Rain

The drops of water heavily pelting the landscape as though helping to cleanse the earth off our sins and the raging sound it makes that drown the petty noise of every day life and all you can hear is that sound until it becomes a steady rhythm that deadens your thoughts and you feel relieved because for once you can't hear the demons in your head.

And you sit still relishing the peace of mind that comes once in a while and you stop thinking and start feeling. You inhale the metallic smell of the tar wafting faintly that you have long associated with rain. You are aware of the rare coolness in the air that provides relief to the usual humidity and you appreciate the dark raging sky that comes once in a while to replace the blinding sun. You wistfully reflect on memories of childhood when you run wild in the rain and you realize what you long for is the simplicity of those early years.

And when the rain subsides you are left with the pitter patter of the light drizzle. You make a cup of tea and you sit back and enjoy the solitary moments when your senses come alive and your thoughts numbed.



(Applicable only to South East Asian heavy torrential rain and not those light drizzle that go on and on and on and on in the northern hemisphere which is chicken by comparison)

I am reminded why I didn't become a barrister

I've been reading, or more apt, trying to read and make sense of immigration rules. It doesn't help that my eyes tend to glaze every five minutes and after half an hour I physically belch. I wonder why they won't write the bloody document in English and instead resort to that foreign language called legal jargon. And it doesn't help that they keep on changing the rules every time I blink my eye. And according to an immigration barrister, common sense just don't prevail for these bigwigs. But it means work for the barristers so they're not exactly complaining either. I thought that my love for reading will sustain me while going through the immigration rules, I was wrong. In fact I am amazed that it hasn't killed my love for reading yet.

I actually flirted with the idea of becoming a barrister, or if that sounds too much like those blokes who serve caramel latte at Starbucks, a lawyer. More like a flame that was never lit rather than an old flame, I never pursued the idea. I don't trust words per se, as effective as they are for communication, they are also too fluid and slippery and most of the time, get in the way of the real issue. It doesn't help too that I'm not in love with the sound of my own voice, although I must admit that in the initial stage of my architectural education, I did rely a bit on my verbal communication skills to survive the course. A box in the hands of a gifted orator can become architecture, backed by crap loads of argument.

I feel that as time goes by, instead of improving my graphic skills to complement my bullshitting, I mean, verbal skills, the latter has gone down the drain. Now that I can finally put together a few lines to resemble a house, I can no longer give a verbal explanation regarding the house. It's like I can only communicate in one way, either through graphics or through words. And lately, the graphics side is getting better while I tend to turn mute while standing in front of my drawings.

Having your oratory faculty, or maybe really, the ability to reason in words leaves you when you most need it, is not so great when you can't present drawings to save your arse in front of the immigration people. I am sure as individuals, they are lovely people with common sense, but they are subjected to impose rules made by policy makers who have no common sense whatsoever.

I know that architects and lawyers maintain more or less the same hours, but I would rather burn the midnight oil painstakingly poring over drawings rather than going over legal documents. I know that as an architect I must at some point examine legal documents myself if only to protect my dainty arse, but I believe that that will be just a necessary evil crucial to keep me in the game of shaping the built environment.

If you know any immigration barrister well-versed in the British law and won't burn a hole through my pockets, do tell. It feels like an uphill battle. In the end it's a gamble, and the only thing at stake is the direction of my future.

It's only a matter of time before I'm done playing Sisyphus and sign that Faustian contract.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotty Mind

The movie of my life.

It would start with the narrator saying grimly, 'It was the best of time, it was the worst of time...'





Well, I never set out to be original anyways.

Que sera sera

One has hit the plateau.

What will be will be.

When fingers dance without plotting

Putting ink on paper without thinking expecting to crash ended up soaring.

mea culpa

The Nocturne

nocturne (n): a musical composition with a dark, reflective, dreamy atmosphere

Dum di dum di dum di dum

To the 100 (give or take 20) people who visit this blog daily, I have no idea why you keep coming back considering that most of my posts are self-indulgent, self-serving, lack insight, and generally whiny.

But thanks anyway.

Perhaps you need to read some mindless ramblings in between other meatier stuff.

Perhaps you need to check whether that well-fed and seemingly well-educated (although these days with those dodgy degrees you can never tell) Asian girl is still out of touch with the real world and should take into consideration the global food crisis, depleting oil reserve, the situation in Myanmar, the situation in Iraq, the situation in Palestine, Obama's chances of winning the election, global warming, and who will win Eurovision (not necessarily in that order) before blogging about her mindless worries about insignificant personal issues.

Perhaps you need the amusement, although how my blog is amusing is beyond my limited comprehension. It's just a place for me to dump my thoughts, and most of the time they are evidently not coherent at all.

Honestly, I don't know what is it that my blog has to offer to you, but whatever you reasons are, I appreciate you dropping by.

I do care about the global food crisis, depleting oil reserve, the situation in Myanmar, the situation in Iraq, the situation in Palestine, Obama's chances of winning the election, global warming, and who will win Eurovision (up until a year ago, I never knew of the existence of Eurovision until out of curiosity, misplaced Asian politeness, and no doubt overdosing on caffeine in a London flat in the small hours of the morning, I sat through some past Danish contestants' performances complete with live renderings by a Dane, God that woke me up).

