Faith no more, Home sick home

I seem to have misplaced my muse. So I'll mostly let the pictures speak. Though most people wouldn't bother much with a leased house ~ pride, stubborness and a fondness of hammering and cleaning employed me to give the house a little touch of what I may use in my future house o' dreams.

Note: As I didn't have any choice over the wall colours, I worked with what was given to me with what I already had. Except for the kitchen cabinets, hot water feature and air-conditioner, the house was empty when I moved in.

Shots of the living room. This is literally what you see as you walk in, the main entrance being a whole wall of sliding glass doors.The ratan pieces are castoffs from Old House from when the fam moved to New House. The rest are mine.

A few choice pieces of art ~ I nailed them on myself heheh

The bedroom walls are actually light grey. There's an overhead fluroscent tube light (which I hardly use). I like yellow lights at home. There's not much in the bedroom except an old three-legged armchair (courtesy of my old work place), a couple of chest of drawers (that hold mostly jammies) and a few books. I like my bedroom dark, cold and quiet. Am not quite happy with curtains (they let in too much light). Hummm maybe I am a vampire =)  

The bathroom and WC. Literal CLOSETS! teeny! But like I said, work with what you have. As long as they're clean and functional I have nothing to bitch about. At least there's hot water.

  The little study is off the kitchen. An odd place for a room I know, but the house is small. I chose this room for the study since I tend to smoke when I work late and don't want the house to stink. 

"To each his own" ~ and for some strange reason the kitchen and all its furnishings are BLUE. I am NOT generally a blue person. I like my living quarters in grey or white. But to "gel" with the flow a bit better I got those little cafe curtains for the sink (rm6) and a bunch of forget-me-nots. Works, don't you think?


There's another room where I keep all my ironing, laundry and make up. There's also a wet kitchen (where I cook and do the laundry) and an itty garden at the back (which I've only JUST cleared last Sunday). But I won't bore you with details just yet... if you'll excuse me, I have a Muse to catch =))

Here Is No Why : So Long, Not Goodnight

"This Is The House That Jack Built" has been stuck in my head for the past few weeks. Ever since I actively started house-hunting. You know the rhyme, right?  You can read it at
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/This_Is_the_House_That_Jack_Built

As mentioned in Wikipedia, the rhyme is a cumulative tale that doesn't tell the story of Jack (who builds the house), but instead shows how the house is indirectly linked to numerous things and people. Which is how I feel about Old House. As I move through the rooms of the only house I've ever really called 'home', a limerick plays in my head, not unlike that of of the nursery rhyme. 

For Old House ~ thank you for the memories:

This is the house we call Old House.

This is the room, which I called my own that’s now a study to write,

This is the corner where I sat and cried whenever I heard a fight,

Both North in the house we call Old House. 

This is the room where giggling girls,

Got ready for parties, with makeup and curls,

Whispers of crushes, of heartache and dreams,

Sleepover secrets shared later at night, in a room of the house we call Old House.

This is the room that was for three boys, 

Who dragged mud on the floors when back from school sports,

Who pulled at my hair and played tricks of sorts,

My brothers who grew up with me in the house we call Old House.

This is the floor where at 4 every evening,

A ray of sun would shine on her that lay sleeping,

Basking in sunlight, little sister would nap,

On the wooden boards that still cover the floor of the house we call Old House. 

This is the kitchen, that fed more than seven,

Two grownups, 3 boys, 2 girls and their cousins,

This is the sofa which hosted the family, to watch football on TV,

Slanted but comfy, in the centre of the house we call Old House.

This is the yard which housed geese and ducks,

Where children saw faeries running with rabbits,

Where children climbed trees and sometimes got stuck,

Where roses and sunflowers bloomed for the house we call Old House.

This is the table where many have sat,

Cards changing hands, truth-or-dare bets,

Laughter resounding in the walls all around,

Of the rooms in the house we call Old House.

This is the place where stories were told,

This is the place where secrets will hold,

This is the place of laughter and tears,

Over the rainbow, 2nd star from the right, is the house we call Old House, or Home.

