Asakusa, Tokyo - Jun' 07
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Friday, August 31, 2007
Up In The Clouds, Those Books
I have habit, a small pleasure really, to always buy a paperback from the airport bookstore each time I travel. And on its first page, without fail, I'd scribble the date and city of departure before I start reading.
It may seem like a mindless entry, and in fact it really is. But I am so used to the routine that I find myself obsessing about it the moment I step into an airport, so much so that I get frantic when I can't find a decent title to procure. Then, I'll spend another ten minutes pacing around the bookstore aisles and wringing my clammy fingers in anxiety before settling for one with a dubious title such as "The Deafening Whisper" or "Antartica - More Than Ice", after watching about a dozen transit shoppers come and go with a copy of it each. The logic behind this is, better to read a lousy book than to be airborne without any. Another one of my quirky little philosophies.
Thus, you can imagine how many books, good or otherwise, I have stashed away all these years from my travels. They have become my proud collection and many of which are so enjoyable that I read them over and over again. And each time I do, I would take a quick glance of my entry on the first page and reminisce fondly of that particular trip. Yes, most people use photographs, postcards or journals to remember their vacations by. Not me, I use books. Somehow my brain seem to recall better by aligning memories with trashy book content.
So it was with my life's greatest regret that I left a paperback, one that should be part of my collection, in an aircraft once. You may think it's a forgivable offence to lose a book by slotting it to oblivion in the heinously deep front pocket of your seat, but hell no, I did nothing of the sort. I fell asleep after reading three lines of the prologue and simply let it slide down the empty space between my arm rest and the wall of the aircraft. Most of all, it was just a one-hour domestic flight from Toyama to Haneda Airport. Not the best excuse for nodding off in a most unglamorous manner, much less to lose a brand new novel that was a potential good read. Utterly disgraceful.
Now, I've learnt to be more careful with my books by spending those dreadfully long pauses between touchdown and the seat belt sign going off, committing myself to checking and re-checking my articles. "Passport, hand-carry, book... passport, hand-carry, book..." That's how I remember. These days, I never lose my books anymore, although I had subsequently left behind a scarf, a pair of sunglasses and a couple of muffins, all in the same deep, dark aircraft front pocket.
Well, try as we might, we can never be perfect, can we?
Ahhh... I forgot to mention my favourite habit of using the little stubs left of boarding passes as bookmarks when I read. I sincerely think that's what the airline people invented them for. Clever.
It may seem like a mindless entry, and in fact it really is. But I am so used to the routine that I find myself obsessing about it the moment I step into an airport, so much so that I get frantic when I can't find a decent title to procure. Then, I'll spend another ten minutes pacing around the bookstore aisles and wringing my clammy fingers in anxiety before settling for one with a dubious title such as "The Deafening Whisper" or "Antartica - More Than Ice", after watching about a dozen transit shoppers come and go with a copy of it each. The logic behind this is, better to read a lousy book than to be airborne without any. Another one of my quirky little philosophies.
Thus, you can imagine how many books, good or otherwise, I have stashed away all these years from my travels. They have become my proud collection and many of which are so enjoyable that I read them over and over again. And each time I do, I would take a quick glance of my entry on the first page and reminisce fondly of that particular trip. Yes, most people use photographs, postcards or journals to remember their vacations by. Not me, I use books. Somehow my brain seem to recall better by aligning memories with trashy book content.
So it was with my life's greatest regret that I left a paperback, one that should be part of my collection, in an aircraft once. You may think it's a forgivable offence to lose a book by slotting it to oblivion in the heinously deep front pocket of your seat, but hell no, I did nothing of the sort. I fell asleep after reading three lines of the prologue and simply let it slide down the empty space between my arm rest and the wall of the aircraft. Most of all, it was just a one-hour domestic flight from Toyama to Haneda Airport. Not the best excuse for nodding off in a most unglamorous manner, much less to lose a brand new novel that was a potential good read. Utterly disgraceful.
Now, I've learnt to be more careful with my books by spending those dreadfully long pauses between touchdown and the seat belt sign going off, committing myself to checking and re-checking my articles. "Passport, hand-carry, book... passport, hand-carry, book..." That's how I remember. These days, I never lose my books anymore, although I had subsequently left behind a scarf, a pair of sunglasses and a couple of muffins, all in the same deep, dark aircraft front pocket.
Well, try as we might, we can never be perfect, can we?
Ahhh... I forgot to mention my favourite habit of using the little stubs left of boarding passes as bookmarks when I read. I sincerely think that's what the airline people invented them for. Clever.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Saturday, August 25, 2007
That Day With Dad
I do not have many fond memories of doing things with my dad. Well, he's great and all, just never very involved in the things I do. Throughout my school years, Mom was the one to depend on. Of course, Dad provided the dough, and all is well.
Being highly independent bordering on being autistic as a kid, I was quite happy sticking to the status quo, but nevertheless always quietly envious of the other kind of father-daughter relationship I watched on TV. You know, the kind where Dad actually plays basketball with Daughter and gives her advice on what to wear to the prom? Yeah, the non-existent kind, at least to me.
Well, there were times when we had moments together, but always with Mom around, making us a wholesome family of three (occasionally five, when my equally wholesome sister and brother-in-law were with us). Other times, we hardly had anything to say to each other. It seemed that I took after Dad, and the two of us alone at home would mean a silence overkill.
So, it was with great apprehension that I welcomed that day which I got to spend some time out with him while my mom thrived in her shopping elsewhere round the globe. Actually, it wasn't even a big deal because we were just supposed to get some official things done at the bank involving a property purchase. We were on task and done within an hour, and because I had to work later in the day, there was effectively only a couple of hours to spare in between.
And what did we do? We shared a Subway sandwich and coffee between us (Dad's first taste of my college staple), window-shopped at a furniture mall and exchanged pointers at an electrical appliance store. It was the best father-daughter bonding day I've had.
My dad is so cool.
Being highly independent bordering on being autistic as a kid, I was quite happy sticking to the status quo, but nevertheless always quietly envious of the other kind of father-daughter relationship I watched on TV. You know, the kind where Dad actually plays basketball with Daughter and gives her advice on what to wear to the prom? Yeah, the non-existent kind, at least to me.
Well, there were times when we had moments together, but always with Mom around, making us a wholesome family of three (occasionally five, when my equally wholesome sister and brother-in-law were with us). Other times, we hardly had anything to say to each other. It seemed that I took after Dad, and the two of us alone at home would mean a silence overkill.
So, it was with great apprehension that I welcomed that day which I got to spend some time out with him while my mom thrived in her shopping elsewhere round the globe. Actually, it wasn't even a big deal because we were just supposed to get some official things done at the bank involving a property purchase. We were on task and done within an hour, and because I had to work later in the day, there was effectively only a couple of hours to spare in between.
And what did we do? We shared a Subway sandwich and coffee between us (Dad's first taste of my college staple), window-shopped at a furniture mall and exchanged pointers at an electrical appliance store. It was the best father-daughter bonding day I've had.
My dad is so cool.
A Few Things
Actually, more than a few things. Every time I chance upon a great topic or something memorable, I commit it to memory so that I can perhaps put them down in this blog one fine day. As you can see, that fine day is long overdue and those 'mental notes' just keep piling up.
With keen alikeness to a computer overloaded with too much inconsequential data, my pathetic brain slows down to a pace just marginally faster than my current PC. (Trust me, this is saying a lot.) Well, I have only this many neurons until some smart fellow from the valley finds a way to upgrade my RAM.
In face of such a major brain-stalling catastrophe (actually, my remarkably slow PC bothers me more, but well...), I've decided to take the cue from IT and adopt the 'back up-and-reformat' strategy. All I've got to do now is to start the painfully slow process of backing up -- writing what I've been meaning to, for the longest time.
First, let me recapitulate... ... ... ...
Oh, just great. My mind is stalled and I gotta reboot. See you in a minute.
With keen alikeness to a computer overloaded with too much inconsequential data, my pathetic brain slows down to a pace just marginally faster than my current PC. (Trust me, this is saying a lot.) Well, I have only this many neurons until some smart fellow from the valley finds a way to upgrade my RAM.
In face of such a major brain-stalling catastrophe (actually, my remarkably slow PC bothers me more, but well...), I've decided to take the cue from IT and adopt the 'back up-and-reformat' strategy. All I've got to do now is to start the painfully slow process of backing up -- writing what I've been meaning to, for the longest time.
First, let me recapitulate... ... ... ...
Oh, just great. My mind is stalled and I gotta reboot. See you in a minute.
Monday, July 02, 2007
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Shizen Yoga
Shizen means nature in Japanese. For the past one week, I have been living au naturel (I mean spiritually, not physically naked or anything) in Kichijoji, attending daily yoga lessons at Shizen Yoga studio B under the guidance of several wonderful instructors.
Kichijoji is a hip little neighborhood in the outskirts of Tokyo with an arty, offbeat culture that results in numerous indie establishments and a slight un-Japanese-ness. From the minute I stepped out of the train station, I knew that a yoga school in this area would be the right way to go.
And indeed, I was right.
The studio is nestled in the quieter side of the neighborhood among quaint little boutiques and private residences, with just a simple grey sign to indicate its presence. I was a little apprehensive as I made my way up the open stairway to the second floor and pulled open the slightly ajarred door, but I soon felt right at home when Sachiko-sensei welcomed me with her bright "konnichi wa".
Studio B, from what I understand, is smaller than studio A and hence caters for smaller classes. There is no shower facilities, in-house snack bars or fanciful fixtures offered by larger chain health clubs, just a simple washroom and a changing area marked by pieces of cloth hanging from the ceiling. A wall-to-wall cupboard stores a good supply of mats, blocks, belts, blankets and bolsters for class participants. The environment is clean, quiet and minimalistic. All the right combinations for pure, unadulated yoga.
And so it was, I was soon breathing and bending at the close supervision of our instructor, together with five fellow participants. Nothing was too easy or too difficult as Sachiko would demonstrate variations of a single pose and then promptly advised us which to follow depending on our level of fitness and flexibility. By the end of my first lesson at Shizen, I was looking forward to my next. I must say, Sachiko really did well to stretch my muscles, as I actually ached quite a bit that night.
In the very same manner, I became student of Madoka and Reiko as well. Though the instructors share a similar philosophy, they have different personalities that shone through in every class. No two classes were the same, as each sensei has their own style and there was always a different focus or a new pose to touch on. Madoka opened me up to an enlightening perspective on yoga and meditation, while Reiko radiated power and confidence through her sturdy moves.
My fellow classmates at Shizen too, made my experience unforgettable. Whether it is sharing thoughts and laughter with each other, attempting to balance hefty butts on our arms or simply lying on our mats in sweaty togetherness toward the end of each session, they were good company and inspiration. There is nothing more motivating than knowing there are great people like these who practise yoga. And as a bonus, I even met a fellow Mac alum - Madoka's sister, Michiru - at Shizen, halfway round the globe from Minnesota. Yes, yoga really does wonders.
As Shizen's founder Dominica puts it, yoga is about the discovery of oneself; I was beginning to discover, bit by bit, my own physical, mental and spiritual state of being through each breathe and step I took. This experience, though totally new to me, felt really comforting and rejuvenating under the wings of Sachiko, Madoka and Reiko.
Thank you to all of you at Shizen for your patience in providing English explanations, your kind words of encouragement, your generous smiles and genuine passion in yoga. I had a truly wonderful time and I hope to be back soon.
Kichijoji is a hip little neighborhood in the outskirts of Tokyo with an arty, offbeat culture that results in numerous indie establishments and a slight un-Japanese-ness. From the minute I stepped out of the train station, I knew that a yoga school in this area would be the right way to go.
And indeed, I was right.
The studio is nestled in the quieter side of the neighborhood among quaint little boutiques and private residences, with just a simple grey sign to indicate its presence. I was a little apprehensive as I made my way up the open stairway to the second floor and pulled open the slightly ajarred door, but I soon felt right at home when Sachiko-sensei welcomed me with her bright "konnichi wa".
Studio B, from what I understand, is smaller than studio A and hence caters for smaller classes. There is no shower facilities, in-house snack bars or fanciful fixtures offered by larger chain health clubs, just a simple washroom and a changing area marked by pieces of cloth hanging from the ceiling. A wall-to-wall cupboard stores a good supply of mats, blocks, belts, blankets and bolsters for class participants. The environment is clean, quiet and minimalistic. All the right combinations for pure, unadulated yoga.
And so it was, I was soon breathing and bending at the close supervision of our instructor, together with five fellow participants. Nothing was too easy or too difficult as Sachiko would demonstrate variations of a single pose and then promptly advised us which to follow depending on our level of fitness and flexibility. By the end of my first lesson at Shizen, I was looking forward to my next. I must say, Sachiko really did well to stretch my muscles, as I actually ached quite a bit that night.
In the very same manner, I became student of Madoka and Reiko as well. Though the instructors share a similar philosophy, they have different personalities that shone through in every class. No two classes were the same, as each sensei has their own style and there was always a different focus or a new pose to touch on. Madoka opened me up to an enlightening perspective on yoga and meditation, while Reiko radiated power and confidence through her sturdy moves.
My fellow classmates at Shizen too, made my experience unforgettable. Whether it is sharing thoughts and laughter with each other, attempting to balance hefty butts on our arms or simply lying on our mats in sweaty togetherness toward the end of each session, they were good company and inspiration. There is nothing more motivating than knowing there are great people like these who practise yoga. And as a bonus, I even met a fellow Mac alum - Madoka's sister, Michiru - at Shizen, halfway round the globe from Minnesota. Yes, yoga really does wonders.
