Crossroads

I woke up today with a dull, but intimately familiar, sense of melancholy. I am feeling the twinge, that effervescent strumming of heartstrings that resound in a song of hope yet with an underlying whisper of torment.

I find myself once again at a crossroads, or rather, in one of my favourite spaces: a state of liminality. I've broken free of the cage that has held me from fully stretching my wings to its utmost to truly soar. And still there is something that makes me hesitate; for I have flown beyond expectations and broken ceilings...nevertheless, I still find myself as guarded as ever with this strange feeling that's so familiar and yet so different in the best of ways.

I've wished that I had been able to return here - my comfort zone where I can pen my feelings and thoughts in the comfort of my words. But in the last several years, this too has been tainted with that disconcerting sense of peering eyes; watching and prying. It's a feeling that has prevented me from truly returning to writing the way I have before.

I wish, as always, that I had been able to record those moments that were less melancholic. I've put myself more into living in the moment - and in doing so, I've detached myself from dwelling. Dwelling in the form of sitting here and writing, dwelling in nostalgia, or perhaps running away from the possibility of hope. Perhaps I've been running from myself even whilst saying that I've focused on the now, at the cost of sacrificing the one vehicle that has always been my sanctuary. It's now the stirring in the air, coupled with this strange stirring that I find within that's yet again spurring me to write.

I recognize that I am now on a threshold. I'm trying to pace myself in enjoying things at a slower pace even while experience a crazy rush of strange emotions coming at me all at once. It's driving me crazy but I think it's safe to say that underneath it all I am enjoying every moment of it.

Engrossment

"I should have known better to trust a man who wears ..."

"Should have known better than to trust a man, period," I interjected.

I was on the treadmill, waiting for my Friday night date to text me back on where we were going for dinner and was listening to my other friend tell me the saga of her recently failed relationship.

"I don't know," she sighed. "I should just give up." She hit the stop button on the treadmill.

"Turn that back on! You were on it for 20 seconds," I reached over and turned her machine back on.

"I'm tired!" She moaned, and reluctantly picked up her pace.

My phone beeped. "Anywhere."  I rolled my eyes. I was just surrounded by people with strong decision-making skills.

I turned up the speed and ran for dear life.

"Oh fuck. It's him again!" I opened my eyes and peeked over as her voice overlapped my workout music.

"What, who?" I looked around the gym wondering what her problem was.

"HIM!" She gestured at the window in front of us.

There was a dude smoking in front our window, the sunlight glinting off his sunglasses.

"He's checking me out again! Remember I told you there was this dude who's stalking me whenever I'm at the gym?"

I looked at the dude. I looked at her.

"He's checking out his own reflection. Not you."

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Shook her head. Sighed.

Turned up the speed and ran for dear life.

Seven

Within the past several months I realize that I've been telling myself 'I wish the weather stays exactly like this; it's perfect.'  The weather has changed in a million ways, and each time I've said it, it's been entirely different. And yet, somehow, as I slowly come to this realization, each utterance was truly heartfelt. It's strange.

Yesterday, the weather was grey. Cloudy and dull. And yet, as I walked outside, I felt my insides swoon. It was gorgeous out. Balmy and that heady mix where you just could not tell what kind of weather it really was. It was all four seasons with all its sub-climates all intermingling and turning about. Spring and autumn doing the waltz, summer and winter debating over our heads. I sat at the window, enjoying my lunch and felt myself ease into a cocoon of contentment.

It was romantic weather, I told myself. How I came to this conclusion, I could not explain. It simply was romantic.

And though I reluctantly pulled myself away from that cocoon to get back to the daily grind, that tiny bubble of serendipitous contentment stayed with me throughout the day. I had not expected it in the least. But somehow I found it, or rather, it came to me.

Somehow it has awoken that sleeping spectre within me. Enough so much that I am here to write.  I have not been able to do so for the longest time, and in fact, I have retreated further and further into my self-containment so that I did not feel the least bit inclined to interact with anyone at all, not to the fault or lacking within anyone who was - is - someone to me. It wasn't you, it was me, totally me.

I am not entirely certain how this foray back onto long vacant places will last. Again as with the way the wind blows this way and that, perhaps it will come and go just as quickly. Perhaps the way I've tilted my head trying to decipher if this breeze was warm or cold, unable to truly distinguish such closely aligned threads of gold, silver, rust, or copper, filaments of grass and crystals of ice, maybe just maybe, it will flourish in as many different ways, unexpectedly.

Qotd

There is something in me maybe someday
to be written; now it is folded, and folded,
and folded, like a note in school.

-- Sharon Olds

Temporal

I have realized another change in myself. Not something that is deeply embedded or having to do with emotions and personality, exactly.

It is interesting to remember that there was a time when it was necessary for me to always have my earphones on, music on, plugged into the computer I was using simultaneously. For hours, days, months, years, this was my status quo. While studying, reading, essaying, writing, researching, designing, coding, forum-ing, chatting, I had the earphones in, music on. Without fail.

In the last few days though, I suddenly realize that I have almost no tolerance for doing this anymore -- I feel irritated, and disoriented, plus there is this sensation of cognitive dissonance. I, the once notable multitasking queen, am losing my touch.

Or am I? I feel that it isn't just the physicality of the context. There are so many other variables contributing to this difference in me; now I feel that I am much more busy - mentally, emotionally and physically. I have more on my mind, and more emotional responsibility...I guess you could say.

And it's just another symptom of the same thing, when you correlate it to why my writing has changed as well - something I already discussed a few times. Writing....music...they were my constant companions and go-to's for my loneliness. Ah, those times back then, sure I had friends and was filling my days with that constant chatter of comraderie...but that too was also another sort of balm for my loneliness.

Now that's all changed, somehow. My days of filling lines in a notebook have diminished in being able to share it all to someone else instead. My hours of filling silence with music have also floated away with time...

But then lately, in the past few weeks, there has been a quaint revisitation to old songs and themes long past. Thanks to a co-blogger who has been steamrolling ahead with sharing songs, I've been finding myself navigating old alleyways searching out certain tunes and it's sort of a lovely feeling to refind old tracks and blow the dust away from them (figuratively) and remember the.. memories.

And finding old memories has also happened in terms of my writing. I first started blogging on Xanga.com way back in 2004. Before that, I used notebooks to write any thoughts (and also had this 'thing' about writing actual letters back and forth with friends). Last week, it occurred to me to go revisit those old blog posts on that domain, only to discover that the site was undergoing some changed that entailed anyone who wanted to use their services having to pay. Basically, all my blogs were gone.

