Memories

The Loving are the Daring

Tuesday, July 03, 2012


Thomas Moore: No, there's nothing half so sweet in life as love's young dream.



I remember my first love.

He didn’t slay dragons and climb my hair to rescue me from my beast of loneliness. It wasn’t a love-and-must-kill-off-other-suitors moment. There were no pink fairies sprinkling pixie dusts or naked babies shooting lethal arrows.

In all honesty, I don’t even remember his name. Or his face.

But this is what I remember;
We were 7. Fresh out of kindergarten into a bigger pond called primary school. School was giving out free and torturous vaccinations of some kind. All students were required to clench their teeth, bare their souls and allow a sharp metallic needle with an evil glint to puncture our bodies “for our own good.”
I remember with dread when my name was called, and as I walked my death march straight into the nurse office with much trembling. 

As you can maybe tell, needles and I weren’t exactly friends. In fact, we met many-a-times in deathly mortal combat. The most memorable battle being when I had to go to the dentist to remove my traitor of a tooth, four people (father and nurses alike) had to clamp each of my limbs down as I screeched bloody murder into the ears of a sobbing dentist who was only doing what my mother asked.


So it was with all the bravery and courage that my seven year old could muster to not leg out of school that day, running as fast as my pudgy little legs would allow me. And like a war torn soldier with post-traumatic stress, my mind has blocked out every memory of the actual needle penetration event. 

Before I knew it, I was walking out of that room, my face white, and my small hand clutching my (other) punctured arm so hard, as though should I let go, my arm would fall straight off. I walked back to my classroom, silent tears dripping off my chin, my lips trembling, with not a sound. 

A bit dramatic maybe. To live life with flair was a style even then my seven year old self had adopted.

And just when I could bear the injustice of my life no more, this little boy - whom my mother assured me was my best friend then, instead of some tall, dark handsome stranger come to rescue thy helpless maiden - came to me with a little pink hanky that he took from my bag, he wiped my tears away and fed me chocolate.

And my life was upside right again.

That was my first love.

Chocolate.

LOL. I’m kidding.

I AM KIDDING. 

;)

Wherever you are, even if fate no longer entwines our path, I pray for all the happiness to surround you because you once put a smile on my chubby 7 year-old tear-stained face. You are indeed a valiant knight. Dragons should be so bold as to fight you. And beautiful maidens out there should be so lucky to have you. 



Myself

The Prince Charming Generation

Monday, March 12, 2012



A Kiss for Corona. Oct 14, 2011.

"Fairytales may not come true, and life may not be happily ever after, but to believe in a world of magic, beauty and chasing after your own dreams is a far better way to live than not believing"


Fairytales were a cruel device used to make girls all over the world believe in something unrealistic; that a knight in shinning armor atop a gallant horse would always be around to save the poor defenseless maiden, that a fairy godmother with a flick of her wand would magic away unfortunate circumstances, that "good" will always prevail "evil", and that one day we could all have our happily ever afters.

Those are the words of a cynic. And this is an age old argument that I've been afraid to spar with. For after all, there have been far greater and more eloquent men and women who have battled it out with each other; fiercely, barbarically, diplomatically, but even so, none has made great headway to either side.

And I'm not going to start.

Instead, I'm going to tell you about a real life victim of those evil goblins and fairytales. She would make a perfect case study for the very subject we're scrutinizing. And whilst living so immersed in the fairytale culture, she grew up just as lost and innocent as the next mortal.

She grew up believing in magic. Her childhood was spent barefooted, hair wild and tangled, running with racoons and dogs saving the life or falling in love with any Johns who crossed her path. She spent countless days under the sea, crooning to fat yellow fishes and crabby Sebastians, all the while combing her hair and staring up at the sky, dreaming of great big adventures and "somedays."

She was anything and everything; she cut her hair and brought "great dishonour" to her family by shaming them to have to be seen in public with her dishelved head. She toiled hard every day cleaning for her ungrateful (step)mother who never appreciated her hard work (I mean, who knew sprinkling soap on the floor could be so...soapy). Many a day her fairygodmother transformed her plain little soul to one of a beautiful princess, so majestic that she would force any of her childhood friends (wonder why there weren't many) to lie down across a "puddle" and she would stomp daintily across them, just so her delicate glass slippers wouldn't get wet.

Oh there were dangerous Arabian nights flying across the starry skies on a rugged flying carpet falling in love with handsome street urchins; countless lazy mornings of refusing to wake up and go to school on the pretense of waiting for her one true love's kiss to awake this sleeping beast. She dragged her neighbour's son, and forced him to become the dragon that she must slay. She was wild, she laughed often, she enjoyed the unreined imagination that only the youth provides, and she fiercely believed in magic.

Of course that enchanting young girl is me.

My childhood was colorful. All that I've described above is merely a glimpse of the fairytale that I lived. People may whisper about the mental development and delusions that a fairytale generation kid may grow up to be, but hey! Look at me, I turned out fine. ;)

Sue me if I believe that the "good guy" always win. Judge me if I want to live a happily ever after. Shut me up in a mental institute wrapped in a straitjacket if I secretly tell you that with just Faith, Trust and a little bit of Pixie Dust, we can fly for the second star to the right and journey straight on til morning to a place where we won't ever have to grow up!

But alas, I never did find Neverland, and had no choice but do the boring thing and well, grow up. And grow up I did, just like any other non-dragon slayer believer. The only probable negative impact Disney has had on me is my misguided notion about love. I am in love with the idea of being in love. The romance. The fireworks. The roses. The too-fast heart beating.

