Well, not really. Actually, far from it. She works in the media and receives free newspapers daily and magazines monthly. And that was a song title. But I must have inherited my innate desire to travel and the ability to land myself in painful situations from someone. I can’t stay put and I don’t know why. But not knowing why is not as painful and not being able to travel.

I feel like running. I don’t know what I’m running from or what I’m running to. I feel like Forrest Gump, running on and on and on—minus the beard and masculinity. Before I fall asleep, my mind goes into a marathon of sorts… reading maps (in my mind, I said), stepping on a new sidewalk, shooting down folks with my camera, running my fingers through foreign currency, falling asleep under a different sky, feasting with strangers, breathing in forest and timber, breathing out mist and telling others how Malaysians don’t live on trees.

2006 is probably the most turbulent year I’ve been through. Seeing my pets die in the past did not prepare me to see life slip away from my grandma. It’s funny what death can do to one person. It’s more obvious to me that the body is a cavity and hidden inside the folds of skin, muscle and sinew is life. I was tempted to take a picture of my dying grandma, but I did not because it didn’t seem right. It didn’t seem like her either. Yet it’s fascinating to know that early photographers could only use dead people in portrait photography. But that’s for another post.


Grandma was the only lady in stripes. This was her home economics class and I think the waffle-making machine stole their hearts.


Mom and dad. Much younger. This is my second year serving in a non-profit organization and they have been pressuring me to leave this job for a more financially rewarding one. It’s tough and I’m fidgety. Maybe this is what I’m running from and why I’m running. But it can’t be.


Despite all that confusion and strife, this year made me more vulnerable than expected. God still has a lot of work with this slab of marble though. Still a little shapeless and rough, I know I can trust his visions for me more than I can believe my own. I have no idea what he will chisel off, but the rubble would make a good collection in my personal museum I reckon. Everybody has a museum… a room of failed inventions, a room for mistakes and a wall of old (false) lovers.

Have a great new year.

Two more days to Christmas! And so far, I have a sore throat, one newly neutered cat, 11 days off, extra Nutella icing, a box of peanut butter cups, a confirmed aversion towards coconut candy and no freaking turkey. It's going to be thrilling!

The year is coming to a close and there are so many things I could write about but I guess I won't... well, not here... not yet. I've always loved December for a few reasons: 1) I get about a week off from work 2) Camps 3) Birthdays 4) Presents 5) Christmas decos and lights and Christmas itself... and also the pending year end. Knowing that another year is coming brings me much hope. It's almost like opening another chapter or a new book. You don't know what to expect, but the mystery of it keeps you going. And like every year's end, there will be some bridges to burn and some balloons to blow.

Anyway, here's to all:

If I make the lashes dark
And the eyes more bright
And the lips more scarlet,
Or ask if all be right
From mirror after mirror,
No vanity's displayed:
I'm looking for the face I had
Before the world was made.
What if I look upon a man
As though on my beloved,
And my blood be cold the while
And my heart unmoved?
Why should he think me cruel
Or that he is betrayed?
I'd have him love the thing that was
Before the world was made.
- Yeats

Here’s my week (or more) in reverse chronological order.


Besides having too many cakes (about six in total) for my birthday last month, the amount of chocolate and sugar I've been consuming is almost enough to make me not want to touch cakes and candies ever again. Almost. Above is Sel's latest effort, Rocky Road Fudge with chocolate, hazelnuts, marshmallows, dried fruits, some biscuits, chocolate... and more chocolate. I think my friends have a secret ploy to fatten me up. I haven't weighed myself to know, but last I checked, I need some extra 2 kilograms to graduate from my underweight status.


I was looking through a stack of old cassette tapes and CDs and found this gem. It's one of my favourite albums (and album covers). I can't find the CD version of it today in our record shops though.


That is Warren Ellis of Dirty Three (Oct 31st, 2006). He looked like Rasputin with a violin and a violent right leg. He spent most of the time facing his back to the audience and played lying down. I like how he looks headless here. Caught some really offbeat people in the crowd that night. This guy, let's call him Mersing 12, was so high he did air-guitar and air-violin while head-banging in his pyjama pants. He later discovered how cupping his ears on-and-off created another sound effect and quickly shared the good news with his friend. Then they were both making sound effects only audible to themselves. He was the most animated audience I've ever seen.

Here are some 35mm film pictures that were taken with a medium format camera when I visited Penang and Ipoh in the middle of this year. I like the vignette effect on the edges but I think I like going on holidays more.

