Untold Tales and Starbucks Coffee

The Novice Cook (Part I)

2009-06-01T14:06:00.000+10:00

[Disclaimer: I realise such entry is laughable at most, given the content is not the confessions of a scorned soul or a broody poet. These days it is a better pursuit for me to find some peace in trivial, happy and optimistic things rather than to contemplate on philosophy. On another note, where does one position the disclaimers?]

The (one and only) joy of being a recent unemployed graduate is the ample time in which to do 'stuff', learn new 'stuff' and think of every possible way to pass the time other than wallowing in self-failure and grief. Years back, free time would be spent on aG, which these days is not the option. It usually takes around 30 minutes (only) to read through every single new posts from the time I last logged on .. which I, like a loser, do. Reading posts about Musicians and their turmoil, Football fans and their utterly idiotic (to me) loyalty, Brazilian waxing, the odd 'shuta-krimi' and not to mention the rights of every minority on this planet.

So I turn to Foodie Blogs. I'm almost tempted to put up a wiki-link on the definition, but I think I'll refrain. I perhaps jumped in the wagon very late, because .. well blogs are just not cool any more, is it? (To my defence, I did join Twitter a few days ago and yet to fully milk all its worth) .. I'll post some of my favourite Foodies at the end of this post. Foodies are generally evil because I find myself constantly thinking about food like a boy who just hit puberty and all their thoughts revolve around sex. I also find myself looking at Food-Photography for hours and hours and take great pleasure in it (I believe the term is coined Food-Porn). I have started watching Hell's Kitchen every Tuesday night religiously (shameful?). Last of all, I find that my own home-food no longer satisfies my palate. Hence one day, I woke up and thought to myself, to hell with the world, I'm going to learn to cook! Currently, the way our household works is that some days, I'll bring home a bunch of ingredients NOT suitable for the curry but the likes of Italian or the odd Moroccan. It really helps when I also have a dietician (because I have been found to be officially under-weight with high cholesterol!) so as to justify (without telling the over-sensitive mother that I can't stand the home-food) the need for me to cook separately some days. Two incredibly negative things have resulted in this new way of life - increased food wastage (because I still can't get the hang and feel of what's under-cooked, cooked and over-cooked among many other reasons) and I find that the mother's kitchen itself is incredibly insufficient for my needs (we only have two knives and no knife sharpener or a casserole dish or a proper baking dish .. the list is pretty long and it would cost me an arm and leg to actually update the amount of utensils .. so for now, I compromise and compromise heavily).

My partner in crime in no other than the sibling who, surprisingly is more competent in the kitchen. So she usually judges when 'stuff' is cooked. I usually chop 'stuff' and read the instruction out aloud .. which no way is the ideal situation, if I were to actually learn the culinary art. I've attempted to cook pasta for yonks (sp?) and only managed two occasions where it was perfect (i.e. to my liking). The lamb cutlets I make, however, are almost there in terms of .. you know ..

So I lack the basics.

However, with all the time in the world at my disposal, I did browse through the library and found the perfect book! I was flipping through it today .. and yes .. it is the perfect book for beginners! That made me happy and these days I'm hardly ever happy. It's called 'The First-Time Cook' by Sophie Grigson and .. well .. maybe I will review it one day. (Speaking of which, I'm yet to review two of Murakami books and that is depressing). It tells me how to chop 'stuff', cook 'stuff', shop for 'stuff', store 'stuff' and what 'stuff' to have in a kitchen (the fact that you need at least four knives minimum and they must not be cheap).

Something else I use is the Video-Jug web-site and I love it. I learned to 'Roast the Perfect Potatoes' !

On a side note: This the way to 'Hide an Unwanted Erection' for anyone who it might apply to. You can also learn how to 'French Kiss', 'Undo your partner's Bra with one hand' and my personal favourite 'How to make your breasts look bigger'.

I'll end this long and boring entry with the link to one of my favourite Foodie-Blog.

All I need now is a motto to cook by.

Veronika Decides to Die

2009-03-22T13:33:00.002+11:00

I must confess - I tend to like pretty much anything from trashy Mills&Boon to pretentious Salman Rushdie/Dostoevsky. Anything at all, as long as it leaves me feeling it was worth the read or if it touches a special chord somewhere within (mostly the heart, but I suppose the nether-regions for selected Mills&Boons). The point I'm trying to make is .. an author need not put a great deal of effort for me to like their books.

Enter Paulo Coelho. I absolutely hate this guy. Late last year, I had the privilege of reading 'Veronika Decides to Die' courtesy of a friend who loves him and sent me this book via air-mail (all the way from NZ) and I hated it. How this guy is a millionaire (or is Coelho a billionaire? The Internet is capped, so I'm not able to check on Google either) is beyond my comprehension. No, I take it back .. I think I know exactly why this guy is a freaking billionaire. Here starteth my review (of the book).

A Brief Synopsis:

Young girl who has everything going well for her decides to end her life but finds herself stranded in a mental hospital (or something like that) alive and kicking. Girl is told she has five days (more or less) until her heart stops beating. Girl realises value of life (and wants to live with a renewed energy) and the readers realise it was all a lie - the girl was used as an experiment whereupon she was lied to and told she only had a few days to live, so that when that anticipated death does not occur her life force will be renewed and she will continue to live her life believing it was a miracle gifted by god and it was her destiny to .. live (with another fellow depressed Prince living in the asylum .. in front of whom she masturbates thrice climaxing all three times).

[I think I would watch the movie (yes! they are making a movie out of this book starring Sarah Michelle Geller) just for the masturbating scene .. should it be allowed on screen].

