July 2008 Archives

...I seriously don't give a damn. So stop haunting my blog already. I have nothing to say on matters that don't involve me. At all. Go buy yourself some good caramel popcorn instead.

I have this friend, see. Let's call him AR (short for Anal Retentive).

AR's a decent dude. But his obsessive compulsive tendencies can drive me up the wall at times. It's good to have high standards and strive for perfection. Sometimes, though, I wonder why he puts Pulitzer-Prize winning effort into pithy blurbs no one will remember months down the line.

But humans aren't perfect, ergo we're never going to reach absolute perfection.

Not that I'm not capable of being critical. AR tends to be critical of external things - I direct all my criticism internally and end up spending too much time second-guessing myself.

Am I good enough?
Will I ever be good enough?
Shouldn't I be doing more with my blessings?

It'd be nice to be a cat. They don't spend a lot of time navel-gazing and worrying. They go out, eat, sleep and procreate without lying about pondering their own self-worth.

So I ask the ALMIGHTY GOOGLE (I'd ask God but I needed a slightly faster answer) what do I do to stop second-guessing myself.

I find this. A nice little PDF entitled "Break the Curse of Second-Guessing Yourself".

My favourite part is where it explains the difference between self-criticism(bad) and self-reflection(good).

Second-guessing, or self-criticism, is a destructive habit. Self-criticism wastes your time and erodes your self-trust, confidence, and personal power. It can spiral into a vicious downward cycle that undermines your success and satisfaction. Ouch.

Self-reflection is the opposite of second-guessing. Self-reflection benefits you. When you unplug from today’s fast pace to consider your intentions, behavior, and impact, you enrich your creativity, contribution, and fulfillment. As you explore new options, you improve your performance. Many models of leadership identify this kind of self-reflection as a core competence.

It's normal to have moments of self-doubt and insecurity. The key here, then, is to go on despite all that.

And break out of the habit of worrying.

Like my friend Dave said to me recently when something fell through, "Just have faith." In the end, everything works out for good and if I'm patient, trust and do my best despite the circumstances, things will sort themselves out if I let them.

Everyone has to deal with their usual dose of stupid. But Scalzi's response to a rather dimwitted commenter really should make the Internet Archives of Utter Win.

"Reading this person’s understanding of how the First Amendment applies in these instances is like being slathered in a thick coat of ignorant, and then being put out into the sun to dry out before a second coat is applied, which itself will be topped off by a sealant of complete and utter stupid, and lightly drizzled with a glistening varnish of epic fail."

If I had to explain just how I totally relate to this, I would likely be hit with quite a few libel suits so I shall refrain.

Of course, just so you know, that description also totally describes our ruling coalition.

It's said that to understand life, you must look at it backwards but it must be lived forward.

And sometimes I almost get it, Pa, why our carefully ordered lives had to be turned inside out for us to be where we are now.

I remember always being fearful, never feeling I would be worthy of anything but your criticism.

When did it all change, Pa? When you fell in love with another woman and Ma demanded, with me as a witness, a divorce? I know you didn't want me to see all that, Pa.

But I don't blame you. All those years of tension, of fights, of incompatibility. At the back of my mind, I always wondered why you stayed. Why you held on in spite of everything and how all that pent-up resentment you both held poisoned everything around you.

I remember coming home the first time after you'd gone. And it was the first time I'd ever felt peace, Pa. No more yelling, no more fear, no more secret hurts nursed in silence.

It's strange that as a grown woman, I am secure in the knowledge that you love me. That despite the vestiges of guilt (perhaps you wonder if I took Prince's I Would Die 4 U as gospel when you played it all the time when i was little), you're more open with me than when I was little.

I know you fear for me sometimes. And you feel like you've failed somehow in keeping me on the path we both thought we'd walk until the day I die.

Just look up, Pa. We're both here, under the same sky, walking on the same earth, breathing in the same air. And despite what anyone else will say, we pay homage to the same God.

When I chose Him, I thought I'd lost you. I was so afraid and so angry that I should have to choose.

You walked away, though everyone would accuse you of abandoning us. And in the end, we never lost each other. And I took that same leap of faith by walking into another pair of arms.

And by choosing them, I got you back.

I still fear too much, worry too much, stress when I don't need to, hide when I should be happy in the sun.

But I hope you know, Pa, that nothing you've ever bought me comes close to the gift of realising that you love me, despite my choices. "No matter what", you said.

And I love you too.

The long break helped clear my head.

Sometimes, it's good to hear your shortcomings told to you kindly, gently, by someone who loves you.

