I'm insanely happy today because my teacher praised me! Albeit in his usual double-edged way haha... Dammit, I love to be praised. I am totally a closet teacher's pet (but will never admit this offline, 'cos I have my rebel-hates-teachers image to upkeep, ya'know?)
Unfortunately, nowadays the happy things tend to be tainted with the thought that I might not get to enjoy them for very much longer. *emos away*
____________________________________________
I remember the day I got 'The News' and crossed that mental threshold to realise that 'It' might really happen.
As is my usual practice when I'm faced with reality that I'm not quite prepared to face, I took a long walk in my neighbourhood. I was thinking how everything seems brighter and more beautiful when you're getting further from it... and of course I walked out of Cold Storage (hey who says you can't take walks in Cold Storage?) into the most glorious sunset I have seen in ages. You know, the type with the golden glow and painted skies and silhouetted trees. And I thought, wow is it just me or is this place totally reflecting my thoughts today?
Then I looked up at the sky and saw two (not one but TWO) brilliant rainbows stretching in huge arcs over the entire sky. At that point, I might have been observed to raise my eyes to the heavens and plaintively demand, 'Isn't this a bit much?'
And then, right then, my handphone rang, and it was my 2 sisters who happened to be on the opposite side of the street. They'd spotted me and excitedly told me about the rainbows. Then they ran laughing across the street to meet me.
I should have turned delightedly towards them and lovingly gathered them in my arms while seagulls called and the wavelets caressed the sand... but I just silently groaned at the corny movie that is my life and refused to participate in any of its silly theatrics.
True story, I swear. I couldn't even make this up myself.
________________________________________
I have officially reached the pinnacle of my career today, and accomplished the one thing I will spend the rest of my life boasting about.
This story requires a bit of background. You should know that before joining my organisation, I was (and am) an IT idiot. More specifically, for the purposes of this story, I have never taken a course on MS Excel, and had to learn how to sum figures on the job. Just a few months ago, my colleague was horrified that I did not know about the 'black cross thingy', and was Ctrl+C & Ctrl+V-ing in order to replicate cells. So let's get this clear, my Excel sucks bigtime.
Today, I created an incredibly sophisticated (by my standards) excel form! I used the SUMIF function (which I've only heard of today), together with the IF function (also just learnt), and the form had drop-down lists and such! Before today I didn't even know it was possible to create drop-down lists in Excel! It was a form that my more technologically advanced colleagues did not know how to create! I am SO incredibly pleased with myself, I am about to frame that form and give it pride of place on my office wall. I am so impressed by myself, I bet I could do quantum physics if I really wanted to. If only I was the one giving me my performance bonuses...
Kowtow before my genius, ye masses of only ordinary intelligence!
_______________________________________________
To reiterate, yay I got praised today!
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Cry, the Beloved Country
"Cry, the beloved country, for the unborn child that is the inheritor of our fear. Let him not love the earth too deeply. Let him not laugh too gladly when the water runs through his fingers, nor stand too silent when the setting sun makes red the veld with fire. Let him not be too moved when the birds of his land are singing, nor give too much of his heart to a mountain or a valley. For fear will rob him of all if he gives too much."
- Alan Paton
- Alan Paton
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Joy-Sorrow Conundrum
Most of you would be familiar with my classic time-money conundrum, most often employed as a convenient excuse whenever someone invites me to go travelling.
You would not be as familiar with the joy-sorrow conundrum, or at least, my version of it. For after all, I clearly remember George Eliot giving a particularly concise articulation of this conundrum in The Mill on the Floss. Unfortunately, as such things go, I can't find my copy when I need it (I never do), so I can't refer to the book for the quote. I shall therefore have to rely on the Internet, and I don't really think that the quote I've found is the quote I'm looking for. It doesn't quite have the same meaning as my joy-sorrow conundrum.
Nevertheless, here is George Eliot - "Apparently the mingled thread in the web of their life was so curiously twisted together that there could be no joy without a sorrow coming close upon it."
I can't tell if the tangle is my life, or me, or maybe it's the same thing. But won't this darn mess ever get sorted out?
You would not be as familiar with the joy-sorrow conundrum, or at least, my version of it. For after all, I clearly remember George Eliot giving a particularly concise articulation of this conundrum in The Mill on the Floss. Unfortunately, as such things go, I can't find my copy when I need it (I never do), so I can't refer to the book for the quote. I shall therefore have to rely on the Internet, and I don't really think that the quote I've found is the quote I'm looking for. It doesn't quite have the same meaning as my joy-sorrow conundrum.
Nevertheless, here is George Eliot - "Apparently the mingled thread in the web of their life was so curiously twisted together that there could be no joy without a sorrow coming close upon it."
I can't tell if the tangle is my life, or me, or maybe it's the same thing. But won't this darn mess ever get sorted out?
Sunday, March 08, 2009
The Miserability of the Eaters of Babies
My colleague and I face each other miserably across my desk. On my desk is a huge tube of Chocobabies that LSB gave me in order to cheer me up. It is trying to do just that, and Chocobabies are dying in the attempt. We each have a pile of Chocobabies in our left hands (because we're both right-handers), and we're silently eating our respective piles. He throws a couple from his pile into his mouth and works at diminishing his pile, but I insist on eating Chocobabies one by one because I want to see if they're genuine Chocobabies. Genuine Chocobabies are the ones with the smiley faces because everyone knows that babies have faces. We (my colleague and I sans the Chocobabies, who are smiling away) are both very gloomy. How ah, he half asks. I confess that I don't know. Eat more, he answers his own question, as he finishes his pile of Chocobabies and pours a new pile on his hand. He places the tube back on my desk and waves me to take more. We laugh loudly-bitterly-helplessly, and my other colleague pops her head in to ask what we are laughing about.
Now there are no more fake or genuine Chocobabies on my desk.
Now there are no more fake or genuine Chocobabies on my desk.
Friday, March 06, 2009
Losing
I've always had the fear - and I'm not sure if anyone else is afraid over this in this same way - of losing myself. Part of the reason is because I feel as if I'm just the sort who'd trip over a step and drop herself somewhere and later have a hell of a time retracing her footsteps to find herself again.
