elope with me, miss private, and we’ll sail around the world
you're so good to me baby, baby
i'm through with standing in line
all who are weak, all who are weary
the beat goes on, the beat goes on
wake up, bloodshot eyes
i wanna be the minority
a heart that's full up like a landfill
i've been meaning to tell you
she took away all my money
baptised with a perfect name
let's start at the very beginning
jesus, jesus, jesus
while everybody else is getting out of bed
so if you're lonely
i can tell, i can tell how much you hate this
tell me how i'm supposed to breathe with no air
beautiful girls
remember all the things we wanted?
the night will come
So. What do you think, dear reader? Have I finally gone insane?
Do you know what ready-made art is? It is an "everyday object selected and designated as art; the name was coined by the French artist Marcel Duchamp." The term is also used to describe "art created from the undisguised, but often modified, use of objects that are not normally considered art, often because they already have a non-art function."
What's that, dear reader? You don't care? Ah, but you should care. You see, the pathetic attempt at poetry you see above is my slightly skewed version of ready-made art. Out of sheer boredom and my inevitable tendencies towards procrastination, I decided to experiment. Here's what I did (look, it's a list!)...
The 'How to Procrastinate Like a Professional' List:
Have an assignment due, the sooner the better. Preferably within a two-day time period. You could try three days, but it wouldn't have the same impact.
Waste time on Internet.
First attempt at getting some work done.
Waste some more time on Internet.
Give up on trying to get work done.
Go to Music folder.
Select all.
Press play. Shuffle.
Write first line of each song.
Compile into meaningless, beautiful nonsense.
Compose blog post focused entirely on said meaningless, beautiful nonsense.
Proofread til satisfied.
There you go. Figgy's patented procrastination formula. My favourite nonsense-poems are the 'standing in line' one and the last one. And what's with the sailing theme in the first and second stanzas? I didn't skip or rearrange any songs, I swear. I just wrote them down in the same order that they came up. Creepy. But in a good way. It's awesome when seemingly random and unrelated things come together to form something so perfect. Beautiful coincidences. Or ordinary miracles.
So, dear reader. Can you guess the songs these first verses belong to? I bet you can't. Well, some are more obvious than others. I enjoyed this little experiment. Expect more nonsense poetry in the future. Til then, I remain...
Baby, I want you to roll me, hold me in your love No more habits, promises and jive
I'm in an oldies mood today. But then again, when am I not in an oldies mood, right? Well, strictly speaking, I'm in an awesome eighties mood. I was just listening to Heart's Love Alive. Such a beautiful song, both the music and the lyrics. If every song in the entire world were even half as well-written as this one, the subsequent surge of awesomeness would probably result in World Peace. Fo' shizzle.
I mean, wow. Just wow. Can you dig it, dear reader? Can you feel the way the sound of the guitar just flows over you? And her voice, absolutely perfect. I love the way the drums pick up about halfway through, with that awesome twangy, strummy guitar joining in. Now that is music, people. I could listen to this all day and not get tired of it.
I think if you manage to discover something new in a song or a piece of music every time you listen to it, then that's good music. Deep, you know. With layers and substance and wit.
Oh, and in totally unrelated news: I like stars. You know how certain objects or animals or whatever mean different things to different people? Stars are like that, they're special to me. Okay. So you know I'm Christian, right? If you don't, well...now you do. There's this part in the Old Testament where God and Abraham are having a heart-to-heart. It's where the Big Guy makes His famous 'generation promises', as I like to call them.
Genesis 22:17
indeed I will greatly bless you, and I will greatly multiply your seed as the stars of the heavens and as the sand which is on the seashore; and your seed shall possess the gate of their enemies.
As a Christian, I am a 'descendant' of Abraham. So basically, I am part of the 'star' generation. The Star Seed, if you will. Sounds like a clan of kick-ass comic book mutants, or an ancient tribe of superhuman warriors doesn't it?
Okay, not really what I had in mind. Moving on.
Also. Whenever I think of stars, I think of:
I am a lady from Mars,
And I can unscrew the stars.
I can be anything that I see.
I can be anything that I, anything that I see.
- Ingrid Michaelson, Lady in Spain
Yeah. My head is a pretty haphazard place. Filled to the brim with anecdotes about stars and things of a similar epic nature--no doubt--but riddled with detours and labyrinths and winding pathways leading to Who Knows Where. Also known as The Land of the Endless Synonyms. Vocabulary Valley. Dictionary Dunes. Thesaurus Trail. Oooh, extra points for my snazzy alliteration. Oh, yes, dear reader. I just used the word snazzy in a sentence.
Okay. So that's it from me for today. Til next time, I remain etc, etc...
How goes things? Been a while, hasn't it? I've been so busy recently. Assignments and things, you know. I've actually been trying to write a post for a while. I'd log on, intent on composing a mind-numbingly awesome post, but in the end I just end up staring at the screen for a few minutes--at the blinking bar thingy--then give up and move on to something else because my ideas weren't flowing fast enough, and I was too impatient to wait for them.
