Issue 1, Vol 1

The publication I'm managing is out! When I opened the package I couldn't tell if they were brochures or the journal itself. They are so small! They look so disconcertingly new and different from the other journals that I was quite confounded, while the editor in Oz seems rather amused. He says they're "really cute", while I call them the "fat little booklets". Nothing much beats holding your effort and hard work in your own hands, minty new.

Things that I like (I)

I like....

....being at the edge of consciousness, the place of twilight and dawn. Where up is down, heat is ice, and where illusion and truth exist side by side. Where dark emptiness expands into infinity only to be filled to the brim by swirls of colourful notions. It is the runway where fantastical thoughts take flight, the realm where dreamscape and reality are so intertwined that I can no longer tell them apart.

Like a feather on a paper's edge, pining for the encouragement of a gentle breath to drift and fall away.

I was nodding gently on the train, which was stoically carrying me to the other side, rocking me to sleep. I heard a voice in front of me, filling my head. I wish I could say the voice has a melodious lilt, but it was flat, with no pointy pronunciation, no sing-song intonation. It was just a sweet, flat voice from a sweet, unseen girl. It soothed me tremendously, and I'll never tire of the voice, I thought. She was talking to her friend and yet she was talking to me too. I heard every word, but I understood none. Every word is empty, so I filled them with my own story. I don't fret over it.

My stop approaches, I had to wake. I pulled myself back from the edge and searched the faces in front of me. So many faces, whose voice was it? Should I compliment her? How to? But the voice has melted away. Or did I imagine it? Who knows?

A hiatus from a timeout

Fact of the day: The shark has to keep swimming to draw enough oxygen into its gills and to stay afloat. Stop moving, and it perishes.

A friend from journalism school has just started a blog and her latest post was about the timeouts in her life, you know, the times when you throw your hands up and said: "Enough!" and quit something because you got tired of it, or you were too busy, or because there were too many obstacles. It could be any reason, really.

It was beautifully written and it made me ponder a bit, when I really should be working on an anthology. Aack!

How many times have I called for timeouts? And timeout from what? One of them was similar to my friend's--we both stopped writing with our own voices because our jobs don't call for that. She works for a transport authority, and spends her time writing apologetic letters to the public (I think). I turned into a cleaner instead, picking up after other people's messes which they call writing: straightening out their warped and crinkled sentences, and discarding the grammatical mistakes they litter all over the prose.

I once complained to a colleague that I never get to produce anything that I can call my own work. It's always about helping others to get published. Whether I get acknowledged for my contribution is entirely up to the generosity of the author and editor.

But at least we've both addressed the interruption by setting up blogs. A fellow blogger gave this piece of advice to anyone who's striving to hone a skill (including writing): don't stop; keep at it even if most of the stuff that you churn out are mediocre. Surely something prized will emerge from the chaff.

Not that I disagree, but I think sometimes it's OK to take a short break. (I don't believe that sharks don't sleep, OK?) After all, it could be a timeout-or-burnout kind of situation. I remember being so drained from writing for a travel publication during my internship that I basically flipped and my, erm, medical condition worsened. I think if not for the enforced hiatus, my friend and I would not have been able to appreciate the pleasure that writing brings us. It's knowing when to get back into the game that's essential.

But that's easy to say and hard to carry out. It's easy to get carried away by the flow of current preoccupations and distractions; it's hard to overcome inertia and to get yourself into swing of things again, like stretching muscles shrivelled from disuse (ouch). Or trying to join the main traffic flow from a slip road during a traffic jam. Dumb analogy, but it keeps swimming in my head and I had to get it out of the system, sorry.

So call for a timeout if you want to, but stay nimble, and keep in sight the road ahead of you.

Some interview notes

Going for job interviews are always harrowing experiences for a lot of people. It's quite interesting when you're at the other side of the table--it's not as nerve-wrecking but still exhausting in a way. It's like, all your senses have to be on high alert to order to sniff out the best from the average.

I (and 2 others) interviewed 4 candidates for a position last week. And of course my colleagues pleaded with me to flex my incredible people reading skills and M'B'T'I the candidates within the 20-mins interviews, which I did, to their everlasting amazement. (I think I shall start charging for this service. Please dial 1900-M'B'T'I-SUCKER for more info). One of them was a clear winner. It didn't hurt that she graduated from H*rv*rd and that she draws very well, which is a great assest as we want her to take charge of an e-magazine.

