Why Verbal Vomit?

This has been a month of intense emotional roller-coaster, perhaps more than I have bargained for, perhaps more than I have imagined would ever happened to me. It's interesting thing that, upon hindsight, this month I have turned most prolific ever. I think it's because verbal vomiting is really a thing that has become ritualistic for me, almost spiritual even. Not that these unedited words spawned from my psychedelic stream of consciousness are in any way sacrilegious, but they do represent me, arguably, in the truest form, and hence the experience cathartic.

Sometimes the stuff I write are merely idle ventures taken out of boredom. Sometimes they are the products of overly sentimental lyricism which comes by once in a while at the whim of capricious hormones. Sometimes they become a sanctuary where I seek solace in the ambiguity. I do the last one because writing in this space is perhaps the only way that I can express myself to someone— or something— at any time in the day (or night). It is my ever-ready reservoir, if not black hole, that just takes in anything and everything that I can possibly say. I write in ambiguity at times because I'm not ready, and think that it's unnecessary, to share details to the world. At times it's because I want to address multiple issues at a go. At times it's because, well, I can do so, and I indulge in the literary enigma that is the end products.

Therefore it irks me considerably when others water down this endeavour into something that they think is the thing that I talk about. I can't prevent judgments from being passed, and to be honest, I can't give a shit. However, it bugs me when those self-created judgments demand me: to behave in a certain way, or to adopt a certain solution, or to throw everything out of the window— albeit in the subtlest manner. And it bugs me when others then promulgate to the world those fallacious, fantastical, farcical, fucked-up fathomations, and then unilaterally peg me to them. I hold my life in a clenched fist, and trust me, I am so much more than those cerebral capacities can ever conceive. Just keep those two cents, and give them when they are asked for. If it sounds as if I'm worked up, I'm really not. In fact, I'm rather pacified right now. So worry not, I'm alright.

Let It Shine

Do you ever feel like a plastic bag

Drifting through the wind, wanting to start again?

Do you ever feel, feel so paper thin

Like a house of cards, one blow from caving in?

Do you every feel already buried deep?

Six feet under screams but no seems to hear a thing

Do you know that there's still a chance for you

'Cause there's a spark in you?

You just gotta ignite the light

Only Human

I too, am only human.

My flesh tears, my bones break—

Prithee, do not break me!

You know not how to fix me.

Time doesn't heal me,

Doesn't put me back together again.

Still I look, and I look still

For the missing pieces:

My missing pieces.

Dunce Or Dance?

Yikes, I'm Legal!

/a penny for my thoughts, o no, I'll sell 'em for a dollar/

/they're worth so much more after I'm a goner/

It's funny, this thing we call age: to some it's just a number; to some it's like an alarm ticking down together with their sagging skin; to others it's a checkpoint, telling them how far they've run in a lonesome race against time. Apologies to start on such a pensive mood. I'm not emo, I promise. I just feel like trying to figure out this feeling that I got when the clock stroke midnight last night. Birthdays seem to become decreasingly eventful as we grow older, no? I mean, when we were toddlers, our parents made sure that we had the time of our lives, and we learnt that we were supposed to be happy that we had survived yet another year scot-free. Then as our body got bigger, our ego got bigger, puberty hit (and it hit hard!), and in those juvenile years we stole the Ptolemaic view that we were the centre of our universe. We made goddamn sure that our birthdays are the days on which we reigned supreme-- we were special albeit only once a year.

Now that I'm old, jaded and flabby, it feels like the surge of excitement has ebbed away together with the good-ol' teenage dreams. Perhaps this is the reason why I can't help but to sniff a whiff of poignancy on this day because as what should have been the case: a rowdy 21st birthday reeked of alcohol and adult fun, is nowhere in sight. It kinda sucks now that I think about it that I could have expended the effort to have something outta-control to do on this monumental moment, but no. Nothing from the inside is pushing me hard enough to do as such. The sloth has taken the best in me. Damn, I'm, like, so uncool.