I love haikus. Yeah, I know. I pride myself on my segues. (I had to Google search that to make sure I spelt it right, heh) I like the imagery of them. They're more than poems, they're pictures painted with words, optical allusions. So I had this project, right. We selected a randomly-generated haiku, choose five keywords, then take pictures according to those keywords in a specific venue. Kind of like defining the place through the haiku.
So anyway, I've been mildly obsessed with them lately. I've been seeing haikus in everything. I'd say or think something, then mentally count the syllables. I've discovered I usually think in statements of 5 syllables, and only very rarely in 7. It's a strange thing.
My favourite random haiku generator is this one. I don't know why, they seem a little less random than the other sites I've been to. For example...
Torrid little tale.
Another jukebox baby.
Rattlesnake rain drops.
Shoe polish lipstick.
Get lynched by the Amish folk.
Dionysus dreams.
Lost America.
Radiating blissful rain.
Low breathtaking soft.
Tattoos are for punks.
No hangover tomorrow.
Deer in the headlights.
See? It's like 17 syllables of pure, unadulterated awesomeness.
I've been so infatuated with them that I've even composed a few myself. Well, partially composed. I saw this one 7-liner in a random haiku, and it got me thinking. This is what I came up with:
Technicolour thoughts.
Steam swelling from her language.
Silent anarchist.
Try and figure that one out, dear reader. Though it's pretty straightforward for a haiku. Oh, I have another one.
Your stars are shooting.
Optical allusions, ink.
Your hearts are bleeding.
That was actually a collaboration. The story behind its creation is pretty interesting. My friend and I were sitting in the cafeteria. It was a hot, sunny, lazy afternoon. I was drawing on myself, on my wrist. Just because, you know, I thought it'd be cool to draw something on my wrist. So I drew some stars, just a mini-constellation type of thing. It looked kind of boring, so I proceeded to smudge the ink, turning my stars into meteors. My friend was doing the same thing; she has a hearts-and-flowers tattoo on her wrist, and she was inking the hearts and smudging them, making it look like they were dripping.
So she turned to me and said, in a manner-of-fact way, "Your stars are shooting."
To which I replied, "Your hearts are bleeding."
We were quiet for a while, until I said, "That could be a haiku. The first and last lines."
And there you have it. The story behindthe haiku.
Speaking of optical allusions--and yes, it's supposed to be allusions, not illusions--one of my lecturers advised us to publish our work via our blogs, because it gives us a way of compiling all of our stuff, a portfolio of sorts. He asked us how many of us actually blog regularly, and I kept quiet. I mean, psshh, like I'd actually let my lecturer visit my blog. That particular lecturer, anyway. So I've been thinking, should I make a new one? One devoted solely to my designy/artsy stuff? I have the name figured out already, you see. I want to call it, yup you guessed it, 'Optical Allusions'. What do you think, dear reader? Should I, or shouldn't I?
And with that, I abruptly take my leave. Sorry to blog and run, dear reader, but if you've noticed, it's 3 a.m. as I'm typing this. I should probably squeeze in 4 hours of sleep before I have to get ready for school. See you when I see you, dear reader.
Today's music has no soul. I mean, sure, musical instruments and the musicians who play them are getting better and better each year, but it's like they focus so much on getting the song to sound cool that they've forgotten to add a little soul in it. That's why I love oldies and indie music so much. With old music, they didn't have the technology we had, so they focused on their lyrics and their voices, and the emotions their songs conveyed; they focused on the message. As for indie music, well...it's the simplicity of their songs, you know. They manage to keep it real; they create good, honest music without all the unnecessary bells and whistles (pun totally intended).
I've been feeling melancholy all day.You know the word 'melancholy' is defined as 'a feeling of thoughtful sadness'. Funny how something as prosaic and dry as a dictionary can manage to sound downright poetic. Anyway. I thought I'd spread the thoughtful sadness around, while simultaneously sharing some soulful music for a change. Oh, don't worry, dear reader. Just because I'm thoughtfully sad, it doesn't mean I'll go all emo on you. Incidentally, am I the only one who finds Simple Plan whiny? Poor me, poor me, I'm so sad and lonely cause nobody understands me or sees me for who I really am. Seriously. Switch to decaf and shut up already.
Yeah. Sorry about the rambling, I'm in a rambling kind of mood. So, let's get down to the music.
I love this song. I just go all starry-eyed and quiet when I listen to it. It just gets to me, you know? I know, I know, I know, I know, I know...
Ah, yes. My sister doesn't get why I like this song so much, she says it's boring. But I think it's quaint and innocent and heartfelt. And I'm just digging the folksy vibe, man.