Who has nothing to gain from not telling you the truth.

"Why worry, honey? We're not going to live forever."

***
My return from Singapore was delayed. Unexpected circumstances kept me 4 nights longer in Singapore than I wanted. The extra expense was hard on the wallet but it gave me a lot to think about.

A lot of idiocy happened in the country while I was away. And despite my misgivings about Singapore, the reservedness of its people, the comparative blandness of its food...everything works over there.

Public transport in Singapore is clean, efficient and reliable. The streets are safe; I don't have to keep looking over my shoulder at night, nor do I have to clutch my bag close to me in fear of cutpurses.

I can trust the policemen - they're decently paid and don't practice extortion instead of doing their jobs.

It's true. I admit it. I envy the Singaporeans.

And now the tussle begins for power. Conspiracy, lies, high drama. And into this mix comes...Mercedes Benz cars?

Oh, my country. I weep for you.

I don't want fortune. Fame would likely hurt, not help me.
I don't want beauty, longevity, power.

I want things to work in my country.
I want leaders who won't lie today, and get exposed in the papers tomorrow.
I want a nation built on principles, ethics and concern for the welfare of all its people.
I want a nation not torn asunder by a maddening obsession about affirmative action for the majority race.
I want to be proud of my country.
I'm not.

Sometimes attempts at being noble and doing the whole "I love you so I'll let you walk free if you want to" deed doesn't quite work out the way you plan:

"So, I'm being serious here. If you want to break up with me you should do it here. Not over the phone."

"If I do it here, you'll kill me."

"How do you know I won't hop on a plane to you and kill you if you break up with me from there?"

"Good point."

In my 30 years of life, I've learned that patience is more than a virtue - it's a blessing in itself.

When I was working at the UN, I was unlucky enough to be picked on by a group of individuals who I'll just christen the 'office sharks'.

Every office has them. Either they're a group of gossipy biddies who distract themselves from their own personal problems by bitching about a target, or a group of males feeling threatened by the new cocky recruit. It doesn't matter what guise they come in, it's the same story. One person being picked on by a mob. A mob who should know better.

So I ended up the target of one mob and it didn't help that I was still in treatment for clinical depression. But thankfully, my other colleagues were supportive and helped make the remainder of my time there bearable.

A few months after I left, another colleague who had remained neutral and refrained from taking sides in the matter spoke to me.

"Erna, I just want to tell you I'm sorry. I should have done more."

It seems after I left, the sharks went for her. She got to know first-hand what it was like to have people gang up on you just because they could. And I told her it was all right. That I understood she didn't want to be involved, that she just wanted to keep out of it, out of trouble. She felt that her failure to stand up for me came back to bite her.

And I said she had nothing to apologise for. In the end, we must all fight our own battles and not blame those who can't be right there with us for whatever reason.

Today, I received another apology out of the blue. Apologising for not believing me, for having reservations about my capacity for telling the truth.

But there are always two sides to every story. If I was said friend, I'd have misgivings too. It's easy to exaggerate, to misrepresent, to twist the tale to make yourself the hero and the other party the villain.

Sometimes, both parties can be at fault. Sometimes, the blame must be shared.

I don't forgive my friends.
Because there is nothing to forgive. For I would rather keep my friendships, and lose all my grudges.

From a letter written by Fra Giovanni:

I am your friend and my love for you goes deep. There is nothing I can give you which you have not got, but there is much, very much, that, while I cannot give it, you can take.

No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in today. Take heaven!

No peace lies in the future which is not hidden in this present little instant. Take peace!

The gloom of the world is but a shadow. Behind it, yet within our reach is joy. There is radiance and glory in the darkness could we but see - and to see we have only to look. I beseech you to look!

...And so, at this time, I greet you. Not quite as the world sends greetings, but with profound esteem and with the prayer that for you now and forever, the day breaks, and the shadows flee away.

This is the last post before my holiday. For realz. This is for the people who keep following my blog though I keep changing my URLs, through the emo-laden moments, blog drama and increasingly crappy writing.

And for the people who have been better friends than I ever had the right to deserve.

Taking a break from my blogging break, because I spotted something from a friend's blog that I couldn't not blog about.

He linked to a post about Deitrich Bonhoeffer's view about what's wrong with romantic love.

I usually have a bit of a frown when I see Sunflower with romance novels. They portray an overly idealistic view of love: fanciful, predictable and monotonous. Of course, she'd likely retort that since she hasn't experienced romantic love yet then the books will help fill the void. And I've told her many a time that romantic love is overrated. It's messy, painful and often left me wondering if it was worth all the effort. 