Old House's History: Built in the 1960s by my late maternal Grandpa, Old House was where Mum, her 4 sisters and 2 brothers grew up. In the 80s, all of Mum's siblings migrated overseas (one to UK, the rest to USA) and Mum and Dad bought the house from Grandpa and Gran. They used the money from the house to migrate to the USA too. We were living in Kapit (little out-back town East of Sarawak) then, where my folks were stationed (gov't officers of education yo!).  In 1988 they transferred back to Kuching, and we moved in.

Why Old House is Old House:  In the 1980s, my family moved a lot. A LOT. According to my parents, every time we moved I'd want to go 'home' ~ not realising that 'home' was a government house commissioned to the (current) officer on duty. By the time we moved to Kapit I was 7, and when we moved out I was 9. Old enough to be impressionable by the act of leaving (most of the time without a proper goodbye espc. since I was never told we were leaving for good!) and of changing schools. So I joined a new school (again) at 10 and went through the motions of change. High school, college blabla… you know the drill. For the first time in my life, we didn't move.

Annnyywaayy... so I leave Old House in early 2000 for Final Year, grad late 2000 only to come home to... hello! W.T.F on so many levels, my folks have bought and moved into New House (of course it's not new now, but we still call it that heh). Which is when Old House started being called Old House instead of Home. ie "I'll be at Old House" instead of "I'll be at home".

2 months after grad I started work at a Holiday Inn Resort 45-minutes (drive) out of the city. They gave me a room to board and everything (evillee establishment method of keeping your nose in the grindstone) so the only time I got to hang with the fam was the odd weekend. Which is why New House never quite grew on me as Home. In 2003 I moved back to the city but living with the folks after being on your own for nearly 4 years just doesn't cut it ~ ya dig? Rather than see me slum it out as a 2nd rate border, my parents then offered me Old House to live in (if you must live alone, live where we know you're safe). So I did.

Bear in mind that Old House has a yard the size of... well let's just put it this way: We used to keep rabbits, ducks, geese, chickens + shiteloads of mango trees and a couple of rambutan trees as well! So from 2001 - 2004 the house was practically empty.  Growing. Germinating. Breeding. The yard I mean. Yes, I moved into a jungle.  Fix up the yard? I tried!! but there's only so much you can do on your own. And every time the boys came over it'd end with a bbq. My brothers were busy working / being dads, and my sis was in college.. So I moved in, cleared the driveway, fixed up the inside of the house, and have been living here ever since.

It's nice. At least to me. But now the wooden floors are sinking with dry rot and termites, the ceiling creeks suspiciously and the partition walls which aren't made of bricks actually seem to bleed (damp infestation). So I'm being forced to move. An estimate for a fix-up was deemed by every other Architect and Engineer, as ridiculous ie. it'd cost more to fix it up than to rip it down and build a new house. *sigh* So that's the plan. Old House will one day be New -Old -House. 

Besides immediate family of three generations (am including my brother's and cousin's kids), countless of uncles, aunts, cousins and friends, have over the years, lived in Old House. This house is legendary. Ooo if walls could talk, I'd be very rich (or very poor! haH!)... yes, Old House will be missed.

After looking high and low, I've found myself a new home. Signed a one-year lease and all ~ after a year, who knows what the winds of change will blow my way?  I think I'll be happy there. I hope I'll be. I know I won't be happy in the same way as I ever was in Old House, but I'm hoping for a different kind of happy. Old House has kept me safe for the past 22 years and I like to think that its sudden deterioration (if was fine last year) is its way of telling me to move out and move on. Am I still heart-broken? Well yes, a little. But I've come to realise that as long as we (me, my family and friends) remember Old House, it'll always be there to provide shelter when needed, in a place somewhere over the rainbow where happy pigs fly and flowers smile.

National Heroes ~ Singing Shady, Happy Hour

Malaysia and Indonesia have very similar national languages, so you’d think that our music'd be similar, right? Wrong! I mean I love home (specifically this part of Borneo, Land of The Headhunters and largest state of Malaysia yo!) but there're very very few Malaysian musicians I care to listen to. The late Sudirman was pretty awesome. Manbai's old stuff is pretty good. HHmmm can't think of anyone else. But ask any of my homies and they'll tell just how much I adore Indonesian music. Especially Dygta, AdaBand, Peter Pan, and my all-time-fave, Sheila On 7. If you've never heard of Sheila On 7 but clicked on the link, I should proli' warn you that even though most of their compositions sing poetic justice with underlying (and sometimes double) meaning, the band uses a lot of humour in their videos (another reason why I love them - they're deep but don't bother to seem deep!).

