No clouds above thee

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!

Dear reader,


So you know about the super secret, awesome, special project I worked on last March? Yeah. I was the only one who could draw (period), so I was assigned the task of illustrating a few of the legends in our book. I've decided to share them with you, dear reader. I just hope the organizers don't find out about this. It's scary. All that junk about how they own the 'intellectual property' we churn out for the project. It's like they control my thoughts or something. Like they're the aliens in all those body-snatcher type movies. We're in your head, you can't escape our clutches. Resistance is futile!


Anyway. Here they are. Enjoy.

Aaaand...that's it. Not much to look at, are they? But I'm proud of them. Especially the second one, with the girl crouching behind the bushes. I love her lines and her expression. The rest are kind of so-so.


So, I think that's enough for one day. I'll be seeing you next time, dear reader. Til we meet again.

Yours,

Figgy the Financially Destitute College Student

P/S: If you're curious about what the stories behind the pictures are, feel free to ask. I'll summarize it for you. Summary is not plagiarism. As long as you paraphrase and cite your sources. Ha. So there.

Mixing things up, take 2

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

I'm watching the Michael Jackson tribute on TV as I'm typing this. You know, 'This is It'. You can't help but say that phrase with emphasis. This is it! This is IT! THIS IS IT!

Anyway. I can't believe it's been a whole year since he passed away, can you? How time flies when you're...living your life. I'll be graduating from Foundation--and will be moving into into Degree--this August. I feel so old. But I'm really looking forward to being a Degree student. A whole new world of unexplored possibilities awaits. No, that's not sarcasm. That's just how I talk when I'm excited. Seriously. You shouldn't overuse exclamation points. Mark Twain said we shouldn't use them at all, cause that's like laughing at your own jokes. So there.

So. Oh! There's this MJ song that caught my attention. I like the beat, the lyrics are meaningful. The effects are kind of cheesy, though. But it gets the message across, so it's okay. You should've seen the screaming part in the 'This is It' version. He was on stage, at the end of the dance sequence, and he just cried out. I didn't expect it, I'd never heard the song before. His back-up dancers and singers joined in and their collective battle cries gave me goosebumps. You know, MJ was a pretty wild guy, for his time. I mean, you'd have to be really inventive and creative and out there to come up with the stuff he came up with. It's not like I'm a crazy, hysterical, "OHMYGODILOVEHIMSOMUCH" Michael Jackson fan or anything, I'm just acknowledging his obvious talent. He was not without his flaws. Heh. Boy, he had some flaws. But, of course, we're all flawed and weird in our own way; we just don't have cameras recording our every movement.


Anywaaay. Here's the song. Enjoy.

Okay, so I'm done. I like this layout better than the pink one. But not quite enough for it to be permanent. We'll see. Til next time, dear reader, I remain...





Yours,



Figgy: Mixing Things Up Since 1991

Mixing things up

Hey, guess what. I changed my blog layout, you know, to mix things up a little. What do you think? I'm not too sure I like it, actually. It's really...pink.

Anyway, I'll probably change it again in a few days, so don't get too attached to it. Oh, just so that this isn't a totally pointless post, here's something to look at.

That's right! It's Elizabeth Taylor. She's beautiful, isn't she?

Okay, so I'm done. I'll see you next time, dear reader, when I come up with a real post.

Cry Baby

Dear Reader,

I have a shocking confession to make. I am a cry baby.

No, but seriously. I cry over the silliest things. And the funny thing is I don't cry when I'm sad, not usually. I cry when I'm...touched. Or whatever. I cry over certain movies, but only when I'm alone. Or in a movie theatre, because then it's dark and nobody can see me. I cry over songs, not necessarily sad ones. Honest, well-written songs, or songs about love; family love, love love, love for a pet. You know, love. I cry over concepts. Abstract, wishy-washy stuff that can't really be explained in words. I cry when I realize something deeply shattering and true. I cry over photographs or pictures. Thought-provoking paintings and stuff like that. I cry over books. Oh man, do I cry over books. I balled my eyes out when Beth in 'Little Women' died, and then again over Jo's poem about the three sisters. I didn't just sniffle or tear up or anything. I sobbed. I practically wept.

Anyway, the list goes on and on. I even cry when I'm embarrassed. Well, not cry cry. I just get a little teary-eyed. Then I have to avoid eye contact so that nobody sees the tears. Reminds me of that line in that Harry Potter movie (don't ask me which, after the second one they've all blurred together in my mind) when that sleazy reporter interviewed Harry and printed something atrociously untrue about him. Something like 'his eyes swimming with the ghosts of his past'.


Wow. Having a blog is really emboldening. I'd never say something like this to anyone, not even my mother. I'd probably start to, but then inevitably chicken out at the last minute and perform an Abrupt Topic Change to cover my tracks.

