37 uni contact hours. I am a little scared of life atm :p.

Despite all qualms of having a rather interesting Fixed Pros week (*cue rage), I actually quite enjoyed most aspects of it (not including the time I took my impression EIGHT times).

^ Peter Alexander Ruffle Heart Sleep Tee

PA gets me so well. That place has the most divine smell, and I can’t resist pinks, ruffles and cute sleepwear (especially if it’s on sale). The brain says ‘about seven people are going to see you in this’, why bother?! But why not enjoy the frivolities of life?

I remember watching The Project several weeks ago, about the probable explosion of baby spiders this summer (due to warm weather). So far in Adelaide, I have killed one rather large red back (in the kitchen…fairly dodgy, imo) and four other hairy looking spider species (appear to be juvenile huntsmans). That insect spray I bought in first year – best purchase ever! And generic supermarket brands, I will stick by you forever. Four years and going strong .

Ephemeral 2011

I haven’t touched my blog in a while, because once I lose track of thoughts that I’d like to publish, it seems almost false to write about new ones, without the context of previous ones. So for better or for worse, these unwritten posts have been lost in the whirlwind of late 2011 and the beginning of 2012. Being late January already, I am almost against myself writing a summary post of 2011, for fear that I will (inevitably) omit events. Having said that, because I just can’t help myself, here are some thoughts, but probably with a lot less intensity than I would’ve written it, had I not left it so late:

- The year 2011 was interesting, for various reasons. Certain events definitely pop up into my mind. I won’t share them all, but I think the biggest lesson that I learnt was the reminder that life is so fleeting. It was a lesson I learnt not once, but three times. They were all twenty-one years old. Death was not the prognosis for any of them; tragedy struck so quickly.

I think I’ve blogged enough about it, and I feel that any more tears will be purely for selfish reasons. Today marks one year since Pete’s death, and what I wrote six months ago to Peter on his FB wall still stands true. But I think time does heal all…

Peter, I look at your profile, and everything seems so impossible. You are staring up and out from your dp, as real and as alive as ever. It’s quite unbelievable that you’re not with us on this earth, at least, right now. And that’s just one small thing that I’ll miss forever: your vivacity, your moods, that ability to turn most things into crazy jokes. You made me laugh a million times and I never even realised it. And that’s the thing – you’re so special to me that I could never fully appreciate it because you had become a part of me. They say that family and friends shape and mould you, they grow onto you until lives and spirits are so deeply intertwined that there is no separation.

You were never ‘that guy who lived a street away from me’, or ‘that guy from my class’ – you were Peter, an excellent, beautiful friend, a guy I assumed I’d be in touch with forever. I never questioned that we’d be in each other’s life, and however naively it seems, time would forever stand still. Darling Peter, you now highlight the tragic transience of life. The slightest touch, the mere brush of a breath- and then, it could all be gone. I believe in seeing you again one day, and for that, I rejoice. But for the moment, just for now, I’ll mourn in my heart one tiny, selfish bit, because it has been over six months, and still our greatest loss is as fresh as ever. I miss you Peter.

- Somewhere within the last year, it has been increasingly obvious to me that I have lost the mystery surrounding who I am, what I am. It was always clear to my class mates (considering I was involved in ES stuff from first year), but who I am has successfully infiltrated the other years. It’s strange, I didn’t expecting that garnering an apparent good-girl reputation would have so much effect (whether it be true or not). I suppose it’s to be expected, but somehow I am not grateful if I am stereotyped as being boring, brainwashed, or less appreciative of fun. Guess what, Jesus wasn’t boring, He was radical in so many ways.

Furthermore, I was recently told that I am an ‘upstanding citizen’. So ‘upstanding’ that I am ‘intimidating’. Seriously? I am a measly 5’1’’.  That comment actually peeved me a little. What exactly does ‘upstanding’ mean? I make stupid mistakes all the time (unfortunately). I am heavily flawed. And how intimidating can I be? Even with behemoth heels, I resemble an Asian leprechaun (:P). I dropped my blazers and picked up summer dresses. I wore a white poofy lacy dress which should be more reminiscent of a giant white marshmellow, than G.I. Joe. I like Summer Roberts, because sometimes she reminds me of me: blunt, fierce/spirited, little and occasionally completely ditzy (or in my case, perennially stuck in struggle town ). I do, however tend to have more restraint in blurting out comments in the open, anyway.

