Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Runway chest | Desert-In-Drag | Subdued Merdeka

Online shopping (well, surfing, more like...) hath taught me one important fact:


..
....
.....
.......

I quote:

Dress/Shirt/Blouse
"Bust: 76cm"
"Bust: 72-80cm"

.... Tis a sin to possess boobs.

Maybe it's just an Asian thing. (Asian girls having breasts?? Pffffttt!! An airplane could land on her chest and bloody skid off)

Okay okay, I'm actually grudgingly referring to the girls who looks like they came out from Taiwan/HK/Japan fashion magazines (and how lotsa clothes are for them and them only). Either that, or they are forever stuck in the body of an 11 year old. Or the final option is that they're actually dudes in disguise.

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Ever since moving to a apparently intelligent place (but is really a desert in drag), I leap at any chance to hang out with my buddies during the weekend in KL. It's like being released wtf.

You know what feels good? Not having to worry about money. Not having to worry if I will have enough to scrape by, or if I'd have enough fare to go home if I were to get that book/shirt etc. Not having to worry that I'm being a burden to my parents. The best part is I even get to help them out a little. At that moment, this is what making me feel reallll good.

I love this feeling of independence. The problem is, got money, no time. Bloody.

And because my posts have been lacking pictures lately, tada~!:


Hobbitness


...@ MV movies, waiting for PY to come out from loo hahah!
(she went into the right gender one this time XDDDDDD)


Mylo is....


...bowing to me.




Anorexic Yoda.


My first Teacher's Day gift!!! Julia is the sweetest~

Suigao Night:

My ickle cousins


Me mam~


Miss Selfridge's fitting room, few mths back.
Can't afford therefore.....

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On the eve of Merdeka, I was passing by Masjid Jamek. Many many people moving towards the train stations. Like a school of fishes swimming. I'm also a fish I guess. But that's not the story.

Many Malaysians near the historical place of Dataran Merdeka. Due to the significance of the date, the amount of people is astounding and there were 'people-traffic' police.

Someone in the crowd yells, "MERDEKA!!!! MERDEKA!! MERDEKA!!!!"

And silence.

A lone voice rings, and no one in the crowd even flinches. Half a decade old yet no one is truly joyful from the heart. I couldn't help but think, if this is someone's fiftieth birthday party, this shows what kind of life she must have lead.

But then again it could just be me all tired from the 2 hour journey from work and turning cynical and stuff.

Then again, what is a little pessimism if there weren't a little truth in it? Throughout my whole life, I've been blissfully ignorant... until I was in college, and learned to think.

Don't be mistaken; I love my country. Love it enough to want better. My greatest wish is to stay in foreign countries for a couple of years, but I know I'd want to come back. This is home. Unless if our hearts is gone, changed for the worse and what's left of our meaning is buildings and bricks... then I'll go.

50 years of Independence & 44 years of being, and Malaysia is still very much a teenager.

She's arrogant yet she has much much more to learn. She's prone to succumbing to threats and emotional blackmail when things don't go their way. She beats around the bush about what she's done and where she's been. When questioned of her mistake, she would blow up the very littlest things and in the end, evades solving the problem.

"Mind emptying the bin? You're supposed to do that everyday and it's been a week. The smell is getting too much to bear.."
"So? Just ignore it."
"Honey, that's not the point."
"... WHAT'S THE BIG DEAL?!??? Why are you ALWAYS picking on ME??" (slams door)

To be fair, I'm no angel to teenage angst and unreasonable thinking. Oh, the sweet, painful memories... Every ounce of logic is driven over and positively flattened under the wheels of raging emotion. I'm right, you're wrong. End of story. But at some point, I do know how to grow up. I do respond to the nagging feeling in the back of my brain, that tells me that I may have not said, or done the right thing. I learn to listen to that feeling.

Looking back, as a teenager, I might appear to be delusional. Even advice from well-meaning family and friends are taken as attempts to poison me. But then again, it's so hard to take advice from people during the time when you think you know everything and that you're absolutely right in everything you say and do.

When you're young, people are more willing to forgive your rash and uncouth words. Forgive your arrogance. Your denials to obvious problems. But when you're older, like 50, it's so much harder to let it by.

Malaysia, I'm waiting for you to grow up.

Thursday, September 06, 2007

Sentimental Fool

     Step into my room and you'll be greeted by a mountain of things scattered across my room, like wild grass and flowers weaving in and out of a landscape. Odd pieces of paper pressed into submission by much heavier objects. Towers of books threatening to topple over and crush unsuspecting dust mites (or my overgrown rodent...). Little useless knick knacks that breathes a life from a forgotten world. For the moment, let's ignore the idea of sheer messiness that is my room. I'll get back to it later.

Compulsive disorder? Perhaps.I guess I'm a possible candidate but I never 'reached' that point. I'm not stubborn or unreasonable to not be able to be rational.

For instance... what does this little 1 inch pencil mean to you? Most likely junk, fit for a journey right into the trash can, pronto! But not to me.

     Because in my eyes, it's not merely a piece of wood and lead, but one that turns into a storybook in my hands. Because in my mind, my eyes are blindfolded in the midst of memories and those are the 'hands' that brings me to a specific, and familiar memory. It could be a person, an event or a forgotten feeling. Of the millions of mass produced pencils, this is what makes my wee little pencil special.

Same goes to the little notes; ones that me and my friends scribbled on in primary and high school days. The drama, the heartache, the headache and most of all, the sweet memories of friendship back in my schooldays.

     Why did I suddenly write about this? It all started when my colleague's poster went missing. So what, you might say. Get another. But my colleague seemed upset. Get over it, you say. It's only a poster. But it's not. It has sentimental value. Like how a body is just a body, and how a person is a body with a soul.

    And by the way, I like the mess. I hope I'll never turn into a Tabletop Gleaming, Everything Hidden from Sight person. I'll never be comfortable in a sterilised world. I'll give leeway for a place that isn't my own, or when shared with someone else, but in my own room? This is my world. These are objects I picked up along this journey of life.

Alas, I must say that much has since been tossed away. With the coldness of an onsetting adulthood, I took a deep breath 3 years ago and submerged myself in them for one last time... and slowly sorted through the 'useless' items; short, yellowed, torn or dusty. Objects in tiptop shape yet no longer fitted in my hands will have to go too.

I remember standing in the middle of my room, much neater and cleaner, looking a little sadly over to that big black plastic bag. Let go.

     Even with the major overhaul, I still keep the littlest pieces of these objects. I'm still collecting. Little nonsense notes from my friends. Receipts from places that reminds me of my trips, my friends. Airplane tickets. The thank-you bands from Project Vietnam. An unfinished crochet scarf whose maker has since passed on.

   For the future. In case I submerge so deep and when I come up for air and I forget myself. If my mind is eaten by dementia or madness or confusion, at least I have these 'evidence' that these happened. At least I know that much is true.