Can't say no to a meme.

Can't say no to a meme.

music: kirsten dunst - dream of me

Each player of this game starts off by giving 6 weird things about themselves. People who get tagged need to write in a blog of their own 6 weird things as well as state the rules clearly. In the end, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names.

1. I play and teach the piano. Uh-huh. Shocking?
   
   
2. I must shower before leaving the house in the mornings, and I must wash my feet before going to bed in the night.
   
   
3. I am anal about self-sufficiency, and dependent laziness annoys the shit out of me. That, to me, is a form of imposing, which is never good.
   
   
4. I have a long waging love-hate relationship with the sun. I am so afraid of getting skin cancer, yet too many cloudy days and I'll start feeling like I wanna shrivel up and die. The sun's a magician. Ever watched the ripples of sunlight in the pool or in the sea? Pure magic.
   
   
5. I have a thing for guys with stubble, like the talented Jack Johnson over here:
   
   picture from http://meglogentertainment.seesaa.net
   
   I get a lot of flak from the girls for that! "Leigh, Leigh, see this one so hairy. You like right?"
   
   
6. I am oddly superstitious, when it comes to the little things. I'll speed through the 13th lap to get to the 14th, skip a step to avoid taking just 13 steps...

I tag: Charlene, Flora, Jason, Kat, Nanny, Shannon.

Off I go! To the shower, and out to grab a cuppa with Kenrick.

The island of simple pleasures.

The island of simple pleasures.

The waters were not a sparkling turquoise
The sand can barely be said to be powdery soft
And I didn't get my hammock afterall.

I couldn't see the fiery sun dipping into the horizon
The cut-throat price for the hotel barely seemed justified
And we found out that the sand at the hotel's beach was imported.
Not unlike Sentosa.

Yet, Langkawi has a quiet charm about it.

The electic mishmash of landscapes.
Cows grazing give way to flooded rice paddies
Which in turn house the rusty frame of a mutilated van
All these, with the cloudy mountains standing watch in the background.
Silent.
Almost magic.

Like the island itself.
Thriving yet unspoiled by tourism.
With a rustic beauty that doesn't quite hit you in the face
But instead seeps through the subconscious like mulled wine.

And when you do discover it
It quite simply takes your breath away.

Chow for the weary.

Chow for the weary.

The humdrum of life can get to you sometimes. Nothing faintly remarkable seems to happen; but in retrospect, it is probably because we are too bogged down by weariness to put ourselves out there, open and ready for magic.

I am a creature of habit, and I often have to remind myself to step outside my comfort zone and drink in more of what life has to offer. At times, I force myself to socialize, even when all I want to do is flop on the sofa with a good book. Other times, I walk a different path home and take pleasure in the unfamiliar sights. Today, as I scurried down the usual route to meet my ex-workmates for dinner, the setting sun drew me away from my hurry.

The air still held the echoing stillness of the after-rain, and the scent of drenched grass infused the slight evening breeze. The sun was languidly languishing its light, leaving a painting of glowing amber and wispy clouds in its wake. While the sunset was not an intense palette of breathtaking reds, the serenity of its muted light seemed to fill my soul. My footsteps seemed lighter, and a smile tugged at the corner of my lips. Against my logic's urging to hurry along, I slowed and watched the show.

You see, a huge part of living involves riding waves, and taking life by the reins. In the midst of getting out there and grasping opportunities, we sometimes forget that life is also about living for the moment, and that sometimes means slowing down and taking the time to smell the roses; or stealing a quiet moment to watch the sun set.

Sharing introspections.

Sharing introspections.

music: the freelance hellraiser - want you to know

I talk to myself. In my head. Alot.

Odd eureka moments, or random flashes of inspiration. Quite often, memories of things I have done but am not proud of creep up on me, and I have to try really quite hard to tame those waves of humiliation and guilt.

We all have our share of wrongdoings. Mine just like to remind me of them every now and then. Doesn't quite help that 2006 was my year of sins.

Quite often too, I think of life. Moments of introspection, inspired by anything - from a thunderstorm to frangipani petals strewn on granite. More often than not, these thoughts get filed away in my head, or put into words in a blog entry.

I don't quite have the habit of sharing such thoughts out loud, for it seems injustified to literarize such abstraction. Most of the time, the kaleidoscope of my imagination gets lost in translation.

Needless to say, I have quite abit cooped up in that head of mine, and every once in awhile, I catch myself in an unconscious blab-fest. To a buddy, an ex-lover, a new friend, or even a complete stranger. I almost always cringe when I think back on such conversations. It's like wearing my innermost thoughts on my sleeve, and that degree of nakedness can get very disconcerting.

