Patriotism

Dear Reader,

Is it really dorky to love your country? Is patriotism for noobs and dweebs? Well, I don't think so. I for one love living in Malaysia, and I especially love my town, Kuching. It is the best city in the world, and that's not an exaggeration. Okay, maybe it is. Notwithstanding, living in Kuching is like living in the best of both worlds. Kuching has everything a big city has (huge malls, art galleries, sushi, air-conditioned movie theatres, museums, Starbucks, public transportation, etc.) but it has a small-town feel to it as well. Everyone knows everyone in Kuching. Or knows someone who knows you. And there are trees here. Everywhere. Lining the roads, on the roundabouts, in suburban backyards. I practically live next to a jungle. And you can breathe, even in the centre of downtown. Actually breathe--like, gulp down huge lungfuls of air--without choking to death or running the risk of developing severe bronchitis.

Anyway. I took a walk around town last Tuesday, just for the heck of it. It's been a while since I walked downtown. I didn't go alone, of course. Walks are more fun with company. I was accompanied by my three siblings, my cousin, my...Julia, and my sister's boyfriend. We had a great time just wandering along Waterfront, taking pictures like a bunch of tourists. The city was especially bright that evening, as Kuching is hosting some major, important and mysterious event involving the Raja-raja Melayu and Taib Mahmud. I don't really know what the whole hullabaloo was about; as you can probably tell, dear reader, I am desperately out of the political loop. Strange, I know, considering I call myself 'patriotic'. But, as Mark Twain so aptly put it, "Patriotism is supporting your country all the time, and your government when it deserves it." By the way, I'd like to say a quick thank you, Sammy m'boy, for the great quote.

I like taking pictures. No, dear reader, I'm not abruptly changing the subject. The reason I'm writing this post, actually, is to share some pictures with you, and potentially stun you with my awesome photographic skill and prowess. Heh. Okay, so I'm not really that good. I was just looking for an excuse to use the word 'prowess'. I don't get to use that word very often. So anyway, enjoy the pictures!

A view of the Rejang river as it curves along the Waterfront. To the left, houses and trees. To the right, the Waterfront and, beyond that, downtown Kuching.

Another view of the river. The white colonial building just peeping out from among the trees is the Fort Margarita. And the sampan (river boat) is pink, I believe. Or maybe a very pale red.

From the left: Julia, my cousin Helen, my sister Bekah, her boyfriend Eman, and my brother Nethaniel a.k.a. Boy. I'm taking the picture and Danni--cameraphobe that she is--chose not to participate.

Helen's taking a picture of me, Danni and Boy inspecting a sculpture. You can only see Danni (in her school uniform) and Boy there, I'm in the middle. Like a little Figgy sandwich.

A tree all lit up with fairy lights. Looks almost ethereal, doesn't it?

Same tree, except in black and white. Bekah's a b and w freak. She always takes two pictures of the same thing; one in colour and one in b and w.

Dragons along the wall of a Chinese temple. I love these dragons, they're so colourful and fierce-looking. The wall is circular and kind of long, so you have to walk around the whole thing to see every dragon. There are at least four of 'em: a yellow one, a green one, a red one, a blue one.

The red dragon, breathing fire while surrounded by what could be either clouds or water, I'm not entirely sure. But since they have no wings, I'll just assume it's water.

Extreme close up of the red dragon. The fire coming out of Red's mouth is a light bulb, by the way.

The blue dragon. You see the little round white thing where the flames are supposed to be? That's the light bulb. I guess they forgot to turn it on or something.

And there you have it. I hope you enjoyed this little peek into my beloved home town. Oh, and just for your info, dear reader, Hazel managed to give birth to a litter of nine puppies while we were out gallivanting across town. If you don't know who Hazel is, then go here. Ain't life grand? So, til next time, I remain

Yours,

Figgy the Day-Tripper, Holidaymaker and Sightseer Extraordinaire

This just in...