As Shizen's founder Dominica puts it, yoga is about the discovery of oneself; I was beginning to discover, bit by bit, my own physical, mental and spiritual state of being through each breathe and step I took. This experience, though totally new to me, felt really comforting and rejuvenating under the wings of Sachiko, Madoka and Reiko.
Thank you to all of you at Shizen for your patience in providing English explanations, your kind words of encouragement, your generous smiles and genuine passion in yoga. I had a truly wonderful time and I hope to be back soon.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Gadget Girl
I'm a Gadget girl, in a Gadget world.
Memory sticks, life's fantastic...
Oh yeah, Houston, I have a problem. I'm totally into my gadgets and it's leaving me bankrupt and luvin' it. Well, almost bankrupt, but definitely loving all of it.
Between now and my last blog post on how I was infatuated with the Creative Neeon, then subsequently the iPod Nano (and yes I eventually bought one) , I've managed to amass a good number of high tech toys: a Panasonic digital video camera, an iLuv stereo docking system ipod, a Kensington remote control for wireless presentations, a Sony Ericsson 3G-cum-3.2 megapixel Cyber-shot lens multimedia phone, a Penpower Handwriter - a pen and tablet set for handwritten input, and a Creative 2-in-1 keyboard that has both computer and black-and-white musical keys on it.
Cool huh? You don't think so? Well, I think they're awesome... BUT still, not half as awesome as these items on my current MUST-HAVE list:
Good planning. Wish me luck.
Memory sticks, life's fantastic...
Oh yeah, Houston, I have a problem. I'm totally into my gadgets and it's leaving me bankrupt and luvin' it. Well, almost bankrupt, but definitely loving all of it.
Between now and my last blog post on how I was infatuated with the Creative Neeon, then subsequently the iPod Nano (and yes I eventually bought one) , I've managed to amass a good number of high tech toys: a Panasonic digital video camera, an iLuv stereo docking system ipod, a Kensington remote control for wireless presentations, a Sony Ericsson 3G-cum-3.2 megapixel Cyber-shot lens multimedia phone, a Penpower Handwriter - a pen and tablet set for handwritten input, and a Creative 2-in-1 keyboard that has both computer and black-and-white musical keys on it.
Cool huh? You don't think so? Well, I think they're awesome... BUT still, not half as awesome as these items on my current MUST-HAVE list:
- Sony VAIO TX56 - For surfing the net and blogging on the go. The free wireless@SG hotspots, its featherweight size (in laptop relativity), and the stylish carbonfibre (the same material that Ferrari cars are made of. I mean, how neat is that?!) casing are perfect reasons why I just have to get one to complete my wardrobe.
- Nikon Coolpix S200 - For taking 7.1 megapixel shots on the go. My current 3.2 megapixel phone camera and an antique fat bodied Sony Mavica is just not good enough for serious arty farty types like me. (Not the niftiest one in the market, but hey, that's all I can afford!)
- Nokia N95 - For its wireless internet connection and 5 megapixels Carl Zeiss Tessar lens. Now, now, before you start explaining how I do not need the N95 as the Vaio is wifi-enabled and the Coolpix is way ahead in terms of picture resolution, I must remind you, as a blue blooded gadget royalty, that the N95 comes with GPS and maps of various countries. Absolutely essential for survival in this time and age, and beyond.
- Apple Airport Extreme Base Station - Just its name alone is gratifying to any gadget enthusiasts. Of course, the best deal is that it allows me to connect all my toys wirelessly with each other, and with the internet. Need I say more?
Good planning. Wish me luck.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Cook My Sashimi, PLEASE!
I pride myself on being a self-made connoisseur of good food.
Misunderstand me not, for I am not a snobbish nor a fussy eater. I've had my fair share of plain tasteless to downright revolting culinary experiences, and I'm actually quite easily contented by simple, unexciting dishes on most uneventful days.
The only thing that makes me a real foodie is my unrelenting passion in finding out about and tracking down good food, wherever it may be. Suspicious looking street side hawker fare in Bangkok, classy Ritz afternoon tea in London, dingy diner breakfast in the States, I've conquered them all. Even in Singapore, I'd travel across the country (albeit a very small one) just for that great Hainanese chicken rice chili dip, or risk getting heat stroke by walking from Orchard to Botanical Gardens in the blazing sun for that rack of lamb roasted to perfection.
Alas, there is one big regret in this gastronomic pursuit of mine. That is, I absolutely hate raw fish. With this revelation, I have a strong urge to weep and bow deeply to the Japanese to apologize for my horrendous inadequacy. I sin, in the eyes of millions of sashimi lovers, each time I gag when I see or smell raw seafood on little wooden plates.
In the unfortunate event of me being force led into a sashimi restaurant, I would have to ask for flasks of hot green tea to wash the slimy fishy mess down my throat, half hoping that the piping heat from the tea would actually flash cook it in split seconds (well, it didn't, but it did cook my throat to a medium rare). If I get lucky, I might be able to get through the night by pretending to concentrate hard on creating the optimal mix of wasabi and soy sauce. Since I'm mostly not a lucky person, I've swallowed quite a variety of raw things (I still can't bring myself to say 'food') to date.
The most memorable (and coincidentally, also the saddest) experience I've had was the time I went to a yakiniku, or BBQ, restaurant in Nagoya. It was a dinner which I had been looking forward to, and it didn't disappoint. Not until the beef liver dish came up. If you know me quite well, you'd know that I'm really crazy about liver. Pork liver, duck liver, goose liver, chicken liver, whatever... At this juncture, I'm sure you're feeling really happy for me, but let me tell you that NO, one does not eat BBQ beef liver in a BBQ restaurant! You eat it raw. Oh yeah, red, dripping wet raw.
Thus, it is with greatest sorrow that I placed a slice of raw beef liver gingerly onto my tongue while miserably watching that lovely BBQ fire crackle in unknowing excitement. I cursed silently as the piece of liver french kissed its way down my throat. To add insult to injury, I had to finish the entire plate as I was sitting at the counter bar where half a dozen Japanese diners had their eyes on me, nodding approvingly at my valiant attempt. And it wasn't even cheap.
To this day, I am still bent on conquering my fear for all things raw, in a bid to become a true gourmet. Once in a while, I'd boldly try a slice of sashimi from my dinner companion's platter, but it will always end in the same fashion - me reaching out for my tea cup frantically just before I throw up.
So, minasan, give me shabu shabu, sukiyaki, tempura, anything. Just keep that sashimi away from me, unless there's plenty of hot green tea. Please.
Misunderstand me not, for I am not a snobbish nor a fussy eater. I've had my fair share of plain tasteless to downright revolting culinary experiences, and I'm actually quite easily contented by simple, unexciting dishes on most uneventful days.
The only thing that makes me a real foodie is my unrelenting passion in finding out about and tracking down good food, wherever it may be. Suspicious looking street side hawker fare in Bangkok, classy Ritz afternoon tea in London, dingy diner breakfast in the States, I've conquered them all. Even in Singapore, I'd travel across the country (albeit a very small one) just for that great Hainanese chicken rice chili dip, or risk getting heat stroke by walking from Orchard to Botanical Gardens in the blazing sun for that rack of lamb roasted to perfection.
Alas, there is one big regret in this gastronomic pursuit of mine. That is, I absolutely hate raw fish. With this revelation, I have a strong urge to weep and bow deeply to the Japanese to apologize for my horrendous inadequacy. I sin, in the eyes of millions of sashimi lovers, each time I gag when I see or smell raw seafood on little wooden plates.
In the unfortunate event of me being force led into a sashimi restaurant, I would have to ask for flasks of hot green tea to wash the slimy fishy mess down my throat, half hoping that the piping heat from the tea would actually flash cook it in split seconds (well, it didn't, but it did cook my throat to a medium rare). If I get lucky, I might be able to get through the night by pretending to concentrate hard on creating the optimal mix of wasabi and soy sauce. Since I'm mostly not a lucky person, I've swallowed quite a variety of raw things (I still can't bring myself to say 'food') to date.
The most memorable (and coincidentally, also the saddest) experience I've had was the time I went to a yakiniku, or BBQ, restaurant in Nagoya. It was a dinner which I had been looking forward to, and it didn't disappoint. Not until the beef liver dish came up. If you know me quite well, you'd know that I'm really crazy about liver. Pork liver, duck liver, goose liver, chicken liver, whatever... At this juncture, I'm sure you're feeling really happy for me, but let me tell you that NO, one does not eat BBQ beef liver in a BBQ restaurant! You eat it raw. Oh yeah, red, dripping wet raw.
Thus, it is with greatest sorrow that I placed a slice of raw beef liver gingerly onto my tongue while miserably watching that lovely BBQ fire crackle in unknowing excitement. I cursed silently as the piece of liver french kissed its way down my throat. To add insult to injury, I had to finish the entire plate as I was sitting at the counter bar where half a dozen Japanese diners had their eyes on me, nodding approvingly at my valiant attempt. And it wasn't even cheap.
To this day, I am still bent on conquering my fear for all things raw, in a bid to become a true gourmet. Once in a while, I'd boldly try a slice of sashimi from my dinner companion's platter, but it will always end in the same fashion - me reaching out for my tea cup frantically just before I throw up.
So, minasan, give me shabu shabu, sukiyaki, tempura, anything. Just keep that sashimi away from me, unless there's plenty of hot green tea. Please.
I Have a Sloth for a Sister
So where shall I begin?
Maybe with a disclaimer, just for my personal safety. For the record, it is in no way derogatory that I call my own blood sister a slow-moving arboreal edentate (meaning almost toothless, if you're curious) mammal that does nothing but attempts to finish chewing two leaves in its mouth before the sun sets... and rises again.
And if it helps, may I also emphasize that she got the lovely nickname from her husband, by absolutely no fault of mine.
Believe it or not, I actually find the term rather affectionate and quite darn cute. It never fails to amaze me how good my sister is in adopting such a surreal tempo. And pray, it is indeed amazing when you consider Ms. Sloth's most un-sloth-like past as an enthusiastic gymnast and athlete in her school days. Those were her golden days of many quick moves and nifty footwork. She could have been Ms. Puma then.
I'm not sure what exactly happened but somewhere down the line (after one marriage and many many pound cakes later), she morphed into what she is today - the human equivalent of a creature that moves so painfully slow that it may as well be in reverse. You'll have to watch her really closely or you'd think she stopped dead midway in her track. Meet her at the start of the day and you'd know what I mean. The true epitome of S-L-O-W.
To be fair, I not a quick person either. It probably runs in the family, where lazing around is a highly desirable pastime. It's just that my sister is at the more extreme end of the BUMMER spectrum. I've got a lot more to catch up.
To Yanni the most successful sloth in mankind and the glory of our family!
Maybe with a disclaimer, just for my personal safety. For the record, it is in no way derogatory that I call my own blood sister a slow-moving arboreal edentate (meaning almost toothless, if you're curious) mammal that does nothing but attempts to finish chewing two leaves in its mouth before the sun sets... and rises again.
And if it helps, may I also emphasize that she got the lovely nickname from her husband, by absolutely no fault of mine.
Believe it or not, I actually find the term rather affectionate and quite darn cute. It never fails to amaze me how good my sister is in adopting such a surreal tempo. And pray, it is indeed amazing when you consider Ms. Sloth's most un-sloth-like past as an enthusiastic gymnast and athlete in her school days. Those were her golden days of many quick moves and nifty footwork. She could have been Ms. Puma then.
I'm not sure what exactly happened but somewhere down the line (after one marriage and many many pound cakes later), she morphed into what she is today - the human equivalent of a creature that moves so painfully slow that it may as well be in reverse. You'll have to watch her really closely or you'd think she stopped dead midway in her track. Meet her at the start of the day and you'd know what I mean. The true epitome of S-L-O-W.
To be fair, I not a quick person either. It probably runs in the family, where lazing around is a highly desirable pastime. It's just that my sister is at the more extreme end of the BUMMER spectrum. I've got a lot more to catch up.
To Yanni the most successful sloth in mankind and the glory of our family!
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Every Pi Has Its Day
Happy π Day to all!
Did I just see you do a double take? Now, blink no more, for it is indeed the Pi Day on this fourteenth day of March! If you've been oblivious to the existence of such a special occasion, fret not! According to my own statistically intelligent guess, for every 1000 people out there,
No. of people who know about Pi ≈ 143π
No. of people who know that there is a Pi Day ≈ 2π
No. of people who know the exact date of Pi Day ≈ π
In case you are interested, π is an irrational real number and is equals to 3.14159 26535 89793 23846 26433 83279 50288 41971 69399 37510 ... ... (it's an infinite decimal expansion, so if you're bored, this can keep you busy for a long time) With that, for those who prefer to work with integers, the above equations translate to just approximately 3 out of 1000 people who are aware that today is Pi Day. Not many celebrate the greatness of this mathematical constant, I must say.
For me, I've just learnt about it barely five minutes ago, and am very glad that we all grow wiser with age, even though I do not have much to do with this magic number anymore. How on earth did anybody figure this critical but deceivingly cute little symbol π out, I really do not know, but I salute them, nonetheless, for giving us this special day. Oh, and by the way, it's physics genius Albert Einstein, and my dear friend Albert Tan's birthday too.
Hap-Pi Birthday to both!