Now that my 'extra-curriculum activities' have come to a close, I have a bit of time, and a few days ago I picked up some storybooks. Yes, storybooks. Books that I didn't have to read; books that could scale the heights of erudition or scrape the bottom of the trash bin, and I could read them all. Such a simple freedom, and I am floored. Which meant I spent my lunch hour at the miserable MPH near my workplace and bought 3 books. They weren't books I had been eyeing for a long time; they were just books that caught my fancy and so I dished out the hard, cold cash in a blind literature-purchasing frenzy. Doesn't matter what books they are, only that evening saw me parked in a cafe near the river with a glass of red wine, a slice of chocolate cake, a book in my hands and 2 more in my bag. Yes, when I Read I really Read. And so I Read.
And then the waiter asked me for the bill because they were closing, and I realised I had lost hours, and it was really time to be getting home. I staggered out of the cafe somewhat disoriented, with a buzzing in my head that annoyingly reminded me one should not read for hours in a dim cafe.
It was such a pleasure to read, and I was intoxicated with the seldom appreciated freedom of being able to read whatever one likes. And I thought, maybe I could keep doing this, sit through the work hours, then do this every evening - pick out a book and just read. I could do it for years, spending my time in a pleasant drowsy contentment, always letting my thoughts ride with the imagination of whichever author I happen to pick up, never being bored because I would be living so many lives through so many minds.
The thought chills me, that I might start reading one day, and look up to find that 20, 30, or even 40 years have gone by. I get scared because I think I am perfectly capable of doing that, perhaps not entirely literally, but close. I have never had a good memory, and now that I do so many things at work everyday, I would not be able to tell you, at the end of the day, what I had done in the morning. It would be as if my day got stolen from me, and I was alienated from my time.
I have always feared the madness within. It would be so easy for me to go mad, for me to forget who I am. All I have to do is to let go.
When I speak of madness - well, I don't know if a psychiatrist would call that mad. But I can't think of a better word to describe the feeling of not being in one's own mind, of letting the body do what it likes while the mind huddles in a corner or flies out and scatters in the rain. Of being unthinking, unable to form a coherent thought, unaware of myself and lost, suspended, in some fake, fictional world while my life drains away.
My erhu teacher always tells me that I need to make sure my qi is located low in my body, and I always give him my trademarked glazed eyes look. But I know exactly what he means.
Now that my 'extra-curriculum activities' have come to a close, I have a bit of time, and a few days ago I picked up some storybooks. Yes, storybooks. Books that I didn't have to read; books that could scale the heights of erudition or scrape the bottom of the trash bin, and I could read them all. Such a simple freedom, and I am floored. Which meant I spent my lunch hour at the miserable MPH near my workplace and bought 3 books. They weren't books I had been eyeing for a long time; they were just books that caught my fancy and so I dished out the hard, cold cash in a blind literature-purchasing frenzy. Doesn't matter what books they are, only that evening saw me parked in a cafe near the river with a glass of red wine, a slice of chocolate cake, a book in my hands and 2 more in my bag. Yes, when I Read I really Read. And so I Read.
And then the waiter asked me for the bill because they were closing, and I realised I had lost hours, and it was really time to be getting home. I staggered out of the cafe somewhat disoriented, with a buzzing in my head that annoyingly reminded me one should not read for hours in a dim cafe.
It was such a pleasure to read, and I was intoxicated with the seldom appreciated freedom of being able to read whatever one likes. And I thought, maybe I could keep doing this, sit through the work hours, then do this every evening - pick out a book and just read. I could do it for years, spending my time in a pleasant drowsy contentment, always letting my thoughts ride with the imagination of whichever author I happen to pick up, never being bored because I would be living so many lives through so many minds.
The thought chills me, that I might start reading one day, and look up to find that 20, 30, or even 40 years have gone by. I get scared because I think I am perfectly capable of doing that, perhaps not entirely literally, but close. I have never had a good memory, and now that I do so many things at work everyday, I would not be able to tell you, at the end of the day, what I had done in the morning. It would be as if my day got stolen from me, and I was alienated from my time.
I have always feared the madness within. It would be so easy for me to go mad, for me to forget who I am. All I have to do is to let go.
When I speak of madness - well, I don't know if a psychiatrist would call that mad. But I can't think of a better word to describe the feeling of not being in one's own mind, of letting the body do what it likes while the mind huddles in a corner or flies out and scatters in the rain. Of being unthinking, unable to form a coherent thought, unaware of myself and lost, suspended, in some fake, fictional world while my life drains away.
My erhu teacher always tells me that I need to make sure my qi is located low in my body, and I always give him my trademarked glazed eyes look. But I know exactly what he means.
Monday, March 02, 2009
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Watercolour impressions. Singapore. Post-Ulysses.
I keep having these solitary romantic moments that I suspect are romantic partly because they are solitary. I feel quite Wordsworthian (or Words-worthy hehe).
I took a walk down to the Merlion area at the mouth of the Singapore River today, and there was an almost post-apocalyptic feel to the place. I'm not sure why, but it might have been the dark clouds, the half-hearted drizzle, the slightly too-strong-for-Singapore breeze, and the not-quite-dark dusk of Singapore. Come to think of it maybe it felt more post-modern than post-apocalyptic. Or maybe they're the same thing. In any case it was a post-something vibe.
I have always been fascinated by the placement of the Merlion in what is a carefully constructed picture of Singapore (and of course a photo opp for tourists). A specially built pier stretches out in front of the Merlion so that you can take the 'perfect' picture of Singapore: behind the Merlion is the Fullerton Hotel (an old colonial-type building), and beyond that is a towering circle of skyscrapers, Singapore's financial centre. There is the Singapore story for you - from British colony to economic success, just perfect.
Edwin Thumboo's poem Ulysses by the Merlion, is placed on the pier in front of the Merlion, an official caption to the official definitive photo of Singapore. This is the last verse of the poem:
Whatever Thumboo thinks of his poem, I cannot but feel that to place the poem at this place is both bittersweet irony and piercing commentary. All around this spot, the hustle of dealing with things continues. This is the historical centre of trade in Singapore, the Singapore River. Today the Central Business District forms the backdrop to the Merlion. If you look a bit to the left of the Merlion, you will see the bright lights of the construction of the 'Integrated Resorts' (i.e. multi-billion dollar gambling den). This is the heart of where things are dealt with, traded, fought over. And yet in the midst of all this stands the Merlion, this misshapen, wistful creature, this symbol of our longing for images, and the image to satisfy our longings.
