First, Numbness.
For days, weeks, I've felt nothing at all. The occassional pang of loss, twinge of excitement, but mainly just a monotonous, echoing nothingness resounding through my body and ringing in my ears.
Goodbyes are said, belongings sorted, sifted, packed into boxes, where they will sit in cold, dark storage rooms where time stands still and a lifetime of memories are preserved like pickles in a jar. What things are too precious or too necessary are stuffed into two overflowing suitcases.
And all the while, Numbness.
Farewell parties; days scratched off a calender; travelling mercies spoken.
Still, Numbness.
And then, a Trigger. Something insignificant, unrelated. A frustating cab ride, a split grocery bag, a missing button, and it's as if a cork has been forced out of the neck of a bottle and the result is explosive.
The tears come, and they can't be stopped.
Suddenly, all the emotions are escaping from the confines of my heart and are spilling out into the room. The confusion, the anger, the sorrow and feeling of loss, they all mix with the feelings of excitement and anticipation and form the saltiness that is swallowed by my pillow. My body convulses with grief and it's the first time in weeks that I've felt like it's really me in there; that I'm not just a stranger inhabiting a body which seems familiar but, when I look closer, really isn't, the way that in a dream you don't always recognize yourself until you wake up.
A small, non-committal part of me makes a half-hearted attempt to sweep up the tears and pocket them, push them aside for a time more convenient than this, but it's like trying to fix a broken hourglass. The sand is escaping and scattering in every direction and it's impossible to mend the glass fast enough to contain it.
The damage is done.
I can't be a robot anymore.
I hear you in the gentle sound of a smile, and it breaks my heart.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Then, The Tears.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Your Secrets, My Soul
You told me about your secret garden, once.
It took me hours, days, weeks to convince you that it was okay, that if you told me, I would lock it up deep in my soul and have you swallow the key.
An irretrievable secret.
You told me about the beautiful things that grow in your garden, the hundreds of flowers and their hundreds of colors and their hundreds of meanings. Not the usual meanings, not the ones that we’re used to – green for envy, red for love. No, not in your garden. Part of the enchantment was the way that everything in your garden was flipped upside-down, inside-out, so that you had to study something for hours in order to even begin to understand it.
Blue for integrity.
Red for loyalty.
Yellow for justice.
And the children that played there, protected from the outside world, from the expectations that society places on our children, in our world.
The children in your garden laughed when something excited them, cried with inconsolable grief when they were hurt. Even the boys. In your beautiful garden, there was no talk of “boys don’t cry”, none. Those children were free to feel, and express. And because of it, they were knowledgeable about the world and it’s ways in a way that we can never be.
And perhaps the best thing of all, the glitter that made the whole thing sparkle, was that in your garden, right in the middle of it, right at the heart… there was a well. A deep, deep well. And you told me that if one was to stand at the edge of this well and to just allow honesty to be predominant in your thoughts, then the depth of the well would swallow all your negativity, all your cynicism and dark thoughts and pessimism, would just take it all away and leave you as the purest, whitest version of yourself.
Then one day I became like one of the children from your garden. My eyes became brave and knowledgeable and pure, and as I looked into your familiar face, your stories were suddenly revealed to me for what they were: Lies.
You were unveiled to me, in all your ugliness, all your false hope. It was written all over your face, only before, I had been too stupid and naïve to see it. And when I took a shaky breath and asked you, you couldn’t deny it. Not even for me.
And so I ripped open the depths of my soul and found your secret, and threw it out for the world to devour; I made you stand and watch while people tore at it, throwing up scraps, dragging away the skin of it with their teeth and their sharp, sherp fingernails. Looking like the ugliest kind of cannibalism.
It took me hours, days, weeks to convince you that it was okay, that if you told me, I would lock it up deep in my soul and have you swallow the key.
An irretrievable secret.
You told me about the beautiful things that grow in your garden, the hundreds of flowers and their hundreds of colors and their hundreds of meanings. Not the usual meanings, not the ones that we’re used to – green for envy, red for love. No, not in your garden. Part of the enchantment was the way that everything in your garden was flipped upside-down, inside-out, so that you had to study something for hours in order to even begin to understand it.
Blue for integrity.
Red for loyalty.
Yellow for justice.
And the children that played there, protected from the outside world, from the expectations that society places on our children, in our world.
The children in your garden laughed when something excited them, cried with inconsolable grief when they were hurt. Even the boys. In your beautiful garden, there was no talk of “boys don’t cry”, none. Those children were free to feel, and express. And because of it, they were knowledgeable about the world and it’s ways in a way that we can never be.
And perhaps the best thing of all, the glitter that made the whole thing sparkle, was that in your garden, right in the middle of it, right at the heart… there was a well. A deep, deep well. And you told me that if one was to stand at the edge of this well and to just allow honesty to be predominant in your thoughts, then the depth of the well would swallow all your negativity, all your cynicism and dark thoughts and pessimism, would just take it all away and leave you as the purest, whitest version of yourself.
Then one day I became like one of the children from your garden. My eyes became brave and knowledgeable and pure, and as I looked into your familiar face, your stories were suddenly revealed to me for what they were: Lies.
You were unveiled to me, in all your ugliness, all your false hope. It was written all over your face, only before, I had been too stupid and naïve to see it. And when I took a shaky breath and asked you, you couldn’t deny it. Not even for me.
And so I ripped open the depths of my soul and found your secret, and threw it out for the world to devour; I made you stand and watch while people tore at it, throwing up scraps, dragging away the skin of it with their teeth and their sharp, sherp fingernails. Looking like the ugliest kind of cannibalism.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
My Mirror Has No Soul
What if mirrors had memories?
The stories yours could tell about you…
More honest than a child,
They would know more about you than your closest friends.
They’d be able to recall exactly how you look first thing in the morning, last thing at night; when all your makeup’s been stripped away and you’re left, just you, just as you are, staring back at yourself.
Nothing to hide behind.
They could recall your saddest moments: the hours you’ve spent standing in front of your mirror with tears streaming down your face, telling your reflection over and over again that it’s not good enough, not clever enough, not beautiful enough. All the times you’ve been able to do nothing else except watch the fierce, angry tears spill over, your vision distorted through liquid crystals.
