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.

I'm pretty much brain-dead over the past few days and to make it worse, I'm suffering from a backache. I’m supposed to finish two reviews but my mind won’t register, my fingers won’t start typing and my body won’t obey. Everything seems so numb these days. I don’t know if this weekend’s break would be great either. The only thing I have looking up for me is my new roll of slide film for my holga.

My home modem died so I have to do this at work.

Today is a holiday. Have some fun.

[Belle & Sebastian - Sukie in the Graveyard]