For a memory-hoarder like myself, this sort of thing was simply disastrous. Heartbreaking! I immediately emailed the website admin. Paced about a few days. Then they replied back with a link to download my archived posts. Phew.

So then I downloaded the xml code. Figured I could import it to Blogger, but nope - for some reason it wouldn't allow the parsing. So...well anyways, this is the point: my old blog posts are now posted on Lucid Iridescence (my 'prose' blog) and going through them again was sort of like another revelation of remniscence. I had quite a few of the posts that I had kept as 'private' when they were on Xanga. I didn't want the public to read those emotions and thoughts. I thought about this briefly when posting to Blogger, but felt that since those emotions and contexts were detached from the person I am now, I do not feel so uncomfortable with having them see the light of day. Or rather, have other people see them. So they are all there in all their glory. If you are interested in this, I have done some simple organizing: the posts from my first blog on xanga are labelled 'Sapne' (that is what my first blog was called). The posts transferred from my second blog on another domain are labelled 'Read My Lips' (again what that blog was called). All my posts that had been posted since, directly during my time here on Blogger remain unlabelled.

The interesting thing to note is that going from each different blog phase, the difference in me itself is startlingly stark. Or, maybe it is for me. I don't know. Again it's quite amazing to remark on how the state of a person's lonesomeness can correlate to their state of mind.

Bay At Midnight

I liked to have at least the illusion of control over what happened to the people I love. [He] said that’s why I wrote fiction: it gave me total control over every single character and every single thing that happened. He was probably right.

- Diane Chamberlain

Symbiosis

While I turn to writing as solace, without expecting anything in return other than the expenditure of those built-up emotions through the act of writing, I was very much overwhelmed with the feedback I got recently. Not just in quantity but the quality of what you guys gave back to me - thank you, thank you, and thank you!

Really and truly, I don't think I have felt such immense gratitude through my blog before. Sure most of you are absolutely amazing with how frequent you praise me and my writing and there are those special ones who go beyond to show this in more ways than one. But this time, it was different. I guess it was different for me because I haven't been used to letting go of my restraints and just showing my vulnerabilities. 

That said, I really did not expect anything at all - maybe the briefest lines of commiseration - but what I got in return just...it simply made my heart smile. But yup, I didn't expect the mini-essays of support in whichever form you chose to express it, and that was because of my 'disclaimer'. 

As one of you noticed, it's there as an addendum to my posts, and I am not sure why it is still there - I guess that only means that I'm going to try to be 'keeping it real' with my expressing myself. It's a bit of a hard thing to do actually, because usually I feel really dumb about having let myself go down into a state of depression, and because they don't last too long, I feel that it's something like making a drama out of things, by doing so. I don't know.

The main reason I put that disclaimer up and have worded the way I did is pretty much rooted in the same reason why I feel hesitant about even writing about my struggles and sadnesses. I'm pretty self-sufficient, and usually my depressions are based on the fact that the few emotional dependencies I allow myself haven't been too stable - either in my mind or for some real reason... so yeah you can imagine the state of chaos going on inside my carefully constructed emotional self. 

(If I am not really making sense right now it would be because I am listening to some really great Buddha Bar and it's really distracting me; it puts me into a total different mood and sometimes I feel like I am in an intoxicated fugue while listening, so yeah...)

Aah what was I even saying? 

(Oh wow, I just checked which track was playing on my extensive Buddha Bar playlist and whatdyaknow, it's Opium. See? There was some subliminal thing going on there..)

*falls into a trance*

What's My Point?

For as long as I can remember, 'a sense of humour' was the criteria I checked off in the answer to the question "What do you want most in your significant other".

The question is a bit ludicrous in itself since it requires the dismissal of all other traits in favour of your choice. But a much younger me had no problem - I was always so sure of my requirement - because I was (am) a person who survives on humour.

But then in another phase, when I was much older - and more subdued by life itself - I found myself questioning this choice. I would ask around among friends and colleagues to see what their choices were and why; an open-ended question where they could choose whichever trait it was they most wanted in their significant other. This was a time when I was thoroughly in my 'one day' waiting phase and was very much immersed with thoughtfulness and daydreams about this 'one day' and 'prince charming'.

Somewhere down the line, I started considering 'understanding' over 'sense of humour'. But it was tough to let go of the hope that one day my prince charming would be the one to make me laugh like no other. I'd chosen 'sense of humour' for as long as I could remember most likely because for once I'd have loved to be the one being made to laugh, instead of making others laugh.

But what these questionnaires never teach us is the fact that despite all the wants and requirements we would want in our significant other, it's never so simple when it happens.

Lately, I have been down in the dumps with respect to 'communication'. Or the lack therof. I have been feeling way too depressed with feeling that the things I say aren't important. And it isn't just that. I guess I need communication. I need the bond built with words - however mundane or trivial - the communication, the sharing, is a bond as intimate as any other. And when it's breaking down...I just don't know. I feel lost.

Maybe my seeking these things, sense of humour, understanding, appreciation, communication all stem from a lifetime of never having them.

I have always been made to feel that when I say something no one really listens, or that what I've said just goes unnoticed or unremarked. Or the things I say aren't deemed noteworthy because I was the one who voiced it. Or I feel this cold impatience from the other person. I've spent most of my life feeling like a ghost or a shadow. And I suppose, that is why I've ended up writing to express myself. A symptom of loneliness.


So here I am again: writing.

For Me

Sometimes I'm stuck in a rut, again suddenly confronted with this overwhelming sense of loneliness. And I end up thinking whether there is something lacking in me, that I keep feeling that I'm left behind, or lose the grip on a string that's just slipped out of my hands, or that maybe I just fall short. Sometimes I kind of feel maybe my problem is that I try too hard. I'm a people-pleaser, and of course that doesn't really work out too well when you're too much of one.

Then at the same time, I try to not be one, and I hold back. Or rather, I   hold back from stating things which are confrontational or overly sentimental, or way too personal. That's why I stopped writing the way I wish I could write. 

Today I got a huge, umm, not sure what to really call it - a wake up call? A shock it was certainly, because it hurt me immensely when I came across something that made me feel absolutely ridiculous. Not ridiculous only, because that sort of implies a self-consciousness grounded with ego. But further, a sense of betrayal. A sense of being taken for granted. Or of failure. 