Tomorrow I will be going to the spa with my mom and am contemplating if I should get the shiatsu or the aromatherapy massage. From Sunday to Wednesday I’ll be away at a retreat and am probably not bringing any camera with me this time for a change. I’ve been taking it on every getaway and been relying too much on it to jog my memory. I need to break that cycle and simply have fun and not worry if the bag is too damp for the camera or if someone’s going to hold it for me when I visit the loo or if I missed a good moment. And for someone like me who would habitually check if my car is locked a few seconds after I actually locked it, the thought of misplacing or not placing the lens cap on can be a real killer.


That’s a cake my friend gave me. I love blueberries and cheese (separate or together) but the mashed berries looked a lot like fattened dog ticks. And they tasted yummy. Thanks, Sel.

The other night I had dinner with some friends and one friend asked me, "What do you want in life?" I paused. I have not been asked that question in a long time, let alone ask myself what I really want in life. I told her that I want to be happy. Another friend quickly added that my answer was too vague. And for a moment there, with a semi-chewed straw in my mouth and eyes darting from left to right, I felt obliged to give an answer to something I’m only beginning to understand.

I told her that what I meant was that I want to be content. I used to want to have my own business/gallery/restaurant/café... and in fact, a little part of me is still intrigued by the idea. But is that what I really want? And if I can have all that, then what? Will I want more?

I like how John Eldredge put it:
Contentment is not freedom from desire, but freedom of desire. Being content is not pretending that everything is the way you wish it would be; it is not acting as though you have no wishes. Rather, it is no longer being ruled by your desires.


That aside, I’ve also been getting busy with Sel’s baking business. Photographing food is not as easy as it seems, but tasting the fruits of your labour is worth the while—and wait!

Am currently saddened by how my Flickr account is running out of space. Oh well.

An injured bird was brought into the office a couple of days ago. It was calm and didn’t put up a struggle when we handled it or moved it from someone’s finger to another person’s hand. To my limited knowledge on fowls, it could be a dazed adult or a trusting young one. While holding it, I half expect it fly at my face and peck out my eyes, Hitchcock style. But it did nothing sinister except stare me down with its black eyes and extend its neck like a crane whenever it was moved up and down. I think the white lines above its eyes were supposed to make it look dangerous. It’s funny how the most delicate things in nature look the most defensive.

There are many things I could write about, but words escape me. Below are pictures depicting my emotional state (somewhat), although rather ambiguously.

Being lovesick is akin to having ulcers. To the people around you, you look alright although a little quieter than usual. Maybe a little gloomy, a bit sulky and somewhat brooding. You don’t feel much like eating and everything tastes like porridge. Bland and colourless. Smiling becomes harder when it stretches your insides in all the aching places. Nothing excites you anymore and your saliva factories have gone defunct. Like a bag of desiccant in an empty shoebox, life is dry and hollow. Things just aren’t the same.

I have two huge ulcers merging into one. In a non-attempt at being random, here’s what you can do when you’re feeling nervous while holding a bottle of beer.

The above shot was taken in the ferry. The blonde lady was covered in freckles and was wearing a shirt that reads, “Crazy Horse”. While stopping over in Kuantan, I bought two Chinese magazines, which I will never fully understand, for only RM3.50. They came with travel guidebooks of Tokyo and New York, complete with pictures and maps. I still like imagining being someplace else.


I’m not so fond of beach photography so I took pictures of the ground and shadows instead. And that is my sister holding my ice-cream for me (she’s so useful). Unfortunately, the heart-printed paper wrapped around the cone says nothing about the taste of the ice-cream.


Here’s a Hokusai inspired shot. I’m too lazy to scan all the underwater shots, so that will have to do. A small blacktip reef shark swam across my face and was enough to send shivers down my spine. Darn those shark attack films!

Ten toes are itching to dive into sand and my lungs are dying to choke on salty breeze. To heighten the experience, I got myself a disposable underwater camera and a brand new roll of film today. Will be trigger happy from 18/8 - 21/8.

I was driving home from work today when Tracy Chapman’s ‘Fast Car’ was playing on the radio. If the car could steer itself I would’ve closed my eyes and I would be in the passenger seat of a red Honda Charade. It’ll be 7am and I will be in my blue and white baju kurung. Every morning the same thoughts and imagination will play in my head: if only I’m on my way to the airport so I can leave this place. I will go to school only to wait for recess so I could sit by the drain with my friends. We’d dig up an ant hole, hoping to find something bigger, the queen perhaps. In the midst of probing the earth, we’d exchange ideas of what could happen if we were suddenly taken away in a helicopter and flown off to another location. We didn’t really care where, as long as it was not here.

