If you believe I’ll deceive and common sense says you are the thief, Let me take you down the corridors

I just did something extremely cringe-worthy: I went back and read some unfinished blog posts that are still saved under “drafts”, as well as some posts from 2006 that I’ve long ago made “private”. 2006!!! It’s so scary to think how fast five years have flown, and how much yet little of me has changed. Ahh. I dare not dwell on it.

It’s late and my mind is boggled, but before I let myself ramble off in tangents – there are two main points to this blog post. Firstly, I’d have to say that as far as birthday presents go, the boy’s done pretty well for himself . He’s given me a huge stack of books, The Fountainhead being the first that I decided to tackle. Reading Ayn Rand’s novel has not only preoccupied me enough to leave him alone to study for exams, but it also made me cry, laugh, and re-read paragraphs pensively on many, many occasions. It’s such an amazing book that I almost put off finishing it, instead mucking around with the last hundred pages the other night, and finally allowing myself to finish it and sleep at 6am. Which resulted in me being terribly late for a meeting with the head of jazz, but that’s a different story. I had a discussion with the boy about the book yesterday, but I don’t think I’ve quite tidied up my thoughts enough to blog about it. Actually, I don’t know if I will ever collect my thoughts enough to write a coherent post about it, but all I can say is just read it!

Secondly, people don’t read enough these days. Or should I say, people my age don’t read enough these days. I was tweet-chatting to Rob the other night and finally decided to blog about this. It seems that most people who complain about “kids these days not reading” are older adults, so it was interesting to really step back and think about how I feel in regards to this topic – as I’m supposedly part of this “generation of non-readers”.

I’ve loved reading for as long as I can remember. When I was still very young and lived in Taipei, I remember my family’s in-car entertainment would be “can Amanda read all the signs?” – because, as you know, the streets in Asia are overwhelmed with signs, of stores, ads, you name it. Later on I progressed to proper books in Chinese, and when we moved here when I was six, I learnt English mostly by being virtually the only Asian kid at my primary school, and by – you guessed it – reading. Never mind not understanding all the words in a book at the time, the actual reading itself, absorbing ideas, characters, gaining entertainment from reading was the biggest thing for me. And then when the Harry Potter phenomenon exploded all over the world, I used the series as my escape from reality. I always had a niggling feeling though, that many of my peers didn’t enjoy reading. But I never thought twice about it since even the kids who “hated reading” seemed to all have read Harry Potter as well… until…

…One day, someone in my class snapped at me, “don’t tell me what happens, I’m waiting for the movie”. That’s the day I really did a double take and thought, what?! you’d rather wait a couple of years for a bad film interpretation of the best children’s series of our generation, rather than read it?! I was shocked. But sadly, at the same time, not that surprised at all. It was a kind of disillusion, almost. And whilst I will note that the technology age has impacted a lot on the declining number of youth that read, I’m not going to sit here and blame television, the internet or various other sources of entertainment that have replaced books. Instead, I’m more concerned with what those things cannot replace. Too many people are too preoccupied with plots. And getting fast, instant results. That’s why TV is so addictive – you get fed a half-hour storyline with a cliffhanger, as opposed to spending perhaps two hours reading to gain the same amount of “plot development”. That’s why many people have seen movies based on books, but have no interest in touching the book whatsoever. Some people have told me that it’s “more convenient”, or “saves time” in terms of digesting the “classics” in the form of movies rather than books – but none of these people will have truly experienced what made that book a “classic” in the first place.

Personally, I know I get too tied up in the analysis of the writing itself – choice of diction, dialogue, how the plot is structured, how characters are portrayed and the contrasts between them in terms of writing styles employed, on and on… That sounds like a total exaggeration but I kid you not – I involuntarily do all this subconsciously, peeling things to pieces and re-reading phrases or entire paragraphs just to re-absorb the text in a new light (all my favourite English teachers should be proud!) – but I’m not saying that other people should or could do this, I just think that they should read so that their brains are offered a chance to even do so. I’m not slagging films or anything (I love them!), but I truly think that books are irreplaceable and I repeat – people get too caught up with the plot, and wanting to “find out what happens”. Although many books are judged by how much of a “page turner” they are, I think that with the best books out there, less emphasis is on “what happens next”, rather, “how it happens” and “why it happens”  is far more important – and that’s what non-readers are missing out on. They’re missing out on the gaps between time spent reading, where their brains absorbs what they have just read, and allows mind space for their own judgements, analysis and ideas to be formed. Don’t forget now, books and imagination are hugely connected, so youths who don’t read are often missing out on chances to explore their creative boundaries.

