That I understand something does not make it okay.

That I understand why this is happening does not make it hurt any less.

That I understand why or how people might choose to be hurtful does not justify their behaviour.

That I understand how I’ve come to be so convinced of these people’s judgments and toxic utterances that I can hear their voices in my head and I’m convinced they would be judging does not make it okay.

That I know I cannot change people (nor do I want to) does not make their behaviour right and okay.

That I am aware I’m imagining these people’s judgments does not make my experience less real.

That I should have gotten used to this long ago does not make it hurt less.

That people believe it is okay to treat me in certain ways, that they believe they have the moral high ground, that they believe I deserve to be treated with judgment / passive-aggression / sarcasm, that they believe they are doing no harm does not make any of what they do okay.

That I can imagining their voices shooting me down when my mind tries to make a stand for myself only makes it hurt more, and does not make anything okay.

That I understand I may never be free of this does not mean I do not wish to be free of it.

That I know how people behave is outside of my control does not make it hurt any less.

I really don’t want them to base their impressions of me on hearsay and assumptions, to not bother to understand me, to behave as though hearsay and assumption are fact, to not care enough to examine their beliefs and assumptions, to be unfair, to take their resentment (from here and elsewhere in their own lives) out on me.

But I really have no control over this.

And it may very well be that no matter what I do this will not change.

I have to somehow be okay with this. Or in spite of this.

But why must I be strong?
Why must I fight?

A small elephant in the room
I wonder if I should apologise. If I apologised, would it be for me or for them? Apologise as a way of taking ownership of what I’d created in the past? Given that I have no idea what they think or feel anymore, whatever I choose will be from my perspective. There is no way to be outwardly focused about this, hence if I do apologise, it would be to make myself feel better/differently, a self-centred action. Not to mention the potential trauma (if any) that could result for both parties if I were to do something like that. Or merely make contact. Again, this is based solely on my assumptions. Who knows! But better to let sleeping baggage lie, and release them to dissociate into their constituent particles and energies.

Actually.

I want to say “thank you” to them, too. For without the whole experience I wouldn’t be who and where I am today, and I wouldn’t have have learnt valuable lessons on being and loving and grief. Thank you for the pain, yadda yadda.

Well, guess what, I can still say all these things without saying it to them. If it’s just about Saying and acknowledging them and setting words free in the wind, this post would suffice, meditation would suffice. So it’s okay, after all. One big circle to be back at the start. Let it be.

Perhaps this is also part of growing up.

“If it’s to be, it’s up to me”
GE2020 is my most “involved” GE ever: I volunteered with the WP to do house visits and as polling agent. Quite interesting to see how polling stations work. Got to witness the sealing of the ballot boxes at the close of polling because I was extra and headed back to the polling station to see if humans needed support after the time extension was announced (turned out to be a good choice because I had a nice conversation with another volunteer and also got to see more bts stuff). W gets credit for suggesting that I volunteer, though of course I made the choice to do so on my own. It’s just not something I would have thought of to do myself.

Guess I’ve been politicised since my teens but made excuses not to be involved in any way, not even in discussions or arguments or the airing of opinions (of which there are plenty online these days). Because it all seems futile and there’s already so many voices and so much noise out there. W makes a case for not keeping one’s views to oneself, if there is potential value to be created by sharing them with people, for education’s sake, for diversity in perspectives, etc. And he says self-censorship driven by fear of judgment is not a fun way to live. He has a point. I will choose my medium/media and my battles. This requires more thought.

Getting used to typing with longer fingernails
I finally quit biting my fingernails during the Circuit Breaker period. Still making a mess of trimming my nails at present but we’ll see if I eventually pick up this lifeskill. This is actually my second (or third?) attempt at quitting, and I think it’s actually working (this habit has been following me around since I was 4). Unlike the previous time I let my nails grow in 2018, I no longer have the desire or compulsion to chew on my nails (especially when I’m stressed). I’ve been more annoyed about catching my nails on surfaces and accidentally scratching myself… and typing sucks. Still need to find the optimum fingernail length that allows typing using fingertips, like how one would play the piano. A promised me a manicure treat when my nails are grown enough. Waiting for one nail that I broke to catch up again, then I’ll take him up on the offer. 😛

“You should be writing”
So I should. I’m late to the game and it’s time to get things moving.
More thoughts later.