Dear Reader,

Just a quick post to say, "How're you doing?"; "Oh, I'm fine, thank you"; "What's new with you?"; and "Guess what! Guess what! I just uploaded a story onto DA!"

There are times when one simply must express one's feelings, or one would inevitably suffer from an emotional meltdown. Fortunately, this is not one of those times. I just thought it would be nice to inform you, dear reader, that my career as a fledgling author has now officially begun. You know, just give you a little heads up before you see my face plastered all over buses and bookstore display windows and TV screens. What? A girl can dream, can't she?

Anyway, like I said, I have just uploaded my first story onto DA. A truly exciting experience, if you must know. I actually have a few short stories from my old essay-writing days, all archived and organized neatly in my little pen drive. The reason I held back uploading them for so long was because I was afraid. Afraid of story thieves. Art thieves are bad enough, but story thieves...they're the absolute worst! The little plagiarisers!

Although DA does provide some sort of copyright law and story licence thingy that protects your stuff from being stolen by unimaginative dumbies who can't even make up a decent story by themselves, so they resort to pilfering and pillaging other people's blood, sweat and tears and passing it off as their own--wait, what was I saying again? Oh, right, copyright blah-blah-blah. But I still wasn't fully convinced, and I wasn't about to risk all my hard work on something that I wasn't 100% sure of. And then, last night, I finally decided to stop living in fear. No guts, no glory. No pain, no gain. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And so on and so forth.

Also, as an extra precaution, the story I submitted wasn't one of my best ones anyway. So, even if--God forbid--someone really does steal it, I won't be totally devastated. Severely annoyed, probably. Livid, perhaps. But not, like, in a homicidal fit of rage or anything.

Okay, I said this would be a quick post, so I should probably go now. See you later, dear reader. Til next time, I remain...

Yours,

Figgy the Fledgling

or Authoress-in-Training

P/S: Click this! You know you want to!

...and karma strikes back

Dear reader,

Yes, I believe in karma. Okay, technically, I believe in 'reaping what you sow'; but karma's easier to say. A person can't just commit injustice after injustice and get away with it. Sooner or later, karma strikes back. That's just the way it is; non-negotiable, inevitable. Like gravity. You jump off a building, you plummet headfirst to the ground--doesn't matter what your race is, how much you weigh, or how rich you are. The only way to go is down.

But I'm getting a little off topic here. The reason behind this post is actually to share a song with you, dear reader. About time for another musical post, in my opinion. So, here we go. The song in question is called [surprise, surprise] 'Karma', by the Indonesian band Cokelat. Enjoy!

Cokelat

'Karma'

Sekian lama kita bersama
Ternyata kau juga sama saja
Kau kira kupercaya semua
S'gala tipu daya, oh...percuma

Kau buat sempurna, awalnya
Berakhir bencana

[chorus]
S'lamat tinggal, sayang
Bila umurku panjang

Kelak ku 'kan datang 'tuk buktikan
Satu balas 'kan kau jelang
Jangan menangis, sayang
Ku ingin kau rasakan

Pahitnya terbuang, sia-sia
Memang kau pantas dapatkan

Akhirnya, usai sudah semua
Ku dapat tertawa, bahagia...

S'lalu tampak indah, awalnya
Berakhir bencana

[chorus]

Kau buat sempurna, awalnya
Berakhir bencana

[chorus]

English translation:

Cokelat

'Karma'

We've been together all this while

Evidently you're still the same

You think I'd believe everything

All your deceit, oh...just like that

You acted perfectly, at first

It ended in disaster

[chorus]

Goodbye, my love

When I'm older

I'll come back to prove

You'll get what's coming to you

Don't cry, my love

I want you to feel

The bitterness of being abandoned, useless

Really, you'll get yours soon

Finally, when it's all over

I can laugh, joyfully

It always looks beautiful, at first

It ended in disaster

[chorus]

You acted perfectly, at first

It ended in disaster

[chorus]

