Pictures Hanging Crooked On The Wall

Fun-filled Jan! For a quick post I've combed through months-old albums and picked out that which struck my fancy. The shots documenting my art shall appear in the following post, as some have yet to be transferred from camera.



Where old and new meet



My most beautiful keychain, from Auckland



It broke after I dropped my carkeys for the third time. ='(



Get your fix ;)
Oral Fixation candy in Damned Delicious Cinnamon

Of course, aside from the flavour, I fell for its packaging.
Sucker for boxes and paper products.



For the past year and a half, my bed has been used strictly for storage purposes.
*Ahem, didn't I just tell you, -paper products- ?* XP

I've been collecting boxes since primary schooldays, but stopped a few years back when I realised I wouldn't have space to keep them all. =(
Paper remains an active passion, though. Still perusing craftstore shelves, ending in debate as to which to take and which to leave.
You're gorgeous.
I don't need you.
But there's something about your colour, something I've never seen before.
What if I don't make use of you, wouldn't that be a waste?
What if I never see you again; a bigger waste?
As you can see, ladies and gentlemen, shopping is not for the mentally challenged.




Next up is a bunch of photos from nearing the end of CAL.

In college, Literature has always been where I felt weakest. The medieval-English text we had in A2 wasn't helping; spelling correctly in modern English would usually mean your textual knowledge was deplorable, 'cause the English had a completely different set of spelling back then. On the one hand, spelling like Chaucer made you feel less like an airheaded moron; on the other, spelling as you usually would made you feel sure of your sanity, that you hadn't yet succumbed to the Lit Invasion.
At least, that was the fear our seniors ingrained in us within the first week of classes: "Lit Will Take Over Your Life!!"

Well, I held on 'til the very end.



=P
A few weeks before the Lit paper, I decided I was tired of being unsure of Chaucer's spelling, and went all out to make friends with it.

(Photo evidence that desperate times call for desperate measures.)

Placed his work so I could see them



While I looked up to drink water...



While I washed the dishes...



While I brushed my teeth...



The bunch of 'em, over 40 quotes in total stuck all over the house.
Crazy is as crazy does. ;)



Pretty cell sketches from secondary Science,
dug them up as I was clearing out my old academic stuff.



Selling my CAL books off was rather gratifying.
I'd driven straight to Subang from Genting, got stunned by the flock of students camping about their cartons of books. None of the faces were familiar. Wanted to chicken out but I went chin up instead to do things I've never done before.
The sun blazed down with a vengeance and the whole lot seemed about wilting with the exception of one or two crazies who charged down the walkway roaring the most ridiculous rates in attempt to end their suffering. I expect they were among the ones who'd been there since 7 in the morning.
During the three hours I was one of them, I
Shouted like a potato vendor in a strawberry field. I was the only one selling CAL at that part of the walkway that day; everyone else was from SAM.
Chased a client across the street. One of the SAMs referred him to me, bless her. And chased after him again when he forgot to take half of what he'd paid for.
Did all that without lunch.

Now, as far as I know,
Nicole doesn't shout, she doesn't chase strangers across the road, and she definitely isn't one to miss a square meal.
But I did that day, and I'm glad about it. =D




A file for every occasion. =)



Dutifully sorted every piece of paper into one of three piles:
Fully used
Relatively blank
and
Ican'tremember,Ijusthaveathingforcategorisation.



Massive clearout.
Also the day I reclaimed my bed. X)



Our big Lit notes, three-quarters of which I didn't actually read. =X
It was plain slogging away!



So long, Bronte.
Jane Eyre fell apart and I had to send her for a second binding.


Off to work now. =)
Where we sing songs, blow bubbles, and do happy things.

A Colour to Say It All

And it brings to mind
old people sitting at an angle, oblique, oblivious to the passing minutes
yet willing them away with the absence of will to do more than sit.
There is a nothingness in the air ahead of them
and gladly would they join it
if only

if only we would let them.
Feels like we're pressing something into a hand within whose very veins
blood shuffles - reluctant.
There's a lot of pain involved
and the last thing we need
is more.

This time I don't hide the knives.

There is too much to record, I can't keep up with my own life, blogwise!
The monster post in the making for Sept and Oct I think will have to remain in the morgue; right now ready your hearts 'cause I have recent writings, a hodgepodge:

I know now that if I had to choose, it'd be writing over dancing. This is my explanation.
Drop everything. That's what I do sometimes when the need to write is compelling. It may be a half-folded T-shirt, a toothbrush, the dishwashing gloves, a fork and its partner, a bunch of keys; I leave and don't return until I've written everything out.




