Butter cookies

Saw some tins of Danish butter cookies today and I couldn't help but grin.

I wonder when I'll get to sample the real thing, hmm.

Hint hint lalala...

Abang Jalal

Is it just me, or are there actually more and more billboards gracing our roadsides and highways with Jalaluddin Hassan all decked out in a suit endorsing products like rice and coffee?

I have nothing against rice and coffee. Hell, I exist on rice and coffee. I just don't see how using Jalal all decked out in a suit gonna help with the sale. I didn't study marketing or advertising but really, even if I were gullible enough to fall for every ad I see when I'm out driving, and I wanted to buy coffee, then I would fall for the Nescafe ad. Why? Because it shows a lifestyle, and people in the ad look successful and beautiful and content with their life while sipping Nescafe. It shows youth, or when it's not, it shows grey haired dignified people who have aged well. Point is, I can see what they're getting at. It doesn't have a heavily made up TV actor with a stupid grin plastered on his face wearing a tux and a bloody bow tie just posing beside the packets of coffee. Oh, and in bad lighting too. I mean, what's that all about?

OK lah. Say it's really Jalal they want. The guy is not bad looking and he shot to 'fame' with his tv dramas. Fine. I can see the attraction. But why why why must they put him in a bloody suit all the time? What does a suited man complete with a tie have anything to do with a packet of rice?

Is it saying that if you were to eat our rice, you'd eventually look good in a suit and a tie, because frankly speaking, before the arrival of our product, the, uh, rice, you just look crap in a suit.

All I know is that if you eat too much carb and you don't have the metabolism to deal with it, you're just gonna get fat.

Or is it saying that if you were to eat our rice, you'd be all successful and hence the suit. I don't know, but you could be wearing a suit and just be a clerk. And I've never met anyone whose highest ambition is to be a clerk.

I don't get it.

What's wrong with a nice shirt?

8 random facts/habits

I was tagged by Magenta.

1. Each blogger must post these rules first.
2. Each blogger starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
3. Bloggers that are tagged need to write on their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
4. Don't forget to leave them a comment telling them they've been tagged, and to read your blog.

1. I like to sleep
2. I sleep weird
3. Although I like sleeping, I always stay up late
4. I like to read
5. At any given time, I would be reading more than one material
   
6. Maybe because of that I can barely remember anything I've read (or maybe I'm just plain thick)
   
7. I am having trouble fitting into my skinny pants
8. I am getting fat (or maybe I expand a bit in this hot weather, sour grape sour grape lalala)
   

I tag:

GM
Fatin
Kudo

3 sudahlah.

Meet my hero

He was the reason why I wanted to be an archaeologist. He was also the reason why I became very interested in history. I had no problem memorizing facts from Malaysian History, syllabus Form 1 to 3. And yeah, throw in anything from the Ice Age too. That was from Form 1 right? Don't ask me anything now though, don't remember shit.

At one point, I lost interest in history and I thought being an archaeologist in the mundane Malaysia of today could have never brought as much adventure as Indy had in the 30's. Of course I overlooked the fact that Indy had never had any of his adventures in America. It was always in some exotic places like India or Egypt.

I actually tried to do some research on the subject before applying for Uni. It seemed tedious and proper and required a lot of discipline, while I just wanna swing my whip and ride a horse while looking cool in a fedora and leather jacket saving (or stealing) another ancient relic! Where is the adventure lah? At that point I realized that unless I really care about history, the world of archeology is probably better off without a careless bugger like me. Oops sorry, I just dropped that 400 year old urn containing the ashes of some dead emperor. Uh, what do you mean that's the only urn containing his ashes that we have? No spares ah?

I mean, what are the chances of me having adventures in exotic faraway lands? I reckon it would be mind-numbing field work most of the time, if not doing some tiresome research in some dusty museum. Yawn. I mean, have you ever seen an archaeological digging? They dig gently, and then with a little brush they brush away bit by bit by bit by bit by bit by bit it drives me crazy just watching. Argh.

My mom said she was immensely relieved when I told her I wanted to study architecture instead. She thought it's not as dangerous. I didn't bother to argue. It's actually dangerous to the mind. All architects are actually dotty like hell. That's why I'm an urban designer now, because I'm sane. Gotta give her the credit though for not saying anything during all those years when I really thought archeology was my destiny.

