Thursday, June 28, 2007

wake up

Last night it rained.
With thunderbolt and lightening.
(Very very frightening me! [Galileo (Galileo!), Galileo (Galileo!), Galileo Figaroooo Magnifico-oh-oh-oh-oooooh….)


*cough cough*

I used to be awfully scared of thunderstorms.
I remember when I was a kid, I’d be dancing around our tiny old kitchen as if I was the queen of the world when lightening would suddenly strike, and I’d scurry under the table to hide between my mother’s legs. I was scared of the Heavens Emperor. I was scared that he might be angry. At me*. For being so defiant, I think....

Over the years, I’ve come to see that I tend to project the image of a mighty strong girl for the folks Out There. It never occurred to me that I could ever be anything else. I never saw anything else. My sister was already the untouchable princess that she was - needing no one and fearing nothing. And there was my mother - the exemplar for us all, the pillar for us all... So how would I dare to be anything less? How woud I dare to defy her? How would I dare to disappoint? Her… I guess I always knew. But it still devastated me in an earth shattering way when I realised that I was – am – neither strong nor brave. That my mother’s courage, my sister’s strength, fell short on me somehow. Only pride succeeded in trickling down. Stupid vapid pride.

Over the years, I’ve come to learn how much of my mum was in me. Everybody knows that I have the same rambunctiousness as my father’s - his boldness, his loudness, his obstination, his obnoxiousness. But underneath it all, I am still but my mother’s daughter. Her spitting image.

Over the years, I’ve come to know that there is still a cord thicker than flesh and blood, stronger than bones, engorgingly grasping, grabbing, gripping and grinding through my guts, galvanizing me with her joy, her pride, her pain, her sorrow. Giving me her love.

But I’ve come to love thunderstorms over the years.
I love the frightful awe it commands. I sat in the blackness of my room last night and watched the trees dancing at its whim, chairs flying at its swift. I love the bolts of light. I love the rumbles of the earth. I love the calm inside...

I knew there would come a time where I’d finally have to let her know. That though I’m still scared of thunderstorms, I want to soak in it. And how I need her to be the calm inside....

Last night it rained.
And while I watched the sky cry, no matter how much I’ve prepared myself to face her phantom pain, how hard it’d be for her to let me go, I realised how gutfully painful it was for me to leave her behind... How despite it all, and whatever I might need to do, I am still always that scared little girl who wants to run to her mother's warm embrace.

And I'm forever grateful I still can.

My brilliant pillar.
My beloved mother.
My bountiful strength.

* Yes, i know. Self-centered as ever. That much either hasn't changed.

Monday, June 25, 2007

the good, the bad and the queen

Just crashed back into my comfortable clean fluffy bed with a facial after some five hours of carpooling [insert deep moaning of satisfaction], and already here for your long awaited hearts, I know, are some pictures from my few moments of sobriety. Because I’m considerate like that.

Not China Town.

Could you hear the angels sing?

... slurrrrrp.

I kinda blacked out My batteries died after this.

But there were mostly lots of this I presume:

And this:

And a bit of this:
[pictures from]
Yeah. My camera and I always miss out on the fun.

To be noted however that I did not get intimately acquainted with any toilet bowl during my off-camera performances nor did I want to behead The Brother-In-Law even once (there was perhaps a moment where I did want to slap him, but t’was definitely not a Backhand Slap, so hurrah!), and no pants were ripped apart nor any stomach unladylikely exploded during the ingestion of so much delectably awesome foodies.

I know. My Sainthood application is already in the mail*.

* Just don’t mention I spent over my very idealistic 20$ weekend budget on some smokin' cute shades (WITH MY EXPENSIVELY DISCRIMINATORY BLIND-MOLE PRESCRIPTION INCLUDED!) for only the THIRD of the what I’d normally pay elsewhere! Them crazy Chinese, I tells ya! Am now left but to wait - with utmost patience - until they arrive here in a week. And with that, I’m back on the Sainthood list.

Friday, June 22, 2007

l’endomètre rebelle

Is there a better way to start celebrating the Saint Patron's day of oh great French Canadia than to clean my bathroom? I think not! Have now clearest (and cleanest! *winks like smug salesman*) conscience to enjoy three days of drinking!

In Toronto.
Where heaps of cheap Oh Sweet Nectar Of Gods awaits.

Do you think I will get shot if I scream out 'Vive le Québec, tabarnak de criiiiiiissssssse!' from a speeding car in the middle of Yonge Street?

[n.b. My bathroom is so clean you can lick it. Seriously. C'mon, i know you want to.]

