contextualisation

The bell sounded, and so the red transitlink bus trundled to a stop opposite raffles town club. She barely noticed, too busy dreaming in her world. When she looked up at the traffic light, she realised that there was a bus conductor doing what all bus conductors do. Momentary panic rose in her, not so much because she hadn't paid her fare but because it was a habitual thing after one bus conductor forced her to the police when she was 14 [but that's another story]. So after reminding herself that she had paid, she took out her ezlink card and waited for the bus conductor to make her way down the aisles, staring at her in the way she always did to people. Not a concious thing, mind you, such realisation usually came only after she was thinking of things in retrospect. Really relaxing only after the bus conductor returned her the ezlink, she tried to put her card back into her purse. It wouldn't quite fit. Sometime during the reshuffling of cards and other purse.y items, she realised that there was an auntie two seats down who had turned around and was glaring at someone. It wasn't a simple glare; it was one with such intensity and anger that the woman's eyes were bluging somewhat. Her right hand was gripping the seat in front of her, and the girl tried to see if she could make out the veins in the woman's wrist. Most startling of all, the auntie was so overcom with fury that her lips had virtually disappeared. Try being in such a rage that your lips aren't simply pursed in disapproval; they're actually inside the buccal cavity. It's rather painful.

She wondered idly who that auntie was angry at. It certainly couldn't be her; she didn't know any skinny chinese aunties dressed in cotton shirts of thin pink and white horizontal strips with bluging eyes and no lips. It was even rather amusing, and she tried to look into the woman's eyes, dropping them sometimes because it certainly wasn't polite to stare so conciously and heaven forbid, what if she caught the auntie's attention. After a bit more shuffling, she managed to close her purse and so looked up. The auntie was still turned, glaring. It was a bit unnerving, actually. How it looked as though she was the one being stared at. Rubbish, she told herself. An illusion.

At the stop opposite raffles girls, the auntie turned back to face the front. The girl was rather relieved. It had been fun analysing the auntie's face, and even stare back rather insolently pretending that she was a rebellious daughter and this was her tyrant mother, but there was only so much you could look at when there was a woman glaring at someone in her direction, before one's mind started thinking of too much nonsense. Then the auntie whipped her head back. And screamed.

It was a short phrase, couldn't have been more than six syllabus. What was more unsettling to the girl was that she couldn't place the langauge. It wasn't chinese, english or anything like that. It didn't sound like any dialect she knew either. After staring, and staring again at the poor person, the auntie turned back. The girl beside the auntie edged away from her and closer to the window. The girl noticed that and was grateful she wasn't the one closed in beside that woman. Suddenly the head was whipped around again and this time although the girl was prepared for another scream it came in such volume that she literally jumped. More people were turning their heads, and since she didn't want others to think that she was the one being screamed at [she certainly wasn't], she turned her head slightly too towards the back row. Must be that guy, she thought.

Far East Plaza was the next stop, and many people got off, including the girl beside the woman. So did the guy behind her. And suddenly she was struck with the fear that the woman had been screaming at her all the while, even if she didn't know her. She scooted into the inner seat, so she'd be out of the woman's eye view, the lady beside her having left too.

She can't quite remember how, but the next thing she knew was that the woman had gotten out of her original seat and was walking down the aisle and sat. down. beside. her.

The woman's head was fully turned towards her, while her body was still facing the front. The same bulging eyes were directed completely at her, the same lipless mouth staring at her. Her worse fear arose simply because she didn't know what the woman would do next. For one broad moment flight decisions of all sorts presented themselves to her. And then she urgently tapped the girl in front of her.

"hello. I don't know who she is or what she's saying. Can you please go to the bus driver and let him know? I'm very scared."

The girl just looked at her. Accessing the situation. Should she help? The one trapped wanted to scream at the entire ridiculousness of it all. How could that girl not immediately rush off to the driver?

"Do you need me to go to the bus driver?"

She looked up. Her eyes focused on a guy who had stood up from the opposite aisle, trying to ignore the appalling face below.

"Yes please." With emphasis. And with that, he was striding down the bus.

She wondered what would happen in the meantime. And wished desperately someone had come along with her on the bus. Then her brain registered another voice.

"I'll talk to her . Can you try and inch out?" Another young male.

"I would hope so."

[in chinese] "auntie, don't be angry. come and seat over here." The auntie complied.