Did I just see you do a double take? Now, blink no more, for it is indeed the Pi Day on this fourteenth day of March! If you've been oblivious to the existence of such a special occasion, fret not! According to my own statistically intelligent guess, for every 1000 people out there,
No. of people who know about Pi ≈ 143π
No. of people who know that there is a Pi Day ≈ 2π
No. of people who know the exact date of Pi Day ≈ π
In case you are interested, π is an irrational real number and is equals to 3.14159 26535 89793 23846 26433 83279 50288 41971 69399 37510 ... ... (it's an infinite decimal expansion, so if you're bored, this can keep you busy for a long time) With that, for those who prefer to work with integers, the above equations translate to just approximately 3 out of 1000 people who are aware that today is Pi Day. Not many celebrate the greatness of this mathematical constant, I must say.
For me, I've just learnt about it barely five minutes ago, and am very glad that we all grow wiser with age, even though I do not have much to do with this magic number anymore. How on earth did anybody figure this critical but deceivingly cute little symbol π out, I really do not know, but I salute them, nonetheless, for giving us this special day. Oh, and by the way, it's physics genius Albert Einstein, and my dear friend Albert Tan's birthday too.
Hap-Pi Birthday to both!
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Monday, March 12, 2007
A Self-Righteous Blogger
Some people ask me, why do I blog so much about nothing in particular? A very important person (read: my boss) once said that a blog is good and should be encouraged if it provides others with useful information. Well, mine doesn't, considering that it is about "nothing in particular", so I guess it is officially one of those trashy and redundant blogs.
I should be damned.
With due respect, even though this is how they would probably view my blogging business, I do not quite see it in that light. I prefer to think of it as reflective conversations with my inner self, and these conversations take on the form of a blog for very good reasons.
First of all, I do not keep a journal, simply because I have really bad and inconsistent handwriting that is too shameful to leave behind in this world in case I die. Secondly, I think it is rather ludicrous to keep talking to myself, and therefore I'd like my friends to listen in too. Thirdly, I live in the digital age.
And I must stress that I do not write about nothing in particular, even though it is sometimes quite nondescript. In fact, I write about very important things - of love, of hope and of chivalry. In case you've missed all that, then I'm sorry, you're just very dim. No offense.
I should be damned.
With due respect, even though this is how they would probably view my blogging business, I do not quite see it in that light. I prefer to think of it as reflective conversations with my inner self, and these conversations take on the form of a blog for very good reasons.
First of all, I do not keep a journal, simply because I have really bad and inconsistent handwriting that is too shameful to leave behind in this world in case I die. Secondly, I think it is rather ludicrous to keep talking to myself, and therefore I'd like my friends to listen in too. Thirdly, I live in the digital age.
And I must stress that I do not write about nothing in particular, even though it is sometimes quite nondescript. In fact, I write about very important things - of love, of hope and of chivalry. In case you've missed all that, then I'm sorry, you're just very dim. No offense.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
A Walk In The Woods - An Excerpt
For all its mass, a tree is a remarkably delicate thing. All of its internal life exists within three paper-thin layers of tissue, the phloem, xylem and cambium, just beneath the bark, which together form a moist sleeve around the dead heartwood. However tall it grows, a tree is just a few pounds of living cells thinly spread between roots and leaves. These three diligent layers of cells perform all the intricate science and engineering needed to keep a tree alive, and the efficiency with which they do it is one of the wonders of life. Without noise or fuss, every tree in a forest lifts massive volumes of water - several hundred gallons in the case of a large tree on a hot day - from its roots to its leaves, where it is returned to the atmosphere. Imagine the din and commotion, the clutter of machinery, that would be needed for a fire department to raise a similar volume of water to that of a single tree. And lifting water is just one of the many jobs that the phloem, xylem and cambium perform.
It is quite a rare occasion for me to stop midway through a compelling book, but I really want to share this with you. It may just be a goofy recollection of Bill Byson's courageous attempt at walking the Appalachian Trail, but if you, like me, have read his works, I'm sure you'll appreciate how he'd always throw in nuggets of seemingly trivial knowledge which are, in fact, most humbling and thought-provoking. I would even go as far as to say, philosophical.
If there is a reason for me to get so sentimental, it's probably because I am the sort of person who live in awe of science. Or rather, of nature. However, as a true urbanite, my stance on the magnificent works of nature have always been just to maintain a respectful distance. I was never really motivated to know more about how their intricate clocks tick. In a way, I am a half-hearted naturalist, one who laments about the declining state of our environment, and yet basks shamelessly in the luxury of the industrialized civilization. And I know, many of you are just like me.
Hence, I feel a pressing need to pause and share some of these little things in the book that bring us back to thinking and feeling what we have not been thinking and feeling for a long time. The trees, the birds, the insects, the raindrops... All that are so insignificant to our daily lives, and yet so unbelievably amazing, and so very crucial to our existence.
At least I think we owe it to them. Let us marvel for a while.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Guzzle... Guzzle... Guzzle
Sob. I miss my beer.
For the record, I am not a recovering alcoholic. I was never an alcoholic to begin with. I am just a social drinker whose beverage of choice happens to have healthy head of foam and plenty of calories.
A brief history of my drinking habit - it duly started when I turned eighteen, the legal drinking age in Singapore. Being still in the midst of weaning off juvenile soft drinks, the natural choice of liquid for me was sweet cocktails with fancy names, which I drank not so much because I enjoy them, but more by default since most of my friends were drinking the same.
One could tell that I wasn't really into them by the way I associate each drink with the mixers - tonic, Coke, juice... rather than associating them with their respective types of liquor. Frankly, I couldn't tell gin from tequila, rum from vodka. Yeah, I was that clueless. I wouldn't even know if someone gave me methanol. Very quickly, I lost interest in liquid concoctions of various kinds, and from then on, there was no looking back. It was only beer for me.
Contrary to popular belief, my beer-loving ways were not a result of my days in the US-and-A, as Mr. Borat calls it. Well, it could be, if I had been living in sunny California or tropical Florida. I was, however, buried knee-deep in the great Midwestern snow, where steaming hot chocolate was the rational way to drink.
Anyway, it was at the royal age of twenty when I got officially inducted into the Empire of Kirin, Asahi and Sapporo. I was fresh in Japan and everyone out there was out to get me drunk. In fact, I think they were out to get everybody else drunk. At dinner parties, I was greeted first with traditional Japanese bows (maybe to apologize in advance) and then basins full of namabiru to shove my face in. It wasn't that difficult, really. Once you're halfway through, the i-ke, i-ke chants sound like heaven harps playing under water. Or maybe, I was just drowning in beer.
Soon, I was addicted. Beer time was equated with friends, laughter and many silly games to boot. As my alcohol threshold became higher and my face redder, I slowly perfected the art of coupling beer with yakitori, ramen, okonomiyaki, edamame... It was culinary at its highest. At least, it was the kind of art that I could deal with.
Now, back in Singapore where beer is more expensive and yet less entertaining, I have cut down on my beer binging ways. In fact, it had come to a complete halt since my asthma came back last year. That is why I moan about missing my beer, missing the way I guzzle it down and let out a big "aaahhhh...." of satisfaction.
Well, I'll just have to make do with my diet Coke for now. At least there is no beer belly to worry about.
Bottoms up!
For the record, I am not a recovering alcoholic. I was never an alcoholic to begin with. I am just a social drinker whose beverage of choice happens to have healthy head of foam and plenty of calories.
A brief history of my drinking habit - it duly started when I turned eighteen, the legal drinking age in Singapore. Being still in the midst of weaning off juvenile soft drinks, the natural choice of liquid for me was sweet cocktails with fancy names, which I drank not so much because I enjoy them, but more by default since most of my friends were drinking the same.
One could tell that I wasn't really into them by the way I associate each drink with the mixers - tonic, Coke, juice... rather than associating them with their respective types of liquor. Frankly, I couldn't tell gin from tequila, rum from vodka. Yeah, I was that clueless. I wouldn't even know if someone gave me methanol. Very quickly, I lost interest in liquid concoctions of various kinds, and from then on, there was no looking back. It was only beer for me.
Contrary to popular belief, my beer-loving ways were not a result of my days in the US-and-A, as Mr. Borat calls it. Well, it could be, if I had been living in sunny California or tropical Florida. I was, however, buried knee-deep in the great Midwestern snow, where steaming hot chocolate was the rational way to drink.
Anyway, it was at the royal age of twenty when I got officially inducted into the Empire of Kirin, Asahi and Sapporo. I was fresh in Japan and everyone out there was out to get me drunk. In fact, I think they were out to get everybody else drunk. At dinner parties, I was greeted first with traditional Japanese bows (maybe to apologize in advance) and then basins full of namabiru to shove my face in. It wasn't that difficult, really. Once you're halfway through, the i-ke, i-ke chants sound like heaven harps playing under water. Or maybe, I was just drowning in beer.
Soon, I was addicted. Beer time was equated with friends, laughter and many silly games to boot. As my alcohol threshold became higher and my face redder, I slowly perfected the art of coupling beer with yakitori, ramen, okonomiyaki, edamame... It was culinary at its highest. At least, it was the kind of art that I could deal with.
Now, back in Singapore where beer is more expensive and yet less entertaining, I have cut down on my beer binging ways. In fact, it had come to a complete halt since my asthma came back last year. That is why I moan about missing my beer, missing the way I guzzle it down and let out a big "aaahhhh...." of satisfaction.
Well, I'll just have to make do with my diet Coke for now. At least there is no beer belly to worry about.
Bottoms up!
Things Fall Apart
I've studied Nigerian writer Chinua Achebe's novel of the same title when I was in secondary school. While most of my classmates hated it, I have to say that it had some kind of emotional impact on me. What exactly is was, I couldn't tell then, but I was deeply grieved. Somehow, the strange Igbo African dialect rang with natural melancholy.
I remember most clearly, the scene in which Okwonko decides that his chi, along with the rest of his tribe, has deserted him, and he hangs himself. From a man of bravery, to a man of lonely death, there is no sorrier destitution than the betrayal of his own kind. The betrayal against his every belief, all that have long been forsaken by his own people. And that, is just because Okwonko's world has changed. Changed for the better, some may say. Or maybe, simply changed because nothing doesn't.
Change isn't sad. Hopelessness is. And hopelessness, I dare say, comes from within, when one perceives that he has been deserted, when it is he who has walked away.
I believe that things fall apart. They all do. But I do also believe that things come back together too. If you'd just hang around long enough for it to happen, and amuse yourself in the meantime, things ain't all that gloomy. Now, if only Okwonko knows better.
I remember most clearly, the scene in which Okwonko decides that his chi, along with the rest of his tribe, has deserted him, and he hangs himself. From a man of bravery, to a man of lonely death, there is no sorrier destitution than the betrayal of his own kind. The betrayal against his every belief, all that have long been forsaken by his own people. And that, is just because Okwonko's world has changed. Changed for the better, some may say. Or maybe, simply changed because nothing doesn't.
Change isn't sad. Hopelessness is. And hopelessness, I dare say, comes from within, when one perceives that he has been deserted, when it is he who has walked away.
I believe that things fall apart. They all do. But I do also believe that things come back together too. If you'd just hang around long enough for it to happen, and amuse yourself in the meantime, things ain't all that gloomy. Now, if only Okwonko knows better.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer
Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world- William Butler Yeats
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Friday, February 23, 2007
I Lied
Samantha, you'll be okay.
Actually, I didn't know if she was really going to be okay. For a split second, I even thought she might die. There she was, eyes rolled over, body cramped and twitching, with vomit spilling from one side of her mouth onto the pages of her activity book. The cutest little girl in my Primary One class looked frighteningly ill. And all I could do is to tell her something I wasn't even sure of. Don't worry, you'll be fine, and Mommy will be here soon.
So much for my years of first aid training. Really, years. Three as a student police cadet, two as an outdoor activities instructor (Christ, I even gave a first aid lecture to student leaders), and another training as a certified Red Cross volunteer. Yet I was so distressed know not how else to help the poor girl except to call the office for help.
I tried to carry her out, but she was too stiff. I couldn't insert anything in her mouth to prevent her from biting her tongue, as I couldn't even pry her clenched teeth apart. She was burning with fever and all I could do was to wipe her down with wet tissue. I never felt more anxious and helpless in my entire life. I felt totally useless.
Looking at the girl now, bubbly and healthy again as she once was, I am relieved, but also guilt ridden. I dread to think of what the whole episode may have developed into instead. I wasn't the reliable teacher who could protect her. I was just a liar who got very lucky by God's grace. And I realize, I've got a long way to go from here.
Samantha, I'll work hard on being Teacher, I promise.
Actually, I didn't know if she was really going to be okay. For a split second, I even thought she might die. There she was, eyes rolled over, body cramped and twitching, with vomit spilling from one side of her mouth onto the pages of her activity book. The cutest little girl in my Primary One class looked frighteningly ill. And all I could do is to tell her something I wasn't even sure of. Don't worry, you'll be fine, and Mommy will be here soon.
So much for my years of first aid training. Really, years. Three as a student police cadet, two as an outdoor activities instructor (Christ, I even gave a first aid lecture to student leaders), and another training as a certified Red Cross volunteer. Yet I was so distressed know not how else to help the poor girl except to call the office for help.
I tried to carry her out, but she was too stiff. I couldn't insert anything in her mouth to prevent her from biting her tongue, as I couldn't even pry her clenched teeth apart. She was burning with fever and all I could do was to wipe her down with wet tissue. I never felt more anxious and helpless in my entire life. I felt totally useless.
Looking at the girl now, bubbly and healthy again as she once was, I am relieved, but also guilt ridden. I dread to think of what the whole episode may have developed into instead. I wasn't the reliable teacher who could protect her. I was just a liar who got very lucky by God's grace. And I realize, I've got a long way to go from here.
