Well, I mentally formulated this blog post in the shower, but lost it all when i came out. I guess my thoughts flowed down the drain along with the water. Hee.
Today was very unproductive, as usual. I spent four hours drawing random bits of trash that doesn't really count towards anything in particular, meaning that they are not really substantial at all. Sigh. And then i slacked and watched some chinese drama at night after dinner while reading Time (halfheartedly). It's about some Wong Fei Hung show, but Jet Li's not Wong Fei Hung in this drama. I got too used to a Wong Fei Hung who's skinny and in plaits. Meaning Jet Li. So this new guy (sorta) who's actually also really famous (I think) seems kind of... off. Then he married someone young enough to be his daughter due to certain circumstances. She's called Kwai Lan and today's episode was quite sad. Her brother "defected" to the enemy, who killed their adoptive father (Uncle Mok), and then her brother blamed everything on her- the day after she married Wong Fei Hung.
So while doing PW, I was missing my old house. In retrospect, I was really, really, really lucky to live there. My old home has been labeled a chalet by some friends of mine who came over to visit and I think it exudes a little kampung vibe, a hint at an idyllic lifestyle where I could gaze at the greenery just outside- rubber trees, my own durain plant (about twice as tall as me now), my family's lime tree, the neighbour' bamboo, etc. It was relaxing on the eye. And I learnt to love nature.
Now I sit at my tatami and do work at the bamboo table, and when I look at the window, I see the white grilles covering it, locked by a key and the key taken away by my father. I am a prisoner in my own house. And when I seek refuge past the bars that confine me to my room, to this house, what greets me is open sky. Open, featureless sky,without even an ugly skyscraper or tall building to greet me and decorate the skyline with something apart from white clouds. And when I do make the effort to walk the few paces to the window sill, ugly buildings greet me. I can't ever return to those days where I was at least given more freedom. My house binds me physically, and homework- and PW- bind my soul to this place with heavy iron chains that take a lifetime to painstakingly remove, one by one. Or perhaps they'll never be removed. I nearly teared at the aching loss of my old home. I didn't feel the repercussions earlier on, but perhaps they're only starting to come. The pain that comes from seperation, the pain that lasts as long as you are conscious...
The media is focusing on 9/11.
Sure, 10 years may have passed, but those who were present, who have been connected to it one way or another- which means everyone alive who has heard of the event, but especially those physically present or have close friends, relatives who had fallen prey- these people are the testament that such a thing has ever happened in the long course of our ugly human history. They are the ones who will remember, even if everyone moves on. They will move on- but with 9/11 carved forever into their being.
The mood is sombre. Time's issue today had grey borders- the editor claimed that they only changed border colours from the customery red only thrice in the magazine's 88 years of history. Today's one. And 9/11 was the second. The borders were black ten years ago. The magazine remembers 9/11 this special issue with accounts given by those involved. Widows. The vice- president then. Firefighters. The tone of the passages is terse, making one think deeper into what 9/11 meant then- and now.
The Straits Times also chipped in its two cent's worth. An account from one who was lucky enough to survive- a series of very fortunate events. And instinct.
This week, we remember the atrocities of back then.
And we mourn.
And we pray for their souls, and for ours.
Today was very unproductive, as usual. I spent four hours drawing random bits of trash that doesn't really count towards anything in particular, meaning that they are not really substantial at all. Sigh. And then i slacked and watched some chinese drama at night after dinner while reading Time (halfheartedly). It's about some Wong Fei Hung show, but Jet Li's not Wong Fei Hung in this drama. I got too used to a Wong Fei Hung who's skinny and in plaits. Meaning Jet Li. So this new guy (sorta) who's actually also really famous (I think) seems kind of... off. Then he married someone young enough to be his daughter due to certain circumstances. She's called Kwai Lan and today's episode was quite sad. Her brother "defected" to the enemy, who killed their adoptive father (Uncle Mok), and then her brother blamed everything on her- the day after she married Wong Fei Hung.
So while doing PW, I was missing my old house. In retrospect, I was really, really, really lucky to live there. My old home has been labeled a chalet by some friends of mine who came over to visit and I think it exudes a little kampung vibe, a hint at an idyllic lifestyle where I could gaze at the greenery just outside- rubber trees, my own durain plant (about twice as tall as me now), my family's lime tree, the neighbour' bamboo, etc. It was relaxing on the eye. And I learnt to love nature.
Now I sit at my tatami and do work at the bamboo table, and when I look at the window, I see the white grilles covering it, locked by a key and the key taken away by my father. I am a prisoner in my own house. And when I seek refuge past the bars that confine me to my room, to this house, what greets me is open sky. Open, featureless sky,without even an ugly skyscraper or tall building to greet me and decorate the skyline with something apart from white clouds. And when I do make the effort to walk the few paces to the window sill, ugly buildings greet me. I can't ever return to those days where I was at least given more freedom. My house binds me physically, and homework- and PW- bind my soul to this place with heavy iron chains that take a lifetime to painstakingly remove, one by one. Or perhaps they'll never be removed. I nearly teared at the aching loss of my old home. I didn't feel the repercussions earlier on, but perhaps they're only starting to come. The pain that comes from seperation, the pain that lasts as long as you are conscious...
The media is focusing on 9/11.
Sure, 10 years may have passed, but those who were present, who have been connected to it one way or another- which means everyone alive who has heard of the event, but especially those physically present or have close friends, relatives who had fallen prey- these people are the testament that such a thing has ever happened in the long course of our ugly human history. They are the ones who will remember, even if everyone moves on. They will move on- but with 9/11 carved forever into their being.
The mood is sombre. Time's issue today had grey borders- the editor claimed that they only changed border colours from the customery red only thrice in the magazine's 88 years of history. Today's one. And 9/11 was the second. The borders were black ten years ago. The magazine remembers 9/11 this special issue with accounts given by those involved. Widows. The vice- president then. Firefighters. The tone of the passages is terse, making one think deeper into what 9/11 meant then- and now.
The Straits Times also chipped in its two cent's worth. An account from one who was lucky enough to survive- a series of very fortunate events. And instinct.
This week, we remember the atrocities of back then.
And we mourn.
And we pray for their souls, and for ours.
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