Nothing's going on between us.

We tried to take Relationship shots. It was a vain moment, trying to live out our Before Sunrises in the little Space In Between, and I regret the lack of aesthetics.

It always gets me how that Nothing can bug people so much. They constantly regulate the diminishing Nothing between them; they bolt up straight when the Nothing disappears between two small fingers, tremble when the Nothing dissolves, jerk back to let the Nothing expand once again, then silently curse at how the Nothing should be something.

I'm putting this here to remind me no matter how busy I am, I will not be lulled into the convenience of Macdonald's delivery.


Okay, my will is set.


This is horrible. The world outside AEP seems so dreadfully dull now. I can't seem to be interested in anything outside the studios.

I like the work I do there - demanding, intimate, not always fun or liked, but loved.

I like the people in there. They are likeminded classmates who similarly know their lives would be absolutely miserable without Art, even as they are miserable now; A couple of seniors slept over to keep us company at the frontline. The nights turn them into one of us. The teachers treat us as more than just a job (or at least, they make us feel like they love their jobs). The people there are odd, funny, sensitive and sexy. We don't need clubs and clark quay, mindless sex games and meaningless social activities. I can prance around barefoot in my rattiest freebie once-upon-a-time tshirt and know that when people look at me, they see someone to love. I don't need heels and makeup and funny clothing to feel hot. I love watching them as they sing at the top of their voices into the night, in perfect harmony even as they make up the notes as they go along. I love watching them. I love popping around, helping one or the other make her baby pretty. I love the small talks, and the knowing that the other person will never be impatient with your ideas, because she has them too. I love how we can practically be one, but never symbiotic or clingy. I love how anything I dream of can come true - and how msky and mrly will find a way to help me make it happen. I love how they mentor me with friendship, and watch over me with companionship. They remain one of the few people who catch and understand every twitch of my eyebrow, even as I try to hide and deny it. I love how the girls love each other too much, and the boys don't love the girls at all. Yet they always make time to put a smile on our faces. I love the big group and small group talks. And the crazy names we give each other. And how we've promised to make everyone's wedding a reunion, while pretending to eat each other up.

And though I can hardly find time to breathe or sleep, I feel free I feel like I'm expanding and the world can accomodate me I feel happy I feel free

A word on photographs

Why you've been seeing photographs of me on this blog recently, when you previously couldn't even pry one out of my room

For a while I seriously thought my fate was sealed in the way of lonely old women with too many cats - only my cats were cameras. How my hand finished with a camera, had less to do brilliant photography skills (I like to believe that's my hidden talent), than a love for photographs laced with a dislike of being on the other side of the lens. It always made me feel somewhat like Captain Hook, whose appendage was obviously for brandishing at others, rather than catching itches.

Modern psychoanalysis has provided me with the perfect explanation for my almost hypocritical behaviour (Worship Freud! He who paved the way for excuses): my dad's a hobby photographer, who enjoys shoving his giant cameras up my nose for clinical mugshots. The result is always the same. He exclaims the sharpness, the detail, the colour balance of the me pinned onto a wall, mortified, while I agree, becauase thanks to his new thousand dollar gadget, I've discovered new flaws I never knew I had. All photographs taken by Daddy dearest never vary - always cropped closely around the head, with an engorged nose.

My affair with photographs rarely has anything to do with the masculine talks of resolution, high-tech cameras and other gadgets. Naturally, I recognize the value of a good camera, but I like it better when the people I photograph are not excuses to showcase the latest technology. (The only lighting I use is sunlight, the only skill, spontaenity.) They are people framed in a way I want to remember them, or slices of time frozen to last forever. When I see a person beautifully, I get to take it down and send it to him or her and keep a copy in my heart.