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

ice cream

Have you ever had one of those crap days that starts out with shit hair only to degenerate from there? Where all the busy plans you set out to do miserably go to the dogs because of painfully little annoying details, and it all ends up being utterly useless, g'ddamit?! So you think "hey, this certainly calls for some retail therapy!" yet NOTHING quite does the trick, and once you find something remotely cute it is so wickedly overpriced that by the time you get to the counter you stomp off bitterly as there is no possible way you can spend 50$ on a dress you're not really even in love with!? And on top of that little hot sundae, every single two-legged specimen walking in front of you is somehow so piercingly eager to be competing in a snail race & keeping you from pacing in the rhythm of the music that keeps you so thinly sane thus far that at the last possible minute on your way home from a completely wasted day, you decide to jump out from the metro wagon just as it is closing its doors, resulting in you struggling to pull half of your body out with all remaining flesh while passengers' eyes are on the amusing aping spectacle that you've become, just to go watch the comical [and hopefully putting-life-in-perspecive] relief Knocked Up, but where, of course, upon your arrival, you have missed the entire previews [or your favorite part of going to the movies - aside sitting alone in the dark for two hours, you crazy person you], bc the nice little lady in front you at the candy store WANTED A REFUND FOR AN EMPTY LOLLY BAG, and when you finally settle into your seat with enough snuck in chocolate to make Willy Wonka murderously jealous, you realise that you're sitting next to deaf grannies who need to repeat EVERYTHING back WRONGLY to one another, AND WHAT THE HELL ARE GRANNIES DOING WATCHING FREAKIN' KNOCKED THE FREAK UP ANYWAY?!!


However, as you are positively a most easygoing & gentlest of creatures, you gracefully let it all ride over you and concentrate on the absolute hotness of Katherine Heigl & the uber deliciousness that is Paul Rudd, and behold! fifteen minutes in and you're already laughing and [almost] forgetting your lousy day away! Yay! And then you come out in the new light of the evening sun with the feeling that, "y'know, life is shit, and life doesn't give a damn that you've made plans, but all you can do is just... deal with it!" Huz-zah! (With a little 'Oh', as you needed a Hollywood movie to remind you of that.)

So, yeah, you deal. With a double scoop of chocolate-chocolate-chips ice cream in a dark-chocolate-dipped-chocolate-waffle cone. And if a bad day can be solved by a double scoop of chocolate-chocolate-chips ice cream in a dark-chocolate-dipped-chocolate-waffle cone, then it's not that bad of a day after all, is it peepster(s)? I thought so.

Carry on, then.

Thursday, June 14, 2007

feeling good

Stupid Philosophical Question #6195:

"Do animals masturbate?"

Monday, June 11, 2007

yesterday once more

High Fidelity was one of the first contemporary English novel I read as an ‘adult’. Have never seen the movie, but heard Mister Hornby wanted John Cusack to play every one of his male protagonists should they be captured on film as well (which doesn’t say much about the width of his thematic range, but eh, who I am to complain about dwelling self-indulgences?). Also, to know Lloyd Dobler is to love him, and since I solely remember my male actors in their best light [until they go insane and antisemite], the movie is definitely somewhere in my Must See Films list. Rob from the novel, however, I had problems with. He just somehow reeked a dab too much of insecurity, uncertainty; is unsatisfied and whiny about it - all qualities I hate in myself really, which just seems worse when personified in someone else. Especially someone I was expecting to really like, as I often do with books I love (e.g. why "Holden's" is forever emblazoned on my heart) . Not so here. What did win me over, however, is his obsessions with lists. It’s dreadfully fantastic! And how he’s so anal about music, having it be the tell all & end all of human existence. Though, admittedly, I barely recognise half of the ‘dodgy’ songs he mentions and have a much more embarrassing collection myself, who seriously cannot identify with that with a little smile en coin? Still to this day, there are certain songs that bring me right back to the very first time I heard it, and in doing so, define it completely. With the same exact despair and/or glee. Apply as needed.

For instance, at the mere start of some of my favorite Chinese series theme songs, I am seen to be embarrassingly gushing, clapping my hands and hopping in my seat. Have you ever tried that? It’s utterly annoying for whoever’s not doing it, I assure you. There’s also giggling. And did I mention cheering? Yes, there is cheering too. I just get so uncontrollably excited, as if I was to see a long lost friend who once taught me everything I know about honour & love (make-up help included!), whose tales of woes & wars, love lost and friendship in hardship sung my entire childhood. And in some two minutes & sweet seconds I get to hear them again, I am as gullible & hopeful as I was when I was 6 years old, believing that love does conquer all, and nobody is really as evil as they seem [just weak... and unfortunate]. When I listen to these songs again, I am reminded & astounded as to how complex the story lines & characters were, how every plot, every anecdote all tie in together in a messy web of confusion. And how all we do is struggle to untangle ourself from it. (…So that’s why I’m so fucked so early! I tell you, Cinderella’s got nothing on Little Dragon Girl. Psh.)

