Someone said to me a few days ago, "Wow, Naz, you must have been really something to have gotten her. She's gorgeous."
She was half-right. And not about me.
Been about two weeks now, and it seems to get a little more difficult, but a little less painful each day. Hard to explain really, but the littlest of things have jogged my mind back to things long gone, things I never would have remembered if recent events hadn't come to pass.
I remember writhing, prone, in a decrepit ambulance in Thailand with a metal spoon in my mouth.
I remember waiting alone, watching the baggage conveyor belt thing in the airport for familiar faces.
I remember reading through pages and pages of Karl Marx and other sociologists, who all seem to share a common trait of not being able to write in succint sentences, though we as students are told we should.
I remember standing, bewildered and out of place in places of flashing lights and inebrieted others, but having a point of focus to ignore the crowd around me, jostling with the smell of musk and alcohol and intoxication.
I remember rings and pendants, bracelets and watches, wallets and bears, poems and postcards, cards and cakes.
I remember sneaking around and plotting little escapades, silently in the darkness, trying not to make a sound then and later.
I remember the slow process of removing the fear of kittens, jumpy and playful, harmless yet terrifying, and the way the purrs warmed my heart.
I remember serenades, cracking and ridiculous, heartfelt and embarassing, joyful and sincere.
I remember a bouquet of orange roses, twenty-three, tinged in red along soft petals.
I remember dashing from the stands, eyes wide as silence descended on the hockey pitch after the ball suffered and unfortunate deflection, and the trip to the dentist after.
I remember trips to the zoo, the science centre, both with and without the kids.
I remember all the photographs and how I was taught to smile.
I remember the thrill of being behind the wheel, taking control of your destination without having to be controlled by a magnetic strip and the way the vehicle jolted when the taxi hit it.
I remember picnics, frisbee, broken slippers and sandy meals.
I remember the stupid, hilarious things I used to hear about CAT Scans and Facebook.
I remember the feeling when likewise opinions of 300, The Mist and The Sixth Sense were shared.
I remember shirts and shoes and bags and watches and books and frames and that final haircut that wasn't a haircut.
I remember nearly retching at all the bad places discovered, and belching content at all the good places revisited.
I remember discussions about religion, politics, morality, life, money, love.
I remember how it was originally out of pity.
I remember playing games together, on a board and on-line, pieces and pixels, cracking heads and racking headshots.
I remember secretly gathering stories and well-wishes, messages from friends new and old.
I remember the different ways hair could be styled, his and hers.
I remember that one baby's birthday party surrounded by strangers, and shopping for a suitable gift prior to that.
I remember the view, clad in bathrobes and close together, wishing the checkout time was furthur away.
I remember the pager, the intrepid call to an obsolete device from a boy too out of his depth to realise what he was getting himself into.
I remember laughing together at the man in woman's clothes, and hoping he/she/it didn't pick on me.
I remember not being able to cry any more.
I remember football, playing with and watching, smiling at the clumsy attempts.
I remember the smiling grandmother, mee goreng reeking of awesomeness.
I remember sighing, being dragged into Topshop or Mango or Zara or Forever 21 "just to look".
There are many things I've remembered recently, which is surpising considering that those who know me best will attest that my memory is only slightly more impressive than that of a goldfish. Last night I had a great time with some friends, doing something that I would not have normally, and another thing I do too much of. Both were incredibly entertaining, though perhaps they made me... remember more.
Most of you reading this will understand the bulk of what I've been referring to, but I hope no-one comes up to me anytime soon and demands to know if I am emo. I'm not. Don't take this as anything else than me just expressing what's been on my mind recently. It's not regret or pangs of guilt or emotions of yearning or feeling alone. Just memories, some sweeter than others and all dear to me.
I've always hated those who try and glorify their own emo feelings, to glamorise what they interpret as their own little ends of the worlds, perhaps they revel in the attention it invariably garners, like some others bask in drama or conflict or tension or chaos. I don't see the point, really. This isn't meant to be an emo post. In fact, I am currently in the midst of a discussion full of smileys with someone I haven't spoken enough to for a long time, and who I have a polaroid of. She's quite proud of herself that she maanged to convince me into taking a picture, some believe that a photograph of Naz is a rarity. I would disagree.
To those who have expressed concern in the past week or so, and I will admit that some of them have surprised me greatly, I do sincerely and honestly thank you for taking the time, but I'm good. I only hope that to you I'm as good a friend as you seem to me.
