Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Tremors of goosebumps
As she read it, she felt the prickling of her skin; waves of feelings that seemed to rise from the depths of her heart.
The performance
Furnerals are performances. It is not for the dead; it is for the living. The living do many things out of its norm. It cries, it rants, it rails and it acts.
At his furneral, many claimed to be his "brother". "Brothers" who were not by his side when he needed it raving at the injustice of his death; at the supposed caning he received post-mortem; at the guy who allegedly got him into trouble; at the girl who did not turn up when he had left a letter only for her.
At another furneral, she was refusing dinner, claiming to want to keep the dead company. Why did she not turn up on his birthday? Was it because there was not enough people around to witness it? If you did faint at the furneral from refusing food, you were then being filial and not being a nuisance, adding more problems to the sad affair? If you called the girl a bitch for not wanting to face the hostile "brotherhood", you were being a friend?
At his furneral, many claimed to be his "brother". "Brothers" who were not by his side when he needed it raving at the injustice of his death; at the supposed caning he received post-mortem; at the guy who allegedly got him into trouble; at the girl who did not turn up when he had left a letter only for her.
At another furneral, she was refusing dinner, claiming to want to keep the dead company. Why did she not turn up on his birthday? Was it because there was not enough people around to witness it? If you did faint at the furneral from refusing food, you were then being filial and not being a nuisance, adding more problems to the sad affair? If you called the girl a bitch for not wanting to face the hostile "brotherhood", you were being a friend?
Of the pic (Hints provided)
Wah! So many people (by my standards) responded to the pic I posted ah! Really top the number of comments I had in a while. I scare later the answer not sensational enough I will get bashed up. It is not a technical wrongness (i.e. not something problematic with the technique); rather it is something I feel is morally and ethically incorrect.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Spot the wrongness!
What's wrong with this pic?!
Nope, it's not the two guys sitting like they are pooping on the bus. Something much more evil.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Him
I remember the day he jumped. I got a call from SJ. I thought she was joking. It couldn't be true. I sat in the darkness of the room, I felt a little faint. I kept asking her to knock it out. He couldn't be dead. Why would he want to commit suicide?
I told my parents; they couldn't believe it. I was never close to him. We were just classmates but once, he was with my friend and frequently sought me out for advice on her likes and dislikes. Together, me, him and another friend went out to get presents for her. Throughout the day, I remember cracking jokes. I cannot remember specifically what it was, but I know it involved a lot of "pi sai". And I remember him massaging his cheeks, still laughing, pleading at me to stop for his face was aching. I felt happy to be thought of as funny and happy that people around me were happy. Yes, it was all about me.
Later, he bought us both presents; things we said we liked in the course of the day. It was his token of appreciation for our help in getting presents for his girl.
At the furneral, I burnt the incense in disbelief. We walked over to his coffin and it struck me. He was wearing his Blackburn Rovers jersey. There were scratches on his face. They were from the jump. All the memories of how he would fervently defend his favourite football team in class against all those Man U supporters came rushing back. I knew I was not his friend; had not been one for 2 years. Yet, I could not hold back the tears. Was it the guilt that I had not kept up the friendship? Was it seeing him lying there, perhaps finding the peace that had eluded him for so long? I did not know. And I still don't.
I couldn't stop crying. Strange glances were cast upon me. I could only remember the word "pi sai" and how happy he looked then. I was not his friend, yet my tears were streaming down my face. Someone should mourn, but who was I? Disgusted with myself, I left.
In the days to come, I went back and did not cry. I could laugh when they were talking about how he used to be. There was nothing I could do but send him on his last journey. I regret not knowing him before he took that path. Maybe I could have stopped him. But I know I was rubbish. I wasn't a friend.
That was four years ago. He was but eighteen. Today, I read about Clavion and thought of him. I hope they are both happier now.
I told my parents; they couldn't believe it. I was never close to him. We were just classmates but once, he was with my friend and frequently sought me out for advice on her likes and dislikes. Together, me, him and another friend went out to get presents for her. Throughout the day, I remember cracking jokes. I cannot remember specifically what it was, but I know it involved a lot of "pi sai". And I remember him massaging his cheeks, still laughing, pleading at me to stop for his face was aching. I felt happy to be thought of as funny and happy that people around me were happy. Yes, it was all about me.
