ive been told that im being perceived as being smaller than usual. frame-wise, desire-wise (desire in its multihued variances - desire in terms of simple decision-making, personal choices, idiosyncracies and quirks)

i will find my voice and claim it back, to not be afraid and to go forth in love. to right my own grievances and to do things according to my conscience.

the Art of Substitution

Done with part-time shandyings and taking a hiatus in wait of the big fish - a real full-time paying job. It suddenly occured to me that given the inevitability of getting kicked out/married/travelbug-ued/sued for sloth in the distant future, i must be wise enough to start saving. Ugly though it is and as un-adept i am in handling the technicalities in life like career-sourcing (eeew) and bank-account openings (double eeew. i got the shock of my life when $8500 worth of NUS tuition fees got thru to me - offering to take it up like a badge of honour (yea,yea the big girl's gotta prove her i'm-old-enough-stuff) bravely (though decidedly in a fashion of subtle quivering without the masculine sweatdrops) telling my mum to leave it to me to handle it myself in the face of anticipatory job cashflow, which obviously has not materialized.

So the Art of Giving Up/Substitution has to pave the way for this girl to master it - quick. It's bad enough having to thrash myself for giving up the offer at Seventeen as a fashion intern-writer (3 mths at a miserable $600 p/mth.Don't expect much from internships) --- Deviation No 1. Recognize the obsession with Numbers. According to the book The Little Prince, one measure of grown-up-ness would be that grown-ups love numbers. They ask, upon meeting other human souls - their age, the level of education, the number of children they have acquired (notice - Acquired. Another case-in-point for Grown-Up-Ness would be their fascination with stocking up. They suddenly take on the role of a Collector. Your perennial Garbage-Man, intrigued with the need to keep track of numbers - of time, of money, of bank accounts. Kiasuism becomes a universal impulse and not just relegated to your Hello-Kitty (or has that turned passe?) heartlander with high hopes of possessing a signature pseudo-cat that might rake in the dollars after fifty years, remembering once the feline's days of yore, now threatened by the (again, hopeful) discontinuation of Hello-Kittyness. One embraces such thoughts in anticipation of being deemed as a C-o-l-l-e-c-t-or - in possession of a prized, cult kitty-cat.

I know not how the art of giving up has led to the mock disapproval of pretty little kitties and numbers. but I certainly do understand the mechanics of giving up. Of late, strife has given up to peace, conflict to resolution and compromises, gut-reaction running away to squarely facing each and every problem, distemper to love, seclusion to sharing.

I look forward to such winds of change, when things do turn out for the better, when prayers get answered and even if they don't, just knowing that there is someone to listen to each and every plea gives you that strength to venture forth.

The fear of rocking the boat is passe.

Dare to rock the boat .

An Ode to Moments of Whimsical Serenity - Of Conceptions and Misconceptions

This month is my birthday month. No hype, no fuss, birthdays were always quiet affairs. My twentieth was spent, prior to youth service, at a coffee joint, yoghurt-drinking and cake-eating in blissful solitude - nurturing a secret penchant for eating my own cake alone. Now that I’m over coffee joints and living life in café-bistros, i have taken to Wandering - a first love.

I’m taking more walks lately than I’ve ever done before. Perhaps it has its roots in childhood (an inclination towards all things unstructured and non-imposed from within and without) and the potent mixture of the adult freedom of managing one's own finances. It might be, in mainstream society's eyes, a life without 'vision'. But my version of Vision and that of yours would inadvertently differ. A healthy respect towards that makes all that difference to me, especially at this point of time where I am at that transitional Crossroad, having to ceaselessly oscillate and reinvent liminal selves, scaling the gradations of Seemingly Responsible Adult-Dom (with a sorely lacking sense of Accountability. I’m trying, honest) and Wanton, Spontaneous Flyfreebird-ing.

The notion of an impending birthday makes one extra -sensitive to existential issues like Conceptions, Stock-taking, God, Mothers, Meaningfulness, Love and Life. Oh, and Freedom.

