Midnight Hour.

“Do you not know that there comes a midnight hour when every one has to throw off his mask? Do you believe that life will always let itself be mocked? Do you think you can slip away a little before midnight in order to avoid this? Or are you not terrified by it? I have seen men in real life who so long deceived others that at last their true nature could not reveal itself;… In every man there is something which to a certain degree prevents him from becoming perfectly transparent to himself; and this may be the case in so high a degree, he may be so inexplicably woven into relationships of life which extend far beyond himself that he almost cannot reveal himself. But he who cannot reveal himself cannot love, and he who cannot love is the most unhappy man of all.”
- Soren Kierkegaard

This space can be read by all.

How transparent do you think I really am?
How much of it is the truth?

This, my midnight hour? Think.

The One with the Baseball Cap.

Today I spoke with a boy after 6 long years, a boy whose name had meant furtive phone calls, shy smiles and then some. We talked about the people we used to be, the places we left and the people we knew. We talked about how we faded into the silence with all our awkward growing pains. I think I’m the jerk who stopped talking first. I’m sorry!

So we talked about the things we missed out on in each other’s lives. He tells me he misses this country. But it’s not the country that you miss. It’s our little colony atop Toh Tuck and Bukit Tinggi. From up above, our microcosm was sheltered from the ground below. I know so. I live here and I feel home sick for that place on a hill that no longer exist. Its constituent parts had dispersed with a burst, lodging the shrapnel pieces all over the world. I miss it too.

We’re a little taller, a little less shy and a whole lot different and yet we’re still two kids talking on MSN late into the night because neither one of us can sleep. Words flowed out easily like an open faucet because like Corrinne Bailey Rae once said:

“The more things change, the more they stay the same.”

Don’t you think it’s strange?

There is a greater magnetic force that’ll bring us back to a place somewhere in the world just for a little while. It’ll happen when all of us have grown a little more and garnered the ability to jump on planes on a heart’s whim. Because that’s what families do: reunite and disperse in bursts of laughter, tears and pain.

Rain, Rain, Go Away.

Let me tell you what happens in this country when it rains in the morning. Traffic slows to a screeching halt. Alright to be fair, traffic never stops here. Buses travel at the amazing speed of an elderly on zimmerframes. I realise that reference will be lost in translation here. To put it simply: IT IS FRICKING SLOW.

Travis King

It makes sense, I know. I am not stupid. I realise that on well-maintained tarmac here it probably feels like slippery fake leather armchairs when it gets the usual torrential rain. It’s not so difficult to see why a two-tonne hunk of metal could easily careen down the road like a bobsled, crushing man, children and woman in sight. That wouldn’t be pretty at all.

Still, must you rain this morning of all mornings when I have my first exam of the term? Must you be so evil, rain? I thought we had a good understanding together. You rain ONLY IN THE AFTERNOON and let Mr. Sunshine have his way IN THE MORNING. We’ll make arrangements for the rest of the week hokay? I still have three exams to go. I’ll have my people call your people.

The Studious & The Odious

Facebook Compare People has ranked me as the #96th most studious person in my network. #96th!

wahahahahahahahahaa.

In high school, someone had decided that I was important enough to have my picture plastered on the notice board. This was done for someone’s Civics class I believe, an inane project seeking to recognize some people from the student body. There, amidst pictures of self-proclaimed cheerleaders (they were largely a bunch of girls in netball skirts) and basketball players was my picture. Someone picked me. They took a photograph from CISmopolitan, stretched it to inhumane proportions and took the liberty of writing my own biography. It had two lines, short and simple. It says that I have “done lots of things” and that my one and only hobby was: “Studying”.

That was funny. I’m the kind of girl who studies the night before every single one of her exams. I still do it. But was that all they really knew me for? I had other hobbies, like making under-priced jewelery, sleeping, crating up my plans to fix the world and pretending I am a Nigerian UN delegate. Granted they did email me earlier but when I asked what it was for they never replied back.

But #96th? Now now play nice…

Gaya On Air!

Look we’re on the ray-dee-oh! Well, podcast rather. Close enough I should think.

