Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding. Kahlil Gibran, mystic, poet, and artist (1883–1931)

Worrying for Uncertainty

I am afraid to say that I have been indulging. I hate to write or update friends on my status when all I know I have been doing is indulging in my worrier fantasies.

I haven’t had a good night sleep since… I don’t know… most probably since thesis writing. Rest has been sparse, even though nothing much else occupies my time. I am now a messy bundle of nerves that are, at any moment, make and break episodes. Sometimes I do love this moodiness and edginess but I also do recognize that it is this place that often pushes me into risky and dangerous behavior because I crave mirrored symmetry in my life.

And no, I am not ready for that yet.

Just giving a shout-out to send any positive thoughts this way.

Out.

Pivotal Moments

For a person who is constantly laughing and jolly, I have my share of down moments where I am all but consumed by what I did not have and would love to have. For the past few weeks, sleep has been scarce, particularly so in the week just passed. The days have been starting at the break of the new dawn at 5ish 6. And ending only at the back breaking time of midnight-ish because that is when my daily date with Mr. SO generally begins or end.

The sudden abundance of conscious waking moments in my life is… refreshing at best, but crippling at worst. I am plagued by the guilt of not sleeping and not getting my well-deserved (if I may say) rest. But at the same time, my mind, it is running wild on its own, on open fields and at the narrow strip where sand meets water.

Oh how we take things for granted till all is lost, through the cracks between our fingers. I need to learn to love my waking moments more. And embrace the rightful periods that I need to sleep!

Just Saying

This is going to be a little hard. I am not usually like that and this is not a topic that I often chat about at the supermarket aisle while I am deciding on my next meal plan.

Hmm, maybe I should also tell you right here and right now that you should not read this post if you are 1) in the presence of your parents, 2) or children for that matter, 3) or if you are about to have your lunch, 4) or tea break. Also stop reading here if you had just had your 5) lunch or breakfast or tea break. And about that Starbucks in your hand, maybe you should put it away.

Now I think you are ready, here is the question:

Have you ever tasted semen?

I don’t need to know your answer. Really I don’t. But if you have said yes to the previous question, then here is another for you:

Do you like it?

Now. This is the answer that is a little interesting. And this is one answer I would like to know. Obviously there is a catch-22 here in that if I know your reply to the second question, I would literally know your answer to the first question, which is the answer I specifically did not want to know about.

Just keep the answer to yourself. After all, I do prefer to be able to look all my friends in the eye when I get out of this barren desert land.

But if you had replied yes to the second question, I think you would enjoy this.

Just saying.

The Discovery of Pocket-Sized Paradise

I woke up last Saturday to a blinding and glaring sun. Yes, summer is officially here in Melbourne. Say your last goodbyes to the cooling winter. Now move along, move along.

Since the death of the writing period, I have been wayyy busy. With. Nothing.

It is nice to be contented with nothing to do. My life is now filled with planning the next eating venue and time. And working as an instruct-able robot for someone. Other than those things, I have been busy with the flu.

I think I have forgotten how it feels to be down with a sneezing, feverish bug. I can barely remember the last time I encountered the same sort of difficulties in clearing my breathing space.

This flu business, is so crippling, that I found it so hard to sleep. Eating is fine. Eating is always fine with me. But sleeping. Oh so hard.

On normal days, I find it difficult to drift to sleep when I am on my bed. I toss and turn and think and sigh before I finally go to dreamland. When I have the flu, I could barely lie down horizontally in bed. I am so stuffed up with mucus from my toes all the way to my nostrils and ears that I am overflowing with green snot…

Gross I know but OVERFLOWING is the key word. Now put a little of your imagination to the test. OVERFLOWING.

Okay. Now that I am sure you have a clear idea of what I am trying to get across, I need to know.

Ever found yourself in my position? Constantly breathing through your dry and scratchy throat due to a stuffed up, potentially ornamental and flu-afflicted nose? If you say yes to any of the above questions, then you better read what follows well. For I have discovered an amazing remedy to this almost impossible solution.

When I first discovered it hidden in the Ikea boxes I have, which is hidden in the cupboard-on-wheels, which is hidden in the built-in closet in my room, I was all ‘Eureka!’

And I screamed it on everyone on the chatting windows and I would gladly propagate my joy at this amazing discovery. Honestly, it is better than sex, drugs, strippers, chocolate and almost everything else on earth. It allowed me to use my nostrils for the purpose that it was intended for.

BREATHE people. It should be a human right to BREATHE. THROUGH THE NOSE.

Anyway. Say hello to Vicks Vapor-rub.

Go buy one whole truckload of it for the impending flu season. Honestly, I am an Elmo person through and through. But for that few nights, I might just trade in the red furry toy for a tub of that menthol goodness…

Why Do You Write?

Well specifically, why do I write?

Do I write to make the readers happy? Do I write to document my meandering time? Do I write to prove the existence of my intellectual side and to dispel rumors that I am empty in the head?

Do I write to make up for all the things that I hear on a daily basis? Do I write to make up for all that I leave unsaid in real life? Do I write for all the things that yearn to be said but go unheard in my life?

Hmm. Interesting question huh?

It is like the spring test that you get in philosophy class, with just one question comprising of one word, ‘Why?’ And suddenly, nothing and everything comes to mind. Every possible answer in this world seems to be both too long and too short at the same time.

So why so I write? Here is the glorified answer.

On one hand, I write to say what I cannot say in real life. And why is it that I cannot say it in real life you ask? Well… sometimes I am too polite, others I am too prideful and there are times when I am too slow to retort back my reply. But mostly, I am too chicken to say those things that I want to say. Mostly, the things that I put here are the things that go round and round and round in my head, always waiting for the opportunity to be verbalized. And yet the opportunities come round and round again, but I never ever ever grasp it due to my chicken shit-ness.

On the other hand, I write to be happy, or happier. And to inject some humor into an otherwise depressing experience. I mean life is already mundane, no point making our thoughts the same shade of grey right? I love how a little bit of imagination can brighten up my day, or yours for that matter. I love how a little bit of humor can initiate a whole new way of looking at things. And how fun is that, when you get to document bits and pieces of your life along the way? It gives you the amazing opportunity to look back once in a while and smile because a certain thing happened. And honestly, I am usually surprised to read old posts and recall the feelings that I once felt. So homely and comforting to know that you are still the same old you. At the same time, also warming to know how much you have grown since the last.

So I write, for a multitude of reasons that I cannot put into words. But most importantly, I write honestly of what I truly think and truly feel. At the very least, even if I were to feel violated and cast aside in the real life, I know that I am ok as a person… and intact as a whole when all else falls away.

Hmm, and that is why I write. For me.

When Sleep is Not an Answer

The world has become a better place since the very last time I wrote, with the thesis done and dusted, you never have to see another picture of my working station again (yawns), or hear me ranting about the schedule of work and sleep and eat (bigger yawn). Too bad there is one more thing coming up, aka the THESIS DEFENSE.

No. I am not going to go into the details of that right now. I will leave all thesis talk for the last installment, which will happen soon enough without my urging and talking about it.

Instead, I want to tell you about today. It has been endless boredom after boredom for me since the thesis has left me. Life has lost all meaning. My day is now spent mainly in bed, horizontal. With the trusty laptop on my lap playing a video or movie of some sorts. And inevitably, I will be weeping. Not because of a sad story plot or a happy one. I just cry at movies. There must be something about the screen aspect ratio, or is it the way the credits seem to roll that make me shed precious tears. But yes. I cry. At all movies.

Now, the teary part of me begs to be explored on another day in another post. What I really came to tell you today was about this night-mare. Actually it is technically a day-mare that I had this afternoon when I was thoroughly bored with being bored and have decided to go take a sweet afternoon nap.