"Karl, you're never going to fall in love at this rate, because you'll never find the right guy unless he jumps right off the covers of a Once-upon-a-time story and knocks you down galloping on his white steed." Thanks friend.

Even if that turned out to be true, I wouldn't give up my childhood for anything because despite the mockery that may follow, I learned a lot of things from my favorite Disney princesses.

The strength to do the "right" thing despite not only facing the condemnation of society, but also risking bringing shame and being ostracized from the very people whom you were trying to protect (Mulan); the patience to see the good in everyone no matter how hard and the capacity to love even the ugliest of beasts because appearances is often only skin deep (Belle); the courage to never give up on life but to embrace it with the hope and fervency of having the world in your hands even if you're locked up in a dark and gloomy tower for, well, ever (Rapunzel).

Truly, fairytales may not come true, and life may not be happily ever after, but to believe in world of magic, and beauty, and chasing after your own dreams is a far better way of living than not believing.




Daughter of Triton. Nov 1, 2010.

Rapunzel. March 11, 2010

The Wind. Nov 7, 2010


These flipping brilliant works of art belong to one very talented Alice X. Zhang. She's just, breathtakingly amazing and her work - which ranges from Disney to Sherlock to Paramore - needs to be shared! Gallery [Link].

Myself

Over a cuppa ... or two

Tuesday, February 21, 2012
We're sitting around the table listening to the friend next to me rant;

"What's the point of running? There's no goal. You're just running and running and it's so boring. You're not going anywhere. It's all-"

And as she goes on, I take a sip of my cup of tea and question myself, why do I love to run? Why do I enjoy it? What's my point?

The first thing that came to mind was, to look good.

Add ImageThat may be true. I initially took up running as a form of exercise to lose weight. I wanted to be thin because that's what society demanded of beauty and damn them if I'm not going to be beautiful.

But aside from running, there were a ton of other "better" exercises that I dabbled in, all in the name of vanity; weights, DVD aerobic exercises, swimming, basketball, ping pong, strength training, etc. And along the way, I dropped them all, slowly. But running remained my constant. Mind you, I couldn't be bothered to keep up to a regular schedule. Sometimes I ran thrice a week, sometimes twice a week, and sometimes, I was even lucky to say that I ran once a month.

But it was still a constant. I ran.

But why run?

"What's your goal?" my friend continued oblivious to my silence.

"What are you running towards?"

And then, the reason came so simply.

I'm not running towards anything. Instead, I'm running from.

Running from my stress. Running from my problems. My feelings of inadequacy. I run to get away. To forget. I run so that I don't get stuck. Because I fear that if I stay. I'll drown.

See, if you don't run, you may not understand. Because when I run, I enter this stage where my body takes over my mind, and I don't feel anything but adrenaline coursing through my body and I feel unstoppable. I go into my nothing box and my body is just like a machine going through the gears.

I run so that for at least one part of my day, I don't need to think. And mock me if you will, but having a break from thinking, is a glorious thing to enjoy.

But mind you, once I hit the ten minute mark, my brain instantly logs back on to my body and goes "whoa girl, you've done ten minutes already? Wow. You must be tired! Can you feel that ache in your leg? Why don't you rest for awhile? You've done a good enough job."

And just like that, thinking spoils everything, again.

"Karl. Karl! Where did you go?" My friend waves her hand over my face.

"Huh?" I blinked back to the table with my friends, "oh. Nowhere. I was just, running." I smile at them and take another sip of my tea.


Myself

Take Away the December Sting

Tuesday, February 07, 2012

The cold bites on my nose and numbs all my fingers. The icy wind howls about lashing against my face mercilessly. My eyes spring tears at the injustice of it all. My toes are clenched in a battle against the supernatural. I am decked head to toe with layers upon layers of clothing and still the cold seeps into the corners of my weakened soul.

"Ahhh, it's a warm day out today isn't it?" a passer-by, scantily clad jogger yells to another.

"Yup, we're finally experiencing good weather!" the other, just as scantily clad jogger yells back.

And the Asian girl shivering in the middle, her face hidden by scarves and hoodies and 6 layers of other clothing curses;

"screw you all."




P.S - No. I'm not doing too well in cold weather. I now understand the necessity and the advantages of hibernation.

Scribbled Art

The Oplin Chance

Sunday, February 05, 2012
There's a hype and a call as I made my way into the crowded hall. There was stamping and dancing and laughing and calling. The room was spinning, people were clapping and the noise was unbelievable. I stood amazed, staring. Suddenly I felt a strong pull on my hand and I was whisked away just in time to avoid collision with a twirling couple.

"Sorry about that!" the gentlemen yelled out, tipping his cowboy hat in my direction. The lady upon his arm just laughed and winked at me.

"Welcome to the good ol' country dance." My friend - my saviour - smiled at me and was then whisked away by a handsome cowboy onto the dance floor.

Not wanting to feel awkward, I tried to shuffle near the back where the people I came with gathered. But I accidentally bumped into another person on the way.

"I'm really sorry!" I stumbled out awkwardly at him.

"It's no problem." He smiled at me. I smiled apologetic back at him, and tried to ease my way to people that I know. Which wasn't saying a lot because the friends that I were suppose to come with all couldn't come at the last minute but they assured me to come for the "Texan" experience, so with a what-the-heck I climbed into a car of excited girls donned in cowboy boots and beautiful dresses while I shuffled my worn-to-death red converse embarrassingly.

"I'm Michael." The guy who I bumped into continued talking.