I had a huge cry-out. And yeah I am actually admitting this here. I normally avoid opening up completely on this blog, and one of the things I had a good think about was this also; specifically, why I do this. Avoiding becoming too personal or vulnerable; opening up fully was something I had grown to avoid like the plague. Consequently, I ended up writing extremely vaguely, and furthermore, this resulted in loopy, wordy and vociferous posts that might have sounded profound and poignant, but must have definitely confused my reader.

But the point was that I wasn't supposed to be writing for anyone else, right? For myself? But that is something I lost in trying to balance the forces of expression and art. And I lost myself somewhere also.

So yeah, I had a huge cryfest. FYI: I have these often. I cry easily. I also laugh easily. I'm a softy, and this is something I try to guard like the crown jewels, because well, this was just another consequence of bad experiences. The more I opened up and showed how vulnerable I was, the quicker people were to lose interest and drop you like a hot potato - or, maybe worse: take you for granted.

Being taken for granted is something I have strugged with for...well pretty much my whole life. From being the eldest in a family with huge hardships, and having to take care of everyone - I lost the sense of being able to be me from a very young age. I couldn't be me, because I was busy being a mother/wife/sister/servant for everyone else. So I was molded into being a people-pleaser. This stuck with me in varying ways over the years. Trying to be this, or trying to be that. Working harder to do things to make someone else feel better or pleased. 

Anyways, all this is already making me cringe with how sentimental it all seems. I hate having to express myself or explain myself in the form of describing whatever experiences; as if in some way that's asking for pity. It isn't that I have ego or pride to not want people to pity me, I just don't want to use whatever experiences to gain it, when I feel that so many people out there have it way worse. I just gotta deal with it so I'm okay. 

But there was something else entirely that I had wanted to write about. Being taken for granted - I don't know. I already hesitate to label it as this, because I already know that the reaction of those who I would 'accuse' of doing this would be hurt. And there again, I don't want to hurt someone else, so I hold back from doing so. But isn't that already a symptom of the problem? I don't know.

Sometimes I wish I weren't the person I was really. I wish I wasn't so kid-at-heart ish. Because maybe my thoughts and words would be more meaningful. Or that I was more aloof and restrained with giving myself to others - maybe other people would want to try harder to please me. Maybe there is something afterall that rings true with this concept of playing hard to get. 

Much of this might be eye-opening to some of you - because I don't talk about most of this. My personal life story, the idea that I am a real kid (at heart), or how sensitive a person I am. Which is ironic in comparison to the previous paragraph, isn't it. 

Anyways. So post-cryfest, I decided to go slave in the kitchen (doing something I love, and also keeping me busy and productive) but of course, I had to think through everything. Who says I think too much? 

I had to first gauge if my reaction was overdone. It might have been, nevertheless, even if I cut away the extra-sensitivity, there were things which remained that still hurt. Then I considered, why must I keep trying to mould myself to meet another person's standards? And why was I putting everything of myself and my world centered around this one person? Was it reciprocated, equally? No. 

Then I figured, why was I doing all this, then? Just because love said that I shouldn't expect anything back? (And oh yes, this gets heavier, gee whiz, love.) I don't know. Something I considered long time back was that I put more into the pot so that it felt that there was enough in it to provide for the amount given by two people. Maybe I shouldn't have. Maybe I should stop.

Ah, I know - there is someone who's thinking I told you so. That's okay. You told because you cared. And I reciprocate your care by listening to you. So yup. I think I'm pretty much vented out.

 Today is (was?) International Women's Day, and the theme for me is loving myself. And I'm going to stop caring about whoever gives a damn about the things I give a damn about. It hurts but what can you do. Yesterday I was looking at this website for lyrics, looking at the lyrics of "Let It Go" from Disney's Frozen (because 1. I'm totally a Disney child and 2. I love the song, dammit)...and other than the aptness of the lyrics for my own state of mind, when I scrolled down to the meaning of the lyrics as interpreted by the commenters, I stumbled across a flame war by a bunch of 9 year olds. It was hilarious, in a way. In a sad, pathetic way, I grant you, but funny, because you just imagine these little imps tapping away into their keyboards with their tiny faces all scrunched up, and almost half of them can't spell, nevermind grammar, so they're arguing in between asking "wat dose unighted meen". But the gist of their argument was whether the song had anything to do with love at all or not, and one side was declaring that it was love for the self. So yeah. Let it go!

A kingdom of isolation and it looks like I'm the queen.
The wind is howling like this swirling storm inside.
Couldn't keep it in, Heaven knows I tried.
Don't let them in, don't let them see.
Be the good girl you always have to be.
Conceal, don't feel, don't let them know.
Well, now they know!
Let it go, let it go!

Happy International Women's Day

What would it be like to have your appreciation? To have you look at me the way you look at others, and not be blinded by the fact I already belong to you, that I am already yours. To feel that what I do is something that you are intrigued by, that what is important to me is something you feel gives you momentum to take the time to understand and appreciate. To have your attention and your interest the way you give it to others. Instead of feeling like a duty, that I must understand that you have no time for me or rather  my unimportant things, because other things are more pressing - I understand - but others get your admiration instead. I wonder what it would be like to see you there as my number one supporter, without me having to ask you to be. To have you going on your own inclinations because you want to. To not have to ask you, again and again, to make what I rendered with love a chore. Maybe I just suck at whatever I thought I was good at. Maybe this is too much but the contrast was a stab in the back and right now I just cannot write anymore.

Reading

If there is anything that has always been a constant for me, it has always been reading. Even before writing, which is sort of obvious when you think of it, since of course we learn to read before we write.

Reading has always been a thoroughly personal experience for me. Other than simply a relaxing pastime, which definitely it is, the process of reading (fiction, specifically) has always meant so much more. Perhaps, because I've always sought ways of evading reality (having had a not very pleasant childhood), and being an innate escapist, it's only natural that reading became my portal.

In one aspect, we could view reading as the way one simply forgets reality and escapes to other worlds to live vicariously through the characters. Interestingly however, I've realized that somewhere along the way, a different aspect of reading developed. Rather than superimposing upon my reality the more appealing fictional world, somehow my process of reading became such that reading only emphasized, highlighted and enhanced my reality.

