The kin…

I can’t hold my breath so long, When you pass me by without a sound. You got something more to give, To girls who never thought they’d love, Love

I’m trying to pick out five photos for a photo exhibition and I’m finding it absolutely impossible! In the meantime, I stumbled upon these photos whilst trawling through my folders and folders full of photos. This is how us sisters roll.

How to devour a cupcake (from Disneyland):



Whilst I’m at it, here’s another one.

How to be a good girlfriend:
1. Accompany your boy to his friend’s birthday party. Dress well, so that you complement one another. And look good. Very good.
2. Proceed to drink as much beer as socially acceptable in terms of sobriety and number of allocated bathroom trips – after all, he’s sacrificed himself as sober driver so someone can drink!
3. The next morning, cook him a wholesome breakfast.
4. Be awesome and be genuinely interested in sports – not merely fake it.
5. Drive him to his football match. Be even more awesome and date someone with a decent shirt number. In this case, his #7 is much easier to spot and understand, as opposed to my #33.
6. Be a good spectator and always know what’s going on. It also helps to play the same position (perhaps in a similar sport) so as to understand the lines he runs and calls he makes. This also helps with being empathetic over frustrations. Maybe so empathetic that you’re the one wanting to yell “STRAIGHT/LEFT/LINE!” more than he does.
7. Be an even better spectator and throw him a water bottle whenever he looks like he needs it. Be careful to avoid getting whacked on the head with it as it comes flying back to you at an awkward angle with the sun in your eyes.
8. In the instance that he shall then misplace his wallet (apparently down the side of your car seat), lend him money at the postal office. Even if it means the eftpos machine at the post office hates your card and rejects it, forcing you to employ the use of an ATM machine on the other side of the mall.
9. Drive him back to yours and provide a dinner of tacos and beer.

See, I never knew I was such a nice person. I usually get annoyed and angry at myself, for being annoyed and angry with other people; but it turns out that I’m not always such a bitter person. Although I might have to admit that finally being done with the first half of semester one may have had something to do with my elated mood yesterday, because now it’s rather worn off and I just want to groan and sigh at the pile of stuff I have to deal with in the 2-week Easter break.

I only had my point and shoot lazily in my pocket, so this photo isn’t anywhere near as exciting as the boy’s dad’s epic action shots, but this was yesterday for me:

And today… has been a different story altogether. I found some more photos of things I had immortalised, so maybe I’ll post them later. For now I’m just going to wallow in self-(something) and try to pick out a series of photos to exhibit.

Is it the way she looks at you? Seeing her face as you walk through the crowded avenue, That sets you afire

It’s Sunday now, and I haven’t slept in my own bed since Wednesday, thus it’s now piled with clothes, books and folders. In a monumental headache-related fuck up yesterday, I accidentally fell asleep after my hockey game, which resulted in getting nothing on my “Saturday To-Do’s” list done; I eventually did a fair bit of jazz theory at the boy’s house, which is a strike of today’s list instead, but catching up on this huge list is just a nightmare right now… In the meantime, I’ve rekindled my love for the album Primary Colours by The Horrors. I haven’t listened to it in a fair while now, and I’m just remember how much I enjoyed their noise, bass sounds and lyrics.

It’s funny because at jazz school, asides from some of the tutors, no one else seems to participate in any form of sports or physical activity beyond the fitness that we need to strenuously play music for hours on end. On Thursday evening, I was engaged in a lengthy conversation with the head of jazz about windsurfing and various other water sports that he does. And I’ve had many conversations with my old bass teacher about the diving and spear fishing he’s into, but really, no one else is into anything physical. It’s funny to me that in a discussion in the common room on Friday, none of the other jazz students could get their head around the idea of how I’m excited to get back into winter hockey again this season, because I’ve missed the stress relief it brings me. Plus the fact that it allows me to directly exert some physical aggression that might be building up due to stress… and the fact that I’m a bit of an intolerant, grumpy person to begin with anyway.

See, despite all my terrible living, sleeping and eating (the latter is improving though) habits, I’ve been rather missing the feeling of being physically capable, fit and toned. In other words, I really miss the feeling of being able to walk and walk and walk, run and run and run, and carry a load of heavy stuff without feeling like collapsing. I also miss how flexible I used to be. Gone are the days of doing splits and grand battement in ballet!

My point is, surely I’m not the only one who used to be and misses being much more physically active as a kid, running around playing sports every lunchtime and then playing more sports after school? As if to rub salt in the wound, lots of people I know could care less what they eat/drink/do, but still have “better figures” by definition of being slim. And boys! Think about how many boys you know that can eat four times as much as you and still complain about how they aren’t putting on weight. If only females had that luxury… especially as we are the ones who are more likely to have bad food cravings anyway.