Okay, so that last one is neither oldie nor indie. Indian, yeah, but not indie. I just thought I'd include it because it's so simple and so beautiful: beautifully simple, or simply beautiful. Take your pick.
So, um, yeah. That's all I got. I'm gonna go now. Okay? Okay.
There's something wrong with me. I can't seem to get anything done. And it's already the beginning of August! I have less than 3 weeks to get that stupid list done! What the hell have I been doing with my time? Seriously. If I were someone other than me, I'd be really pissed off at myself right now.
Anyway.
Actually, nope...I got nothing. I have nothing else to say. I'm feeling drained. Drained creatively, emotionally, spiritually, gastronomically, financially, and every other -ally you can think of.
I'm not even gonna bother properly signing off this post. I'm just going to say "bye, see you later".
Bye. See you later.
P/S: Ahhh, sorry for the harshness. I'm frustrated. I want need to vent.
A grievous fact has recently come to my attention. I am lazy. Abominably, insufferably, hopelessly lazy. I'd even go so far as to say I'm slothful. That's right. Slothful. Wasn't that one of the seven deadly sins, sloth? Along with lust and gluttony and all those other things.
Yes, that's a sloth. Creepy as all hell, isn't it?
You know, these seven particular vices were never actually listed in the Bible under the category 'Seven Deadly Sins'. Not even as 'Seven Sins That Happen To Be Slightly Deadlier Than All Other Sins'. It was all the result of a man, and his very human need to rationalize, categorize and bullet-point everything into nice, neat groups for the masses. A certain Evagrius Ponticus--occupation: Roman monk, 4th century--is responsible for the original deadly sins, the 'Eight Evil Thoughts'. About 200 years later, this list was simplified by Pope Gregory I, becoming the more popular 'Seven Deadly Sins' we have today.
Anyway. Now that the brief (and uncalled for) history lesson is over, let's get back to the matter at hand: my inability to function in any productive capacity. No more, dear reader. I pledge to stop frittering countless hours away being idle, wasting my precious time accomplishing a big, fat load of nothing. I want to do stuff, make stuff. Get stuff done, like a normally functioning adult!
So, I put a little list together containing all the tasks I want to accomplish before my classes start again in August. I'll try not to put anything too idealistic or ambitious on it. I mean, the only thing that's worse than disappointing someone else is disappointing yourself.
List of stuff I want to get done/make:
Clean and redecorate my room.
Con: It's a big room. With a lot of stuff in it. Dust-collecting type of stuff, with numerous nooks and crannies that just magically attract all sorts of creatures of the creepy-crawly variety.
Pro: I won't be doing it alone. My sister and cousin share the room, so they'll help me. (I told you, it's a big room) I'll just have to clean up my part--read: the messiest part--of the room.
Complete at least one DIY project a week.
Con: I have no self-discipline whatsoever.
Pro: My inherent need for pretty and artsy things might overcome my lack of motivation. Emphasis on might. And I'll just do little things, like cards or collages or bookmarks. Nothing too fancy.
Complete at least one short story.
Con: I haven't written anything in over a year, not counting blog posts, of course.
Pro: Getting started is the hardest part for me. I just have to write something, anything, and things take off from there.
Sketch and draw more.
Con: Again, lack of self-discipline.
Pro: I need to improve. Not want, need.
Catch up on my reading.
Con: I tend to get distracted and start another book before I've finished one.
Pro: I miss reading. It'll be nice to read just for the sake of reading again.
Yup. I hope I can get everything done. Things seem so much easier and more clear cut when they're all jotted down in lists, don't they? That's why I love lists. I guess Brother Evagrius loved lists, too.
Anyway. Have you ever noticed how Disney characters manage to stay annoyingly cheerful despite being born into varying degrees of drudgery, squalor and inevitable cleaning up? They're always cleaning. Snow White, Cinderella, all their furry little friends. Even the enchanted, inanimate objects look cheerful as they're scrubbing or dusting or sweeping. How do they do that? Is it really that enjoyable to clean stuff up?
Louisa May Alcott wrote a poem about cleaning stuff up. It's in 'Little Women'. Despite reading and rereading this book as a child, the habit of enjoying making things clean hasn't taken over me quite like it took over Jo March. It'd be nice if it had, though.
A Song from the Suds
Queen of my tub, I merrily sing,
While the white foam raises high,
And sturdily wash, and rinse, and wring,
And fasten the clothes to dry;
Then out in the free fresh air they swing,
Under the sunny sky.
I wish we could wash from our hearts and our souls
The stains of the week away,
And let water and air by their magic make
Ourselves as pure as they;
Then on the earth there would be indeed
A glorious washing day!
Along the path of a useful life
Will heart's-ease ever bloom;
The busy mind has no time to think
Of sorrow, or care, or gloom;
And anxious thoughts may be swept away
As we busily wield a broom.
