imagined | rose

grip

2009-10-27T16:29:00.002+08:00

nerves rick-racketing undulating tumultuous
waves
gut filled with air that punches
outward
against walls
knees awkwardly bent
tucked beneath
eyes trained.

fabric

2009-10-20T22:47:00.002+08:00

Fabric excites me. This statement wouldn't sound so strange if you hang around fashion types and crafters. Weight, hand-feel, weave, fibre, texture, drape, luminosity, colour, print (there is so much going on!)... Fabric conjures an image, tells a tale, invokes an emotion.

White linen pronounces summer, wool tweed says autumn.

I remember, for instance, the pale blue and white narrow-striped cotton/polyester material of my kindergarten uniform, trimmed in white rick-rack. Now, seeing similarly-patterned beach cabanas almost always brings back memories of those early childhood days.

knit. sun.

2009-10-18T17:17:00.022+08:00

I've been trying to finish this sweater. The basic pattern is named Solaris and is available for free HERE from Berroco (whose knit patterns, I've found, are among some of the most accurate and reliable free offerings online). Its simple design lends well to gentle adaptations. I'm using a mustard green cotton/polyester yarn that I found randomly in Dresden.

(picture via Moonstitches)

I came across this beautiful finished example of Solaris from Alex, who is based in Japan. I appreciate the quiet elegance of her aesthetics and her works. Moonstitches is her blog.

Every year, about 10 seconds after booking my flight for my annual Christmas trip to Germany, the knit-itch begins. I was a voracious knitter while in Buffalo. Nothing matches the tactile pleasures of knitting, the satisfaction of creating - yarn to weave, fibre to fabric - and the soft click-clacketing of needles in a quiet room. The dreadful move to Singapore has all but sapped the enthusiasm out of me. Sitting with bundles of yarn in perennial 30C weather is not fun.

That, perhaps, I can still deal with. But I'm not going to find autumnal air here.

revived

2009-10-15T22:28:00.028+08:00

I feel like an old soul around these quarters. Afterall, I had last posted 2.5 years ago. Who said the web changes faster than we can catch up? This blog stuck around. That makes for a plenty good reason to revive it.

This picture was from Berlin, somewhere along the streets, on a greyish day in early June 2005. Berlin is forever under construction, though history is stuck in its crevices for good.

Much like this blog I supposed. After the longest hiatus yet, it's back again. Changed and changing. Will not escape its history either.

random thoughts

2007-05-04T11:49:00.002+08:00

I attempted to begin my annual spring cleaning ritual a few days ago when I picked up my tassel from the graduation cap I wore in May 2004 for my undergraduate commencement. Since the ceremony, I hung it from the switch of my bedroom lamp. Its deep navy blue has faded (morphed?) into a dusky lavender. It's difficult to imagine it's been three years... commencement season has rolled around again.

Quite a bit of travel coming up. First to New York City May 17-20, then to Las Vegas May 30-June 6.

New York is an old friend. I think of it and I smell stale water evaporating, stifling wafts of it hit me with every turn of a corner, from sewers, basement storerooms accessed with steep creaking steel steps, and clanking Chinese kitchens (just a hint!) as the delivery boy swings the door open holding a cardboard crate of savoy cabbages. There is so much on the street in New York. Just as much behind closed doors. Sneak a peek into the Chinese kitchen the next time you're in town.

Vegas oh Vegas, the embodiment of hedonism. Fabled. Forbidden. I have been sarcastic towards and about it. Half the fun lies therein. Self-mockery (although it's a business trip).

I 've been lagging on taking photos. This very festive season culminating from graduation/weddings/babies/spring/fond farewells may just be the trigger I need. Taking photos (much like writing poems and painting) forces me to compose my subjects as much as myself. Its absence from my life in recent months may be a parallel of my present reality. Perhaps then, in it (or a re-engagement with it) lies my key for halting the drift I've languished in for so long.

where do i go from here

2007-04-06T21:27:00.002+08:00

When I last left off, I was contemplating my trip to Singapore. That is now over and done with. A quick two weeks, not as dramatic as I'd envisioned (things seldom are), yet sufficient to provoke thoughts and invoke emotions that I'd neglected. Two days before my departure, as the evening was winding down and all at home were going about their businesses, the phone rang, bringing news of my uncle's sudden death. Our families have been close and the first reaction we had was disbelief. Uncle was young enough and the cause was a coronary-related illness, to which he displayed no visible symptoms earlier. I was saddened and continue to think about my aunt and cousins today.

*****

Back in Buffalo, the job search was underway. A bad rejection by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs while I was in Singapore sent me into a downward spiral and renewed my resentment about the system at home, a feeling that, for a long time, I was resolute to bury. I wanted to have faith but I am tired of fighting structures and bureaucracy. This sense of futility is formidable.

Since then, I must have submitted about 50 applications, most of which received no response. It is a daunting task and my mind oscillates between excitement, utter dejection, and profound self-doubt. I am finding it difficult to position myself in the market, sure of my potential but unclear about my path, and yearning for a guiding light and some form of confidence from a visionary HR manager and a nurturing corporation. I want to do so much. I see it in my head. I want to blaze a trail and take my detractors by surprise.

Yesterday, the news came that the H-1B cap for this year has been reached. In other words, no more work visas will be issued till 2008. Essentially this has reduced my bargaining power - that is, if I even come close to establishing a fit with a firm in the United States. I am tempted to give it all up, take it easy over the next few months finishing up this research, and head home. And then start thinking about it again.

I am not hopeful about my prospects in Singapore and the thought of returning fills me with dread. I refuse to be told what I am not capable of achieving and yet, that is what I expect to come my way. Maybe I have overestimated myself. Perhaps if I can rid myself of all the intellectual and philosophical tensions and the obstinate integrity inside of me I will be happier. A less thinking and feeling person, but simpler, content.

homeward bound

2007-01-03T00:43:00.002+08:00

I am bound for Singapore in February, for two weeks, right after my research employment is scheduled to begin under my post-graduation practical training authorization. This quick decision, met with impulse and apprehension in equal measure (on the first day of 2007, no less), fills me with excitement, relief, anxiety, and quite a bit of confusion. I was so overwhelmed with emotions last night after purchasing the ticket that I could not sleep...

At a juncture where my future seems so untenable, the impending trip feels like a dry-run of my inevitable departure from Buffalo in the near future. What other reason than my attachment to this city and its people and the life that I built here can explain my emotional response! This alone is enough to turn me inside out.

Alas, the intricate processes and unforgiving bureaucracy that an international student is subjected to contribute to my nervousness too. Deciding to go away in February means my employment affairs need to be settled here prior to my leaving, giving me one month flat, which is scarcely one hour in bureaucratic terms! Further, in order to re-enter the U.S., I need to renew my visa when I'm home. I've heard and known enough consular horror stories to not take an easy passage for granted, even though I reckon my records are clean and straightforward, and I have a theory about how Singaporeans receive some kind of diplomatic confidence state-side. Still, the short duration of my trip means I have little allowance for dalliance.

Undeniably, part of my mental commotion also stems from missing my family. I planned my trip to coincide with Chinese New Year, the most important holiday for our family and one which we last celebrated together - all present - six years ago. My parents are not the most eloquent but the subdued joy they conveyed over the phone upon hearing about my trip is enough to bring a tear to my eye.

Backtrack. New Year's Eve. I received a piece of wisdom from Saed involving personal comfort and security. For the longest time, I have been mulling over the abandonment of established comfort in order to advance. But Saed offered an interesting take... rather than abandonment, it's about expansion. Comfort should be not abandoned, the comfort zone should be expanded. Not exactly rocket science, but hearing it... it's brilliant, and oh so applicable to my state of mind.

Again, look the big picture. And use a measured dose of detachment. These are manners I've been attempting to internalize for a couple of years now. Appropriately, at the dawn of this new year, I am called upon to consider their merits and put them to work again, with old personal identities, current financial situations, and an uncertain professional future. In this light, I am resolute to make everything work, even if quite a few things seem to be going against me now. The upcoming trip home is much cherished and will be savored.

ice cream dreams and birthday wishes

2006-12-28T13:19:00.001+08:00

Today I am thinking about Siao Charn, who's spending her birthday at work! Sending across the Pacific, through the airwaves, my heartiest wishes and many more huge ice cream cones to one of the most striking personalities in my life... Happy Birthday Sis.

(in the picture: Charn at Niagara Falls, Canada, June 2006)

growing up

2006-12-10T13:19:00.001+08:00

Today my brother Wui Hou turns 18. I regret that I am unable to celebrate his birthday with him. Living apart from my family for the past 6 years has not been easy for me. I missed birthdays and holidays and milestones, and I missed watching my family grow.

I am heartened to see this little boy become a thoughtful young man, discovering himself and this big wide world in the process. I am grateful for his love and admire the tenacity with which he confronted the adversities that went his way. Here he stands, in the picture, with his first bow as a novice archer. He's already my champion!

lapse

2006-12-10T06:16:00.002+08:00

Again I have allowed my entries to lapse. Needless to say, much has transpired since my last post. I defend my thesis on Tuesday and will need to pick this up afterwards.

antipasto night

2006-11-04T04:28:00.002+08:00

I love the concept of a traditional Italian antipasto, with all its simplicity and symbolism of genuine hospitality. Nothing more than an inviting platter of meats (salami, chorizo), cheeses (mozzarella, asiago), olives, and vegetables (roasted peppers, marinated pickles), to be accompanied by hearty Italian bread, it appeals itself to the creative license of cooks.

A year ago I discovered and made an antipasto which remains, to this day, one of my favorite recipes. Flavorful and easy, it also scores well for presentation. Those who know me know I almost always adapt my recipes, so here is an approximation for you to try:

------------------

Artichoke, Olive and Roasted Pepper Antipasto

1 13oz. jar roasted red bell peppers
2 garlic cloves
1 14oz. can artichoke hearts
2/3 cup packed fresh flat-leafed parsley leaves
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
2/3 cup brine-cured black olives

Cut roasted peppers into 3/4-inch-wide strips. Mince garlic. Rinse and drain artichoke hearts. Pat artichokes dry and cut through stem ends into quarters. Chop parsley.

In a 12-inch heavy skillet cook garlic in oil over moderate heat, stirring until fragrant. Add artichokes and cook, stirring until heated through, about 3 minutes. Stir in roasted peppers, parsley, remaining ingredients, and salt and pepper to taste until combined.

Serve antipasto at room temperature with bread.

------------------

Modern conveniences will allow for substitution of the garlic cloves with powder, and fresh parsley with dried ones, but naturally the best antipasto is made with fresh produce.

I am making this tonight again, for another dinner with good friends.

to know a simple joy

2006-10-20T13:30:00.001+08:00

I do not know of anyone who did not ruminate over the deeper meanings of this storm just past and the philosophical interpretations of individual and community responses. For staunch atheists and believers of karmic cycles alike, this catastrophe is nothing if not a signal, a reaction, perhaps even a lesson, from both scientific and spiritual perspectives.

Exactly a week ago, we were threatened by formidable and unpredictable nature, bent over backwards, and robbed of necessities so taken for granted that we do not notice them had they not been abruptly and extendedly removed. Conversely, I had never heard greater joy being recounted than the discovery that one's refrigerator (or TV, as the case may be!) is working again. Over the course of the week, as broken trees decay and autumn leaves wilt, and power is restored gradually (my neighbors just across the street are still suffering in the dark though, apparently as are 100,000 others), I hope Buffalonians realize... this isn't so bad after all.

We feared, doubted, raged, sweated, laughed, cried, and ultimately banded together, if not for solutions then for support. I wish for a speedy return to normalacy. Afterwards, let environmental reflections and community thoughtfulness linger - so we may be more conscientious in preserving the Earth and meet the bid to rejuvenate Buffalo with more inspiration and greater faith. Let the kindness and humanity so readily displayed in the face of the storm perpetuate, even in peaceful times, let it flourish indeed, and enmesh itself in our society and culture. Such fundamental ideals should not necessitate a disaster to be learnt or upheld.

by daylight

2006-10-17T11:56:00.001+08:00

It seems as if, in the clarity of daylight, the gloom of trees invariably massacred by the storm, snow-covered grounds and eerie streets, and apartments vacated by those in search of warmth may be made better sense of.

Thanks to the generosity and kindness of good friends, I have not been without hot meals, light, heat, or power for my cellphone over the past few days. Pei-Chien and Kok-Lam opened their doors to me Friday into Saturday, and I had the company of Elsa and Cip (and fellow storm-refugees Sofia, Umesh, Mihai and Roxanne) Saturday night into Sunday morning. I decided to brave it on Sunday night and managed a long, somewhat peaceful sleep in a sleeping bag under three covers in a 48 F (8 C) apartment.

