Today's Muse: The Flashing Eyebrows - Whose bright idea was this?

Just a quick foray into reality:

I have several projects going on, along with the tutoring job and the "volunteer" editing job down at St. Marg's. One of which is a book project with Nicole I'm hoping to pump out by June next year. I've been grabbing every moment I can like some greedy grotesque baby working on the draft script.

Right now the aforementioned editing work is all gobbly-gook. It's a lot of fun, actually, being stuck in a room full of computers and piles and piles of paper trying to help put together a book due ages ago. What with the screaming and the spasms on the floor and the fucked-up formatting and the obscene talk and the occasional torn off limb. I hope all of you have a chance to experience something like it. Hey, I've only been doing it for a week. Poor Natra has been in there every day for a month.

I've also got a couple of personal projects going on - the robotic panda, An Exercise in Vanity plus An Exercise in Obsession. I've also got Popular Culture: A Reader, which I really want to finish reading.

Then there's the matter of where I' m headed for further studies.

It's very satisfying, to be so very busy. "A great hunger of Man, besides Love, is the hunger for Work." I don't know about love, but the appetite for work is certainly something I know intimately. I always need to be doing something. I can't meditate; 24/7 I'm playing with some idea or scenerio in my head, even when I'm working on something else.

Off to write.

Today's Muse: I seemed to have gnawed off my - OH HOLY SHIT.

I keep a baseball bat next to my bed, within easy reach, along with my screwdriver set and my glasses. The bat is a light, purple plastic affair, well-weathered and broken in. It is held in place, when not in use, by a metal-wrought frame next to the head of my bed.

It's there just in case.

Not in case someone attempts to kill me while I'm in bed, no no. Just in case that night is, the night.

The night when I go away.

When I was a wee chit of a Missy, I used to wait up at night in my bed with the covers pulled up to my chin. Waiting to be taken away to some far-off land, some new fantastical world. Like the children in The Chronicles of Narnia, or the kids in Digimon Adventures, or even the hapless chap in The War of the Flowers. I wanted so much to be whisked off in a blaze of light to terrifying and outlandish realms, armed with only the head on my shoulders.

I wanted an adventure.

Every night I would wait. I would wait, and play out all possible scenerios in my tiny fanatical brain: What to do if I was confronted by a beast with dripping fangs? (Duck, and run, avoid trees) What to do if faced with a royal execution? (This one I'm not sure. Pee, maybe.)

So I started to prepare. I would place things I felt I might need within grabbing reach. At one point, this grew to include a coil of nylon rope, a bloody heavy torch (which doubled as a weapon) and a box of matches. With this, I waited.

And I waited.

I grew older. I knew it was futile. But somewhere inside this tiny, fanatical brain of mine a small, tinny voice kept at it: "You never know! It might happen! Best to be prepared, you don't want to be caught unawares!"

So, I keep a baseball bat next to my bed, along with a screwdriver set and my glasses.

And I crawl, each night, into bed to wait.

Always good to be prepared.

Today's Muse: The Television

I have to admit, the Narnia movie does look good. But then, so did the Corpse Bride. All pretty but hollow.

Off to shop.

Today's Muse: Tin Soldier

I dream of dragons and wyverns and chimeras and golems. I dream of being whisked to unfamiliar worlds, with only wit to guide me. I dream of soaring above cities teeming with bodies; faces upturned and open-mouthed as I throw a wink and dash off into the clouds.

I dream of climbing out my window and scaling the building facade up to the roof. I dream of leaping from tree to lamp-post to tree down the shopping district. I dream of finally jumping over the wire fence into the old school compound next door, exploring the bits I can't see from my window.

I dream of growing gills and diving deep, deep, deep. I dream of fusing myself into the concrete walls and staying there, curled into a tight ball. I dream of the damp wood, with the sweet smell of rot, of sleeping in a hollow until kingdom come.

I dream of controlling the world, or at least a portion of it. The ideal emperor is one that does his job so effectively, the people do not have to think about him. I dream of capturing people, keeping them at my whim. I dream of instilling fear. I dream of power.

I dream, at night, with all light gone and my glasses at the side, about someone who will just sit next to me on the fecking nicest floor in the world, and maybe, just maybe, hold my hand lightly. And we will talk, about comic books and circuses and carrots. Celebrating the mundane. No need to probe deep, to talk about feelings and ambition and worries and... dreams.

Just a friend I can have a decent conversation about comic books with. Where I don't have to be funny all the time. Or be serious either. Where I don't have to think about being polite or aggressive or friendly or worry about niceties. Where he or she or it doesn't have to be nice or sarcastic or go along with tried-and-tested jokes. Because everyone's beautiful in the dark.

Where I can be still and listen, without having to care very much, and where I can speak with no fear and no need to behave like the Victoria people know.

I dream too much.



There's a name for this, I was told. Escapist. They've got shrinks for 'em too, they said. Dreaming entirely too much.



