Hmmm... Yufen did this Aztec Natal hororscope thingey, and asked people in general to do it too.
Although one of the lessons I am supposed to have learnt in life is not to trust such mamby-pamby hororscopes (I have believed in them to ridiculous effects before), or schtupid tests etc. I thought this was interesting:
"Natal Horoscope for 16 Jul 1982
The day is 6 Atl - Water
The sign of Atl is water, symbolising the instability that can result in either flood or drought, which in turn can result in personal hardship.
The presiding deity is Xiuhtecuhtli, the Lord of the Year and Lord of Fire. He was probably one of the greatest of Aztec gods and a very lucky omen whose influence upon the week was excellent. Owing to his great age, he was always the last to arrive at the temple each year when the gods returned.
The person born under this sign can be very unreliable and unpredictable. Their moods can vary quickly and the sign of instability could mean that they are inclined to be short tempered and easily aroused. Do not be surprised if they change their minds very easily and particularly make allowances for poor timekeeping.
They will sometimes have a tendency to be very methodical and might also prove to be a little slower at learning than others, but they will master things in their own good time.
The week is 1 Cuetzpallin - Lizard
The presiding deity is Itzlacoliuhqui, the Carved Obsidian Knife and the god of the Cold, in which aspect he represents the freezing cold of the obsidian stone.
It is a very unlucky week in which to be born and the unfortunate person whose birthday falls within it will be forever in terror of unexpected destruction. This could be in their homes, wealth, plans, or personal safety, and it is likely that individuals will receive some unfortunate, if not fatal, accident during their lifetime.
The sign of Cuetzpallin is the lizard, who was thought always to land upon his feet if dropped from a great height, much the same way as we think of the domestic cat. This will help the individual to withstand many of the troubles that life will provide, so that whatever the hardships they have to suffer, they will be able to land on their feet again."
What I thought was interesting:
- "Water" --> I am a Water sign by the zodiac hororscope (Cancer); in the Chinese hororscope, I was born in the Year of the Dog, my element being Water. And personally I have a thing for bodies of waters too, and although I love seas and oceans, I am terrified of them too.
- Yes I'm moody, quick-tempered blah.
- Yes sometimes I can be surprisingly, weirdly methodical... or at least practical, pragmatic and no-nonsense.
- "a little slower at learning than others" --> excuse me?? Haha.. although hmmm... it may have a point... ;p
- "a very unlucky week" --> EXCUSE ME, again?!?
- "forever in terror of unexpected destruction" --> So true. That was the point I have just been making actually. That I'm always expecting things to break, fall apart, not work out. For things to go wrong... I had written it in emails just a few days ago, and in an aborted post yesterday.
- "individuals will receive some unfortunate, if not fatal, accident during their lifetime." --> Dude. THANK YOU! Hullooo??? Bah.
- " who was thought always to land upon his feet if dropped from a great height... ... whatever the hardships they have to suffer, they will be able to land on their feet again."
--> My personal belief and mantra. I will survive. No matter what. After all, I haven't died yet.
Having said all that, I thought Yufen's Aztec Natal Hororscope sounded very much like me too, except with regard to the sexual drive bit (not yet proven or otherwise), and ideal marriage partner bit (not yet proven or otherwise, but preliminary research indicates otherwise).
Inserted May 2, 23:24: Ditto Xiaohui's. Especially the "premonitions" part. I've always said I'm fucking CLAIRVOYANT. (Or maybe: I'm just pessimistic.)
So it's probably a load of bullcrap. But my Natal hororscope just seemed to fit in with stuff I've been thinking/doing recently.
Back to yawn-inducing Contract Law. Does anyone have ANY idea how boring Law textbooks can be?? The sentences run on so, and by the middle of the sentence, the words have all melted and merged into a black streak in front of my eyes, and I don't remember whether the sentence was about the construction of Exclusion Clauses in Common Law, or UCTA's regulation of Exclusion Clauses for Negligence Liability.
In the space of one and a half hours, somewhere between sunk costs, sigmas, drifting in and out of a hazy sleep, returns to escalating, scribbles on lecture notes, and Sutton's bound, I reached the top. A broad plateau. Fresh air. The wind on my face.
Matters, natters, spatters, tatters.