My car was towed on Saturday from Delta Sonic by a good-humored fellow, who seemed unfazed by the chaos of higher-than-usual workload, power outages, and non-operating traffic signals. Shortly after, I picked up basic groceries from a Wegmans depleted of bottled water (not surprisingly due to the boil-water advisory issued by the city in view of non-working water pumps).

Monday afternoon, as I sat (wrapped in a fleece blanket, by the sunlight streaming through the window) reading the story of John Lennon and Yoko Ono, I heard a faint beep. Then a generator... I ran over to my refrigerator and swung the door open... light! My power was restored at 2:32pm.

The worst of this storm ordeal is over for now. Tomorrow will come, and I will deal with the mechanic who has decided to charge me $250 for a dubious job for my car.

... and a wintry day

2006-10-14T05:20:00.001+08:00

The development of this epic snowstorm in Buffalo warrants an update, so here it is...

Immediately after my last entry was posted, the power went down in my area. 3:30am. The lights began to flicker as I shut my laptop down. I mosied over to the window, trying to make sense of the extensive damage and steadily falling snow. I covered my ears as two blinding green flashes zipped across the sky. Then, it went all dark. It wasn't lightning... I may have just witnessed the most spectacular power trip in my life. Tossing an additional blanket on my bed, I went to sleep, clutching a flashlight and my cellphone close to me.

7:55 am. I was awaken by a call from Diane, who brought the news that Amherst is now in a state of emergency, with no travel allowed, and everything is closed, including our university (which is notorious for staying open despite the harshest snowstorms). To make matters worse, there were rumors of a possible water supply cut. It was 50 degrees F (10 degrees C) in my apartment. I was reluctant to leave my warm bed but had to take care of business. I could hardly get my stranded car out of my mind but as expected, a call to my mechanic was not answered. I called Mum back home to lament my predicament as I stared outside the window. More downed branches and trunks. Snow accumulation of close to 2 feet (60cm)... and still steadily falling.

Then the sun came out, casting a brilliant hue. I spot an occasional soul trudging on the street, seemingly bewildered by the environment. I suited up and went outside, joining their ranks, then came back in to marvel some more. It took me a while to decide to leave my apartment, for a friend's place on a parallel street, which miraculously is still powered. A while ago I toyed with the idea of returning home for the night, but it is now likely that I will stay put.

The number of households without power is now estimated to be 380,000, and officials fear it may take up to two weeks to restore electricity. Friday, October 13, 2006 is now the new record holder for the largest October snowfall in Buffalo's history, edging out Thursday.

Much of today was spent calling friends (or receiving calls) as Buffalonians band together, or hearing (usually mock) sniggers from contacts near and far, as Buffalo's latest wintry adventure hits the headlines on major news networks. Say what you will about our frequent "misfortunes", but Buffalo's snowy reputation does much to inspire camaraderie and identity among its occupants.

The wind is howling outside, beating against the windows in Kok-Lam (a.k.a. snow hero)'s apartment. The above-freezing temperatures all day mean the snow has begun to melt, although many streets are still barely passable.

Stay tuned for a flood warning.

a wintry night

2006-10-13T14:39:00.002+08:00

I am barely settled after a long, rude start to the famed Buffalo winter (it's 2:30am). Technically it's still autumn, but Mother Nature didn't seem to get the memo. The Amherst area was pounded with a record amount of snow (up to 12 inches) today, making it the largest October snowfall in Buffalo history, and the earliest and strangest snowfall in my memory in my five years here.

The snow started coming down at about 2pm this afternoon, when I was in the midst of my statistics exam, and never stopped since. Shortly after, I was called on to babysit for a couple of friends whose car was with their mechanic, while they used mine to run errands. Who would have thought... as they headed back my way, my car broke down. After getting the car to a safer location (by pushing it, in the storm, from a traffic light, across three lanes, to a gas station), they were picked up by another friend and came home safely. What followed was a futile wait for an overwhelmed AAA to tow my car and frequent marvels at the surreal snowscape. Six hours passed. Didn't happen. I was jittery and amused at the same time - I already have an appointment next Wednesday to fix my serpentine belt... it just decided to give up today.

The strangest part of this snowstorm was that it was accompanied by a good amount of lightning and thunder. I'm no meteorologist, but I've never seen it happen, ever.

Channel 2 reported that more than 103,000 households who are National Grid clients are now without power. As our snow hero later sent me home, we drove next to a downed power line and trees so thick with snow they looked like willows (the early snowfall meant that trees still abundant with leaves trap wet snow, snapping branches and breaking trunks).

I am a little thrown off-course, of course, although the graciousness, generosity, and good humor of my friends were a big help. As I write, I hear low rumbles of thunder in the distant, the trickle of precipitation in my gutters, the crackling of branches outside my window, and the occasional thud as something falls... a trunk, perhaps a thick wad of snow from the roof. And as I write, I shudder at the thought of having to navigate through a paralyzed city tomorrow, desperate to get my car fixed and my life back in order.

A wintry night, but nothing poetic about it.

two weeks to two years

2006-10-13T04:00:00.001+08:00

It just occurred to me that imaginedrose will turn 2 in 2 weeks. Wow. In the cyberworld, 2 years is some longevity indeed. Re-reading my very first post, I chuckle at my self-interestedness. Whereas then I had just entered the graduate program, now I am on the brink of my exit. Yet, the frustration that came through those words is as palpable today.

For one, I still am "trudg(ing) through the autumn cold to a stale compartment in Park Hall". Just a different one now.

I wonder where I will be in another 2 years.

homework heaven

2006-10-11T06:27:00.001+08:00

I just finished grading papers written by students in the undergraduate class that I am a teaching assistant in. The 200-level class, titled "Sociology of Diversity", fulfills the "American Pluralism" general education requirement and naturally draws its enrollment from across departments and educational stages. This first assignment required students to compare their parents' home to their grandparents', paying specific attention to artifacts and decor which convey ethnic backgrounds, as well as describing rituals and observances in these homes which reflect ethnic traditions.

I must say, in spite of the "guilt" from my voyeurism, I genuinely enjoyed reading the papers! All through my graduate career, I have not tried very hard to hide my dismay at the general attitudes of undergraduate students I've encountered - obnoxiousness, the lack of discipline and respect, and abhorrent grammar and vocabulary are but just some of my complaints. Yet, what I detected from these papers collectively is a voice of curiosity and interest which is not typically displayed, and concerted efforts to address the questions posed. There was a mixture of pride and wonderment as students charmingly recalled Sunday dinners with their first-generation Italian-American grandmothers and annual trips to the Broadway Market with Polish-American families before Easter, or told stories of transnational lives - vivid memories of beloved grandparents in faraway lands and steadfast efforts by immigrant parents to assimilate into mainstream America. To tie the anecdotal accounts together, there was then a good deal of self-reflection - how culturally-removed their immediate families are today, even as some students voiced a desire to rediscover their past (spurned by the assignment, no less). For these, I was willing to forgive cliched conceptualizations of the "American Dream", and the occasional self-indulgence (oh the purple prose!).

I saw humor and a light-heartedness not usually associated with academic writing. Above all, I saw inspiration. Even apathetic students handled their apathy with reason, if not justification. Herein lies the elusive joy of teaching... Ah, what bliss for an instructor!

STAND UP

2006-10-06T11:00:00.002+08:00

I came across a new United Nations public campaign as I surfed the website of the UN unit (Cyberschoolbus) I used to work in - STAND UP. Typically I am doubtful of and accord little regard to such large scale public relations / activistic efforts, but as I scanned the pages related to STAND UP, I began thinking about balancing public education with genuine concerted efforts toward particular causes. My (temporary) conclusion is that there is a place for publicity, perhaps even a social obligation - to keep the public informed and extend an opportunity for civic involvement. That said, publicity should always be complemented by honest work and tangible results in equal measure.

Understandably, this generation is publicity-weary. And yes, there have been many disappointments as a result of UN action or inaction. Yet, to dismiss the organization simply because its work is so readily documented (and because its missteps are gloriously and brazenly advertised) is quite careless indeed. Furthermore, squarely equating less-than-positive outcomes to the staff's ill intent or incompetency does most of these men and women a big disservice, and represents an insult to their personal integrity.

Unbeknownst to many (or vehemently denied by the cynical), much of the UN staff is ready and willing to discuss and even concur with varied criticisms targeted at the organization. Perhaps my view is biased by the humble and conscientious individuals I've met during my stint, but their attitudes and convictions are admirable to me, particularly in a difficult global climate as now and seeing how easy it is to lose one's visions amidst the bureaucracy that the UN, like all large organizations, for profit or otherwise, cannot escape from.

medium vs. message: the dalai lama

2006-09-20T07:45:00.000+08:00

I saw His Holiness, The Dalai Lama today at his long-awaited lecture at the UB stadium, preceded by an enchanting performance by Philip Glass and Nawang Khechog. For the past few months, the university was awashed in breathless anticipation (or exasperation - as the case may be - in "are we done yet?" style) for this event. I belong to the former camp, seeing this opportunity as a highlight of my longtime interest in Tibetan artistry, landscape, and culture, and recent readings and inclinations towards Buddhist philosophies. I was all the more elated to learn that Nawang Khechog will perform, as I had been listening to him for two years now, after picking up his CD by chance.

The lecture did not disappoint. Dressed in a deep red robe with a matching red foam visor (which flew away three times during the strong winds we had today, and was retrieved by scrambling Secret Service agents), the Dalai Lama was humorous, candid, and accessible. He spoke in halting but fine English, assisted at times by his personal translator. His main messages were simple...

That as human beings we all strive for a happy life. That we are much like all other animals, except we have the facility of intelligence and advanced sensorial experiences, those which also cause much misery. That material satisfaction cannot compensate for mental dissatisfaction. That we should have compassion and love for everyone. That this love should not come from attachment, because love and hate are the same and straddle a line easily crossed should attachment be the motivation for love. That we should develop a warm-heartedness towards all around us and breed no anger in ourselves. That the 20th century was a century of bloodshed, and we are feeling the consequences of it in this century.

Important messages indeed. Yet, they put into sharp relief the corresponding hype that surrounded the 1-hour speech. It was not hard to discern the festive atmosphere on campus today, and in all likelihood most ticket-holders did turn out in curiosity (as the Dalai Lama pointedly noted early on). All those warnings about security checks, the 30,000-crowd expected, the nightmarish traffic, while not inflated, did serve to heighten excitement. And then there is the theme-dressing in anything that might remotely be considered Asian, more than you might see on an average day on campus. It's both hilarious and embarassing.

As I sat listening, I could not help but feel the disconnect between this prominent man and his messages, and the audience that gathered before him. I wondered how many of these powerful words got through to the people, and to how many of them. Today was the "Day of Learning". I really like the concept. But I must ask, learning by whom? Those 400 students in the cancelled 101 class might have learnt more had school been in session. Now they just have a day off (for those who had decided to skip the lecture, and I dare say most did). Surely someone must have gotten something out of the messages, you reckon? Well, surely... this person probably already knows...

To participate in the process, to partake in the celebrity, was plenty for most attendees today, a badge of honor of sorts. More than the message, it seems as if the medium might well be remembered instead.

Lest I become misunderstood as the skeptic, consider the above a humble commentary on the mechanisms surrounding the event, a massive self-fulfilling marketing machine, not the efforts expended nor the messages delivered.

I stood shoulder to shoulder applauding as the Dalai Lama bade farewell, his hands pressed, his head bowed. What I really wish for is to take these messages further in my own dialogue with him.

turn of tides

2006-09-14T23:59:00.000+08:00

What a difference a week makes. I am always taken aback by how rapidly the tide turns in my life and how transient it all is, so much that I hardly have time to grasp, to think, to digest. I wonder if I am amnesiac after all, since early struggles are much more lightly-regarded at the end (as opposed to the beginning when they are all-consuming).

I know I am speaking in abstraction. The astute ones will know I am talking about my work.

A week ago, I was heaving over my unproductivity. Today, I write with energy of the same magnitude, albeit in the other direction - a positive one. Over the past few days, I have been scrambling to revise my research protocol and initiate contact to recruit participants for my study. I am glad to report that I am on my way, buoyed by pleasant responses and enthusiasm from those I've come in contact with, and grateful for the immeasurable assistance I've received from all corners. Now that anticipation is beginning to be matched by tangible results, I have reason to look forward to the immediate future. This research study feels so much more manageable all of a sudden.

The next phase is the execution of the study itself, which is undoubtedly rigged with unknowns. Yet, a semi-confident step is all I need for now.

