Dancing lights and loud music

Loud music makes me sentimental. Especially loud, hyper type of music.

I have no idea why.

Maybe it's not sentimental. More like tired.

Sometimes I do wonder what is wrong with me, that I can't do all those 'let-you-hair-down-and-dance-your-heart-out' kind of thing. Sometimes I am completely at peace with the fact that I'm just not the type of person who dances. Not to those disco/clubbing type of music anyway.

All the source of the world's problems can be captured in a dance floor, actually. You have those people who dances, and those who don't. And one thinks something isn't right with the other. The same type of people stick to their own. And then there's those who would dance even if they don't want to, because they know it is what it takes to fit into that warm mass of bodies beating in tune. Sometimes they realize that they like dancing, sometimes they wonder why they are doing so. Sometimes all it takes to make sense of the dancing lights and deafening music is just one more face that you truly know, and the knowledge that you can face the world together. To hell with the dance floor.

Some other people get sentimental.

Wish you heard me

I think I'm a sucky communicator. Why is it so hard to get a message across? Even when I lay it out plainly and openly and as clearly as I can? Or must the receiver bear part of the blame as well?

It took a whole lot, I tell you, to say the things I said out loud. Not that they are controversial or unthinkable or anything; they are merely things that I hold very close to my heart, and I'm not the type who just tell people what I feel. I'm not brought up that way.

Nor is my intended receiver(s), I suppose. Maybe that's why they don't seem to get my message at all. I just want them to listen. Is that something so hard?

Sometimes, though, I think it is a matter of trust. Which doesn't make sense yet makes all the sense in the world at the same time. I thought they trust me, but it feels like they don't.




*




Maybe I don't suck at communicating. Maybe I suck at love.

Reading in a city with libraries

Ah. Libraries. I've been particularly fond of them every since I can remember. With the sole exception of the old state library back home, which held so much promise before I went there and it turned out so disappointing.

But this post is not about that. I just have - just must - record a sight so incredible and unthinkable back in my home country that it is one of the first real culture shock for me, a girl who grew up in JB and watched countless Singapore TV dramas.

It happened yesterday. I went to a library to return a book  - and behold! There was so many people in the library! On a saturday! Reading! Browsing! Borrowing books! Returning them! I've never seen so much activity in a library.

I hadn't plan to drop in - I only wanted to use the also fantastic book drop facility outside - but I couldn't resist when I saw that there were so many people.

Not as many as those you see in shopping malls, of course. But I can bet that it was more than the number of people I used to see in bookshops in Malaysia. On weekends.

And while I was walking past the rows of books and dodging children - their children are apparently not stuck to screens like many seem to fear for kids of this century - trying not to look too much like I was being kepoh and eavesdropping, I witnessed a really different culture. One in which parents bring kids to library and the kids are eager about borrowing books; one in which reading is common because there are good libraries and efficient systems and public transport that made them accessible; one in which lack of wealth does not stop one from enjoying books.

I remember telling my mom that if I had grew up in Singapore, I'd probably be very different. On one hand I may have grown up with my nose always in a book and dreamt  of becoming a librarian and work in these simply wondrous places; on the other I may turn out to be much more knowledgeable and have very different worldviews than what I have now.

Sometimes I am a little envious of that 'me' who grow up in a city full of accessible books.

This is already past the scope of what I intended to write - But I don't regret that at all. I don't regret not growing up with good libraries at my disposal. I love my life and what I am blessed with. I like who I am.

What matters now is, dude, I live near a library!

Colours of Childhood

Today I went gawking at the stationery corner of three bookshops in Jurong Point.

Well, it sure wasn't intentional. (Though neither was it the first time) I was looking for something else in the papers section, and when I walked past the display of all the different brands of oil pastels (no, not crayons) and water colours, they took my breath away.

I used to have such a deep desire for new, huge 48 - or even better, 56 - colours oil pastels pack, back in those hazy days in primary school. The rows and rows of brand-new, flat-top oil pastels - not my used and broken-into-two-or-three and rounded pieces - hold so much potential. I was certain that I would be a great artist and produce great masterpieces with them.

The water colours too. I loved colours, even if I wasn't very good with them. I only got brand-new oil pastels twice though, because it is just too much of a waste to buy new ones when only one or two of the old pack was finished.

Walking past those displays today made me realise that that desire never went away. I still want them very, very much. And so much that I would even settle for a 12-colour pack. Truly. I had gone without using colours for a long time. I miss that solid feeling of using your hands to draw something on a blank page, and then using colours to bring that image you had in your mind closer to reality (alas, my paintings never came out the way I imagined; sometimes I think that was why I convinced myself I was not meant to be an artist).

It is a cliche, but drawing and painting is one of the most basic and true way of expression; a channel for saying what you have no words for.

