its as if someone is putting you on par with Paris Hilton, Britney, Miley Cyrus and other folk whose photos are vandalised. Who cares, its just me putting myself in the center where everything else revolves around. its hard not to when the school environment from the time class starts till recess then again till after school resembles a workhouse.

This shows how much one's mood can change in a day. After Chinese tuition,which is now, I had a series of really bad mood swings. i better get some rest. God Bless me and all the other people.

Journal Entry for Church 01

Sigh, I come online and find my blogger posting totally changed. No more adding pictures or changing font sizes on this page. Or maybe its just maintenance. Please let it be so.

As a discipleship group, we decided to take on a spiritual habit challenge, our series of talks being about spiritual habits and growing closer to God. So, from now until 31st December i have to make two journal entries per week, inclusive of thanksgiving and lessons learnt.

Okay, I'm thankful that my cramps aren't exactly crippling but I learnt (or rather confirmed) that my body has become immune to a rather strong pain-killer.

Alright, to the more serious things. Tomorrow I'll be performing a short segment in a production by me and a number of other girls about what we would do if we only had 18 minutes to live life all over again. I'll post the poem on this blog soon. The course was five days during the holidays, 9a.m to 4p.m, and conducted by a wonderful instructer Nirmala Seshadri.

Yesterday, I signed a policy which involves a vast amount of saving to a spender like me. I'm bonded to it for ten years. Imagine that. And my parents wanted me to take 25 years. God bless me, I hope I can fork out the required sum each year.

After tuition last night, we went for a desert-supper treat. While finding a place to seat, or rather hovering around a potential seat, I could only stand watching an aged cleaner wipe and take a way the remains of the last party's plates and drinks. He did it so slowly, it was really horrible to see it. My parents said to let them clear it up but I can't help but think that I wouldn't mind clearing my own plate but clearing another's is rather gross. It makes one feel like the scum of the Earth when you see yourself, well fed and well off, standing around while someone clears your table. I know these men and women are paid but it doesn't make me feel any better.

Then again today. My parents had bought packs of tissue from to a man with an amputated arm who was asking us to buy tissues from him. But he came back again asking them to buy some more. It is a common sight in Singapore but sometimes one feels inclined to give to these sort of causes. I feel fine giving to baskers and the occasional aged man in a wheelchair. But some of them have a lot of pluck, as though they have been so desentisied by their way of life. I pray to God that I won't find myself in that condition. When it comes to age and proverty, I think that if someone sped up my life in a twinkle and I found myself with arthritis, I would even consider ending my life by mercy killing or euthanasia.

My tolerance for pain and suffering is really very limited. Menstrual cramps have me doubled over and wanting to curl up and never step foot outside the house. Outward pain like a car running over my foot is still more tolerable to the walls of a woman's womb breaking down.

But, God, why did you have to make Eve's puishment the pain of childbirth? Isn't it enough for humans to suffer age, neglect, temptation, loss of love and the loss of hope? I suppose someone has to do it. But sometimes I wonder why it had to be this. Jesus, thankfully, wasn't on Earth as a woman. One thing most writers forget is the heroine having her time of the month. Surely most women aren't as lucky as that to keep on slaying villians and working at the factory every day, hard as that is from the labour involved, and yet not happen to suffer a tweak from the bleeding?

Only Catheine Lim, an author I don't exactly like, used it as a weapon against an idol.

Sorry, I was ranting.

We're doing the book of Jonah now for sermons. It's quite amazing how much background there is that isn't written in the bible. I guess the best imaginations can be tested in picturing the actual feelings of the men in those times.

Here's to human endeavour and the completion of this accountability test!