So I was there, lying on the bed and willing myself to enter dreamland to get some reprieve from the boredom of it all. I was in this delicate place between lucidity and sleep. And I was having this vision of being in this dark and grey place. My mood and heart was heavy and dreary. In my vision/day-mare sort of thing, I was at my parents place. There was the unmistakable rosewood furniture and the precious potted plant that my parents loved.

Nothing scary really about dreaming about your parents’ place. What is un-nerving is the way I was feeling in the day-mare. A certain depressive and aimless feeling plagued me. And I was walking around... slumped over and distant from reality. Gosh, it shook me to my core that I was feeling this way because I had nothing to do.

BAM WHAM

I forced myself to wake up and cook some 3^rd grade bolognaise, to pretend my life still had some shard of meaning left in it. That I am still useful for making lunch. Or washing dishes.

And I was happier.

The Thesis Story Part V: Completion is Sweet.

The more I think of it, the more I see the entire year as a long marathon. Clique I know. But true.

The last few days of thesis writing was a nightmare of endless writing and editing and begging for people to read and edit it. It became a whole routine. Your shoulder ache, your mind is bursting at the seams. You eat and think of thesis-worthy phrases. Walk out of the door and wonder if you are wearing underwear. You forget if you have brushed your teeth for the night, or for the day.

Think of your worst nightmare… Envision it all happening while you are awake and conscious.

Now you got an idea of how it all feels.

But there is a clear difference, between your horrible nightmare and the thesis writing process. Yours end in sleepless nights and sweaty PJs, mine end in a bounded book and peaceful nights free of thesis thoughts and full of sleep.

You see the difference yet?

So anyway, I had to say, thank you dear friends and wayward readers, for reading and understanding my life all this while. And if you did not understood it, thanks for trying.

And thank you, blog. For being the platform for angry and vent-ish thoughts. While sometimes I do feel angst at having to pluck blog-a-ble material out of thin air, mostly I feel released and clear-minded after writing a post, or two. And the blog was a great great object for these. Although inanimate.

Geez… felt like I am writing my acknowledgements all over again. Anyway, for the record: I cried while writing my acknowledgements. But that is a story for another day.

For now, I leave you with a short thing I wrote about running sometime back. Random I know, but it means too much to be to not share it.

There must be somewhere that this path must end.

Pounding breath. My vision jarred with every step. Howling winds. I feel the earth rising to meet my feet.

Would I be able to stay the course, moving one shuffling feet in front of the other? Meeting effort with hard gravel, keeping my eye on what may be waiting at the very end.

This path. It twists and winds. I see not further than the next ten feet. But anxious minds seek; further.

I need to make the intangible: mine.

The Thesis Story Part IV

Okay, there are good news and bad news. What would you like?

The bad news is that, this is another thesis story. I am so sorry that you have to listen to my woes about a stack of papers that I have to write. Unfortunately, my sorry-ness doesn’t stop the woes from happening.

The good news: It ends. In 5 grand days. After which, I promise to post my, often emotional, sometimes comical, annual summary on how the year went by. Last year, I made you look at the University of Melbourne’s exam conditions. This year, I promise you something better.

To be honest, this post feels a little… what do you call it… naughty. I am not supposed to be here. And if anyone asked, you promise to say the same? Yes I know, you promised.

Well... I am not supposed to be spending what is left of my vocabulary on a blog. I am supposed to be hard at work on what supervisors call the thesis. But you know what, dear friends and wayward readers, I miss you too much to stay away.

Anyway, you know what to do if someone, or anyone asked about my whereabouts.

These days, it feels that I am leading a monasteric life. I wake up at 8, trot to the toilet, then to the kitchen for the preparation of the days’ ammunition and back into my room, armed with food that would last me for the next 9 hours while I write and amend what I have of the thesis.

I would stay, in solitude until hunger calls my name when a trot to the kitchen and toilet would be in order to satisfy [1] basic human needs and [2] energy requirements. Dinner would last for the next 3 hours at the computer while work is being done.

After dinner has ended, work carries on till 11 when a longer trot to the toilet is required to satisfy human sanitary needs. Sleep, then calls my name.

I now work an average of 15 hours a day. Non-stop.

With an average shower time of 4 minutes.

Work and more work. It is a clockwork motion. [Pun fully intended]

It is like a monasteric life of solitude and mental energy. Except I have the internet at my fingertips.

Sometime back, I was disillusioned. Disillusioned enough to say that I am an organized person. Here is the honest truth, all this writing has turned me into a slob. My bed is unmade. My prized Elmo is neglected. Papers are strewn everywhere. My footstool now has a new glamorous job of being a paper pedestal. If a burglar came by and ransacked my room, I wouldn’t know the difference.

And oh, look carefully at the laptop. I was on youtube.

Yes, youtube.

Remember... you promised you won’t tell.

The Thesis Story Part III: The Underwear Drawer

I really should be initiating a penetrating discussion on the value of my Honours project on the global research effort to understand the effect of gut metabolism on human health but I can think of a MILLION other things to do.

I can think of inspecting the ends of my hair for split ends. Going through my underwear drawer and discarding things that dun fit, things that are old and things that do not belong to the underwear category.

I am longing for a cup of warm hot chocolate to replace the heater that is blowing at my feet. Or a box of handcrafted filled pralines and truffles.

Am I only dreaming?

Yes. It is all but a dream.

The Thesis Story Part II: In case of Emergency. Eat Chocolate.

Now, the million dollar question is, ‘Why did I begin the The Thesis Story and how many parts are there exactly?’

Honestly, I don’t know. And that is my answer to both questions. I just woke up one fine day and arrived at this title; which splits a big story into pieces, but I think it is brilliant. Considering the alternatives, which will be long rambling titles, this is a concise way to annotate the thesis process.

So. This is part 2.

I want to begin by saying that I think I am organized. Really. I do. That is on normal days. On thesis days, my study table belongs to another realm. And I am amazed at how unaffected I am. It is 4pm, but the plate that contain my breakfast is still there.

Welcome to the thesis diet; where breakfast stretches to dinner. Where on Wednesday you do introduction, Thursday is for planning and Friday are reserved for results and discussion. You would be amazed, the consequences are startling.

This diet, it threw out my back.

I have a problem. And if you remember the braces encrusted me back in those polytechnic days, you would remember that my teeth are not the only thing that needs to be straightened. My back is way off as well. The story behind how I think my back got a mind of its’ own belongs to another day but for now it seems to me that it doesn’t really like the way I sit, the things I do and the hours I have to stay still to make a thesis appear out of the blue.

So I woke up in pain. And I worked in discomfort. And because the pain was mainly in my right upper back, I felt as though there was someone looking over my shoulder.

How do I describe this to you? This discomfort is like a serpent that spreads, slowly but surely, until you yield to it with rest and more rest. And dear friends, my serpent is currently upset with me as I have ignored its’ existence for the entire day.

This discomfort has taken over my neck and is on the edge of my face. I feel a headache coming on and this is all so somber and funereal.

So. Could someone please explain, why am I still so happy after clicking the sent button for an email attached with my results draft, addressed to my supervisor?

Honestly. I am really very sorry.

Looking back, my mother was probably right.

Well… except that time at the playground, when I ran, crying to her after this bossy neighbor pushed me down into the sand. Her advice then was, ‘Go push her back.’

In her defense I must say that all her advice, since then, have turned out well and in some instances, great. Like that time when she said that hailing a cab is wayyyy faster if you were wearing a short skirt. Damn does that work! And there is that time when she said that the guy on the other side of the phone was way dodgy, and that was one relationship that did not work. You know I can go on forever but I shall spare you that one agony and tell you about this one poor man in my life.

You know, Mr. SO.

And so the story goes that just the other day, we were checking out the screen-sharing feature of skype. It is this nerdy function where you can show the person you are skyping with your screen and hence do something like a work presentation while you are miles away sort-of-thing… so he was really excited that it worked. In his excitement, he had to show me a model that he have been working on for eons.