Watch this space.

panic attack

2006-09-08T11:50:00.000+08:00

I'm getting the case of the nerves, again. Like a haunting shadow of the horrendous semester just past (perhaps also as a consequence of it), this semester has been unsettling for me. Sure, barely 2 weeks have gone by but I feel it in my skin... this will not be easy. It's a wicked combination of emotional overload with mental paralysis. I start with adrenaline and anticipation, but am stricken by helplessness and a queer sense of guilt as I move through the day, accomplishing little, finally falling flat at the end.

My heart thumps so hard I hear it in my jaw. At the office, I am gripped by suspicion and unease, not knowing where to stand, sit, quite simply, where to place myself. I've become more formal and distant to the point of paranoia (or maybe it's the other way around). Professionally I am uninspired and the scholarly interests which sustained me for years (and led me to graduate school, indeed, this very predicament!) have been eluding me. In fact, I feel like bursting out in tears after every class for not apparent reason. Walking to my car after school/work, a voice in my head repeats "I hate myself"...

How unhealthy. Yet I am caught between addressing these physiological signals and their causes, and dismissing them as melodrama. I recognize a lot of them stem from the muddling or loss of self-consciousness that I feel began in me a year or two ago. Being out of touch. I am desperately trying to gather myself, settle down and devise a clear, manageable game plan for what remains of my stint here. I scarcely have energy to consider what will follow afterwards.

For someone who prides in being in control, this is the worst nightmare. I feel like I'm spiralling downwards, all the while as the big deadline looms.

a new york moment

2006-09-01T10:39:00.000+08:00

I'm having a New York moment, on the eve of (re)visiting the great city.

New York never lost its magic for me... from the moment I first step foot in it three years ago, through my stay last fall, and the times I played host and tour guide. Instead of the aloofness that many claim to be the trademark of New York, I feel comfortable within it, move around effortlessly, and boldly identify with its spirit and essence. In it, I am inconspicuous just as I like, yet am innately individuated. Walking through its streets, I get a palpable feeling there is a story behind each face... this vision, however imaginary, accords passing figures with a depth and integrity. There is a sense of humanity quite unlike most other major cities I've visited. The vastness of New York does not drown out personality - in fact, it translates into an expansive field from where character springs. New Yorkers expend no banal effort to "rise" above the masses because their personalities are acknowledged simply by their inclusion in the diversity of the city.

I care about New York - its history, its growth, its singular culture, its very future. Just as one who's not American can be a legitimate New Yorker, there are those who could not care less for the United States who profess love for the city and aspire towards it. It's not a contradiction.

around the world, at the table

2006-08-28T09:50:00.000+08:00

I remember attending a memorable Thanksgiving dinner party a couple of years ago, one that was elegant but intimate and unpretentious, where good wine and conversations flowed, and a delicious meal was lovingly prepared and heartily shared. It made me feel all... grown-up. I had the good fortune of attending another dinner party of this nature on Saturday.

Elsa and Chip are graceful and generous hosts, as well as newly-weds. As a display of her ingenuity and resourcefulness, not to mention her talent in the kitchen, Elsa built a menu around typical dishes from the countries where her guests originated. This meant that we sampled homemade cheese and a potato and pickle salad from Latvia, a spicy seafood stew from Portugal, lamb tangine from Morocco, palak paneer from India, Singapore-style roti prata (made before our eyes!), an egg custard sweet from Romania, and one of the best American apple pies I've ever tasted, each dish comparable to the best in their homes.

I am hard-pressed to think of a more thoughtful gesture a dinner guest is likely to receive, and am humbled and honored to be in this company. Recall my earlier post on "culinary connections"... this evening was absolutely priceless.

a little piece

2006-08-25T11:09:00.000+08:00

This is a little piece I just completed which I will present to a dear friend next week. For a long time I was fixated by the kelly green-chartreuse gradation. As yet untitled.

a world of possibility

2006-08-24T11:52:00.000+08:00

The International Student Orientation at UB is winding down. The past few days have been some of the craziest I've experienced in a long time. Each night, my heart thumps and my head throbs long after the sore in my legs and the ache in my shoulders are gone. The adrenaline that gets me up and going every morning refuses to go away even as the action momentarily stops...

Names and faces that I would otherwise be adept at remembering flash by before my eyes, and soon disappear into the recesses of my memory, and a few outstanding ones remain... the "stars", I call them. The 63-year-old Japanese man who is entering as a freshman, with his small, precise steps, and peaceful demeanor. The ethnic Chinese young man who was born and lived in India, and holds its citizenship. And what about the Tibetan student who snickered at his name tag as I handed it to him? It said "China" for nationality...

This Orientation is many things to me at once. Besides being the stark, oft-lamented reminder of my seniority, it is a powerful affirmation of my good faith in international education, and my staunch insistence on humility, openness, acceptance, and a global outlook. As Orientation unravelled, I became more involved than I originally anticipated, due in part to circumstances (staff shortage) and in part to an unknown force inside of me. I undertook more than I was assigned, much of it my own doing.

Could it be the sense of urgency that is slowly creeping into my consciousness? That I will soon leave this town and that each endeavor has to be undertaken with fervor? As I find myself challenged and pushed to universal limits of pressure and patience, I discover, at the same instance, how these limits can be transcended. It gives me immense satisfaction to take charge, to empathize, and to solve a problem for an anxious student, and to hear a shy "thank you" or see a sincere lingering smile, knowing some form of understanding has been achieved. It is electrifying.

Even if I seem frazzled and flustered, I feel a composure seldom felt before. It is not an irony. Rather, it is a valuable lesson in attaining the elusive equilibrium that I have long been seeking.

dad

2006-08-20T12:45:00.000+08:00

A couple of years ago, during my annual trip back to Singapore, Dad gave me a ride to my travel agent. After taking care of business, we decided to grab a bite at a local food court. The People's Park Food Center, for those who may not know it, is a beloved, historically-significant hawker center located in the heart of the original Chinatown, a stone's throw from the Central Business District and the Singapore River. It was a weekday mid-afternoon and the large complex was devoid of lunch-goers. In their place was a languid vibe - stall-holders closing for the day or preparing for the dinner shift, retirees or mothers with children relaxing, and anonymous on-the-go employees slurping noodles... The sense of time, of the past as well as in the extended present, was palpable through the gray structure and the thin crowd.

As we tucked into bowls of shaved ice, fruits, and syrup, Dad pointed to a stall not far from where we sat and said his dad had brought him here, and ordered a bowl of yong tau foo for him, just before he left for Japan to work in the 1970s. He went on to tell me how financial strains in his family prevented him from pursuing higher education. He eventually earned his Masters however, but not before a gruelling period of full-time work by day and classes by night, when he was in his 40s with a family of 5 to support. Sitting there, I envisioned the day... I saw Dad on the brink of leaving home, just as I was (again), sharing a humble pleasure with our dads.

As I reflect on my own path over the past few years, my respect and gratitude for Dad only deepens. My good fortune has ensured me a seamless journey so far, one that is validated by professional experiences, enriched by international friends, propelled by a burgeoning self-confidence, and nurtured by my parents' compassion.

This picture was taken in May 2004, when Mum and Dad came to Buffalo to attend my Commencement. We went on the Maid of the Mist at Niagara Falls, where Dad spontaneously struck this pose. No prizes for guessing what animal was on his mind. It makes me smile.

Today is Dad's birthday. Happy Birthday Dad. Thank you for making all this possible.

then and now

2006-08-18T08:02:00.000+08:00

Exactly 5 years ago I arrived in Buffalo. I remember the day quite well... Dad made the trip with me and we were picked up at the airport by Matt and Darren who had been in Buffalo for a while. Through the dimming summer sky, we sped through suburban Amherst to University Inn where we were to stay for the next 10 days. The relative barren-ness of the landscape almost drove me to tears and I was quietly getting hysterical just thinking about Dad's insistence prior to arriving that I would not get a car. I was desperate for a morsel of activity that would sustain me and all my aspirations... Things got better of course, and I got my wheels (my dream car at that!), no persuasion of Dad required. In fact, things are so good now that I cannot bear to think of the day I will leave, which may be soon. There is a part of Buffalo in me, the history, the people, the possibilities, the comfort zone which I'd built.

5 years on...

International Student Orientation starts this Sunday. Our office has been super busy preparing for the biggest event on our calendar, especially since this Orientation is slated to be the largest in UB history, with more than 1,000 students expected in attendance. I am looking forward to meeting most of them as I make my rounds, even if each new cohort reinforces my own seniority. I have seen students come and go as I stay behind. It is a sentiment common to those in this industry, as my friend Diane can attest, and it is potentially depressive. Yet, in the larger scheme of things, there is a sense of renewal and continuity that remains unabated despite the seemingly cyclical nature of Orientation and academic years. New students bring with them hope and vigor, so why should they be doused with jadedness? If anything, I hope to be recharged by their enthusiasm for this final stretch in my own academic career.

painting

2006-08-15T07:49:00.000+08:00

I painted today. Continued on a piece that I started not long ago but was too distracted by summer to keep working on.

I'd been the arty one all through school. I danced (for a good 11 years), wrote (poetry, and editorials in the local papers), enrolled in an intensive art program, and was absorbed in 19th-century French art history. Moving to Buffalo 5 years ago nearly broke the momentum. A couple of years ago, I returned to painting as a diversion. It's been an upward swing since - all my travels now incorporate local museums and galleries, and I fulfilled my long-time dream of visiting Musee d'Orsay in Paris last summer.

This was my first acrylic-on-canvas piece, titled Blue (2004). I credit the title to a professor who, upon seeing it (I used to display it in my office), asked if I knew that blue is the color of meditation. I remember going through some personal issues at that time, and his seemingly cryptic comment enhanced my own appreciation of this piece. The production and reception of art is a dialogue, and this episode embodied just that. That conversation also became the precursor of an extended exchange on spirituality and social theory between this professor and myself, from which I'd gained enormously.

the end of summer

2006-08-13T07:23:00.000+08:00

A lazy weekend where, thankfully, not much is going on...

Summer is coming to an end. Temperatures have dipped in recent days, though it remains generally nice. I think I may be ready for more structured days, more intense work, and more regularity. My body tingles at the thought of the months to come... intuition tells me that multiple changes are on their way, and there would be no means of predicting them.

When I saw this photo I took at Wilson-Tuscarora State Park in mid-June, I was instantly reminded of Paul Gauguin's Children Wrestling (Les enfants luttants), 1888. I think they share a certain spirit of the season... I have come to appreciate summer and the sun after my move to Buffalo. If it were up to me and if I can, in good conscience, reconcile with the periods of missing my family, I would gladly live in a temperate climate for the rest of my life.

blog-sphere

2006-08-10T10:37:00.000+08:00

To my gentle reader: Thank you for your wonderful thoughts and positive encouragement with regards to imaginedrose. Thank you for coming along on the ride.

I've been thinking about the notion of blogging and find it difficult to ignore my own absence in the past year. So much has transpired in my life without the written testament that a blog (or consistent entries, at least) provides. Here, a remedial effort...

Somewhere in the crevices of my memory, there was Europe (I did leave you off at Paris, however), and the frantic effort in Berlin to download a pdf and fax it to New York in 4 hours (thank goodness Germany was 6 hours ahead). That was the beginning of my massive yet numbing stint at the United Nations afterwards, and the life-altering experience that is New York. Life in Buffalo resumed with a tumultuous semester that will not soon be forgotten, when my fundamental beliefs were shaken by poor judgment and injustice by others, leading me to question and later rediscover my principled and resilient self. Finally, there was my recent trip to Australia - Sydney and Melbourne - which largely remains a blur...

I sometimes wonder if, by returning to blogging, I have succumbed to the modern disease of insufficient conviction, or plain laziness. After all, blogs are a convenient, accessible, one-size-fits-all tool for contacts of the writer, near and far, to keep in touch. Yet, if the idea of "keeping in touch" assumes a two-way dialogue, then of what use is a blog other than to announce one's life to the world? Does this qualify as "contact" to you? Blogging and the assumption that it fulfils one's responsibility to family and friends is inherently associated with self-indulgence and social carelessness. Blogs are a dynamic but incomplete contribution to community-building. It is merely one-half of the equation. Just because I read about the destruction in Lebanon on BBC and am concerned about the development does not relieve me of my obligation to personally write to my friend in Beirut.

I love to write, always have... but words, however lyrical or powerful, are not interchangeable with humanity, which is not embodied by language. Am I veering into the medium vs. message debate?