And how many broken promises would they be able to bear witness to? Little things, petty, insignificant things - "I'll get the laundry done today", "I'll start that detox tomorrow", "I'll call home this morning" - but broken all the same.
Secret recriminations, between you and a silent judge sitting behind a glass panel.
Maybe there's good reason mirrors don't have memories.
The stories yours could tell about you…
More honest than a child,
They would know more about you than your closest friends.
They’d be able to recall exactly how you look first thing in the morning, last thing at night; when all your makeup’s been stripped away and you’re left, just you, just as you are, staring back at yourself.
Nothing to hide behind.
They could recall your saddest moments: the hours you’ve spent standing in front of your mirror with tears streaming down your face, telling your reflection over and over again that it’s not good enough, not clever enough, not beautiful enough. All the times you’ve been able to do nothing else except watch the fierce, angry tears spill over, your vision distorted through liquid crystals.
And how many broken promises would they be able to bear witness to? Little things, petty, insignificant things - "I'll get the laundry done today", "I'll start that detox tomorrow", "I'll call home this morning" - but broken all the same.
Secret recriminations, between you and a silent judge sitting behind a glass panel.
Maybe there's good reason mirrors don't have memories.
My Mirror Has No Soul
What if mirrors had memories?
The stories yours could tell about you…
More honest than a child,
They would know more about you than your closest friends.
They’d be able to recall exactly how you look first thing in the morning, last thing at night; when all your makeup’s been stripped away and you’re left, just you, just as you are, staring back at yourself.
Nothing to hide behind.
They could recall your saddest moments: the hours you’ve spent standing in front of your mirror with tears streaming down your face, telling your reflection over and over again that it’s not good enough, not clever enough, not beautiful enough. All the times you’ve been able to do nothing else except watch the fierce, angry tears spill over, your vision distorted through liquid crystals.
And how many broken promises would they be able to bear witness to? Little things, petty, insignificant things - "I'll get the laundry done today", "I'll start that detox tomorrow", "I'll call home this morning" - but broken all the same.
Secret recriminations, between you and a silent judge sitting behind a glass panel.
Maybe there's good reason mirrors don't have memories.
The stories yours could tell about you…
More honest than a child,
They would know more about you than your closest friends.
They’d be able to recall exactly how you look first thing in the morning, last thing at night; when all your makeup’s been stripped away and you’re left, just you, just as you are, staring back at yourself.
Nothing to hide behind.
They could recall your saddest moments: the hours you’ve spent standing in front of your mirror with tears streaming down your face, telling your reflection over and over again that it’s not good enough, not clever enough, not beautiful enough. All the times you’ve been able to do nothing else except watch the fierce, angry tears spill over, your vision distorted through liquid crystals.
And how many broken promises would they be able to bear witness to? Little things, petty, insignificant things - "I'll get the laundry done today", "I'll start that detox tomorrow", "I'll call home this morning" - but broken all the same.
Secret recriminations, between you and a silent judge sitting behind a glass panel.
Maybe there's good reason mirrors don't have memories.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Lethargy
I don't know why I'm feeling the need to write again. Twice in three days is a lot of updating, even for me, but I'm sitting here trying to finish thoughts and all I keep getting is this scrunched-up-paper feeling in my chest, like there's something there that's trying to express itself, only the frustrated writer inside keeps messing up and wadding it up into a tight little ball, and flinging it into the trash. I've been feeling like this all weekend.
Restless, yet somehow unbelievably lethargic.
I've been trying to do a lot of things differently lately. Instead of allowing myself to get into situations that leave me tainted and guilt-ridden, I've been trying to live my life as an example to others. Instead of waking up in the morning and feeling grumpy and miserable about having to get out of bed and go to work, I've been trying to live each day as it comes and appreciate each one, as a gift from God. Instead of being cynical and pessimistic about everything, I've been desperately seeking the silver lining.
But sometimes - in fact, most of the time - I can't help feeling like my efforts are in vain. My life is not a good example for others to follow. I haven't been getting out of bed feeling ready to take on the day, and enjoy it. I have been feeling cynical and pessimistic about a lot of the same things.
Maybe that's where this restlessness is coming from; maybe I'm just impatient to start making a difference. I can't seem to help it. I just want to see the difference.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
How It Howls
I'm sitting at my desk listening to the wind howling outside. This week has definitely marked the end of Summer and the beginning of Fall for Hong Kong, I think. It's started raining, it's been getting dark earlier in the evenings, the humidity's gone from the air, and now the wind has come.
Ordinarily, I hate the end of Summer. There's something about it, even if you've been working through the holidays, that signify an end to all the careless fun you can have when the sun is bright and the nights are short. It means no more impromptu visits to the beach, no more baking ourselves on my roof with friends, no more sitting along the seafront for hours and hours, late into the night, made sleepy by humidity and happiness. Summer makes my insides glow.
But this year, I'm feeling a little differently about it all. This year, rather than noticing Fall arrive and Winter fast approaching and being miserable about it, I find myself welcoming it. No, I don't like the rain or the dark early evenings or the wind that's blowing so hard it's making ghost-sounds through my apartment. But I guess blowing away the cobwebs is never a bad thing to do. And so maybe, whilst Fall means that everything around us starts to die, it should also signify to us that it's time to wake up. Shake off the cobwebs. Move forward.
Ordinarily, I hate the end of Summer. There's something about it, even if you've been working through the holidays, that signify an end to all the careless fun you can have when the sun is bright and the nights are short. It means no more impromptu visits to the beach, no more baking ourselves on my roof with friends, no more sitting along the seafront for hours and hours, late into the night, made sleepy by humidity and happiness. Summer makes my insides glow.
But this year, I'm feeling a little differently about it all. This year, rather than noticing Fall arrive and Winter fast approaching and being miserable about it, I find myself welcoming it. No, I don't like the rain or the dark early evenings or the wind that's blowing so hard it's making ghost-sounds through my apartment. But I guess blowing away the cobwebs is never a bad thing to do. And so maybe, whilst Fall means that everything around us starts to die, it should also signify to us that it's time to wake up. Shake off the cobwebs. Move forward.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
How My Mind Works
Look up there, at the clouds. That one looks like a rabbit. No,
scissors.
I've noticed something. I don't think it's important.
Maybe it is.
Maybe nothing is.
Maybe nothing is as important as this.
When I watch TV, the volume has to be an even number, or else a multiple of 5.