I am glad a task to me is given
To labor at day by day;
For it brings me health, and strength, and hope,
And I cheerfully learn to say,
"Head, you may think; heart, you may feel;
But hand, you shall work always!"
- Louisa May Alcott
My mother used to say something to me when I complained about having to do my chores: "do it in love" or "do it with joy" or "...and rejoice!". Or something equally annoying. So anyway. I shall strive to work hard, metaphorically whistling as I do. I'll be bugging you with constant updates, so you'll be able to look forward to that, dear reader.
Oh, look! It's a heartsease flower!
Bet you weren't expecting that, huh? I love the name: Heart's Ease. Lovely name for a flower, don't you think? Oooh, and look at the pretty leaves and colours. I'm not really a flower person; I always get them mixed up or forget the names or whatever. And I can't take care of them. I once made a cactus die. Seriously. Just like that Demetri Martin joke. "Damn. I am less nurturing than a desert."
So I guess this is it. What an abnormally long post. I'll be seeing you later, dear reader. Til next time...
Wow. Last week was one of the most stressful weeks of my entire adult life. Considering I haven't even been an adult for very long, I can only assume that I'm going to face many more stressful weeks exactly like it in the future. Not exactly a comforting thought.
Why was it so stressful, you ask? Let me break it down. I had three assignments due that week. And an exam.
Assignment #1 Graphic Design: rushed to hand in the visual diary--basically a record of our tutorial exercises and the design process we went through for our other assignments--on time. Had to rush all over town to the printer's, just to get some coloured printing done.
Assignment #2 Design Studies: had to resubmit assignment. But I'm glad I got a second chance at it because, frankly, it was crap. Still, watching all my other classmates (besides me and my group mates) finish theirs was pretty stressful.
Assignment #3 Drawing & Illustration: ha. This one was the hardest to deal with. The deadline was moved up, from the 13th of July to the 6th. And this was one heavy-duty assignment: 12 pieces for Drawing, 12 for Illustration. Although the lecturer was merciful and reduced the minimum required number to 10 each. Still. I think this one assignment shortened my life span by about 6 months.
Exam English: meh. It was an exam, albeit an easy one. I hate exams.
To top it all off, I lost my wallet. Let me repeat that, dear reader, to emphasize the enormous significance of that phrase. I lost my wallet. My wallet, containing my IC (Identification Card), ATM card, driver's license and some money, the exact amount of which I can't recall at the moment. I'm just glad my student ID was in my bag and not my wallet; I couldn't have sat for my exam without it. And so, I had to make a police report, apply for a new IC and cancel my ATM card. I still have no idea where it could possibly be. I don't think I'll ever find out.
And so, in summation, I don't know how I made it through last week. All I know for sure is it's finally over, and I'm still in one piece. Barely.
Going through the unfortunate series of events that was last week, I realized something. I cope with stress by sleeping. Avoiding the issue, hoping it will magically disappear on its own. I know that's not a healthy thing to do, but I can't help it. I hate confrontation. I had to call the bank to get my ATM card cancelled. On the phone. It wasn't easy. I hate that I can't talk to strangers on the phone without feeling extremely uncomfortable. Like their muffled, disembodied voices are judging me. I stared at the telephone for a full five minutes before finally dialling the stupid number. The funny thing is, I have no problem talking with people I'm familiar with; friends, family. But mostly family. I still hesitate before calling any of my friends.
Anyway. Everyone has their own way of coping with stress. Some eat their weight in Twinkies and cheesecake, some people--like me--avoid the issue entirely. Then there are some people whose coping mechanisms are actually somehow productive. They go for a jog, reorganize their CD collection, create thought-provoking, stimulating pieces of art. I wish I were one of those people.
Alas, I am not. Obviously.
I was lying in bed just now, thinking and listening to music. This song came on, and I decided I wanted to share it with you. I needed a boost in spirits after last week, and this song did it for me. I hope it has the same effect on you, dear reader. Enjoy.
If it wasn't for my pain Then I wouldn't know my strength If it wasn't for my future Won't be fightin' here today And of course, I know my way up 'Cause I fell the same way down What matters is what you do When the trouble comes around
Take a step now Get up on your feet Gotta be brave No clouds above thee Follow your heart And then you will see There's always a way Hold on tight Tomorrow will bring Every key to every locked dream It ain't as hard as it seems [Chorus] Baby, don't cry Things are about to change Baby, don't cry Things are about to change And all the hurt and the tears Will be just history And all the doubts and the stress Will be just history And all the hurt and the tears Will be just history And all the doubts and the stress Will be just history
Your mind carries a heavy weight And your knees are kinda weak You wanna run and fly away But you hurt, the wound's so deep You feelin' like it's time to give up When your soul is cryin' loud Nothing lasts forever You will find your way out
Take a step now Get up on your feet Gotta be brave No clouds above thee Follow your heart And then you will see There's always a way Hold on tight Tomorrow will bring Every key to every locked dream It ain't as hard as it seems
[Chorus]
I only wanna be a real man I already got a real plan I ain't gotta be rich I ain't gotta have wealth I just do the best I can 'Cause the life of a child Innocent, worth more Than a ring and your new jeans
Got love in my life And that's all that I need You believe and you succeed And through the pain and the hard times We push on with our head high Each one reach one clothe one feed one Do it right now, its time
Things are about to change Oh yes, they can Things are about to change Yes, yes, we can [repeat x3] [Chorus]
I love that part, Hold on tight/Tomorrow will bring/Every key to every locked dream. The imagery of it gets to me every time. Every key to every locked dream.
