Fig House

smother their hunger and their hatred

2012-02-05T00:27:00.000+08:00

Dear reader,

Have you been on Facebook recently? There are so many people out there. Even if you only count the ones here in my little Equatorial city, which isn't exactly a bustling metropolis. I mean, there are billions of people on this planet, all going around doing their own thing. This awes me. It humbles me. To think that I am just a speck in the vast, ever-expanding Universe is just...mind-boggling.

This seems to be a recurring theme for me, dear reader. I live most of my life in a bubble, concentrating on me, my friends, my family, my work, what to wear, what movie to watch. But every once in while, I rediscover this infinitely awe-inspiring truth: we are not alone. No matter how cut off from the world we sometimes feel, there are about 6 billion others just like us, with their own hopes, dreams, yearnings and sorrows. And there is this unyielding connection that binds us to each other, as human beings, as citizens of this earth. A rapport, a loyalty. A respect one immortal soul shows for another. That's what's missing from this world, I think. People have stopped being people. They are numbers, statistics. Soulless and empty. There's just so many of us that we sometimes forget other people are people, too. It might even be some sort of defense mechanism. To think that all of these individuals have lives and jobs and original, creative thoughts is overwhelming and terrifying.

You start entertaining thoughts like, "If everyone on the planet is unique and capable of creativity and innovation, then what do I have going for me? What makes me, me? In the grand scheme of things, do I even matter?"

I've been there. And I have decided to try and not care. Recognition, fame, genius. I'm slowly coming to terms with the fact that I have none of these, and probably never will. And I'm okay with that. What I really want, I've come to realize, is to be able to touch people's lives, to make a difference for mankind. As corny and cliche as it may sound, I want to help other people. Certain kinds of statistics that are often overlooked or glossed over are the negative ones. The ones that first-world citizens would rather not think about. The starving people in Somalia, genocide in Cambodia, girls forced into child marriages in India, natural disasters, refugees, poverty, sickness. I want to do something about this. I just don't know how. I feel that I am destined for something bigger, better, more profound than what I am currently doing. I want to stretch myself over everything, to envelop the world's needs, to smother their hunger their and hatred.

Did you know, dear reader, that in 1989, UNICEF publicized a statistic stating that less than half of the world's economy would be enough to eradicate the worst problems of poverty and meet basic human needs for the next 10 years? That was more than a decade ago. Why hasn't anything been done? Less than 0.5 % of the world's total economy. That's all it would have taken.

In other words, there is no deficit of human resources--the deficit is in human will.

- Audrey Hepburn, UNICEF Goodwill Ambassador, Statement to the Members of the United Nations Staff for the 1 Percent for Development Fund, 1989

I just think the entire world could use a wake up call. Not to sound preachy or pessimistic, but we need a different perspective. We need to see that who we are, or what we look like, doesn't really matter. We will be remembered by our actions and our convictions. Question is, what sort of legacy will we be leaving our children? Selfish and shallow, or generous and profound?

Yours,

Figgy.

Figgy's not-so-jolly Christmas post

2011-12-28T01:35:00.000+08:00

Dear reader,

I don't understand why all those atheists out there who are so dead-set against Christianity and religion find it permissable to perpetuate the lie that is Santa Claus. I know I've made a similar statement before, but it just boggles my mind. I mean, their whole argument against religion is that it's a backward and illogical fantasy, a fairy tale that was concocted by some poor ignorant people as an explanation for things they didn't fully understand. And yet they don't mind letting the stupid "Santa Claus lives in the North Pole and delivers presents to every well-behaved child" myth to continue.

And when they meet people who actually believe in God, they either get riled up or annoyingly condescending. They teach their children that there is no such thing as God, but find it too heartless to say that Santa doesn't exist. It's just another substitute for religion. You've got this mysterious immortal, bearded being who lives in a distant, seemingly unattainable location, and who possesses supernatural abilities to reward all the good, obedient children around the world, and gives the bad children exactly what they deserve. Sound familiar?

I wonder if they know how inconsistent they're being. They substitute God with science, and religion with evolution. They cling to their Big Bang theory, pushing aside all other contradictory arguments in favour of their own, in the exact same way they accuse Christians of doing.

Perhaps I am being harsh, perhaps I am over-generalizing. Surely not everyone who doesn't believe in God are as narrow-minded as I make them out to be. I'm just frustrated with being called a liar or a fool for believing in a perfectly legitimate explanation for the creation of the Universe. I make it a point to never argue with anyone about religion. You can't--and shouldn't, in fact--try to change a person's convictions to suit your own. I mean, they've made up their minds. Nothing you say to them can change that. People are funny. They sneer and ridicule others for having a different lifestyle than theirs, or for not doing things the way they're supposed to. Everyone has a right to their own opinion, even if you don't agree with it.

Well. Enough of that, dear reader. That's the end of my rampage of a post. Happy holidays.

Yours,

Figgy the Believer

Beautifully Unconventional

2011-06-30T03:37:00.000+08:00

Dear reader,

Have you ever noticed how singers and celebrities and models nowadays look like they were created and assembled in the same factory? I wonder what happened to society's standards of beauty. Today's ideal of beauty is about having the perfect figure, perfect hair, perfect teeth. It's all about the symmetry these days, it seems. Quirkiness is no longer appreciated. Or rather, only a certain degree of quirkiness is tolerated. Cross that line and you are no longer beautiful, just weird.

Gone are the years of tailored dresses, individuality, and original thought. This is the age of 'standard' clothing sizes (because all women are built in exactly the same proportions, am I right?), the age of conformity. Come on, people. We used to celebrate individuality. Being different was considered awesome and enviable. I mean, look at Mama Cass, or Aretha Franklin. They were unconventional beauties. They had talent, oodles of it, and that made them beautiful.

These days you hardly see any famous people who look like they're actually allowed to have a decent meal. Women like Queen Latifah. When she comes on screen, you just get this sense of calmness radiating off of her. Kate Winslet, also, is absolutely beautiful. She reminds me of those women in Renaissance paintings, with their gracefully provocative poses, and their fearless curviness.

So. The reason for this rant on society's shallow standards of beauty is a certain video on YouTube. Well, not so much the video itself than the comments posted on it. I'm sure you've heard of the singer Adele. And if you haven't, dear reader, then you should check her out immediately. After you read this post, though. Adele is one of the very few modern singers who can actually sing. She sounds better live than she does on her album, which is exactly how it should be. Anyway, all of her videos had some sort of derogatory comment about her weight, some critique on her appearance. All of them. Which is really unfair and, actually, totally irrelevant. Why so shallow, people? She makes music for ears, not for eyes. Anyway, as far as looks go, I think she's beautiful.

See what I mean? She reminds me of Audrey Hepburn. The way she moves, the way she dresses. Her casual, effortless elegance. Also, I like that she seems honest, and she has a sense of humour. People who can't laugh at themselves are so unapproachable and boring.

Oh, and on a completely unrelated note...if Sir Anthony Hopkins had a blog, I'd totally read it. I'd read it like nobody's business. He's an amazing, intelligent, interesting human being. He has Character. He's like a nihilistic, grouchy, zen monk.

So, I guess this is where I say goodbye. Just had something on my chest that I wanted to send out into the void. Til next time, I remain...

Yours,

Figgy

I stand open

2011-02-09T23:54:00.001+08:00

Dear reader,

Sometimes I lose hope in the world and its capability of producing good music. I mean, there's the Click Five, the Jonas Brothers, Ke$ha, Lady Gaga, etc...but then, I stumble upon some real music, and my faith in humanity is restored once again.

Fan-made video, ngeh. Song is awesome though. And I love the Avett Brothers' sense of humour, it shines through their songs.

This song is what real music sounds like. This is what all musicians should aspire to be. I'm not exaggerating. Go and listen to this guy's songs, they will blow your mind.

Last but definitely not least. Such a soothing, meaningful song. This is one of those songs you can listen to whatever mood you're in. Because it's so honest and real...it can be happy, sad, or inspiring depending on what emotions you're feeling at that particular moment.

So. I suppose that's it, dear reader. Goodbye, and until next time.

Yours,

Figgy.

"Love all, serve all, create no sorrow."

- Trevor Hall, 'Unity'

beautiful coincidences

2010-11-26T03:10:00.000+08:00

i was his from the moment we first met

say what you say or just sail away

your lipstick stains

let me sail, let me sail

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...

Yours,

Figgy.

Unscrew the Stars

2010-10-30T00:41:00.001+08:00

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...

Optical allusions

2010-10-06T03:05:00.001+08:00

Dear reader,

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 behind the 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.

Yours,

Figgy the Haiku Nerd

Melancholy

2010-08-13T17:25:00.000+08:00

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.

Bye.

Yours,

Figgy the Thoughfully Sad

Defective

2010-08-01T08:29:00.000+08:00

Dear reader,

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.

P/P/S: It's Friendship Day today. Interesting.

Whistle while you work

2010-07-21T19:45:00.002+08:00

Dear reader,

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...

Yours,

Figgy the [Soon-to-be-Reformed] Sloth

No clouds above thee

2010-07-15T05:03:00.002+08:00

Dear reader,

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 Brontë poem. 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.

The Night
THE night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.
The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow,
And the storm is fast descending
And yet I cannot go.
Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.
Emily Brontë

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.

Yours,

Figgy.

I'm poor, don't sue me!

2010-06-27T20:06:00.002+08:00

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

2010-06-25T22:36:00.004+08:00

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

2010-06-22T14:19:00.000+08:00

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

2010-06-15T13:30:00.000+08:00

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

2010-06-05T13:26:00.004+08:00

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:

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.
What Your Teacher Didn't Tell You: the Annexe Lectures Vol 1 by Farish A. Noor: Started, am definitely going to finish. Definitely.

