Today's Muse: The Dust Menagerie

I had no idea I had so much rubbish lying around.

Packing my room is proving to be ridiculously difficult. I am half-tempted to just burn it all and start over.

At first I would look at something and think, "Well, I could use that." and "This needs to be scrapbooked" etc. etc. I got nowhere, of course. Telling that little sentimental bit of me to whine somewhere else, I threw out half-a-ton of garbarge with all the ruthlessness of... I don't know. I am bloody tired, that's what.

Sleeping doesn't help anymore; I wake up feeling more exhausted then ever. It's the dreaming. Vivid, intensely-coloured dreams. Nonsensical stuff. Pints of cream. Mirror shards. Horses on upside-down circus tents. My brain refuses to settle at night, and seems to go to sleep during the day.

All around me people are preparing for something; moving, exams, work, doomsday, birth, etc. Looking to the future; planning for tomorrow. On the news one is bombarded by the apparently ever-increasing problems... God, this is worst than my nine-year-old attempt at philosophy.

And through it all, I am simply apathatic towards the whole issue. Issues. There are two layers, y'see, the Outer, and the Inner. More superficial feelings, like the gratification at finally getting that book, or laughing with friends, are of the outer. The core, the inner, are for deep-seated emotions, like, love I suppose. (Love is very much up to arguement; we haven't stopped debating.)

Superficially I function superbly. I laugh, I cry, I get angry. But underneath it all I feel apathatic. Towards the impending exams, I just feel as though I don't care. The future in general, I couldn't care less. An irresponsible motion, of course.

How many words can one use to describe emptiness?

This is supposed to be Nirvana; one feels no pain, one feels no hapiness.

It isn't. The core still can be affected; I just am more aware of the empty periods. Oof. This is ridiculous; mountains out of molehills.

Today was salvaged by the words "meadowsweet" and "jiggery-pokery", courtesy of Times-Chambers 1993.

I smell of rotting cardboard, fried mushrooms, steeped tea and old books.

I'm moving up to the new apartment next weekend, before the exams start proper. Horrible place. Not much of a choice, so to make the best of it.

Broadband died. Am working on dial-up. Bothersome.

Ugh. Waste of time.

So I surveyed my desk; the stacks of half-finished papers, the mess of pens I hardly use, the still unfinished letter. I took up my pen to write in that blasted thing, then put it down again.

I sat on the floor instead, and looked around my room. My nest. The books; LKY's memoir next to the Batman, Sophie's World stacked with my Tang poem collection. A print of a girl in a red wedding dress, an explosion of moths on pastel green, and a mirror hang on the walls. The dust is a fine carpet.

And suddenly I hear myself ask: Who am I performing for?

The one face that comes to mind, that face will never see me. .

On an almost related note, I refuse to come near this blasted thing until I'm sure. That will be approximately 16 days.

Good night.

Today's muse: The one-legged porcelain rabbit

Urgh. My eyes are threatening to explode. I've been preparing for next week's English lectures, Social Studies mock-up and the 'O' Level Practical. Giving the eyes a break, so I logged on.

Let us all move away from our computer screens and laugh at the sheer absurdity of this.

Done laughing? Good, good.

I looked over and realized I hadn't made a single comment about graduation back on Thursday. The Horror! What is she thinking, not writing about such a momentous event?

I didn't really feel anything. Except perhaps for itchy irritation at that Vitamin C song that will never be allowed to die as long as there are graduations. It became a little tedious, really, having people go "It's our last day!" and cameras going off everywhere and all the time, as well as having to write in autograph books. The last bit is alright, unless you're given five minutes to look like you've made a genuine effort because it has to go to another class.

It makes little sense; we're all seeing each other for all those extra lessons and the actual exams. The internet makes communication horrendously convenient - "Hey, did you reply to my message yet?"

Or, maybe, to quote Dial M for Murder:

"It's delayed reaction, darling. In a few days you're going to have the most wonderful breakdown."

For now, I'm more concerned with getting through the sodding 'O' Levels.

To my youngest of nieces:

I love you, because you are so easy to love.

But I worry; does that mean my love is worthless?

I love you for your youth and your beauty.

I loved your cousins in the same way too, for their youth and beauty, for the potential in each of them. Then they grew older, and dreams fell to waste. I still love them, your cousins, but too often that love is overshadowed with dislike. I dislike their noise, their demands, their new fears.

Perhaps it is because I too am older, and I have forgotten what it was like to be little.