Before words came into my life - way, way before JK Rowling and my own dream of telling the world my stories with words - I drew.

I was in a art class for two years (my longest record of learning anything; organ I gave up after one), enjoying every minute of it; I looked forward to the art periods in school, even if it meant bringing art supplies that bog down my already-heavy-schoolbag; I won drawing competitions in school, even poster-design; I drew in my free-time: Sailormoon, digimon, pokemon - I was already making up stories in my head and drawing pieces of what I could find (I imitate drawings very, very well, though I can't seem to draw decent original pictures). I still kept drawings that were especially good (and had the honour of being displayed at the back of the class)

And of course, I would always linger in the stationery sections in bookstores, telling myself that one day - one day, I would buy these papers and colours and brushes and special pens, like what people who draw do. Surely, I told myself, people must buy them that way, otherwise, why would the bookstores stock them?

*

I'm not going to lament or pretend to wonder what changed. I know exactly what - the digital world entered my life. Internet opened up a whole world I didn't know existed when I was at a very frustrated and confused and restless time of my life. I soaked it up. Words awed me, and took me away from fuzzy dreams of drawing pretty things.

I don't regret that. I wouldn't be half or even a quater of who I am now without the Internet.

But I do miss colours. I miss drawing. I miss just expressing in lines and colours.

*

I didn't buy anything, though I'm very tempted to start drawing again, when I can't find the words for so many things. I used to spend hours and hours just drawing and colouring. It was a true hobby, not something fishy like "surfing the 'net" or 'sleeping'. It did bring me peace.

But I stopped myself. What can I draw? Where do I start again after almost eight years of not drawing? How do I find the time?

Deep down, though, I know they are just excuses.

*

I want colour in my life again.

Lazy Sundays

I love lazy Sundays. Perhaps a bit too much to be healthy.

We would wake up late, go for breakfast, laze around and watch a series of cooking shows and one called 'What's Good for You' on Channel 5. Then three of us would read the newspaper until lunch - we do love Sunday edition newspapers - while bro would go online.

Then we would talk about where to go for lunch, putting some options in the air and go 'Hmm...'. And go back to whatever we are doing. Then one of us would raise that question again after some moments.

Hey, there's no need to rush. It's a Sunday.

<3

Departures and words

Bro and I just finished watching the Japanese movie, Departures. It left us both quiet and not really knowing what to say.

I was struck by how much need not be said in life for us to understand it, or to make it a good one. It's a funny and not the least reassuring realization for someone who hopes to one day call herself a writer, like me. Though I can't say that this thought was something new - wordsmiths had left me awestruck many times, yet silent scenes, portraits and gestures had left me humbled and speechless in more profound ways.

Like this movie, about an unemployed cellist who accidentally took on a job as an undertaker ('encoffiner'). It's a very quiet movie with breath-taking landscapes and awkward, ridiculous, dignified, hilarious and heart-breaking scenes. There wasn't much dialogue; gestures and gazes were enough to convey all the feelings that threatened to overwhelmed my tiny screen. There were moments, when the movie was coming to an end, when I wondered what was it really trying to say. What was the message of this movie? Were we supposed to treasure life more now? Were we supposed to be inspired to be better persons?

I couldn't find the words for it. And it was when I stop trying to that I understood. Not exactly, but a quieter comprehension, an inarticulate reflection on dignity, respect - something like that. It was humbling - the only feeling that I could clearly articulate. It is worth a second or even third viewing. We all need reminders like that every once in a while.

As for words, perhaps I have neither the talent nor skill with them. It feels so limiting, to use words to paint pictures and tell stories of so many feelings and layers and meanings. Yet, it only made me admire those who could tell stories with words even more. My hand itches to try as well.

Ah, perhaps one of the lessons of Departures was that life is but a journey, and it is up to you to make it a good one. Regardless of whatever skills I lack, I'm going to give a try anyway.

Year 2009

First of Jan doesn't really hold much significance for my family and I these recent years. We used to say 'It only happens once a year!' and all that, nowadays we get that every day in the calender happens once a year; once in your lifetime, in fact. Every day is precious.

But even then, it doesn't feel right to not stop and reflect on the past year. So here goes:

Year 2009

'Eventful' would be an understatement. My expectations and dreams changed so unpredictably, and every few months at that, that I feel like I lived a few years worth of life in the past year. (This is, of course, based on my previous experience of what happens in a year, which, during my admittedly-content-and-cocooned high school life, wasn't much)

As organized thought seem to elude me for the moment, let's go through things chronologically.

Jan

This month was fleeting and surreal. For one, on the very day I went back to KL for the Jan exams (so, so long ago), I got a call from my mom saying that she got yet another acceptance letter for me in the mail. I thought it was Warwick's, since the online acceptance came some time ago, but my mom - I remember very clearly - said it was not.

"Huh? Then which school is it from?"