I mean this is THE MODEL that he was working on while skyping with me, he was looking at this model when he was web-camming with me and I am pretty sure that when he was suppose to be thinking about me he was definitely thinking about this model. After all that, I HAD TO SEE THIS ONE MODEL.

Anyway, to show me this above-mentioned model, he had to close tons of windows and go to his desktop to retrieve the file. Before I continue the story of the model, I have to digress a little.

So, I could see his screen while he was closing all those windows. And I could see his screensaver, which was NOT our photo and that kind of offended me a little because I was like… ARE YOU ASHAMED OF ME!!! My poor heart, it chipped a little there and then. I mean, it shattered into a gazillion pieces. DUDE, mark my words, in all future domestic quarrels, this screensaver issue is going to be the one thing that I mention over and over again so be ready for it.

End of digression.

Yes. THE MODEL. So Mr. SO excitedly scrolled and zoomed to show me his fantastic model. My reaction at that, wow, priceless. You remember the movie that crashed at the box office, about this crazy toy store. Mr Magnorium’s Wonder Emporium. I felt exactly the same way about Mr. SO’s model. Oh man, was it disappointing!

I will be honest about it. It was a rectangle with graduated colors.

And so I laughed. Mind you, I was on skype and I laughed rudely in his face. I think I gave a new meaning to ‘lol’ but I was all…. MAN… I COULD DO THAT WITH POWERPOINT IN 2 MINUTES FLAT.

Now people, see what I did wrong? I laughed at someone else. And that is a big no-no. My mother told me not to laugh at others or to be mean. According to her, it is rude and ill mannered. I wished I had listen to her. My mockery of Mr. SO model has turned around and bitten me ferociously in the ass. The past 2 days was all of data analysis and more data analysis with only a few miserable figures to show for it.

Damned… my mother was right. Except that it has got nothing to do with manners or being mean. Dalai Lama would have gotten this right; karma baby, karma.

The Thesis Story Part 1

I think I am beginning to get a grip on this thesis writing business. It helps that I am writing my thesis in the age of technology, where research is a few clicks away and analysis is in the comfort of your study while blasting your choice of music.

These past few days have been a blur of processing NMR spectras. And it involves this ridiculously crazy process of putting dots on the spectra so that everything line up proper. Think of it as connect-the-dots, except in reverse as the line is already there and what you need to do is to put in those silly dotties.

So. It is a simple and brainless task. The perfect job for a trained monkey. Easy peasy. It is something that even Homer Simpson cannot screw up even if he TRIED. One would think that I would be having a grand time doing such a simple task.

Well, guess what? The weirdest thing happened. I realized that I could only do this silly dotting if a song of extreme ANGST is playing. Think Eric Claptons’ ‘Before You Accuse Me’. Think Savage Gardens’ ‘Break Me Shake Me’. Honestly! I never thought that mundane tasks would push me to that sort of an edge.

In case you need to know, the latter song has been played 180 times, according to the iTunes counter. That’s a lot of hours doing work. And being angsty. And of shout-singing ‘BREAK ME, SHAKE ME, HATE ME, TAKE ME OVER’. But at least work-work is still being attempted. And being accomplished. –inserts a proud grin-

Reading back, it seems that I should not have started this entry the way I did. ‘Got a grip’ doesn’t seem apt after sharing the above-mentioned story. But trust me people, I was in a worse off place. I begin to write this entry with a specific story in mind to illustrate that.

Some weeks back, a full day of writing and data appreciating would give me the shivers and shits. I would crave sunlight and company and conversation. I would literally shake with withdrawal. And my mind would go into overdrive. The TV will not placate and there is no comfort in food. And all I was doing mentally is working (20%) and screaming CAPITALS in my head (80%)!

I am glad to say that I am no longer that way. My grip on thesis writing is here, in the center of my palms. Two weeks ago, when I was typing at my computer, all that I am thinking is ‘Why do we have to write a thesis to be graded, why can’t we just be graded like that?’. Now, I am a picture of zen with a pen tucked behind my ear, my trusty notepad right in front of me; to jote down all-important numbers, and feeling ‘This is me, writing, working, this is how it all should be.’

Ooooohhhh yesssss. This is all how it should be.

The Entry That My Therapist Will One Day Read To Fully Understand My Mental State.

Ever had those moments when all you want to do is clench your hands into balls of fists and feel your fingernails digging deep into your palms? I am having one of those moments now.

This is one of the sacred moments where I go DAMNED DAMNED DAMNED because my brain is not functioning the right way. The right way being the way that I want it to be, which should be the only way considering that it is MY brain.

Do you get me? No? Let me illustrate this for you…

Spring is here. And that is my favorite time of the year, or rather one of my favorite times of the year since I still am undecided over autumn or spring but you get the idea. I love how the evenings are now balmy instead of chilly and the noontimes are blindingly bright and cheery. It makes me happy to see sunshine after a cold winter and I am all ‘DUDE LETS GO OUT AND PLAY!’

Trust me on this. If I had a tail, I will be wagging it. If I am a dog, I will be panting with my tongue half-hanging out. But ALAS! I am human! And that would mean that I have to sit here writhing in my own whiny and wanting agony to go out and play, because my brain is calmly making organized plans for the thesis-that-is-yet-to-be-written, and ignoring my needs to be out in the sunshine.

DUDE! MY BRAIN TOTALLY BETRAYED ME!

I sense a certain future ahead of me where I will have countless such moments of brain-not-listening-to-instinct. I am fantasizing this one scenario where something screws up as a result of my brain manifestation, and my beloved instinct get to stick its tongue out and tell the brain I TOLD YOU SO. However that seems rather far off and impossible. The more likely scenario would be something screwing up due to my primal instinct. The ending would be somewhat like this. The brain will be too angry and mad to say anything mean, the instinct will be all apologetic and docile for eons afterwards while things are being rectified, and the nerves will be in absolute disarray. Yes that is how my life will play out at the end. You may get to witness it if you stay long enough and if I don't die in a car crash tomorrow. But that is the problem with my instinct really. Sometimes it just gets out of hand and hence my avid suppression of it at every possible point in time. People, it is not that I don’t want to have fun but there is no room for fun when my brain is alive!

DON’T YOU GET IT?

It seems to me that it is turning out to be a day of capitals. I LOVE TO TYPE IN CAPS! Listen up. There are three sorts of therapy in the world. The first type is the expensive type for filthy rich people who have so much money that they have problems because they are too rich. So they go and rent designer lounges by the hour and sit and talk about their problems. They call that doctor the shrink because those sort of therapy shrinks your wallet really quickly because it needs an awful lot of hours to get through all your issues.

Well the second type are the cheap type where all you need is easy access to secluded places. Those sort of therapy will see you putting yourself in dangerous positions like on the edge of a sharp cliff or at the peak of some hill/mountain or near some open water source like the sea/ocean/lake. And what you do is cup your hands around the corner of your mouth and give the loudest and longest scream that you can ever do after which you will fall to your knees oh-so-dramatically and collapse in a heap of yourself except that you are now immensely relieved, stressful and cheery.

And then there is the third type of therapy where you need access to a computer keyboard and all you do is TYPE IN CAPITAL LETTERS. With tons of EXCLAMATIONS!!!!!! You can type ANYTHING YOU WANT OR DESIRE. This method is CHEAP AND INEXPENSIVE!!! It is easiest form of therapy out there. It is the anytime anywhere type of therapy. And it will leave you feeling… well the same as before except that you will now grin lopsided and silly. And there is also that slight possibility that people will think you are cuckooed beyond repair.

BUT WHO CARES!!!!

