Guilty Pleasures

Whenever I mention I (still) read fanfiction and unpublished original fiction, the usual response I get is “oh, it’s all crap”. I admit, a lot of it is pure fluff, is full of mistakes, and have weak, unorigininal plots.

But it’s when you find the rare, unpolished gem after sifting through hundreds of stories that you remember all authors start somewhere. Some of these fanfics are worthy of publication themselves and are what an author’s manuscript would look like before the brutal editing process.

And fanfics and some original fics fulfill a need. When I’ve got a ton of dry, detailed, painful readings to do, the last thing I want is a gritty, processing-power-draining novel, much as I normally enjoy them. One-shots, or short stories, are particularly easy to read because of the relative length.

Personally, the more important bit is that it is much, much easier to find non-mainstream stories. Publishers like novels which sell. Especially here, in Singapore, the small publishers which cater to niche audiences are almost impossible to find. Which means that even in PageOne or Kinokuniya, most of the books they stock cater to the mass market.

Tracking the evolution of my reading turned up a lot of little things I’ve noticed about my reading habits. Of course, I enjoy most the books which challenge my pre-set ideas, or strike a chord with my own experiences. And considering I dislike mainstream, stuff like chick-lit doesn’t sit well with me, even if I admit I sometimes like fluff and character-driven stories.

Which brings me back to my original point, the larger proportion of slash, femslash, alternative lifestyles (as some would call it), a general lack of censorship in terms of graphic sex and violence (which is sometimes gratuituous and off-putting, but that’s what ratings are for, to warn you off if you’re squeamish), different proportion of male to female characters, are all different reasons for and against fanfics.

The last, I have to admit, is one of my stronger reasons. When your adolescent reading (not very far out of it now, am I?) consists of mostly plot-heavy fantasy, strong female characters are rare. Especially strong female protagonists not a prop or prize for the hero.

I suppose the only real problem I have with fanfiction is that they rarely feature ethnic minorities, which is more an issue of social inequalities (darn, got lecture later sia) and language barriers more than anything else.

Spellcheck

I cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg. The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid.
Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn’t mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be in the
rghit pclae.
The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm.
Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.

Amzanig huh? Yaeh and I awlyas toghuht slpeling was ipmorantt! Tahts so cool!

Randomly surfing sites uncovers a trove of information that I’ll probably never use, but is still fun for the moment.

Hanoi

The temperature’s been steadily decreasing, but the streets are still busy as ever. The people here are both annoying and friendly, depending on whether they are trying to sell you something, food or service, with features that could pass for Singaporeans, and a longuage which sounds like Cantonese if you don’t pay attention.

The food, so like kopitiams before they were created, tastes like basic chinese food. Simple rice with meat and vegetables. Or Pho, rice noodles in soup. Or banh bao, da baos of a different shape. One night, we had fried beef noodles, it looked like hokkien mee, tasted like a mix of hokkien mee and hor fun topped with lots of slices of beef.

Strange conical hats lining the streets, carrying baskets reminiscient of trhe samsui women we’ve all heard about but never really see now. Pasar Malams on weekends, Pasar Pagis on weekdays. So familiar and yet so alien. Motorcycles and scooters everywhere, on the streets at all hours, peppered by cars, cyclos and the odd bicycle, crossing the road at busy intersections is scary.

The old quarter is what chinatown should be. Tiny streets, people at all corners hawking goods, among the vehicles parked along the roads, in front of shops of all types. And this is what a city should be - alive with activity. Although I could do without the smell of cigarettes and pollution, the few people still spitting on the streets, and the scary crossing of the roads, it’s still more alive than the sterility we’re used to.

Displacement

Clutching a handful of notes, a look of hope on her face, she approaches the counter with small, tentative steps. An exchange of words, handing the notes over hesitantly, and then, the wait, the return to a pattern she doesn’t quite like, but continues with for a purpose.

Images of a family, surviving on one person’s wages, maybe having a better life. And she’s all alone, away from her parents, from her husband, from her children. Slogging day in, day out, and you’d refuse them the few hours of respite, of speaking in their native tongue, of having a sense of belonging, of mutual commiseration, just because it “causes unrest”, just because it is a “social hazard”?