A denim jacket.
A really soft, really small pillow for my head.
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...

Yours,

Figgy the Clutter Monger

Random and Rambling

2010-05-14T18:53:00.000+08:00

Dear reader,

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:

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...

Yours,

Figgy...Just Figgy

My mother

2010-05-09T23:11:00.006+08:00

Dear reader,

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, "I love 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

I wish I knew then what I know now...

2010-04-26T23:07:00.001+08:00

Dear reader,

There comes a point in a person's life when a new thought pattern develops; they start wishing for things they've never wished for before. They start imagining how great life could have been. If only I did this instead of that. If only I could do it over. If only I knew then what I know now. As children, thoughts like these never occurred to us. We never wished to go back to a certain period of time, we never pined for that particular day when we had so much fun at the beach...or finger-painting...or playing tag with our friends. If we had such a good time doing something, we'd go out the next day and do it again. We looked forward to every new day instead of recoiling in horror at the approach of another day of classes, or another day at the office. We've lost our childlike wonder. We've grown out of it; that quality of looking at the world through young eyes. Everything was magical and new and wonderful. Wonderful...full of wonder. Wouldn't it be awesome if the world were full of wonder again?

Here's a list of some of the things that I know now, and wish I knew then:

Do your homework. Study consistently. Don't be lazy. Don't procrastinate...and all that jazz.
Ask questions. Do it before the moment has passed; you'll never get that moment back again.
Read labels carefully before partaking of any processed foods/beverages. Or else suffer the consequences of drinking what you naively thought was ginger tea--perfect for your sore throat--which turned out to be Detox ginger tea instead. So now, not only are you coughing incessantly, you also have diarrhoea.
Don't let anyone intimidate you or undermine you into doing something you don't want to do. Stay true to your convictions, even if it costs you the approval of other people.
Walking on a cement curb requires balance. Heavy backpacks decrease balance incrementally. Therefore, do not walk on cement curbs while carrying heavy backpacks.
Mountain-climbing is fun...on the way up. On the way down, it stops being 'fun' and starts being 'excruciatingly painful'.
Speak up; people will listen. And they're kinder than you give them credit for.
Never, ever stretch your fonts. Ever. And please, for the love of God, do not use Comic Sans.
Some sentiments can only be truly expressed through profanity. Just don't swear in front of your parents.
Learn how to take criticism gracefully. Even if you hate being told what to do (like me) use the advice given to you...or at least pretend that you're considering it. This shows respect and that you're not too proud to learn from others.
Cut your folks some slack. They might be incorrigible nags, but that's just because they want you to know the things they know now, but wished they knew then. Hmm...yeah.
Cultivate a culture of excellence. Nothing is quite as satisfying as proving to someone that they wrong for underestimating you.
Welcome new responsibilities, embrace challenges; they expand your capacity. Even if you feel abominably reluctant and awkward at the prospect of holding any type of leadership role (like me).

And so. There you have it. 19 years summed up in 13 points. I wonder if I should add 6 more, just for the sake of unity or coherence or something. Nah. 13 is quite enough. In fact, dear reader, I'd be impressed if you managed to read the entire list without simply skipping to the end.

Hmm, number 1...2...3...this is getting boring. What's the last one? 13? Ahhh. Okay, done.

See, I know how you think. It's almost scary the way I just typed out your thoughts, isn't it? Didn't you know, my unsuspecting reader? I'm psychic.

Pfft...psychic. Psycho's more like it.

There! I did it again! Hey...don't be mean.

Alright, alright. I'll stop now. It's getting boring anyway. Oh, before I sign off...how about you? What's the one thing you know now and wish you knew then? Is is something funny? Something embarrassing? Or is it just something that would've saved you a lot of time and effort if you'd known beforehand?

Okay, so this officially marks the end of today's blog post. I guess I'll be seeing you. Til next time, dear reader, I remain...

Yours,

Figgy the Detoxified

Not horribly sick, just slightly so

2010-04-19T20:19:00.001+08:00

Dear reader,

I'm sick. Not horribly sick, just slightly so. But I still feel phlegmatic and out of sorts. You know that gravelly, sandpapery feeling you get in your throat when you're fighting a flu or fever? I hate that feeling. It's so undermining...it makes you feel subhuman, as if you've morphed from a perfectly average, functioning member of society into some sort of husky-voiced, achy-jointed, mucus-filled excuse for a human being. There's some sort of flu epidemic going around here, everybody's getting sick lately. I think I'll be relatively well by tomorrow, though.

I stayed home today on the pretence that I was too ill to get out of bed. Honestly, I was just too tired and lazy to deal with...everything. I walked into the kitchen earlier today, at around noon--my hunger effectively bringing me out of my comatose state--and my mother said she thought I had classes, were they cancelled? As an afterthought, probably remembering me complain yesterday that I wasn't feeling well, she asked me if I was sick. I answered her and my voice sounded quite unlike itself, surprising me for a second. I croaked, "Of all the days to be sick, Monday is the best because I only have one class."

Oh, as a side note, there was a lovely storm today. There was thunder and lightning everywhere, intermingled with the sound of heavy rain beating down on the roof. Pity it didn't last longer, though. I know I've said it before, but I'll say it again: I love rainstorms.

I have a presentation on Wednesday. I hope my voice reverts back to its usual pitch before then. It's distracting, having a strange sounding voice come out of your mouth, then realizing a split second later that its actually your own. I haven't even finished up the slides yet. But then, what else is new? It's only English anyway. My topic is: Technology promotes laziness and is creating 'dumber' generations. Yeah. Not the juiciest presentation topic out there, but I chose it myself, so I have absolutely no excuse. I went through my outline with my English lecturer last Friday, having only just finished and printed the thing minutes before showing it to her. Incidentally, she's quite an interesting character...as most of the English lecturers in Swinburne seem to be. There was this one English teacher in my school as well, who I can only describe as eccentric. I wonder why all us word-lovers (all these English teachers and lecturers, at one point or another, have expressed an interest in linguistics) manage to find each other. It's like we're drawn to one another. Like Anne Shirley and her kindred spirits.

So anyway, once I finished explaining to her what I planned on saying in each slide--I was winging it quite desperately at this point--she told me that I was on a different wavelength than my classmates.
Oh, dear, I thought to myself. Is that a good thing?
I asked her as much: "Is that a good thing?"
She assured me it was. She said I was a very thoughtful person, whereas she noticed my classmates were more of the touch-n-go variety. I wisely kept my thoughts to myself; I was having flashbacks of me frantically rushing through my main points, sifting through web page after web page for relevant information, staggering down to the library to print the darn thing off, almost having a conniption waiting in line for the printer, then jogging to the next block and up two floors to arrive in her class, a whole half an hour late.

So I'm not touch-n-go, eh? If you say so, Madam Lecturer. Needless to say, I was flattered by her comment. I'm glad someone thinks I'm a thoughtful person. I'd rather be thoughtful and quiet than noisy and silly any day. Not that these qualities are mutually exclusive. You can be thoughtful and silly at the same time. I consider myself to come under this category.

Well. I suppose that's all I have to say for today. I'll catch you later, dear reader. Til next time, I remain...

Yours,

Figgy the Phlegmatic

Awkward. Erratic. Memorable.

2010-04-05T14:08:00.002+08:00

Dear reader,

I'm supposed to be in class. I'm not...I played hookey. Obviously. It was just graphic design anyway, lots of principles and theories and terminology like composition, line weight, unity, negative space and saturation. I'll just read up on the material myself later. No harm done. But that's not what I wanted to share with you today. I just wanted to get that nagging feeling of guilt off my chest. I know, I'm a total square. Today's real topic is: old movies, and why I love watching them. So, let's commence, shall we? Commencing...

I just love old movies. There's something so unassuming and endearing about them. For example, the fist fights are always so awkward and unchoreographed. Fists flying everywhere, limbs grappling, the hero decking the bad guy and making him sprawl back on the ground, his arms flailing. Other than the silly sound effects--BAM! DUSH! UFF!--it's actually more realistic and believable that way. Not everyone is a ninja assassin/shaolin warrior superhero...or Matt Damon's stuntman in the Bourne movies. Which is pretty much the same thing. Anyway, I think when two ordinary guys get in a testosterone-fueled fight, that's probably what it would look like: fists flying everywhere, limbs grappling, the hero decking the bad guy and making him sprawl back on the ground, his arms flailing.

Another thing I love about old movies is their lack of plot build up. The plots were so erratic, full of so many tiny little things happening all at once, that it's hard to remember the exact sequence of events. Just like in real life. The stories tended to focus on the characters rather than the events happening around them. I like that, it makes the characters feel more human.

Oh, another thing I love, the conversations between the characters. Why can't people talk more like that these days? It's like they weren't just talking, they were...building. One person would speak, then the other would reply, picking up where the first had left off. And they would continue like that, their replies building and growing and becoming something. Something substantial. Something memorable. Something real.

I know I'm not exactly an old movie buff or anything, but to emphasise my point, I'd like to show you some examples of what I mean. Read on, dear reader.

Why I Like Old Movies (with accompanying examples)
1. Awkward fight scenes: watch an old Western, any old Western. The hero will inevitably duke it out with the bad guy at some point in the film, sometimes more than once, if the bad guy was particularly vindictive. Or particularly stupid. Old Westerns have the best awkward scuffles. Not to mention bar fights.

2. Erratic plotline: 'Rebel Without a Cause'. If you haven't watched this yet, dear reader, you should. It's so sad and moving and funny. And the plot is indeed erratic. It never seems to climax, at least not until the very end. You know, now that I think about it, it has at least one awkward fight scene in it as well, involving a high school bully, something about cars, a concealed knife and a planetarium. If I recall correctly.