Later, he bought us both presents; things we said we liked in the course of the day. It was his token of appreciation for our help in getting presents for his girl.
At the furneral, I burnt the incense in disbelief. We walked over to his coffin and it struck me. He was wearing his Blackburn Rovers jersey. There were scratches on his face. They were from the jump. All the memories of how he would fervently defend his favourite football team in class against all those Man U supporters came rushing back. I knew I was not his friend; had not been one for 2 years. Yet, I could not hold back the tears. Was it the guilt that I had not kept up the friendship? Was it seeing him lying there, perhaps finding the peace that had eluded him for so long? I did not know. And I still don't.
I couldn't stop crying. Strange glances were cast upon me. I could only remember the word "pi sai" and how happy he looked then. I was not his friend, yet my tears were streaming down my face. Someone should mourn, but who was I? Disgusted with myself, I left.
In the days to come, I went back and did not cry. I could laugh when they were talking about how he used to be. There was nothing I could do but send him on his last journey. I regret not knowing him before he took that path. Maybe I could have stopped him. But I know I was rubbish. I wasn't a friend.
That was four years ago. He was but eighteen. Today, I read about Clavion and thought of him. I hope they are both happier now.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
The big and small of it
As far as houses go, most would think the bigger, the better. Everyone can have his/her own personal space and there’s plenty of room for this and that.
When I was young, we all stayed in the same room. That may not sound like much until you hear that there were 6 of us to a tiny room. How did we all fit in? There was mum and youngest brother on the double bed, dad and elder brother to the bunk bed. Finally, younger brother and I were on mattresses on the floor.
To many, it would be a tad too clamped I think. How can we stand one another? On the contrary, I think it was part of some of the best times I had. Let me narrate the sleeping procedures. Every night, we would be ushered in to sleep. Some nights my parents would still be watching television in the living room but we never dared venture out when we were told that it was our bed time. Other nights, mum and dad would be turning in with us. So the logical thing to do was go to our individual sleeping area. Mine is mattress number 2 as you can see from the layout.
So we would all be in our beds and ready to travel to dreamland. But! The crucial question was, who would turn off the lights (which is at the foot of mattress 1)? Now, by logical deduction, you can see that it’s not going to be mum nor baby brother because they were furthest from the switch. So that’s two down, four to go. Judging from how dad is the man of the family, it would hardly be his role too right? Three to go. Elder brother was sleeping on the top bunk, so it was too much of a hassle. Besides, he might step on my leg and break it in the dark. I might not have to go to school after that, but I think it would hurt. Bad.
In the end, it was left with yours truly and younger brother in mattress 1. Remember, we were but kids. Like all kids, the only solution out of all these was a round of scissors, paper, stone. But luckily for me, younger brother was a very obliging boy. He would automatically get up and turn off the lights. My, it was a performance. Firstly, he could barely reach it and had to tiptoe. Secondly, there was the counting down. While contests had drumrolls before revealing the winners, my brother had his three-two-ones before turning off the lights. Sometimes, to break the monotony, it was three-two-two-and-a-half-one. You can imagine how it went after he learnt fraction in school.
Lights out and it was time to sleep. But sleep was not immediate. All of us would lie quietly in beds, listening to our parents talk. I can imagine that most adults are not used to sleeping at 9pm. So my parents would talk to each other about their day; typically with mum gossiping and dad saying “ah ha, ah ha”. It was in this cosy and tranquil state in which we fell asleep for most nights.
During the night, younger brother on mattress 1 would sneeze and sniff. He suffered from asthma and sinus. He would get up and rub his nose very loudly before returning to sleep. With me just next to him, it was not always easy to get uninterrupted sleep. But I had never once wished that he was somewhere else. I guess this is what they call family love.
Sometimes, I would wake up in the middle of the night from a nightmare. It always made me feel better when I saw my dad just next to me. Although when I turned to my left, I would face the darkness below the bunk bed, it never quite freaked me out. I suppose monsters under the bed was not my kind of thing. On very bad nights, when I simply could not return to sleep, I would wake mum up and tell her about it. Being a pragmatic woman who knew that she had to grab her sleep whenever she could because she has four kids, mum would tell me to count the stars. And I did. Somehow, it had a calming effect and I would sleep again.