What I found this book to be is nothing but a preachy-know-it-all-snobbery of a novel where the author spends all his time preaching (worse than your average organised religion folks) and preaching and preaching - how life should be, why it should be so. I might as well have picked up the Quran and read that instead. Coelho is simply more of a Pope than an author. The book felt like a pretentious crap that shoved its 'life ideal and philosophies' down my throat until I choked and spat out in disgust.

I don't pretend to understand life's blacks and whites or even the greys and neither should a literary work. I've grown accustomed to the simple fact that books are there to enlighten you and make you think .. it is not a self help guide where all the answers are churned out. So when an author comes in to establish that he knows it all, that he is the Messiah who has all the answers is nothing but an insult to .. well I don't know exactly what .. but I was furious.

Of course I understand why Coelho is popular. People are brainless morons or one in the making. The laziness takes hold and fuck all that spending time thinking about a book .. let's all read crap that already provides easy philosophies and easy answers to life .. Oh Coelho, you are the greatest, please do all the thinking for me and write more of those crap you call literary works and in turn, I shall contribute just a little bit more to your Billions.

The Graduate Part I

2009-02-19T14:56:00.003+11:00

Merry Christmas .. Happy New Year .. Happy Valentines Day .. Happy St. Patrick's Day .. and every happy-fucking-holidays I have missed.

On the eve of handing in my very last Undergraduate report, I am incredibly distressed. Four years of doing absolutely nothing has done wonders for the prospect of future employment. I am hormonal, pubertal and mono-pausal all at the same time browsing through five different job-alerts everyday (approximately 150 job listings a day) and finding abso-fucking-outely nothing. The vast amount of disappointment is of course accompanied by non-functional advise from various people in my life and they just do not know when to shut the hell up. Let us not forget Facebook, who keeps alerting me when my cousin's brother's father's niece has landed that marvellous dream job at the age of eighteen or the many photographic (approximately hundreds, but who keeps a count) evidence of new-entrant office parties and various keg-meets after-work. The realisation that you're degree sucks is not a happy thought and it sucks even more when the mother exclaims, 'I give you permission to start yet another undergraduate degree ' like I really fucking give a shit about what you permit and do not permit your fully-grown-should-be-having-kids-if-living-in-ancient-times-daughter to do. Let us not forget the stories of how your father and mother also had a rough and slow career start, only to move onto comments on how you are just not fast enough to land one yourself.

Is it then a wonder why all I want to do is run the fuck away to Zimbabwe and start my own personal civil war in the heart of Africa? (Actually, I don't know where the heart of Africa is .. surely it's Zimbabwe?)

I am a graduate afterall.

Dance, Dance, Dance

2008-10-09T23:50:00.002+11:00

I'm not entirely sure why I'm so so so in love with Murakami. He is not the greatest writer this era has to offer. I've read (just about) enough literature to know that. Murakami doesn't really use hard vocabulary (that I gather from the translations, as I cannot read his works in original Japanese) or even intricate sentence structure. In fact, everything about his books (the ones I've read) are .. just imperfect. Phillip once told me that the more you read his things, the more they would bleed into each other, ie. you'll find yourself reading similar things.

Despite all that, I'm enjoying my Murakami phase every little bit.

The latest book I finished (which took me an awful lot of time) was Dance Dance Dance. Unfortunately, I didn't know there was a prequel to this piece (which after I found out, I bought .. just today in fact. The Murakami books are JUST perfect. The way they look - the cover, the illustration, the back sleeve, the fonts, the way Haruki Murakami is written ..), so .. it's like .. I know how it ends for the un-named narrator without knowing his roots.

It seems stupid to talk about Dance Dance Dance a second time since I'd already talked about it in another blog. But baby, I'm in the mood for writing.

Majority of the reading had been spent on buses to and from work and uni. Also, the Botanical Gardens along with a few Kent-Blues. No, I don't really smoke .. it was just one of those things. Start of Spring, sun-baking in a park with gorgeous views, Murakami and cigarettes. One day, I would like to get an apartment right in front of the bridge, the opera house and the botanical gardens - spend quiet times with a book and a glass of red wine. (Mmm .. I seem to really love red wine too .. a new acquired thing .. must have been that cheese and wine night thing at Sydney Uni. As I say, all I dream of is a soul mate and red wine). I fall in love with Sydney everytime I venture out to Circular Quay.

The Review:

It didn't occur to me for a long time that the narrator's name was never revealed. So, I'm guessing that I was really really sucked into the book. Which is odd because I don't ever recall reading a huge chunk in one sitting. I took my time with it .. like how you would with wine (maybe that's why I can't do straight shots .. so much of life still unlived and I'm turning twenty-two next week .. it's depressing). The plot wasn't exactly this intricate maze of ... maze .. but the unravelling .. was just so incredibly sexy (which is true for most of his novels in-my-humble-opinion). I remember reading Kafka on the Shore and thinking how much it reminded me of the whole Moroccan slow cooking thing .. well .. not the best analogy .. but one of my greatest love happens to be couscous and Moroccan food (and Moroccan tea and their traditional tea-cups .. speaking of tea, I must blog about T-2 one day).

I'm doubtful whether the book had a happy ending. Though it's implied that he .. unknots his life and gets back into the wheel of life, somehow I didn't buy it. Or I didn't want to believe it. Dance Dance Dance was definitely not as .. trippy as Kafka. I always wonder about the grubby pubs in Japan, whether they really play La Boheme and Bach like Murakami always implies. (Which is why I'll be heading to Japan end of next year, given a few financial kinks and life-difficulties somehow work out). Behind all the pretentious references to things I consider cool .. there is never any deep philosophical pretention that I find absolutely unbearable .. adding to the list of things I love about Murakami's books.

.. I've just realised how incredibly attractive Robert Downey Jr is.

.. And I end here.

dot-dot-dot

2008-07-12T15:19:00.003+10:00

I'm depressed.