When you grow older, will this dislike also fall on you?

I love you for your unflinching wonder at the world. I love you for your refusal to cry when you are afraid or when you are denied. I love the way you smoosh my lunch whilst in my lap; I don't mind you making a mess. I love how you laugh when I swing you, even though it kills my back. I love how you look at my comic shelf, and how serious you become when I read to you your choice. I love the fact that, unlike your cousins, you see no need to pull the books off the shelf.

I love how you are so frugal with hugs; making each one you do give out seem all the more precious. I love how you dance to whatever I put on, be it the Gu Zhen or the Gorillaz. I love how you come to me with CD in hand, and I have to tell you, " You can listen to that when you're old enough to swear." I love watching you watch the cat, you observing him with every fibre of your being.

I love so much about you, because you are so easy to love. And I fear the day when it no longer is so easy.

Hopefully that day will never come.

Your Auntie 'toria,
Who loves you even though you just smashed her Abe Sapien action figure
and killed her back.

Finally got out of the house today. I was starting to see melting hands coming out of walls.

It was only for about an hour and a half, and stupid uncreative goblin I am, I opted to go to Orchard Road. It wasn't that nightmarish, but I appeared to have forgotten what happens to the place on Friday evenings.

I did find that hairy little CD at Borders, though, so it's all good.

The comic section at the library is getting too crowded.

I actually hadn't planned to stop there, seeing as I am not supposed to have any time to spare for even reading what with revision. But I was plugged into my new CD and my feet sort of just carried me there. I swear, I know the way so well I could find the way there if I was drunk and gibbering. Or with my eyes closed. Whichever is legal.

So, I found myself standing there, and someone telling me to please move so I wouldn't block the television (It's a library, stranger, why are you watching TV here?). I had to restrain myself from heading for that delicious little fiction section they have.

The comic section at the library in Takashimaya is a two-unit shelving affair; cozy on good days and infernally cramped on bad. Books are literally spilling off the shelves; stacked on top of each other and whatnot. Most of them are hard-cover copies of "Spirit", but there are gems.

Sure, having more people reading comics is great - more incentive for comics besides Marvel and DC to be brought in. But I prefer being able to browse without having my eye nearly taken out by a hard-cover from the top shelf. Four times.

Hairy little CD, girlie. It's all good, remember.

Pet peeve of the moment: Classification according to music preferences. I like Chinese classical, choral pieces, something people call "punk" (I've affectionately nicknamed it "mind-numbing music for getting through calculus"), showtunes, reggae, J-pop (or rock, I haven't a clue), and I have the Pokemon movie soundtrack from a gazillion years ago.

Does that make me a J-metal-meat-goblin-punk-hairy-kiki-thingamajig? I suppose it does.

That, by the way, dictates I must wear plaid underwear on top of my ripped khaki shorts and net shirts with frilly lolita bras. Oh, and wear black eyeliner as lipstick. (Scarily enough, the eyeliner thing is based on a true story. Apparently it's darker than real lipstick.)

Oh, and "friended" is not a bloody word.

It happened! It finally happened!

My sodding right arm has seized up. Smack dab in the middle of revision, too. Strange feeling typing with my left.

There are alien-sounding sounds coming from upstairs.

Today's muse: Monies Pig

The house is empty.

One minute it's filled to the brim with strangely multiplying relatives whom you love yet find very quickly you hate, the next they've all trooped up to that godawful house you'll have to move into in three weeks.

Can you not feel my glee radiating through the screen?

It's only for the weekend, but I can't stop giggling at the prospect of actually getting decent work done, in peace and quiet.

My eyes are burning... I've been working on an essay since last night.

Still no end in sight for that letter.

[insert expletives here]

Still haven't finished that sodding letter.

Corpse Bride VS Fillerbunny (Read: Burton VS Vasquez)

Filler won hands down.

Corpse Bride put up a valiant fight, but in the end it was the suffering of a suicidal bunny that drove me out of my slump.

Get the book now, you sad people.

Today's Muse : Dough-Cat-in-a-Jar

Someone asked if the poem "Green/Red" was in reference to the girls who fantasised about my little brother.

Um, no. Geez.

It is disturbing to think about, but... I don't. Not really. Occasionally I put on the obligatory show of shock/horror/outrage to amuse and entice giggles. But the entire issue is moot, really. These girls will move on to dreaming about other people.