Don't set the volume to anything else, I can't watch. I'll squirm and wriggle inside, and try and pretend to myself that it's 25, and not 19.
25 is my favorite number.
But
only for TV volume.
Stop touching me! Personal space!
I wonder if there'll be time to put in some laundry when I get home.
It'll be dark. Never mind then.
What do you call an obsession with the dentists?
I can't go on the roof if it's dark. They might be there.
It's not a heart-shaped stone. It's a stone-shaped heart.
...Of course there's a difference, silly.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Cheap Destiny
I'm beginning to believe in a thing I've started referring to, in my head, as "Cheap Destiny".
Some people think that you don't choose your own destiny, that it's just like fate, and wherever you end up is just... it. I was one of those people, a really short while ago. I saw my life as something I had very little to no control over, and what happened in my life happened TO me, and never BECAUSE of me.
But I've changed teams.
I've slowly learned that things don't have to happen to me if I don't want them to, and I can replace them with other things that I choose. I can choose my own destiny. Which may sound like a very simple concept to you, but for me it's been a long, arduous journey to that realization.
But with that realization comes another, slightly more somber one. Sometimes, we choose sadness. We choose the way that's bound to leave us dissatisfied, because we can't stand the idea of being let-down or disappointed when we'd set our sights so high. We choose our Cheap Destiny.
I'm trying not to do that in my own life. The thought of setting myself up for disappointment does terrify me, yes; but the thought of waking up one day to a Cheap Destiny, in which I never took any risks or tried anything new to better myself and my life, scares me more.
I'm trying to choose my Great Destiny.
Some people think that you don't choose your own destiny, that it's just like fate, and wherever you end up is just... it. I was one of those people, a really short while ago. I saw my life as something I had very little to no control over, and what happened in my life happened TO me, and never BECAUSE of me.
But I've changed teams.
I've slowly learned that things don't have to happen to me if I don't want them to, and I can replace them with other things that I choose. I can choose my own destiny. Which may sound like a very simple concept to you, but for me it's been a long, arduous journey to that realization.
But with that realization comes another, slightly more somber one. Sometimes, we choose sadness. We choose the way that's bound to leave us dissatisfied, because we can't stand the idea of being let-down or disappointed when we'd set our sights so high. We choose our Cheap Destiny.
I'm trying not to do that in my own life. The thought of setting myself up for disappointment does terrify me, yes; but the thought of waking up one day to a Cheap Destiny, in which I never took any risks or tried anything new to better myself and my life, scares me more.
I'm trying to choose my Great Destiny.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Sweet Mother of God
I'm going to get religious on you for a quick minute.
If you're a Christian, or if you have a lot to do with the church, then you'll know that one of the main things we hear all the time is how we should strive to be just like Jesus. But if you're anything like me, you probably hear that and think something along the lines of, Well, I'm pretty sure I've already made a royal screw-up of that. And then you probably start feeling low and depressed, because you get to imagining Judgement day and how, when you get there, Jesus will probably be unable to do much more than stare at you with his jaw hanging. "You did... what? OUT OF MY SIGHT." This is what my imagination shows me, anyway, and it scares the crap out of me, despite knowing that it's just not true.
Anyway. Recently, I was reading a book called Plan B - Further Thoughts on Faith, by Anne Lammott. Which is a great book, by the way. And in it, she quotes poet Denise Lervertov:
She did not cry, "I cannot, I am not worthy,"
Nor, "I have not the strength."
She did not submit with gritted teeth,
raging, coerced.
Bravest of all humans,
consent illumined her.
Doesn't that sound so great? I feel like sometimes, if you're not Catholic, Mary gets put aside a little in the Christian faith. Sure, we remember her and sing a few little songs about her at Christmas, and her name gets mentioned in passing once in a while. But I feel like she's just so much more than that. And I don't think that's wrong of me - I'm not saying we should get on our knees and start praying to her, because there's nothing in the Bible that suggests we should. But, reading that poem, I got to thinking that sometimes, if being like Jesus is a little much to live up to, maybe Mary would be a good place to start.
If you're a Christian, or if you have a lot to do with the church, then you'll know that one of the main things we hear all the time is how we should strive to be just like Jesus. But if you're anything like me, you probably hear that and think something along the lines of, Well, I'm pretty sure I've already made a royal screw-up of that. And then you probably start feeling low and depressed, because you get to imagining Judgement day and how, when you get there, Jesus will probably be unable to do much more than stare at you with his jaw hanging. "You did... what? OUT OF MY SIGHT." This is what my imagination shows me, anyway, and it scares the crap out of me, despite knowing that it's just not true.
Anyway. Recently, I was reading a book called Plan B - Further Thoughts on Faith, by Anne Lammott. Which is a great book, by the way. And in it, she quotes poet Denise Lervertov:
She did not cry, "I cannot, I am not worthy,"
Nor, "I have not the strength."
She did not submit with gritted teeth,
raging, coerced.
Bravest of all humans,
consent illumined her.
Doesn't that sound so great? I feel like sometimes, if you're not Catholic, Mary gets put aside a little in the Christian faith. Sure, we remember her and sing a few little songs about her at Christmas, and her name gets mentioned in passing once in a while. But I feel like she's just so much more than that. And I don't think that's wrong of me - I'm not saying we should get on our knees and start praying to her, because there's nothing in the Bible that suggests we should. But, reading that poem, I got to thinking that sometimes, if being like Jesus is a little much to live up to, maybe Mary would be a good place to start.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Contemplating Fear
I used to pretend that I wasn't scared of anything. I thought it was brave, to never show fear or react to scary situations. As a little girl, as silly as it sounds now, I wanted to be a pirate. I devoured any book, movie or TV show that advrtized or starred pirates. I wanted to be a pirate because they fought in battles, they dealt with imnpossible situations, they overcame everything. Pirates were brave.
Then one day, when I was 16, a lot of things fell apart for me. And ever since then I've been learning that to fear isn't to be a coward. A brave person isn't a person who never gets scared. Real bravery is taking in a frightening situation, admitting that you're terrified, and then dealing with it anyway. Real bravery is fighting DESPITE being scared. Real bravery is admitting your fears to other people, and being vulnerable to them.