"Ohh. Erm." I composed myself, "Hi! My name is Karlyn."

"Hi Karlyn. Would you like to dance?" He extended his hand out to me.

Ohmigosh. Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo was my first, very strong instinct, but was quickly replaced by, what-the-heck. You're already here. You may as well go for it.

"Sure!" I grinned confidently at him as I took his hand and he lead me to the middle.

He put his arm around my waist as I put mine on his shoulder, "errrm, I should warn you! I have never danced before."

"Haha! Then I'll teach you. It's easy. Follow me. It's one two one. One two one. One two one. One two one."

He guided me around the dance floor.

"one two one. One two one. One two one. There! You got it already!" he exclaimed proudly.

I laughed. So I did!

When the song ended, he gave me a twirl.

And just as he let go, my friend who I came with tapped me on the shoulder.

"How was that?!" she shrieked at me over the real live band that was starting up again.

"It was awesome!" I grinned enthusiastically at her.

"Do you wanna dance with me?" She smiled at me and extended her hand.

I took it. And we kicked and danced and twirled trying to copy the moves of the elderly couple in front of us. We ended up laughing and tumbling over each other until even the couple turned around to watch the spectacle we were making of ourselves.

The band never stopped playing and people never stopped dancing. When I managed to have time for a breather, I made my way to the chairs lined at the back of the hall. I dropped down next to one of the girls - Cassie - who came in the same car with me and proceeded to talk to her.

But soon someone came to ask to dance with her, and with a smile and a wave, she left me alone. But I was content. I could watch and soak up the events happening around me without obligation to make conversation.

This was obviously a big thing for the youth of small town Texas. A Friday night dance, where they could all gather and go crazy - in the most that a conservative texan town can -with friends and boys (girls for vice versa).
And the most interesting thing was that this was not just a night that the youth delighted in. Old couples held onto each other, some laughing as loud as the youth and step dancing to the fast beats, and others who would just lay their heads on each other and take their time moving to their own rhythm and pace.

One two one. One two one. One two one.

"Sweet huh?" a voice next to me said.

I looked to see a guy sitting by me staring at the same old couples that I was just watching. "One of my most favorite things about the Oplin dance is watching the elderly couples slow dancing the whole night," he continued.

I smiled, "I would love to do that with the guy I grow old with one day too." I confessed simply.

He looked at me. "My name is John."

"I'm Karlyn."

Just then the current song ended and a fast one came on.

"Come on! We have to dance to this!" He grabbed my hand and we rushed to the happening part of the dance floor. And we danced.

I may have only learned the steps a couple of songs earlier, and I told him just as much, but he still insisted on teaching me new moves. I stepped on his feet so many times it was embarrassing but he just laughed.

"Let loose! Just enjoy and let me lead you. I'll keep you safe." He grinned at me.

Just as he said that, we collided into another couple on the dance floor. After hurried apologies and a few laughs I turned back to him. "Safe huh?" I accused.

"Well, relatively. Just trust me. And have fun!"

And I did. After he got use to me stepping on his toes and I got use to him grimacing and shaking his head mockingly at me, I managed to let go and let loose.

After all, I can't get worse than I already am. And this was my last night in Oplin, Texas.

We swirled the fast songs and glided along the slow ones. He told me where he came from and the struggles he faced coming here and I told him where I was from and the struggles I was facing leaving here. He told me about his dad and family and I told him about mine. We laughed about how non-Chinese the Chinese food was here and groaned alike reminiscing on how restrictive conservative communities are.

The night passed by just like that. We danced with many other people. I danced with boys who were completely at ease dancing with a stranger, and others who were scared to make a mistake. And when there was no boys to dance with, I would grab one of the girls I came in the car with, make them dance the lead role as I had no idea how to, and we would prance around the hall like fools.

And like the true texan dance that it was, the second last dance was the chicken dance! Everyone in the hall made circles and linked arms and hooted and yelled and wiggled to the dance.

But like, all good things, it had to come to an end. Just as the clock struck 10:30pm (which in Texas is equivalent to 12:00 midnight), there was a call for last dance. The girl and I shrugged at each other as we made our way away from the floor to make room for others scrambling to find someone for last dance.

And just then, someone tapped me on the shoulder.

"May I have this last dance with you?" it was my knight in shining boots of course.

I just smiled brightly at him and accepted his hand. He held me in his arms and we danced the last dance together. We didn't talk much, which was a change from the incessant chatter earlier. But it wasn't awkward, and instead of filling the silence with empty last promises, we just enjoyed the music, the place, the people, and that empty capsule of time we had left. Over his shoulder I saw other couples taking their time too. I smiled. Knowing that everything I was seeing then was like a mental photograph taken and kept to be drawn out at a later time for melancholic reminiscence. I focused back on him, making sure to take this mental photograph too.

The song came to an end, and he twirled me one last time and then he bowed. He hugged me and told me to take care and that maybe, we'll see each other one day. I laughed and said maybe.

"We'll see where the Lord takes us." He smiled assuredly.

"Bye." I said.

"Bye." He replied.

And that was that. It was an adventure in itself to round all the girls together to herd back to the car. Once we left the hall, the wind outside was hostile and being typical me, I forgot to bring my jacket so Cassie - a friend I made - and I ran, me howling and screaming at how mean the cold was. We doubled up in laughter running back because we couldn't locate the car, and even when we managed to find it, we didn't know how to unlock the darn vehicle. We were jumping and shivering and hopping around the car hoping that anything we pressed or anything we yelled would somehow open the car and shield us from the impending cold whipping us outside. We managed to open the door by complete accident and fell in breathing hard, laughing so hard we can see our foggy breaths.