She has a great smile and seemed so at ease that she put us at ease. I always thought that to score points at an interview, you have to maintain a strict level of professionalism and keep to the issue at hand. But she was a natural, punctuating the interview with little anecdotes that don't even pertain to the interview at hand.

Especially if you're a fresh graduate, all you have to offer are basically a great personality and oodles of enthusiasm. She had an answer to every question we threw at her, no doubt due in part to her super-power brain (why else would she be able to study in freakin' H*rv*rd?), but I think also because she really does have something to offer here. Other things that I observed:

• at least for us, extra-curricular activities are really peripheral in our considerations, unless it's directly relevant to the position. So no point wasting your $ zapping piles of certs of participation in tree hugging etc and waving them in our faces. It smacks of desperation to impress, or to make up for your inferior academic grades.
• I wasn't very concerned about school grades, but my colleague was. I guess they do attest to some degree a person's diligence and commitment to work.
• The interviewer shouldn't talk more than you. Don't think that just because you keep quiet I won't be able to M'B'T'I you, sneak.
• It's OK to profess ignorance in certain things, but there're good and bad ways of doing it. The good way would be to perhaps talk about your proficiency in other (similar) things and how you picked them up quickly as you're a fast learner and you adopt a positive attitude. The bad way? "I dunno." *shrug
• Don't ask banal questions like your working hours and career prospects, or what kind of personality traits the organisation is looking for. What use are of these questions to us? Put it bluntly, the interview is for our benefit. We choose you, not the other way, usually. Instead, show your interest in us, ask questions to show that you've done your research about the organisation, and wants to know more.

Question for everyone

Because I've been doing quite a bit of reminiscing in the previous posts, I'm just curious to know about other people's experiences with this nebulous entity called memory. So here's a question:

What was your first piece of memory about? And how old were you then? Let's talk!

You go, Mraz!

Read in the newspaper about Jason Mraz, who came here for a small concert last week as part of a music festival.

He discovered Milo and started to add the drink (something like hot chocolate, except I think it's nicer when ice-cold) to his Starbucks. He also revealed that he has a habit of pulling up his socks and tying his shoelaces real tight right before a concert as that gives him a "bounce". Haha, that's what I do too, pulling up my socks, when I'm getting ready to plunge into a pile of papers, all waiting to be copyedited, formatted, proofread etc.

In a review of the concert, he was reported to be a riot, bantering with the audience and the band on stage.

The reporter called him a "livewire", and he was jumping around the stage so much that he overturned the cymbal of his percussionist. And he received 2 standing ovations too.

Gee, I wish I had attended the concert. Believe it or not I've not been to a pop concert before. The only music concerts I've been to was by the NY Philharmonic and only because the school made us go. And some lousy violin concert to showcase sub-standard, over-priced Y*m*h* violins. Gave me a headache, that one.

Hold a concert again soon, Mraz!

Retrospection (II)

I never did have much of an ambition. When I was very young, my sister and I role-played as office workers. We put together some file binders, scraps of paper and pens and a toy telephone and pretended to be busy taking down orders of goods or dispatching them (it was always just goods, we never got around to define what they actually were). You could say it was a distinct lack of ambition that made this one of our favourite games.

A friend told me that when I was in primary school, I stated that I wanted to be a reporter. But I don't recall myself saying anything of that sort at all. I wasn't particularly attracted to and didn't show any noticeable aptitude in the language subjects.

What I did remember was how I started to like writing due to a sweet, encouraging English teacher in secondary school who wrote lovely comments on my assignments, unlike the perfunctory "good work" or worse, "take note of the use of tenses" (One of my chronic problems, even now). She thanked me for a gushing review of one of my favourite books, which happened to be hers too. It brought back happy memories of her school days, she said. I suppose it was then I realise that my writing could, in some ways, make people feel good.