So, these are some of the things that I'm afraid of:
1. Creaks in the dark.
2. Being alone, forever.
3. The world forgetting about me.
4. Not making my parents proud.
5. Frogs and toads.
6. Being robbed.
7. Demons and spirits.
8. Living.
9. Hurting my friends.
10. Judgement day.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Waiting For Morning
When I was a little girl, I used to get really bad nightmares. Every time I had one I would wake up and cry out for my Mom. Some nights she would wake up right away and come to me, telling me everything was okay. Other nights it would take longer, but she always eventually came.
I only remember one night that she didn’t come. I woke up from a nightmare and I was so frightened that when I tried to shout, I couldn’t find my voice. I tried and tried, and no sound would come out. I had literally been scared into silence. There was no way I was going to get out of bed to find my Mom, because there was no way I was going to make myself vulnerable to the darkness, and so I huddled right down in my bed, under the duvet, switched on my flashlight and waited for morning. Every sound, every chirp and squeak and creak, had me jumping out of my skin. I was absolutely terrified. I didn’t sleep the rest of that night.
The thing is, when I think back to that night now, I don’t remember the terror as it was that night. I don’t even remember what the dream was about. I just have a distant memory that something scared and upset me. I keep waiting and hoping for this to reveal itself to be just the same; that this period in my life that has got me so terrified and alone, this is just me hiding under the duvet with my flashlight. I’m just waiting for morning. And one day, I’m going to look back on this and not even remember what it was all about.
Monday, February 11, 2008
The Ocean
There’s a small child standing on a beach, right near the edge of the ocean. The water varies in its approach to the shore; sometimes, it comes in softly, gently, just touching the little girls feet. It teases her, tries to make her believe it’s a safe thing, inviting her to come closer. At these times, she feels joyful, carelessly happy, dangerously blissful.
Other times, the waves come too close, too quickly. They rush up and grab her around the knees, threatening to pull her in. She’s scared, but something’s making her stick to the spot she’s standing in – she is unable to move away. She’s curious. And she’s still clinging onto that idea of the gentle, teasing water that she encountered earlier. She’s still hopeful.
And still other times, far too often, a vast body of water, a huge wave, comes crashing in to shore fast and engulfs her, covering her, completely enveloping her in loud, strong, terrifying white foam. It knocks her off her feet, swirls her around and around. It disorientates her, makes her believe that left is right, up is down, wrong is right. It tears her apart, devours her. It breaks her. Then it spits her back up on the sand, where some force of nature drags her back onto her feet and makes her do it all over again.
Other times, the waves come too close, too quickly. They rush up and grab her around the knees, threatening to pull her in. She’s scared, but something’s making her stick to the spot she’s standing in – she is unable to move away. She’s curious. And she’s still clinging onto that idea of the gentle, teasing water that she encountered earlier. She’s still hopeful.
And still other times, far too often, a vast body of water, a huge wave, comes crashing in to shore fast and engulfs her, covering her, completely enveloping her in loud, strong, terrifying white foam. It knocks her off her feet, swirls her around and around. It disorientates her, makes her believe that left is right, up is down, wrong is right. It tears her apart, devours her. It breaks her. Then it spits her back up on the sand, where some force of nature drags her back onto her feet and makes her do it all over again.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
November Rain
I find myself addicted to this place right now, this weird place called Solitude. And just like any other addiction, it feels like there’s no escape. There’s this self-perceived length of elastic between it and me, and every time I try to walk away and free myself from it, it pulls me back. And every time it pulls me back, the attachment gets stronger; I’m growing fond of it. I’m starting to enjoy its company. Solitude is becoming my security blanket.
Yet at the same time, as that realization grows, I keep hoping even more for eventual release. And that Hope is what’s keeping me going – keeping the addiction from taking over completely.
It's like the difference between November rain and January rain. There's something about January rain that just mades me feel so sad, so helpless. The fact that it comes right after Christmas, after all the festivities of New Year. The pathetic fallacy of it all. It reminds me that there's nothing more to look forward to, not for a long time. There's nothing to keep your spirit warm; it's just cold and wet. November rain, though. November rain is different. When it rains in November, you still get cold and wet, but it tends not to dampen your soul as much, because there's still that promise of Christmas approaching. And at Christmas, all becomes right with the world again.
I’m more like November rain. It’s true, I haven’t been myself lately. I’ve been feeling lost. Some days. On other days, I just feel detached, numb. Those are the days I don’t need to cry, when all the tears have run out and I’m just… existing. I’m not sure which are worse – the lost days or the numb days. I wouldn’t normally be as public as this with my feelings, but I have to be, to try and make you understand. Because even though I’m going through all this, and I’m struggling… despite all that, I know there’s something more to come. There has to be. All my faith is in it. Because if there’s not, if you take that faith away, then there’s nothing here. Not just for me, but for any of us. November rain has that small thing that January rain doesn’t:
it has Hope.
Yet at the same time, as that realization grows, I keep hoping even more for eventual release. And that Hope is what’s keeping me going – keeping the addiction from taking over completely.
It's like the difference between November rain and January rain. There's something about January rain that just mades me feel so sad, so helpless. The fact that it comes right after Christmas, after all the festivities of New Year. The pathetic fallacy of it all. It reminds me that there's nothing more to look forward to, not for a long time. There's nothing to keep your spirit warm; it's just cold and wet. November rain, though. November rain is different. When it rains in November, you still get cold and wet, but it tends not to dampen your soul as much, because there's still that promise of Christmas approaching. And at Christmas, all becomes right with the world again.
I’m more like November rain. It’s true, I haven’t been myself lately. I’ve been feeling lost. Some days. On other days, I just feel detached, numb. Those are the days I don’t need to cry, when all the tears have run out and I’m just… existing. I’m not sure which are worse – the lost days or the numb days. I wouldn’t normally be as public as this with my feelings, but I have to be, to try and make you understand. Because even though I’m going through all this, and I’m struggling… despite all that, I know there’s something more to come. There has to be. All my faith is in it. Because if there’s not, if you take that faith away, then there’s nothing here. Not just for me, but for any of us. November rain has that small thing that January rain doesn’t:
it has Hope.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
So This Is Christmas...
Christmas has come and gone again, but this year it feels a little odd. In a way, I’m still waiting for it to arrive. Hasn’t it felt like there was just no build-up to it this year, it just sort of crept up on us all? This year there just seemed to be less festivity, less carol singing, less anticipation. Or maybe I’m just growing up, something that I thought wasn’t likely to happen in the never-never land we call Hong Kong.