I’m sure most people have experienced (perhaps, once again with the recurring Harry Potter example) an occasion where they’ve seen a film based on a book and have either had their imagined settings or character appearances completely recreated onscreen, or have completely disagreed with the visual depiction they’re offered. And therein lies the beauty of reading – you’re not confined to any visual elements and are free to interpret the setting and descriptions in any way you wish. That’s where your imagination gets a workout! I remember when I read Twilight out of curiosity (the entire series, no less, I am thoroughly ashamed to say!!! – instead of studying for my 6th form AS exams), and I had pictured Edward as… well let’s just say that I don’t think Robert Pattinson does my mental version of Edward any justice whatsoever. But in stark comparison, I’d have to say Harry Potter (once again) was very well cast, and was a case of where I thought the core cast members were precisely as I had pictured them when I first read the books.

Also, when I say that people should read more, I’m not being a literature elitist here and trying to shove “classics” or anything down anyone’s throats. I just think that, yes, some books are more worthy of your time than others, but people aren’t reading enough for me to even begin to comment on what they do read.  I vastly enjoy the odd crime/thriller/action novel, but I also like to feed my mind with other books in which the plot is only the undercurrent to character development. I think a lot of people don’t realise how valuable these things are – how reading books with complex characters with different backgrounds and motives actually gets osmosed into daily life and how you view or analyse the actions of those around you. Ever wondered what the life of a struggling artist is like? Go read about it. Ever thought thank god I’m not the kid picked on at school? Go read about some poor kid. Ever wonder what might drive the ulterior motives of conniving people? Go read about it. There is so much eye-opening to be done through shelves and shelves of black ink, more so than people even realise. Reading isn’t just about “what’s going to happen next?” or “does the good guy win?” – it truly is about how it happens – and the conclusions we’ve drawn along the way, as well as perhaps some philosophies that deeper books may offer us.

I know I’d said I wasn’t going to rave about it, but I can’t ignore using it as an example: The Fountainhead for me felt really personal, on so many levels that I can’t even begin to describe coherently. But the underlying theme here is the fact that, through her highly contrasting cast of characters, Ayn Rand’s writing has put into words for me, so many conclusions, judgements and philosophies that I’d already drawn up throughout my life, but had never attempted to vocalise and summarise. The different “types” of people that I’ve spent hours of my life trying to decipher, to understand, to overcome difficulties with; how I feel towards them, and they towards me, why I love or hate the way I do… my illiterate scrawls in notebooks and hours spent theorising with my therapist – all these tangents of life compacted into a beautifully crafted novel.

To view this whole “young people don’t read enough these days” issue in a different light, I have to say that too many people struggle with English Lit at high school. Asides from tutoring my sister to pass AS English Lit in half a year (so that she could qualify early for a college scholarship in America), I’ve also helped out various people throughout high school, plus I now tutor a kid on a weekly basis. And I’m disturbed by the main causes of why I think they needed help in the first place: how the teachers are teaching (or not teaching); and how these kids never read except when they are forced to do so for class. Therefore, they don’t know how to read “effectively”, how to process what they’re reading, how to analyse and absorb things, what they’re looking for – which results in their inability to scratch beyond superficial meanings, let alone concoct an in-depth analytical essay in an hour-exam! What these people have in common is the fact that they don’t read by choice as a pleasurable pastime: when they’re faced with trying to get through behemoths such as Jane Eyre or Cat’s Eye for school, they simply struggle through the books, and are reading “up to Chapter X” by certain deadlines merely because they have to! I’ve discovered that an astonishing amount of people don’t even know basic things like what a semicolon or em dash is – I had to write up sentence examples and point them out in a book to my student who is 17!