3. Memorable conversations: 'Breakfast at Tiffany's'. Well. Enough said, I suppose.

Incidentally, have you ever read the original story? I saw it at a book store and skimmed through a few pages. The movie was much more innocent compared to the story. The on-screen version left more things to the imagination. Well, what do you expect with a story written by Truman Capote?

Oh, another movie with memorable conversations: 'Casablanca'. I loved the interaction between Captain Renault and Rick. Their sarcasm and dry humour is lovely to watch.

Captain Renault: I've often speculated why you don't return to America. Did you abscond with the church funds? Run off with a senator's wife? I like to think you killed a man. It's the Romantic in me.

Rick: It was a combination of all three.

I suppose the reason why I like old movies so much is because they feel real. The characters are real people, not just Hollywood actors. I also love how the actors weren't even all that good-looking. They weren't ugly or anything, they were just average. Take Humphrey Bogart, for example. Not exactly Brad Pitt, at least in the looks department. But then again, there's just something about him that grabs your attention, that makes you follow him with your eyes as he walks across the screen, waiting to see what he'll do or say next. Or is it just me? Ah, charisma. That's the word I was looking for. And presence. Another word I was looking for. Humphrey Bogart had both, in generous amounts.

Anyway. I suppose I should just stop here. I have homework to do. I'm an official design student now :)
So, til next time, I remain...

Yours

Figgy the Awkward, Erratic and Memorable

My Generation

2010-03-30T22:14:00.023+08:00

Dear reader,

Musical Monday was a big flop, wasn't it? Well...my inconsistency knows no bounds then. Anyway, speaking of music, I love songs that inspire; songs that provoke thought, that are sources for the imagination. Imagination fountains: those are the only things worth listening to--or watching, or reading, or thinking about, for that matter. Sometimes we get caught up in the world, and we lose ourselves and our purity. Now, I'm not saying that people are all worldly, spiritually-depraved degenerates. I'm merely suggesting that there's a lot of unnecessary hanky-panky and silliness going on in this life, and we'd all be better off if we just stopped ourselves from getting involved in stuff like that.

Paul describes it better than I can. In 1 Corinthians 6:12 he says: "All things are lawful for me, but not all things are profitable. All things are lawful for me, but I will not be mastered by anything."

And he says something extremely similar in 1 Corinthians 10:23; "All things are lawful, but not all things are profitable. All things are lawful, but not all things edify."

When he says 'profitable', he doesn't only mean profit in terms of money. Something that will develop us, help us grow, something positive. He means, pretty much: everything is permissible, but not everything builds us up. How very true. Sleeping in on weekends, watching a movie when we should be studying, badmouthing someone--even if it's done in total confidence--won't kill us, it's all harmless. We justify our actions by saying they won't do us any harm. We always forget that these actions--more often than not--won't do us any good either. If every single person on this earth made a conscious effort to limit their pursuits to purely positive and edifying ones I wonder what the world would be like. On the other hand, perfection tends to get boring after a while, don't you think, dear reader? I wonder if it's a good thing humans can never be perfect, at least not in this life. It's all about the process, after all, not the end product. Well--while we're mortal--we won't ever reach perfection, but the least we can do is to strive for it.

I came across this quote one day...I forget when and where I got it, or what wild Internet goose chase led me to discover it in the first place. I don't even know if it ties in with my current ramblings--refer above--but I figured I'd just throw it in here for some diversity.

A person will worship something, have no doubt about that. We may think our tribute is paid in secret in the dark recesses of our hearts, but it will out. That which dominates our imaginations and our thoughts will determine our lives, and our character. Therefore, it behooves us to be careful what we worship, for what we are worshipping we are becoming.

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

That quote gave me chills. It's a scary thought, don't you think? The thought that 'we are worshipping what we are becoming.'

Anyway. I'm meandering. Very much so. The real reason I'm writing this is to share a song with you, dear reader. The song is called 'Generasiku' and it was sung by OAG, you know, my favourite Malaysian band. It means 'My Generation' in Malay. Oh, this song was on the soundtrack for a Malaysian movie called 'Gol & Gincu' (Goals & Lipstick), which was about a female futsal team, I think. It was an average-type chick flick, nothing spectacular, in my opinion. Anyway, that explains the football elements (or soccer, depending on which side of the Atlantic you hail from) in the music video. So, without further ado...hey, have you ever wondered where the word 'ado' came from? Such a funny little word, isn't it? A-doo. Much ado about nothing. Ah. Doo. If you say it enough times, it starts to sound like a foreign language. Ado. Aaa-do. Ahhh. Dooo. Ado.

Oh, right. The song, Here you go...enjoy!

'Generasiku'
OAG
Pagi terjaga ku dari mimpi
Terasa hati senang sekali
Pasti dunia ku yang punya di hari ini
Bersama kawan-kawan ku pergi
Ketawa riang senang hati
Indahnya dunia ketika kita muda remaja

[Chorus]
Segalanya dalam genggaman
Walau apa pun tak kan menjadi halangan
Hidup ini sedia menanti
Generasiku bersinar bagai mentari
Oh-oh...

Malam ini bertemu di pesta
Berdebar membalas senyumannya
Manisnya, oh, jatuh cinta kali pertama
Bersama melukiskan impian
Cinta, cita-cita dan harapan
Di usia ini...tiada yang tak mungkin, oh sayang

[Chorus]

Jangan gentar mengejar mimpi
Yakin, berani, percaya diri
Dan mula dengan 'hello'
Oh-oh...

Jangan takut jatuh ke bumi
Bingkas bangun melangkah lagi
Ke depan, lari dan terbang menuju bintang
Hanya kau saja yang bisa menentu
Arah hidupmu yeah...
Oh-oh...

Pagi terjaga ku dari mimpi
Terasa hati senang sekali
Indahnya dunia ketika kita muda remaja

[Chorus] x2
Oh-oh...

Segalanya dalam genggaman (Oh-oh...)
Hidup ini...
Generasiku...

English Translation

'My Generation'

OAG

This morning, I woke from a dream

My heart felt so light

Surely, the world is mine today

With my friends I go

Laughing happily, with a light heart

The world is so wonderful when we're young

[Chorus]

Everything is within our grasp

Nothing can stand in our way

This life is ready and waiting

My generation shines like the sun

Oh-oh...

Tonight, we meet at the festival

My heart beats as I return her smile

It's so sweet, oh, falling in love for the first time

Together we draw out our dreams

Love, ambition and hope

At this age...nothing is impossible, oh [my] love

[Chorus]

Don't be afraid to chase your dream

Confident, brave, believe in yourself

And start with 'hello'

Oh-oh...

Don't be afraid of falling down to earth

Resiliently rise and take another step

Forward, run and fly, heading for the stars
Only you can decide

The direction of your life, yeah...

Oh-oh...

This morning, I woke from a dream

My heart felt so light

The world is so wonderful when we're young

[Chorus] x2

Oh-oh...

Everything is within grasp

(Oh-oh...)

This life...

My generation...

Great song, right? An inspiration fountain if there ever was. The world really is wonderful when you're young. If you try hard enough, you can see the years stretching out in front of you, like a path or a river, and it just goes on and on until it disappears into the horizon. The future is like that horizon in the distance: vague and unknowable at the moment, but you'll get there soon enough.

And on that note, I shall leave you, dear reader. See you round the bend. Til then, I remain...

Yours,

Figgy the Youthful

Overlap

2010-03-21T05:15:00.000+08:00

Dear reader,

I love long car rides, don't you? I wonder if this is a result of my family's annual pilgrimage to our longhouse each Christmas. Talk about long car rides. It takes about 15 hours by car, give or take a few hours for pit stops and dilly-dallying. And that's only after they fixed up the roads. We used to have to go by the muddy logging roads, quite an experience. One on occasion, one of my uncles was driving us. He insisted on skidding the car sideways on every time the road sloped downhill, causing me and my three siblings to squeal in delight and mock fright. And before there were even any roads connecting the cities to my longhouse, we had to go by express boat. I remember playing with my siblings while we waited for the express to arrive; hopping around in the black river mud pretending to be mudskippers. I loved it when I would hop a particularly large hop, and the suction from the mud would suck my slippers clean off my feet. Well, in a manner of speaking. There was nothing even remotely clean where the mudskipper game was concerned. If you managed to stay clean after a round of mudskipper, you weren't doing it properly.

I just realized how old I sound. "Why, back in my day..." Or perhaps it's just because Sarawak is actually a very young state. We're only about 47 years old, after all. We're a baby compared to other countries and states in the world. In the 19 years I've been alive, we've gone from express boats, to muddy logging roads, to proper tar and cement roads--albeit with gigantic potholes from logging trucks passing through. Pretty impressive, if you ask me.

Anyway. Back to the topic of long drives. The reason I love car rides is it gives you time to think. To sit down, be quiet, stare off into space, and just think. So I was being driven home one day, by my driving instructor, ironically. In the midst of my sitting and staring and thinking, I happened to look up out the window, and I saw an aeroplane. Or airplane. Whatever. It was flying relatively low, low enough for me to see the details on the underside of it as it passed overhead, but you still had to squint a little to see them clearly. And it got me thinking:

How many people are on that plane?
Are they looking down out of their windows, the same way I was looking up out of mine?
Can they see the car I was riding in, or was it lost in a swarm of other cars, milling about the winding streets like ants in an ant farm?
What were they thinking about as they gazed out of their windows? About the ant-sized people in their ant-sized cars, perhaps?
For every woman on that plane, there is a daughter. A sister. A mother. A wife. A grandmother.
And for every man; a son. A brother. A father. A husband. A grandfather.
For every person; a cousin, an uncle, a lover, a teacher.
Each person; a soul.
A life.
A story to tell.