But every once in awhile, I am blessed to be in the company of someone who actually knows what it is I am driving at, and worries of finding the right words slip away. No blank looks. Just non-judgemental companionship and a night of shared reflections.

And my over-stuffed head of thoughts feel just that bit lighter.

The voice in my head.

The voice in my head.

An old Fann Wong song from an old tv drama serial has been monopolizing my thoughts. I've got a million one things to blog about, but I end up too sleepy by the time I decide to get down to it. Maybe tomorrow.

The principle of utilitarinism.

The principle of utilitarianism.

Okay, I was a tan-aholic.

I've been hearing "you know, my first impression was that you were a bimbo" one too many times, and many have attributed it to my tan. Tanned skin somehow brings to mind a party girl with fluff for brains. I can't dispute that I have my moments of ditziness, but I am definitely not a clubaholic whose main motivation in life is the next free-entry Wednesday night. As appalling as it may sound, my life revolves very much around things that don't involve tanning or partying.

But there used to be a time, back when I was 15, that I would steal away with Xiaowen to Siloso Beach after classes. There, we'd strip down to our sports bras and fbt shorts, lay our uniforms out on the sand and bake the afternoon away. Ditto for Saturdays at the beach with Lanxi. Those were the times when hitting the beach was just about getting and maintaining a tan, at the expense of weird tan lines. (Bikinis weren't quite the rage yet.)

A classic example of the principle of utilitarianism I thought, of ends justifying the means.

I can't remember when that twisted mindset of mine started evolving, but I'm glad it did.

I started swimming on a regular basis when I turned 19, and now that a tan's no longer something I have to consciously pursue, it becomes inconsequential.

Hitting the beach is now a physical act of escape from life. Sitting alone, watching and listening to the fascinating, but never boring, repetition of waves lapping against the shore, does wonders for my soul. Loneliness can hit you even when you're surrounded by throngs of friends, or when you're literarily alone, but it never hits me when I'm at the beach.

The process of being in the waters or stripped down and back at one with nature (even though my favourite local stretch is man-made), surpasses the end result - a tan. In fact, it is no longer something I covet, and is more an unnecessary result of a lifestyle I enjoy.

Teology has now morphed to deontology.

That was how I felt yesterday. Laying at the edge of the pool in a state of semi-consciousness while my hand traced lazy circles in the water, and luxuriating in the intoxicating effect of moseying through the waters. Getting a tan was the last thing on my mind, but this is what 80 minutes in the noon-time sun, and forgetting my sunblock, cost me.

First impressions are evil, but I'm glad I got to change them for some of you.

Observations in a coffeeshop.

Observations in a coffeeshop.

location: Pacific Coffee at Cityhall
music: mixed tape on the speakers

It's yet another rainy afternoon, not unlike the one yesterday.

There was a point in time when rainy days gave my heart the chills, but my good old romanticism about rain is back.

It makes me feel snug and protected here inside the cafe while the world outside gets wet. The champ who's supposed to be here with me has overslept, so I get the chance to get acquainted with the leather chair I'm perched on and a headstart on my revision.

The two hours I had alone in here, drifting in and out of the world of communication research, was like a prolonged state of meditative calm. There's hardly any hustle and bustle here in the cafe, and I've been sitting amongst almost the same people who, like me, have seemingly found their own piece of quiet.

Something I read in a book some time ago has been resurfacing in my mind of late. In the novel, the protagonist was musing on how sad it was that we almost always never get a chance to know the strangers we pass by, or are seated beside; despite the fact that out of the billions of people in the world, we are at the same place at the same time.

It's how I feel right now actually. It's kinda surreal.

Take the man who was seated beside me, until just a while ago. We'd sat side by side for the past two hours, so near yet so far. I didn't take a good look at what he looks like, or at what it was exactly that he was doing on his laptop, but I could feel his presence beside me. And over the course of two hours, I have seemingly accepted his superficial idiosyncracies, like his penchant for laughing out loud at whatever it was on his laptop.

Or like the lady with straight shoulder length hair seated in front, with her back to me. I don't know what she looks like, or what she does for a living, but I know she exists in this world.

Or the tall man to her right, who until about half an hour ago, was alone. A lady has joined him now, and it seems like he is an actor of sorts, or so I think from the snippets of their conversation I hear. I think I even heard Fann Wong's name mentioned.