Why do Malaysian musicians always go on and on about infidelity and broken hearts? Haven’t any of them had broken dreams? Broken homes? Loss of a loved one? Seen the repercussions of drug abuse? Why is (nearly) everything about boy-girl love? And in the rare occasion that it isn’t, why are the lyrics always so bloody literal i.e. I hate you I love you I hate you etc. Blergghh. 

Then I think, don’t be too hard on them (not US okay; I may be Malaysian but I’m not a rockstar!). Yes I have a theory (if you’re not interested or you don’t agree or if I piss you off then go ahead and cuss, I can’t see you anyway). My opinion lah –  with Indonesia as a case study – after all the hardship Indonesia has seen, is it any wonder that their artistes have a more mature approach to poetry and lyrics (compulsory music lessons embedded into their educational system aside)? That they aren’t ashamed to sing of poverty, and that they so love their country they write whole sonnets about going home (where ‘home’ could mean anything from a home no longer in existence, to a state of nation-normalcy; not just ‘balik kampong’!)? In Anne of Green Gables (volume 1), Gilbert (or was it Marilla?) criticizes Anne’s first attempt at getting book-published, chastising her for writing about glorious, fictional, characters – instead of writing about what she truly knows; Avonlea. Eventually she gets to it (after Gilbert nearly dies). Hah. Lesson learnt.

The late Yasmin Ahmad knew this well. What a fine example of a Malaysian she was! Who would have known that a festive wish from an oil  and gas company in the form of a TVC could move a nation to tears?

My fave of all  Yasmin's productions. Original version has voiceover, but I prefer this one.

Yet still, our “stars” continue to *bling* with pedantic prose. Which brings me to the crux of the matter (again, just my opinion lah): MALAYSIA IS ESSENTIALLY A HAPPY NATION. This generation has little to complain about (thank God, rap on wood). Those with real tragedy in their lives aren’t telling. Which is why our words echo shallow next to those of our neighbour's in song; it isn’t our fault we’re lame! (Another epiphany!!) This is what we know. Our tragedies are minor in comparison. Being ditched by his ex is proli’ the worst thing that’s ever happened to a Malaysian singer. Don’t hate him; this was his tragedy.

"Happiness is not having what you want, but wanting what you have." ~ Rabbi H. Schactel

But Malaysia – can we please stop being so lame and take a leaf out of Yasmin’s book? Why doesn’t anyone sing any happy songs? Think about it – the birth of a child? An inspiring mentor? A significant moment alone? A perfect day? A best friend? An epiphany? And when a few good souls actually make an effort, why doesn’t he/she get more airtime? What glory is there in songs about two-timing jerks? If it did happen to you, why remind yourself? Amputate losers and move on I say!

I'm not dark and mysterious. I have no hidden agendas. I have no tragic past. I suffer from no childhood scars (except the two from the stitches on my chin and knee, but don’t worry I won’t sing about how I fell while playing jadi!). I'm just your average grunge guru who happens to have a penchant for sleeping, reading and writing. That I was, in an ironic twist of fate, pulled by the forces-that-be to be part of the corporate circus (instead of being a perpetually stoned pop-punk songwriter I should have been humph) is proli' why sometimes I get a bit edgy. I’ve never been able to write much poetry from my own experience – the few that I’ve penned were inspired by oldskool soldiers who had real deep, meaningful , sometimes tragic, fears and issues. And though I don’t write as much as I used to; I promise that if you tell me your story and move me enough, I’ll try my best to do your story justice. Whether it’s inspiring, happy or sad. 