Christmas always makes me feel a little melancholy, too. Not the whole day; just that for a few short minutes in the day for the past two or three years, I’ve reflected on past Christmas’s, and it saddens me, how much it’s changed for me. I’m sure you’re the same – when you’re only little, Christmas is the most magical time of the year. There are presents and mince pies and singing, and everybody seems to be so in love with everybody else. Everything bad that’s happening, all your uncertain circumstances or times of trial, they all get put on hold for the few days that Christmas consumes, and everybody’s high-spirited and happy. Or so it seems, to a small child. Christmas is made for children. I remember year after year, waking up at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning and racing into my parents’ bedroom to wake them up and then leaping down the stairs to the living room, to see what Santa had brought.
Sad to say, this year, I woke up on Christmas morning only because my Dad had come through to the living room where I was sleeping (I don’t have a bedroom in my parents house anymore) to use the computer. For a minute, it didn’t even hit me what the occasion was. Thank God for the little boy my parents are fostering, the only person in the house who seemed excited about the whole thing. He came into the living room and kissed me, wished me a merry Christmas and proceeded to rip open his parcels, yelling over them like each one was the best gift he’d ever received. Like I said, Christmas is made for children.
That’s another thing about growing up, when it comes to Christmas. When you’re little, everything you open is like gold. It could be anything from the world’s biggest doll house to a packet of jelly beans, to a child, it’s nothing but exciting. As you get older, not only does your yearly pile of parcels diminish in size, but the gifts get less exhilarating and more useful. That’s not to say we don’t still appreciate the presents, but it’s a different kind of appreciation, isn’t it. It’s less “Oh, this is fun!” more “Oh, this will come in handy”.
But I’m talking like Christmas is all about presents and food now. It’s not. I guess the one great thing about understanding Christmas more from an adult point of view is that you really start to appreciate the true meaning behind it – Jesus. That really struck me this year, singing a carol about shepherds going to visit the new-born King: how awestruck they must have been, looking onto that baby and knowing He had come to save the world. How absolutely speechless that must have left them, and how honored they must have felt to be some of the first human beings to stand in His presence. And that’s what makes Christmas something special every year, without fail, is knowing that we’re really celebrating how great God is, that He wanted to share His Son with us in that manner.
Christmas always makes me feel a little melancholy, too. Not the whole day; just that for a few short minutes in the day for the past two or three years, I’ve reflected on past Christmas’s, and it saddens me, how much it’s changed for me. I’m sure you’re the same – when you’re only little, Christmas is the most magical time of the year. There are presents and mince pies and singing, and everybody seems to be so in love with everybody else. Everything bad that’s happening, all your uncertain circumstances or times of trial, they all get put on hold for the few days that Christmas consumes, and everybody’s high-spirited and happy. Or so it seems, to a small child. Christmas is made for children. I remember year after year, waking up at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning and racing into my parents’ bedroom to wake them up and then leaping down the stairs to the living room, to see what Santa had brought.
Sad to say, this year, I woke up on Christmas morning only because my Dad had come through to the living room where I was sleeping (I don’t have a bedroom in my parents house anymore) to use the computer. For a minute, it didn’t even hit me what the occasion was. Thank God for the little boy my parents are fostering, the only person in the house who seemed excited about the whole thing. He came into the living room and kissed me, wished me a merry Christmas and proceeded to rip open his parcels, yelling over them like each one was the best gift he’d ever received. Like I said, Christmas is made for children.
That’s another thing about growing up, when it comes to Christmas. When you’re little, everything you open is like gold. It could be anything from the world’s biggest doll house to a packet of jelly beans, to a child, it’s nothing but exciting. As you get older, not only does your yearly pile of parcels diminish in size, but the gifts get less exhilarating and more useful. That’s not to say we don’t still appreciate the presents, but it’s a different kind of appreciation, isn’t it. It’s less “Oh, this is fun!” more “Oh, this will come in handy”.
But I’m talking like Christmas is all about presents and food now. It’s not. I guess the one great thing about understanding Christmas more from an adult point of view is that you really start to appreciate the true meaning behind it – Jesus. That really struck me this year, singing a carol about shepherds going to visit the new-born King: how awestruck they must have been, looking onto that baby and knowing He had come to save the world. How absolutely speechless that must have left them, and how honored they must have felt to be some of the first human beings to stand in His presence. And that’s what makes Christmas something special every year, without fail, is knowing that we’re really celebrating how great God is, that He wanted to share His Son with us in that manner.
Monday, December 3, 2007
Everybody Wants a Water Buffalo
I feel like I just haven’t been able to breathe lately, there’s been so much going on, and I feel totally over-whelmed by it. I’ve realized something about myself: I find it really, truly difficult to relax and do absolutely nothing. I don’t know how some people can just sit and stare into space and not feel guilty or disturbed; I wish I could do that. But whenever I try, I have to resign myself to the hundreds of chores and to-do’s running through my head and it only results in me feeling more stressed out than before. I think that’s why I like blogging so much. It gives me something to do whilst at the same time releasing stress, rather than creating more for myself; I can relax and stay busy simultaneously. I guess it works in much the same way as journaling for other people, only journaling doesn’t work for me because it starts to feel like a chore and then I end up feeling guilty if I forget or neglect to write in it for a few days. Additionally, blogging and knowing that other people are reading what I write provides a certain release for me.
On Saturday I moved house, and to start with it was a lot of fun. I’ve been working hard making my new house look pretty and it’s been good, a chance to re-organize and throw out everything I no longer use and haven’t seen or missed in the past year. However, everything has a pitfall; in this case, my hands constantly smell of cardboard and there are small pieces of ripped off box littering my entire apartment. And, naturally, there are all the fiddly little things that must be done when moving house, small but hugely significant – informing banks, friends, work places and so on of your change of address, contacting PCCW in order to get them to come out and re-wire up your broadband and phone line (something I have yet to do, mostly because I’m thoroughly dreading trying to communicate my needs to a machine voice on the other end of the line). Paying whopping, great big deposits on the apartment and all the bank-scrounging that comes with that.