The poem is a undisciplined, confusing mess. When I write poems I don't think, which is the problem, to me. I just aim to purge whatever feelings I have at the time in as few words as possible.

Because of that, stupid me, I told someone I didn't write it. Ach.

What is the poem about?

The empty space in the centre of a chestnut.

Well, you learn something new everyday.

Earlier I was struggling (And Sundays are not struggling days) to pull the doopik from the whatchamacallit using the Blah-thingy-thing and smoosh em onto CD.
In other words, extract audio from video and convert that to listenables for conventional CD-players.

At the end of it all, I gleefully waited as the CD-player whirred and hummed and... died.

Today I learnt: CD-players cannot play CD-rewritables, stoopid. Wasting all that time.

I also learnt that not many people like Gamecube. Wooja.

Reading: Treehouse
Listening: click-click-click went sole against wood

Green/Red

Is it so hard? Apathy is the name of the game.
To roll the die, move past Go
Flip the cards, and then you'll know
Press the button, move your chip
Kill your foe, don't let slip
your grasp on reality with
no lights and Re-starts.

Apathy is the name of the Game.

So you know his name.
You don't know him.
You know his birth.
You don't know him.

You know he likes Skittles (especially the green ones)
You know all his puns (especially the bad ones)
You have his pictures
scoured from hundreds of places.
Stolen.
You can rattle off his works
You know the joke behind "spork!"
You know his mind (at least the one on display)
You know he thinks he's immortal.

You don't know him.

You may come to know his death
You may come to know his dearth

But you will never know him.

Apathy is the name of the game.

Stop trying with sweat and tears and
never blood
You don't know him.

Half-hearted goodness brought to you by Delusions Ltd.

By a dream dreamt so lovely but will never ever be.

In response to a query: Yes, I am in the middle of my preliminary examinations.
No, I will not, as you say, "bitch" about them online.
Glad we cleared that up.

On to more pleasant things.

I've been dreaming a lot recently - or perhaps I remember my dreams more often these days. When I was younger I hated dreaming; they were always so vivid, and when I woke I was always exhausted. Not to say that they were not pleasant. I was just vaguely annoyed.

So, one night I asked the sky to stop the dreams.

Sounds romantic, but it was more like "Dear Buddha- er God- um, someone out there..." while sticking my seven-year-old neck out the window of our apartment.

So, for about nine years I slept without dreams. More or less.

Then they came back. They no longer irritate me - they disturb, yes. But they became a sort of comfort. Dull sense of contentment.

I love this site. Where were you all my pain-filled years of fanfic agony?

http://www.godawful.net/forums/index.php

I thank thee. I know I am not alone.

Reading: Daredevil: Yellow
Listening: A Perfect Circle, which is conveniently stuck in my head.

Good grief.

I thought such childish bickering was regaled to the playground.

It appears, that in any online conflict, at least one (who am I kidding? Just one?) person will fall back upon tired cliches and stereotypes - "All Singaporeans are brainwashed by their government" ; " All Malaysians are uncouth" etc. , etc. , etc.

I am referring, to the furor generated over a certain "XiaXue" (Rather vulgar sometimes, IMO, but an interesting experiment). More specifically, a post on said girl's blog on a recent trip to KL, Malaysia.

Just my humble two-cents ( Hell, I don't even know if I'll publish this)~

It seems to me several angry comments came from people who had not read the post thoroughly - and I'm not just referring to "XiaXue"s post, but other blogs which responded. Most, very simply, took the post(s) as personal insults and/or an excuse (apologies, not excuse, blight) to go up in arms (we all get bored from time to time, ne?). Most of the comments smacked of not thinking. Brainless, fueled by overrated emotions.

Perhaps, (but I wade too deep) using this to re-direct fustration at something else; an outlet. What better place than the internet, where anonymity protects you?

Secondly, "XiaXue" should have expected the backlash - and I believe she did - and, perhaps gone about complaining about her holiday a different way. Yes, it is her blog and she is free to do what she wants, its a free country and all that.
Democracy, freedom of speech - all useless unless tempered with sense. Although they champion the rights of the individual, a society cannot function if one follows these ideals rigidly. One must, must take into account the others - they and one are the society.

Anyway, in a girl such as "XiaXue" (of exceeding sense) one cannot help but wonder if the backlash was, for lack of a better word, welcomed. I tread on delicate ground here - after all, "XiaXue" has been proven to revel in attention, good and bad (though, in this case, it might have been too extreme - the comments). Another piece of evidence is her tendency to devote postings to rebut comments - if she truly did not care, was sure that she made herself clear in the original post, would she do so? All of us care about how others percive us, it is a trait very few of us can shrug off.