I could go on and on about this, but I’d better not and get to bed instead. I will, however, freely admit that I’ve been guilty of neglecting books in recent years, but I feel that at least I make up for it when I have some time – such as now. So that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I feel about this issue, at age 20. Maybe when I’m older I’ll look back and be one of those old grumpy adults still bitching about the same thing. Ha.

Obligation, Complication, Routines and schedules

I need to blog more often throughout the week so that the “things I want to blog about” don’t snowball up into one massive blog entry that resembles a tree with branches spurting out all over the place, rather than a more sightly lone autumn leaf that people like to pay strange amounts of attention to. See? There is so much crap that has accumulated in a week’s time that my very first sentence alone is far too long and disturbing. Okay.

I want to know – how much do “normal people” let things get to them? How much empathy are most people capable of, especially when it comes to books, movies and music? I haven’t done much in the past week, except I feel like I’ve been on an intense emotional rollercoaster, and I’m not too sure whether I enjoy this or not. And the root of all this spawns off into many, many tangents.

 

Taken on Ilford HP5 Plus 400 B/W film; Nikon F3. A photo I had used in the exhibition.

For one, the reason I asked the questions above is because I’m one of those people who cry at movies, TV, music, books, you name it. Even a single, beautifully written line can get my tear ducts working on overdrive. I have this unfortunate (I feel, for the most part) ability to perceive, then receive and feel everything on such a personal, realistic level. I’d taken the last couple of days off reading, but ever since starting it last week, I have been disappearing into Ayn Rand’s novel The Fountainhead (just over halfway through it now). I read a particularly painful part of the novel at the boy’s house, and tears started pouring down my face. I felt bad and embarrassed because it’s an odd predicament isn’t it – to have someone crying over a book you gave them – but oh heck, he deals with worse from me. Then I told him this is exactly what I mean by things getting to me. I wish I didn’t feel and care so goddamn much about everything; I hate how everything has the ability to seep right through my rough and tough exterior and pluck and snap at my heartstrings. Felisa (who no longer blogs publicly, I think) and I have discussed how it’s almost like a writer or artist’s complex – that we notice things that other people might merely glance at, and actually register such things. Because we then go on to recreate them. My therapist said I need to stop owning everyone else’s feelings and my mother said maybe I should go into acting.

On the flip side, I can be a totally detached and hardened person. I can force myself to feel an empty hollowness, rather than invest any personal interest or reaction to something. It’s probably better in terms of a “public self”, but do I really want to feel empty and hollow and react to nothing?

Also, this is the playlist I slept and read to for a couple of days in a row. Favourite track from The King of Limbs mixed in with a bunch of Tricky. There is something painfully sexy about it all. And it proved to be a great sober-driving-at-3am-playlist, after a Friday night spent dancing my legs off to music I wouldn’t ever listen to outside of a club. Many people find it surprising that I dance. Sober, even. It’s liberating and I feel kind of powerful. Not because I had seven pairs of eyes glued to me (none of which I was interested in), but because it made no difference to me whether there were any at all. It’s the same feeling I get even when I’m just doing normal things during normal hours, and rather reminds me of Marina having said that she magically attracts men even when she’s not trying. It is the power in that innocence, precisely; yet not at all, and so much more all at the same time.

I think I might have to blog about it later rather than squish it into this post, but I have a 40-minute appointment with the HOD of Jazz on Tuesday. We’re all scheduled in for a 10 minute chat each, mostly about the changes to the Bachelor of Music degree structure that will be implemented next year, but I have broader issues to discuss in terms of what I’m going to enroll in… such a complicated and delicate issue that will potentially affect my future more than it will affect any other jazz students. Urgh.