During the long drive back to Abilene, one of the other girls perked up,

"Hey Karlyn, I'm really glad you came tonight. And that instead of being all awkward, you just went out there and went for it. I'm so proud of you. And you're quite good at dancing for your first time!"

I laughed so hard, partly because it wasn't her whose toes I had to step on so many times. I assured them that I had a good time. And I did.

And honestly, if I didn't have the mindset of leaving, I would never have given myself the chance to do that.
It makes me wonder what other things in life I miss out on just because I'm too afraid to try, or because I always tell myself that I would get another chance to do that.

And I wonder, can you really regret the chances you never knew you missed out on?


Scribbled Art

Walking past December

Friday, January 20, 2012
We walk the streets surrounded by strangers, each of us encapsulated within our own bubbles. Every person is on a different adventure. Every person has their own conflict, their own shares of laughter, happiness. Every person has their own story. A story different from yours. And mine.

But we all walk on. Not stopping. Blind to the incredible tales and flood of colorful characters around us.

Until maybe suddenly. We bump. Into a stranger. And for that split second, when the two bubbles collide, when your eyes meet, just for that very moment, you glimpse a little of the stories they could tell.

A father, eyes excited at the prospect of returning home to his family; a mother, eyes warm with days of watching her little ones grow up; a boy, eyes young still believing in black and white, right and wrong, and simple magic; a near-ly woman, eyes tired and rubbed raw living in a world of different shades of gray; a boy turning into a man, eyes bright with the possible futures ahead.

And for that fleeting second, you fall hopelessly and wonderfully into another world that is normally hidden, protected by bubbles made to keep out as much as to keep in. But the moment soon passes. We look away embarrassed for trespassing into places we should not have been. Apologies are pronounced, and then as quickly as possible, we walk on. Bubbles newly formed. Blind once again.

To live with my eyes wide open.




01.13.2012 — montréal, québec — by simon hébert
Myself

Don't be falling in love as she's walking away - Zac Brown

Friday, December 02, 2011
She wraps her arms around herself, fingers clenched, holding herself so tightly together, as if she would fall apart if she didn't.

She's crying.

Of course she's crying. She always cry. It makes him feel so. Helpless.

"Stop crying." It came out more harshly than he meant it to.

"I mean, there's no point to it. Why don't we just, talk about something else. Or go out somewhere?" He tries.

She looks at him. Her face streaked with tears, her eyes - drained of her usual dancing lights and life - drew him in and then punched him, making a hollow cavity in his chest. "Why?" she whispers, her voice hoarse.

"Why do you keep running? Why can't you, why must you, why" she was crying again. He groaned inwardly. Always the tears. Where did all the tears come from?

"Why can't you stay?" Of course she knew. She was being overly needy. And he, bless his soul, has always drowned in her raging tumultuous torrid of emotions. She, an emotional hurricane that he has never learned to weather.

But despite this. He has tried to stay by her - donned in a disgustingly bright yellow poncho - he fought through tears, rain and sunshine.

But he always looked for a way out. A way to avoid getting wet. To avoid getting sucked in. To avoid getting burned. To avoid any complications. He ran. He ran. Because he didn't know how to stay.

He tried to explain, "What can I say to you? How can I pick up the pieces of your broken heart and mend it back for you? What can I say to make the hurt go away?"

He looked at her, her bone-white fingers, her huddled shoulders, and her oh so sad eyes. Eyes that clawed at the hole inside of him. He felt powerless. Helpless. He pleaded. "Tell me what you want me to say. Tell me what words to use, to make you all better. Just tell me, what can I say to make you smile again?"

Tears were spilling out of her eyes again. What did he say wrong this time? This is why he ran. He felt so awkward. So out of place. He would only make things worse if he tried.

"I don't want you to say anything. That's not the point. All I want, all I need, is just for you to be here with me. That's all. I just want you to stay by me. Just stay."

"I can do that." He nods, relieved that it was really that simple.

"No you can't." She breathes deeply, "but that's okay. I'm giving up. Finally."

"Giving up what?" The words came out ragged. He looked at her. Pleadingly. For a lie. Because the way she looked at him, made him fear the truth. But she refuse to give him that comfort. She refuse to make things easy for him. She was done.

"I'm giving up on you. Your games. Your pretenses. Keep them. I don't mind that you use me. That you lie to me. That you hurt me. I don't mind giving you whatever miserable bit of me that I have left. But I hate how you make me hate myself." They came like bullets. Things he knew. Things he did without knowing why.

"What are you trying to say?" He asked.

She laughed. Mockingly. But oh so sadly. "I just said it. I'm giving up."

"On you."

He winced.

She wiped her tears. She got up. Turned to leave.

"I love you," he whispered. Whimpered. Begged.

"I know." She said. And without turning around. She left.

And he stayed.

Myself

Conversations lying in my head

Thursday, December 01, 2011
"So, what's your story?" I ask into the silence. It wasn't an awkward silence. Just a, silence.

"What do you mean?" he tilted his head, pondering the nature of my question.

"Well, everyone has a story. Where they come from, where they were born, what they want, who they are." I explained.

He tried to follow.

"Okay. So I'll start first. With my story." I smiled at him. His face tilted, the slightest hint of relief.

"Okay." He said gamely.

Okay, I replied in my head. Wondering where to begin. How does one start one's own life story anyway? From right now.

"So I'm a in-between kind of girl." I had no idea what that meant as it stumbled out of my mouth.