I had a nice Christmas, thanks. Steamboat at home. Loads of tiny eruptions on the family front, but food made up for that. Family gave me cosmetics and book vouchers. No idea what to do with both.

All in all, pleasant enough, ignoring the yelling. You?

Today's Muse: Roofs

It started innocently enough. I was browsing a couple of blogs of people I knew in passing, observing how these people saw themselves - how they constructed themselves on the internet.

Okay. Nothing of the sort. I was bored out of my skull waiting for some shitty ep to load.

So I clicked on a link. A quick skim left me - Drained? Enraged? Insanely jealous in the it's-not-bloody-fair?

It seemed to me, at the time, that it wasn't bloody fair she got those opportunities - getting in to the programme, being picked up for a production and so on. We were alike in so many ways - both proficient speakers, both dramatically trained, but she was the one with the offers. Didn't even have to lift a finger.

Stupid me. I stewed for quite a bit, focusing on how it was so unfair - then shrugged off the green-eyed beast.

It happens to all of us from time to time, doesn't it? Stupid.

I went and read a bit, and all was right with the world.

Today's Muse: This ache in my toe

Oh, stop sulking. You know why this happened. And you do agree that it was partly your fault. Hell, it was your fault. Sure, Mother did assume. But She did it within reason. You know you have a history, despite your trying to disassociate yourself from it. And to her credit, She was very reasonable. Your Sister, as infuriating as her behaviour was and is, was no reason for you to blow your top.

All this proves is that you're not quite grown up yet.

Your problem, Missy, is that you care too much. You can't help every one. Oh sure, you can try, but you're not strong enough. You have got to let them beat their own damn path, to Hell, if I may say so. Leave them be.

Not everyone has to think like you do.

Yes, your intentions were misinterpreted. But think: was there any truth to what Mother pointed out? You are too over-bearing. Far too proud. You have become inflexible.

It is not anyones obligation to nitpick every gesture of yours and infer your intentions. Why, just a while ago you were railing against there not being enough plain speak. And yet, you do the opposite.

So what now? To work, then. You've fallen into old, bad habits. Be loose. Flux. You've got better things to do, like that overdue letter to Nicole concerning the book, or sending 'round the presents, or preparing for the interview...

You care for your Sister. But right now that love is overshadowed with deep Dislike. Yes, you can worry, but she must beat her own path. Let her solve her problems. She must want to change her behaviour, her attitude. Nothing you do, or say, will help. Leave her be.

And you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Baiting her like that. Refusing to step down. Resorting to shouting. You silly stubborn prick.

It is over, so stop obsessing. Leave her alone, since you cannot bring yourself to slow down. Worry about your own arse.

Plus, shooting off your mouth just cost me my trip next year, fathead.

Today's Muse: Green Plastic

Point #1:
So where do I go from here? Can't I just stay in this little hollow I've carved out? Damnit, I'm moving, I'm moving. I'll go and make something out of my life. Shut up. I'm going.

But where to?

Point #2:
Bloody hell, Christmas is almost here.

I never really liked Christmas. When I was growing up something always seemed to be missing. Every year we'd walk the crowded street of the shopping district, oohing and aahing at the light decorations, taking photos that would eventually be dumped. Presents were never suprises. Trees were a bother. Chrismas dinner was usually rice with some special dishes, like braised pork or fish head curry. The rest of the night would be spent watching the Christmas movie special.

Where were the decorations? The turkey-and-pie feast? The glittering tree, the stockings,the wrapped gifts (each one with its own bow), the warm fire, the family Kodak moments sitting together laughing and doing that bonding thing. Television had decieved me.

So I stopped waiting for Christmas to be like the shmicks on TV. Christmas is now, to me, another holiday to put up with, like Valentines Day.

I still do enjoy it. But if it disappeared off the face of the planet I wouldn't really notice. Halloween in Singapore, now that, I'd like to disappear. Why try to adopt a celebration so foreign to our ingrained culture, while allowing our own customs die?

Chinese New Year, now that's something to look forward to. The Family gabbering in a mixture of dialects while the younger ones compare ang pow( red packets containing cash) takings underfoot. The wet-market visits, where the excitement is so palpable. The kitchen comes alive with gossip, and help all those who enter - forced to sit down and help peel beansprouts or something to that effect. The new clothes, the spring-cleaning, the noise, noise, noise-

Maybe that's what happens at Christmas, for those of us who truly celebrate. I wouldn't know. I hope that it is, because the atmosphere at Chinese New Year is something I hope everyone gets to experiance. Damn, that's sappy. But it's true.

Huh. I remember Kim writing a letter to Santa and tacking it to our front door because we don't have chimmys in the tropics. I also remember a teacher solemnly telling us "Santa" was an anagram of "Satan".

Today's Muse: What happened to those lights?

I have a laundry list of things that need getting done.

