Fifty One

Fifty one candles to blow and she might just keel over trying to blow out all fifty one of them. And yet again, my American expatriate neighbour will fly the flag on his front door, like he does every year.

And a year ago, on this very same day, I posted this.

A less than happy view of home, an attempt at optimism by celebrating our survival skills as a nation (economic doom, filthy toilets and public transport hell) and a list of things I like about this country.

I still concur with #1. Nasi lemak you will always be my number one.

So for this year: Five Things 31/08 Mean To Me

1. Nasi lemak

2. When we were in school it was a necessary exercise to draw the flag. What is supposed to be an artistic activity almost always turned out to be a mathematical battle. I remember struggling to count and draw 14 perfectly symmetrical lines, making sure the red stripe falls under the blue top-left square (I mean, rectangle). And when it came to the star, you had to make sure you have 14 spikes, otherwise tak laku. In my optimistic attempts (we were children) I sketched with military precision, making sure I had the perimeter worked out to fit 14 equal spikes.

After the 65th flag I wished we had lived in Japan. Or Libya.

3. Petronas adverts on television.

4. Stay home or be at the peril of traffic jams. So naturally, we stayed home. And watched fireworks on TV.

5. For most of my life I had thought that Tunku Abdul Rahman, in the declaration of Independence, had cried 'Merdeka' three times. Later I had found out that he actually said it seven times. I was dismayed.



No plans yet as to how I'm going to spend this coming Sunday night. Probably fulfilling #4.

Closer

There is the sound of rain, and the sound of a song halfway done.

Okay, enough faffing now, I need to write an evaluation, a letter asking people for money and study for a pop quiz.

Remnants

Our last meal in London before leaving for the airport: curry and cold Cobra at Brick Lane.

Passing By

My brother has returned to the hospital after a week of enjoying being home. I still remember the night we took him back- I was walking to my car when I turned around and saw him bouncing in the backseat of my dad's car, clapping his hands.

It was enough to make up for all the unsightly weeks of sickness, anxiety, tiredness and pain.

Watched something on TV worth writing about:

This Is York, On TV

Tuesday, August 19, 2008 at 12:27pm | Edit Note | Delete

Yesterday, in the middle of some random Olympic-channel surfing, I came across a travel and food programme. Not that that is strange (I pay homage to Discovery Travel and Living, believe in Ian Wright's doctrine and even enjoy Floyd's drunken antics) but the rest that was to come was- a strange woman with a New Zealand accent and a shock of bright orange hair and a bleached fringe, standing on a hill overlooking a coastal town with an iron-cast statue of a seafaring man.

That place was Whitby.

It was a bit odd seeing it on a screen, but there were nice moments of recognition ("I've seen that seagull somewhere!"). She showed her viewers how herring is smoked into kippers, ate lemon buns and proclaimed the Magpie fish'n'chips as the best she's ever had.

And then she proceeded to York and I sat up eagerly (the programme's about North Yorkshire, apparently). There was a quick montage of the Minster, and the orange-haired lady's perky voice exclaiming that York is more than just old churches and cathedrals. Then the screen cuts to her, sitting in front of a fire, with a tall, crusty, cut-up...

...pork pie.

And there it was, a slab of minced pork stuffed within a battlement of flour and water, the sides bleeding gelatine. She muses about the shape and form of the pie and visits the farm where the porcine is bred (they eat honey, apples and choke on straw, the lady farmer said).

And that was it for York.

A brown cylindrical hulk of pastry and pork. The great York pork pie.

And I wonder if this emptiness I've had since returning home has something to do with not having the quintessential York experience as stated in the programme. Or maybe you just shouldn't believe in people who have shock of orange hair and bleached fringes.


*

(Oh, yes. London. No I didn't forget you.)

Sleeping in the Back of Cars

Many have asked-which one was better for you? York or London?

Apples or pears? Potato or beetroot? Bar or liquid soap?

