So it was a lovely rainy grey day out some days ago - the kind that would've be perfect for curling in bed with a mug of hot chocolate and the latest good discovery from the Library. But there was editing to be done, and a conference paper to be submitted. It was really that grey. In full colour. Not in greyscale. Not Photoshopped. I loved its greyness so. much. It made me think of being as safe as houses. I like this expression, and I like it especially so on a grey day, when I'm safely ensconced at home. There have been sleepless nights - 39 hours of wakeful writing interspersed between bursts of hair-tearing, inspired, and teeth-gnashing moments. There have been dramas with this paper, there have. There have been submissions made conveniently from my desk, to some server (thank you, Internet), to the lovely K in Edinburgh. There have been declarations made: no more writing of academic papers for conferences. And while I was editing and doing more editing, 4 hours before my already-extended deadline was up, what else popped into mind but this here song. Just had to listen. Just. I didn't know who KT Tunstall was before this. I swear. I'm not from this planet. What is wrong with me? The last time I had a craaaavvving for any song was, umm, oh. From The Killers. Yeah. Not too long ago. Really. And The Cat Empire. Yeah. Oh, and Trent Reznor the Great. Umm, and also, Garbage. The Cure. Roxette. Death Cab for Cutie. Oasis. Jay Chou. Geez. Just about all the time, really. Feed me a song and watch me go berserk with that repeat button. this was a hoot! [via swissmiss] It was, apparently, Gummy Worm Day in the USA on the 15th of July - today! [via here] What a shame, because I'd nearly bought myself two packs of gummy bears today while at the polyclinic, but thought to myself, ' Nah, I won't give in to temptation. For once.' Would've been so. stoked. to be munching on a gummy bear while I discovered what day it was today. I prefer gummy worms mostly, if you ask me, but a pack of HARIBO Gold Bears will win hands down any day.Don't I just lurve the way that worm leaves a sickly sweet smell literally in my nostril? I don't like the orange ones - bears and worms alike. I figured that's a safer way to stick a gummy worm in my nose - at both ends, so we don't accidentally snort and inhale the whole damn thing down our windpipes. One day, sometime, when I grow up, I'm gonna do me some serious stuff. And, now that I'm aware of it, I shall definitely be celebrating S'mores Day on 10th August. So nice to have days like these to look forward to. I'm imagining a dreary office scene that gets zinged! by a tray of candy, according to whatever it is on the candy calendar. The firstfruits of those rambutans from the neighbour's tree have ripened, and are now sitting pretty, the bunch of them, in our kitchen. I like the idea of neighbourliness: this whole sharing the produce of your garden shebang, it gives me a warm fuzzy feeling. Most of the times, my family shares only with our neighbour to the left, because on the other side? There are awkward nods, exchanges of waves and hellos amidst furtive glances towards the doors before we beat a hasty retreat back behind our walls - we've been that way for a long time, and have grown accustomed, even comfortable with this. Guess what? IKEA has an entire system worked out for themselves on how to name their furniture. More stuff I never knew. I mean, I did a very short Industry-based learning attachment there about a decade ago, and I don't recall my immediate manager bringing up these points to me. My favourite IVAR bookshelves are named after some kind of profession in Swedish? How cool is that!Apparently, Ivar comes from an old Norse word for archer-soldier. So, kinda like a non-pretty version of Legolas, I'd imagine? Yay to my shelves.Also, I sucked big time at this game. Based almost completely on guesswork, I got an embarrassing 2 out of 10. I wonder how many IKEA employees score above the 70% mark. I used to think IKEA was pretty cool. Now? It's just a moniker for affordable and functional, though hardly long-lasting. A sobering thought.I worked there, at the Alexandra branch, over the end of year vacation. Good times. One of my happiest work experiences. Before the store opened everyday at 10am, there were trolleys and trolleys of misplaced items we had to re-shelve - this being the peak of all peak furnishing and lifestyle retail periods: when Christmas and Hari Raya coincide. And I liked very much that the activity of re-shelving was undertaken by everyone - not just the floor staff in yellow shirts. I was in the Design Department, so I never had to be on my feet for hours. But this shared experience of re-shelving, together with the common pantry area, were great levellers. Many friends were made, and readily too, then. Some days, like today, I wish for those times.Half an hour ago, I cleared 7.46GB worth of old work from Wilmot's Trash. They have finally been saved, and archived (sort of) in my external hard disk drive. Wish I could say proudly that I've also toasted DVDs out of them - sadly, no. But still, 3 years worth of work and grime and junk: purged. The cleansing feels good. I feel ready to move on.The rambutans? More of them are slowly ripening on the tree. I'm not supposed to use the pictures from our Hong Kong trip before A receives them in a CD I'm to burn and snailmail to her, but seriously, who's bothered, right? I mean, it could be another millenia before the CD actually gets removed from its stack and even loaded into my computer. I kidding, A, really. Like, really really. The wicked-ass vacation photos aren't ready to leave my desk, though, for a simple reason. You'll find that out soon. Anyhoos, that was my excuse - and a valid one at that - for not (yet) blogging about the HK trip. Must not spoil it for A. I am lame but loyal. And proud of it. Shing!Tonight, I was caught up on the fascinating topic of Homing pigeons while traipsing around Internet-Land. Pigeons have, of late, been on my mind's radar. First, in the guise of pretending to be one, i.e. a pigeon, in order to appear inconspicuous. (There are also very funny actions that accompany this act of