Before March rolls along

Went to Sorrento for the day for some food, fun, sun.

We stopped at this little town called Rye,
with a shimmery sea and sky.

Where things are slow and easy,
you learn to float. Like a boat :D

Happily ignorant of the sunstroke to come.

Sand Art Exhibition:
The Monster Pit.
There's Dracula, token dumb blonde, and er, who's Scaly?

Can you believe every single bit of these sculptures
is made from sand?
Well, except the wannabe dragon in the far right corner.

Now this is what I call a sandcastle!
This is as close as I'm happy playing princess.
(Doesn't mean I don't do spoilt!)

Check out the amazing detail!
The man making them spent so much time in the sun,
he was literally a redneck!

Half-naked people everywhere!
(Ha! Stop looking so hard!)

Little gnomes' home. (It rhymes!)
If I were a pixie, I'd live in a house like this.

King Kong is so compact
he's solid enough for a grown man to stand on!

For a second there, I felt like I was in LoTR!
Then I thought about a Roald Dahl story full of hairy men!

Ahhhh...
Everything makes sense now.

I want to state for the record that this was Not. My. Idea.
See how I'm made to do dumb things?

Ok, fine. This I did one on my own accord.
It is classic me! ;P

More coastal roads later, we pulled up on Sorrento's main street to fill our tummies. I'm a grub kinda girl. Are you?

There is nothing like spankin' fresh, cooked-to-order F&C!
T goes gaga over homemade TUBS of tartare!

That box of golden goodness looks smaller than it really is.
Much Smaller.
Scallops calamari king prawns hiding under.

Did I mention a holiday = non-stop eatting?
And only two seconds before I declared
being too full for even coffee!

Birds flying high, you know how I feel...
Next destination: Waterfront!
Whoopdeedoo ;D

The fluffy things look so good they were unreal,
as though someone took a big big brush and painted them there.

Being near water always makes me happy.
I like how the boats bop prettily along.

How is this anything but a slice of heaven?
*happy sigh*

At one end of the shore, there was a washed-up blanket of slush. It was mostly rotting seaweed, and no it wasn't half as bad as it sounds. In fact, there were many small treasures hiding within.

There was this bird who wouldn't let me come near it.
I was most intrigued by what it was exactly. I still don't know.
And I really like this formation the bird and gulls
are standing around in.

Amongst the leaves and little sea snails, T found a mini pincher.
Is a baby crab called a crablet?

Remember what I said about non-stop munch munch a-munchin'?
This is hardly a fair fight, poor crabbie.

It might be little, but it ain't brainless?
Look at the yellow markings, hee!

Now it's just showing off.
I heart showoff crabs!

Meanwhile, look what I found while
digging around for pretty shells.
I got so excited, I abandoned the empty ones,
and was determined to harvest enough of these to cook.

It was, in large part, a food escapade.
As luck would have it (for the four I found), there were far too few.
I sadly put the four back amongst the weeds and
parted with a last look of longing.

Well, that was my Wednesday. There was more to Wednesnight. But I'm all photo-ed out for now. What did you get up to on Wednesday?

Funny, that

I hadn't the faintest thought, when he said he was coming for Chinese New Year, that it'd be the closest thing to it for me. The closest thing to Chinese in the literal sense, anyway.

I can't recall the last time there was that much chatter in Cantonese; Mandarin and Hokkien thrown in for homestyle effect. English; English was a mere filler for those words we were found lacking.

And for two whole days, that.

Sign

I saw a road sign some few days back.
It read: Steep descent.
It made me... feel, I suppose.
I can't say think, because I had no particular thought.
Although I can't say either, what I felt in specific.

I just like it, the sign from some days back.
The lonely: Steep descent.
The sign which told me: Watch!
A descent of the steep variety approaches.

Turning 25

Spent last Saturday lounging around on mats in the (very hot!) sun amidst friends and yummy munchies. And being circled ceaselessly by what I'm told is native hens. You'd think the hens did a headcount and decided we were their property. I do indeed love not doing much.