There is a beauty to Singapore that I had not appreciated when I was younger. It is not the beauty that our Tourism Board would like us to see, but a more ambivalent and neurotic beauty - a beauty more akin to that of a raving Ophelia or a guilt-stricken Lady MacBeth than the sweet innocence of a pure and certain Juliet. It is a desperate, futile beauty, beautiful because it is tainted with contradiction and conflict. There are red angry splashes of frustration in Singapore, and a greying disappointment, a mildewed, unsure hope, the green of our grass and sandy tramples, the shiny silver of technology, money and efficiency, a confusion of dragon and phoenix and garuda and naga and the horses of the sun has rampaged through and we no longer know what colour we are. Which lion in which sea?
The CBD during the weekend is like a silent, gargantuan cemetary that does not reflect the warmth nor the life nor the banality of those it was built for. They stand, huge and monumental sculptures, indifferent to the purpose for which they were built, and indifferent to our office hour scuttling between their concrete layers and columns.
We build things hoping that in building things we build enduring images. We are good at building things but we are not good at building images. Our images turn out to be a child's scribble - half-fish half-lion, half-everything all-nothing. Such ironic self-awareness we possess, that we chose this crooked creature as the image of ourselves and placed it at this very spot - this spot that represents everything we've strived to achieve and all the things we try to transcend.
Opposite float two brightly lit durian husks, two more halves of an empty whole.
I actually hesitated for quite a while before posting this, largely because it sounds so maudlin. It reminds me of my Creative Writing Club days, and god forbid I return to my Years of Angsty Poetry (although in my defence I wrote most of my poems in 2 weeks and only because I had to produce a portfolio to get into one of those arts programmes. After that I was a proudly inactive and unproductive member of the Club.) Nevertheless, here it is, and for a little extra entertainment... The song for tonight is:
I took a walk down to the Merlion area at the mouth of the Singapore River today, and there was an almost post-apocalyptic feel to the place. I'm not sure why, but it might have been the dark clouds, the half-hearted drizzle, the slightly too-strong-for-Singapore breeze, and the not-quite-dark dusk of Singapore. Come to think of it maybe it felt more post-modern than post-apocalyptic. Or maybe they're the same thing. In any case it was a post-something vibe.
I have always been fascinated by the placement of the Merlion in what is a carefully constructed picture of Singapore (and of course a photo opp for tourists). A specially built pier stretches out in front of the Merlion so that you can take the 'perfect' picture of Singapore: behind the Merlion is the Fullerton Hotel (an old colonial-type building), and beyond that is a towering circle of skyscrapers, Singapore's financial centre. There is the Singapore story for you - from British colony to economic success, just perfect.
Edwin Thumboo's poem Ulysses by the Merlion, is placed on the pier in front of the Merlion, an official caption to the official definitive photo of Singapore. This is the last verse of the poem:
Perhaps having dealt with things,
Surfeited on them.
Their spirit yearn again for images,
Adding to the dragon, the phoenix,
Garuda, naga, those horses of the sun,
This lion of the sea.
This image of themselves.
Whatever Thumboo thinks of his poem, I cannot but feel that to place the poem at this place is both bittersweet irony and piercing commentary. All around this spot, the hustle of dealing with things continues. This is the historical centre of trade in Singapore, the Singapore River. Today the Central Business District forms the backdrop to the Merlion. If you look a bit to the left of the Merlion, you will see the bright lights of the construction of the 'Integrated Resorts' (i.e. multi-billion dollar gambling den). This is the heart of where things are dealt with, traded, fought over. And yet in the midst of all this stands the Merlion, this misshapen, wistful creature, this symbol of our longing for images, and the image to satisfy our longings.
There is a beauty to Singapore that I had not appreciated when I was younger. It is not the beauty that our Tourism Board would like us to see, but a more ambivalent and neurotic beauty - a beauty more akin to that of a raving Ophelia or a guilt-stricken Lady MacBeth than the sweet innocence of a pure and certain Juliet. It is a desperate, futile beauty, beautiful because it is tainted with contradiction and conflict. There are red angry splashes of frustration in Singapore, and a greying disappointment, a mildewed, unsure hope, the green of our grass and sandy tramples, the shiny silver of technology, money and efficiency, a confusion of dragon and phoenix and garuda and naga and the horses of the sun has rampaged through and we no longer know what colour we are. Which lion in which sea?
The CBD during the weekend is like a silent, gargantuan cemetary that does not reflect the warmth nor the life nor the banality of those it was built for. They stand, huge and monumental sculptures, indifferent to the purpose for which they were built, and indifferent to our office hour scuttling between their concrete layers and columns.
We build things hoping that in building things we build enduring images. We are good at building things but we are not good at building images. Our images turn out to be a child's scribble - half-fish half-lion, half-everything all-nothing. Such ironic self-awareness we possess, that we chose this crooked creature as the image of ourselves and placed it at this very spot - this spot that represents everything we've strived to achieve and all the things we try to transcend.
Opposite float two brightly lit durian husks, two more halves of an empty whole.
I actually hesitated for quite a while before posting this, largely because it sounds so maudlin. It reminds me of my Creative Writing Club days, and god forbid I return to my Years of Angsty Poetry (although in my defence I wrote most of my poems in 2 weeks and only because I had to produce a portfolio to get into one of those arts programmes. After that I was a proudly inactive and unproductive member of the Club.) Nevertheless, here it is, and for a little extra entertainment... The song for tonight is:
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Going Quantum: My Perfumed CNY Adventures
Title totally misleading. But I do have some stuff to say about quantum thingies, perfume (as always), and CNY.
This CNY has seen me behaving like a big girl. This was largely thanks to the incessant nagging of my colleagues who insisted that I Absolutely Had to get Lim Chee Quan bah kwa for my 'future mother-in-law' (their words, not mine) after they saw what I had originally planned to give (cookies). So after much haggling ('Can I give 500gm?' 'Too little!' '800?' 'Too little!' 'But very expensive! Ok ok 1kg lar.') we trotted down to Lim Chee Guan after work only to learn that the sliced pork had already been sold out, and we had to settle for the inferior (oh tragedy!) golden coin one. And even for that we had to queue for about an hour! An HOUR! But, as my more experienced and wiser colleague sagely noted, Lim Chee Guan is more than bah kwa; it has become a symbol of patience and virtue. Buy 5 cans of abalone also not better than 1kg of Lim Chee Guan bah kwa! 5 cans of abalone just use money can buy already, but Lim Chee Guan bah kwa still got to queue up and then maybe queue finish already still don't have.