inconspicuousness.) Then, encountered in Hong Kong: roasted, as an alternative to chicken wings to be had with beer. This is a very versatile little bird-creature, I must say.And just yesterday, I came across the subject of pigeons in M. F. K. Fisher's How To Cook A Wolf, published together with the rest of her excellent writing in the 50th Anniversary Edition of The Art of Eating. She muses,"It is not easy to find pigeons, these days. Most of the ones you know about in the city are working for the government. [...] By far the easiest way to make a pigeon cry "Come, eat me!" is to buy it, all clean and trussed, from a merchant."For me, there is a high possibility the romantic ideal of owning a homing pigeon stems from Hedwig and the notion of Owl Post, courtesy of J K Rowling's Potterverse. Wouldn't it be nice (cue humming) to send short, important messages scripted onto thin, lightweight paper tied to a bird's leg? I now know how homing pigeons find their way about from point A to B. Thank you, Internet. You have been a veritable vault of information I may not immediately know what I'd have use for. But now I want to know: how I can send that bird back to the sender - will this be possible, communicating both ways via pigeon?To A: before you cry foul about my use of the HK images, may I offer you this. Read the parts about the pigeons again. See? Not a word about Stanley!And so, last night after knocking back a few drinks, as part of bird-mania, our topic turned to bats. M and me, we were wondering, if bats, as mammals, copulated upside-down, hanging off the rock ceiling of their cave or tree? And would their wings, two pairs, enfolded, offer the privacy of a four-poster bed of sorts? Or were bats essentially birds; if they were, how did they lay eggs upside-down? "Oh," intoned R airily, "they excrete a kind of gel-like substance to stick the eggs onto the cave's ceiling." We were impressed. This was after a few drinks. "Then umm," I wondered aloud, "do the bat-babies fall to the ground upon hatching, according to the workings of gravity?" Poor bat-babies! Slightly smashed: us after a few drinks as well as the bat-babies. Mr C has been coming over to sit in my room often in the past week. I read somewhere, just a few weeks back, that, "in a cat's eyes, all things belong to cats.""How very true," I said thoughtfully to nobody in particular, as I copied this line into my sketchbook. And conveniently forgot to note the reference. 4 days ago, we returned from Hong Kong - we've got the wickedest vacation photos from this trip! Too much noodles and not enough money, I say! Who knows the bad weather we'd brung with us, where, upon our arrival, rain was encountered beating sideways against our brollies; our last day was sunshiney and humid. Like I said, who knows these things, right?The day before we left, I'd hurriedly morphed into my crafty self and hand-sewed, yes, hand-sewed an apron for A, who, in her bid to be an independent big girl, landed herself a very cool job in Hong Kong. Her expatriate status had me green with envy for a bit, but brought back the bitter-sweet-sour memories of being alone and feeling lonely in Melbourne, even though I loved the place to bits. Can feelings about my surroundings can run counter to the feelings inside of me, I wonder? Digressing. So.Being a working girl alone over in Hong Kong, A gets to cook at home a lot. That explains how we came to have every one of our meals out while we were there. Kind of. Unless we count suppers, where we had cake. Pandan chiffon! From Bengawan Solo at Terminal Three! Nothing, I suppose, beats a taste of home for the homesick, even if it has to come in a 30x30x10 cm cardboard box.The apron was made from a brand new Good Morning Towel we'd bought in Singapore, brought over to Melbourne, and then air-freighted back to Singapore. They - a grand total of 3 out of 4 - remain unused, but rather well-travelled. I thought it was a rather clever idea, to use a clean white towel as the main material for an apron, because I'm guilty of hastily wiping my hands on my T-shirt or pants when I cook. Grubbiness does not a lady make. And white happens to be A's favourite colour too, so: 2 birds, 1 crafty stone. Yay. "There's something about owning your own one-person business that over the years has manifested itself more than once. It's the strange solitude that accompanies the big moments. I don't know if solitude is the right word. It's probably, actually, "aloneness," or something closer to that. I remember when I worked in offices, as part of various "teams," going through crunch times, doing major pushes to finish a book we were working on by deadline, or get a catalog out before a sales fair. ...... and thought about my old friends at work, and how there was a irrepressible camaraderie in sharing the stress and tight deadlines and impossible tasks that seem about to overwhelm. Even though everyone has their own job to do, there is something comforting in the collective suffering -- a shared context that doesn't need explaining. But when you own your own business and do almost everything yourself, you sometimes miss that context (not to mention, of course, the physical help, but that's something else completely). You have to tell complete strangers how busy you are -- you tell the mailman who's bringing you more mail-order yarn, "Oh man, I am so busy! I'm freaking out!" and he's like, "So what, who cares?" Because there's no one else in your "office," no one who is really a part of the hard times, when things get messed up or aren't going right, when balls that have been dropped need to be picked up, and, often, to be launched back into the air. It's just you -- little, overwhelmed you, in sweatpants and glasses with no time to eat lunch -- who bears the responsibility and the challenge. You don't want to crash and burn. At the same time, neither is there anyone who has had a significant hand in the work around to celebrate when something really great happens -- a big order, a little publicity, a pursued opportunity granted. You walk around the studio grinning like a fool, and calling your friends who are in other offices, doing other jobs, on teams of their own. Bearing the brunt of stebacks and successes, is, for the most part, your task alone, and finding the ability to keep in all in perspective -- well, it can be lonely sometimes."This just about sums up what I've been feeling recently. I couldn't re-write all that, especially not when Alicia Paulson has already written so eloquently about it. I couldn't help but nod and nod, and feel my eyes prickle a little at the exasperation of working alone. Now I have learnt the importance of having colleagues. Maybe not those who stab you in the back, but colleagues nonetheless. I will find that shared context in my next job.Being in-between jobs currently is a little uncomfortable, to say the least, when there's a certain member of the family who expects a twenty-nine year old to already have an established career. And this someone is torturing everyone else by making his unsolicited views and selfish advice known. Makes mealtimes or being downstairs such a chore, I'm just saying. Yet again, the space of one's own room offers much-needed solace. At the risk of sounding better than thou, I feel sad for people who do not have their own space to retreat to. I really do. Chanced upon, on last week's issue of I-S, a horoscope that, though cryptic, described my week to a T.Gemini (May 21 - Jun 20): "Pain is weakness leaving the body," says fitness trainer Mark Duval. It that's true, you have gotten a lot stronger in recent weeks. [...] you've shed a few months' worth of emotional distress, you've purged a few years' worth of frustration, and you've exorcised a couple of lifetimes' worth of confused dreams."Being free entails the time to think, to reflect, and to find that calling. Why is that so elusive? I like and I hate, simultaneously, being free. 1 wedding1 funeral1 birthdayAll in the space of a week.These flowers from the funeral have sprouted roots inside this plastic bottle of mineral water (also from the funeral). Life from death. Funerals are meant not only to remember the dead; they are more to remind the living. I relate better to funerals than to weddings. I like the finality - it reminds me of the capriciousness life holds. (Mis)Heard, hopefully, on The Most Annoying Implement otherwise known as TV Mobile installed on most buses now:Who is the what,Where is the mooningThis is accompanied by Mark Lee rapping something indistinguishable - I know because I stopped looking outside the window for long enough to glance at the screen, and saw him being credited for 'Vocals'. In Very Ugly Font. It was at precisely 7.58pm. What show is that - with Mark Lee as the head of some over-dramatised household?Last night on the journey back, I caught some other police-related drama with less crime and more petty politicking between fellow officers. The plot was a fraction better, methinks. Phew. That was a toughie. Could Singlish just be less jarring on the ears? I'm full of gripes lately, I have noticed. Thought this was a timely entry when I came across it, with H's imminent wedding in less than a week. I mean, I don't hate weddings, per se. There. Said it. But what really grates is the assumption - and this is rampant: individuals from all generations can be found guilty of this - that a married couple is automatically stable and independent. So it's the legal connotations, and social acceptance unquestioningly garnered from this heterosexual union that really gets to me. Same goes for organised religion: that Big Brother is out keeping tabs and rewarding you for good behaviour. And don't even get me started on religious touting, otherwise known as street evangelism. Please.That said, I'm really happy for H. Really, really happy. That's about the only thing that's keeping me from ignoring her phone calls and coming up with excuses at all costs not to attend her (otherwise bloody cringeworthy) reunion/wedding dinner. I wouldn't do it for anyone else. And being the pianist for the church service. That, and because I've never been to The Legends (warning: annoying midi auto-play file upon entering website!) and thought it'd be nice to go look-see. I am such a bloody hypocrite, I know. But yes, there are exceptions to be made. That's what friends are for. There it was; the two-week mark had come and passed. I'd meant to sit down and to type an entry about how time had zipped by, how being back felt good, and how the Easter break had gone by without my notice because I'd been totally distracted by the 300some kilos of stuff in cardboard boxes just sitting in my room. Getting started on each skyscraper of cardboard was so daunting I'd resolved not to buy more books and clothes (unless absolutely necessary) in the next year. We - me and my books - made a pact the other day: they'd sit neatly on newly cleared shelf space if I'd take them out to read for around thirty minutes each day. Fulfilling my side of the pact made good sense, especially since I'd resolved, earlier this year, to read more non-fiction. If I failed to keep the pact - so we'd agreed - the books were allowed to walk around and settle, as they are wont to do, in haphazard piles on the floor. The books, varied as they were, grinned at each other because we both knew there was nothing they liked better than to make me have to tiptoe around and amongst them while navigating my room.Logistical nightmare, though, the move back was, I'm glad for the experience (and accompanying bragging rights) under my belt. I'd come back for a variety of reasons, obviously; but mostly, I'd been dying - but afraid to jinx my chances if I spoke too much about it - to work with this company. Having been on tenterhooks since I applied from Melbourne, I was over the moon to finally heave a sigh of relief, grin and start busying myself with the kinds of lunches I'd bring to work. Meals out recently have not exactly been kind on the pocket; a week ago I had a plate of rice with three sides (fish, greens and tofu) at a food court that cost an exorbitant SGD4.60. What WHAT?! Forgive me, I had no idea: I'd only just got back here. I'll learn; I'll show you. But I weigh my options: what's baby spinach, cheddar, quince paste and pancetta from the deli going to cost? Perhaps... perhaps I'll try it out for a week, compare costs and then evaluate my preferences.Being back has been good (profuse perspiration notwithstanding). As a show of good faith, Mr. Grasshopper came to pay me a visit yesterday afternoon. "Are you lost, sir," I'd asked, concerned, "how did you hop up the roof? Can you fly?" for I was curious how he came to be so far removed from blades of grass. But Mr. Grasshopper was sunbathing. Apparently he had come here for a reason, and he was decidedly oblivious to unwelcome queries about his choice of transportation and destination. There have been some nights now that I've slept on the soft, carpetted floor of my apartment in my sleeping bag. In its own way, the weather's been merciful for sleeping camping-style. With 40 degree days, the nights are even more sultry than those in Singas, so no complaints there. But for the days? I have never experienced any hotter - even the wind was hot - and it made me think of walking inside a city-sized furnace where services ran as usual but every breath its inhabitants took were of dense wool.13 hours before my flight. Despite a severe lack of sleep, I am feeling surprisingly wakeful at 3.24am. May not have trouble with jet-lag when I return after all! I sit here in my studio, just as I have countless times in the years before. The yesterdays before this were filled with many last meals with friends I made both recently, and from a long time back. There was yumcha and a pub dinner with D and E, a dinner of noodles served by Caucasians with S, two good cafe meals with N, exotica fusion food with M, and too much java and alcohol. I don't know how, but I feel as if I know I'll be seeing them again soon. To some extent, knowing I can return anytime takes the sadness and wistfulness out of leaving. It's just about knowing what you want from life sometimes, ain't it? Yay. International Women's Day - if you are the kind with 2 X chromosomes, I wish you contentment and fulfilment and joy. Yesterday, I sold my white goods (and 1 gray one) to a Saudi Arabian guy and his wife; the guy had a booming laugh and bushy beard. He reminded me of Sascha Baron Cohen. (You know you've made it BIG when there's a Wikipedia article devoted to you.) Today, Women's Day, was also productive for selling because now I am living minimally in my apartment; no Internet access, no washing machine, no tv, no fridge, no beanbags, no tables and chairs. Camping and roughing it out, with a domestic twist. It feels oddly liberating.I bought a can of Campbell soup, a tiny 60ml pack of UHT milk and 2 apples from Coles today. And read The Amber Spyglass by the light of a candle - nah, I still have electricity, thankfully. But it felt good to not be sucked into the time warp that is part of having an Internet connection. Last Sunday, on Elizabeth Street, I donated 5 Coles Go-Green bags' worth of stuff, depositing them gingerly into the Charity Bin. Hopefully new homes and owners will be found for these items. Packing up has been an exercise that has generated a great many thoughts about accumulating material goods. In future, I will buy only flowers, and spread a picnic blanket on the floor during meals. Clothes and shoes can be done away with. Without clothes, I will also dispense with the washing machine. But there will be a fridge, to put all my beer, milk, juice and chocolate in. And an Internet connection.And shelves and shelves and shelves and shelves of books. And magazines. Am craving for a cuppa corn soup from MOS Burger. This bodes well for my imminent homecoming, or so I'd like to think. Packing and selling and throwing out stuff that's been part of my life for the last three years is the most dreaded part. But dreaded parts come, whether you want them or no; I am pitifully swamped with packing now.This decision feels right, deep down, much as I'll miss Melbs.But not VegeMite.Independence has been fun; now, back home to close proximity with friends and family.iTunes is shuffling me a healthy dosage of Nine Inch Nails this arvo: first, I Do Not Want This, then Piggy, then Somewhat Damaged all in the span of the last half hour. Wonder if iTunes is trying to make a point somewhere. Or if that point is tacitly existing. Oh, now I've got Franz Ferdinand. This proves it - the point is that there isn't one. I'm just a cross hairI'm just a shot away from you Back in those days I'd fervently skip AutoCad classes, content to scrape through that module with a pass. This progressed into the next semester, where, if it was possible, I'd skip 3D Studio Max classes with even more fervour than with AutoCad before. So now, it all comes full circle to bite me in the ass. Concept-wise, it is moving along. But there is no way to communicate those ideas effectively when, sometimes, that ink-and-paper sketch just doesn't cut it.Will be burying my nose in some CAD books right now, in self-imposed purgatory. Amidst all the packing. Isn't life *just* peachy? I mean, what's not to love?To sweeten the deal, I am currently enjoying stuff from the Treasure Trove at Silhouette Masterpiece Theatre. Perfect for a shallow grave!Indeed. I concur. Here are some funny Japanese men torturing themselves on a game show involving a large rubber band and marshmallows. Just so they can have a laugh at themselves. Grotesque but oddly hilarious. I didn't know whether to look away, cringe or cackle til I was breathless, so I did all three.They are helping with the packing. Really. After several trips to the supermarket to pick out several each time, and still not getting enough of the stone fruit, how does one quell a craving for white peaches? Why, trot to the market at closing time, and pick up an entire tray for $2, of course! And have about five a day to ensure they don't all go bad. And so it was, how a girl came to stuff herself with white peaches all week. Never minding the juice running down her arms, or the peach-mush getting stuck between her teeth. Or placing her elbow on an armrest and accidentally discovering her elbows were still sticky an hour later.The Diving Bell and the Butterfly gave us no reprieve, N and I, last night. There we were, two girls, with our alcohol and pasta and more after-dinner drinks, thinking we'd indulge in a lovely french film to end the week. And it was heart-breaking. The whole bleeding time. It never let up. But then again, that's life (or a lack of) ain't it? You'd never guess from the movie poster the excruciating wrenchedness of the story.But the colour - oh, it was lovely. I didn't want it to end, though my heart was already shattered ten minutes into the show. The torture! But the beauty, too. And the sheer torment of having the ability to see. Those were sombre moments. N, thoughtful as she took a bite of her Pear and Blueberry Cheese Tart, and me pensively staring at the patterned foam on my mocha latte.It's cliche, but y'know, there's an awful lot to be thankful for. To be charmed by. To fall in love with. To breathe in. To hold in your arms til the passing of time is no longer a container of moments but becomes the moment itself. From Junichiro Tanizaki's In Praise of Shadows, which I bootlegged borrowed from the Library,... Where lies the key to this mystery? Ultimately it is the magic of shadows. Were the shadows to be banished from its corners, the alcove would in that instant revert to mere void. [via keri smith]When I watch clips like these, I am very very very grateful my mom pushed me to attend my music lessons, and sat next to me while i practiced. Someone in the same apartment block is currently watching Pulp Fiction. Or listening to its soundtrack, because neither can I hear the dialogue, nor are the songs in sequence. It's one of my favourite shows - wonder where that DVD went. My life is in limbo right now. I wait for job offers from potential employers (to which I might respond with another hearty cry), while on the other hand, I am making lists to assist me in packing up my life, and freighting, and selling my Lucifer, and being homeward bound in general.'Keeping your fingers crossed they don't offer you a job?' with J, on Skype. Now, if only I could remind myself why I'm back here.It's funny how G said the same thing too, the other day, over a homemade soup and Turkish bread. And Dangnabbit but I am very very mesmerised by Uniqlock. Just can't stop looking at it, and marvelling at how much faster time seems to pass with this little application. I even have one on my sidebar. Addictivity is this. I am killing myself with my portmanteaus, aiight? The pesky flies of summer are gone, back here in the lower Southern hemisphere, back here in Melbs. Here is where I put on a smile and greet the cashiers and waitstaff - who care to reciprocate - with a 'hello, and how are you?' Not so crowded here; the rumble of trams, especially the rickety old City Circle, bids me an odd welcome. 'I wouldn't want to be inside that,' declares N, 'not after a meal'. Aah. But you can't deny its quaintness. I am such the sucker for nostalgia and a slower pace, tram crashes and irate drivers aside.Back to the city of mocha lattes in laneway cafes. Of bumping into a gazillion people from the Uni all in one afternoon. Of crowded Italian al fresco dining. Of sitting on the grass in the parks. Of sun scorching my cheek one moment and rain lashing the other the next. Of white peaches and more stone fruit. Of honking mad socceroo fans flying their flags and scarves and marching down the street. Gone are the flies of summer, yes. But all I can think about is, waking up in my room back in Singas, beneath the refuge of the mosquito net, and listening to the birds outside go cu-ru-ROO and aaaAAGH. And the construction of what is to be a brand new neighbour's brand new house. It gradually swelled itself - like an itch demanding to be scratched - the urge to play my piano again. Not just any piano, though. Mine. Only. I'd taken it as a sign of sorts that over the course of the last 5 days, on three separate incidents, three friends, of whom none read this blog, have asked if I'm still playing the piano. Sojourns into the realm of producing music have been woefully scant; the foreignness of the sound emanating from the keyboard made apparent the stiffness in my fingers. In the kitchen, after an hour of embarrassing struggle, like a stroke patient painfully re-learning to walk, my mom casually, in a matter-of-fact manner, remarked 剛才彈得很糟糕, hor?I might do it again tomorrow. Perhaps J S Bach's Italian Concerto might have been too ambitious a piece to start with, after being dry for two years. How horrible that this was a piece I'd performed well, too. Haven't yet dared to touch the Appassionata - with my current post-novice sensibilities, it'd be much too sacrilegious. Burst out cackling when hey-hey-you-you Girlfriend played on the radio while I was driving just now. Me and Rits acting stupid in the studio with this song on. Good times, while we were all losers with no lives. It's scary the kind of trash I get addicted to.The Li'l Mama mix was the one, I think.Don't pretend I think you know I'm damn preciousRight.Most embarrassing this undoubtedly is. Not all of the things I'd set out to do this time I'm back have been done. Driving down Lornie Road late some night, there was time for reflection - there are, during some stretches of roads more than others, times for reflecting. Lornie Road's one; the Midland Highway leading from Hobart to Launceston in Tassie's another. But for now, Lornie Road is much more accessible.I was reflecting, like I said, on being back home. 'Back' and 'home' connote the same thing, I suppose. Those are two words that are nice to string together. Had I set out to achieve what I'd ambitiously thought to be achievable on my "things to do back home" list, I wouldn't have had the chance to slow down. To sit at home both listening and watching the rain pouring its way down, indulge my cats and sniff at their slightly musty fur, have chicken wings and beer with my mom one night, and to have midnight dimsum with A and JD. The startling evidence of four girls' bingeing had to be concealed by surreptitiously distributing the emptied plates between the several tables around ours.Meeting up with Little Miss Pantyliner has been unexpectedly good as well - apprehensive as I usually am about these encounters. And the Terrorist has been unusually compliant, which is always a good thing. It's probably very telling, how readily I have acclimatised this time. Though the piano remains untouched, like a lover who has been deserted for too long, I am unsure of how to approach the Muse I'd taken too much for granted before.It's good to be back. Home.Job hunting can wait, for now. Bits of work in progress - yes, I have beer while I'm crafting. It helps keep me sane, it does. There are other vices best indulged in hot weather too. Lemon sorbet topped with fig gelato in a cone. From Crema, over on Lygon Street, where every other shop is a gelato shop that is bursting at its seams with hot, sticky people desperate for a bit of something sweet or cold. Or very possibly, both. Another really delicate flavour is Pear, from Tutto Benne just south of the Yarra.More vices discovered in the last week: a lovely little cupcake shop down Degraves Street that bakes a really sublime red velvet cupcake. Tuesdays are mini-cupcake day. We nibble through each cupcake not because we are dainty, but to make each last longer. Four cupcakes later, with every remaining ounce of willpower, we [try to] stop drooling at the uneaten cupcakes, in rows behind the glass counter, and leave in a dignified manner. Alas, I had neglected to bring my camera. More reason to go back, I tell the flatmate.It was chance, I say, that brought King Worm into existence. In a bid to draw one silly item for each successful crack at the crossword puzzle, King Worm came into being after a spell of wracking my brains for a five-letter word for 'elicit, bring forth': evoke, five-letter word for 'tomb, vault': crypt, and 'sanctuary': asylum. King Worm, it appears, has had a forked tongue long before his coronation.One day, if feeling so inclined, I'm going to get King Worm tattooed someplace. I have only been back from Tassie for a coupla days and some, and already it slips me - what I wanted to blog about while I was there. The weather back in Melbs is glorious meanwhile, azure cloudless skies, golden sunshine and a light breeze. What's a girl to do but to pick up a blanket, a bottle of juice and a book, and head out for the grassy slopes in the park? It is difficult, I assure you, to want to sit in front of a laptop while it is sunny and lovely outdoors.These days, we traipse, happily, three blocks down to Mr Tulk's for the heavenliest coffee. "When I'm rich," the flatmate declares, "I'll hire Mr Tulk's barrista to make me my soy lattes in my penthouse." This girl, she has big dreams. Then we head home for cheese and crackers, because we're just too lazy to tote them back out to the park - the picnic is in our living room. With marinated fetta, water biscuits, honeycomb, quince paste, some dried apricots, pastrami and salami, we have a wonderful spread before our eyes. "I want," I consider my words carefully, "a scoop of mango gelato, and one of roche from Il Dolce Freddo's later," like a girl whose tummy is never sated.One of our favourite (newfound) indulgences is Crabapple Cupcakes. They've recently published a collection of recipes with really tantalising images to boot, but I'm eschewing the aromatic smell of baking permeating my apartment for instant gratification from their shopfront. Lined up, they are a winning combination of pretty and yum. We exercise some restraint so that we don't buy everything we see, but it is a difficult exercise, this one. It has come, October 22nd, 2pm, and gone. And the examiners, they have feasted intellectually, and they have left with a pleasant taste in their mouths, thankfully. I am grateful that my dues have been paid, and that, for now, there is time for a trip to Tassie.Dinner with each supervisor has been a relaxed affair. I have never laughed so much with them in the hourly span of our fortnightly meetings - much less look them in the eye and feel, oddly, this agreeable sense of friendliness four hours straight. But the one nagging thought I had was, if I'd failed, would everything have changed? The world hasn't changed, this I know. But how was this new wisdom suddenly acquired? Thanks, y'all, for the well-wishes. And thanks again, s, for the green tea pantyliners - they oozed happy thoughts and good karma even as they made their way over. Memes. The perfect pastime for de-stressing online. Offline, that would be squeezing pimples. Meh. I need a life, but it's being put on hold at the moment. But! What fun! Consider yourself tagged if you want to play. [01] — Look up TEN of your favorite movies on IMDB.[02] — Click the "trivia" link in the sidebar.[03] — Post a fun and random bit of trivia from each film.[04] — Tag five people everyone!Little Miss SunshineSteve Carell, at the time he was cast for Little Miss Sunshine (2006), was a relative unknown in Hollywood. According to an article in Entertainment Weekly, the producers of the film worried that he wasn't a big enough star and didn't have much acting experience. However, between the time the film was shot in the summer of 2005 and its release in the summer of 2006, Carell became a huge success as the star of the high-grossing film The 40 Year Old Virgin (2005) in August 2005 and the leading character of the popular NBC Emmy-winning television series "The Office" (2005), which premiered in March 2005 and for which Carell won a Golden Globe in 2006 for best lead actor in a comedy television series. In the span of just one year, Carell had become such a star that the producers had gone from protesting his casting to tapping him to do prominent promotion for the film.Abigail Breslin wore a fat suit for the part of Olive.Das Leben der Anderen (The Lives of Others) The Brecht poem that Wiesler reads is called "Erinnerung an die Marie A.".(That bit of trivia was lovely, but rather removed from my usual notion of fun. So here's my favourite line in the show.Buchverkäufer: 29.80. Would you like it gift wrapped? Hauptmann Gerd Wiesler: No. It's for me. )The Nightmare before ChristmasTim Burton has said the original poem was inspired after seeing Halloween merchandise display in a store being taken down and replaced by a Christmas display. The juxtaposition of ghouls and goblins with Santa and his reindeer sparked his imagination.Saving FaceDirector Cameo: The woman eating an apple on the bus is Alice Wu.Sin CityThe signature white blood proved hard to achieve on screen. Regular movie blood couldn't provide the stark look. The crew had to use fluorescent red liquid and bathe it in black light. In post-production, the liquid was turned white.Taxi DriverTravis Bickle's famous "You talkin' to me?" scene may have been inspired by De Niro's training under Stella Adler, who (as an exercise) had her students practice different interpretations of a similar phrase. The legendary acting teacher was surprised to see one of her former students use "You talkin' to me?" as a psychotic mantra. Martin Scorsese was encouraging De Niro just below the camera while shooting the scene, which lead to the rest of the "dialogue" Bickle has with his mirror.Spirited AwayThe flexible light thing that jumps around and leads to the house is a reference to Pixar's mascot, Luxo Jr. Miyazaki is a big fan of Pixar and wanted to show his admiration.MirrorMaskThere were 70 masks within the film.Total number of digital fish in the film: 42.Kill Bill Vol. I & IIUma Thurman was offered the script to Kill Bill, and her role as "The Bride", as a 30th Birthday present from Quentin Tarantino.DogvilleNicole Kidman is said to have communicated very little with the rest of the team, apart from practical issues. However, she did invite the team for champagne and caviar and flew in Mexican chefs to cook for everyone.American History XSeth wears a shirt during the basketball game featuring the number 88. This is a naziskin code for HH, or "Heil Hitler," H being the 8th letter of the alphabet. It also refers to a set of 88 precepts written by the neo-nazi leader David Lane. The 88 precepts are rules and concepts that all White Supremacists lived by.This film uses the word "fuck" 205 times.- -[OK. That was ELEVEN favourites. But what the hell, right?] For the whole of the next week, I will be incarcerated. By my own anal perfectionist tendencies. A nervous wreck.Setting up in the gallery and forcing the words to flow eloquently.But in exactly a week and a day, I will be a free person.Free of an alarm clock, allowed to breathe, to sleep in, and to eat food other than chocolate.A worthwhile trade for stabbing myself in my own foot all the time?I hope so.Melbourne's stock of Cadbury's fruit and nut chocolate have been slowly and steadily diminishing.Depleted. By me. 150g by 150g per day.I can't find any in BigW's, Coles Central nor Safeway's.All they've got are the plain milk chocolate, hazelnut and mint ones.What'm i going to do with all that junk, all that junk inside my trunk?I'ma wonder about that when all this is over.Alanis Morissette's arrangement of this song is making me sad. And this video is really bringing back memories it shouldn't. Robert V Smith describes, in his book Graduate Research: A Guide for Students in the Sciences, there are three general types of research advisers:The "collaborator type" may be younger scholars who are "keen to have their students achieve quick results" (p.26). Because they are seeking promotion and tenure, they may be interested in joint publication.The "hands-off type" advisers may be at mid-career and therefore somewhat less interested in quick results; on the other hand, they may allow a student more time than necessary to finish the dissertation. However, they may also provide good counsel."Senior scientist types" are well along in their careers and thus able to provide experienced advice. If the senior scientist is a gifted researcher, the young advisee may become part of a priceless master-student relationship. But there is the danger that if scholarship has outdistanced an older scholar, the student may acquire outdated research skills.David, Madsen. Successful Dissertations and Theses. A Guide to Graduate Student Research from Proposal to Completion. Second Edition.-Even in the Arts, there exist incarnations that bear uncanny reseblance these three types. I know which type mine is. The chocolates are happy things from the flatmate - they were a surprise, along with a packet of Kitkat, Twisties and Jack and Jill potato chips. Brain food.The studio has been more of a home than ever before: perhaps the only item lacking is a mattress or sleeping bag; while my apartment feels un-lived in - like a hotel room. It feels good, to walk away from my desk as dawn breaks, knowing that some form of productivity has occurred while my skin grows more pallid from a lack of sunlight. I cannot wait to get back to the sunny island I call home. It's been weird, but over the last week, I was asked by several friends who I'd hardly consider techies if I was on Facebook. Don't hear from them for several months, and that's their first question. I've always prided myself as the webcrawler; but here I am, witnessing others' attempts at social networking in cyberspace while I am sitting in front of my computer, obstinately refusing to cave in. Friendster was as far as I'd go, I told myself. So Twitter was turned down, as well as MySpace and FB. And now, P tells me, over a Skype chat, that I can be part of several design/theory discussion groups if I'm on FB. Well, I never! Even (now) employed PhDs are pimping themselves online. What next? Just submitted the three examiner's copies of my 119-page document on Friday. After four months of intensive labour, I got a bit weepy putting 3 of my babies up for adoption. Another check against Reasons NOT to have babies. Not that I even like babies to begin with. Human babies are smelly and noisy. So I'm really over the moon with my paper-and-ink babies.Am finally on 'Submitted' status. This thesis and the entire catalogue of works have aged me more than I would have been willing to exchange for - had I known what I was in for at the beginning. Who'd've thunk, eh, that youth was such a precious commodity. So now, there's just the 30-minute presentation/exam in front of the panel of examiners, and the exhibition to prepare for. For now, it's all rainbows and butterflies. Flutter-bys. And clovers. So. Kiss me. I'm Irish. For the entire week. I'ma get me some Mulligan stew, soda bread, an' a pint o' stout. Wake me up, when October 22nd ends. I've always been rather afraid of balloons, and now I know why. much Don HertzfeldtIt was my grandma's 9th death anniversary three days ago, and I spent it churning out a new abstract, introduction and conclusion to my thesis. She would've been proud to have known I'd done that, I think. After all, she was the one who brought me up with phrases like Eat while you eat, and play while you play. That's the way to be happy all day. Mealtimes were pretty long drawn out sessions while I'd read at the table and pick at my food. But my grandma was the patient kind, bringing her knitting along while she sat as the passenger of a train I'd drive out of an old bedframe. She'd amaze me by bouncing one of those plastic balls (I had a thing for coloured balls as a kid. My mom would leave me at the toy department while she went to try on her shoes, and when she came back, I'd still be mesmerised by the huge! array! of! coloured! balls!) for more than a hundred times at a go, while I could only manage three or four. But at least, I could count to a hundred.My grandma told me nap-time stories each afternoon, each began with 一个婆婆，有一个乖孙... (There was once a grandma, who had a obedient granddaughter...). She'd fall asleep soon after, but I'd bounce around the bed and jump from the window grilles across to the bed. The spoilt selfish cretin I was, far from the sweet little girl the teachers encountered at school. Or the obedient girl in her stories, for that matter. It's amazing she never woke up to give me a good walloping, really. I would've deserved it. But when she did wake up, it would be late afternoon, and I'd accompany her to the garden to water the plants. She'd tend to 3 mango trees, hibiscus, a pomegranate plant, okra, roses, ixoras, plenty of leafy plants I never learnt the names of, and shitloads of orchids growing out of coconut husks she'd hung from a pergola in the garden. A devout Christian, she'd head for prayer sessions over in church, and regularly volunteered her services transcribing sermons. I remember hearing the tapes, with some Chinese pastor's voice droning on and on about... well, religious stuff. She's rewind the tape, press play, stop, and repeat the process. She never used the pause button, for fear it might damage the tape somehow. Those were the days without mp3 recorders, or mini cassettes. Bless her - she'd lug the whole tape recorder, with extra C batteries with her for each sermon session. Looking back, I think those were times she was especially proud of her ability to read and write. An asian woman with a university degree in the 1940s was rare, or so I gather. She told me about recording sessions at Rediffusion, Singapore where she'd read stories in instalments, and I imagined countless kids and housewives tuning in weekly to find out how the story progressed. I was really proud of this particular achievement, though I'd be scared shitless if it was me who had to read and re-enact a story with all the voice-things going on on air. Ratings would plummet for sure, because I had inherited none of my grandmother's story-telling talent.She was a regular crafter too, with ooodles of yarn (literal as well as figurative) and a lovely old Singer sewing machine that would whirr to life every now and then, usually some mornings just before lunch. My grandmother had a penchant for origami, saving old calendars that were printed on thicker stock to use for folding. While she waited outside for me to finish my piano lessons, she would occupy herself with step-by-step documentations for folding animals, or flowers. I wonder now where those records have gone. But I fear the worst. Wish I'd learnt more from her when she was around. Her cooking was legendary - at a time when all I cared about were for hamburgers, I challenged my Chinese grandmother to make one, and by god, it was good! Homemade burgers are just different somehow. And homemade burgers made by loving grandmas are, well, just all the more heavenly. It's creepy, but I still keep the cardigan she was wearing when she took her last breath at the hospital 9 years ago. It hangs from a plushed hanger in my cupboard at home. It was a sickening Wednesday morning I remember only too well. The 5am call from the hospital, the mad rush, the bad waves of nausea that hit me in the car, reaching the ward to find her freshly dead and my aunt crying. My grandfather's howl that followed was unbearable... And the car refusing to start in the hospital car park after that. The rest of the day went by in slow motion. How I managed to make it through the day, I don't know. And all the people who came to pay their respects that night, and the following night, and the next. And how I'd played the piano for the services, hating every minute of it and wishing those people would just go and leave us alone, just the immediate family to be with her. God I bloody hate how insensitively idiotic some people can get wake services.That said, I have to concede, had I any other siblings, my relationship to my grandmother might have been a different one. It might have been much more diluted if any of those siblings had been male. My grandma was still a traditionalist at heart. She presided over my mom's childhood in a manner befitting of a bigoted tyrant. Age must've softened her. I was her favourite, at least, one of her favourites. If she's still alive today, I'd make sure I would be the favourite. Because I'm competitive that way. The photo on the hearse, and on her tombstone was cropped from a photo that originally included me as a baby in her arms. It was the nicest photo they found, possibly because she was happiest when she was holding me. Perhaps they shouldn't have cropped me out of that photo. For a part of me surely died when she did. reading this post reminded me of one of my worst fears: losing my humpty dumpty. It's a stained gray security pillow shaped like a flattened capsule that, for those who know me, is infested with so much germs that it supports a whole new ecosystem on its own. I have, of course, staunchly refused to let anyone wash, or so much as lay a finger on him. It's my smell, and it makes me happy. A deep whiff and I feel secure again, like a six year old, where nothing else in the world matters.