 

Don’t you see your dreams lie right in the palm of your hand

If this blog is anything to go by, I have seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth for a couple of weeks – just as I had predicted. I ended up having a splendid birthday, albeit a couple of bumps and hurdles I had to deal with on the day, and I had fun at the party too. The last huge, ginormous challenge that lies between me and semester break is my repertoire jury on Tuesday. I’ve been sitting at the computer trying to figure out how to write the score for my arrangements, because one of them is really complicated with complex cross-rhythms that change back and forth, ahhhh. So instead I’m seeking refuge in my blog again. And I have to admit now that earlier today I also wasted three straight hours watching the Stanley Cup Finals. Three hours. It was awesome until the Canucks came back from behind to go into OT and then managed to score in 11 seconds. ELEVEN SECONDS, PEOPLE. Sometimes Mister Thomas should just stop being such an aggressive goalie and should just keep his post. Anyway, the only reason I said I “wasted” three hours rather than “spent” three hours is because the Bruins lost. Had they won like they ought to have, I would be a much happier chappy right now.

Yesterday, unlike most AU students who spent their Saturday at home chilling, studying, or pretending to study (and actually chilling), I spent it at uni arranging – with eternally grateful amounts of thanks to my pianist and drummer – and rehearsing instead. And then fell asleep immediately after dinner. So needless to say, when it came to a normal person’s “bedtime”, I wasn’t sleepy at all. I ended up spending all night browsing crap online and listened to Vanessa Carlton, Michelle Branch and Norah Jones on Youtube whilst Wikipedia-ing their biographies.

I know I probably come off as a music snob too often, but I’m now going to bare my 13-year-old self. I also think that in a couple of days’ time when I’m finally on semester break that I’ll resume my writing project that I had started last year, working title: Songs and the People They Belong To. I’ve never posted it here, but maybe eventually I will. I had started it at the lowest point in my year last year, but then decided it was probably too raw and honest to ever see the light of day without heavy editing. And now I think I’ve changed my mind about it for the billionth time. I don’t know. Because the concept is a recurring theme in my life. You know when certain songs and even bands attach themselves to certain memories – to a phase in your life, a certain feeling, certain people – in such a way that they almost seem to “belong” to someone. I just can’t listen to things without feelings being drawn upon, except I guess a lot of things have numbed over the years, either through time or the sheer force of my will, or both.

So back to this “13-year-old-self” business. When I was 13, 14 ish, I was convinced I was completely and utterly in love with someone. Actually, to this day I sort of, rather jokingly, refer to him as the “first love of my life”, because I do believe that people have several “love of their life”s throughout different periods of their lifetime. And because I lived really, really far away from him, he (believe it or not, it wasn’t me!) came up with how Vanessa Carlton’s “A Thousand Miles” would be “our song”. So when I went on youtube last night, it was the one song I had no interest in hearing, much. I didn’t want to think about being 13, plus I knew the song faaaar too well. But what I didn’t know was that Carlton was training to be a ballerina and in fact almost turned professional.

Anyway, I just wanted to post a couple of songs…

I will never hear this song in an unbiased way, and will always remember the countless people who liked to play this song on the pianos in the music department back at college:

Seeing her dance in this video makes me really miss doing ballet, and reminds me of how for the last couple of years out of the decade plus that I had danced, I only did it in the hopes that I could move on to doing lyrical dancing. How that never happened… heh.

I really like the lyrics of the first two lines of this song. I don’t know why. There are far better songs out there, but I just like the circular feeling of this song. What’s with me and “circular” songs? There’s this, and Blonde Redhead’s “23”, Metronomy’s “On Dancefloors”, etc…

Something like a phenomena, baby, You’re something like a phenomena

It’s about to be my 20th birthday. I have mixed feelings about not being a teenager anymore, and it’s scary considering I was still 19 when I went to the supermarket this afternoon and once again didn’t get ID’d for buying alcohol! Earlier this evening, I went over to the boy’s house “for dinner”, thinking it was just going to be another fun but casual dinner. Turns out, they had cooked me a feast of lamb shanks (done superbly with probably the same recipe as mum, score!) and fresh brownies out of the oven with fancy ice cream on the side for dessert. It was such a sweet, sweet surprise, if I wasn’t so takenaback I probably would have jumped and given Donna a hug! I probably should have. Ahhhh. Anyway, I’m still in awe of how nice it was, to whip me up a hearty family meal to celebrate my birthday for me, when my family are away – I will never forget it. What a nice way to round of my teenage years.