"Sorry, what?" He asked. Confused. As am I.

"I am an in-between kind of girl," I repeated again, slowly, ideas and reasons forming as I started to warm up to an explanation. "I'm neither here nor there. I'm Malaysian, born in Papua New Guinea, and went to school in Australia. In short, I don't really belong anywhere." I shrug, realizing the truth as I said it.

"I finished high school a year ago, and I desperately want to go college, but right now," I look up at the mountains of boxes we're wedged in between, "I'm stuck in the middle with nowhere to go."

He laughed appreciatively.

I ploughed on. "It's the same with work. I work here weekends, at my old school weekdays, and Kumon every other time in between." I recite this, knowing full well how crazy my schedule is now. I chose it this way. For two main reasons. Subconciously. Or conciously. Because I need the extra ka ching, and also, because I need to extra busyness to occupy my mind from, thinking.

But it was not until I confessed this to a stranger; albeit a familiar, safe looking stranger (but kids, you never know. So don't try this at home), that I realized that by choosing this path, I'm also choosing to forsake my current relationships; friends and family alike.

But sometimes. Honestly. I need a break. People drive me crazy.

"What about guys. Are you torn between two too?" He spoke out, jolting me out of my reverie. I looked up and he was smiling at me, almost laughing.

I broke out laughing, "if only you knew man." Was all I said. He didn't push. Thanks for understanding.

"So yeah, I'm an in-between sort of girl. Everywhere and nowhere. Feeling everything but never changing, never moving," I shrug.

"Well. You're here." He said.

I looked at him. Blankly.

"You're not, nowhere. You're right here. We might be in the middle of nowhere," he gestured to the tall stacks of boxes, "but that's just because you don't get to see the bigger picture yet. After awhile, this middle of nowhere will become something bigger than even the both of us. All you got to do is work through it. And enjoy the moments of joy as you get there."

"I think this is the point of the conversation where I inject something totally profound like, enjoy and live each day of your life to the fullest because you only ever have one life."

I smacked him.

And that was that.

Because being right smack in the middle is better than facing the end or having to start over from the beginning.
Because we spend too much time wishing for the good times and not enough loving - living - the good times when it comes.
Because I know He's in control, and the middle is exactly where He wants me to be.


SIMPLE TRUTH

When we look at ourselves, we see flaws. When God looks at us, He sees Jesus






The Story So Far

Monday, November 07, 2011

"What do you want for your birthday?" Grace asked.

"Peace and quiet." I answered in that philosophical way of mine. Or to other people, over-pretentiousness.

"Oh, happiness too of course." I added.

Grace sighed and moved away from this pointless conversation before I launched into a long-winded speech about trying to reach a metaphorical, or an almost Zen like state-of-mind in which peace and quiet can be achieved. A state-of-mind I believe to be akin to mythical.

Little did I know on the morning of my birthday - as I was throwing up all of my previous day's meals - that I was going to get exactly what I wished for.

I went to sleep early the eve of my birthday because I was just so knackered. That should have rung a couple of bells but no one paid any attention. When the clock struck twelve my sister promptly appeared on my bed, her face hovering above mine, waiting; as though her presence itself should awaken this sleeping beauty.

But sleeping beauty snored away and my sister had no choice but to softly scream "boo" which created the desired effect; I screamed and almost fell off the other side of the bed - the beast has arisen.

Dad handed me my present and when I opened it, I shrieked. He had given me this beautiful bag which I've been ogling and re-visiting it ever since my eyes laid sight of it. It was truly, love at first sight. My sister and mum hugged and kissed me promising that my presents from them would be arriving soon whilst my dad smiled smugly.

After they left, the phone calls came in. I felt like a princess. But a very feverish, and exhausted princess.

Soon after the phone calls stopped, I fell back asleep. But that didn't last long because the Chai's came over for a surprise birthday greeting. I was grinning from ear to ear as I hugged them and they showed me the card they painstakingly made. After they left, and a long phone call that followed, I was at last, happy and alone.

"Dear Lord. Thank you for all the people you have put into my life Lord. I am so blessed that I've come to know them. I'm at loss for words to describe how happy I am but Lord you know the feelings in my heart, and that is enough. In Jesus name I pray, Amen. "

I fell asleep thinking that one out of three wishes wasn't bad, and was starting to look forward to the next day at work when I would shamelessly receive all the love and attention that any birthday girl would get.

Plans changed.

I woke up at 5am and rushed to the toilet shaking and clammy. And then I puked.

I got back into bed in a state of a denial. I am okay. Tomorrow morning, I will wake up and get ready to go to school. I am okay. I am okay.

In the morning my sister woke me up and I tried to roll out of bed as usual, but then blacked out. My sister panicked and called my dad. My dad rushed back from work and strolled into my room where I lay shaking and clammy.

"Come. Let's go doctor."

"Pa, no. I don't want."

"Why?"

"I can't move."

I was sweating profusely. My guts were curling and pinching and wrenching. My body went from feverishly hot to freezing cold. Every time I lift my head, I felt woozy. I was breathing heavily.

"If you don't go to doctor, it'll only get worse."

"I can't move." I groaned. Then suddenly. I jumped off the bed. Bolted for the bathroom. I was almost too late, but I watched with some small satisfaction as my vomit managed to fall into the correct place, namely, the toilet bowl.

I went to the doctor. And came back with five different meds. Two of which my sister managed to read the directions wrongly and overdose me.

It said 3 Tablets. Eat one after each meal.

My sister read each meal, eat three tablets.

....

