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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 I limit these to unpublished works (a la fanfiction or online prose) for I think the most noteworthy, memorable moments come from flipping and reading from a tangible page.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
Yet another brief bout of euphoria.
Written on: Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Time: 10:05 PM
There is nothing quite as invigorating, yet as inwardly-damaging as praise. It reaffirms one's achievements and approval as it bathes one in another fleeting moment of glory, but like a double-edged sword with a less noticable, more lethal side it cuts away all motivations of progress as one remains in limbo, forever dwelling on the glittering past and his refusal of improvement never comes to him though he commits it again and again. One fills his mind with jewels and past trophies as he empties out the brain matter to make space for more bygone glories. It is a stagnation, and then a deterioration marks the end of his self-besotted heart.
It is a pity.
Somehow the thought occurs to me that it is strange how we go from one stress to another: from waiting to results release and then the burden of choosing from such abundant choices. I cannot help but ask: is TWELVE choices necessary? I would be satisfied with half the number, and if it indeed had been, I would have happily put down my pen a day ago, instead I find myself leaning over a particularly grubby piece of notepaper (with a coffee stain), moaning over subject combinations, schools with available said combinations, and worrying about ideal ones that do not. It is depressing, with my mother's silence pressing onto my heart from one side and my (despised) indecisiveness on the other. For a moment I don't know what I should do. I have no intention of desiring she should know before I've come to a sound conclusion, as she usually publishes my thoughts without permission and these thoughts are practically dead and hence I cannot speak for myself. I might need help but I do not want help. Maybe I should burn everything and settle down for a Saw marathon instead.
There isn't an Entry Requirements For Medicine in University that I can lay my hands on.
Maybe I'm insane for even harbouring the thought of taking 3 sciences again in Junior College, but the main problem remains: Biology is essential, Chemistry even more so, and Physics is an object of interest which I find hard to let go of. Physics is like an old flame or a song in my head I cannot forget/leave alone, a torn page of a book so intriguing I cannot help but crave it as a whole.
National JC's Open House had an interesting art exhibition going on, featuring a series of macabre drawings aptly titled 'Monsters', which reminded me of supersheep's fine artwork. I thought they were beautifully detailed and enchanting.
People from church read my blog. I cannot get over how surprised and secretly pleased I am. But, thanks.
Written on: Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Time: 12:22 AM
It is like a wound that never closes.
Deviant.
Written on: Monday, January 11, 2010
Time: 6:56 PM
I did not cry today. These were the only words going through my head as I held the results slip where I sat in the hall, wondering how strange it must seem to the overly-emotional. Although I had an admirable 8 marks to my name, and I made the honorary mentions list on the presentation slide, I never smiled or shed a tear. I tried to, but the grins always came out incongruous, and even my hurried 'thank you' to the Principal as I stood on stage to claim my results slip from here seemed out of place; everything unorchestrated is wrong. I thought I should enjoy myself, so I stopped trying. It was as if my emotions have been bottled up, like they would have been savoured better when I would uncork the bottle known better as my heart alone in my room tonight.
But do not get me wrong as the others do; I am ecstatic, beyond happiness, for no words alone can describe anything I've felt within in the past four hours. I have plans, possibilities, and it's hard to focus on anything when I'm still feeling thunderstruck and numbed. This is supposed to be a new year with new beginnings, but my room is still messy with last year's books and papers and disjointed sentences.
THIS HAS NOT BEEN A TRAGEDY. THE LORD BE PRAISED.
I prayed last night.
It makes me feel alive; after the monotony of holiday fun it's only dutiful to be back to serious business. I will visit JC open houses, watch a few movies and exit the theatres feeling happier than I have ever been. Sherlock Holmes tomorrow; my father knows not how to spell it. A pity, really.
I'm trying to write more, this is notedly one of my new year resolutions and I plan to keep it till December. There is an interesting book on generating philosophical thought at the bookstore: originally meant for the General Paper but I think short essays would make a wholesome read on half an hour journeys.
Went to the library too: it feels almost like a home one returns to after wandering in some dense wilderness. The Central Library divides its Fiction section into Thrillers, Romances and General Books and I forgot that completely before looking for my book in the wrong section. Fortunately I spotted the notice just in time or else I would've walked out disappointed for coming such a long way for it. Sometimes I arrive at a shelf just as another is browsing there and most of the time I'm patient enough to wait. However I found it so annoying when I'm wait conspicuously beside a young woman and she hovers there uncertainly, biding her time and hogging the space in front of the shelf. She finally leaves emptyhanded while I worry about getting home by 5pm.
On some days I find it increasingly hard to separate fiction and reality, when both seem to blend into each other, especially when I concentrate too hard.Labels: school
Say they won't disappoint me.
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
Results.
Written on: Saturday, January 9, 2010
Time: 12:11 AM
Monday might be a tragedy, the culmination of my stewed hopes and dreams may simply fall flat on its first flight. The nervous, flighty chick might plummet to the ground in mid-air to its bloody end. I say 'its' as a dead foreign animal is no longer an animal as it's a dead one. It's no longer a loved, warm snuggly creature; it is but a thing.
I'm overcome with anxiety like the rest. Don't you dare lie as you are too, despite that comforting ray of overconfident sunshine you exude. That is not you. It was never you. No matter how intelligent one might be, nervousness permeates all into the core of your being. It's all part of the genetic code explaining why you're human, bundled together like a special package with the tendency to tell the world aloud how you feel, what you did, who you loved, who you didn't anymore. Like they really care if you had slightly-burnt toast for breakfast.