The shuffle, the meeting of eyes, the impulsive smile. As the vendor counted out my change, the smiler named her plate's contents. It was a puzzling garble until I caught "chicken"; the words seemed to tumble out of her mouth, as though anxious to express meaning to a listening stranger. Vaguely that's when I realised she was disabled; a second glance showed mildly deformed limbs, and suddenly her lacking in stature made more sense. In that quick moment a feeling of gladness also registered itself, a sweetness from having smiled with my heart.




It started with
The circle of stones I made for my favourite tree, and when it died I visited its grave nightly just so it wouldn't feel forgotten.
Then
I've never lived in a house without palm trees. One day I came home and they were all chopped away. It feels slightly barren sometimes, remembering the shapes they made on the ground, and me trying to fit both my bike and myself into one of those shapes so we could escape the scorching noon heat while I searched for red dates to cook. I only took those that were smooth, unblemished. Some, which exposed husky strands soaked in a sickly orange, I inspected curiously before silently chastising the squirrel that had left it half-eaten. Finally I'd have scavenged enough or else the heat would get to me and I'd retire indoors after stashing away the day's gatherings.
Just like a squirrel.




"Goodbye, madamoiselle~"
Still young enough to speak nonsense that means nothing and everything at the same time. Nothing because a grownup cynic would scoff at your mindless choice of words; everything because I hear the loving fluorish you added just to make another moment between us.
The next day's ramble was hilarious what with hitch-hiking (which you never see in Malaysia), my little sheep straying across the Lake Gardens, and one mini me being lugged up all the uphills (on a right shoulder I didn't know could ache so), and Cola lips all around.




And I finally got back on the saddle, not to mention the beautiful aisles of books. A place I simply get lost in, and it's nothing to do with my sense of direction. =P

Bit of gravel on my bag. Catch my breath, let me.
Just the slightest bit gingerly, I kicked back the stand and swung onto the pedals. A sense of liberation rolled through me, like a child who'd found her field of flowers. Breezing across the streets, I surprise myself with the surge of control from narrowly avoiding a squashed rat. Oddly enough, it intermingles with an equal lack of control; potholes hoist a redder flag now, rivalled only by roadgrilles like the one I rode into the day of my first Acceptance. We had to wheel my bike home.
Back in the present, I relish once more the in-between speed of cycling. Driving was too fast, isolated from the real world; walking was to slow, the same reality followed you for too long. Cycling feels the right amount of real. The strongest feeling though, was one of homecoming. And it wrapped me, this motion I've known even before pre-school.


I remember clearly a single image of my figure looking out the window, into a grey February morning. I remember how the branches intertwined in broken harmony against the bleakness of an iron sky - how I knew you didn't see the same things I did, or feel the same things I felt!




Rapunzel is the best movie I've seen in months! And I met my first Kirsten, that dolluva girl who held tight for reasons unknown to me. Or anyone else, for that matter. I won't forget that fierce, dictative knock and her walking in for a goodbye hug that felt so genuine.




Crazy weekend and week up ahead. I love every bit of planning!



Oh the title? A sudden obsession a few days back where I went
I need to find a colour that expresses my feelings perfectly.

At that moment, I needed something more than words, I needed something that would stare back at me with strength equal to all I was feeling inside. Something like a buffer to catch me from tipping over.

Heartscream

This is hurting me all over again.



I was curled up with a book in my favourite seat after eons deprived of this luxury, I'd wrinkled my brow in sympathy for the protagonist, and laughed at a smart bit of comic by the author; when suddenly, still holding the book but detached from it, I started tearing.

And it wouldn't stop.

I haven't cried this way for months. I was going fine, I'd made my Decision, why'd you have to pop up again like a d*mn weed when all I want is to be able to look out my window and smell the roses?

The repeated irony never fails to turn up a corner of my mouth - makes me laugh, even. I'm sure now God has a sense of humour in His timing and I'm glad to know this side of Him but that last time, it wasn't funny. More like exasperating and impossible.






Today I drove on the road where you realised we'd forgotten the chicken sandwich. And I stood on the black black escalators in an outfit that wasn't purple.



I miss the way you blink and how it undermines the seriousness of the topic, and of your stoneface.
I miss the way you walk on your toes, always odd to me but at the same time so a part of you that it, too, I embrace.
And I miss the way you speak, with that little upward inflection at the introductory line when you're explaining something to me.
I miss being part of your life, 'cause - face it - you're still very much part of mine.