There was this one line that seemed a little off to me, though. No clouds above thee. I felt like it didn't really belong there, like it was quoted from somewhere else. So I Googled it, and came across an Emily Brontëpoem. I don't know if that line was really inspired from this poem, and I'm not saying that it is, but it seems likely.
Clouds beyond clouds above me, Wastes beyond wastes below; But nothing drear can move me; I will not, cannot go. Can you just imagine it? That feeling, that sense of helplessness. You can see the trouble coming, but you just can't do anything to avoid it. Maybe because you know it's pointless. Maybe because you know, even if you outrun the storm now, it'll still catch up with you sooner or later. All you can do is endure it and hope it passes.
But what does it mean to have no clouds above you? No clouds means no chance of rain. It means a clear view of the sky. A clear view of all possibilities, without limitations. There's nothing to overshadow or obstruct your vision. Freedom, as limitless and expansive as the sky.
I remember how it used to feel. Back when I was young and naive and still placed implicit belief in my own potential. I hope I feel the same way again, and soon. I'm not old enough to be jaded.
And so, I'll just end here, before I bore you to death with any more of my ranting. I'll be seeing you, dear reader. Til next time.
So you know about the super secret, awesome, special project I worked on last March? Yeah. I was the only one who could draw (period), so I was assigned the task of illustrating a few of the legends in our book. I've decided to share them with you, dear reader. I just hope the organizers don't find out about this. It's scary. All that junk about how they own the 'intellectual property' we churn out for the project. It's like they control my thoughts or something. Like they're the aliens in all those body-snatcher type movies. We're in your head, you can't escape our clutches. Resistance is futile!
Anyway. Here they are. Enjoy.
Aaaand...that's it. Not much to look at, are they? But I'm proud of them. Especially the second one, with the girl crouching behind the bushes. I love her lines and her expression. The rest are kind of so-so.
So, I think that's enough for one day. I'll be seeing you next time, dear reader. Til we meet again.
Yours,
Figgy the Financially Destitute College Student
P/S: If you're curious about what the stories behind the pictures are, feel free to ask. I'll summarize it for you. Summary is not plagiarism. As long as you paraphrase and cite your sources. Ha. So there.
I'm watching the Michael Jackson tribute on TV as I'm typing this. You know, 'This is It'. You can't help but say that phrase with emphasis. This is it! This is IT! THIS IS IT!
Anyway. I can't believe it's been a whole year since he passed away, can you? How time flies when you're...living your life. I'll be graduating from Foundation--and will be moving into into Degree--this August. I feel so old. But I'm really looking forward to being a Degree student. A whole new world of unexplored possibilities awaits. No, that's not sarcasm. That's just how I talk when I'm excited. Seriously. You shouldn't overuse exclamation points. Mark Twain said we shouldn't use them at all, cause that's like laughing at your own jokes. So there.
So. Oh! There's this MJ song that caught my attention. I like the beat, the lyrics are meaningful. The effects are kind of cheesy, though. But it gets the message across, so it's okay. You should've seen the screaming part in the 'This is It' version. He was on stage, at the end of the dance sequence, and he just cried out. I didn't expect it, I'd never heard the song before. His back-up dancers and singers joined in and their collective battle cries gave me goosebumps. You know, MJ was a pretty wild guy, for his time. I mean, you'd have to be really inventive and creative and out there to come up with the stuff he came up with. It's not like I'm a crazy, hysterical, "OHMYGODILOVEHIMSOMUCH" Michael Jackson fan or anything, I'm just acknowledging his obvious talent. He was not without his flaws. Heh. Boy, he had some flaws.But, of course, we're all flawed and weird in our own way; we just don't have cameras recording our every movement.
Anywaaay. Here's the song. Enjoy.
Okay, so I'm done. I like this layout better than the pink one. But not quite enough for it to be permanent. We'll see. Til next time, dear reader, I remain...
Hey, guess what. I changed my blog layout, you know, to mix things up a little. What do you think? I'm not too sure I like it, actually. It's really...pink.
Anyway, I'll probably change it again in a few days, so don't get too attached to it. Oh, just so that this isn't a totally pointless post, here's something to look at.
That's right! It's Elizabeth Taylor. She's beautiful, isn't she?
