*a glimspe into my childhood*
Teacher Yang: What does everyone want to be when they grow up?
Tim: I want to be a lawyer, just like my dad!
Susan: I want to be a teacher, just like teacher Yang!
Alvin: I want to be a doctor, so I can help people!
Teacher Yang: What about you Fiona?
Fiona:...I want to be a butterfly.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
When you grow up, your heart dies.
To be honest, the first 50 minutes of the “Breakfast Club” was quite mundane. It was my friends’ blatant surprise at me not knowing the existence of the 80’s film that they demanded we watch it this afternoon. Sure, some of the dialogue was quite entertaining, especially the witty repartee that was conducted between “the school rebel” (forgot his name) and the principal.
However, when the aforementioned line was muttered, the truth in them knocked all sense of logic within me. It was true of course; the older the get, the darker the world becomes. You become a regular visitor of the underbelly of life. The cruelties, the hardships, the wars, the unbelievable disparity between the rich and poor ultimately makes your heart cold. It’s like a defence mechanism. In order to protect your heart, you freeze it, hoping and wishing for the day it’ll all be over so it can be warm and beat with love again. Urgh, I’m being hyperbolical again. My stepdad says I exaggerate things a lot, especially when I’m writing. “It’s too dramatic, Fiona, you need to be careful with your adjectives,”. He likened the process of writing to baking a cake. He said I added too much sugar.
I don’t know why I like to dramatise things. Maybe it’s the lack of drama in my life that has influenced me. My mind constantly flies with a gazillion different scenarios I want to find myself in. I guess I should be lucky I never ever find myself caught up in a huge mess. Or maybe life is much simpler than the way they show it in movies. All convoluted with a multiple different subplots happening all at once.
I don’t want to forget.
I used to keep an art diary when I was around 17. I wrote and drew down everything that fascinated me with everyday life. It was the only thing to do, to keep myself entertained. I was convinced that everything in the world had a unique story about it and it was my duty to interpret and keep a record.
It was like a game.
What kind of crazy story will Fiona come up with next?
I need to keep my imagination alive. I somehow have to feed it, nurse the fire to make sure it keeps burning. It’ll be such a shame to throw it all away.
I have in total, 6 weeks to kill on my university break. Alot of time for soul searching :)
To be honest, the first 50 minutes of the “Breakfast Club” was quite mundane. It was my friends’ blatant surprise at me not knowing the existence of the 80’s film that they demanded we watch it this afternoon. Sure, some of the dialogue was quite entertaining, especially the witty repartee that was conducted between “the school rebel” (forgot his name) and the principal.
However, when the aforementioned line was muttered, the truth in them knocked all sense of logic within me. It was true of course; the older the get, the darker the world becomes. You become a regular visitor of the underbelly of life. The cruelties, the hardships, the wars, the unbelievable disparity between the rich and poor ultimately makes your heart cold. It’s like a defence mechanism. In order to protect your heart, you freeze it, hoping and wishing for the day it’ll all be over so it can be warm and beat with love again. Urgh, I’m being hyperbolical again. My stepdad says I exaggerate things a lot, especially when I’m writing. “It’s too dramatic, Fiona, you need to be careful with your adjectives,”. He likened the process of writing to baking a cake. He said I added too much sugar.
I don’t know why I like to dramatise things. Maybe it’s the lack of drama in my life that has influenced me. My mind constantly flies with a gazillion different scenarios I want to find myself in. I guess I should be lucky I never ever find myself caught up in a huge mess. Or maybe life is much simpler than the way they show it in movies. All convoluted with a multiple different subplots happening all at once.
I don’t want to forget.
I used to keep an art diary when I was around 17. I wrote and drew down everything that fascinated me with everyday life. It was the only thing to do, to keep myself entertained. I was convinced that everything in the world had a unique story about it and it was my duty to interpret and keep a record.
It was like a game.
What kind of crazy story will Fiona come up with next?
I need to keep my imagination alive. I somehow have to feed it, nurse the fire to make sure it keeps burning. It’ll be such a shame to throw it all away.
I have in total, 6 weeks to kill on my university break. Alot of time for soul searching :)
Sunday, June 20, 2010
She took the wrong bus home the other day.
It wasn't completely an innocent mistake. She found it refreshing to see life from a different point of view. So, she decided to take a different route home.
