The exciting adventures of the rooster who lives in Spottiswoode Park

Today, while I was taking a walk down my block, I saw our friendly neighbourhood rooster strut across the road at the zebra crossing. The cars on both sides of the street stopped to let him cross. It was hilarious! I wished I had caught it on video.

This is the rooster who lives in Spottiswoode Park.



This is the rooster running away from me.

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Running mantra #5

Sometimes it is just a matter of putting on your shoes and getting out the door.

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The Stone Gods by Jeanette Winterson

This is possibly the funniest book by Jeanette Winterson I've read so far. It isn't all-throughout funny the way Terry Pratchett or P. G. Wodehouse is funny — this is fundamentally still a Winterson book: lyrical, beautiful, heart wrenching — but seriously, there was one particular scene that had me rolling on the floor (see page 175-77).

I'm so tempted to type it out for you here but somehow I think that you need the previous 174 pages to appreciate the hilarity (it is also a bit too R.A. for the family readership of this blog, but who am I kidding that I have a "family readership"?); besides, you may want to read the book and I don't want to spoil it for you.

The Stone Gods is about the future but it is also about the past. It is about a world on repeat, and how love — interplanetary love — is an intervention. But I'm giving away too much as it is. Read it with your own experiences as a guide.

Again, Winterson takes me by surprise with her words.

Spike came forward and put her arms around me. `One day, tens of millions of years from now, someone will find me rusted into the mud of a world they have never seen, and when they crumble me between their fingers, it will be you they find.' (79)

I said to Spike, `Is this how it ends?'
She said, `It isn't ended yet.' (88)

Your lips are moving, what is it you say? Your lips are moving over mine, what is it? I will set you in the sky and name you. I will hide you in the the earth like treasure.
Snow is covering us. Close your eyes and sleep. Close your eyes and dream. This is one story. There will be another. (93)

Life is all partings. James Hogan, First Mate. I loved him with the patience of an oyster longing for a pearl.
So be it. (102)

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There is a rooster in my neighbourhood

It crows at 4:30am.

The first time I heard him crow, I thought it was somebody's obnoxiously loud cock-crowing ring tone, the city-livin' gal that I am. But then I saw him strutting in the neighbourhood the next day, as if he owned it.

Now I get to wake up to a real rooster crowing every morning.

I can't decide if it is a good thing.

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Non-intuitive shortcuts

Excel
Double-click cell to edit content: Ctrl-U
Insert cell: Alt-click
Insert line in text within cell: Ctrl-Alt-Enter

Firefox
Shift between tabs: Ctrl-Tab

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Addicted to (fluff)Friends

Olio likes to eat pink cupcakes, pizza, salad, jellybeans, cherries, chocolate frogs, leaves, and even generic canned fluff food. He's not too fussy, my elephant.

And he bulldozes at a sweet speed of 664 fph.

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Kinda warms the cockles of your heart

This is about running, and so much more.

http://abcnews.go.com/Video/playerIndex?id=4003490&affil=wpvi

via Joan

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A Mac gripe

I've been using a Mac for just about a year now and I still can never remember if a shortcut requires shift, ctrl, alt/ option, command, or any combination of the above. For whatever reason, the allocation of shortcut keys just isn't intuitive to me. In spite of using the print screen command on a Mac regularly (Shift-Apple-3 or Shift-Apple-4, not to mention the spacebar toggle), I get lapses in my memory. In comparison, despite not having used a PC in eons, I can still remember it is Alt-Print Screen! What's up?

I also forget the force quit combination (Alt-Command-Esc) while ctrl-alt-delete has become a catchphrase for me in regular conversation. (Why? PC hang ah? Ctrl-Alt-Delete lah!)

In a PC, accessing anything on the menu bar uses ctrl. Ctrl is the first line of shortcut keys. If you require a second shortcut key, it would be alt. But on a Mac? Who knows? To access my Calculator, it is Alt-Command-C. To get Quicksilver, it is Ctrl-Spacebar; spotlight Apple-Spacebar. To save, copy, paste, it is Command-S, -C, or -V. Not to mention the mysterious Fn key. Now, what in the world is the Fn key for? (Actually, I don't want to know. Having an extra shortcut key ups the number of possible permutations to a terrifying number.)