In a few hours popular media will have you believe that by switching off your lights for 60 minutes, you will be voting for our planet, perhaps in some sort of galactic idol competition. I'm not sure if my lights will be switched off, but perhaps I'll spend some time in the dark remembering other times in the dark, and how bright they were.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
Friday, March 20, 2009
A Story I See.
I'm surrounded by psychos, weirdos, liars and hypocrites.
There are some people I can't stand, and you know what you are.
Nearly everyone has read or been read fairy tales. You know, where once upon a time lived a fair princess, oblivious to the world, perfect in her perfectness, adored and admired, celebrated and cherished, loved and lauded. Then something dark and dastardly happens to her, and alas, she is a damsel in distress, crying for rescue and for a handsome prince, who rides in on his shining unicorn or pegasus and does away with the evil witch and monster. He and the princess then ride off and live happily ever after. Sometimes there are dwarves or talking brooms or genies or birds or magical upholstery but basically that's the fairy tale.
Sometimes though, you see creatures of myth and fancy in real life. Sometimes one might be so fortunate as to meet something with two faces, or a monster disguised as something else. It may be something as harmless as a lopsided elf or a giggling midget, but sometimes it's not.
Stories, fairy tales, don't always end well. Neil Gaiman said somewhere in the Sandman that all stories end in sadness and loss eventually. Something like that. Sometimes you just come to that end alot quicker than you'd expect, sometimes when you think you're just at a new chapter, getting into the better parts of the story, you realise that the story is over.
But then you realise that there is never only one single story, one lone tale, one sole fable. Everyone is part of many different stories. Some might end prematurely, others might go on and you might never see that sorrowful end that is promised to us all. Which is good. But ultimately we're all characters in many plays. Life's a stage, but there's more than one show, and we are the cast, crew and audience. We have the ability to pick which stories we want to be part of the most, even if you've invested what you thought was a significant amount of time in another. Sometimes it's best to get out of a story, to close the book before you reach an end you don't want to see. Sometimes that book is closed for you.
Sometimes you need to step out of the book to rewrite it.
For now, I've taken a long, hard look at the books and stories and fairy tales that I've been involved with. I'm pretty happy with most of them, and some could use a little editting. Others have closed, for better or for worse, be it permanently or no.
In the end, that's all there is. Hoping to enjoy the stories we write and read and hear and feel and see and be a part of. Knowing when to stop. Learning when to start again. Realising it all.
Naz
There are some people I can't stand, and you know what you are.
Nearly everyone has read or been read fairy tales. You know, where once upon a time lived a fair princess, oblivious to the world, perfect in her perfectness, adored and admired, celebrated and cherished, loved and lauded. Then something dark and dastardly happens to her, and alas, she is a damsel in distress, crying for rescue and for a handsome prince, who rides in on his shining unicorn or pegasus and does away with the evil witch and monster. He and the princess then ride off and live happily ever after. Sometimes there are dwarves or talking brooms or genies or birds or magical upholstery but basically that's the fairy tale.
Sometimes though, you see creatures of myth and fancy in real life. Sometimes one might be so fortunate as to meet something with two faces, or a monster disguised as something else. It may be something as harmless as a lopsided elf or a giggling midget, but sometimes it's not.
Stories, fairy tales, don't always end well. Neil Gaiman said somewhere in the Sandman that all stories end in sadness and loss eventually. Something like that. Sometimes you just come to that end alot quicker than you'd expect, sometimes when you think you're just at a new chapter, getting into the better parts of the story, you realise that the story is over.
But then you realise that there is never only one single story, one lone tale, one sole fable. Everyone is part of many different stories. Some might end prematurely, others might go on and you might never see that sorrowful end that is promised to us all. Which is good. But ultimately we're all characters in many plays. Life's a stage, but there's more than one show, and we are the cast, crew and audience. We have the ability to pick which stories we want to be part of the most, even if you've invested what you thought was a significant amount of time in another. Sometimes it's best to get out of a story, to close the book before you reach an end you don't want to see. Sometimes that book is closed for you.
Sometimes you need to step out of the book to rewrite it.
For now, I've taken a long, hard look at the books and stories and fairy tales that I've been involved with. I'm pretty happy with most of them, and some could use a little editting. Others have closed, for better or for worse, be it permanently or no.