Nevertheless, I have this blog, which I can have fun with (Good god, I'm such a dork!). I have always wondered how I've lived this 21 years of existence. Ok, let's see.

October 25th 1989, I came out of my momma's womb. This I know for sure, though I don't know what time of the day it happened. I was so proud in 8th grade when I found out in Geography that my birthday fell one day after the birthday of the UN (I was cool even then, huh!). I don't have much recollection of my life until the age of 3. I probably drank a lot of milk, or something. Nonetheless, my 3rd birthday was epic. I remember I had this cake sculpted into the shape of a duck, I wore an orange sweater, and I changed behind the teacher's desk in front of the whole class right after the lesson ended. They had to call my brother who was still having lessons in the other room to celebrate my birthday. I was king. So everybody had to bow down before the duck-shaped cake. Attractive, I know. I still wonder whether the duck sculpture was real cake or styrofoam. Anw, I had this obsession toward ducks (or was it swans?) when I was real young. I always asked my maid who, I must say, was the best duck-drawing maid in the entire world, to draw for me again and again (and again).

First day of school was epic. It was like the Crusades, just that it was me against the entire school staff. My mom never gets tired to remind me that I drenched myself with sweat crying and running around to look for her who was only standing two metres away outside. I have this vague memory of me running to the backdoor of the class, and just when I was about to get out, they closed it and slammed the door in my face. Pause for dramatic effect. I mean, when I kid needs his mommy, he needs his mommy. Teachers, don't be cruel.

Growing up I was a very picky kid. I didn't eat veggies, gross-looking things, beans, green soups and fried onions. But I was a good kid. I read comics, a lot of them. I had strange fixation on Disney movies, I watched Snow White so much that I could remember the entire dialogue and songs by heart, although I had no freaking idea what most of the words meant. I actually co-wrote my primary school graduation play, and yes, in English (after probably painstaking editing by my teacher), and it was, yes, Snow White. I was uber cool, I know. In the fourth grade I learnt English for the first time, and my first few sentences were 'Hello, my name is Andy. How are you? I'm fine. Thank you'. So, in my second language, I was Andy first, then Calvin Magnus. On hindsight, I wonder why they taught it that way.

There were some tragedies. There was once where my brother and I played in our third-world playground. My brother fell and banged his head when I was on the adjacent swing, and he had to get some stitches. I was beyond petrified, beyond everything. Then, there was once when I was riding my bike to go to the playground, and one side of the training wheels (Don't laugh!) was konked out, and when I was making a turn, I fell together into the gutter. The next thing I knew everything was dark, and I had black stuff all over me. That, that was an interesting experience. There were times where home didn't feel like home either, but let's not go there.

8th grade was one hell of an experience. I had my first taste of social hierarchy, and I underwent my first social genocide. Guess it started when I turned curly, short and fat in 7th grade. Then, I discovered that I turned curly, short and fat. And things don't really work for you when you ticked all the boxes of the social-wanna-be list. To put it in a nut shell, all the people that I wanted to be friends with didn't want to be friends with me, for some strange reasons. Details are unnecessary, and I actually blogged about it once upon a time. It's true that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger me. Good-ol' friends, thanks for making me fucking strong.

7th grade, my first crush. Erh, don't ask. Oh, in 9th grade, I partook in the National Physics Olympiad and came in fifth place (Shocking! I know!). I didn't know I had it. I didn't how I did it. More importantly, now, I don't know how I lost it.

After 9th grade, I flew over to Singapore. First time entering an all-boy school-- yuck. I was introduced to NAPFA. I hated NAPFA. I lost 15 kg failing NAPFA (The irony of this sentence is just delicious!). Nothing much, I was one of those scholars who had relentless obsession with grades, but for what it's worth I did very well for O's. I made some real friends in secondary school, live-long ones whom I know I can depend on, even if I told them that I killed someone. In JC, I met dance, albeit JC-hiphop dance. We all know the story and what ensued. Then, I entered my IB education and had my first Shakespeare (King Lear) at the age of 18. Against my parents' preference, I entered law school last last year. We also know how this story continues.