It's things like this that make me realise how much I enjoy where I am now. Sometimes I think, I could work here forever. Sometimes.
---------------------------------------
Today I dropped by the discounter near my workplace, and to my huge surprise, discovered a gem of a perfume. A banged-up box of Guerlain's Vol De Nuit in parfum form(!!!!!) was sitting alone in a crowd of Guerlain's Samsara. Now I confess that before today I'd never smelled this perfume before, and I actually knew very little about it. BUT what I knew was that this was a perfume that was launched in 1933, has since been discontinued, and is nearly impossible to find in parfum, especially in Singapore. I also knew that parfum extrait in general tends to be horrendously expensive compared to EDT & EDP. And here was this little perfume sitting calmly on the shelf selling for SGD39!
Ok, so the box is a little discoloured (read: very) and torn and even a bit mouldy. But I got the salesperson to open the box, and inside was an absolutely charmingly retro black and gold box, with the 8ml gold bottle nestled inside. So of course I jumped on it, hugged it, announced it was mine, and got a discount of two measly dollars. I confess my purchase had nothing to do with the actual juice. It's just the sheer joy of unexpectedly discovering something old and pretty and expensive and has a bit of romantic and tragic history to it, and being able to buy it for practically nothing (haha ok not really), and I would really have regretted it if I'd let it go. (I sometimes have the same reaction to really old books, but I'm a bit more wary with books because I am convinced the old ones are all infested with gigantic silverfish).
For an idea of what my perfume looks like, and how much it costs online, look here. The picture is on the right. It's selling online at $100+ for 8ml! Needless to say I'm reasonably pleased with myself.
In other perfume-related news, I am seriously considering setting aside a perfume fund. This arises from a recent visit to Sephora, where I fell madly in love (again) with Sisley Soir de Lune, and fell madly in love (for the first time) with Aqua di Parma Iris Nobile and Sisley Eau de Campagne. All of which cost about SGD200 each.
I think I'm rather fond of the iris note. Iris perfumes (Prada Infusion d'Iris, Hermes Hiris, Iris Nobile) tend to sit well with me.
I also like rose perfumes, but I think those are a little harder to do well. I don't like Bvlgari's Rose Essentialle because it's a little too sweet to be a real rose perfume for me. I've got Agent Provocateur, but oh man, that is a rose perfume with a huge wallop. It is the only perfume that I don't spray directly on my skin because it's too damn strong. Instead, I spray into the air and walk through the cloud of perfume. For most perfumes doing that just wastes the perfume, because the smell doesn't stick to you. But for Agent Provocateur it's a totally different story. I love AP, but it's incredibly strong, plus it's a rose perfume with a dirty/skanky note, all of which makes it not-so-polite. Thing with rose perfumes is it's too easy to be a) boring; b) old lady-ish; c) too strong; or d) too candied for my taste. But Sisley's Soir de Lune is such a wonderful gem of a perfume. It is a perfectly rounded rose perfume with no sharp edges; it's incredibly incredibly well-made, very sophisticated, and just all in all wonderful. At this juncture I should also inform you guys that I have a bad habit of sniffing congratulatory wreaths as I walk past unsuspecting newlly-opened shops. I especially love to sniff the lilies and roses, but this makes me rather embarrassing company, methinks.
As for Sisley's Eau de Campagne - For the longest time I've been looking for my perfect 'green' perfume, and this is it. Some green perfumes are nice but rather boring (Guerlain Vetiver), some are too strange for me (The Different Company Sel de Vetiver), and some are too sweet. But Eau de Campagne evokes freshly cut grass, the damp earth after the rain, and salty ocean breezes. It works. It works dammit.
Incidentally, I also love Annick Goutal's Encens Flamboyant, which smells exactly like incense in churches. It also costs more than I should pay for perfume. Just like the rest.
Bloody thing is, Sisley, Aqua di Parma & Annick Goutal don't usually turn up on Singapore's discounters' shelves. Argh! *tears hair out*
----------------------------------------
On my going quantum - In the midst of all the stress and work early this month, I anyhowly bought a book by Stephen Hawking that is called [[something something] Baby Universes. It is coolness man. It has things like quarks and parallel universes and black holes. I was so fascinated by it that I bought Hawking's A Brief History of Time as well as A Very Short Introduction to Cosmology. Why in the world didn't they teach us this stuff in secondary school?!?! For all these years I thought that electrons were the smallest things eva! And if they'd told us about this stuff maybe I would have gone into science! (nah.) Reading these books, I feel somehow as if the world is actually pretty magical. I need to remember that not everything is prosaic and expected...
This CNY has seen me behaving like a big girl. This was largely thanks to the incessant nagging of my colleagues who insisted that I Absolutely Had to get Lim Chee Quan bah kwa for my 'future mother-in-law' (their words, not mine) after they saw what I had originally planned to give (cookies). So after much haggling ('Can I give 500gm?' 'Too little!' '800?' 'Too little!' 'But very expensive! Ok ok 1kg lar.') we trotted down to Lim Chee Guan after work only to learn that the sliced pork had already been sold out, and we had to settle for the inferior (oh tragedy!) golden coin one. And even for that we had to queue for about an hour! An HOUR! But, as my more experienced and wiser colleague sagely noted, Lim Chee Guan is more than bah kwa; it has become a symbol of patience and virtue. Buy 5 cans of abalone also not better than 1kg of Lim Chee Guan bah kwa! 5 cans of abalone just use money can buy already, but Lim Chee Guan bah kwa still got to queue up and then maybe queue finish already still don't have.
It's things like this that make me realise how much I enjoy where I am now. Sometimes I think, I could work here forever. Sometimes.