I’m not much of a morning person, the times when I wake up earlier than 8.30am are usually when the bladder beckons. But lately I’m enjoying these sleep interruptions as they give me an excuse to lean on the window and stare out on the road I used to take to school. The sky is right, the colours are blue and yellow, the weather is cooling and the birds still sing the same song. And to my limited senses, the lingering scent of carbon monoxide only speaks of one colour—school bus orange.

Seven years later, the red car is sold off and I’ve not worn a baju kurung since. We don’t see each other much these days but I’d like to believe that in our own ways, we’re still digging the ant hole, hoping to chance upon something bigger. Something bigger than ourselves.

I was flipping through Granta 80: The Group and I found these really beautiful photographs by Susan Meiselas. I like how the pictures tell a story in its simplicity. They also make me want to take more pictures, but moreover I find the gaps in between each picture to be little pockets of time in which you fill with your imagination... and I think that’s precious. You’d make up stories and characters and chart their lives through paths you’d like them to take... and maybe conjure up an imagined life separate from your own.

And I suppose the whole coming of age thing fascinates me as well. Up till now, despite being close to a quarter century old (well, almost), I still feel like I just turned 21. I don’t know what state of mind I was in when I was 21, but I’m glad to be where I’m at... yet I miss being 21 so much. And to remember those nights my sister and I stayed up to tell stories to one another, or the time when I was bullied by some obnoxious girls on my first day at school, or when I punched a boy... or the time when my dad kicked me out from home... all are good. I wonder how my life will look like in photographs considering I’m behind the camera most of the time.

Here is our final screening (maybe) of Kit Ong's The Flowers Beneath My Skin.

I came home from work today and saw this boy on a bicycle staring intently at three male cats surrounding a female cat across my street. They were taking turns. She was tired and could barely stand on her own feet. I’ve been listening to Ferns’ ‘Dear Derelict’ on a loop for the longest time. The song almost brought me to tears. My brother was trying to play The O.C. theme song on the melodion tonight. His fingers are sticky and he is munching on some garlic bread sticks while pulling up his pants. He is wearing the same bermudas since he was 11. The elastic is worn but he insists that he is losing weight. For the first time, I wish he’s right and I’m wrong. He likes to put his head near the speakers.

To those who came for the film screening on Tuesday night, thank you for making it happen with us. To those who missed, here’s a second chance.

My dad used to tell me that God will cut off my tongue if I tell a lie. So I used to check the length of my tongue in front of the bathroom mirror. I also imagined what it would be like to live without a tongue... not being able to swallow and sing and stick it out for fun.

I grow up knowing it to be a lie and God isn't the kind to cut off my dad's tongue in punishment. But I've told many lies. I lied about my height mostly. And I also lied about living an ok life. I was told that I'm meant to live a great life but I think I'm starting to believe all the lies I used to tell (except the ones about my height).

Jim doing his thing:

He’s got hands like mine, his heart is like his father’s. Somewhere in the playground he found himself. A little colour blind and a little adventurous. In the eyes of another boy he is the most beautiful song. They say he is a peacock, but I’ve got a swan for a brother. Neck full of feathers and mouth full of laughter. Father loves him like no other.

[my sister reading Craig Thompson's Blankets and my new bird car-freshener in fresh woodland scent]

I'm trying to write a 'straight' review instead of drawing my reviews, but it's hard, I tell you. It's a book of short stories by an expat who writes about Malaysian characters (with one story set in Singapore). My mind is taken on a pensive ride... wondering a whole lot about what makes these stories Malaysian . I mean, it’s about the people of Malaysia and so does that make the stories Malaysian, even if it’s written by an expat? I’ve met Malaysians who consider their citizenship a cancer or disease to themselves (and their unborn children) and desire more than anything else to get a PR in another country. So I don’t think anyone is Malaysian because it says so on his/her birth cert... it's probably more than that.