Then the plane flew over the car, and out of sight.

Honestly. Why is it there are such selfish people in the world? How can someone live their lives in a bubble when every minute of every day, our lives overlap with the lives of the people next to us?

I don't know. This 'lives overlapping' thing seems to be a recurring theme to me. I think about it all the time. It's comforting, I suppose, in a vague way. It means that we're never truly alone in the world. Whatever we've been through, no matter how embarrassing or degrading or seemingly insurmountable it may be, someone else in some other corner of the world has probably gone through far worse at some point in history. The elasticity and endurance of the human spirit, and all that. On the other hand, it's also awesomely humbling. We realize that, in the grand scheme of things, considering the Universe and everything in existence, we're nothing but cosmic ants. Busy, busy, busy living our lives, running here and there, helter-skelter. All the while some higher power--the One who gives and takes away--is watching us, loving us, judging us. Compared to Him, we're nothing but stars in the sky. Grains of sand on the shore. Ashes blowing in the wind.

And...I'm officially out of metaphors.

I should go to bed now, I suppose. I really need to start sleeping like a normal human being again, instead of some nocturnal creature. Til next time, dear reader, I remain...

Yours,

Figgy; Found in Faith, Lost in Thought

Adolescent angst

2010-03-08T16:25:00.001+08:00

Dear reader,

I wish I could sing. Or play an instrument. Or something. I don't know. Have you ever felt like you weren't accomplishing anything in your life, dear reader? When I was younger I thought I was going to take the world by storm, become the next Christopher Paolini. Make my mark on the world, a blazing fire of glory and wit. Like some Shakespeare-quoting shooting star. Instead I'm a burnt out little candle. I just feel so old and cynical. Jaded. How is that even possible? I mean, I'm 19 not 91. Why do I feel like such a has-been when I never even was? Ah, maybe that's it. I can sense my time running out, the years slipping past me and I can't do anything to stop it.

I thought only teenagers go through angst over absolutely nothing. Well, I'm technically still an adolescent, right? Adolescence, defined as 'the period between the beginning of puberty to adulthood'. There you go. While we're on the subject of adolescent angst, I hate the way teenagers are portrayed on TV. Not every person between the ages of 13 and 20 are that...stupid. We don't throw random temper tantrums or nearly die when our parents walk with us at the mall. I enjoy shopping with my mother! And I have never, ever shouted that my parents were ruining my life. Stereotypes, bah!

Maybe this sudden depression's got something to do with me not being busy anymore. After two months of frantic activity, to have it suddenly come to an end is...disorientating. One minute you're spinning out of control--cursing the stupid deadline, drinking gallons and gallons of coffee, wondering if this thing will actually kill you, then not minding the thought of being dead because at least then you could get a decent night's sleep--and then the next minute, your life is at a complete standstill. It's like you were in a speeding car which collided head-first with a wall of molasses. Our project is officially over. All we have left is the presentation; the pitch, if you will. We're trying to get people to give us money so we can do another book, but better this time. I guess I need another project, another goal. Another thing to live for and pour little pieces of my soul into.

Anyway. I just watched a slew of YouTube videos today. Where did all these ridiculously self-assured and confident teenagers come from? Prattling away on their webcams and camcorders, sounding so witty and funny and articulate. Was I this nonchalant and cool when I was their age? No. No, definitely not. My feelings, my thoughts, my personality...even now they haven't formed themselves into anything concrete or permanent. I'm convinced of something one day, and then the next day my mom says something that makes me pause and change my mind. Or I suddenly see the flaw in my own argument, so I discard the whole idea as a mistake. I mean, forget about being articulate and expressive, I'm not even sure of what I want to express yet.

So yeah. I'm starting classes again later this March. That's something to get excited about anyway. I can't wait for Drawing and Illustration! It's going to be so awesome. We're probably going to learn about stuff like perspective and anatomy. You know. All that cool artsy stuff.

Oh, wait. Another possible explanation for my depression: I can't connect to the Internet at home. I'm typing up this post in my college library. Yes, I'm at the library even though I have no classes. What, is that just too nerdy of me, dear reader? I love the library. Just sitting in the library makes me feel smarter. More scholarly and knowledgeable. Anyway, my home wireless thingy is shot. I have no idea what happened to it. I think I'm going through withdrawal symptoms. I'm completely useless at home. Every time I turn my laptop on, all I can do is stare blankly at the screen. I can't even do normal things that don't require Internet access because it just doesn't feel the same. Like when I'm writing or drawing. It just feels wrong, like I'm boxed in. Google is my homepage. No fooling. I like to know that, if I ever get the urge to, I can just pop on over to Google and search my little heart out. Not having Internet access makes me feel handicapped or disadvantaged somehow.

Oh. Abrupt subject change time. You know what would be cool? A drawing of a boy or a girl, whatever; and they're texting someone with headphones on while playing a video game and surfing the net at the same time. I'd call it 'Generation of Electricity'. Well? Whaddya think? Get it? It's a play on words...you know. Generation, generation. Of electri...yeah. It is a bit lame. I have so many ideas for possible drawing projects, but sadly I lack the motivation, discipline and skill to carry them out.

Okay, I guess I'd better go now. Seeing as I've run out of things to say and all. So...bye.

Yours,

Figgy the Angsty and Borderline Depressed Adolescent

Birthday Girl...the big One-Nine

2010-02-22T10:53:00.000+08:00

Dear reader,

Well, hello there. And how are you today?

As you can probably guess from the title of this post, it's my birthday today. I am now 19 years old. It's sad really. I was just getting used to the idea of being 18, and now I'm suddenly a year older. Every time someone asks me how old I am I'll probably have to think for 30 seconds before I answer them. Which do you think is most embarrassing, dear reader? Looking like you're actually calculating your age on the spot, deducting your year of birth from the year you're in--and carry the one--or first saying you're one age, then having to take it back and say, oh I forgot, I'm actually this old. Yeah. I've actually done both, so...I don't know what that says about me.

I just pulled an all-nighter, the second or third one this week, I'm not entirely sure--the days kind of blurred together and I lost track of time about 18 hours in--followed by an extremely unhealthy breakfast at about seven this morning. I should cherish these years while they last. The years where my body is still young and buoyant enough that I can put all sorts of crap into it, and subject it to all sorts of crappy treatment, and not have it bloat to enormous proportions or run myself in the ground.

Anyway. I was looking at last year's Birthday post, and I've realized that I actually have grown somewhat over the past year. Well, not exponentially, you understand. But gradually. Very gradually. I've been maturing, I swear. And last year, I was just sitting around home and devolving into a state of boredom-induced vegetation. This year, I've been working. A lot. I'm working right this second, actually. Honest. I've been looking for a software to install my decrepit scanner into my Fujitsu-baby.

There's an interesting story about that, actually. I just noticed I say 'actually' a lot. Oh, yeah, okay...the story. It happened like this: I was looking for my sad relic of a scanner, and found it in one of my Dad's cabinet drawers. I got it out from its dark corner where it had been very effectively collecting dust for the past few years. I checked around, no wires. No power supply cables, no USB cables as well. I figured, no problem, I'll just use the ones from the printer. The USB cable fit perfectly, but--cue gasp of horror--the power cable didn't. Desperate, I looked around for any one that looked like it would match. The hole was round for Pete's sake. I was pulling out the wires from all the laptops in the house, seeing as they were the only round power cables I could think of. I tried my Fujitsu-baby's one the last, and, lo and behold, it fit! The light came on and Fujitsu-baby made that 'du-DUH' sound computers make when something has connected successfully. I was so relieved, you wouldn't believe it.

And after that whole ordeal, of course, it just won't install. Of course that would happen. That's just how life works. You think everything is peachy-keen and hunky-dory...til you get that alert that says something is incompatible with something else, and the stupid machine didn't install properly. Would you like to reinstall? It's so annoying. Maybe I should switch to Mac after all. Do Mac-bookers have to deal with the kind of aggravation Microsoft users go through every time they turn on their computers?

Anyway. I'm still trying to install the hopelessly antiquated scanner. I'm cranky. Did I mention I haven't slept? At all? Since last night? Well, I'm mentioning it now. I was working, damn it! And this stupid, dilapidated scanner is seriously throwing a monkey bar into my schedule! We're supposed to finish the thrice-accursed thing this afternoon! It's already ten something! I'll never be ready on time! And I'm using way too many exclamation marks! Exclamation mark!

Sigh.

Oh my gosh, look at that! It's an abrupt topic change! So there's this song I'm really into recently. It's from the soundtrack of House Bunny, interestingly enough. Hey, don't dis the Farris, dear reader. The movie was...okay. Well, the music was good anyway. So the song is 'New Soul' by Yael Naim. She's French-Israeli, I think. I'm not sure if this song goes with this post at all, but I feel like it does somehow. Maybe I just really need to sleep. Enjoy the song, dear reader.

The girl in the middle of the video with the red hair isn't Yael Naim...I have no idea who she is or what she's doing there. I didn't make the video, so. Yeah. I love the part in the song where she goes "communi-cate". I love songs where the singers aren't native English speakers, then you have an excuse to sing the song in a foreign accent. Not that you really need an excuse, though.

Okay, I'm going now. It's 10:52 and the dusty artifact I call a scanner still isn't installing. I'll go flail my arms in panic somewhere you can't see me, dear reader. Til next time, I remain...

