A rejected work

I bought an old issue of Der Greif only because I know a particular local editor's work is in it. And I am not disappointed. Just her poem alone is worth every penny I paid. It blew me away by capturing love with its soulfulness and grace, another evidence of this writer's wisdom and creativity. I read and reread the poem again and again and was of course extremely inspired to be just like her. Well, we all have our heroes, don't we?

Greatly motivated, I, too, wrote a poem (what else) and submitted it to the same magazine. Naturally it wasn't accepted after a long wait of many months. That would be too good to be true. Yet, I wasn't all that disappointed. I have somehow learned that, yes, to see my writing in print is absolutely thrilling, but even if it doesn't get accepted, that does not and cannot take away the joy of bleeding my heart and soul and expressing them in the right words and ways which the mood then feels fit. Writing makes me feel alive. Getting published does not.

So here I am, very pleased to share with you this poem:

Two sides of a coin

White is the silent snow soaking up sounds, and the oriental concrete jungle bustling.

Black is the numbing hole smothering, and the crowning glory selling out not.

Green is the red hot passion dwindling, and the tree of family living on.

Blue is the mighty and poison pen inditing, and the gay cotton clouds floating

Red is the green-eyed monster clawing, and the fiery chilli padi battling.

Yellow is the invisible wall of discriminating, and the undertone of my skin glowing.

Orange is the fake tan and bleach blonde exploiting, and the warmth of Chinese New Year treats reminiscing.

Violet is the decadence and decay resurrecting, and the warpaint on my face tingling.

Grey is the grunge gone dead, and the blank canvas of my glad rags screaming.

Silver is the currency warring, and the armour of my tender soul defending.

Gold is the rags to riches hankering, and the innocence and laughter of my child inspiring.

 

Mom with foreign background

Lee Ang's Pushing Hands not only evoked a strange sense of warmth and familiarity, it also left me deeply touched, with the memory of the film still vivid and fresh in my head even after many days of watching it. It probably has something to do with the third-generation child who's born to Chinese and American parents, which resonates with me naturally because of my daughter. An innocent scene of the child-actor refusing to use chopsticks and requesting for his usual American food instead of eating his Chinese meal touches a raw nerve with me.

Sometimes a tinge of sadness wells up inside me at the thought that my little girl will probably not get to know the culture which her mother grew up in. Ancient Chinese tales and folklores such as 花木兰 (Hua Mulan), 屈原 (Qu Yuan), 后羿射日 (Hou Yi She Ri), 司马光 (Si Ma Guang) would seem as alien to her, as would stories of Roman gods and goddesses to me. While she speaks and understands the Chinese language, it does not necessarily lead to culture identification on her part. Her increasing pondering lately on why she has to speak a different language with me is a sign that she is beginning to question her identity, at the tender age of 3 years old. Her refusal to speak the language at times and her insistence that she is German when told she is also half Singaporean both alarmed and worried me.

Efforts can be made to keep her in touch with her other heritage through traditional stories, poems, songs and food. But without the additional influence of school, television, cinema and radio, I fear it's going to be an uphill battle.

With her recent keen interest in the English language, I can only hope that she would eventually adopt an open mind towards mommy's culture and the Chinese language and could flick the linguistic switch wherever she is and whenever she wants.

"If you’re an immigrant family and your kids aren’t as interested in their roots as you’d hoped, don’t despair till they’re at least thirty." - Vampire Weekend mom

There is hope.

 

Endless wants

I had the idea that the moment I put on this pair of boots, I would instantly be transformed into an impossibly cool and badass rock chick, a heroine of some sort with a killer sense of fashion, turning heads and incurring the wrath of many jealous women. Just because I own that pair of must-have boots.

Nothing of that sort materialized of course when my feet were encased in the moto boots. When the glossy image of an anorexically slim model parading in the boots and the real-life image of stumpy legs in the same pair collide, a trainwreck kind of collision happens. Aside from the mild disappointment, the boots did grow on me. While obviously I won't look half as good as the models with the boots, they exude effortless chic nonetheless and I was almost sold. Until I examined the shoes and discovered the workmanship left a lot to be desired. Untidy seams with one or two white bits on the black leather. My nagging suspicion that the product was manufactured in China was confirmed. For that price tag, I promptly and gladly sent it back without a second thought. It's another story though if they are on sale. Haha!