Oh, age 20, I discovered contemporary jazz.

I guess that's it. I probably missed quite a number of things, but I can only recall so many things in one post. I guess, the one million dollar question now is: what do I want for my birthday? Actually I don't know. Enough wishful thoughts on dance, and I think I'm pretty contented with what I have right now. Perhaps one thing that I can make me a better person is crying. I want to cry for my birthday. Strange, I know, but I just don't cry anymore. I don't. I don't know why I don't. May be my childhood trauma has dried up my tear ducts. May be I forgot how to cry. May be I'm too fucking strong to cry. I have no idea. But yeah, I want to cry for my birthday.

/the sharp knife of a short life/

/I've had just enough time/

Project R(eiko)

I don't even know where to begin. It all started with three one-and-a-half-hour classes in Osaka. And after five weeks of meeting-ups and practices, twenty six safety pins (just on me), a strip of zebra prints, a bruised left knee and lots and lots (and lots) of sweat, Project R rocked the stage on the finale night.

Truthfully, had I written this post two nights ago, this would have been much angstier (btw, this is not a word) than I do feel right now. Fortunately, after two nights of splurging on unnecessary things which I knew I would regret later on, I am now much more sedated and relaxed. The sore still lingers, don't get me wrong, but it's fine. I mean, I think it's only reasonable and human that it bugged me just a tad bit. Losing's a bitch. No one likes losing. Having said that, it's not like I'm gonna take a knife and start carving death notes on my wrist now. I just need to be a self-centered, self-serving and self-indulging baby for a reasonable time, and I would be a-okay.

The thing that sucked balls is that I really put in my best foot forward in this project. Hell, I put my damn foot, leg, arm, head— everything!— into it. Not that I spent astronomical amount of effort, and necessarily longer time than did everybody else, but I did give it me, and it sucked that despite all that, the odds are still stacked against us-- against me. Yeah, I know, cue words of comfort and wisdom. But hey, someone needed to mourn our loss, and let me be one. It would have been grossly alarming, and dare-I-say disingenuous, if I had said otherwise anyway. So why pretend? I had to feel something, right, and it couldn't— shouldn't— be all positive given the results. Quoi? Ces't la vie. Two nights, two bags of Doritos, two cans of beer and two slaps in the face— I be fine. I am fine, for real for real.

Notwithstanding all this, I have really really enjoyed the ride I took with Project R. It's been five weeks since its inception, and I have the confidence (still) to say that we rocked it in the end! Thanks for giving me a chance to do what I wanted to do and having such a great trust in me. I knew that it wasn't a timely period to join a competition for most of us, so thank you for sticking with it until the very end. I need not say all the cliches, but like I said before, from the start all the way to the finale night, it was real fun, peppered with emo-nemo-ness here and there, but what fun would there be if it had been smooth sailing from start to finish? What didn't kill would make us stronger (cliche!). Don't ruin the experience just because things don't work out the way we wanted, we expected. (You hear that, Calvin!)

A big thank-you to Zong who had to labour together with us, while juggling sixty commitments at a go, and choreo-ed such an inspiring piece for the competition. I'll dance for you anytime! LOL. Thanks to Fred, the ultimate clean-up guru, who turned us, dirty-and-grimy motley bunch, spick-and-span. Of course, Project R girls! Poonie, Chew, Rose and Jack, I can never apologise enough for making you guys undergo a double-dose of Magnus this time 'round. Thanks for enduring my whim and my accidental-yet-frequent sprinkles of sweat during the many runs we did in aircon-ed and non-aircon-ed places. LOL.

I guess, that's it. It's not that bad, huh? :) Project R for the win (regardless)!

It's A Bird! It's A Plane! It's A Word-That-Sounds-Dirty-But-Actually-Isn't!