And oh, I didn't do any research at all before applying for architecture. I truly didn't know about the caffeine-overdosed late nights, brutal crits, eccentric tutors, and 6 year long of self-doubt. We all graduated with only shreds of self-esteem, the school had managed to strip us off that. And so it was with pure innocence (which the school managed to strip off me too) that I entered the school and spent the 1st year having fun. C'mon, first year was fun. In later years we all dubbed the first year at that school as pure lie as it was not indicative whatsoever of what was to come.

Here I am now, armed with a bundle of qualifications and not having a clue. Maybe I should have taken archeology instead. At least I'll be dealing with things that won't change. The thing with architecture is that it keeps changing until you get that as-built drawing done. And that is not one fun drawing to make.

Anyhoo, for old time sake, I've booked 2 tickets to see Indy's latest adventure tomorrow night. I'll just grab a friend to see it with me. Or I could see it on my own. When it comes to Indy, I don't need a sidekick. I'll be too busy imagining myself looking cool in a fedora and cracking that whip to care.

Random Bitching

I gave up. Finally decided to drive to KL, can't handle Puduraya anymore. If I wanted to kill myself by way of inhaling hazardous air, then at least let me choose my poison, any strong 'kretek' would do I think. Or petai-flavored shisha.

Look at KLIA. Then look at Puduraya. Then look at KLIA. And look at Puduraya again. Attracting foreign investment issit? Oh, I forgot that the bigwigs don't use public transportation but they do use the airport. Hell, even Melaka has a nice bus station. And keeping the muhibbah Malaysian copycat spirit, it was fashioned after KLIA too. I doubt Kurosawa did the design for Melaka Sentral. Oh you noticed that the name is similar to that badly designed transportation hub in KL too?

Actually I don't really fancy the design of Melaka Sentral, but at least waiting for your bus at the platform there doesn't quite pose the same health hazard risk as standing downstairs in the dark dingy interiors of Puduraya's surreal platforms. Or maybe that was the exhaust smoke which has gotten to my head talking. It doesn't take much to get me high. I am that innocent.

Before you accuse me of being a snob, let me tell you that I've done the whole hanging out at Puduraya thing while I was in high school. Been there, done that bebeh. Not that I wanted to, but what choice did a 15 year old kid have to go back to her hometown? I could in theory take a bus to Kajang, then either get on the bus or the commuter to Seremban, and then from there get on the bus to Melaka. Sounds tedious eh? Well. It was. Suddenly poisoning my strong 15 year old lungs didn't seem like a bad option.

-----

I went to the Gardens, the latest addition to that parking nightmare called MidValley City. For a place called the Gardens, it was the most ungarden-like space I've ever been to. Dude, placing a few palm trees (which I strongly suspect are plastic) in that sorry excuse of a planter box does not constitute a garden, neither here nor in the Middle East. Trying to appeal to Arab tourists who can actually afford to use your RM5 loos (maybe they wash your bum in there for you) and buy shirts at Thomas Pink? Well. What do I know. It probably works. I have no idea how their minds work (the Arabs I mean, not Malaysians).

And yes, Pink has arrived all the way from Jermyn Street, and I still harbour a not-so-secret obsession with Pink shirts which interestingly I don't own any. Actually it's not that interesting. I just couldn't afford any. And I hate all of you who own Pink shirts.

-----

Would you like to sign up with the MBA? No, not for an MBA, but with the MBA. Malaysian Bridal Alliance that is. I wonder what they do. Kick the asses of those from the Malaysian Groom Service? Now that would be interesting to watch. No I am not bitter at all. Didn't find out though. For some weird reasons our legs were on auto-pilot and we steered away from the Wedding Exhibition at MidValley.

-----

Two of my close friends are about to become parents! Nani and Rudin, I'm sure you'll be great =) There's always Auntie Ayien to corrupt, I mean, spoil your kids. Rudin, nice work with the crank call. I might have not driven a car for a long time, but I think I could have managed a sudden U-turn at the busy intersection at The Curve to speed to the hospital. Which I didn't remember the location until I passed by it this evening.

Once the baby has popped out, do share how it feels like to be able to make your own people. Not the process, I do have some ideas on how it works, a stork delivers the baby to you right? Told ya I'm innocent. What I mean is that whole geez-a-person-actually-came-out-of-me feeling.

