random

On the eve of Christmas, the children set out to make a pie for the family – not the typical mixture of cheese, cherry and mustard crushed in marshmallow-flavoured ice cream, but the hybrid of tomatoes, ham and honey mustard stirred in gooey hot applesauce. The unique hybrid. With a generous portion of strawberry jam, and a measly scoop of beans. (No matter how much the children dislike beans and everything that comes with it, they have to admit that the beans added flavour to the pie – a spicy, tangy aftertaste that leaves you craving for more.)

So when Anna, with her finger dipped in applesauce, suggested that they scraped the idea of the pie altogether, the children were outraged.

“But why?” Little Tim was upset and looked ready to cry.

“Because,” Anna rolled her eyes, as if to say the answer was obvious. “The Big Book of Everything states that an excess of honey mustard and applesauce gives you diabetes.”

“What are die-bee-tees? ” Lily was confused. And as Anna stooped down to explain to her that no, diabetes was not a T-shirt brand of dying bees, James folded his arms.

“You’re such a nerd, Anna,” His anger was more inward, but he could not resist the spite.

There was a moment of silence. Everyone stood mutely, with eyes as wide as saucers and hands unanimously covering their mouths, staring at the exchange that was about to unfold before their eyes.

“AND WHAT WAS THAT, YOU IGNOMINIOUS MALE CHAUVINIST PIG?”

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Author's Note: Sometimes politics, feminism and logic ruins things. Sometimes you just got to embrace the randomness. :) Oh and don't ask me what pie I'm talking about. I don't know.

PS: Christmas is my favourite holiday!

Poem

I don't like how Blogger screws up your format when you copy & paste from Word. I'll have to edit a million times before I am satisfied.

A poem, because I am in the mood.

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Lights
Shadow
The moon
An illumination
My physics teacher

A darkening sky
A darkened void deck
Straight tree trunks
and narrow roads

Bangladesh workers and a Chinese man
a distant draw
a fine line –
it could be colours
it could be not

Drink carton on grass, snail atop
Man on chair, drinking beer bottle
A blinking rush of headlights
Metal against rubber
Rubber against cement
Rushing towards a common goal
Mindlessly

Sewage water and imagined rivers
Trinkets and toys and magical brooms
White-washed walls and folded beds
Formal envelopes
and an
oversea stamp

The nightsky
A cacophony of crickets
My heart
My feet
The ground
And a startling need to breathe

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Commentary (I know this takes the magic out of poems but I couldn't resist): This poem is the spawn of a collection of observations I got when I went downstairs to jog (which didn't work out too well because I spent half the time walking and staring at the moon - omg, so poetic) and forcibly tried to remember every single object I came across like: the pink drink carton on the floor (with an actual snail on top - i found that strangely fascinating) which looked oddly out of place against the grass, the Bangladesh workers and the Chinese man walking less than a metre apart (I thought they were acquainted at first until I noticed the invisible line drawn between the two, like how the Chinese man was walking a foot behind the rest, talking on his mobile while the other three paced on, obviously more at ease with one another than the stranger beside them) and other odd stuff.

Initially I wanted to write a short story out of these observations (I've got the idea and story planned out in my head already) but when I reached home and stared at my computer, the words just could not form. I don't want to lose these thoughts, so end up recording them down in Word in the hopes that when I finally stop being an lazy ass I will be able to make good use out of them.

Speaking of the short story, I wanted to submit it for a competition but it looks like I wont have the time, so I'll probably, and forcibly, churn out a collection of egads! poetry tomorrow. Poetry has never been my strongest suit, but I really want a shot at this competition so even if I end up submitting one instead of what, 5 million that the previous winners wrote? - I will do it.

The weather's so cooling now. If only Singapore's evenings were like that everyday. The next step would be actually snowing. ;)

So I decided to join in the HP hype by posting my review for HP7 on the SMDH community. Most were polite, but I knew that there would be at least one to two douchebags who didn't agree, but forget to take their meds, and act like complete asses.

Some people take the Internet way too seriously. My replies are in the whole thread.

And I need to get started on my entry for the writing competition. Shit.

General

I've made the resolution to be more active in forums. But first, I need to delete unused account - which is a lot.

I imagine life would be a whole lot better if we could all just sit down and surf net the whole day, write a lot, draw a lot and experiment our works. And Youtube and Livejournal and Wiki and all the good things in life. The most stressful thing we have to do is to ponder over what time to sleep.

So basically, I'm sitting here. And I'm supposed to get started on my sewing and EDS, because the presentation is this Friday and I've got next to nothing done. But the only thing I'm thinking about is what the next plot for my story should be, and whether my T-shirt idea is good enough to be executed. Or when I can buy the badge-making machine. Or KC's new album.

I don't need to convince anyone I love design or writing, but sometimes I wish the course would give us an effing break.

Design and Balance

Today on the bus I started wondering why the people who draw well are often the people who design well. Not always though, but it's a generalisation. I'm not talking about how artists are able to visualise objects better - that is of course a given. It so happens a bus came and I started tracing its outline mentally. Then I came upon the conclusion that design is all about balance.

There are some designs that look good. And there are some that no matter which angle you look at, it will always seem so mediocre and bland. There are some patterns that make you wonder at its intricacy and go how the hell did anyone come up with that. Sharon told me once that patterns can be created with Maths - isn't that what it is about? Maths is about balance, algebra especially. x+1 = 2, x must be 1. Colour A + Colour B = Result C. And if you want C you cannot do without A or B. Adding in a D will only make the equation unbalanced and wrong.

