Flipping through lj communities, I always perk up when somebody says that they're from Singapore too. This perky feeling however, is oft dampened when they continue vaguely about how Singapore is terribly boring, ugly and (inserted derisive adjectives here).

But I love Singapore! I mean honestly, even if you hate the parades of cheesy propaganda, I kinda find them a hilarious experience of overenthusiastic patriotism. Hours of too much organza and cheap satin, body glitter and anal organization and FIREWORKS. It's funny! I don't see how people don't get that, and sort of choose instead to moan and groan about it. Even the clearly biased reporting of the General Elections in the Straits Times was funny, because it's kinda ridiculous how *obviously* slanted they were being! That we seem to have a hub-obsessed neurosis: we are/want to be an education & sports & arts & biomedical & business & telecommunications & defense & trading hub. It's like the scrawny guy out there with the sports car - trying to make up for something, aren't we? We've got our fingers stuck in so many pies, its silly.

It's not a boring place to be either, you just have to know how to tear yourself away from the Orchard Road belt of hyperconsumerism.

And we have good local music, if you know where to find it.

Oh I don't know why I feel so obligated to prop up Singapore. I like this place, even more so because sometimes it's so indignantly stubborn and silly. Singapore-bashers just need to chill and grab a 70 cents teh tarik from the coffeeshop, take a look around and grow a sense of humour.

Besides, what is it that you really want, my Singaporean Fellows?

But what's wrong with narration?

Just came across a online journal that bemoaned that its entries have recently regressed into pure narrative, and I'm still thinking: what's wrong with that?

I suppose the reason why I haven't been blogging much these days is that I've been drawing a thicker line between what I might blog about, and what I won't. Finding it odd now to spew out how I feel in public, and sometimes I really do think people should be less emotional in their blogs.

Don't know why, but I guess in my head, it is that if I keep something private, it not only means that it means more to me, but it keeps its value. As opposed to it being aired like dirty laundry -- telling everybody, then everybody knows and its public, its no longer exclusively yours and it simply becomes part of the monumentally large heap of online debris.

Oh gee, I'm even uberly possesive about my thoughts.

Meanwhile, narration!

Technically, we had a three and a half day weekend and despite our principal's prayer that we would use the time in a wisely academic way, well, I did not.

Of course we didn't.

Thursday evening was spent with the family -- justified because it is a rare occasion of Family Bonding. Surely the Catholic school would approve of that, yes? We went up the DHL balloon which went up decently high and it is quite pleasant. Too bad the fog from the recent shower marred the already limited picturesque value of the Singapore skyline. Nevertheless! We found a shop that sold funny hats (score!), and it occurred to me that if we (being Charmaine, Matthew and Hazri) really wanted Milo dinosaurs and good prata post-library sessions, Arab Street is somewhat a walking distance away! HURRAH.

Friday, slept in late. Went to school/Hwa Chong for SYF rehearsals. Quite boring, being a button pusher. Dropped by my class'gathering, was really funny! And then in the words of Amanda Wingfield, Deception! Deception! Don't know when to feel more guilty - when in the act of deceiving, or the deception succeeding.

Saturday, back in school for a short stay during rehearsals - back to the laptop to fiddle with sound things. Met for lunch with family i.e. my cousin, Dhaniah. Later in the evening: Broadcast @ the Substation! I think the best local gig I've been too so far, simply because there was so much going on for $10 - oh HURRAH!, the Singaporean in me cries.

Nothing is more alluring than value-for-money.

Before the gigs, they screened some local shorts and there was this one that was REALLY very good. It was charming, funny and in a refreshing way, didn't take themselves too seriously? You know, as in the acting wasn't all consistently great but you can tell that they're cool with that. They didn't film it to be Cannes Film Fest material - they did it because they wanted to tell a story about the less than sparkling side of Singapore, in a fun and funny way. Kudos to that!

Bands to note cos they were brill and things! If you see one of the names and think, 'duh, I already know they're awesome', well, um, anyway!

- Life Without Dreams
Yeah I know their name sounds on the emo side of things, but what awesome shoegaze! Honestly, killer atmospheric experimental, (largely instrumental) electronic rock. I suppose not everybody liked it, cos including Dhaniah and myself, only 5 people were really getting into their sound but oh! After their second track, we concurred that their music makes you want to go to sleep to ascend to higher levels of..consciousness? I don't mean its very revelatory, but that if you really concentrate on their music, you become so aware of how rich and layered the music is, and there is only that sound that kind of lilts and lulls and lifts you along.

- Etc
ZOMGUH this band is superhilarious! Their songs are witty, in a dry deadpan way and so catchy in that UK music way. EBS people, janice especially if she is reading this, you guys will like them! Co-incidentally, they're playing at Arts House next Saturday *hint hint*

- the Stoned Revivals
Yes, everyone knows how great they are and yes, they are. I would give them the applauding commentary they deserve. But I am supremely annoyed that they DIDN'T STICK TO THEIR SET TIME LIMIT AND THEREFORE, PUSHED BACK ASTREAL'S SET WHICH WAS WHAT I WENT TO THE GIG FOR.
Like, I know you're good! We all know that! We like you! A lot! You played your 45 minutes! Move on!

