no rhyme or reason

June 10th's concert photos are up on Quartet Blog. I have been neglecting this place for a while - went to Malacca last weekend with my family. Photos following in a bit. When I get down to it. Lil Bro is on block leave after passing out from the army. Now he is a nice chocolate brown (no more yellow brown), though he needs to work harder on his 6-pack.

Opened 8 Days a few days ago and saw Shane's face in it. Apparently he is going to be hosting some kid's spelling bee programe? It was disconcerting to see him dressed in the suit and all - normally he's in act3 tshirt and berms (sometimes with holes) and scruffy skater shoes (I love scruffy skater shoes). But I think he's come a long way. My first act3 rehearsal was his first act3 rehearsal. Then, he was a driver-turned actor, now he's a host with a Cheeseburger Paycheck.

It's funny how I incessantly construct blog posts on long bus rides, but when I sit down to type, my brain goes all white.

Blogger's anxiety - because people are watching.

the clouds are clearing

I was very pleasantly surprised to receive a little book today. It was something I mentioned in passing more than a month ago, nothing more than 2 sentences regarding my failed attempt to buy it, but the person actually remembered. No doubt the book was meant to be 'compensation', (and not very adequately at that though, it doesn't matter) but what it lacked in monetary value, it made up for in thought and the quality of the literature.

Things unexpected can be so wrong and so right, I suppose it all depends on the point of view.

So the research thing was supposed to end today, but it didn't really, due to unforseen circumstances. After so many false 'endings', it really feels like Groundhog Day. Though I think I'm finally learning about the elusive 'value of money'; what I earned doing miscellaneous research work for45 hours is what I can earn with a 3 hr wedding gig and some teaching, involving far less brains and time. Hmm.

smashing into headlights

Finally it seems like I'm getting a bit more time to pick up the pieces of my life, not that I have the energy to.

I figured that I would never ever hire myself for anything because I'm such an annoying pedant, I pick on anything and everything to no end just for this lost cause of 'perfection' that is always flawed and never a reality.

So many people have asked why I'm fretting so much about this whole editing thing when it she doesn't really keep to her deadlines due to, I dunno, maternal commitments. I figure it's all my whole suicide bomber mentality that dictates how I live my life. I think I throw myself into everything with the aim of self-destruction but why am I still alive?

The recent spate of deaths in the country, be it drowning or impalement or flattening - those happened so randomly, yet so decisively - killing only the person who was meant to die. Why does that fortune elude me, still?

we all have our murky places

Today she asks, "So are you having fun doing this?"

"Yeah, if you mean the sadomasochistic kind of fun.."

"I hope you're getting something out of this."

Money?

From the past few weeks ploughing away at countless edits and waiting for her to send her drafts over, I have come to the conclusion that to be an academic is a long and lonely journey. You have only yourself for company when you're typing the ten thousandth word. And then there's the scary process of submission, wondering if you managed to sync everything with the APA format, checking and rechecking and being paranoid about whether you missed anything out.

Research assistants provide horrid company, especially when they make uninformed comments about your work.

Today I said in passing that her Results section seems like it was written by a different person - not in a bad way; it was a lot tighter and cleaner than the meandering introduction that she wrote for her dissertation -- and she lapsed into a fit of verbalised worry. I stood by and bit my nails wondering what thread I unravelled.

I figure at the end of the day, no matter the age, occupation, status, wealth, we are all tadpoles in the longkang of life, swimming towards the Deep Blue Sea.

says nothing at all

I am not a very good wait-er. Checking my email every 10 minutes to see if her draft has arrived is damaging to my psyche, not to mention I'd be better off practicing the cello, which I don't want to do either.

I'm wondering how I dug myself into this fix with a teaspoon.

So there's a concert this Sunday, and I've been numbed into this state of apathy and inertia where no one can convince me that anything matters.

I regress into angst when tired.

really?

I want to burn my cello.

It is a constant source of pain frustration exhaustion grief.

But maybe it is me who is causing all the turbulence.

There was the rather interesting talk on perfectionism with ShortShorts , just before she left for Land Of Maple Syrup. I've actually never thought of myself as a perfectionist - just a control freak, but maybe they are one and the same. Anyway, now I am gradually seeing that the way I obsess over certain things, like the choice of words, or the way something sounds, is a manifestation of some perfectionistic streak that is driving me nuts.

Self-immolation doesn't seem like a bad option now.