Maybe that's simply the process of growing up. When you're young you are expected, and encouraged, to use the imagination to develop new worlds and make-believe stories. Then somehow while growing up, you aren't. 'Grow up, already': get your head out of the clouds, stop daydreaming, get your feet on the ground, face reality. That's growing up. And it makes sense, because the process of growing up entails assuming more responsibility, and to do so you can't be always in the twilight zone of imagination.

Growing, 'becoming an adult' means that you have to come to terms with reality, with your life. You need to face it head on, and not engender futile daydreams that would detract from your execution of what actually needs done. I'm hardly lecturing here, if that's the tone it seems; these are lessons I especially have had to learn, and am constantly being reminded when I tend to go emo and trail away in my own Lalaland.

What I have discovered is that what I enjoy most about reading now is that ability for an author to be able to speak to me, heart to heart. The ability to relate is what ranks highest (or at least up there with some other variables) for me in reading. One line a character utters could make the entire book for me. Hence, the process of reading is entirely too personal for me.

Which brings me to the point of reviewing books. I find myself hard-pressed to be able to write book reviews for amazing books because it is difficult for me to extract myself out of what had just happened while reading. To accurately review a book would mean that I need to extricate the many tangles and knots of the story out of myself, or else only attempt to describe to others who could not possibly understand my entire life. Rather, my whole being - because for some reason referring to 'life' seems lacking in what I am trying to explain,  life seems to just mean the series of events occurring to make it up, almost distinct from me, or me-ness. I mean me, as a product of my life in conjunction with my cognitive and emotional self.  And to simply write a review without this is difficult, if not entirely impossible.

Sometimes I want others to experience what I had in reading a certain book, so I recommend it. But this is also a bit tentative and shy on my side since I can't expect that another person with their own 'me' would be able to appreciate what I did in the same way. It also occurs to me that this process of sharing something one truly likes and appreciates is another medium for us to understand or learn more about one another. We could open to the thought of what and why exactly did this person like it, and rather than just the literal context of the plot, what is it that makes a person receptive to a certain theme or concept or mood. I guess that is how we sort of gauge where another person is on a mental frequency. You send out vibrations and they hit that person and bounce back and you absorb the return frequency to learn that person's aura. (If that went over your head, think of a bat and their sonar echolocation. No kids, I said bat, not Batman. Focus.)

This morning I get an update from Goodreads that another person had finished reading a book and rated it 5 stars. Why am I telling you this? Because I recommended said book to that person and THEY RATED IT 5 STARS. I mean, that's awesome - they liked a book I LOVE.

This book is coming out as a movie. At first I  had huge, and I mean HUGE, misgivings about this news. Cmon, by now we all know 1. how absolutely screwed up books made into movies are, and also 2. how much I detest this happening. But apparently the trailer has been released and everyone is absolutely raving about how amazing the trailer is and how this movie will be absolutely great. And this is a "hey, wait" moment for me because it's not just anyone raving about the movie, it's like-minded book readers who really love the book just as I do, so it could be said that their comments have more credibility. At least, to me. I  have yet to see this trailer.

In case you were wondering, the book in particular is The Fault in Our Stars, written by John Green. It's a YA book, and yet there are so many wonderful things about it.  It isn't a long read at all, and I would love for everyone to read this before they watch the movie.

(Quote from The Fault in Our Stars)

Tone and Mood

Today morning, for some inexplicable reason, I am in a mood for poetry.
That vague abstraction wherein all moods tumble in the way leaves newly fallen glide along a pathway toward a lazy destination, and while it may be a tumultous sensation for some, for me, it is of having two feet not entirely touching the ground, of lost and stray thoughts coming and going, and a sense of the past interlocking with a lingering sensation of a forgotten future.

Tone has always been important to me. How someone says something to me is almost as effective as what they say. Sometimes, more so, depending on the person and context. Sensitivity being one of my stubborn characteristics (Achilles heel), I am quite susceptible to inflections in tone and vibrations carried across.

So goes it with tones in written content. I have read and appreciated the sensation of a writer's ability to create and cultivate a landscape of mood by tone while variously being criticized by others for lack of credibility in technical aspects such as plot, characters and/or intellectual proficiency of the writer him/herself.

I have a guilty pleasure of reading both chic-lit and YA (young adult) fiction simply because of this very reason: the whole feel that is generated out of reading these genres resound pretty well with me. Perhaps there is nothing profound about the actual story, or perhaps the concepts involved are those belonging to a younger generation or age, but somehow they still appeal to me simply because of the way the writer has written.

Likewise, I have browsed around on blogs, and observe how some bloggers (writers) produce a quantity of writing that is lauded by many readers, but after reading much of these pieces, I've felt something lacking in quality. In some instances, somehow sincerity starts to wither away in the writing produced, perhaps by repetition of similar themes, or rather I may get fed up of the same mushy-love-gratitude-sentimentality that keeps getting repackaged up in different wrappings and ribbons but, when you really consider it, remains the same. And the frequency of it happening also perhaps is influencing my perception because somehow it somehow negates sincerity. I also get literary turned off by pieces sounding like they had been written as school assignments; the expression of genuine thoughts and emotions becoming sadly wooden by trying to conform to a solid structure of formality. Or perhaps, this paragraph can be simply considered a rant, and we shall move on.

Mood. Isn't this such an amazing thing? On one hand we take it for granted in our everyday lives, because, well obviously it is part of our everyday lives, what gets us going each day, and more specifically what demarcates each day as different from the next. But then again, less intensely speaking, we often encounter this specimen of being 'not in the mood' or having 'mood swings'. Yet, imagine how absolutely mundane life itself would be if we were living just one baseline of a mood the entire time. Oh, certainly, that is what - in zen realms - we ought to aim for: walking the middle path, balancing all forces, that precise edge of contentment. But we were given (if you accept that something or some external force has the power to be a Giver) this glorious spectrum of colour; are we expected to learn to moderate so much that we relegate all these colours into one tone of mud brown or gray, or pristine black and white?

But we have it, and this is why one day we can say 'Mmm, why yes, today I feel like [having] a chocolate chip cookie, thank you!' and then tomorrow we decide, 'Ugh, no, are you insane? Chocolate? Ew, please.' Sure, it can be annoying, but - aha - it is annoying because it seemingly reflects a sense of fickleness, which for the most part certainly shouldn't be a good thing, but takes us to the idea of unpredictability. Which is, essentially, life.