So yeah. My point is, I cry way too much. As in, above average. Why is that? I hardly ever get emotional. I think I might appear cold or detached to other people because I never really react the way any normal person in that situation would. Like at my grandfather's funeral: I didn't cry (not really anyway), but I wrote a blog post about him. It's like my emotions quota is lopsided. Like I have more than the average amount of resources set aside for 'Cry Over Silly Things', and because of that, I don't have enough left over for 'Cry Over Things That Actually Make Sense'.

I stumbled across a song recently--a friend posted it up on Facebook, I think. It's an oldie, but new at the same time. It's a cover of Don McLean's 'Vincent (Starry, Starry Night)' by Joanna Wang. I wish people paid as much attention to the lyrics as they do to the music these days. They just don't write songs like these anymore.




Starry, starry night
Paint your palette blue and grey
Look out on a summer's day
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.
Shadows on the hills
Sketch the trees and the daffodils
Catch the breeze and the winter chills
In colours on the snowy linen land.

And now I understand what you tried to say to me
How you suffered for your sanity
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen
They did not know how
Perhaps they'll listen now.

Starry, starry night
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze
Swirling clouds in violet haze reflect in
Vincent's eyes of China blue.
Colours changing hue
Morning fields of amber grain
Weathered faces lined in pain
Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand.

And now I understand what you tried to say to me
How you suffered for your sanity
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen
They did not know how
Perhaps they'll listen now.

For they could not love you
But still your love was true
And when no hope was left in sight
On that starry, starry night.
You took your life as lovers often do;
But I could have told you, Vincent
This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you.

Starry, starry night
Portraits hung in empty halls
Frameless heads on nameless walls
With eyes that watch the world and can't forget.
Like the strangers that you've met
The ragged men in ragged clothes
The silver thorn of bloody rose
Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow.

And now I think I know what you tried to say to me
How you suffered for your sanity
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen
They're not listening still
Perhaps they never will.

This song almost made me cry. Almost. There were other people in the room, so I contented myself with just staring intensely at the computer screen while the song played. I usually look down on covers--lack of originality and all that--but, I have to say, I think I prefer Joanna's version to the real one by Don McLean. Don't get me wrong, I love McLean's music. He's an amazingly skilled songwriter and singer. But Joanna managed to capture more of that sadness and tragedy in her voice and in the music than McLean did. Her voice suits the mood of the song perfectly, and slowing down the tempo made a huge difference.

Anyway, this song just touches me so much. Hopelessness, despair, insanity, beauty. All in one song. Can you imagine what Van Gogh had to go through? How would he be treated if he were born in this era? He'd probably be prescribed all sorts of antidepressants and things, and spend the rest of his days in a doped-up, diluted state of existence. If he were 'cured', would he still manage to create such great works of art? Do you think he was talented because of or despite his mental disorder? Sometimes the ones we deem insane are actually more in tune with reality than we are. It's like they got too close to the truth, and it scared them so much that they just broke down. Are we the crazy ones, and are they the sane ones?

So, yeah. I think I've nattered on quite enough for one day. I'll be leaving now, I've got an English report to write. Til next time, dear reader, I remain...

Yours,

Figgy the Cry Baby

Pick a category

Dear reader,



I am, as of this very moment, sitting on my extremely crowded and cluttered bed. And since I am overwhelmingly dispirited, hot, hungry and narcissistic, I shall bore you with a list. Yes, dear reader, a list! An inventory of items that have recently--and not so recently--come to reside upon my mattress.


The List of Things that Happen to be on My Bed:

1. 8 stuffed animals of assorted shape, size and species. Namely;
• Eeyore the donkey (from Winnie the Pooh), minus the tail.
• Thumper the rabbit (from Bambi)
• 3 teddy bears, 2 of which are mine and are, consequently, nameless. The other belongs to my older sister who is an advocate of all things cutesy and adorable, and has therefore been lovingly dubbed Mr. Strawberry.
• An elephant, belonging to my younger sister. If this one has a name, I am unaware of it.
• A dog of unknown origin and identity.
2. A water bottle, in case I get thirsty in my sleep.
3. My phone. Which is in desperate need of charging at the moment.
4. A black ponytail holder.
5. A stapler. With precisely 4 staples left in the chamber.
6. 7 books. Most of them I have started but haven't finished. I aspire to finish reading them soon. Eventually. In my lifetime.
• Reader's Digest (the October 2008 edition): Finished
• Alligator by Lisa Moore: Started, haven't finished.
• Lion Boy by Zizou Corder. Taken from my school's reading corner and never returned. I am such a rebel: Finished. One of those books you'll never lend out, in case you never get it back.
• Don Quixote by Cervantes: Yeah...started, not even close to finishing.
• A lovely hard cover of R.L. Stevenson's Kidnapped and Treasure Island, which I bought the last time the MV Doulos docked in Kuching: Finished Kidnapped, but Treasure Island is hard to get past, for some reason.
• The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster. Another book we stole rescued from the school's reading corner: Finished. A great read.
• What Your Teacher Didn't Tell You: the Annexe Lectures Vol 1 by Farish A. Noor: Started, am definitely going to finish. Definitely.
7. A denim jacket.
8. A really soft, really small pillow for my head.
9. A bolster. I never use it, but it is kept on my bed for easy access, you know, in case of any emergencies requiring the use of bolsters. They're more handy than you think.
10. A plastic bag containing 5 tubes of acrylic paint: black, white, red, yellow, blue. Used for a stencilling project.
11. An empty pillowcase.
12. A blanket.
13. 2 CDs, with the titles Romantic and Pop Tunes 1 scribbled on them in black marker. I have no idea who they belong to, where they came from, or what convoluted chain of events brought them to rest upon my bed.
14. An assortment of files and papers, from an assortment of donors. My older sister and my cousin, as well as myself.
15. A cutting mat.
16. A yellow lanyard, belonging to a friend. She dropped by our place for a while after we went to the Youth Dialogue and left her name tag behind...on the 8th of February 2010, according to the date printed on it.
17. A pair of stripey socks, belonging to my cousin who resides on the top bunk. It must have fallen down this morning.
18. My laptop.
19. Me.