And then, just when you think you’ve got everything under control, you decide to take it upon yourself to be a plumber. My kitchen drain was blocked, and so I thought it would be most impressive if I could fix it by myself. I managed to successfully take apart the entire sink (as you do) and clean the drain, only to find that I now can’t put it back together. It’s not just me being incompetent either, I had my dad over this evening to try and fix my mistakes, but he couldn’t fix it and it looks like I’m going to have to call out a (real) plumber this time. At least I can say I’ve tried, though, right?
One of the high points of living in Sai Kung though, I must say, is the constant company of the actually rather friendly water buffalo. Contrary to my former beliefs that they closely resemble bulls, hence having me in a nervous state every time I thought about them lest they started chasing me down the mountain where I live, I’ve discovered that they’re actually pretty awesome. The other night, arriving home at around midnight, I dropped my keys in the car park and bent to pick them up, and as I stood up again I found myself, quite literally, face to face with a huge water buffalo. I had a fleeting idea of petting it and making fast friends with it, Dr. Dolittle style, but scratched that idea pretty quickly for obvious reasons. But as I looked around, I noticed that it wasn’t just one buffalo in the vicinity with me, there were at least 4, just milling around outside with nothing better to do than wait for the next day.
Since that night, I’ve stood on my balcony every evening and waited for them to come up, which they do, without fail. I have a feeling if they were a little smaller and didn’t smell quite so funky, they’d make very loyal pets.
On Saturday I moved house, and to start with it was a lot of fun. I’ve been working hard making my new house look pretty and it’s been good, a chance to re-organize and throw out everything I no longer use and haven’t seen or missed in the past year. However, everything has a pitfall; in this case, my hands constantly smell of cardboard and there are small pieces of ripped off box littering my entire apartment. And, naturally, there are all the fiddly little things that must be done when moving house, small but hugely significant – informing banks, friends, work places and so on of your change of address, contacting PCCW in order to get them to come out and re-wire up your broadband and phone line (something I have yet to do, mostly because I’m thoroughly dreading trying to communicate my needs to a machine voice on the other end of the line). Paying whopping, great big deposits on the apartment and all the bank-scrounging that comes with that.
And then, just when you think you’ve got everything under control, you decide to take it upon yourself to be a plumber. My kitchen drain was blocked, and so I thought it would be most impressive if I could fix it by myself. I managed to successfully take apart the entire sink (as you do) and clean the drain, only to find that I now can’t put it back together. It’s not just me being incompetent either, I had my dad over this evening to try and fix my mistakes, but he couldn’t fix it and it looks like I’m going to have to call out a (real) plumber this time. At least I can say I’ve tried, though, right?
One of the high points of living in Sai Kung though, I must say, is the constant company of the actually rather friendly water buffalo. Contrary to my former beliefs that they closely resemble bulls, hence having me in a nervous state every time I thought about them lest they started chasing me down the mountain where I live, I’ve discovered that they’re actually pretty awesome. The other night, arriving home at around midnight, I dropped my keys in the car park and bent to pick them up, and as I stood up again I found myself, quite literally, face to face with a huge water buffalo. I had a fleeting idea of petting it and making fast friends with it, Dr. Dolittle style, but scratched that idea pretty quickly for obvious reasons. But as I looked around, I noticed that it wasn’t just one buffalo in the vicinity with me, there were at least 4, just milling around outside with nothing better to do than wait for the next day.
Since that night, I’ve stood on my balcony every evening and waited for them to come up, which they do, without fail. I have a feeling if they were a little smaller and didn’t smell quite so funky, they’d make very loyal pets.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
6,602,224,175
Occasionally, I’ll take some time to stare up into the sky, or across the ocean, or stop in a really busy street and just look around me, and I realize how small I am. The world is so big, so vast, and I am just one person. Right now, there are around 6,602,224,175 people on the earth. Over 6.6 billion people. I can’t even comprehend that number.
Isn’t it crazy to think that of those 6,602,224,175 people, my immediate biological family accounts for the last 5? So if we all died, there would be 6,602,224,170 left. Then again, a woman apparently has a baby every 8 seconds, so within 40 seconds, less than a minute, the number would be back up to 6,602,224,175 and we’d all be replaced. Thinking about that makes me realize how strange it is that one person, as insignificant as they may seem in the great scheme of things, can be so tremendously important – either to a whole country of people, or just to one individual being. Take someone like Mother Teresa, for example. She was just one woman, one seemingly very insignificant person; without her, you’d hardly notice the change in the world population. But she changed the world. Everyone knows who she is.
And what about people you know? Of all the friends you have, all the people you’ve ever met in your entire life, is there a single one of them who hasn’t changed or shaped your life in one way or another, no matter how considerably or otherwise? There are a lot of people I know that shape my life, that change my world, and the way I see it. And if a single one of those friends didn’t exist, it would be a different world for me.
6,602,224,175 people. Yet it only takes one to change the world.
Isn’t it crazy to think that of those 6,602,224,175 people, my immediate biological family accounts for the last 5? So if we all died, there would be 6,602,224,170 left. Then again, a woman apparently has a baby every 8 seconds, so within 40 seconds, less than a minute, the number would be back up to 6,602,224,175 and we’d all be replaced. Thinking about that makes me realize how strange it is that one person, as insignificant as they may seem in the great scheme of things, can be so tremendously important – either to a whole country of people, or just to one individual being. Take someone like Mother Teresa, for example. She was just one woman, one seemingly very insignificant person; without her, you’d hardly notice the change in the world population. But she changed the world. Everyone knows who she is.
And what about people you know? Of all the friends you have, all the people you’ve ever met in your entire life, is there a single one of them who hasn’t changed or shaped your life in one way or another, no matter how considerably or otherwise? There are a lot of people I know that shape my life, that change my world, and the way I see it. And if a single one of those friends didn’t exist, it would be a different world for me.
6,602,224,175 people. Yet it only takes one to change the world.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
An Invincible Summer
People seem to question the idea of suffering too much. It doesn’t matter what their beliefs are, what religion or race or gender, people are always asking themselves the reasons for their sufferings. I’m not necessarily saying that it’s a bad thing, and neither am I pointing fingers; I question it too. It’s hard not to, when you’re the one going through the trials and not knowing how you’re ever going to pull through. But at the same time, by paying so much attention to our despair, are we forgetting the good it brings?