My freshly-baked sericaia is cooling in the kitchen. Bebel Gilberto plays on the stereo.

culinary connection

2006-08-09T02:03:00.000+08:00

I have been spending a lot of time in the kitchen lately, in spite of the heatwave that just gripped most of the united states. It started when a colleague mentioned in passing how much he enjoys the pineapple tarts from Singapore. More than just nostalgic, I knew I had to try these famously difficult-to-make goodies. The results weren't bad, though I was nervous about conversions from the metric units used in all the recipes I found online. I was even pleased enough to send a box home.

Since then, I've tried my hands at hamantaschen (I could not forget the ones I used to buy from Moishe's Kosher Bake Shop, 115 2nd Avenue between 6th and 7th Streets, New York, a craving that gets fulfilled on my increasingly regular trips to the city) and rugelach (once again, spurred by a friend who mentioned she would love to try them - mine turned out beautifully). In a related culinary department, I've been making lots of curry-infused coleslaw, studded with raisins and sometimes walnuts. Not to forget my new interest in brown rice, after a couple of meals at Dojo East (24 St. Marks Place between 2nd and 3rd Avenues, New York). An experiment with a salad of brown rice, dried mango slivers, olive oil, balsamic vinegar and parsley turned out well. The same could not be said for my kofta attempt however. A tad dry and lacking in flavor, I only have myself to blame for skipping the fresh onions and garlic.

Most people approach cooking with far less enthusiasm and adventure than they do eating, in part due to trepidation about unfamiliar ingredients and procedures, or a general lack of experience in the kitchen. The way I see it, personally making dishes from foreign cultures heightens the enjoyment of the end products and offers a most enriching lesson in a culture's history and traditions. After all, food has long been the common denominator among all people, and it is the only one that may transcend the deepening fractures in our world today.

revamped

2006-08-08T20:02:00.000+08:00

It's been more than a year since I'd revisited this site, my site... and the recent wave of interest in blogs among friends compelled me to do something. With a new format and a renewed vow to keep writing, I begin again. Kudos to Blogger for keeping it (me) alive.

It is perhaps also due to chance that imaginedrose is resurrected. I woke up this morning and proceeded with routine, thinking to myself how dim it was outside (bummer, another rainy day!). Just as I was about to head out the door, I glanced at the time on the microwave (as I inevitably do each day) and realized I was an hour early. how silly. I'd mentally fast-forwarded the time on my alarm clock when Ii first opened my eyes. And so with the extra time, here I am.

I took delight in some of my earlier posts and am pleasantly surprised by their fluidity. The past couple of years have been characterized by intensity in a great many domains of my life. Looking back, looking forward... the warrior asana assumes balance and strength... I hope to achieve that by keeping the past and future in check, in the present.

a paris entry

2005-05-31T18:05:00.000+08:00

Hello from Paris. Today is my last day in this beautiful city - I leave for Toulouse in a few hours. This trip has been interesting so far, not least because I am on my own. This very aspect has come to define many of my experiences here and provides the context in which I view this city and its people. Before embarking on this journey, I was intent on using it to reflect. As much as the thoughts came and went, they are largely still muddled. Honestly, I am rather done with being alone. I look forward to seeing Yann and Fabien in Toulouse.

night talk

2005-04-15T12:47:00.000+08:00

For a very long time, night has inspired me. It's the solitude, the melancholy. I have lost count of the number of words, songs, poetry that came through these darkest, quietest hours.

I am sitting here with my recent addictions... a gin and tonic, and the sounds of Marta Gómez, a gorgeous Colombian girl with a beautiful voice, graduate of the prestigious Berklee College of Music. Among other things (namely, school), I have been devoting a lot of time lately to travel research. Before Europe, I'll take a short trip to Chicago in mid-May to meet Bart. It's a little impulsive but I'm rather excited about it. For one, since it's an American city, I don't feel the anxiety of having to navigate an entirely new territory. I should be able to move rather smoothly and comfortably in the five days I plan to spend there and soak in the famed Chicago atmosphere. I am looking forward to strolling the Magnificent Mile, the Museum of Contemporary Art, and time by Lake Michigan, maybe also a visit to the Frank Lloyd Wright-designed Robie House right by the University of Chicago where I will be staying. Hope to check out the food too.

Will have to exercise restraint in that regard - food. I have been going through a rather embarassing phase of low morale with regards to my weight. To think I'm even discussing it publicly with whoever's out there reading this! I haven't had the motivation to hit the gym for months and coupled with bad eating habits, this simply translates into a slight pudge (though my scales don't show any change). Wanting to look my best for Europe adds further stress. The mind says one thing, the heart says another. I have one month.

School lets out in three weeks and this is crunch time. I'm feeling stressed but feel I can manage. Sometimes I think, I've been in such a low for so long that I cease to feel it anymore. Feel like I'm stuck somewhere, amnesiac about the past, none-too-hopeful about the future, and the now, it just stands still. Feel like I have so much to say but words escape me. So many things happened, so many thoughts processed, but none to report.

I should finish my drink and head to bed.

olive juice

2005-03-23T11:53:00.000+08:00

A life-saving bit of trivia transplanted from the website of Jason Mraz:

"Ever notice how if you mouth “olive juice” to someone silently it looks like you’re saying, “I love you”?"

the inverse traveller

2005-03-23T10:57:00.000+08:00

As I went about with my (by now) routine research on Europe, I came across a travelogue posted on www.virtualtourist.com by a recent visitor to Toulouse, France. In his last few hours in the city, he wandered through the streets and came upon an old Bulgarian man playing his gadoulka. After giving him his last few Euros, he lingered for 20 minutes listening to the Balkan melodies. There on the cobbled street against a pink brick wall, he found a resonance. Reflecting on the experience, he wrote of the gadoulka player as "the inverse traveller, voyaging more to give away what he's brought with him than to bring back something new".

While extolling the virtues of travel to broaden one's mind, it never occurred to me to conceptualize it this way. Indeed, perhaps greater understanding between people can be achieved if we start to give a part of ourselves unconditionally, as much as or more than we accept what is given to us. In travelling, giving does not deprive one of discovery. What is "new" is merely less apparent but profoundly stronger. The human heart knows no bounds and the joy of discovery through travel is multiplied by the very act of the sharing of oneself - culture, ideas, life.

The next time I venture somewhere, I shall take my gadoulka with me.

fashion (and) sense

2005-03-21T12:54:00.000+08:00

I have a feverish fascination with fashion, a long-time devotion to the fabulous, albeit much-maligned, world of haute couture. Maligned because of its associations with frivolity, excess and supposed inconsequentiality. Fabulous because of the... frivolity, excess and supposed inconsequentiality. There's something about the fashion industry today - the combination of business acumen, retail strategies, design sensibilities and the creation of an otherworldly realm - that pushes astronomical consumption (of both ideas and merchandise). For the enthusiast like me, it also instills a heightened artistic appreciation, inspires passion and commands reverence.

For the regular consumer, fashion exists in two arenas - the store and the wardrobe. For me and many others who revel in the study of the industry, there are the owners, the design houses and the designer(s) for the various departments in the house, each unit with its own history - a massive family tree with relations, breakups, mergers, amicable transfers and illicit elopements more complicated than the modern American family and more exciting than a soap opera. Add to these units complementary industries comprising of manufacturers (farms, mills, -smiths), presenters (models, photographers, make-up/hair artists) and external marketers (editors, stylists), as well as the dynamics of advertising, fund-raising and the maintenance of social stratification, and you have a living, breathing universe in itself.

Exclusivity makes for desirability.

Perhaps it is because haute couture remains so inaccessible to me that I find it alluring. I dream about meeting Karl Lagerfeld (one of the most enigmatic and intriguing personalities in the industry in my opinion) and visiting the studios of Rochas, Lanvin, Chanel and Yves Saint Laurent (my favorite houses of the moment) but the truth is, I can hardly overcome the intimidation of storefronts to step inside (more because I don't want to deal with snooty salespeople than the lack of self-assurance), much less fork out a few grand for products. But perhaps too, I consider myself far more rational to splurge on such items and prefer to quietly observe from afar. At the end of the day, I value inspiration more than possession. In my world, paying five grand for a quilted, chain-strap handbag is a donation to Chanel, the inspiration that comes with it is essentially free. Keep the former, I'll take the latter, thank you very much.

Lines, colors, fabric and tailoring excite me most and because I tend to be old school, I gravitate towards houses with established histories, such as those mentioned above. I have made it my goal to make a stop at the flagships of these houses when I go to Paris in May. Chanel even has an interesting website detailing locales of significance to the Chanel house, such as the building on 31 rue Cambon, which is the store, studio and home of Coco Chanel, right across from Hotel Ritz where she maintained a second residence.

Who knows, maybe I'll even bump into Monsieur Lagerfeld while I'm there.

Paris feeds you with such dreams.

**********

Karl Lagerfeld. The more successful an individual, the less is known about him. That's how I feel about Lagerfeld. I have always been drawn to individuals who maintain a public persona but who emanate a more profound otherness. Put aside the accolades of being designer of Fendi, Chanel and Lagerfeld Gallery at the same time, there's Karl Lagerfeld the person. This is the Lagerfeld I want to sit with for a drink and ruminate about life.

His recent collaboration with H&M took the (fashion) universe by storm. That a $10,000-a-dress designer should "downgrade" to designing $100 dresses reeks of the mechanical workings of business and fuels the huge circus that is fashion. All the pleasantries evaporated when Lagerfeld apparently chastised H&M for recreating his designs in the wide range of sizes usually available at the trendy low-cost chain, implying that his designs should be worn by the industry-standard but none-too-realistic sizes 2 and 4. In a strange way, while haute couture and mass fashion depend on one another to drive demand and sales, they are still irreconciliable where exclusivity and price points are concerned. I doubt there will be another collaboration.

For my part, on a recent trip to Toronto, I picked up a gorgeous Lagerfeld for H&M silk dress in a rich burgundy, on clearance. There must have been 75 pieces there on the rack. So much for exclusivity and no wonder Lagerfeld was protesting. Still, I willingly partake in the process just to amuse myself with the conflict of fashion and business, an irony that is embodied in this one dress hanging in my wardrobe.

it's a small world after all

2005-03-18T11:10:00.000+08:00

For the past few years, I've been living with diminished distances in my perception of spatial relations, specifically geographical ones. Rather than irreconciliable shores divided by vast expanses of water, the world in my head resembles one of the planets described by le petit prince instead (Asteroid B512?), where I can simply walk a few steps to the other side to view the sunrise or sunset as I wish. Somewhat post-modern you say?

This concept no doubt grew out of my move from Singapore to Buffalo, NY four years ago, the most significant, all-encompassing event to happen in my life to date. If cross-Atlantic relocation already necessitates immense reacculturation, imagine such antipodal sojourns as mine! Initially, the distance, compounded by the back-breaking 24-hour journey, seemed very real indeed. Each goodbye at the airport (whichever side) was tagged with a certain eternity.

Over time, the idea that this eternity is transient became more concrete. I no longer work up a fit if, upon boarding the plane, I realize I'd left something behind. Like the seasoned traveller, I pack lighter with each trip and approach ticket counters and baggage/security checks with increasing self-assurance. While this is could be due to greater knowledge of the travel process, I attribute the lesser load and greater confidence to innate ideology as well.

I never succeeded in making my mum think I am but just a plane ride or phone call away because her mind is constantly overwhelmed by the physical distance. Therefore, I sometimes wonder if my perspective has caused me to trivialize things. I reckon not. Rather, I'm convinced it lends to an ease and a peace of mind. This ease and peace of mind emerges only when a certain level of comfort is achieved in the territories traversed by the traveller, more so when they are one's "staple" cities, like Singapore and Buffalo for me. It is prompted by an understanding of the cyclical nature of life and time and accompanied by a trust in fellow human kind (although my practical side tells me the trust may not necessarily or always be worthily bestowed).

Forget something? Get it at the point of arrival. Or have it sent to you. Or pick it up when you return the next time around. This last note refers not only to actual physical objects but also experiences. It is exemplified by a travel writer I read who, after deciding to pass on the Louvre on a visit to Paris, declared that it's still going to be there the next time she returns. Right on! We are so departed (pun intended!) from the days of long, arduous, bankruptcy-inducing journeys that travels should no longer possess a sense of finality (thus the aforementioned cyclical nature of life and time). Along the same vein, on hearing that my trip home (Singapore the ideational home or Buffalo the physical home) will take 24 hours, people usually give me a sympathetic groan. Yes, it takes 24 hours but it is still just 24 hours.

Am I naive? Perhaps. But I'll wilfully let my youth shoulder the blame, while I still have it.

I am a world citizen - the miniscule world in my head - and desire is my passport.