- Astreal
Life is cruel. I could only stay for 20 minutes of their set before I had to drag myself away to catch the last bus and augh they were sounding so good. The last time I heard them was when I was with Zara at DesignEdge last year, and since then, have been wondering whether they are as great as my memory makes them out to be.

Well, my memory is right.

They sound great live and yes, the drummer is still very hot. And very engaged. *sigh*

Then Dhaniah came over to my place where we baked and souped for Mother's Day! Will post pictures soon! There was too much pumpkin.

Sunday sunday sunday, slept in, exhausted from the dough kneading. Watched waaaaaaaay too much television (but so so good), went to my grandma's for another family shindig that was typically pleasant but boring. Panicked over lack of work done, blogged.

The end.



Note: So if certain people are not mentioned in this entry, it's because I can't decide whether its blog or non-blog material. Just wanted to say that, in case that person is reading this.

OH I WILL STOP BEING CRYPTIC BECAUSE IT IS SO ANNOYING WHEN BLOGGERS ARE CRYPTIC. Last time, I promise!

Surely, I have something to say!




Right, how's this: the other day for PE, my friend and I were packed off to the gym. The reason being that we still could not land our standing broad jump well - and quite literally for me. I hit the 170s, but it seems that my center of gravity has claimed a permanent place of residence on my butt, because that's what I kept falling on.

It's just a tad awkward being the only two girls in the gym, doing funny leg exercise machine things in our short shorts while the guys muck around doing their own thing, occasionally grunting fraternal support and admiration to each other. Also interesting is that it looks a little absurd, this whole affair with exercise machines. As if we've been reduced to such a sedantary life that we need these bulky and complicated looking machines to develop basic muscles!

Our Little Art Class faced a traumatic event yesterday, when an art teacher from a certain established junior college, upon invitation from our own teacher, visted us for consultation services concerning our A level coursework.

So traumatic that we ended up coining the name the Fry Club for those who received her attention. I was spared fortunately, but those who weren't like Zara and Kenneth ended up even more confused than before, and primarily because once more, it triggered the whole structured institutionalized art vs. free art -- and no prizes for guessing which camp said visitor came from!

No guesses from which side I come from either.

I don't know, I just cannot understand why people would think that to get a good grade for the A Levels, you have to somehow sacrifice some extent of your creative will to give space for what the Cambridge People Want. I know you've heard this rant a gazillion times from me Zar, but augh the issue still makes me itch! What is the point of doing another hyper-realistic painting in *gasp* acrylic, when there are already so many around such that it looks like it was almost painted by the same person. It's all the same, and it's all very boring after awhile. I cannot understand the fear and paranoia that surround the whole issue! Notably, not quite the fault of the students, since it was first perpetuated by the teachers...it's times like this that I was so pleasantly surprised that our teacher, who we thought to be quite uptight, is somewhat liberal after all.

But you know, I suppose even after my whole DON'T BE AFRAID, JUST DO WHAT YOU WANT sentiments, I am aware that I might be risking (gasp!) a B and I'd be lying if I said it doesn't worry me..but I think that if I did get a grade lower than an A for the right reasons, I'd be okay with it. In this sense, it's not like the other A level subjects where you flop because you didn't work hard enough, or just messed up that crucial 90 minutes of essay-writing. Because at least your work will speak for itself you know, so to hell with what the examiners think cos after all, if you're going to work in an art-related industry, its the portfolio they look at more I should think, and not the grade.

Boy, am I glad I'm going to an industry where sneakers and not polished leather shoes patter about.

But still, I have faith in the Cambridge examiners - that they really aren't the pinched, narrow uber-traditionalists that they are made out to be, and can recognize skill, talent and effort when they see it. Let's give them some credit, right.

Right?

This weekend's theme must have been: Miscommunication.

Which is such a frustrating thing because it's essentially just unneccesary aggravation! I know I've said this so many times in the past 24 hours, but I can't help repeating myself because some neurone of mine thinks that if I keep repeating it, I'll stop feeling (aforementioned aggravation) it so much.

So, miscommunication yesterday and then, this morning as well! Whereby I turn up at Jurong library, quite frustrated at not being able to find Charmaine, having gone up and around the three levels, calling a handphone that refused to be picked up, only to find out that they were in fact, at the National Library at City Hall.

I spluttered massively in disbelief, and I'm telling you, I felt like crying.

Then I got caught in the rain.

I stood there in the rain, Coke in my hand, sipping it occasionally and thought: No. This cannot be happening.

Except that when I closed my eyes and opened them again, yup, still standing there, worrying whether Kate the Laptop will get wet in my bag, wondering why I never bring an umbrella with me even though it makes logical sense, wondering what I did to incur the wrath of God and the resulting smiting of uh, inconvenient rainfall, wondering if I should just turn around and head home, wondering why the rain was so early in the afternoon today.



I hate these hormone-induced mood swings!

Because you know what, despite all of the cruddy things that happened, I did actually have a nice weekend, more or less. Spent Saturday with my cousin, unexpectedly got a free ticket to see the SSO, was suitably and agreeably impressed by said concert, talked well with several people and and and.