Yours,

Figgy the New Nineteen-Year Old Soul

Getting into the holiday spirit

2010-02-12T18:11:00.002+08:00

Dear reader,

I'm back! It's funny, isn't it...I said I probably wasn't going to post up anything new til March or something, but instead I've been remarkably prolific in that department. 'Tis just further proof of my contrary nature. Anyway. Valentine's Day is just around the corner. Talk about your idiotic, over-commercialized holidays. I mean, Christmas is bad enough--seriously, you expect any person with an ounce of common sense to believe that a fat, red-clothed, white-bearded man whooshes around the globe in a sleigh pulled by magical flying reindeer and delivers presents to every single child in the space of one night. How exactly did kindly St Nicholas of Myra evolve into this way-too-jolly, rosy-cheeked, glorified cat burglar? Yes, glorified cat burglar. I mean, come on, he breaks into your house in the dead of night, and steals your cookies. The truth is, Christmas isn't about giving or receiving presents at all. Or Christmas trees. Or candy canes. Or elves. Or even snow. You know, it's summer in Australia during Christmas. Most people seem to forget that Christmas is Jesus Christ's birthday, and the only reason we celebrate it is to remember the day he was born, and to contemplate what the world would have been like if he hadn't. That's why it really ticks me off when people say Xmas instead of Christmas.

So, to get back to Valentine's. Oh, such a sweet holiday. Those naked, flying babies who look way too young to be handling a bow and arrow without adult supervision aren't scary or disturbing in the least. Have you ever noticed how well-meaning but painfully condescending adults warn little kids not to run with scissors, but then turn around and buy a card that's emblazoned with a design of swaddled infants with angel wings brandishing lethal weapons? It's just so silly. And what exactly is the relation between these infant cupids and St Valentine the martyr anyway? And do we really need a public holiday to remember to love someone? That's really sad. We should treat every day like it's Valentine's Day. Sans the arrow-yielding, barely-clothed babies, of course.

You know, some people refer to Valentine's as 'Singles Awareness Day', otherwise known as S.A.D. Don't get me wrong, dear reader. I'm not one of those bitter singles who pretend they're perfectly happy going solo, but are actually desperately lonely and just too proud to admit it. I'm one of those infuriating, genuinely-happy-to-be-single people, who are so independent and satisfied in their single-hood that it starts becoming obnoxious after a while. I don't think anyone should get into a relationship just to feel like they've achieved something in life. That's just not fair, to you or the unfortunate person who's just being used to boost your shattered self-esteem. I'm not denying that receiving a box of chocolates or an 'I Love You' card would be nice, romantic even, but the principle behind it is still silly to me. Why show your love only on specific days? Why not give your girlfriend, boyfriend, sister, cousin, grandmother, whatever, a present just for the heck of it? Hmmm, I wonder if they make 'Happy Wednesday' cards. If they don't, they should. And if they won't, I will.

Okay, I'm done bashing commercialized, consumer-oriented holidays now. Wow, I never realized what a hippie I am...stick it to the man! Power to the people! Next week's post topic is 'Easter: Bunnies and Eggs. What's Up With That?'

No, seriously...what's up with that?

And on that note, I leave you, dear reader. Til next time, I remain...

Yours,

Scrooge McFig

Touched

2010-01-28T00:31:00.000+08:00

Dear reader,

It's not often you read or see something (on the Internet, no less) that touches you so deeply you tear up, trying to swallow the lump of emotions in your throat--and would have cried if your sister weren't in the room with you. That's what this story did to me.

To Write Love On Her Arms

Pedro the Lion is loud in the speakers, and the city waits just outside our open windows. She sits and sings, legs crossed in the passenger seat, her pretty voice hiding in the volume. Music is a safe place and Pedro is her favorite. It hits me that she won't see this skyline for several weeks, and we will be without her. I lean forward, knowing this will be written, and I ask what she'd say if her story had an audience. She smiles. "Tell them to look up. Tell them to remember the stars."

I would rather write her a song, because songs don't wait to resolve, and because songs mean so much to her. Stories wait for endings, but songs are brave things bold enough to sing when all they know is darkness. These words, like most words, will be written next to midnight, between hurricane and harbor, as both claim to save her.

Renee is 19. When I meet her, cocaine is fresh in her system. She hasn't slept in 36 hours and she won't for another 24. It is a familiar blur of coke, pot, pills and alcohol. She has agreed to meet us, to listen and to let us pray. We ask Renee to come with us, to leave this broken night. She says she'll go to rehab tomorrow, but she isn't ready now. It is too great a change. We pray and say goodbye and it is hard to leave without her.

She has known such great pain; haunted dreams as a child, the near-constant presence of evil ever since. She has felt the touch of awful naked men, battled depression and addiction, and attempted suicide. Her arms remember razor blades, fifty scars that speak of self-inflicted wounds. Six hours after I meet her, she is feeling trapped, two groups of "friends" offering opposite ideas. Everyone is asleep. The sun is rising. She drinks long from a bottle of liquor, takes a razor blade from the table and locks herself in the bathroom. She cuts herself, using the blade to write "FUCK UP" large across her left forearm.

The nurse at the treatment center finds the wound several hours later. The center has no detox, names her too great a risk, and does not accept her. For the next five days, she is ours to love. We become her hospital and the possibility of healing fills our living room with life. It is unspoken and there are only a few of us, but we will be her church, the body of Christ coming alive to meet her needs, to write love on her arms.

She is full of contrast, more alive and closer to death than anyone I've known, like a Johnny Cash song or some theatre star. She owns attitude and humor beyond her 19 years, and when she tells me her story, she is humble and quiet and kind, shaped by the pain of a hundred lifetimes. I sit privileged but breaking as she shares. Her life has been so dark yet there is some soft hope in her words, and on consecutive evenings, I watch the prettiest girls in the room tell her that she's beautiful. I think it's God reminding her.

I've never walked this road, but I decide that if we're going to run a five-day rehab, it is going to be the coolest in the country. It is going to be rock and roll. We start with the basics; lots of fun, too much Starbucks and way too many cigarettes.

Thursday night she is in the balcony for Band Marino, Orlando's finest. They are indie-folk-fabulous, a movement disguised as a circus. She loves them and she smiles when I point out the A&R man from Atlantic Europe, in town from London just to catch this show.

She is in good seats when the Magic beat the Sonics the next night, screaming like a lifelong fan with every Dwight Howard dunk. On the way home, we stop for more coffee and books, Blue Like Jazz and (Anne Lamott's) Travelling Mercies.

On Saturday, the Taste of Chaos tour is in town and I'm not even sure we can get in, but doors do open and minutes after parking, we are on stage for Thrice, one of her favorite bands. She stands ten feet from the drummer, smiling constantly. It is a bright moment there in the music, as light and rain collide above the stage. It feels like healing. It is certainly hope.

Sunday night is church and many gather after the service to pray for Renee, this her last night before entering rehab. Some are strangers but all are friends tonight. The prayers move from broken to bold, all encouraging. We're talking to God but I think as much, we're talking to her, telling her she's loved, saying she does not go alone. One among us knows her best. Ryan sits in the corner strumming an acoustic guitar, singing songs she's inspired.

After church our house fills with friends, there for a few more moments before goodbye. Everyone has some gift for her, some note or hug or piece of encouragement. She pulls me aside and tells me she would like to give me something. I smile surprised, wondering what it could be. We walk through the crowded living room, to the garage and her stuff.

She hands me her last razor blade, tells me it is the one she used to cut her arm and her last lines of cocaine five nights before. She's had it with her ever since, shares that tonight will be the hardest night and she shouldn't have it. I hold it carefully, thank her and know instantly that this moment, this gift, will stay with me. It hits me to wonder if this great feeling is what Christ knows when we surrender our broken hearts, when we trade death for life.

As we arrive at the treatment center, she finishes: "The stars are always there but we miss them in the dirt and clouds. We miss them in the storms. Tell them to remember hope. We have hope."

I have watched life come back to her, and it has been a privilege. When our time with her began, someone suggested shifts but that is the language of business. Love is something better. I have been challenged and changed, reminded that love is that simple answer to so many of our hardest questions. Don Miller says we're called to hold our hands against the wounds of a broken world, to stop the bleeding. I agree so greatly.

We often ask God to show up. We pray prayers of rescue. Perhaps God would ask us to be that rescue, to be His body, to move for things that matter. He is not invisible when we come alive. I might be simple but more and more, I believe God works in love, speaks in love, is revealed in our love. I have seen that this week and honestly, it has been simple: Take a broken girl, treat her like a famous princess, give her the best seats in the house. Buy her coffee and cigarettes for the coming down, books and bathroom things for the days ahead. Tell her something true when all she's known are lies. Tell her God loves her. Tell her about forgiveness, the possibility of freedom, tell her she was made to dance in white dresses. All these things are true.

We are only asked to love, to offer hope to the many hopeless. We don't get to choose all the endings, but we are asked to play the rescuers. We won't solve all mysteries and our hearts will certainly break in such a vulnerable life, but it is the best way. We were made to be lovers bold in broken places, pouring ourselves out again and again until we're called home.

I have learned so much in one week with one brave girl. She is alive now, in the patience and safety of rehab, covered in marks of madness but choosing to believe that God makes things new, that He meant hope and healing in the stars. She would ask you to remember.

Well-written, painfully honest, poignant, and ending with hope. I wonder who wrote it. To whoever it was, you're my new hero. I love this story. And I love it all the more because it's true. My favourite lines are:

Stories wait for endings, but songs are brave things bold enough to sing when all they know is darkness.

She is full of contrast, more alive and closer to death than anyone I've known, like a Johnny Cash song or some theatre star.

I sit privileged but breaking as she shares.

...tell her she was made to dance in white dresses.

I've never walked this road, but I decide that if we're going to run a five-day rehab, it is going to be the coolest in the country. It is going to be rock and roll. We start with the basics; lots of fun, too much Starbucks and way too many cigarettes.