Travel broadens the mind, unleashing a force that sets into motion a certain wanderlust that is irrevocable. To be comfortable anywhere is both liberating and empowering (just like the Buddhist notion of impermanence, which I've been fascinated with of late). The more you do it, the greater its impact... which explains why, after 4 years of honing these sensibilities, I'm more than ready to take on Europe... solo.

It's a small world after all.

the french tongue

2005-03-18T06:41:00.000+08:00

Continuing the thread of interest in all things European, and with the spare time that Spring Break opened up this week, I spent a vast amount of time online researching for my upcoming trek through France, Germany and Spain. Found some sites that provided a great deal of information, some better than others, but all of which fuelled my anticipation for what is to come.

In The New York Times travel section, I chanced upon an essay by Mary-Lou Weisman about her experience of learning French ("Grasping French, a Word at a Time", October 24, 2004). Thinking it might address my own pathetic/non-existent knowledge of French but dire desperation to pick it up for the trip, I read on. What I discovered was, rather than discussing the technicalities of the language, Weisman was really exploring the symbolism of acquiring it and the meaning of speaking it, or any other language for that matter.

Of her initial hesitance, she wrote:

"Maybe all I wanted was to keep on wanting to learn French, not to actually learn it. I worried about being disoriented and inarticulate, conditions I had spent my entire adult life avoiding. Being in control was practically the whole point of being a grown-up, wasn't it? Why would I purposely make myself stupid?

Because, I came to understand, by putting myself in the circumstances of a small child, I retrieved what I was sure I had lost forever -- the unalloyed enthusiasm a child feels when exploring and mastering the world. The inordinate thrill of learning how to tie one's own shoes, or spell c-a-t, can belong to grown-ups, but only if they are willing to start again in first grade. Youth is not always wasted on the young; it can be well spent on the old. "

Exactement. With that, I felt she'd kicked my last resistant excuse to the curb.

Shrewdly observant of how her unfamiliarity rendered her more thoughtful, she wrote:

"We think carefully before we speak. We have to: We're at a constant, literal loss for words. We listen carefully. We can't afford to interrupt. And, because we don't have the adult vocabulary to be our usual cynical selves, we are as open and earnest as children."

Cast in this perspective, isn't it ironic that we lose these considerations in our most fluent tongues?

Admittedly, learning a new language in adulthood is arduous, no thanks to the limited retention of the adult brain. Weisman addressed the issue but admirably concluded with a never-say-die attitude, "went back to the same place this summer, and will go back again", not so much to learn, but "to forget some more". Bravo.

Really, the goal is less about the absolution (or even effective communication, for that matter) that characterize our adulthood, than the whimsical childlikeness and innate indulgence in discovery that have become rare privileges in our times.

For now, I am content to do as Weisman and her husband do - they who, "when all else fails, as it often does, take turns acting out sausages or Camembert."

the calling

2005-03-09T12:15:00.000+08:00

Thanks in part to the relatively cheap international phone rates, my mum has taken to calling me almost daily. While it's nice to know she cares a lot and constantly thinks about me, the daily calls have become a burden over the years, as I begin to question my moral obligations and filial piety.

Mum is a housewife, and has been for as long as I know. She belongs to the generation of women where I come from who stays home to care for the kids and house after marriage. The prolonged confinement to the home and lack of initiative on her part (and also other circumstancial reasons too complicated to elaborate here) have disconnected her from the greater world outside. By this I don't mean she's unaware of happenings in the country or around the world, just that she is scarcely involved. She does not have a group of friends to meet up with, no hobby to indulge in, and above all, no income to expense.

Pardon my materialistic outlook, but I have a strong conviction that if we (my family) have a little more $ on our hands, we'll be happier. This happiness will be brought about not by the absolute possession of wealth, but the elimination of the very troubles that trouble us.

Back to mum. Or me, rather. I've been ridden by guilt for the longest time for my lack of enthusiasm towards her calls. I even have to admit to a certain dread, on certain days, when the phone rings at that certain time (keep in mind the 13 hour time difference) - usually at night here when I'm most drawn out and yearn for some personal time and when it's late morning there when she's alone and wants some company. The dread is not voluntary but yet I feel helpless about it.

There are only so many times I can stand hearing "oh, it's still -15C there today..." She monitors the Buffalo weather on a daily basis and reports to me with equal frequency, even though I live HERE...

Yet, there are times when we enter into a conversation that does not stop till 90 minutes later. But these calls were usually initiated by me, in that it was me who called her and not the other way around. The rationale is simple: when I'm in the mood to talk, gripe and complain, and when I have stuff to talk, gripe or complain about, I call her. When I don't, I would much rather not talk, thank you... But how damn selfish is that? She calls me because she has the same needs as I do, so why can't I be more accomodating? I am sickened by my own self-centeredness. What's worse, she even apologizes for "disturbing" me or my work when she calls. Double the guilt there...

Sometimes I would claim to be in the middle of something, feign exhaustion or employ any trick to let her "get it"... and finish the call in a second. Frequently, ridden by guilt, I would call three minutes later on the pretense that I had finished my work or whatever nonsense and can now talk.

I know, however, that the reason I even answer those calls, and the reason that guilt even exists inside of me, is because I do give a shit. Which makes the situation so much more complex.

Mum needs me there. Which is probably one of the reasons why, over the past few weeks, I've begun a "mental program" to prepare myself to return after I graduate in June 2006. I declared to everyone that if I go home right away after completing my degree, it will only be for my family, and I stand by that. I reckon that stating this reason on the onset will soften the blow if and when I do go back. There's nothing wrong (well, nothing major structurally) with Singapore but as a young ambitious woman conditioned by my independence over these four years, I want to see and do more before I go back to the relative dead-end that is Singapore.

I get so nervous and confused and agitated when I think these thoughts.

I shall go back to dealing with the calls one night at a time.

happy as a clam

2005-03-08T12:01:00.000+08:00

"Awareness is the key to longevity I believe; knowing what’s good for you and what’s harmful in the long run, and what presently improves your peace of mind and state of well being. I do plenty of things that doctors would consider to be a major risk to my health, but I’m happy as a clam doing so, which in a metaphysical viewpoint, actually makes me a more healthy human being." - Jason Mraz

This references my last posting.

I think I just got my answer.

I love Jason Mraz. I really REALLY do.

i won't get fat

2005-03-08T08:44:00.000+08:00

I've been feeling lethargic of late (for a glimpse, refer to my last posting), and guilty as hell for these lazy bones and the accumulating layer of fat around my mid-section - I don't even remember my last regular gym routine and it's rather pathetic. As a result and to start with, I've been trying to eat better (trying being the operative word). But it's not nearly as easy as it sounds. Old-fashioned motivation and will aside, there are the other issues of financial constraints and "ideological conflicts".

With the impending Europe escapade, I've been trying to save money. If I've always been thrifty in the food department, then let's just say the belt has been tightened even more these past few months... Contrary to the literature out there, it's not cheap nor necessarily convenient to eat healthy, as many of those who share this part of the world with me will tell you. Fresh food, while available, typically costs more than processed/frozen canned and packaged ones. They take longer to clean, cut and cook, which, after a 12-hour day, are the last things on my mind.

And that's just money...

I've been reading about a book (yes, reading about the book, not the book, yet). It's titled French Women Don't Get Fat: The Secret of Eating for Pleasure by Mireille Guiliano. Given the current state of affairs between the French and the Americans, the 100+ amateur reviews I've read on Amazon.com sound more like a subliminal political debate instead. One camp thinks it's none of Guiliano's business to criticize the American lifestyle, while the other camp lauds her for her common sense (go figure what political affiliations these camps have!). Thoroughly amusing they are for an objective observer like me, but my concerns are less diplomatic. Admittedly, I've grown into a francophile of sorts ever since I booked that New York-Paris flight for May. The supposed French way of life that Guiliano proposes in her book is utterly appealing for its sensory satisfaction and offers suggestions as to how I may begin to change my life and eat better (I sound like Oprah).

Eat slow, eat fresh, Guiliano said. Fair enough, but nothing I don't already know from my Nutrition 101 class. The one point that intrigued me more, though, is how the French are not fanatical about gym workouts like the Americans are but continue to maintain a healthy physique. This got me thinking, perhaps I should stop hitting myself so hard for not trudging through the -15C Buffalo weather to the Alumni Arena at 7am in the morning... But is the claim simply inflated? We do need regular exercise, don't we?

Therein lies the dilemma.

So I figured it might be easier to start with food, till I decide on my stand on working out (or till my vanity takes over my lethargy, whichever comes first)... Still on a tight budget, I'm resolute to eat better and stretch the contents of my refrigerator. As a girl, sometimes physiological changes affect what I "feel" for. It seems there's little I can do about it, except to balance the binge with healthful choices when I'm not hormonally cranky.

Eat less
Eat healthy
Spend less
Spend wisely

However these goals might come together...

freaky friday

2005-03-05T00:57:00.000+08:00

The past few hours have been miserable to say the least. I was hit by the Friday blues, a condition where one is so drained by the activities leading to the end of the workweek (don't we have Monday blues too? does it ever end?) that the thought of the weekend ironically brings more dread.

Afternoon, I spent sitting in Barnes and Noble with Anne, over coffee and Berlin guide books for me and San Francisco guide books for her. We were both so obscenely exhausted that we scarcely enjoyed ourselves. Then drove the long drive (compounded by the relentless construction work on Main Street) back to her place off of Elmwood, and an equally long drive home... home, if only...

[The conditions of Main Street hardly ever appears to get better anyway, so I wonder what on earth is being worked on. Might as well leave me some peace in the here and now.]

Minutes before I reached home, Alex called to request a ride back from his mechanic after he dropped his car off. And the said mechanic is located at River Road, which incidentally is at the opposite end of Buffalo from where I had just dropped Anne. I was all too willing to help a friend out (and was even rewarded with a glimpse of a blazing pink sunset) but after the terrible class this morning (which I'll leave for another day to elaborate) and the long afternoon, the drive seemed tortuous.

I hung out for a bit with Dawn and Alex afterwards and had a good conversation. Then the phone rang. A friend wanted to set up dinner plans for tomorrow. Leave tomorrow to tomorrow, I said (well, not so bluntly of course).

Headed home, yearning for some peace, but apparently not yet. Just as I was about to head into the shower, the phone rang (1). Thank goodness for caller id. Seeing who it was and not really in the best mood (or condition) to deal with the typically annoying fella, I let it ring. Then, it immediately sounded again (2). Message arrives. Listened, but couldn't make out what caller mumbled. Minutes later, phone sounded AGAIN (3). Let it ring, already vexed. 2nd message arrives. Listened, and caller started a spiel about how he had this freaking question about his status as an international student and thought my work experience in ISSS could help him, though he will visit ISSS on Monday. Dammit, if you can wait till Monday to visit the office, why don't you just WAIT? And NO, I do not know the answer to your question. Finally, I headed into the shower.

Out of the shower, a couple of hours later, the phone rang again (4). Caller id showed an on-campus number, but I knew better than to answer it. Let it ring. Then a quick check on the online university directory revealed the number to be from the office of the fella who made the previous three calls. How cunning! Less than an hour later, it sounded again (5). Different on-campus number, but similar enough to tell it was probably from the same office. And I needn't check this time to find out who it was. I was fuming by now. SERIOUSLY, I wanted to wring someone's neck. And no, I wasn't being stubborn in refusing to take his call. Hell knows what he had on his mind. Having been given the feeling of being taken advantaged of by the said fella (in terms of favors given and ridiculous, childish emails and phone calls), I have become wiser. I've had enough of his make-believe "emergencies" and sick egocentrism.

This, plus the earlier deflection of the proposed dinner plans for tomorrow (to be honest, I did it because I could not discern the intention or purpose on the part of this male friend - nice guy, nothing more)... am I getting cynical beyond hope? Or am I so defensive I'm verging on being offensive?

[I probably received more calls tonight than in the whole of last month.]

Horrible night. Horrible. I did a painting but I depleted quite a few colors in the process so I will need to go get replacements sometime. Aargh. Tomorrow, a meeting with a co-presenter of next week's conference in Toronto, and on Sunday, a visit to a local Korean Catholic church for the purposes of research. Did anyone say it's the weekend?

In case you're led to believe I'm that busy this semester, let me clarify. The truth is, this semester has been hell in another form. Unlike last semester which was arduous because I was trying to adapt to my first semester in graduate school, this semester's seemingly ideal (and idyllic) schedule turned against me. Having to go to school on only two days and having the rest of the time free left me feeling lethargic and unproductive and stuck in a vicious cycle. The uneven spread of commitments across the week further lends to this buildup. No school Monday and Tuesday, then 8am-10pm Wednesdays, no school Thursday and 8am-1pm Fridays.