And there you have it! Oh, guess what, my dear reader. It's footnote time! Please direct your attention to the crimson tinged phrases above; and then kindly redirect your attention down here, for I shall be a dear and write them again...riiiight here: 'Memang kau pantas dapatkan', which I translated as 'Really, you'll get yours soon'. This one was a bit of a challenge. I'm not too happy with it, to be honest. It sounds a bit funny, doesn't it? Translated word-for-word it means 'indeed, you'll get it quickly'...or something like that. However, if you, my dearest reader, have any alternative translations, give it here! I would be very glad with any improvement to this--currently--awkward-sounding line. Yes, Sammy-boy, I'm talking to you! You're my only 'follower', after all. *crouches in a corner pondering her pathetic excuse for a blog*

Right. Well. Moving on. Is it just me, or does this singer have a sort of Alanis Morissette feel to her voice? I can safely say that I'm an Alanis Morissette fan. My favourite song of hers is--oh, wait. That's a whole other post in itself. I suppose I should let you go now, no doubt you are at this very moment occupied in some pressing engagement, extremely busy doing something extremely important, or just generally full of activity. At least, I hope you are. You should be.

Oh, and on a side note, I'm starting school on the 10th of August! That's--let me see--a Monday. I still can't believe I'm looking forward to it as much as I am. I'm practically gleeful at my upcoming incarceration in the higher education system. I am a bit nervous, as well. You know, the kind of excited nervousness one inevitably feels at the start of a new school year. New classes, new pencils, new erasers, new books...old brain.

Ah, yes, I should end this post now. Forgive my rambling, dear reader. So, off I go! I wonder if I should buy some new pens...

Yours,

Figgy the Karmic

Dreams

Dear Reader,

Have you ever had a running dream? I have, a few times. It's curious, though. In all of my running dreams, I'm never running away from something...but I'm not running towards anything, either. I'm just running for the sake of running. I wonder what that means.

I remember once, some time ago--I can't remember when exactly--I dreamt I was in a park. It kind of looked like the park in Tabuan Laru, my old neighbourhood. But it was shadier, because there were more trees, and it was bigger. There were a few people around, but it wasn't crowded. I went there on purpose to run, almost as if I was in training for a race or marathon or something. I started running. Then, as I began to pick up speed, the people started noticing what I was doing, and smiled encouragingly at me as I whizzed past them. There was one man in particular. I don't remember his face, just the expression he was making. Dreams are strange that way, aren't they? Anyway, he was cheering me on--"Faster, faster!"--and smiling at me as if he knew me. And he seemed to be running alongside of me, because, even though I was running for all I was worth, he was there beside me, grinning at me.

Then I started going faster and faster, and I outran the man. He was behind me, still smiling at me. Then the background started to melt and fade away, becoming blurry streaks around me as I ran. I remember feeling an overwhelming sense of freedom, like I was soaring through the air, and I stretched out my arms. I was running so fast, the wind was whipping my hair back. I was grinning in my dream and I felt breathless, but I wasn't tired or anything. I think I was just really excited. Do you remember the way we used to run when we were wee little things, my now-grown-up reader? Wildly and unabashedly, with complete abandon and a look of absolute rapture on our besmirched faces. That's the way I was running--minus the dirty face part. I forget how the dream ended, though. Perhaps I just continued running until morning.

I've had a few flying dreams as well. Well, more like floating dreams. They're not as eventful or exciting as my running dreams are. And they usually all go the same way. I'm floating in the air, in a corner of a room, looking down at the rest of it. There's nobody else in the room, and I don't think there's ever any furniture in it. I don't really remember that part clearly. Anyway, I'm bobbing up and down, and moving my arms and legs trying to stay airborne; like I'm treading water. I get really apprehensive about falling. In my dream, I'm thinking, 'don't fall down, don't fall down'. And I get a queasy feeling in my stomach when I look down, and the soles of my feet start to feel all tingly. You see, dear reader, I'm afraid of heights. Apparently my dream-self is altophobic as well. And...that's it. Unfortunately, I can never remember whether I am successful in my endeavour to stay afloat all night, or if I end up plummeting down to earth by morning.