In the morning, there was the clearing up duties. My younger brothers were usually exempted from this because they were not quite tall enough. It would be up to me and my elder brother to stack the mattresses onto the top bunk. Back-breaking work I tell you but what has to be done, gets done.
Now, we have a different configuration. After my grandfather passed away, I had his room. Ah! The privilege of being the only girl. Shortly after, my uncles got married and moved out. Then my three brothers shared that room and my parents finally gained their own space. Some days, I would venture into my brothers’ room to talk to them. Most of the time, our post-dinner activity was to gather in my parents’ room to watch television together. I don’t think I can get enough of that.
So the adage “bigger is better” does not always apply. Not to me anyway.
When I was young, we all stayed in the same room. That may not sound like much until you hear that there were 6 of us to a tiny room. How did we all fit in? There was mum and youngest brother on the double bed, dad and elder brother to the bunk bed. Finally, younger brother and I were on mattresses on the floor.
To many, it would be a tad too clamped I think. How can we stand one another? On the contrary, I think it was part of some of the best times I had. Let me narrate the sleeping procedures. Every night, we would be ushered in to sleep. Some nights my parents would still be watching television in the living room but we never dared venture out when we were told that it was our bed time. Other nights, mum and dad would be turning in with us. So the logical thing to do was go to our individual sleeping area. Mine is mattress number 2 as you can see from the layout.
So we would all be in our beds and ready to travel to dreamland. But! The crucial question was, who would turn off the lights (which is at the foot of mattress 1)? Now, by logical deduction, you can see that it’s not going to be mum nor baby brother because they were furthest from the switch. So that’s two down, four to go. Judging from how dad is the man of the family, it would hardly be his role too right? Three to go. Elder brother was sleeping on the top bunk, so it was too much of a hassle. Besides, he might step on my leg and break it in the dark. I might not have to go to school after that, but I think it would hurt. Bad.
In the end, it was left with yours truly and younger brother in mattress 1. Remember, we were but kids. Like all kids, the only solution out of all these was a round of scissors, paper, stone. But luckily for me, younger brother was a very obliging boy. He would automatically get up and turn off the lights. My, it was a performance. Firstly, he could barely reach it and had to tiptoe. Secondly, there was the counting down. While contests had drumrolls before revealing the winners, my brother had his three-two-ones before turning off the lights. Sometimes, to break the monotony, it was three-two-two-and-a-half-one. You can imagine how it went after he learnt fraction in school.
Lights out and it was time to sleep. But sleep was not immediate. All of us would lie quietly in beds, listening to our parents talk. I can imagine that most adults are not used to sleeping at 9pm. So my parents would talk to each other about their day; typically with mum gossiping and dad saying “ah ha, ah ha”. It was in this cosy and tranquil state in which we fell asleep for most nights.
During the night, younger brother on mattress 1 would sneeze and sniff. He suffered from asthma and sinus. He would get up and rub his nose very loudly before returning to sleep. With me just next to him, it was not always easy to get uninterrupted sleep. But I had never once wished that he was somewhere else. I guess this is what they call family love.
Sometimes, I would wake up in the middle of the night from a nightmare. It always made me feel better when I saw my dad just next to me. Although when I turned to my left, I would face the darkness below the bunk bed, it never quite freaked me out. I suppose monsters under the bed was not my kind of thing. On very bad nights, when I simply could not return to sleep, I would wake mum up and tell her about it. Being a pragmatic woman who knew that she had to grab her sleep whenever she could because she has four kids, mum would tell me to count the stars. And I did. Somehow, it had a calming effect and I would sleep again.
In the morning, there was the clearing up duties. My younger brothers were usually exempted from this because they were not quite tall enough. It would be up to me and my elder brother to stack the mattresses onto the top bunk. Back-breaking work I tell you but what has to be done, gets done.
Now, we have a different configuration. After my grandfather passed away, I had his room. Ah! The privilege of being the only girl. Shortly after, my uncles got married and moved out. Then my three brothers shared that room and my parents finally gained their own space. Some days, I would venture into my brothers’ room to talk to them. Most of the time, our post-dinner activity was to gather in my parents’ room to watch television together. I don’t think I can get enough of that.
So the adage “bigger is better” does not always apply. Not to me anyway.