1. Balzac /ball-sac/

: a French writer; a founder of the realist school of fiction who portrayed the panorama of French society in a body of works known collectively as La Comedie humaine

2. jaculate /jack-queue-late/

: to throw or hurl (a dart, a javelin, etc)

3. blowhole /blow-hole/

: an air or gas vent, especially one to carry off fumes from a tunnel, or an underground passage, etc

4. Bangkok /bang-cock/

: a seaport in and the capital city of Thailand

5. Uranus /your-anus/

: a distant planet of the solar system, seventh in order from the sun, discovered by William Herschel in 1781

6. crotchety /crotch-a-tee/

: given to odd notions, whims, grouchiness, etc

7. ramrod /ram-rod/

: a rod for ramming down the charge of a muzzleloading firearm

8. ballcock /ball-cock/

: a device for regulating the supply of water in a tank, cistern, or the like, consisting essentially a valve connected to a hollow floating ball which by its rise, or fall, shuts, or opens, the valve

9. gesticulate /jest-tee-queue-late/

: to use gesture, especially in an animated or excited manner, with or instead of speech

10. titmouse /tit-mouse/

: a small songbird that searches for insects amongst foliage and branches

Run, Forrest! Run!

Forrest Gump:

That day, for no particular reason, I decide to go for a little run. So I ran to the end of the road. And when I got there, I thought may be I'd run to the end of town. And when I got there, I thought may be i'd just run across Greenbow County. And i figured, since I run this far, may be I'd just run across the great state of Alabama, And that's what I did. I ran clear across Alabama. For no particular reason I just kept on going. I ran to clear the ocean. And when I got there, I figuredd, since I'd gone this far, I might as well turn around, just keep on going. When I got to another ocean, I figured, since I'd gone this far I might as well just run back, keep right on going.

Jenny Currant:

Run, Forrest! Run!

Forrest Gump:

Now you wouldn't believe me if I told you, but I could run like the wind blows. From that day on, if I was ever going somewhere, I was running!

Old Man in Barbershop:

That boy sure is a runnin' fool!

Forrest Gump:

[running] I had run for 3 years, 2 months, 14 days, and 16 hours. [he stops and turns around]

Young Man Running:

Quiet, quiet! He's gonna say something!

Forrest Gump:

I'm pretty tired... I think I'll go home now.

Alas, Thou Draconian Devil

Stash Of Beer

Here again that time of year,

Where we are that we hold so dear

And all else just disappear—

All but that one stash of beer.

O, nag and cry we oft hear

Of this and that, of things unclear,

But up and up this boat must steer

For a prize grand and premier.

Here and there people may jeer:

Look at that! That's goddamn queer!

Worry not, we'll make 'em tear

With pride— and one stash of beer.

When Darkness Turns To Light

Thank you for seeing me in me more that I do. It's fine if I don't get as good as I want to. It's fine if I don't get as good as others hope I would. It's fine if I don't get as good as others expect I would.

I just wish you continue to see in me more than I do. Thank you for letting me see it-- when darkness turns to light.

May You Burn In Hell

(I probably would regret this later.)

Don't come to me, and suck my oxygen, and scrutinise what the hell I'm doing with your dopey eyes, and say You make me feel motivated to study now! You have no fucking clue how my life is. Don't give me shit with your feigned earnestness, pretentious pomp! Seriously, just get the fuck away from me.

Go to fucking hell.

Hear Ye, Unsteady Souls!

"You have to love dancing to stick to it. It gives you nothing back, no manuscripts to store away, no paintings to show on walls and may be hang in museums, no poems to be printed and sold, nothing but that single fleeting moment when you feel alive. It is not for unsteady souls."

- Merce Cunningham

Groundhog Day

Once every two weeks or so, I hit a point where I ask that same ol' question again: What am I doing with my life? There's never an end to answering this question. I think it's partially because I am too cerebral type of person, where I live most of my life inside my head. I have no idea why I'm genetically made up that way, there are so many things that I can do in reality, yet somehow and somewhat I am always sapped back to this black hole of an existence where I basically do nothing, physically, yet in my head I'm doing triple somersaults and seven pirouettes, figuratively speaking.