When she was waiting at the bus stop, she stood next to a man possibly in his late 20s. He was supporting a backpack, a hoodie and wearing checked pants, you know, the type that chefs wear. But her first conception of him was that of a dishwasher. Again, this shows the plain prejudices she has engrained in her mind just by judging him from his attire.
But he could've been a top culinary chef!
Carefully, he lightly dusted icing sugar over his masterpiece. Presentation was everything to him. This could potentially be the most life-changing event for him if he did well. Everything........had to be perfect. He took a clean towel and wiped the rims of the plate, turning it slowly and wiping away any remains of dripping chocolate. He glanced at the clock, he had around 10 minutes before his creation will be deconstructed and scrutinised, down to the smallest detail. He had already readied himself for the constant roll of criticisms that is sure to come his way, "the chocolate isn't smooth enough!", "you call this a profiterole tower? It can barely stand upright!", "the custard tastes atrocious! and look! its curdled!".
He heard footsteps outside the hallway. The short staccato steps could only be made by high heels. This is it, his toughest food critic. If he could impress her, he would be able to do anything. One word from her and he'll be ready to take his gastronomic vision to the world.
“Well?” he asked, his voice slicked with nervousness and anticipation as she tried a piece of his croquembouche. Her expression was difficult to read. There was slight concentration within her eyes as she probed the morsel in her mouth with her tongue. She swallowed before taking a sip of red wine.
She smiled “it’s perfect”.
“Really?” he asked in disbelief, wringing his hands and looking uncertain.
“Oh come on Rob, of course it is!”. She kissed him and walked towards the door.
“Everything you do is…..,” she smiled and put on her coat. “I’ll wait for you outside, and wear something warm! It’s freezing”.
He stood in the living room with a warm glow. Its like the feeling you get when you’ve eaten something really sweet.
A shot of love.
Of course she highly doubted that a top chef would be taking public transport home. But still. He actually had a very lonely look about him. She could picture him tucked in bed, staring at the ceiling and night and sweetly dreaming of another existence. Maybe that is why she wrote him a soul mate. Someone he cared for so much that her opinion was all that ever mattered to him.
Chef-man got off the bus near Maroubra beach.
The bus climbed higher and for a spilt second, she felt my heart in my throat. There’s no denying it. The city definitely looks better at night, from every angle possible.
She got off the bus in a daze.
Then, it took a good 5 minutes for reality to set in.
She didn’t like the sea-salt air and it was making her cough, she was freezing her bum off because naturally its colder near the sea side, she had no idea how to get home and it was past 6, there was no one around and the panic started to set in.
Don’t worry, she got home in the end :)
It wasn't completely an innocent mistake. She found it refreshing to see life from a different point of view. So, she decided to take a different route home.
When she was waiting at the bus stop, she stood next to a man possibly in his late 20s. He was supporting a backpack, a hoodie and wearing checked pants, you know, the type that chefs wear. But her first conception of him was that of a dishwasher. Again, this shows the plain prejudices she has engrained in her mind just by judging him from his attire.
But he could've been a top culinary chef!
Carefully, he lightly dusted icing sugar over his masterpiece. Presentation was everything to him. This could potentially be the most life-changing event for him if he did well. Everything........had to be perfect. He took a clean towel and wiped the rims of the plate, turning it slowly and wiping away any remains of dripping chocolate. He glanced at the clock, he had around 10 minutes before his creation will be deconstructed and scrutinised, down to the smallest detail. He had already readied himself for the constant roll of criticisms that is sure to come his way, "the chocolate isn't smooth enough!", "you call this a profiterole tower? It can barely stand upright!", "the custard tastes atrocious! and look! its curdled!".
He heard footsteps outside the hallway. The short staccato steps could only be made by high heels. This is it, his toughest food critic. If he could impress her, he would be able to do anything. One word from her and he'll be ready to take his gastronomic vision to the world.
“Well?” he asked, his voice slicked with nervousness and anticipation as she tried a piece of his croquembouche. Her expression was difficult to read. There was slight concentration within her eyes as she probed the morsel in her mouth with her tongue. She swallowed before taking a sip of red wine.
She smiled “it’s perfect”.
“Really?” he asked in disbelief, wringing his hands and looking uncertain.
“Oh come on Rob, of course it is!”. She kissed him and walked towards the door.
“Everything you do is…..,” she smiled and put on her coat. “I’ll wait for you outside, and wear something warm! It’s freezing”.