The unpredictability of life is what injects that very colour (oh God please, Blogger, stop marking my non-American spelling as incorrect! SLAP) into it, and our capacity to experience an equally unpredictable spectrum of moods allows for a greater probability of possibilities.

And for now I shall allow you to assimilate this in all the glory of your multitude of moods, and will take up from where I have left off (hoping that I remember exactly where I was going with this) in my next post.

Ingenuity

Today I read an article with the quote below,  in perfect timing with respect to my previous post:

As Dave Gray, an innovation consultant and author of Gamestorming, says:

“Creativity is driven by constraints. When we have limited resources, creative thinking is enhanced. That's because the fewer resources you have, the more you are forced to rely on your ingenuity.”

(courtesy: Golden Girl Finance)

Metamorphosis of the Butterfly

Somehow, I seem to find connections between almost everything and anything. They just pop up. When I may be thinking some odd thought randomly, then another thought comes around and connects to the previous one, or something happens to make me think, hey, that's just an extension to this thought...or sometimes, someone else comes out expressing their own thoughts and their thought just somehow aligns itself in symphony with all those already going along the motorways of the mind.

Technology

For some time, I have had this ongoing love-hate relationship with technology. No-brainer, right? Because, who doesn't? We've developed a high level of dependency upon technology so that when something actually goes wrong with whatever gadget we are dependent on, it's almost as if the world's ending. Waiting just an extra two seconds more for something to perform or load drives us insane. If the microwave doesn't work, 'oh my God, how do we eat?'.  We lose a phone, our life has become traumatizing. If, God forbid, the power goes out, well, gee, we may as well die. 

Microwave example aside, I'm going to pick on those devices which entail furthering communication. It boggles my mind, observing how dependent people have become on their devices; getting on a bus and just observing people, dozens, hundreds, all just focused on this tiny rectangle. That's become their world. If something happens to their phone - they lose it or it just doesn't work - it suddenly catapults the person into a whole new sphere, almost like rendering them on a deserted island, in total blackout, radio silence, traumatic isolation.

I can say this with my idealistic scorn of course, because I have absolutely no dependency on cell phones. Or, to be more honest, on my own possession of one. In full disclosure of asserting this, I have to admit that I do depend on others' having cell phones to fully optimize our communication. But other than that, my sole technological dependency is via the computer system. My laptop. 

While I spend a good amount of time at a computer - all day at work, and often hours at home also - I do enjoy the time away from being 'on line'. I enjoy being unfettered while outside, and not being one of those phone-absorbed people. Maybe I am old-fashioned, but having phones when outside were once just things to be used in case of an emergency. Now they have meshed so tightly with our everyday lives that they have superseded all other activities.

My 'beef' is with how less we are using our minds with the progress of technology. I harbour this deeply embedded sensation of us as civilization creeping up this graphical curve, slow at first with our lack of technology, then zooming ahead faster and faster at full speed as we develop technology that allows us to perform the most basic actions with greater facility and efficiency, but then we suddenly start slowing down, because with so many machines doing the work for us, suddenly our dependency has become our handicap, and we have forgotten how to actually think.

Imagination

Kids these days have so many options with which to engage their time. Computer games, video games, television, talking books, ...iPads for their own personal use to do all of that. They're born into this new technology-drenched era, so much that to think of any other possibility does not even occur to their mind. It's become taken for granted now that they are entitled. 

But, while it's normal for kids to be able to get a handle on utilizing the most advanced technology and programs, being able to text and type without even trying - things which make the older generations gawk, somehow in the broadening of their accessibility to the world in general, they (we) have in fact put a border on how our minds can grow. 

Imagination, for example, seems to have become one of the foremost casualties in this burgeoning world of technology. You hardly find children today being able to 'make-believe': giving them a bunch of lifeless and unconnected items and they will lose any interest in them almost immediately. Gone is the potential of using our own minds to infuse creativity and life into otherwise lifeless objects and circumstances. I spent my entire childhood creating stories, games, entire story-worlds; hand-me-down toys from other well-off children came alive with their own personalities and entire background stories. Pocahontas became Quasimoto's sister-in-law, John Smith became an Amitabh-Bachchan-song dancer in the Smith Brother's Pub & Grill. Kitty, the Simba-replicated stuffed animal with absolutely no batteries became the official family pet and went everywhere we travelled. Our tiny square of backyard became a huge world wherein our tiny toys had their own farmland, kingdoms, and camping grounds. 

Now, the idea of 'make-believe' almost doesn't exist for children. It has evolved with the last generations to remember what it was, and has almost taken more carnal and definitely adult meanings: "role-play". Once upon a time, role-play was what kindergarten kids did with the random props and dress-up box. Now, I don't even have to explain what has become of the word, because so ubiquitous this evolution, it becomes unnecessary. 

Oh, I know I sound like an aged old woman, and while I am the kiddiest girl around for my age, I also know that while I am a kid at heart, I have an ancient soul. I grieve for the coming generations. Rather than their brains developing new and exciting neuro-pathways creating vast portals of discovery and intellect, the networks that are actually lighting up are those of machines. 

Interaction

The loss of performing what may be perceived as useless activities, such as fooling around with inanimate objects or running around on the streets, comes with the gain of greater interpersonal interaction. Connections are available at the press of a button, communication is accessible round the clock. We've spanned the world hundreds of times, and when once you could be anywhere just by imagining it in your mind, now it's feasible: through technology you are actually capable of connecting to that same place, actually speaking with someone 928502394823 miles away and not just in your imagination.

In elementary school, I was one of just 3 people who put up their hands when our geography teacher asked us who had a computer at home. Then that total number of people went down to two when he then asked who had Internet, my hand still up in the air. I had very little idea of how profound that word, Internet, would actually become, despite being one of the special ones in possession of this Holy Grail.

Perhaps that is what demarcates the concept in my mind so emphatically. I have been on both sides of that line; witness to and part of a generation undergoing profound revolution, consequently I am less susceptible to that sense of entitlement.

But then again, I grew into that generation at a younger age, and taking that in consideration, I can then also understand how parents of our generation would have been even more suspicious of connecting with others through electronic devices. Once upon a time, suspicion of anyone absolutely unknown in person was already in place, now where you cannot even see who it is that you are communicating with - not even a voice, as even with the telephone - imagine the horror.