We were supposed to keep a log book then, to improve our English. We wrote about boring topics like "my favourite subject" (History?) or "what animal I wish to be" (a whale). Thinking back, what I wrote there was incredibly childish: I grumbled a lot, and poked fun at other people (such as a certain H who wanted to be a bird). But yet, they seemed to elicit kindly responses from teachers. I really should be thankful to them for not chiding me for my childish nonsense. :)

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that kids are impressionable creatures. Terribly sensitive. I think they should come stamped with a label: Fragile, handle with care. Some wise man said something like: be gentle with the little ones. I agree. (nods sagely)

What you say to them is imprinted in their minds, because they are truly the proverbial "blank slates". It's like pressing down hard on a piece of blank paper with a pencil. You may erase the marks and write over them again, but an impression remains on the paper. But I notice that adults are always callous with them. You hear parents in public places threatening to abandon them if they refuse to stop crying/getting on their nerves/crawling all over the place/thumping the parents' heads with rubber-inflated hammers. Apparently they think kids are immune to verbal cruelty.

Actually, that was not what I was trying to talk about; I meant to blog about my latest career ambition, but as usual I went off the tangent, again. Oh, well. Next time.

Retrospection (I)

I was a silly kid. :)

I still am a silly kid, and if I've had you think otherwise, you've been had; you're not the sharpest tool in the box and there's nothing much I can help you with. Bye now. :)

Was worn out when I got home when I saw this old lunchbox on the table which made me ridiculously cheered up. It is a very ordinary lunchbox, light brown in colour, with "Animal Kingdom" printed on it, along with a lion and elephant (in a sailor suit), and bizzarely, a rabbit with pink cheeks.

"Just take a looking!! We are the elite of animal kingdom." Those strange and incomprehensible prose they have on Japanese/Taiwanese/Korean kawaii stationery and water bottles and what not just crack me up all the time.

It was like recalling a piece of fond memory that you thought you misplaced. Being able to use this lunchbox counted as one of those "high points" during my childhood years, a special concession. I had the impression that it belongs to my sister, and as a child, the possessions of your older siblings were like, the ultimate sophistication.

When I was a child, there seemed to be many things that could cheer me up and get me all animated. My memories are foggy, but I recall grabbing my parents' hands, 1 on each side, and swinging myself off the ground as they walk.

They must have thought me strange. None of my siblings ever did that, my mother told me. But it was fun! And I felt connected to them. They lifted me off the ground when I wanted to.

If you thought that there was a point to this blog entry, you've been had. I was just indulging in some personal reminiscing.

Brats we are

I was at a diner with 2 of my friends. WL has been on leave for the past 2 days and she bemoaned having to get back to work the next day. We all know that feeling well.

Just then, I became aware that we were being served by a middle-age auntie. I like aunties, they always take everything in their stride without fuss. They are made of more resilient stuff than the younger ones, the whiny, filmsy brats. I was acutely ashamed of myself.

She was doing manual work, dirty work, serving us, us who are complaining about working in air-conditioned comfort, who are probably getting twice the amount of salary than her, us who were going to a hotel lounge later for jazz and mocktails. And when we are gone, she'll be clearing up the mess we left behind.

She reminds me of my mother. Some years ago, she decided to be a part-time helper at a beef noodle stall near our home. She's had very little formal education and it was, frankly, the only type of work she could get hired for. I remember every night after work, she would come back with a bag of chocolate pancakes that she got at a discount from a neighbouring stall. I never heard her complain about tiredness or boredom. I think she relished the feeling of being able to earn a living, of being useful to people other than her own brood. For her, being able to work is a privilege.

I wonder how the aunties see us. We lament about being submerged in lukewarm water that's too comfy and about the necessity of getting stimulated by hot/cold water once in a while to feel alive. What about those people who have to be in those waters because they really have no other choice?

I will not complain my life away. I will not. That's not the way it should be. I may fumble and stop to rest awhile along the way, but I cannot plonk myself down on the path like a spoilt child and whimper, refusing to go on.

BB mountain (Open Sesame version)

I was walking to a student hostel cafeteria with my colleague one baking afternoon and we saw a black Saab with Elmo and his avian friend on the dashboard:

But you must observe from this angle to really see Elmo's happy, high-till-cross-eyed grin:

Sigh, isn't friendship is a wonderful thing?

Should I just listen?

Often, I wonder, if staying silent is the best option when someone is venting frustrations or pouring out sorrows to me. Do they simply need a person who listens, or someone who can comfort them? I would panic inside. What would I say? Most of the time, all I could do to show I empathise is by frowning and making sympathetic noises.