“The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears or the sea.”
― Isak Dinesen

It will be some time before I get to let the sea enfold me in its salty embrace again. What was supposed to be an upcoming dive trip got downgraded to an upcoming leisurely road trip got downgraded to an upcoming week or so of enjoying-each-other’s-company-at-home. Neither good nor bad; it is what it is.

What it is, is great. Every day, I am learning to accept being accepted for what I am. It’s been months with you but it still feels like a brand-new lesson each day. When you reach out to hold my hand, when you rest your head in my lap, these are reminders that I am fortunate. Though it’s sometimes still perplexing that you’re patient with me when I expect you to be mad…

I fear that the day I get used to being accepted is the day I begin to take things for granted.

—

Watched Waves with W today. It’s a beautiful mix of heartrending and heartwarming, expected and unexpected, ripples from a tragedy that these people have in common. It is a somewhat dreamy experience, partly painful, partly trippy, partly lovely. There are manatees. The soundtrack is awesome.

In examining how I feel about this film, this thought came to mind:
We are waves of the same sea.

Watched For Sama with W on Leap Day.
(Also on Leap Day this year: yoga was attempted, a cat stuck at height was rescued, much hipstery food was consumed, tabletop games were played, not much actual leaping was done.)

For Sama is really a story about the mess in Syria for the rest of us elsewhere in the world. Sama = سماء = Sky is a nice name for a cute little girl… and that’s about the only thing that was nice in this film. Everything else, the sounds of shelling and gunfire, the blood and death, Aleppo reduced to rubble, was difficult to witness, even on screen in the safety of a darkened room.

All that carnage and massacre. Grown-ups and children alike dying all over the place. It’s so wrong, totally unnecessary, freaking useless. Just to maintain someone(s)’s illusion of power. Delusion.

I watched the whole thing rather numbly. I heard people wincing around me in the theatre every now and then, but I felt dead inside. Here was just another example of human evil and stupidity, albeit in real life. An alternative emotion was anger, I suppose.

For Sama was created from the filmmaker’s courage, rage, persistence, and gives voice to 5 years of the uprising in Syria. Give this documentary a watch if you have the chance to. Heck, watch it online here or there or elsewhere.

One eventually gets used to being uprooted.

The first time is the hardest, and I was (un)fortunate enough to experience it twice in the space of 2 months, painfully discovering where I’d unconsciously put down roots, often too many of them for anyone’s good, and the trail of destruction the severing left behind. A new equilibrium took a few years to establish.

Let go, let’s go.
It gets easier with time; it gets easier each time.

The greatest gifts to come out of that mess? I’m actually glad and grateful things happened the way they did. Quite a bit of cleaning up and work got done, and I’ve gained much in terms of awareness, perspective, community… it’s an ongoing process, though. Learning never ends.

A few years back, in the humidity of Halloween Horror Nights and inefficient queues (never again, thank you), friends gave my 八字 (ba zi) a once-over…

So I’m Yin Wood. Soft, flexible wood, nothing at all like a big tree with sturdy buttresses. I depend on the support of structures and people to grow. I lean. I manipulate. I choke. I strangle. If things get out of control, if I don’t have mastery. (Yes, I’m being selective and choosing qualities of Yin Wood that are relevant to this post. There are lots of great Yin Wood qualities, too. Go Google.) Recently I was reflecting on the ways I am manipulative, and this ba zi conversation popped into mind.

I guess it makes a lot of sense, given my past as a strangler fig. Never again. It also makes a lot of sense from the perspective of the present and future, given my desire for lightness and light, and my internal conversations about receiving support. Hmm… If I am destined to be an epiphyte, let me be the plainest of orchids. Vanilla. Or something common, hardy, like Tillandsia. Or if I want to be creepy, Pyrrosia piloselloides.

I could be a lot more self-blamey about what happened in the past, and call it “responsibility”, but despite my ability to, I choose not to.
Choice matters.

Lightness matters.
So it is towards lightness and light that I orient myself. Light of being, light of touch, light of possessions, but no lightweight.
En-light.

