Friday, December 31, 2004

I hate it when people have had more than 2 good chances to tell me something that in specific situational context would clearly be relevant for me to know, but didn't tell me. It makes me wonder about their agendas. Not to mention their habits. =)

Thursday, December 30, 2004

S writes about the recent tsunami disasters with the same depth and greater eloquence than I possibly could, so I shall not bother to do the one-up thing....

the closest I feel to it really is that my aunt was in Colombo at that time, and I remember her mentioning she wanted to go to a seaside resort and enjoy the beach there but our family was so concerned about her safety as a lone woman traveller that we all dissed the idea.

I also remember thinking, if she had really wanted to go, she would simply have meekly acquiesced to our nagging and gone ahead anyway when she was over there.

I'm glad she didn't.


Meanwhile, here in Singapore, have been packing and throwing a lot of things in preparation for our former house being renovated. Like my mum said, things that we once greatly prized have now become rubbish. Old sec sch greetings (yes, those notes) all irrelevant now - 2 categories of that: from those ppl I haven't seen for years and who have changed beyond all recognition, I throw. And from those ppl I've been in touch with and have also changed beyond all recognition, I throw even more gleefully. They're all in the chute now.

I did read them though before they went. That's how the decision to throw them all was made.

I began to understand my best friend's sentiments (this was some time ago) about how she regretted not being a wild child in our teenage years when opportunity for forgiveness was rife. Throughout reading those written notes, I grew more and more horrified as note after note described me as 1. nice, 2. sweet, 3. kind, and 4. the oddest of all, understanding, as written by very much unknown but friendly acquaintances.

I can almost hear Jax laughing now. Dear, if you get inspired enough to try to pat me on the head, I'll take your hand off you permanently.



Got my ears pierced on Tuesday. Contrary to rumours from some of my friends, the service was good. Wisma Atria's Isabella, now renamed Bedazzle. Purple studs, 18K white gold. $160 plus $18 for the cleaning solution. Happy. No aches. Elder sis reminded me relentlessly of late that I had gotten pale green earrings from her for my 21st birthday present. That about sums up all queries on this issue. =) Oh yes, 24/7 two months. After-care service provided.


Almost time to go back to school. J reminds me to sleep more so that I won't spend so much on coffee. $$$$$.

Friday, December 24, 2004

I was asked by an incredulous newly-met acquaintance the other day, when we were talking about blogs in general, "Why do ppl blog i.e. put private and confidential stuff on public blog?!"

(From here on for this entry only, "blog" will refer to public entries on blogs.)

She obviously does not blog anything herself, nor reads enough of the blogs she finds meaningful.

Blog and confidential very obviously do not go together. If you're reading this, and you think they do, I don't want to know you, because everything we talk about will probably end up being known to your entire social circle and various random strangers via your blog. I get very unhappy with that.

Blog and private do not go together either. Same principle as confidential. And i don't want to know these people either.

Perhaps the misconception that my acquaintance has is blog and personal stuff. Blog is personal, when well-written. This goes for any other form of writing as well. You have to feel for your subject before you can interest other people in it who ordinarily wouldn't give a fig. But the degree of ownership and feeling for what people write on their blogs varies. Those who care more for what they write on blog, would usually take some pains to say somewhere on or in their blog that their intended blog audience is their friends or some such restriction and that their thoughts are seldom permanent or some caveat. So that they can have sufficient strength of position in ignoring even the most politely critical of random visitors without said visitors having any rights to be affronted. This can be rephrased as, if they do get affronted, too bad.

Those who care less for what they write, by definition of course, would not be deeply stirred by others' opinions of their entries.

Even this of course already leaves a lot of leeway for abuse by the blog writer. So I'd say that in the end, please do be careful, and think about what you want associated with your name by people who sometimes lack both basic comprehension skills and the courtesy to clarify their interpretations with you. While feeling free to talk; =) after all, it's your blog.

Merry Christmas.

"I wish ya peace & happiness, & may you always keep in touch w yourself. ... =) May our friendship be everlasting. All the best, SM (my name, spelled out)!"