On the topic of indulgence, here are two cakes that mum’s friend paid her to make for her daughter’s 1st birthday yesterday. I helped the the icing. An absolute nightmare:


Why must chocolate frosting taste sooo good? There’s a bit left over and all I want to do is eat it by the spoonful!

This is what happens when you sleep on me. You get photographed. Applicable to humans also, but in this case, darling kitty.

Isn’t he just such a sweet sweet?

I really want to fast forward into this time in 6 days because by then I will have done my three-assessments-in-a-row and will be enjoying my 2-week Easter break. It also means I get to finish off a the films I’ve started in three separate cameras, get them developed (ouch, expensive!) and see what the heck is on them.

You say can we still be friends… If I was scared, I would. And if I was bored, you know I would. And if I was yours, but I’m not

I’m about halfway through working on my transcription which is due to be tested in Improvisation* class on Thursday. The transcribing part is down, but next I need to learn how to play these 64 bars of Ron Carter’s solo on “Bohemia After Dark” from the Stardust album.

I had a really long phone conversation with Miss Felisa M.D. last night, which involved hanging up as close to 59 minutes and 59 seconds as possible, because we have this phone deal at the moment that charges $2 per hour of international calling, but a lot more if the time is breached. We went over the hour mark by a few seconds once, so I really, really hope the bill doesn’t fly too high, because mum frowned when I told her about it.

Speaking of my mum, she took this awesome photo on last night when the boy and I were busy stuffing our faces with butter chicken and beer:

Also, I now stake that this post marks the day I became domesticated enough to voluntarily cook dinner whilst not home alone, and without mum having to pull the “I’m really tired and have a headache” card. Tonight for dinner I whipped up a waistline-threatening amount of couscous and then proceeded to flavour it with anything I could think of that was in our fridge. It started innocently enough, with me thinking “now I need to cook extra because I want to solve the problem of having to pack a lunch tomorrow”, and ended up involving: 4 fresh diced tomatoes, yellow and green capsicum that were diced and then pan-seared in butter, chicken cooked also in butter and some rosemary from the back yard, 4 hard-boiled eggs, a questionable* amount of olive oil, and nice dollops of whole seed mustard and pesto.

The results are as follows:

Rounded off with a beer, it was really a lovely meal, if only I hadn’t spent so long cooking it, I think my appetite would’ve been better!

*Just as I was typing the word “questionable”, I suddenly remembered the web-Comic Questionable Content that I used to follow religiously back when I was like… 15, 16? I have just over a thousand posts to catch up on, but I really mustn’t let myself indulge until the holidays, or I will never get any work done! I’d highly recommend it for anyone who enjoys a good serving of sarcastic dry humour and indie references.

Pieces of what… doesn’t matter anymore

Yesterday I got home after a treacherous commute from uni – slip-jogging downhill in the city in rain, with a heavy bag, heavy bass, semi exposed music folders, very full ferry, awkward seating – to the glorious sight of some parcels. My Asos package and some items from the BookDepository. I’m still waiting on 4(?) more books and a dress/convertible skirt thing to arrive:

OCD, Definition 1:

What I really want to write about is “obsessive compulsive documentation”, as per inspired by Marta’s blog. But first I have to get something off my chest: I used to be quite OCD as a child. I still am a little bit now, but it’s nothing compared to what I used to be. I’m sure lots of people out there will have done some of the things I used to do, but can you tell me – how bad did it feel when you didn’t stick to those “rules” which your brain somehow constructed and told you to adhere to?

I used to, and often still do now, but in a more oppressed manner:

– have to take three steps per slab of concrete
– count everything obsessively, out loud, in my head, all the time – especially when running and swimming (which is why I gave up the latter, counting up to the 5000 region is painful whilst swimming km after km in a lap pool)
– have to touch something a certain amount of times
– have to experience the same thing on both sides of my body (I still do this, my friends find it funny, but I really don’t – especially when they trigger it intentionally, it sets me off like a house on fire. e.g., if someone slaps one arm, I will have to ask them to slap me on the other arm, at the same angle, with the same strength; or if someone steps on my foot or something stupid like that.  Actually, I’d appreciate if everyone who reads this blog that knows me in real life would please fucking stop laughing about it and triggering it, it’s anguish in my head to try and fight the urge to punch my own arm, for example.
– in addition to the above, I like to touch things with both hands. I line people’s phones up when it’s on a table. I like to stack my ipod and phone together because they’re about the same size, and I hate feeling a phone vibrate in one hand but not the other.
– most especially in homeware-type stores, I have have have to backtrack my way out of a store, as if I had a spider web-like things trailing me and I have to “untangle” my way out, so that this “thread” doesn’t loop around a shelf or rack in a store. It used to make my mum wonder why I kept walking in circles back and back around aisles.
– worst of all, I have a counting system and this is the most frustrating and made-fun-of thing ever. As mentioned above, I count. A lot. Moreover, I do this weird thing where I count three to 3, then three more to 6, then three more to 9, then two to 11, two more to 13, then three to 16 and then seven to 23. When I was younger, this systematic pattern only existed up to the number 9, but then at some point it grew to 11, 13, 16… and it did stop at 21 for a while, but somehow ended up at 23 instead. Weird, I know. And that probably made no sense to anyone else but me anyway. But the worst thing is, people make a joke out of it and I just can’t stand it! At its worst, you can tell my mind’s distracted from say, if I’m reading a book, I’ll end up reading really fucking slowly (I’m generally a fast reader otherwise) because I’ll have to look at all the punctuation on the page a certain amount of times… the page number a certain amount of times. And if it’s a number than I deem as “not good” or that I don’t like (such as 2, 4, 8), my mind psyches itself out and I have to “fix” it by looking at “good” numbers certain amount of times.