I loved York for her simplicity and the stillness you can choose to have at any moment of the day. Some days I find her so ridiculously pretty it's unsettling. I brought home callouses on my feet from bad footwear-sense and traipsing on cobblestoned-streets. I remember being contented sitting on a bench in the town square eating my chicken sandwich, listening to medieval-dressed keyboard player, and supermarket-hopping.

Letting ourselves into homes for homemade dinners, playing dominos at a village pub while Koon banged at an untuned piano, ransacking a costume shop, sleeping in the back of cars, walking across the bridge in my pyjamas every morning for an artery-clogging breakfast, dressing up strange, having more beer and tea (and Lemsip) than water and resenting the cutting cold weather (I blame American TV for my misled ideas on summer).

And beginning our mornings in the theatre's green room.

Or the hilarious night out at The Willow, a Chinese buffet restaurant moonlighting as a disco at night. Cheesy music, prawn crackers, an after-races crowd and Grease playing on the telly.

I love Mr. Sandwich.

It rains alot in York. More than one can be comfortable with.


P/s: I loved London too. Will muse on that next entry after I move my new wardrobe into the room.
P/s/s: I can't get my pictures to align properly. Gaps! Why are you there! Noo. I am defeated.

Sleeping in a Plastic Cup

Quiet mornings on York University campus where we were housed for two weeks. Lighting candles at the Minster. Climbing up a hill to see a white horse.

Been up last night scanning photos, and I'm still not yet done.

Death Cab did Singapore two days ago and I wasn't there due to my lack of risk-taking. That, and that I cannot afford to skive anymore classes as it is.

I will settle for my year-long supply of Muji pens. If he managed to find them.

London I

We were thrown into London. The 20 minute train ride out of four-days worth of camping and hyper adolescents wasn't enough for us to reset our gears.

I cannot honestly say I like this city. I grapple even at the thought of Kuala Lumpur. There's something about the flood of people, the hurriedness and constant moving that seem to repel more than compel.

But the week spent there was tremendous and amazing. It felt like being caught in a current and carried away. So much so that there wasn't much time to stop and take much photos. So what you see above is the first entry in my Moleskin, inspired by the gentle warnings of our project leader affectionately called Punk Monk.

It's true. London can eat you up like crunchy cucumber sticks. I don't like feeling like a snack ready to be bitten on without warning. It makes you rather vulnerable.

But it is a place you can draw from, it inspires at its best. And that is true too. Being in that city fueled me and set off sparks in my mind. We stuffed in as much culture and art as possible by gallery-hopping (this was amazing, wish we had time to row boats and float in the sky) and watching plays (this and this) and making our own theatre while at it.

Poking our noses through lit doll houses in a dark room. Sitting in a park and having cream cheese bagels. Getting ungraciously squashed in unventilated Underground. Staring at the river Thames while spurting strange philosophy. A skate park drowning in grafitti. Moving earth stopped for a moment while standing in front of a black hole, a slab of rock made into meaning. Peering at unravelled ancient scriptures of the Torah. Losing an inch of hearing while on a loud night out dancing at a gay club. Taking in the Tate and redeeming lost years in less than two hours.

*
I bought this today while ambling about in a shopping mall because listening to it reminds me of walking across the bridge on chilly mornings in my pyjamas to have breakfast at the campus cafeteria.

My beautiful person is home today. Finally.

So that'll be London part I for you.


p/s: Hello toaster :)

There should be plenty of things to occupy my mind. Things good and nice like strawberry yoghurt and warm mugs of tea. But I find myself finding uncomfortable places and thoughts to dwell in. Like sitting under leaky ceilings.

I just realised I can't write proper entries on York and London (and everything in between) sans the photographs. But if I wait for myself to get them developed, nothing will ever get written, as the journey from my front door to the photo shop can be an epic in itself. Either way, it does not bid well.

Tonight I am thinking. Of how your lack of doing broke something within me, and made me decide to think lesser of myself. I am tired of thinking that I am never good enough. How you kept your words light, chipped and starved of meaning. What is not there speaks more than what is said. You mean more to me that what I can possibly mean to you, and I hope someday you will know that.

I love you.