When my brain and my instinct are at loggerheads there is no time to waste on what other people are thinking about me. What takes center stage is the argument in my head, it doesn’t matter if the world stop revolving, because my brain and instinct will still be putting on a show for all the other audiences in my head.

OH! WAIT A MINUTE! JUST WAIT A MINUTE! I FEEL ONE COMING…

Brain: I cannot wait for the moment when the thesis draft is ready and complete and all that I have to do is to just email a copy to boss with a small note to ask for his opinions on it. –scatters heart and star shaped confetti-

Instincts: -throws a stack of printed thesis in boss’s face- THERE THERE THERE THERE THERE THERE THERE!!!!!!!!!!! HOPE YOU LIKE READING A THESIS IN CAPS AND PUNCTUATED ALL BY EXCLAMATION MARKS!!!!!!!!!! –turns and disappear in a puff of smoke-

-sighs-

When will my brain and instincts agree???

The Problem

The problem with having one of these things is that it requires maintenance and thought. That, my friends, is the problem with being the owner of a blog.

It is sometimes, funny, that we undertake responsibilities such as this only to throw it away. We start a blog with dreams and aims and hopes and ideas only to fall way behind and throw it all away. I once had plans about what I want to write about. I had, in my mind, simple and easy steps to achieve what I imagined would be great and splendid.

But I fell behind. That is no excuse, but that is exactly what I did. Fall, or fell behind.

The problem with shouldering responsibilities is that failure is often irrevocably unavoidable from the very moment the job become ours. From the moment we love, we are condemned to a certain sort of ‘forever’ with our object/person of desire. From the moment we say ‘yes’, it becomes harder to say the opposite of ‘no’.

And from the moment the first post was honestly written, I have since found it hard to write untruths and lies. It was never my intention to use this as a platform to tell inventive stories. Stories are stemmed from the underlying current of my life and to spin new ones bear too much of a disrespect to my way of living.

I could cry from that thought itself.

The problem with having one of these, my friends, is that it is sometimes hard. To write. To say I have been busy is a wayward excuse. To say that I have had nothing to say is form of shying away.

The truth is that it is sometimes so god-damn hard to acknowledge your rawest moments. Those bare moments are sometimes meant to stay that way. How can I violate them by putting them into mere words. Nothing can capture their existence for they are beyond the human realm of beauty. To do so would be an insult because even if I tried my damnest, I would still be so far short. And for that I would rather say nothing, for if I did, I would suffer the pain of my words.

So instead, I’ll apologise for my absence.

Random Facts

Because the title says so. Because I am moving and that I am going to throw away those snippets of little information. Because they are fun. Because fact no. 20 is more amazing than anything...

1. Fish have been known to kiss up to 25 minutes.
2. If 80% of your liver were to be removed, the remaining part would still continue to function.
3. There is more than 25,000km of neon tubing in the signs on the Strip and downtown Las Vegas.
4. A skunk can be detected by a human over one kilometer away.
5. Lizards communicate by doing push-ups.
6. A newborn hedgehog starts to get their spines within 24 hours of birth.
7. The art of mapmaking is older than the art of writing.
8. All hurricanes form over water and last for about 10 days.
9. The Mona Lisa has no eyebrows.
10. The main purpose of growing rice in flooded paddocks is to drwon the weeds surrounding the seedlings.
11. It takes an average 90 squirts from a cow’s udder to make a litre of milk.
12. Horse-racing regulations require no racehorse’s name to contain more than 18 letters.
13. Sheep will not drink from running water.
14. Tigers have striped skin, not just striped fur.
15. During the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries in England, egg whites were a popular form of laundry detergent.
16. The Hollywood sign was erected in 1923.
17. Sugar was added to chewing gum in 1869 by a dentist, William Semple.
18. Mosquitoes have teeth.
19. In Elizabethan times, carnations were used to spice wine and ale.
20. Up until the age of six or seven months, children can breathe and swallow simultaneously.
21. Due to its eye placement, a donkey can see all of its hooves at the same time.
22. The mechanical shark in the movie ‘Jaws’ was nicknamed Bruce.
23. Fish can get seasick.
24. Rats can swim for a kilometer without resting. They can also tread water for three days straight.
25. When the Effiel Tower was built in 1884, Parisians referred to it as ‘the tragic lamppost’.
26. One of the best ways to clean pewter is to rub with cabbage leaves.
27. Iceberg lettuce, until the 1920s was called crisphead.
28. About 10kg of milk is needed to make one kilogram of natural cheese.

You Hor, Always Like That One

If this post doesn’t appease certain individuals then I believe that all is now lost and gone. Forever. Remember those days in primary school, where there are unseen but conscious boundaries between the shy and noisy students, the smart and not so smart and between the obedient and borderline ADD ones? This is the post that will put me squarely in the obedient category. I mean either that or the ‘royally screwed-up’ category... take your pick.

Being an overseas student, life is so boring. And considering that the phrase ‘an overseas student’ often come with the unsaid prefix of ‘poor’ we are left with nothing for entertainment. Studying is the entrée, the main course, the dessert and the night cap. While there are times that call for a splurge, most times are spent in frugal moments. I wrote about that sometime back.

Remember one of my recent posts? That one about being cheap and running outdoors? I am thoroughly amused that there are people who miss the main point (running) and instead focus on the accompanying details (being cheap). And it is those exact people that I met while on my weekend back to Singapore last week.

Dining at an Indian restaurant and sitting at a round table has never been that terrifying. It was like some sort of Muay Thai kick-boxing championships. Thanks to YH aka the ringleader that night, who managed to choreograph the entire event well, no food was airborne and no physical abuse was meted out. But I find it hard to forget that exact moment when he gave the okay to certain individuals to reprimand me. I had to field off legions of questions beginning with the interrogating ‘WHY’. I had to retort with lousy second-rated excuses and put up with the reply, a hostile and unforgiving, ‘YOU HOR, ALWAYS LIKE THAT ONE’. And this is all the while Mr. Ringleader sat back on his comfortably padded chair, with his personal manager at his side, enjoying the show.

I have been scarred.

Since I have been back, I have eaten out less than half of the time. This is an achievement in itself for I have not managed this since the days of June. And more amazingly, I now eat a healthy salad and ham sandwich on the way to school. Yes, you read that right. I just said SALAD. I think it is a vile word if you ask me, but yes I have been eating it every single morning since I am BACK.

ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?

If I could, I would transport myself back to that Indian restaurant day. Maybe I could still manage to salvage some part of me for I am pretty sure that you people murdered the ‘me’ that I was before, and replaced me with this monster of a thing.

I shop at Woolies for groceries. And it is crazy that I no longer buy nachos or canned soup. I now grab milk, eggs, capsicum and apples. No more chocolates. And every time I lean into the freezer section of Woolies, be it to grab the hugely discounted microwavable pies or to get that ‘Buy 2 Get 1 Free’ fish fingers, I inevitably withdraw that offensive hand reaching out to those empty calories and slam that fridge door shut. Because I hear a looming,

‘YOU HOR, ALWAYS LIKE THAT ONE’

Dudes, you guys have officially made me schizophrenic. And is it obedient or royally screwed, go ahead, you take your pick.

On Love, On Work

Work is love made visible.
And if you cannot work with love but only with distaste,
it is better that you should leave your work
and sit at the gate of the temple
and take alms of those who work with joy.
For if you bake bread with indifference,
you bake a bitter bread
that feeds but half man's hunger.
And if you grudge the crushing of the grapes,
your grudge distills a poison in the wine.
And if you sing though as angels,
and love not the singing,
you muffle man's ears to the voices of the day
and the voices of the night.

Gibran on Love
__________________

And whatever you do, do it heartily as to the Lord and not to men, knowing that from the Lord you will receive the rewards of your inheritance, for you serve the Lord Christ. But he who has done wrong will be repaid for what he has done, and there is no partiality.