The next couple of months till the end of the school year (and start of summer!) are dotted sporadically with exams to proctor and papers to complete. Nothing major. Then Europe comes next. I'm trying not to think too much about it (though there are some more tasks to do before I'll be ready) lest I burn out in anxiety and anticipation even before I board my first Transatlantic flight...

Even this will come to pass right?

a neat accent

2005-03-02T22:48:00.000+08:00

To tell someone they speak without an accent is an ethnocentric act, for it assumes one's own way of speech to be the reference point. It is ironic then, that many a "foreigner" regard the comment to be positive, i.e. that they have integrated into the current environment - the "original" accent is more often than not perceived as negative in the bid to acculturate.

The fact is, we all speak with an accent. It only ceases to be so when we're in the company of others who use it too.

"Everybody loves an accent. If you've been unlucky in love, consider pulling up stakes and moving to another country. Then you'll be the one with a neat foreign accent." - Marilyn vos Savant

Besides being a tool to distinguish "us" from "them", accents also carry with them a multitude of connotations. The French accent, for instance, has long conjured up images of romance. And ever heard of the indignant snuff by men, aligned with vos Savant above, that "all women love an accent"? Perhaps too, then, the "ching ching chong chong" of native Chinese speakers confers upon them a lesser status since their language and accent lack the supposed fluidity of Francophone and Germanic tongues?

Just another mean of instituting social hierarchy and instill (or diffuse, as the case goes) cultural pride and representation (the latter being a big debate for another day). While I can't stress enough the importance of effective communication (not lease to perpetuate intercultural understanding), I am also a huge proponent of cultural identity. And by that I don't mean one that is uniformly defined by McDonald's and the Internet.

In language, individuality can co-exist with universality. THAT is what it takes to be a global citizen.

totality and infinity

2005-02-23T22:48:00.000+08:00

"Believing... that consciousness was thoroughly embedded in the world, [Levinas] stripped aside all presumptions, including the presumption that there was a division between the subjective mind of the man and the objective world beyond the mind, to discover - the discovery set forth in Totality and Infinity - that the essence of man's mind was his awareness of the Other." (pp. 57)

The Face Of A Naked Lady
Michael Rips

Reading Michael Rips recount Levinas' consciousness discourse (Totality and Infinity) in The Face Of A Naked Lady, I am reminded of a series of thoughts and fascination I developed at a young age. As a child, I had always wondered about the state beyond man, transcending what we do, see, hear, feel and say, a state that was yet unknown to man (though ironically it appeared in my ponderance) but which nonetheless existed. Of course, then, I had framed it in simpler terms, reminiscent of the setting of another book I had recently finished reading - Le Petit Prince. I had wondered if I, the ponderer, could rise up, literally and figuratively, and observe all those below. I would exist in the sphere of "beyond", among the stars and the wide universe, infinity. I imagined myself an extra-terrestial being, a non-occupant. I also thought about how, if indeed I were to transcend being, then it necessitates a dislocation with the me here and now. When (If) I get to that state, I shall not even know/remember that there was a time I was dreaming about getting there. However, I would be the chosen one among the billions of earthlings privileged with this vantage point.

Liken it to death (or the thought of one's own death), if you will. I'm sure many have imagined the morbid thought of attending one's own funeral as a lingering soul, "walking" among those who mourn and grieve one's passing, finally coming upon the body where the soul used to live. It's something like that.

I must have only been in late elementary/middle school and obviously incapable of sophisticated articulations of the "space odyssey" I imagined embarking on. Still, a rather advanced subject to enter a child's mind! And a subject - consciousness - that continues to baffle me today.

What lies beyond?

long lazy december days

2004-12-21T11:26:00.000+08:00

Only in the tropics will the days be this long and lazy even in December. My days are passing by rather slowly and I'm losing track of days and dates (which isn't necessarily a bad thing). I blame it on the lack of programs and schedules. I have not attempted to meet up with friends, instead spending my waking hours using email and the Internet in preparation for Bart's trip to Singapore in two weeks, and trying to get myself to workout at the nearest public gym. Trying. Somehow I know, as the date nears for me to head back to the artic tundra that is Buffalo, I would lament my days are not long enough. We'll see...

Christmas is coming up this weekend and I scarcely feel it. Maybe I should take a trip downtown, soak in the atmosphere, do some mindless shopping. Some me time away from the family. Might do my sluggish self some good.

Here's a picture for you to chow on. We call it satay.

greetings from singapore

2004-12-17T21:37:00.000+08:00

The unbearable humidity that hits as the automatic glass doors part. The symphony of voices, folks talking over each other, and the television set, almost certainly an argument in process. The casual tee-and-shorts-and-flip flops combo that is the daily uniform.

I'm home.

After a frustrating tug-o-war with my overweight luggage, babies crying from Detroit to Tokyo and nearly 30 hours on the road, I arrived in Singapore with achy knees and in serious need of a shower, but relieved nonetheless. It is warm indeed, especially when compared to Buffalo (duh!), but I am glad to be back and will look forward to some rest...

rainbow connection

2004-12-08T12:19:00.000+08:00

I saw a rainbow today.

The past few days have been gray and wet with bouts of light snow and drizzle, a typical Buffalo December. Driving east on Maple Road today, the rain came down in big fat splatters. Messy, really. In its midst, somewhere, the sun broke through, osmotically conquering the gloom and spraying a most brilliant gold, luminous through the silver veil of clouds... all while the rain fell. Then the magic began...

The rainbow started out as a shot heaven-wards, like the last one I recall glimpsing. Obvious enough to discern from the gray-blue but not enough to define, almost just a faint sliver. I kept driving and the rainbow kept intensifying, in shape, in size, in color... till it formed a full arc! A full arc! Right ahead before me, above the hibernating trees, above the suburban homes of Williamsville, so wide I could not even contain it within my peripheral vision, and so very perfect. There. My eyes traced the colors outwards, like running a finger across piano keys. Indeed, it was so majestic and so close I could almost touch it.

I felt like a child. I was excited beyond words. I sang, I grinned, I let out a happy sigh... I did all I could in the confines between my steering wheel and my seat... but what I really wanted to do was to get out and dance, throw my arms open at the big glorious rainbow. I wish, too, that there was someone to share it with or, hypothetically, to call to say, "hey, look out the window", just so he knows I am thinking about him...

I was touched and overwhelmed by the symbolism thus presented, the analogies of rain and sun and rainbows so old they incline toward clichés, but which never fail to inspire. That while the rain falls, the sun shines, the enduring light amidst the dark. It was entirely appropriate for my mental state at this time of the year, this time of the semester and this time of the day. This little episode reminded me that goodness is omnipresent and lends itself to beauty, although at first it may be obscured. This very goodness has the extraordinary ability to transform even the darkest gloom and the deepest chill into an opportunity (after all, a rainbow forms in the presence of both sun AND rain) and channel positive energy through adversities.

One simply has to pick the right time and right angle.

geek

2004-12-03T04:49:00.000+08:00

My trip to the library today made me realize what a big geek I am, not that it's necessarily a bad thing of course. Throughout my life as a student, I've been conditioned to think of libraries as the antipode of hip. As a classmate in my video class last year famously (and in this context, utterly disrespectfully) proclaimed to me after I presented a book I was reading: "We don't like books!" And to use the royal pronoun at that. I nearly snapped his neck.

[I'm listenining to lounge/electronica as I type, seems way incongruous with a gray December afternoon, 3:50pm, but feels good... feels right.]

As I progress in my education career, I have come to cherish every morsel of information that pertains to, informs and enriches my theses, that helps me formulate my thoughts and leads me to the answers of my burning questions. Nothing beats the satisfaction of finding an author(s) who shares your vision and corresponding articles and books that address your issues. I am a fan of the electronic medium and seeing that I've been spoilt by easy access to the World Wide Web and UB's extensive web-based library resources, I have a preference for journals as reference materials, in the electronic format of course. Journals provide concise and up-to-date information that books, with the long publishing process and its structural demands, cannot. Thus, it is also fertile ground for discourse.

Today, it was also the search for journals that brought me to the library. I found some relevant articles which did not have full-text versions in any online databases. An inquiry with the InterLibrary Loan desk showed that UB does indeed possess those articles, albeit in bound hard-copy format. I've never retrieved articles this way. Imagine as I picked out the exact citations from among the masses of periodicals on Lockwood Level 3, browsing through the colorful bindings and thumbing the crisp pages. I was a happy bunny.

[Riffs of Spanish flamenco guitar play on my speakers now. I love the way it makes me feel. Beautiful...]

Our society philosophically lauds the high-brow ideals of knowledge and education but our popular culture paradoxically confers less value upon it, rather choosing to celebrate lived experiences instead. It's a battle that pits the school of knowledge with the school of hard knocks. Each has its own advocates. I have always been enrolled in the former but there exists a romantic notion in the latter that is quite alluring. I have been privileged all my life and though I shudder to reminisce about my intensely stressful high school days, there is a part of me that knows I would not have gotten this far had I not been through it. I sit back and read about the educational reforms that politicians and leaders back home are pushing for, specifically for the Chinese language pedagogy, I observe my brother as he navigates his way through the impossibly demanding system struggling to find his niche, I read my sister's self-analysis of the effects that a foundational Singapore education had on her... and I sigh.

[Chinese is a language that I have come to love and a heritage that I brandish proudly, though a good number back home are more than eager to shed this identity that is so integral to their being... shameless I say, clueless ignorant fools! Ok, cool down Angela. That's a story for another day.]

More than a personal endeavor of betterment, education has become an enterprise. Not just any, but an extremely complex entity intertwined with politics and economics. Indeed I sigh. I long for simpler times when things are streamlined, honest and effective and when people can be genuinely optimistic and hopeful. I don't even know where to begin describing my disillusionment.

The geek signs off.

thankfully yours

2004-11-27T00:58:00.000+08:00

Thanksgiving dinner this year was a sophisticated but intimate affair with good friends, in a decidedly grown-up setting that was both traditional and contemporary...

Dawn very kindly extended the invitation a month ago while we gathered at Ulrich's for Oktoberfest. As the day approached, I had no idea what (and who) to expect. I don't usually make a habit of asking my hosts about guest lists though I do gather cues to the scale and formality of events (a indication that I'm getting more confident in my socializing skills perhaps?). I am a tad old-fashioned but I like to pride myself on appropriate carriage.

I found myself in the company of mutual friends, mainly German students (no surprise really, since Dawn has close ties with them), as well as Dawn's sister Denise who provided the venue. We had a feast which Dawn and Denise pulled off seamlessly. Yummy-licious sides of potatoes, stuffing, squash, yams with pineapple bits, brussel sprouts, apples with blueberries, fresh cranberry relish - all delicately done - and a BIG beautiful turkey to boot! Washed down with some Vendange Pinot Noir and Wagner Riesling. Dessert consisted of Denise's pumpkin pie, Nupur's mango mousse, thin almond cookies from Eric and freshly brewed coffee.

After dinner, we had a round of Carcassonne (a strategy game where the aim is to build towns and roads by laying down randomly-drawn tiles) and some good conversation... while some simply napped in the comfy sofas (a culmination of late nights or the result of tryptophan, you decide!).

It was a soirée that emanated a certain mellow vitality and one in which I felt immensely at ease. I headed out in the frigid night to a second party soon after (where I latin danced into the wee hours of morn), warmed on this cold cold night by the delightful company.

[I was supposed to attend another party in between the two but I gave that a miss (called the hosts while at Dawn/Denise's) since the 45-minute drive from Tonawanda to Orchard Park would be too much for me to bear.]

Good friends, good food and the dance and music of life! I am indeed thankful...

twilight in the a.m.

2004-11-24T23:27:00.000+08:00

I feel like I'm caught in twilight zone. It's 10:28am and I'm sitting at my desk, at home, snipping irksome wool balls off my favorite black sweater with an old pair of scissors. Ella Fitzgerald and Nat King Cole play comfortably loud on my speakers. Frank Sinatra just came by with the girl from Ipanema. That's how I like my music... comfortably loud. Not blaringly loud that I can't hear myself, not so soft it fades into a dusty corner of the room either. Comfortably loud.

It's the first day of the Fall break and you would not believe what transpired in the night just past. No, not another drunken stupor. I started a paper I started. Restarted it. It was 10:30pm... and I kept working. And working. And working. This is the paper I swore to have done by Thanksgiving - the proposal for my Masters thesis which I came up with in about 2 minutes and now have to stick with for 2 years - the one about international students and their readjustment back to their home countries after their sojourn in America. And yes, it's done. YES. At 6:30am. I had worked through the night, not a wink, just kept going. Can't remember the last time this happened.