Sooo… I decided to spend an afternoon (which turned into evening, which turned into all night) digging out old photos from my years of being a teenager. This is one of the weirdest things I’ve ever done because – in case you hadn’t noticed – I rarely post photos of myself. And when I do, it’s usually ones I’ve taken, or got other people to take under my strict strict instructions. So what is beyond that “Continue Reading” link is actually hundreds of photos (mostly of me) showing my transformation during the ages 14-19. There are gazillions more photos somewhere, but I don’t have access to mum’s stash of photos at the moment, so I also don’t have any one hand from when I was 13. Regardless, even if no one is that interested in what little-Amanda looked like, I had a LOT of fun doing this, recalling so many events and memories that I had long forgotten about. I’ve posted things in order of age, and almost in perfect chronological order, so be impressed. It’s a little funny turning 20, because in New Zealand it’s not a big deal like 18 or 21 is, but in Taiwan, 20 is a big deal. It’s like NZ’s 18th and 21st birthdays mashed together, sort of. To put it in perspective, I can’t renew my Taiwanese passport on my own without a parent’s signature until I turn 20 tomorrow. Which reminds me I really need to get onto it.

Looking back, I’ve obviously grown up a lot throughout my teenage years, but I’ve also stayed the same in more ways than I had expected. I’ve done a lot of things that I’m proud of, but also a lot of things that I’m not. But I’m pretty happy where I am right now, and I’m just trying to look towards the future optimistically. And if you know me at all, you’d know that I’m not generally an optimistic person. Like… how I have to spend 13 hour at uni tomorrow on my birthday… I’m sure it will turn out fine though. Also, the exhibition opened yesterday, and I’ll probably post the official photos in the next entry, but there are photos of the gallery at the bottom of this post!

Oh, and you may be surprised to find that I hardly look different at all.

Age 14:

Taken at the house I “grew up in”. I wish my hair was that long again.

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For wishing you could keep me closer, I’m a lazy dancer, When you move I move with you

“Change is inevitable, growth is intentional.” – Glenda Cloud

View from my favourite room at jazz school, a.k.a. the room I’ve arguably spent the most time in:

Ilford HP5 Plus 400 film; Nikon F3

A poem I just wrote. It wasn’t part of my “things to do today” plan. Which I admittedly haven’t even tended to. It just kind of happened. Maybe I’m too honest sometimes. Too honest and too trusting. And hopeful that my trust won’t be used and abused. I wonder how other people would see a piece of writing like this – not through my eyes, nor the informed eyes of those close to me. I wonder, a lot. And apparently wander too:

say that, I’m a wanderlust
That I can’t stop. I can’t control myself
I drift through streets, alleys, backstreets and streets again,
cities, countries, continents –
ought I write a review?
of the scenes I’ve sought and sowed and bought
of the sheens I’ve been and leaned at nineteen
I could fill three lifetimes’ worth of biographies
and I feel I haven’t even begun.
why do I seek a piece of paper
merely to confirm myself of this brain which
I cannot see, touch or feel
but am told exists
I want to argue all the time
but He doesn’t play fair
He doesn’t even play
even though our season is on.

she says that I’m a wanderer
That I can’t stop looking for-
I can’t prevent myself from leaving
how do you justify caging endangered species?
I want nothing more than to break through the dates
that bind me to a certain place
that keeps me dissatisfiedly unentertained.
I want this Heart of mine to fill to the brim
then creep over the edge
with things undone and future memories
yet-to-be photographed
then ooze down the outer rim so full of life
so full of which never fills me
cos I’m just so full of it,
full of shit
that ain’t mine That’s why I keep looking. Past. Beyond
This.

he says that I’m just lust
That I can’t stop chasing-
I can’t keep myself from wanting it
All.
I drift through people, rooms, houses, people’s rooms,
somewhere in there it happened too soon
but all not soon enough.
I could slander them all with diaries unwritten but in mental ink
like a stained white shirt with a merlot stink
and the privilege will never be again.
Sometimes He keeps things from me
not because of confidence
but because His confidence
exceeds that of his confidantes
Now my He-art’s in a silver cage
can I just leave and
   disengage

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