-Colossians 3:23-25

The Story of 200.

Honours year is not an easy year. I could say that again. Not an easy year. And again. Not an easy year. AND AGAIN. Not an easy year.

And it is especially so if you do honours in research science, whereby you come into contact with baby-killing, DNA-changing, and other sort of stuff that ordinary people THINK can kill a herd of stampeding elephants. Don’t get me wrong, it is easy to handle those things. Those are the very reason why lab coats exist; they were REALLY not made for kinky scenarios to begin with, there is no way one can still be turned on after undoing ALL those buttons.

What makes honours hard are the mutants and weirdos you come into contact with in your day to day life in the laboratory. All the professors used to work in a lab at some point in time making them potentially psychotic super-mutants with defective brain lobes.

And then there is this unsaid food chain where by the honours student (yours truly) is right at the very bottom, and the post-docs, PhDs, RAs, exchange PhDs and all the other-people-that-randomly-appear, being somewhere on that food chain chart. They all form some sort of a cannibalistic tango line with the (you guessed it) honours student right at the very end.

In essence: Honours is very hard.

This entire situation is made worst by the very fact that I have been craving a certain thing for what seems like ages. Although I see it frequently around social events, I am not allowed to consume any of it.

Yes. I am referring to the lack of –OH groups in my diet.

When people (meaning: humans who know the trials facing a Honours student) find out that I am living an alcohol-free life for this year, they tend to do this amazing acrobatic act where their eyes shiver with withdrawal, jaws drop like a dead weight onto their thighs and their ear lobes reach round their heads tying themselves in a knot.

Then they ask, always the inevitable question: WHY ON EARTH DID YOU DECIDE TO DO THAT?

Mad laughter will begin to play in my head on an endless loop, but outwardly, I remain always the cool person. This is after all a lab environment, flaying arms are very dangerous and not to mention; unbecoming for a lady of my status.

So I say: Bragging rights and 200 bucks.

And this, dear readers, is the part of the story where you will avert your gaze gracefully for I will now take a verbal and mental beating from every booze-loving Aussie on this planet.

But that beating will not be as bad as what is to come. Because dear friends, a bet to stay alcohol-free for a year will make you forget the taste of beer. It is now official that I have been alcohol-free for 200 days and well… I can no longer recall the feeling of the pee-coloured liquid trickling down my throat.

Was it sweet or bitter? Was it a kind of spreading warmth?

Who knew that Alcoholics Anonymous can be replaced by a bet of 200 dollars?

Because I am cheap.

The title of this post, speaks volumes.

I am a cheap person. I buy the cheapest groceries. I go for home-brand. I wear hand-me-downs. I eat leftovers from strangers’ plates at Macdonalds. Regularly.

Are you now convinced of my cheapness?

Unfortunately, I am still the person that I have just described. However, I was generous at the start of this year, fueled by some newfound convictions to morph into some fit and toned young lady. So I became a little generous, generous enough to buy myself a gym membership. But I didn’t get anywhere near fit nor toned, nor young. And some people still doubt the existence of the ‘lady’ in me. Ah well… what can I say?

So, because I am cheap, I did not renew the gym membership into the second semester and have been literarily forced out onto the street. This gym-less ass of mine now runs outdoor in one of the parks that litter inner Melbourne. And it is surprisingly, never thought I would ever say this, good to run outdoors.

I used to be one of those who never ran. Disliked the unglamness of it all. The sweating. The panting-like-a-dog act. BLEAH.

Then I joined the gym and became a gym junkie. One of those hamsterish person going on at the revolving wheel. It was good to get my legs moving and heart pumping.

Now that I am cheap. Or should I say cheap-er, I run outdoors at this splendid little place called Princess Park. I adore the crunch of the gravel, the noise from the football, the traffic going by. I crave the whistling wind and the coldness of my ear lobes. I even love the unevenness of the ground, makes you give a little more thought to what you are doing although it is still putting one feet in front of the other.

I am beginning to fall in love with running outdoors in the winter cold.

And it was all because I was cheap.

Why not?

I read. A Lot. Much more than I would admit. I loath the day that my hands are empty while waiting for the bus or train or tram. I am that sort of person who collects pamphlets about HIV and STDs to read for the sake of reading.

Fast forward to evaluating how much I write. Not that much I would say. I remember the years when I actually kept a paper journal with lined pages smelling like bleach and wood. Those days were the days when I empty out cartridges of ink from my trusty pen twice a week.

I used to write. TONS. I used to write. TRUST ME.

I mean I still do write. After all, I blog don’t I? But comparatively, I don’t write as much as I once did. Partly because I am often censoring what I am putting up here.

Don’t act all surprised. I have actually written about censoring before here. So you have been warned, don’t sulk and stamp your teeny foot like some little child.

Now you must be wondering why on earth am I chiding you and where am I going with this monologue? I ask for your patience.

I often share my joy in this space. Misery loves company, I know, but I do not feel that you have to shoulder the burden I carry in my lonelier moments. I try to remove the ‘who’ and the ‘what’. I put away my accusations because the accused may only be truly accused from my viewpoint and not from yours. So I write less, for I refuse to write what is not glorious.

Recently, I broke my little golden rule when I wrote about things that are a tad bit more personal here and here. And I wonder, if this is a good direction to go with this little-space-on-the-internet-that-I-call-mine. Should I be refraining myself from sharing too many little tidbits? On the other hand, this is my space to say what I want, so why should I be afraid or embarrassed to pen the thoughts that I entertain in my quieter moments?

There are many other bloggers out there. And I know that I am not alone. One blog that I frequently read does not censor its’ contents, choosing only to censor the people allows to access. Famous and well-known blogs often allow public access, only to censor information that are sensitive or private. But there are blogs that readily admit debts, abortions, abuse, deceit and stuff of disappointments that I would readily sweep under the rug and forget about.

In all honesty, I really like to be the kind of an open book that other people are. Even though I live my life shrouded in mystery, I prefer to be able to tell you what happened the other day. What I believe I am unable to do is to explain to you my disappointments and frustrations. And face up to your judgements. Is it something that I need to subject myself to? Am I ready to explain the way I feel without being frustrated at why you don’t seem to see my point? Can I burden you with my minor and nonsense thoughts?

And then I thought, ‘BLAH’ why should I corner myself with so many thoughts. Some epiphany also came to me through a very touching post that someone else wrote. So the next time I have that teeny little feeling of needing to censor what I have been wanting to tell you, dear friends and wayward readers, I will ask myself, ‘Why not’.

Merton: Clarity

I want to tell you about rainbows and unicorns. I want to tell you about the dreams I whispered to that supermarket flower. I want to tell you my deep thoughts of that dark night outside. I want to tell you of my yearning for light.

So many things to say, and yet nothing to say at all…

____________________

A flash of sanity: the momentary realization that there is no need to come to certain conclusions about persons, events, conflicts, trends, even trends toward evil and disaster, as if from day to day, and even from moment to moment, I had to know and declare (at least to myself) that this is so and so, this is good, this is bad. We are heading for a “new era” or are we heading for destruction? What do such judgments mean? Little or nothing. Things are as they are in an immense whole of which I am a part and which I cannot pretend to grasp. To say I grasp it is immediately to put myself in a false position, as if I were “outside” it. Whereas to be “in” it is to seek truth in my own life and action, moving where movement is possible and keeping still when movement is unnecessary, realizing that things will continue to define themselves and that the judgment and mercies of God will clarify themselves and will be more clear to me if I am silent and attentive, obedient to His will, rather than constantly formulating statements in this age which is smothered in language, in meaningless and inconclusive debate in which, in the last analysis, nobody listens to anything except what agrees with his own prejudice.

