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| (Now that everyone has migrated to Facebook, I feel there is relative privacy in Xanga again. And I've just found a new writer muse in one of my colleagues, so here I am. Back.) Mind Over Matter? It was past midnight, and the car slowed down and steered into a half-empty lot. “DAY'S I N”, the lot billboard read. The first ‘N’ had fallen off some time ago. Charming.
“We’re there. Get out, get some decent sleep,” he said gruffly, turning off the engine. I tried to blink my contacts into focus. He had been driving for hours while I slipped in and out of consciousness in the seat next to him, and now my neck ached faintly from the nodding.
Nights were cold at this time of the year. I lumbered after him towards the hotel, not saying much. We’ve just had a petty quarrel about him being too bossy, and even though the rage had long passed I pretended I was still pissed off, not wanting to relinquish that rare female power just yet. (“I don’t see why I can’t eat chips. I don’t think I’ve been having too much, I hate being controlled, etc, etc”)
An intensely Asian receptionist with a thin moustache handed over our keys, and we dragged our luggage into our home for the night. It was another generic bungalow-styled motel room, with a disproportionally large bed and French windows opening directly to the lot.
“I’m going to park the car closer to our room,” he announced. The door closed with a quiet click. I flopped on the bed and stared vacantly at the TV screen. Anderson Cooper was anchoring on CNN, mmmm. Delicious. Someone told me he was a Vanderbilt; imagine throwing all of that away to be a journo!
And waited. Cooper finished his segment, and some evangelic program came up. The couple next door yelled at each other in Spanish, then silence, and then a rhythmic thumping. Where the hell was he?
You’re being ridiculous, I told myself severely, but I peered out of the window anyway, expecting the car to pull up.
Oh my god. The car was not there. I tip-toed, barefooted, out of the room onto the icy pavement and peered myopically into the lot.
Not there.
Oh my god.
Years of watching crime and detective shows on television had fine-tuned my logic. There could only be two possibilities—either he was kidnapped by a serial killer in the lot, or he was shot in the lot, and some deprived maniac drove his car away. It is a convertible, after all, despite the stubborn bird droppings on the windshield.
All of a sudden I was seized by a blind, irrational panic—again—that inevitable flash of terror. I couldn’t breathe. My mind blanks out, my future fast-forwards before my eyes, bleakly. This night is going to be the turning point in my life. The pseudo-shock was almost physical. Oh my god.
Mind whirring, I dialed his number. Pick up the phone, for fuck’s sake, pick up the phone—“Hello?”
“Oh, it’s you.” – intelligently. Weak with relief, I slumped against the headboard, then tried to feign nonchalance. “I was just wondering where you where, that’s all.”
He chuckled. There was no hiding from him; he knew how my mind worked, and knew I was probably thanking the cherubim and seraphim that he was alive and well.
“I’m just at Kroger’s picking up some Lays. The fat-free ones you like… as a surprise. Didn’t think you’d call, don’t worry! Be back soon. You silly.”
Talk about holding onto that rare female power.
Something tells me I have to stop living life this way, expecting the worst in everything.
I think I have a fundamental disconnect deep lodged somewhere. Most people have an intellect and a heart that clashes occasionally; mine runs off in opposite directions at every possible opportunity. My mood swings between absolute indifference and blinding anxiety.
One of these days, if I don’t get rolled over by a truck while crossing the street because I’m too engrossed in my Ipod playlist, I’m going to die of a panic attack. | | |
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Bright lights.
Cameras lined up like cannons, ready to fire.
 Journalists frantically writing, talking into headsets, shooting
footage. 
Families and students touting popcorn and hotdogs.
Caucasians, African-Americans, Latinos and Asians in the stands, breathlessly
waiting. People running around to get better seats; the crowd edging nearer,
ever nearer.
I was one with the crowd—waiting, anticipating, breathlessly
suspended.
All for a single man. 
Barack Obama. The man seemed surprisingly diminished when he finally materialized
on stage—engulfed by the crowd’s fanfare and the enormity of the stadium. I felt
strangely hollow.
But as soon as he began to speak, the crowd faded and he
expanded in the eyes of every individual, his energy swelling well beyond the
stadium.
It is staggering to witness how much a man can
command, and mobilize.
It was almost like a rock concert, except he does not offer
much by way of entertainment. What he offers are dreams of what America could
be, and ideals of what the world could become.
“Stop the hundred-year war in Iraq and bring our boys home.”
“Cap global pollution, make the polluter pay.”
“Healthcare for all.” “Let our kids go to college.”