Or when I was in year 9 and had [allowed myself] my first real crush. I never knew what his name was, where he lived or what his likes & dislikes, favorite band or cartoons were. I’ve heard his voice only once - when he asked his little brother if he wanted his seat *swoons* - but my gosh, my entire 15-year-old blissful moments were of simply seeing him. While listening to this song. I know. I told you I had no credibility as a music critic. Every time the swoosh begins though, without fault, I can’t help but moan & roll my eyes, reminded suddenly of him. And then smile from ear to ear. It still warms me up, you see. Mon Gars du Bus….

… Oh, sweet adolescence, what wonderfully embarrassing years you were! How sad it only degenerated from there! *sigh*

I have mentioned before my love/shame relationship with Bon Jovi. It’s actually worse than I’ve lead on. A lot worse. I heart them muchly, I did. To the point where I bought Mister Giovanni’s solo debut tape and listened to it almost everyday. Uh-huh... Sure, there were the ubiquitous Bush [ex-]X & Garbage pouring down my eardrums, but… I just dusted off the tape from my High School Box (what? Don’t you have one of those?) and had a listen again some days ago. I was quickly reminded of a distinctive feeling when I’d hear these again (other than shame). It brings back the cold hazy days of yore.... When yore were school days off, and instead of sleeping in or spending time with friends, I’d wake up like any other day, put on my uniform (so my folks, unaware of my schedule, would not interrogate me wonder), and took the bus. Just to get lost. For hours. Destination anywhere. Watching. And yearning. For something I couldn't define…. I suppose I can come up with some self-conscious analysis now, generic psychological profile and self-deprecating confirmations, but really, it’ll just be redundant. I was sixteen. Look at my blog title.

Not so long after that, I'd have my first mental breakdown. Yes, happy times… It was also from that point forward that, after every other one I went through, be in minor or of World War proportions, I'd run to The Beatles. I can clearly recall the moment it all started. I was walking towards school, cutting through the park, fenced on the left by huge imposing trees. As I looked up and saw the sun & blue skies piercing between shuffled leaves & windy tears, his voice suddenly broke from my headphones and washed over me. (Terribly cliché, I know... But after admitting my love to Bon Jovi and 80’s Chinese songs I don’t understand a single word to, what else do you expect? Tch.) The thing with The Beatles is, they keep my heart safe, you see. They're my imaginary friends. The only real ones I could stand. Who can hold it in and rock it to sleep, without having to say anything. They let me know it’s okay, and to keep on going, to keep on hoping. To keep on loving. With every innocent note.

So I do.

Across the universe.

Because, if there's anything I’ve learned from my childhood tales, it’s what a good theme song does.

Friday, June 1, 2007

ocean of noise

Hullo! My name is [vapidly vibrant] and I seem to be in a writing rut. *waves*
Not that there aren’t any infinitely inane ideas impatiently imploring impression but I just can’t seem to imaginatively immolate them idiomatically. And all attention is avidly attending to actualize, achieve, accomplish (and absolve) somewhat life-altering affairs at the moment, which I very much wish I could waywardly write here on a whim but am afraid it might wander wildly away, wither and waver. Which we do not want. Oh to the no’s, and other assonances & alliterations of sorts.

So, here are some links for you, oh great bloggiverse (sadly, that first paragraph took all brain-wanking power I had. Apologies if words now not connected or sensical. Poo and fart. Frown.):


**Bonus Feature!**

After racking my blogging hero’s archives to find this little jem, you may now all know what I look like! Hurrah!...

Or not.

Apparently, I am of impaled wizardry and Canadian flair. How very just. And I have no idea if Sho Sakurai is a girl or a boy. But Gary Oldman?... LIKE TWO PEAS IN A POD! And I have Dracula’s teeth to prove it too! For realz, yo!

Aahhh... Live long and prosper, Internet!

Also, my left shoulder hurts. I haven’t a clue as to why.

* Right. If viewing these leaves you unabashed, confused and/or slightly feeling sorry for me, then by all means, never mind this little footnote (but thank you for your concern!). If instead you find yourself laughing with tears streaming down your face, amazed & astounded by its sheer genius, and somehow have even more time to waste, then do have a look at some other of Mister Don Hertzfeldt’s shorts if you haven't already. No, I am not paid for this free advertisement nor am I in anyway related to him. And yes, I love him.

[n.b. I swear, I AM doing Other Important Things...]