Storytime

This is one of those really annoying times I've gone to bed more than an hour earlier, only to realise sleep would not come, no matter how hard I try. Yes, lots on my mind. Way too much! It did occur to me to write it all out, for it's what I do best and what brings me rest. Then again, seriously - who wants to read of all the matters that trouble me, things that hurt me, stuff that make me cry et cetera? So, how about a story instead? Surely, when one cannot sleep, it's time for a story?

A couple of years ago, I shared a story of a camping trip I had as a teenager. The rain threatening to flood our tents was just the opening act. The major thing was much, much less amusing. It was, after all, our very first time out camping all on our own, and we thought no further than having the time of our lives. Just imagine - a bunch of girls (40 cadets plus 10 or so probably incompetent "camp leaders" - the committee members) wanting to do manly stuff. The only thing we did sort of okay was pitching up tents that didn't fall down while we were in them - and even that wasn't perfect because we forgot the trenches. (Read the previous story!)

We reached the campsite in the morning of the first day, unloaded all the stuff from the bus, fed the girls their brunch and got to work on pitching up the tents. Then, it rained and drama ensued. Lots of it. (Seriously, read the previous story!)

By afternoon, the rain had stopped. It was bright and sunny and everything pleasant. We hiked a little way off campsite and frolicked in a stream. It was shallow and bubbly, the water cool and clear, and the girls all giddy and silly. Everyone was playing and laughing, enjoying every moment. So far so good.

Then, evening came and it was time to make dinner. It's been a long time, really, but I remember we only had 2 or 3 burner stoves, to be shared by everyone. Dinner was simply some canned food which the girls (4 to a group or so) had to cook by themselves. Here's a picture of how accomplished in cooking girls of my era are: there are 8 girls in my group of very close-knit girlfriends, and out of that, at 15 or 16 years old, only my friend, Big Eyes and me could make decent fried rice, mee or meehoon. Some can't even fry an egg without the final output appearing burnt and butchered. Yes, that bad. But no, no one set anything on fire while cooking - the comedy was to come later.

After dinner we gathered at a small pavilion for some songs, dances, sketches, stories-sharing - all the fun stuff. All the girls were enjoying themselves so much they must have thought that was the best camping trip ever (or so I liked to believe, while I still could...) Then, came the comedy. It's really a tragedy, but since it was such a long time ago, it's become comedy.

My friends, the other committee members, concluded that the cause of this comedy was the girls' dinner. They played in the water upstream, and then collected water downstream to cook with! In retrospect, it might not be likely, for they played in the afternoon and made dinner in the evening... I am more inclined now to think it was because they didn't know the first thing about cooking - most didn't wait till their concoction boiled before taking the pots off the stoves. 

It was bedtime when the first girls started getting tummy aches. It wasn't much of a problem, as we had two toilets right next to the campsite. Within the next couple of hours though, it became quite clear we had a huge issue. Almost all the girls were stricken with diarrhoea. Two toilets to about 40 girls. Imagine. Wait, don't imagine! There was nothing we could do. We were first-aiders and we had first-aid kits stocked full of supplies to treat sprains and strains, cuts and burns, maybe even small fractures, but not food poisoning. The girls just had to take turns at the two toilets until their bowels cleared. The queue outside the restrooms lasted the entire night, until the next morning.