In the end, that's all there is. Hoping to enjoy the stories we write and read and hear and feel and see and be a part of. Knowing when to stop. Learning when to start again. Realising it all.
Naz
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
But I Am Le Tired
I just got home, more or less, from one of the most frustrating 90 minutes of my life. No, I didn't watch the Singapore football team lose to a bunch of schoolgirls. And no, I wasn't chained to a wall just out of reach of a sashaying Jessica Alba. Neither did I miss out on finding a free PS3 randomly hidden in the trunk of my scratched car.
Some of the more regular readers may remember the kid I used to teach. Since then I did move on to another boy with an identical name, though tutoring him was an infinitely more pleasant experience, and something that I would take up in a flash should the price and timing be right. Unfortunately though, I fear that his single mother is finding hard to make ends meet, and I wish them all the best. I'll miss that funny skinny kid.
But now, I'm close to receiving my first payment after a gruelling month of tutoring the new kid. A long-running saga, I had the distinct feeling that the kid's dad actually wanted my sister to try and improve his youngling, but she spurned his advances. Several times. So he came to me, and gave me the most irritating text message conversations I've ever had the misfortune to be a part of.
"Hello uncle, Nazreen here. Do you still want me to teach your son? English, Maths, Science right? Please reply to confirm."
Nothing for a week. Then he calls me one Monday evening asking if I'm on the way. Double you tee eff? I don't even know where your frickin son is and you want me to tutor him? I tell him I don't have his address or any other details for the matter, and ask him to text it to me as soon as he can.
Day goes by, still nothing. And I ask him again.
"Uncle, if you still want me to teach him I need your address and phone number. And what time do you want me to come over?"
"ok"
Yeah. That's a great answer, mister. When I finally, three hours and six messages later, receive a coherant and semi-useful response, I make plans to meander my way to the hidden plot of land in Tampines where his kid hibernates. Oh shit.
I don't know where to begin.
His math, surprisingly, is actually more than decent. other than a less-than-firm grasp of model-drawing, he's able to do most other things with little supervision. That was fine. And he figured out models after an hour of me imparting my infinite wisdom into his kickable head. And then...
I know someone who is jokingly told that her ingerlish is bowderful. This one can't spell "both". It's not that he spells if B-O-F which would be somewhat understandable. Instead, he struggles though every other letter of the alphabet after the T, even sounding out some of them rather than saying the actual letter names.
"Uhhh.... B-O-T-... L?"
"No..."
"B-O-T-... Y?"
"Do it slowly."
"B... O... T... fffff...?"
"FFFuuuck!"
I am driven to the edge of a homocidal frenzy whenever he looks at me with those eyes that stare expressionlessly like a beached fish that just got trampled on by a drooling lecturer. It seems the only thing smart about him is his haircut, but then his dad is a barber. The fact he supports Man Utd, Arsenal and Chelsea makes me even more twitchy, and he likes "Lonaldo". I think he needs to see a newogist to check his brain matter is fully functional.
And Science... I won't even get started. What pains me the most, is not that he can be dafter than a plank, but that he is either incredibly forgetful or has the ability to bring levels of laziness to new depths.
"OK, for this question, fill in the blanks with the name of the animal group that the animal in the other box belongs to. See, Lion is a Mammal. Eagle is a bird. OK?"
"OK... How to spell mammal?"
"Try and sound it and spell it slowly."
"M... A... L...."
"No, Ma-MMMMMM-mal."
"M... A... S..."
"OK, here. Like this, see? M-A-M-M-A-L."
"OK. This one is cow right? How to spell mammal?"
OhmygodIwanttokillthislittlespawnofdumb.
The fact that I have to explain (and I kid you not...) "reproduce", "yeast", "stem", "birth", "gills", "respond" and "feeler" every single fucking god -damn time it appears anywhere in sight doesn't help matters either, and I don't even get a frickin DRINK while doing this?
Fark.
Some of the more regular readers may remember the kid I used to teach. Since then I did move on to another boy with an identical name, though tutoring him was an infinitely more pleasant experience, and something that I would take up in a flash should the price and timing be right. Unfortunately though, I fear that his single mother is finding hard to make ends meet, and I wish them all the best. I'll miss that funny skinny kid.
