You are currently browsing the monthly archive for July, 2009.
I am thinking it’s a sign
That the freckles in our eyes
Are mirror images and
When we kiss they’re perfectly aligned
And I have to speculate
That God himself did make us into
Corresponding shapes like puzzles pieces
From the clay
True, it may seem like a stretch
But it’s thoughts like this
That catch my troubled head
When you’re away, when I am missing you to death
When you were out there on the road
For several weeks of shows
And when you scan the radio
I hope this song will guide you home
They will see us waving from such great heights
“Come down now,” they’ll say
But everything looks perfect from far away
“Come down now,” but we’ll stay
I’ve tried my best to leave
This all on your machine
But the persistent beat
Sounded thin upon listening
That frankly will not fly
You will hear the shrillest highs
And lowest lows with the windows down
When this is guiding you home
They will see us waving from such great heights
“Come down now,” they’ll say
But everything looks perfect from far away
“Come down now,” but we’ll say…
“And you know what the worst part of it is? Our whole existence here is based on this great premise that we’re special. They we’re superior to the whole thing. But we’re not. We’re just like everyone else! We bought into the same, ridiculous delusion.”
it really isn’t about how a film encourages abortion, or does not, or talks about the right values or the wrong things. it’s being so starkly in-your-face that it reminds you of the little life cycle that all sane normal people are forever trapped in, and all those crazy others have the power to run free.
my 9-year-old cousin came to me for help with her science homework, and i was flabbergasted when i got all the answers wrong.
she asked me what kept penguins warm. so i confidently said, “their fats! it keeps you warm, that’s why they are fat.”
and she said, “no, it’s their feathers”, and i said, “NO, it’s their fats!” wtf? and then she showed me her bloody workbook which says EXACTLY what she said.
ok to be fair they do have feathers on them, but it doesn’t contribute as much right! in fact, according to wiki (I USE ONLY THE CITED SOURCE), one intepretation of “penguin” is that it could be translated from the latin word ‘pinguis‘, which literally means FAT. although, there is the complication that most species of penguins don’t even live in the artic anyways (this is true, i swear), but then the question of warmth perhaps becomes irrelevant.
TELL ME THIS IS NOT A FUCKING FAT PENGUIN LIVING IN THE ARTIC.
point two: then she asked me, and do penguins have wings? and i very confidently said, “no, they have flippers”, and she said, “NO, they have wings!”, and she showed me her guanyin-forsaken workbook again, which said that penguins have WINGS. wtf. wtf?? although after some research i have found that penguins are in fact classified as birds, they don’t fucking fly. DOH. wtf do you need wings for if you hunt in the water??
O.M.G.!!
i think that these days, it’s not that kids are degenerating, it’s that these schoolbook writers are too busy collating their trivial knowledge to even educate themselves. my goodness.
“As for Anna she was thinking: If I join in now, in a what’s-wrong-with-men session, then I won’t go home, I’ll stay for lunch and all afternoon, and Molly and I will feel friendly, all barriers gone… We’ve chosen to live a certain way, knowing the penalties, or if we didn’t we know now, so why whine and complain… and besides, if I’m not careful, Molly and I will descend into a kind of twin old-maidhood, where we sit around saying to each other, Do you remember how that man, what-was-his-name said that insensitive thing, it must have been 1947…”
i have been back in singapore for more than a week now, have partaken in the weekend zouk rituals and endless mahjong sessions. not that i am complaining, it’s just local flavour as i have always known it.
grandma is doing alright, she’s lost so much weight and the skin bags on her arms that i used to play with so much now look more like rubber bags that have lost their elasticity. she showed me her scar, for which tears welled up in an instant, yet also bringing about another feeling- wanting to photograph it. it is perhaps the ultimate of rudeness, the media beast instinct of wanting to document pain. i remember the last time i took a picture of her she was upset by the result, disgusted that she had become so old and frail. this time, it seems, she is nearer to death than she knows… to have to go through the loss of others is a repetitive process, but to lose yourself? how must that feel like? to physically occupy space no longer?
these days i finally have the time (and desire) to read again. i finished yakuza moon, which was just tragic as a book itself, this chick lit called Band Geek Love, because i was a band geek 
, and now i’m on doris lessing’s The Golden Notebook, which is simply astonishing even on the prelude. completely marxist feminist i must say, but aren’t we all?