She rushed out, and her first instinct was to hide at the back seat.

"Go GO to the front." The front was full. So she went just a couple of seats in front. Which was the auntie's original seat, although the horrible irony didn't strike her till sometime later. The bus driver, a young one, came charging down. His verdict was that since she wasn't violent, everythiing was alright. He went back to his seat, feeling all poweful. Random uncles from their seats started turning around to make comments and adding their reassurances to strangers around them. Shaken, she just stared out of the window, wishing that somebody was beside her.

When she got down some time later, she looked up as the bus roared past her. The passagers on the left aisle were staring curiously at her. And her last glimpse of the bus was that woman, whose face was still the same, directed at her.

my mind's playing 'City on a Hill', and somehow it's even better than not hearing it actually played. You know the difference. Having a song in your head is unreal, echo.ey and whispy, for some reason by brain is suggesting these words to me. I think unreal is a good description though. It cannot be verified by the senses. It is not an actual sound. Therefore it is not real? unreal? In any case, I'm embracing unreality again. I think sometimes I live too much in a world I make up for myself. but, it isn't very obvious, I think. shrug. just came back from dinner with vince; I really enjoyed the weather. Credit to him for pointing it out more than once. I loved how the world was gloomy and grey. I love the weather gloomy and grey. It calls out to me, inviting scope for imagination- or just drifting dreams. nus was gloomy and grey... I'd go out of the warm room and type this amidst the weather but I just checked the time and it's ohmygoodness kind of thing; just twenty minutes left to training. but it's still raining and - the message tone sounds- no training! pumps a fist in the air. Now I can sit back and ponder upon the existence of Self [vince's response when I told him training was cancelled]. wellwell whadyouknow. I'm doing it already.

Feeling somewhat pensive, and not in the mood for big words and much thought. Not a day for thinking, nor for thoughts to run away. Running is tiring, you know. Not much up for photos to cover the spaces either. Just feeling somewhat.. dreary.

I'll be leaving Singapore this thursday, and will be back on sunday night. Then on monday it's on the plane bound for Home and thank God, edna mode's leave got approved so he can play the bodyguard for kayan and I as we travel from singapore to bangkok and then to chiang mai and then Fang. I had no hope at all for his leave actually, after Joel's got rejected. I guess God has His plans.

And when I come back on the 6th [of january, of 2007], it's back to the grind. I'm tired of it. One sem's passed, seven more to go. It has passed fast, yes, and perhaps I even do enjoy what I'm reading. Right now though, I'm just asking myself if there isn't a better thing somewhere else. Like cooking school, for example. I like cooking. okay maybe I like eating more than cooking but that's beside the point, really. okayy fine maybe I'm not exactly seriously thinking of cooking school but my point is, can my life be better spent somewhere else? I'm not in uni for the piece of paper; honestly I'm not. It's the process more than the end. It's the experience more than the result. So are there worthier experiences out there? Or is it just the rain and norah jones and.. something else I keep in my heart that's playing tricks on me? I really shouldn't be writing when I'm in this state. I should....
just write and hope everyone understands that when I write during times like these to ignore whatever I say. Or at least take them with many pinches of salt.
Actually, most of the times when I write, people should just try and come on my terms and not on conventional rationality. Things Are always what they seem to be in my turf.. you just need to know what they Should seem to be. not necessarily what you think it should seem to be. Think like me and things, on my turf, will always be what they seem to be.

I want to be a housewife. Anyone wants to take me in? Open to all genders- but I can only marry the guys, I'm afraid.








That's enough.

reflections

okay I'm back from an overnight stay at camp, and a MEET thing.
First, I've learnt that I shouldn't be complaining yah. Who said anything worth doing was easy? And like king david put it, I won't give a sacrifice to God that doesn't cost anything. Besides, I'm the one being blessed in the long run. So, I need to be more far-sighted.

yay. Resolution reached. Have fun at camp guys. (:

thrashing it out

It's 239 in the morning and I'm sitting here typing why? because I'm not at yf camp. why am I not at yf camp? because it clashes with MEET. what's MEET? something that seems to take away so much time.
Missions Equipping and Exposure Training, I think that's what it means. Basically all of us who got into the program meet once every two saturdays from 2-6 [these are Joint Meetings], and then we meet again in smaller groups every other week, thereabout. [Team Meetings] During the meetings we have things like bible study, lectures on the various aspects of missions, workshops and so on. This december, we have a camp from the 21st-24th, and to prepare for that camp, our team has a retreat from the 13th-15th. Which clashes with yf camp. ta-da. Reason why I can't go for yf camp. okay I wasn't like intensely into it but still. that's besides the point. So I basically train for 9 months, and then spend one month in the mission field. Going to the phillipines.