Samantha, I'll work hard on being Teacher, I promise.
Monday, January 01, 2007
Sunday, December 31, 2006
On this 31st Day of December
I thought that this last day of the year is just too significant for me not to write about it. Especially when almost everyone is out there somewhere ready for the big countdown. If I have reason to stay home alone, it has got to be something as good as writing a solemn, thought-provoking piece, and not blatant laziness.
But what should I write about? I do not have much to say on the closure of this year, nor do I have exciting plans lined up for the coming one. After all, I have quite established my reputation for being the-one-without-plans.
Come to reflect on it, maybe my new year resolution should involve some kind of plan, even though my past experience tells me that planning or no planning makes no difference to new year resolutions. They are never meant to be realized. How else do you think we can keep coming up with new year resolutions year after year? If you do not believe me, just see how many 2007 new year resolutions you have that are similar to those in your list this same time last year...
Nevertheless, I have decided that as a mature, responsible adult who is taking a big step into the next stage of life, I need a plan, which is as follows:
- I will be neat and tidy around the house and at work.
- I will do my yoga and running religiously everyday. Oh well... every alternate day.
- I will cut down on snacks and sugared drinks. And greasy food, and synthetic flavorings, and...
- I will put on sunblock and some makeup when I go out, at least when I go downtown.
- I will put in effort to dress up, and stop wearing the clothes I keep wearing repeatedly.
- I will be more careful in what I say, and stop making silly social boo-boos.
- I will stop losing things.
- I will stop forgetting to bring things.
- I will remember things.
(and lastly, the most treacherous one...)
- I will save $$$.
Wow, it's amazing just how satisfying making a plan is. I think I'd better take a rest before my new year starts. Got lots to accomplish...
Happy New Year!
But what should I write about? I do not have much to say on the closure of this year, nor do I have exciting plans lined up for the coming one. After all, I have quite established my reputation for being the-one-without-plans.
Come to reflect on it, maybe my new year resolution should involve some kind of plan, even though my past experience tells me that planning or no planning makes no difference to new year resolutions. They are never meant to be realized. How else do you think we can keep coming up with new year resolutions year after year? If you do not believe me, just see how many 2007 new year resolutions you have that are similar to those in your list this same time last year...
Nevertheless, I have decided that as a mature, responsible adult who is taking a big step into the next stage of life, I need a plan, which is as follows:
- I will be neat and tidy around the house and at work.
- I will do my yoga and running religiously everyday. Oh well... every alternate day.
- I will cut down on snacks and sugared drinks. And greasy food, and synthetic flavorings, and...
- I will put on sunblock and some makeup when I go out, at least when I go downtown.
- I will put in effort to dress up, and stop wearing the clothes I keep wearing repeatedly.
- I will be more careful in what I say, and stop making silly social boo-boos.
- I will stop losing things.
- I will stop forgetting to bring things.
- I will remember things.
(and lastly, the most treacherous one...)
- I will save $$$.
Wow, it's amazing just how satisfying making a plan is. I think I'd better take a rest before my new year starts. Got lots to accomplish...
Happy New Year!
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Fly and Take Me Places
A tribute to the good people in the aviation business.
Oh, and especially dedicated to TK, my beloved brother who has finally gotten his wings and proved himself Ray Bans-worthy... Congrats!
You know, when you say how a man's medicine could be another man's poison, it's the same for airplanes.
For those who travel distances, the plane is probably the best invention ever known to mankind. I'm one of them who think quite so, despite the fact that I absolutely hate every ear-popping minute strapped up there with nothing but great masses of mist. For the frequent flyer that I have become -- previously for studies, then for work, and now simply for pleasure -- air travel has become a normality. It is impossible to imagine a world without airplanes anymore.
But for the rest of the world's population who never had the need, the urge, the guts or the means to stash money on a few hours' worth of fast moving transport in a two feet wide space, the airplane is then probably one big piece of metallic crap that uses up way too much of the world's precious resources.
Well, I can totally see their point. In fact, at this very moment I'm jetting away for the nth time on an airplane, I feel so overly indulgent that I am a tad apologetic toward the feet-firmly-planted-on-ground folks. By the same token, I wonder if the thrust-worthy guys over at NASA feel the same toward us lowly, gravitated earthlings too when they blast off to outer space.
Alright, back to my point. The point is, if you have not gotten it already (and I do not blame you if you haven't, considering that you're listening to a person who, technically speaking, has her head in the clouds at this moment), is that I love my airplanes. Airplanes big or small, airplanes long or short haul.
The funny thing is, I had never put much thought about an airplane in my entire life until just minutes ago when my flight was preparing for take off, and I had pressed my face against the tiny aircraft window to see four other airplanes of various sizes waiting in line behind ours. There they are, with their respective carrier colors and logos proudly emblazoned on their bodies, these powerful creatures carry a somewhat elegant, yet secretly haughty demeanor, not unlike their prettily groomed crew.
As I have mentioned, I do not enjoy being couped in thousands of feet above sea level. The level of discomfort is on par with being in a dentist's chair. However, quite ironically, I take great pleasure in the fact that I've flown with them. Them... the planes... The Big Guys, as I call'em.
In case you are wondering what on earth the cabin pressure had done to make me sprout so much senseless gibberish, let me draw a parallel -- it's about the camaraderie between me and the airplanes. It's like fighting a battle alongside the general whom you admire. Yes, I WORSHIP airplanes.
I worship their ability to fly and take people places. Through thunderstorms, blizzards, roller coaster turbulence, they almost never fail in their job. I worship them for the fact that about a million people a day entrust their precious lives to them. They carry on them, academic minds of students, profitable prospects of businessmen, and even hopes of miracles of patients with various health conditions, jetting them off to the land where their dreams may come true. Or, perhaps true for most other frequent fliers, simply ferrying weary travelers home, to where their loved ones are patiently waiting. Such is the lofty job description of these mean machines.
I continue to count my blessings each time I get to fly and witness that great responsibility upheld and delivered upon every arrival to all who silently pray in their seats, a smooth, safe touchdown.
Thank you, and it has always been a pleasure flying with you, Mr. Aeroplane.
Oh, and especially dedicated to TK, my beloved brother who has finally gotten his wings and proved himself Ray Bans-worthy... Congrats!
You know, when you say how a man's medicine could be another man's poison, it's the same for airplanes.
For those who travel distances, the plane is probably the best invention ever known to mankind. I'm one of them who think quite so, despite the fact that I absolutely hate every ear-popping minute strapped up there with nothing but great masses of mist. For the frequent flyer that I have become -- previously for studies, then for work, and now simply for pleasure -- air travel has become a normality. It is impossible to imagine a world without airplanes anymore.
But for the rest of the world's population who never had the need, the urge, the guts or the means to stash money on a few hours' worth of fast moving transport in a two feet wide space, the airplane is then probably one big piece of metallic crap that uses up way too much of the world's precious resources.
Well, I can totally see their point. In fact, at this very moment I'm jetting away for the nth time on an airplane, I feel so overly indulgent that I am a tad apologetic toward the feet-firmly-planted-on-ground folks. By the same token, I wonder if the thrust-worthy guys over at NASA feel the same toward us lowly, gravitated earthlings too when they blast off to outer space.
Alright, back to my point. The point is, if you have not gotten it already (and I do not blame you if you haven't, considering that you're listening to a person who, technically speaking, has her head in the clouds at this moment), is that I love my airplanes. Airplanes big or small, airplanes long or short haul.
The funny thing is, I had never put much thought about an airplane in my entire life until just minutes ago when my flight was preparing for take off, and I had pressed my face against the tiny aircraft window to see four other airplanes of various sizes waiting in line behind ours. There they are, with their respective carrier colors and logos proudly emblazoned on their bodies, these powerful creatures carry a somewhat elegant, yet secretly haughty demeanor, not unlike their prettily groomed crew.
As I have mentioned, I do not enjoy being couped in thousands of feet above sea level. The level of discomfort is on par with being in a dentist's chair. However, quite ironically, I take great pleasure in the fact that I've flown with them. Them... the planes... The Big Guys, as I call'em.
In case you are wondering what on earth the cabin pressure had done to make me sprout so much senseless gibberish, let me draw a parallel -- it's about the camaraderie between me and the airplanes. It's like fighting a battle alongside the general whom you admire. Yes, I WORSHIP airplanes.
I worship their ability to fly and take people places. Through thunderstorms, blizzards, roller coaster turbulence, they almost never fail in their job. I worship them for the fact that about a million people a day entrust their precious lives to them. They carry on them, academic minds of students, profitable prospects of businessmen, and even hopes of miracles of patients with various health conditions, jetting them off to the land where their dreams may come true. Or, perhaps true for most other frequent fliers, simply ferrying weary travelers home, to where their loved ones are patiently waiting. Such is the lofty job description of these mean machines.
I continue to count my blessings each time I get to fly and witness that great responsibility upheld and delivered upon every arrival to all who silently pray in their seats, a smooth, safe touchdown.
Thank you, and it has always been a pleasure flying with you, Mr. Aeroplane.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Thursday, December 07, 2006
I Love My Friends!
Lest you think I'm a sentimental tree-hugging romantic. One who will buy Forever Friends bears for every friend's birthday.
Nope, I'm so not.
On the contrary, I'm quite a cat. And I thank the deities that my dearest pals take my affectionate, albeit naughty, nips and scratches (figures of speech, not literally!) with plenty of tolerance and huge doses of humor. It's these people I safely call my friends who are good enough to take my crap. Not just any crap. Real intense crap.
Friends, to mean that special circle of four, a clique we call it The Support Group. And friends we've been for a good two decades (close!) : HF, XF, YB and myself, not really by choice, but more by natural default due to frightening similarities in our beliefs and personalities.
Oh, and before I offend the other darrrrlings whom I failed to mention, you do not qualify mainly because unlike us fabulous foursome, you are either married and therefore too busy to spend time bemoaning little absurdities with us, or you are out there spending too much time trying to get married, therefore resisting any force that may somehow land you in The Support Group. (You should get an inkling of how the group works by this far... not unlike Alcoholic Anonymous...)
Yes, we are helpless feminists.
A paradox, you'd say, but nevertheless real. This is how: one of us is a walking magnet for undesirable foreign men. Another one has the hots (OK, maybe just innocent admiration) for mature, married but unavailable men. Yet another has her undying love pledged only for The Man with the Guitar and the Beer Bottle. As for the last one, gee, I don't know... she never figured it out.
And so it goes... we strong, independent females spend weekends together doing nothing but fretting over our men, real or not. It's slightly depressing, but actually very therapeutic to be just sitting around over tea and desserts while we ponder who's next to leave this oh-so-exclusive group.
Girls, what do I do without you! I might have never said it, but I really love all of you very very much, and I'd rather be with you gals than anywhere else on a Saturday night! But, ahem ... it's just that maybe, we could do this WITH the guys instead? Let's really try...
Before then, here's to the power of four!
Nope, I'm so not.
On the contrary, I'm quite a cat. And I thank the deities that my dearest pals take my affectionate, albeit naughty, nips and scratches (figures of speech, not literally!) with plenty of tolerance and huge doses of humor. It's these people I safely call my friends who are good enough to take my crap. Not just any crap. Real intense crap.
Friends, to mean that special circle of four, a clique we call it The Support Group. And friends we've been for a good two decades (close!) : HF, XF, YB and myself, not really by choice, but more by natural default due to frightening similarities in our beliefs and personalities.
Oh, and before I offend the other darrrrlings whom I failed to mention, you do not qualify mainly because unlike us fabulous foursome, you are either married and therefore too busy to spend time bemoaning little absurdities with us, or you are out there spending too much time trying to get married, therefore resisting any force that may somehow land you in The Support Group. (You should get an inkling of how the group works by this far... not unlike Alcoholic Anonymous...)
Yes, we are helpless feminists.
A paradox, you'd say, but nevertheless real. This is how: one of us is a walking magnet for undesirable foreign men. Another one has the hots (OK, maybe just innocent admiration) for mature, married but unavailable men. Yet another has her undying love pledged only for The Man with the Guitar and the Beer Bottle. As for the last one, gee, I don't know... she never figured it out.
And so it goes... we strong, independent females spend weekends together doing nothing but fretting over our men, real or not. It's slightly depressing, but actually very therapeutic to be just sitting around over tea and desserts while we ponder who's next to leave this oh-so-exclusive group.
Girls, what do I do without you! I might have never said it, but I really love all of you very very much, and I'd rather be with you gals than anywhere else on a Saturday night! But, ahem ... it's just that maybe, we could do this WITH the guys instead? Let's really try...
Before then, here's to the power of four!
Saturday, November 11, 2006
* Celebrating Mid-Autumn...
... with mooncakes, champagne, and a little bit of haze.
Emerald Hill, Singapore
Mid-Autumn, 2006
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
God Save the Monkeys
Anger. Agitation. Sympathy. Sadness. Disappointment. Fear. And more anger.
This was cycle of emotions that I felt when I read, with much disgust, at the plight of the orangutans in Indonesia. In a nutshell, the poor primates are being driven out of their homes by ravaging fires in forests of Sumatra and Borneo, many burnt to death or injured and blinded in the deliberate disaster. For the orangutans which escaped the thick smoke, blistering flames and searing heat of their ruined habitats into the supposedly safer civilisation of mankind, they were instead subjected to further infliction of pain as men armed themselves with machetes, attacking every "encroaching" monkey they see.
I shudder to see photos of their fearful expression in the newspapers, and I shudder to think of how many more orangutans may be out there unknown to the ill fate that is awaiting them.