The problem is I can't tell anyone why I'm depressed and as simple as the reason might be, it's a little bit more complicated than just the lack of sunlight.

Alone once again. Where the hell are all my friends? Could I even tell them though.

iFall

2008-06-23T12:10:00.001+10:00

Yay. Update. Last exam tomorrow. I have a neck pain.

Mmm .. I'll be back.

Silly Things, Shallow Things, Unimportant Things and Facebook

2008-04-06T20:22:00.003+10:00

Today is one of those restless days. Oestrogen level is up causing a hormonal imbalance and I'm depressed about my future home. Or the lack of it. It's not that I'm particularly 'domesticated' person- the last thing I would be sad about is not ever having a place I can decorate in my way, but here it is. It's all in my evolutionary make-up unfortunately, being a female (and such a wonderful one too!) and all. I'm feeling the need for my own nest and the sort of future domestic path I've chosen doesn't allow me to acquire a 'humble abode' of my own (I do however, get a room .. which I have the fortune of sharing with someone else .. a bit like the days I used to share a room with my sibling).

Women are stupid. Their genetic make-up is near bull-shit and evolution fucked us over! I've known some (myself included) to hit a special hormone at some random time and wanting to experience mother-hood right there and then, dreaming up the unborn babies features and etc. God knows, it's the same with having a house some day in the suburbs with a huge front garden with blooming bed of roses and what have you (.. I believe that is the American Dream). Sometimes I wish I didn't have to move in with my future in-laws - not because I'm a bitch and never get along with people in general, but because it'll never be mine. I can't change the stupid curtains or the sofa without considering other people's feelings. I can't invite and entertain people the way I might want without considering whether other people will be offended. The only place on Earth where there is no question of compromise is the very place I shall never have. Then again, I've had plenty of practice living with my own folks .. even then when I was free to choose my stupid curtain I never did. What the fuck? When I dream an alternate life like one of those Sex-in-the-City ladies (thanks to my vivid imagination, I live in a fucking dream-world of alternate realities which I play with when I'm bored/depressed/all the time) I still can't imagine a 'home'-home. I imagine a mattress and a bath tub (not in the same room)!

About a year and a bit ago, when my friend was preparing for her domestic life (in-laws still but an out house thing in the backyard) I remember her picking out furnitures - bed, sofa and .. other things. She was quite stressed because she couldn't decide between the black leather or the chocolate leather. When my other friend finally moved with her family to a bigger place (which she paid half for it .. something that's an astronomical achievement for someone her age) she too spent countless weekends with her better half and mother shopping for the bed, the stupid sofa, the stupid lamp, the stupid side table .. the stupid everything. Now, I see my own parents do the same with our lounge room- re-doing the furnitures to match the stupid TV. The conclusion is, I have never wanted a stupid life where I spend even a moment's thought about personifying a stupid room let alone a stupid house. I've played with stupid cooking sets but I've never played with Baribie dolls and stupid doll houses. The only time I've thought about all that 'make your house a home' bullshit was when I was considering a career path in Interior Decorating because I would/could choose/manipulate other people's choice and of course the money (.. then again which career path haven't I considered under the stars with the exception of prostitution because I don't have an amazing body or could handle a lot of men/women sexually).

Then why does my hormones betray me now? I feel like a low-lifer with a common 'girly' dream.

I also hate Facebook because this seems to be the only way I know what my uncle has been up to with his life lately. We live just 5 minutes away, yet our relationship is no more. This is worse than being cheated on by a significant other (which he/she is bound to do anyway).

Just so very restless.

Kafka on the Shore - a review?

2008-03-19T23:49:00.003+11:00

It took three years to join the bandwagon and read Kafka on the Shore. It took even longer to get started on Mr. Murakami. Apparently, he has been 'the-in-thing' for a while now. I discovered him around six months ago, and finally read his stuff four weeks ago (and finished Kafka on the Shore two days ago). Despite the fact that the book is very much sexually charged (which in turn has made me feel sexually depressed - not the best of feelings one can have), it was .. a good read. Here is my take on it (not that anyone cares post-hype).

When a book is translated (in this case from Japanese), you have to wonder how true to the original was the translation. Did the author really mean to be so crude when he referred to the protagonists' privates as his 'cock' or did he actually mean 'penis'. Structurally, there is a huge difference between the two words- the mood, the vibe changes quite dramatically depending on which word you choose. That's something I will never know unless I became fluent in Japanese and read the actual version. (In fact, the sibling is becoming fluent in Japanese, and I have a feeling that this is actually pushing out all the algebra out of her brain - it happens!).

Mr. Murakami is well-read and you don't need to Wikipedia to tell you that. Yes, I know everyone has heard of the Oedipus Complex and everyone has their own take on Freud and almost everyone is street-smart about their German Philosopher Nietzsche - which makes this book so wonderfully readable. Thanks largely to contemporary literature era it's alright to make constant references to other diverse (and sometimes pretentious) fields. Murakami tells us about his take on Bach, Beethoven, Schumann, the Greek tragedies - almost every page has his interpretation on .. something someone else has done and said. I Googled (Google has come so far that we've turned it into a verb - that is true accomplishment!) Murakami, and this is precisely why people (critics, general public) love him and why I'm a few inches short of loving him.

I have to admit it's a great literary tool, something I automatically do in my own .. dabble into words. I realise how pretentious I sound.

I've written nothing about the book so far and dare call this a review? This is where critics come in handy- they always have just the right words. To put it in plain words .. I've read very few books where the progression and 'unraveling' has been handled so delicately well. It would be wonderful (I assume) to make love to Kafka.. no, actually it would be wonderful to have him dream that he is making love to me (but we won't go into any details on how he rapes his sister in his dreams).

The Boy Named Crow!

2008-03-17T17:36:00.003+11:00

Happy New Year!