Years after that moment in my geography class - my short-lived temporary glamour dissipating with the concept becoming so much more mainstream - in high-school, one of my best friends one day told me about this guy she met on the internet, and how they were...well, involved. At that time, I couldn't fathom it. I was already enduring the teenager-fixation of high-school crushology at that time (and boy, was I swimming in that!) that to even comprehend this strange idea of my best friend talking to this random guy on the internet, then somehow falling in love, was totally mind-boggling. Of course, being an open-minded carefree soul, I just accepted it (or maybe I was too entrenched in the drama of my own 239842039840923 crushes at that time) and figured as most crushes at that time and age, it would also be a short-lived thing.

Boy was I wrong. Years (and years) later, she is now engaged to him. And this is amazing taking into consideration 1. the number of years that has actually passed since they first met and 2. they still live where they lived when they met. Her in Toronto, he in California. Of course, there've been numerous visits. But yes, they made it!

But that doesn't even come to me as a shock. Not now. Somewhere down the line, I somehow aligned my appreciation for the internet with my innate belief in love being possible in any form. After high-school, I still wasn't in the fold yet. I went through another year of university before the total unrestricted access to computers and internet finally seeped into my bones and took root.

First came writing. Writing, as I have discussed before, was my companion. When disaster struck and I found myself totally surrounded by a tormenting bubble of loneliness, it was writing that became my balm.
But, even before I really needed it for this reason, I had stumbled upon a blogging site when stalking my new uni best friend's crush for her. (Yes! After all this lengthy and somewhat dry discussion, you finally get some juicy gossip.)

So, this is how it went down. Calculus tutorial. I met her, she met me. We became friends. Became best friends. She confessed a crush on dude. I tormented her by teasing her in millions of ways, i.e. going to talk to him, dancing behind his back for her to notice him, well---let me stop the list before you really think I am crazy. If I haven't really told the story before, I shall save it for another post. In summary, we were in the library one day (well we were usually there, duh) and he happened to be using one of those computers you stand at to do a quick check for whatever, and while she did her usual freeze-wideneyes-hyperventilate routine, I managed to sneak up behind him, but him being 6 feet tall I couldn't see much,  then he just picked up his bag in his usual fastidious and oblivious manner and left, and that's when I noticed he'd left his page open. And it was his blog.

There you have it folks. The key to this portal.


Granted, his blog was on a totally different server, and it took a lot of random stalking his url and dropping random comments under weird aliases (like ApplePie Is Yummy) just to make her have panic attacks (for whatever reason she worried (more like freaked out) that he would know these weird comments ("Hey Grandpa, green apples.") were connected to her. Like really.

But that's how the flicker of a butterfly's wing can create a tsunami across the world.


Connecting

The evolution is predictable. From dropping anonymous comments, to becoming a registered member, to having my own blog, to recording preposterously insane moments with my university friends, to one day having a traumatic experience then suddenly really, actually NEEDING to write for my own solace. Then being on the internet, it only was natural that I encountered people I never met.

I've always been pretty cautious with regards to actually getting close to anyone. Not just strangers on the internet. Friendly, sure, I can do friendly, and everyone who meets me usually gets that impression - unless I want you not to because I do not like you. I have said this before, and I say so again, I have always preferred just having a very select few of very quality friends over a large group of acquaintances. Experience is talking here - the sort which makes a person need writing for solace in the first place.

Then I landed in a place where I was suddenly as anonymous as I chose to be. Then I realized, this is a two-way street. We've been looking at the fact that in the anonymity of the internet therein existed the threat, when on the other side of the coin, there was immeasurable safety and freedom in being anyone - or better yet, no one at all. Then I became liked, and being liked, I became a friend. I became a sister, a confidante, a role model and a best friend. With people who were strangers over the internet.

10 years later. I'm here. I've lived a whole lifetime with those people who became my family. When we have more or less gone our own ways, reminiscing makes me feel as if I am recollecting a previous life. And the sensation is another confusing experience. It once again propagated me into a phase wherein loneliness was my companion, and somehow, I've become even more discriminating about who I let get close to me, and at what distance and for how long.



 Kindred Spirits

When I consider the ease with which children - or rather not only children but those younger than myself seem to be much more vulnerable, no? - are sharing their personal information, sending across pictures, voice chatting, facetiming, whatsapping, with strangers, I cannot help but feel uneasy. I've encountered my own fair share of really really strange individuals on the internet for whom exploiting such information, making threats etc. is apparently what entertains them.

I'm not usually quick to trust just anyone, and this should obviously be how we all are. I have this...thing...with regards to being able to 'feel' a person's personality. Again, this is something I just can't explain. It's what allows me to understand and empathize with a person. It's what makes my literary caricatures of those individuals I put into stories seem so aptly like them.

But those special few. I don't know. There is something even more ineffable about the circumstances of how they happen. We could consider the myriad 'what ifs' that could have taken us on very different paths, but for some reason I really feel that no matter what other hand of cards we'd been dealt and however else we chose to play them, somehow we'd have still inevitably met. Like the dove coming home to its roost every night, somehow perhaps that is how the soul works.

We have connections with everything and everyone simply by our very existence within this huge ecosystem. But sometimes, special connections just pop up. Cherish them.

Stephanie Meyer, A Word If I May

One of the sites I frequent often is Goodreads. You know the sites I mean: everyone has that handful of 'bookmarked' sites they always head to first when online. For some people it's Facebook, others Twitter, some Hotmail, Yahoo, and some Blogger. These are the ubiquitous examples, and now I introduce Goodreads.

Well, not literally 'introduce'. I know there are a few of my Blog readers who are already acquainted with Goodreads. Anyways, that's not exactly why I am writing.

When in my Idly Browsing About The Internet phase, I often just peruse book recommendations and book reviews - written by other members on Goodreads - and sometimes click around the odd Book Discussion forum topics.

NO SPOILERS. (as such)

This morning, I stumbled upon a discussion on the book The Host by Stephanie Meyer - which more people might be familiar with as it had been made into a movie. (Aside: if the name Stephanie Meyer rings a bell (for those who do not already know this), she was the author of the YA Twilight series. The Host  was her attempt to cater to an older audience, as such it is not technically a YA novel. This could be debatable.)

The discussion in particular centered around this question, "should there be a sequel made?" The response was highly varied, from absolute die-hard SM fans gushing a resounding yes, and an equal number of others saying no. Some, like myself, tendered a rather tentative response that fluctuated between a yes and no, conditional upon case-scenarios.