[seriously, with the amount of work that went into the proposal, which could still have more added to it since I'm waiting for 7 more articles from the library, and the adrenaline I was running on - headrush! - I thought I might just churn out 40 more pages today and call it quits next week... - fin -]

Seeing I had planned to hit the gym, I jumped into my gym gear and headed out. It was rainy though not as cold as I thought it would be (snow in the forecast later this afternoon). It felt almost surreal since half the town is gone somewhere, elsewhere, for Thanksgiving. Or maybe it's me imagining that half the town is gone somewhere, elsewhere, for Thanksgiving. Just a handful of cars in the lots belonging to lonely displaced people holed up on the 5th floor of Lockwood with books with 10-pt. fonts and yellowed pages and musty smells.

Or is it just. Me. Imagining.

[I'm wide awake, strangely wide awake.]

Here, a picture of sudden inspiration and naked aspirations before bathtime.

Back to snipping irksome wool balls.

sick

2004-11-22T09:51:00.000+08:00

Sick. Yes. Urgh.

How many times must I be told to never ever EVER drink on an empty stomach?

Went to a party last night and did just that. Because I spent the day working on a paper and painting, I did not sit down for a proper meal at all. And I paid for it in the end. Angela (my namesake/evil twin) must have seen me look kinda cranky and offered to send me home as she was about to leave. Thankfully... (i) in my grogginess I took a plastic bag with me coz I would have made a mess in her car if I hadn't, and (ii) I'm not one to make a scene when I drink, so I presume no one else really knew.

I was bedridden for much of today and threw up intermittently. Miserable. Did not exactly sober up till late afternoon. Urgh. Made myself a fried rice dinner but my tummy still feels kinda weak and mushy right now after all the acid...

What can I say... these things happen I guess. I only hope to banish them into the depths of my memory. Say no more Angela, no more!

fame n' fall

2004-11-17T11:29:00.000+08:00

A student came into the office today to turn in a paper to my colleague who is teaching a class this semester. Since she wasn't here, I told him I would make a note of today's date and leave it on her desk, and I did. As he was about to leave, this student whom I had never seen before turned around and asked if I drive a Toyota Celica.

[I was mildly startled, wondering what would follow.]

Erm... yeah? "Oh I always see you around. I think we have the same schedule or something," he explained.

Oh REALLY? He sees me AND my car THAT often and recognize me well enough in this brief encounter to put both together?

I don't even park my car anywhere near my department building for goodness' sake. And seriously now, a car isn't something you lug around on your back as you skip down hallways and waltz into lecture halls, is it?

[That said, I have commissioned Fabien to invent something like that for me... a car I can fold and put in my pocket.]

Didn't know I am THAT prominent on campus. :-)

**********

On another note, I shopped for my annual bake-a-thon today. Inspired by the rich colors and crisp air of autumn (one of the greatest gifts of living in a temperate climate), I have been spending an afternoon or two each fall whipping up desserts and sweets. It's a chance to try new recipes and spend some quality me time. It's therapeutic and much needed especially at this time of the year... with one month of school to go, I'm just about buried under work. I don't mean to sound melodramatic but because it's a natural tendency to think about the receipients of your products while you bake (thus "baked with love"), my annual ritual also reminds me that life is more than work. It's a meaningful process.

I started with apple squares 2 years ago - a warm, sweet cake with brownie-like consistency that I made with self-picked apples. Friends who tried it raved. Last year, my products of old-fashioned sugar cookies, packaged in festive gold and silver tins, made great gifts to my hosts for Thanksgiving, if I may say so myself. This year, I found a delicious-sounding recipe of cranberry biscotti on my favorite culinary website Epicurious. The ingredients are sitting in my kitchen and I'm ready to roll. This year, like the last, will see me attend two Thanksgiving celebrations - I hope my hosts will like the gift.

To top off this project, I'm painting wooden boxes to present the biscotti, each with a unique design and personalized with my receipients' names, so they can be reused afterwards.

Thanksgiving baking also serves as a dry-run for Christmas. For me, it means I get to test recipes at my leisure (the products of which are shared at the big turkey fête of course) and then make another batch to bring home to Singapore with me. Baking can be a lot of work, especially in a limited kitchen like mine... but nothing conveys the thought and message quite the same way as homemade treats.

I know what you're thinking... Angela the housewife. :-)

at long last

2004-11-16T03:26:00.000+08:00

At long last, Hotmail increased my account storage to 250MB for free (from a miserable 2MB) after an entire summer of promise. I know, I'm such a slave to technology, to the Internet, in fact. I can't help it. My past few months of online existence had been nail-bitingly nerve-wrecking, as I struggled to decide which emails to keep and which to toss, or which are the ones that are important-in-the-now but waiting-to-be-tossed, which I then forward in their entirety to my Gmail account, just to maintain my Hotmail at 95%. So often had the mailbox been clogged through my slumber that I woke up vexed, imagining the emails that I missed because they were bounced. In the waking hours, my mailbox was checked with such religious regularity that I had been known to generate replies within minutes of receiving mail.

Stubborn me. Since knowing about the imminent increase before summer, I had been clinging on to my faithful Hotmail (which I created right before I left for Buffalo more than three years ago as a convenient web-based means of keeping in touch with family and friends). I had been reluctant to go through the tedious process of informing three years' worth of contacts and mailing lists and an assorted online memberships about any change in email... so there.

I almost leaped for joy when I saw my Hotmail danger-o-meter (which has been a red warning for months) reduce to a slight green wedge as I logged on 2 minutes ago.

1% of 250MB, it declared.

Phew. PHEW. Felt like a breath of fresh air. I haven't been so happy for so long.

food network

2004-11-09T05:55:00.000+08:00

One of the greatest things about belonging to an international community like I do is the exposure to food from all around the world. I'm talking about the authentic stuff, not some American re-invention. Every occasion provides a reason to indulge and I cannot describe the feeling of pure exhilaration each time I try something new (usually under the watchful eyes of a dear friend who made it or who introduced me to it).

Food is apolitical (any remote conflict can only come from deciding between a red or white for dinner). We need more avenues like this. I'm so sick of the polarity of our world today. Can't we all just sit down for a meal?

[The North Korean leader Kim Jong Il is so famed for his discerning tastebuds that scholars have speculated that the way to a dialogue with him is through his stomach.]

Saturday night I had a wonderful dinner with Di and Saed. It was a rather hands-on experience. Saed brought ingredients over for an Arabic dinner and we all got down to work. It almost felt like a cooking show... A couple of hours and a failed attempt at falafel later, we tucked in to homemade baba ghanouj and a juicy kofta casserole with potatoes and tomatoes. It was heavenly...

Last night Gian Paolo and I went to Rizzo's, my favorite Italian restaurant in the area, after I picked him up from the airport (he just came back from sunny Rome... lucky lucky - I just saw the first snow of the season an hour ago). I have been dreaming about their penne amore for so long (the student budget prevents me from going there more often)... artichokes, sun-dried tomatoes, almond slivers on hearty penne pasta... Add to the dinner good conversation... makes a night.

I'm a little distracted today. There's a ton going on at the same time and I'm desperately trying not to miss anything. And try to do good at that. Not easy. Truth is, I'm still feeling horrible inside and will continue to feel horrible till I rid of all these burdens I have laden on me right now. I could go on with my spiel but it's nothing you've not heard before. I'm up to HERE... any further provocation and I may just explode.

[Ok, great, one of my final paper proposals have just been semi-rejected. Ha. Dammit.]

12 more pages of writing tonight. I hope I get to sleep before 3.

after an afternoon

2004-11-06T11:04:00.000+08:00

It’s one of those Friday evenings. I knew it going into it. Accompanied by Jason Mraz and a glass of German riesling, I let tonight slip by. Not that I have nothing to do (quite the contrary), but rather that I wish not to get them done. I feel paralyzed by the melancholy. Friday nights especially have the ability to magnify emotions. It is the strange juncture that is the divide between weekday and weekend. Neither here nor there. I wish I was living a more fulfilling existence than one whose highlight of the night is a one-liner email from a faraway friend. Yet, I am subconsciously relishing the doing nothing. And I rejoice having such a friend to count on… Thanks Bart.

It is time alone. And I need time alone. But realize that lonesomeness is one of either two kinds - optimistic and assured or dejected and uncertain - and mine hinges on the latter... Oh well, perhaps I am merely subscribing to the social notion that something has to be done on Friday nights. Being rather insecure, no?

After An Afternoon plays on the speakers. Brilliant song. Thanks Jason.

I bare my windowed self untamed and untrained
Dreams that hardly touch our complexion’s truest faults
If room enough for both my drowsy spirit shall fall
Bold waves tumble to the season of my heart
Where you have offended my faith and my trust
Until all is lost into the beauty of the day
Until all is lost away

But there's something in the way you laugh
That makes me feel like a child
Aspects of life they confuse me
You and your thesis amuse me

After an afternoon with you
And your rich brown eyes
Your lips and dark hair
Elbows and exposed knees tossing toward the ceiling
After an afternoon

Face to palm
Tear to tear
Mouth to tongue
Heart to ground
I am in love

all in a (normal) day's work

2004-11-04T12:51:00.000+08:00

I'm chomping on a simplified version of caesar salad which I learnt from my former colleague Jerrie. Romaine lettuce, ziti pasta, Wegmans Mighty Caesar dressing and Wegmans parmesan cheese. For some reason my tastebuds are a little discerning tonight - I'm longing for some freshly-grated cheese instead of this dried stuff with too much sodium, and perhaps some quality dressing prepared from scratch. Tastebuds are not happy. Maybe I'll bake myself an apple later to make up for it (it's fool-proof and I need to use up the last Cortland in my fridge before it shrivels).

Actually I'm not at all hungry. It's just one of those pangs you get at 11:30pm when you're nowhere near going to bed but feel equally distanced from dinner. Dinner tonight was rather special, if simple. Di asked me along for an informal function organized by the UB Middle Eastern Student Club. Since it's Ramadan, these students get together each evening for eftar, or to break fast. We had kofta and homemade baklava. Yum. I also caught up with Saed (whom I knew 2 years back through volunteering for an international student orientation) and Wael (whom I knew recently because we were panelists on a discussion about international education). Both guys are from Palestine and are among the nicest, most cordial people I know.

I just received an email from Dad who said he will be headed to Amman, Jordan for a meeting soon. I wish I could go with him. It's probably the third time he's making the trip and I've always wanted to tag along to explore the country (and the region).

I saw Niles today. You know how these things happen when you least expect it. It was during lunch. I met Di and we decided to head to the Korean place. Di walked ahead of me and settled right at the table next to him. When I saw him, I just turned and walked out. Instinctual. Then I called Di on her cellphone and told her we should move (she was puzzled but was accomodating and didn't quiz me further). I don't know if he saw me (I think he did) but honestly, I don't really care. Seeing that my mind was occupied with a major presentation I had to make after lunch and that I was in the company of friends who don't know this episode in my history, I just didn't want to deal with possibly having to greet him and the ensuing awkwardness. And for those who do know the episode, be assured - I'm fine, really (if you need further affirmation, look at this entry's title). Almost indifferent now. Besides, I'm learning to not make a big deal out of it and out of him. It comes not only from isolating myself from the episode but also enriching my life with amazing people and experiences, segmenting the past and the present. Yes it hurt like hell and the scar remains... but at a time when my professional life feels stagnated and my spirituality is challenged, I'm desperate to advance in other aspects. It's the most brazen encounter yet since I found out late summer that he will be back. I have a hunch we'll eventually cross one another's paths. I intend to deal with it then. With this past, I am nonchalant. After two long years...

we are the world

2004-11-02T14:07:00.000+08:00

Each time I speak to Mum, I find myself acutely tuned to her subconscious analyses of racial and ethnic identity, primarily that which she presumes I hold in America. Her accidental but non-malicious “so you’re the only yellow-skinned there…” or “the Westerners…” tell of her deeply-entrenched views of what constitutes a race, as well as racial relations. From an academic point of view, her speech is extremely problematic and abhorred (really, I’m not trying to find fault with Mum’s casual speech). Social scientists from different camps have long protested against the lumping of people into mass, unidentifiable, meaningless groups such as “Asians” or “Westerners” and I have always personally championed this idea. As such, it is particularly telling that my mum, who was born, bred and had lived in Singapore all her life, should subscribe to the same stereotypes that the academic community blames the general American public for possessing. Perhaps stereotypes are further-reaching than was thought, perhaps they have a self-fulfilling quality. When a stereotype becomes so widely employed as to be universal, does it cease to be contemptuous?