The new year didn't start with a bang .. as usual. The new year didn't bring any sweet promises of love, lust and happiness .. as usual. There were no Y2K bug to look forward to (perhaps Z3L bug?). Legend has it, that on the eve of the new year, whatever one ends up doing last, will be what one's life will be filled with the rest of the new year. So I purposely went to watch the fireworks with the sibling and our uncle-aunt's soon-to-be-proper family. Let's hope that the rest of 2008 is filled with sitting around under the scorching sun for hours followed by fireworks .. and of course, tuna filling between whole-meal breads.

I promised myself that I would write. Since this promise doesn't come with any consequences for breaking the promise, I think I'm fine!

Just updating because I'm bored. Updates on life in general:

- The parents own a huge 46 inch Bravia LCD TV with a wicked 5-speaker surround system as of last month and it is on ALL the freaking time and it's loud.
- I'm still at university STILL finishing off a Bachelors' Degree in a subject I shall have no use for in the future.
- The new hair-cut is awfully similar to when I was 12 years old- decreasing my perceptual age from 15 to 10.

Strung Together

2007-12-12T01:53:00.000+11:00

I wish I was articulate. I wish I wasn't pretentious. I wish I didn't sound like an emo-teen off the steps of Town Hall. But some things don't change.

I don't think I've ever had a vacation. A vacation is 'term used in English-speaking North America to describe a lengthy time away from work or school, a trip abroad, or simply a pleasure trip away from home, such as a trip to the beach that lasts several days or longer.' No, that's not true. If we go by this definition I've been on plenty of vacation - unsatisfying, boring, unenlightening and downright shitty excuse for a vacation.

Oh .. but think of those poor souls who can't even make ends meet!

Amil loves to travel. Amil loves vacations. Amil has been to similar vacation spots as I have, but the difference is Amil has found the key to enjoy even the most exhausting of events- events that cause a lot of distress in me, she has found to make the best of those. I envy those people. They are happy with what they have- they are among those rare people I hate (check out the number of 'they's in that sentence- that is hideous writing). Amil and I spent a whole afternoon getting drenched in the 'summer rain' on their roof top discussing prostitutes in some notorious street in Dhaka (because I was depressed, because in Dhaka, a little rain ruins things- ruins romance, ruins love, ruins mood, ruins everything. Dhaka (along with this house) might just be the only city in the world where I am depressed when I am alone. I really should visit other cities).

My grandfather ran away when he was in his twenties. He ran away and joined a .. religious sect .. to evade marriage. I think my grandmother is his soul mate- not because they had been together forever (until his death)- but because of something else. Something that makes for a great story-telling. A story for another day. I like to think that my genetic makeup is almost identical to Naana- we are/were (?) both left wing (I'm a more modern version I suppose), our religious view is .. fucked up, we were never really good at algebra or any mathematics other than Statistics and basic operations, we both love history, he worked in a bank and I might one day work at a financial institute, we hate social interactions that involve pretend play (but I'm smarter to know that I must do it- learn from your elders, they say). He died eleven days before my 20th. To write his story is to write a worthwhile story.

But isn't everyone's story worthwhile to some degree?

I think I'll sleep now. It's hard to wait for someone. It's even harder to know that there is no one waiting. Grandfather never wanted to see the world though. He had his own place I suppose.

Pins & Needles!

2007-11-17T00:02:00.000+11:00

It just doesn't get any better than this.
Fiona Apple ~ I Want You (Elvis Costello cover).

Lyrics

Alter-Emo!

2007-11-11T16:48:00.000+11:00

Twenty Reasons for Depression:

20. I am a total loser
19. I haven't read a book for a long time
18. Everything is always about others
17. Whining and complaining
16. No one to whine and complain to
15. Have heard nothing from Gavin for six months
14. One glass of wine doesn't have the same effect it used to
13. I am unattractive, unsexy and ugly
12. The amount of energy and work into earning (a few) dollars
11. Summer will be here
10. Turning twenty-one
9. Urge to leave home, yet not able to
8. No sex
7. Future is bleak .. be it academic or general love and life
6. Can not write that thing I've been meaning to
5. Loved one's apparent relationship failure (again)
4. I have never had a date for any of my formals
3. Nothing means anything
2. Parents going overseas while I get to water their garden
1. Final exams are here, another unproductive semester and lack of hard-core studying

Fifteen DVD's I'd Like to Own:

15. Sangharsh
14. Khamoshi
13. 100 Days
12. Just Shoot Me (all the seasons)
11. Je T'aime Paris
10. Chuti-r Ghonta
9. Cruel Intentions
8. Beauty and The Beast
7. Manhattan
6. Breakfast at Tiffany's
5. Casablanca
4. Buffy (all the seasons)
3. Love Actually
2. Before Sunset
1. Pan's Labyrinth

Ten Muse Songs I Love:

10. Hysteria
9. Sing for Absolution
8. Cave
7. Sunburn
6. Butterflies and Hurricanes
5. Supermassive Black Hole
4. Map of Problematique
3. Time is Running Out
2. Starlight
1. Endlessly

Five People I'd 'Screw'/Have Sex:

5. John Abraham
4. Sean Connery
3. Dracula (more specifically Gary Oldman)
2. Spike (more specifically James Marsters)
1. Daniel Craig

Three Songs I Wish was Sung To Me:

3. You and Me - Wannadies
2. So Happy Together - The Turtles
1. Ain't No Sunshine - Bill Withers

Simple Things!

2007-11-09T23:51:00.000+11:00

My forefathers knew how to make things simple. My forefathers also made an effort to make their next generation make things simple. Somewhere along this 'making-things-simple' continuum things went horribly wrong. Now I find it difficult to make things simple and even worse, I strive to make things difficult and at times take immense pleasure from it.