Not to mention, these are just my main things that I “have to” comply/count to. There are all sorts of random things that I obsess over as well, but don’t kick in that often, or are more easily overridden by my logic and common sense. For example, I have really, really messy (what people like to call “artsy”) handwriting – it’s mostly because I write really fast and big, and that’s just how it ends up. But those silly people that have attempted to copy my handwriting (fuck knows why), or, those even worse ones that try to criticise my handwriting beyond a necessary point, don’t realise that there’s a whole other reason which I let it become and stay so messy. To put it simply, once I make a conscious effort to make my writing neat, I end up obsessing over making it perfect. If I’m writing down music and my “neat writing” thing kicks in, then every little thing that pours over one line must immediately be erased. Or if my clefs don’t fit in the lines perfectly. Or if I haven’t divided each bar to roughly the same size.

It’s the most unbearable thing ever. Just now, I’ve scratched the back of my neck twice, on both sides, with both hands, because I can’t talk about this without succumbing to the “NEED”. I haven’t told my therapist any of this yet, though. Simply because we’re always dealing with something else and I forget about this until I get back into my car and something sets it off.

OCD, Definition 2:

Now, the other, less annoying type of “OCD” is “obsessive compulsive documentation”. To be honest, this goes beyond the desire to blog or to write in my notebook. For me, I like to keep a documentation of my mere existence and how I think/feel about things. I’ve learned so much simply by reading back in old poetry/lyric notebooks, old diaries, old blog posts, and looking through either digital photos or physical photo albums. I can’t remember how that quote goes, but I truly do believe that everything we’ve ever seen, everyone we’ve ever met and everything we’ve ever done has had its part in creating who we are today. I guess the whole “documentation” thing began the minute I was born, because my mum is a professional photographer. She’d done the big studio thing in Tokyo, did reporting for major newspapers and magazines in Taipei, and later opened up her own studio specialising in children’s photography – so my sister and I were constantly her subject of her films. She also used to do work for a parenting magazine, so whenever we so much as cried, out came the camera, snap snap, the dough rolled in. Obviously, being photographed whilst being told off or upset in general was really quite traumatising, and caused us to cry even more – but as I’ve grown up, I kind of appreciate having these things to look back on. When I was six, I asked my mum to buy me a navy and white checkered hardback diary. It came in a matching box with a lock on it, and it was to be my best friend during our immigration to New Zealand. The last time I read back through it, it occurred to me how I had started writing all in Chinese, and then in the middle was a bit of Chinglish, and eventually the Chinese got filtered out to remain only in the phrases where there’s a lexicon gap.

Then, at age 12 I discovered blogging and it changed my life. As you can see, I’ve been doing it ever since.

What I enjoy about documentation is that there’s evidence outside of myself that an experience or thought had occurred. Our memories aren’t reliable, and more often than not gets gray and blurry around the edges. Sometimes you see a view so amazing or had such a good time that you think “I’m going to remember this forever” – but really, you don’t. Some people enjoy just keeping such memories within, to themselves, but I just can’t. On top of this, such documentation often becomes a source of inspiration for me later on, when I am feeling more creative. Reading old poetry/blog/diary entries of my own have often resulted in extended verses, a new reflective blog post, and once even a painting – so see, for me it’s not just about “did that, *photograph it*, file it”, even if it appears to be to onlookers.

As for less meaning for documentation like taking crappy party photos versus taking decent film ones with a bit more effort, both are important to me. Whilst I may not (unlike most people my age) splash all my party/drunk/whatever photos all over facebook, it’s still nice for me to know that someday when I’m older and these days are over, I will have something left of it to look back on. Heck, I don’t even party that much or often anymore, so even looking back on photos from a year ago evokes nostalgia and makes me feel old already!