He stood in the living room with a warm glow. Its like the feeling you get when you’ve eaten something really sweet.
A shot of love.
Of course she highly doubted that a top chef would be taking public transport home. But still. He actually had a very lonely look about him. She could picture him tucked in bed, staring at the ceiling and night and sweetly dreaming of another existence. Maybe that is why she wrote him a soul mate. Someone he cared for so much that her opinion was all that ever mattered to him.
Chef-man got off the bus near Maroubra beach.
The bus climbed higher and for a spilt second, she felt my heart in my throat. There’s no denying it. The city definitely looks better at night, from every angle possible.
She got off the bus in a daze.
Then, it took a good 5 minutes for reality to set in.
She didn’t like the sea-salt air and it was making her cough, she was freezing her bum off because naturally its colder near the sea side, she had no idea how to get home and it was past 6, there was no one around and the panic started to set in.
Don’t worry, she got home in the end :)
Friday, June 11, 2010
It's going to be a long post
She's in a state of transition.
Shes unable to pick between what she knows best and what she ought to do for survival. She's betraying a part of herself. Everything around her is screaming, warning her not to let it all go.
When she walks down the street, the trees whisper amongst themselves, they send leaves spinning at her. "Each hit for every second she's throwing it all away". Passer-bys brush past her, she catches their disapproving looks, their smug faces "ha, we got another one!". The little boy on his red shining biycle stops to pity her "What would mummy say?".
The truth is. Ever since she was really young, she has taken with anything that was fragile and beautiful. And for her, the first thing she fell in love with was music. She displayed the most enthusiasm in music class during kindergarden. She would come home, full to the brim with happiness, dump her bag on the floor before prancing around the room singing about blackbird being baked in pies. Sounds made her whole.
Her mother could see very early on, that she would be musicial, or creative or artsy, or all three. Music was her lifeline. She hated getting sore throats, because that meant she could not sing. The first time she had my flute serviced, she was upset and irritated all week. Shr couldn't handle being deprived of the ability to make music. It made her sane.
When she turned 13, she went through the usual teenage phrase of doubt and insecurity. That year was documented quite accurately in a notebook she kept which was littered with amateurish poetry. Later on, she started putting her poems to music. She wrote her first song at 14. It wasn't profound or anything. Just some little ditty about being disappointed with life and the cruelties it brings.
The senior years of highschool saw her work broaden from songs about "finding herself" to songs about actual events. She remembered comforting a classmate one day who, hithero she had not been able to acquaint herself with as fully as she would have liked. But she viewed her friend as someone with a lovely heart and nice disposition. She tried to cheer her friend up by saying what a lovely person she is. She would never forget the anger on her companion's face when she shook her head and muttered "I'm not a good person, you don't know the things I have done". She went home that afternoon, disturbed by her friend's words but still upholding the belief that good can be found in everyone. Almost instantly a song came out. She realised that composing from experiences, writing and examing feelings and the human condition seemed the best way to song write.
During her parents' divorce where she could have very easily succumbed to self-destruction. She turned to music. She spent every chance she had in the practice music rooms, playing to her heart's content. With every note she hit, she forced out every ounce of pain, confusion, fear and doubt inside of her. When life was chaotic, when she felt out of control, when she felt life was testing her, music guided her through all the obstacles, through every barrier and every challenge.
When she plays music, she feels complete and this surge of energy feels the air, like electricity.
Everything disappears. The faces of her audience dissolve into darkness. She becomes the anti-thesis of gravity. The music fills every part of her body, like honey. It
runs parallel with the blood in her veins, it overtakes every logical inkling in her mind, untill everything she feels, everything she breathes, everything she sees, is music.
Just her and music.
So raw and pure. It was easy to express her emotions this way. There was no need of words or talking or bitching, it felt so easy, so uncomplicated, she wondered why not everyone in the world communicated this way. It felt almost natural. That this was the way to do things.
She thought initially, she would only experience this with music but last year when started dancing, she felt the same serene feeling, of floating on air. Her body moved easily to music, she immediately felt at home. This was territory that she's been in before.
The thought of dedicating her whole life to music has been through her mind so many times, she can hardly count. The desire to have people listen to her music, to appreciate the whole creative process, of producing melodies and lyrics, was beyond her wildest dreams.
In the past few years, she's drawn out elaborate plans of how she would conquer the world with her music, but most, of them would be left unfinished and untouched, laid
to rest in the crevices of her mind.