Have fun my friends =)

Sketch Series 2: Around the Stadthuys

First stop: Chendol Stall by the Bridge

Being Malaysian, it is imperative that I start everything with the 'kita minum dulu!' (let's have a drink first!) spirit. Hence, upon alighting from the car (I asked my grandpa to chauffeur me around town for a bit this morning), I purposely crossed the road to the Mamak Chendol Stall by the Bridge. Actually there is another shop selling really good chendol in the Jonker area, but for the life of me, I can't remember the location. This sketch, which was supposed to be my warm-up sketch (but turned out to be nicest of the bunch too), was done while I was stuffing my face with two small bowls of chendol. The clock tower is located on the Dutch Square (The Stadthuys) and was built in 1886. Behind it is the building that was built by the Dutch for administration purpose, which the British also used for administration when they managed to wrench Melaka away from the Dutch. It was built on the ruins of the Portuguese fort.

It was really nice sitting under the tree by the Melaka River, eating chendol and sketching at the same time, while listening to Tamil music on the radio. I was joined by a Chinese boy and 2 Chinese girls later and when I wanted to pay for my chendol, I was told by the Mamak that the Chinese girl had paid for my chendol. I went to ask her about it and she didn't seem to realize that she had paid for me, and so I offered to pay. But she refused my money, saying 'tak apa, tak apa' while pushing my hand away. My luck then.

Second Stop: Christ Church.

This church is the oldest Protestant Church building in Malaysia. Yes, it is still being used today. I didn't know that. Shame on me. I thought it had been converted to a museum, as all the other red colored buildings in this area are. I would've gone in had I known it is still functioning as a church.

Man with trishaw.

This was one of the least 'decorated' trishaws around. Today the trishaw only serves as a tourist attraction, but when I was a kid, it actually served as a public transportation. My mom and I used to hire a trishaw to take us back home whenever we went out shopping in town. These days they use an umbrella to shade the passengers, but back in the day they used to have this canvas foldable roof which is way cooler if you ask me. Somehow rather, the umbrella doesn't have the same elegance as the foldable canvas.

Fourth Stop: One portion of the facade at The Stadthuys

Although The Stadthuys is made up mostly of stones, some portions of the second story is made up of wood. You've got to give it to the builders of the old, as it was all harmoniously composed and the proportions are to die for. This particular facade caught my eyes and I lodged myself on the steps in front of it to sketch it. If architects are allowed to have favourite elements, then the 'louvers' is my poison. I fell in love with this particular architectural element since the beginning of my architectural education, and to date, nothing else has managed to take its place. I love the louvers for the practicality and also the understated aesthetics it brings to a facade. If there is one thing I love more than the louvers, then it has to be the adjustable louvers, as The Stadthuys evidently has.

When I was sketching this, a group of Japanese tourists walked past by and several of them stopped to watch me. Those who stopped told me that my sketch is beautiful and one dude gave me the thumb up and said, 'good!' before patting my shoulder as he was leaving. As much as I would like to pretend that I'm cool and words of praises mean nothing to me, I must admit that that felt good =)

Final Stop of the Day: Democratic Government Museum

Were it not for the result of the last election, I would have been convinced that democracy is dead in Malaysia as we have a museum dedicated to it. This is one of my favourite buildings in the area. Shamelessly modernist, it fits surprisingly well into the context. This sketch is also crap as I was experimenting with my 0.4 felt tip pen (the other sketches were drawn with a 0.2 pen) and the proportion is wrong and so are some of the details. It is actually a very beautiful building but my sketch obviously doesn't do justice to it. I heart modernism. I really do.

My grandpa asked me to bring over my sketch book to his house once I was done. When he opened the book he let out a short cry, which sounded a lot like disbelief. He then asked me if I actually drew them myself and although the temptation to kid around was really high, he is also hard on hearing and that would take some of the fun away, so I just nodded. The guy has been there for all of my important dates since I was a kid and yet he's really clueless about what I do. My grandma referred to my course as 'kursus lukis-lukis' (drawing course) for quite some time and I didn't bother to correct her. It was not until later that she referred to it properly, no doubt a kind soul (which I strongly suspect my mom) had taken the time to explain it to her. Oh well. They looked at my sketches with such pride that that was such a precious moment, and I just thought that all the critics at the Bartlett can go to hell, my grandparents love me!