I had this funny dream once. It was a very short one, not more than a minute long. It consisted of me drinking a carton of...something. I'm pretty sure it was orange juice, but it might have been apple. Anyway, I was drinking away, not really thinking about anything in particular. Suddenly, it dawned on me that I had almost finished the entire thing; there was less than a quarter left. I panicked. I thought, 'Oh, no. If they [meaning my siblings] found out I drank this much by myself they'll get angry at me.' I put the carton back in the fridge and left, fully intending to deny any and all accusations directed at me concerning orange juice. And that was the end. What a bizarre dream. Have you--

Oh, my goodness! I just realized...it could have been milk I was drinking! All I remember for sure was the carton I was drinking from; it was definitely shaped like a milk carton. But I hate milk! How could my dream-self do something like that to me? I know full well how much I loathe milk! How could I do such a dastardly and cruel thing to myself?

Alright, my dear reader. If anyone asks, it was orange juice I was drinking. That's our story, and we're sticking to it!

Well. Believe it or not, the carton-drinking dream was not the weirdest dream I have ever had. However, since this post is already longer than what I had originally intended it to be-- and also because I'm getting bored of writing, and I haven't had my dinner yet--I shall be merciful and spare you the details. Off you go, then, dear reader. And sweet dreams. I remain...

Yours,

Figgy the Dreamer

Mary, Mary, quite contrary

Dear Reader,

Don't you think humans are the most contrary beings to ever walk the Earth? I know I am, anyway. I know I've told you time and time again about my tendency to dilly-dally and fritter away countless hours in frivolous idleness--countless hours that could have been better spent in pursuing more productive activities. I've told you, dear reader, that I will lollygag when faced with a deadline, even when it's for something I would have enjoyed doing had there been no time limit enforced on its completion. But I don't think I've ever told you about the regret I feel, oftentimes as I'm procrastinating or being scandalously idle.

For example, on the topic of waking up early. I am not a morning person. The latest I have ever gone to bed was--if I remember correctly--around ten or eleven o'clock...in the morning, the next day. And so, due to my erratic sleep patterns, I spend most of the day in a deep, lazy slumber. The Earth makes yet another rotation round its axis, and the Sun makes its daily sojourn across the sky--and all the while, this lethargic blogger is, in a manner of speaking, dead to the world. And when I [finally] arise, it is usually with a profound feeling of regret and loss at what I've missed. And yet I do it again the next day, and the next, and the next, the next, and so on.

Or, rather, I used to do it. I have--recently--repented of my wicked and slothful ways, dear reader. I am happy to announce that I have been going to bed and waking up early this past week. I have kept to my self-imposed curfew of ten thirty; quite faithfully, if I may say so. And I woke up at eight yesterday. Sometimes I even wake up at a quarter past seven! However, I woke up at ten o'clock this morning. I hope this isn't a bad omen.

Not to go off on a tangent or anything, but did you know, my venerable reader, that Katy Perry wrote 'I Do Not Hook Up'? Yes, I am fully aware that it was Kelly Clarkson, and not Katy Perry, who sang 'I Do Not Hook Up', but Ms Perry did in fact write the song. If that isn't contrary and contradictory, then I don't know what is. I mean, who would expect the same girl who said "I kissed a girl, and I liked it" to say "I do not hook up, I go slow"? Although, I suppose that just shows what a versatile songwriter she is.

For the record, I do not like 'I Kissed A Girl'; not only is it disturbing and slightly repulsive, it is just so darn catchy! If you've never had a song that you absolutely abhor stuck in your head for a whole day, dear reader, then you don't know what true pain is. They should implement it in schools as a form of corporal punishment, instead of caning or paddling. Or perhaps not. I can't imagine what kind of damage a song like 'I Kissed A Girl' might inflict on the children's poor, tender psyches.

