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INFORMATION
Someone speaks softly through the horror and pain:
'Love has gone, but it could come again.'
Spring arrives quietly, warming her skin
Her heart, now red, is beating again
- Hannah Fury, 'Someone Speaks Softly'
Not a writer but a professional student. Instead I can be the jaded passer-by that caught a glimpse of a fling
or a fatal mistake, a murder in the back alley, and I keep it all to myself so I don't lose any of it during the spilling from heart to paper on an unimaginary dark night. I write opinions, facts, emotions and other satisfied sentences that are the offspring of my imagination and external influences. And I do not need your validation to live, for the record.
CONTACT
FS/augustkills
FP/thepapercult
LJ/snipethedoctor
WP/electricsleeves
CREDITS
Icon: DW/tablesaw
Layout: tuesdaynight
Inspiration: DayBefore!Misery
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Fifth-grade sleuthing ftw.
Written on: Friday, January 15, 2010
Time: 9:54 PM
This, and two other books: The Hound of the Baskervilles and The Valley of Fear. I am approximately into a third of A Study in Scarlet, the book remains in a paper bag when unused and carefully handled when otherwise but already there are noticable creases in the spine, an inevitable occurrence from the leisurely activity known most commonly as reading. I would be delighted if someone presented me with an iRiver ebook-reader, but it would be so unnatural, for I'd rather have the familiar sound of rustling pages, the smell of inks and paper that come coupled with this activity, and not the light emanating from the screen and scrolling of pages my head is unaccustomed with. I limit these to unpublished works (a la fanfiction or online prose) for I think the most noteworthy, memorable moments come from flipping and reading from a tangible page.
Today was made for old, remembered and cherish novels, books with familiar names but their content is beyond my memory. Perhaps I have not read them at all. This is true for the Sherlock Holmes series; though with a regretful note I remember The Three Investigators: The Mystery of the Stuttering Parrot whereby it had been part of a clue yet, being only a child of six at that time, couldn't see the merits of getting to know a new series. Today marked a new chapter of book-reading history, wherein I found what has drawn me to the detective novel again after all these years of chasing after serial killer stories and finding little to entertain myself with. The essence of a detective story I believe lies in its astute observations and cutting wit, which A Study in Scarlet has exemplified beautifully. I cannot go on without noting the writing style, which is obviously old as compared to our modern crime thrillers (written in 'casual' English, if I may use it as such, for as it describes and carries the plot twists and creases through little poetic beauty can be found in itself). Scarlet, however, retains that contemplative pause, that flourish at the side to allow language to display itself as an art form rather than simply a means of communication and conveyance, while keeping its course and going further still into the heart of the mystery. Sherlock Holmes is, of course, enigmatic, quick-witted, astoundingly observant and interesting, to which the only regret being that this isn't a biography but rather a novel. The human race would be honoured to have such a talented man.
I have visited the exhibition for The Last Meal, or so I believe it is called. (I have a tendency to ignore signboards.) Frankly I don't know what to make of it, except to label it as rather interesting art. You see, I never had an eye for art, although it would be nice to have one.
 How does it feel to die empty?Labels: books
The incredible time machine with no return.
Time: 10:30 AM
I have unfinished business, and though I'm reluctant to head to the streets again I know I must.
- Present for a friend
- Use up Harris vouchers
- Borders 30% voucher
Orchard can be rather conjested in the afternoons, and the searing heat just worsens the mood, but with determination I will brave the crowds and the sunlight for meagre paperbacks to call my own. It's a pity Harris and Borders have such limited collections, and already I doubt they have in stock the books I'm desperately searching for, but for armchair travels and a feeble glimmer of hope I will try.
Mother worries that I will not have any friends when I head off to JC. What she fails to comprehend is my very own theory that I might be too occupied with work to socialise, and that makes me happy, and standing around in the crowd without an idea whether to speak first or not is awkward and I'd rather be in the company of papers and pens, which do not reply, nor do they initiate a conversation with a lame pick-up line and expect you to carry on. But if (and the proverbial IF) time permits me to, or the curriculum allows for, or university entry requirements speak of it, then I would take the plunge into the sea of faces and probably pick out someone who will suit my personality, or rather someone whom I do not cause friction with, if I do not drown first.
Terribly excited, yet frightened of what is to come next. I have chosen, and now comes the wait, and then the inevitable release of posting results. It's this or nothing.
I hope it's either Raffles, ACJC or National. Dear Lord, please.Labels: books, school
Say they won't disappoint me.
Written on: Monday, January 11, 2010
Time: 9:48 AM
It's the day. Today. I'm expecting a sunny afternoon, and I'm taking it light in case I disappoint myself. I do not want to do this, but who does one listen to when a voice says 'it would be fine' and another whispers 'do you think so'? Overjoyed or crushed I'll still be making my way to the Central Library for Grimm's Last Fairytale, which would be either a comfort or a reward.