I'm going to KL tomorrow to sort out a few things and if I have time, I'll hang out again in this area. I really wanted to sketch the old Chinese townhouses in the Jonker area and perhaps I should concentrate on that next time.

Note: All sketches save for the last one were drawn with 0.2 Artline felt tip pen on white A5 paper. Sketch book courtesy of the Tall Dane who will claim credit once I won the Pritzker ;P

Rootless

I feel more and more displaced for some reason. I looked forward to coming home to Bolehland and imagined that things would be wonderful, great food, great weather, catching up with friends and family.

The food has consistently been great and if I had spent the first week consistently downing sambal petai, my system had to put up with copious amount of Tom Yam last week. My abused digestive system handled the challenge very well. It is probably relieved that for these few weeks it doesn't have to put up with my own cooking.

The weather, ahh, the thing that became an obsession with me since I started living in London. The weather has been predictably great and as the sun mercilessly grill us and try to drown us in our own sweat, it is easy to forget the chilliness of a typical day in London. It is probably considered ungrateful to wish that it could have been sunnier here, but I reckon that it would certainly have helped with the visibility when I went snorkeling in Perhentian. Maybe I am speaking out of unjustified nostalgia, but I think I prefer Tioman. Maybe the weather was a lot better or the water was less polluted when I was there, but I remember the water as being a lot clearer than Perhentian. What happened in Perhentian though, stays in Perhentian. I am of course trying to make it sound more interesting to cover the fact that we spent the weekend mind numbingly staring at the sea. I am boring, I know.

As for relations, well, people move on. Meeting up for a few times in the span of a few weeks in the interval of a year make for stilted conversations. We are different people now. It is true that living abroad changes you, but your friends at home have also moved on with their life. Generally I find that conversations revolve around at the superficial level, we were spewing out facts without really going deeper on the rationales behind the facts (GM, I support your decision bebeh!). Not that I want to be nosy, but I am aware that I haven't been there and thus have been out of the scene. And to include me again requires a hell lot of explanation about the background of the issue and maybe even the backdrop. And I can't be there to hang out at the mamak with my friends anytime I want, as mentioned before, I don't live in the same city as them.

At times I feel like I have lost my social skills. It is easy to explain away my silence in social situations in London by putting the blame on language barrier which then influence my confidence in speaking up (or I can blame it on the fact that I fell asleep while you were talking). But here, I am on home ground and can deliver a joke in my own language with all the cockiness of a local. And I can just continue to meaninglessly rant to keep conversations going. But still sometimes pregnant silence fill the void in conversations. People have moved on and I am no longer a part of their daily life. I feel like I am desperately trying to retain flowing water in my cupped hands. Nobly Herculean but hopelessly Sysiphean, I know.

I feel like I am not here neither there. I feel at home in London for the aspirations it offers me as well as the freedom to be whatever I want to be. And of course for the challenge it offers me by merely being contextually different which then keeps me on my toes intellectually. And also the freedom of discourse. But it can get lonely at times. And since my tastebud has refused to adapt, I generally pine for the ready availability of cheap good greasy spicy food well-suited to my Malaysian palate. And while Malaysia can offer me all that I pine for in London, I feel that it would be too easy to fall into the old rhythm which will then dull my senses and I will then be chained by the demands of daily routine. And I won't have the time, or maybe willing company, to rant about the bigger questions in life.

It has only been 2 weeks, but I am beginning to miss London. I have to keep myself occupied. Tomorrow, I am going out to sketch the old Chinese townhouses. For I have brought back the white Ordning and Reda sketchbook still untouched since I got it for Christmas. Tomorrow, for once, the pages will be streaked with ink. And maybe I will make friends with the Chinese shopkeepers to whom I can rant about my life questions.

do. UNDO. redo

I don't speak for anyone or represent any group. I speak for myself.

You are welcome to pass judgment on me, for it is only human nature, but do not expect me to act in a certain way or speak like I'm reading from a well-worn script, for you have not the right. I do not tell you how to live your life and I expect you to treat me with the same courtesy.

I may fit certain stereotypes because of the environment I grew up in, but do not expect me to conform to societal norms for I am becoming increasingly aware of the rules and I am questioning every thing.