It's kinda like co-existing in anonymity within the confinements of this laidback paradise.

Our presence lends some sort of comfort to one another that we are not alone, all the while maintaining our masks of privacy. Life is so curiously warped, and so warpedly brilliant.

Unleash the Chemistry nerds.

Unleash the Chemistry nerds.

The "Bling Bling Brainiacs".

Jinli and I mucking around pre-presentation.

That's me, looking every bit the mad scientist while trying out the Pop Rocks "explosion".

The world from upside down.

The world from upside down.

picture from http://journalism.missouri.edu/

Quite a way to see Seng Kang at night.
The beauty of spontaneity and live-for-the-moment decisions.
Decisions as such which had me wondering “what the hell am I doing up here?"
Right before the Vortex swung down.
Free falling.
And I left my heart behind.
Awesome.

Oh the irony!

Oh the irony!

Innocence should not be bought.

Innocence should not be bought.

This second speech assignment garnered me "you're so emo" comments. Perhaps I am a little, but I thought it was an interesting branch of "sales", instead of talking about cats and milk and what not.

"Close your eyes.

Picture a girl lying on a rumpled bed, with her back towards you. She is slender, with soft black hair cascading down her shoulders. The shoulders heave once. Twice. And you realize that she is crying. A sob escapes and is promptly muffled as she turns her face into her pillow. Your heart breaks and you call out to her. She turns and looks at you with desperation and self-disgust in her almond shaped eyes. "Help me," they seemed to say. You notice that her right arm is chained to the bedpost. The door opens suddenly, and a man walks into the room. He walks to her and strokes her hair. And then, he unbuckles his belt. You watch, helpless, as the foreign monster forces himself upon her. Her cries of protest and anguish echo through the room.

What if I told you that she is only ten years old?
What if, I told you that she is the daughter you sold?

What I just described is not a pretty scene, but is unfortunately a common sight in Asia. More than half of the working prostitutes are under the age of 16, many of whom are barely even ten years old. While the majority of these poor children are girls, there are also boys as well.

While some willingly sell their bodies for money, many of these children are kidnapped and most are shockingly sold by their families. Because of extreme poverty, parents end up having to sell their children in exchange for just enough money to survive. This is usually about 350 to 600 dollars per transaction. Most parents are not aware that they are selling their children to become prostitutes. They rationalize that their children are given the chance to find work elsewhere, and to be fed and clothed how they cannot be at home. But of course this is not the case.

By the time the parents suspect that something is wrong, they don't have the resources to locate their children.

Most of these children end up being sold again to third-class brothels in the same poverty they thought they left, and end up being in debt to their pimp owners. They are made to service 15 to 30 men each day, and are on call 24 hours a day. Those who are uncooperative or try to retaliate are hit, whipped and tortured until they succumb. Each service session earns them about $3 to $4, and most of this money goes to paying off their debt to the brothel owners. In 1984, five young girls died when a Thai brothel caught fire. The reason why they never had a chance to make it? They were chained to their beds.

The most infamous region here in Asia is probably Thailand, and Pattaya and Bangkok are probably the hubs of the country's child prostitution. Many of the girls are from the small villages in Bangkok. In fact, so many of them are sold that some entire villages are devoid of young girls. Child prostitution is so rampant that in the 1990's, a travel brochure in England actually referred to the Thais as "Peter Pans - eternal children who have never grown up".

The patrons of the trade include locals, but many are child sex tourists. Some believe that young prostitutes are not infected with HIV, but the shocking truth is that a staggering 72.4% of them are. Some believe that having sex with a virgin will rejuvenate them. Some merely enjoy children. Whatever the motive is, these children are scarred for life, both physically and emotionally.

While governments and organizations like ECPAT, which means End Child Prostitution, Child Pornography and Trafficking of Children for Sexual Purposes, are working to eradicate child sex tourism, this sexual abuse of children is still rampant.

Close your eyes again.

Your stomach rumbles and constricts painfully. You are reminded again that you and your family haven't eaten in days. Your lips are dry and cracked, and you wish desperately for a sip of clean water. Look down at your seven year old daughter whose hand you hold in yours. In exchange for a bite to tame the hunger, will you sell her to the dark?"

This is me.

This is me.

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

Full circle - An eclipse.

Full circle - An eclipse.

3 March 3007. Lunar eclipse. According to Glamour (ha ha how credible), the astrological event is a "significant time for change or the end of an era. It shuts down some aspects of life so that other parts can flourish in the future". It is also reportedly normal to feel out of sorts throughout the day. Seeing how I've been feeling out of sorts the past months, I think I'll do fine.