Is there a reason to this madness that I am not grasping?

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The onslaught of social networking

Suddenly, with facebook, remembering someone's birthday ain't that big a deal any more.

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A Spot of Bother by Mark Haddon

A Spot of Bother is a disarmingly accurate portrayal of the complexity of relationships.

I see a bit too much of myself in Jamie and Katie.

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Heartland by Daren Shiau

This book is so Singaporean that I feel that I could have written it myself. Of course that is an obnoxious statement to make since I am only an arm chair critic with no books to her name, but the sentiment is true: it feels like I could have written it, because everything in the book is so run-of-the-mill Singaporean.

I could have talked about the atrocity of maids sitting at dinner tables minding the kids while the parents eat. Or about the class gap, the language gap, the NS experience (okay, maybe not that). Every opinion is so ordinary.

Perhaps if I had read it in a nostalgic mood while living overseas I would have lapped up the Singaporean references greedily. The bus tickets folded into the metal bar of the seat in front; the midnight charge of taxis, etc. But since I was in a mood for something that transported me from my present life — something that gave me a new perspective of life — I was disappointed with this novel. Besides, what kind of an ending was that?

Although I don't usually buy my books, I don't regret paying good money for Heartland at all. Literature holds the culture and history of a nation, and it is important to cherish these things.

I think as for now, our films may be better than our books though. I thought the film Singapore Dreaming kicked ass.

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Running on Barker Road

To me, the barker road loop is the mother of all running routes. I loved it, and I hated it. The barker road loop was where I first learnt how to run. It was where I came face to face with physical fatigue and mental games, not to mention, spiritual analogies. It was where I found myself painfully aware of what I longed for. It was my benchmark run. It was my everyday run.

Gosh I've missed it. I used to run it at least once a week. I ran it so much that I came to dread it, preferring to run the botanic loop in later years just because it was more enjoyable. I ran the barker loop today again, not the full two rounds but a modified one loop plus extra, and I realised how well I knew every incline, every manhole, every turn. I knew exactly how long it took to reach the top of the steep hill, and exactly when the menacing dogs would starting barking their heads off.

In the tradition of the early posts, the numbers from today's evening run.

Distance: 5.8 km
Time: 36.2 mins
Speed: 9.6 km/hr

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Better than a holiday

This is what I'm having for breakfast.



And this is where I'm having it.





I'm housesitting for a good friend while they are in Phuket. Their home is gorgeous, with beautiful nooks perfect for a breakfast for one. It is raining right now as I'm typing on my Mac. I can see and smell the rain, and feel the coolness of the air, but I am dry. My Mac is dry, the bottom of my pants are dry, and I have grapes to eat. This is better than a holiday.

Yesterday after breakfast, I blogged, got some work done, took a shower, put on a face mask, got a massage in the massage chair, played tennis, boxing and baseball on the Wii, and cooked myself a pack of instant noodles. At night, I walked out for chicken rice, went to catch a movie, then came back to a bed with a duvet. And today I'll do the same, give or take a few.

For my friends who have been so sweet to care how I am, thank you, I am getting better. There are still tears every day, more painful and despairing than I've ever felt before, but hope whispers to me in the middle of the day. Never in the morning nor at night, but unexpectedly in the late mornings and early afternoons. I only wish hope whispers to my friends too...

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Breakfast

Someone commented not too long ago that food had the power to lift my spirits. I was surprised how well she knew me — I had no idea until she pointed it out — but she's right.

It is not food per se, not how good it tastes even, but the ritual of eating that gives me comfort. It is the zen -like notion that when all is said and done, after all the achievements, heartaches and grief, everybody needs to stop and eat so that they can carry on. "After you eat, wash your bowl," the Zen Buddhists say. Life is as simple as doing what you need to do to keep going.