Botanical Gardens, I like.
This thing about trees...
It's the Anne of Green Gables in me, really!

Celebrating with the birthday boy.
(Who stayed awake despite 4 hours sleep
after karaoke and alcohol!)

Hanging out by the lake.
If I lived by a park with a pretty lake,
I think it'd be close to perfect.

I ask myself all the time

and I still don't have the answer.

Yikes, and Phew

It's quite impossible to grasp how I managed through my Bachelor degree other than with some amount of tears and even more grace. I'm sure I didn't know just what I was in for when I first signed up. The other day, I was turning papers over to cull, when I found some past essay questions.

I read it now, two years on, and my heart still shudders at having to choose. In one case it was between:

Toni Morrison believes that the majority of American fiction has been concerned with 'the architecture of a new white man.' Does Tender is the Night explore the historical collapse of this figure?

and

Can Tender is the Night be read as a plea for understanding made by a writer who felt he had squandered his artistic potential?

I think, by that point, I was over the moon to be given:

Write an essay on the detective as semiotician (one who studies signs) with reference to the Sherlock Holmes stories.

Thankfully, I had long been hooked on Holmes. Although impressing your tutor is a whole different thing, and a critical part in determining grade.

To be honest, I don't know if those parts of toil was worth my now being able to say I was a pupil of American Liberals and Moderns (yuk) and Victorian Crime Writing (much less yuk).

And today, I realise I'm still taking on things of which the real challenge I don't really know. Ah, well. What doesn't kill you, hey?

(maybe the correct order is more Phew, and Yikes)

Valentine Smalentine

Technically speaking, I'm a day late, but I really wasn't going to say anything about it anyway, hence why.

Not that it's a big deal, this Valentine doodah. I am far too grumpy and unHallmarkish to stop severe eye-rolling action on this commercialised day of lurrve. But it seems like every jolly person wanting to be clear about their dislike for the day has blogged about it already.

I'd agree with them as far as personal non-action goes (ok, we bought Wicked Wings and had a "picnic" in front of Two Weeks Notice [yes, I kept the incorrect punctuation], does that count?), only I think I'm not as harsh about the whole oh how unoriginal and dumb that they declare undying love on this one unoriginal and dumb day only and bleed themselves penniless in the
process.

C'mon man, give a trucker a break. Where's the love?

After all, not everyone is creative.
Or original.
Or inherently romantic.

Not everyone has all the leisure in the world to do the undying love thing every third Saturday.

Or is financially capable. (yes, everything is shockingly steep this V-time of year bla bla but for the average Joe, that once a year would still work out costing less than a whole marathon of weekly undying loves for crying out loud)

After all, isn't that what happens at say, anniversaries? Or at Christmas?

On an anniversary, we throw in a dose of extra mush (and dosh!) to celebrate what we feel, appreciate about, do for and are to each other, and that doesn't seem to cop half the bad press V Day does.

If we insist that our everyday behaviour should be a reflection of what Valentine's is all about and decide to screw the day over, then by the same reasoning, we should put Christmas on the back burner. No?

Unless being hypocritical is your thing.

Meh. And I didn't intent to talk about Valentine's at all. I just thought that a few too many people (yes, they're happily attached) were getting a tad to... cynical... clinical... cold? I don't know.

I don't know.

(Here's how some people are celebrating)

----

"She keeps talking to memories which won't come home."

But don't we all?

And then I read that...

The past reflects eternally between two mirrors--the bright mirror of words and deeds, and the dark one, full of things we didn't do or say.

Shantaram, G D Roberts

Lucky for me that, even if a sign, I'm disinclined to act on it. And even, perhaps, if it were only because I knew there is nothing I can do. Or that the path is already inextricably carved.

And another part of me hates to resist, and that part of me dies, again.

Quiet flood

The rain, never expected and which never lasts, still did make the roads glisten.