And to you all too =)

It looks better in handwriting on a Christmas card than typed out on blog. So close your eyes for a moment =) , and think.... that.... you've just gotten that wish in person/on card/other assorted meaningful presentation form from me.


Tuesday, December 21, 2004

Apparently the HaloScan comments expire after precisely 4 months (or 200 comments, whichever is the lesser) when I'm not a HaloScan Premium member.

I am now of two minds whether to change to blogspot commenting, and have my comment pages openly searchable on the Net, or to stick with HaloScan Cheapo and not be able to see old comments on my page.

Having permanent comments only matters because some old entries were in reply to comments made to immediately preceding entries. Without the comments, it does not quite fall together.

Oh well, all the better to deter stalkers with, then. =) Long live HaloScan!

Sunday, December 19, 2004

Tracy, I'm a Norwegian Forest Cat too! =)

Friday, December 17, 2004

Since tonight's Christmas SSO concert program had a special note of thanks to xxx junior college choir, and there was a rousing singalong at the end without any acknowledgment on the spot,

speak up all ye sneaky plants.... =p

which I couldn't spot. No obvious rows or clusters of ppl enthusiastically singing their lungs out.

Thursday, December 16, 2004

I suppose there is one thing that makes me not a "girl".

(Nor a guy either.)

It's the part where we dress really well and do hair and makeup and glitter tattoos and all that just for one night of photographing, to see and be seen. I don't understand this. When it gets to that stage, girl competition is overtly malicious, not friendly.

When people end up being unable to laugh and offer sewing thread when a seam comes loose, but instead stand around and gossip quietly behind their hands about that unfortunate girl walking around with a loose seam that's really not that obvious in the normal course of things.

When an inexact fit of clothing around the torso becomes a major faux pas without considering argument about whether the girl is simply being naturally modest. Without thinking.

About how the one who looks most glossed the longest, ends up being the "loveliest".

Cookie-cutter generic beauty being revered for one night.

And the guys, of course. Ah. It's hard to say if they generally nitpick worse than girls, because that's really up to the individual guy. But they certainly wholeheartedly enjoy the view and chaos, and, can nitpick with the worst of bitches. So on this topic, I'm not a "guy" either.

What am I?

I am one who thinks a formal night should be an expression of individual well-dressed beauty amidst the night's activities, and not individual glitter lux units. It becomes apparent how superlative glitter can be ridiculous when you think of girls in long sequinned skirts trying to energetically dance clubbing-style. They all look very very much like deprived mermaids..... - it's counterintuitive if you really want to dance, isn't it? As opposed to posing in the noisy arena.

Note: This entry was inspired by what I could wear to the Esplanade without disgracing myself to nitpickers and yet being comfortable. All events in this entry are the author's own views and are in no way based on or remotely inspired by the author's observations of her friends. =) Probably because the author's friends are elegant, glittery, and also courteous and kind. For the most part. Excepting major life disasters. And I'm typing myself into a corner here, so I shall stop. Have a good day.

Sunday, December 12, 2004

The ST never fails to amuse me, in the sense of "Argh, what have they come up with today?!!"

In the Lifestyle section, there goes a full one-page article on post-prom parties. I read further and discover that no, they were not referring to the true post-prom PARTIES, ahem, but instead listing in somewhat semi-juicy non-detail the clubbing activities of the young.

(I was about to write 'the clubbing of the young', but never mind that.)

With some consternation I discover the reason for such post-prom clubbing being hot news. It's because their official proms ended at 11.30 or 11.45.

Zash me, baby. Such year-by-year increasing conservatism in the minds of the JC admin.

Thursday, December 09, 2004

After three tries, I get the same (not unpleasant) verdict.

You Are a Pundit Blogger!

Your blog is smart, insightful, and always a quality read.
Truly appreciated by many, surpassed by only a few

What kind of blogger are you?


My lunch date is a little late that's why I'm still here.

Art therapy? What's that?

Milan Kundera's Unbearable Lightness of Being is ...... startling, to say the least. This goes on my future must-reread list when I'm older. It's a bit like an oil painting, giving off that strange time-laden aroma that says, "You'll only understand me if you study art/lit or if you have much more life experience".