Sharing a meal is an intimate thing for me. The native Americans had the tradition of showing their ultimate acceptance and inclusion of guests into their society: they ate them. I don't get that intimate. I met an old friend yesterday evening for a late dinner at Whampoa Hawker Centre and we went about ordering food the way we used to when we used to hang out every weekend — Hokkien mee, Oyster Egg and Sugarcane. It felt familiar: him heaping the prawns and sotong (squid) onto my plate because he's allergic to seafood. Lucky for my cholesterol levels, I don't meet him for Hokkien mee and Oyster egg that often!

Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner, and maybe a snack in between. The nursing homes got it right — a snack of tau huay (curdled soy bean desert) and a snack of milo and biscuits in the afternoon. I love the word "snack". Right now, my appetite has shrunk so I can barely stomach a full meal, but still, the idea of three meals will keep me sane.

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Way-in | Way-out

This is the story of my life.

I am the elder of two sisters. My family could be the poster child of the family campaign in the 1970s— two sisters sharing an umbrella in the rain. Two is enough, even when the two are girls. In China, one is enough. I wonder how they bear the burden of elderly parents over there. Not that it makes a difference to me, since my sister is married overseas and I am here alone. But I ramble, the point of this story is this: my story is everybody's story.

It is a story of identity, of love lost and found, of God, of family, of friends. I am only thirty years old this year. I've lived for only half as long as my parents. If my grandparents were still alive, I would have lived only a third of their years, but we have stopped counting the years for them. When you die, you stop counting. Your fingernails keep growing, but not in Singapore, because we cremate our dead over here. Nothing keeps growing after death, not here any way. Maybe if you're overseas, you could be fertilizer for grass or a tree or something, but not here. Over here, your next-of-kin will huddle around a pink plastic box and pick out in order: thigh bone, collar bone, skull; then stick you in an urn so that you will be the right-way-up. Then, depending on your religion, you'll either be carried out by the first male next-of-kin under a paper umbrella or you'll be carried out without any ceremony at all, and then placed right-way-up beside a row of other right-way-up dead people. All our skulls point to heaven. Where did the heart fly off to?

But I am getting ahead of myself. That is where I will end up, but for now, I live in a concrete room, stacked on top of 17 other families and underneath two. I have a lovely view of the port — that is the port with the deep natural harbour; the railway station that sits on Malaysia land, and a lovely expressway that rumbles with traffic day-in day-out. (I know that day in is two words. Pooh says "Way-in" and "Way-out". It makes more sense that way. Life is a turnstile with two signs: "way-in" dayindayout "way-out".)

Being depressed is a bad way to start a story.

------------

CHAPTER TWO: Where mis_nomer tries to think about happier things

...

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CHAPTER THREE: Which comes after chapter two, where she reminds readers that she really does have a story to tell

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Friends from far away..

Friends from far away, thank you.

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I am afraid

My life is a mess right now. I am so afraid.

Please pray for me and my friends. Pray that angels will watch over us and keep us from evil.

I am terrified at the hurt I've inflicted and I don't know what to do.

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Tomorrow: Standard Chartered Marathon 2007

To all runners taking part:

All the best! Have a great run!

Cheers,
mis_nomer

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All over the place thoughts

I stayed up late last night rummaging through my blog archives. I read through my "mind-numbingly bored in office" posts (TOT, do you remember those?), the "low productivity day in office" posts, the running posts (sigh), the swimming posts, the geeky posts, the sentimental posts, and everything in between. This is my life, caught in words...

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I got a vacation job for December. I'm very pleased about it because I think doing research on Web 2.0 technologies is exciting stuff. Also, I'll be earning a bit of extra cash on the side. My budget has really gone out of the window these few months, and it feels good to be able to recoup what I can. The end-of-the-year bonus dazzles me too, but I mustn't make plans to spend it, 'cos I have to remember that the bonus is slated to pay for insurance. Pootooey.

