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
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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