Expect nothing from me and you will be spared from the disappointment. I no longer believe in being consistent just for the sake of being consistent as being consistent only means that you are so set in your ways that you do not allow for improvement. Improvement is of course, subjective. Positive and negative are connotations we stick to actions and reactions that we form based on our cultural background, environment, and beliefs. Nothing is absolute.

I am an individual and value me by my thoughts and skills and interests and ethics. And nothing else.

18 years ago

Me and my Bahasa Malaysia teacher who also happen to be the woman who gave birth to me. Picture taken in front of my classroom, Darjah 3 Hijau.

My friend, The Teacher, practically rolled on the floor laughing when she saw this picture. She couldn't handle the flowers tucked into my hair. For the life of me, I couldn't remember how the teacher who made up my face managed to tuck so many flowers into my hair. Quite a feat.

I was in Standard 3 and this picture was taken on Prize Giving Day. All classes had to prepare a performance and my class teacher, or perhaps more likely an enthusiastic trainee teacher, had the brilliant idea for a fashion show.

When I was very young (I was 9 then), I was an impulsive volunteer. I was one of those annoying kids whose hand would shoot up in the air shouting me! me! me! whenever the teacher asked for a volunteer or asked a question. Simply saying, I was an obnoxious know-it-all because I read a lot and had quite an impressive level of general knowledge for a kid my age. And with that came the seemingly natural urge to assume responsibility or maybe I was just power crazy. But let's not accuse a 9 year old girl of that. It was not until later in my life that I learned to shirk any form of responsibility and to shut up in class even though I knew the answer. Then again, I didn't really study that hard in boarding school and thus most of the time I genuinely didn't know the answer to my teachers' question. Or I wasn't listening as I was fast asleep during lessons. These days my level of general knowledge has not really improved from when I was 9 as I have trouble retaining information in my thick skull. The only consistent thing about me from then till now is that I am bloody lazy. This has nothing to do with me being Malay although it has deconstructed some of my mates' view in London about Asians being hard-working. Then again there was this Chinese bloke who did nothing but slept all through out the course.

But I digress. The reason why I was decked in a kebaya that I had outgrown was because I volunteered to do so. My grandfather who was quite an avid traveler, bought that pair of kebaya for me when he went traveling in Indonesia. Before I realized what I was doing, I found myself explaining to the teacher that I had a pair of kebaya from Indonesia and was willing to wear it for the fashion show.

I didn't realize that it meant that she would feel it was ok to treat my face like a blank canvas. Look at that picture and read my expression. That was not exactly pure joy. See, I am not exactly a novice to wearing make up. But it was incidents like this which made me swear off make up for the rest of my life.

I remember during rehearsal I was told off by the teacher because apparently my walk was not cat-like enough. She said I walked like a cowboy and I thought that I deserved a pat on the shoulder as it was no mean feat to accomplish that when you are decked in a kebaya.

It was such a traumatic experience that I swore off kebaya for a lot of years after that. It was not until I was at Uni that I learned to appreciate the kebaya again. And my choice of style today is the classic Kebaya Nyonya made popular by the Straits Peranakan Chinese. I reckon it's like a tribute to my Hometown which was a Straits Settlement. I even wore a black pair for my year end exhibition at the Bartlett.

I still walk like a cowboy though. Can't help that.

Juggling

I dropped by at the KL Alternative Book Fest at the Annexe on Sunday and in less than 2 hours found myself laden with 8 books (Edited- I just realized there's another book on my side table, so make that 9). In this heat having to carry heavy load is not that fun and since I had to carry all of them to the LRT Station, I reminded myself not to let my future self cursed my then present self (geddit?).

These are the titles I got:

1. New Malaysian Essays Volume 1 edited by Amir Muhammad. I think my cousin had already bought a copy for me, but Amir was there and I reckon getting his signature would be nice. I also asked him to sign my copy of
2. Generation: A Collection of Contemporary Malaysian Ideas of which Amir was one of the 3 writers whose writings were compiled. They were giving it away for free and me being typically kiasu grabbed one for myself.
3. Kaki Script_10x10: 100 Minutes to Change the World is another book I got for free. Fill in the survey for Kakiseni and it's yours. Good scripts for short sketches in there.
   