Imagine I could barely contain my glee when the boots finally arrived. I've been hankering after them for too long. Almost a year to be exact. Not to mention the great lengths I went to to get my claws on them. Desires are nourished by delays, indeed. Naturally I was deeply disappointed that I was left with no boots to show for and no more boots to pine for.

But very quickly, I found another object of desire:

 

TV rots your brain!

'No, my lowest moment came on Monday night, when... I realized that, with seventeen episodes to go, there was a good chance that I wasn’t going to make it.'

The above totally captured the mortification I was facing while bingeing on a Taiwanese drama many years ago. I wasn't ill then and it was the weekend. And the best part was, I was crashing at my best friend's which means no funny looks or questions from my parents though my mother is a bigger TV addict than I am. I thought I could hit the stop button and go home in the evening because it's a work day the next day. Needless to say, I thought wrong of course. Not only did I not go home, I stayed and finished the whole season, all 31 episodes of it. I just couldn't put a brake on this crazy ride. It was the wee hours by then. With a brain that was foggy and almost dead, I called in sick the next morning. Definitely not something which I am proud of...

What I find interesting is, TV addiction manifests itself regardless where we are: Asia, Europe, America... Someone out there right now is watching, or worse, bingeing on a drama as I type. With TV studios and stations churning out new and great (damn!) series all the time, how do we find time to devour these must-sees? I am awfully jealous of those who can afford that luxury, particularly those who have to juggle work and family. These are the super humans, the immortals.

But why do we all feel guilty about watching our favourite shows? Does TV make us dumb and really rot our brain? As one commenter put it, we wouldn't apologize for reading a good book in one sitting so why should we be embarrassed about spending a few hours a week on a good show? A good point there and one which I would gladly use as an excuse to go on another crazy ride! Haha!

 

When getting in bed with the government

A jaw-dropping opinion on the corruption in China still leaves me in shock days after I heard it:

'If you want to be a civil servant or government official, you have to be greedy and corrupted. If your inspiration is to be an upright and honest official, you will unfortunately not go very far because such unwelcome work ethics stand out like a sore thumb within the government sector. With corruption so deeply embedded in the 5000 years of China history, the main motivation for choosing a political life is power and greed, not to serve the people.'

I have no way of knowing if this view is representative of the Chinese public but if every Chinese citizen were to have such sad mentality while accepting corruption as a normal way of life, even mounting a herculean effort to battle the rampant corruption and to save this country would be utterly futile and hopeless.

Examples of the widespread corruption:

'...Fighting corruption would require Chinese government officials to live like monks, and nobody joins the Chinese government in order to live like a monk.' - The Alantic

'....one party secretary in a poor county received repeated death threats for rejecting over 600,000 Renminbi in bribes during his tenure.' - Wikipedia

'In fact, the police stations in Chongqing were actually the centre of the prostitution, gambling and drugs rackets. They would detain gangsters from time to time, and sometimes send them to prison, but the gangsters described it as going away for a holiday. The police and the mafia were buddies.' - The Telegraph

Some other interesting articles on the topic: here and here.

 

Emotional Intelligence much?

Screaming bloody murder at a stranger over the phone wasn't exactly my idea of getting the message across to the intended party. But since the said party has been playing hide and seek with me for months now, the pent-up rage just came gushing out once I handed out my ultimatum. All that shouting and yelling felt damn good. Except that I pity the person on the other end of the phone. I wish I took a couple of minutes to apologize to her that the rage wasn't directed at her and she shouldn't take it personally before slamming down the phone. On the other hand, I promptly comforted myself that at some points of our lives, whether we like it or not, we will somehow serve as an outlet for someone else's frustrations, rage, disappointment etc. Either we could empathize and reason that it is not about us and move on, or we could let it spoil our mood and ruin our day. That totally depends on our emotional intelligence.

Easier said than done of course, when I have allowed many incidences get at me and fly off the handle countless times. So much for emotional intelligence!

But my emotional intelligence seemed to be on a high just yesterday when I caught myself thinking, how bad would it be even if I couldn't get what I wanted? My life would not change a single bit because of that. So why should I get all worked up and drained because of a few idiots? I was smiling smugly to myself as these thoughts raced through my mind, proud that I've attained some enlightenment and determined not to let those idiots affect me.

Judging by my outburst today however, that revelation suddenly doesn't seem so revealing after all. Hahaha...