So writing on what I know.. I know I’m thankful for my family and friends. I’m thankful that ye' Old House is still standing. I'm thankful for good health. I’m thankful I get paid to do something I enjoy.  I'm thankful for Sheila On 7. I’m thankful I’m Malaysian. And I’m thankful that I’m happy.

happy National Day in advance, for 31 August 2010

Mind Metronome, Heart Palindrome

"Nothing in the universe can travel at the speed of light, they say, forgetful of the shadow's speed" ~ Howard Nemerov

I took piano lessons for 7 years, and got a metronome in the 4th. I remember it cost my parents RM150 in 1994 (query: how much does a metronome cost now?). Pricey for a tempo control device; but useful? HHmmm... subjective. While it kept me in check, I remember how edgy I felt whenever I used it for allegro agitato pieces. Over time I learnt to block out the grating edge and my hands would just sort of move with the rhythmic tick-tock'ing in the background.  Sometimes I'd even play blindly, by heart, in perfect time. Other times I'd go on and on and on, till I hit a false note. And then the metronome's beat would scream back into focus, overwhelming everything else - and I'd have trouble recovering from the stumble, lost in a page of squiggly black notes. I liken the feeling to being on autopilot, moving with uncontrolled speed, all the time barely missing passing obstacles, fearing a crash yet loving the satisfaction of reaching the finish line unscathed when I successfully did.

It's been a long time since I've really played the piano.. Sure I fiddle with Fur Elise and Evanescence pieces once in a blue moon; but I can't remember the last time I set up the metronome and crazily hammered out Turkish March. 

While my music skills have waned, I do still, however, sometimes feel like there's a metronome keeping time in the background. It's an odd sensation - you can be going about doing whatever it is you're doing, oblivious to the world and stupidly happy when  a nagging sense of urgency suddenly creeps on you, edging you on to dodge bullets, to go faster, to do better, to beat time. It makes you uncomfortable - probably because you can't find any obvious reasons that make it wrong -  and its also addictive. To see if you can. To prove that you can. Fearing the repercussions if you don't or can't, but at the same time not really caring what happens as long as you try. No obvious reasons I said. Obvious reasons. Obvious being the keyword. Because it sometimes is wrong.

"Be wise with speed, a fool at forty is a fool indeed"  ~Edward Young

Maybe we're reading it wrong (or maybe I am), but could it be possible that time doesn't want us to speed up, but to slow down? Perhaps this strange sense of urgency is God's way of telling us to savour the moment (of aforesaid unexplainable stupid happiness) before something really time-pressing (like a 1200 word article due out tomorrow!) cuts our stupid  little happy moment with a well sharpened time-killing knife in half?

An epiphany if you will. I came to realise that nobody can slow down my metronome but me, which is how I came to pace myself. To not curse at a traffic jam, but to enjoy the setting sun while I wait for the light to change (I have pictures; will upload them someday heh). To swallow impatience at a bank queue and to check out their latest ad campaigns (got some good ideas for work there). To feed the angry hissing stray cat that lurks in my back yard (he left me a dead rat once; sweet!!). To enjoy my 7 and 9 year-old nieces arguments instead of trying to get them to stop fighting (as long as they don't hit each other, they can be damn funny!). 

 "A circle is the reflection of eternity. It has no beginning and it has no end - and if you put several circles over each other, then you get a spiral."~ Maynard James Keenan

Running is inevitable (if you want to keep your job that is) but try not to run too fast. Life is a circle. Things happen for a reason. Sometimes  for not the reason we think. Two halves can be perfectly symmetrical, mirror images; but see ~ they don't face the same way. If they did, they wouldn't fit. 

Unless of course, they're squares.  Which is why maybe it's time to bend the circle to a fitting shape. Another epiphany. Maybe if I stand still the answers will come. Maybe it's time to stop racing. No I'm not 40. And I'm not  going to sit still for long. I'm just resting before the next race.  But this time I'm bringing a camera ; catch me if you can.

Second star to the right and straight on till morning...

Old House is dying a slow and steady death. To console my heartbreak of facing the inevitable end of the only place I've ever really called home, I've put together a "mood board" of what my dream house should be like. Of course I may well be homeless in a couple of months(!) but as Francois Duc de La Rouchefoucauld once said "Hope, deceitful as it is, serves at least to lead us to the end of our long lives by an agreeable route."