Another note- the language used was (I do apologise, and I know some will use the wearing-a-short-skirt-in-Geylang-but-molesting-is-still-a-crime argument. The two are different, friends, despite the disclaimer in that post. Or the two might be parallels but - another day) already dangerously provoking. Calling the city names. Good grief.

But some of the comments weren't any better. Name-calling, and out came the Barney Bag of old, tired, insults. But it will never end, even as new postings replace current ones, and new issues take over.

I was born in Singapore. I spent the best bit of my childhood in Malaysia. My father is Singaporean, my mother hails from Malaysia. I have older brothers and sisters born and bred from both sides of the causeway.

I dream of both.

Good grief. Emotion : There are more important things to worry about, people. Like new Orleans. Or South Africa. Or people suffering in your own backyard, whom anyone can help. ANYONE.

Rationale: Oh, Missy, you won't change a thing. Let the people swearing and calling each other names play. Stupid girl, there are more important things to worry about.

I once told someone that blogs were a waste of time, created to express a wish for others to understand their intentions without them actually having to confront said others, which ultimately belied a sense of insecurity.

Said someone nodded sagely, then set off to create one for me.

Well, not for me persay. He made one for near everyone in the group, and posted posing as them. For mine, he drew upon my letters (he was the old penpal mentioned somewhere below). To his credit, he never posted anything too personal. To his un-credit, he tried to use it to "solve" some issues I had at the time... kiddy angst crap he actually took seriously.

Stupid beyond stupid. Using other people's conflict so as to run from his own. Hmph.

In many cases I see adolescents using online diaries to aim their fustration at someone - stemming from an unwillingness? fear? of confronting them in person. Not that it is easy, of course. But the whole thing reeks of... something stinky.

Anyways, he gave the blog to me. After fiddling with the address I settled on the original one he gave it : clove-dom. The name itself arose from some RPG with them all...

I found myself tearing the other day for no good reason. I was walking home, and I stopped at the spot just under the tree at the corner. A vehemently large spider had taken up there, and its web was about two metres tall, and about a metre wide. Day after day, no matter how vicious the weather, I always found it there, clinging.

But that day the rain had been particularly heavy.

And, stupid stupid girl, I stood there in my school uniform with my heavy-assed bag and glasses askew, and actually teared. I had told myself everyday I had seen it that it would eventually disappear - nothing can last forever. Over and over, it will soon be gone.

I don't really know why I did that. Perhaps it just triggered something. Thought of Sarah. Why I don't really want to establish contact again.

Sarah was my best friend at St. Christopher's in Peneng. Warm memories, with muted colours, bit soft around the edges... that's what I remember. Of course there were the moment when I felt like a heel and the more exicting moments (like the motorcycle slamming into the car - woo). Partners in crime - we'd conspire to steal more chocolate under our mom's noses; late-night confessions - I had been carrying around the guilt of stealing crotons from the salad bar (croutons, for crying out loud); playing house using the SCS bushes - Sarah would pray and I'd recite. (in the church/temple/Sunday place)

Then we moved - Sarah back to France, I to Singapore. We wrote to each other, but as we grew older the letters stopped coming and going. But I don't really want to change this. I'm afraid that things would have changed too much, nothing like the old friendship. I don't really want the memories to be marred. We both grew up in different worlds - and I fear that we may have changed far too much for each other.

Just like the others.

Of course, if I did get ahold of her e-mail or sumfink, or if she messaged me, no way I'd pass it up. A bit of an oxymoron.

I'm just a little afraid, that all.

Nostalgia is such is soft word.

Abe came while I was in the pool.

Baby Lizzy was visiting, and Kim, being the useless lump he was, refused to strip down to his shorts to take her swimming. (self-conscious, aint he?) So I ended up holding the baby while she trashed about. Had the time of her short life.

Then the package arrived.

WHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!11!!

I couldn't open the damn plastic cover thing, so out came the scissors. Multilated the plastic, but who cares? But when I pulled Abe out from the unyielding plastic I nearly screamed.

HE. HAD. NO. HEAD.

It was still stuck in there, but for a long minute I stared stupidly at headless Abe, wondering what I could do to sue. Ach. Right now he's watching me type this out.

Made my day, really. Hum hummy hum...