On the other hand, I really, really like 'I Do Not Hook Up'. Curious, isn't it? That two totally different songs that have two totally different characters with totally different priorities were created by the same individual. I think I like this song because I totally agree with it. I, myself, am not a 'hook up' kind of girl. I 'go slow' and 'fall deep'--or, at least, I suppose I will someday.

And on a totally unrelated note, I have some saddening news, dear reader. I am not--I repeat, am not--going to attend this year's Rainforest World Music Festival. Ah, crushing disappointment and reluctant resignation abound. My Dad said it was too expensive for all of us to go together, and if my sister isn't going, then I'm not allowed to go; safety in numbers and all that. It's a vicious cycle. *cue melodramatic sigh* Oh, well. Perhaps next year.

There you have it. Even the flyer looks exciting! Like it contains some delightful and momentous secret; and the only way to satisfy your insatiable curiosity is to go there and find out for yourself just what that secret is. I sincerely hope it's overrated. Because I couldn't bear to think of what I might be missing out on.

Life goes on. Time waits for no man...or girl. Isn't it funny how I still consider myself a girl, dear reader? I've never noticed that before. Well, it's not that strange, you know. In the Bible, a man was not considered a fully mature adult until he reached 30.

As you can see, I will probably bounce back from this crushing blow inflicted on my plans of attending the RWMF reasonably soon. I suppose I possess a buoyant personality. Or a busy mind, at least. A busy mind is a blessing in times of disappointment and tribulation. And with that, I take my leave. Adieu, dear reader. Til next time, I remain

Yours,

Figgy the Contrary

Reminiscing

Dear Reader,

You know, I was just thinking about an Internet article I read a few days ago. About a 13-year-old boy trading in his iPod for an old-school walkman. And how it took him a grand total of three days to figure out that there was a B-side to the cassette. I also read his irreverent and scathing criticism directed towards that innocent piece of hardware--and, by association, every individual unfortunate enough to have owned one. What did he say? Something like, he couldn't believe his dad ever considered it as a credible piece of technology. Show some respect for your elders, boy! Great, now I sound like an old woman. "Young people these days! Why, back when I was a little girl..."

Anyway. I'm only 18, but I remember owning a walkman. It was a present, from my Dad, because I got straight A's for my UPSR. Which means I got it when I was 12 years old, six years ago. Does that make me a relic? Desperately old-fashioned and antiquated? Well, I don't care! I loved that walkman. I might even go so far as to say I adored that walkman. There's just something so friendly and comfortable about old walkmans. Something inexplicably satisfying in grasping the chunky, heavy machine in your 12-year-old-sized hand and lugging it around everywhere. I remember feeling a delightful sense of ownership and privilege in strapping the thing onto my waist--risking exposure to the elements if the pants I had on were too loose.

But, tragically, little Sony died. From exhaustion, I presume. I'm afraid in my excitement at owning a portable music machine, I overworked him. All I have left of the little bugger are fond memories of happy times together. I suppose it's for the best. We must keep up with the times, after all. But we should never forget the walkman. Because everything our fathers accomplished in the past, every obstacle they overcame, every hurdle they jumped over, every difficulty they removed, was all so that we--their children--wouldn't have to.

Wow. I do believe I'm growing up, my dear reader. Or maybe just growing old. I seriously need to get out more. Well, that's it from me. My joints hurt when I remain seated in the same position for a long time. And my rheumatism has been acting up. Must be all the rainstorms we've had recently. Oh, and don't get me started on my aching feet...

Haha, just kidding. I may be old and wrinkly on the inside, but my outsides are as youthful as ever. And so, all jests aside, I bid you adieu, honourable reader. I hope you have a productive and pleasant week. So long.

Yours,

Figgy the Antediluvian