4. Ayah Kita Bos by Tok Rimau and Sinaganaga is a blook. I have been visiting Tok Rimau's blog on and off for the past year. His entries are usually short but laden with meaning. The last time I checked, Tok Rimau was a lecturer who taught English at UTM (my alma mater) but he always writes in Malay. Guy's a damn good story teller.
5. Kasut Biru Rubina by Sufian Abas. I have been reading snippets from this book online. Sufian writing falls into the category of Pop Fiction and it shows through his choice of words. This book received rave reviews from some blogs I have been visiting and so when I saw it I just had to have it. Oh and he signed my copy too.
6. Turunnya Sebuah Bendera by Usman Awang. An effort to read more quality stuff in my mother tongue.
   
7. Tipping Points: Viewpoints on the Reasons for and Impact of the March 8 Election Earthquake edited by Oon Yeoh. Do I have to explain why I bought this book?
8. Religion Under Siege: Lina Joy, the Islamic State and Freedom of Faith edited by Nat Tan and John Lee. Nat Tan and John Lee are intelligent bloggers and activists and it would be interesting to read how they go about with the Lina Joy issue. I hope people are not that stupid to dismiss them against this book just because they are not Muslims and thus not 'authorized' to discuss this issue. (Typical Malaysian, cannot talk about issues not directly related to you as people are 'sensitive'. Bullshit lah.)
9. Aweks KL is an anthology of short stories allegedly written for KL girls (awek is a Malaysian slang for girlfriend). It also falls under the banner of Pop Fiction.
   

Being my usual greedy self, I have started reading all of them save for the final two (edited - number 7 and 8 actually). And I am still not done with No Logo. Or catching up with the 4 issues of Off The Edge. Or Monocle May issue. Or last 2 Friday's Guardian. Or even Hello! (Emirates give away free magazines and newspapers and that explains the Hello! You do buy my story right?)

Argh. Have to learn to be patient as my brain can't deal with digesting too many different information at the same time. I really am not that smart.

I also signed the petition to stop the banning of books. Book banning is one of the things that do not make sense to me. (Others are people wearing thick winter jackets while walking in KLCC Park and high density developments built without prior consideration of transportation). With luck in the future I wouldn't have to worry about people storming into my Mom's house to burn my books. Just as a safety caution, I'll remove all my dodgy titles and porn out of the country and stock the bookshelf with Mills and Boon titles.

Eyeliner

Nurul, simpan eyeliner kau tu baik-baik. Ayah kau tu karang kalau nak melukis, dia main pakai je apa yang dia jumpa!

Trans - Nurul, put away your eyeliner in a safe place. When Ayah wants to draw, he will just use whatever he finds!

Ok Ma.

Come to think of it, it IS a bloody pencil.

We'll see if this solitary eyeliner would spawn other face-painting apparatus. I am, for sure, will need to buy one of those cute little sharpeners.

Oh and in case you're wondering, I am utilizing it almost on a daily basis. I never thought that poking a semi-blunt pencil dangerously close to my eyeballs can be fun. Well not fun, but I like the result. It helps to cover the fact that I am a bumbling idiot without any grace whatsoever prone to trip over an imaginary loose pavement while walking on a perfectly even tarmac surface (and of course, countless times of spilling water and food over myself). If I were to stand still without moving (I was about to type that the only time I am still is when I am asleep, but I am sure many long-suffering friends will take pleasure in proving me wrong), maybe some people could be tricked into thinking that I am a smoky beauty equipped with confident feminine grace (yeah, dream on, I know).

Poor them.

Oh well.

A girl's gotta eat.

Home

From time to time, specially when I am at this place I proudly call my hometown, I would think about the meaning of home. For the likes of me, the word 'home' could be the starting point of an interesting and long-winded discussion, and would then proceed to other mundane topics like the meaning of life (I prescribe to Monty Python's interpretation in case you are wondering, so that question has been answered for me). For us, home is not easily defined nor identifiable. We are the people who are at home anywhere in the world, and yet, precisely because of that, we are tied to none.

When I say the likes of me, what I mean are those fellow ex-boarders who left home at the age of 13 to go live with their peers from all around the country. I am not saying all ex-boarders are as screwed up as we are. No, some ex-boarders turned out exactly like our Orwellian government intended us to be (come to think of it, maybe WE are the results they intended and not vice versa, hmm, trust my old paranoia to kick in). Good or bad, I am not one to judge.