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My dad is possibly down with shingles, that is, a second occurrence of chicken pox. The poor man is in so much pain. It feels like red ants biting him all over. The scary thing is that the spots are all over his body, unlike the usual case of just being on one half. This means that his immune system is compromised, and that the virus may attack other parts of his body, such as his brain. So I'm keeping an eye on him. The minute he looks a bit groggier than usual, it's off to Emergency we go. But he is still his usual self, telling me long rambling stories over breakfast. :)

Did you know that my dad used to live on Tanglin Road opposite the Istana? His family rented a house from a Jewish family. Now, it is impossible to live there, unless you are a millionaire. He said that he watched the changing of the guard at the Istana every evening. Brings new meaning to a president among the people... Is Singapore changing faster than other cities, or is this rate of change common?

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I've got to shower and head to school now. So long!

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chick

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my green chair

thinking about chairs at 3am. who knows why.

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I love my macbook

Every once in a while, I've just got to say this: I love my macbook.

It hangs; it loses my data; the text size is too small for my failing eyes; the speakers are teeny; the DVD drive is region-locked.... but hey, I love it all the same.

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Flickr Badge Generator

Ever since Flickr removed the link to the Badge Generator on their main page, I've been finding it difficult to find it when I need it.

So, once and for all, the Flickr Badge Generator.

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Free stuff to download for your kids: Scratch

Do you have kids? If you do, they may have fun with Scratch, an easy-to-use programming language that lets you create animations. It works on both PCs and Macs.

I was excited when I first heard about this, but I probably won't continue to use it, primarily 'cos Scratch clips can't be exported to a more accessible format, and the pre-made animations are just too limited and choppy.

But like I said earlier, kids under 12 may have fun with this programme.

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Tekkonkinkreet

Tekkonkinkreet was the opening film of Animation Nation 2007. I watched it last night at the National Museum and was bowled over by how good it was. The animation was seamless as silk, smooth as butter. The characters were endearing and convincing. The artwork was amazing (check out the link for examples). And the most important thing, it was a damn good story.

There are two main characters in this story: Black and White, both orphans who live in the street. Black is strong and smart; White is naive and imaginative. The film opens to White with mucous running from his nose. He pulls on a roll of toilet paper attached to his waist, and the audience is sold, immediately. And we're not even five minutes into the film.

But the admirable thing about this film that it doesn't build only on the natural sympathy audiences have for young orphans, it also manages to make the audience feel empathy for every character in the film. Seriously, I felt for all of them: Gramps the hobo, Fujimura the detective, Sawada the frigid young policeman, Suzuki the Yakuza, Kimura the father-to-be... All of them seemed real and believable to me.

This film is about the demise of a city. It is a swan song, sung by delinquents, hobos, gangsters and policemen. At the heart is the yin-yang philosophy, that black needs white, and white needs black. This film is replete with religious symbols. The fundamental philosophy is the Taoist yin-yang, yet it includes the Hindu god Ganesh, the symbolism of the wounds in the hands, to the statement by Black that he does not believe in anything, to even a quote of faith being the "evidence of things unseen".

I teared up watching this film. I'm not sure what it was that got to me. Perhaps it was the emptiness of the city. Perhaps it was when White lay on the floor in a pool of blood. Or perhaps it was when White said, "God made us broken. With missing screws....... I've got all the screws that Black needs. Every single one."

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Soft like the yolk of a Japanese egg

I've become soft. I'm actually tired from sitting here and listening to lectures all day. Like that how to start work next year? Sure die one. Sigh.

I'm tossed about like a sampan without an anchor.

My similes are nonsensical. But it doesn't matter.

Tonight I will meet a few old friends to buy a pendant for the-girl-who-is-going-to-work-in-Shanghai.

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First time doing live blogging...

.....and getting paid for it!

:)

Today's my second day doing live blogging at a conference. I'm still feeling my way around—not too sure if I'm writing with the right tone, if I should do a podcast, etc — but what the hey, I'm getting paid!

(It's cold here. My Macbook Keeps Me Warm.)