From Thomas Merton in A Moment of Clarity

Books: The Last Lecture

I don’t think this book needs any introduction. It has been a few years since he delivered his famous lecture that became THE source of revenue for his wife and kids after his eventual death. Surely half (or more I may say) of Forbes list of ‘most influential people’ have made comments of it, and if you are still clueless about Randy Pausch or his book I would have nothing to say to you, except not to go about divulging your lack of knowledge.

I am dead honest. People have murdered for less.

I have read the lecture transcripts, visited his web pages and read his wiki page. Everything except his book, well, because I am cheap that way. But I have since managed to get my gritty fingers on one copy, on a generous loan from a friend for at least a month now. And sadly to say, I didn’t really like it as much. Somehow and someway, much of his appeal vanished in its’ written form.

The book had a constant element of his impending death and mortality. And it was that I didn’t really like. It was never the thing that I liked about his lecture anyway, the sad and lonely fact that he is a dying man.

I must first admit, I don’t have must sympathy for dying people. Everyone is dying, you and I included. What is there to be piteous about? In fact, it is the living that you see me sobbing after. To me, it is those breathing and thinking individuals remaining that need that little push.

What impressed me when I first watched his lecture was his logical and steadfast attitude at facing the life that he was leading. He made no excuses for his errors, readily admitting the err of his old ways. I loved how there was no pointing of fingers and no blame, not on God even. I admire the way he drew strength from his core, banishing his demons and gathering his army of knowledge to defend what he rightfully called his. I know we all have that strength to do what he did on the small little occasions that he described, hell, we may have even been through worst. But to do so repeatedly, with unfailing trust and faith in the fairness of the universe is not easy. Lets just say that it takes more than bursts of courage and brilliance.

All these tidbits were somehow lost in the pages of the book without his dancing eyes and waving hands to bring that sort of energy across. However the book brought a different light to his story.

Words put on paper have that certain way of inking ideas into the readers’ brain. Or at least MY brain. Verbally saying ‘I won the parent lottery’ is transient and so easily forgotten. But reading it on page 21 or Chapter 4 was like a whammy in my brain. Or maybe it was just me, impressed with the idea of lottery…

I get that whammy quite a few times though while reading the book. There are sparse bits of truth that most will find hard to verbalize. I am sure most will identify with me, there are things you just know but will never every say because there is no way of continuing the peaceful co-existence once the words are in the air a-limbo. And boy was it refreshing to know that you are not the only one that feels THAT way.

Still I personally liked the video more. If you have only read the book, I urge you to see the video. That is what the internet is for, to visit my blog and rape my thoughts as well as look at stuff that I direct you to. But if you are thinking of purchasing the book, I would suggest that you read it standing at the book store first, before evaluating if it would turn into a book you would read and re-read again, or one of those showpieces that you point out to visitors as if to say SEE I KNOW WHAT HAPPENS ON OPRAH.

p/s: They did go on Oprah.

NINE

I woke up today feeling normal. Nothing special. I was a normal honors student, going about servicing the Monday blues until I was reminded of something I needed to share with friends.

I needed to share with close friends that I am now entering into the 9^th year of being with Mr. S.O.

I am not a counter. I don’t count birthdays or anniversaries. In fact, I did not even remember that it was yesterday that was THE anniversary. I was all, ‘what??? What did you just say again??? Anniversary of WHAT???’ Needless to say, it took Mr. S.O a while to explain to me that there was an actual moment when we actually decided to get together.

I was never one to make a big deal about anniversaries. Sure we went out to dinner once or twice. Phoned each other and send the customary card to help support Hallmark. But I never reacted the way I did today. Dudes, I practically ran down the corridor flaying my arms, knees going in all sorts of directions screaming NINE!

And when that performance was over, I half-whispered, half-screeched NINE at every available opportunity I had for the rest of the day to every poor soul that came within reach.

I am elated to be standing at this point in time. This is the last of the single digits. And if I may say, it has been nine good years. Looking back, I see key events defining both the relationship and the people that we are. Nice to make notes on how we have managed to change the other person for the better.

At the same time, it is bittersweet.

I wonder about those lost time, the disappearance of youth. There is not one day in the past yesteryears that I can take back and make all the better. All the things that I blurted out and never meant still floats in the air, hovering like some hazy reminder. The emotional pain, the excruciating nights after nights of tears, wondering if the relationship is a ‘lost ship’ or if things are at the page of ‘ship yet to sail’.

This relationship probably captured the best and worst of me. And if given the chance, I would jump at the opportunity to erase all the moments that have placed me in a bad light. Those needy, inconsolable moments when I am much weaker than I know myself to be. I want to take away that unreasonable monster that I sometimes become. DAMNED. I want to be perfect.

Unfortunately, someone else already broke it to me that nothing is ever perfect in life. And that happiness only comes from dealing with what is on your plate and working with what you are given. Afterall, we live in a world of 'never enough'. Still I think I will settle for my plate. It is not in any way the best, but good enough is enough for me.

And there is that gladness that overwhelms me. I have been utterly blessed with a rock, my dreamboat of sorts. It has been nine long years, but I am still being worked on. May that be the best part of all nine; the fact that I am being worked on and yet accepted for who I am. How do I even begin to get past the first nine? I honestly don’t want it to go.

Here is it, the inevitable farewell to nine good years and a herald for (hopefully) more bittersweet moments of truths.

Winks

Mr. S.O has since returned to the phone lines. And at this point in time, all the Telco companies should rejoice and cheer. Start to orchestrate a grand plan for the company dinner celebrating the return of that cheesy couple. My phone juice now drains at the speed of a raging torpedo and the need for a hands-free home phone kit is becoming to be attractive. Extremely attractive.

Mr. S.O is not that interesting. And I am not that needy. That is the awful honest truth. As a child, I used to look at grown-up couples on the public transport and note that they talk far less than they should. And I did the cross-the-heart-and-hope-to-die thing that when I finally meet someone whom I trust to love me more than I trust myself to love myself, I would do more talking than that. Now that I have achieved the first half, I realize there is no way that the second part can be fulfilled.

Do some math with me. Assuming that a person meets SOMEONE/ANYONE at the age of 20. And with 20 accumulated stories/event per year of life, one is only endowed with a measly 400 stories. And assuming that each story takes a day to tell, that would only be entertainment enough for 400 days, which is essentially a year and 1 month; or 2 years and 2 months if a break was taken every other day. And so on and so on. Effectively, couples may stop talking about the past about 3 years into the relationship because everything there know have been picked out of their brain, dissected, put together and dissected again.

Unless of course there are external events. –winks-

That is by the way not a dirty wink. That is a wink that is reserved specifically for a certain special person. Dear friends and wayward readers, this is the part of the post where I turn into the darker side and metamorphosis into a psycho. Most people bestow upon their housemate(s) glamorous name like X or any of the other 25 alphabets that is deemed fitting but I like to call him the wink.

Wink was the reason I had stories to tell, so I should begin with a respectful bow for wink, the only person who introduced conversation into my otherwise boring life. And it may be amazing enough that I will be saying this (you might feel the urge to suddenly go pee in your pants) but wink can be a very considerate and cautious person. Entertaining and helpful at times; I am, in a way, glad to be sharing a place with my dear wink.

This warm fuzzy gladness that surround the glow of my presence is however fast dissolving. I lose my halo when I am deprived of sleep. I turn into the mother of monsters when I lie in bed, kept awake by insignificant measures of nonsense that can be curbed with a little more effort and consideration. And when wink and winkers (read: friends) do not bother to keep their voices to a minimum while discussing their lofty plans to take over the world at 1am, that is when I lose it.

Because our relationship is not one bound by love or friendship, my mind went into over-drive. I wanted to grab some great big slimy hell-of-a-fish and slap the inside of wink’s thick skull while I scream WINK!!! I fantasize about having one of those large solid steel centrifugational rotors that I may use to take a swing at wink’s face with. I wanted to run wink over with winks’ car, anticipating the headlines that read ‘WINK RAN OVER BY WINKO’.