Saturday, October 08, 2005
Things I think about
Traffic lights. I often wonder whether there are people who specialize in calculating when to make traffic lights blink and for how long. I thought it would be a fairly simple job. *tui tui tui, green man on, green man blinks, red man on* What would these people do after they set up the system? No more job? Ah ha! Traffic lights are tricky little things; they look deceptively easy to set up, no? But when you think of how you need to coordinate traffic light A with traffic light B and B with C and so on, you would think twice wouldn’t you? Furthermore, you need to estimate the average speed and how many cars will be stopping on a particular road when the light turns red and whether there is enough space for the perpendicular traffic to zoom by the last car. Many, many considerations my friend!
***
Animals. I think they are only as good as the extent to which you can control them (hmm… just like everything else?). You wouldn’t enjoy having a dog that barks twenty-four seven right? That’s why people have muzzles. Too inhumane to shut your poor cutie, sweetie chiwawa up you say? Well, think of the poor student who has to hear the din your beloved pet and others make at 6 in the morning. Some of us are just unfortunate enough to stay near a vet where the wounded animals make it a point to let you know just how they feel. Be humane to human first please.
***
Perception. Many a time, we feel hungry. Many a time, we walk around because we cannot decide what to eat. Many a time, we perceive that the stall with the longest queue is the only stall we can eat from. Many a time, we join the back of that queue only to realize it has been overattributed. Many a time, we curse like a sailor for sticking to such a misguided perception.
***
Animals. I think they are only as good as the extent to which you can control them (hmm… just like everything else?). You wouldn’t enjoy having a dog that barks twenty-four seven right? That’s why people have muzzles. Too inhumane to shut your poor cutie, sweetie chiwawa up you say? Well, think of the poor student who has to hear the din your beloved pet and others make at 6 in the morning. Some of us are just unfortunate enough to stay near a vet where the wounded animals make it a point to let you know just how they feel. Be humane to human first please.
***
Perception. Many a time, we feel hungry. Many a time, we walk around because we cannot decide what to eat. Many a time, we perceive that the stall with the longest queue is the only stall we can eat from. Many a time, we join the back of that queue only to realize it has been overattributed. Many a time, we curse like a sailor for sticking to such a misguided perception.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
The first memory
It is said that our memories can be faulty. What we thought we remember are actually, well, just what we thought. My earliest memory is one of my maternal grandparents. When I was young, my elder brother and I used to stay at Por Por’s house during our holidays. I have no idea what we did then. I think we ransacked the kitchen and played with pots and pans or just stayed glued to the telly. It was always fun to hang out with my grandparents.
Gong Gong was a quiet, solemn man. I cannot remember much of him. Maybe it was because he was struck down by Parkinson’s disease in his latter years that my memories of him were blurred. As far as I can recall, he was a man of few words. My bro said that Gong Gong was a man of habits. After his shower, he would go to his room, take a cotton bud and clean his ears while on his way out. We never questioned where he went. Perhaps it was to meet his friends. Or maybe he just liked to walk around.
Por Por was a great cook. She would make the loveliest meals when we hung out at her place. Fried potatoes, minced pork in black bean sauce, and her specialty: fried rice. I think it was because she did not limit us to eating healthy food (like mum did and still does) that we liked staying over. Por Por also made a mean chili sauce. We never got to learning the recipe.
So, the earliest memory I could dredge out was one of the sleepovers at Por Por’s house. There was going to be a Cantonese opera in Chinatown which was a stone’s throw away. As usual, bro and I were still eating when Gong Gong left for the performance. My recollections are fuzzy but I remember the route we took. Por Por stayed in Block 1. We would have to pass by the Mama stall at Block 2 to get to the stage. As we passed the block, Por Por bought us a cup of ice-cream each. Of course, being the girl, my color was pink. So I had strawberry while my manly brother had chocolate. They cost 40 cents each. We were, however, not allowed to eat them until we reached the stage.
As we hurried along, I thought only of my ice-cream and how good Por Por was to us. We quickly found Gong Gong seated on one of those orangey-red chairs they used to have for weddings at void decks; the ones where the backings and the seats were orangey-red plastic with bits of white in them from the wear and the legs were black. Finally, we could eat the ice-cream. After finishing the dessert, we sat in our chairs because in those days, children did not run around. If they tried, one stern look from their parents would freeze them in their tracks.