I also have a laundry list of things I want to get done.

So far, I've managed to get a headstart on finishing the rest of Asimov's works. Now just to get through the rest of the fiction section at the library...

I would have made a list here, but why bore myself and you? Yes, you, way in the back. I always have to sit in the back. So how can they call me callous when I walk ahead? Callous, callous, callous...

I fear the Aeon Flux movie may be another Tank Girl fiasco.

Today's Muse: Cold Tea

For the kids outside next to the pool swearing because you think it makes you sound older;

Please shut the fuck up and quit trying to shag each other whilst tied to the pillars. Happy birthday to you, screech-of-a-girl, many happy returns and all that. Kindly take your guests somewhere else.

Thank you.

I threw a water balloon at them just now, from the third floor room I'm situated in at the moment. Didn't shut them up, but felt curiously satisfying.

Speaking of apartments, a long-overdue announcement: Due to unforeseen circumstances and all-too-obvious fucktarded behaviour I am moving for the second time this month, up north to Sengkang.

I'm not angry. Not now, anyway. It's more of a resignation. Occasionally I feel it, a fierce bubbling, and I rage to the nearest person who will listen. Then as quickly as it came, it goes; the beast falls dormant and I move as though asleep.

Which isn't just some poetic babble; I've walked into so many varied things this week I must be sleep-walking. Walls, boxes, desks, people, doors, over-stuffed turkey mascots, you name it.

You know what? I am angry. Annoyed at how wishy-washy she is about the whole thing. Enraged with him for using us to mask the real cause of his discomfort. Worried sick over the children. STAND ON YOUR OWN TWO FEET, WOMAN.

You look at my brothers and sisters, and you'll see an entire spectrum - the different ways a relationship can turn out, y'see. One couple, too young, but might work if they grow up at the same time. Another pair who've never had anything in common and only lasted this long because

Fuuuuck. (Always wanted to actually write that.)

Fallen into that trap again. Mountains out of molehills.

What a dreary post.

Um.

G'night.

Today's Muse: Black Windows

So, today I wrote an essay supposedly explaining why I had "angry, rubbish music" playing in my discman. It mutated into a horribly deviant spew on the appeal of buying entire identities off shelves, a psycho-analysis of my brother, the macabre movement, public transport, and why I want a cowboy hat. Only one page was wanted, but I thought, hell, you want an explanation, I'll give you an explanation.

When I go off-point, I make it a point to really go off-point. And yet keep to my point. Or summat. I am staring at my floor. I have the fecking nicest floor in the world.

I thought I might upload it, but it was ridiculously long. When I get it back I'll probably put it up. I remember writing something about how the confrontational stance adopted by the band in question - the swearing, the controversial performances - appealed not because they were railing at a specific object, but because of the stance itself. That they were larger than life, a deviant from realilty; a group that didn't go "Fuck you Goths/Rednecks/Nazis/Poseurs/Bush/School/The World." but simply went "Fuck!" A personification of the feeling, if you will. I am allowed to swear because I'm studying "I'm the King of the Castle". Hah.

Personally the "rubbish" music appeals to me because of the sheer energy behind it. Music by Simple Plan, Green Day or Linkin Park - I acknowledge the talent behind them, but the energy strikes me as whiny. Boo-hoo-hoo-Life's-a-piece-of-shit. Gets one down, y'know?

I'm not looking to music for answers; for moral guidance. I know people who do, who claim they feel exactly like whatever the music conveys, and I think "You moron." But to be fair, people do identify themselves with songs. But as to looking to lyrics penned by someone else to magically solve your problems?

Hm. I'm hungry. I would like some mushrooms, with cheese, right now.

What I listen to does not define who I am. Nor does what I wear, nor read, nor eat (Damnit!). For other people, that may be the case. I am not my horoscope, or zodiac sign, or whatever else. Aw shit. My shoulder just seized. What was my point?

Damnit. I want a cowboy hat and a poofy skirt. And a little spoilt girl with black curls, while we're at it. Oh, and someone gift-wrapped and Fed-ex'ed to my door. I'd keep 'im under the sink, and feed 'im salmon roe.

My new bathroom is the size of my old bedroom. And the bathtub is miniscule. Too many bloody mirrors.

Poofy skirt. And pretty purple boots. And my cat. Cat is at Lewis. I regress to Angry mode. Back hurts. Should stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.

Stopped.

Todays Muse: The Beat-up Suitcase

I'm at the new apartment. Huddled in the narrow walk-in closet, to be exact. Its actually a row of open shelves facing the wall, creating a cosy corner away from the rest of the house.

I'm staring at the floor for inspiration. I like the floor. Lovely light shade.

I had planned for this to be a long, possibly mediative, post. Honest.

Ugh. Tomorrow comes the beast. Will he be slain? The bards will sing of it forever either way, be it sweet victory...

Or the Sig's fall.

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.