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My Rubber Chicken

I have a rubber chicken that makes me laugh. I took it from my friend's two and a half year-old daughter. My friend asked her daughter if Aunty Mis_nomer could have the chicken. She looked at the me, looked at the chicken, hesitated for a split second, and said, "Yes. It's gross." Hahaha!

Rubber Chicken Against a Wall


Rubber Chicken Roadkill


Rubber Chicken Laying an Egg


My Rubber Chicken and I have hours of fun together. ;)

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What I'm having for breakfast

I love the red bowls, cup, spoon and chopsticks, don't you?

Fish ball kway tiao (noodles) : $2
Coffee : $0.40

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Mr Morton

I like this clip.

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Free Rice

Donate Rice Now! via Tym

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iDream

Last night I dreamt of a huge swimming pool. It was enclosed in a
cavernous hall, so large that I couldn't see the end of it; so deep
that I couldn't see the floor. The swimming pool belonged to my
College roommate Jill. She told me that the pool had been disused
for the longest time, and they had to spend a lot of time and effort
in cleaning it up and getting it ready. I asked her how deep it was,
but she looked at me and shrugged.

Then, because the water looked cool and clear and there were people
frolicking in the water, I asked her if I could swim in it, but she
said that I couldn't, because I was of the wrong race, and that
having me in the pool would "dirty" it for others. So I walked about
the pool instead and joined a group of boys training by running among
the flowers.

Then I stopped because I was tired.

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A pink painting

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Mating Butterflies

Mating Butterflies, originally uploaded by mis_nomer.

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The idea of a coffee

It's cool today. I have a red cup of kopi on the table.  I have a strange relationship with coffee.  Before I get one, I want one because I think I want to drink it; then I get one and it calms me and I'm happy about it, yet I let the coffee sit there and get cold.  I think I'm just happy to have a cup of coffee accompanying me as I write.  I think it is the idea of a coffee that I crave, not the caffeine.

What is your idea of a coffee?

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Fire-walking ceremony

It was strange stepping into a Hindu temple. I'd walked by this temple many times before; I'd looked at the piles of dusty slippers and shoes at the pavement by the door of the temple; but the other evening was the first time I dared to slip my sandals off, feel the clammy cement on the bare soles of my feet, and walk into the temple among the devotees.



It was the annual fire-walking festival.

The colours, smells, atmosphere was overwhelming. It was thick with religion. The courtyard throbbed with religious fervour; the white ash coal in the pit a visible symbol of the longing for penance, for a connection with the sacred. It was out of this world.

Seriously, it was hot. I could feel the heat of the pit from 100 metres away. The heat hit me in waves, and made me perspire. It made my toes clam up just thinking about exactly how hot it would be to walk on those coals barefoot.



Every year, devotees would walk through the pit of fire. I suppose they do it for various reasons—for penance, or supplication, or vow. They stoke the fire from evening and start walking at 1am. It lasts all night.



There is something universal about white hot coals as a symbol for purification. Remember when Isaiah was standing in front of the throne of God and he is devastated because he realises how sinful he is? And the angel flies to him with a live coal in his hand, and touches Isaiah's lips with the coal, and says, "See, this has touched your lips; your guilt is taken away and your sin atoned for." (Isaiah 6)

I know that God has forgiven, but I don't always feel it. So I understand the irrational craving for the pain of purification.

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The Motive for Metaphor, by Northrop Frye

"The Motive for Metaphor" is the first essay in Northrop Frye's collection "The Educated Imagination". Metaphor is the basic building block of all literary work, hence "The Motive for Metaphor" is an essay justifying the place Literature has in society. As Frye says, “Every child realises that literature is taking him in a different direction from the immediately useful, and a good many children complain loudly this.” (15) Haha! Adults complain loudly too.

In this essay, Frye proposes that there are three levels of the mind, and three languages for each of them. There is the level of consciousness and awareness. The English of this level is that of ordinary conversation, full of adjectives and nouns, the language of self-expression. Then there is the level of social participation, and the English of this level is the working language of teachers and preachers and politicians and advertisers and lawyers and journalists and scientists. Then, there is the level of the imagination, which produces the literary language of poems and plays and novels. (22-23)

Science starts with the world we live in, and moves towards the imagination. Art, on the other hand, begins with the world we construct in our minds, and moves towards reality. The closer they get to the middle, the more alike they are: "A highly developed science and a highly developed art are very close together, psychologically and otherwise." (24) Just think about the quark and you will see what I mean.