Tracing back my dark past, I think this trait developed because I was such a brainy kid, like I was the nerdy one in the family, was the one who always did well in school, did all the assignments well, did the exams well. So I was brought up, or actually, grew up believing that thinking is my thing, that it was something that separated me from my peers, my siblings and my friends. I was not one of those popular kids who had everything, who were born to reign the upper echelon of the social strata. Nope. I was the awkward brainy kid-- socially challenged; helpless, hopeless and hapless.

However, I think I'm slowly breaking out this mould which I've always imposed on me since those dark ages. I hope I'm not getting stupider, but somehow I don't see academic matters as paramount anymore. Nevertheless, the thinking aspect seems to remain intact, just that I think of other things, which arguably are more trivial. One thing that's interesting though, I am still that fearful chicken even in the world of my cerebral creation. There would be times where I would choose not to address certain things, even and albeit pressing ones, and then I would just come to a halt, cerebrally speaking. I would go on Youtube, go to the same channels which I've been frequenting since three months ago, and watch the same videos for the God-knows umpteenth time.

I think the rationale behind this inertial behaviour is that I often was too afraid to tap into these things-- these uncertain things that are posed before me-- so the mind would push the panic buttons, and utter shutdown would then ensue. When I watched those same video, binging on the same ol' snacks while at it, there was no uncertainty: there was no unknown pop-up that would trigger me to think hard and long. There was safety there. One thing about videos that's very comforting is that they do the thinking for you. So there I was, stuffing my mouth with unnecessary calories, and literally simply being boring and stupid. And this has been happening to me for some time now.

Sometimes I wonder whether everybody does the same thing, or I'm just, so to speak, peculiar. The answer to this I do not know, but I think this is main reason why everyday for me is Groundhog day. Everyday feels like yesterday, which suck balls big time. I mean, the conflict here is that whenever I ask myself what I am doing with my life, I would go to that stereotypical picture of what college life is, or ought to be-- I'm not really sure. On one hand, there's that picture where I should be able to do whatever I want, and if I happen to be stuck, eyes glued to my computer screen, watching the same thing over and over again, and I enjoy it, then so be it. You know, no one should tell me what to do with my life. On the other one hand, there's that idyllic picture where college life is supposed to be raucous, rowdy and rambunctious, that it's all about the f-word. I mean, fun. What did you think? Anyhoo, everyday should feel like Christmas, Hanukkah, Halloween, birthdays. So when it's not, then what the hell is wrong with me? Why am I so boring and stupid?

For what it's worth, I in fact do try to make my life interesting. I mean, I take on tonnes of projects, dance projects, which I love to do, and it's not like everybody has this opportunity. Some people would kill to be in my shoes, but somehow notwithstanding the awesomeness that I've been thrown into, everyday is Groundhog day. Perhaps I've taken on too much, more than I can chew. Everything is only good when everything is in moderation, anything more or less than that is just gonna pester the insatiable complaining baby inside. If this were right, then it would make sense why I avoided tackling those things in my head which could have made a night different from any other night. I was too tired to do so, thus settled for second best. We all know what there is a thread connecting the mind, body and soul, when one hits a low point, then the other two will somehow be affected.

Does this mean that I have to take things in moderation, even those things I love, and things that I've chosen to do? It sucks big time because this means that I've no total control over my body, like my body is not built such that I can do whatever I want. Well, I think I know this from dance, but there's always that ol' mind-over-matter bullsheez which always gives you reason to suck it up and just do it.

Actually talking about change, I should really start channeling my head into my academic stuff. The problem here is actually law school has lost its shine for me. Now it's just, well, to continue with imagery, dull. It reeks of cumbersomeness and pretensions. The whole prestige thing is so passe that it excites me no more. Bummer. I should somehow get my mind around this so that I can survive considerably, i.e. maintain my scholarship, and have a good career upon graduation-- and be actually prepared for it. Dang.

Ok, this has been a total verbal vomit a la stream of consciousness. Totally spent one hour on this. I think I should stop. Ciao!