Ironically, all but one of us, the seniors, were fine. We sat a table with wooden benches, kept awake in shifts and actually had the time of our lives. I had my first experience of the I'm-being-watched feeling. I was back-facing this really huge tree, and I kept having a feeling that something was watching me. I turned back several times in the course of half an hour or so, and saw nothing but that tree. A little while later, a friend joined me, and it wasn't several minutes before she turned as well, citing the same feeling of being watched. Then, a third friend came and joined us, and that feeling went away. We talked and joked and laughed, and talked and talked some more. Reader, you know how I somehow have the ability to say the stupidest things in the wrongest times to cause unwitting listeners, usually in the midst of drinking, to spit water they are otherwise supposed to swallow. (Example here) So, my friend was sipping tea from a glass we'd been sharing (by "we", I mean all my friends at the table and those who came and went) and I said something, well, "funny". She nearly choked on her drink, spit the very last drops from her mouth back into the glass and laughed heartily for a good couple of minutes. After that, we left the table for a while and when we got back, to our horror, we found the glass almost empty. Someone had drunk the spit-mixed tea! We asked a few girls in panic and found the one who drank from the glass. She was clearly very upset when we told her, but it was still pretty funny to us. So, we went around telling the funny story to our other friends, until my bestfriend frowned when we told her. She drank from the cup too, she said, indignant, but the story just became doubly funny.

While we were having all that fun, the girls were still taking turns at the two toilets. Then, one of my friends started feeling sick too. By that time though, half of us had stayed up half the night, so it was time to end our "watch" shift and go to sleep. My friend told the following story for years afterwards although I have absolutely no memory of it. According to her, right before we went to sleep (we were in the same tent), she told me she was afraid to go to the toilet on her own in the dark, but she knew she would need to, with her tummy aching and all. I, she alleged, declared that I will go with her when she needs to - just wake me up, buddy! And then, when she really needed to go and tried to wake me up, I simply turned to the other side without opening half an eye and continued sleeping. Seriously, she told this of me for years!

Anyhow, we all made it through the night. A bunch of us, me included, woke really early and took a walk along a trail where we saw beautiful rays of sun piercing through the thick morning mist onto a bunch of giant bamboo plants. We hurried back to the camp to get the others to go and have a look, but everyone was too sick and too tired, and they just wanted to go home. They said it was the most horrible camping trip ever and they just wanted to go home.

We made the girls take down their tents and pack up while we did the dirtier job. What dirtier job, you ask? Remember, 40 girls having diarrhoea through the night and two toilets. Someone's gonna have to clean those two toilets. So, we wrapped ourselves up in black garbage bags and we did. We even had a photo taken of us - all in a row in garbage bag fashion - but I don't think I have it anymore.

The End.

Sleep will come now.

The Traveler

The thing is, I never really considered myself sociable (I still don't). I don't like approaching people and most of the time, I don't enjoy small talk with non-friends. When I was in school, my friends and I were expected to foster friendship with cadets from other schools during events like annual gatherings and campfires, and I would be one of those who'd perform most poorly in this "socializing" task. 

I used to think it's because I am somewhat shy, but once, when I dared describe myself as "shy" and all of my closest friends gave the same response, "You must be kidding!", I had to accept the fact that maybe it isn't shyness. I mean, I'm talkative by nature and I find it hard to run out of things to talk about, so if I really want to, I guess I shouldn't find it hard to simply walk up to someone and start a conversation. So, maybe I just don't like taking the initiative to be friendly. In fact, most of the time, I wish strangers wouldn't talk to me. For the "protagonist" of this post, though, I'm glad he did.

It was a lovely evening and I was taking a solitary stroll along the beach. A bunch of local men were bundling tourists onto a banana boat and they asked me to join in for a ride. I politely declined, citing fear. They offered to let me ride in the speedboat (which will be pulling the banana boat) instead. I declined again and after several minutes of courtesy chit-chat, I went on. A little way ahead was a lone man with tousled shoulder-length hair, relaxing and watching life around him. He smiled warmly as I walked by and I smiled back (because it would be impolite not to). It took no more than ten or fifteen minutes' leisurely pace to reach the end of the stretch at which I turned back. The man was still there, and as I passed him again, he smiled and said "Hi."

I said "Hi" in return, and we started chatting. 