However, this different starting point means that while science is constantly evolving and discovering new and wonderful things about the world we live in — an average scientist today knows more than Isaac Newton; it is different from art because art begins in the imagination, and so nothing is ever completely new. As far as tragedy is concerned, Oedipus Rex is it. It can't get any better than that.

This collection is really quite good. I'm tempted to buy it.

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Why does this quote move me?

Perhaps because it is melancholic.

Istanbul: Memories of a City, Orhan Pamuk

We begin to understand huzun as not the melancholy of a solitary person, but the black mood shared by millions of people together. What I am trying to explain is the huzun of an entire city, of Istanbul... To feel this huzun is to see the scenes, evoke the memories, in which the city itself becomes the very illustration, the very essence, of huzun. I am speaking of the evenings when the sun sets early, of the fathers under the street lamps returning home carrying plastic bags. Of the old Bosphorus ferries moored to deserted stations in the middle of winter, of the old booksellers who lurch from one financial crisis to the next and then wait shivering all day for a customer to appear; of the teahouses packed to the rafters with unemployed men; of the patient pimps striding up and down the city's greatest square on summer evenings in search of one last drunken tourist; of the tens of thousands of identical apartment-house entrances, their facades discoloured by dirt, rust, soot and dust; of the broken seesaws in empty parks; of ships' horns booming through the fog; of the city walls, ruins since the end of the Byzantine Empire. 

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the city

The city as we imagine it, the soft city of illusion, myth, aspiration, nightmare, is as real, maybe more real, than the hard city one can locate in maps and statistics, in monographs on urban sociology and demography and architecture.

~ Soft City , Jonathan Raban

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Disarray

My personal life is in a bit of a disarray. I'm not really functioning very well... I can't keep track of what I am supposed to read, what I need to bring to class, and when assignments are due. My iCal calendar is out-of-sync with my life. I almost didn't go to class yesterday because I had accidentally deleted the class from iCal the week before.

Fortunately, I have friends who would say things like, "Where is English class today?" (Me: "What English class?" Friend: "English class! Today! At 3:30pm!" Me: "Oh.") And stuff like "Have you done Mr Ren?" (Me: "Who is Mr Ren??") And lecturers who say, "You have to hand in your reflections personally to your tutor at the end of the lecture." Which leaves me scrambling to complete it during the lecture itself. Thank God for laptops and multi-tasking.

I also had a friend look into my eyes and say, "You've been crying." Which I denied vehemently.

These days, I function only at the extreme ends of the spectrum of emotion. It is only during quiet moments like these, when I am sitting outdoors, feeling the breeze, that I remember who I am.


I wish
you could feel this breeze I feel,
the texture of the pebbled stone
against the soles of your feet.

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Great Eastern Run 10km

This is a race of firsts. It is the first time I am participating in a women's run, and the first time I'm running a race alone.

Both rather mind-opening experiences I have to say! I'm used to being a rare damsel in a sea of hot sweaty men (remember the "Spot the Woman" contest in my blog post about the Sheares Bridge Run?) It is such a treat to stand in the holding area before flag-off and not worry about bumping into sweaty bodies. Very nice. I can even look about the holding area since I'm no longer shorter than average. ;)

SPOT THE MEN CONTEST!





It is a lot more tiring running a race on your own than with someone else, I have to say... I push myself so much harder. Although it is to a certain extent still a spectator or social type of sport — I love watching the fast ones whiz past me on their return leg: I always hoot and cheer for them — I think about the distance and the time so much more when alone. And I am so much more tired when I am done.

Got a chip time of 1hr 2mins 26sec. I wish I could have broken the hour, but I haven't been running very consistently these days, so it was really as fast as I could have gone... I'm happy with it though. Worth the pain. :) Seriously, when I crossed the finish line, I was seeing stars and had to squat for a bit — I am that unfit!! :)

ITB woes again. Boohoo.