Halfway through swallowing my medication my sister went, "uh-oh. Jie, I read wrong. You're not suppose to eat so many."

I stared at her, my mind struggling between watching my life flashing by and wondering if I should strangle my sister and take her down with me.

She shrugged, "oh well, since you've already eaten all three, you don't need to eat anymore for the rest of the day."

'nuff said.

I slept for 20 hours out of the 24 hours of my birthday.

The four hours were only for eating my medicine, going to the bathroom, and, talking to my lovely friends who visited.

As my sister put it, "Only true friends would visit such a sick, disgusting, vomiting person like you." My sister. The fountain of wisdom.

Lerry and Stephen came with beautiful balloons that brightened my room and my mood. Even after they, and everyone after, left; I stared at my balloons. They were so pretty. A mish mash of colors that bobbed and weaved and intertwined according to the gentle breeze that came in through my window because of the rain. For some reason they made me smile. And my heart ached. I felt loved.


(not the actual balloons. I didn't take a picture. I think Lerry did though?)

I fell asleep. And the next bunch of people to surprise me were Jon, Andy, Mishie and Jo. They were loud, funny, and made me grin so wide.

Jo mocked me "I heard you wanted pampering on your birthday?! Whose going to pamper you? Pfft!" and yet he did. I missed him alot. I missed him and Mishie terribly when they left for Australia. And I was sincerely touched that all four of them came to visit me.

But even so, they saw how tired I was and left early.

Much later at night when I was talking with Grace as she asked me how my day went and listened to me go on and on, she quietly told me,

"you got what you wanted then didn't you?"

"What?" I asked puzzled

"Your peace and quiet."

"Oh. Oh yeah."

And so I did. Even though I remained sick for the next couple of days, my energy level fluctuating from being good enough to go to work to blacking out for the next 15 hours right after and having trippy moments in between, it was one of the best birthdays ever.

I came out of it with a fantabulous bag, an ipod shuffle, two Giordano jeans, ka-ching to go shopping, peace, quiet and happiness, and most importantly, friends and family that I cherish and God whom I exalt because even in my sickness, I can thank Him for all the love that He surrounds me with.

Another realization; God told me that I need to do some serious purging. Not just physical, but emotional. I'm going to be doing some spring cleaning.

Thank you for all those who made my birthday special and who made me feel like the happiest girl around. There were a lot of you that I didn't even have breath to write into this post (and heck this was a long post) but you all know who you are.

Much love,
Me.

The picture that inspired the start of the new, 19 year old, Karlyn.
Love you Grace.
Scribbled Art

Sunday, September 11, 2011


Remember?

Remember how it use to be?

When it was just you and me?

Do you remember that?

What couldn't you see?


Remember?

When all the skies were blue?

And we were stuck like glue?

Do you remember that?

Do you need a clue?


Remember?

When we would laugh like crazy?

Or lounge around all lazy?

Do you remember that?

Why is it getting so hazy?


Remember?

All those secrets that we use to share?

And all those fears that we laid bare?

Do you remember that?

Why's life so unfair?


Remember?

That we use to have it all?

Our cards, our friendship, we let it all fall?

Can you believe that?

But remember this, it was all your call.

Remember that.

Remember it all.
Faith

Old Grandmother Tales

Sunday, August 07, 2011

Old Grandmother Tales

I must first get all the necessities out of the way.

I’m not the type to beat around the bush so here goes.

I have an uncle. He has only one arm. I’ve never really asked how that happened – my policy is to never ask questions that you don’t want to hear the answers to – but from the bits and pieces I’ve collected over the years, there was The Incident. And he had to amputate an arm.

Once upon a time, I use to sneak glances at his empty socket – which he would hide under his never ending supplies of buttoned and collared t-shirts. It was only when I grew older I realized this was because he couldn’t pull the normal tees over his head - which, to my nine year old self, was a wondrous thing. The sleeve would swing back and forth with no direction, flapping, a lonely flag stuck on a pole. I stared at it in guilty curiosity, and pleaded with my small little heart to the God I had not known back then to never take my limbs away.

Now, I talk to my uncle like I would any other. And, pointedly ignore the empty socket. My eyes would glaze from his face straight to his feet. I guess I think by ignoring what isn't there would make him more normal. Because facing up to something foreign and “abnormal” scares me.

He never married. This I accepted without question. But now, when I asked myself why I readily accepted this knowledge without further curiosity - even to my nine year old self - I instinctively answered, “because he only has one arm.”

So?

But that was the answer life has grown me up to believe. That abnormal people don’t get to have the things normal people take advantage of.

I may look over my uncle’s “handicap” but that doesn’t mean I don’t notice his difficulties. How sometimes he has to struggle to open locks with no other hand holding it steady. How when we set the table, we have to make conscious effort to take away the fork and just set the spoon. How he avoids social gatherings like a plague, running away from people too “polite” to ask but not polite enough to abstain from staring. Sort of like when it takes all your conscious effort to not stare at that teenage kid in a wheelchair or look away from that man with only one leg in the mall.

But just as I notice his “handicap” I notice his “extraordinary capabilities” too. How when I was five, and because I badgered him to, he managed to haul me up and carry me the entire duration of a wedding dinner (and that was no easy feat. I was, well. A fat kid. Even my dad refused to carry me because it hurt his back, so instead would bribe me with chocolates and sweets to relieve his own guilt, which you know, didn’t really help my weight issue). How my uncle cried when he saw my sister when she was born – she was born too early and too small because the umbilical cord got twisted a month or two before she came. All my family relatives cried. The hospital staff tried to lessen the pain but not one of them believed my sister would survive the night - and my uncle immediately went home and prayed to the god he believed in to keep my sister alive. In return, he would give up meat – Chinese people are very big on meat – everyday for lunch. My sister is now 16 years and 7 months old and loud and annoying. And my uncle has faithfully kept his end of the bargain.