So I confer with my personal board of Elmos, make constipated expressions that can only be telling of the circumstances that I am in. Speed-dial Mr. S.O at the very next available timeslot and begin telling the whole crazy monster of a story from MY SIDE. Filling in blanks with MY tinted shades. The poor thing of a man had to coax me into restful peaceful sleep, which took him hours and no less. Because, friends and wayward readers, I was still geared up to smear Bolognese sauce on wink’s door because I HAD TO LET HIM KNOW HE IS A BLOODY ASSHOLE.

The haze of today. It follows me. I melt latex gloves onto my hand. Glide around dazed and teary for sleep. Steer away from anything grandly expensive since I cannot afford to break them. Stay at where there is someone to catch my oversights. 2 and 2 become 9. And ‘sorry, what did you say?’ became my pet phrase. Twitter my thumbs and do zone out moments that see me going into a psychedelic world of rainbows.

Damn you wink, you chased away my sleep with your endless platter of nonsense wasting your precious calories that you could otherwise utilize.

So that is the story of wink.

My splendid summary:

1) A wink will forever be a half of a blink.

2) Wink can be turn into a story. Or even stories!

3) And a story; is powerful. It keeps you from becoming that silent couple on the transport system. And it keeps the Telco chugging away and the internet moving. The words coming and the abuse going. It keeps the tiny little globe of the world turning.

A Million Bucks

At the risk of sounding endlessly childish and needy, I have to say, ‘I woke up this morning feeling like a million dollars.

Yes. I feel like a million dollars. Even though every bone in me feels as if it is disintegrating into fruit loops. Even though my pants seem to pinch me tighter after all the eating out I have been doing for the past month. Even though my eyes are heavy with the deprivation of sleep. Yes. I. Feel. Like. A. Million. Bucks.

The past week has been a rush of a week and it does not help when I am moody, snappy and prissy. If experiments possess a neck, I would have strangled it thoroughly. Hey, and think about that considering that they have been chugging along and working fine for the past few days. There are no excuses for this state of me. I know its me when I am on the brink of asking certain individuals, ‘What??? Did you donate your brain to the brain foundation or ate it for breakfast???’ Everything seems to present itself with thorns for teeth. Even the timed toaster has to be watched like a hawk to prevent a carcinogenic supper toast.

I never think I would say this. But this is how it is when Mr. S.O is out of phone contact. I lost my nightly debrief of Cliffnotes on how to maintain your sanity and there is no one else around to administer this remedy for my angst-filled and muddled brain. My mind is filled with so many unsaid things that I am oh-so-certain that it will visually spill over and out through my eyes soon. It would permeate every surface in the room, flowing like hot molten larva, dissolving all thoughts, emotions and breathing being.

Till I get my dose of remedy.

And I feel like a million bucks today, because I am anticipating my next available slot in his schedule. Tonight or tomorrow morning, whichever and whenever Mr.S.O feels like saving the world from self-destruction.

Borrowed Thoughts

IF, and IF. They often seem to make or break the numerous things that happened to us. I often wonder if I never have told you, will the outcome be different? But I’m glad I did. It’s better that I told you than regret not telling you, it meant hell lots of difference. What if, doesn’t matter anymore, we both understand it could never be. And now we say goodbye, otherwise I’ll surely never want to let go.

A seemingly nonsense rant/comment by ironcheflady left on the blog hosted by Kenny Mah. But it yields its hidden truth upon repeated reads.

Just thought I should remember

The Rain

I am.

longing for the rain.

I miss the cryptic puddles. Steaming bitumen and raindrops on my face. The reward of turning your head to the rain.

Violent sheets mirror my mood when I prod the silhouette of my umbrella against the wind. Trekking in a thunderstorm is a fight of the fist between nature and me. I am always losing. A personified struggle against God whom I know will always have the last say. It doesn't hurt to try to make Him sense my desperation in all my times of need. Doesn't hurt to make him understand my anger and frustration. Except that He already understood long before I did.

The gentle platter may greet my runners, sprouting from the toes, forming an elegant arch of gold and silver before disappearing into the next puddle. Gone, and just like *that*. Recall the dread of the squishy toes and relief of footprints on dry concrete. The desire for something warm. The half-memory of the last time a car splashed you with muddy rain water. The shiver of delight at the thought of a warm toasty bed on a rainy morning.

The silver dabble. A sprinkling of spots. Not nearly enough to convince you to stop and retrieve the trusty brolly, but more than enough to quicken those half-hearted steps. I remember that wash of relief when you are home before the sky began to pour. That sheer joy of escaping the peak of the storm. Realize that you are safe after all.

Smell the sweet tinge of air after the rain. The loud audible tones of the grass and drainage. The novel mix of sun and water assaulting your nostrils. You remember the clearing of grey, the tempting puddles of mud and the heavy damp that remains.

I long.

For the rain.

Just One Thing

Happiness is like sand. One can never hold it in the palm of ones' hand. It slips past ones fingers and before you know it, everything is lost forever. Contain it in a bottle, and it turns moldy and clumpy. Take a photo of it, but you cannot adequately capture the soft and silky feel of it. It will just look like concrete flooring. Try to remember it, and the color will be forgotten and time will blur your memory of how it feels against your skin.

How does one capture happiness? And keep it happy and stagnant. But still happy?

Melbourne Leg of Things

Memorabilia from Aussie 2009, Spot My Lurking Macbook Pro

The Melbourne Leg of Mr. SO trip to Down Under is not any less exciting than that of the Sydney Leg. Sydney was wonderful because we masqueraded our existence under the idea of a vacation, but Melbourne had its own perks while being the cultural and fashion capital of Aussie Land.

The Melbourne Leg was thus marked by… multiple visits to museums and the likes. The State of Victoria was also very kind to host, not 1 but 2, Melbourne Winter Masterpieces (MWM) for our enjoyment. Generally for all the past years, Victoria has only had 1 MWM per year. But this year was special; they had 2 for reasons unknown to me. So we went to see the ruins of Pompeii and the surrealistic side of Dali.

Dali. was. and. is. great. There is no way else to say it. The beauty of everything was so arresting at the National Gallery of Victoria that I was taken aback. I swore that at the end of it, I was a tad bit overloaded due to the sheer size of the collection. Unfortunately despite its’ size, my favorite piece was not even displayed, much less mentioned.

Pompeii came to life at the Melbourne Museum. Everything was resurrected and I think we saw the oldest bread ever in the history of mankind. There was a loaf of bread that was left in the oven during the eruption. This loaf of bread, blackened from the extended oven incubation, was on display! Imagine that! We also saw jewelery that they used to wear. Thick gold chains and arm bracelets. And of course the infamous body casts of the victims’ last moments.

The Melbourne Museum also housed other exhibitions for bugs and human body and other uninteresting bits and pieces. But the best display would be a depiction of what life would be like if cockroaches were to take over the world. They would mainly lounge all day long in your cow-print leather armchairs and watch cable all day long. I imagine this is the stuff of yh's dreams.

We also spent a large part of our time catching movies, Transformers and Terminator. My first movies ever since coming to Melbourne this year. This is the extend to which I lack a life without Mr. SO.

Walking around also brought us to Degraves Lane, home to the lesser-known winding little arcade stalls of Melbourne. Mini-cupcakes galore. They are the cutest things you have ever seen. Sadly they exist for less than a few seconds for one cannot resist the temptation of popping the entire cute thing into your mouth for an explosion of mousse and chocolate cupcake base.

A Size Comparison to my Handphone Pouch

Part of my love of Melbourne can be seen in the little things you see around town. I love the art/vandalism on the city blocks. I think it lends a little personality to the oblong and lifelessness of the building. I love the posters that go up everywhere telling me of the latest left-wing play available. And I love floor art. This would get you fined in Singapore, so while we are here, we had better be thoroughly amused and entertained.