---------------------------------------
Today I dropped by the discounter near my workplace, and to my huge surprise, discovered a gem of a perfume. A banged-up box of Guerlain's Vol De Nuit in parfum form(!!!!!) was sitting alone in a crowd of Guerlain's Samsara. Now I confess that before today I'd never smelled this perfume before, and I actually knew very little about it. BUT what I knew was that this was a perfume that was launched in 1933, has since been discontinued, and is nearly impossible to find in parfum, especially in Singapore. I also knew that parfum extrait in general tends to be horrendously expensive compared to EDT & EDP. And here was this little perfume sitting calmly on the shelf selling for SGD39!
Ok, so the box is a little discoloured (read: very) and torn and even a bit mouldy. But I got the salesperson to open the box, and inside was an absolutely charmingly retro black and gold box, with the 8ml gold bottle nestled inside. So of course I jumped on it, hugged it, announced it was mine, and got a discount of two measly dollars. I confess my purchase had nothing to do with the actual juice. It's just the sheer joy of unexpectedly discovering something old and pretty and expensive and has a bit of romantic and tragic history to it, and being able to buy it for practically nothing (haha ok not really), and I would really have regretted it if I'd let it go. (I sometimes have the same reaction to really old books, but I'm a bit more wary with books because I am convinced the old ones are all infested with gigantic silverfish).
For an idea of what my perfume looks like, and how much it costs online, look here. The picture is on the right. It's selling online at $100+ for 8ml! Needless to say I'm reasonably pleased with myself.
In other perfume-related news, I am seriously considering setting aside a perfume fund. This arises from a recent visit to Sephora, where I fell madly in love (again) with Sisley Soir de Lune, and fell madly in love (for the first time) with Aqua di Parma Iris Nobile and Sisley Eau de Campagne. All of which cost about SGD200 each.
I think I'm rather fond of the iris note. Iris perfumes (Prada Infusion d'Iris, Hermes Hiris, Iris Nobile) tend to sit well with me.
I also like rose perfumes, but I think those are a little harder to do well. I don't like Bvlgari's Rose Essentialle because it's a little too sweet to be a real rose perfume for me. I've got Agent Provocateur, but oh man, that is a rose perfume with a huge wallop. It is the only perfume that I don't spray directly on my skin because it's too damn strong. Instead, I spray into the air and walk through the cloud of perfume. For most perfumes doing that just wastes the perfume, because the smell doesn't stick to you. But for Agent Provocateur it's a totally different story. I love AP, but it's incredibly strong, plus it's a rose perfume with a dirty/skanky note, all of which makes it not-so-polite. Thing with rose perfumes is it's too easy to be a) boring; b) old lady-ish; c) too strong; or d) too candied for my taste. But Sisley's Soir de Lune is such a wonderful gem of a perfume. It is a perfectly rounded rose perfume with no sharp edges; it's incredibly incredibly well-made, very sophisticated, and just all in all wonderful. At this juncture I should also inform you guys that I have a bad habit of sniffing congratulatory wreaths as I walk past unsuspecting newlly-opened shops. I especially love to sniff the lilies and roses, but this makes me rather embarrassing company, methinks.
As for Sisley's Eau de Campagne - For the longest time I've been looking for my perfect 'green' perfume, and this is it. Some green perfumes are nice but rather boring (Guerlain Vetiver), some are too strange for me (The Different Company Sel de Vetiver), and some are too sweet. But Eau de Campagne evokes freshly cut grass, the damp earth after the rain, and salty ocean breezes. It works. It works dammit.
Incidentally, I also love Annick Goutal's Encens Flamboyant, which smells exactly like incense in churches. It also costs more than I should pay for perfume. Just like the rest.
Bloody thing is, Sisley, Aqua di Parma & Annick Goutal don't usually turn up on Singapore's discounters' shelves. Argh! *tears hair out*
----------------------------------------
On my going quantum - In the midst of all the stress and work early this month, I anyhowly bought a book by Stephen Hawking that is called [[something something] Baby Universes. It is coolness man. It has things like quarks and parallel universes and black holes. I was so fascinated by it that I bought Hawking's A Brief History of Time as well as A Very Short Introduction to Cosmology. Why in the world didn't they teach us this stuff in secondary school?!?! For all these years I thought that electrons were the smallest things eva! And if they'd told us about this stuff maybe I would have gone into science! (nah.) Reading these books, I feel somehow as if the world is actually pretty magical. I need to remember that not everything is prosaic and expected...
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Rock music
I find that I appreciate different genres of music in different ways. For example, lyrics play a huge part in my appreciation of Mandarin pop/rock, but I seldom bother to even make out the lyrics in English rock. I think it's partly because I feel that Mandarin is inherently much much much more lyrical and beautiful than English, and very often, English lyrics merely spoil the music for me. (Case in point, Celine Dion's abysmal lyrics for 'All By Myself' have forever spoiled the 2nd movement of Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto No.2 for me. Forever.) Just look at the lyrics for Jay Chou's songs - how much of it can be translated into English without losing the beauty? (Ya, irreversible damage to street cred due to appreciative reference to Jay Chou. Dear Jay, long gone are the days of your coolness. You have faded into mediocre idol-ness.)
For English rock, it's the howl (or growl, depending) of the guitars, wildness of the drums, the animalistic timbre and power of the voice... (*ahem* composes self and takes cold shower) and the sheer energy of the musical dissonance that gets me. Or it is the urban degenerate druggie feel. You know, for those urban degenerate druggie rocker types who are not like the healthy ones jumping around on stage and prefer to slump in a corner while somehow producing what passes for very very cool music from their guitars (probably stolen). As for the lyrics... I don't want to know. Really.
But occasionally, I take a listen to pop/rock that I never used to think much of and kinda tear up because the lyrics are so beautiful.
Superman
I can't stand to fly
I'm not that naive
I'm just out to find
The better part of me
I'm more than a bird, I'm more than a plane
I'm more than some pretty face beside a train
And it's not easy to be me
I wish that I could cry
Fall upon my knees
Find a way to lie
'Bout a home I'll never see
It may sound absurd but don't be naive
Even heroes have the right to bleed
I may be disturbed but won't you concede
Even heroes have the right to dream?