Why the sudden nostalgic memories you wonder?

It was the after dinner conversation – or rather supper conversation tonight. The family was gathered around the table all eating kacang putih. Ngen Ngen (Grandmother), Ye Ye (Grandfather), Sam Ku (Third aunt from paternal side), Papa (Dad), Mummy (Mum – haha) and me.

“…a Hakka girl wanted to marry him” My grandmother was saying referring to my uncle.
(Entire conversation was carried out in Chinese but I’m translating to English for reader’s benefit. And also in my part because I can’t type Chinese.)

“But - not me! It wasn’t me who said anything.” My grandma quickly protested to no one but silent accusations she imagined “It was YOUR grandmother who told him not to marry Hakka women. Cannot be trusted she said.” My grandmother chirruped out to her kids. “And of course, he listenend.”

“And this all happened after Kor’s (brother’s) arms…incident” my dad mused quietly aloud.

“She was a beautiful girl too,” My aunt sat lost in thought of the memory of something-that-could-have-been, “such a beautiful girl.”

“She understood, when they all told her that she can’t marry him.” My grandmother added. I quietly and probably rather unfairly wondered which was stronger; my grandmother's own love for her son’s happiness, or her own love for the traditions passed down from her own family (such as not marrying a woman from a “tribe” other than your own).

The conversation slowly moved on to less painful recollections.

I left the table.

And now I wonder out loud.

About my uncle.

I think one of my biggest fear, is to grow old alone. With all the wisdom a naïve nineteen year old can possibly have garnered, growing up alone with no one to share it with seems a pointless life to me. By nature, I am a very emotional and a very social person. Being isolated – not wanted nor needed by anyone – seems a very empty life. And what more, love, is the carrot of my life. The thing that keeps me going. The one reason for doing the things that I do.

When I was nine, I carried the notion that when my uncle lost his arm, he just as quickly adopted the natural fact of life; he lost his right to all normal people can take for granted. He took his arm, or his lack of one, and accepted everything else; inability to use both utensils at the same time, losing the choice of types of clothing he could wear, difficulties tying shoe laces and unlocking locks, zero possibility of driving a car, losing his own independence, and the worst of all; to lose any hope of love and accept that from now on ‘til forever, he would grow old, alone. And lonely.

And for the next ten years, I never once challenged this notion. For no reason other than that my uncle’s problem was not my problem. I wasn’t in any way affected so why should I ask questions that may rock the boat and cause my own discomfort? To my knowledge, he has never complained. Never whined. Never pitied himself. And that was enough for me.

But now I wonder.

He was 22 when he lost his arm. I realize with a jolt that when you’re 22 years old, you have the future – or rather, the possibilities of what the future has - in your hands. It’s the start of something. It’s the start of everything else in your life. That’s what he had. He could be anything. Anyone. Anywhere.

Then The Incident happened. And he withdrew from everything. He ran away from all the looks of pity. Hid himself from his own shame. I guess, those must be pretty dark days. Anyone would have turned bitter. He was young. Full of hopes and dreams. But it was all chopped away. With his arm. Left with a stump. Unable to do anything anymore. Having to depend on people again. Just when you spread your wings to fly, one wing is cut off, and you return back to your nest – a failure. Watching as all the other birds take flight – all your siblings – leaving the nest, giving one last pitiful glance back at you but then soaring into the wide open sky, free.

A promise life whispered to you suddenly snatched away.

It made me think, if a girl, and such a beautiful girl at that could still love you, even if you don’t have an arm, wouldn’t that be the epitome of love? Wouldn’t you fall in love right back and still salvage some of what life has promised you?

But thinking back, in my uncle’s days, filial piety was mandatory, and traditions were laws set in stone. And maybe, just maybe, he felt he didn’t deserve the love this beautiful Hakka girl could give. What could she see in him? How could she look at him without being repulsed? He must have thought unwilling to let himself believe.

And maybe, just maybe, he loved her back. Loved her enough to let her go. What could he do with one arm? How could he get a respectable job? Put food on the family? She deserved someone so much better than him. She deserved a better life than anything he could offer.

It makes me feel, excruciating to think about this. My uncle is now 60. He is robust. He still loves fiercely with everything he can, he buys candy for his younger nieces everytime he comes to the house for visits. Even when I was nine, I instinctively saw my uncle’s inner strength, because I believed fiercely that even though my uncle only had one arm, he would survive, and he wouldn’t grow old and frail and sit in a wheelchair like everyone else you saw that was “abnormal.”

I don’t think I can lie and pretend and say that even though my uncle only has one arm, that doesn’t make him “abnormal.” He is.

I’m not going to say that he's not “disabled.” He is.

And I’m not going to try to be pious and say that I pity him. Because I’m not and I do.

What I AM going to say is that I have a greater disability. That I am more disabled. That I pity myself more.
My uncle has one less limb than I do but he can do far greater things than I can. Things more important than tying shoelaces. Or wearing normal tees.