I had a dream where a boy held me close and moved even closer to kiss me, only to move away the next minute. That felt lonely when I woke up.

Food helps though. Depression hits the hardest when one is hungry.

Maybe it's time to rummage through the fridge.

Three more to go. Three more exams .. and then what?

Eid, Birthday & a Disclaimer on the Side!

2007-10-20T11:48:00.000+10:00

Ironically, it's always during Eid that the dividing nature of the religion is most evident. Yes .. the lunar calendar should take a portion of the blame and not to mention the geographical and time difference/distribution and all that technical things I don't quite understand .. despite all that ultimately Eid has never been a pleasant one in Sydney (or any 'melting pot' regions).

This time it was different. The moon sighting had for once been based on Sydney sighting (as opposed to all Lebanese followers following their home town day, Arabs following the Saudi time, Pakistanis/Bangladesh/India following their country's Eid day .. and I think everyone gets the point). So anyway, this time it was different .. ALL of Sydney celebrated Eid on the same day- the day after moon sighting night ('chaand raat' as most would put it .. how retarded!).

I have to admit, I've had a pretty good Eid this year, very different to last years' - horrible is the word as my grandfather passed away a few weeks beforehand and we were gloomy and my mother was depressed. Plus Eid was on a Saturday, which meant the weekend was spent on celebrations (nothing fancy .. visiting houses with potential men my mother could call her Son-in-law). I did hate the fact that my 21st (.. yes .. I can officially drink in every country in this world .. even countries that forbid alcohol thanks to my blue passport) was the very next day and .. well I wasn't going for anything big anyway .. that's another story of course.

It's terrible turning 21, because all of a sudden my parents (well .. not so sudden .. but just to add the drama to the story) realised that I need sex in the next two/three years (in fact some people including myself would suggest that I needed sex a long-long time ago) and insisted that the whole family tag along house-to-house eating food - the normal ritual for most families during Eid (unless you haven't got a family or have outgrown all that .. in fact a lot of friends my age have abandoned their parents a long time ago in such rituals). Now, it might just be paranoia, but everytime we went to someone's house where they had a son available for marriage (either now or a few years down the track) my mother would very conveniently tell them what I'm studying and after establishing that I am indeed the older daughter of the family, she would also mention the actual reason my sibling is taller than I am ('she's the younger one .. just hit a growth spurt you see'). It's all good though .. I'm a great advocator of arranged marriages (see my new segment .. 'The Advocator Presents: coming very soon .. or never), so it's easy for me to digest such mental torture and abuse. So that was Eid. Oh and if this one (hijabi) lady was to become my mother-in-law, despite being shut off from the male society she makes the most wonderful home-made-mishty worth forgoing male contact (errm .. maybe not).

Now onto my 21st. I had thought up things for my 16th, my 18th but never for my 21st. I might have actually turned 21 when I turned 16. This time I was actually waiting for a midnight-first-wish type phone call, which of course never came (really, they say with age you become wiser .. something yet to happen in my life). My most probable soul-mate best friend did SMS (three minutes late, which she justified saying .. 'that's because you were born at 12:03 AM'). By four o'clock that night/morning I was way too depressed- either from turning 21 or just because it's very fashionable to become depressed and later boast about it in blogs and etc. I did get a cake which I chose myself .. sad but true (not as sad as paying for your own cake though.. thanks to the father who made the day even more depressing than it already was). The only highlight of the day was when Farah came over and we chatted for hours and hours about nothing in particular- I don't think the concept of unrequited soul mate exists- but I'm 89% sure that she is my soul mate. (On another note .. I've finally figured out the definition for soul mates .. thanks to Sternberg and his 'Triangular Theory of Love').

I don't think I have the energy to type any longer.

Look out for something special (and overly mediocre as usual) in the next entry.

Pinhole Camera!

2007-10-08T22:57:00.000+10:00

(Did I use this title before?)

I found the concept to be quite amazing and it works (unlike so many things in this world). It's a basic tin can with a lid (think Milo tins or Red Cow powder milk tins) with a very small hole drilled on the circular surface. All that needs to be done then, is to put a photography paper in the tin (done in the dark room, shiny side facing the tiny hole, shut the lid tight), cover the hole completely with masking tape or similar .. and that's that - you have a pinhole camera. On a bright sunny day (the kind I'm missing right now after a winter that arrived way too early and still lingers) the pinhole is taken outside and placed in front 'something' - leveled with the tin-hole. The tape (or similar) is stripped off and the paper inside is exposed (the time I can't remember- somewhere between 10 seconds to 15 or else the paper is burnt charcoal once processed) and tape is put back. Once in the dark room the paper is taken out. The developing process for pre-historic (surely, this is the age of Photoshop and other manipulations. A bit like the movement towards capitalism) black & white photography is quite messy (but fun, sort of like making your own shelf without the IKEA cut-out pieces- end result isn't certain .. then again, at our house, the end result of an IKEA DIY anything never has a happy ending)- Developer, Stop, Fixer, Water .. (Steps!) Happy times with chemicals! Nearly six months of photography classes (forty minutes a week as an elective in High School) was enough for me to realise that like many things this was not my forte.

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club has a tendency to use a lot of second person in their lyrics ('So how's it going to feel/When you don't know what is real/You tell yourself it's love, and tear yourself apart'). I say that because I've never actually read a book concentrating heavily on second person perspective (and those 'Choose Your Own Adventure' books do not count) and always wondered what it could be like ... but then again, one could utilise everything to get as many perspectives they can squeeze in. For some reason, I can't get my second person usage to sound sophisticated. Here's one I prepared earlier:

You uttered those words in midst of Just like Heaven and for a moment I questioned how sober you really were. It was the perfect notion of the modern day love most boys and girls clung to at the time. I was pro-choice while you were an anti-abortionist. You hated my carefree ways and I never liked your shoes. I termed us incompatible and you thought we were complements.