I worry that I would say something insensitive, or superficial, or condescending. Would "I understand how you feel, I've been there, too" be condescending? If someone says that to me, I wouldn't be offended at all; I think I would feel grateful. (Then again, I might shoot the person a "piss off!" look, depending on my mood)

But would another person think that I'm making too many assumptions by thinking that I know exactly what she's going through? Problems are troublesome, but yet people seem to adopt a proprietary attitude towards them. This is my problem here, that person may fume, why is she making this sound like her problem?

But sometimes I just feel like I should say something. "I know you are feeling down, but you're not alone." Is that the best way to comfort someone? I can't tell. That person may just snap, "Sod off, you stupid prig. I want to be left alone!"

In between commotions

I wish I could write the way Lee Ang directs.

I'm not very familiar with his works. After all, I've only seen Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, and Brokeback Mountain. But it seems to me that they're both quiet movies, and I like them.

Looking at his films, you realise that many storytellers are insecure. They grab you by the collar, jabbing their finger at every point that they want you to notice. Nothing is to be missed or overlooked. When everything is significant, nothing is significant.

His storytelling is sparse. There're many pauses in his stories. But that's the way life is. Many things are revealed in pockets of silence, not commotion. Some stories are just meant to be quiet. When you talk so loudly, I cannot hear your story.

Many viewers let their guard down and drop their defences in the face of such plainness, so that when the emotional knock comes, they crumble.

And then, you realise that Lee Ang is a man with immense confidence in what he has to say. Some may think that it is unfair that his work did not win Best Picture, but the Oscars is a Western yardstick. It rewards what the Western world values, and quietness is always undervalued. I'm just glad that people do recognise that he is a good storyteller, that's all.

Tomorrow is made for chillin'

But I meant it when I said that I need some peace and quiet. Which is why I've taken leave for tomorrow. I shall not look at my emails nor chat on MSN messenger. I will not even write in this blog.

I'll wake up early and go get my MacDonald's egg mcmuffin breakfast, and then settle down to watch the Oscars with some coffee. Strange, I think most people's reaction to the documentary Super Size Me would be to avoid MacDonald's for at least a few weeks, but it only served to remind me that I've not eaten it for a few months. But then again, I've always suspected that my brain is wired a little differently. Don't believe me? I think I'm may have mild synaesthesia, a condition when your 5 senses intermingle. You can take a test to find out if you may have the condition or read more about it here.

When I think of certain words (especially names) beginning with certain letters, colours come to my mind. For example, names beginning with B reminds me of yellow. C with pinkish tones. J with light blue. H with either tan or light brown.

But I can't really tell if these are really "synaesthesic" associations or learned associations. For example, I could think of yellow when I think of B names because of the word buttercup.

I thought it was just a quirk of an idle brain with nothing else better to do. But now that they actually have a name for this sort of thing, it's just as well.

Anyway, back to my chillin' plan. Then I do a 4-step self-facial, and practice my violin and sight-reading. And exercise. And rest early for Jazz night tomorrow!

Black list of names

I'm back! I said I needed peace and quiet, but you can never keep me down. To cheer myself up, I'm going to list female names that I would never call myself by:

1) Yolanda -- sounds like (a) a female version of Yoda and (b) a stout, freckled, repressed Swiss farm girl yodelling from some high mountains overgrown with the kind of herbs that goes into Ricola candy

2) Hannah/Mandy/Gina-- sounds like somebody's repressed nanny who has too much milk

3) Pauline -- sounds like sombody's repressed (OK, I'm joking) mum and female version of Paul, which in turns sounds like somebody who has greasy, slicked-back hair, salon tan, and a thick gold chain with unbuttoned shirt to show off hairy chest

4) Mary/Regina/Jane/Shirley/Bridget/Alice/Josephine-- sounds like somebody's eccentric and erm, repressed aunt who smothers you with hugs and pinches your cheek like, well, clothes pegs

5) Emily/Margaret/Joanne--reminds me of those repressed governesses in English novels. Possibly homicidal.

I need some peace and quiet

I've been feeling a bit emotionally unstable over the past 2 weeks because of some painful blows, pain as only those who have the same blood running in their veins as you can inflict.

I believe that my intrinsic value as a human being is the same as yours, neither more nor less. I believe that you do not have the right to make another person feel that he/she is a failure and that his/her life is worthless. I hope I always remember that, especially in times of anger.