I sat there trying to keep my lids up because I could not understand what they were singing about. It is strange how the din did not seem to dampen my sleepiness then when I see how I have to sleep in an absolutely quiet room now. It is probably the coffee. After a while, I swung my legs back and forth to keep myself occupied because they did not quite reach the ground. I glanced over at Gong Gong’s strong back and noted how he had elegantly crossed his legs. He cut a distinguish figure. Gong gong’s hand was on his thigh, his fingers tapping to the music. I think he was having a good time.
Later we went home and helped Por Por set up bed for the night. We loved playing with the sofa bed because it was a novelty to us. After the bed was in place, we would need to venture into the dark bedroom to get the pillows, or miao miaos as we nicknamed them. It was an adventure in itself. Darkness and children do not mix. Before sleeping, Por Por would fix us a drink of hot condensed milk (ngao nai shui) or milo. Then, we were ordered into bed. I would snuggle up with the tons of miao miaos and they were filled with a special scent that we could only find at Por Por’s house. Later I learnt that this very scent was from Por Por's smoking but it was still very unique, still very fragrant. Por Por would sleep beside us, patting us to sleep.
All these recollections may not be one hundred per cent accurate, but I do know that they give me a sense of nostalgia on the days I recall them. The warmth at the memory and the tinge of regret at not being given a chance to take care of them now leaves a sweet yet bitter taste in my mouth.
Gong Gong was a quiet, solemn man. I cannot remember much of him. Maybe it was because he was struck down by Parkinson’s disease in his latter years that my memories of him were blurred. As far as I can recall, he was a man of few words. My bro said that Gong Gong was a man of habits. After his shower, he would go to his room, take a cotton bud and clean his ears while on his way out. We never questioned where he went. Perhaps it was to meet his friends. Or maybe he just liked to walk around.
Por Por was a great cook. She would make the loveliest meals when we hung out at her place. Fried potatoes, minced pork in black bean sauce, and her specialty: fried rice. I think it was because she did not limit us to eating healthy food (like mum did and still does) that we liked staying over. Por Por also made a mean chili sauce. We never got to learning the recipe.
So, the earliest memory I could dredge out was one of the sleepovers at Por Por’s house. There was going to be a Cantonese opera in Chinatown which was a stone’s throw away. As usual, bro and I were still eating when Gong Gong left for the performance. My recollections are fuzzy but I remember the route we took. Por Por stayed in Block 1. We would have to pass by the Mama stall at Block 2 to get to the stage. As we passed the block, Por Por bought us a cup of ice-cream each. Of course, being the girl, my color was pink. So I had strawberry while my manly brother had chocolate. They cost 40 cents each. We were, however, not allowed to eat them until we reached the stage.
As we hurried along, I thought only of my ice-cream and how good Por Por was to us. We quickly found Gong Gong seated on one of those orangey-red chairs they used to have for weddings at void decks; the ones where the backings and the seats were orangey-red plastic with bits of white in them from the wear and the legs were black. Finally, we could eat the ice-cream. After finishing the dessert, we sat in our chairs because in those days, children did not run around. If they tried, one stern look from their parents would freeze them in their tracks.
I sat there trying to keep my lids up because I could not understand what they were singing about. It is strange how the din did not seem to dampen my sleepiness then when I see how I have to sleep in an absolutely quiet room now. It is probably the coffee. After a while, I swung my legs back and forth to keep myself occupied because they did not quite reach the ground. I glanced over at Gong Gong’s strong back and noted how he had elegantly crossed his legs. He cut a distinguish figure. Gong gong’s hand was on his thigh, his fingers tapping to the music. I think he was having a good time.
Later we went home and helped Por Por set up bed for the night. We loved playing with the sofa bed because it was a novelty to us. After the bed was in place, we would need to venture into the dark bedroom to get the pillows, or miao miaos as we nicknamed them. It was an adventure in itself. Darkness and children do not mix. Before sleeping, Por Por would fix us a drink of hot condensed milk (ngao nai shui) or milo. Then, we were ordered into bed. I would snuggle up with the tons of miao miaos and they were filled with a special scent that we could only find at Por Por’s house. Later I learnt that this very scent was from Por Por's smoking but it was still very unique, still very fragrant. Por Por would sleep beside us, patting us to sleep.