I think maybe that's why I'm afraid of having my photograph taken. I suppose I would say I know how to make someone look good in a photograph, only because I know the contours of his/her face by heart - which precise angle shows off the beauty I know so well, and which exact moment exhibits the person I love so well. Great insecurity, and perhaps even a tiny bit of narcissism, prevents me from placing this responsibility in the hands of someone else - would they see me in a nice way? Could this terribly flawed and human me be seen in a nice way? If my own dad, who loves me more than anyone has and ever will, can't, what hope should I place in anyone else?

But thanks to a couple of friends, I am learning to let others look at me - learning to curb my control-freakish nature, learning to let go of my insecurities. They send me photos saying "look, this is the you I have been looking at." And I have found that sometimes, regardless of how ridiculous the expression on my face, how wide my forehead looks, or how embarrassingly much I have accidentally exposed, what they really are showing me, is a nice, warm glow of friendship and the me they know and love.

oooh

My Lovely Friends.

In fifty years, I'll mail them both a copy of this photo (:

MAF '07

The Sketch

A couple of years ago, I watched a short film which has refused to let itself out of my mind. Its title and accolades - for it was a winning entry of some film festival - I don't recall, but it remains as though my mind was the camera the artist used. On second thought, the film could have been called "The Sketch".

My adaptation.


A woman is standing in an underground train heavy with the evening crowd. Her body – forty-year-old virginity – is wrapped in a brown autumn coat. All is quiet, save the mechanical breathing of the industrious beast.

With a sudden burst of unexplained spontaneity, a lanky young man picks himself out of the inertia and stands up. He clears his throat hesitantly. “My name is Serge Durand. I am thirty-three this year. I am looking for a nice woman to share my life with.”

The crowd raises a collective eyebrow; the woman fights to keep a commuter’s necessary poker face on.

The man goes on. “ She can be fifty, or eighteen, I don’t mind – I believe what’s important is the heart. All women are beautiful, and I am hoping that one of you beautiful women will make me a very lucky man.”

“I am a good man,” he adds as an afterthought. Someone lets out a chortle, not unkindly. Encouraged, he continues, “ I can cook and help with the housework. I can whip up a mean pasta! I work in a photocopy shop and earn a comfortable 1,200 euros a month. And I do not have any STDs.” The crowd laughs. The woman smiles, but drops her eyes.

The sparkle in his eyes softens a tad as he reaches up to mess his curly mop in boyish habit. “My fiancée died three years ago, and I’ve been single ever since. Now I think I am ready to move on. And if any of you ladies believe in love and romance, I will be waiting for you on the next platform.”

The train pulls into the next station. Her grip on her handbag tightens, then loosens in the wetness of her palm. The doors open. She springs out.




Nobody joins her. No charming, thirty-three year old with sparkling eyes and curly brown hair leaves the train. The doors begin to close. The young man scrambles towards her, “Madame, Madame! I’m so sorry – it was only a sketch!”

The doors close. His hands press a pasty green onto the glass. From the corner of her eye, she sees another man in the same carriage folding up his video camera.

The young man’s eyes now sparkle a bit too brightly. His lips, speeding away, mouth the words “It’s not real”. And the train pulls out of the platform.

When honey is not exactly sweet

I will never understand people.

(A spate of short messages, summarized)
charm: Hey hon, I'm so sorry - are you still feeling insulted by what i said last night?
Him: Why am I "hon"? Either its a nick I never knew I had, or you sent the message to the wrong person.
charm:.. "hey" alone sounded unfriendly.
Him: You can say "hey-ho", rather than "hey hon"! "Hon" sounds so meaningless now that you explain it.
charm: (amused) first you complain it's too meaningful, then you complain it's too meaningless, I don't understand. Lol.
Him: It was meaningless all along, that "Hon" word.
charm: (now feeling a little rebuffed) Well. Don't mind me for being meaninglessly affectionate to a friend.
Him: Oh, I can feel the affection... like [you] said, some things don't have to be said.


lol.
*shrugs helplessly*
P.S. "hey-ho" ?!?