Meditate

Tu dois fermer les yeux

Faire la vide dans ta tête

Garder le silence

Et entrer dans la kyosphère

(you must close your eyes/empty your mind/keep the silence/and enter into the “kyosphère”)

Kyo, Kyosphère

 

Sheshe suggested listening to music to keep my mind off the exam paper starting in slightly more than 2 hours. And this song is perfect. How many songs tell you to meditate? And I think I need that, or I’ll slip back into that panic! mode again.

Security?

Okay. Just a short piece musing on the whole peeping tom thing in hall. I’m pretty detached from hall now, but I still keep up with the news around. Anyway, for a short intro, within the last 2 weeks there were 2 cases of someone sticking a handphone under the shower cubicle and recording whatever was going on. The culprit wasn’t caught (at least not to my knowledge), ’cause the victim screamed and he ran away in time or something.

The discussion going on in the yahoo groups focus on the prevention of another such incident happening and what to do if it happens. Suggestions and measures taken are as follows:

And then the Earth

Other than Mayday, (one of) my current favourite song(s), if only because it evokes sadness and hope.

Lyrics below, I’d translate, but I’d never be able to do it justice, what can I say, it’s practically a poem. Suffice to say, it’s in support of the victims of the 2004 Tsunami.

Nope, I don’t.

Well, so it began with a call. One which, a year ago, I probably wouldn’t have brushed off quite so easily. In fact, I think a year ago, I’d have been much nicer because I hated being brushed off while making calls.

It went like this, someone calls me with a private number, that’s usually enough to annoy me slightly, since my number has a tendency to attract weird indian/chinese based callers, plus I like being able to pick and choose who I accept calls from, but thinking it could be important, not that I can remember if there’s anything important that I need to do right now other than the one I don’t want to do, I pick up.

And a distinctly chinese accent comes through asking me in mandarin whether I speak mandarin. Considering I have issues with speaking in mandarin if I don’t need to, and since this was probably a telemarketer/survey thing, which I’ve gotten before, I replied in english that no, I didn’t. So she apologized and hung up.

So I obviously understood what she said, so what?

If you’re going to call a Singaporean number, you’d better be able to speak in english. If you’re gonna call me in particular, and since I’m on the receiving end, you’re speaking to me in english or not at all. Unless you’re one of the two who gave me life.

Of course, I could just be being a bitch ’cause she woke me up.

Questions

How do you know you need help? When do you know the lethargy has gone on for far too long? Does wishing time would stop so I wouldn’t have to continue a bad sign?

Looking for escape. Brief moments of stupid ideas. Rationally stupid, socially unacceptable, but oh-so-much easier. They say running away doesn’t solve anything. Contemplating quitting school, and I don’t mean taking leave of absence, just dropping everything and leaving it up to fate as to what happens next is so tempting.

Weeks of not wanting to do anything. And only a more recent realization that I really do not know why I’m here. Weeks of closing myself off, losing my sense of self in daydreaming. Focusing on not being here, in my room, with all the demands that comes along with it.

And yet, how is it different from what I used to do? Other than a feeling of ennui. A little more difficulty in telling myself it wouldn’t solve anything. A little more sense of, really, why do I care?

Part of me has this urge to bawl my eyes out. Another part asks, why bother? Yet another part is trying to analyse this feeling, there isn’t any specific reason, really, to feel sad.

It feels like being cast adrift, with no land in sight, no one around, no idea of which direction I need to swim. And if I really admit to myself, this sensation’s been there for a while, suppressed.

I’m trying to chalk it up to hormones, one of those times when PMS, for me, means a depressed mood instead of irritability. But I really don’t know if its self-denial, trying to convince myself that there’s nothing wrong with me, or there’s really nothing wrong, and it’s merely my own perception that’s trying to convince me that something’s out of place.

And the worst part is. Writing doesn’t seem to help.

One People, One Nation, One…

Singapore Führer

Actually learning something in class.

Will wonders never cease?