And it's not easy to be me
Up up and away away from me
Well it's all right
You can all sleep sound tonight
I'm not crazy or anything
I can't stand to fly
I'm not that naive
Men weren't meant to ride
With clouds between their knees
I'm only a man in a silly red sheet
Digging for kryptonite on this one way street
Only a man in a funny red sheet
Looking for special things inside of me
Inside of me, inside of me, yeah
Inside of me, inside of me
I'm only a man in a funny red sheet
I'm only a man looking for a dream
I'm only a man in a funny red sheet
And it's not easy, it's not easy to be me
For the record, you should all know that I detest Superman (the red cape guy). For reasons unrelated to my detest of the superhero and for the longest time, I was relatively unimpressed by the song. It was one of those pleasant rock ballad types floating around in a veritable Pacific ocean of pleasant rock ballads. But for some reason this song is speaking to me these days. It's speaking, dude!
All this makes me think that maybe appreciation for the lyrics of a song is situational - (i.e. we like certain lyrics because of our experiences or our ability to imagine certain situations or images), but our appreciation for the music is largely aesthetic, with nothing to do with anything outside the music. Maybe? Yeah whatever.
For English rock, it's the howl (or growl, depending) of the guitars, wildness of the drums, the animalistic timbre and power of the voice... (*ahem* composes self and takes cold shower) and the sheer energy of the musical dissonance that gets me. Or it is the urban degenerate druggie feel. You know, for those urban degenerate druggie rocker types who are not like the healthy ones jumping around on stage and prefer to slump in a corner while somehow producing what passes for very very cool music from their guitars (probably stolen). As for the lyrics... I don't want to know. Really.
But occasionally, I take a listen to pop/rock that I never used to think much of and kinda tear up because the lyrics are so beautiful.
Superman
I can't stand to fly
I'm not that naive
I'm just out to find
The better part of me
I'm more than a bird, I'm more than a plane
I'm more than some pretty face beside a train
And it's not easy to be me
I wish that I could cry
Fall upon my knees
Find a way to lie
'Bout a home I'll never see
It may sound absurd but don't be naive
Even heroes have the right to bleed
I may be disturbed but won't you concede
Even heroes have the right to dream?
And it's not easy to be me
Up up and away away from me
Well it's all right
You can all sleep sound tonight
I'm not crazy or anything
I can't stand to fly
I'm not that naive
Men weren't meant to ride
With clouds between their knees
I'm only a man in a silly red sheet
Digging for kryptonite on this one way street
Only a man in a funny red sheet
Looking for special things inside of me
Inside of me, inside of me, yeah
Inside of me, inside of me
I'm only a man in a funny red sheet
I'm only a man looking for a dream
I'm only a man in a funny red sheet
And it's not easy, it's not easy to be me
For the record, you should all know that I detest Superman (the red cape guy). For reasons unrelated to my detest of the superhero and for the longest time, I was relatively unimpressed by the song. It was one of those pleasant rock ballad types floating around in a veritable Pacific ocean of pleasant rock ballads. But for some reason this song is speaking to me these days. It's speaking, dude!
All this makes me think that maybe appreciation for the lyrics of a song is situational - (i.e. we like certain lyrics because of our experiences or our ability to imagine certain situations or images), but our appreciation for the music is largely aesthetic, with nothing to do with anything outside the music. Maybe? Yeah whatever.
Things are getting weird in here
I officially declare this the month of freaky Singapore weather. The mornings and night have been incredibly cold, and the afternoons have been incredibly warm BUT very windy. And I mean my umbrella turns upside down windy.
Ok I'm going to have to explain that right? Why I'm toting an umbrella on a sunny day like an old lady?
Nah.
(I love my l'aire de mysterieuse, and I don't know if I retain any French, I being one of notable French-specific non-retentiveness.)
In other news, I spent more than 12 bucks on post-it notes (2 pads altogether). Very very cute post-it notes.
I've become a post-it fanatic. They're like little flags saying 'look at me, I'm important!', so I tag all the important things at work with post-it notes. What this means is, of course, that my work desk looks a bit like it has been claimed by every single country in the world (and possibly a few extra-terrestrial empires), with many many many flags planted all over and all fluttering in the minuscule office air-con breeze. Either that, or my desk has become the unofficial hangout of the United Nations, and everyone brought their own flag in some sort of flag-themed potluck. Sometimes I think that with all that fluttering, one day my work desk is going to float up and out into the sky. Ah, most treasured dream!
Seriously, every morning I reach office, I'm greeted with many little paper screams, all wanting my attention, all saying 'look at me look at me! me first!' I might as well be a mother.
Oh, and my worst nightmare has come true. My colleague has been clearly heard to comment that I am like a little girl. Don't cry for me Argentina, it was inevitable and anyway, I don't really know you. As for the rest of you, cry your hearts out for my miserable little reputation.
(Can anyone tell I've been watching Scrubs again?)
Ok I'm going to have to explain that right? Why I'm toting an umbrella on a sunny day like an old lady?
Nah.
(I love my l'aire de mysterieuse, and I don't know if I retain any French, I being one of notable French-specific non-retentiveness.)
In other news, I spent more than 12 bucks on post-it notes (2 pads altogether). Very very cute post-it notes.
I've become a post-it fanatic. They're like little flags saying 'look at me, I'm important!', so I tag all the important things at work with post-it notes. What this means is, of course, that my work desk looks a bit like it has been claimed by every single country in the world (and possibly a few extra-terrestrial empires), with many many many flags planted all over and all fluttering in the minuscule office air-con breeze. Either that, or my desk has become the unofficial hangout of the United Nations, and everyone brought their own flag in some sort of flag-themed potluck. Sometimes I think that with all that fluttering, one day my work desk is going to float up and out into the sky. Ah, most treasured dream!
Seriously, every morning I reach office, I'm greeted with many little paper screams, all wanting my attention, all saying 'look at me look at me! me first!' I might as well be a mother.
Oh, and my worst nightmare has come true. My colleague has been clearly heard to comment that I am like a little girl. Don't cry for me Argentina, it was inevitable and anyway, I don't really know you. As for the rest of you, cry your hearts out for my miserable little reputation.
(Can anyone tell I've been watching Scrubs again?)