There's something in the rain, some wispy, vaporous quality, that makes the world surreal and that demands attention, though in its unassuming and so not immediately recognisable way, on the things it falls upon. It is like a trance a trance a trance. It's the same elusive something, lulling and marvelous, from which grows stuff in the air. Stuff about things unspoken, the stuff that I want to say to you but cannot. Stuff that carries that potent invisible current into the atmosphere, up, around and in between us, the stuff that, even if I did say, would not change a thing.

I cannot stop this unsaid tide, nor the root from which it stems, nor feeling those things unspoken, nor the dark knowledge that things will always stay the same.

And the rain, ah, I wished rain never stopped.

----

She said: Don't wanna lose ya, don't even own ya...

Hello World

This little doll is (to me, by Chinese standards) all eyes. And I'm more convinced than ever that the blur look is a family trademark. Which, when worn as kids, is adorable as hell. In a ticklish sort of way. Guess it's no surprise my two favourite things to do with bubs is to make 'em look silly and photograph them looking so. Hence my liking this photo:

Not that I was the one who wrapped her up all snug as a bug. But I look at it and I think: Popiah! All bundled up, haha. Does that mean babies are not claustrophobic? I know I would go completely insane trying to sleep all tucked up like that. Freshly made hotel beds? Pah! Pull pull pull out the sheets! :D

Hehehe... I'm not evil ok. Like I said, I wasn't the one who did that. And it's not my fault she looks cute all scrunched up, is it?

Poor thing is as if she were on parade. Who asked them to make cute little baby clothes and toys and mats and a whole lot of other useless, money-making, sucker-inducing baby stuff?

Ok, baby OD.

PS: Her name's Elisha, by the way. She makes T uncle third time round.
PPS: Her dad's pet name for her is Buffy.

Ok, now cute OD, too.

Growing Faith

Tiny fingers to coo over


Everyone's new favourite cuddle!

Shameless self-invites over to date: 3 this week

Boys are Gross (with a capital G)

I know cleanliness is not up there with fulfilling the desires of their stomachs or whatever, but there is a point where damn disgusting becomes plain unexceptable. If you know me at all, you'll know I'm more a Nazi for perfection than for utter spick-and-speck-ness, though of course I like clean. I'm not paranoid about germs - hell, some germs are good for you - and if you want to pick some dropped morsel off some table or floor and pop it in your mouth, I won't blink twice. I'll even tolerate the crummy messes boys thrive in.

Sometimes, though, I think I'm too relaxed.

It becomes plain unexceptable when my foot put down, is ignored. It's probably my own fault because I don't throw a fit when said ignored, but to then have my put down foot backfire at me, is way out of line. It just ain't right when you are completely incorrigible, then make me feel bad for telling you off for being absolute filth.

Seriously. Where do you get off?

All right, I'll admit I know a few who are not completely without some sense of hygiene. But knowing so only makes me embarrassed about knowing those who are not.

I am stuck

feeling sentimental about a life I once lived.

Day-old Faith

already has us eating out of her teeny lil' hand. That's a photo of her all squishy from just being born, in the background, by the way. You guessed it - she's the newest excuse we've got to go a-snappin' away! Quah Quarters is now installed with a family of three, hooray!

If only it were simple

I told somebody about something I've wished for for a while now.
And I said I guessed some things stay unfulfilled so I can keep dreaming.

If only I preferred fantasy to reality.

I suppose though, that that's no beautiful revolution.

Just what am I supposed to do?

As we descend, the sky is stained a brilliant hue.
A continuous smudge of orange in steps of pale gold, mandarin, burnt copper lead to the charcoal land, made matt-murky only by the blue in the background.

In another background, the live Home track plays timely.

I cannot help but inhale you.
And the exhale, involuntary.

Making easy difficult

You make leaving easy,
Inevitably, you always do.
You make things hard for me,
Hell, you make things hard for you.

You make the easy harder,
The already hard worse still.
The only thing left that's easy,
Is for me to easily leave you.

I was feeling all sad and sentimental about going.
Then you reminded me why I never did before.