People responded with an almost religious fervor, chanting
his name, crying ‘Yes!’ to every promise he offered.
Strangely, I was not swept away.
It was nothing I haven’t heard before. I’m seen footage of
him repeating his stance over and over again, knew his phrases and euphemisms
like the back of my hand. What struck me instead, was the humanness of the campaign.
“I know there are people out there who have a life outside
of the campaign,” the district campaign manager had said wryly during the
volunteer’s briefing.
I looked at the man on stage and saw, not only the graceful
wave of his hand and his trademark smile, but the fatigue in his face. His
lanky frame. His speech, repeated again and again, state after state. His face,
ghostly white under the wash of spotlights.
I was not swept away by his speech. Nor, after listening to
him, could I argue soundly why I prefer him over Clinton, other than that it was a gut feeling
from day one. The differences between his platform and Clinton’s are minute, and my understanding of
the States is not comprehensive enough to warrant a sound view.
But after today, I had a new-found appreciation for the man
who dared to send a message of hope in our disillusioned world; the man who
tugged at all our heartstrings, and the man so inspired, that he brought the
world to its knees.
And though I was out of place among the sea of white and black
faces, for a fleeting moment I was part of what they are now calling 'the nation’s the most closely
contested and historic presidential races ever'.
It was deeply satisfying, that.
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|  | Currently Watching
Quills
By Michael Caine, Patrick Malahide, Pauline McLynn, Billie Whitelaw, Geoffrey Rush
see related |
When I was younger, I had the habit of waking up in the middle of the night to relieve myself in the toilet. On those nights, I'd be surprised to see flashing lights and images in the living room. It was my dad, who had waited until the house was asleep to watch his R-rated films. He was wearing headphones, and didn't hear me creep across the hallway to take a peek. I think I saw my first sex scene right there, hidden in the shadows behind the pillar. A priest making love on the alter of a church. There was something terribly wrong about the scene, but in my naivete I couldn't pinpoint what it was. ========= The nameless movie had always eluded and enticed me. I wanted desperately to watch it from beginning to end. The scene could have easily been vulgar, but the play of emotions across the man's face was enough to bring tears to the viewer's eyes. It was a look of adoration and heartbreak. I finally found it over the weekend, while rummaging through my dad's DVD collection. Quills, directed by Philip Kaufman, and superbly acted by Geoffrey Rush, Michael Caine, Kate Winslet and Joaquin Phoenix. I approached with mischievous skepticism, thinking it to be a mindless, lust-laden movie dressed in artistry. Was I wrong! It is easily one of the most soul-shattering movies I've seen. This is no Ang-Lee movie. None of the elusive glances and unspoken lines. Quills was gory, brash, in-your-face. And I reveled in every minute of it. It raises as many questions as it answers. And it shook me profoundly. I finished the movie feeling terribly hollow, shaken by something that I couldn't name. I want to discuss this movie with someone so badly. But of the people I've asked, none seems to have seen it. Anyone? I have so many questions. Anyone out there? (Though I'm not counting on it, lazy blogger that I am.)
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| I'm having difficulty in adapting to this new self that I have forged for myself. So unused to thinking rationally, instead of instinctively. At tutorials in secondary school I used to be the first one to speak. Two years on, I am the last, if not at all.
I am terrified of asserting what I think, lest I reveal my inner lacking.
I used to think, I can't be the emotive/instinctive thinker anymore, I have to think rationally. That is what society, and especially my future profession, needs. I have to thrust myself in this new world so that I can learn from others, can strengthen myself.
Now I'm starting to realize that, if I keep on forcing myself to do something that I have no talent in, doesn't that doom me to a life of mediocrity?
(I am talking about choosing politics as my second major, of course.)
Anyway, enough of the whining, I have to get on with my essays.
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The F key in my keyboard is getting more unresponsive by the day.
It is very annoying. I have to bang at the key to get the letter out. Perhaps I should just skip it, studies have shown that the human cognition is capable of recognizing words even if the letters are rearranged anyway.
riends say it's the un ortunate result o typing a certain word too o ten. 
Come now, am I that sadistic?
Anyway, a photo that broke the general doom o things or me, a bit:
The caption was, Can I have the Frappachino instead PLEASE?
Precious little darling.
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| The Sartorialist is in Hong Kong! My favourite blogger is here!
The Sart working it in LKF, courtesy of http://thesartorialist.blogspot.com/
Excited. Wonder what quirky style mavens he will unearth among the ruckus of MK fashion?
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