Hungry.

I emailed someone just now :

ABE'S HERE!!

And the reply:

"Oooo, when's abey comin?"

I swear, I almost smashed the keyboard.
Dooby doo wap.

Hm. I finally told my dad.

It was about half-past nine on Friday night, and I was still waiting for the post to arrive with my package. I took out "B.P.R.D. : Plague of Frogs" TPB to pass the time and whined about the mail system in general... so my dad looked up from his book and asked what was arriving.

So that led to an summarisation of entire Mike Mignola, Hellboy and B.P.R.D. universe, and him flipping through my two B.P.R.D. TPBs...

"That's Johann, he was a German psychic, you know, connect with the dead and all that? Yeah, he was out of his body when it was burnt to bits, so he's not dead persay. Just doesn't have a body.

Flip, flip.

"Hm. Who's that?"

"That's Johann, Dad."

And:

"So this is Abe Sapien?"

"No Dad. That's Johann. Abe is this guy, the fish-man."

"Oh. Ugh. Ugly."

But he was really interested. He did get a little worried about the paranormal aspect ("You... don't get nightmares?"), but that's Dad.

He reads stuff on Afterlife theories and Nostradamus and quantam physics. Not that Dad is a nut-freak about this stuff. In fact, he's pretty much the opposite, a pretty quiet guy who likes his Chinese teapots and stays away from crowds. He... hoards things, including infomation, useless bits of miscelly. I get that from him.
We both like to think we can use all that junk someday.

My Mum was nearby listening, and contributing a snort or two in her amused motherly fashion. I kept talking, even when Dad got up and brushed his teeth, and lay down, and closed his eyes...

Later, I overheard Mum and Dad speaking:

"So that's what she's been doing with her time. So complicated. They don't have simple stories anymore, like when we were children."

"Well, uh, it's okay. It's like science fiction, you know... *snore*"

At this point I stuck my head round the door and said:

"Um, by the way, I'd like to marry this Abe Sapien."

Dad nodded, and Mum, without looking up from her book:

"Well, if you find him and bring him home first, than you can do what you want.

And don't step on your brother on the way out."

I wish I was allowed to just stay home and study. No school commitments, no blasted tip-toeing about, no just sitting there doing something bloody useless.

Let me have my life back, please, so I can make proper use of it.

Ach. On to other things.

Imagine, if you will, a house. A house with white-washed walls, with mismatched furniture (but a very handsome dining table), with every available surface cluttered with brick-and-brack : a memento from the late ex-president, photographs of all but one, baking tins, feathered balls, terracotta teapots, books on everything from Mao to corn, newspapers, and a hundred little pieces waiting to be put into place.

Imagine, if you will, all the windows opened as far as they will go. Beyond them are clothes, bright, clinging to their bamboo poles. Beyond that, an acid-green wire fence bent and beaten. Beyond that, a field, with trees twisted and gnarled reaching for the clouds, with a clump of bamboo in a corner, leaves a-dancing in the sharp wind.

Imagine, if you will, sitting on the back veranda, with the hose at your side like the faithful canine, the battered washing machine at your elbow, grumbling with it's load. You're balanced - precariously - on the weathered railing, toes gripping the bars, watching the wind slap at the wet clothes, while the chimes tinkle above your head.

Imagine, if you will, a bundle of black and white just barely squeezing under the fence, then leaping out into the open space. His body responds naturally to the ground beneath his paws, and he runs, with a grace and economy you can only admire, as the tags "fat" and "lazy" melt away along with the sound of his collars bell.

Imagine, if you will, the unmistakable scent of spice in your head, coming from the simmering pot on the stove in the kitchen just behind you. You hear your mother doing mother-like things - her nagging to get down from there before you break your back just washes over you like a warm wave, a reminder of her comfortable presence. Your father is tinkering with yet another antique - is that the 'ping!' of the typewriter you hear?

Imagine, if you will, the sun warm on your legs, while flies go bz-bz-bz around, and you slap at your skin with practiced boredom. Now and then you squash one, your blood red on your palm, and you squash too your glee and mumble a prayer for the mozzie's soul.

Imagine, if you will.

And that sums up why I love Sundays.

Happy National Day, Singapore.

Love you.

And in other news:

I ORDERED MY ABE SAPIEN ACTION FIGURE FROM EBAY.

*prostates before oh-so-generous-older-brother*

Wish he'd come back from China... but absence does make the heart grow fonder.