Over the years, I realised that I'd confused love with possessiveness, and the need for control. I have control freak tendencies as well as an irrational fear of losing the people I hold dear. It drove my boyfriend nuts having me call all the time; I should have gotten a clue when I'd even get MFM to report whenever he went overseas and I'd spend days worrying one or the other would die/get in an accident/contract a terminal disease or worse - replace me.

The harder you hold on to someone, the tighter your grip, the likelier it is the person will work hard to get away from you.

And I am guilty. Guilty of expecting my loved ones to read my mind, to always be around, to put up with my nonsensical fears, act the way I told them to, let me dictate their decisions. I was no better than a jailor.

So I'm letting go. I'll stay safe in the belief that I can hold them the people I love close to my heart - but it doesn't mean I have to do it literally.

Bonhoeffer on romantic love:
"It loves them, not as free persons, but as those whom it binds to itself.  It wants to do everything it can to win and conquer; it puts pressure on the other person.  It desires to irresistible, to dominate. Self-centered love does not think much of truth.  It makes the truth relative, since nothing, not even the truth, must come between it and the person loved.  Emotional, self-centered love desires other persons, their company.  It wants them to return its love, but it does not serve them.  On the contrary, it continues to desire even when it seems to be serving.”

Will be on holiday all next week so blog's on hiatus till I come back.

I try my best to be a good person. And I realise I fail at it more often than I succeed. But the key thing is not to stop. Whatever happens.

OHAI. Yeah, I'm giving Lively a try because David Lian suckered - I mean, enticed me into it.

My very first attempt at creating an avatar left me with a cat...in a blonde wig. So not on.

Not that a cat, in a hat, in a red dress, is all that much better. I find Lively less of a tax on resources compared to Second Life. But perhaps lag will start to show once the user base increases. So far, I quite the like how easy it is to get used to. Create avatar, walk around, talk in rooms and explore, explore, explore.

Not sure what Google aims to achieve with Lively. Do we really need more ways to create cute avatars? Still, it's cute. Anything that allows me to lolcat with impunity has to have some merit to it...

One band I'm sentimentally attached to is Jars of Clay. Their song, Worlds Apart, was a personal anthem for many years, aptly describing how torn I was between what I was and what I thought God wanted me to be. But I'm less enamored of it now as I see some of the song's lyrics exemplifying what I call the 'Christian Guilt Complex'.

Did you really have to die for me?
All I am for all you are
Because what I need and what I believe are worlds apart

It irks me when I see the CGC-inflicted constantly self-flagellating themselves. To paraphrase Brutha in Pratchett's Small Gods - you die for your family or your country, but for a God, you live a long, full, life. If you think you deserve judgement and punishment, you'll find it in the afterlife. It's called Hell.

So I have a new favourite song from Jars of Clay. The band's sound changed quite a bit when their vocalist, Dan Haseltine, confessed to his bandmates that his life really was 'worlds apart' from the lyrics they were singing. In an interview, he related finally opening up to his bandmates and attempting to let them in, where once he put up his walls.

"OK, let me help you dissect this monster that I am, because it matters to me that you know who I really am, not the guy that I've been presenting to you."

He also said things that reverbated with me about my own personal and work relationships:
"We don't really know each other. We're not really helping each other live out the bigger struggles. We all have this stuff we're dealing with, and it doesn't even seem safe to talk to each other about it."

So here and now, I'm going to attempt to stop hiding behind my walls. But I think I've learned some about the difference between being open and hurting the ones I love by disclosing things that should remain in the domain of quiet places.

Here and now, I admit I am a broken, imperfect individual. I am quick to anger, prone to tears and easily affronted. I wear my heart on my sleeve and sometimes, though I present a cold, stoic face to the world, I'm scared. And yeah, it's OK to cry myself to sleep sometimes about things that really won't be all that bad when I look back on them lately. Because maybe, maybe even angels cry.

"Even Angels Cry"

I whisper,"You don't have to worry, we'll survive"
Forced smiles underneath the brittle, frozen light
No proof that you're alive
Cold fingers find the curve below your tired eyes
No comfort in familiar places, not this time
You hold it deep inside

Oh sister, if you wake up in the night
Walls are falling, letting in the light
No need to worry
Baby, even angels cry

No flood warnings, still the waters rise
Flowers through asphalt, Diamonds in the pockets of your eyes
Turn your face and hide
I saw a woman with ribbons in her hair
Old and lonely, so beautiful I had to stop and stare
The well will not run dry

Oh sister, if you wake up in the night
Walls are falling, letting in the light
No need to worry
Baby, even angels cry

Oh sister, if you wake up in the night
Walls are falling, letting in the light
No need to worry
Baby, even angels cry

Cry Sister, if you wake up in the night
Walls are falling, letting in the light
It'll be alright
Baby, even angels cry

Baby, please don't worry
Not tonight

One of my housemates is moving out so now comes the absolute mafan-ness of finding someone to take his room.