I am Sherlocked

No one will believe just how out of touch I have been. Mad Men, Homeland, Downtown Abbey, Breaking Bad, Game of Thrones, Dexter, The Walking Dead... Not a glimpse of them have I caught. Not even Glee, of which the work-laden former Prime Minister Gordon Brown is a secret fan. Like a friend quipped when I innocently asked years ago what is F4 and who is Cheryl Fox, 'Which planet are you from?' And I was away from Singapore for only six months.

Not that I haven't heard of these gripping, fun, suspenseful, humorous, violent, smart, thought-provoking (depending on which series you are talking about) dramas, Facebook makes sure I get updated on my friends' sofa-bound activities. As tempting as these tv series are, I am careful not to get sucked into it all. Because I know how easy they can get me hooked and there is no turning back once I eat drink sleep these addictives. For each season of a series, 13 straight hours would be spent glued to the small screen. Multiply that to say 5 seasons of it, that's 65 hours of my life. I wouldn't exactly call that time wasted. Who doesn't need some entertainment every now and then to spice up our mundane daily routine? But I can certainly use those hours to write and read. In case you don't know, I am making up for lost time.

That being said, I am only human and I am weak. I couldn't resist the temptation any longer and finally succumbed to Sherlock. I will not go on and on about the pure joy of watching this critically acclaimed series. You can find out by yourself if I have piqued your curiosity. Just be warned that you might be enticed to watch it all over again if you are a sucker for posh English accent and dry humour like me.

The pure joy had to be marred however by a lurking companion while I was devouring Sherlock (pun intended), namely, guiltiness. Guilty because I was spending precious time away from writing and reading. Then I reasoned this self-inflicted remorse makes the respite all the more bitter-sweet. Furthermore, with 3 episodes per season, not much time is being wasted, really. That got rid of my demon. I am amazed, yet again, at my super ability to romantise things too positively. Hehe.

The dormant volcano of drama-watching will not and cannot stay inactive forever.

 

Temporal insomnia trivia

Do you know a cup of espresso contains a whopping 80 to 150mg of caffeine? Just about right in causing insomnia.

According to the Wikipedia, there is no strong evidence that a full moon can lead to insomnia. Despite that, many still believe the magnetic pull of the moon affects our moods and increases brain activity, very effective in ruining a good night's sleep.

Although a midday shut-eye can improve memory function and lower blood pressure, the quick fix might reduce our nighttime sleep drive.

So next time before you gulp down that aromatic black brew, look out of the window and double check if the moon is bright and full. I didn't. That's why I am writing and dump linking this post at 4 o'clock in the morning, with the birds already twittering outside.

Photo credit: here

Yes, me time is a big deal

I realize I rarely write about the little one on this blog. Whether it is a conscious or unintentional effort, I cannot tell. Considering that I spend the better part of my days with her, the few meager hours I have to myself after she meets her sandman are therefore particularly precious in my eyes. That feeling is probably more apparent here because it seems that I rant about everything under the sun except the love (loves, in case the man reads this) of my life. Unwittingly, this space serves as a stress outlet where I can be utterly self-centered and self-seeking without a tinge of guilt or shame.

Likewise, it is just as important that I steal away every now and then for a much-needed breather, either with the girls or on my own to preserve my sanity. As much as I love my little treasure with all my heart, I am aware that honoring me and my interests is essential for my mental health. I become more balanced and more patient. Yes, this sounds like a selfish mother but I am not built to be a superwoman. I remember asking a girlfriend why not enroll her kids for the everyday program in the daycare instead of the present two-days per week program. Her reply 'what would I do without my kids?' struck me silent. Clearly, she is a selfless mom and I admire and respect her for that. Yet, I do not strive to be someone whom I am not.

The man's recent weekend trip with the boys prompted me to sound him out if I should do the same. I am not so worried about his reply which was some form of a chuckle. Whether it's a yes or no, I have yet to find out. The fact that I am more concerned if I could enjoy a girlie trip, without the thought that things will fall apart at home in my absence and if the little miss demanding can handle that, is validation that a longer me-time is out of question for the now.

Or perhaps I should just learn how to let go.

 

 

Another evidence of Bill Watterson's wit

This was in my inbox when I was running against time to meet a deadline of an article. A dose of humour is always welcome when one is in a panic mode.

Photo credit: here