Internalize. Internalize.
Like running spring water over pebbles. Wash over me.
Clear mind. Clear skies.
Another matter dealt with, cleared. Slate (does anybody actually still use them?) wiped clean.
One less thing to worry about in a list of things that cluster and crowd around the prime slot at the top of my mind, all clamouring for attention.
Just the other day, I was thinking that in the class of risk-averse people, I live with substantial uncertainty. Not, that I particularly like it, nor that I cope particularly well with it. But I find that sometimes - too frequently - it has been thrust upon me. And I survive.
I am increasingly discovering though, that the girls around me live with substantial uncertainty too. I don't know if it's because girls tend to be more anxious, and worrywarts. Or if it's because this particular sample of girls happen to have more uncertainty. Or if all girls (or even all people) have their own insecurities and uncertainties, but that I just happen to know these people, and hence of their worries .
I guess everybody has their own story. Their own problems. Demons of their own little world. I find that (some times) I admire people more, if I know about their worries. It gives them a human face. Also, I feel less alone.
I hate this feeling of uncertainty. Of things hanging in the air. One thing has just been settled. And for that, I feel relieved. Although, I am not ever going to talk about good things here anymore because frankly, I generally believe that talking about something jinxes it. And apparently, my 'theory' has been proven right once.
So as a sign-off. I will be writing very SPORADICALLY henceforth. My work beckons. *sigh*
Although, a couple of days ago, I saw the single most beautiful Asian guy I've even seen in real life (Takeshi Kaneshirou doesn't count).
Enter: Me: the ditz
He was beautiful - an angel! A beautiful face and shining smile, with soft, liquid, warm, velvet eyes, framed by thick thick lashes.
I rarely go on about a boy in this fashion. Well... the London girls will remember me going on about a boy with a voice like rich smooth coffee. But on pure physical beauty alone, this has to be a first. And an Asian (Oriental) boy too! And this boy is CLEARLY beautiful, not like my usual dodgier taste.
So anyway, us three girls were standing outside the Old Building on Monday afternoon, talking. Or pretending to talk, so we could linger longer and drink in this vision - this balm for sore eyes. One of the girls asserted that "He must be mixed. Mixed with either Japanese or Thai." True. He didn't have the pure Chinese look. I wondered if he had a Caucasian mom. And even then, I was hard pressed to discern his nationality. Not from China definitely. Unlikely from HK. Not from Taiwan. NO WAY from Malaysia or Singapore (or I'd have heard of such rare talent by now). Not from Japan. Don't know the Korean look. I craned to listen to his words. I think he might might might be either British-Chinese or American-Chinese. That would fit in with his dressing and overall look too.
So anyway, there we were, three girls suddenly in the vice grip of bimbo-hood. Rooted to the spot by one beautiful beautiful boy. I was came up with the scatter-brained idea of taking a picture of the other two girls, strategically positioned so that the Angel Boy would be behind them. But I couldn't bring myself to do it. After all, how transparent would we be? Three girls who had stood there for a good five minutes, who had kept stealing glances at him, are SUDDENLY inspired to take a picture in front of the Old Building? Get real. So, I was like: "Hey, if we're going to be so silly and undignified, let's go all the way and ask to take a photo with him!" Yeah right. But EGAD... let me say I was sooo soooo SOOOOOO tempted. I had to keep a grip on myself by repeating like a mantra: "London is very small. London is very small. London is very small. Please do not embarrass yourself unredeemably. You will probably see him again." Besides, I have done enough (one) embarrassing thing(s) that my credibility will be forever undermined by this act. But it would have been all in good fun. Really. Plus, this guy is the MOST BEAUTIFUL Asian BOY I've seen! Damn DAmn DAMN.
In Spring season, the talent is apparently beginning to come to LSE. Maybe they hibernate over the winter season, all these angels and lesser demi-gods. For it seems like LSE, which had previously comprised of pretty girls and pretty much execrable or plain guys, is finally beginning to show signs of guys who are... well... if not good-looking exactly... but at least normal, which, in this talent-starved place, accords them the status of demi-gods.