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Hedley Bull is the coolest
In his introduction to Martin Wight's International Theory:
"Wight's atttitude towards the behaviourists was the source of one of my disagreements with him. I felt that they represented a significant challenge and that it was important to understand them and engage in debate with them. The correct strategy, it appeared to me, was to sit at their feet, to study their position until one could state their own arguments better than they could and then - when they were least suspecting - to turn on them and slaughter them in an academic Massacre of Glencoe. Wight entertained none of these bloody thoughts. He made no serious effort to study the behaviourists and in effect ignored them." p.xi
"Wight's atttitude towards the behaviourists was the source of one of my disagreements with him. I felt that they represented a significant challenge and that it was important to understand them and engage in debate with them. The correct strategy, it appeared to me, was to sit at their feet, to study their position until one could state their own arguments better than they could and then - when they were least suspecting - to turn on them and slaughter them in an academic Massacre of Glencoe. Wight entertained none of these bloody thoughts. He made no serious effort to study the behaviourists and in effect ignored them." p.xi
Pissed
with African historians.
As much as it's not very PC to say so, and insofar as my rather scanty knowledge of the literature allows me to make sweeping statements on the subject.
But if they don't start acknowledging that the Europeans weren't the only brutal murderers in their history, they should stop writing.
As much as it's not very PC to say so, and insofar as my rather scanty knowledge of the literature allows me to make sweeping statements on the subject.
But if they don't start acknowledging that the Europeans weren't the only brutal murderers in their history, they should stop writing.
Friday, January 02, 2009
Substance dependency
I can't believe I spent the whole day searching for a blue can of Red Bull. Does nobody else require Red Bull to get through the day?!?!
Also, stopped by new Sephora at Taka. Perfumes section was a huge disappointment. The discounters have a much better range. The makeup and skincare sections were funky though. Sephora had better buck up if it's going to suck any of my perfume money out of my very shallow pockets.
Oh yeah, thought I'd mention that I cut my hair short. I look very very cute (in case you hadn't noticed).
Also, stopped by new Sephora at Taka. Perfumes section was a huge disappointment. The discounters have a much better range. The makeup and skincare sections were funky though. Sephora had better buck up if it's going to suck any of my perfume money out of my very shallow pockets.
Oh yeah, thought I'd mention that I cut my hair short. I look very very cute (in case you hadn't noticed).
Monday, December 22, 2008
Confession
I love this post.
Yes, I read Dooce. I know that makes me uncool. But what's worse is I read it because her small daughter reminds me of me. Esp. post linked above. LSB would be very familiar with that reaction of mine. Thankfully I also have this other strategy - the talk in most reasonable tone strategy: "But LSB, I'm very tired now, and won't be able to work anyway. Why don't I just take a short nap and you can wake me up later? It's much more efficient that way." (LSB is this big efficiency freak. I know, he's strange.)
I'm also in my desperate early hours of the morning work rushing thing again. Sighz.
Yes, I read Dooce. I know that makes me uncool. But what's worse is I read it because her small daughter reminds me of me. Esp. post linked above. LSB would be very familiar with that reaction of mine. Thankfully I also have this other strategy - the talk in most reasonable tone strategy: "But LSB, I'm very tired now, and won't be able to work anyway. Why don't I just take a short nap and you can wake me up later? It's much more efficient that way." (LSB is this big efficiency freak. I know, he's strange.)
I'm also in my desperate early hours of the morning work rushing thing again. Sighz.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Celebrity Collage 3
MyHeritage: Celebrity Collage - Geneology - Vintage photos
Hmmm strangely enough I seem to score high on the Northeast Asian types. LSB is going to have a fit. I think some of these rank high in his idol list. Ah what can I say? I'm very cute.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
A dash of hope
I might as well come right out and say it, since so many of you know already - I'm finally doing what everyone said I would do in the end.
Ok, so it's been a secret too long, and I just can't bring myself to say it out loud. Shoot me. The rest of this post should make it obvious anyway.
In the course of doing what everyone said I would do, I went back to one of the old papers I wrote during my undergrad, and I was truly, truly ultra-genuinely shocked by the standard of the paper. I know it seems like I'm blowing my own trumpet announcing this on my blog, but I don't think anyone realises what a basketcase I am when it comes to academia, and therefore nobody truly realises what a shock this is to me.
For emphasis: BASKETCASE.
I've always been an insecure, neurotic nutcase when it comes to academia. I have never felt I was good enough, despite what my lecturers have told me. It is for this reason that I've always felt somewhat ambivalent about my grades.
I think maybe some part of me still retains that slacker/ invisible student/ hated by all teachers identity I had throughout my teenage years. I recall fondly when I had to apply for the humanities scholarship, all 3 of my secondary school humanities teachers refused to write a recommendation for me. I remember especially clearly my History teacher expressing doubts about my ability, and then asking how I did for my history prelims. To which I replied '93/100'. (Yes, I remember the exact figure till now.) She was not convinced by my score however, and after muchos begging, I managed to hound my Geography teacher into recommending me for a History-Literature course. I suppose it was revenge for not participating at all in my classes, and basically ignoring my teachers as best I could (and I was better at my humanities too. I can only imagine what my Maths & Science teachers thought of me.) But you see, that's how it's supposed to work. That's how the teachers and I hang. I quietly ignore them and they quietly detest my pretty ass. That's the way the world works.
Anyway, back to the main point. I've always taken any compliments I received in the course of my studies with a huge pinch of salt. How could it be that I deserved any of it? I was fairly convinced that all my lecturers were delusional or they didn't mean what they said, or maybe they just didn't expect much from their students, and I was always scared of being exposed for the fraudster that I thought I was. It was partly for this reason that at times I just felt miserable. I was carrying on in academia, pushed forward by the momentum of grades, encouragement and people's expectations, but not believing that I could progress much further. I mean, how long more before somebody pointed out my abject ignorance of what I was supposed to specialise in? And this was also partly why I wanted out. The pressure and emotional rollercoaster I went through was just too much for me. I didn't believe any of it - the encouragement, the compliments, the future in academia.
I don't know if that old paper of mine is accurate or true in any way, I truly don't. But I can say now that the level of sophistication (or sophistry, if you like) is not something I would expect from an undergraduate, or even a Masters student. I cannot believe that I wrote that paper. I remember I was very stressed out by that paper. This was a paper meant to be completed in a semester, and I remember that by the mid-term break, when my supervisor still hadn't received a proposed topic from me, he called me up and asked me if I would like to withdraw from the module. In the end I managed to convince him that I could finish the paper, and, as is usual for me, rushed the paper in a day. (that was just the writing of course. The research was done, albeit a little hastily, before.) When my supervisor returned the paper to me, he told me that he believed he couldn't have written a paper like that when he was a student. I didn't quite shrug that comment off, being absolutely flabbergasted that he could think so highly of a hastily put together argument that was full of holes and of doubtful veracity. But I was convinced that he probably knew too little about the topic, or was just being nice. Basically my reaction was 'Yeah sucker!' (Ok I pray my lecturers never read my blog.)