The idea is to opt for a 'timeless' scheme ie. no modernistic pop art crap for moi! I do so like grey... brown is good too, but falls flat if you favor hardwood furniture (which I do) plus both are fairly easy to maintain in this humidity.

Grow up in a small room sharing a chest of drawers and a small cupboard with your sis and the ultimate mission/ vision takes the form of a beautiful walk-in closet. Please ignore the clothes in the mood board ~ I think I saved a pic of a sharp gay dude's closet! Isn't it divine, though? Clever man... and OMG the bed! (I especially like the one in the middle). To sleep; to dream...

Each bedroom should always have its own bathroom. Big or small, doesn't matter ~ functional, clean and private is key. Share one bathroom with your parents, 3 brothers and a sister till you're 20 to understand the magnitude of having your own bathroom.

My kitchen will be in grey (minimum grease stains heh), small and functional. I prefer separate dining rooms. Keeps the smell of food out of your hair/clothes and adds ambiance to meals, donchathink? 

I like to think I'm a realist in matters that matter. While most people go for 'show' living rooms, I believe that good living rooms, while fabulously purrtty, should also be functional. Yes functional is an investment. No carvy woodsy Last Emperor of China type furniture for me. Nor leather sofas (which sticks to your bum unless you live in London).  My dream living room has comfortable chairs/ sofas matched with easy-to-reach coffee tables (and coasters you pigs haH)

Yes the couch on the far left is definitely a winner! Oh to watch scary movies on that couch with the ashtray but an arms-length away... excellent! And no, I don't watch TV in bed ~ a bedroom should always be a place of rest and respite.

Then there are corners. Too many people waste space either trying to be minimalists, or going the opposite by cramming every nook with junk. Not so in my humble abode. I figure corners are perfect to hang art or read,  in addition of course to my pièce de résistance 

~ a kickass study, complete with killer broadband, awesome computer and piano! (not in picture). "May the roof above us never fall in, And may we good companions beneath it never fall out." ~Irish Blessing

Here's in hope that Old House's roof doesn't fall in on me just yet, and that none of my good companions fall through the floor.

The thought of this dream-home-to-be is somewhat comforting, yet I can't help that my heart still aches for my childhood home; 

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.

          ~ Mary Elizabeth Frye

Hide & Seek ~ closet Cobain, super Stinson

A guide for fresh-grad grunge gurus joining the corporate circus ~ I'm not Superman (I don't wear underwear over my pants and I don't fly), nor am I Batman (I don't have an awesome car or a weird same-sex stalker/shadow/sidekick named Robin)..duh! I'm not even a dude! But I do have a secret identity? HaH. Not so much a secret; as more like what my best buds describe as two contrasting images that while seemingly opposite, still manages to, at the same time, be totally me. Not quite Jekyll and Hyde ~ but unusual enough within my circle of beautiful homies for them to wonder W..T.. F..

Imagine this in beige, what hey! it's me on Monday!

 Yes I am a unique (if somewhat melted/muddy) snowflake. Nothing gives my friends more kicks than to analyze my weekday passion for simple Doris Day inspired couture vs. my staple weekend uniform - shorts and t-shirts (most of them under RM20 with wise-ass quotes emblazoned over the chest). I credit this odd partiality of contradicting fashion to the years I spent working as an underpaid but utterly fabulous PR girl for 5-star international hotels. 

 In Uni I spent most of my free time walking. Credit goes to my parents for picking a 1st college about 3KM away from home - that is, close enough for them NOT to drive me to class, far enough for me to maintain my (now gone) figure. Can you do a 20-minute power walk if you're dressed in pretty dresses and cutesy shoes? No fxckin way! Which is why for a better part of 3 years I poured my monthly allowances into jeans, sneakers and smartass tees. This continued during my final year (away from home), where my hostel was 30 minutes and 6 flights of stairs away from the nearest lecture theater. Enter graduation.

Most awesome shoes ever! the All Star converse

What's that? My first job was as a PR Officer for an international 5-star resort. With limited wardrobe and budget, I opted to spend on a few choice pieces in black, grey and brown. That way I managed to mix and match my student tops (the ones without quotes on the chest) into my day job. Over the years, I've developed an affinity for khakis and olives which has somewhat diversified my closet; but not that much.Several of my ex-bosses have called me preppy to my face. Several others (and also the aforementioned same) bosses could never recognise me on my off-day at the mall. Humph.