More later. I have a lunch date.

Tuesday, December 07, 2004

Part 3 of 3, regarding book.

The crazed Englishman's trip through the battle zone was not fruitful in finding his parents. And it turns out that the wounded Jap guy he met was probably not his long-lost friend; the Jap guy's willingness to guide him to his parents' jailhouse can be explained by the safety-pass benefit of escorting a neutral person through the war zone, plus blood loss from the wound.

So they met up with a Jap contingent somewhere in there and got arrested. That's how they returned to 'civilisation'.

Bizarre twist: The Englishman's old family friend turned out to have sold his (Englishman's) mother into prostitution simply because she rejected his advances after his father had left the home. The story gets progressively limp after that. (He found his mother 21 more years later and it turns out she had stayed in it for his sake and had always loved him unconditionally. I kid you not. Hongkong movies do this plot far better, though.) He never contacted the girl ever again either, although she had written a letter to him two years after his abandonment of her.

Like ending a piece in C major with a C major chord that includes an A flat in it, the last chapter makes absolutely no sense.

Twacie asked me: so what's the point of the book? Perhaps there is no point, as is the way of modern Lit. Or perhaps I'm just too cynical to appreciate this one where the crazed Englishman can't live his life without searching for 'the mystery of his childhood', as the blurb puts it. Notably, in the last chapter he was also not happy that he spent so much time on the search and not enough time on raising his adopted daughter. And he convinced himself that the girl he had wanted to elope with had had an unhappy later marriage, from the letter that she wrote to him, although I see no signs of that at all in the letter. He sounded like a totally miserable loser who incidentally had a pretty good career as a detective but nothing else.

Pretty harsh, ain't I?

Spoiler alert for book.

Aha, aha, aha. I knew it.

Assume eye-rolling throughout the next paragraph.

The protagonist of When We Were Orphans has grown a little older, but apparently not grown up. At the present point in time in the book, he's agreed to abandon his entire life's calling for the search for his parents to elope with a married woman. But after that, the fickle man kissed her, genuinely promised to be only a few minutes, and left her waiting for him at their appointed meeting place to go look for his parents after all! Which turned out to not be the five-minute jaunt he had anticipated. In the middle of a war zone, no less. How stupid. Furthermore, he brazened his way through totally unfamiliar terrain by declaring his pompous importance as a detective and of his cause to the on-site (did I say 'war zone' yet?) Chinese police, whom I thought were remarkably patient and kind to the psychotic Englishman who insisted on having a six-member SWAT squad to storm the house where his parents were kidnapped and held 15 years ago.

Is he crazy, or what?

Somehow, while being guided to the house by an extremely nice Chinese officer, he thoroughly insulted the guy for his incompetence at not resolving the war because a small battle had inconveniently erupted en route. His vehemence at going forth at all costs left the nice Chinese officer to graciously give him a torch and directions and wish him well.

Naturally he was well on the way to getting lost when he coincidentally, wonderfully, met up with his Jap soldier childhood friend who understood his persistence without the usual 'Oh hi! What are you doing here, you crazed Englishman' but who was unfortunately wounded during the battle. Nevertheless, because of the childhood friend status I guess, the wounded Jap guy takes him through the battle zone to the house. While making some grumpy melodramatic noises about how he'd never see his son again, yada yada, as well as some untimely reminiscing of the good old childhood days by the English nutcase.

Some minor reference to a cloud of flies settling on a nearby dead buffalo's head while they were resting for the night.


And the crazed Englishman goes forth. I can hardly wait. I must see if he dies in the battle or not. Hah! Or if he'll get murdered by his enraged lady when he gets back. If he gets back.

Are you sure this book was nominated for the Booker Prize?

pg 308-310, however, is not bad.

Monday, December 06, 2004

One more post, this time for Jnet and relating to one of her recent posts.


Babe how are you doing? Much silence on your blog about work.