Right, something I wrote:


Navigating along a familar route, it is rather odd how people can meander through paths, following a dotted line on a map that is seen only in the nanosecond moments when lids are pulled down over the eye in a blink. And as limbs and thought wander off on a different track, you see the many things that you see everyday. A part of the flattened image that wallpapers your perimeters: there, we have the dry grass and above, the bright and cloudless sky that from its great distance, is changing the green to brown. There, we have the red, silver, blue, black cars of generic make and there, the bus that rumbles along with flawed suspension, lopsided. There, we have the cracks on tarmac.

There, we have the lady who is waiting patiently for the temple to open its gates that are now speckled in pearly rust. Yesterday and like the many days before, she might have been sitting by the steps with crumbled edges, or by the roadside curb holding on to an old bag that in turn, hold on to its fruits and cakes. These items, asserted by our mortal tastes to be overripe and bland, will soon in an offering, be making their ascension to the heavens; the seams of the said bag meekly protest this, and slouch over the edge of the curb like a soft anchor.

Today, she is standing and stretching her arms, soft curves that arc into the sky and you wonder where her anchor is before realizing that it is already there. The gates are late today - the tending old man, who you suspect lives and sleeps in the temple, is still sweeping the grounds clear of the dust that sweeps in everyday.

You wonder what it is that she could be praying so hard for.


..........

On another note, the death of a friendship is so awkward to navigate through.

So what do I do now: do I still politely smile and make inconsequential small talk or twitch my hand in a passing wave or even bother putting on the veneer of cordiality or ignore you because why bother right or just ignore it because on my part at least, I've always sort of known it was like that except that now, the horse has said its word.

What, in the world, do you do with a corpse?

Notably, I have recently lapsed from putting up rambly posts that are both, something and nothing. Which got me wondering -- is it because *cue: collective speech bubble rising above all JC students* being in jc is so wholly draining, and that I am so absorbed in it, that I have not noticed anything else outside of our small, but insanely numerous school-related trifles?

Also, I think I'm a) getting too serious, and b) take myself too seriously.

Which in itself is quite ironic because I have recently found myself telling people to stop over-intellectualizing certain issues because it's so unneccesary etc. etc.

Right, I'm going to shut up my Pensive Voice now!

Today, I consumed a humongous amount of food. Oh oh remember when I used to compulsively make lists!

What I Ate Today
i. For lunch, at an Indonesian buffet
- Gado-gado: A not-so-vegetable based salad (haha!) of fried tempeh pieces [compressed and fermented soya beans], chunks of ketupat [tightly compressed rice - a rice cake, if you will], sauted cabbage things drenched in rich peanust-coconut gravy!

- 9 large and wonderfully fresh prawns. (Dhaniah! Where were you!)

- Greasy, but zomg: oxtail soup. I suppose some would find it a tad too salty for their palates, but I thought they balanced the blend of spice and mutton incredibly well

- Some noodle and soup thing; see description of soup above. Different soup, prawn stock this time, I think, but just as good.

- Rendang! This being almost always the highlight for me at any foodie session at any Malay family (or in usual cases, far-off distant relatives to whose events we are still invited to). For the uninitiated, this is chunks of beef that have been marinated, then simmered in a large pot of thick, calorie-ridden gravy of coconut and spices. It's really rich and because of the massive amount of time spent stewing over the stove, the meat is so tender it easily parts along the grain into individual STRIPS.

The buffet didn't do it so great though, but good enough for me to have several chunks.

- Tea

ii. at The Coffee Club with Charmaine and Ching Hong (alliteration!)

- A handful of Chachos nacho chips with cheese dip

- A tiny bag of Jelly Tots; I like the purple ones best! Is it strange that I've tasted so many things blackcurrant-flavoured, but not the actual currants itself?

iii. At Cedele/Ya Kun Kaya with Matthew

- Two thick heavy bagels dipped into his spinach chicken soup, which was better than anticipated but was too lazy to buy my own. Cedele has a great way of making dodgy sounding soups taste great! Carrot-coriander soup, for example! Love, love, love. But for the love of all baked goods and wholesome soups, I'd NEVER try the pea soup that they had today. EW!

But then arh, Cedele also cheated my feelings today! Said bagels were stated on the laminated labels to be cranberry bagels, hence, the reason why I bought them -- but they turned out to be plain! Wah lau! So it was like eating a whole loaf of white bread that was compressed into donut shapes.

Somehow, I always turn to Singlish when it comes for whinging petty grievances.

Mel: Which Cedele are you working at?

- a cup of teh susu/milky tea


So all I'm thinking is, how in the world am I going to run my NAPFA 2.4km run tomorrow at my goal of under 15:00min! Poop. What bad timing, I feel like a bloated whale.

In retrospect, I suppose I didn't eat that much - but ALL THOSE CALORIES FROM THE BUFFET. *dies*

Ho hum, pig's bum! I have yet to complete my lit essay that was due Wednesday, nor have I sufficiently prepped for tomorrow's informal debate on globalization. I think it's kinda strange that I have very little interest in the two topics of said due work: globalization and existentialistic musings. Not that I don't think them very important, but my brain seems to dismiss said issues after giving them a 5 second cursory glance.