I am of course, an oldskool soldier at heart. A child of the KorN if you will. The final batch of  GenX. The first batch of GenY. Jules Cobain. And whoever says the grunge goes away as you grow up is lying. Not talking about poser-soldiers here. Those high school/ college friends who were really more into Mariah Carey and  Boyz II Men are now  either happily married with cute little babies and dull 9-5 jobs, or chugging beer in a bar where they, together with other 30-odd-year-old singles, mix happily with hot 25 year-old groupies who squeal when Lady Gaga hits the air. Tsktsk.

A true oldskool soldier (at least the ones I know and love) don't (for lack of a better word) 'disco'. They booze of course (MAN ALIVE can they booze) but they don't dance. Most sit complacently in a dark bar and drink till they feel high enough to leave. They don't do it often, but when they do you know they mean business (literally and figuratively). They enjoy friendly banter. They have a passion for intellectual debates. They strive to analyze life and its meaning. They smoke far too much. They are workaholics. Most pour body and soul into their career / family. 

It's been more than 9 years since I stood on stage to receive that hard-earned (and bloody expensive) piece of paper an anonymous smartass once thought to name "degree". OH poor starry eyed 22 year-old me. How I yearn to warn you of the trials and tribulations that lie ahead (if only  that awesome car from Back To The Future was real) Yet true to the oldskool spirit that beats in the heart of every closet grunge guru playing the role of super corporate junkie by day ~ know this: you'll be okay. 

Do you still exist in this new generation of brats? 

The same rebellious teen who sneakily smoked  behind high school loos but refused to put out to sleazy but hot drummers will against most odds, be the one first to graduate with honors because he/she couldn't be bothered to go clubbing with his/her trendy classmates (why go out to booze when you can do it in your dorm room for 1/4 the price?). And yes you like-minded rebels; if you keep your heads grounded and your stubborn hearts true, you will eventually be a highly paid corporate slave with enough $$ to buy your own beer, pay your own bills and indulge in not one but several original Italian branded blazers besides weekend spa getaways (if you're a chick/gay grunge guru) or kickass wheels. (if you're a macho maestro).  Plan your strategy and play the game.

Throughout the course of my career, the suppressed  oldskool soldier in me argued too hard and too much for too long a time. Most bosses (regardless of how hip or cool they think/say they are) want a "YES" man. Oldskool soldiers have shiteloads of potential. They're thinkers after all - they're the creative ones. The smart ones. Sometimes too smart for their own good. HOLD YOUR TONGUE YOU DOUCHE! Trust me, the moment you stop fighting THE MAN (that's Boss to most of us), your career will move at lightning speed. UP. Because even when they know they're wrong, most bosses won't admit it. To be old and wise, you must first be young and stupid. Save the rebellious teen in you for weekends. Hello wise t-shirt. Bring on the shorts. You may think that Converse  and Adidas beats Hush Puppies and Clarks, but note to to GenZ: it  only works if the fighting ring isn't called THE OFFICE. Don't rock up the hot shite. Your hot shite will  shizzle you to fizzle for sure. 

Know the true fundamentals: 