But now, I'm close to receiving my first payment after a gruelling month of tutoring the new kid. A long-running saga, I had the distinct feeling that the kid's dad actually wanted my sister to try and improve his youngling, but she spurned his advances. Several times. So he came to me, and gave me the most irritating text message conversations I've ever had the misfortune to be a part of.
"Hello uncle, Nazreen here. Do you still want me to teach your son? English, Maths, Science right? Please reply to confirm."
Nothing for a week. Then he calls me one Monday evening asking if I'm on the way. Double you tee eff? I don't even know where your frickin son is and you want me to tutor him? I tell him I don't have his address or any other details for the matter, and ask him to text it to me as soon as he can.
Day goes by, still nothing. And I ask him again.
"Uncle, if you still want me to teach him I need your address and phone number. And what time do you want me to come over?"
"ok"
Yeah. That's a great answer, mister. When I finally, three hours and six messages later, receive a coherant and semi-useful response, I make plans to meander my way to the hidden plot of land in Tampines where his kid hibernates. Oh shit.
I don't know where to begin.
His math, surprisingly, is actually more than decent. other than a less-than-firm grasp of model-drawing, he's able to do most other things with little supervision. That was fine. And he figured out models after an hour of me imparting my infinite wisdom into his kickable head. And then...
I know someone who is jokingly told that her ingerlish is bowderful. This one can't spell "both". It's not that he spells if B-O-F which would be somewhat understandable. Instead, he struggles though every other letter of the alphabet after the T, even sounding out some of them rather than saying the actual letter names.
"Uhhh.... B-O-T-... L?"
"No..."
"B-O-T-... Y?"
"Do it slowly."
"B... O... T... fffff...?"
"FFFuuuck!"
I am driven to the edge of a homocidal frenzy whenever he looks at me with those eyes that stare expressionlessly like a beached fish that just got trampled on by a drooling lecturer. It seems the only thing smart about him is his haircut, but then his dad is a barber. The fact he supports Man Utd, Arsenal and Chelsea makes me even more twitchy, and he likes "Lonaldo". I think he needs to see a newogist to check his brain matter is fully functional.
And Science... I won't even get started. What pains me the most, is not that he can be dafter than a plank, but that he is either incredibly forgetful or has the ability to bring levels of laziness to new depths.
"OK, for this question, fill in the blanks with the name of the animal group that the animal in the other box belongs to. See, Lion is a Mammal. Eagle is a bird. OK?"
"OK... How to spell mammal?"
"Try and sound it and spell it slowly."
"M... A... L...."
"No, Ma-MMMMMM-mal."
"M... A... S..."
"OK, here. Like this, see? M-A-M-M-A-L."
"OK. This one is cow right? How to spell mammal?"
OhmygodIwanttokillthislittlespawnofdumb.
The fact that I have to explain (and I kid you not...) "reproduce", "yeast", "stem", "birth", "gills", "respond" and "feeler" every single fucking god -damn time it appears anywhere in sight doesn't help matters either, and I don't even get a frickin DRINK while doing this?
Fark.
Monday, March 09, 2009
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Bleargh
Monday: Rot.
Tuesday: Watch Heroes illegally
Wednesday: Man Utd vs Inter
Thursday: Get paid
Friday: Football/Winning Eleven. Maybe CS?
My plan for the next week. Hopefully it all works out.
Tuesday: Watch Heroes illegally
Wednesday: Man Utd vs Inter
Thursday: Get paid
Friday: Football/Winning Eleven. Maybe CS?
My plan for the next week. Hopefully it all works out.
Friday, March 06, 2009
Rain Rain
I remember back in Secondary School, when I used to frequent long(ish) walks home alone, I would look forward to rainy days. Trudging home in anything from a light drizzle to an outright downpour, I used to enjoy the sensation of being soaked to the skin and not having a care in the world. I never understood what drew me to such foolishness, and only now realise it is a slight wonder that I never suffered from anything worse than a ticking off from my mother for drenched uniforms. I never understood that, though. Wouldn't it help with the washing?
Walking home in the rain today reminded me of days gone by. The tap-tapping of the sky's tears on your shoulder, like a long-lost friend, accompanying you as you put one foot before the other on the way to wherever you call home. Getting drenched, in clothes already damp and chilled with the memory of another, refreshes you, reminds you. Forces you to think.
Watching someone walk away in the rain can sometimes be the hardest thing in the world.