Why, in the name of all things literary, do writers feel the need to expound, extensively, on the various perspectives of existence? Granted, maybe it might be just my ignorance making itself heard but HULLO, a lot of it sounds like a load of indulgent bovine scatology to me. Brilliant man summed it up in a few syllables: "Cogito ergo sum; I think, therefore I am." No need to write, or make us write lengthy essays about it! Why do you torture me so, essay awaiting to be written and it's 2:18AM!

Recently, I've been pre-occupied with trying to determine in concrete terms how I sound like when I speak*. Various friends would know this, seeing that I've been prodding them for answers at a perhaps, vaguely annoying frequency. Started thinking about it again when Matthew got annoyed by a Caucasian man sitting at the next table who was talking with a really strong accent. Which of course, is really hilarious I thought because you know, Matthew is half-white, (okay granted, pink when he's sunburnt or laughing), and has a not-very-local accent too.

And he's spent all his life, localized in Singapore. Not that he's ugh, one of those obnoxious expat kids that hang around Wheelock's Burger King - but okay la, he is a good specimen of cultural assimilation - YAY YOU! I suppose I will never understand this peeve of his though, as much as he won't understand why I really, and sincerely, wanted a rock from Africa/Cambodia when he went there.

A rock, you say rather incredulously.

Indeed!

At first, it was just a funny idea but if you think about it right, it does make sense. Why should a rock be a stupid/silly/ridiculous souvenier? And I'm not making a logical justification for the sake of it here, but really! A rock, would quite literally have been a PIECE OF AFRICA. Is that not cool, or what? Sure, a made-in-Africa trinket would be a piece of Africa as well, but in my head, it just doesn't seem as authentic. It's a piece of tourism. But a rock, and a random one from the streets at that! That's real, it goes beyond the commerce, beyond society - it's GEOLOGICAL. Like, it's always been there, nobody made it, it's a part of that gigantic continent AND IT'S SITTING ON MY DESK.

And the fact that a rock that probably looks like ordinary junk, sitting on my crappy laminated plywood has actually travelled thousands of kilometers from where human life sprung, is pretty mind-blowing.

Please agree with me, because he doesn't BUT I KNOW I'M RIGHT SO WHAT DO YOU MEAN I'M JUST BEING SILLY.

Good night all!





*Because once more, I am pensive over the fact that I don't sound malay at all, or so they say. Even Dhaniah, Hazri and Ili sound more malay than me!

If I don't sound malay, don't speak malay, don't hang around with many malay people outside my family, am not immersed in the traditional or urban malay mainstream culture, then HULLO the only malay thing about me is my skin colour.

Which is a pretty superficial reason to call myself a malay, I think. But then again, I suppose race as a concept in itself, is pretty superficial.

OH OH I LOVE YOU ALL!

I was actually meaning to keep this birthday rather low-key, and was not even intending to have the tiringly obligatory (and sometimes, trite) 18th Birthday post -- but you know, I have been having an awesome past few days so yeah, you guys really do deserve me saying that I appreciate it, and love you, individually and collectively, very very much.

*beams* The slushy tub of ice-cream with lit candles almost sinking into the depths of creamy Burnt Caramel is simply classic.

Right, this is the cue for me to hum a cheesy and chirpy showtune about close friendships that never, ever end! Eighteen's looking good.






#ADDITIONAL NOTE:
zomguh GENNIE are boys in canada really like this? (click this, quickly people!) http://scottage-cheese.livejournal.com/

Um, supreme hawtness. Also! Hazri, Jenn and other camwhore-philiacs, mark it! Brilliant photography, and somehow, all his friends would fit in an Abercrombie ad.

Now THAT'S successful eugenics.

#EDIT

Apprehensive!





I had a good day.

Apprehensive!

Cassia* blooms on the sidewalk

I lift my head, and look for
A falling foot;

My own strike the ground,
Grinding the ochre petals

Deeper into the concrete;
Delicate tissues and its crisp collapse! --

Putrid bruises will grow
Where my sole has rested;

But the expanse of wallpapered ground,
Of crushed blossoms too tense,

Stretches ahead and behind,
I am putrified.

I lift my head, and look for
The falling foot.




*Cassias are the trees that line the sidewalks of my housing estate, just so you know.
................................................................................


Right, that's the first thing I've seriously written in a long time since what, last September. Comments please - how is it, do you like it, or more importantly, do you get it? Because if you don't, then I'll quickly file it into the Bad, Embarrassing and Juvenile Poetry folder that if you must know, is quite bloated.

I think the problem is that I take myself too seriously.

Also a note to self: Must take care against reading too much Plath - her poetry fills my head with too weird imagery and discordent rhythms that leave me very unsettled.

Talking with Anisha and Zara today, and quite suddenly in the meanderings of the conversation, I realized that I really am quite angry, or frustrated, with rich people!

To be more specific, rich people who are hogging scholarships for the prestige.

Now I do realize that typing this on my three-month old laptop, this rant might stain a little of hypocrisy since I am no street urchin so to speak, but hear me out nonetheless. The thing is, and I am saying this out with no real figures but a good and strong general hunch of things, is that a lot of people out there who are getting the overseas scholarships are quite well off. A good portion of them I think, could have their daddy pay for their 4 years abroad without much financial burden. In other words, they don't quite need the scholarship, which might lead us to the conclusion that they do so for the Prestige.