What mostly occurred to me, while scrolling through the pages of responses was that 99% of the responses missed out on something. Why does a sequel have to be defined as the continuation of a story inclusive of the same characters, following off the previous plot?

Specifically: I think a sequel would be a very good idea, if this sequel actually took in consideration the amazing context Meyer had already created. The substantive background that served as the stage upon which her characters lived was/is as unique a concept that it deserves living again.

The characters in The Host, however, have already lived out their story. The ending of both book and movie served that purpose, and furthering the story specific to the book would be a bit of prolonged torture to fans who might only become disillusioned and dissatisfied with the entire project.

Not having been a Twilight fan - book or movie - (I've never relished the conversion of books into movies; my own imagination seems to outdo that of movie-makers) I also hesitate to endorse a sequel being made solely with an intent to commercialize on Meyer's success, and to again make a literary endeavor more of a franchise. Cashing in on this rather than concentrating on the actual creative accomplishment of the author is what most readers should be wary of.

Again, I feel that the theme and context developed in The Host possesses lots of potential that could be and should be used and optimized. Carrying on with the same characters would be exploiting, not optimizing the theme. She created an entire new world and limiting her fictional universe to a mere handful of individuals localized in one place within such a huge world would be a...huge pity. Developing parallel stories would open up so much potential.

 If only she 1. somehow read this, 2. took this all in consideration and 3. actually listened to me, eh?

Inspiration

The advice I like to give young artists, or really anybody who'll listen to me, is not to wait around for inspiration. Inspiration is for amateurs; the rest of us just show up and get to work. If you wait around for the clouds to part and a bolt of lightning to strike you in the brain, you are not going to make an awful lot of work. All the best ideas come out of the process; they come out of the work itself. Things occur to you. If you're sitting around trying to dream up a great art idea, you can sit there a long time before anything happens. But if you just get to work, something will occur to you and something else will occur to you and something else that you reject will push you in another direction. Inspiration is absolutely unnecessary and somehow deceptive. You feel like you need this great idea before you can get down to work, and I find that's almost never the case.”


― Chuck Close

Luxury

Emotional isolation is usually conducive to the optimization of creativity. Experience, at least, indicates this is so. I have always found a natural rapport with my creativity through the inevitable sense of loneliness that has always accompanied me wherever I went. Wherever I go. Even in the closest intimacies of friendship and love, in companionship with those closest to heart, it accompanies me. Perhaps this might be concerning, and definitely would be to one more practically and logically inclined, but to my own mind - inexplicably emotional and sensitive - this is only natural.

Duality has always existed; black, white, dark, light, good, bad. It exists as existence itself. To be, therefore somehow only balances this immeasurable sense of loneliness. Maybe, therefore, it exists for each and everyone  of us, but as each individual is as unique as its DNA, our own capacity to recognize it varies on millions upon millions of frequencies.

I have always seemed to find a mutual and comfortable rapport with those similar in emotional-frequency to myself - which after having been said, seems already an obvious observation. But I do: I feel at home with those who also recognize and bear witness to their solitary dependency on feeling. I hesitated there to label the sentiment and restrict it to that label; that feeling is melancholy, even sadness, but it is not only that. The poignant place within oneself where words clash with emotions and churn out beautiful masterpieces on one end of its spectrum, or equally nullify themselves into a white noise of a blank canvas of silence.

Labeling to maintain order sometimes makes things more confusing. This post, for example, would naturally be posted in my "Prose" blog at Lucid Iridescence, for all the emotional sentiments shared herein, but for some reason, I am not posting it there. This post was initiated by a intention to explain myself - perhaps once again, and maybe at the risk of becoming a tedious repetitive bore - and my inability to write the way I have been used to. Oh, I know that I don't need to explain a thing, but for some reason I do.

Maybe it is only to myself, afterall that I seek explanation. January has seemed to come in its own stead a whiteness and coldness that has isolated us all within the warm cocoons of our own being. I miss a lot of people, and yet, somehow I do not. Because I accept that we are all in our own places and that this too will pass. But I do miss them. I miss you. If it has been understood, perhaps I feel a need to have it said regardless. Friendship is that which I have always maintained as important, crucial. And when you make some which are deep and resonate beyond normal frequencies of superficiality, sometimes it is often as if we have merged as one and consequently become incomplete without that strong resonance coming down the string of our instrument.

As an empath, I've always felt the being of others very profoundly. It has allowed me to understand and absorb the aura of that person within me, and to learn to be another person through that connection. This is a phenomenon that is almost indefinable because it involves letting go of words and descriptions, because they only form barriers and restrictions, and to open oneself up to actually being. 

Like my prior post which entails the conversion of "ME" to "WE", I have found myself observing a number of abstract ideas all superimposing: in one way, maybe we have all been submerged under the waters of recovery; under water we do not dare open our mouths to speak for we shall drown. Our silences could be our time for 'me'. And yet, it has been noted, we have also been quite much more busier with the practical aspect of life, and consequently had less time to devote to 'me'. Even as I have been loitering around on my own blog, and those of others, I had undergone a phase of not wanting to actually 'talk' - I felt an inexplicable resistance to comment, or respond to comments. In sorting out cause and effect, I am not entirely sure which came first. Was it because I had grown used to being silent because of being too busy 'with life' that I was more reluctant to communicate more? Or was it because of something deeper within, which had triggered a phase of radio silence and only prolonged more through the excuse of being busy?

Another blogger recently wrote a post that put to words another of my thoughts: the disparity in walking in another person's shoes vs. still not being able to be able to see life through their eyes and mind. This blogger is one of the few persons who this entire post is somewhat dedicated to. This blogger has made an effort recently to write more often, and interestingly, though no longer surprisingly, the thoughts which have been expressed have been mirroring my own. Another blogger, impressively, has been writing (obviously) undeterred, and the theme and sentiments which always pour forth from this blogger's mind and heart have always soothed my own because of how easy it is for me to slip into that same melancholic place.

I somehow stumbled on a quote a few days back that said something with regards to melancholy (one of my favourite words), by one of my favourite authors. And I find it again for my reader's sake:

"..Melancholy - that cheapest and most accessible of luxuries . . .” -- Charles Dickens

For, despite it being a torrential affair that could involve a plethora of negative connotations, it is a beautiful luxury. I firmly assert that it is this state wherein some of the most beautiful creations are born. 

Maybe, we are given the opportunity to rail away at what we do not like or want just for the realization what exactly it is that we do like, what we want. If we were always appeased and content, we would not know better. 