Walking home in the rain today reminded me of days gone by. The tap-tapping of the sky's tears on your shoulder, like a long-lost friend, accompanying you as you put one foot before the other on the way to wherever you call home. Getting drenched, in clothes already damp and chilled with the memory of another, refreshes you, reminds you. Forces you to think.
Watching someone walk away in the rain can sometimes be the hardest thing in the world.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
A Spitting Image
Someone thought that the recent (tragic?) case of the NTU stabbing was me getting to a certain lecturer faster than expected. While I know little about what's on the news these days, I've contemplated throttling a certain chunky spinster before my peers.
There are few lecturers or teachers I hate.
No, I lied.
Just add this one to the list, yes, fine.
What I really cannot stand is the fact that we are expected to sit in our thinly-padded seats and pretend to listen to someone pretending to know what she is blithering on about. I mean, come on. Someone with a "Degree in English" can't spell or pronounce "geographical", "methodology" or "neurology"?
Her immaculate way with words aside, what irks most is the fact that she seems to grade our papers with the consistency of a senile goldfish, and she has the same glassy stare to match. You can submit two near-identical papers and receive two grades which are letters apart, and conflicting, hypocritical "comments" to boot.
Case I
Literature review. I speak of two well-known communication theories, and how they relate to the thesis of the research paper. Angry red circles, with "How is this relevant?!?". Friend of mine has same words in the same section ticked and marked for "Good work". Weeks later, both of us hand in literature reviews as part of a laarger assignment. This time mine is rated highly, hers assumes the appearance of a toddler's finger-painting masterpiece.
Case II
When said lecturer throws a question to the class about relevant areas of research for the topic of biochemical causes and effects of love and romance, the answer of "neurology" is greeted with a look utterly devoid of anything remotely approaching comprehension. After struggling with the word for a good fifteen seconds, the blob stammers "newogy?" and someone is forced to interject with a more proper pronounciation and its associated definition and proposed validity. "Newogy" is promptly shot down because "Biopsychology is much easier than newogy" and "newophysiology is better". Later claims to have a "newogis" friend.
Case III
Grades an assignment with a straight A, but then grades a later assignment as a B, saying that the earlier one was flawed.
I can go on. But the most recent thing that has promtped me to consider flinging my textbook at the slobbering twit standing before us was her self-assured, holier-than-thou response of "whatever I say, I can't convince you because you simply don't know." So much for instructors and students teaching each other.
I want to strangle her sometimes, but I am afraid that I will get bowser's spittle all over me.
There are few lecturers or teachers I hate.
No, I lied.
Just add this one to the list, yes, fine.
What I really cannot stand is the fact that we are expected to sit in our thinly-padded seats and pretend to listen to someone pretending to know what she is blithering on about. I mean, come on. Someone with a "Degree in English" can't spell or pronounce "geographical", "methodology" or "neurology"?
Her immaculate way with words aside, what irks most is the fact that she seems to grade our papers with the consistency of a senile goldfish, and she has the same glassy stare to match. You can submit two near-identical papers and receive two grades which are letters apart, and conflicting, hypocritical "comments" to boot.
Case I
Literature review. I speak of two well-known communication theories, and how they relate to the thesis of the research paper. Angry red circles, with "How is this relevant?!?". Friend of mine has same words in the same section ticked and marked for "Good work". Weeks later, both of us hand in literature reviews as part of a laarger assignment. This time mine is rated highly, hers assumes the appearance of a toddler's finger-painting masterpiece.
Case II
When said lecturer throws a question to the class about relevant areas of research for the topic of biochemical causes and effects of love and romance, the answer of "neurology" is greeted with a look utterly devoid of anything remotely approaching comprehension. After struggling with the word for a good fifteen seconds, the blob stammers "newogy?" and someone is forced to interject with a more proper pronounciation and its associated definition and proposed validity. "Newogy" is promptly shot down because "Biopsychology is much easier than newogy" and "newophysiology is better". Later claims to have a "newogis" friend.
Case III
Grades an assignment with a straight A, but then grades a later assignment as a B, saying that the earlier one was flawed.
I can go on. But the most recent thing that has promtped me to consider flinging my textbook at the slobbering twit standing before us was her self-assured, holier-than-thou response of "whatever I say, I can't convince you because you simply don't know." So much for instructors and students teaching each other.
I want to strangle her sometimes, but I am afraid that I will get bowser's spittle all over me.
Monday, March 02, 2009
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