It began as all usual conversations would - where we are from, whether we're there for work or leisure - and then, I took an extreme interest in him. He's traveling to see the world, he said, in his mobile home, which he's driven all the way from his home in Germany, out of Europe, through the Middle East, India, Indochina etc, and had been parked at Batu Ferringhi Beach, Penang, for ten days. I was beyond amazed. I am aware that it isn't uncommon for some people to take months off work (and regular life) to travel, but that was the first time I'd met anyone who's spent almost a year on the road... literally! At the time of our chance meeting, he was a week away from the first anniversary of his traveling, and his journey wasn't at its end... once he's reached "the end" (I think it is Singapore, but my memory is poorly these days) he will turn back and trace a slightly different route back to his home, possibly through vast China. That will take another year or more.

I asked for his permission to take a photo of his mobile home. He graciously allowed me.

I spent the evening talking to this fascinating man. He told of his many encounters in the foreign countries he's been - the people, the culture, the ease or difficulty with which he made his drive across and meeting other travelers like himself. He showed me his solar power generator, which provides electricity for appliances in his vehicle; the little boat and the bike which he hauls with him, for local exploration when he's parked somewhere; picture books of common objects which he uses for communication in countries which languages he doesn't speak - he would just point to the picture(s) that indicate what he needed; and a map on which he tracked his journey thus far -

I had so many questions to ask - he put up with me good-humouredly and answered everything. He talked of his life (and life in general) in Germany, his work, his wife and children, and his past travels. He asked me stuff as well and I painfully remembered I don't really know much about interesting spots in my country. Remember the last time I went gallivanting around town with the lost boys from Europe? Yea, that was the one and only time. I kept thinking, if it was my bestfriend, she would have made a far, FAR better conversation with this traveler than I ever could have.

I don't generally talk to strangers, and still don't think it is wise to, but for this - well, I guess I'm fortunate. It isn't yet a year since our chance meeting. He should still be driving, somewhere, right now. All the best, F! Thank you for your stories.

Meg

A little more than a year ago, I wrote about Love Never Dies (I pre-ordered the DVD and it is right now on its way to me! Yay!), ALW's sequel to his (non-arguably, surely) greatest work, The Phantom of the Opera.

I've been listening to the cast recording very frequently all this while. At first, I focused on just the music, like I'd said I would in my previous post, but of late, I can no longer ignore some disturbing facts about the story. I can no longer ignore how wrong it is that Meg gave everything for the Phantom who regarded her as nothing more than a convenient existence. The Phantom is a genius, but so incredibly arrogant and self-centered he didn't give a damn about anything beyond himself and his selfish love for Christine, all his IQ isn't nearly enough to make him bearable. Yes, he actually cared more about his love for Christine than for Christine herself, but that will be a whole other post. This post is about Meg.

As the musical begins, we hear of Meg's desperate hope to impress the Phantom with her singing and dancing. We hear of her working hard at improving her performance and striving to be worthy of his regard. The Phantom doesn't see nor hear her, however, for he is busy professing his love to an automaton in the likeness of Christine.

Madame Giry tells Meg that the Phantom has been composing "something glorious" late at night, and implies it would be for her. It isn't an unreasonable expectation, for Meg indeed is the one who has stayed faithfully by him, performing every show and drawing in crowds, and is actually the star at Phantasma. Who would be more deserving?

But no, for all that she's done, Meg gets the "cheap vaudeville trash" she's always got, and the "glorious" new aria is meant for Christine.

It's the last show of the season -

SQUELCH
Ladies and gentlemen… Mr Y is pleased to present to you his final surprise of the season...

GANGLE
A command performance by Christine Daaé, the most heavenly Diva of this or any age…

FLECK
But first, for those of you whose taste is a little more earthbound…

SQUELCH
The Sweetheart of the Midway…

GANGLE
The ooh La La Girl…

FLECK
The incomparable…

TRIO
Meg Giry!

Christine is a heavenly diva, and Meg is but earthbound.

As the musical draws to its end, we hear of Meg's other sacrifices -

I took a little trip to Coney Island.
I took a little trip, because of you.
I did as mother said,
and followed where you led
and tried to do what little I could do.

Well here’s the way it works on Coney Island --
They make you pay for every little crumb.
I gave what they would take,
I gave it for your sake,
now look at me and see what I’ve become.

Bathing beauty,
on the beach…
Bathing beauty,
in her dressing room…
Bathing beauty,
In the dark,
on their laps,
In their beds --

She gave herself to men, literally, to ensure the Phantom's plan for Phantasma is realised, and in the end, he said

We can’t all be like Christine --

No, Meg is simply Meg. Meg is not Christine. No matter how much she gives, how hard she works, how willingly she sacrifices herself, she will never be Christine to the Phantom. It's not Christine's fault; it not even so much the Phantom's. Meg should never had believed she could be anything more than just... Meg.

Are you anyone's Meg? Stop. Don't be.

Pocoyized!

This post might give the false impression that I only do silly things with my smartphone. Not true, but I don't only do smart, productive stuff either. Life's got to be a balance of the smart and the silly, right?

Last year, I downloaded Androidify and androidified the roomees. This evening, I stumbled on Pocoyize - an app which allows the creation of you, or your friends, Pocoyo-style!

Now, I really like Pocoyo - from the concept and characters all the way to Stephen Fry's narration. I even made a little hat like his! Look -

So, this is me, pocoyized -

And this is Pocoyo, surprised at seeing a picture of me on his wall -

*grins*

Maybe one of these days I should write a serious post on what serious things I actually use my phone for and how it's improved my life and work etc., but then again, the web is saturated (if it can be saturated) with articles like that. So do you really need another person talking about useful apps and how-to-minimize-battery-drain? Now, if you have 24MB of memory in your phone you don't know what to do with, try Pocoyize =D

Disclaimer: I'm not getting paid for writing this... I mean, as if anyone would pay me for writing anything! Ha!

Eleven Years

The Chinese have many weird beliefs, and one of them is the ability to communicate with the departed through dreams, and getting a "sheng bei" when asking questions during prayer ceremonies. A "sheng bei" is basically an affirmative, indicated by getting different sides up tossing two coins (conventionally, wooden blocks are used, I think - I did not research this tradition prior to this post). For example, one might ask one's ancestor, while the joss sticks are burning, offerings on the altar, "Are you happy over there?", and then toss 2 coins. If they landed one heads and one tails, the answer is yes. Both heads or tails mean no.

I find it frivolous, and yet, when my mother tells me that the reason she could not get the "sheng bei" despite tossing several times in a row but that when I toss I usually get it the first try, is that my father loves me and wants me to do it, I desperately want to believe. But I know it's all probability.

I desperately want to believe in so many things that in my conscious mind, I know cannot be. Like how my frequent dreaming of him means he isn't ready to leave me so he "visits" me in my dream. I am inclined to think that it is because I think of him way too much and too often. Also, I have the annoying ability to dream vividly and remember most of them afterwards. Other family members may dream of him just as frequently, just that they don't recall anything in the morning. A couple of years ago, my mother suggested that I speak to my father at the altar and let him know that I'm well and happy, and that I can take good care of myself, so he needn't worry about me anymore - so the "dream visitations" may cease. I didn't. Not only because I don't believe it, but that just in case it is real, I don't want his "visitations" to stop.

Does every one who's ever lost a parent grieve (seemingly) indefinitely like me? Or am I just really, really weird? I am not improved in this aspect since this date last year (read the post). If there is a curve for level of recovery from the pain of this loss, where it saturates to a plateau, I've been there for some time now. I will not improve with time.

My mother keeps track of the lunar date, I do the regular one. It's eleven years, today.

Some Tales

Hello there! I'd meant to entertain you - yes, you, Reader, with some silly tales from my past, on the 16th, for Teacher's Day. Procrastination, plus some tricky issues going on at work, got in the way. Better late than never? (Well, this is my blog and what I say, is what is - so yea, better late than never!)

Although I'm not always the elephant, I have in my memory countless bits of scenes from my school days. The happy, the unhappy, the crazy, the weird; the people I liked and disliked, the people I liked then disliked, the teachers I loved and hated... if I compiled all of them into a book, will you read it? (It's OK to answer "Sure, if it's free")

I don't always write about my teachers - in fact, I might never have written about them since I started writing here. I'm not sure why - there were a handful I loved so much, surely they're worth writing about. Like my Science teacher - she was caring and motherly in a non-overbearing manner. Once, something awful (in the world of a 16-year-old) happened at school and I went home extremely unhappy. She called me (yes, my teacher had my number, and I had hers), spoke kindly to me and let me whine and CRY into the phone for half an hour. After the phone call, I felt tonnes better, and when my mom, who obviously saw everything, asked me what was wrong, I told her "nothing". I knew, even then, she was hurt - but how many 16-year-olds of my era (many years ago, yea!) would actually pour their hearts out to their moms? Oh well, I'm making up for that by talking to her so much these days she deems me noisy.

Anyway, back to tales of silliness - or mischief, rather.

* * * * *

When I was in primary school, we had a teacher who never got mad. No matter what. The story was that he once got into a lot of trouble with higher authorities for punishing a pupil, or something like that. So, thereafter, he became mild and indifferent, and although still carried out his teaching duties, he pretty much let the children did whatever they please. And naturally, the children climbed all over him. Literally. I remember I did, once. A few of my friends and I decided to "disturb" him while he was doing some marking at the teacher's desk in our classroom. We swarmed over him, chattered and prattled away at him, pulled his shirt and hands... then, a couple of the girls climbed up the chair he was in, and stood behind his back. Yes, I was one of them. We patted his shoulders and played with his hair, which was a big (and I mean really huge) mass of greying curls. We pulled strands up and were delighted that they remained sticking out. Each time, he quietly smoothed his mane back down and we'd pull some out again. Again and again. He went on his work, casually and gently removing little hands grasping him here and there, and showing an amused smile or a chuckle every now and then. After a while, we little monsters got tired of provoking the un-provoke-able man, and left him alone to find other mischief to indulge in.

* * * * *

Some years later, I was in my final year of secondary education. It was just before our major exam, and classes were no longer conducted. We went to school each day to talk with friends, fool around, mess the classroom up, and in-between, fit in a little studying. One day, the lower form pupils had a sort-of variety show at a hall at the ground floor of the school. We heard the music, the singing, dialog from the sketches, the laughter... and my friend and I just had to go and poke our busy noses in. Now, have I ever mentioned that I'm a seriously vertically-challenged person? Yes, I must have. This friend of mine is about 1cm taller.

So, there we were, sneakily peeking from one of the side-entrances of the hall, enjoying the on-going show. All of a sudden, we heard a very loud "Apa kamu berdua buat kat situ?" (what are the two of you doing there?) It was the discipline teacher, known for being extremely strict and fierce. We were stunned. She glared at us, "Kamu tingkatan berapa? Tingkatan satu atau dua?" (which form are you? first or second?) We ought to have just pretended to be the 13-yr-olds she mistook us to be and escape trouble, but no, we had to be honest. One of us stammered, "Tingkatan lima" (fifth form). She widened her eyes, clenched her fists, inhaled sharply and all but breathed fire with her next words, "TINGKATAN LIMA??!!!"

We did not wait to see what else she would say / do to us. We, simultaneously, turned on our heels and took off. We ran like we've never ran before, for our lives, down the corridor, up two flights of stairs and back into our classroom. As we were running, we were also turning our heads around in fright - as if we were expecting her to be right behind, chasing us. Thank goodness she didn't come after us, we said to each other, panting, as we reached "safety".

* * * * *

Good girls sometimes turn bad when they go to college. But not me, I remained good (fine, it's not that I was so good to begin with, but I meant I didn't become worse) in college - I went for my classes, practiced my martial arts and loved my roommates. It was when I went to university that I became bad. Well, not bad bad. Just a little mean. In my time, we had some tutors so fresh out of universities they were all nerves and not much else. I'd observed some with hands shaking while holding their whiteboard markers.

So there was this young man - I don't remember his name - who was so new and so petrified all the time, he appeared cute. Once, during class, while walking about checking the students' work, he came upon my friend and me. He asked to see our work, and we showed him. He noticed that I had one question unsolved. Concerned, he asked, "Why didn't you do this?" I answered with a straight face, "Because I don't know how to do it." He asked, "Why don't you know how to do it?" and I answered, with pretend-sorrow, "Because I'm stupid..." The look on his face - a mix of shock, horror, and guilt - was priceless. Priceless. He, trembling, stammered, "No, no... don't say that.........." while my friend nearly choked herself trying to hold back her laughter.

* * * * *

So, there you have them - tales of how I've climbed all over, ran away from, and cruelly teased my teachers. I can only conclude that I was a horrible little girl. Maybe I still am (although "little" right now refers only to physical built...)

Happy Teacher's Day to all educators!

Variations

So, I injured my right wrist and it has to be completely rested for at least a couple of weeks, so heavy-lifting plus most the usual physical activities I do have to be halted. That means I get an irrational (really? irrational?!) fear of gaining weight within this period. I mentioned this to a friend at my dance class last weekend - yes, I still can dance, albeit with one arm stiff in a bandage - and she rolled her eyes.

"What's this talk about gaining weight? So you hurt your hand.... your LEGS are still working!"

Ah, so brutally honest... (but I like it!)

Except I don't run. What else are legs alone (without arms) good for other than cardio? Sigh.

So, I strolled on the treadmills and I danced. I bought a high-quality wrist brace, complete with a built-in metal splint and wore it as much of the time as possible. I let my incompetent left hand take over all the usual tasks that can be done single-handedly (literally!). The first time it made tea, it spilled the right-at-boiling-point liquid out of the mug and scalded 3 fingers. The first time it tried to use chopsticks, it couldn't, so had to thereafter switch to the sissier fork. The first time it had to stick a key into the keyhole, it took 3 times a long as it would take the right hand - it still does. Every day is a struggle, but the rewards are more than worth the troubles.

My right wrist is healing well - the pain has reduced rather significantly and although the swelling hasn't completely gone, I'd say I'm much better than when it first started to hurt. Today, I felt well enough to rejoin my yoga class.

Sure, I've decided without deliberation that I will not attempt arm balances - that's pure madness - nor will I persist in holding any poses if the injured area as much as hints discomfort. I thought I ought to have enough knowledge to make up feasible variations for poses I can't do. So I thought. I informed the teacher of my "delicate condition" before the class started. She said I musn't do the Plank or Downward Dog (Adho Mukha Svanasana). That's right, I thought, and definitely not handstands, which are one of her favourites, right after headstands.

I must be in good fortune today, for we started off with a lot of poses targeting the core, in which arm strength was almost unnecessary. Then, we moved to Wheel (Urdhva Dhanurasana). I stayed in Bridge (Setu Bandha Sarvangasana) and sort of felt proud that I could actually do something in the place of the one I can't do!

Instead of Plank, I did elbow Plank. Still good. Instead of Downward Dog, I did Awkward Downward Dog on elbows. Yikes. I don't even want to describe how I elbowed a Cobra (Bhujangasana) To my great dismay, I realised the extent of my knowledge of pose variation is replacing hands with elbows when your hand hurts. Gah!

What's worse? During one of my elbowed Downward Dogs, the teacher addressed a newbie who happened to be right next to me.

"Don't follow what she's doing! Her hand is injured!"

I realised she was referring to me, and that the poor girl had actually been doing all the "variations" I'd been doing. Not only had I succeeded in showcasing weird, ugly "yoga", I'd inadvertently caused a first timer to pick up weird, ugly "yoga"...

I don't mean to be mean, but when I related this to my roomee, we both had a good laugh. New girl is so silly but adorably so! I hope she will continue her practice and if I have to resort to "variations" still next week, I hope she'll remember to ignore me!