All these recollections may not be one hundred per cent accurate, but I do know that they give me a sense of nostalgia on the days I recall them. The warmth at the memory and the tinge of regret at not being given a chance to take care of them now leaves a sweet yet bitter taste in my mouth.
If looks could kill
One day, I caught it smoking...
I am scarred for life.
It was surprised at first...
Then gave me dagger looks, asking me to mind my own business...
Finally, it left in a flame of fire...
I am scarred for life.
Friday, September 23, 2005
Something's strange in spring
When I was young, I used to read books that raved about spring. It's supposed to be the season where the animals give birth to the young and everything was nice and all because the flowers will be blooming. No one prepared me for the shock I see around here:
Firstly, the worms invade the ground.
Then the brushes you use to wash milk bottles start growing on trees.
You open your window for the lovely spring air and somehow get a sense that you are being watched by things that start singing at 4am.
After all these, you go mad and start going to the toilet for jam to put on your bread.
I was subsequently told that I look older in spring. *sobs* How old do I look to you?
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
大白兔奶糖的纸
This is your big rabbit milk candy.
This is the edible paper inside your big rabbit milk candy.
This is the toilet paper in public restrooms of Brisbane.
Say, isn't the idea of using toilet paper not to get your hands dirty? I wonder.
Status-us!
Recently, I have been listening to love stories. Real-life tales about how couples get together or didn't work out and it drawn upon me that there is a crucial difference between males and females. Women want to know where they stand; they want to know what is the correct label. "Am I your girlfriend, friend, hook-up partner, fuck buddy, good pal, friend with benefits or just a fling?" Men, on the other hand, cannot be bothered. "There's Annie. Great! Now we can get a move on."
Why is that so? I guess it is because women have been known to seek security; they know their youth is their biggest draw because men have been known to seek pretty, young things. So what is the resultant? Females want status and "you're with me" simply doesn't count. Males want to sow wild oats so vagueness is the way to go. How do you turn the tables?
Be unattainable. That ought to keep men interested, right? This is when a friend pointed out: if he is with you because you pose as a challenge, will it be to your benefit to succumb to his charms eventually? You will no longer be attractive then because you have been "conquered" right? How long can you play the game? If you never yield to him, will he lose interest?
Life is so fun~
Why is that so? I guess it is because women have been known to seek security; they know their youth is their biggest draw because men have been known to seek pretty, young things. So what is the resultant? Females want status and "you're with me" simply doesn't count. Males want to sow wild oats so vagueness is the way to go. How do you turn the tables?
Be unattainable. That ought to keep men interested, right? This is when a friend pointed out: if he is with you because you pose as a challenge, will it be to your benefit to succumb to his charms eventually? You will no longer be attractive then because you have been "conquered" right? How long can you play the game? If you never yield to him, will he lose interest?
Life is so fun~
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Friday, September 16, 2005
Rainy days
I love rainy days. The feeling of the earth being cleansed and everything starting anew after that. Completely delusional. In any case, the cool weather is conducive for sleeping or grabbing someone to cuddle with you. Hugging yourself in bed and willing yourself to dream of a hunk/babe is a pretty fine activity too.
When I was younger, I love to get caught in the rain. There were no issues about getting wet. Now you wonder about falling down in the rain and making a fool of yourself. Or not getting admitted onto public transport because you are dripping. There's also the big ugly rheumatism lurking in the back, threatening to make you remember this drenched day in all future rainy days. So you shrink back under your brolly and hurry home before you catch your cold of death.
I think I watched too much advertisements. You know, about how its raining outside and this woman would be dry and warm, sipping her coffee/hot chocolate while lounging in her window seat, looking out with a contented expression. Yeah. Coffee keeps you awake and hot chocolate gives your sore throat. Go ahead. Bottoms up!
When I was younger, I love to get caught in the rain. There were no issues about getting wet. Now you wonder about falling down in the rain and making a fool of yourself. Or not getting admitted onto public transport because you are dripping. There's also the big ugly rheumatism lurking in the back, threatening to make you remember this drenched day in all future rainy days. So you shrink back under your brolly and hurry home before you catch your cold of death.