"But we loved each other" ... and that was the one common denominator we could both offer.

(Two star crossed lovers with nothing in common. Sir William did indeed make the right decision. Star crossed lovers poisoned; presumed dead in each other's arms: Short life span is what makes a love so grand)

We fought over movies (Incest or not Old Boy was still a brilliant portrayal of revenge), books and sports, always leading to making love and we would cuddle longer than most (the average being anywhere between 5 to 20 seconds). You never did remember my birth date (though you still remembered you previous lovers') and at times I resented the fact that there were no songs for me (or was there?).

You uttered those dreaded words in midst of Summer Skin and for a moment I was sure it was a very cruel joke. It was the perfect end to the modern tale of love- boredom and a betrayal on the side. I was exhausted while you looked worse for wear. You hated my neglecting ways and I never liked your tone. I termed us incompetent and you thought we were stale.

"So here's a toast to our dying love" … and that was the one common denominator we could both offer.

Ironic!

2007-09-13T00:28:00.000+10:00

The hardest word to explain in the English language is probably 'irony'. It took me a good two-three years to completely grasp what it meant, before I could look at a situation and mutter in my head - 'now that's irony'. It's even harder to explain it to someone else. It's like .. you either understand it or you don't. I remember our teachers would always try to explain but we'd never get it. Then one day it just comes to you. So now when I see a really fat guy getting off the bus wearing a 'eat-lots-of-Krispy-Kreme-donuts' (because he works there), my mind yells - 'how ironic'. (Please don't anyone tell me that .. what I've just said is not an irony at all .. it is something else .. it'll shatter my .. hope of finally realising what an irony is).

Family Guy has an amazing way of saying things that I myself would like to say sometimes. Over the years this 21 year old brain has pretty much become a politically correct little head and I don't remember a time I've not hesitated (or ended up saying) before saying something like - ' Oh, that is so lame. Every hot girl who can aim a camera thinks she's a photographer. Ooooh, you took a black and white picture of a lawn chair and it's shadow and developed in savon. You must be so brooding and deep!' You have just got to love Stewie. Feel free to put that line into any other context you can think of.

I am (like many women/girl/female/perhaps both gender) attracted to 'taken' men these days (actually .. always) and it's terrible because the attraction/crush/however I term it, increases ten folds upon learning that he has a girlfriend- either serious or just dating. My recent crush shares the same last name as I (or is it me? I hate trying to be grammatically correct, only to fail miserably) and he's not cute .. but funny .. not as witty as I am (I can charm the pants off people if I want with my wit .. which I find hard to believe myself sometimes) and today after learning that he hasn't shaved for days and days because "she doesn't like how it feels the day after I shave, which means I have to shave every single day and since I'm very lazy, I've decided to not shave and bring a beard-ly state that'd feel smooth to touch", I think I have developed a serious crush that was absent even thirty minutes prior to this revelation that he is newly dating.

Do all women then complain about their partner's facial hair and how it should be groomed? To think that men actually listen .. is .. quite .. a surprise (since I hold on to the belief that all men are egotistical jerks who would beat their women if they could had it not been for all these laws that are present in the Western social system. In the Eastern society, I imagine women are beaten up by their partners all the time with belts and forced intercourse- which hurts believe it or not!).

Flirtation is confidence and to those who would like to improve on flirtation- I suggest getting in a relationship. Trust me, it does wonders.

And there endth my utterly useless entry about nothing in particular.

Beauty in Breakdown!

2007-09-09T01:34:00.000+10:00

There is always THE ONE ..
THE ONE ring to rule them all .. THE ONE to make a person whole .. THE ONE song a person would take to their grave ..
I'm searching for THE ONE song.

The last time I've written a poem was on August 7th 2004, originally intended for a birthday gift later served as a .. well .. sort of a symbolic ritual where I could .. enter afterlife .. symbolically speaking.

I have a tendency to dig up yesteryears when I'm depressed. The higher the degree of depression, the deeper I dig. I dig and I dig and I dig. I dig until I'm five years old and all I wanted was to assemble one tall building to another tall building until there would be millions and millions tall buildings on top of each other, making it easier to touch the sky that can't be touched. Of course, the sky doesn't really exist- it's a blanket of gas the light bounces off.

.. And the last poem I had written was in fact in early 2005- a poor attempt at a Bangla version (loosely) of 'Love song of Alfred Prufrock' - possibly one of the best poems I've read. Sometimes I wonder if T.S. Eliot was THE ONE for me.

I'm not very cultured or very well read. It shows when I talk about things I love. I don't love a lot of things because I don't know a great deal there is to know. I don't know what to love. I might actually be too self absorbed to love anything as much as I love myself. Is it a wonder then that I love writing in first person?

My sibling is going through what I go through everyday. She is crushing on an year 11 boy on her bus and she stalks him home everyday. Everyone on the said bus including the one being crushed on is well aware of my sibling's crush and .. frankly, I never could keep my crushes discreet. Like sister, like sister? (similar to .. like father and son? What's that expression?). She (the sibling) be a late bloomer though- I started stalking boys home at the age of thirteen.

I will finish that story I was writing.

Blues and Greens !

2007-09-06T00:12:00.000+10:00

' You drove me, nearly drove me out of my head
While you never shed a tear
Remember, I remember all that you said
Told me love was too plebeian
Told me you were through with me and
Now you say you love me
Well, just to prove you do
Come on and cry me a river, cry me a river
I cried a river over you '

- Julie London ~ Cry me a river

It's just one of those moods ..

Funk, Trunk and Junk?