I have been spinning yarn since 8am, and a pitiful 900+ words were the only thing I could coax out of my mind. It does not take into account the two hours I have spent lying in bed thinking about shaping it into form and its overall feel. The words do not come as naturally as before and this is only part of the difficulty. Some words I have forgotten, but there have been space for new ones.
Some like it deviant.Labels: books, school, writer's rambles
Stresses and books.
Written on: Friday, January 8, 2010
Time: 11:27 PM
Dated: 10 July 2009
No, I am not stressed. Rather, I am...
I have been looking for words to replace that lately. Somehow I feel that 'stressed' isn't the right word to use in the case of myself. That word conjures up a protagonist at her wits' end, and nothing could help her out of her messes. Her heart is knotted into itself like a ball of yarn gone awry that someone had tried unsuccessfully to put it back together. the only possible actions she could take would simply worsen her dismal plight, hence she has decided on the least harmful: sitting at her desk, moping with her face in her hands.
Which is, as she knows, ineffective anyway.
But, as I had reasoned to myself countless times, I am not a picture of dull despair. Not always, for I have my own moments when I wished I was behind closed doors and alone, but not to the extend where I would shriek, call my friends up, shriek some more on the phone and shatter their brief moment of peace. Even so, surprisingly, this description even seems understated when compared to some others. I wouldn't even scream.
My stress (all of a sudden the keenness to spill it out on the pavement is overwhelming) reflected in my view, with the uncomprehended thoughts chained to it cut away, is plainly fear. Trepidation of a major examination inching ever nearer and myself, jammed into a tight corner and watching its advance helplessly. It's like being in a ship with a threatening kraken under the waters, or a lamb hiding in the bush in the path of a ravenous lion, hoping with every beat of its tiny heart that it wouldn't be spotted and its heart'll lie in shreds. How many masks can this often underestimated emotion wear? At times she seems so harmless, but when she hears your shields drop she'll come at you, all spindly fingers and bloodlust.
Especially today. I tried assuring myself that the Additional Math mock exam is nothing but just a serious bit of practice, but as much as I looked as the epitome of calmness, I. Just. Wasn't. I could be fooling myself for all I--No, I think I was. Sometimes I think it boils down to not how I feel, but how convinced I am.
I still dislike people who scream for the slightest things. I know I'm susceptible to that, but as much as I can help it, the battle rages on the inside of the closet doors. What is wrong with keeping your anxiety away from crowds? Let it through the back door; to a carnival, a rifle ranch, or out on the streets where it gleefully feeds on imaginary, unsuspecting souls. Rather than making my windows rattle.
Being nice is nice, but after a while, my facial muscles ache. Still, I will try, if you say it suits me.
On a brighter note, I am looking forward to reading The Chemistry of Death this evening as it elevates stress. My first proper reading session! since I snatched reading time from between precious subject periods yesterday just to complete Let The Right One In as it was already overdue. Thoughts? Besides the fact the that author's name still escapes me, and the translator's name isn't prominently featured on the cover, I like the dreamy-yet-factual tones of the whole book. Even when the characters are angered, the pure rage doesn't seep through the pages, instead I felt it was akin to watching the whole scene from behind glass. Its potrayal is beautifully intense, yet it doesn't run away from the snow-heavy, poetic, slightly-somber atmosphere of Stockholm. Scenes of Eli and Oskar together throughout the book are beautifully echoed by the strains of Hannah Fury's The Vampire Waltz I played in the background. All in all, it's an unforgettable comparable classic romance that I actually like.Labels: books, mood:busy, music, school
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Fifth-grade sleuthing ftw.
Written on: Friday, January 15, 2010
Time: 9:54 PM
This, and two other books: The Hound of the Baskervilles and The Valley of Fear. I am approximately into a third of A Study in Scarlet, the book remains in a paper bag when unused and carefully handled when otherwise but already there are noticable creases in the spine, an inevitable occurrence from the leisurely activity known most commonly as reading. I would be delighted if someone presented me with an iRiver ebook-reader, but it would be so unnatural, for I'd rather have the familiar sound of rustling pages, the smell of inks and paper that come coupled with this activity, and not the light emanating from the screen and scrolling of pages my head is unaccustomed with. I limit these to unpublished works (a la fanfiction or online prose) for I think the most noteworthy, memorable moments come from flipping and reading from a tangible page.