I think I watched too much advertisements. You know, about how its raining outside and this woman would be dry and warm, sipping her coffee/hot chocolate while lounging in her window seat, looking out with a contented expression. Yeah. Coffee keeps you awake and hot chocolate gives your sore throat. Go ahead. Bottoms up!
More Idiot-Proofed Recipe?
Want to learn how to make faux shark fins? No sharks were harmed in the making of this delicious soup!
Doing death
We were on the topic of death after seeing a furneral ad on telly. I remember there was a documentary on Discovery Channel about this lady in Hongkong preparing for her death. She bought the outfit and a place for her urn in the temple. Her children were in Germany and she felt she was too old to follow along and adapt to a new culture.
Then A remarked that it was so sad that there would be no one to burn incense to her after her death to which B replied that her children would probably come back from Germany once a year for tomb-sweeping festival.
Another thing of interest is the performance at furnerals. You will see people whom you have not seen the whole time you were living with the deceased turning up and sobbing like they have lost their parents. Who/what are you crying for? If you were on such great terms, why did I not see you when I was living with him? If you were so filial, why did I only see you for 10 minutes during Chinese New Year?
I wondered aloud about the previous generations before us: who prays to them? Do their souls get "goodies" from their human descendents?
We concluded that they were probably long reincarnated. So, there should be some rule-of-thumb here right? How many generations ahead of us should we pray to? It's all very complex.
*For your interest, this post is written with a Chinese-Buddhist-Taoist orientation.
Then A remarked that it was so sad that there would be no one to burn incense to her after her death to which B replied that her children would probably come back from Germany once a year for tomb-sweeping festival.
Another thing of interest is the performance at furnerals. You will see people whom you have not seen the whole time you were living with the deceased turning up and sobbing like they have lost their parents. Who/what are you crying for? If you were on such great terms, why did I not see you when I was living with him? If you were so filial, why did I only see you for 10 minutes during Chinese New Year?
I wondered aloud about the previous generations before us: who prays to them? Do their souls get "goodies" from their human descendents?
We concluded that they were probably long reincarnated. So, there should be some rule-of-thumb here right? How many generations ahead of us should we pray to? It's all very complex.
*For your interest, this post is written with a Chinese-Buddhist-Taoist orientation.
累了
我很累了... 这个世界已经变了... 不管说或做什么都没有用...
为什么我总是这样?
说什么做朋友; 不说话, 不关心还算什么呢?
如果没时间理你, 已经都不知还剩什么...
我真的很累很累...
我要回我开心的日子...
没了, 没了... 什么都已成空白...
为什么我总是这样?
说什么做朋友; 不说话, 不关心还算什么呢?
如果没时间理你, 已经都不知还剩什么...
我真的很累很累...
我要回我开心的日子...
没了, 没了... 什么都已成空白...
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
装可爱手指照片记 Cutie Finger Photo Blog
Ever wondered what to do with your hands and fingers while taking photos? Should they be on the lap or on the knees? For guys this would be especially tricky. Slightly too center and you will be seen as a pervert.
What about girls? If you show the back of your hands while standing and taking photos, your arms look twice as thick. Akimbo? What are you afraid of? Holding your guy's hand? Don't be so clingy la.
I am here to save you! Today, I will bring you my friend's and her friends' "Act cute finger photo-taking skills!" It will be as easy as 123!
Materials
- Fingers
- Act cute face (See below)
Make-up:
- Extreme blusher (It's a girly look remember. Guys can stick to ermmm... Tweezing eyebrows ala Japanese style? Then you look more androgynous and can get away with cute poseur looks.)
- Black eyeliner (So you can make your eyes look wider and thus more kawaii)
- Korean contact lens that enlarge your iris (All in the name of cuteness sweetie! 爱美不要命!)
- Lip gloss/collagen injection (See below)
Preparation course: Act cute face (Yes, this is the (See below) part)
- Tilt head down by 45 degrees from its normal angle when you look to the front. Check the mirror to see that your double/triple/quadruple chins are well hidden.
- Widen eyes. Because this is a widen eye look and because you are wearing the enlarging iris contact lens, remember to have eyedrops handy. Furthermore, dewy 水汪汪 eyes makes people want to protect you.
- Look upwards but ensure that your eyes are not left with their whites only. You want to look cute, not dead.