because of MEET, I've had to give up my long long stay at chiang mai. I can't go for yf camp. I can't go for carolling with yfers Or with my family. This is a bit thick. sigh maybe it's from the 21st-24th so that we'll be more vulnerable then. well yeah it's working.. people are questioning why I don't go for yf any more, why I'm so out of things. people are asking me why I'm not going for this, not going for that, and I'm like, oh it clashes with something. Something. and then I start thinking about how if I hadn't heard of MEET.
yet, the thing is, I couldn't have not signed up. The Great Commission is precisely about missions. If I am serious about obeying His commandment, then shouldn't I prepare myself the best I can? and I have learnt so much, really. and everytime I think about this, there is this very definite knowledge that my life'd be hallow, compared to life without MEET. What would YOU have done huh?

sigh. I'm just missing my friends.

It's barely noticeable, really. If it wasn't for the number you might not think it mattered at all. But I suppose twenty years count [count? counts?] for something. The big two 0 that goes round and round so that you think the liminal chronological dimension is infinite. Folly, innit. y'think yr so grown up and yet you feel so young. I still wish I could find something thoroughly entertaining online, actually. Nothing seems light-hearted nor interesting enough. so there's this utter boredom because it's from within and how do you change that huh.

oh help me my sec1 student's proposing to me on msn.

and then a soft rustling of the leaves catches my attention while I'm on msn discovering that both patrick and I listen to andrea bocelli. well well. and I thought I was the only one in Singapore who did. okay the fact that I listen because it's italian so the lyrics won't distract me while I'm studying doesn't count. It still remains that I listen to andrea bocelli. hurhur. well the leaves rustle and something patters so I look up- to my pleasant suprise the rays of the sun are shining golden, in the way that only the setting sun can achieve and the lucid green leaves of the young tree nearest to my window stands out beautifully against the dark matured brown of the older tree trunks a little way behind. Yes it's raining and the drops are golden too, golden and transparent watery that only water in the settingsunlight can be. I look a little more to my left and the furthest tree is standing almost by itself; it's brown is alone anyway [unlike the first two I mentioned; those are visually intertwined, -not literally] but the leaves companianably moosh with the others well these leaves are green and golden green and brown and at the same time raindrops are dripping from the tips here and there and the wonderful smell of rain gives me a cosy love so that I have to log on blogspot and capture this moment, even if I have political science tomorrow and jeremy just messaged to demand that I study.
[on reading this over, I'm not too sure that I have though. sigh. sorry. I did try. and now thunder has sounded for the second time; I think it's a sign. Back to political culture. :(]

they were closing their window grills and blinds because of the mosquito fogging.

It's a sleepy afternoon, and I'm contemplating whether or not to take a siesta even though there's political science tomorrow subconciously your brain is registering the smell a smell an artificial hazey smell that makes my animal instincts raise its hackles but since I am more human than animal [so I would believe] I don't realize what my brain is smelling. clank clang clak clak intermittent sharp wooden sounds and suddenly I realise that they aren't random noises of big beatles being popped open they're the sound of plastic on glass. None of my thoughts make sense, really. Only reality does this time. and now I am more aware this sound is actually familar it comes when the rain does oh it's the sound of glass panes and the almost timeless [not in the common sense] whack of plastic on aluminum bah what is wrong with my head today. where are all the words. sound and smell come together and then I know, it's the fogging man come to fog eusoff. In creating clouds will they cleanse. Of course no one remembers the chemicals they leave behind, dump on the ground down down down into the tree roots that suck suck suck up into the xylems and pholems only, I've forgotten which is which and does what. Perhaps though, these are enviomentally-friendly clouds that our government has benevolently bestowed upon hall residents. do you think. well well I thump my knees on my bed and knee walk to the window thump thump blankets shifting bedsheets rearranging themselves but hey it's okay, they love me and I love them too. God knows they are part of my very important sleep. where was I hmmmmm yes I am at the window and out of my trees I see the short wing closing their windows add sight to sound. through the holes in the leaves I see blinds coming down more sound more sound zap zap although in reality it's a zaaaaaaaP for as long as the blinds are. zaaaaaaaP and I can see actions perfectly in sync with the sound it's pretty cool really. First you had the sound then you see the action so you realise yes. It's like math. One plus one make two. A sound and an action make a good movie experience. Not only do I hear the smacking of plastic on aluminum I see the window panes closing too. Cause and effect. Except this time the window panes are slower than the sound nevertheless it's an enjoyable experience, seeing the leaves blow green in the wind and sunlight's children appearing about [they don't run they don't dance] now and then through the holes in the leaves they show themselves only through holes in the leaves now and you hear zaaaaaP and smack smack and you see zaaaaaaP and smack smack. Have you ever realised that?