She wished she was braver, that she would be more determined to do something that she felt like she was destined to do.
But what's destiny anyway? Is it really in the stars? Is someone holding a book of her life, safe inside their personal library, somewhere far away? Has everything been pre-planned and thought out?
Even if the answers to these questions are "yes", she would never know.
This is why she'll have to make do herself.
But even if she doesn't do anything fancy with her music in the future. One thing is for sure.
Music will always stay with her. Because she knows, that silenced, will be the death of her.
Shes unable to pick between what she knows best and what she ought to do for survival. She's betraying a part of herself. Everything around her is screaming, warning her not to let it all go.
When she walks down the street, the trees whisper amongst themselves, they send leaves spinning at her. "Each hit for every second she's throwing it all away". Passer-bys brush past her, she catches their disapproving looks, their smug faces "ha, we got another one!". The little boy on his red shining biycle stops to pity her "What would mummy say?".
The truth is. Ever since she was really young, she has taken with anything that was fragile and beautiful. And for her, the first thing she fell in love with was music. She displayed the most enthusiasm in music class during kindergarden. She would come home, full to the brim with happiness, dump her bag on the floor before prancing around the room singing about blackbird being baked in pies. Sounds made her whole.
Her mother could see very early on, that she would be musicial, or creative or artsy, or all three. Music was her lifeline. She hated getting sore throats, because that meant she could not sing. The first time she had my flute serviced, she was upset and irritated all week. Shr couldn't handle being deprived of the ability to make music. It made her sane.
When she turned 13, she went through the usual teenage phrase of doubt and insecurity. That year was documented quite accurately in a notebook she kept which was littered with amateurish poetry. Later on, she started putting her poems to music. She wrote her first song at 14. It wasn't profound or anything. Just some little ditty about being disappointed with life and the cruelties it brings.
The senior years of highschool saw her work broaden from songs about "finding herself" to songs about actual events. She remembered comforting a classmate one day who, hithero she had not been able to acquaint herself with as fully as she would have liked. But she viewed her friend as someone with a lovely heart and nice disposition. She tried to cheer her friend up by saying what a lovely person she is. She would never forget the anger on her companion's face when she shook her head and muttered "I'm not a good person, you don't know the things I have done". She went home that afternoon, disturbed by her friend's words but still upholding the belief that good can be found in everyone. Almost instantly a song came out. She realised that composing from experiences, writing and examing feelings and the human condition seemed the best way to song write.
During her parents' divorce where she could have very easily succumbed to self-destruction. She turned to music. She spent every chance she had in the practice music rooms, playing to her heart's content. With every note she hit, she forced out every ounce of pain, confusion, fear and doubt inside of her. When life was chaotic, when she felt out of control, when she felt life was testing her, music guided her through all the obstacles, through every barrier and every challenge.
When she plays music, she feels complete and this surge of energy feels the air, like electricity.
Everything disappears. The faces of her audience dissolve into darkness. She becomes the anti-thesis of gravity. The music fills every part of her body, like honey. It
runs parallel with the blood in her veins, it overtakes every logical inkling in her mind, untill everything she feels, everything she breathes, everything she sees, is music.
Just her and music.
So raw and pure. It was easy to express her emotions this way. There was no need of words or talking or bitching, it felt so easy, so uncomplicated, she wondered why not everyone in the world communicated this way. It felt almost natural. That this was the way to do things.
She thought initially, she would only experience this with music but last year when started dancing, she felt the same serene feeling, of floating on air. Her body moved easily to music, she immediately felt at home. This was territory that she's been in before.
The thought of dedicating her whole life to music has been through her mind so many times, she can hardly count. The desire to have people listen to her music, to appreciate the whole creative process, of producing melodies and lyrics, was beyond her wildest dreams.
In the past few years, she's drawn out elaborate plans of how she would conquer the world with her music, but most, of them would be left unfinished and untouched, laid
to rest in the crevices of her mind.
She wished she was braver, that she would be more determined to do something that she felt like she was destined to do.
But what's destiny anyway? Is it really in the stars? Is someone holding a book of her life, safe inside their personal library, somewhere far away? Has everything been pre-planned and thought out?
Even if the answers to these questions are "yes", she would never know.
This is why she'll have to make do herself.
But even if she doesn't do anything fancy with her music in the future. One thing is for sure.
Music will always stay with her. Because she knows, that silenced, will be the death of her.
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