- Pout lips. If your lips are thin, you might consider using gloss/collagen injection so they can catch the light and are plump up. Subtlety is the key here. Pout, not turn your lips inside out. No saliva please.
=> Summary: 头下, 眼睛张, 嘟唇 - Recite this holy mantra in the future when you need to get your way. Or are itching for a bash from your friends.
So are you ready? Ladies and gentlemen, crack your knuckles.
5.
4.
3.
2.
1.
一支手指装安静 Use one finger, act quiet
两支手指装和平 Use two fingers, act for peace
三支手指装抱歉 Use three fingers, act sorry
四支手指更和平 Use four fingers, act more peace
五支手指不告诉你 Use five fingers, don't tell you
六支手指打电话 Use six fingers, telephone
七支手指爱耍酷 Seven fingers to act cool
八支手指哟哟哟 Use eight fingers, yo yo yo
九支手指是什么 Use nine fingers, don't know what
十支手指象翅膀 Use ten fingers, just like wings
你说好拍不好拍呀不好拍? You say good shots, not good shots ah, not good shots?
***
Since I am very considerate, I have come up with wallet-sized cut-outs for the poems! Complete with dotted lines for you to cut along! Now you simply have to click and Ctrl + P!
Now you know how to handle your fingers when taking photographs! Remember to thank me when you get complimented for your genius! If you are bashed up, please forget that you learnt this from me!
***
If you as bored as me, start a meme leh! Then give me your link I'll help you advertise. :D
What about girls? If you show the back of your hands while standing and taking photos, your arms look twice as thick. Akimbo? What are you afraid of? Holding your guy's hand? Don't be so clingy la.
I am here to save you! Today, I will bring you my friend's and her friends' "Act cute finger photo-taking skills!" It will be as easy as 123!
Materials
- Fingers
- Act cute face (See below)
Make-up:
- Extreme blusher (It's a girly look remember. Guys can stick to ermmm... Tweezing eyebrows ala Japanese style? Then you look more androgynous and can get away with cute poseur looks.)
- Black eyeliner (So you can make your eyes look wider and thus more kawaii)
- Korean contact lens that enlarge your iris (All in the name of cuteness sweetie! 爱美不要命!)
- Lip gloss/collagen injection (See below)
Preparation course: Act cute face (Yes, this is the (See below) part)
- Tilt head down by 45 degrees from its normal angle when you look to the front. Check the mirror to see that your double/triple/quadruple chins are well hidden.
- Widen eyes. Because this is a widen eye look and because you are wearing the enlarging iris contact lens, remember to have eyedrops handy. Furthermore, dewy 水汪汪 eyes makes people want to protect you.
All together now... Awwwwwwwwwwww...
- Look upwards but ensure that your eyes are not left with their whites only. You want to look cute, not dead.
- Pout lips. If your lips are thin, you might consider using gloss/collagen injection so they can catch the light and are plump up. Subtlety is the key here. Pout, not turn your lips inside out. No saliva please.
=> Summary: 头下, 眼睛张, 嘟唇 - Recite this holy mantra in the future when you need to get your way. Or are itching for a bash from your friends.
So are you ready? Ladies and gentlemen, crack your knuckles.
5.
4.
3.
2.
1.
一支手指装安静 Use one finger, act quiet
两支手指装和平 Use two fingers, act for peace
三支手指装抱歉 Use three fingers, act sorry
四支手指更和平 Use four fingers, act more peace
五支手指不告诉你 Use five fingers, don't tell you
六支手指打电话 Use six fingers, telephone
七支手指爱耍酷 Seven fingers to act cool
八支手指哟哟哟 Use eight fingers, yo yo yo
九支手指是什么 Use nine fingers, don't know what
十支手指象翅膀 Use ten fingers, just like wings
你说好拍不好拍呀不好拍? You say good shots, not good shots ah, not good shots?
***
Since I am very considerate, I have come up with wallet-sized cut-outs for the poems! Complete with dotted lines for you to cut along! Now you simply have to click and Ctrl + P!
Mandarin?
Or English?
Now you know how to handle your fingers when taking photographs! Remember to thank me when you get complimented for your genius! If you are bashed up, please forget that you learnt this from me!
***
If you as bored as me, start a meme leh! Then give me your link I'll help you advertise. :D
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