Haha. Okaaayyy... so YES, I'm and probably exaggerating just the mitest of mites. (- They actually barely scrape the surface of normal. ;D - just kidding!) There are the rare diamond-in-the-roughs in LSE. But they are well-hidden. And anyway, as I grow older (and hopefully) wiser, I'm truly beginning to understand that there is nothing such as perfection. There is ALWAYS a trade-off.
For some more ditziness: I was working. And this guy in his late 20s? early 30s? or mid 20s? (I can't tell) walked in. In a beautiful, slightly scrunched, white collared shirt (linen or some such beautifully scruffy-potential material) unbuttoned down midway down to his chest, with a grey pinstripe jacket, dark grey trousers, and a light brown hat. Dark haired, bearded, with downy bronze fuzz on his chest. The perfect image of an intellectual, gentleman, free-spirited dreamer-rake. I look after him as he pushes through the glass doors and down the steps. I wonder where he's going. What he's doing. What motivates him.
In this metropolis of more than 7m, I wonder about the people that live in it. How they go about their daily lives. What they do. Their thoughts. What motivate them. I wish I could be a hidden observer that could look into the lives of millions simultaneously. Live in their heads. What are they thinking.
I wish to know the heterogeneity of the types that are out there. The mechanics and dimensions. Firstly in London. Then the world.
As I stare after that be-hatted guy, I also wonder if there is such a one in my future.
I think I'm very open with regards to the kinds of boys I like and am fond of. I'm thinking of F. And those like him. With gentle voices, and a ready smile.
Work, stress have been piling up. And I'm FINALLY realising that I HAVE to start my work. Absolutely no distractions allowed.
My days consist of busting my ass, nodding off over papers that I just don't get, and dreaming of: raining frogs, electronic equipment spoiled by the rain, and taking pictures of a dusky sky.
A couple of days ago, I discovered that a friend stumbled across my blog about a month ago. From RBJ. O_O I didn't even KNOW he goes to the RBJ forums (what name does he go under I wonder?). The funny thing is, I actually wrote about him (mentioned him) in my earliest blogging days. And now he is here.
So, *waves*. "Hi Andrew..." (if you're reading this)
Oh, and a couple of days ago, I also stumbled across this classic site: subservientchicken.com. I tried to test to see if he was a computer generated phenomenon. After I became convinced that there was a real guy (girl?) under the chicken suit, I wanted to understand his motivation instead. I wanted to have a conversation. After all, who would dress up in chicken costume and perform for the nameless faceless cyber masses? WHY?? I typed out questions. He didn't take off his chicken costume and talk back to me. So in an impulsive gesture, I gave him (one of my) email address(es) and asked him to email if he would. He hasn't emailed. Blah. I am still itching with curiosity though. I guess I shall put it down to the unknowingness of the universe. Maybe he was bored. Maybe he was like the two guys in Paris... lonely, a dreamer in a city of dreamers. I remember wanting desperately to have a conversation with them too. But my self-preservation (paranoid) instinct kicked in (I was a lone girl in Paris with very bad and very limited French)
Or MAYBE, since I have an over-active imagination, the two guys in Paris (plus the third one) were not anywhere half as poetic as romantic dreamer-drifters in pursuit of their own paradise, and instead, mundanely enough, were merely homicidal maniacs on the prowl for random young girl-tourists to prey on.
WARNING: Rambly, pointless, sentimental, sickeningly cloying, utterly illogical, meanderingly meaningless, insipidly inane entry. Not at all rational, reasonable, logical. Complete faff. Try not to think I'm a total airhead - an easily-brainwashed, spineless person [darn. i've CLEARLY succumbed to the audience syndrome. blah]
It's a small small world.
By a quirky twist of fate, I found that an old school mate of mine was in London.
V, this ex classmate of mine for 4 years, had gone to Paris for an exchange. There she had met Z, a childhood friend of my ex roomie X. Z came up to London to visit X, and V had tagged along. On discovering that V was from IJ, X went: "Do you know E?" After some confusion about the pronunciation of my name, the connection was made, and X called me: "Do you know V?" I was like: "V?? V who?" (I hadn't made the connection that V was here in Europe) Then I was like: "OMG!! V from IJ??? 2/3 then 4S1??!!??"
I was screaming and hopping and bursting poor V's eardrums by yelling into the phone. It was insane. Another ex classmate had told me that V was coming to Paris for a half-year exchange, but it had slipped my mind entirely. And now, she was in London.
So we went out tonight, the four of us girls: V, Z, X and I. V and I classmates for 4 years, Z and X friends since PRE-Primary, X and I room-mates in our first year at uni, V and Z Singaporeans in Paris.
We had dinner at Wong Kei. Then did a bit of the tourist thing, walking down to Buckingham Palace, posing, taking silly photos. Then went back to TPT in Chinatown for dessert - I had been craving and practically fantasising about that particular dessert for MONTHS.
It was a bit of a shock, seeing V again - not much changed, but different nonetheless. Older. Seeing her again, talking, I felt much older. Like a wide, rapid river of time flowed between today, and the long ago years when we were classmates, but not at all close.
She used to be the ultimate tomboy. Strident, brash, pragmatic, no-nonsense. Somewhat like me in the noise, heck-care attitude, and unfeminine department. But a much louder, more tomboyish, and far more outgoing version of me.
On my way to Leicester Square, I wondered if she had changed at all. The V I remembered, that I saw so clearly in mind, seemed immutable, like a star. Her character and personality were so distinctive, so strong, that it seemed fixed. Her crewcut hair that she kept, unchanged for 4 years. Her loud voice. Her abruptness. Her swagger. Her kind heart beneath the bluster.
She can't have turned girly, surely? To me, that would be selling out. Which is why part of me had resisted turning girly every step of the way. I think in many ways, I have sold out. I can't change too much. For then I would no longer be me. I would no longer recognise myself. The self I admire, and love.
One look at her: "You pierced your ears!! WHEN??!!??" Her hair longer, but still recognisably a shaggier, grown out version of her old hairstyle.
I breathed a sigh of relief. If she had turned up in a skirt, long straight hair and all girlified, I think I would have died.
And yet... well I suppose she must change eventually. And all of us bystanders carrying along this old image of her surely doesn't help.
So we talked. She was marginally less loud than before. But just marginally so. It seemed almost like we were 13,14,15,16 again. An IJ girl. A girl who, like me and a good half of my class, had the most awkward, ang-moh*-accented Mandarin the whole world (*ang-moh = white). We all sounded like foreigners learning to speak the language.
I wondered how she survived abroad. - I always say that my Chinese and Singlish have improved since I came to the UK. I had a feeling that would be the case for her too, seeing that Z is V's friend. Now V listens to 93.3, a Singapore Chinese radio station. She recognises Chinese singers/groups. O_O She also noted the change in me: "You speak some Chinese now. You never used to speak Chinese. You took Malay right?" Humph. I actually took Higher Chinese. Okay so I got a C6. But it's indicative that she doesn't remember me speaking a word of Chinese.
I asked about our ex classmates. Where people were, were they attached. And the talk turned to relationships, marriage, families. We talked about expectations, ideas. And the weird thing is, we were talking about it seriously. Like it was a proper issue that we had thought through. That was what spooked me most, and made me feel old.
Talking to V about marriage, romance. About sharing sunsets. We both feel that arranged marriages might not be bad thing after all. And listening to her, and myself talk, I was amazed, yet saddened. Who would have thought that I, the ultimate die-hard, pro-choice, pro-love, romantic, would have opined that arranged marriages aren't bad things after all? That it would save us the trouble of looking for men. That I believe that one can "grow to love someone". That love isn't a necessary ingredient in a sustainable marriage. And perhaps, the lack of love would be a good thing - the thing that keeps the marriage together.
The part of me that vowed to choose to be with my hypothetical man every single day of my life, to want to wake up every day, loving this beautiful man that has not come into my life... maybe she has given up. Because perhaps at some level, the other clearheaded rational part of me realises that it isn't going to work. That wanting that, is just setting myself up for a big disappointment. That some day, I should just settle, settle down, and not refuse to settle for anything less than the kind of Love that is as bright and searing as liquid light, engraved on tablets of stone at the beginning of Time. Because, let's face it, reading this, you are convinced that I'm a positively dangerous raving lunatic: childish, insane, addle-brained, incapable, unrealistic, crazy idealist, who clearly hasn't been anywhere even *near* the vicinity of planet Earth over the last few millennia.
She said about how quite a few of the IJ girls thought they weren't gonna get attached in the near future, or may not get married. Maybe because of the expectations we have.
Heh... on a side note. I've asked my girl friends if they'd date me if they were guys. The answers are:
M: "No. You'll be my 红颜知己 (great friend), but not a girlfriend. You're too 粗鲁 (rough), too 流氓 (ruffian)"
X: "No. You're too loud, too 粗鲁 (rough)."
V: "No. I'd want a complement. Someone quiet and sweet and nice. You're too much like me: hot-tempered, loud.."
Z (X's friend who I had just met): "No. Not my type."
LT: "No. You can't cook, can't sew... why would I go out with you?"
LS (LT's friend who stayed in our house for a couple of days): "If you really liked me, I'll give you a chance."
Great. Even my girlfriends, in the hypothetical case that they were guys, wouldn't want me. Good stuff. Not, that this is the case for other IJ girls of course.
So anyway I'm just thinking, remembering, how special IJ is. Was. I remember our teachers. How I loved our Lit teachers especially. V had reminded me of the story of one particular teacher. In a Lit class when we were Sec One (when we were 13-year olds), we were reading a text in which a man touched a woman. Someone in class had muttered: "Rape". And this teacher had responded in her expressive, ringing voice, and clear articulation: "No. That is molest. Rape involves actual pe-ne-tra-tion" She was an amazing teacher - and like all, bar one, of my Lit teachers, was an ex IJ girl herself. She had a true love for Literature. She was expressive, full of life. She would pace up and down the classroom, gesture expansively, and suddenly stop and turn her piercing eye on some girl and ask her to answer a question.
We were always told IJ girls were special. Different. That you could always recognise an IJ girl. It helped that so many of our teachers, especially the dynamic, well-known ones, were ex-IJ girls. The funny thing is, it actually happened to me once. In 1999, I had gone on a JC school trip to the States. We had gone to the Singapore embassy or something. I was the only IJ girl among the students from my A-Level school. - IJ was my O-Level school. After a talk, we were mingling around, talking to some of the Singaporeans based in the States. I was intrigued by one girl in particular - something about her drew me. And according to my friend S, apparently she had been looking at me too. I approached her. And she was from IJ. And we were like: "OMG! A fellow IJ girl!!" My friend S said she found it spooky, the way the other IJ girl and I seemed to have this connection before we had spoken.
And I don't know why I'm rambling on, in an utterly disorganised fashion.
I guess I just wanted to say I met an old school friend. And I'm happy to have met her, in an entirely random fashion. Despite the fact that I was supremely anti-social during my secondary school years, I loved my school. I do believe that we are special. I will always always love our brand of girls - assertive, gungho. Who expect much yet seem to bring so little in way of tangible things to the table. But I really do think that we are something. We deserve something, someone better. Even if it means we have to wait. - If you had been there. If you have seen those girls, us... in our classrooms, in the hallways, in our element, you'd have thought we were special too.
I like girls from girl schools in general, although I hadn't liked it that much then. And from my school, my class, especially. We were not too guy crazy, relative to other girl schools.
Okay I am actually crazy. - Waxing lyrical about a school. But what do I do, when I believe, down to my last cell, that we are special? (Or it could be that I'm just insanely sentimental and stupid about stuff like that.) "WE are the champions, my friends. We'll keep on fighting, till the end." We'll surely go out and conquer the world, in our own way.
_____________________________
Postscript: I think I know what I like about girl schools now. Girl schools, with greater female leadership, especially a school like IJ with leadership from alums, provide good strong female role models for girls. In our world, girls are empowered. Maybe the conditions are false: there are boys in the real world. But maybe that's why girls from girl schools are more gungho?? (but then how about the girly girls from girly girl schools like SC?? hmmm...)
Postscript 2:
Oh yes... and we talked about grocery shopping, comparing food prices and the freshness of vegetables and cooking(!!). - V was like: "YOU? COOK? HAHAHAHAHA. I can't imagine you cooking!" Same for me, her. And I felt the usual rising horror within, whenever I feel prematurely auntie-fied.
Postscript 3: V had claimed I was the same as before. But I said that this was already the toned down version of me (all my London friends would attest to how much I have toned down since I first bounced hyperactively into London two and half years ago). To me, V had not changed either in terms of loudness. But according to X and Z, she was far more modulated normally - spoke softer, in a more calm, even manner. However, she (and I apparently) had both reverted to our loud, shriller selves when we were with each other. Haha.