And yes, I get quite a few inquiries but no one's come to view it thus far.

Since said housemate is moving out next month, my tulan-ness sudah mencapai takat maksima.

Or so I thought until I got this one question in my inbox about said room.

"Are all the tenants Chinese?"

I felt like replying, "No, one's from Zambia, the other's from Afghanistan and another one's Cambodian."

But then I realised this is West Malaysia where tolerance means "saya tak kacau kamu, kamu jangan kacau saya".

O my countrymen. You make me want to get a lobotomy.

So I am perving on Lifehacker again. I can't help it. I love the site to bits - though my productivity goes to zero when I'm in the middle of lovingly perusing its archives.

And I find this excerpt of a book I feel I MUST HAVE. Scott Berkun's Making Things Happen. It's a book about project management.

David Lian says I remind him of a friend of his who loves self-help books.

Well, I like some of those things.

Brain Rules, for instance, RULES.

Another friend of mine, who I shall refer to as My Favourite Monkey or MFM, hates the things.

MFM says: "They're all common sense wan!"

Well, some people just need telling.

Of course, some self-help books are merely stinking masses of psychobabble-ish crap.

But I can't name the books because

1. I could get into trouble. I really don't feel like dealing with the legions of cultists who will leave long, ranty comments on my blog.
2. Some of my friends swear by some of the titles I detest.

I don't read the books about making money or getting to the top.

But I do read books like Rabbi Kushner's When Bad Things Happen to Good People.

Sometimes you need reminders that you aren't the only one hurting. And sometimes, the best people to talk to when you're in a dark place is someone who knows what it's like. Who can say, with truth, that they sat in the long darkness and waited for the light to come.

And it came. You know it's true, because they've seen the end of the dark tunnel. So now that they can see, they can reach a hand out for you to hold on to until that day you can see too.

I remember my Father who loves me.
The other father, who loves me too.

And the man who calls me his 'good girl'. Ironic because it reminds me of a song I used to sing for the man who came before.

Underneath your clothes
There's an endless story
There's the man I chose
There's my territory
And all the things I deserve
For being such a good girl honey

What do you do when people bring up old wounds?

Call you names?

Or complete strangers speak about things they know nothing about?

I'm going to do what I should have done all those frickin' months ago.

I'll shut up.

more cat pictures

Well, I'm no longer editor of The Mag.

Instead, I'm editor of The Mag's Website.
Which is made of supreme awesome.

I have a feeling that working on it will involve severe drama and massive amounts of stress. But it'll be fun. When it's not giving me heartburn, that is.

I will also stoically accept the fact that due to my combustible nature and my innate attraction to drama, things are never going to be simple. At least life's never going to be boring, eh?

Lainie and I have a habit in common-an unhealthy love of stationery. My newest fetish is the Moleskine. Beautiful but pricey notebooks.

And I picked up another one. With a faber-castell mechanical pencil. And a pretty canvas cardholder. I am doomed to materialist leanings.

I got flak from one person for having my signature in Tengwar in my Editor's Note for The Mag.

Well, I feel vindicated to see Spain's Fernando Torres with a huge tattoo of his name in Tengwar.

I consider this the best 'up yours' in any language. Hah.

And the message for today (from the cosmic heavens with squeaky overtones):

STOP EMOING.

Fine.

OK.

No more emoing on the blog.

It's Earnestly Speaking, not EMO-ly Speaking.

This message was brought to you by the ANTI EXCESSIVE EMONESS ANONYMOUS.
(BTW, it has only one member).

Even my boyfriend won't talk to me after 3am. Says I get too emo and don't talk sense.

So yes, no more emoing.

Or I have to buy two people coffee.

Today I feel like sharing what my name truly means:

E is for Emo
R is for Rants and Rages, on occasion stark Raving mad
N is for Noxious
A is for Angst

It's Monday. I just feel like making fun of myself.

I found Jesse Baylin's Was I On Your Mind on music.download.com. And I wasn't sure what I was getting from someone purportedly 'alt-country'.