Same concept for design. There are some colours that just do not go well with one another. If one were to use them they must be balanced off with something else: space, shape, gradient, patterns maybe. Removing certain ingredients from the recipe takes away the taste of the food. Adding in some things only enhances it.

Back to artists VS designers. The people who draw well are often the ones who design well. Why is this? Because artists have a subtle understanding of Maths. They feel balance without thinking about it. That's probably what 'an eye for design' is about - an eye for balance, an eye for contrast (which in itself is balance), an eye for detail... not messy jumbled detail but detail at the right places to balance off the wrong. Isn't that what intricate patterns are about? Sometimes when I'm drawing a figure it just turns out wrong. The thumb is sticking in the wrong direction. The palm shouldn't be facing upward. Adding in the correct lines changes everything - from amateur and untrained my drawing is suddenly transformed into something that has 'potential'.

Nature balances things out, I notice. Take a tree for instance. If the trunk is facing left the crown cannot be in the same direction. Not scientifically possible. The centre of gravity is off. When that happens, the root goes in the opposite direction to balance it out. By opposite I mean taking the ground level to be the mirror.

And that is the reason why most artists are better at design. Years of drawing have made them subconsciously adept at understanding balance. Some things look good with others and some just don't. Whatever goes up will definitely come down. Design, nature, life - whatever. Now I understand why there's yin and yang. So true.

Note: Okay for one, I'm not claiming to be a scientist or philosopher and I'm sure there are examples which I use that are wrong. And I care to debate about it. :) I'm not saying that ALL artists can design well, because I've seen quite a few who don't. I'm just saying that all good designers understand balance, whether consciously or sub-consciously and no matter how messy their designs, there will always be balance in the unbalanced. Like for example, exaggerated poses that still look good.

On a side note, you know you're an INFP when you type out an entire philosophical entry about design, balance and yin yang.

On a side note, I've decided that my BF should be someone who can debate with me on these thoughts, aside from being rich enough to buy me a) the 1-m teddy bear from Loony Toons b) box of Copic markers c) design magazines / books d) nice clothes e) Sakae Sushi / expensive restaurants f) air tickets to anywhere in the world... multiple times and g) a library.

And hence - and hence - and hence: Now I know what my problem with 'furpy' is. It doesn't look as balanced as I want it to.

Short fic

“Why are you here?”

He was in front of her then, hands shaking her furiously, fingers digging harshly into her shoulder blades and leaving crescent mark bruises on them that she later discovered, would take many days before they healed. Right now, however, injury was the last thing on her mind.

“I came here because I am needed!”

And then she was stumbling backwards, arms flared out in an attempt to steady herself from the sudden change in movement.

On one occasion, she had mused that one look from him could reduce even the bravest of warrior to rubble, and now has he turned the full force of gaze onto her – threatening her, taunting her, forcing her to back down – she glared back at him, eyes matching his in insurmountable fury. Her chin lifted defiantly.

An angry thud reverberated through the archway as he smashed his fist against the nearest pillar.

“Dammit Lena, you know what will happen if you come, you know what the prophecy foretold – ”

“I am beyond caring.”

He slumped against the pillar heavily, as if drained of all energy.

“Lena –” he bit out, hands fisting his hair, face, his eyes in frustration. “This is the unavoidable – you know that. No one can turn the wheels of motion once it starts spinning, not us, not the Priest, not even the Pharoah on his damn praenomen. We are the sacrifices for what will come later on – why are you being so damn difficult when there’s enough reason to justify this –”

“It is no justification when you are the only one imprisoned!”

Author's Note: Oh noes, here we have a typical story of a typical prophecised drama. And I even added in an exotic word! Praenomen! Meaning the Pharoah's throne! Embrace my intellect, folks.

(...This lame commentary totally spoils the emo-ness huh...)

Okay, what I don't understand is - why does every prophecy have to forshadow something bad? Why can't it be something good? Like the birth of The One Who Will Save Us All - oh wait - it happens in every fantasy story, just overshadowed by the Prophecy of Impending Doom, Future Doom or Doom in general. I'm so tired I can't think straight.

The Temple of the Rising [short desc]

When I was but a child, my grandfather told me the story of the Temple of the Rising. It was said that the Temple did not originally belong to Candor, a country that had so much soil it garnered the name “The Earthly Cemetery” – for ours was a land borne of blood and war. The Old Ones spoke of how the Temple rose from the ocean, that it was Water as our land was Earth, and hence the people of Candor gave it the name The Temple of the Rising – or The Rising Temple.

As a child, sometimes tiring of the games I played with Temari and hungering to rebel against my guardian, I would slip quietly away to the Temple. There I would stand, a small figure in rags, gazing in wonderment at its grandeur and majesty. If one had chanced upon the scene one might have laughed. But as strangely as things go, no one did. Hence, there was just me, and the Temple.

I did not think Water was a good name for it. Fire was surely a more appropriate title, for as much as the Temple was the sacred grounds of worship it was also the heart and backbone of the village.

Author's Note: Cannot begin to say how unsatisfied I am with this short story. My writing has seriously gotten very rusty.

One of the ideas I have about the Rising Temple - rumoured to be part of a lost continent (Atlantis, perhaps? I've always loved that story.) or is, in itself, a lost island/Temple/shrine, which rose from the sea. It is said that the people who are buried at the temple supposedly roam the place, guarding it from thieves and robbers, etc. The 2nd approach is to have the protagonist (whom I haven't thought of a name for yet) fearing the Temple instead of being fascinated with it, and decides to explore it one day.

Note the change in name of the Temple from my previous entry.

Candor: A country borne of blood and war, a sharp contrast to the holiness of the Temple (a messiah perhaps?). I like the description of 'The Earthly Cemetery' and the references to elements.