I thought the day of the eclipse would be a good day to work towards closing the chapter that coincidentally began with the moon.

My days as a hospitality student



Here I am

How much have things changed, how much they have not. Over a thousand posts over two years. I'll lose too much by deleting this blog, so I'm gonna keep it around. I may even have a few sporadic posts now and then. Thanks to my sarongskirts readers, it's always a pleasure hearing how often you guys check back here. The world wide web's a big one. Maybe we'll find one another again some day.

And here, with my 1,9065th post, out.

Did the captain of the Titanic cry?

Did the captain of the Titanic cry?
music: norah jones - wake me up

Typing. Writing. Crying. Hoping to rid myself of all remaining traces. Furious typing. Furious backspacing right here in this blog space. But I couldn't bring myself to hit the publish button. I still can't quite stomach the idea of starring in my own script. Each time I think that the last threads have been purged, they escape from the silent build-up.

I spend my days running in my head. Away from you, towards you. I feel like an advocate of a cause I am not sure about. I've long stopped talking to myself. I can't decide between living with an empty soul of grief, or a grieving heart. I'm sitting on a fence where the land is barren on both sides.

I go through daily motions, I smile, I laugh. And I really think I am okay. But once in awhile, the other me breaks through the facade, into the limelight. It was always happier as the star.

Rock me in a hammock.

Rock me in a hammock.
music: norah jones - come away with me

Cafe Del Mar. It looked really pretty, but we didn't get the chance to stay for a drink.






Imagine this shot to the theme song of Baywatch. No kidding. There was some safety demonstration going on, and the lifeguards ingeniously chose to use the Baywatch soundtrack.



No it ain't Bora Bora baby, though those stilted huts did make me think of The Paradise Room by Belinda Jones. This is ever-changing Sentosa for you. I can't believe it's been over a year since I left. Feels like yesterday, sometimes.





And here's the sunset, from my dining room windows. Pretty awesome huh? I promise these aren't photoshop-ed or touched up in anyway.

Head first into the mud.

Head first into the mud.
feeling: thirsty

Despite the complex intricacies, the fundamentals of human relations are (if you start thinking like a kid in kindergarten) not that complicated.

There was the pre-requisite twinge, and that morning scene has replayed itself a few times more than necessary in my head. The ball's right here I know, but I'm somehow more inclined towards sitting on it instead of shooting hoops. It just doesn't feel quite right.

On a different note, Paris Je T'aime was quite a delight. It was like a French version of Love Actually, coupled with a dose of ambiguity, sprinkles of creativity, and even that tiny bit of a scare. It was in a way more real I guess.

Shopped up a storm with HH (you're horrible influence!) after. There goes 80 bucks on a new jacket for the interview (what a convenient excuse haha) and another 40 on a beach kaftan. And I would have gotten those slingbacks if not for the fraying threads. Byebye angpows.

Just.

Just.

It's just that. No need to go all soft, woman.

Jumping hurdles.

Jumping hurdles.
feeling: relieved
music: black eyed peas ft. jack johnson - gone going

What's it with weirdos who rub themselves against you on the bus? Half the time I was silently pleading his innocence and tormenting myself by plastering myself to the window. I finally changed seats after ten bus-stops, and I actually felt bad for doing so. Urgh.

It's my first, and I reckon my last, sing & strum performance tonight. Only managed to rehearse with ZW yesterday evening, so... haha. Half the time I was distracted by his rabbit who turned my insides to mush. I must be emptier than I thought.

Piano lessons confirmed. Starting in April.
Cleared the SPH writing test. Phew. Next up, interview with the ed.

Travelogue.

Travelogue.

This is way overdue, I know, but here's the link to my travel-blog.
Click here.

Works are underway to move this blog elsewhere.

As traditions go.

As traditions go.

Waking up to the sound of my dad puttering around the house.

Having rice for breakfast. (There's something about Peranakan dishes. They taste better reheated. Hmm.)
Having that tiny bowl of sweet longan and red dates.
The scorching heat of the Lunar New Year sun.
The usual sequence of relatives to visit.
The same things they say.
Mundane. But there's comfort in familiarity.

I was lost in the story of Steve Serrano and Roxanne Rayeaux, and I thought it was only nine when Erwin called. He was in the area, so we ended up going for supper at the Railway Station. The place was featured in today's papers. I feel like a proud mama. Haha.

Mmm. Thinking very very carefully.