Having left home at such a young age and having spent our formative years with people from the same age group, we learned to be emotionally independent (although of course the first few days at the hostel were spent glued to the public phones bawling our eyes out begging our parents to come pick us up), and we learned the intricacies of friendship. Living together with about 200 other girls was no joke. Had I paid more attention to the politics, I could probably be a shrewd politician today (there goes my career in politics eh Idlan? lain konteks sama maksud ni, boleh kot apply? hehe). Friends became substitute for family, for they stuck with you through your years of teenage angst, and being teenagers themselves, accept your emotional rants as normal. Well maybe not 'normal', but they accept it as part of who you are. Without question.

And thus, we became emotionally independent from our families. Not to say that we cut ties from our families. Being Asians, being Malays, and being Muslims, and of course, being products of boarding schools in the sense that there's always that desire to excel in life (and not be failures in any way possible although glitches are considered normal), we dutifully make that journey back to our parent's home from time to time. We try our best to be filial children and accommodate to our parents wishes (maybe this doesn't really apply to me come to think of it). Most of us ex-boarders never fail to make our parents proud of us, although at times in worryingly unconventional ways.

Being emotionally independent has its uses. If you haven't seen your mom on a daily basis for the past 5 years, what's another 6 at a Uni away from home? And then what's another god-knows-how-long in another different city for you to pursue your career? And the ultimate is of course when you get on that plane to fly halfway around the world and have no idea when you'll come home for good. Or if you ever will.

We then went to Uni and make another batch of friends from around the country. At this point, having at least one friend from your hometown is considered a bonus. I don't know, maybe

1. Melaka is too small a place for its loyal natives to leave ever,
   
2. or Melakans in general snub offers to go to boarding schools and prefer to remain roasting in this coastal town,
   
3. or maybe we did not go to the same one,
   
4. or maybe just having the same hometown doesn't mean that we would get on like a house of fire,
5. maybe Melakans in general do not go to that particular architecture school, or
   
6. repeat reason 4 but change context to Uni.

As a result, most of us do not really have friends from our own hometown. We make that dutiful journey home to spend time with our family, and apart from that, if your hometown doesn't happen to be happenin' KL y'all, there's not much action as rest assured that most of your friends, exes, foes, lovers, haters, from boarding school AND from Uni, would be roosting there. Through my conversations with friends, I find that most of us experienced the same thing when we visit our parents. There would be days when the only time we stepped out of the house was just to hang the laundry or take out the garbage. Our moms wanted us to be home, and hey, they got their wishes. Our life at our hometown would really revolve around the family, we go out to visit uncles and aunties, to chauffeur our parents or grandparents around, we tag along when our parents do their groceries shopping, and we go to eat out with our families though we have no idea which place is good.

Our hometowns thus become that place where we spent our childhood and where our families reside now. We recognize certain landmarks which evoke certain childhood memories, but that's about it. Our hometowns now serve as museums to us, and coming from a place which city centre is chock full of museums of any kind, I certainly appreciate the irony. There is nothing there for us save for our families. And although we can always make that journey home for good and settle there, most of us need the bright lights and fast pace of big cities to function. And for people like me, we always want to keep our hometown different from where we reside, just for that novelty of being able to escape to the bosom of your family when you are troubled (or in serious trouble). Also, after so long of keeping your families at an arm's distance, most of us can't really deal with living in so close a proximity to them.

Not to say that we do not love our families, we do. Of course we do. We do in our weird little ways.

And thus that explains why you can't really give directions around your own hometown (I gave directions to a friend and out of caution I called my mom to check, and of course, I was giving my friend the wrong direction), or tell people where are the best places to eat and drink. When you are home, you eat at home and rarely have any interest to eat out unless of course, you are going for seafood at Umbai. Now, THAT is a place I know how to go to (although I need to check the direction with my mom first, you know, just in case).

Having been away from our families since we were 13, we also find it easy to relocate. We rarely tie ourselves down to a particular place. That place where we spent 5 years at and then dispersed was just boarding school, that place where we spent 6 years at and then dispersed was just uni, that place where we spent 1 year working was just a transit while we ponder our next move. In fact, every place served as mere transits because we knew we would leave. I am amused at friends who ended up living and working in the same town where they went to school or uni. Kajang as I remember was a small town close enough to KL and barely able to satisfy our needs. Bangi was just that suburb which was slightly better than Shah Alam, at least it didn't have as many confusing roundabouts, I don't know now though. Skudai was a different animal altogether, the people there scared me initially, though during the time when I was almost done with my studies, Starbucks opened their first branch there, and therefore, Skudai had arrived. JB was made up of peculiar people, though of course my JB friends are different. In terms of the daily on-goings, all these places numbed my senses. JB has its quirkiness which made it kind of fun when you were there after a while but not enough to make me stay. Therefore, the amusement I feel when friends decided to settle in those places. And then of course, the extremes are those who grew up, went to school, went to uni, got married and settled down in the same bloody town. These people I sometimes playfully and openly mock, although they are probably scratching their heads looking at my nomadic life and wondering what the hell is it am I looking for shuffling from one place to another?

Where is home then? Is it where our parents live though we barely feel any actual tie to the place itself? Is it where we went to school although we spent every semester shuffling from one dormitory to another, and our perception of that place was confined to the compound of the school? Is it where we went to Uni though we knew since day one we wouldn't want to stay? Is it where our friends we accumulate from school and uni live and work? Is it where we live now though we don't know how long we'll be there? Or is it that place we have yet to live at?

I left home when I was 13. I am now 26 years old. I have been away from my family for 13 years. 13 years is not a short while. A lot had and could happen in 13 years.

I always feel comfortable wherever I go, because adaptation is one of the useful skills the likes of me learned as a boarder. Though it is liberating to know that we are so mobile that given the chance we could easily uproot ourselves and explore a new place, it is also somewhat unsettling to feel at the same time that we are rootless.

So where is home then? Perhaps it is not a place, but rather an ideal we bring with us no matter where we go. Perhaps home is that comforting knowledge that no matter where we are in the world, we still have our families and friends who love and care about us whom we can always visit. Perhaps it is knowing that although we can't call a particular spot our home, the whole country and what it is made up of then, is home. Perhaps to feel at home is to make peace with ourselves and the reason why we struggle is the reason why we feel unsettled.

They say home is where the heart is. I agree. And we, the likes of me, we take our hearts with us wherever we go (the likes of me are also terrible at maintaining relationships come to think of it, and thus we always wrench our hearts back from those who have managed to steal them), and so our homes are with us, always.

Picture credit to the talented Din Dang.

Labour Day at that place I call my hometown which I barely knew (and my knowledge is not getting any better either)

A Formosa Fort.

Doing what I do best. (Ikan bakar at Umbai)

Picture credit to the talented Din Dang.

Do not run, yet do not be hasty

It is true that when you throw yourself into something else, the matter that used to render yourself helpless and sad doesn't seem to weigh that much anymore. You can then examine the matter at hand in almost a leisurely manner, you know you must deal with it, and you will, but you also realize that you can. And in these trying times, that realization brings back a degree of control that you desperately need.

But you must be careful not confuse positive occupation with running away from the matter at hand. You have learned that running away doesn't solve anything, as trouble has a habit of clinging on your back, weighting your mind, and after some time, even tricking you into thinking that it has disappear into thin air while what it does is to manifest itself in your future decisions. And not in a good way.

So remember not to run, but also remember not to be hasty.

Although a part of you wish that you can turn back time and live in blissful oblivion, the box has opened, and Pandora is rearing her ugly head. Coming to terms with yourself is never easy, but it must be done.

So do not run, and yet do not be hasty.

Do things that will make the heart soars and remembers the happy times you have had, and throw yourself into it, because you need the high to deal with the low effectively. Later. Accept that there will be moments of melancholic sadness that will make you wish that you can wrench your heart out and numb the senses. But it doesn't have to be all the time. Do not be too hard on yourself. You too, deserve to be happy.

Run not, be hasty not.

Do not do things for the hope of forgetting, for you will never forget, you're only trying to ignore. And what you hope really is not to forget, but to hope that time will numb the pain. So you deliberately ignore and try to keep yourself busy, but at times when time forgets to sedate you, you almost double over from the pain. And you cry and you cry and you cry until your tears have all but dried up and a new sense of jadedness envelopes you. And that is how you continue living. And that is not living. Remember that you must confront your troubles.

Hence do not run, and yet do not be hasty.




But if you do want to run, the world is your oyster.

There is a place where you can bury yourself into practically numbing your senses.

And you know it.