I'm poor, don't sue me!

Dear reader,


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.

Mixing things up, take 2

Dear reader: yup. Changed the layout, yet again.

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...





Yours,



Figgy: Mixing Things Up Since 1991

Mixing things up

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.

Cry Baby

Dear Reader,

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...

Yours,

Figgy the Cry Baby

Pick a category

Dear reader,



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:

1. 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.
2. A water bottle, in case I get thirsty in my sleep.
3. My phone. Which is in desperate need of charging at the moment.
4. A black ponytail holder.
5. A stapler. With precisely 4 staples left in the chamber.
6. 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.
• What Your Teacher Didn't Tell You: the Annexe Lectures Vol 1 by Farish A. Noor: Started, am definitely going to finish. Definitely.
7. A denim jacket.
8. A really soft, really small pillow for my head.
9. 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.
10. A plastic bag containing 5 tubes of acrylic paint: black, white, red, yellow, blue. Used for a stencilling project.
11. An empty pillowcase.
12. A blanket.
13. 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.
14. An assortment of files and papers, from an assortment of donors. My older sister and my cousin, as well as myself.
15. A cutting mat.
16. 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.
17. A pair of stripey socks, belonging to my cousin who resides on the top bunk. It must have fallen down this morning.
18. My laptop.
19. 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...

Yours,

Figgy the Clutter Monger