And that is why I got rid of seeing bits of the life of someone who doesn't want to know about my life,
why I walked mechanically and felt my own face turn to stone,
why I won't pick up when Nobody is calling.




I know now, firsthand, that the ones who experience the highest peaks, the most radiant joy, are the same ones who go through the emptiest tunnels, the deepest grief. And that's the reason why I would need someone of a more moderate temperament. Two of my kind would only destroy each other.

My mind, it connects everything to something else I know. It's wonderful, I appreciate this innate ability but when it comes to you, it only makes me want to disconnect heart and mind. It makes me feel like being born without this way of thinking seems more like a superpower than anything else. An orange will always be an orange to you. But to me, it is laughter, kindness and a mini caveman.

Just like how the mention of grilled chicken is enough to make me squint in amusement, 'cause in my mind's eye you're wearing an apron and it's the most unmanly thing you've ever worn.
Imagine this happening every day with every saucer of chilli I push aside, every time I put on my contact lens and remember a broken promise, every custard concoction I see when I enter a bakery, every ...everything.






It's true that if a guy wants to find you, he will.
But it's also true that if a girl doesn't want to be found, she won't be.



I cried and cried. When I returned my father's call, I wasn't even coherent. Took an hour to get ready for supper with him. We talked about cares greater than my own, impending losses more calamitous than mine, and for a picture I remember the garlic naan that looked more like a pizza. Also, I learnt to never have garlic naan the last thing before going to bed, 'cause it stays in your throat and greets you first thing in the morning.




Still it drizzled heavily.
I came home in a quieter state of mind and read what Jaf had to say. And started crying again, not so much out of sadness this time but because I was deeply moved,
for he'd said everything I needed to hear. =')

Then my fairy godbrother called and for the second time that night I sobbed into the phone with a shocked man on the other side.
And these loving people, they picked up my shards and set me on my feet again.




You're like a disease that won't be cured. Luckily my best friend is a doctor-to-be.
Actually, that's not relevant. =P
I'm just glad to know (or rather, have known) you both.





P.s.


The card whose delivery made me go,
"I never want to do something so stupid for a long, long time."
Teehee.

Rev

Feeling achey all over, blue, and slightly fatigued.

A party period?
So not sexy.



I've tried to find a way around it,
tested to see if it would ring any less true, but

I know I cannot be happy being a scorer of mediocre grades.

Yes, I've outgrown the rigid Asian mentality of straight-A's defining my worth,
have shed most of the inhibition which once cloaked me in what the public called aloofness,
have gained also a greater measure of belief in pursuing my ideals
- even if it means going it alone.


I know what I want now.

And I won't let this happen again.

A Quietude In Passing

Another one gone, this same year.


There will be
the walking through space
wrestling belief that something will happen with the next step you take
something that will bring him back, closer to you
or you to him
whichever
anything to lessen the pain

the smelling of linens as you fold them away
preserving the all you felt for him
and he for you
before separation snatched him from your safe harbour
the inward strain of ears
to remember his voice
anything that used to be.


Of fathers and husbands
Every reminder that tells them he is no longer here, every glance that shows them the void he would otherwise now occupy, I know it,

I know it because I've been through a shade of it - once like a clouded daybreak, once again like a rainstorm that surges back and forth.

But these are living people I speak of. Theirs are not.

So how much more would their heart ache, to the very heartseams which I yet know not of - and pray it remain so for long enough a time.

Love is a frightening glory, as great and comforting as it is devastating. It can give you the world the very same time it can take it all away, because the moment you gain something, it's yours to lose.

* Title verb refers to the act of passing away, as well as the walking action of mourners paying last respects. And for this author, a reflective passing of thoughts.

Around The Corner

Elsewhere, the night air would be sweet.

Here, it is too, but only because it is scentless. Void of power to move me through the sense most evocative of memories.

Tonight I escape the captivity of scents which accompany stale textbooks, new paper, perfumed cards, corroding metal; no smell of black ink, oversized jackets, rose shampoos and apricot scrubs.

Some part of me wonders at my approval of this emptiness; why does it not alarm? why not overwhelm like the sense of loss it could represent?,

I think as I breathe in the clean scent of a hope without you.

After all that's happened, I'm living with the people in my mind - once again faceless, nameless; figures waiting to be brought to life, just like what happened
that day around the corner.