Please, wake up! How many more forests do these people have to burn down before they are realize that they are treading precariously on a fine line between existence and extinction. Not only of monkeys, nor the thousands of forest animals which are in real danger this very moment. But of this deteriorating earth that we all live, breathe and feed on.
Of course, I do not foolishly hope that the subsistent farmers and mercenary plantation companies in Indonesia care about what I, or anyone else, may think of them. However, it does not mean that I, or anyone else for that matter, should then shut up and do nothing about it.
Perhaps it is a reminder for us to reflect on our own ways, and ask ourselves if we are treading that fine line too.
God save the monkeys, and let us try to save them too.
This was cycle of emotions that I felt when I read, with much disgust, at the plight of the orangutans in Indonesia. In a nutshell, the poor primates are being driven out of their homes by ravaging fires in forests of Sumatra and Borneo, many burnt to death or injured and blinded in the deliberate disaster. For the orangutans which escaped the thick smoke, blistering flames and searing heat of their ruined habitats into the supposedly safer civilisation of mankind, they were instead subjected to further infliction of pain as men armed themselves with machetes, attacking every "encroaching" monkey they see.
I shudder to see photos of their fearful expression in the newspapers, and I shudder to think of how many more orangutans may be out there unknown to the ill fate that is awaiting them.
Please, wake up! How many more forests do these people have to burn down before they are realize that they are treading precariously on a fine line between existence and extinction. Not only of monkeys, nor the thousands of forest animals which are in real danger this very moment. But of this deteriorating earth that we all live, breathe and feed on.
Of course, I do not foolishly hope that the subsistent farmers and mercenary plantation companies in Indonesia care about what I, or anyone else, may think of them. However, it does not mean that I, or anyone else for that matter, should then shut up and do nothing about it.
Perhaps it is a reminder for us to reflect on our own ways, and ask ourselves if we are treading that fine line too.
God save the monkeys, and let us try to save them too.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Friday, September 01, 2006
Indulge Me
Yesterday, for the very first time in my life, I celebrated Teachers' Day as a teacher. To be honest, I wasn't quite prepared for all that attention I was to receive, and nearing the end of the school celebrations when the girls all shouted "Happy Teachers' Day!", tears actually welled up in my eyes.
Call me a sentimental fool, but I am truly touched.
It all started early in the day, when assembly had bared started. I saw several students sneak up one by one to their respective teachers to give them their T-Day gifts, and felt mildly envious. As a new teacher, I was rather anxious about the whole gift-receiving affair. Like any other teacher in the world, we do really mean it when we say, "the best present you can give me is to be a good student." However, blame it on our less-then-perfect human nature to worry when we do not receive as much attention as the teacher-next-door on this special day. Do my students hate me? Do they respect me? Am I even considered a teacher in their eyes?
So imagine the insecurity in me when I see the teacher seated next to me receiving present after present. I had none yet.
It was only after receiving the first gift (regrettably, I have failed to remember which student it was from) that I felt marginally relieved. Soon, the gifts started to trickle, and then pour in. Before I knew it, the two empty seats beside mine were bursting with flowers, cards and colorful packages. It was almost as if Christmas had arrived early. Suddenly, I felt quite overwhelmed, and slightly embarrassed to be showered with that much attention.
With the morning assembly and the ACES Day (it was also the national-wide All Children Exercising Simultaneously Day) event well over, I staggered into the staff room, half-exhausted, half-invigorated by my students' display of affection. As I stumped into my seat, looking at the messy heaps of gifts on my desk, it struck me. I AM a TEACHER.
As the day progressed, more gifts poured in, and at last count, a fellow teacher in the afternoon session informed me that there are more on my desk, apparently from students after I had left for the day.
That night, while I sat in my living room reading each card, tearing up gift wrappers and unveiling the content of the packages, the "I AM a TEACHER" thought became stronger and stronger, and never before had I felt more pride, responsibility and love for my students.
Try as I might to remember the faces of students who came up to me with their gifts and well-wishes, everything was a blur and I could hardly match a single gift with a face. Never mind, I appreciate every single thought. Gifts are immaterial.
To the students who saved each penny to buy a gift, thoughtfully wrote each word in your card and painsakingly wrapped each present, teacher wants to say a big "Thank you!" to you. I love you all.
To the students who didn't get me any, I still say, the best present you can give is to be a good student. Honestly. And I love you too.
Call me a sentimental fool, but I am truly touched.
It all started early in the day, when assembly had bared started. I saw several students sneak up one by one to their respective teachers to give them their T-Day gifts, and felt mildly envious. As a new teacher, I was rather anxious about the whole gift-receiving affair. Like any other teacher in the world, we do really mean it when we say, "the best present you can give me is to be a good student." However, blame it on our less-then-perfect human nature to worry when we do not receive as much attention as the teacher-next-door on this special day. Do my students hate me? Do they respect me? Am I even considered a teacher in their eyes?
So imagine the insecurity in me when I see the teacher seated next to me receiving present after present. I had none yet.
It was only after receiving the first gift (regrettably, I have failed to remember which student it was from) that I felt marginally relieved. Soon, the gifts started to trickle, and then pour in. Before I knew it, the two empty seats beside mine were bursting with flowers, cards and colorful packages. It was almost as if Christmas had arrived early. Suddenly, I felt quite overwhelmed, and slightly embarrassed to be showered with that much attention.
With the morning assembly and the ACES Day (it was also the national-wide All Children Exercising Simultaneously Day) event well over, I staggered into the staff room, half-exhausted, half-invigorated by my students' display of affection. As I stumped into my seat, looking at the messy heaps of gifts on my desk, it struck me. I AM a TEACHER.
As the day progressed, more gifts poured in, and at last count, a fellow teacher in the afternoon session informed me that there are more on my desk, apparently from students after I had left for the day.
That night, while I sat in my living room reading each card, tearing up gift wrappers and unveiling the content of the packages, the "I AM a TEACHER" thought became stronger and stronger, and never before had I felt more pride, responsibility and love for my students.
Try as I might to remember the faces of students who came up to me with their gifts and well-wishes, everything was a blur and I could hardly match a single gift with a face. Never mind, I appreciate every single thought. Gifts are immaterial.
To the students who saved each penny to buy a gift, thoughtfully wrote each word in your card and painsakingly wrapped each present, teacher wants to say a big "Thank you!" to you. I love you all.
To the students who didn't get me any, I still say, the best present you can give is to be a good student. Honestly. And I love you too.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
My Lord, What a Din!
Tuxes, lime green socks and a goofy sense of humor. That was the repertoire that the sensational Harvard Din & Tonics, an all-male a cappella group from the Harvard-yes-THAT-Harvard University, presented to Singapore on its National Day eve.
I was there that night at the Esplanade with three fabulous singer-friends - Huifen, Xiufeng and Chronos, who are almost as talented in music and comedy as those twelve funny ruffians (they called themselves that), and even bumped into a colleague who had watched the Dins last year and assured that they were 'very good'.
Nice. I was looking forward to hearing them for my very first time. Especially after a frustrating start to the evening.
You see, it was also a National Day fireworks night at the very location, with the fanfare set to go off the same time as their all-American performance. As you can pretty much imagine, the rest of Singapore jam-packed the entire City Hall/Suntec/Marina Bay area, with the Esplanade being smacked right in the heart of things. Thank God the four of us managed to squeeze through to the recital hall just before the performance started, but a good number of the audience were rather late, possibly due to the bad human and vehicle traffic.
Despite the less-than-stellar pre-concert experience, I must say that the boys were quite brilliant in their own rights. There was no question about their vocal prowess, but what was more captivating was their ability to tickle a somewhat mature and straight-faced audience while they sing to a perfect pitch. Whether it is their boyish looks (I'm referring to those few who have it, but to those who haven't, they are cute in their own right...), their hilarious improvisation antics (like the one of the Michelangelo masterpiece. Who ever thought that you can physically mimic a painting?) or their tongue-in-cheek moments talking about academic inadequacies, unrequited loves, and of course, the night's dazzling fireworks which every one of us in the recital hall missed. All for the sake of music.
So, amidst tapping our feet to the tunes of Blue Skies, Blah Blah Blah and My Lord, What a Morning, we were left clutching our sides from laughing too much. Well, ladies and gentlemen, that's what I call entertainment. Now, if only we can see the fireworks going off at the same time...
Perhaps next year? You bet.
I was there that night at the Esplanade with three fabulous singer-friends - Huifen, Xiufeng and Chronos, who are almost as talented in music and comedy as those twelve funny ruffians (they called themselves that), and even bumped into a colleague who had watched the Dins last year and assured that they were 'very good'.
Nice. I was looking forward to hearing them for my very first time. Especially after a frustrating start to the evening.
You see, it was also a National Day fireworks night at the very location, with the fanfare set to go off the same time as their all-American performance. As you can pretty much imagine, the rest of Singapore jam-packed the entire City Hall/Suntec/Marina Bay area, with the Esplanade being smacked right in the heart of things. Thank God the four of us managed to squeeze through to the recital hall just before the performance started, but a good number of the audience were rather late, possibly due to the bad human and vehicle traffic.
Despite the less-than-stellar pre-concert experience, I must say that the boys were quite brilliant in their own rights. There was no question about their vocal prowess, but what was more captivating was their ability to tickle a somewhat mature and straight-faced audience while they sing to a perfect pitch. Whether it is their boyish looks (I'm referring to those few who have it, but to those who haven't, they are cute in their own right...), their hilarious improvisation antics (like the one of the Michelangelo masterpiece. Who ever thought that you can physically mimic a painting?) or their tongue-in-cheek moments talking about academic inadequacies, unrequited loves, and of course, the night's dazzling fireworks which every one of us in the recital hall missed. All for the sake of music.
So, amidst tapping our feet to the tunes of Blue Skies, Blah Blah Blah and My Lord, What a Morning, we were left clutching our sides from laughing too much. Well, ladies and gentlemen, that's what I call entertainment. Now, if only we can see the fireworks going off at the same time...
Perhaps next year? You bet.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Guilty As Charged
Warning: This is not a happy post and should be avoided if you are, in anyway, even remotely depressed.
The past two weeks had been a little too much for me to bear, if not for my best-friend-and-evil-twin-sister Siewhong's timely companionship (including food, booze, loud music, and lots of senseless laughter) which tided me over.
The problem with me is that I'm one wide-eyed wonder, way too cheery to confront negativity. Not that I don't understand negativity, it's just... I don't understand why some people embrace it.
Take my cousin for example, she has everything she needs and all that she wants, save for a miscalculated career move some four years ago that has had some serious repercussions on her social and mental state of well-being, to the extent of being suicidal. To me, I'd probably say, so what. But to her, this episode has pinned her down and driven her deep into the doldrums. Maybe it's like clearing hurdle after hurdle but never reaching the finishing line. That, I can understand, and can sympatize with. But that, I cannot face.
It pains me a great deal to see her suffering, struggling to get out of that pit, while I look on so helplessly. Frankly, I do not know how to help her, despite showing a brave front and dishing out what I think is good advice. Her situation depresses me so much that I am avoiding it altogether, because I do not know what I can do for her anymore. To think she trusted me and came to me for help before she tried to jump off a building or swallowed pills. I should be so ashamed.
For now, I am trying. Trying hard to help her, and to help myself at the same time, coz I have realized that maybe, I am the one who is in denial. Maybe, I am the one who cannot cope with negativity. Just maybe, I am not as happy as I think I am.
The past two weeks had been a little too much for me to bear, if not for my best-friend-and-evil-twin-sister Siewhong's timely companionship (including food, booze, loud music, and lots of senseless laughter) which tided me over.
The problem with me is that I'm one wide-eyed wonder, way too cheery to confront negativity. Not that I don't understand negativity, it's just... I don't understand why some people embrace it.
Take my cousin for example, she has everything she needs and all that she wants, save for a miscalculated career move some four years ago that has had some serious repercussions on her social and mental state of well-being, to the extent of being suicidal. To me, I'd probably say, so what. But to her, this episode has pinned her down and driven her deep into the doldrums. Maybe it's like clearing hurdle after hurdle but never reaching the finishing line. That, I can understand, and can sympatize with. But that, I cannot face.
It pains me a great deal to see her suffering, struggling to get out of that pit, while I look on so helplessly. Frankly, I do not know how to help her, despite showing a brave front and dishing out what I think is good advice. Her situation depresses me so much that I am avoiding it altogether, because I do not know what I can do for her anymore. To think she trusted me and came to me for help before she tried to jump off a building or swallowed pills. I should be so ashamed.
For now, I am trying. Trying hard to help her, and to help myself at the same time, coz I have realized that maybe, I am the one who is in denial. Maybe, I am the one who cannot cope with negativity. Just maybe, I am not as happy as I think I am.
* Twenty Ways to Say "I'm Vain"
A chronical of Ms. Hypewriter's valiant (and futile) efforts to remake herself over the years.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Braveheart
It's insane. I work close to 12 hours everyday, five days a week, sometimes with a complimentary Saturday morning thrown in for good measure, and yet it always seems like the entire PL teaching force works harder than me.
Well, to be fair, I don't take lunch or tea breaks. I don't partake in small talk with my colleagues. And I am always fast on the move, multi-tasking between full-blast lessons, desk-ridden marking and a whole list of miscellaneous chores. Yet, piles of books sit on my desk each day, as if silently mocking my incompetence.
In fact, PILES and PILES of books sprawl across every single desk in the staff room, as teachers shuffle in and out everyday, demoralized, defeated and destroyed, but nonetheless fearless enough to soldier on without as much as a second thought.