So anyway. Just wanted to share that with you, dear reader. After I read it, all I could think was: 'wow'. That's it, just one word...'wow'. Well, I'd better be going now. It's past midnight here and I need to get up [relatively] early tomorrow. See you next time.

Love,

Figgy

If only, if only

2010-01-20T00:38:00.001+08:00

Dear reader,

I just think I should let you know, I'm using you. Yes, you're nothing but a tool. A procrastination and dilly-dallying tool. I'm sorry, but I'm just being brutally honest here. I have this thing--two things actually--that I have to get done. By tonight. Tomorrow morning at the latest. And, me being me, I'll probably leave it to the last possible minute second.

If only I wasn't such an incorrigible feet-dragger. If only I was obnoxiously motivated and organized, and had a schedule book detailing my life to the most precise second. If only I was a preppy, socially-competent, valedictorian-type girl who submits every assignment on time and does all the right things and never says anything stupid.

If only I had a real camera, with a lens the size and breadth of my effing arm. That came with a wicked cool camera strap with a pink skull-and-crossbones pattern on it. If only I knew how to use said fictional camera.

If only I had more awesome dresses to wear, cause--despite being a jeans and T-shirt girl most of the time--I love wearing dresses for no reason other than "I just felt like it". If only I were chic.

If only all the pain, tragedies and atrocities in the world could just disappear, leaving only love, peace and an undeniable understanding of every human's equality behind. If only I weren't such an idealist. Or if only more people I knew were idealists...we could form a club or something. With our own buttons. With witty slogans printed on them.

If only I had a pair of Mary-Jane's. Seriously, those shoes are the epitome of awesome-ness. I could settle for a pair of ankle boots, though. Hmmm...if only I weren't so obsessed with shoes? Nah.

If only everyone was a better person than they currently are...or if only they at least actively strive to make themselves better. Myself included. Myself especially.

If only, if only.

Speaking of 'better people'...did you know I love India.Arie? No, I am not abruptly changing the subject, dear reader. I am referring to a song of her's, called 'Better People'. It's a great song, and coincidentally really relevant to my life right now. Like, extremely so. Profoundly so. It's almost creepy, in fact. I'm not telling you why, though. What? I like to pretend I'm mysterious. Don't shatter my deluded ramblings, kind reader. Just let me go through life in a haze of ignorant bliss.

Lyrics:

I wish there was a video game
To teach you your ancestor's name
I wish there was a phone number
Like 1-800-Save-Your-Brother
I'm thankful for the radio station
Not afraid to put the truth in rotation
There is certain information
That you can only get in conversation with

[Chorus]
Young people, talk to
Old people, it would make us a
Better people, all around
(Yes it would)
And if old people, would talk to
Young people, it would make us a
Better people, all around
(Yes it would)

We went from radio to TV
Now we're going from LP to CD
Don't be afraid to try something new
I can help you with the brand new technology
You can help me with the age old philosophy
Together there's so much we can do, when...

[Chorus]

They say that every generation gets worse
They call it a generational curse
But these problems don't just drop out o' the sky
Listen to Mahatma Ghandi's words
Be the change you wanna see in the world
Start with yourself and healing will multiply
That's what happens when...

Young people, talk to
Old people, it would make us a
Better people, all around...
(Yes it would)
If Old People would talk to
Young people...
Better people, all around

If black people would talk to white people
It would make us a
Better people, all around

If Republican people would
Talk to Democratic people
It would make us diplomatic people, all around

I just love the lyrics. Music, to me, is an experience. It's about the sound, the beat, the voice, and especially the lyrics. Do not expect me to listen to a song with crappy lyrics. Just because you can rhyme 'girl' with 'world' or 'life' with 'wife', doesn't make you a songwriter. Yes, hip-hoppers and wannabe-gangsta-rappers, I'm talking to you. Having said that, it's not like I despise rap or anything. I like Eminem. Sometimes. And Jay-Z is a legend in my mind, the Rap Grandmaster. I absolutely adore Mike Shinoda, and by extension Fort Minor. Jason Mraz, technically, is a rapper. Well he used to rap more before he got old and mellow. Not that I don't like his newer songs, I just find it frustrating that people who never liked him before suddenly jumped on the 'I'm Yours' bandwagon. I liked him way before he was considered cool...or mainstream, rather. And I liked the original version of 'I'm Yours' better.

Wow, this turned out to be a longer post than I had intended it to be. I should probably go now. It's already past midnight. Better get cracking. Yup. No more procrastinating. Gotta get a move on. Sigh. Alright, alright...I'm going. See ya round the bend, dear reader.

Yours,

Figgy the Incorrigible

Sad song and exams

2010-01-11T00:55:00.002+08:00

Don't be deluded, dear reader, this is strictly a quickie post.
I've had this song for a relatively long time, but it somehow means more to me now than it did then. Maybe you'll understand that cryptic statement, and maybe you won't...but I'm too tired and hungry right now to make a whole post out of it.

Death Cab For Cutie
I Will Follow You into the Dark

Before I knew the lyrics, I thought it was 'illuminate the nose on their vacancy signs', haha.
I believe in Heaven and Hell, and I doubt very much that they have 'no vacancy' signs, but it doesn't matter really. It's the concept behind it: even if the place you're going to is...nowhere, even if it's only darkness, I'll still follow you there. Other than a creeping suspicion that this song might inspire suicidal tendencies, I find it sweet and moving. And extremely sad.

I have exams tomorrow...I mean, today. And I haven't even started studying. I should really stop procrastinating. Now.

Guess what this is! It's Figgy's abrupt departure~

Not-so-Merry Christmas, Not-so-Happy New Year

2010-01-05T13:12:00.001+08:00

Dear reader.

My grandfather died.

And I don't know how I feel about it. I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about it. I think I'm sad and solemn...but maybe not sad and solemn enough? I didn't really know him that well; there was a language barrier. But far from that being a consolation or justification for my feelings (or lack thereof), it just makes me feel guilty. For not trying to get to know him better. For not sitting down and listening to him talk, even if I didn't understand what he was saying. For not enjoying every second we were together when he was alive. For not feeling more than I feel right now.

He was a storyteller. He was tough, he was wise. He was funny. And now he's dead.

I didn't cry when I got the news. I was in shock, I guess. I was at the library, researching my stupid Malaysian Studies assignment. My mother called me.

She said hello and her voice was subdued, quieter than usual. I said hello back, unsuspecting.
"Pui Bang passed away," she said, in that quiet voice.
"What?" my breath came out slowly in a sort of gasp, drawing the word out reluctantly and unbelievingly from my throat.

When we hung up I didn't cry. I just sat there for a second, then continued doing what I was doing, in a sort of numb state. I glanced at my phone, wondering what time it was. I wanted to remember every detail. It was 5:23 p.m., 22nd of December, 2009.

We went back to the longhouse on the 24th--the flight was booked before we knew Pui Bang had died. Me and my mother stayed back with me when the rest of the family--father, sisters, brother, cousins and...Julia--had gone ahead of us because I still had classes. Summer semester. My [other] cousin managed to get a seat in the same flight with us; she hadn't planned on going back at all this year. She had exams on the 31st, and she needed to study. But deaths in the family tend to change plans somewhat.

His coffin was outside our door, on the verandah. It was beautiful. Polished wood with gold-coloured finishings. They built this wooden shelter around the coffin and draped it with...anything they could find, I guess. There was pua kumbu over most of it, and Christmas tinsel hanging from the front. There was a fluorescent light at the top. They covered the back of it with the 'good' carpets. One had a picture of a matador and a bull in a coliseum, the other had peacocks on it with some sort of Babylonian-looking building in the background. It would be funny if it wasn't so touching and sweet. We clustered around it, being quiet and remembering him, sometimes telling each other funny stories about him. From time to time one of the puis (grandmas or grandpas) or aunties would start crying out loud. They sing when they wail. Even if you don't understand a word, there's such raw emotion behind it that just listening can make you start crying, too. I'm starting to tear up just remembering it.

The picture of him was brought from Bintulu. Our plane landed in Bintulu airport, we took a taxi to a hotel in Bintulu City and my dad picked us up there. We went to town, ordered the picture, had breakfast and basically wasted time for about an hour until the picture was finished, then took it back with us to the longhouse. It's a good three-hour drive from Bintulu City to my longhouse. So there we were, me and my cousin, with Pui Bang sitting between us.

The funeral was on the 26th, we were waiting for all the relatives to come back. The men lifted the coffin onto some long, sturdy pieces of wood--I would say sticks, but that doesn't sound very sturdy, does it? They wrapped him up with tarp--the kind that's orange on one side and blue on the other--tucking and folding it in the corners of the coffin, and I couldn't help thinking it was like they were wrapping up a Christmas present. On top of the tarp they placed a white sheet with a red cross in the middle. They carried him all the way down to a car outside and placed him in the back of it. There was a shelter there, too; more pua kumbu-type cloth draped on top of the back of the four-wheel-drive using bamboo. We drove to the cemetery, a whole procession of four-wheel-drives with colourful pieces of cloth waving from sticks of bamboo strapped to the vehicles.

They buried him in a sort of mausoleum made of tiles. You know those Malay tiled well-type things, where you scoop the water out to take a bath? It looked a bit like that. The men lowered the coffin into it, with lots of shouted directions and advice on coffin-lowering techniques and strategies. We put some of his possessions in there with him, but most of his children and grandchildren wanted to keep some of his stuff to remember him by. They covered the top with planks of wood, sliding them in and slotting them together like a jigsaw puzzle; all the pieces fit together. We said a prayer and sang a song: a Kayan translation of the hymn 'Sweet By and By'. I cried a little at that point. When we were done, they sealed him in on the spot. Spread the wet cement on top of it and everything. I didn't stay for the whole thing. Me and most of the other relatives went back a little after the first layer of cement. A few stayed behind, until all the tiles were put on.