I do care about those things, but I don't generally blog about them, because they're bloody depressing. Anyways I'm way too lazy to organize my thoughts which is really the primary reason for not blabbering about the global food crisis, depleting oil reserve, the situation in Myanmar, the situation in Iraq, the situation in Palestine, Obama's chances of winning the election, global warming, and who will win Eurovision (actually I don't give a toss who will win the Eurovision, I really don't).

Whatever it is, to the 100 (give or take 20), I thank you.

Past, Present, Future

Maybe to unravel the mess that is the Present we need to tie the loose ends of the Past.

And hopefully, the Future will take care of itself.

Or if it doesn't, well, c'est la vie.

It's that time of the year again

Yes ladies and germs, it's time for doing those Internet tests again!

I stumbled upon this invitation from Tickle while I was trying to clean up my Yahoo Mail account which has over 2000 mails (yes, please feel free to gasp). It's an invitation to do this test to find out your compatibility with religion, based on 10 major world religions. Amused and curious, I decided to give it a go.

It should be clarified that when I did the test, I did my best to answer the questions as truthful to myself as possible. Meaning, instead of answering them as they should be answered, I thought about the questions and tried to be honest in choosing the answer that closest resonated to me personally.

Apparently I am most compatible with Unitarian Universalism at 67%, second most compatible belief would be Buddhism at 62%, third in running is Islam at 59%, very close behind is Judaism and Bahai at 58%, at 4th place is Neo-Paganism at 55%, 5th would be Spiritualism and Christianity and Native American at 47%, last in line is Hinduism at 42%.

Frankly speaking, I haven't a clue about Neo-Paganism, Spiritualism, and Native American (totem pole maybe?). Neo-Paganism is a major world religion? Really?

As for Unitarian (I don't know why but I always alternate the word with 'utilitarian' whenever I think of it), well, apparently this is what makes it unique:

What sets Unitarian Universalism apart from other religions is their view on religious tolerance. The church is organized around a broad set of moral ideologies, which invites a diverse congregation that welcomes any member. Since members are actively encouraged to seek the spiritual truth that is most true for them as individuals, there is a diverse variety of ideas and this can be confusing or stimulating, depending on your perspective.

Which is all wonderful and lovely. But it bothers me that although they seem to thrive on diversity, they still feel the need to have official positions on certain aspects of religious discussions. For example, their official position on the origin of the world supports the big bang theory. My answer on that question is I feel that evolutionism and creationism are not necessarily exclusive. Not that I'm saying that they should have the same view as mine, but why bother having an official position at all when the very core of the faith is diversity?

Personally I feel that it would have been more attractive if they don't have any official positions on anything.

Upon telling my result, this is what follows;

But did you know that even though Unitarian Universalists have mixed beliefs about the existence of God, they tend to share the belief that there is something to be learned from every world religion? It appears that you are also open to a wide variety of religious and spiritual ideas. By accepting differences between individual spiritual beliefs, Unitarian Universalists come together under a few broad and inclusive moral ideologies. They pass their beliefs from generation to generation through their church's literature and their teachings, both of which draw on many of the major spiritual texts from a variety of religions. Typically open-minded and intellectual, Unitarian Universalists encourage individual exploration of many different spiritual truths. They also tend to be politically liberal. It seems that you also see the importance of being open-minded and curious.

Don't worry, I'm not about to jump ship yet, although I know there's a Unitarian Church near Newington Green. I have a feeling though that my legs would automatically walk to Belle Epoque for their delicious cakes whenever I'm in the area. That chocolate-glazed rabbit-shaped cake I had on Easter was simply divine. Perhaps food is really my religion.

Personally, what I can deduct from this finding is that it spells out that my interest is really in the study of comparative religion and that there's something to be learned from everywhere.

Also what really matters is that you try to understand your chosen belief and not just accept without thinking what's being prescribed based on the interpretation of others. After all, if it is to be your way of life, I reckon it's worth finding out.

Interested to do this test? Try to answer it as honest as possible and then, do share the result!

Seeing is believing.

Believing is seeing.

Black and White

It pains me to leaf through the pages of Monocle and see all the beautiful things and wonderful places that I am aching to own and visit. Clothes, accessories, furniture, architecture, art; basically all things design, make me feel like Monocle was heaven-sent. It is probably wrong to be motivated to make something of yourself based on the airbrushed beauty that you've seen in glossy magazine pages, but I feel that stirring every time I go through the pages of Monocle. The last time I felt inspired was when I listened to Peter Cook's lecture at the Bartlett. Not to say that the magnitude is anywhere comparable, but there's something about looking at beautiful things that gives me such excitement. It's also nice to be reminded what is it you're passionate about in life.