Anxiety makes me peevish, and I realise that easily enough. Maybe on Tuesday when I'm done mourning for the lost hopes I'll feel better.Labels: 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
Yet another brief bout of euphoria.
Written on: Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Time: 10:05 PM
There is nothing quite as invigorating, yet as inwardly-damaging as praise. It reaffirms one's achievements and approval as it bathes one in another fleeting moment of glory, but like a double-edged sword with a less noticable, more lethal side it cuts away all motivations of progress as one remains in limbo, forever dwelling on the glittering past and his refusal of improvement never comes to him though he commits it again and again. One fills his mind with jewels and past trophies as he empties out the brain matter to make space for more bygone glories. It is a stagnation, and then a deterioration marks the end of his self-besotted heart.
It is a pity.
Somehow the thought occurs to me that it is strange how we go from one stress to another: from waiting to results release and then the burden of choosing from such abundant choices. I cannot help but ask: is TWELVE choices necessary? I would be satisfied with half the number, and if it indeed had been, I would have happily put down my pen a day ago, instead I find myself leaning over a particularly grubby piece of notepaper (with a coffee stain), moaning over subject combinations, schools with available said combinations, and worrying about ideal ones that do not. It is depressing, with my mother's silence pressing onto my heart from one side and my (despised) indecisiveness on the other. For a moment I don't know what I should do. I have no intention of desiring she should know before I've come to a sound conclusion, as she usually publishes my thoughts without permission and these thoughts are practically dead and hence I cannot speak for myself. I might need help but I do not want help. Maybe I should burn everything and settle down for a Saw marathon instead.
There isn't an Entry Requirements For Medicine in University that I can lay my hands on.
Maybe I'm insane for even harbouring the thought of taking 3 sciences again in Junior College, but the main problem remains: Biology is essential, Chemistry even more so, and Physics is an object of interest which I find hard to let go of. Physics is like an old flame or a song in my head I cannot forget/leave alone, a torn page of a book so intriguing I cannot help but crave it as a whole.
National JC's Open House had an interesting art exhibition going on, featuring a series of macabre drawings aptly titled 'Monsters', which reminded me of supersheep's fine artwork. I thought they were beautifully detailed and enchanting.
People from church read my blog. I cannot get over how surprised and secretly pleased I am. But, thanks.
Written on: Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Time: 12:22 AM
It is like a wound that never closes.
Deviant.
Written on: Monday, January 11, 2010
Time: 6:56 PM
I did not cry today. These were the only words going through my head as I held the results slip where I sat in the hall, wondering how strange it must seem to the overly-emotional. Although I had an admirable 8 marks to my name, and I made the honorary mentions list on the presentation slide, I never smiled or shed a tear. I tried to, but the grins always came out incongruous, and even my hurried 'thank you' to the Principal as I stood on stage to claim my results slip from here seemed out of place; everything unorchestrated is wrong. I thought I should enjoy myself, so I stopped trying. It was as if my emotions have been bottled up, like they would have been savoured better when I would uncork the bottle known better as my heart alone in my room tonight.
But do not get me wrong as the others do; I am ecstatic, beyond happiness, for no words alone can describe anything I've felt within in the past four hours. I have plans, possibilities, and it's hard to focus on anything when I'm still feeling thunderstruck and numbed. This is supposed to be a new year with new beginnings, but my room is still messy with last year's books and papers and disjointed sentences.
THIS HAS NOT BEEN A TRAGEDY. THE LORD BE PRAISED.
I prayed last night.
It makes me feel alive; after the monotony of holiday fun it's only dutiful to be back to serious business. I will visit JC open houses, watch a few movies and exit the theatres feeling happier than I have ever been. Sherlock Holmes tomorrow; my father knows not how to spell it. A pity, really.
I'm trying to write more, this is notedly one of my new year resolutions and I plan to keep it till December. There is an interesting book on generating philosophical thought at the bookstore: originally meant for the General Paper but I think short essays would make a wholesome read on half an hour journeys.
Went to the library too: it feels almost like a home one returns to after wandering in some dense wilderness. The Central Library divides its Fiction section into Thrillers, Romances and General Books and I forgot that completely before looking for my book in the wrong section. Fortunately I spotted the notice just in time or else I would've walked out disappointed for coming such a long way for it. Sometimes I arrive at a shelf just as another is browsing there and most of the time I'm patient enough to wait. However I found it so annoying when I'm wait conspicuously beside a young woman and she hovers there uncertainly, biding her time and hogging the space in front of the shelf. She finally leaves emptyhanded while I worry about getting home by 5pm.
On some days I find it increasingly hard to separate fiction and reality, when both seem to blend into each other, especially when I concentrate too hard.Labels: school
Say they won't disappoint me.
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
Results.
Written on: Saturday, January 9, 2010
Time: 12:11 AM
Monday might be a tragedy, the culmination of my stewed hopes and dreams may simply fall flat on its first flight. The nervous, flighty chick might plummet to the ground in mid-air to its bloody end. I say 'its' as a dead foreign animal is no longer an animal as it's a dead one. It's no longer a loved, warm snuggly creature; it is but a thing.
I'm overcome with anxiety like the rest. Don't you dare lie as you are too, despite that comforting ray of overconfident sunshine you exude. That is not you. It was never you. No matter how intelligent one might be, nervousness permeates all into the core of your being. It's all part of the genetic code explaining why you're human, bundled together like a special package with the tendency to tell the world aloud how you feel, what you did, who you loved, who you didn't anymore. Like they really care if you had slightly-burnt toast for breakfast.
Anxiety makes me peevish, and I realise that easily enough. Maybe on Tuesday when I'm done mourning for the lost hopes I'll feel better.Labels: 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?