Yet in hindsight, I find myself guilty whenever I’m reminded of how I used to think when I was in secondary school. I’ve always loved music, movies and art and when I flip through a magazine or newspaper and find ‘bad design’ or when I hear a local band with indecipherable lyrics, I’ll poke my sister and say, “See so Malaysian la the design/singing... look at the font/listen to his accent... ughh.” Being quite self-deprecating, I believed that everything awful was probably Malaysian—which is not an uncommon thought among teenagers who are less exposed and misguided by the media. But the question still beckons, what is ‘Malaysian’? Is there a definitive voice/sound/visual/style that could be pinpointed as ‘Malaysian’? And are we too caught up in searching for a national identity to relate to that we forget to look within ourselves? Among the mishmash of cultures and languages, we try to find parallels of similarities without ever being personal—we easily leave it to seasonal Petronas ads to do that for us.

And so, perhaps what is ‘Malaysian’ lies not in the way we sing or play or write or speak because those are auxiliaries to who we are, but in the heart and passion of an individual. This is a multifaceted topic and I feel I’m only scratching at the surface and I’m sure many have covered this before, but this is definitely therapy for me before I work on my review, although I doubt it will be any easier. At least now I got this somewhat out of the way.

On another note, I was watching Kylie Kwong one night and found out that she doesn't know the proper way to eat a xiao long bao or Shanghai dumpling (the kind with soup wrapped in the dumpling). Anyway, she made a real mess, but that's ok I guess since people love her and she's got her own cooking show. I found this interesting diagram from a chopstick wrapper in Singapore's Din Tai Fung restaurant:

[click to learn!]

I didn't get much sleep last night despite being physically tired. I'd skip breakfast and have my lunch earlier and eat my dinner a lot later. I'm fascinated by the patterns we make on the bed sheets when we greet the dawn. Sheets that were neatly tucked in the night before are now loose and creased. Every line crossing each other and folding into another mark the landscape like a huge map without destinations and cities. This is a flagless state. Unconquered and untamed, the leftovers from the dreams we had. We take the safe and hide the wild.

Singapore was hot, humid and crowded. Being a few degrees closer to the equator makes a huge difference, I suppose. I also took my first ever first-class bus—I was served drinks, a meal (fish and chips) and a choice of tea, coffee or hot chocolate to wash it all down. In every seat you’d find a small yellow pillow for your napping comfort and if you’re cold, they’d even bring you a blanket. It was so comfortable, you wouldn’t even mind their constant bombardment of Celine Dion through the speakers. I can never afford a first-class plane ticket so this will suffice for now and I’m not complaining.

I’m used to taking naps in front of the TV but none of my napping experience prepared me for three nights on a deeply butt-embossed faux leather sofa. It was anything but luxurious, but at least I had a place to rest my head. All in all, Singapore was a much needed break for me. For four days, I had time to take my mind off work and every ounce of responsibility surrounding it.

The Man+God exhibition closing on Friday night was better than I expected it to be. I’m not so much a dance fan, but Lee Swee Keong was so conscious of his entire body, he made it seem so effortless... every muscle move is laced with grace. I used to think that contemporary dance was too stuck up and avant-garde to be understood, but that night I was converted. Maybe it was the live music performed by Ronnie Khoo (and 2/3 Ciplak) and gang of breathy musicians that made it work for me. Maybe it was in the knobs and shrieks.

I was also tempted to steal some of the interesting post-it messages to God. I don’t regret not stealing, but I pinch myself for not bringing a camera that night. Anyway, here are minor glimpses into my HDB experience. Pat, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t find any intellectual Singaporean guys for you (the closest I got was an old man who got his harmonica amped) but I did get you some interesting gifts. Oh, and I got myself an iPod.

Hello,

My name is Jaws. I’m about two months old and as you can see, I’m blessed with an off-white coat with ink-dipped ears. My eyes are painted in light blue and I think it’s the shade that best represents the Malaysian cloudy sky. Forgive the ugly picture as it was taken before my Dettol bath.

My owner likes to tell me how fortunate I am to be alive, but I think she just likes to remind me of how I have only seven lives left (I fell from the roof and was stuck in a very, very, very deep and hollow drain for a day). She also likes to rub my cheeks and chest to make me purr like a machinegun. But she can’t keep me for long as she will be in Singapore for four days and she has her hands full with a blind dog and a fat cat.

I’d appreciate it if you’d take me home (otherwise I would be sent to PAWS). My owner says that she would even throw in a scratching pole if you do! So please email her at thunderedcat@gmail.com if you’d like to give me a chance.

Love,
The kitten currently known as Jaws

P/S: Click here to see more pre-Dettol bath pictures of me!

A picture taken at a restaurant and it has nothing to do with food.