I'll miss him. I know I will. I don't remember much about him from my baby and toddler days, which is a shame because I could still speak Kayan then. My older cousins still remember, though. Cousin Helen the Nurse told me a funny story about him. Helen and two other cousins--Cousin Lini (who is Helen's elder sister) and Cousin Lina--wanted to follow Pui Bang to the farm one day. There was, however a formidable obstacle: tall, sharp lalang grass that threatened to shred their little baby-legs to ribbons. Helen was all for it--she had always been the tomboy of her family--but Lini and Lina didn't want the grass to cut them. So, Pui Bang told them all to climb into his huge ajat (basket-bag-thingy) and he carried all three of them through the mean grass field. Helen said they were sitting in the ajat with their hands gripping the edges, looking like three little excited puppies.

Sharp grass was no problem for him. Neither was fire or charcoal. He had rhino skin. Seriously. I remember this one time a few years ago. It was Christmas; we always go back for Christmas. The younger boy-cousins were getting too noisy with the firecrackers, and continued setting them off even after Pui Bang told them to stop. Finally he couldn't stand it any more. He confiscated one firecracker from the boys, lit it, and held it in his closed fist while it went off, all the while glaring fixedly at them. He didn't even flinch, he didn't even blink. They proceeded to run for their lives--as only little boys recently instilled with the fear of God can. Needless to say, it was quiet for the rest of the day.

Yeah, I'll definitely miss him. I think I'll draw him a little something, just to acknowledge his existence. That was the main reason for this post, also. To declare loudly into the void, "My grandfather existed. And I'm sad he doesn't anymore." Well, at least not in this life. I'll see him when I get to heaven.

P/S: I started this post on the 28th of December and I'm finishing it on the 5th of January. Nyehh, typical.

Yours,

Figgy...just Figgy.

Smudges in the sky

2009-12-22T09:34:00.000+08:00

The sky was intriguingly smudged a few days ago. It looked like a patchwork-quilt-patterned dome above the city. There were patches of sky that were different shades of blue, grey and white. Over there, a patch of greyish blue sky covered with flimsy, nothing-much clouds; a patch of steely teal in the corner of the horizon with puffy clouds in the foreground; bright aquamarine and the softest pastel-hues of blue; dark cobalt blue streaked with abrupt daubs of white. It was like a baby in heaven got a hold of God's art supplies, then proceeded to decorate the sky with the reckless abandon only children have.

The clouds were intriguingly smudged and haphazard as well. There were white, poofy, crisp clouds; like really pale cotton candy. And then there were really wispy and confused clouds; they looked like the strands you get when you tear a cotton ball apart with your fingers, and they couldn't decide whether to pull themselves together or if it just wasn't worth the trouble. Some grey-becoming-black clouds hung forebodingly in the air, heavy with the threat of rain; terrific thunder clouds. I could hear my imagination rumbling just looking at them.

I wish I had a camera in my head. I want to learn to bottle whimsy. That way, I could preserve it and have it for breakfast, with toast and coffee. I imagine pickled whimsy would taste sweet and tangy like jam, don't you?

This is Figgy, abruptly leaving.

YES.I.SEE

2009-12-17T09:50:00.002+08:00

Dear reader,

Just a quick post to say I'll be really, really busy for the next two months doing something really, really important. So don't be surprised if my next post is in March or something. I'm involved in a youth project called the YES.I.SEE program, run by several parties: AZAM, Faradale Media and People Consultancy Systems. So anyway, the YES program is very different from other youth-oriented government-run programs. You know all of those endless workshops or seminars hosted by the government: go somewhere for a few days, have fun, learn a few things, then go home and continue to live your life the way you've always lived it. No change, no impact. In the YES program, there are about 5 or 6 groups of teens and young adults working together to develop their projects; real businesses, products or services whose main aim is to impact the society and state of Sarawak in a positive way. Yes, you heard me right. Imagine, an innovative and socially-beneficial business run by, developed by and launched by a group of Sarawakian teenagers. Thinks of the impact we'll make in Sarawak...we're change agents.

All our launch dates are set for early March, so...it's crunch time. Non-stop working til the end of February. I don't have the time to tell you about the other teams' ideas, so I'll just tell you a little about mine. We have decided on publishing a book on Sarawak. It's going to be called 'Past and Present Unite: Preserving Sarawak'. And our team...organisation...task force...group is called 'Borneo Birthright'. Got a nice ring to it, don't it? Watch out for the website, which will be coming out...soon. As soon as I'm done with the logo design and what-not. For now, you'll have to be satisfied with our Facebook profile (add us!) and Fb group (join us!).

So, this book is going to be about the cultures in Sarawak, all of them in one book. A compilation of stories and legends, biographies and photographs: a coffee table book, I guess. Oh, speaking of photographs, Borneo Birthright is hosting a photography competition. No huge monetary prizes or anything, but the winning photos will be featured in our upcoming book. Which will, hopefully, be sold to tourists, locals, whatever, online, all over the world. If you want to enter the competition, my photography-inclined reader, please email us at borneobirthright@yahoo.com for details. We'll release a prototype of the book on March 1st with all the final photos and stories, and hopefully get the Sarawak Tourism Board or whatever to sponsor us and get us published.

Are you excited?! Cause I am! I'm going to meet with one of my team members today to decide on the logo design...which I have to get working on right now. So, wish me luck! See you 'round the bend. Til then, I remain...

Yours,

Figgy the Change Agent

I'm a troll...an MPH and DA troll

2009-11-30T11:30:00.005+08:00

Dear reader,

During one of my way-too-numerous-to-be-healthy MPH trolling sessions, I came across this little book, 'Written on the Sky: Poems by the Japanese translated by Kenneth Rexroth' It's simply beautiful; a pocket-sized affair, with a single poem on each page. Even though it was so small, the contents didn't look crowded or cramped or anything; in fact, there was this elegant, minimalistic feel to it...lots of white space on each page. Of course, such a nice-looking book will inevitably come with an equally nice-looking price tag. I don't really remember the exact amount--I unconsciously block out things that are too traumatic for me--but it was something between RM 80 and RM 100. Yup. And as I was leafing through the pages, I couldn't help wondering who this Kenneth Rexroth was. On the flipside of the cover page was the small notation: other books by Kenneth Rexroth: 'Songs of Love, Moon & Wind: Poems from the Chinese'. I googled him, and it turns out he translated a French book or something into English as well. How many languages does this guy know anyway?

Anyway, there was this one haiku that I really liked...so I wrote it down. No, it's not cheating. It's not like I wrote down all the poems or anything. It's not copyright infringement either, smarty-pants reader. Not if you credit the author and stuff...I think. So here it is, I don't know what it's called...or if it even had a name to begin with

How long will it last?

I do not know

his heart.

This morning my thoughts are as tangled

with anxiety

as my black hair.

- Lady Horikawa

堀

川

女

后

Ahh~ So beautiful, don't you agree, dear reader? I just love those lines: This morning my thoughts are as tangled with anxiety as my black hair. Anyway. I got the kanji from--where else?--the almighty Google. And if you want to see an actual preview of the book, go here.

Wow, I just realized...I've been so active lately. Blog-wise anyway. On the other hand, my DA account is suffering from gross negligence. The last time I submitted anything was in September. I'm planning on doing a Christmas piece, though. I've been searching through the archives of previous DA entries, you know, scrounging for inspiration. But all the Christmas pieces I could find were so...chaotic and crowded. A little bit too festive, if you get my drift. Either that, or they were fan art. The bad thing about making fan art is it's only appealing to the fans, not to the general public. There was one that I really liked, though. Really simple, without the usual Christmas gimmicks. It's called 'Christmas', drawn by pu. [love her name, haha] To go to her DA page, just click on the picture.

Maybe I'll do something like that. Simple, not too detailed or intricate, yet unmistakably Christmas-ey. I'll make it a challenge: draw something Christmas-ey without using too many elements commonly associated with Christmas. I won't draw a Christmas tree...I won't draw Santa...I won't use too much red or green...and absolutely no candy canes! We'll see how it turns out, dear reader.

So, this is it for now, dear reader. I'll see ya when I see ya. Til then, I remain...

Yours,

Figgy the Troll

Morality, ethics and...stuff like that

2009-11-26T20:03:00.000+08:00

Dear reader,

My new Moral Studies lecturer thinks he's a philosopher. But that's okay, since I think I'm a philosopher, too. What's not okay is he thinks he's smart. I think I'm smart, but at least I'm aware that I think I'm smart. He, on the other hand, is so unaware. Ignorance isn't always bliss, at least for the people forced to put up with the ignorant one's ignorant, blissful shenanigans. When he enunciates his points--which he does very often...at least once every 30 seconds--he will squint his eyes and cock his head upwards a little. As if he's enjoying the sound of his own voice so much he has to take a moment to savour it. Like you do with really good wine. He speaks with a slight but noticeable accent and sometimes, with mistaken pronunciation, but overall very good English. He just uses too many big words in one sentence; it makes him sound preachy and condescending.