Okay, so I'm done. I'll see you next time, dear reader, when I come up with a real post.
I have a shocking confession to make. I am a cry baby.
No, but seriously. I cry over the silliest things. And the funny thing is I don't cry when I'm sad, not usually. I cry when I'm...touched. Or whatever. I cry over certain movies, but only when I'm alone. Or in a movie theatre, because then it's dark and nobody can see me. I cry over songs, not necessarily sad ones. Honest, well-written songs, or songs about love; family love, love love, love for a pet. You know, love. I cry over concepts. Abstract, wishy-washy stuff that can't really be explained in words. I cry when I realize something deeply shattering and true. I cry over photographs or pictures. Thought-provoking paintings and stuff like that. I cry over books. Oh man, do I cry over books. I balled my eyes out when Beth in 'Little Women' died, and then again over Jo's poem about the three sisters. I didn't just sniffle or tear up or anything. I sobbed. I practically wept.
Anyway, the list goes on and on. I even cry when I'm embarrassed. Well, not cry cry. I just get a little teary-eyed. Then I have to avoid eye contact so that nobody sees the tears. Reminds me of that line in that Harry Potter movie (don't ask me which, after the second one they've all blurred together in my mind) when that sleazy reporter interviewed Harry and printed something atrociously untrue about him. Something like 'his eyes swimming with the ghosts of his past'.
Wow. Having a blog is really emboldening. I'd never say something like this to anyone, not even my mother. I'd probably start to, but then inevitably chicken out at the last minute and perform an Abrupt Topic Change to cover my tracks.
So yeah. My point is, I cry way too much. As in, above average. Why is that? I hardly ever get emotional. I think I might appear cold or detached to other people because I never really react the way any normal person in that situation would. Like at my grandfather's funeral: I didn't cry (not really anyway), but I wrote a blog post about him. It's like my emotions quota is lopsided. Like I have more than the average amount of resources set aside for 'Cry Over Silly Things', and because of that, I don't have enough left over for 'Cry Over Things That Actually Make Sense'.
I stumbled across a song recently--a friend posted it up on Facebook, I think. It's an oldie, but new at the same time. It's a cover of Don McLean's 'Vincent (Starry, Starry Night)' by Joanna Wang. I wish people paid as much attention to the lyrics as they do to the music these days. They just don't write songs like these anymore.
Starry, starry night
Paint your palette blue and grey
Look out on a summer's day
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.
Shadows on the hills
Sketch the trees and the daffodils
Catch the breeze and the winter chills
In colours on the snowy linen land.
And now I understand what you tried to say to me
How you suffered for your sanity
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen
They did not know how
Perhaps they'll listen now.
Starry, starry night
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze
Swirling clouds in violet haze reflect in
Vincent's eyes of China blue.
Colours changing hue
Morning fields of amber grain
Weathered faces lined in pain
Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand.
And now I understand what you tried to say to me
How you suffered for your sanity
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen
They did not know how Perhaps they'll listen now.
For they could not love you
But still your love was true
And when no hope was left in sight
On that starry, starry night. You took your life as lovers often do;
But I could have told you, Vincent
This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you.
Starry, starry night
Portraits hung in empty halls
Frameless heads on nameless walls
With eyes that watch the world and can't forget.
Like the strangers that you've met
The ragged men in ragged clothes
The silver thorn of bloody rose
Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow.
And now I think I know what you tried to say to me How you suffered for your sanity
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen
They're not listening still
Perhaps they never will.
This song almost made me cry. Almost. There were other people in the room, so I contented myself with just staring intensely at the computer screen while the song played. I usually look down on covers--lack of originality and all that--but, I have to say, I think I prefer Joanna's version to the real one by Don McLean. Don't get me wrong, I love McLean's music. He's an amazingly skilled songwriter and singer. But Joanna managed to capture more of that sadness and tragedy in her voice and in the music than McLean did. Her voice suits the mood of the song perfectly, and slowing down the tempo made a huge difference.
Anyway, this song just touches me so much. Hopelessness, despair, insanity, beauty. All in one song. Can you imagine what Van Gogh had to go through? How would he be treated if he were born in this era? He'd probably be prescribed all sorts of antidepressants and things, and spend the rest of his days in a doped-up, diluted state of existence. If he were 'cured', would he still manage to create such great works of art? Do you think he was talented because of or despite his mental disorder? Sometimes the ones we deem insane are actually more in tune with reality than we are. It's like they got too close to the truth, and it scared them so much that they just broke down. Are we the crazy ones, and are they the sane ones?
So, yeah. I think I've nattered on quite enough for one day. I'll be leaving now, I've got an English report to write. Til next time, dear reader, I remain...
I am, as of this very moment, sitting on my extremely crowded and cluttered bed. And since I am overwhelmingly dispirited, hot, hungry and narcissistic, I shall bore you with a list. Yes, dear reader, a list! An inventory of items that have recently--and not so recently--come to reside upon my mattress.