Today was made for old, remembered and cherish novels, books with familiar names but their content is beyond my memory. Perhaps I have not read them at all. This is true for the Sherlock Holmes series; though with a regretful note I remember The Three Investigators: The Mystery of the Stuttering Parrot whereby it had been part of a clue yet, being only a child of six at that time, couldn't see the merits of getting to know a new series. Today marked a new chapter of book-reading history, wherein I found what has drawn me to the detective novel again after all these years of chasing after serial killer stories and finding little to entertain myself with. The essence of a detective story I believe lies in its astute observations and cutting wit, which A Study in Scarlet has exemplified beautifully. I cannot go on without noting the writing style, which is obviously old as compared to our modern crime thrillers (written in 'casual' English, if I may use it as such, for as it describes and carries the plot twists and creases through little poetic beauty can be found in itself). Scarlet, however, retains that contemplative pause, that flourish at the side to allow language to display itself as an art form rather than simply a means of communication and conveyance, while keeping its course and going further still into the heart of the mystery. Sherlock Holmes is, of course, enigmatic, quick-witted, astoundingly observant and interesting, to which the only regret being that this isn't a biography but rather a novel. The human race would be honoured to have such a talented man.
I have visited the exhibition for The Last Meal, or so I believe it is called. (I have a tendency to ignore signboards.) Frankly I don't know what to make of it, except to label it as rather interesting art. You see, I never had an eye for art, although it would be nice to have one.
How does it feel to die empty?Labels: books
The incredible time machine with no return.
Time: 10:30 AM
I have unfinished business, and though I'm reluctant to head to the streets again I know I must.
- Present for a friend
- Use up Harris vouchers
- Borders 30% voucher
Orchard can be rather conjested in the afternoons, and the searing heat just worsens the mood, but with determination I will brave the crowds and the sunlight for meagre paperbacks to call my own. It's a pity Harris and Borders have such limited collections, and already I doubt they have in stock the books I'm desperately searching for, but for armchair travels and a feeble glimmer of hope I will try.
Mother worries that I will not have any friends when I head off to JC. What she fails to comprehend is my very own theory that I might be too occupied with work to socialise, and that makes me happy, and standing around in the crowd without an idea whether to speak first or not is awkward and I'd rather be in the company of papers and pens, which do not reply, nor do they initiate a conversation with a lame pick-up line and expect you to carry on. But if (and the proverbial IF) time permits me to, or the curriculum allows for, or university entry requirements speak of it, then I would take the plunge into the sea of faces and probably pick out someone who will suit my personality, or rather someone whom I do not cause friction with, if I do not drown first.
Terribly excited, yet frightened of what is to come next. I have chosen, and now comes the wait, and then the inevitable release of posting results. It's this or nothing.
I hope it's either Raffles, ACJC or National. Dear Lord, please.Labels: books, school
Say they won't disappoint me.
Written on: Monday, January 11, 2010
Time: 9:48 AM
It's the day. Today. I'm expecting a sunny afternoon, and I'm taking it light in case I disappoint myself. I do not want to do this, but who does one listen to when a voice says 'it would be fine' and another whispers 'do you think so'? Overjoyed or crushed I'll still be making my way to the Central Library for Grimm's Last Fairytale, which would be either a comfort or a reward.
I have been spinning yarn since 8am, and a pitiful 900+ words were the only thing I could coax out of my mind. It does not take into account the two hours I have spent lying in bed thinking about shaping it into form and its overall feel. The words do not come as naturally as before and this is only part of the difficulty. Some words I have forgotten, but there have been space for new ones.
Some like it deviant.Labels: books, school, writer's rambles
Stresses and books.
Written on: Friday, January 8, 2010
Time: 11:27 PM
Dated: 10 July 2009
No, I am not stressed. Rather, I am...
I have been looking for words to replace that lately. Somehow I feel that 'stressed' isn't the right word to use in the case of myself. That word conjures up a protagonist at her wits' end, and nothing could help her out of her messes. Her heart is knotted into itself like a ball of yarn gone awry that someone had tried unsuccessfully to put it back together. the only possible actions she could take would simply worsen her dismal plight, hence she has decided on the least harmful: sitting at her desk, moping with her face in her hands.
Which is, as she knows, ineffective anyway.
But, as I had reasoned to myself countless times, I am not a picture of dull despair. Not always, for I have my own moments when I wished I was behind closed doors and alone, but not to the extend where I would shriek, call my friends up, shriek some more on the phone and shatter their brief moment of peace. Even so, surprisingly, this description even seems understated when compared to some others. I wouldn't even scream.
My stress (all of a sudden the keenness to spill it out on the pavement is overwhelming) reflected in my view, with the uncomprehended thoughts chained to it cut away, is plainly fear. Trepidation of a major examination inching ever nearer and myself, jammed into a tight corner and watching its advance helplessly. It's like being in a ship with a threatening kraken under the waters, or a lamb hiding in the bush in the path of a ravenous lion, hoping with every beat of its tiny heart that it wouldn't be spotted and its heart'll lie in shreds. How many masks can this often underestimated emotion wear? At times she seems so harmless, but when she hears your shields drop she'll come at you, all spindly fingers and bloodlust.