Helen Keller said, “Character cannot be developed in quiet and ease. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, vision cleared, ambition aspired, and success achieved.” A blind deaf-mute woman talks to us about our vision clearing. I’m aware that it’s metaphorical vision she’s talking about, but, remarkable, isn’t it? That someone who, it seems, has so many reasons to be miserable can actually have it all figured out. And she’s right, as far as I’m concerned. How mundane would the world and everyone in it be, if everything went perfectly according to plan? Should there even be a plan, a surefire one that’s going to get us through our lives without us having to make one real decision all by ourselves, simply because a Higher Power has already laid it all on the table for us? I don’t think so. I think that as human beings with brains and freewill and goals, we’re permitted and even required to make our own way at times, figure out for ourselves what’s best for us, choose our paths.
If we were never left to struggle, how would we ever discover anything about ourselves or those around us? Because it’s great to know a person when they’re happy and their life is in order, but in my opinion you don’t really know someone until you’ve seen them suffering, and witnessed how they hold up through it. In much the same way, you only know how strong you are when you’ve had to prove it to yourself or to others; people don’t just put on random acts of mental strength unnecessarily. There has to be a reason. And when a reason arises, and you find your inner strength to pull yourself and whoever else is concerned through this particular struggle, then you’ve discovered something about yourself. As French philosopher Albert Camus put it, “In the depth of winter, I finally learned that there was within me an invincible summer”.
Helen Keller said, “Character cannot be developed in quiet and ease. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, vision cleared, ambition aspired, and success achieved.” A blind deaf-mute woman talks to us about our vision clearing. I’m aware that it’s metaphorical vision she’s talking about, but, remarkable, isn’t it? That someone who, it seems, has so many reasons to be miserable can actually have it all figured out. And she’s right, as far as I’m concerned. How mundane would the world and everyone in it be, if everything went perfectly according to plan? Should there even be a plan, a surefire one that’s going to get us through our lives without us having to make one real decision all by ourselves, simply because a Higher Power has already laid it all on the table for us? I don’t think so. I think that as human beings with brains and freewill and goals, we’re permitted and even required to make our own way at times, figure out for ourselves what’s best for us, choose our paths.
If we were never left to struggle, how would we ever discover anything about ourselves or those around us? Because it’s great to know a person when they’re happy and their life is in order, but in my opinion you don’t really know someone until you’ve seen them suffering, and witnessed how they hold up through it. In much the same way, you only know how strong you are when you’ve had to prove it to yourself or to others; people don’t just put on random acts of mental strength unnecessarily. There has to be a reason. And when a reason arises, and you find your inner strength to pull yourself and whoever else is concerned through this particular struggle, then you’ve discovered something about yourself. As French philosopher Albert Camus put it, “In the depth of winter, I finally learned that there was within me an invincible summer”.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Mounting Pressure
Sometimes, things happen in life that leaves us speechless. And sometimes speechless doesn’t mean having absolutely nothing to say, it can just mean that you have so many thoughts and emotions and feelings pressing into your mind that it’s like a hundred little streams of water all rushing really fast toward a great big gushing river that it’s feeding, except that it’s not just water, it’s full of dirt and debris and it clogs up the paths and manages to create dams at the ends of the little streams so that there’s all this pressure just… pressing against your mind, and you can hear it creaking and groaning in protest and it’s just waiting for that one last, final piece of crap to come and break the dam and then all the words just explode out like a waterfall into the great big rushing river, cascading out from behind whatever was stopping it, and then you can’t stop it anymore no matter how hard you try, because you’re not strong enough to force that amount of water or feeling or emotion back into the little streams. And so it just flows.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
What Are You Laughing At?
I was reading a book the other day that mentioned briefly that no matter how funny you are, there will always be situations where you get shut-down because your audience is all wrong. For example, something that makes a group of teenagers laugh will have an old folks’ home keeling over in shock; something that amuses your little group of friends will only draw blank, curious stares from a roomful of businessmen.
So that got me thinking: why do people laugh? What is it that gives us the uncontrollable desire to burst into hysterics when we hear or see something funny?
According to www.coolquiz.com, laughter is a “spontaneous response to humor that has physiological, psychological and physical benefits”. This is true as far as the benefits it has for us, but it doesn’t really explain what makes people laugh. What is humor?
There’s a book called “Comedy Writing Secrets”, written by Mel Hilitzer with Mark Shatz (what a name), that talks about the element of surprise being one key factor to making people laugh. For example, if you are tricked into doing or believing something inane, you laugh to cover up the fact that you’re embarrassed. Another way this works is in a story in which the audience thinks it can correctly interpret the ending, but are then surprised when the story being told takes an unexpected twist. The audience is surprised; they laugh.
So why is it that sometimes we’re so sadistic and laugh at things that are actually really horrible? I mean, it shouldn’t be funny when someone falls off a chair and hurts himself or you read about some poor individual getting kicked in the teeth by an angry animal of some sort, but you’d be a liar if you said you haven’t laughed at something along those lines. So maybe humor is hostility turned into a joke.
You hear it all the time: comedians making fun of something that is actually a serious issue, or else something that just upsets or angers them. If you’re anything like me, I’m sure you love or at least have seen the Jay Leno show. Most people have seen at least one episode of it, just because you can’t escape it. Personally, I find Jay Leno one of the funniest people in the world. Now, in relation to hostility masked as humor, one thing Leno does quite a lot is make fun of politicians which is something I thoroughly enjoy - mostly because I don’t understand politics at all and so it’s great to hear somebody slaughter them as entirely as he can. “I looked up the word politics in the dictionary, and it’s actually a combination of two words: poli, which means ‘many’, and tics, which means ‘bloodsuckers’.”
Anyway, my point is that different people laugh at so many different things, for so many varying reasons, that you could be the funniest person in the world and still not make certain kinds of people laugh. Some people laugh at cheap jokes, some people laugh at big, comical gags. Some people are tickled by witty remarks, still others laugh at cruel humor. A few people don’t laugh at anything at all, either because they don’t understand hilarity or they think they’re above it in some way. I feel sad for those people, but that’s another story. But whatever makes you laugh and whatever the reasons are for that, I’ve just decided that I need to stop writing about it. It’s like E.B. White said: “Analyzing humor is like dissecting a frog. They both die in the process”.