1. If you must experiment with recreational drugs, make sure it's more experimental than recreational! Many an oldskool soldier has fallen from Wonderland to Neverland because of Lucy and her diamond skies. Hence how (I assume) the cliche of 'loser oldskool' came to be. 
2. Judge lest ye be judged - many an oldskool soldier has made the mistake of thinking they are cooler than those not-so grunge. Wakeup. Who told you the superbrains think you're cool? Whoever said the jocks think you're all that? A true oldskool soldier doesn't pick or choose his/her friends. Btw, most superbrains (not having a penchant for dancing either) will grow up to be awesome oldskool drinking buddies later in life (most of them won't drink while in Uni so quit trying to fxck them up and go down that beer in your own room at your own time) 
3. Finish college. Money talks, bullshit walks. Yes you'll need a job to fuel the artsy soul of yours. The wise t-shirt speaks true "Do what you love, love what you do". Besides if you're busy working, you won't think so much of drinking - a dangerous oldskool soldier trait as most soldiers are drinkers, not clubbers! Which is why it's so much more risky for a soldier to drink (as opposed to say, a jock). The OTHERS (non-soldiers) buy a few drinks and get high on line dancing and looking good. Soldiers don't have the luxury of such distractions. Watch your back.  
4. Keep the dream alive. But not a work. Work at what you're paid to do. If you're paid to air your philosophies on life, music and art ~ fxckin AWESOME. If not then save it for your soldier sisters/brothers/friends/diary/blog. 
5. Never, ever cheapen yourself. Society already thinks of you as a black sheep because you smoke/ drink/ dress like a skater/ rockstar. Be yourself, and don't compromise by falling into the trap of thinking you're standing up to the system by doing the 'rest of it'. If you do then you are like many a fallen soldier - all you're doing is living up to society's low expectations and being the reason why a cliche becomes a cliche. This goes to the boys too. Don't be a man-whore! Oldskool should be about strong philosophies, music with lyrics and art (albeit  sometimes alcohol and cannabis induced) views and perceptions.

Shock society and come out on top. Be the underdog who throws out his/her winning  poker hand over snobby socialites, jocks and dorks. Children of the KorN were born to be leaders. Win it like you live it - laid back but not easy. In more ways than one ;) And when you're the boss, you'll be the best boss ever. Because you stand for equality, fairness and I-don't-give-a-flying-fxck. .... But that's another theory for another day.

Planet Telex, Catching Rainbows

Have been exceptionally tired this week. Overwrought, overworked, overate. Not good. Then it rained.

Not everybody loves the rain. My parents don't. My brothers & sister don't. Most of my friends don't. But as far back as I can remember, the sound, smell and feel of a thundering storm to me has had a calming effect not unlike that experienced when hearing Frank Sinatra belt out White Christmas a week before Christmas (by the by, a carol heard after Christmas to me is sad). So I'm still tired, but no longer down. I'm not magic. I'm no Laurana from Men In Black II (wish I was a Zarthan though, how cool would that be?). It rains when she's sad. Me? I'm happy when it rains.

Clouds gathering, on my way home from work

Instant car-wash! at the traffic light 5 minutes later

Sadly I'm susceptible to rain-induced fevers & colds. Besides splashing through puddles without an umbrella (a special activity I reserve for drain-sweeping and holidays), my favourite rainy day activities are:

Bumming around in my room, dissing Susan frm DH (with coffee of course)

and if I'm at my parents' place,

snoozing here.

"And when it rains on your parade, look up rather than down. Without the rain, there would be no rainbow." - G. K. Chesterton

"Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby." - Langston Hughes

"Don't take your toys inside just because it's raining." - Cher

"Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky." - Rabindranath Tagore

Saving Grace ~ coffeespoons & afternoons

No I've never been cheated on (not to my knowledge in the traditional bf/gf sense anyway heh). In a non-traditional sense? Well of course. I mean, haven't we all, on numerous occasions, been 'cheated' by those we love/trust? Parents, brothers, sisters, friends, bosses, colleagues, teachers etc. etc. You've never? Then I can only surmise that YOU LIE!

Did your parents ever tell you you'd grow up purrtty? (btw if you're thinking "but they did and I am" then you're a narcissistic jerk - stop reading my blog). Remember your teacher telling you you'd need physical ed. to get into college? (that's time we'll never EVER get back!) Friends telling you you look good in orange? (THEY LIE!) Bosses telling you you'll get that raise, "Keep it up!" (stinking icing on a burnt cake that). Ooo got a good one; Have you ever waited for your Dad to pick you up HOURS after everyone else had gone home? (HURTS DOESN'T IT?)

So what's one to do? Live with your reflection. Screw gym & work on your maths. Don't wear orange. Switch jobs. And LEARN TO USE THE FXCKIN BUS.

Yeah sometimes I have trust issues. Can you blame me? But I think my philosophy here is pretty straight up ~ a wise T-shirt once told me "If someone you love hurts you, cry a river, build a bridge and get over it". A song a week keeps away the shrink ~ this week's flavor just happens to be: