popped by for a while to the rama of ramas and while it's been ages since i've been back, when we sat at the auditorium to people watch and soak in the atmosphere, nothing's really changed. still the same good bunch of poseurs and fraudulence, and the co existence of the different species in this big bubble that contains it all. lovely ain't it. went merchandise crazy as i always do (remember last days ithaca and our hours in campus bookstore clearing sweat pants and bumper stickers from the shelves). it was good while it lasted; good to see people, hear voices, be back just for a while.

***

my heart is now sinking. sinking so fast and hard i regret for caring at the first place. while disintegrating into the pathos of melancholy, i pray to forget you.

Though we're not quite done.

In some very absurd way, I think I will miss those quiet nights where we worked day after day as if no one could stop us; where we worked till the fans stop and all we hear are the crickets; where on occasion we might head out for dinner, and return with the entire supermarket to keep us company till dawn. There’s more to this but it might sound all too cliché to you.

But if asked, if I would do it all over again, well, er, no.

This process has made us, has broken us, has tormented us. An entire year of different experiences yet nothing too dissimilar in terms of what we are walking away with. I read Derrick, Gra and Sharon’s Balik Kampung last night and I could not put it down. I felt so proud of my friends for the work they have done. I look at Mel and Cheryl’s photo story on the Vietnam brides, and I feel so proud of the work they have done. As everyone scrambled yesterday noon to put the final touches to their respective projects, I was pretty blown away by the amount of work that has taken place over this short span of eight months. We all worked it.

Last night we had a preliminary celebration at the village and we over-stuffed (not just stuff, it was beyond). It is preliminary, for April 14^th will herald the actual realización. Till then, we still work our butts off hey. Everyone was back in school today, restarting that tired engine that refuses to budge. People were in specs and speaking in the monosyllabic. Nosotros amor escuela.

Had the best run today. The rain was approaching, I could smell its gorgeousness. And as I ran, I spoke to Him. I haven’t been in a long time and I knew I had to. This month has been intense with it being missions’ month. Our hearts have been so blessed week after week. Returning from the garden, I sat on my mat in my room and spoke to Him again. I told Him that I didn’t deserve to call Him Father. My mind has been everywhere except on Him of late. I asked for His blessings over our submission. I told Him that we did it to the best of our abilities, and I prayed that He will allow our markers to see the energy and effort and thought that went into this campaign; that His will be done. Then I asked Him to give me wisdom for the after. I asked for forgiveness. I thank Him for His goodness and blessings – the abundance of it, all was Him, none was me. And then I felt the peace He said would surpass all understanding. Not instant gratification that I had sought; but my living God. I worship a living God and I just wish I had the audacity to be bolder in telling others of this good news that is oft too simple to make sense, of living a life that exudes a worthy testimony, and not let days go past just like that. To glory in Him all the days of my life. Then I went to the stairs and Mama and I sat on the steps and spoke for a while. I told her I’d marry someone like Pops, and she should cherish him more and she said oooh now you talking like you know a lot huh. Then we talked about the difficult people in our lives and how there will always be these thorns in our flesh, and I agreed. Our conclusion can only be one, and we were unanimous on that. She asked me to pray for a harvest. For a split second I whispered thank You to Him again for allowing me to worship the same God as my mom. While we may not agree on many things, we can agree on the most important things. I had the best run today.

This morning, close to 1 a.m., my three favourite boys called and asked if they could drop by. I went down in my pjs, glasses and ready-to-sleep face. They rode in with their bikes, bearing supper and chocolates. We hung out under the block till 3 a.m. I asked why they came by, and they said because they heard it’s been rough and wanted to cheer me up. Then I almost like wanted to cry. We talked about being 19 and how that was the age I first met them and how now they're 19 and doing almost-adult things yet the secondary school days will never be again but let’s hold on to memories cause we had them good. We talked about mats and minahs and Malay names and they suggested that I could be Puteri. For princess. And then I like wanted to cry again. Sharhan demonstrated how to say I Love You in all the languages in the world, Suhaimi talked about being the awesome rider that he is but it gets too cold on the road, and Azmi had tired eyes and weak knees but still the same old smile that has never changed in four years.

The day was too rough, and it’s as if like they knew. Just like how Ruth sayang dropped by past midnight that day, with a homemade pie, CDs, ice-cream, coffee and a card – like she just knew.

And I ask myself how I can deserve such angels in my life.

up at the fork when the going got rough,
with a plan
for a point to rejoin on the road further up
our windows thin where the ice
carved its flowers

van and ying's photo exhibition - widow's karma. pictures were awesome, colours were great, the subjects so vivid, and the old women in their photos reminded me of my very own amachi. india oh india.


thanks to keat for such a flattering picture. i was probably at page 215 of the appendix when he got that. explains.

3:27 a.m.

It’s as if I’ve forgotten how to sleep. And now, how to write.

I just spent the last good hour (of sleep) reading past blog entries. Some plain ditzy, some I can’t believe I wrote, some so full of emotions that I’ve not experienced in a long time – foreign.

Well lately I’ve just been mind-dulled. Mind f-ed. Mind-less. I don’t write anymore. I talk in class and litter my sentences with basicallys and hardly make sense. The only thing I read in the week is Newsweek, and it’s obvious that I do so just to pretend to be a Newsweek reader when in actual fact, all I look out for is the Hilary-Obama conflict and pretty looking coffee machines.

I’ve set the treadmill on 25 miles per hour, closed my eyes and sleepwalked through these past six months.

bangun la.

& men who like men shouldn't look at women like they might care. too much drama.

The biggest challenge has been learning, how to reciprocate curt and hurt with love and patience.
Yet, how can I sit here and be upset?

Why. We walked in slightly after 1930. Soon, lights dim, concert commences. No lousy opening act or one-hour wait in sweltering open air heat amongst smelly bodies; just a concert starting on time, like it should. I was beaming.

“The following members of Broken Social Scene are not here today: Emily Haines (boo), Lisa Lobsinger (boo), Evan Cranley (booo) ....Leslie Feist (nooooo!) And Mas Selamat Kastari. We still have no idea where he is.”

“But all the way from Toronto, the original members of Broken Social Scene are here to perform for you today...” Band runs out and crowd goes wild.

EVERYBODY IS ON THEIR FEET and the dancing starts almost immediately. No sit-down concert in cushy esplanade theatre – not happening today.

Shoreline. Mad opening to what was going to be a mad concert. 5 gits, trumpets, crazy drumwork, crazy layers, crazy sound. The sound engineering was awesome (so not common in SG concerts that's why i was stoked!), I just thought it was almost magical. Kevin Drew and crew. Magical.

Poking fun at Feist, the band did their rendition of 1234 "oh teenage hope!!", forgetting lyrics, getting non-related saxophonist and trumpeter to join in the concert to form a new broken social scene – that’s what it’s al about isn’t it.

The crowd too was lovely. The ambience was great.

Towards the end, Kevin ran down into the crowd, and he stopped and stood on a wall, which was 30 cm away from us. I chocked on my gum. And then regained my composure and started screaming – well if I had regained composure earlier, I would have hugged him. Not any better.

To make up for it, I got to high-five Kevin when he emerged after concert with Heineken in hand -high. Clearly someone needed to Get His Sexy Back.

Best concert memory in Singapore. By far.

I love this Canadian band even more now!

bits and pieces of bss caught in between the dancing - click play!

to thank all who had given their time and support to the campaign, we held A piece of GYSB at *scape - it was a nice way of showing appreciation, and for us - closure.


visuals from the campaign// our table of pink n black items that ended up looking incredibly kinky// flybar played for us!// with mr singapore dennis // the crowd: made up of ambassadors, volunteers and sponsors


with chang and sam// our very own auction// the boss with whosgoing's boss - separated at birth?// clarbear shines in pink// the team with andy - he has the widest smile in the crew and the coolest tagline drink less dance more :)