I am one of those idiots who long for the better things in life. Although my dress sense is at best sensible and at worst comical, I would like to believe that my long-winded design education has given me the eye for aesthetics. Yes, even if I don't have the confidence to strut in the very things that have caught my eyes. Which is why even though I occasionally appreciate clothes which are frilly and have unusual cuts, I would stick to what I would feel comfortable wearing, classic cuts and sensible basics. Experience has taught me that a minimalist white shirt has more mileage than a frilly one. Not because it has better quality, but because it gives me the feeling that I can unobtrusively melt into the background. But the minimalist shirt has cost more than the frilly one, and perhaps its better cut and attention to detail has helped me chose it every time. I like the understated, and perhaps it reflects my tendency to prefer to be underestimated and then surprise people with the sparkling wit which I never had, or at least with adequate competence. It is better to be underestimated and then proof people wrong rather than vice versa.

But there's something even better than the minimalist white shirt, and that would be the minimalist black shirt. The white shirt's cut is rather feminine, and as much as I appreciate the folded cuffs, I was never as comfortable as wearing the black shirt. If wearing the white shirt makes me feel like I have to straighten up my back, and somehow rather act more professional, the simple cut of the black shirt gives me the confidence that I can fold the sleeves and get to work immediately without having to worry about people's impression. As a result, the black shirt gets chosen every time over the white shirt. The white shirt has moved flats with me and is now in my luggage beg, but not once since I came to London had I worn it. The black shirt on the other hand, was on my back to every interview. There is no doubt that I would wear it again to future interviews.

I don't know why I'm rambling on and on about my choice of shirts. Perhaps when I finally muster the courage to talk to a therapist, I can hand in this post to help with the analysis.

In the mean time, I think I need to get another black 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.

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.

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.

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.

The Light of Courage

My name is Nurul Azreen. It's Arabic so it means something.

Nur means 'light' (not as in weight but as in at the end of the tunnel kinda light). Al means 'the'. Azreen means 'courage'.

The fact that I once managed to score a '0' for my Arabic test (much to the chagrin of my Arabic teacher and an endless source of fun for my friends and family) is probably testimony enough for the fact my grasp of the intricate grammar of the Arabic language is very poor. Hence, I am not sure whether my name means The Light of Courage, as Mr First Boyfriend had once addressed a love letter to my home address (how's the wife doing, luv?), or if it means Light of the Courage or Light of the Courageous Ones.

I have been called brave many times, although I think that was also people being polite when they thought I was being foolhardy. I think in most cases, I am more of the latter but really, to be foolhardy, you need courage. You need to know that things would probably screw up and you should be able to handle it all.

I usually have no problem taking responsibility for my actions. If I think I'm right, I would say so. If I think I'm wrong, then I have no problem owning up and apologize. If I'm in a rather hairy situation of which I think I am being ill-treated, then I will make sure that I get to say what I need to say and then people can make up their minds. Some people describe this action as bravery, for me, it's just about being fair.

I like to think that I am a pretty independent person, a trait that has probably attracted previous boyfriends but at a later stage was definitely an issue (applicable to all relationships I've ever had). I personally disdain any kind of authority and I always treat rules, regulations, and laws more like suggestions of how to act rather than mandatory. This means that I am always in some kind of trouble. But because I'm an incurable optimist, I believe things will always work out in the end.

This is a very self-indulgent post, I realize, but since my life is being toyed with by a higher authority, I need to reassure myself that I do have the courage and strength to fight for it. And also to remind myself that although I have to do most of it on my own, I am never alone in the sense that I have people that care about me. And for that, I am grateful.

Maybe it doesn't matter whether it means The Light of Courage or Light of the Courageous Ones. For all I care it has Light and it has Courage in it, and it's a comforting thought that I can draw strength from my own name.

Thank you Mama and Ayah for giving me a nice name =)

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I feel like writing about change now.

I am one of those people who thrive on change. I am crazy about change. As soon as I'm comfortable with something, I would start yearning for change. Maybe it's the excitement that draws me to it, the fact that I don't really know what's going to happen exactly. I am such an adrenaline junkie when it comes to change.

People change. Whether they like to admit it or not, they do. I know I've changed in certain aspects. It's rather silly to quote things that I've said 5 years ago and still hold me against it now if I feel differently about it now, as I've changed. Maybe for some people it's a sign of inconsistency, but really, you should've evolved from who you were when you were 18.

I believe that we are responsible for our own life and we are the only person that can change it. This thing about changing another person is bull, because you can't change a person who doesn't want to be changed. Trust me, been there, done that. Change must come from within, or it happens gradually over time because of events and circumstances. I once had the ambition to change people. Needless to say, it was a futile endeavour. I realize now to say that wanting to change a person is a very patronizing thing to say. Perhaps we should just focus our energy at changing ourselves to be better.

I believe that we should all strive to be better. But we should do it on our own terms, according to our own needs and personalities. We shouldn't do it according to the terms of others, as it rarely works. It's ok to seek help, but to leave it all to other people doesn't work.

What do I want to change about myself? Well, I want to have a better control of my temper, I want to be a more tactful communicator, and I want to be more confident in general. I also want to be more truthful to myself and address my personal issues properly. Even if I need to seek professional help then so be it. It's about time I admit I'm crazy.

The only thing that doesn't change is change. It's the only constant thing we can rely upon.

So embrace it.

Because it's there

Edmund Hillary's answer to why did he decide to scale the inhospitable Everest.

Existential Angst

What is the fucking point of everything?