2007-08-30T10:43:00.000+10:00

Over time I've grown accustomed to saving up various garbage we like to call 'memory'. Bus passes, movie tickets, old exercise books, old text books etc.etc. It's kind of genetic (which is the recent and popular excuse for many things these days - obese and don't want to exercise, well you must have a fat gene. Psychopathic- well it was just in your gene to be evil. I guess this is a moving away from 'you-have-a-choice' trend we used to have months before)- A middle class inherited trait I think. The thing where you save up every last piece of everything in the hope that someday they will come in use. They never do and usually I end up buying new ones at the time of need anyway (hence why we tend to have around 2/3 dozens of unused Christmas cards, 2/3 dozens of unused pens bought from $2 shops and lots and lots of mouse pads.

I have old birthday cards dated back to 1996 and I don't have the heart to throw them out. I have also kept some things from an ex-lover of two months and don't have the heart (rather the time and the motivation) to throw them out. The contents of my 'memory-drawer' is the ideal place for someone to procrastinate and that's what usually happens during the examinations. Oh well .. maybe it's time to throw some out. The big question I was faced with during the Dhaka-vacation was what to do with ex-lover's stuff we sometimes/usually/often hold onto. I couldn't answer due to lack of substantial experience. I suggested burning- dramatic but effective nevertheless. Why shouldn't we make a ritual (consisting of fire) out of the fact that we've moved on.

The newfound policy should be (for everyone) to not store anything more than a year. So throw out those love letters and poems and cards and the teddy bear!

Muse!

2007-08-16T15:07:00.000+10:00

No, I'm not here to talk about Matt Bellamy's hotness or how much I love this band or how good they are in everything they do.

This can be thought of as a time pass thing that I do when I skip university.

I've been given and giving a lot of career advise lately and the more I think about it, the more I realise that I have absolutely no quantifiable achievement that I can possibly put down in my resume. I don't have a single High distinction in my transcript, I don't have any awards or the likes .. basically I have nothing except that I'm nice to people, which believe me does not help in any way.

Enough of that ..

'Any goddess that looks over any form of art is a muse' according to dictionary.com and the ancient Greeks. The first time I came across this term was in a book where a horror-writer finds out that her muse is a hideous, ugly and sexually perverted being and wanted a large portion of her earnings .. pretty cool. Christopher Pike had been the 'thing' during my early teens; but it was R.L. Stein who first introduced (safe) sex in a book- or making love as he'd put it. As if a couple of confused teenagers would know what making love actually means.

Recently, I've come to hate all these -isms we keep coming up with. -isms and -holics.

Anyhow, why are the entries so small in size these days?

.. So hand me the remote!

2007-08-15T01:16:00.000+10:00

I wouldn't say that I'm addicted to Facebook. On the contrary, the Facebook-browsing-rate has greatly gone down (and every sentence I write, I have to wonder whether I've got the grammar correct. It's the stupid other half's MBA examination .. give the rest of us a freaking break) because I hardly write on other people's wall hence no one writes back and hence why I don't have to retaliate. It's a vicious cycle.

If nothing else, Facebook is a real eye-opener, one more push and shove to the reality and I hate it. So, well done Facebook, you've done something right.

People everywhere is the same, once you've caught up with them after a while. They all have this snooty impression that they've changed for the better or the worst and these people wear it like a false sense of achievement. ' Oh no, I'm no longer the old John/Dick/Harry/Jane you used to know, now I drink expensive cocktails. Oh no! I must have my martini! ' Anyway, I'm not sure what exactly I'm complaining about this time.

In order for me to get the Government's youth allowance, our (the family) accountant has suggested that I pretend to live elsewhere hence have to pay for the rent and the food and is in dire need of some government assistance (the payout is actually shit .. then again, this is Government welfare payment- the taxpayers money putting into .. 'good' use). I declined the offer. I will not fake my address to every institution I have to give out my address to just so I can get $40 extra a week.

Yet I've written nothing about my adventures in Dhaka. I never ever get around to it. Not this time, not the last time, not even the time I was sitting on an old dude's lap who wanted a cow that gives infinite milk. Speaking of cows .. Family Guy has pretty cute laughs on cow and milk and milking cows .. etc. (what the hell am I talking about?)

Did I mention I have a laptop now? The router isn't working properly and around 1 AM every night (just last night and tonight actually) the main computer shuts itself down automatically and on the screen appears what my sister calls 'The Blue Screen of Death'. It's quite scary.

Oh how I hate this time difference between countries!

Happy Birthday (to you)!

2007-08-02T11:02:00.000+10:00

Here's a funny thing I noticed- the best friend's birthday and her boyfriend's birthday are on the same month. The sibling's birthday and her boyfriend's birthday are also on the same month. Needless to say that October has it's share of another couple's birthday. Of course this connection doesn't really mean anything. It doesn't imply that these people are fated to be bound together forever nor does it imply that .. well .. I can't think of any other possible implication of blah blah ..

Did I mention I was depressed?

It's the best friend's birthday and for the first time (or maybe the second time) I forgot to wish her at midnight. Once upon a time, we'd compete to see who would call/SMS the closest time to 12 o'clock. Seeing how we're all so .. old .. (21 is a cursed age, so are the ages 16, 18, 20, 25, 27, 30, 40, 60 and 100) there just isn't that magic anymore (there never was any magic for me) to call and surprise (or not surprise) at midnight, professing how glad we are to have each other as friends for so long. I did SMS her this morning though- after an alert/reminder thing during the 9 AM tutorial. I wished her to live until she's 100 to which she replied- 'as long as you (as in I, Shaolee Zaman) are next to me all those 100 years'. I don't get to see her today due to 1) uni-staying until 6 in the evening and 2) she'd be busy.

