STS

My new-found mission in life (for now, that is) is to theorize an academic discourse that people will be quoting and talking about years and years from now. My area of concentration is small towns that are too small for its own good. I hypothesize that small-towners live caged, scrutinized lives whose abilities and talents are limited and constrained by small minds and the disability to recognize that a much bigger world exists outside said small town. As testament of my dedication to this project, I have spent a month and a half and will be spending another 2 months or so in a small fucking town in bum-fucking nowhere.

So far, a fellow researcher-cum-compatriot (lest I be taken in by small town and undergo conversion) has remarked that "everyone in this town thinks and act like they're Blair Waldorf except that they're not". I realise it is a very elementary observation but I believe this reveals volumes into the mentality of this town; the mentality that is henceforth known as Small Town Syndrom (STS).

The Motherland

This is for Sarika who I know is passing out more often than she will care to admit to.

Home is well, home. Nothing much has changed since I left four years ago. The routines remain the same, the people have aged a little but their habits untouched. It doesn't take any effort for me to fall into the routine - nothing is strange, different or unusual. Which in turn is unusual; I expected to feel like a stranger, to be introduced to new things, new people. Instead I come home to well, home. Nothing much has changed since I left four years ago.

I suppose we can have a conversation about the insignificance of my presence but I rather not.

Mummy is a lot better, both health-wise and emotionally. The surgery really did help and The Skoros were right about the surgery renewing her lease on life.

I miss Vancouver immensely. It is difficult to compare life here to that in Vanc. because it is so drastically different but Vancouver will always hold for me a large chunk of affection and sentiment. My affection may come too little too late but having placed it in the hands and hearts of people (as opposed to places and things) I am confident I will see everyone again sometime soon and it will all be good.

Being "at home" is a psychological condition more than it is a physical one. To be able to so effortlessly integrate myself into a routine that hasnt changed much is a comforting notion, it is the stuff of Petronas adverts and Christmas cards. At the same time, it is a stark reminder of how far removed I am from this routine and how much change I have imposed on my life away from home.

Nonetheless, it is good to be home.

In other news,

Kevin dedicated a post to me. *heart heart*

Homeward bound...

in less than a month. The plan is to stop in Taipei for a couple of days because we can, then head home so I can start eating nasi lemak everyday.

Just got home from Whistler today; it was good fun! As usual, I do not have any photographic evidence/memories of my endeavors but I hold it in good faith that it will be on Facebook soon - in fact, Tereza's album is already up and I've tagged myself.

I don't think the pictures do the beauty that is Whistler sufficient justice. Like the rest of the conditions plaguing today's world, our stay coincided with drought week. Only five runs were open and the bottom of the hill was mostly green. Towards the end of the week though, it snowed and it was truly beautiful. It then became ffffucken cold and I was more than happy to admire scenery from the inside of a Greyhound.

So I did pass all my courses so I will be graduating. My aunt was quite distraught to learn that I wasn't planning on being in Vancouver for my convocation; so much so that she bribed me with plane tickets (I tried to justify my decision by claiming travel costs) so I guess I might be here in June after all. Mike will be living downtown by then so it all sounds quite good right now.

Now that all is said and done, the closing of this chapter is quite anti-climatic. Aside from the personal perception that I am a victim of academic injustice, I also cannot be arsed to fill out appeal forms, chase emails and see heads of departments for a minuscule grade bump. Too much work, too little pay-off.

These days, most trade-offs are not worth much to me anymore. For instance, while in Whistler I opted to stay in and watch 16 episodes of Friends because I rather that than put on an extra pair of socks to go out. Of course, I got called a number of names (and rightly so too) but I can't say I regret it. After four months of desiring regression but forcing some action out of myself, I do think I am justified. I am loving every moment of laziness - I do think I have earned it.


On the other hand, the house is a mess(!) as we sell/give/store/ship the accumulated evidence of my last four years and Andi's last two. Discarding possessions and packing boxes should make me sentimental for the last four years of the life that I have built for myself here in Vancouver but it hasn't. More than anything, I am anxious to just get it done with so I can go out and see the people that I will miss. My thoughts these days are steeped with excitement; excited at the prospect of moving to a new city, meeting new friends and reuniting with old ones, celebrating CNY at home, conversations with Suzi, seeing places I've never seen before, making decisions.

Leaving Vancouver right after New Years is perfect timing in my opinion - the holiday season will afford us much time together but the brevity will numb the abrupt separation. There will be no time for tears and contemplation, only after-the-fact acknowledgement with no chances of repatriation hence making it easier for us all to get on with our lives.

Happy holidays all!

Home stretch

With the present workload, I am gripped with the fear that I am meeting the wrong deadline; I am worried that I am not meeting deadlines that were supposed to have been met instead of working on what I am on. This semester has been quite the mystery. The papers write themselves so effortlessly and despite the 4 pending deadlines off the top of my head, I have just spent an entire evening watching TV. But about those papers, this term has been a breeze. Eight paged papers get done in two hours, reports in six, and term papers in three. Despite this seemingly careless attitude, my grades seem to say otherwise. With ONE WEEK away from being done with school, I am a little remorseful that I only learned this skill in my very last term; at the same time, I'm glad I learned this skill at all.

Time to start work. Coming in for the home stretch, baybeh!

A tribute to Forster

Between Klein and Greenspan, I polished off another Forster within a week. It was a short read - but a most delicious one indeed. I borrowed it from Sar after I saw it sitting on her shelf when I went over for a second Diwali dinner. A Passage to India was my first Forster book. I don't remember now where I first heard of the book or of Forster as an author but when I found Passage to India in the thrift store for 50 cents, I thought 'why not?'.

A Passage to India was delectable. Forster has this uncanny ability to understand the human psyche and translate the very essence of being into words. His books are always short reads but his choice of words so exquisite - he conveys volumes of nuances and secrets within secrets with but a few choice words. Owing to a shared history of colonialism, many times throughout reading APassage to India I come across a passage that so describes exactly how I feel or have felt but have always encountered trouble when trying to relay my sentiments. The genius that is Forster lies in his ability to truly grasp the meaning to be both a British colonial figure and an Indian and to explicitly reveal the delicate game in which both are intertwined without being coarse or vulgar.

While I profess to having more in common with A Passage to India then to Maurice, Forster's account of a man's desires, wantings, impulses, repulses, and all that makes one human is incredibly touching. It reads like an open book - like an old friend recounting deep, dark secrets meant for your ears only. Most importantly, one finds oneself in a position of non-judgment. Despite Maurice's "erroneous" tendencies, one cannot help but feel his very pain or ecstacy; one finds oneself rooting for him, searching for ways in which his desires can be met and his happiness fulfilled.

Forster has a way of creating an intimate bond between reader and character, much like God himself.

I am truly warped

I dreamt that in the heart of Central London, there is a pond where shrooms grow in abundance and "you literally buy it off stalls that are set up around the pond" (security guard in my dream, 2008). This place is called 'Your Bitches'.