Arrrgh the photos didn't remove themselves.


[and the funny thing is, after This post they did. I am thoroughly delighted. I just had to go back to the dashboard and add this postscript.]

do I have to have a title for everything

I tried changing my blogskin; I've tried it at least once before. Doesn't work. I'd like something a little less idyllic than this, the clouds and things are fine. I need the whole image to fit, don't you know. Felt like removing all the photos; photos make a blog personal and this is not meant to be a personal blog because of photos. I don't need photos to stamp my mark over, hardly. Photos add a face to this place and I'd. rather not. No visual, no visual. Words are all that's needed. But then I can't remove the photos because I firmly believe that my posts are worth something, even if I regret putting them up afterward. Which is why there're so few personal personal posts. Ignore the ones this month please, they were friggin' emotional and yes yes I fell. I have my human side you know you know. So as it is I can only ramble and hope the photos disappear right down to the ubiquitous next page, previous page, the page that isn't material, the nonexistent page if. you don't click on the little link at the side and please don't. I like my perception of my blog to be the one everyone has. No wait. I like everyone's perception of my blog to be the same as I have. Bossy, yes I know. Comes with being the older one. Cue for my snooty face.
The main light's off, but the study light's on so my room's darkened because I've got a lovely little girl napping on my dark redden bed. Not with blood, mind you, neither decomposing nor fresh. It's just the tribal lines, that's all. She's gently patting the bed with the feet now, that's all of her I can see with my peripheral vision anyway. oh wait. Can she sleep with music? I forget. She can't study with music, that I know. and then I remember that once she fell asleep on my red rug and even jaded of aerosmith wouldn't budge her. I had to leave my keys with mai ahn before meeting the prof. Don't you start getting ideas that my room is a giant chinese lantern, now. I had to match the cream walls and wood coloured funiture. Red goes well enough. But then again I'm bored of describing my room; the [outdated] video's on one of the previous posts that jeremy so kindly [ahem] did for me. key descriptions notwithstanding. rachel is mad huh. well done, well done. I've got a reputation on youtube for all the world to see. Still, let me first declare that my room is Very Much Nicer now. very very much nicer. I do take pride in these things, y'know. Little touches here and there; not concious to the visitor but that's the whole point. You don't want people to start analysing what makes your room so homey; you want them to exclaim oh how gorgeous! and that's enough satisfaction. I don't want my style copied, no siree. And yes, I am proud to say that I have received compliments for my room. So don't call me a bimbo when I insist that egbert nalgene the second has to complement me. So yes, trust me when I say I have a cosy room. Even if it's sloppy now from all the exam work. sigh. unironed clothes piled high on my single seat sofa, bed undone. purple bedroom slipper unceremoniously flipped the other way round, lying undignified on my ikea rug that joel bought. credit where credit's due, confessions when needed. Even when uneeded. I could have said that I've got a beaut room and have left it at that, and I think that's what jerome would think I should have done. shrug. So sue me. I'm sorry I can't do the carefree thing, that I introspect too much. You wanted to be drunk and happy all the time remember. in answer to kp's question. This thinking's part of me; I can't help it I can't hide it anymore than draco can hide a part of his self. Whoever draco might be. I suspect it's draco malfoy from harry potter, but I hope not because I'm not overfond of that. Then again maybe you do have it, you are like [dare I say me?] but you'd tear it apart from you if you could because it's your burden and bane. Will you not embrace it?