Nuggets

I'm feeling close to completely foul, and having no-deserving-
where to let it out is doing its worst. My body is making a prolonged point at how unwell I am; I'm moody about leaving tomorrow, though for no real good reason; the thought of resuming life and shifting into responsible-adult gear (and all the so-not-wonderful complications that come with it) is giving me a pounding headache; I'm being wishful, and being wishful never did any pessimist any good; am hating the curse-masquerading-as-
an-ability of missing; wanna smash... any something, having to deal with people here who are so beyond stupid they aren't even bright enough to get it when I verbally rip their heads off; contemplating the near future of practically no dough is worritating me; am very bloody tired, but of course, I'm restless;
I could go on...

Really, I'm in no mood to blog, but I'm gonna spew all, so to speak, since sleep eludes me, spent as I am, and well, there's heaps to blog about before their time expires. That, and sometimes going on about things helps one forget about things, ironic and all.

* * *

Girl germs and everything, I lugged myself to Taipan for Mexican with Steph, Kush and Aaron, where I almost-begged for hot water, all the less fun with the wait staff pushing for margaritas.

Kicking back at Oldtown Kopitiam afterward -
complete with hot honey lemons, and
spastic faces underplaying unwell-weariness.

Aaron gives his "cameras again!" look; the boys' inner spastic; Kush hypnotised at Steph's giggle fits; K doing his best cute; A doing his best cute; "gimme that!"; look who's caught in the act now, ha! Long live photo madness :)

The favourite topic of the night included lots of interesting vocab: sexploits, sexcited... There were more, but I forget. Anyway, you get the idea. It comes across a bit crass now, but it was hilarious then. All the more coming from I-won't-say-who!

* * *

Nachos and chit chat with Cheryl is refreshing. Finally someone who feels similarly about life's assumed progression to rant on with. Short and sweet, though her doggy-radar overcame her the next day, heehee, and she came over for me to see her more!

I like this pic, because I'm (falsely) fair!
That was until I saw how nice her photo came out.
Bugger, I want to camera-upgrade!

* * *

And then I saw Wanya, and Nathan, and Shawn. Now I'm normally not a gusher, but especially for some people's sakes, I shall. After all, the Boyz did redeem themselves reasonably.

I'm not sure if it was the second row seats.
Or that we were close enough for personal eye contact, and returned flying kisses.
With roses tossed, aimed at us, despite the uncouth, crudely appearing crowd.
Or that the sound system was not thrown to the dogs.
Or the fact that they had some sort of plan to their performance.
With choreography.
And costume change.
Or because, as a whole, the entire management and handling did not suck ass big time. Like it did - and more - in Melbourne.

Or, simply, that I got pictures this good. This clear. Head to toe, obstructing heads bar none.
(Commentary on Day 2 and costume comparisons here.)

Hello Wanya ;)

I can see you belting out there.
Heck, I can see you breathe.

Can I get a "Hell, yeah!"?
You don't see it here, but we were in prime position to see lots of
this um, one implicative hand positioning.

If Shawn can do hands in the air, so can I.

Hands to the side...

...and then to the front.

The fold-lean back-tilt chin...

...then f'ward with back o' palms.

"I'm down on bended knee."

Comfy change.

"Although we've cooome...
To the end of the rooooad."

"And I'll hold you tight...
Baby, All. Though. The. Night."

"Don't let real love pass you by."

Friends from times past, with songs of old.

One with the rose.
I'd like to say for the record we had more thrown at us. Twice.
And the scumbags from front and behind - guys, mind you - have no shame.

Three little letters make...
Joe Bel Bah Joy :D

* * *

Mister so-and-so, and misters so-and-so, there you go. The Boyz for one, and the you-know-what for the easily excitable others. As luck would have it, y'all ada rezeki also. But it's not my fault you took one (one!) measly photo that other day that didn't turn out so good.

Beside myself

"I hate hope. Except, maybe, when it comes to you."