Sounds pretty bad huh? Well, on the contrary, I think it's great, because I actually do like my job, and I like it a great deal. As the saying goes, you can never conquer the books, but you do conquer the little minds.
And by the way, that saying was from me. Heh.
Well, to be fair, I don't take lunch or tea breaks. I don't partake in small talk with my colleagues. And I am always fast on the move, multi-tasking between full-blast lessons, desk-ridden marking and a whole list of miscellaneous chores. Yet, piles of books sit on my desk each day, as if silently mocking my incompetence.
In fact, PILES and PILES of books sprawl across every single desk in the staff room, as teachers shuffle in and out everyday, demoralized, defeated and destroyed, but nonetheless fearless enough to soldier on without as much as a second thought.
Sounds pretty bad huh? Well, on the contrary, I think it's great, because I actually do like my job, and I like it a great deal. As the saying goes, you can never conquer the books, but you do conquer the little minds.
And by the way, that saying was from me. Heh.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Monday, June 05, 2006
When Mate Turns Into Mom
I'm not sure when exactly my friendship with Huiann developed into what it is today. To begin with, Huiann was such a model student back then in school, so much so that it seemed like protocol to be engaged with her just as such - hardworking, disciplined, saccharin sweet; just a trifle too proper for someone as un-decent (not indecent though) as me.
Looking back, I guess our rough VJC-ODAC days had built good foundation there. After all, you don't go through two years of frolicking in dirt, seawater and sweat with a person and simply end up being just regular friends. And I'm not even exaggerating.
Perhaps it was that moment when I foolhardily jumped onboard that malam express train with her, secretly discussing our Mission America as the train chugged fervently towards her hometown Kuala Lumpur. It was from each other, I supposed, that we garnered the courage to seek further education some 9000-plus miles away from home despite parental objections.
Or maybe it was the occasional phone call we'd give each other, whether across states (she in New York, and I in Minneapolis then) or across continents (she still in the States, and I somewhere in Asia later on). In between us, there was a comforting sense of camaraderie that I never shared with anyone else.
Whatever it was, it developed into a sisterhood that remains fast and strong, notwithstanding our lack of contact in recent years. In fact, it seemed just like yesterday when we settled in our sleeper bunks to KL, when we caught up for a few minutes through a glass panel at the Changi Airport transit area, when you introduced us to Kengo for the first time, when I literally got you on your knees at your wedding tea ceremony, and when you had that weird little bulge in your tummy and had to wear jeans that wasn't button-fly but elastic-band...
And good grief, it has been ten years since that fateful train ride. Ten years on, nothing has changed for me, but you, (gasp) you have turned from Huiann-the-mate to Huiann-the-mom. It's like you have a PhD in life and I'm still stuck at Survival 101. Well, heck, I don't really care, except that I feel really happy for you, it's like watching a movie with a happily-ever-after ending and coming out eager for the sequel (where you get the baby and all that...)
I don't really know why I'm saying all these, but I guess it's just my way of saying "Great Job, Mom!" and to let little Erisa know that she's got a helluva mother.
Looking back, I guess our rough VJC-ODAC days had built good foundation there. After all, you don't go through two years of frolicking in dirt, seawater and sweat with a person and simply end up being just regular friends. And I'm not even exaggerating.
Perhaps it was that moment when I foolhardily jumped onboard that malam express train with her, secretly discussing our Mission America as the train chugged fervently towards her hometown Kuala Lumpur. It was from each other, I supposed, that we garnered the courage to seek further education some 9000-plus miles away from home despite parental objections.
Or maybe it was the occasional phone call we'd give each other, whether across states (she in New York, and I in Minneapolis then) or across continents (she still in the States, and I somewhere in Asia later on). In between us, there was a comforting sense of camaraderie that I never shared with anyone else.
Whatever it was, it developed into a sisterhood that remains fast and strong, notwithstanding our lack of contact in recent years. In fact, it seemed just like yesterday when we settled in our sleeper bunks to KL, when we caught up for a few minutes through a glass panel at the Changi Airport transit area, when you introduced us to Kengo for the first time, when I literally got you on your knees at your wedding tea ceremony, and when you had that weird little bulge in your tummy and had to wear jeans that wasn't button-fly but elastic-band...
And good grief, it has been ten years since that fateful train ride. Ten years on, nothing has changed for me, but you, (gasp) you have turned from Huiann-the-mate to Huiann-the-mom. It's like you have a PhD in life and I'm still stuck at Survival 101. Well, heck, I don't really care, except that I feel really happy for you, it's like watching a movie with a happily-ever-after ending and coming out eager for the sequel (where you get the baby and all that...)
I don't really know why I'm saying all these, but I guess it's just my way of saying "Great Job, Mom!" and to let little Erisa know that she's got a helluva mother.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Friday, March 17, 2006
Training
This post is just a light-hearted take on my precious teaching career and is not meant to be taken seriously. So pupils, spare thy teacher. And MOE, please don't prosecute me.
It took me seven months of hard work at NIE before this funny little thought crossed my mind.
In fact, it was a copy of Behavioral Modification notes that did it for me. I realized we are a bunch of kid manipulators in training, not unlike zoo-keepers or circus-trainers.
Well, not that it is a bad thing after all. Young children nowadays... you'd wish they were made with some sort of embedded remote control. Better yet, let them run on DC so that we can take the batteries out once in a while! Teachers gotta do what we gotta do -- set spoilt-brats and cry-babies straight by learning various important-sounding Educational Psychology methods. Give them a reward when they are behaving well, and ignore their nonsense to extinct their behavior. Yeah, it's really just pet-handling. (Do not quote.)
BUT, it's not as simple as it sounds. As with any self-respecting high-risk vocation (yes, teaching is a dangerous affair, ask any practising teacher) we must first be trained under the supervision of a world-class faculty (read: probably ex-teachers who had spent years under the torture of their wards, and now redirecting their energy to help others battle evil students instead.)
And of course, place our campus in an unbelieveable location at the western-most point of Singapore. Good heavens, it is so goddamn far that I can travel to Malaysia and clear the customs in less time than it takes for me to reach home. I suppose they just wanted to make sure that no school kid can come near enough to know what child-handling spells they have been teaching their teachers. But then again, a dreadfully slow bus service and a mind-numbling MRT ride daily is all it takes for us to forget everything that we've learnt. So there, relax, kids.
Ahh, and food. They feed us revolting food on campus so that we will eventually learn to appreciate the art of fine dining in future school canteens. How thoughtful. Acquired taste for 50-cents siewmai and cheechongfun: check.
It's all a massive effort to prep us for The Unbearable Madness of Teaching. Now that I'm the midst of my teaching practicum, I've begun to appreciate what the Institute had given me, even though I can't remember a thing at the back of my thick skull when kids are poking each other's eyes and making animal noises in class. At the very least, I know I have those Behavorial Modification notes in my locker.
Phew!
It took me seven months of hard work at NIE before this funny little thought crossed my mind.
In fact, it was a copy of Behavioral Modification notes that did it for me. I realized we are a bunch of kid manipulators in training, not unlike zoo-keepers or circus-trainers.
Well, not that it is a bad thing after all. Young children nowadays... you'd wish they were made with some sort of embedded remote control. Better yet, let them run on DC so that we can take the batteries out once in a while! Teachers gotta do what we gotta do -- set spoilt-brats and cry-babies straight by learning various important-sounding Educational Psychology methods. Give them a reward when they are behaving well, and ignore their nonsense to extinct their behavior. Yeah, it's really just pet-handling. (Do not quote.)
BUT, it's not as simple as it sounds. As with any self-respecting high-risk vocation (yes, teaching is a dangerous affair, ask any practising teacher) we must first be trained under the supervision of a world-class faculty (read: probably ex-teachers who had spent years under the torture of their wards, and now redirecting their energy to help others battle evil students instead.)
And of course, place our campus in an unbelieveable location at the western-most point of Singapore. Good heavens, it is so goddamn far that I can travel to Malaysia and clear the customs in less time than it takes for me to reach home. I suppose they just wanted to make sure that no school kid can come near enough to know what child-handling spells they have been teaching their teachers. But then again, a dreadfully slow bus service and a mind-numbling MRT ride daily is all it takes for us to forget everything that we've learnt. So there, relax, kids.
Ahh, and food. They feed us revolting food on campus so that we will eventually learn to appreciate the art of fine dining in future school canteens. How thoughtful. Acquired taste for 50-cents siewmai and cheechongfun: check.
It's all a massive effort to prep us for The Unbearable Madness of Teaching. Now that I'm the midst of my teaching practicum, I've begun to appreciate what the Institute had given me, even though I can't remember a thing at the back of my thick skull when kids are poking each other's eyes and making animal noises in class. At the very least, I know I have those Behavorial Modification notes in my locker.
Phew!
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Adieu
Time flies. No, maybe fly is not a good enough adjective. Time rockets.
I can't believe that it had been almost eight months since I started my teacher training course.
I can't believe that I had survive two semesters of intensive pedagogical and curricular modules. I can't believe that I am really going to step into a classroom to teach.
You mean, I am a teacher??!!
It's all rather sad, really. I hate to leave NIE. This, despite the fact that I have to endure the long commutes to and from campus. Afterall, there is a bunch of fun and spirited coursemates to share that horrible MRT ride with, to pack together like sardines on a 199 service bus, and to go through the thick-and-thins of preparing for presentations after presentations, assignments after assignments, all for the sake of being a qualified, and hopefully, also a competent professional educator. Competent enough, at least, to survive the unknowns that behold in schools. Shudder.
I will miss all of you:
My GESL-mates who have shared many grumbles and frustrations initially, and then lots more fun and supportive moments, especially at our VERY SUCCESSFUL camp. (I just had to BOLD that part.)
My Chinese specialization coursemates and classmates, who have infected me with their passion for the language, and for those witty moments that made learning so much easier. Special thanks to my groupmates. I could not have done this without you! Collaboration at its best!
My other module-mates, thank you for selflessly sharing all that you've got. I feel as if I've had a lifetime of classroom teaching after listening to all your experiences. You guys have just given me a good headstart there.
My lecturers and tutors, you have all inspired me to give everything I have to education, just like you have given yours. I will never forget what you have done for us.
With this, adieu NIE. Till we meet again.
I can't believe that it had been almost eight months since I started my teacher training course.
I can't believe that I had survive two semesters of intensive pedagogical and curricular modules. I can't believe that I am really going to step into a classroom to teach.
You mean, I am a teacher??!!
It's all rather sad, really. I hate to leave NIE. This, despite the fact that I have to endure the long commutes to and from campus. Afterall, there is a bunch of fun and spirited coursemates to share that horrible MRT ride with, to pack together like sardines on a 199 service bus, and to go through the thick-and-thins of preparing for presentations after presentations, assignments after assignments, all for the sake of being a qualified, and hopefully, also a competent professional educator. Competent enough, at least, to survive the unknowns that behold in schools. Shudder.
I will miss all of you:
My GESL-mates who have shared many grumbles and frustrations initially, and then lots more fun and supportive moments, especially at our VERY SUCCESSFUL camp. (I just had to BOLD that part.)
My Chinese specialization coursemates and classmates, who have infected me with their passion for the language, and for those witty moments that made learning so much easier. Special thanks to my groupmates. I could not have done this without you! Collaboration at its best!
My other module-mates, thank you for selflessly sharing all that you've got. I feel as if I've had a lifetime of classroom teaching after listening to all your experiences. You guys have just given me a good headstart there.
My lecturers and tutors, you have all inspired me to give everything I have to education, just like you have given yours. I will never forget what you have done for us.
With this, adieu NIE. Till we meet again.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Stress-Buster
Some people blog to relieve boredom. I blog to relieve stress. Strange as it may sound, I always have the biggest urge to post something here when I'm at the peak of my work cycle. No matter how near a dateline is, or how high my workload piles up in front of me, I'd find time to log online and type away.
And it's happening right now. I have two presentations, two papers and an exam due next week, which means I really should be looking at a Word or Powerpoint window right now, not this one that says Internet Explorer. What to do, I need to tell the world that I am busy and stressed out right now, OK?
So the next time you see a new post on my blog, remember that I'm not loafing around. I've got plenty on my hands and the pressure is running high. Which reminds me, I've got to go back to my Word and Powerpoint windows. Now God help me.
And it's happening right now. I have two presentations, two papers and an exam due next week, which means I really should be looking at a Word or Powerpoint window right now, not this one that says Internet Explorer. What to do, I need to tell the world that I am busy and stressed out right now, OK?
So the next time you see a new post on my blog, remember that I'm not loafing around. I've got plenty on my hands and the pressure is running high. Which reminds me, I've got to go back to my Word and Powerpoint windows. Now God help me.
Practicum Posting
It has been decided. I'm going to do my teaching practicum at PL**S. Looks like I am destined to go to all-girls' schools my whole life. Some things never change.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Monday, January 09, 2006
Warfare
Yes, you heard my battle calls. I'm going on war and it's no laughing business.
OK, I am sick la. You heard my coughs and sniffs, more likely.
Not deliriously sick, but sick enough to have stayed at home over the weekend and as a result, missed a birthday party, a stag night (why am I invited anyway?) and worse, my sister's invitation to drop by her home to pick up free cosmetics.
See, I am THAT ill.
The irritating thing about this current flu bug, is that it has bogged me down for some weeks now. Some serious bug, really! And to top it off, this workaholic works without a schedule. My condition swings erratically from being absolutely bubbly and well, to being confined in the pits and in my bed, with just a box of Kleenex for company.