The Clip : The Transcript

Radio Singapore International covered Gaya 2008: Gajah Mada! I think they did air this at some point in March. You can listen to me sing at the beginning, if a bit muffled. If you’re wondering what language she is speaking, that is radio-worthy Bahasa Indonesia. (=

Elephantine Bunions and Internships

And so begins every smugling journey into the great ontrac to snatch the snazziest internship stints on offer. We peddle a little bit of ourselves into a page or two, with words elbowing its way to make itself heard. If it had a voice it would shout:

” I AM HELLA AWSUM PLZ PLZ LUV MEH, MR FAAAABULOUS MNC <3.
HIRE MEH, I WILL MASSAGE UR BUNIONS!”

Something close to that no?

I have joined the legions of the bunion-massaging masses and applied for one internship so far. It’s a little late I know. I’m not sure why writing cover letters must feel so dirty. I’m trumpeting enough sound, I hope. I think I would need a banner as big as elephants (because elephants are awesome) for this. We shouldn’t have to yell so loudly. We shouldn’t have to pander to egos that knows how to butter themselves up pretty well without help.

Your work should speak for itself, assured and self-evident. You should be in every word written and in every colour brushed against a canvas. That should be enough. It is not written in a fancy title, collected in time. It isn’t written in your GPA….okay well at least not so eloquently.

Bah! Well a girl has to eat and support her self. There is a bunion-free option I believe. So this girl will learn the rules of the game if that’s what it takes to let them know that I should be paid for living, if you let me do the things that make me awesome. I think I can become A Productive Commodity of Your National Economy! You know, adulthood! =O
Gag reflex needs a bit of training though.

For tips on taking care of your boss’s bunions, visit The Bunion Relief Blog.

Neon Warmth.

The world gives you its best and its worst on the same day, because it can.

After the closing gala of arts festival, I went back to school to check up on my lost laptop charger and the possibility that I will have to stay in school to finish my part of the report. I walked from Victoria Concert Hall. Disoriented in the dark, I walked towards Fullerton Hotel. I would’ve ended in a forest of steel. But I let my feet walk by itself and it turned around. It walked on and on past the bus stop in careful steady steps along a slippery rain-soaked pavement. It walked on and on, floating on neon lights. They weren’t as colourful as the lights of Tokyo, London or New York. But they were safe. The roads murmured with the sound of cars and conversation. It walked on and on, carrying a body that wasn’t quite there but a voice which murmured to itself. Walking on shimmery wet tarmac glowing red green and yellow, you almost wished this was a movie. But it couldn’t be. It’s not pretty enough to be. So I walked on and on alone, undisturbed and unnoticed. Like I’m not really there. Like I barely exist.

I wondered what it would be like to run onto the road and feel the metal crush against my bones: just to feel something, nothing, anything and everything. Just to prove to me that I exist. Just to teach me what it means to say “I am”.

Well this is just crazy talk.

Of Dots & Ladybugs

Yesterday I saw a dot matrix printer.

A DOT MATRIX PRINTER!

It prints by punching dots of ink - usually black. Cheap and good and economical! The letters looked like little pixel fonts. A dot matrix printer is possibly one of the oldest type of printers out there, dating back to the 1970s. It’s so old! A gigantic machine - klunky and clumsy. They used an Epson dot matrix printer for almost everything in this silly bureaucracy. Hard - that’s how we like our data.

Still it looked ancient! I wonder what happens when one of these monsters break.

I wonder if Epson still have the spare parts. I wonder if they even still make them.

I wonder if they have stocked up an entire warehouse with rows and rows of dot matrix printers. Use them and throw away.

I wonder if they have a special dot matrix printer man specially trained in dotty matrices to come and fix them right again.

I wonder where he lives.

Overqualified

Overqualified:. A new letter every Tuesday

Quote:

“Looking for work is an exercise in selling yourself. You write cover letter after cover letter, listing the parts of you that you respect the least, listing the selling points that make you valuable in a buyer’s market. You leave out the little details that you tell yourself in the morning to make things okay. You don’t mention the way your heart flutters when you meet your lover’s eyes across the table, the way your feet felt like lead at your aunt’s funeral. You write cover letter after cover letter, listing the same store bought traits in the same wording, day after day, hoping to find another job.