I was reading Kazuo Ishiguro's When We Were Orphans, and thinking that I wouldn't have looked at it in the same light 3 years ago as now. It has its own tedious momentum, like a badly-written blog (see this one's recent entries for examples). Curiously engaging too, how the main character unfolds his life to the reader as fellow conversationalist, describing snapshot events as important only in their final context of his life thus far, and (I thought) boldly tackling the issue of fuzzy time-faded memory without compromising his stand that it was what those "fake" memories meant to him more than who had actually said what word in what phrasing and sequence. That situations and actions, postures and opinions, counted more than scattered words (loose unset jewels? =p ).

This book had helped in this morning's moment of clarity, which was described below.

3 years ago, I might have cautiously admired the protagonist for being single-minded on his craft and yet enjoying life by enjoying the company of girls and a wide circle of casual glittering acquaintances, with no true friends and yet an apparently rich and fulfilling life. Now I view that scene with great apathy at best, and no small amount of disgust for his youthful achievements and overall lack of people management skills, with his callow unspiced observations of his fellow man. It reminds me of someone I thought I knew, but not in a painful way, because this is after all a book, something remote, something I can close with my own hands and get up to wash the dishes or some other more mundane but more real thing. This last remote quality is what keeps me going through this book, to see how the protagonist changes, or if he ever will.

I am. Happy. Nonetheless very happy. Because my best friend loves and trusts me. It's a rare and beautiful gift, that.


Wanting to go to a song performance sometime this Dec. =) A Christmas CD being played at home doesn't give that same stinging chill of cool air on the face while listening to good music. The other people reading this who are currently in Singapore, are you interested?

I was gleefully iPodded on the beach on Saturday by my best friend, who was also feeling wu suo shi shi. With my best friend, rather. Amongst other things of Saturday. Let's just say that going to the beach on Saturday was itself very unplanned. Watched Carl Djerassi's An Immaculate Misconception that night - first time I've seen Beatrice Chia acting. The whole day was highly memorable.

Woke up feeling good this morning; was dozing on the bed as usual before getting up, and things suddenly became very clear. Very very clear. With the help of not-mentioned things during abovementioned outing with best friend.

I'm sure she's reading this, so I'd like to remind her of something we kinda agreed on. Here's to another 50 happy years. I lurrve my friends.

That brings me to something I found on another friend's blog.

You Are the Helper

You always put on a happy face and try to help those around you.You're incredibly empathetic and care about everyone you know.Able to see the good in others, you're thoughtful, warm, and sincere.You connect with people who are charming and charismatic.
What number are you?

You see, you people are charming and charismatic..... =)

Various chauffeur duties over the past few days.

Friday, December 03, 2004

As it is, I write too much and say too little.

Now waiting to meet Davina for lunch at Munchie Monkey.

Surf net read books shop read blogs type nonsense on blog. (this a list of friend's activities, when I asked.)

muah chee.

Come to NUS dress up for what? Science fac buildings so pok kai not good setting. Go Orchard Rd also see girls wear make-up and rebonded hair, hoop earrings and tiny skirts, feel quite out of place. My sunken cheeks and eyebags are astounding. You could use my cheekbones to carve mountains when am not smiling. I don't physically belong anywhere, and therefore physically belong everywhere. Everywhere.

My home is in the relationships I have. The mental constructs of humanity that I live in.

Perhaps this will change when I get stuck in my lab 24/7. Home by default, haha.

The softness of a butterfly's wings.

Thursday, December 02, 2004

Yay, it's World Taufik Day! Haha didn't waste my money. My 10 votes became 22 as the judges got more and more cautiously supportive of the other guy <--- long story, that.

"I feel like dancing, ooh, dancing, ooh, dance the night away". Should have seen the screaming that was going on in the Indoor Stadium, and the way he smouldered on "Me 'N Mrs Jones".

ZoukOut this Sat!

Beginning proj this Fri. Therefore have only 1 day to do something ingenious with hair that is now kind of shaggy.

My mind wanders back to Taufik.

Dick Lee, with wolf-like grin: (after prolonged screaming had died down from audience) When we gave you [Taufik] that song, I was looking for something mature, a little rrrowl sexy. And you were hot! (more screams from audience)

Yeah, I certainly thought so too. =)

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?