I don't really like him. He reminds me of this guy who was in the same orientation group as me. Man, was he a piece of work! A over-competitive show off, to put it simply. And he showed off about the stupidest things. For example: during one of the many 'welcome to Swinburne' speeches we had to endure in order to be 'oriented', I was doodling on a scrap piece of paper. As per usual. He spotted me scribbling away and proceeded to whip out his own piece of paper to follow me and doodle. Ah, but that's not all. Another orientation buddy looks at my doodles and says something to the effect of 'nice drawings'. He peers over and says, and I quote, "Oh, she beat me. She drew six and I only drew five." Right. I didn't even know we were in a contest. And the list goes on. He just loves to draw attention to himself. And when he tries to tell a joke or something, it's like watching one of those furry little animals being mangled and devoured by a pride of hungry lions on the Discovery channel. So embarrassing, it's almost physically painful. He was, of course, oblivious to his obviously lame sense of humour. And he had this smug look on his face, like he expected everyone to just burst out in paroxysms of uncontrollable laughter at his comedic genius. And guess what. This undesirable individual happens to be in my group for Moral Studies. Happy, happy...joy, joy.

Right, back to the subject at hand. Moral Studies is one of two compulsory subjects I have to take in order to be eligible for a degree, in Malaysia anyway. The other is Malaysian Studies, pretty much the history and politics of Malaysia. So anyway, I expected this Moral to be like the Moral we learnt in secondary school; memorizing wordy definitions and convoluted answering formulas, pure head-knowledge with no heart-wisdom. And when I say memorizing, I mean word-for-word. One word missing, or even replaced with its exact synonym, and you're outta there! No marks, no cigar. But, to my moderate delight, I was wrong. It's more like a philosophy class than an all-you-can-memorize fest.One downside, though...come exam time, I'll probably be sporting a caffeine-induced migraine, a pimple the size of a golf ball, and a severe case of writer's cramp. There's a lot of heavy stuff to wrap your head around in this subject, no getting away with last-minute cramming. Dang. And the upside? I'll...get to learn something new. And I'll be challenged. Yup. Great.

We'll be covering four topics during our seven whole weeks of intensive morality: Suicide, Abortion, the Death Penalty, and Euthanasia. Wonderful conversation starters, don't you think? I'm just glad a certain debate-crazy, argumentative guy isn't in my group this time. I swear, that boy argues for the sake of arguing. I hope some sort of Argumentative Boy Mach 2 doesn't make an appearance. I don't know most of the people in my class, it's a mixture of different foundation courses. Which should make discussions and such very interesting...or very hazardous. We'll just have to see.

Anyway. The lecturer and the show-offish-orientation-nerd-boy: they share a few common characteristics, disturbingly. They both love the sound of their own voice. They both have a faintly effeminate way of speaking, you know, with that almost-a-lisp thing going on--although the lecturer's effeminate streak is considerably more apparent than nerd-boy's...which is probably a bad sign. They both think they're funny; in fact, they share very similar senses of humour. Brusque, harsh, choppy. Like. This. And they're both Chinese. That's not really relevant, but I'm just listing down all their similarities. Covering all my bases or whatever. So I'm just waiting to see if he's anything like nerd-boy in real life, or if he just comes across that way when he has his lecturer 'hat' on. I have an inkling that it's the former. He claims to be a 'religious man'. No arguments there; Catholic and narrow-minded. Contrary to popular opinion, the words 'religious' and 'Christian' are not synonyms. And you know what the worst part is? He thinks he's open-minded. Of course, I disagree with almost everything he says. Almost.

He gave us examples, you know, to try and explain ethics and morality. One example was, if he left our midterm papers in the classroom accidentally, would we look at them? "Don't tell me you'd be so moralistic and honest to not look" he says, articulating the words as if they were insults. "Because if you don't look at them..." pause for effect "...then you're a fool." Well, it's not a direct quote. I don't recall if he said 'fool' or just 'stupid'. So in conclusion, being righteous is being stupid, is that it? He also said that there is a time to be morally upright and a time to be smart. Sorry, but I disagree. Oh, by the way, do you think it's funny that he said that, dear reader? The whole "if you don't, you're a fool" thing? Because when he did, the class burst out laughing. I didn't get what was so funny about it...I still don't get what was so funny about it.

Ah, another example: a friend dies. Before his demise, he bequeaths a certain amount of money (RM 100,000 or something) to a friend of his, entrusting you to deliver said money to said friend. On your way to deliver said money, you walk by a building. On this building is a poster that says: 'Money urgently needed for tsunami victims. Any cash donations would be much appreciated for us to reach our goal of RM 100,000'. What do you do? Do you ignore the sign and deliver the money like you promised, or do you donate the money to help the hordes of tsunami victims just waiting for a knight in shining armour to deliver them? His answer: both decisions, when you consider all the factors, aren't wrong. Maybe the friend who's going to receive the money is already rich, maybe he doesn't need the money. And by giving it away, you'll benefit hundreds or even thousands of people, not just one. My answer: it doesn't matter. The money doesn't belong to you. It doesn't even belong to the dead friend; it belongs to Mr Lucky, the guy you're on your way to meet. You are a steward, not an owner. You have no say in how the money is used, that's up to the fortunate friend who gets it. Giving it away--even if it's for a good cause--is wrong. If you want to be charitable, do it with your own money.

And so on and so forth. I don't like confrontation, so I just kept quiet during the lecture. But on the inside I was seething. How dare he try to twist and complicate moral principles willy-nilly! Is he serious? Does he even know what he's saying? But then, in the midst of my mental writhing--actually physical writhing, too...the classroom was too cold--the thought struck me: what do I care? So what if he thinks and speaks nonsense? It doesn't affect what I think, what I say. It won't influence me if I won't let it.

So, to conclude: I can't stand him, but I have no choice. I'll just have to deal with it. And get a warmer jacket.

I guess that's it from me, dear reader. I've officially run out of things to say. I'll see you on the other side. Byeeee~

Yours,

Figgy the [Half Baked, Self Proclaimed] Philosopher

Memory Lane? I live there

2009-11-23T11:00:00.004+08:00

Dear reader,

I've noticed that I dwell a lot. As in, on the past. On things that have already happened and should be put to rest, not replayed over and over again. Sometimes I catch myself reliving the most embarrassing moments from the past week, in glorious technicolour...or from the past month...or even as far back as a few years ago. I mean, I can remember this time when I was in Form 1, when I was 13 years old. I was goofing off in front of the school gate, doing some sort of impromptu balancing act on one of those cement-divider-thingies. Unfortunately, I was wearing this huge backpack at the time--and when I say huge, I mean the thing was half my body size and weighed approximately a tonne. Every time I put it on I looked like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle's long lost baby sister or something. No joke.

So anyway, I fell over. It was inevitable, really. After all, that ridiculously heavy backpack was weighing me down like an anchor--not forgetting, of course, my remarkable lack of motor skills and hand-eye coordination...what else did I think was going to happen? As far as I know, there was only one witness to my 'oops' moment: it was a girl I'd never met before, who very graciously turned her head when she saw that I had collapsed on the pavement, a tangle of limbs, shoelaces and oversized backpack straps. But still. This happened five years ago, for Pete's sake! Why can't I just get over it? Is this constant rehashing of the most humiliating events in my life normal? Does everybody do this, or am I just a freak?

I do this dwelling-on-something-for-too-long thing with my previous blog posts, as well. I like to rifle through old posts, reading and rereading what I wrote. It's not narcissistic...at least I don't think it is. Maybe it's to make up for nobody reading my blog, so I just read it myself. Compensation or something. Or maybe to pass the time. Or perhaps it's self-analytical, self-critical. I do that, too, you know. Criticize myself and my work...stuff...whatever. Constantly. And if I see something wrong--any grammatical or *gasp* spelling errors--I fix it, pronto! I hate being wrong or looking stupid. Hmm, maybe that's why debating was such a bust for me. I hated debating. It was just a couple of kids yelling at each other, blurting out a stream of rebuttals as fast as they were physically capable of. I'm serious. You don't even need to come up with your own points, just slam the other side's arguments in the dirt. While imitating an auctioneer, of course. It wouldn't be a debate if the debaters actually presented their points in a coherent manner. I'm sorry, do I sound bitter? That's because I have--yet another--embarrassing moment connected with debate that I refuse to lay to rest. I also refuse to divulge said embarrassing debate moment to you, dear reader. I shall bring it to my grave.

Anyway. I was just looking at one of my old posts, the one about Kuching and patriotism. Among other things. I wrote, and I quote (good God, I'm quoting myself!):

"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."

Not long after the composition of this post, Kuching, of course, underwent a period of terrible haze. Really terrible haze. Figures.

But I remember good things, too. Off-hand comments a random friend made about my outfit or my make-up, for example. Like, "I like the way you did your eye make-up today" or "Wow, nice dress" or whatever. Pitiful as it may sound, these little affirmations and compliments are encouraging to me. I like them. I suppose this means that I crave acknowledgement and attention, but then who doesn't, really? Deep down, we all want the same things: to be noticed, to be unique, to be loved. *pauses to overcome sudden urge to gag* Mushy sentiments aside, it is, in fact, true. In the immortal words of Taylor Swift's songwriter--whoever that revered personage happens to be--in her song 'Fifteen': "When all you wanted was to be wanted". Yup, that pretty much sums it up. And in such a witty, lyrical way, too. Incidentally, I like Taylor Swift's songs. Very well put together. And meaningful. I swear, I almost cried when I heard 'Fifteen' for the first time. What can I say, I empathize easily.

Wait, where were we? I do believe my train of thought has been derailed. Oh, right. I remember good things, too. In fact, at any given time of the day--usually when I'm doing the most mundane and menial tasks--I will burst out laughing. Or at least start grinning for no reason like an idiot. All because of some happy or funny memory I just thought of. I'm a very inward-looking person, I guess. And this is a very long post. Awww, poor reader. Did I bore you with my long-winded rant on nothing in particular? Well, you can stop groaning in pain now, I'm done. Officially done. You have my permission to continue living your life. Thanks for droppin' by, y'hear? Til my next post, I remain...

Yours,

Figgy the Introspective