And then maybe one day you just snap a little. You sit down to write a cover letter, and something entirely new comes out.

And you send it anyway.”

And this is what we’ll learn in school. (:

Assistant to the Secretary of the Undersecretary of the Sub-Committee of the Sub-Sub-Commitee of the Department of Redundancy

In the middle of editing my dad’s book, I came across this:

“….. he was appointed Team Coordinator for Economy and Finance of the Staff of Personal Assistants of the Chairman of the Cabinet Presidium General Soeharto…..”

Bureaucratic titles make me giggle.

The Coffee Song

When I was a kid, that would be two months ago, I used to think coffee was cool. Like ambrosia - the drink of the gods. The gods were grownups of course. Clearly I was naive on all levels.

While other kids were not allowed to drink stuff like coke, glue and alcohol, I was not allowed to drink coffee. For a 6 year old kid (real age this time), I guess it makes a whole lot of sense. Coffee was like black gold. It smelled rich and smoky and very very grown-up. I remember the rarer nights my dad would stir a mug of coffee - 1 part coffee, 6 part sugar, 1 part water and no milk. I’m not kidding - there was that much sugar in his cup. It came in instant granules courtesy of Nescafe. Watery maybe but it smelled so good and I didn’t know any better. Sometimes I would steal sips from his mug. It tasted creamy, sweet and slick - actually too sweet - which is probably why i liked it then.

Today, coffee and I? oh we’ve got a mutual thang going on. I still love the smell. I love it in my tiramisu but I hate drinking it. It’s a necessary evil. It’s the secret to my 4000 word essay (which is still not done by the way) and it has saved me so many times on countless presentations and assignments. It never turned out to be that way of course. Coffee used to put me to sleep. The trick is to stay awake during the 30 minute to 1 hour window before it starts kicking in and the fun begins.

Your heart races so fast and adrenaline pumps so hard as you punch each keys frantically, wondering if your heart might give out any moment now and crap, am I even close to the word limit? Kinda fun. Like bungee jumping. Except without the bungee or the jumping. Okay so kinda like running in front of a moving train. That would be fun.

So as you know I have a 4000 word essay for World Issues and the progress of which I am way too ashamed to admit the real word count at this point. Trust me, I am not kidding. What’s worse is that I have run out for coffee. COFFEE FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE! Anticipating that I will panic for two hours right about now, I ran out to the supermarket to get some more this afternoon and they ran out of Nescafe. Yes I drink instant coffee. *GASP* Holy mother of foal, I drink INSTANT COFFEE!!1! So where was I? oh right yes. Nescafe - not here. The reason why i drink it is because they taste the least like coffee ‘coffee’. I was about to tempt fate with real coffee - none of that fancy mochiattocinno fluff from organic white coffee. The real stuff you know.

INSTANT ESPRESSO.

 

………..Or what the locals call Kopi-Oh.

 

Hmmm manly. I figured they’d probably have 50 times the caffeine to compensate for taste. Still, i think i still have kind of a respect for my tongue and chose not to. For my overall body, however, is a different story. BUT I NEED COFFEE!! ANYTHING TO KEEP ME AWAKE FOR THE NEXT 8 HOURS AND STOP ME FROM TYPING IN ALL CAPS. ANYTHING!!!1!!!!!

Which is why i bought Red Bull. Did you know that it’s not made of bull’s testicles? Yeah…. me neither. Considering 4 people died from drinking it, it’s not that much of a surprise that it’s just pure sugary caffeine in a can - and that I drank the entire can. It tastes like cheap bubblegum that you can buy 2 for 1,000 rupiah from the corner store a few houses away from my grandma’s. 3 if you smiled really sweetly. I actually researched about Red Bull first before I took a sip and wager my life away over a bloody can of diluted Speed-lite. After all it is a stimulant that pumps taurine, an amino acid, that they does some funky stuff to your brain. They put that stuff in baby milk powder in Singapore so they can breed super geniuses. Go figure.

And it works. I am insanely restless. My heart is pounding in a way that screams I have effectively shaved off another 10 years off my life expectancy so screw you, Elloelle. Screw you!

Damn that Red Bull - It can steal your soul.