It was my dad’s birthday and I didn’t get him anything except a hug. For my Singapore trip this weekend, I gave him some ringgit to be converted and to make me feel worse, he conveniently slipped in an extra S$150 for me to spend. Maybe he was politely hinting for a nice Singaporean bargain present.

[I wrote a bloody (literally) long paragraph here about how I found a kitten in my roof gutter and how I had to go prostrate on the ground with my arm in a very deep and hollow drain, but deleted it]

So anyway, the kitten’s lower lip is detached from its lower jaw and like most strays, it is suffering from cat flu and needs to be on antibiotics. My sister and I took it to the vet to get its lower lip stitched back and dewormed. I’m just thankful it didn’t die... I’m also looking for someone to adopt it, as long as you wouldn’t mind a kitten with a funny looking jaw. Will post up pictures as soon as I can. He (the kitten) is about 2 months old, cream body and Siamese-looking with light blue eyes. My sister wanted to call him Jaws.

Moving on, I was recently tagged by Pat (thank you, I love answering silly questionnaires). Ok, here are 6 weird facts about myself:

1. I love airplane food because they come in neat packages, containers and foils even if it is not very pleasing to the taste bud.
2. During the time when pen-pals were ‘in’, I used tell them I’m 1.72meters tall.
3. In primary school, my friends and I were so bored with class and as tic-tac-toe became predictable, we tore our exercise books to eat paper.
4. I wanted to be a mermaid and an astronaut. Actually, I still do.
5. In the confines of my car and with the windows rolled up, I sing to Britney and Avril because it’s easy.
6. I collect cheap boxer shorts. A recent addition is a black one with Homer’s Duff bottles and cans. My favourite is the glow-in-the-dark Gap boxers but it’s so pathetically loose now because I wore it too often. I also remember getting funny looks from other women for rummaging through the men’s underwear section like I’m looking for gold. But anyways, I think it’s good practice. Haha.

[click to enlarge]

Something I made at work that is not work related, but because I'm so inspired by Martha Stewart. Next, I will try stitching and I will be making my own snow globes and perhaps give them away as gifts. And maybe make those frangipani lights. And maybe finally get to make that orange fish fillet.

I've been scouting for floaty pens online too. Oh, I feel so industrious.

Some random pictures from this week so far:






The red chandelier was from The Attic where we had the screening for Kit Ong's The Flowers Beneath My Skin. The rest were from the Monosylabik poster show on Tuesday night. The last shot of Junkit's taken by Cheryl, it's among my favourites that night so I decided to put it up. No, I didn't shoot pictures of my poster.

I've never seen so many snobs in my life since high school.
But maybe like me, they were just shy.


You could sing a murderer to sleep
And water holds its form for You

(Some stuff I made in between work and laziness)

Over the past few weeks I’ve been feeling rather down. There are many other things I’d rather talk about than myself and there are times I’d rather not talk at all. When I’m in the company of friends, I felt most alone and when I’m alone, I felt as though I’ve found a best friend. There seems to be a voice between every cricket song and a silent hum in the stillness. Can quietness be this loud?

In Penang I met up with an old friend from college. She updated me with things she’s been doing and all that she plans to do. It made me miss the blithe days I had in college, when life was simpler and when things made sense. It was also a bitter reminder that the world only spins one way and every book has its ending. The day closes without your consent and life can go on without you. But maybe life was also in the crack of smile I forced the other day when I didn’t feel much like smiling. Maybe life was in the tub of ice-cream I bought for my mother and sister when I was broke. Maybe when I was least myself, I’m most alive.

Ok, enough of abstractions. Here are some interesting dolls I found in Penang, although personally I'm not fond of dolls.





So may the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten,
Sons are like birds flying always over the mountain.
- Sam Beam

I went to a young adult camp last weekend to relax but it was anything but relaxing. There were four sessions packed in two days and each session lasted two hours. I had to doodle to keep myself awake (as seen above). Anyway, I don’t like talking about camp.

Visited a rabbit/deer/donkey farm on Sunday, but the animals were in a very sad state—which is not an unusual sight since many countries exploit animals for tourism. But still, it doesn’t justify. I found two very sick rabbits (due to over-handling and stress) lying on the ground with sand in its eyes and mouth:
A healthy bunny inspecting the soon-to-be-dead bunny:
Here’s a very friendly and jealous donkey (he pushed his friends away from me so I only take pictures of him). I wanted to stroke his head but he kept twitching and then I realized he’s infested with ticks and flies. And then there’s the deer with horrible skin problems.