Especially today. I tried assuring myself that the Additional Math mock exam is nothing but just a serious bit of practice, but as much as I looked as the epitome of calmness, I. Just. Wasn't. I could be fooling myself for all I--No, I think I was. Sometimes I think it boils down to not how I feel, but how convinced I am.
I still dislike people who scream for the slightest things. I know I'm susceptible to that, but as much as I can help it, the battle rages on the inside of the closet doors. What is wrong with keeping your anxiety away from crowds? Let it through the back door; to a carnival, a rifle ranch, or out on the streets where it gleefully feeds on imaginary, unsuspecting souls. Rather than making my windows rattle.
Being nice is nice, but after a while, my facial muscles ache. Still, I will try, if you say it suits me.
On a brighter note, I am looking forward to reading The Chemistry of Death this evening as it elevates stress. My first proper reading session! since I snatched reading time from between precious subject periods yesterday just to complete Let The Right One In as it was already overdue. Thoughts? Besides the fact the that author's name still escapes me, and the translator's name isn't prominently featured on the cover, I like the dreamy-yet-factual tones of the whole book. Even when the characters are angered, the pure rage doesn't seep through the pages, instead I felt it was akin to watching the whole scene from behind glass. Its potrayal is beautifully intense, yet it doesn't run away from the snow-heavy, poetic, slightly-somber atmosphere of Stockholm. Scenes of Eli and Oskar together throughout the book are beautifully echoed by the strains of Hannah Fury's The Vampire Waltz I played in the background. All in all, it's an unforgettable comparable classic romance that I actually like.Labels: books, mood:busy, music, school
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ABOUT ME
Charmaine/Emmy: FCPS, RSS, ___. Satire buff. Anglophile, pedagogue, nefarious grammarian-in-training and hedonistic pedant. Dreams of a pathologist office smelling of soap, disinfectant and disease. (Who forgets autopsies?) I'm a student and satisfied with it, and I'm not eligible to be a writer. Writers are sensitive, creative and they think out of the box but I'm more of a structured person. Then again everyone writes so writers are an exclusive category for published geniuses that do not include me. I like the glories of academia, medicine, reading books, dreaming and writing. I'm that sort of person who would rather party than study, whom one would make happier giving a medical journal/national geographic mag issue than, say, a fashion magazine. (I do read fashion mags when they come to me, but they aren't a necessity.) I'm boring/intriguing like that.
I am a step to University at the moment and I'm treading carefully in case I slip. I'm uncertain if I'll ever find a husband but that doesn't bother me much. This blog collects all my satisfactory writings.
Notes on writings
I don't usually curse, if at all, but at times for a piece of writing to be plausible certain undesirable elements have to be inserted to add reality to it. We all have seen our share of crude characters and for this, it would just be me writing about one. It's a little like writing about lust; written about, divulged, but never encouraged. To put this plainly: if it carries to reality, it is wrong. But since it isn't
technically reality, in my perspective it isn't.
I support pairings and I understand the norm do not. However I see no necessity to apologise for my head.
'You can't cut my heart into sections'
More books, more shelves.
Christianity, which in my perspective hinges less on modern-day hocus-pocus than the immutable truth.
My Chemical Romance.
Pathology.
German tank models.
Sherlock Holmes & Dr. Watson.
Vienna Teng.
Heath Ledger.
The Third Reich.
Bubble Tea.
Wishlist:
National/Victoria JC
Cambridge University
MCR album (2010)
A spiral-bound, shorthand notebook
Grimm's Last Fairytale (Haydn Middleton)
The Asylum For Wayward Victorian Girls (Emilie Autumn)
Young Adolf (Beryl Bainbridge)
Suspended Animation: Six Essays on the Preservation of Bodily Parts (F. Gonzalez-Crussi)
A Not Entirely Benign Procedure: Four Years As A Medical Student (Perri Klass)
Fry and Laurie 4 (Stephen Fry)
Mein Kampf (Adolf Hitler)
Emilie Autumn's The Opheliac Companion CD
Hannah Fury's The Thing That Feels CD
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NETWORK
I'm not too fond of alphebetical ordering.
Watson's Woes
Huddy Daily
SCHOOL:
Pearly
Ming Xuan
Cherie
RS choir
Marilyn
Mdm Haslinda
Keen Hoe
Arini
Sherilyn
Peishwen
Jasmine
Cheryl
Si Ying
Wei Loke
Liting
Sarah
Shi Mei
Michelle
Rui Xian
sadlydotcom
Derrick
Joey
Cynthia
June
James
Wendy
Vinus
Shi Yun
Yi Hui
COMRADES:
Jacy
JCOC:
Victoria
Canida
Sean
Medalene
Kareen
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ARCHIVE
January 2010
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How does it feel to die empty?