Well.

I have nothing left to say. I'm sorry for the rushed goodbyes, dear reader, but I have to go now. There's a Club meeting I have to attend and I'm already late. So, see you round the bend. Til next time, I remain...

Yours,

Figgy the Clutter Monger

Random and Rambling

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:

To 

my mom Nora Linang, my sister Ann Thomas, my daughter Dewi Sorta 

and my friends Maria Corazon Cortez, Baizura Hj. Kamal and Novia Sim

Beauty lies within oneself

What an assortment of names, don't you think? Only in Sarawak. At a glance, I can see at least one name from a native tribe (Linang), possibly an Indonesian one (Dewi Sorta, her daughter. I think it's Indonesian because her husband's name is Toman Mamora, and her son's is Yohannes Wiranata...classic Indonesian-sounding names), a Filipino name (Cortez), a Malay one (Kamal) and a Chinese name (Sim).

Wait a gosh-darned minute, you admonish. Filipino? How would you know it's Filipino? an expression of scathing scepticism graces your features. It's equally likely to be Spanish, you insist, folding your arms in a you-think-you're-so-smart gesture.

Well, my smarty-pants reader, I was getting to that. The reason I'm mentioning this book in the first place is because it mentions Madam Maria Corazon Cortez: Filipino by descent, Sarawakian by choice. Also known as Aunty Cora. You see, I know her personally. She's one of the 'aunties' from church. I really shouldn't be so surprised; she's in publishing, and she's into Sarawak, so it's inevitable that at least one book concerning Sarawak will mention her. I hang out with her son, our families know each other, I say hi to her when we're in church. It's funny seeing her name in print. When it's a stranger, it's nothing but a name. Faceless, devoid of personality, just letters and words. But when you actually know the person, when you can put a face to the name, it's...an entirely different feeling altogether.

Anyway. Just thought I'd share that with you, dear reader. Moving on.

Oh! There's this picture I came across a while back, while surfing for God-knows-what. I forget my original intention for Google image trolling that day, or what weird and wacky trail of findings led me to unearth this particular photo, but I digress. It's a photo of Clara Bow. She was a silent movie star, back in the Roaring Twenties. She's got that 'Flapper Girl' look written all over her. I think I want to draw this one, for shading practice. We'll see.

After that, I couldn't help it. I had to go on a black and white photo hunting spree. I found another one of Miss Bow's photos:

I just love her lazy, sad-looking eyes, don't you? So irreverent, yet innocent at the same time. Another one, this time of (who else?) Audrey Hepburn:

I absolutely adore this movie. 'Funny Face', with Fred Astaire. Did you know she didn't originally plan on being an actress? She wanted to be a ballerina. I loved her in that dancing scene in the bar, with her black top and black slacks and flats. How she managed to still look so dignified and elegant while acting so silly is beyond me. And I'm very envious of her waist.

Ooh, how about this one? Guess who it is:

It's Grace Kelly, of course. The real life Princess. Have you ever noticed how Grace Kelly and Ingrid Bergman look alike? Here, I'll show you:

Hmm. You see? Definitely a bit of a likeness there. At a certain angle, I can't tell them apart.

Anyway. Lately I've been obsessing over this song by Train, 'Soul Sister'. I know, dear reader, how very hipster of me to like a song everyone else is currently fawning over. Whatever. I like what I like, regardless of trends. The lyrics are somewhere between witty and plain silly; between poetic and painfully literal, I can't decide. There should be more songs like this in the world: good music, great words. Enjoy.





That's a fantastic music video, in my opinion. I won't bother putting the lyrics in here, for obvious reasons. I wonder how much time it took to get everything animated and synced to the music and stuff. So anyway...all in all, a wicked cool song and music video from a wicked cool band.

I guess that just about wraps it up for today. I really should get back to work now. I'll see you when I see you, dear reader. Til then, I remain...





Yours,



Figgy...Just Figgy