"Fitzwilliam College."

"HUH!?"

And it changed my life. Not very tangibly, to be honest, life went on exactly as it was expected to - exams, study, scholarship interviews.

But mentally, it was totally different. I was walking on clouds. People congratulated me. Told me I basically secured a scholarship by getting into Cambridge ('Hey, worse come to worst, there's JPA!'). Asked me what I had to do to get it.

Late Jan-May

As for myself, I imagined and daydreamed. About the kind of people I would meet. About the place I would be living in, the breath-taking buildings and landscape. About living on my own for three years.

Half of me was terrified. I was (still am) convinced that my parents would not take care of themselves without me to nag them (yes, I am the nag in the family, go figure). I debated long and hard with myself about what matters more to me, a prestigious degree and jumpstart to career, or the people I love most in the world. I told myself it wasn't a zero-sum game.

In the mean time, there was (scholarship) interviews and assessments, assessments and interviews. Group assessments were especially memorable. All of us smiled and shook hands and introduced ourselves and colaborated and 'networked' and pat ourselves on the back after tasks were completed. We looked professional. But I wondered how much of all that was genuine. I felt like a fake.

While all that was going on, there was still the study part. I remember Further Pure Maths 3 and how I was alarmed that I would be going into exams barely understanding what I learned.

June

Then there were the exams. Long, frustrating days in between papers; hoping that it will end soon and dreaming so much about what I can do after I am done with A-levels.

A highlight of this month was the prize-giving ceremony for the Perdana Leadership Foundation Essay Contest. I was already over the moon when I received a call to attend an interview some time around April. I spent more than a whole month doing research and writing and rewriting that essay in 2008, dreaming about this the whole time. Having won consolation prize in the previous contest gave me confidence that I was going to get something.

But the first three prizes? Oh my, I was jumping in joy.

Then I found out I couldn't attend the ceremony due to a paper. My family attended the ceremony and received my prize for me. And looking back, I didn't have much regret at being unable to go at all. They, and my mom especially, had so much fun there. My mom received the prize from Tun Dr Siti Hasmah herself, and later sat down with Tun Dr Mahathir. They took lots of picture. There were reporters, and a picture of her and Tun Dr M came out in the papers the next day, and of her and two other winners on the following Sunday.

I got my Mac. :D (And cash and a staggering amount in book vouchers)

I was as happy as one can get. Not really from the prizes (though Mac, yes), but from having proved to myself that I could do what I put my mind to.

July-August

By this time, I was rejected by all the scholarships I applied for thus far. I had to make a decision. By now it was not a hard one. Cambridge was something prestigious and precious, it was like a solid path to a shiny, pretty future. But I felt that it was not for me. I remembered that I only applied to see if I could get in. (Alas, the only one I badly wanted from the start was the one that rejected me - LSE)

I remembered then, so long ago before college even started, I had seen pictures of those 'achievers' in newspapers, who received scholarships and went on studying at big names like LSE or Stanford. I wanted to be like them. To get scholarships and study at big name unis. To have my face and achievements broadcasted in papers.

While what I told people, that I want to study with the best of the best, was true, it was also true that I wanted my ten minutes of fame. That I wanted to walk the path of acknowledged high achievers. A sure, conventional path.

Having focused the past fifteen months of my life on this goal, it was hard to admit that I never really asked myself whether it was what I really wanted. I had to do some serious soul-searching. And I decided that I'm not desperate to go. I would not settle for the second best just so I could study at a prestigious uni.

And so I came to Singapore.

*I feel compelled to say this as well, lest people think I'm a case of sour grapes: I completely accept that I was not ready, and that was why I was rejected by the scholarships. I am not making up excuses for why I didn't get them and thus did not go to Cambridge - I learned a lot from the interviews and assessments, most important of all being how much more I have to learn. So there. I still have a lot of room for improvement.

September - November

I missed orientation week entirely and three weeks worth of classes as well, having received my offer late. (And my A-levels results were immensely gratifying and frustrating at the same time) Spent a lot of my first uni days being sesat (lost), physically and otherwise.

Got a scholarship as well. :D

Days flew past in a blur of classes, homework, ECA and all that. I fell in love with my campus (and Canteen 2). Fell in love with uni life. At all the possibilities the future holds.

I am happy.

P.S. Oh yeah, I turned nineteen. Feeling a bit nostalgic now, for the years gone by. But there are so much more ahead of me, you know?

December

Came back home when the exams ended, and lazed around all day, but ECA still went on for most of us.

Then there was Hong Kong. Very fun. (That belongs to another post entirely)

*

So it has been a year of changes and surprise and lessons. There were moments of joy, panic, disappointments, wonder, frustration, ecstasy and hope. (Not in that order) A full and eventful year.

Here's to a even better one ahead. :D

Happy New Year.