Not exactly a revolutionary realization, I know. In Singapore after all, we do a lot for prestige. But I'm not quite sure you understand yet why I am so pissed.

What this means, is that the scholarship goes to a remarkably bright person who has had expensive tuition/enrichment classes for the whole of his life to go to a prestigious overseas universities that his parents could have paid for anyway. This then means, that out there, are a group of people who academically not as brilliant, but honestly REALLY cannot afford overseas education because the money has gone to someone who could and would have gone anyway sans scholarship!

Has it not occured to the scholarship giving organizations that the reason perhaps why there is an increasing rate of people breaking their bonds is because they are giving it to people who a) are rich enough to afford breaking their bond without being declared bankrupt for the say, 70 years of their entire life and, b) that therefore, hey, maybe they don't really NEED the scholarship after all?

I am not saying that the rich clever people do not deserve the scholarship because granted (haha!), they are academically brilliant, and I hope that you are not inferring from the direction this entry is going that I would like our education system to celebrate mediocrity, because I'm not.

What I think I'm saying is that the people who have been born financially advantaged, should maybe give some thought to those who aren't. Give them, or perhaps, what I'm trying to avoid saying is that, give me a chance okay because my parents can't afford to send me overseas and I wish people who don't need scholarships will stop hogging them. Ironically laughable how I'm preaching against selfishness when part of my motivation stems from the thought of self.

It was odd how suddenly this afternoon the whitewash of clouds descended down, smothering us in thick humidity and it was as if the clouds had swallowed all the air, almost.

Does anyone else think that the DNA-double-helix inspired bridge that will be constructed across the Singapore River looks more like a rope barricading the island's citizens from god knows what? Then again, we can't tell which side of the zoo cage we are on and I suppose anything is a psychiatrist's ink splot to be interpreted by the individual. Art does not mirror life, it mirrors the spectator; how very true, my dear Mr. Wilde.

I don't have much to say today, and am only stubbornly typing because I am sick of essays including the document that is waiting for me in the other window. I am quite tired of school in that I am tired of the work - I am bored. So much so that I am even looking forward to tomorrow's P.E physical conditioning session because my brain, being inactive then, will not be bored. On a side note, am getting marginally better at softball in that more often than not, I can catch it. Batting however, is another issue entirely although I am glad to say that it is an issue that I share with most of the class.

Strange thing is, I do have many things to say to certain people, except that I haven't seen said people in quite a while or even if I have, or will, somehow I never do end up talking about it so it's all swirling in my mind and sometimes on bus rides home, I have entire conversations with said people by myself. It is at once, a most gratifying and unsatisfying exercise.

I just found ants inside my empty packet of Snek Perisa Udang (read: terribly tasty and nutritionless prawn flavoured flour sticks). I think they'll die of MSG poisoning.

Has anyone ever considered that maybe a contributing reason why Islam is recently prone to being the baseground for shooting off wayward terrorists is that because our religion doesn't have a concrete, physical, human representative of the religion?

Right, I was flipping through some library books the other day when I came across a few things Aldous Huxley had to say about religion. Paraphrasing this almost verbatim here: Huxley sees the Christian doctrine of the Trinity from a naturalistic perspective. That the -

"God the Father represents the forces of nonhuman nature,
God the Holy Ghost symbolizes the ideals towards which human beings at their best are striving, and
God the Son personifies human nature as it actually exists – bridging the gulf between the other two by channeling natural forces into the pursuit of ideals."

Now in a sense, all religions we can safely generalize, embody the first two values. But Islam, apart from the vague effigy of the Prophet, lacks the human bridge needed to really connect the abstract concepts of religion and faith to the common man. Other people have huge statues of Jesus, Buddha and innumerable Hindu deities, and as some ignorant people would think, what do we have - a cube?

When you pray, let me ask, at the back of your mind, do you envision the physical representation of your own god? Sort of, right - hard not to when the visual image of the hanging body of Christ or the serenity of the Buddha has been emblazoned into your mind. Visual images are very underrated things, and are more influential in our psyche than people think. Transcending words, symbolism is the very core of our primal human selves. But when I pray, well, I honestly can't think of anything. Vaguely, I envision goodwill, but how in the world - it's just so vague!

Without that physical link that humans evidently need, I think it is easier for us to have difficulty in anchoring down the abstract concepts and sometimes, I think the wayward ones find their physical bridge so to speak, from charismatic but twisted extremist leaders. Simply because the leaders provide the certainty and answers that we all have difficulty in determining by ourselves.

So maybe that's why we have bomb-strapped people running around exploding themselves in the name of God - because the picture of God in their head has been completely warped.

So walking to the bus stop on the way to school this morning, I came across a truck unloading its cargo at our friendly neighbourhood NTUC. The bright and cheery logo painted on the side of the truck proclaimed itself to be an emmisary from Lucky Chicken.

"Well, that's very cute," I thought, before noticing that the uncles were unloading boxes and boxes of chicken breasts that were - I kid you not - glistening in their shrink-wrap packaging under the orange soda street lamps. All I can think of is: "The poor chickens - they think they're lucky. But they are so not."

In fact, a lucky chicken I would think, would be the free-ranging kind, away from the coops and geez, the person who named the firm must have some very odd sense of humour. I would like to meet him. Nevertheless, free-ranging chickens! They have wild chickens in the residential barracks/cottages of Seletar Air Base, and saw them flying around the last time I visited my ex-neighbour. Yes, chickens do fly! They fly for about a 100 m or so, 5m of the ground before landing in somebody else's backyard to poke around the compost heap that..may have remains of yesterday's poultry-based dinner.

O what a twisted world we live in!

But it makes me giggle.

Right, if you are wondering why I am in such an odd mood, it is possible that it is because a) I'm having my Common Tests and am quite certain that They will finally know that I have only be surviving through a series of flukes and then they will realize that I am not clever after all and then the world will end, and b) I got my Malay AO results today, and it is the epitome of mediocrity so am mildly disappointed and mildly apprehensive about telling the parents.

It was rather entertaining though, having the seniors come back to school today and seeing them all dressed up. I would just like to take this oppurtunity to state down, concretely, some things that I promise – on pain of death – that I will not do:

I will not, after the A Levels, consider it mandatory, or neccesary, or even in good taste, to suddenly take the release from JC as the green light to plant myself in some hairdresser’s chair and impose on my head some odd, trying-to-be-funky-but-failing-miserably haircut and colour. All I want to say is: Why? It looks awful, is quite cheesy and predictable by now, and to me personally, reeks a little of a sad desperation to rebel and be oh I don’t know, wilder than the two years being constrained in a Blu-Tack coloured uniform. I think it’s okay and great to for something new, and most importantly, something that looks good, but it seems that not many people are aware of this.

Fortunately, among the sea of botak-head guys in small baseball caps in jeans/berms/indiscernible bottoms, there was this one whom I would like to applaud for his remarkably sensitive awareness of colour schemes. He had on a striped multi-toned red shirt – which I always found to be a tad overused, but he worked it. And light blue jeans with a buckled belt – a denim wash that I dislike and a style I always thought to be a little to brash, but he worked it. And get this, CREAM loafers.

You don’t get 19 year old guys wearing cream loafers anymore!

And think about it: red, blue and cream – which in my mind, is quite a dodgy colour combination but he got it to work! Enough for me to overlook the fact that his shoes were a tad too pointy and his bag was yellow which absolutely did not go but kindly, I will ignore this since it was slung to the back so all I saw was a brown leather strap, which is okay, yes, what yellow bag? Sartorially impressive.

Oh so many botak-heads today, and I am detachedly amused by the caps that they are all don on their newly-shaven pate. I don’t know why they still wear the caps, its not that I can’t tell they’ve been shorn, and the caps don’t look good and I have as of yet to see a newly-shorn person and end up screaming in fear: “OH MY GOD you are ugly now get away from me!”

In fact, I am more likely to say, “Your hat is too small for your head.”

so, I am Charlie Brown's baseball team.

I say this with no irony at all, unless those in the know would like to point out that it is not baseball m'dear, it is softball. Which, as we all know, is a gigantahumongous misnomer since the ball (and this I say from physical experience) is not soft at all.

In fact, I am so pre-occupied with the contradictary nature of this name so much that it is probably why I cannot play it all. That, after the fact that I was also too pre-occupied with the grossness of feeling the slick-with-sweat cushioning of the catcher's mask against my face, and that it is also too heavy and is slipping of my head and I actually have to hold it up with one hand and WHOA - ball flying into my face!

Just how does one cope!

It is the most cruel game to impose on a person with no sense of hand-eye coordination whatsoever. Somehow, when I stick my gloved hand in the air, waiting for the recently propelled un-softball to fall into said thick gloves, well, it doesn't. It's a mystery that I've been trying hard to figure out. Sometimes, it falls just besides me, before taunting me and making me run by rolling a 100m away or so. To others, I am sure, it appears that I am (moronically) standing still but I am telling you my dear sirs! According to my spacial judgement, it looked like I was standing at the right place and at the right time for it to land into my hand!

Okay, save for the few times I closed my eyes the nanosecond before it is in graspable reach.

Maybe it's because as an art student, I'm used to seeing 3-dimensional stimuli and translating it into 2-D and my brain just cannot understand the thought process required for activities such as softball. I sympathize with my brain. After all, it must be hard trying to process such unfamiliar thought patterns while being overwhelmed by the instinctual thought of: FAST BALL COMING YOUR WAY! PHYSICAL PAIN RESULTING FROM COLLISION IMMINENT - RUN! RUN!

At least I can throw the ball pretty okay, I think.

I am Charlie Brown's baseball team.

But you see, the problem is that the distinguishing line between love and hate is dotted.

That's why I couldn't seriously pick anybody when I mused on the topic of who I'd pick to be with if stuck on a deserted island with a couple of friends today. The first notion of logic that comes to mind is that you'd pick people who you love, or love to be with (which is not quite the same thing), but then you realize that because you love them, you also know their very flaws and at least for me, that really means I know you well enough to hate you.

That's scary, isn't it? It's true as well, that I do feel vestiges of hate for the people I love at times. It's just that I love them a lot more for 99% of the time, and the moments when I get mad, or massively annoyed/pissed/infuriated at them, I have the propensity to hate them because in any situation, I feel more for said persons.

The question I would like to pose, since I can't answer it is: Who would you rather be - the person I love and possibly could hate, or a person I am absolutely indifferent about?

WARNING: MASSIVE FRANZ FERDINAND RAVING.
Turn away if you're sick of this already.


O curse my short term memory!

The FF concert was shit-awesome of course, all worries about lacklustre live-audio flying out of the window since the sound was so clear and tight in tune and pitch that you'd think it was a recording, save for the fact that alex kapranos missed a couple of lyrics which in the grand scale of things, everybody who was there says - WHO CARES.

Right, back to the short term memory point. Too quickly too quickly the experience is fading for my memory like the bruises on my knee and hips. All I have in my head are quick flashes of bright lights, alex being a complete and lovable slut *FANGIRL*, nick and his guitar with the broken string swinging about, and for one of the songs zomg they had three people on the drums, and the quiet bassist who tash and i tried to wave to just to I don't know, so he'd be more cheerier somehow, so before all of this fades from my old brain:

PLEASE PEOPLE WHO ARE MY FRIENDS AND TOOK PHOTOS THEN, SEND THEM TO ME! SOON!
This means dhaniah/shila, jenn and your friend yvette (ask her to add me on msn, yes?), jaaanice and pam goh, although i suppose she doesn't even read this blog.

At one point, alex was standing on the drums and I thought woah, is he going to jump off then he uh, kind of nimbly hopped off and i was like, eh?

But the white light that made them look like angels and then turning blood red when they played This Fire, the way they sauntered out knowing, like tash said, that they didn't need a opening act or even massive dramatic shindig to work the crowd. When they played the first few bars of crowd-pleaser songs (which is almost everthing, basically) and the crowd just surges and the atmosphere was just there and zomg, alex really knew how to work the crowd with his sneaky, flirty furtive looks and uh, tight pants. or when the atmosphere is just SO up there and nick just kills you with the slick guitar and he plays with this pale and feverish gleam, or paul i think is standing hitting the bass drums pounding out a steady beat for us to cheer the band back out from their short breather and breaking out into Your Diary.

(paragraph break!)

how alex spoke with a funny elvis-accent, which is supremely odd for a scottish man and by general consensus, nobody understood but it was funny and they were having fun so again, nobpdy cares. oh oh and when they did those guitar jumps, or when people were jumping in the mosh pit and you jump along and it's like you're being carried by a giant organism IT IS SO WEIRD. oh oh and they played all the songs I wanted to hear by the first half and could die happy already because you could tell they were all really into it, and not just playing for a bunch of fans from a tiny speck of an island. hand punching and pointing in unision, screaming the words to the songs but you can't hear yourself anyway and then falling into captive silence when the song falls into a slow and soft catch and you can just see everybody watching the single notes and syllables flowing from the band like spheres of sound. Oh the bridge for Walk Away and That Was Easy were like that.

(oh come on, I must remember more than this!)

Hm, at some point in between songs, alex mentioned something about 'stirrings in his nether-regions'. I'm pretty sure I didn't imagine that, really! And for the love of everything in a flowery shirt and striped pants, I can't remember what led him to say that, or what he said afterwards.

I love that they made theatrical stage bows that were dignified in their own way, and did not smash one guitar at all throughout the whole thing because I honestly don't understand how musicians can bear to do that. Even though this entire entry quite shows that I have massive leanings towards Alex Kapranos fangirlhood, you know, we really were all there for the music.

Which was brilliant, and I don't think anything in 2006 can top that sweaty and cramped hour and half being hardly a meter away from FF although I would very much like to beg the Powers That Be to try, because man! If the peak of this year is in February, what does that say about the next 10 months?

So many times, I just wanted to close my eyes and enjoy the music the way I do with my earphones plugged into my ears in a closed and empty room but could only bear to close my eyes for 3 seconds each time because the nanasecond-thought of missing anything would immediately send my eyelids flying up.

Oh and when alex stand-curls around the mike stand and his light blue eyes glint under the spotlights singing slowly:
"You can feel my lips undress your eyes
Undress your eyes, undress your eyes
Words of love, words so leisured
Words are poisoned darts of pleasure"

Things that you can only see from a live performance, things that made the $90 so very very worth it. Somehow, I must convince you readers that I am not that massive a rabid fangirl, and even though I have vestiges of that, it's not the main point of this entry or why it was so brilliant.

It was the performance in itself, and these musicians with such a fresh sound, with an audience, a convention of like-minded souls you know? I suppose you have to admit that it is a form of idol worship although that makes me think of *shudder* Taiwanese boybands because for a long while, you've only known the band and their music and brilliance through indirect contact like cds and what, blog posts on their official site. and suddenly, their RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU. Slight underexaggeration to say that things like that don't happen all the time and yes, again I suppose you could blame the celebrity culture that we have right now. But above all, it's just you want to know and meet the people that you think are incredibly talented because gosh, I'm sure they're pretty interesting people aren't they?