I could go on, but I should not. There are such things called exams, there are. Besides, I've been writing a whole lot lately. Lack of simulation, really. Have I said this before. I go blog- reading and that's not much updated [and all sorts of other priggish reasons I do not care to state. One needs to be tactful, after all.] and I don't much like visiting new places; too voyueristic it feels. Too much, too much. There's only so much my little brain can take. New readings are unsettling, and not always up to expectation. I think I would like to write a book one day. Well hopefully all this nonese will cover and pushpushpush down the photos. nonese. ha. what I type, indeed. I've been in another world while writing, and I'm only coming out now. Where people talk commonly. And then a call from daddy comes so I am forced rather abruptly back where I was. Not that I mind, daddy's a dear. He's telling me of the benefits of vit.C, as much as I can gather that little pillet does something to neurons so that they "are freer". I don't mind, maybe if I ate them I wouldn't say things like smow floothly anymore. More importantly, I wouldn't be caught saying them.

Alright alright, enough.







[pushing down the space, maybe more photos will be gone that way. photos that reek of normalacy.]

and then memories fade, they do. The lights that once blinded and dazzled aswemove`solongago are now a memory of a memory, and then the voice that delighted now no longer resounds. I can't even remember why, or how.it was, or just is. Accordingly, I'm as ambivalent. It costs rather too much to think, sometimes. Just pluck the string off the shirt that's tickling your tummy and don't.even think whether this sentence fits in. It doesn't. Tickling's a happy word. did you know that.
To recapitulate [as julia in daddy long legs would say of her professor], it's an ambivalent night. When your mind is stoned and your attitude would rival jay chou's. You jut one leg out onto the coffee table and loll back as far as your back on your backless chair will allow you to, looking sufficiently angsty yet in control at the same time. All perfectly natural.
On nights like these you don't care what to make of your writing; you don't care to form or shape it. The dozen setences that once paraded around your head don't. [don't what?, neil chomksy of -colourless green idea sleep furiously- would ask. but he's an anarchistic linguist, so we shall leave him out. it's more medalena than him, even if I know chomsky better through nerney, and again from political science.] Even punctuation used to make a difference; tonight I propose to talk too much, and too little. The previous sentence is [is? was?] missing a noun, and by extension, a pronoun. did you know that.

I dab idly at the stiff keyboard with two peices of caltex tissue paper, lazily lean over and fluff the screen. I'm predisposed to be perfectly boring tonight.

contact

Found my ex-5a students' blogs today.. haha. They're all happy mappy because the Os are over. [and what am I? still doing the whole exam thing =/] I said hi at a few of them.. 'twas fun. I do miss that class.

ohwellllllllll back to the books.

discernment

This might sound a little kooky, but I've honestly only just realised -with the epiphnic kind of understanding that arises when I see that |_0ki|^|^|@n is "lokiman", and not "l.oki ton" as I've been thinking for the past five years- that certain posts in my blog need to be read s`low`ly. I've always known it intuitively in my capacity of the writer of my posts, but the reader in me came to a concious understanding today.

And yes, I am a stereotypical arts student. [hardly] unfortunate, but true.

not a single you

Of flyaway emotions, of abstract concepts and. pachelbel's canon in D major on repeat. have I mentioned how much I love music.

of confusion, and of murk.- no, I never did mention that I love music.

of a vague sadness, of a wondering about change.

the desire to think in solitude.

please don't. I have realised I need stability in my life. status quo. something stable to hold on to, knowing that won't turn topdownbottomup.



it's okay to have one liners when it's needed. all that's required is an analysis why they're there.


please don't ask more of me than I can give. this, is for Everyone.

think



think




think




and then I remember that I am going to chiang mai after all, in a glorious adventure that's a secret for me to hug. an almost totally mine secret. [well I'd tell if asked. :)]



of questions, of quaint assurances.

why. why do I desire to be alone so much. When I have so many people who love me. What is wrong with me. don't I know how to appreciate what I have.
oh, but I do. I do.
What is wrong with me. Why can I burst into laughter so easily, and yet push people away. How can such contradictions exist within one person. whydoidesiretobealonesomuchwhenihavesomanypeoplewholoveme why do I crave solitude. when I laugh.

and so I write on, hoping that I'll reach the breaking point soon, where my finger touches exactly at what's getting at me and it goes away. Like a a cramp that builds up and screams me awake, and my sleep-drugged fingers probe till the muscle is found. and. then. it climaxes and the almost body shuddering relief floods the body so that you think maybe cramps are pretty worth it after all after all after all.

perhaps I have.

and it strikes me that I used to call it muse. My muse.