The List of Things that Happen to be on My Bed:
8 stuffed animals of assorted shape, size and species. Namely;
Eeyore the donkey (from Winnie the Pooh), minus the tail.
Thumper the rabbit (from Bambi)
3 teddy bears, 2 of which are mine and are, consequently, nameless. The other belongs to my older sister who is an advocate of all things cutesy and adorable, and has therefore been lovingly dubbed Mr. Strawberry.
An elephant, belonging to my younger sister. If this one has a name, I am unaware of it.
A dog of unknown origin and identity.
A water bottle, in case I get thirsty in my sleep.
My phone. Which is in desperate need of charging at the moment.
A black ponytail holder.
A stapler. With precisely 4 staples left in the chamber.
7 books. Most of them I have started but haven't finished. I aspire to finish reading them soon. Eventually. In my lifetime.
Reader's Digest (the October 2008 edition): Finished
Alligator by Lisa Moore: Started, haven't finished.
Lion Boy by Zizou Corder. Taken from my school's reading corner and never returned. I am such a rebel: Finished. One of those books you'll never lend out, in case you never get it back.
Don Quixote by Cervantes: Yeah...started, not even close to finishing.
A lovely hard cover of R.L. Stevenson's Kidnapped and Treasure Island, which I bought the last time the MV Doulos docked in Kuching: Finished Kidnapped,but Treasure Island is hard to get past, for some reason.
The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster. Another book we stole rescued from the school's reading corner: Finished.A great read.
A bolster. I never use it, but it is kept on my bed for easy access, you know, in case of any emergencies requiring the use of bolsters. They're more handy than you think.
A plastic bag containing 5 tubes of acrylic paint: black, white, red, yellow, blue. Used for a stencilling project.
An empty pillowcase.
A blanket.
2 CDs, with the titles Romantic and Pop Tunes 1 scribbled on them in black marker. I have no idea who they belong to, where they came from, or what convoluted chain of events brought them to rest upon my bed.
An assortment of files and papers, from an assortment of donors. My older sister and my cousin, as well as myself.
A cutting mat.
A yellow lanyard, belonging to a friend. She dropped by our place for a while after we went to the Youth Dialogue and left her name tag behind...on the 8th of February 2010, according to the date printed on it.
A pair of stripey socks, belonging to my cousin who resides on the top bunk. It must have fallen down this morning.
My laptop.
Me.
Well.
I have nothing left to say. I'm sorry for the rushed goodbyes, dear reader, but I have to go now. There's a Club meeting I have to attend and I'm already late. So, see you round the bend. Til next time, I remain...
I'm supposed to be doing my typography assignment now, but I'm getting tired of it. So I decided to take a little detour from the Path of Being Responsible. The scenic route, if you will. This post will be extremely random and rambling--much like the scenery one finds along a rustic, country road--so I suggest you prepare yourself, dear reader.
You know, I was rifling the college library yesterday--dear Lord, was it only yesterday? And today I'm back in the library again. I really spend too much time at school...I have the whole week off, it's my midterm break now. I should be at home, working on my assignments. Note the s, dear reader. Plural. I have at least two assignments due. Actually, more like three. The typeface one for Design Studies, and two for Drawing and Illustration. I'll get them done. Eventually. Fret not, dear reader, I thrive on pressure and caffeine. Lots of caffeine.
Right. So anyway...where was I? Oh, yes. Rifling through the college library. I came across a book, 'Women Who Inspire' by Christina Thomas-Mamora. It's about, I quote, "the thoughts and aspirations of Sarawak women, expressing their passions and struggles, and sharing the fruits of their labour". Or at least that's what it says on the back. I haven't read it, but I probably will once I have more free time. The thing that struck my attention was the dedication:
To
my mom Nora Linang, my sister Ann Thomas, my daughter Dewi Sorta
and my friends Maria Corazon Cortez, Baizura Hj. Kamal and Novia Sim
Beauty lies within oneself
What an assortment of names, don't you think? Only in Sarawak. At a glance, I can see at least one name from a native tribe (Linang), possibly an Indonesian one (Dewi Sorta, her daughter. I think it's Indonesian because her husband's name is Toman Mamora, and her son's is Yohannes Wiranata...classic Indonesian-sounding names), a Filipino name (Cortez), a Malay one (Kamal) and a Chinese name (Sim).
Wait a gosh-darned minute, you admonish. Filipino? How would you know it's Filipino? an expression of scathing scepticism graces your features. It's equally likely to be Spanish, you insist, folding your arms in a you-think-you're-so-smart gesture.