Am beginning to think I really dig alt-country since I'm now quite fond of the Old 97's. Baylin has big names behind her, including country-dabbler Norah Jones which means I'm not getting Mutt Lange-penned poppish ditties ala Shania Twain.

Not that I have anything against Shania. I can sing most of her songs, after all.

Have a listen to Baylin if you want something that's not quite George Jones, not quite pop-country. Somewhere in between and very listenable.

Was I On Your Mind
Did it feel any good?
Did it hit you like it should?
Was I on your mind, was I on your mind?

Were the lights in your eyes?
Did reflections leave you blind?
Was I on your mind, was I on your mind?  

Chorus:
Ooohh, did you think it was free?
Ooooh, did you just wanna see?
Well I dont want to be right,
I want a good lie
I want a new truth,
I want your fight

Tell me I’m wrong instead
Tell me I’m wrong instead

Give me what I need,
Just take my heart
Break my love and before you start

Tell me I’m wrong instead
Tell me I’m wrong instead

So different, they are.

I often joked that if they were one man, not two, he would be perfect.

But there is no perfect man, my friends say. Oh, yes, but together, they were perfect. To me.

Explain to me, then, why it is that each is what the other isn't. Why their birthdates are each other's, reversed.

One is dark, one is fair.

One doesn't have very good English yet speaks charmingly. The other's English is good but he speaks as though behind a baklava.

One spent his teen years and early 20s working to provide for his siblings, thanks to an absent father and an indolent stepfather. The other's known a simple, nuclear family upbringing.

One is working so damn hard to keep himself in university, almost giving up that he'd ever get there. The other squeaked through because he found he really shouldn't have taken the course in the first place.

One is far away from me, yet stays close to my heart. The other is so near, but he might as well be on another continent.

And if they were ever to meet, I think the only thing they would have in common is me.

I love the first one like I love air. When I met him, my knees buckled and I stopped breathing. Like some sappy scene from a torrid romance novel. And even through tears and trials, we always come back to each other. Like magnets of different polarities; it's futile to resist the pull that's kept us together. Even the other once wryly observed, after our umpteenth falling-out, that there was no cause to worry because the man I loved would come back. He always did.

And the other, oh, I love him like blood. Like flesh, like my right arm. He's like a ghost limb - though amputated, I still feel it there.

So maybe it's fitting that as things cement with one, it crumbles with the other.

Balance? Fate?

I don't know anymore. I only know what I feel right now. As I find myself still getting to know one, I wonder if I ever really knew the other.

What use the wondering? Why can't I move on and leave the past where it is - memories, tears and anniversaries, books and plays and lies and anguish and bitter recrimination?

Because there's such a fine line between sayang and cinta - that's why it hurts to lose either. And having one doesn't necessarily make up for losing the other.

I have a little fetish.

OK, maybe a big Angelina Jolie-sized fetish. I am obsessed with productivity tools.

The irony is that my productivity can be severely obstructed when I'm distracted by said tools.

For instance, I'm capable of spending far too much time on Lifehacker.org, when I could be posting to Blorge or Roving Geek, for that matter. Or working on a novel, machinima script, song lyrics or playing my dusty guitar (whose expensive strings are probably out of tune by now).

So I bought a low-tech Moleskine 18-month pocket planner.

Pros:
1. It doesn't need batteries or power
2. It's small enough to carry anywhere
3. It has a calendar all the way to the end of 2009
4. It has a nice little sleeve at the back for me to keep the odd receipt
5. It won't exactly cost a bomb to replace if subjected to sun, water, wear and tear

Cons:
1. It has no backup options - if I lose it, there goes my data
2. It's not exactly cheap at RM47

Still, I love my new Moleskine. The trouble is stopping myself from buying more and though Grandluxe makes nice, similar notebooks at half the price, it's not quite the same.

There are so many things I want to do and should get around to doing (guitar & vocal practise, language lessons, creative writing) but I end up being swamped by other things.

I guess it's that time again for me to sit down and try resorting my priorities. Spending far too much energy thinking about what I want to do instead of doing them just doesn't make sense anymore.

It's funny how the past only makes sense after the fact.

After all these years, being obsessed with the Internet has paid off. Soon, I'm going to be immersed in the Web, and it's exciting.

That doesn't mean I'm not terrified.

Change is something that creeps up on you, planting itself right where you don't expect it. And there's so much to do, so little time as goes the cliche. Everything's coming to a head at the very same time and it's like being at the top of a rollercoaster hump, before the quick descent.

It's madness. It's exhilarating.

That's what I feel right now.  So much of a big change in routine, so I'll no longer be singing this Nine Inch Nails song: