of fate, freckled pages, & an uncracked spine

i just finished reading Veronika decides to die by Coelho. i've been meaning to read it for a while now but didn't for i believe that my relationship with books, like love, exists and is run by fate. i read a book when i am fated to read it, even if the book is within my possession and i find my hours in the day sauntering away. each time i finally read a particular title is when, at that point in time i find myself searching for an answer, to something. answers that most amazingly grow in the pages of the book. as we are all permitted our idiosyncratic ways of reasoning, pray, leave me with mine as i sway a little into another story about fate.

i believe that i am fated to do 'art'. i took art classes when i was a youngling. an eager girl who spent her afternoons after school tracing pictures of flowers and animals from huge encyclopedias. words didn't interest me. i derived immense pleasure from holding a crayon in my hand. second skin. its somewhat hard clay-like texture felt normal against my rough skin. i also loved it when crayon got under my nails. as i was a nail-biter, i found myself on several occasions swallowing small deposits of crayon buried under my nails. i've since however, stopped.

art class. i won second prize for the school's art competition drawing dinosaurs (long necks). using crayons, i drew three long necks, a mom, a dad, and their child. the typical family unit. mother insisted that i not draw the 'm' birds -those that children would usually draw- as those were 'modern' birds which did not exist in the time of dinosaurs. in her eyes, my drawing would lose its authenticity. she specifically said that if i wanted to draw 'birds', they would have to be those 'dinosaur birds'. the pterodactyl. winged lizards. not birds after all. but i didn't know how to draw those 'dinosaur birds' and my sky in the drawing was looking too empty. and so i drew in the 'm' birds. the fake birds. a lot of them. i won the second prize. there was however a girl in my class who knew how to draw a real bird. she drew a parrot so perfectly shaped and colored for the competition. it was green and had a sharp beak. she won the first prize.

i'm sure it wasn't because i didn't win the first prize, but my parents soon reprimanded me whenever i decided to draw and trace. i should have been studying instead. and so i studied.

i took art for my 'O' levels and did very well in it. i got an A and with encouragement from my art teacher, was determined to head to the local art college. this didn't sit well with my parents, especially my mom. no future in being an artist. and so i headed to college to do my 'A' levels. and then university. and then had thoughts of doing a PhD, until finally, i reach this point in my life where i'm revisited by art yet again. through photography, tea bags, and ink, i've become addicted to art and it is something that i plan to start and finish, even if it means i'll have to learn to draw a 'real bird'. i've since recently purchased, after 14 years, a new box of crayons. pastels!

they're still delicious!

so yes. i believe that i am fated to do art. even though it took me many, many years to actualize and chart its path in my life. i believe it as much as i believe that i was fated to finally read Veronika decides to die, for, having refused to spend $26 on it at BORDERS, i finally got to it at a second-hand bookstore at Bras Basah complex two days ago. it was priced at $5.90. and even though the cover and pages have been freckled by time and the sun, its spine was still uncracked. i fell in love. instantly. and i got some answers.

hook in the eye

her world was an ocean. a vast spread of a universe that contained within, pockets of life. habitats enriched with vibrant beings that bump into each other, like frenzied atoms. touch. leave. touch. leave. there were also spaces of void. empty in its echoes. like a swallow of air. a residue of nothing. she swam amidst this ocean like a bulb. darting from place to place. on and off. but one day, appeared from above, a shiny blur that sparkled. calling. enticing. come forth. it said. and she did. a hook in the eye.

she escapes her world of the ocean.

note to the twitching eye

dear twitching eye,

why do you twitch? is it because you're feeling neglected? but do i not see with you every day, in every moment? how is that neglect? or perhaps i'm over-using you? do you need me to rest and close my eyes more? but i can't! because i am awake for most of the day, doing work and living my life. i think it would be very unfair of you to ask of me to sleep my life away, wouldn't it? what? use an eye patch? and look like a pirate? i don't think i can do that, especially when most people already think of me as a freak, talking to myself within the public sphere. you do understand, right? oh! it's the laptop screen? i see! is that what's making you twitch a lot? you're sensitive to the screen? hmm. that is something i really can't avoid, as most of what i do revolves around having me sit in front of the laptop, staring straight into it as that's where all the information, data, and text are located within. and these are information that i cannot do without, as you know, the 'thesis' needs to be done. or wait? is it the 'thesis' that you're 'allergic' too? well, i'm not surprised. i'm rather allergic to it myself. but it's finishing, soon. i promise you. and i've noticed that being on campus makes you twitch as well, especially when the trip is made in relation to the 'thesis'. the museum was nice, wasn't it? and so were the picnics and the lunches with friends. but the 'thesis', bahh!! so, ok. we've identified the source of your twitching. it's the 'thesis'. oh, oh, ok. i'll stop using the word itself. we'll call it the 'T'. i will endure your twitching for a while more as i finish the 'T' and promise to take 5, oh, ok, 10 minute eye breaks from time to time. we'll stare into other people's houses or look for goblins in the clouds, something far away from the laptop. i promise.

much love,

n.

making magic moments

a friend told me she finds magic in the moments when she is alone. moments of the mundane, which she transforms into magic. making them as she is living within each moment. skipping to a soundless tune. the breathe of color from the wind. an orchestra of leaves tapping to the beat of the forest. plunging into civilizations of the alternate through uneven surfaces of a puddle. playing narrator to lives of the bodies that float around. people. beings. she is thinking of getting plastic surgery but her husband actually prefers her 'flat'. he goes home each day at exactly 7.08pm to polish his furniture whilst tuning in to songs from the 80s. they have sex every single night. and so, the lives of the mass of meaningless faces become a little more interesting, a little more magical within each concocted moment. the narrator is pleased. imagination is magick!