This mistake of generalization is a common one not exclusive to my Mum. Maybe I’m willing to overlook this error because she is, after all, MY mum. But at the same time, I’m able to overlook it, despite my education in race, ethnic and cultural theories, because I know my interactions with individuals from a myriad of racial, ethnic and cultural backgrounds (and my subsequent documentation and reports to her, via the phone and through pictures) have helped broaden her perspective of the world. Far from cynicism and malevolence, she speaks in a tone of wonder and amazement and most importantly of all, agreement. Voila! With no insistence from a self-righteous sociologist, she has achieved the goal of acceptance of racial, ethnic and cultural diversity. All this without the explicit abolishment of contrived stereotypes in her psyche. She just fails to use the right words, that’s all.

Granted, the existence of stereotypes is still potentially harmful and may, at times, pose a barrier to more comprehensive and wholesome conceptualization of such terms as race and culture. But instead of preaching the ideal condition in which humans should live, perhaps what we need is a little non-violence. Stop forcing high-brow ideologies down people’s throats. Take the gentler approach and show by example. We can all live happily ever after.

rethink: piano man

2004-11-01T10:42:00.000+08:00

Rethinking: Piano Man - Billy Joel.

This is one song which I loved before I heard it. I love the sad harmonica (I love all things sad, for that matter, but more on that later), the lilt of the piano keys, the very real and visual lyrics - the first person narrative, the grand collective "us" and the themes of loneliness, dreams, chance. Each note, each word slumbered in my deeper consciousness and awoke when I heard them together for the first time in the song.

Can you love someone before you meet him/her?

What a romantic notion. Maybe it occurs when someone resonates so deeply that you feel not only familiarity but predestiny. You love the qualities embodied by the person and in turn, love the person who personifies those which you love. The person answers a call, fits the puzzle perfectly and completely [Piano Man momentarily fits the sensory puzzle at this juncture in my life]. There is comfort in a shared space and ease with shared thoughts. So yes, you can love someone before you meet him/her... therein lies the irony which is also its appeal. Indulge in abstract thought... someone give me an answer?

I do love all things sad. I have always been drawn to tortured souls (unfortunately also the cause of my own downfall where relationships are concerned) and I think it came from being a teenage poet and artist. I relish the intensity and depth of misery that I have not yet experienced with happiness (not the same magnitude). Somehow, because misery exists in such an exclusive domain, it adheres to my partiality to individuality. Misery has an inspirational, introspective quality about it while happiness simply invites celebration and with it, oblivion.

I am increasingly convinced that I need some time off from my current position. I need to do things like this - listen, think, write, reflect - to reconnect with myself without distraction. I hate to sound like doom's prophet and I desperately want to be hopeful, encouraging and positive. But each night as I sit before my computer, I push aside the work I know needs to be done for school and wrestle with my thoughts instead. The lack of academic motivation aside, there seems to be a more urgent need to reorganize my life. It's so hard to muster up the courage to reclaim myself...

Sing me a song, Piano Man.

halloween

2004-11-01T07:47:00.000+08:00

Happy Halloween.

What a whirlwind of a weekend. Friday night I was over at Diane's carving pumpkins for the big bash on Saturday. I had never done it before and was very excited. Thought it might be difficult but before long I was completely engrossed. It really isn't rocket science and I derived a lot of enjoyment out of my little project (perhaps because it befits the general artistic inclination I have in my life now). Two hours and a finger blister later, I finished two big jack-o-lanterns, one of which is pictured below. Not too bad for a first effort, no?

And of course the big event on Saturday. I got up early to put my stubbornly straight hair in pincurls. After all the research I did for my costume this year (for authenticity's sake... and also since I'm fanatical about period fashion), I am glad I don't live in the 50s. Ok, for all the opulence and properness, maybe... but it takes a ton of work for women those days to prep themselves to look "decent". I decided to spin a floral crinoline dress in my closet into a Prom Queen outfit from 1959, complete with a cheesy plastic tiara, a handmade sash and a string of pearls. Perfect. I own several vintage dresses and any of them would make a good costume any day... but THIS needs a special occasion. I love the red/pink rose motifs on the navy background, very festive...

I arrived early to help set up signs but the crowd didn't start streaming in till about 10. The best part about Halloween is trying to recognize your friends in their various guises. Masks and wigs were common this year (little work, big impact)... but little bits of creativity brought smiles to my face. Take the Wegmans (a local supermarket) butcher for instance, with "blood" splattered across his white shirt, blood-stained "knives" and a pillow for a paunch (good job Yuri!). Other costumes range from the courageous (which, for me were the face painters) to the convenient... some sightings include Darth Maul, a trio of nuns (and Jesus!), Austin Powers, hippies, a couple of pirates, Hawaiian guys/girls... fairly traditional Halloween fare...

Di hosts amazing parties though she would contend it's the people who makes them work. I think it takes a bit of both. The great network of internationals (and their American friends) here makes weekends something to look forward to and barren Buffalo just that little bit more bearable.

a world of music

2004-10-29T09:12:00.000+08:00

I'm writing this entry in between bites of homemade egg salad baguette sandwich (again). I just dropped a slice on my laptop, egg salad side down of course. Imagine the mess. There are still remnants of pale yellow mayo-and-yolk mixture in the crevices of my keys.

I've been (re)discovering music lately, in the form of artistes whom I came across months or years ago, as well as entirely new discoveries. One guy that I've been raving about is Richard Shindell, an American (New York/New Jersey) folk-rock singer-songwriter who moved to Argentina with his Argentinian wife and two children in 2000. I was browsing at the Barnes and Noble music department one Friday evening when I randomly picked up his latest album (It's strange but I have had very good luck with finding new music at B&N). This album, Vuelta (2004), comprises of mellow, rhythmic sounds with hints of latin influence (though Richard could barely conceal his thick American-accented Spanish on several of the tracks). A beautiful offering. Reviews I came across online, whether from critics or fans, have pointed to Richard's being an excellent lyricist. I am happy with what I've been hearing but would like to go back a little more into his musical past to decide for myself. Courier, his 2002 live album, sounds very interesting from the samples I've heard. It's on my Christmas wishlist.

Through Richard Shindell I came to know about Dar Williams, a female folk singer-songwriter. (Richard, Dar and a third female artiste, Lucy Kaplansky, briefly formed the group Cry Cry Cry and released one album in 1998.) With song titles like Western New York Wants To Be Southern California, you know you are in for some kicky fun. Judging by the number of albums Dar released, she is a prolific artiste and she also seems to enjoy a stable and loyal fanbase. I've only heard samples so far and read reviews about how commercialization has diluted the raw edge of her earlier works. Isn't that always how it is? Another one for the wishlist.

Recently, I rediscovered Ottmar Liebert through a special feature on National Public Radio (NPR) of his new album entitled La Semana (2004). I first heard Ottmar three years ago when I was introduced to latin dance. Ok, so maybe I did not dance to any of his tunes... but I was deeply drawn to Barcelona Nights, one of the most successful tracks on his influential and genre-defining album Nouveau Flamenco (1990). His signature flamenco guitar sounds are as alluring today as they were then. A third Christmas wish.

[Latin music touches me like nothing else can... I was hooked after getting involved in latin dance in Spring this year. There is an indescribable and contagious spirit that lies between those lines, words which I may not understand but emotions which I feel most deeply. With the kind of affectual optimism that latin music exudes, it's hard to be indifferent.]

Today I found Tibet... through two very talented and inspiring Tibetan musicians. I have always been drawn to Tibet - it represents a certain mysticism not only of the East but of the world, a utopia that is so much separated from the rest of our societies by virtue of its spiritual centeredness, yet grounded by the same ideological struggles that we find ourselves embroiled in. The first artiste is Nawang Khechog, a high-profile flutist who was a Tibetan monk. Through collaborations with artistes in the West (and earning a Grammy nomination), he successfully brought Tibetan music to the Western audience (albeit not to the mainstream). There is a lot of depth to his flute which is both haunting and sobering. The second artiste is Yungchen Lhamo, a Tibetan lady with a beautiful voice. I particularly enjoyed samples from her album Tibet, Tibet (1996), which included pieces without accompaniment... where her voice resonates in a special way. Just like Nawang Khechog, Yungchen Lhamo has found some success in the West, having collaborated with several American artistes and having had her work included in compilations. She is signed to Peter Gabriel's record label Real World. Yet another for the Christmas wishlist.

Picture for today is from Montreal.

sleeping to dream

2004-10-28T11:27:00.000+08:00

How sleep-deprived am I? I came back a little before 5 today, grabbed a bite of homemade egg salad baguette sandwich and Perry's Bittersweet Symphony ice-cream and took a nap, thinking I'll be up at 7 to start my "day". The last I checked, it was 10:45. Great. Now half my night is gone.

[credit to Jason Mraz for yet another great title... sleeping to dream. I love that Mraz-guy so much I wore a self-customized shirt with his name across my chest today, and I don't usually do that slogan t-shirt thing.]

A boring day at school. Spoke to a few people in the department and there was a collective sense of dejection. Maybe I'm not alone after all. Still, it doesn't take away the fact that each afternoon as I trekked away from Park Hall to my car (which I consider a suitable refuge from the world - it's mine, and I take it anywhere I want, putting on the music that suits my mood... I like how amplified the sounds are in the confines of my Celica), I am so overwhelmed I just want to cry. All this nervous tension welling up inside, like it was more than two years ago, the autumn after Niles. This time for a different reason, in a different circumstance. Red meets gray in the Buffalo autumn.

As it aptly shows in this picture taken on a requisite autumn trip to Letchworth State Park two weeks ago.

unfold

2004-10-27T11:36:00.000+08:00

Each time my life hits a wall I am tempted to spill it all on the web, thinking it would matter to the occasional person (in Siberia perhaps) who chances upon my writing. Hence I start a website. And weeks or months down the road when things are on the upturn again, the site is neglected into oblivion. Maybe.

Not a very positive start to this project, is it? My past web efforts have straddled my intense desire to be private and my subdued (but nonetheless obvious) need to reach out, being mindfully guarded yet shamelessly flirtatious... a duality so inclined to a flaw that confusion grips me before I can begin to articulate my thoughts. Maybe that's why they don't last too long, because I can't decide on what I want to them to be. And so, a virtual front, a presentation to the world of how I wish to be perceived at a certain point in time - now does the fact that I am conscious of my superficiality render me less guilty?

[Why "imagined rose" - I don't know. It's the first 2-word phrase that came to mind.]

I have long been inspired by the likes of Jason Mraz (from whom, by the way, the title "unfold" comes - it's a beautiful song) whose virtual ramblings leave me crying or laughing or hollering, always generating some form of response and never monotonous. Deliberately incorrect, informal, irrelevant but real. And what delightful patterns of visual interest, of alphabets, words, phrases that hook the reader, throwing an open invitation to imagine.

I am not that dreamy today. I have not been dreamy for a long while. Dead sober in fact, with a dose of staunch denial, of the predicament in which I have landed myself. This predicament being grad school, my being in it. What prospects!, I had thought, to be thought well of enough to be sponsored. But gratitude does not always translate into motivation. I feel like a changed person from just months before. I had worked hard and that diligence culminated in a very satisfying graduation in May. Now I just feel blah. Sure I am getting by (barely though) but the lack of constant assessment of oneself in graduate programs obfuscates exactly just how much I am getting by. The passion that I once felt for sociology and for pursuing a degree beyond a basic bachelor's seem to have vanished or replaced. It doesn't help that I have yet to figure out exactly what took its place. What the hell is happening to me, I ask myself. No clear aspirations that I can discern, no stubborn obstacles that are laying in my way either. Just blah.

The only things that could raise my interest a notch are my new creative pursuits. I picked up painting again (acrylic on canvas) and indulged in an impulsive self-portrait photo project (an example of which is seen here). The first of many to come I'm sure, since I'm very pleased with the results. I lay the paint on thick. Toss my head back in the split second the camera goes off. It's all therapeutic. For the moment. And I have a product to show at the end. I don't conceptualize because there's no need to. No need to answer to anyone, no goals, no deadlines, no anticipation, no worries. It feels like a return to childhood. It's all good in the now. Till morning comes and I trudge through the autumn cold to a stale compartment in Park Hall (feels like I recycle my own oxygen), stare at the wall for three hours before I drag myself to class and pretend to look intelligent.

I have become my own worst nightmare. I have become the species I so detested. I have become disinterested, uninvested and spiritually disconnected.

Happy Birthday Mum.

[I've been listening to Billy Joel's Piano Man. I let it loop at least 10 times before I get so sick of it and shut Winamp down. Then I do it again the next day.]