Well, not that I am complaining, since I am partly responsible for my own state of well-being. You see, from Dec 10 right up to Jan 2, I have been putting my health at stake by having way too much fun. It was of course no joke that I had to start school on the very next day. To add insult to injury, the very next day = my birthday, which was, by the way, also my last twenty-something-th birthday. Sniff. Sob. WAHHHHH...
Frankly, starting 2006 in such less than desirable condition did shake me up a little. I have since learnt my lesson and decided to make health my top priority in my days ahead. Having fun will, unfortunately, have to take the second spot in my grand list of resolutions.
With this, I declare that I will devote my every living moment henceforth to making The Flu Bug miserable and wishing that it had never lived.
Medicine, vitamins, bring them on!
OK, I am sick la. You heard my coughs and sniffs, more likely.
Not deliriously sick, but sick enough to have stayed at home over the weekend and as a result, missed a birthday party, a stag night (why am I invited anyway?) and worse, my sister's invitation to drop by her home to pick up free cosmetics.
See, I am THAT ill.
The irritating thing about this current flu bug, is that it has bogged me down for some weeks now. Some serious bug, really! And to top it off, this workaholic works without a schedule. My condition swings erratically from being absolutely bubbly and well, to being confined in the pits and in my bed, with just a box of Kleenex for company.
Well, not that I am complaining, since I am partly responsible for my own state of well-being. You see, from Dec 10 right up to Jan 2, I have been putting my health at stake by having way too much fun. It was of course no joke that I had to start school on the very next day. To add insult to injury, the very next day = my birthday, which was, by the way, also my last twenty-something-th birthday. Sniff. Sob. WAHHHHH...
Frankly, starting 2006 in such less than desirable condition did shake me up a little. I have since learnt my lesson and decided to make health my top priority in my days ahead. Having fun will, unfortunately, have to take the second spot in my grand list of resolutions.
With this, I declare that I will devote my every living moment henceforth to making The Flu Bug miserable and wishing that it had never lived.
Medicine, vitamins, bring them on!
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Sob Stories
An interesting fact about me is I almost never cry, but when I do, it is usually because of really weird things.
I remember when I was in secondary school, when we had to bid farewell to some relief teacher or retiring teacher (I don't even remember) and everyone was tearing like nobody's business, I stood blinking, dry-eyed and feeling very ridiculous about the scene others were making.
Another incident I recall was the one featuring my face-to-face, skin-to-skin encounter with my worst nightmare - the house lizard (believe me, I could withstand a few fat leeches sucking my life out of me, or capturing a flying cockroach with my bare hands, but when it comes to lizards, I'd rather die). I was happily digging into my box of leftover chocolate bits and munching away when the cursed little reptile fell out of it, onto my hand. I think I screamed so loud that the entire Serangoon estate could hear me, but nevertheless, I did not cry.
Then, there was this time when I had to kill a chicken with my bare hands and dig its intestines out from the butt-side. I didn't cry too. Instead, I laughed a little and unfortunately got caught on camera, thus earning me the royal title of THE DAREDEVIL.
However, I cry at the most unbelievable things. Or rather, I should say that things simple and mundane move me the most. Usually, it'll be something like a Kleenex ad, a folk song, or just a random scene from a comedy. I would sometimes be strangely moved to tears too when I see a lone bird in flight, a few kittens playing with one another, or an old man peddling ice-cream. Once in a long while, I would just lie on my bed and start to cry non-stop for no reason at all. Must be my quirky way of relieving stress, I don't know...
One sure way to start me sobbing away almost immediately is when I think of my parents. I become extremely vulnerable when they come into the picture. So, it's good that I am back under the same roof with them, and hence not having to miss them too much.
So you see, so much for those till-death-do-us-apart Korean dramas or sob-till-you-drop Qiong Yao romance novels. They are just no match against two jolly old folks; or an elderly street hawker; or a single bird. Not even a box of tissue.
I say, what touches the heart, is what is in the heart itself. No more, no less. Go figure.
I remember when I was in secondary school, when we had to bid farewell to some relief teacher or retiring teacher (I don't even remember) and everyone was tearing like nobody's business, I stood blinking, dry-eyed and feeling very ridiculous about the scene others were making.
Another incident I recall was the one featuring my face-to-face, skin-to-skin encounter with my worst nightmare - the house lizard (believe me, I could withstand a few fat leeches sucking my life out of me, or capturing a flying cockroach with my bare hands, but when it comes to lizards, I'd rather die). I was happily digging into my box of leftover chocolate bits and munching away when the cursed little reptile fell out of it, onto my hand. I think I screamed so loud that the entire Serangoon estate could hear me, but nevertheless, I did not cry.
Then, there was this time when I had to kill a chicken with my bare hands and dig its intestines out from the butt-side. I didn't cry too. Instead, I laughed a little and unfortunately got caught on camera, thus earning me the royal title of THE DAREDEVIL.
However, I cry at the most unbelievable things. Or rather, I should say that things simple and mundane move me the most. Usually, it'll be something like a Kleenex ad, a folk song, or just a random scene from a comedy. I would sometimes be strangely moved to tears too when I see a lone bird in flight, a few kittens playing with one another, or an old man peddling ice-cream. Once in a long while, I would just lie on my bed and start to cry non-stop for no reason at all. Must be my quirky way of relieving stress, I don't know...
One sure way to start me sobbing away almost immediately is when I think of my parents. I become extremely vulnerable when they come into the picture. So, it's good that I am back under the same roof with them, and hence not having to miss them too much.
So you see, so much for those till-death-do-us-apart Korean dramas or sob-till-you-drop Qiong Yao romance novels. They are just no match against two jolly old folks; or an elderly street hawker; or a single bird. Not even a box of tissue.
I say, what touches the heart, is what is in the heart itself. No more, no less. Go figure.
* Always Put Up a Good Fight...
... even if it's against your twin sister.
Pacific Bay, Taiwan - Oct' 01
I Love Rock N' Roll
I hate the fact that I look like a proper law-abiding citizen. I dislike the superficial Ms. Decent skin that I was born in. I wish I can look like a rocker. An angst-ridden, tough-as-steel rock star in leather.
If you are thinking, "Wow, I would never have guessed", then you probably don't know me very well.
You have probably never heard me at KTV.
You have probably never seen me at rock concerts.
You have probably never witnessed how I scream at my students.
Yes, my favorite movie is School of Rock.
And yes, I ever sang and dance to Elvis' songs with a comb in hand.
I ever cried with my mom when John Lennon was murdered.
I cried again with my sister when Beyond's lead singer fell off the stage and died.
I ever really wanted to marry Jon Bon Jovi.
I ever imagined I could play the guitar like The Edge in U2.
I ever spent SGD$50 on a Japanese CD by Spitz.
I even know all the lyrics to Mayday's hokkien songs (and I'm not even Hokkien).
In other words, I am a multilingual rock chick. Love and peace.
If you are thinking, "Wow, I would never have guessed", then you probably don't know me very well.
You have probably never heard me at KTV.
You have probably never seen me at rock concerts.
You have probably never witnessed how I scream at my students.
Yes, my favorite movie is School of Rock.
And yes, I ever sang and dance to Elvis' songs with a comb in hand.
I ever cried with my mom when John Lennon was murdered.
I cried again with my sister when Beyond's lead singer fell off the stage and died.
I ever really wanted to marry Jon Bon Jovi.
I ever imagined I could play the guitar like The Edge in U2.
I ever spent SGD$50 on a Japanese CD by Spitz.
I even know all the lyrics to Mayday's hokkien songs (and I'm not even Hokkien).
In other words, I am a multilingual rock chick. Love and peace.
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Friday, November 18, 2005
Potter Rocks
OK, maybe I'm not strictly referring to Harry per se, but the entire whimsical wizardry world of his. What a neat place to be in, despite having to deal with sweaty nightmares and actually having to duel with the-one-who-shamelessly-calls-himself-the-dark-lord.
I bet it is anyone's fantasy world... Well, except those self-declared 'mature adults' with eyes only for a trilogy of some lousy ring. Haha, I'm being spiteful here, but no offence. As long as you keep your insults to yourself, I'll keep mine too, until I get down to actually reading the first LOTR novel that is lying in dust somewhere in my broom-cupboard bedroom.
Now, back to Harry and his friends. My one single big thought about this latest movie episode is on dear old Albus Dumberdore. So, the original actor passed away and they had to cast some other guy, but certainly there is some kind of quality control, you'd think?! I was certainly quite taken back by the loud, aggressive, and even...somewhat...dark (gasp) Dumberdore. What happened to the kind, gentle old principal we knew him to be? I cannot help but think this new identity is a big secret waiting to be uncovered. Maybe Dumberdore has been possessed? Maybe he is some bad guy taking lots of polyjuice potion? Maybe Sirius in disguise? Or maybe... I don't know, this old guy just unsettles me.
But anyway, let's forget about that and move on to wonderful younger beings. Ah yes, my personal favorite - Nerville Longbottom. Cute name, cuter boy. I thought the bits on his love for dancing were really sweet. Plus, for a supporting role, he had really earned some good airtime there. Oh man, I just love guys who dance.
Next, George and Fred. Man, I love twins as well. Mischievous twins, how wicked is that? I absolutely dig the scene when both of them mimicked Ron's dance with Professor McGonagall, in synch no less!
And the adults? Hmm, Snape and MadEye Moody comes to mind. Snape, for his sleeve-drawing performance, and Moody, what can I say. Disguise aside, if I've had a teacher like him, I would darn well be President Scholar of my year. Well, no time for regrets, I'll just strive to teach like him, minus the transfiguration. What do you say, my students???
I've just looked. Can't find the LOTR novel. Guess I'll just settle for a re-read of my Potter series. Hmm let's see...where are the books? " Now, accio!"
I bet it is anyone's fantasy world... Well, except those self-declared 'mature adults' with eyes only for a trilogy of some lousy ring. Haha, I'm being spiteful here, but no offence. As long as you keep your insults to yourself, I'll keep mine too, until I get down to actually reading the first LOTR novel that is lying in dust somewhere in my broom-cupboard bedroom.
Now, back to Harry and his friends. My one single big thought about this latest movie episode is on dear old Albus Dumberdore. So, the original actor passed away and they had to cast some other guy, but certainly there is some kind of quality control, you'd think?! I was certainly quite taken back by the loud, aggressive, and even...somewhat...dark (gasp) Dumberdore. What happened to the kind, gentle old principal we knew him to be? I cannot help but think this new identity is a big secret waiting to be uncovered. Maybe Dumberdore has been possessed? Maybe he is some bad guy taking lots of polyjuice potion? Maybe Sirius in disguise? Or maybe... I don't know, this old guy just unsettles me.
But anyway, let's forget about that and move on to wonderful younger beings. Ah yes, my personal favorite - Nerville Longbottom. Cute name, cuter boy. I thought the bits on his love for dancing were really sweet. Plus, for a supporting role, he had really earned some good airtime there. Oh man, I just love guys who dance.
Next, George and Fred. Man, I love twins as well. Mischievous twins, how wicked is that? I absolutely dig the scene when both of them mimicked Ron's dance with Professor McGonagall, in synch no less!
And the adults? Hmm, Snape and MadEye Moody comes to mind. Snape, for his sleeve-drawing performance, and Moody, what can I say. Disguise aside, if I've had a teacher like him, I would darn well be President Scholar of my year. Well, no time for regrets, I'll just strive to teach like him, minus the transfiguration. What do you say, my students???
I've just looked. Can't find the LOTR novel. Guess I'll just settle for a re-read of my Potter series. Hmm let's see...where are the books? " Now, accio!"
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
One Wedding and A Funeral
November 12, 2005 - the day two capable, intelligent and good-looking friends finally tied the knot of matrimonial bliss.
November 13, 2005 - the day a friend's granny passed away unexpectedly.
Such is life. Life that is determined by what we set out to do at times, but also one that is beyond our control most other times.
For me, that was a tiring week. I had experienced anticipation, excitement, joy, contentment and some very touching moments. Then just one day later, a whole new set of emotions - grief, sympathy and pain.
I shared Huayimm and Damien's happiness because I was made part of the celebration. From brainstorming ballroom design ideas to making wedding invites to being emcee for their wedding dinner, every moment was one of infectious love and beginning. You have to try very hard not to feel it.
But on the other hand, I did not know Sam's grandma. Yesterday at the wake, I saw her photo for the very first time. There wasn't alot of activity. Family members chatting in small groups and attending to the rituals in a matter-of-factly way. It was hard to imagine that just two days ago, a funeral was the furthest thing on their minds. However, despite the untelling scene, I just had to take one look into Sam's eyes to feel her loss. No living person can ever hide the pain of death.
Just as no one should ever hide the happiness of life.
To Huayimm and Damien, maybe you be happy always.
To Sam, get happy real soon. You know Grandma is happy where she is now.
November 13, 2005 - the day a friend's granny passed away unexpectedly.
Such is life. Life that is determined by what we set out to do at times, but also one that is beyond our control most other times.
For me, that was a tiring week. I had experienced anticipation, excitement, joy, contentment and some very touching moments. Then just one day later, a whole new set of emotions - grief, sympathy and pain.
I shared Huayimm and Damien's happiness because I was made part of the celebration. From brainstorming ballroom design ideas to making wedding invites to being emcee for their wedding dinner, every moment was one of infectious love and beginning. You have to try very hard not to feel it.
But on the other hand, I did not know Sam's grandma. Yesterday at the wake, I saw her photo for the very first time. There wasn't alot of activity. Family members chatting in small groups and attending to the rituals in a matter-of-factly way. It was hard to imagine that just two days ago, a funeral was the furthest thing on their minds. However, despite the untelling scene, I just had to take one look into Sam's eyes to feel her loss. No living person can ever hide the pain of death.