I want to be able to write again, and I want to because I know I have done so and done it well in the past. But then I have to remind myself, that most often in the past writing has been my sole companion; it is because of my loneliness that most of my best writing has occurred. Once, in longing for that one soulmate to be able to share and tell everything to, I turned instead to the pen and paper, and put words down to keep my memories intact. Now, I am at a loss for things to write, but again, this is because what I wanted most has happened. Brings to mind that classic warning: be careful what you wish for. Because I got it, I guess...and yet I shouldn't be railing against this fate, because it is the best thing life's given me. 

In duality again, perhaps one passion could be viewed to oppose another, one as a substitution for another. But why, exactly does this have to be that way? It doesn't. That's all.

140

Yes, so as I was saying yesterday - or rather, wittering on rather nonsensically - I figured that part of my lack of writing could be attributed to that of being busy with work. But the thing is, then the holidays dropped down, and suddenly I was relatively 'unbusy' and had a whole bunch of time to let loose and fill these pages with words and words and more words. But did it happen? Nuh uh. Of course not!

So that got me thinking. What the hell is your problem, girl? I dunno. Then comes that other thing: I've been twittering quite a bit in comparison to writing anywhere, and perhaps, just perhaps, that somehow satiated my lowered threshold of needing to write. Sounds sort of pathetic though if you think of it that way: my passion, writing, was brought to its satisfaction through just 140 characters? Shame on you, girl. Shame!

But then again there is just something quite...different....in tweeting that one (read, moi) doesn't really encounter elsewhere. Just as I take pleasure in having a small group of followers here, just like I revel in having just very few, but absolutely amazing, friends, over the mass quantity of mere acquaintances, I also revel in the anonymity I find when tweeting. And that is also kind of weird, when you think about it. I'm all anonymous here; I go by a pseudonym (yes, I must confess, IQ is not my name -- shock shock to those who might have thought it was, ohmagawd. Mucho apology) and do not on Twitter (do not, please, harrass/stalk/threaten/coerce/bully those you believe may possess this knowledge because you do not. If I wanted you to know, I wouldn't go by a pseudonym, genius). But, I still feel more anonymous on a place where my face and name are out in the open, and here I kinda do not.

I guess there is some comfort in being able to just say anything, keep it short, and not feel that obligation that comes with writing more than the requisite 140 chars, of having to write something that would do myself proud. I mean, I tweet the most absurd, random, and often unnecessary things. Oh, yes, I drank tea. It is snowing. Blah di blah di blah. Yeah okay, who cares, right? And that is just it. If I wrote that here, I sound stupid. Lame. And no, it's not just how I seem in front of you, or a matter of being self-conscious or whatever, to blog such mundane inanities just seems lame to me. 

So yeah. That's another bit about why I haven't been writing..

Mental

It's sort of weird, time. I mean, I was at a loss to actually 'find time' to write while navigating the daily schedule of work; after a long day spent at the computer, it seemed that it was a bit much to ask from myself; that time away from that special place where the mind could sit in it's creative space and just write also seemed deserved. I don't know how it so happened that my passion became a chore. But it happened.

Perhaps it was the ambiguous presence of expectation rising up stealthily like fog. Getting into a habit where others somewhat depend on you sometimes creates its own rut of reluctance, in a way. Don't get me wrong: the readership in this place has been nothing but effusive, loving, supportive and amazing. So don't think that it's you. It's me.

But (oh yeah, there had to be a but), while it's me, it's what's created in my own mind with respect to you and me also: this feeling of having to do something not on my own impulses but also to entertain. And well, we all know that's just wrong. For the writer, and just generally speaking. I ought to just write how I feel and when I feel like it, and more importantly perhaps, how I feel..not just internally with regard to emotion, but how I feel whatever I want to write ought to be said.

But then again, me being me, I'm weird. So I have this flux of weird thoughts that just come out of nowhere, and do battle with one another, all the while happening below my nose.

Yeah, it sounds confusing. Hell, I'm confused myself. 

Err I had intended to explain this clearly further, but I think my lazier alter-ego is winning the current battle. Let me go check...¬_¬

Sleigh

Ever more frequently, the posts on my blog dwindle; the monthly count, if one chooses to look, are almost insignificantly negligible.

I've meant to write about a whole plethora of things, but for some reason I never get quite to it. That isn't to say that I have what seems to be going around as easily as the season's flu: writer's block. I don't. That I can certainly assure you and myself. I do write, and for myself, but Supercalifragilisticsexyalidocious has more and more been losing the 'sexy' that makes it all that much more unique, if not only in name, but in quality.

I couldn't quite explain it to you either, or perhaps I might try. I guess with the advent of busy-hood in life, I have dedicated my downtime toward other pursuits. More specifically, actually and literally spending it down (on my bed, mind you). And with the accompaniment of the lowering temperatures of Winter, of course what else could be better than cuddling in bed after a long day at work?

So back to the original train of thought: I've been meaning to write about my job; not the one which rendered me senselessly stressed out, but the new one, which is a total flip- I love it. I love it so much that I am incapable of putting forth the words to do this love justice.

Or perhaps it is just that creeping lethargy that has invaded my pores; the habituation of lazy that has possessed my musculature devoted to blogging.  Yes, perhaps, somewhat, if not entirely, it is this.

I have also meant to sing the praises of the wonders of the great outdoors. The snow! The wind! The blue! The twinkling lights of the season! The clouds! The moon (when spotted). Alas, I  have not. Mayhap this small blurb does something to cover the void that has gaped unacceptably, having demarcated no record of the wonders of this year's winter.

Nevertheless.

It has just occurred to me, also, that the year is actually almost reaching its end. I have therefore, two choices. I can make a great deal about this, and wax philosophical. Or I can take the other road, and decide that time is only a phantom of the psyche and is irrelevant in the big picture. Okay, so that may also be somewhat philosophical. Oh well.

I also meant to put down in writing the fact that I'm pretty glad with life as it is right now. Oh, I know, I did devote a post to this on Lucid, and you can traipse over the snowy hills to read my thoughts as soon as you are through with this bit of toboganning.

There's a funny word, if there was one. Toboganning. I miss doing that, by the way, the good old days of dragging the sled behind us as we trudge through the knee high snow to the top of the hill. Good times, indeed.

and then, weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!,
all
   the
        way
              down.