Jungle

I started reading Jungle yesterday afternoon and almost could not put it down till I finished it tonight. It is about 4 men and their adventure into the wild jungle of the Amazon and how they split 2-2, and the narrator ended up alone in the jungle for nearly 3 weeks, and he made it. Again I find myself groping for the right words to use. I can't remember if I've ever been to a real rainforest other than those in the zoo's fragile forest section (which was their nicest feature ever) but I've always loved the idea of rainforests. Lush jungle and green trees glistening, strange flowers blooming, monkeys, soft mud and everything so alive. And after finishing the book, reading all Yossi said and remembering that I bought the book from Corrie who interviewed him (that's how I got the book, getting her review copy) and she asked him about how accurate the book can be since it happened decades ago or something like that, and as I flitted through the remarks printed on the first 2 pages of the book, made by The Sunday Mail and all those newspapers and magazines and read all their zesty satisfying phrases I realised that the signature (With love, ....2006) on the title page of the book, that I'd always flipped past with a sense of strange irritation, was really the signature of Yossi Ghinsberg. Not that I never knew, it just never registered, and it suddenly took on a different meaning. It suddenly meant a lot that his signature was there, he whose crazy and mysterious story is in the book. I hate signatures, and this is the first time any signature has meant anything to me.

Isn't it funny that the relationships and people in books and movies can sometimes be so much more real than anything in real life......

how do i write poems?

Sister: I have to write a poem about insects for my young entomologist card. Mummy, teach me how to write a poem about insects leh.
Mummy: Aiyah that one you should ask jiejie. Okay, how about 'Insects insects everywhere'.
Sister: That is so lame.
(went ahead anyway. Poem ended with 'they are so hardworking, they work hard for their living')
Father: When you write a poh-em you must reflect on the meaning first and what you want to say.

Father: Don't go to the zoo on weekdays, so few people like so pud-ted-tic like that.

Walking lightly as a fairy, Though her shoes were number nine

Walking lightly as a fairy, Though her shoes were number nine

And this how she died:

Drove she ducklings to the water
E'vry morning just at nine,
Hit her foot against a splinter,
Fell into the foaming brine.

Ruby lips above the water,
Blowing bubbles soft and fine,
But alas, I was no swimmer,
Neither was my Clementine.

Guitars and ukuleles are curious instruments. A voice with chords in the background, strummed to a rhythm, is strange to me. But I believe in my jumping flea (ukulele).

'Sweet dreams', once you get over how overused it was when you were a silly secondary school teenager, is actually a lovely thing to say, though it's so rare to come by. The only sweet dream I can really remember ever having is one where me and 2 people were in a magical forest with fairy lights, and one of them (both were males) suggesting that we take off all our clothes and dance in a circle, and we did, with flowers and lush leaves and magic lights around, and it was crazy, but not in that dangerous maenad way, but with a glowing, cosy, ecstatic peace.

I just signed up for a 'dressmaking' class at a cc!!!! It says dressmaking but it's clothes making. It starts next week and soon I'll know how to use a sewing machine and can make clothes for the rest of my life! I can buy flower prints or paisley prints and make simple dresses and blouses for the rest of my life, and make clothes for my grandmother, mother, sister, cousins, desiree, everyone. I'll take their bust measurements and make them flower blouses that reveal their flat bellies and belly hair if any (well not for the plump adults, this idea). My grandmother is going to buy a sewing machine this weekend! Not the new electronic kind but the old kind where the soles of your feet rest on a panel that moves back and forth. She said she used to take apart old clothes to look at how the pieces began and made new clothes by tracing the cloth part configurations of the old ones. And they sewed school uniforms then, and -hold your breath- BRAS. Imagine the mothers taking the measurements of their daughters breasts and all. Ick.

Tomorrow we are going to choose the tiles for my old-new house. So far it seems like my mother only wants us to choose the following colours: white, grey, beige. I really hope the house which was our cosy beloved corner on earth does not turn into a $800, 000 modern monstrosity, one of those that look like asylums from the outside, with the inside I imagine being all modern-looking and clean and sleek or whatever it's described as, with huge rectangular plasma tvs and the floor with super clean marbled tiles and everything being displayed with purpose and order. Save us from this twisted unfeeling modern idea of a home. Well whatever it is for us my mother will decide since it's her big project, and my room will be my own haven that will have all the reds and oranges and blues and greens that the rest of the house will be thirsty for.

Hey Mr. Tambourine man, play a song for me. I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to......

Nowhere man

Something that has changed my life recently: driving. Ever since I got my license last friday (and didn't jump and scream after getting it, was trying to control myself after the woman who passed behaved like a rabbit on heroin in a corridor full of people waiting to take their theory test and who were staring at walls overhearing her mad gasping exclamations) I can't stop thinking of driving and I'm addicted to it, and real addiction is something I seldom experience. Being an addict is...feeling down when you're not doing the thing you want to do (withdrawal symptoms), always thinking about the thing, not being able to concentrate well unless being very distracted by other things equally or more exciting. If not for my father being daring and suggesting that we go on the expressway on saturday morning, and using my mother's bigger car later, and driving to town a few times back and forth during the peak hours...! He made me horn at docile-looking pedestrians and helped me horn at a bad taxi. Boy do I love that horn. I just can't press it on time. Sitting in my room now but I feel like going for a night drive blasting music. Childish as it sounds compared to the fact that getting a license somewhat indicates more growing up, the nicest and funniest part so far is impressing my da gu and er gu (my aunties), my uncles, cousins, sister and brother. Yahoo! This morning my brother was actually afraid I'd get us into an accident. And when my cousins came for a ride this afternoon, they went 'I can't believe she's driving!' The baby (4 years old) said 'You drive ah? You so smart! Next time i grow up i can also be like you. You....primary 6 ah?' and kept wanting to hold my hand after that. It's funny and sweet how driving to kids is something they look up to, that makes people seem grown up like parents. And that's what they want to be.

True and False (David Mamet) is a life-changing book.

'Act first to desire your own good opinion.'

It's not just about acting. Reading it is like suddenly having sharp sunlight in your brain and fresh air in your nose and mouth. Make no compromises about living your dreams (an overused but so true phrase) and doing what you really want humbly but truly and with dignity. I hope this doesn't sound all pretentious and whatnot, because the book is anything but that. Maybe it sounds too simple, and cutting and crazy and wonderful all at the same time, but that's because it sounds awfully and madly like the truth, that I've been stupidly waiting to hear or read even though my heart knew it all along. But of course there are some nights where everything feels like shit, then just go read catcher in the rye and think of holden and cry at all the sad parts.