Although you and hope live on planets that cannot coexist.
And so that cycle of hope renews.

Saturation and Silence

I wish you weren't saturated in every damn thing I see, smell, hear and think about. I wish you didn't saturate my every memory.



And you, you don't know what to say because there are no right words.

Corinne Bailey Rae

is good for unaccompanied car rides over niggling sentimentality and knotted emotion.

Summer Holiday Nights

Good grief, I don't know what to call that completely sober, half drunk look. Like I said, I was sompletely cober. Humbug.

The black top makes its second appearance.
It's not a LBT for nothing.
I dressed the girl too, teehee, though you can't see it here.
Goodbye Velvet, I suspect this is the last time I'll see you.
For a while. Til next time.

Can you tell I'm going on about nothing because I can? I'm killing time, bite me.

Pop goes the people

I know these aren't exactly the revealing photos you had in mind, J, but I can't give you those. At least not here. First because the revealing (read: unflattering) ones are of people I don't know know, and it's not very me to just put them out there like that, and second, because those of that someone I do, are well, revealing (read: bad).

Not that that's an issue per se. Bad was after all part of the unspoken plan :D But in reverence to "an eye for an eye", I think I'll sit this one out. So mister the-other-side-of-the-world, if you don't see you, you know why.

He made it!
As though it were him we were shooing off...
I mean, celebrating ;)

Care to shed some light, G?
It's not a 'I see a sex goddess' face nor a
'what the hell is that?' face, so I'm stumped.

The place was nice, though I think, far too hot.
And not because there was drool-material.

Cranky about crap

Everyone who knew thought it mad. The irony about the fact that my business is about writing, words and language - the English language, to be exact - was not lost on many. But one's gotta do what one's gotta do, so I tottered obediently over to IDP for my IELTS exam - because one should never be too confident, or get cocky about her (in)abilities, and just so I could say I have done it twice, all five wonderful years apart. Never mind the blatant money-making scam it is. Never mind that I was meant to be there at bleeding 8 in the morning for an exam which wasn't to start til a good hour or so after. Never mind that the doors were far from opened at 8... or 8:05... or 8:12... or 8:20... Never mind that I had been there already two days prior, having jammed there a good part of the day under the merciless sun for the disgustingly short interview bit of the exam.

But here I get bitchy, and don't say they don't have it coming.

The head invigilator was how shall I say, a pit bull.
She was short.
Her hair was very short.
Her manner was really short.
Her English-speaking skills were considerably short.
Her etiquette was non-existent.

If IELTS wants to take on such representation, then that's their funeral, but I think even the most understanding contractors won't be smiling if they heard her bark (in her super cina, ego-tripping, exceedingly crappy-diction style and voice): Okay evibody welcum ladies and gentlemen to IELTS test MY004 conducted by IDP Education P-T-Y L-T-D (wtf?) is a nice holiday you do your exam then you can go home you won't have to see our faces anymore...

She went on, by which time I was so appalled I cannot now remember what else she said, though I recall thinking she seemed to think she was talking to a bunch of pre-schoolers. Ok, I also remember grumbling inwardly about how condescending her behaviour was, and rolling my eyes at how she must think we are a bunch of dumbnuts and she, the champion of all the IELTS earth.

I do have memory of her choice of style in running everything: distastefully unprofessional.

First, there was unceasing emphasis in literature that we were not encouraged to bring anything valuable with us to the exam. No mobile phones in the exam hall, no pencil cases, lost of anything of value was to be at our own risk, yadda yadda bullshit.

Like anyone listened.
Not because we revel in rebelling - just how prehistoric a business do they think they're running?
Stupid unrealistic morons.

There are things of value we modern day folk carry about with us each day as a matter of necessity, but no... "Put your warlets and your kar kees on the floor under your taybers evibody!" Mobiles were long thrown out of the bargain, having been self-bagged and tagged in recycled envelopes and surrendered to invigilators to be unceremoniously thrown in a big pile on the floor outside the exam hall.