When you have been nurtured as a child to grow as an individual, having free reign over your own management of time and life-plans, what society perceives as a wayward, latch-key kid - a by-product of 'failed' parenting techniques, has to give way to a broader, more open-minded conception of an equally valid alternative truth. It moves my heart greatly to debunk that myth. It is exactly this creed of theirs which has nourished my burning sense of inquisitiveness, questioning attitude towards life and the capacity to be out there on my own, perfectly at home in the public realm without battling an eyelid at my state of solitary wanderings.

As a child, I had to create my own fun. What made it more significant was that I was given the means to do so - part of a conscious attempt on my mom's (vicarious) masterplan for me, sowing that guarantee of freedom for my life and claiming for herself a measure of what was robbed from her.

Men will not be allowed to dictate or rule over this girl.
She will not live a life of fear, of weakness and of suppression.
Patriarchy will not exist in her vocabulary.
She will roar like a lioness, not afraid to voice out, not feebly silenced in accordance to a man's needs and desires.

Even now as I type this at my playground downstairs at 1am (with a sleeping bf doing reservice - my perpetual superego whom I know would not tolerate these private late-night wanderings for reasons understandable, according to him), I am thankful and gracious for that semblance of trust, faith and freedom I have had all my life from my family. Do not misunderstand me. I do not condone callous, irresponsible, uninvolved parenting and blatant disregard for the development of one's child. The reasons proffered to me by them (her) are beginning to take a rooted significance as I begin to see things as they truly are.

These wanderings, ironically, were conceived within a heart of fear.

Nine, female, alone. No one home. Unsafe. Not safe for a young girl.

Society conditions such cues into a young girl's mind. Neighbours tsk-tsk in mock pity and exaggerated disapproval at young girl's parents.
Nine, and a flasher decides to haunt her life along the corridor of her childhood.
Numbers take on a significance in her life like never before - she feels like Cinderella, obsessed with the workings of Time.

1 to 7. 1 to 7 pm. Equals 6 hours. 6 hours = ??? mins = (the seconds are always too long, far too long)

She's nine and she has a bus card. She turns twelve, and her bus card inevitably becomes her trusty companion. Nine, and she saves up money for treats at the nearest KFC. Twelve saw her saving up for the nearest island - Asian Village, Sentosa. Unlimited rides, for the un-limited child - ten dollars only for whiling your time away in wait of the Fairy Godmother to turn the magic keyhole.

Her wanderings have taken her far and wide. It has become her. At twenty two, she understands all, will not justify or validate that peculiar idiosyncrasy, will not blame herself if she finally decides one day that Flyfreebirding, Freedom and Fairy Godmothers will lead the way home to that child of nine.

***

Thing is, my dearest _____, you will not have that power to silence me. Forgiveness is a very peculiar activity. I have been misunderstood. I have, whether you know it or not, tried to live that life just to keep your happiness afloat.

Ever the seemingly dutiful daughter, the undergraduate (so you might redeem yourself and claim your semblance of success), the one who won't fly because of your own personal prejudices, the one who would keep away from angmoh boyfriends just because of your close-mindedness, the one who would cry when family dinners go awry, the one to take you out for father's day after receiving her pay dammit!, yes, the one whom you chose to throw on the floor at four months as you walked away carrying your other daughter, the one who is crippled at twenty two with her flyfreebirding tendencies and her deep aversion to entrapments, running away just because I have to whilst I still can unlike her, the only one who dares to voice out her hurts, disappointments and love time and time again and because it strikes you right at the core of your heart and you know it, you know my love for you, despite not wanting to but undeniably I do in a very weird love-hate kind of way, the one willing enough to overcome that fear you’ve instilled in all of us just to tell you – hey, I understand, hey I know your deep-seated isolation and loneliness and your need for that a new-found redemption in the eyes of men.

But deny me not, deny me not because I am like an injured animal, because I have enough anger in me so don’t push it, don’t push it because I will not stand certain actions of yours and I know equally as much that with me you’ve always toed the line - carefully, carefully now. Cos you’ve seen how I’ve put myself in danger guarding him, you saw my crazed, wild glint in my eyes as you came at me and you saw no fear. Don’t push it because you know my intentions – and to cross that line would mean you’ve violated that foundation of fragile trust and respect I have for you.


It’s my party and

I’ll cry if I want to.


Happy Birthday to Me.