On a Singaporean blog nearby:
"you know its exam time when readership figures for your blog double, seems like i'm not the only one procrastinating (="
Haha. I'd like to add: "You (also) know it's exam time when people start blogging manically every day."
As per my unhealthy voyeuristic habits, I am once again prowling the blogs of people known-but-unacquainted.
I read of assignments that consist of writing poetry, of reading Eliot, of writing Literature essays.
One J wrote a poem about Mr Evans, my old Lit Prac Crit teacher. And reading his poem, I can clearly discern some literary references, while other turns of phrases seem familiar, struggling for recognition, but my mind draws a blank. I wish I knew what he is referring to. I wish I had read more. I wish I do read more.
I have heard that sometimes one still feels ghost-pain from an already-amputated limb.
Today, suddenly, that is what I felt. An ache. A deep longing and wish, that I had, in another parallel hypothetical world, studied English (English Literature that is) at university instead.
I remember during my heady A-level days, I had been consumed by a passion for Literature. That was the only subject I made any semblance of an effort in. I had ignored all my other subjects, and only spent happy hours working on S-level Lit, and Prac Crit(not even on my other Lit papers), which I wish passionately I was a lot better at, although I was the first few (if not the first) in class to have scored a B+++, then an A-- from the exacting Mr Evans.
When the time came for uni applications, I remember not knowing what I want to do with my life. I had polled my friends. None of them could even remotely imagine me working in any kind of an office setting, or working at all, for that matter.
And I remember wanting so badly to do Lit at university that it actually hurt. I had spent hours and hours trying to convince J (and myself) that Maslow's hierarchy of needs was a valid model to follow. And therefore "Self-actualisation" was a valid goal.
I had actually broached the topic of studying Lit to my mom once, which was a big step for me. I was seeking her approval. But my mom had said: "What can you be if you study Lit? A teacher?"
And therein lay the crunch.
So I narrowed my choices down to: Computer Science or Economics. SW, I remember, said she could imagine me being a programmer. It would be constantly changing, new developments would continuously take place, so she could imagine me not getting over bored with doing it.
Eventually though, by a series of calculations and considerations, I decided to pick Economics. Not because I had a particular interest in it. - I had dropped A-level Economics. But admittedly I had done so, partly because I thought I was likely to pursue it as a university degree, and I felt it would be redundant to study the same subject twice. I would much rather have learnt something else at A-levels.
Thus it was laid down: down the Economics path, I was destined to trudge.
What has to be done, has to be done. As always I convinced myself to make the best of a situation. I have the fortunate ability to make myself accept, and be happy with, at least for a while, a set of circumstances that I have to live with.
So I amputated my love for Literature. Neatly sliced off that part of me that had no place in my life for these three years, and for many years to come. If at all.
After all, I am greedy. I want so many things. I may not have the time to return to an old love, when I have so many other things I want to do, achieve, and see, within the short span of one lifetime.
And happily enough, I do genuinely believe that Economics is a great degree. I do enjoy it immensely. Well, not my foundation type courses last year. But even then, I believe that Economics really does provide one with a set of useful skills. Among other things, it has moderated my crazy, flyaway self, and imposed some kind of logical framework on the way I think and work. Which was something I had desperately needed to learn.
The only way I could have done better was if I had done Mathematics at university, or some branch of Science.
So I have been happy. And perfectly convinced that Economics is THE BEST (ah the megalomania and self-conceit!) non-Science course in the world.
But just today, I am suddenly gripped by nostalgia. And for this tiny space in time, would like to imagine my life as it would have been, had I been able to pursue my then-dream. Instead of sacrificing it at the altar of economics and pragmatism.
In the long run, I still believe my choice was the correct one. And I am happy. Economics would have given me the best outcome. It was, is, my key to the rest of my dreams.
But once in a random-blog while, I feel the faint twinge of a ghost-pain.
The ramblings of a duckweed- who- longs- for- banyan- tree- roots, among blinking ignis fatui. At the cusp of change, uncertain whether to follow the foolish fires into the miry wilds.