Now mind you, the place where the exam was conducted was one specifically created to be an IELTS centre. It wasn't some makeshift place the conductors had to rent like it was five years ago. There were at least a hundred candidates that morning, and I dare say, the exams run pretty bloody frequently. No one sets up an IELTS centre for IELTS exams that run just twice a year now, no?

The thing which irks me most is the fact that they know beyond a shadow of doubt that just about every candidate would be ignoring their advice. And why? They clearly prepared a gigantic stack of envelopes, marker pens, and paper for those who brought bags to write their names on and have the paper stapled somehow onto coresponding bags. All of which were also unceremoniously dumped with the envelopes.

Evidently, some people don't believe in lockers. Or order. Or taking care of other people's property.

Or developing a half-decent system.

They had no clear system to the registration, and every random victim or so fell prey to she-Hitler's booming voice and public embarrassment for seemingly undermining her authority and bypassing certain steps of protocol. Hardly surprising (but still very irritating) that they withheld us after the exam was over to pick up enevelopes and bags one by one by one by one and call out the name on each over each others' voices, outside the entrance door at the side of the exam hall, whereupon the owner was to produce his or her IC to prove ownership of belongings.

All that and only just about the before-and-after's of the exam. Ask me and I will act out in person how she underminded her colleagues, embarrassed more candidates and power-tripped her way to the top all the live-long day.

All I can say is she better fucking not be an examiner correcting anyone's paper. Especially not mine.

NB: I often get flak from dad for having a go at my very wanting home country. But I think they deserve it for being so very stupid at times. Don't get me started on how those in the service-line are incapable of taking the simplest instruction repeated in English and Malay, and their pathetic response to a problem. Clearly, common sense and logical thinking don't factor high in the industry here.

Marked

Went for a massage - the usual.
Got told to strip - ok, that's standard.
Climbed onto the table - face down, getting relaxed.
Was prompty kneeded with powerful hands - magic.
In fact, she was stronger than many and generous with both power and overall massage area.
Pointed out that I was hurting in particular spots - nothing strange there.
Was asked if I would consider having a... *splutter* just realized how this is going to sound, but was asked if I would consider having a bone used on me. I said ok, of course! Would I ever pass up something like that?

But seriously, it's some flat ebony-like thing shaped like a fin made of some kind of animal bone - I know because mum has several versions of them, but ivory - and I thought she was going in for the kill on those particular spots - my upper back.

She did, this is true, but she did much more.

She spread my legs apart, climbed up between them and put her weight into it. Working with the cursed guat, that is. I know it all sounds a bit... suggestive, but her position is nothing new really, not when it comes to getting worked on by eastern not-so-privacy-bothered masseurs.

Now normally I would consider myself someone with high pain tolerance, and as a rule I don't let on if any massage work may lean more to pain than comfort. It's some funny mentality that if you say so, they will ease up on the pressure and not give me my money's worth, on top of which I think there is such a thing as good pain. That, and I actually like some decent pressure.

This time, I was feeling it enough to tell her so.

She told me to bear it.

Which is all part of tolerance anyway, so I did.

The thing is she went on and on - so there I was, in that very vulnerable position, and her with her torture tool and dead-set insistence working to earn her keep by far more than even I expected of her.

That was my upper back.

Then there was my spine, and my lower back.
The sides of my body.
My waist and below.
My neck on both sides.
The area below my collarbone.
She had me flipped and turned and flexing every fifth degree.

I'm sure I told her it hurt more than once. A new personal record.
Each time, she said to bear it.
For a lot of it, she had one or both arms pinned to my back as well.
Now this is starting to sound more and more... S&M.
Prolonged S&M.

If I didn't know better, I'd think she were making geographical markings of conquest.

The end result, as T points out, is that were I to walk in to any Australian hospital with less than a word of abuse, he'd be long hunted down, beaten and locked up, no matter who said what. Yesterday.

If you see some diseased-looking person with dark purple bruises down the length of her arms who looks a lot like me, don't discriminate!