Well, my smarty-pants reader, I was getting to that. The reason I'm mentioning this book in the first place is because it mentions Madam Maria Corazon Cortez: Filipino by descent, Sarawakian by choice. Also known as Aunty Cora. You see, I know her personally. She's one of the 'aunties' from church. I really shouldn't be so surprised; she's in publishing, and she's into Sarawak, so it's inevitable that at least one book concerning Sarawak will mention her. I hang out with her son, our families know each other, I say hi to her when we're in church. It's funny seeing her name in print. When it's a stranger, it's nothing but a name. Faceless, devoid of personality, just letters and words. But when you actually know the person, when you can put a face to the name, it's...an entirely different feeling altogether.
Anyway. Just thought I'd share that with you, dear reader. Moving on.
Oh! There's this picture I came across a while back, while surfing for God-knows-what. I forget my original intention for Google image trolling that day, or what weird and wacky trail of findings led me to unearth this particular photo, but I digress. It's a photo of Clara Bow. She was a silent movie star, back in the Roaring Twenties. She's got that 'Flapper Girl' look written all over her. I think I want to draw this one, for shading practice. We'll see.
After that, I couldn't help it. I had to go on a black and white photo hunting spree. I found another one of Miss Bow's photos:
I just love her lazy, sad-looking eyes, don't you? So irreverent, yet innocent at the same time. Another one, this time of (who else?) Audrey Hepburn:
I absolutely adore this movie. 'Funny Face', with Fred Astaire. Did you know she didn't originally plan on being an actress? She wanted to be a ballerina. I loved her in that dancing scene in the bar, with her black top and black slacks and flats. How she managed to still look so dignified and elegant while acting so silly is beyond me. And I'm very envious of her waist.
Ooh, how about this one? Guess who it is:
It's Grace Kelly, of course. The real life Princess. Have you ever noticed how Grace Kelly and Ingrid Bergman look alike? Here, I'll show you:
Hmm. You see? Definitely a bit of a likeness there. At a certain angle, I can't tell them apart.
Anyway. Lately I've been obsessing over this song by Train, 'Soul Sister'. I know, dear reader, how very hipster of me to like a song everyone else is currently fawning over. Whatever. I like what I like, regardless of trends. The lyrics are somewhere between witty and plain silly; between poetic and painfully literal, I can't decide. There should be more songs like this in the world: good music, great words. Enjoy.
That's a fantastic music video, in my opinion. I won't bother putting the lyrics in here, for obvious reasons. I wonder how much time it took to get everything animated and synced to the music and stuff. So anyway...all in all, a wicked cool song and music video from a wicked cool band.
I guess that just about wraps it up for today. I really should get back to work now. I'll see you when I see you, dear reader. Til then, I remain...
Are you aware that it's Mother's Day today? Or at least it will be for another...one hour.
I was eating French toast with peanut butter and apricot jam just now, while simultaneously surfing the net and trying not to drip anything onto my ludicrously expensive Fujitsu-baby. An advert came on TV--yes, I was watching TV as well...who says I can't multi-task? I think it was for Prudential or something. It was this mother talking in an extremely annoying tone to her kid; like, "Ilove you, you're the best thing that's ever happened to me, I'll protect you and always keep you safe." I don't know, the way she enunciates gets on my nerves.
My mother was there with me, and I told her I hated that advert. Then she asked me, "Well, how would you talk to your child? Do you ever think of yourself as a mother?" I replied by first snorting, then shaking my head emphatically. She said when she was younger, her older sister (my aunt) never thought she'd be a good mother. "But now look at me. Mothering is all I seem to be doing."
She has four real children, and a score of 'adopted' children, from former students to my sister's boyfriend. You know those adults who just seem to understand young people without needing to try too hard? Yeah, my mum is one of them. She said it's funny how she was such a dysfunctional kid growing up, but now is seen as the 'motherly' type by all the young people we know. And when she says dysfunctional, she's not exaggerating. Her childhood was seriously dysfunctional. We keep telling her to write a memoir or something. I'd definitely read it. There was this one incident involving her older brother, hippies, a nudist camp, and tea. Yup. Remind me to tell you the story sometime.
Anyway, I wasn't really planning on posting much here. Just the token Mother's Day post. Happy Mother's Day, everyone.
Oh, and by the way, the word 'mother' isn't just defined by a biological link. A mother can be anyone who guides you when you don't know what to do, who manages to teach you things by just being herself, who's not afraid to scold and rebuke you when you cross the line, and who's always there when you need her. A mother is a phenomenal woman, who just happens to care about you enough to look after you and love you.
Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me. I adore Maya Angelou, don't you? So off you go, dear reader, and strive to become a phenomenal woman. Unless, of course, you are in fact male. In which case, I'm sorry to say, striving to become a phenomenal woman may not be the wisest course of action for you. Become a phenomenal man, then. I'm sure the world could use a lot more of those. And so, with my token Mother's Day post done, I bid you adieu, dear reader. Til next time, I remain... Yours,
Figgy the (Not At The Moment, But Future) Phenomenal Woman
.jpg)