I need to buy her a present. Once upon a time, I used to give wicked birthday gifts to people, thanks to my impeccable taste in .. present-giving. That was before (and this is now). The lamest (and the most well thought out) birthday celebration (one-on-one celebration mind you) was so great that to this day I have a hard time thinking up some other way to .. and here is where I lose my train of thought!

Depressed because everyone (well .. nearly everyone) is turning twenty-one and soon I'll be twenty-one and .. it sucks because there is nothing 'fun' to look forward to anymore. Only responsible things like graduation (the later the better?), job (which I don't want .. all I want to do is sleep. Everyday it is becoming more and more clear to me that I'm stuck in the wrong degree and there's no turning back. I just want to lie around in exotic places all year round and meet fun-loving people who also lies around in exotic places all year round), possible marriage (requires finding of someone- the right one) and paying off tuition fees (which is NOT 'interested' but reflective of the inflation rate of the period of paying off).

Throw me a keg-party.

My muse works day and night to inspire. If only I were more .. not lazy (where is the thesaurus when you need it).

The Importance of Making Appointments!

2007-08-01T15:31:00.000+10:00

[No .. this is NOT the promised extravagant 100th post .. I decided to scrap that since the readership never reaches more than two people]

Approximately four hours is how long I waited at the medical centre to get checked up by a practitioner. Of course, let's not blame the busy doctors (five of them on duty in fact) or the receptionists parked on their behind all day long organizing (!) patients to their rightful doctors- I blame myself. How stupid would I have to be to think that I could ever see a doctor without an appointment (which I usually make anyway- so why not this time?).

Turns out that the boils on my feet contracted from Bangladesh (more specifically from Middle Badda) which resemble genital herpes are viral, hence it's merely an waiting game 'till the boils dry up by themselves.

Four hours and I'm back home with having missed breakfast, a three hour lab (where attendance counts to at least 10% of the course), no treatment and a firm believer (and an 'advocator') of appointments. I did however manage to get a doctor's certificate for the past three days for missed classes which could possibly save me from tiny mark deductions.

I have only one thing to say- I miss Dhaka.

Eye Candy!

2007-06-21T13:38:00.000+10:00

Okay, this isn't my 100th post because I've just deleted one to make room for this .. Mmm .. I was procrastinating on YouTube (as usual) and I just had to had to had to post these .. There are two men in this whole wide world I'd like to rip apart and ... stuff .. and one of them is Daniel Craig. I can't believe I disliked him at the beginning (and now I'm just plain obsessed .. damn!)

Anyway ..

.. and some more, very very old interviews:

! Pure Bliss !

Chuvinism & The Indian-subcontinent

2007-06-21T00:35:00.000+10:00

Very recently (just yesterday in fact), I was told by this one individual (Dara - a 26 year old male from Calcutta) to get my anger down or I shall be subjected to his rape. This was left in my comment box 32 times (which I individually cleaned up due to the ample time I have on my hands) :

' I'LL FUCK U 'BRUTALLY'??? so that U'LL GET UR ANGER DOWN!! '

Is it then a wonder why so many women in our rich-cultured-Indian subcontinent (or so the Western tourism tells me everyday) are regularly abused/raped/assaulted as a child, as a teenager and as a wife?

It is natural to blame lack of education for such acts (here in the west, crime of any kind is usually attributed to no education/under education and poverty). But lets not blame poverty for the reason a man would come home and beat/rape his wife, molest his daughters and assault his mother (he is more likely to stab someone and flee with their money as a result of poverty, this author thinks). Lets not blame lack of education/under education for such acts either, because you only need to see this 'Dara' example - who is in fact conventionally educated and holds a decent job APPARENTLY in the science industry and the mentality he holds to nullify that blame. So, what then do you blame for such behaviour?

Frankly, I have no idea. Perhaps 'Dara' can tell us. Perhaps 'Dara' can also tell us exactly why the thought of using sex to dominate over another person's emotions and their expression is so predominant in an Indian-subcontinental male. Perhaps 'Dara' can also answer exactly what kind of education he was given by his parents, his society and his educational institution. Perhaps 'Dara' could also be kind enough to enlighten everyone as to how he treats his family real life (I am assuming that he has a family and a life outside the walls of this Internet) - whether he rapes his wife at nights, molests his cousins and touches his nieces (and nephews - because these mentality people are usually not choosy - as long as they have their feel) inappropriately.

Unfortunately, there are a lot of 'Dara's in this world and what's even more scary is the fact that these 'Dara's roam around in the REAL world touching/molesting/raping/assaulting REAL women. While the 'Dara' in my case study might just be a mere coward in real life wanting to show off his male-dominance on the Internet domain, the real danger is out there - effecting many females all around the globe. It is not very nice to realize in the tenth grade that the things your uncle did to you when your breasts were just budding was in fact sexual abuse and that uncle just happens to be your favourite one- happily married (a subject still debatable) with a daughter of his own.

I am not a preacher. I am not a social critic. I am in fact nothing special. I don't say things that are new or revolutionizing. I merely try to put my observations into context. I am grateful because I have never really had to deal with 'low-life' males such as 'Dara'. I am grateful I have men in my life with whom I can discuss BBC programming, Germaine Greer, the social changes needed in Dhaka, Acoustic Alchemy, the weather etc.etc. I am grateful for all the men I had encountered with in the past- they have taught me a lot and a lot of my habits I've picked up from them (good habits .. not daily masturbation to pornography). It's a shame we have a lot of individuals like 'Dara' who defiles the male reputation and defiles the Indian sub-continent culture.

It is extremely sad and I never thought I would do something like this - but I was forced to enable comment moderation today. I guess it takes all kinds to make this world.

On a very very very happy note .. My 100th post is due soon and I'm planning something special. Not that it matters what I do with my 100th (with a readership reaching a measly four people) but still. Let's hope my spirits are up and of course it'll have to be after the finals. Three more to go, the wait is unbearable.