/epiphyte/

your tentative tendrils inch
towards the light, delicate step
after step, creating nodes
of gentle contact as you
climb the tree slowly,
steadily,
each of your cells with its own
compass, an unwavering sense
of direction — upwards, against
gravity's flow, lightwards, constantly
course-correcting, recalibrating,
sense-checking, never-ever-hurrying,
relentlessly questing, knowing for certain:
you are not a parasite,
you are a network, dendritic,
neural, personal,
you are an ecosystem,
light-seeking, beautiful, quiet,
unassuming,
essential.

— 3 November 2019

Today’s ink colour is 霧雨. Kiri-same.

I’ll be an eastie again in a few weeks’ time. I am pulled towards certain memories and away from others, but the present is a much nicer place to dwell in. Looking forward to new experiences and memories, made in greater awareness, with great people.

I logged into ICQ the other day. Recalled the password, somehow. Guess those 8 digits are in my head to stay. Every single person on my contact list was last “seen a long time ago”. ICQ works just like any other chat app now, with mobile, desktop, and web versions, and users are identified by their mobile numbers…

Too bad 85 is currently closed for renovation.

The ugliest girl in the room is laughing. 
 Cast your eyes somewhere and the laughter is sweet. 
 The ugliest girl in the room is attentive. 
 She listens to your story with utmost singularity. 
 The ugliest girl in the room is a champion of causes. 
 Rainforests, unwanted puppies, 
 abused wives and twisted babies. 
 We will all die, you and I. 
 Confused, regretful, empty. 
 Clutching at some memory being attended to, 
 sweetened with and humoured by, 
 the ugliest girl in the room, 
 who at death's bed, will reflect on her bittersweet life, 
 pain allayed by optimism, 
 taking, overtaken by giving, 
 vengeful fires doused by buckets of forgiveness, 
 loving but without conditions, 
 and all those things that make 
 living, a worthwhile journey. 
 And dying, a welcome end.

- The Ugliest Girl In The Room by Yasmin Ahmad

You can hear Yasmin Ahmad reading these lines aloud at the end of Yasmin-san. For me, it was a sweet, unexpected bonus to the documentary. I don’t think I’ve consciously identified with being the ugliest girl in the room, but I’d certainly identified with being ugly in many rooms, and this poem is a timely reminder that “ugly” girls are valuable (too).

This is the kind of ugly girl I want to be.

And a further reminder: what causes will I champion?

And another: am I giving more than I am taking?

And yet another: Yasmin left works that inspire and empower even after her passing. What am I creating for the world?

Thank you for the reminders, Yasmin-san.

ヤスミンさん

Caught this 2017 film with W the other day. When I saw it on the AFA listing I’d wanted to watch it, despite not knowing anything about Yasmin Ahmad at that point in time (yes, I am the opposite of film buff, I am film flabby), because it involved Yukisada Isao, director of Crying Out Love in the Center of the World. Hey, blast from the past, why not?

Turns out this documentary is one of following: the director (Edmund Yeo) follows the director and writer of Pigeon (Yukisada Isao) who follows the influence of Yasmin Ahmad (through her work and through actress Sharifah Amani) in his project. And we the audience follow the threads of fate that link them, directors, actors, stories, for a decade, for 70 minutes.

There is beauty in its simplicity. I liked how authentic everyone seemed. Sharifah Amani’s candidness and confidence. The warmth of the interviews. The joy of storytelling. I guess that’s what’s being documented here, the joy of storytelling. The director shares this joy through telling the stories of these storytellers, and their muses.

These days I walk into theatres without knowing much/anything about what I’m about to watch. I surrender to the process. It’s good practice.

And now I have to go (re)watch all the Petronas ads, and add to the ever-growing list of films I want to watch…

—
Funnily, the moment Yukisada said はと(hato, meaning pigeon) an image of Hatoful Boyfriend popped into my scumbag brain. Grr. Passively picking Japanese up via pop culture is tough, people.

I have done this too many times; I will do it once more.

Over the past two decades I’ve started and let numerous blogs slide into death and decay.
I intend for this to be the last one.
I intend for this to last.

It is never too late to begin documenting life’s journeys again.