And with the above, I have the feeling that most impressions of people are quite incorrect. I thought I knew someone, before popping over onto her blog, and realising that she wasn’t as nice as I thought she was; rather, she bordered on nasty. I know that no blog is a complete representation of the blogger, but blogs do, for better or worse, shed a certain light on the person.

- Late 2010, I wanted to get out of college. I was mourning the passing of an era at college, in that I would be the only person staying back on my floor. However, 2011 college has brought me much joy and amusement. Dynamics have changed in huge ways, but I really would not change it. Despite the shame of being in fourth year and still at college, I don’t have any second thoughts about it at all. Bring on the 2012 college family (and mockingly-named, cringe-worthy ‘sisterhood’) of fantastical struggles, awkward moments, movie nights, group runs, family politics and everything else.

- I turned 21. Not a big deal. I had a great time celebrating, thanks to a whole number of people for making it a wonderful time. You know who you are .

- The birth of CDF. What a blessing this has been! But at the same time, I do admit that I need the encouragement of other people to drive this forward.  I get lazy very easily but am very thankful for Hannah (key founder!), Josh and Katie for leading CDF as well. It has been a huge joint effort to keep this going, but may Christ always remain the centre of our group.

Miscellaneous bits and bobs from late 2011

- So begins my love affair with my new phone. Unbelievable. Yes I am that person who usually shakes her head in disbelief at being a slave to their Crackberry or iPhony (or HTC).  And not that I’m a slave, since I am a very willing participant. I just need to learn how to hook up my uni email to my notifications, then I’ll most certainly be under the beck and call of my phone. Maybe I don’t want to? Hmm. I think I did spent at least two solid days exploring my phone and searching for ridiculous apps. For now, I am more than happy with Cat piano, a metronome, ElectricSleep Beta and Dental Speak (just to name a few!) I did not, however, dl the period tracker app or the sex offenders notifier!

- I had an awkward moment with a patient yesterday. Not that I let on that it was awkward; when you’re working and interacting with people, I tend to just accept things as they are (including people’s astounding oral hygiene habits or ridiculous beliefs that they hold about toothpaste).  I’ve been assisting for my Dad, and though the clientele certainly differs from the ADH’s (:P), people are still people…the mind boggles!

Patient turns to me, ‘So, are you Dr X’s wife?’

Seriously? My father is in his early 50’s and I’m wearing a childish SIDE PONYTAIL which must be indicative of someone under the age of 30 at the very, very least! Funny times!

- One night, I just could not fall asleep until 5am. I went to bed at 10.45pm. Frustratingly, I had the chorus of Moves Like Jagger whirring in my mind. Again. For two days. At that point in time, I felt the deep carnal desire to murder Maroon 5 .

- I watched September Issue and Thakoon uncannily reminds me of one my tutors. Not in mannerisms, mind you, just in appearance.

- I learnt an important deep life fact which I’m sure will affect 100% of my blog readers . Do not wear zinc (even if it is Invisible Zinc) before getting your photo taken. Phew, I know your minds have been blown away. :p The flash will indeed reflect off your face and you will appear to have committed the most obvious makeup faux pas (incorrect foundation shade colour). If you are at a wedding, the beautiful blushing bride will not be the talk of FB photos the next day, more like the sight of your ghastly (or should I say ghostly) white face!

- I find it quite flattering when my parents or my brother ask me for fashion advice (not that my mother needs it at all…she’s innately stylish but just doesn’t care as much as I do).

- The weather has been cold all holidays, and I feel rather cheated! I brought with me a wardrobe of light summery goodness, and now I really almost have nothing to wear; nothing which is suitable for this winter weather incarnation! No I did not anticipate max of <20 degree Celcius days. Last year, I swam every three days (hence had an epic, epic tan [not a good thing]) and the days vomited with heat. This year, I sleep with two pairs of socks and two duvets.