AND EVERYBODY WHO GOT TO
A) SHAKE HANDS
B) GET AN AUTOGRAPH
C) MANAGED TO PROCURE SUBSTANTIAL PIECE OF STAGE DEBRIS LIKE DRUMSTICKS AND GUITAR PICKS
D)STALKED THEM BACK TO THE HOTEL AND HAD MAD WILD ORGIES INVOLVING SINGAPOREAN FOOD

DON'T TELL ME OKAY. I WILL KILL YOU WITH MY UH, SMELLY CLOTHES THAT ARE STILL WAITING IN THE LAUNDRY BASKET. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED.


My phone is so battered from the mosh pit it wants to cry.
Oh oh I don't want to forget so soon - come back neurones, come back!

One of the nice things about having an mp3 player and receiving too many songs to keep track is that sometimes, you are suddenly pleasantly surprised when you find an awesome song in your player that you didn't know even was in there. Today, that song is:

Kite
I hid myself from failure and fear
O my dear you're a threat to the bad in us all
They tell themselves that each word from your lips
Or the grace in your eyes overcomes any fall

Over the twilight you're listening for me
Darling, go to sleep
Cradled by moonlight, I'm dreaming we'll be
Loved so deep

Floating and fighting, like a kite on a string
Till you cut through my tether and changed everything
From the sky you looked small, but I loved you the same
So I darted back quickly to spell out your name
And when they say that I'm just a terrible kite
You'll tell them you're proud of my marvelous flight

Don't hide yourself inside till I'm old
O my dear you're a threat to the bad we all see
I'm beside myself for the touch of your lips
Or the grace of your eyes that can see good in me

Over the twilight you're listening for me
Darling, go to sleep
Cradled by moonlight, I'm dreaming we'll be
Loved so deep

Floating and fighting, like a kite on a string
Till you cut through my tether and changed everything
From the sky you looked small, but I loved you the same
So I darted back quickly to spell out your name
And when they say that I'm just a terrible kite
You'll tell them you're proud of my marvelous flight

- Copeland.

It sounds like a beautiful and sad lullaby, and lovely lyrics.

Thanks (insert name here) for sending it to me!

i have a sudden craving for blueberry waffles. and not the fancy-schmancy gelare kind mind you, i miss the good old heartland bakery kind so it is with much sadness and longing that i announce that the Nagoya Bakery at Teck Whye Lane has closed down.

i suppose it means nothing to you, but oh that was a place for cheap birthday cakes that always looked better than they tasted as i would find out every time when i was able to convince my parents to buy me a small mini-cake slice, the kind that has a tasteless wafer biscuit shaped as a disturbingly distorted dwarf. i won't be able to trace my name (the narcissism! the narcissism!) anymore in the condensation of the chiller while waiting for my waffles, or choose candles that eventually end up dusty at the bottom of the kitchen drawer.

NO MORE WAFFLES FOR BREAKFAST.

who says Singapore beaches are ugly?



so while the majority of the singaporean population triapsed around the island trading (at times) mouldy citrus fruits and collectively bemoaning the torturous activity that is visiting relatives you hardly know AND don't quite wish to know, I spent the monday "camping" at east coast.

I've said this to people many times, but only because it's true: on holidays where malays are generally excluded (i.e. christmas and CNY), the beach becomes this happy refugee camp! half the malay population comes to congregate along the shoreline with their respective families and if people say that the kampong days are gone - well, they're mistaken. all that's missing is a couple of running chickens and the fact that instead of attap houses, you have nylon tents that sprout suddenly like garish mushrooms. it's our malay blood answering the call of our orang laut roots!

anyhow, it was quite nice i suppose despite having to constantly worry about rain since the sky was dangerously grey and dim. food was good - think i undercooked prawns though, had a stomachache the next morning.

but yes, back to beach scenery!



what might the retreating wave reveal?



a washed-up cottony bra, of course!



or a rubber sandal.

but seriously though, as gross as the bra is, the beach does have some merits depending what kind of perspective you decide to take. sure, it's not brilliantly pretty, but what it lacks in sparkling marine wildlife, it makes up for..interesting litter. i say this with no sarcasm.


a massive entanglement of junk.
from the perspective of an art student, it's brilliant texture - wish i had got a sharper shot, but was pre-occupied with not getting camera wet, so!






I get annoyed by people sometimes who say with vehemence that Singapore is ugly. evidently, i disagree - there's a lot of beauty around here, you just need to be more open to the other definitions that it can take. not everything has to be sprawling pastoral lands or neo-classical architecture (hah i don't even know what neo-classical means!); our old and slightly mouldy hdb estates are beautiful in their own dank way, just like how the vines growing over construction boardings are beautiful as well.

like how there are actually TREES (ok, saplings) growing in the underground drains of matthew's hdb estate and that they peep through the metal gratings, or that the dandelions and small weeds growing by janice's estate cheer me up a lot more than the trimmed lawns of her neighbours. today while waiting for her, i was plucking the dandelions to uh, blow when i noticed a yellow stain on my fingers. turned out to be (i think) aphids! so queer - but they were brilliantly yellow with black spots.

there is beauty.