Now I have to say I agree with him. At the risk of sounding like I have an ego the size of North America, I have to say that I don't think any of my classmates could have written a paper of that level of sophistication in that little time (with that little knowledge, I might add). In fact, I have never seen another undergraduate paper that showed an equivalent level of analysis. That paper was like advanced-level intellectual kama sutra. I sound like an ass, but I genuinely think it was that good. Again, I have to emphasise that what I am so obviously impressed by is not the accuracy of the paper, or the truths revealed by my brilliant analysis (haha) but the level of sophistication (i.e. it might be bullshit but it is damn good bullshit).
So now I'm thinking, maybe I deserved all of it. Maybe even if I don't have the ability yet, I have the potential to pursue a career in academia. Maybe I can be successful academically, even if that might not mean professional success. Maybe it's just about finding the confidence and motivation and drive and environment in which I can do well. Maybe it's all possible, perhaps not this year, but maybe next year, or the year after that, or some year down the road. Ya' know?
And that means so much to me.
Ok, so it's been a secret too long, and I just can't bring myself to say it out loud. Shoot me. The rest of this post should make it obvious anyway.
In the course of doing what everyone said I would do, I went back to one of the old papers I wrote during my undergrad, and I was truly, truly ultra-genuinely shocked by the standard of the paper. I know it seems like I'm blowing my own trumpet announcing this on my blog, but I don't think anyone realises what a basketcase I am when it comes to academia, and therefore nobody truly realises what a shock this is to me.
For emphasis: BASKETCASE.
I've always been an insecure, neurotic nutcase when it comes to academia. I have never felt I was good enough, despite what my lecturers have told me. It is for this reason that I've always felt somewhat ambivalent about my grades.
I think maybe some part of me still retains that slacker/ invisible student/ hated by all teachers identity I had throughout my teenage years. I recall fondly when I had to apply for the humanities scholarship, all 3 of my secondary school humanities teachers refused to write a recommendation for me. I remember especially clearly my History teacher expressing doubts about my ability, and then asking how I did for my history prelims. To which I replied '93/100'. (Yes, I remember the exact figure till now.) She was not convinced by my score however, and after muchos begging, I managed to hound my Geography teacher into recommending me for a History-Literature course. I suppose it was revenge for not participating at all in my classes, and basically ignoring my teachers as best I could (and I was better at my humanities too. I can only imagine what my Maths & Science teachers thought of me.) But you see, that's how it's supposed to work. That's how the teachers and I hang. I quietly ignore them and they quietly detest my pretty ass. That's the way the world works.
Anyway, back to the main point. I've always taken any compliments I received in the course of my studies with a huge pinch of salt. How could it be that I deserved any of it? I was fairly convinced that all my lecturers were delusional or they didn't mean what they said, or maybe they just didn't expect much from their students, and I was always scared of being exposed for the fraudster that I thought I was. It was partly for this reason that at times I just felt miserable. I was carrying on in academia, pushed forward by the momentum of grades, encouragement and people's expectations, but not believing that I could progress much further. I mean, how long more before somebody pointed out my abject ignorance of what I was supposed to specialise in? And this was also partly why I wanted out. The pressure and emotional rollercoaster I went through was just too much for me. I didn't believe any of it - the encouragement, the compliments, the future in academia.
I don't know if that old paper of mine is accurate or true in any way, I truly don't. But I can say now that the level of sophistication (or sophistry, if you like) is not something I would expect from an undergraduate, or even a Masters student. I cannot believe that I wrote that paper. I remember I was very stressed out by that paper. This was a paper meant to be completed in a semester, and I remember that by the mid-term break, when my supervisor still hadn't received a proposed topic from me, he called me up and asked me if I would like to withdraw from the module. In the end I managed to convince him that I could finish the paper, and, as is usual for me, rushed the paper in a day. (that was just the writing of course. The research was done, albeit a little hastily, before.) When my supervisor returned the paper to me, he told me that he believed he couldn't have written a paper like that when he was a student. I didn't quite shrug that comment off, being absolutely flabbergasted that he could think so highly of a hastily put together argument that was full of holes and of doubtful veracity. But I was convinced that he probably knew too little about the topic, or was just being nice. Basically my reaction was 'Yeah sucker!' (Ok I pray my lecturers never read my blog.)
Now I have to say I agree with him. At the risk of sounding like I have an ego the size of North America, I have to say that I don't think any of my classmates could have written a paper of that level of sophistication in that little time (with that little knowledge, I might add). In fact, I have never seen another undergraduate paper that showed an equivalent level of analysis. That paper was like advanced-level intellectual kama sutra. I sound like an ass, but I genuinely think it was that good. Again, I have to emphasise that what I am so obviously impressed by is not the accuracy of the paper, or the truths revealed by my brilliant analysis (haha) but the level of sophistication (i.e. it might be bullshit but it is damn good bullshit).
So now I'm thinking, maybe I deserved all of it. Maybe even if I don't have the ability yet, I have the potential to pursue a career in academia. Maybe I can be successful academically, even if that might not mean professional success. Maybe it's just about finding the confidence and motivation and drive and environment in which I can do well. Maybe it's all possible, perhaps not this year, but maybe next year, or the year after that, or some year down the road. Ya' know?
And that means so much to me.
Monday, December 08, 2008
A perfect morning
It's one of those mornings with a good-tempered rain and light, cool breezes and chirping birds (strangely enough) and an all-the-earth-is-verdant-and-growing vibe AND that happens to be a public holiday. It's the kind of morning you stretch luxuriously and wake and look out of your window into the garden with the flowering shrubs and birds jumping in and out of tiny puddles and think, damn I need more Mozart in my music collection. In fact, it's the kind of morning for which this would be the perfect accompaniment:
Just look at how happy the pianist is!
Just look at how happy the pianist is!
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