Just as no one should ever hide the happiness of life.
To Huayimm and Damien, maybe you be happy always.
To Sam, get happy real soon. You know Grandma is happy where she is now.
Comeback
Exams are finally over, well almost...the last one is tomorrow but frankly, I don't quite care. I'll be goofing around for the next seven weeks with no work, no school, no nothing. Life is good to me.
Frankly, being set free from mundane routines took some getting used to. For the first time in a long time, I felt so weird having nothing to do. Boredom quickly set in and since most of my close friends were either not in town, feeling ill, or had datelines to meet, I was soon texting almost everyone I could possibly think of, seeking to "reconnect" with some long-lost people out there.
It's strange how your brain doesn't quite work when freed from stress. For the past few months when I had tons of assignments and exams piled in front of me, I lamented endlessly about my lack of time to blog. But when I had all the time in the world and needed something to do, I forgot that I had a blog to write. Duh.
So, I hereby declare that I shall and I will start writing again. For all my good fans out there, thanks for the long wait. I am back.
Frankly, being set free from mundane routines took some getting used to. For the first time in a long time, I felt so weird having nothing to do. Boredom quickly set in and since most of my close friends were either not in town, feeling ill, or had datelines to meet, I was soon texting almost everyone I could possibly think of, seeking to "reconnect" with some long-lost people out there.
It's strange how your brain doesn't quite work when freed from stress. For the past few months when I had tons of assignments and exams piled in front of me, I lamented endlessly about my lack of time to blog. But when I had all the time in the world and needed something to do, I forgot that I had a blog to write. Duh.
So, I hereby declare that I shall and I will start writing again. For all my good fans out there, thanks for the long wait. I am back.
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Thank You for the Music
Dedicated to my steadfast piano for being at my side for more than 20 years, which I had constantly neglected, which I had almost ingratefully forgotten about. Recently, I've started playing music again, and rediscovered the joy that it had always given me. Thank you, Mr. Piano. Thank you for the music.
Mr. Piano
Old Dusty Mister Dark Wood Piano
Stands proudly upright
Bravely stoic
Deadly still
In its own silent shadow
Like a heavy tomb door sealed with grief
The dark wooden lid
A little warmed
Gently loved
By a cat soundly sleeping
He longs for some music
A heartfelt sonata
But the only sounds he hears
The rhythmic purrs
As the cat coils in tighter
Quietly determined is Mr. Piano
Keys and pedals lay await
For the lid to be lifted of its sadness
And a slightly off-pitch tune is played
Once again someday
Mr. Piano
Old Dusty Mister Dark Wood Piano
Stands proudly upright
Bravely stoic
Deadly still
In its own silent shadow
Like a heavy tomb door sealed with grief
The dark wooden lid
A little warmed
Gently loved
By a cat soundly sleeping
He longs for some music
A heartfelt sonata
But the only sounds he hears
The rhythmic purrs
As the cat coils in tighter
Quietly determined is Mr. Piano
Keys and pedals lay await
For the lid to be lifted of its sadness
And a slightly off-pitch tune is played
Once again someday
Thursday, September 15, 2005
A New Home
Dear readers,
I've created a new blog specially for my Chinese posts! Well, it wasn't a deliberate move... I had do something for my Photoshop assignment so thought I might as well put my end product to good use. So please go admire my backbreaking piece of creation even if you can't understand those funky Chinese characters, please...please...please...!
親愛的讀者：
為了配合本人雙語創作美少女的優質形象，我徹夜趕工，終於設立了專屬中文作品的全新部落格(blog)！值得一提的是我剛才學會一些Photoshop的皮毛，通宵作出一個我自認超滿意的設計，包括文案都是親筆寫的哦！所以請各位阿姐阿哥踴躍支持... 感恩啦！
Update Jan 10, 2006: My Chinese blog had since moved and been republished. Please refer to 'Links' to access it.
I've created a new blog specially for my Chinese posts! Well, it wasn't a deliberate move... I had do something for my Photoshop assignment so thought I might as well put my end product to good use. So please go admire my backbreaking piece of creation even if you can't understand those funky Chinese characters, please...please...please...!
親愛的讀者：
為了配合本人雙語創作美少女的優質形象，我徹夜趕工，終於設立了專屬中文作品的全新部落格(blog)！值得一提的是我剛才學會一些Photoshop的皮毛，通宵作出一個我自認超滿意的設計，包括文案都是親筆寫的哦！所以請各位阿姐阿哥踴躍支持... 感恩啦！
Update Jan 10, 2006: My Chinese blog had since moved and been republished. Please refer to 'Links' to access it.
Monday, September 12, 2005
I'm Sorry Peter...
On this very blog just barely 3 days ago, I had professed by undying love for my Creative Neeon MP3 player adoringly nicknamed Purple Peter.
These days, however, it seems that love doesn't run very long, especially when there is a strong 3rd party contending for attention. Apple had won me over with their latest Ipod Nano. I've decided to end my relationship with passe Peter. Soon.
Like one freshly in love, I just have to tell you how excited I am about this new affair. It's incredible. Have you quite seen anything like that?!! It is black magic in the techno-gadget world. Totally freaky, but ultimately captivating.
I'm craving, I'm lusting for you, Nano!!!
Friday, September 09, 2005
Waxin' Lyrical
I know someone's bound to complain, but I really can't help it. I know posting song lyrics is not exactly a creative process, but it's the best I can do for now. It has been a bit of an overkill for my poor skull lately, as forgotten datelines for essays and projects suddenly pop back up in my little tattered calender of events.
To summarize, the only free time I've left to do better things is that spent on public transport. And of course, please don't forget that on the top of my list of better things, is sleeping. Yes, I've perfected the Art of Zzz-ing on trains. No drool, no head-banging or any form of sound-effect at all. Indeed, I've progressed alot from my leaving-backpack-imprints-on-face days. Not that much of a feat at all if you consider my passionate devotion of almost 4 hours daily to public transport.
But of course, being industrious as I usually am, this 'quality' time is not only spent on my favorite sport (sleeping, I mean). Let me now introduce you to my faithful spouse of 3 months - Purple Peter - named after a Smurf song I learnt some 20+ years ago. Peter is actually my Creative MP3 player, and yes he is colored.
The reason I love Peter so much is because he has so much in him - all that I like, quite almost all that I want. Well, it wouldn't be anyway else since I AM the person loading mp3 files into him. Duh.
So my intelligent friend - you, should have figured by now that I am basically doing five things everyday. Sleeping, commuting, attending classes, doing homework and listening to music - in all forms of overlap. Actually, make that six things. Recharging my MP3 player counts as a time-consuming activity too... ask Creative.
In conclusion, be thankful that you still get to read lyrics.
To summarize, the only free time I've left to do better things is that spent on public transport. And of course, please don't forget that on the top of my list of better things, is sleeping. Yes, I've perfected the Art of Zzz-ing on trains. No drool, no head-banging or any form of sound-effect at all. Indeed, I've progressed alot from my leaving-backpack-imprints-on-face days. Not that much of a feat at all if you consider my passionate devotion of almost 4 hours daily to public transport.
But of course, being industrious as I usually am, this 'quality' time is not only spent on my favorite sport (sleeping, I mean). Let me now introduce you to my faithful spouse of 3 months - Purple Peter - named after a Smurf song I learnt some 20+ years ago. Peter is actually my Creative MP3 player, and yes he is colored.
The reason I love Peter so much is because he has so much in him - all that I like, quite almost all that I want. Well, it wouldn't be anyway else since I AM the person loading mp3 files into him. Duh.
So my intelligent friend - you, should have figured by now that I am basically doing five things everyday. Sleeping, commuting, attending classes, doing homework and listening to music - in all forms of overlap. Actually, make that six things. Recharging my MP3 player counts as a time-consuming activity too... ask Creative.
In conclusion, be thankful that you still get to read lyrics.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Of Death, Doom and Desperation
I'm adversed to sadness. Sadness-anything except for this old favorite which I would, ironically, listen to just to bring a tear to my eye.
Knockin' On Heaven's Door
(Bob Dylan 1973)
Ma, take this badge off of me
I can't use it anymore
It's gettin' dark, too dark to see
I feel I'm knockin' on heaven's door
Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door
Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door
Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door
Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door
Ma, put my guns in the ground
I can't shoot them anymore
That long black cloud is comin' down
I feel I'm knockin' on heaven's door
Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door
Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door
Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door
Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door.
Knockin' On Heaven's Door
(Bob Dylan 1973)
Ma, take this badge off of me
I can't use it anymore
It's gettin' dark, too dark to see
I feel I'm knockin' on heaven's door
Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door
Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door
Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door
Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door
Ma, put my guns in the ground
I can't shoot them anymore
That long black cloud is comin' down
I feel I'm knockin' on heaven's door
Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door
Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door
Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door
Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door.
Monday, August 22, 2005
Which Cartoon Character Am I?
A rather lame quiz which I bravely attempted despite having tons of work waiting to be done tonight.
You are Bugs Bunny.
You are fun, friendly and popular. You are a real crowd pleaser. You have probably been out on the town your share of times, yet you come home with the values that your mother taught you. Marriage and children are important to you, but only after you have fun. Don't let the people you please influence you to stray.
P.S: If I stray, it's SOMEONE ELSE'S fault.
What Fruit Am I?
You have selected peach.
Like a peach, you enjoy the juice of life in all its lush ripeness! You are the friendly sort, and are quite frank and outspoken, which adds to your charm. You are quick to forgive and forget, and value friendships highly. You have an independent and ambitious streak that makes you a real go-getter. You are the ideal lover, fiery and passionate but sincere and faithful in love. You don't however like to display all that passion in public.
And Yet Another Quiz Reveals... Curiously Accurate Results
Introspective . . . Sensitive . . . Reflective
You come to grips more frequently and thoroughly with yourself and your environment than do most people. You detest superficiality; you'd rather be alone than have to suffer through small talk. But your relationships with your friends are highly intensive, which give you the inner tranquillity and harmony that you need in order to feel good. However, it is no problem for you to be alone for extended periods of time without becoming bored.
And Another
Others see you as fresh, lively, charming, amusing and always interesting; someone who is constantly the center of attention, but sufficiently well-balanced not to let it go to your head. They see you also as kind, considerate and understanding; someone who will cheer them up and help them out.
More...
1. You are attracted to those who are: unbridled, untrammeled, free.
2. In the process of courtship, the approach that would make you feel irresistable is: creative, never boring.
3. The impression you would like to give to your lover: stylish.
4. What you hate most in your partner: ruthlessness, cold-bloodedness, irony.
5. The kind of relationship you would like to build with your partner is : both of you can talk about everything and anything, no secrets kept.
6. You care about the society and morality, you won't do anything wrong after marriage.
7. You are afraid of marriage, you think it would take away your freedom.
8. At this moment, you think of love as a committment for both parties.
Last One, in the Good Name of Procrastination
You are an artistic type. Daydreaming is your hobby, but you can achieve what most other people cannot. You are lacking in dedication, but you will work tirelessly towards goals which are to your liking. Money isNOT important. Friends are but only intellectuals and fellow artistic types. You make the best sex partner (!!! Really?? Wow, I'm starting to impress myself...) as you are most willing to explore and please the other partner. Talent is your main strength.
Ooh laa laa...
Now time to get back to work. Pity.
You are Bugs Bunny.
You are fun, friendly and popular. You are a real crowd pleaser. You have probably been out on the town your share of times, yet you come home with the values that your mother taught you. Marriage and children are important to you, but only after you have fun. Don't let the people you please influence you to stray.
P.S: If I stray, it's SOMEONE ELSE'S fault.
What Fruit Am I?
You have selected peach.
Like a peach, you enjoy the juice of life in all its lush ripeness! You are the friendly sort, and are quite frank and outspoken, which adds to your charm. You are quick to forgive and forget, and value friendships highly. You have an independent and ambitious streak that makes you a real go-getter. You are the ideal lover, fiery and passionate but sincere and faithful in love. You don't however like to display all that passion in public.
And Yet Another Quiz Reveals... Curiously Accurate Results
Introspective . . . Sensitive . . . Reflective
You come to grips more frequently and thoroughly with yourself and your environment than do most people. You detest superficiality; you'd rather be alone than have to suffer through small talk. But your relationships with your friends are highly intensive, which give you the inner tranquillity and harmony that you need in order to feel good. However, it is no problem for you to be alone for extended periods of time without becoming bored.
And Another
Others see you as fresh, lively, charming, amusing and always interesting; someone who is constantly the center of attention, but sufficiently well-balanced not to let it go to your head. They see you also as kind, considerate and understanding; someone who will cheer them up and help them out.
More...
1. You are attracted to those who are: unbridled, untrammeled, free.
2. In the process of courtship, the approach that would make you feel irresistable is: creative, never boring.
3. The impression you would like to give to your lover: stylish.
4. What you hate most in your partner: ruthlessness, cold-bloodedness, irony.
5. The kind of relationship you would like to build with your partner is : both of you can talk about everything and anything, no secrets kept.
6. You care about the society and morality, you won't do anything wrong after marriage.
7. You are afraid of marriage, you think it would take away your freedom.
8. At this moment, you think of love as a committment for both parties.
Last One, in the Good Name of Procrastination
You are an artistic type. Daydreaming is your hobby, but you can achieve what most other people cannot. You are lacking in dedication, but you will work tirelessly towards goals which are to your liking. Money is
Ooh laa laa...
Now time to get back to work. Pity.
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