What we are

It was a few years back that I began to realise the myriad of facets that God has painted onto the delicate substructure that is my parents’ relationship. I know that no human relationship will ever be perfect: there will be scars, tears, an intricate web of unspoken words, thoughts, fears and failings. But there is beauty in the long-lived, because in the tenor of my parents’ relationship, there is enduring love and utmost acceptance of imperfections both insignificant and significant. Nights ago at an intimidate candle-lit dinner with my family and another family (whom I did not know so well), there was the usual sharing of stories, both serious and light. It was a night like this, however, when my parents spoke wide eyed, of tales long ago. Both sweet and nostalgic. My brother and I sat somewhat captivated, uncharacteristically demure and quiet, soaking up what is really our legacy, stories not in fact fictional or exaggerated, but the truth. Despite being in a close-knit family where ‘no secrets in family’ has been drilled into us since infantile days (though such a mantra is hopelessly flawed; we were scoffing about keeping such a vow even within childhood), it is still difficult to know the entirety of our parents. All we know are our 21 or 19 years of life where our mum and dad have very successfully occupied the role of strong parents, figures of authority, supporters, carers; the ones who have seen me in my worst and helped build me to become my best (always under guidance of Christ). They are a font of knowledge in all aspects of life and I still maintain that there is nothing that I know more than my parents, nothing…except maybe the latest Le Pliage limited edition collection or the better nightclubs in Adelaide (but who really cares about that?!). They are our mummy and daddy. But we did not know them when they first immigrated to Australia, when they were our age and a whole lot less financially privileged than we are now. We had never seen them in the light of youth and vulnerability, for that is exactly what they were. They were both the youngest of many children: My mother moved to Australia at age sixteen, by herself with no contacts. My father’s life was uprooted in the middle of his first year at uni in Burma, when his family decided to immigrate to Australia. Blithely, he picked three uni degree for Sydney, medicine, dentistry and architecture. He laughs as he tell us, with an animated face, that God only knows why but he was blessed to be chosen to do what he is in now. He was the only international student in the entirety of his year to be chosen. We did not know them when my parents met: the first, and the second time; their first date, what convinced them to get married – it is all stuff of fairy tales, a faint mist of bygone years. And within this all, my brother and I quietly acknowledge the divine providence shown, beautifully personal as it is.

Despite my parents’ no-nonsense-type of approach in life and all efforts to wave away iffy signs of intoxicating romance, theirs is truly a romantic story of complexities, drama, life and death. But there is also more: They lead a remarkable life of giving and giving. My brother and I see that they are one unit, and though nothing is unbreakable, on that night, I begin to imagine that theirs must be close. There is the indelible mark of time on their faces, and it is good. And I know that one day, I want to be just like them.

How inscrutable his ways

‘…and still, as he looked, he lived; and still, as he lived, he wondered.

`Rat!’ he found breath to whisper, shaking. `Are you afraid?’

`Afraid?’ murmured the Rat, his eyes shining with unutterable love. `Afraid! Of Him ? O, never, never! And yet– and yet– O, Mole, I am afraid!’

- The Wind in the Willows (Kenneth Grahame)

Above all flawed intellectual arguments, above our human desire to ‘figure out’ God (because we hate the unknown), is the finite God. In our foolishness, too often we (I) try to place him in a neat little box; we’d like to have the precise words to describe who and what He is. But God is transcendental, and as John White reminds me in ‘The Race’, His holiness is more than what our intellects will ever be able to comprehend. “Holiness, you see, is easier felt, than telt”.

A walk

Today, marked by the remnants of bronchitis and my mother’s warning that exertion whilst recovering from illness is unwise, I reluctantly went for a walk. Normally I favour jogging/running over walking (more efficient at calorie burning), but today, I decided to explore the hilly neighbourhood – after all, I’d think that shopping alone would not provide sufficient cardio .

 

Yes I am at least ten years late with the whole exploring thing, but better late than never! I use the term ‘exploring’ rather loosely; to be more accurate, all I was doing was roaming up hills, delving into greenery, the reserves, bushland and whatever else I could find in my suburban neighbourhood. I bypassed the old juvenile detention centre (concrete prison + deserted basketball court originally graffiti-ed with male genitalia). If I went far enough, I’d hit mortgage mountain (large estates), followed by farmland.

 

Apparently the gloomy weather encouraged my secretive, furtive behaviour (not really) as I blithely ignored a few broken fences – the hazy delineation between government-owned reserves and private property. I can truthfully say that at times, I wasn’t sure where I was anymore as the land overlapped, with thick overgrown trees yawning over creeks and dilapidated benches.  I didn’t exactly wear an inconspicuous all-black ensemble, rather I wore (ugly) neon purple shorts, trainers, a white T, and held a massive Lancome umbrella. At least, as a female, I didn’t look threatening, but just as ridiculous, as I walked through the long spear-like grass, ever fearing the presence of leaches (to date, I have not knowingly experienced one) and psychosomatically feeling the feet of a hundred insects on my naked arms.