Wuthering Heights

I decided to youtube one of my (many, many) favourite songs, Wuthering Heights, and look what I found.

Now I'm not sure if it's still one of my favourite. Kate Bush can move her body in ways I cannot understand.

Well.



Lockwood must have had some nerves of steel, if this was the Cathy that visited him.

Memed! (and 10 of you are involved)

I love interesting Memes. Alright, actually, I'm just looking for an excuse to not study. :D


1. (the person who tagged you is) - Tan Suhui
2. (your relationship with him/her is) - telepathic, expressed in giggles.
3. (5 impressions you have of him/her) - thoughtful, always fun, independent, and a great friend.
4. (the most memorable thing he/she has done for you) - everything we do together is usually memorable ;) but most recently, it has to be scrubbing the fish tank out at 2am.
5. (the most memorable words he/she has said to you) - if words are sounds that come out from the mouth, then it has to be perpetual heehawing :D
6. (if he/she becomes your lover, you will) - be homosexual and incestuous. interesting.
7. (if he/she becomes your lover, things he/she has to improve on will be) - probably get a sex change, then find a way to get out of my family tree. lol
8. (if he/she becomes your enemy, you will) - i dont even think we've ever had a proper, full blown quarrel yet.
9. (if he/she becomes your enemy, the reason will be) - I really have no idea. I like to think that being family makes one really tolerant.
10. (the most desirable thing you want to do for him/her now is) - Bake. :D
11. (your overall impression of him/her is) - like her mother. (:
12. (how you think people around you will feel about you) - clumsy? usually also horrifically independent and quirky. but mostly clumsy.
13. (the characteristic you love about yourself is) - that I can feel art.
14. (the characteristic you hate about yourself is) - that I feel too much.
15. (the most ideal person you want to be is) - right now, Mika.
16. (for people that care and like you, say something to them) - some things just aren't said (:
17. (pass this quiz to 10 people that you wish to know how they feel about you)

1. Liangwei
2. Jon Tan
3. Gaby
4. Charmaine E.
5. Favian
6. Siobhan
7. Yeenseen
8. Shumin
9. Colin
10. Siewching

(who is no.6 having a relationship with?) - heh, Jonathan. My gallery walls testify.
(Is no.9 a male or female?) - Male and Misogynous.
(If no.7 and 10 are together, will it be a good thing?) - Well, no.7 is supposed to be in love with me. I think, anyhow, that it will be a bad thing: too much of a strain on art resources. Multiplication of weirdness also would be an overload :P
(What is no.2 studying?) - PCME, and hard (curiously also Su's answer)
(When was the last time you had a chat with no.3?) - 30 August. KI exam. ): I miss her already!
(What kind of music does no.8 like?) - Rock. And recently, "Girlfriend" by Avril, though I can't understand why :P
(Does no.1 has any siblings?) - One brother.
(Will you woo no.3?) - I don't think so. I like my friends friends.
(How about no.7?) - Oh dear. I don't want to encourage her.
(Is no.4 single?) - Oh no. ;)
(What’s the surname of no.5?) - Koh! I remember.
(What’s the hobby of no.4?) - Craft. Archery. And recently, Ryan :P
(Do no.5 and 9 get along well?) - If they did know each other, I don't think they would.
(Where is no.2 studying at?) - Sixoh, HC
(Say something casual about no.1) - Heh. I would rather lick my lips.
(Have you tried developing feelings for no.8?) - 6 years together develops feelings without trying (:
(Where does no.9 live?) - In a bookshelf, 382.1 PHI
(What colour does no.4 like?) - Purple, dark red, brown? Oh dear. I don't know!
(Are no.5 and 1 best friends?) - I actually think they would hate each other if they met. Oh dear, my friends are all so diverse.
(Does no.7 like no.2?) - Oh she would :P But he would run away.
(How did you get to know no.2?) - He was so sexy, I ... hahaha. *wink*
5.(Does no.1 have any pets?) - No, just one peon. ):
(Is no.7 the sexiest person in the world?) - I'd say she's the most sexual person in the world

This is the Last Page of My Exquisite Pain

That for which we find words is something already dead in our hearts. There is always a kind of contempt in the act of speaking. - Nietszche, Twilight

(Twilight is fast becoming the most quotable book I have read/own. Every-Occasion-Nietszche. Hmm.)