My uncle stayed strong, for his family, for himself when The Incident happened. I cry myself to sleep just because one person – one unworthy person – hurt me, and remain bitter about it, unwilling to let go.
He can love even when he has lost his “right” to and not only that, but he loves in such huge amounts that he changes lives; life of a girl who remembered that even when she was five and fat an no one wanted to carry her, her uncle did. The life or another who he made a life-long vow to keep. And the right to live a better life to one, beautiful mysterious Hakka girl. Whilst I, take advantage of the love people readily give me, stomping on their hearts and greedily asking for more and never giving more of my own less making myself vulnerable.

Dear Lord,
He’s my uncle.
A silent, unsung hero.
Please.
In Jesus name I pray. Amen.

Romans 8:26
We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express.



Scribbled Art

To live in between

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Girl, Unafraid – Neil Bernhart


I grew up with fairytales. But have always believed that life was either black or white.

Its either yes or no.

Now. Or never.

Love. Or hate.

Life was safe with absolutes. I knew what was happening. I was in control. I knew what I had to do.

But as I grew up, I learned that life had a new color to it - the uncertain twist of grey.

The maybes and the could have beens.

The sometimes and laters and regrets.

And the taste of bittersweet love.

Grey is neither here nor there. It was a mixture of both black, and white. Never either, stuck in between, lost.







Different words;same song

Friday, May 20, 2011

The best thing about Cambodia was...

I mean, after the absolutely DELISH baguettes that can be found everywhere there (crisp, fresh, heavenly bread toasted with butter and smothered in meat, ham, veggies and everything mouth-watering. I ate SIX during our five day trip. I would have eaten them for breakfast, lunch and dinner too but, no one else took kindly to that suggestion).

So after that, the best thing about Cambodia was...

Oh, and of course after the FRENZIED shopping action that went on. The spotting and haggling and the buying and the exclamation of the super duper cheap prices! No joke, Abercrombie & Fitch, H & M, Miss Sixty, ALL as low as USD2 (there are US clothing factories in Cambodia so all the clothes manufactured there are cheap)!

So after the shopping, the best thing about Cambodia was...

Oh, not to mention the INCREDIBLE fellowship throughout the trip;

the getting-to-know the adults better; the tickling and pinching from Aunty Angie, the being bribed and cajoled to act in a skit for Aunty Christabel; the mothering and pampering and the being-stuffed-so-full by Aunty Anne.

the much needed sleeping that was continuously disturbed by the Cooking Mama Michelle and the adults who took turns every morning to bang our doors so loudly that I’m sure would have woken up Thailand (Cambodia’s neighboring country).

the instant clicking between us and the Cambodian youths within the very first day. Things got so emotional that tears were shed during farewell, which I think is quite incredible – glory to the Lord - when you factor in language and cultural barriers.

So, as I was saying, the best thing about Cambodia was...

OH! And I mustn't forget to tell you about the Cambodian youth worship, which, blew me away. From the start to the end, it was just, so, incredibly, powerful. I seriously, don't even know what words to use to describe how it was.

The Cambodian youth sang with gusto, with pride, with love, with soul, with all they've got, they just laid it all down and sang, literally, to high heavens to Daddy above.

And so we all sang.

And it wasn't until almost the last song when it hit me.

We were all singing the same song.

But not the same words.

We were all singing the very same song, except, they were singing it in Khmer (their national language) and we were singing in English. I don't quite know if you understand how this was so profound to me. But let me try explain.

Despite the different words we used, we were singing the same song.

Despite the different cultures we're from, we were feeling the same thing.

Despite the different colors that we are, we are all humans.

Despite the everything difference that we are, we are all children of God.

Different words; same song.

But I got to tell you, the very best thing of Cambodia was...

that well, there is no very best thing about Cambodia

Because all the good things blended together, made the whole trip the very best thing.

the delirious conversations at two in the morning or five in the afternoon from two half-baked, half-coherent, stupendous people. Look how far we've come huh Lerry?

*sighs of contentment.

Scribbled Art

Sunday, October 24, 2010



We are the broken chords holding this together. The timeless threads fabricating this story untold. The wind whispered in our ears and the songs the daisies breathe. We are the cloudy wisps of dreams woven with tears and toils and soils. The love ached from every memory and every shattered lost. We are the hope built on castles of sands and the footprints walked by every star we gaze. The things unsaid and the words unheard floats and tumbles. We are the October days and the quiet thoughts. Of paper books and paper hearts and this grey line drawn so thin.

Faith

winter breath

Saturday, September 18, 2010

Breathe in.
Breathe out.

Headphones on, music loud. Trying desperately to find some meaning, some answer, some thing, anything, hidden within the lyrics of the song.
Just to feel that little less lonely, just to feel that little more hopeful, just to feel that little bit happy.

It's crazy.
For so long, I've always tried to be strong. I know I have you. And you. And you. Haha. It's kind of ironic that during the season of my life where I discover the true value of friendship is also the same season of life that I say good-bye to you. And you. And you.

It is during tragedy when you realize your weaknesses, your strengths, your blessings and your burdens. It is through tragedy that you know who you've got, and what you've got. And it is through tragedy that you only begin to realize just how helpless you are, and how much you need God.

So here's my call to you God. I have fought so hard, for so long, only You know how much I've gone through. And right now I'm feeling a little tired, and a little weak. I need you for Strength, for Comfort. I need Your shoulder to lean on, Your hand to wipe my tears, Your arms for protection, Your voice to soothe.

Psalm 23
The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures,
He leads me beside quiet waters.
He restores my soul,
He guides me in paths of righteousness for His name's sake.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil,
For you are with me.
Your rod and your staff,
they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies,
You anoint me head with oil, my cup overflows.

Surely goodness and love shall follow me all the days of my life.
And I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.

Amen.