ASOS-ing

have got a trusts paper in exactly 7 hours and 2 mins,
i really should be revising.
but i am an over-confident, under-achieving student.

home is where you are loved

In the morning I awoke with a start. It was a nightmare, albeit at 10am. I dreamt that I had cockroaches in my bed - huge ones. I tossed around for a bit to regain my composure, settling down only after convincing myself that no, I didn't need to get exterminators in and that I needn't bag and spray all my possessions - again,

I turned to my window to watch the light stream in between the two tall buildings. My bed is soft, cosy and warm, with sheets that have been mine for years. I am cradled. I was going to be late for breakfast - crepes, coffee and fruit. I continued to watch the buildings and started to wonder if I was happier here than in Malaysia. Then it dawned on me that home was shifting. I wasn't sad, but rather filled with wonder - that Malaysia is no less home to me as Melbourne has enlarged itself in my heart. Am I growing bigger on the inside? I felt little heart tentacles stretch out from within my chest, as if to grab hold of the essence of my relationships here in Melbourne. A part of me.

Nim calls. It's 10.15, and I am already loving the day.

Wendy

My body staggers beneath me and peels away into sleep; I can see my hair fanning out against my pillow - is that what I look like when I am asleep? With smudged eyes and a crumpled smile? I have no time to think. I trip over the bedsheets and he laughs, a bundle of skinny limbs and olivegreen clothes.

Once we are out of the window, I can see him clearly: he looks nothing like the Peter Pan in books and movies; he is holding my hand and his knuckles are just as white as mine, is he afraid?

I'm not Wendy, I'm not brave enough to walk off planks or talk to pirates and suddenly I can't remember how to swim but there we are, rising through shadows of leaves into sunrise.

There are slivers of words and phrases I remember, like fairy dust, and the second star to the right and straight on till morning. In this weightlessness they seem oddly inconsequential. My adult tendencies grip my heart and Peter Pan says, with great gravity, the Rationality will kill me - is he asking me to be irrational? The space in-between one stratosphere and the next is no place to make decisions like these.

I close my eyes, and hold on tight.


.

.

.

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[Every day i learn a little more about what prioritizing means. With a little more profundity than before.]

not-so-political rant

Ok. I've had it. I'm not the biggest authority on politics and world events (I did think Kofi Annan was Samuel L Jackson and still can't quite tell you what NATO is), but here's my two cents.

I mean free speech is great and all, especially in this time of election fever. But when it's reduced to unqualified name-calling it has no value and is dangerous. I say this particularly because I am within the context of the university, where you would expect individuals to be a little more educated and well thought-out.

You can't call Bush a moron and expect us to take it. Being in Melbourne does not mean that you need not back up baseless arguments that seem to regurgitate mainstream discourse. You can't just sit around and poke fun at Palin and what have you not if you're not going to tell me WHY they're bad ideas. Being conservative is not enough. Maybe it's the way I was brought up, but I find it terribly elementary to pidgeon hole everything with shallow labels.

But that's all besides the point. Kick me for not having a sense of humour, but I think poking fun at minority political views is tantamount to ideological discrimination. If someone can't spell out their political views without fearing a negative reaction, then we've lost sight of what it means to be a democracy. You're supposed to engage! not senselessly intimidate each other with what's politically popular.

Of course, my feathers ruffle when my friend tells me that he loves McCain and what America stands for, and that he lingers on the other side of the fence as I do. But give him a chance to explain why, and it makes sense. Not to say that I agree with him, but I would not take him to be a fool, and, I learn.

So what I see now, is a politically-illiterate mass, thinking that they know what it means to have democracy since they can arrogantly belittle the views of others when they themselves have not put much thought into their own. If political ideology were like skin colour, things would be a little different.

I'd like to think, that if one really has thought through their stand on things, they'd respect another's opinion, because they would know what it takes to come to a personal conclusion. And from respect comes engagement, didectic discourse and a richer more substantial democracy.

In my disgruntled state, I feel like this society is a farce.

hrrmphh..

Ever so sweet

We were on the topic of twins, and somewhere along the line, the Boy commented on how his bro was better at him in sports and jokingly chided, "heck, he's better than me in everything!". Then he paused as if remembering something, and said no, he was better in one thing.

and silly me who wasn't really paying that much attention took awhile to realise the "aww-nesss" of the moment, when the Boy said:

"I've got you."

It's getting hot in here...

... so... wear short shorts.

Glory. After 4 months of jeans, tights and pajama bottoms, I can finally resurrect my shorts and wear them in the 21 degree heat. My knees haven't seen the light of day in eons and they're becoming the colour of uncooked dough. So it was a joy to dig into the nether reaches of my cupboard and pull out one of 'em comfy things...

Cept Larry gets in the way.
Dear ol' Larry, we have some issues here.

Edit: Temp dropped. Back in tights.

1%

The problem is that I am not compelled. My fingers will not curl around my pencils and pens, my fingers they lie loosely on my desk or in my hair or in the pages of books that refuse to end.

It is not because I have no words. They are gauzy creatures that float in side of me - lithe, like balloons. It is because they enjoy the jumble that arrive with the flood of thought, and there are times when my mind is so racked with thinking that I forget what to say, or write, or even express.

But I must not forget how my life has always arranged itself in vowels and consonants. To be completely kitschy: how my verbs they move me and my adjectives they shape me, and I must not forget.

Causality can be very overwhelming. Am I deprived of words because I am weary - or am I weary because I am deprived of words?