Point is, I like documenting. And even though I believe that, at the core we never change that much and essentially remain the same at heart, I still like to be reminded of who I used to be at any particular given point. It’s like those amazing lyrics or songs that I write in the shower, that I feel are so worthy of being worked on and properly written out, which I then forget the minute the water goes off – so too do the amazing memories and experiences that we have, if we don’t record them in some way. Plus, it’s always fun to see things from a new perspective, or think my god, I was that retarded at that age?! and then feel like a better person a few years on, isn’t it?

 

Left: welcome to the neglected corner of my room, where I tend to stash the biggest, heftiest items (refer to multiple basses and hockey gear), which then gets in the way of me trying to reach my wardrobe.
Right: my wardrobe door, on which I stuck a pile of those whacky film photos taken in Japan (my heart melts!) and Taiwan.

Traces of last night.
Left: Chocolaaate + acrylics I used to paint my bedside table last night.
Right: The remains of the beer and cupcakes which the boy and I indulged in along with Boston Legal last night.

I’ve been meaning to post this ever since Christmas. She may not enjoy my documenting ways which entails (undisclosed) unflattering photos of us, but my special lady friend sure gave me an adorabubble Christmas present which she made herself! It graces a prime spot on my wall, of course.

 

ofthesky.org/log

In the sun she dances, To silent music-songs… That are spun of gold, Somewhere in her own little head

It’s funny how even in this day and age with instant access to ways of “contact” with people, I still find it really hard to maintain a stream of steady contact with a lot of people that mean a great deal to me. For various reasons, both my sister and father live overseas, as well as numerous close friends. Worse yet, I can hardly find the time for good friends that live barely ten minutes away from my house! The balance I’ve tried to strike over the years, is the odd hours-long phone or skype conversation with my dad, and as of last year, my sister also. But lately, I’ve found that I’m most satisfied through the means of writing lengthy letters by hand and posting them; and in return, receiving either the odd (if I’m lucky) letter, or a great postcard that’s filled to the brim with travel anecdotes and things that they thought I’d enjoy and reminded them of me, so far away.

Recently, my friend (with whom I’ve traveled to Japan and Taiwan last year) visited Hong Kong and China, and concocted a brilliant way of sending me postcards: he made six of them into a series, which had drawings on either side that fit together like a little jigsaw, then labeled and sent them in numerical order. Funnily enough, I didn’t get them all in the correct order, but it was fun to wait around for the collection to be completed!

Just today, I came home from uni to a postcard from Guangzhou that dad had sent me. Although it wasn’t nearly as creative as Joel’s Guangzhou postcard, this little piece of cardboard with a generic cityscape photo made my afternoon. It’s funny how much more intimate seeing someone’s handwriting is, as opposed to merely an email. Often times I’ll send long, ranting, frustrated, angry, ecstatic or just generally overwhelming and brain-scattered emails to my ‘grrrrlfraaaan’ in Seattle or my ol’ buddy Takuma at Tulane, but when I really have something to say that’s worth taking the time for, I’ll be putting black ink to white paper. The only trouble for them is deciphering my handwriting beyond the “Dear ______”, because my handwriting – although often deemed as artistic/awesome/copy-worthy by onlookers – is a shocker to try and read.

Anyway, I really ought to finish this long overdue letter to my sister. Even though I was just saying to mum earlier about how much smaller the house seems when she came back home for Christmas (and will be when she’s back for her summer), and how the last piece of any delicious food always goes missing out of the fridge… I miss her. A lot.

Here’s some photos from earlier today. The first two are of my ferry trip into uni. I’d been meaning for ages to take photos of the city from the ferry when leaving uni, but the ferry situ today didn’t warrant for that. Plus, I’m really unhappy with these two photos because I literally had to guess and “shoot from the hip” as it’s our point and shoot camera, which is broken and I literally can’t see what I’m photographing on the screen and the manual viewfinder may as well not even exist! But it was such a lovely day I just had to post them anyway:

The marina at which parking is now a nightmare. I got dropped off and picked up today, phew.

I must say, I’m proud of my very steady guesswork… the horizon’s not that lopsided haha.

Rangitoto Island, the iconic view you get in Auckland.

See where I had double-iced half the cupcakes? I learnt my lesson… don’t ice them when they’re hot out of the oven, icing tends to melt and drip away. Although it’s never happened before, but I guess I used a different recipe.

Mum’s delicious banana cake.

They were meant to be red velvet cupcakes, but I ran out of red food colouring, so the inside colour is a bit off. Luckily you can’t see here, haha.

Tomorrow morning, two lovely people will wake up to my cupcakes which I’ve hidden in eccentric places rather than on their doorstep. This is what happens when I do late-night baking and then think “oh wouldn’t it be sweet if I…”, combined with the mentality of think of all that buttery goodness I want to share with everybody else’s hips.

1 … 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 … 14