Eventually, through backyards and bush, I ended up at the bottom of what appeared to be hills of green farmland. I was a little spooked, however, by spiky wire and a sign of ‘trespassers will be prosecuted’ – otherwise, I wouldn’t have minded ambling over to the horses, and peeking over the hills to see what other life existed beyond what I did not know.

A little before I came home (I took a different path), I heard the bitter call of a bird nearby. So unlike the flickering sounds of cicadas or the melodious lines of magpies. I searched and spotted, firstly, an Up and Go bottle, followed by other blue paraphernalia: pegs, bags, paper. Indeed, a mother bowerbird popped out, its shiny midnight coat blue in the sunlight, with bright beady eyes watching my every move. Finally, unimpressed by my presence, it flew to a tree, exposing its nest (LHS).

All this is so old-school, so primary school: Bowerbirds, bushland, galahs, lorikeets, king parrots, cockatoos, plentiful lantana . I never used to be so fascinated with it all, because I was so often surrounded by it. A kookaburra perched on our swing. Recently, a flock of 12+ lorikeets in our yard. Hand feed them, if you want. But having moved away, caught up in a life of city (ish), work and social has led me to have little time to honestly appreciate what else God’s given me in life. Don’t get me wrong. I’m far from in love with Wollongong. I get easily bored and I realise that some places (the CBD) is dirty and old. The night life is lacking and the shopping is minimal (albeit a forty minute drive from the border of Sydney). But who am I to complain? This place is thriving in beauty of the natural kind – of course, being less outdoors-inclined, it’s a little lost on me. But trust me, Wollongong is beautiful. Escarpment, long and wide. Bushland. Rainforest. Beaches and more beaches.

 

No childhood is ideal, but mine wasn’t bad, in little old Wollongong. I may complain about the lack of people, the whole big fish in small pond thing, but I had a childhood filled with an insurmountable amount of quiet stability and security; all my life I belonged to a tiny school of 400, from kindergarten to Year 12 – a very close-knitted community. My childhood at school can be delineated by lunchtime events which utilised what we had. In infants, we spent an age visiting the neighbour’s peacocks. We explored behind school buildings and under ancient demountables. Absolutely disgusting, dark and claustrophobic, but not altogether uninteresting. We found petrified wood and later fossilised leaves in the rainforest (behind the ‘big oval’). All illicit, never initiated by timid me, but apparently I wasn’t prissy enough to refuse such adventures. Later on, a fascination for slaters developed, especially when they curled up into little protective balls – we started up slater farms (dear me!) When that bored us, a giant class game of tip grew up which proceeded to swallow up our time for weeks on end. As expected, teams were divided up with girls against boys. It was vicious. We dragged victims to our respective home bases which were led by changing Queens (or Kings for the guys), ruling over shelters of swaying trees located at the end of the ‘small oval’. It got out of hand, where two people got suspended, when we forced prisoners to perform certain tasks, such as breaking thick sticks with hands in a karate-style motion. Someone must have gotten hurt. We were eight years old, fierce infantile faces streaked with dirt, owning the attitudes of proud try-hard warriors. In primary school, we explored the ‘big oval’s’ backyard rainforest (again illicitly) and carved our names into trees. For a few years, every summer, there was a plethora of grasshoppers on the oval. Thousands. Usually bright green, but the aberrant milky or beige coloured one appeared. Sizes also differed, with the occasional freakishly weird/scary creature emerging. Cross-country running occurred annually in the heat of summer (seriously, why?!). We climbed steep hills (yes my suburb is hilly!), and crossed grassy terrain. We could spot the grasshoppers along the way, flicking across our paths, as we breathlessly ran another lap of the oval. I don’t know what happened, but when we hit highschool, the grasshoppers seemed to disappear. We would no longer delight in capturing them, ‘taming’ them or calling them our own, for the duration of our lunch or recess break. Instead, highschool saw our slow decline into lazy teenagerhood, the pinnacle of boring, small-school life. Hours were spent as sloths, leaning across outdoor tables, wishing we led different lives, went to different schools. We scratched at the now visible edges of a bubble life.

 

Sure, I moved onto another bubble: the Adelaide one. But I get preoccupied with the busy-ness of life, especially uni – when suddenly I seem to eat, breathe and expel the life of BDS. Tonight, I read Revelations; to not forsake your first love. Firstly, Christ, and although this is a little out of context, I want to take a moment to celebrate the complexities of every individual’s childhood, how God mapped out our paths from the day our miniscule hearts pulsated within the life force of our mother. We have been shaped in accordance to His will, and He knows what is better for us: what is best. As was that time when my family decided I would indeed stay in sleepy metropolitan Wollongong instead of moving up north, despite all the odds. Nothing happens as pure coincidence.

Good times on FB

(That is, unless the guy turns out to be a stalker…)

A random guy just added me on FB. I added him back only because I couldn’t see his friends list and wanted to see if we had mutual friends and to ascertain whether I had in fact met him. I only did this after checking his photos to ensure that he was a real person (as opposed to a hacker) and whether he had real wallposts and comments. He had photos dating back to 2009, so things seemed legit.

Unfortunately, turns out I had been lured by some creepy Asian boy from Sydney. Possibly fourteen and prepubescent (at a guess. Not really ). He instantly wall posted me.

Random guy: hey r u who i think u r ?

I PM’ed him in reply: Hi, I don’t think so…considering I was going to ask you – do I know you?! Haha!! Do we have mutual friends?!

Random guy PMs me back: not sure,,,,,,,,,im michael wats ur name.

       i mean wat u do n where uy from?

       i like the “A woman’s heart should be so hidden in God that a man must seek God to find her…” lol kinder make u hard to get huh… lol

Apart from the horrendous grammar (even if he is fourteen and prepubescent ) and the fact that he cannot solve the world’s easiest mystery (my name? Did you just not add me because of my name?!), you can imagine that I was rather put off by the sudden downward turn of the conversation. DEFRIEND! Shortest friend I will ever have .

Have you ever had any strange FB experiences? People do love their social media! I’ve been asked out on FB twice. I did not see those requests coming, and needless to say, I declined on both counts! (Not that I deterred the asker, now that I think about it. Both managed to acquire long-term girlfriends within weeks after our conversations! Interesting!)

I have to say, the only qualm I have with the whole incident is that I may have leaked my blog URL – if indeed the guy decided to explore my ‘info’ page, then he may currently be viewing this page, which may further create increased awkwardness (not like it was awkward before at all, right?!) In which case, Welcome….to…my…blog…Feel flattered to be the subject of my blog post, not many people get the chance . Fortunately, Feedjit says that no one has perused my blog in the last hour, and my dear friend AP reminds me that it takes a lot of effort and $$ to get rid of one’s IP address. Finally I can sleep safely at night again!

Soul Surfer

I didn’t cry in The Notebook, but I shed a lot of tears during this movie. Kinda wipes out all the trivial nonsense I was going to post on this blog! I read Bethany Hamilton’s book too, when I was 13/14. Just googled, and she’s only a few months older than I am. What an inspiration.

Story of my life :P

Hello, old friend!

Internet, that is. Last week I embarrassingly used up all the internet (which my Dad told me quietly on the side, so my brother wouldn’t [predictably] lord it over me [nice of Dad]), though there was still 20 gb internet to be used between the ridiculous hours of 4am and 9am.

 

Anyway, just wanted to share a few interesting books that I’ve read recently. I always seem to love novels with strong voices, and these are no different. Virginia Ironside’s No! I Don’t Want to Join a Bookclub (as corny as the title is) features a sassy 60 year old grandma full of politically incorrect hilarious thoughts about being old and life in general. My sort of humour – though quite cynical at times . The Ninth Life of Louis Drax by Liz Jensen is very different, exploring the role of female emotional manipulation. This dark novel is polyphonically narrated by Louis, an intelligent (but quite frankly disturbed) 9 year old boy, and Dr Pascal Dannachet, a neurologist specializing in comatose patients, as he battles with the crossing over of personal feelings and professionalism. Once again, cbb to write a lovely book review on either novel. View here for a good summary on the latter. But ah yes, very compelling.

 

On other unrelated news, Moves Like Jagger  is stuck in my head, despite having only heard 10 sec of it on TV this morning around 9.30am whilst at work. Unfortunately I have a tendency to completely ignore bad (/dodgy) lyrics in songs and focus on melody/instrumentation/catchy boppy songs... ahhh *begins dancing…