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Anatomy

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Assignment due on Monday

But in no frame of mind to do it.

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Living in Singapore

My dad has white hair, yah? He is slowly starting to look like an old man — the wrinkles about his eyes, the charcoal hair, the almost-leathery skin. He is also a very smart man. He is an RI boy. He speaks a smattering of languages and dialects: English, Mandarin, Cantonese, Hokkien, Teochew, and Malay. He can translate a talk from English to Hokkien in real time. Impressive stuff. He has absolutely no airs about him — he wears his ah-pek (old man) trousers and his ah-pek tshirts everywhere. He has a huge vocabulary, but he pronounces everything like a china-man.

So, when he goes to the doctor's, he gets his medicine with these little red circles drawn on them. He couldn't figure out what they were... until this morning, when he excitedly told me, "They are drawing for me how many pills I should take!" It's brilliant. I think it's brilliant that the pharmacist should do that. Although my dad can read and doesn't need the red circles (in fact, the red circles added to his confusion), it is cool that the pharmacist should do that for people who may not be able to read English. It makes me like Singapore that little bit more.


One red circle for one in the morning


Two red circles for two after breakfast

But there are two sides to the coin. Sometimes my dad gets extra food from the hawkers for a lower price just because he looks old and friendly. Free soup from the Western stall, extra serving of vegetables, etc. On the flip side, sometimes people take advantage because you look old by cutting queue, speaking to you like you are daft, and being very rude.

But that is the way it is I guess. It is the same if you look young — sometimes you get treated better than normal, sometimes worse. But "normal" is debatable.

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What I am having for breakfast

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Eye for a Guy

I'm watching Eye for a Guy on the mobile TV in the public bus and something about the way the beautiful host eliminated the good looking men with such cool aplomb made me sick. It's a bloody power play.

And i'm that cocky idiot.

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My coffee and me

I think I'm drinking too much coffee. I had a cup of thick local kopi this morning about 9am, and now I have a frothy flat white on my table as I work on my Mac. I'm going to have coffee-stained teeth at this rate, along with the coffee-smelling pee that I already have. (Okay, sorry, too much info!)

I'm reading an article about writing today. There is a quote in it that I like very much.

Writing for me is almost never a straightforward, dispassionate matter of presenting information or defending conclusions. I assume — indeed, hope — that writing will entail and interplay of cognition and affect, of rationality and emotion, of conscious, disciplined effort and intuition and inspiration. ~ Lee Odell, Constants and Variations in my Writing Process

True, isn't it? Although sometimes I desperately wish I could write and present information in a "straightforward, dispassionate" way, rather than this complicated emotive/intuitive/undisciplined thing that I tend to do.

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Sweet and Power Sock

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Lost in Gimp

I mucked around with Gimp this afternoon and created this.



It's a frankenstein montage badly put together, but gosh, it felt really good mucking around with an image editor again. Like in the old days cocooned in an office on lazy afternoons, just me and the computer screen, staring at pixels, selecting, deselecting, layering, deleting, cropping.

I like this kind of work. I get lost in it and forget the time.

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Word of the day

syncategorematic \sin-kat-uh-gor-uh-MAT-ik\

forming a meaningful expression only in conjunction with a denotative expression (as a content word)

Example sentence:
“In any language, there will be what are called syncategorematic words, such as prepositions and articles,” explained Dr. Lewis.

Listen to pronunciation here.

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Wet day today

Wet day today. Never wear running shoes and thick cotton socks on a wet day. Because they will get wet. And stay wet all day long. And then they'll start to stink, that sour, stale smell that old socks specialize in. Then you can't take them off because they'll smell; and you can't leave them on because they are damp.

I am full of important thoughts today.

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Minuscule student woes

Having trouble starting my essay (so I blog instead). Theoretically, this is an easy essay to write — all I have to do is to churn out 1,000 words and compare two different literary theories — but for some reason, the introduction is stumping me big-time.