So that got me thinking: why do people laugh? What is it that gives us the uncontrollable desire to burst into hysterics when we hear or see something funny?
According to www.coolquiz.com, laughter is a “spontaneous response to humor that has physiological, psychological and physical benefits”. This is true as far as the benefits it has for us, but it doesn’t really explain what makes people laugh. What is humor?
There’s a book called “Comedy Writing Secrets”, written by Mel Hilitzer with Mark Shatz (what a name), that talks about the element of surprise being one key factor to making people laugh. For example, if you are tricked into doing or believing something inane, you laugh to cover up the fact that you’re embarrassed. Another way this works is in a story in which the audience thinks it can correctly interpret the ending, but are then surprised when the story being told takes an unexpected twist. The audience is surprised; they laugh.
So why is it that sometimes we’re so sadistic and laugh at things that are actually really horrible? I mean, it shouldn’t be funny when someone falls off a chair and hurts himself or you read about some poor individual getting kicked in the teeth by an angry animal of some sort, but you’d be a liar if you said you haven’t laughed at something along those lines. So maybe humor is hostility turned into a joke.
You hear it all the time: comedians making fun of something that is actually a serious issue, or else something that just upsets or angers them. If you’re anything like me, I’m sure you love or at least have seen the Jay Leno show. Most people have seen at least one episode of it, just because you can’t escape it. Personally, I find Jay Leno one of the funniest people in the world. Now, in relation to hostility masked as humor, one thing Leno does quite a lot is make fun of politicians which is something I thoroughly enjoy - mostly because I don’t understand politics at all and so it’s great to hear somebody slaughter them as entirely as he can. “I looked up the word politics in the dictionary, and it’s actually a combination of two words: poli, which means ‘many’, and tics, which means ‘bloodsuckers’.”
Anyway, my point is that different people laugh at so many different things, for so many varying reasons, that you could be the funniest person in the world and still not make certain kinds of people laugh. Some people laugh at cheap jokes, some people laugh at big, comical gags. Some people are tickled by witty remarks, still others laugh at cruel humor. A few people don’t laugh at anything at all, either because they don’t understand hilarity or they think they’re above it in some way. I feel sad for those people, but that’s another story. But whatever makes you laugh and whatever the reasons are for that, I’ve just decided that I need to stop writing about it. It’s like E.B. White said: “Analyzing humor is like dissecting a frog. They both die in the process”.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
My Fabulous Summer
So I know this is not what I usually do, but I thought that today, I would write and update anyone reading on what I've been up to because I feel like I've been away for a long while and I miss blogging.
My amazing summer really started with my best friend in the whole world, Adriel Clayton, coming home from studying in Toronto; he's the absolute most amazing person in the world and so to have him back made me extraordinarily happy. However, as it turns out, Adriel brought home a lot more happiness than I had planned because we're together now and I honestly believe that I couldn't be happier if you presented me with a lifetime supply of Reeses peanut butter cups, 35 million dollars and a big house in the Maldives. Made of playdough. So whilst I was in Hong Kong with Adriel, as you can probably predict, we were rather glued at the hip.
What made all of this rock even more was that I also did my internship with the Economist in July, while Adriel did his own internship in the hotel next door. My internship was probably the most fun challenge I've ever come across and I had a complete blast - I got the opportunity to write two stories based on meetings I sat in on, phone calls and interviews that I conducted, and research I did. It was awesome to get stuck in with the practicalities of writing and I couldn't have gotten along with the staff more whichmade me really happy.
Then, on August 3rd, I left Hong Kong to go to England for the rest of my summer. Bitter-sweet, owing to the fact that I had to leave before Adriel went back to school, but that's life. I'm staying with my sister, who lives with my Aunt and Uncle, while I'm here in Sproatley, Hull; although I've just spent the weekend in Hastings with old friends which was a blast. Besides the copious amount of shopping I did, we watched the meteor shower (shame on you if you missed it) and did plenty of catching up, enough to cover the last three years of our lives. Monday was spent in London with Janakan visiting London Tower, the London Eye and then Leicester Square with James watching The Simpsons movie. Caught up briefly with Kevin in Chinatown before having to run off to catch a train back to Hull - always interesting when you're travelling alone in a country full of basketcases, it seems.
Anyway so that's been my summer in brief so far! Just thought I'd update you and try to use the last month or so being insanely busy as an excuse for not doing any real writing; hope I pulled it off. I'll be back soon! Have a great remainder of the summer.
My amazing summer really started with my best friend in the whole world, Adriel Clayton, coming home from studying in Toronto; he's the absolute most amazing person in the world and so to have him back made me extraordinarily happy. However, as it turns out, Adriel brought home a lot more happiness than I had planned because we're together now and I honestly believe that I couldn't be happier if you presented me with a lifetime supply of Reeses peanut butter cups, 35 million dollars and a big house in the Maldives. Made of playdough. So whilst I was in Hong Kong with Adriel, as you can probably predict, we were rather glued at the hip.
What made all of this rock even more was that I also did my internship with the Economist in July, while Adriel did his own internship in the hotel next door. My internship was probably the most fun challenge I've ever come across and I had a complete blast - I got the opportunity to write two stories based on meetings I sat in on, phone calls and interviews that I conducted, and research I did. It was awesome to get stuck in with the practicalities of writing and I couldn't have gotten along with the staff more whichmade me really happy.
Then, on August 3rd, I left Hong Kong to go to England for the rest of my summer. Bitter-sweet, owing to the fact that I had to leave before Adriel went back to school, but that's life. I'm staying with my sister, who lives with my Aunt and Uncle, while I'm here in Sproatley, Hull; although I've just spent the weekend in Hastings with old friends which was a blast. Besides the copious amount of shopping I did, we watched the meteor shower (shame on you if you missed it) and did plenty of catching up, enough to cover the last three years of our lives. Monday was spent in London with Janakan visiting London Tower, the London Eye and then Leicester Square with James watching The Simpsons movie. Caught up briefly with Kevin in Chinatown before having to run off to catch a train back to Hull - always interesting when you're travelling alone in a country full of basketcases, it seems.
Anyway so that's been my summer in brief so far! Just thought I'd update you and try to use the last month or so being insanely busy as an excuse for not doing any real writing; hope I pulled it off. I'll be back soon! Have a great remainder of the summer.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