So this, an annex of the previous post, is the last page of my Exquisite Pain (Sophie Calle). Made into words so I can finally pin these feelings in front of me. But I don't need Sophie Calle's numbness induced by surfeit. The words are here because I've decided they need to be taken out of my heart.

I want to laugh at my stupidity, but an overwhelming bit of me needs to run into the arms of someone who will kiss the hurt away. One whole year, Charmaine, and you haven't grown a bit stronger. ): I wish I could be the Alpha that everyone knows me to be.

But I'm definitely walking away from this a little wiser.
Should someone ask me if I've ever fallen in love, I'll say now, "I have felt for someone."
And should someone ask me what happened, I'll say now, "It was a good lesson."



(:

Infatuations, revisited

I wrote this (Infatuations) almost exactly one year ago. Many commented, laughed and cried with me - I didn't know I'd stumbled upon one of the most widely shared feelings. Some of them were friends, some strangers, some girls, some boys. Today, I am writing this because I want to record this other tiny feeling, which feels a little sad, a little glad, and a little old.

People say that an infatuation is easy to get over. All you need to do is put some time between you and your heart. They say, it's love that lingers, it's love that you never get over.

You no longer spend the bulk of your time talking to him, and all of your time thinking of him. Your rare meetings always leave you somewhat surprised at how unfamiliar he looks. Why does he let his arms dangle like that? Was this how he always smiled?

He greets you first now, because you didn't notice him as you walked by. He catches your eye with a cheerful "Hey", plucked from the happiness of his prior company. But he stops to grin at you. He does see you. You hold the thread of connection for a second in silence, then allow yourselves to be washed off by the crowd. His smile doesn't make your heart flutter, but it does skip a beat. You breathe only when his back is turned, stealing small glances at his jaunty walk. You observe that his smile was strange only because you were in front of it, when you used to be behind it, sharing it. No, wait, you can't claim his past.

For the rest of the day, your friends tell you that you've grown quiet. You deny it - you haven't. Two seconds of presence don't affect a year accustomed to absence. But you wonder what he thinks of you, if he remembers the time you shared a ratty cup of hot tea in the freezing room, or the time you shouted each other down. Perhaps he doesn't remember either.

He taps on your monitor late in the night and asks you for help. He needs you to make his sentences pretty. You're good at that, so you do it. His words are confused and poorly. He worries you won't understand him. But you do. You always do. And you don't know why. You take the raw thing he hands you and return it polished. Even as you hand it over, you are lost in its dazzling gleam. You cant quite decide - are those his words, or yours?

You let the conversation grow. A lot of what he tells you, you already know. He must not remember a lot about the two of you, if he says all these things again. You know his plans for the future, you know his principles, you know his pet peeve. You notice that he doesn't know your catchphrase, or your romanticism everyone else knows you by. Then he takes out a small detail and asks you if you remember this one whisper. You can't lie - you really don't. Now you feel bad. He says it's okay.

You talk about love. He tells you of a girl he has set his sights on. You wish him luck. You try to find something to say. He asks you if you've ever been in love. You think. You fluster.

Slowly, you say yes. Yes, but it never worked out. He laughs. He doubts, he says. He thinks you don't know what love is. You don't know what love is.

The world is a whirlwind, the conversation has ended. You crawl into your bed in a daze. No tears fall to dampen the pillow. He said he'd talk to you again, though you know it'll be weeks till then. You place your hand on your chest - your heart beats still.

It beats still.