All I need is one central idea to anchor this essay... before I fall asleep tonight...

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Fishies among the Flowers

In memory of Su's grandfather.

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Shards of conversation

You: "So, have you dated before?"

Me: "Yah.."

You: "Was your ex a jerk?"

Me: "No, no. Not at all. He was good as gold."

You: *disbelief* "...."

Me: "Well, he really was..."

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Movie overload

Midnight. I'm chomping down on cold samosas and writing in this blog. There is a big 1.25l bottle of cold water beside me, and I take a glug every three bites or so. This school business is throwing my meal-times way out of whack.

Watched The Home Song Stories tonight. This has nothing at all to do with the quality of the film—it is a good show— but I feel like if I have to suspend my disbelief one more time, I will, well, keel over and die. Too. many. movies.

In other news, Joan Chen is gorgeous in the movie. It's for people like her that cheongsams were made for, if you know what I mean. Uncle Joe is good-looking too.

Okay, I'm going to put the rest of the cold samosas back in the fridge now...

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Dying at a Hospital, 1993

A film by Ichikawa Jun about what it is like to die in a hospital. It is a very slow and long-drawn film, but that creates the effect of time slowing down at the end... As one of the characters say in the film, "TV shows aren't realistic 'cos the patients in the hospitals get well too fast."

The blurb on Singapore Film Society's website:

This film comprises the stories of various families dealing with death inside a hospital – a young father dying slowly, an elderly couple in separate hospitals who want to be together and a woman who fights to stay alive. Ichikawa deliberately shoots his actors' fine performances from a distance – middle and long shots, no close-ups – painting a realistic picture of people dealing with death. Interspersed with these stories are lyrical montages of life outside the hospital. The end result is a hopeful yet sensitive treatment of life and living. By Ichikawa's own admission, this is “perhaps the closest [he's] come to an Ozu movie”.

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917.

She found herself daydreaming, following the road,and ending up in a strange place with no sign posts.

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Squashed hips

Played squash by myself yesterday. The racquets they loan out at my school are better than the ones I own! I think that's amusing; and awesome for me, 'cos that means I don't have to lug my Cash Converter racquet all the way to to the boondog parts of the island.

After pitting myself against the unforgiving wall and working myself up to a dripping, hot and happy state, I went to do some hip exercises for my sore ITB at the gym. I used the lever machine you see on the left. I'm planning to work on my hips every other day. I suppose this is just about my last resort when it comes to my ITB. The thought of never being able to run a LSD makes me sad.


You could do the exercise with a cable machine as well but I've never tried it. I used to do my hip abductor exercises with a ball in between my legs. But I think it may be less effective than going to the gym and working on it consistently with weights. I'm not sure. I'm hoping for the best in any case.



Below is a pic of a seated hip abductor exercise. This webpage gives good information on everything you can do with your hips. Erm, just about everything unexciting anyway. ;) All the animated gifs in this post were taken from http://www.exrx.net/.

Tomorrow, I shall swim! The revenge of the slow marlin!

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Quote about grammar

I realise that only one person (whose name starts with a "B" and ends with an "n") voted for "Grammar" in the recent online poll, making "Grammar" the least popular topic by far. But I've just got to post this quote. I think it is funny, in a grammarian-humour-kinda-way. Okay, maybe only slightly amusing. Please oblige me...

Grammar is something of a "more or less" phenomenon, with some rules applying more consistently than others. (Batstone)

And therefore:

The process of learning grammar will involve a progressive shift from more to less *idealized notions of how grammar works: in other words, a gradual `descent' from more to less idealization... (Batstone)

*Idealizing about grammar: making very general statements about grammar

Which would explain why so many advanced speakers of English cannot seem to formulate grammar rules... I can't formulate rules from my working knowledge of the English grammar either. I have to relearn it from the bottom-up.

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Terry Fox Run: Photos

At Siloso beach



Late!



Running on an island



Stretching my painful ITB



A very inspiring man



Post-run banana and activities

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