Hell is a Lifestyle Choice. Spray-paint ads on the bitumen.

And last but not least. This is how desperation looks like. Enabled by the presence of a convenient slave, aka Mr. SO, who willingly fetched a 2 kg durian from 700 meters away. Such is adoration and devotion, I am blessed.

Consolidations

It came to me this morning, when I am lying awake, but not yet fully out of the realm of dreams and desires. I could barely see the rays of sunlight filtering through the blinds, but I had a clear picture in my mind of a photo that I saw yesterday.

Autumn of 2009 in Melbourne

Taken on a whimsical moment with the camera on my mobile phone back in May, it was a day that saw me trekking towards my 20km runs. What fascinated me then were the big fat colorful leaves, the graceful falling and the refreshing cold wind.

I clearly remember the chattering students going about their lazy and busy days. The lady from the catering place was clattering the trays of Dim Sims and coffee cups, on her way to an appointment. The loud snaps and clacks of the professional camera that a nerdy youngster was caressing in his large hands trying to frame every single moment of every falling leaf.

Now as I look at that photo, I am a little irked that I see not the glorious colors and wonderful act of nature. I see an impending tree of morbid limbs and disappearing foliage. I see the loss of moments. I see a naked and shivering core, trembling to its source.

But I am reminded of this post. I am reminded of the joy that Spring may bring to these trees that were busy shedding their leaves a few months ago.

And this is when I finally understood the meaning of docility to grace.

Far from being a conscious submission to God, it is the acceptance that our lives are in the hands of someone other than our own despite ones’ desire for ownership and self-identity. It is recognition that the universe of our future is far more than the transient mortal world of our waking moments. There is a certain release from the medals and trophies of our wanting minds. For what is imminent are not the rewards that we deserve but the riches of those that we will be entrusted with.

I now know not the estimation of the distances of my puny and juvenile life. But I finally see that the destinations are not one of my choosing. That the winds may carry music upon their wings, but one will never be deserving of appreciating their beauty while they go past. There are unfortunately certain privileges and riches in life, that may only be granted on hindsight.

Such is my solemn consolidation on a Sunday morning.

Grey Winter Moments

How can a day that began so late end so prematurely? It makes living so much shorter and easier. If days may pass without a notice and without a care, then life would not be a mess of meandering plains.

I long for a page of clear-minded simplicity.

Good things come to those who wait, with patience. Peace comes to those who keep silent vigil by those moments of violent thoughts. Nodding in efforts to acknowledge their presence and yet maintaining a strong resistance front and a absolute avoidance of succumbing to those thoughts. Is that all what it is about? And if it is, then it is all but a precarious dance between that which is here and there, and what is standing and falling.

Meanwhile, we all stand for long hours under the hot shower in the cruel winter cold, wishing, that everything may be as simple as taking a hot long shower. That the only requirement is a solution of water and soap, and that everything can be eventually washed away.

Sydney in 6 Pictures and a Thousand Words

Now that everything has fallen away and all that are left are the memories and photos, I figured I had better add words to the mix before the moment is gone. Such is my memory, mercifully short in an effort to lose my cravings and addictions.

The past 2 weeks can be summarized using a culinary term, ‘high notes upon high notes’; you will soon see what I mean. Trays of food upon more delicious food, so much so that I am bewildered by the fact that I am still the same weight. Never felt that I grew horizontally, well with the exception of the time that I was in Sydney, I felt that my waistband was some boa constrictor, constricting me.

At the Highly Recommended Hurricane Café in Sydney Darling Harbor

Sydney was great, despite the crowd and the nightly sales. I have always been one who prefers the suburban life to the city hustling one, but I am not complaining. What irked me most about Sydney was the rainy weather. Despite being warmer than Melbourne, it seem to rain an awful lot with most of our photos turning out gloomy and sad, a sharp contrast to our gayful and playful mood.

To escape the tragic weather that hovered over the CBD we took a 2-day trip up to the Blue Mountains. Blue Mountains have always been a place I wanted to go to. Partially because I have heard so much about it and that I want to be able to say I have been and seen it.

On a Stone Ledge at the Wentworth Falls Hike

Relentless is not a word I use often. Words I use often are happy and comical words like ‘funny’ and ‘what???’ and maybe ‘Blardy hell’ said in this ridiculous high pitch tone. But relentless would be the one word that I use, (while summoning all the seriousness that I possess) to describe the Blue Mountains Trip. It was bush walking after bush walking to see eerie spiders, trickling waterfalls all on mud paths that have yet to seen sunshine in eons. All this activity serve only to reminded me that I am all but a highly inactive lab monkey on normal days despite the sports shoe that I wear daily.

Back to the bush walking, I have to admit I love and bask in the tiring nature of all the climbing and walking even though the weather was not agreeable. But there was a point in time where I had to consciously resist the final act of throwing my hands up in the air and exclaiming to all who would listen that ‘I had enough of all the muddy business’. I mean, why is it that the weather is so disagreeable on a holiday? Instead of taking my frustrations out on the innocent people around us, Mr S.O and I sat at one quaint little cozy café where hand-crafted coffee is served to rest our woeful tired feet and body.

Hand-Crafted Coffee and a Hot Chocolate to cheer our Leaden Feet

This picture honestly deserves another rant. I mean what on earth is meant by ‘Hand-crafted coffee’. If there is anything pompous in this world, that must be it. Coffee can hand-roasted, hand-grown and hand-picked, but hand-crafted suggest something entirely. And if your mind is as scientific as mind, you would think that the coffee is genetically-modified, hence the HAND-CRAFTED tag. Hah! Coffee-addictions can make one go loony!

In our Abseiling Gear and on the Edge of the Cliff

Our degree of loony is apparent in the activity of choice the following day; Abseiling. It was almost as if the bush walking was inadequate in pushing our calves to the brink of retirement, so we giddily decided to embark on another adventure abseiling down 60m cliffs which will see us WALKING up the same distance. Genius! Thankfully the weather was good and we did catch some glimpse of the sun despite small showers throughout the day. And all the exercise had another advantage to it, burning away all those chocolate that we have been practically INHALING throughout the time we were in Sydney.

Us at the Sydney Harbour Bridge (above) and the Sydney Opera House (below)

Trips to Sydney cannot be considered authentic unless a visit to the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge have been dutifully paid. And that is how we trot along on the last day of our stay in Sydney, before we return to the cold and shivery Melbourne. It was amazing that we did not pay for transport during the whole time in Sydney. We walked everywhere… chatting and basking in the atmosphere of the city, almost replicating the early dating days when we were both students in Singapore.

Funny how memories always seem happy on hindsight, but the present always feel heavy and mildly suffocating.

Everyday, I Play

Everyday I am presented with the opportunity to learn something new.

Every single moment of my apparently insignificant life is a lifetime of experience in itself. Sometimes I am too busy yielding to the demands of the world to recognize my own mortality; but today is tinted in a different light.

Today I learn that it is easy to make something appear seamless. It is almost effortless to appear as if nothing has changed. It is easy to say ‘I am okay’ but infinitely hard to convince someone of it. More so yourself. It is easy to whittle to your knees and wail but impossible to hide from the words of sympathy and condolences that suddenly flood your world.

I long to disappear into silence and nothingness. Perhaps in there, there is a suitable misery to mirror this void. No substitution exists; every impostor that tries, fades and decay, lingering into a certain shame that puts my wants on a pedestal.

In all that murkiness is a certain realization that what I innately desire is furthest away from the goals that I should be pursuing. And the humbling recognition that the coming days will be a struggle to be paid with tears and an infinite amount of heartache.

I need a certain reality where the world I live in overlaps sweetly with that of my imagined mind.