Category: Introspection

The greater purpose.

I’ve been so caught up in the avalanche of workloads that I find my shoulder hurting and my entire self salivating for a bite, just one tiny, minuscule, microscopic bite of a cheesecake forever craved.

I’ve never had such a week where everything seems to have gone wrong. And yet, dear ghosts, I find myself impeccably calm in such situations, uncaring for the personal judgments of my superiors that I felt incredibly liberated from the fatal thoughts of the “what if they don’t like me?”. I suggest you all try it. Freeing.

In the other light, there are so many things to look forward to in the next concluding months of 2 0 1 7. I want to begin with fulfilling numero uno on my list of fernweh’s having started Harper F.M. and that is to visit the vivacious, mountainous, racketeering New Zealand of Down Down Under. Yes, in countable days, I shall be trekking with a Maz-tiff by my side, ploughing down the road with our Brego’s and our Legolas wigs styled the Targaryen way.

And upon the conclusion of that trek (edit: cannot wait), we return to the shores of a few more weeks of the day job before finding ourselves in a time wrap ready for the release of the sequel of the 7th of an instalment that equals to nine episodes. Stoked?

ABSOLUTELY.

Importantly, on the eve of the eve Christmas, there will be a road trip in there somewhere where I will re-live the days of lying down on an astroturf underneath the Massachusetts stars unearthing my great purpose with my favourite companion of companions, amidst shaking breaths but now, in summery flower dresses and plentiful-a-bug spray.

Melbourne. No apologies.

Before that, let’s rally the real for some fun office ping pong competition, much forgiveness, vigilance, diligence, and no fear. As, there is still much. But deep breaths, H, deep breaths.

You are called for a great purpose. Live it.

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How dare you, really.

I sometimes catch myself looking at a person and wondering if they’ve ever been to a musical. Not on it, in it.

Because how many do we pass by in the streets as we juggle our hot cuppas, as we ignore the world with tunes blasting from our headsets, that have been in a musical? Last night, I had the privilege of watching my puppies-before-anything friend’s first time to watch a musical in her twenty-three years of living. And whatever musical it had been, it had to be something that will amaze her, wow her, and shut her splendid in spectacular fashions.

“Colourful,” she says, without ambiguity. It seemed most appropriate with a set so dressed and a stage lit with the ambience of every Disney film we ever loved (still do).

Tragically, I remembered when we booked our tickets months before – May, if I recall correctly. You ask, “Why the long wait?” Because patience is a virtue among those who wait. It yields results contrary to spontaneity that can either equal wondrous or disastrous. There’s never an in-between.

We wanted to be safe and go for the wondrous. We sat in the stalls, very much near the orchestra pit and there were no barriers hingeing our desire to see the stage in all its glory. And glory we did! (I still have tears in my eyes.) But I digress.

The tragedy was our trio reduced to a duo. The 1/3 of our group decided that it best to buy herself some exorbitantly expensive shoes to trample on than sit amidst a crowd to ooh and ahh and gasp at the tumbling acrobats.

Will I forgive said friend for the ditch?

Perhaps not.

Richly flavoured yellow.

I still remember the spring of last year. When September rolled around and the canola flowers bloomed in rich yellow as we passed in our daily haste. I remember feeling the still chilly wind as I ambled around my backyard with my hose, careful, knowing that the thorns will start to breathe life and colour once more.

I took out my journal, 31st of August 2016, dog-eared (an accident) and I’m reading through my flowery script as I regaled nobody – myself – something to do with rainy days and sweepstakes, and missing verdant Massachusetts. The plane ride to Hartford, Springfield from Dallas was a nightmare, but the landing was a dream. Fresh lobsters served butter-hot in our exhaustion, quaint, rustic, American dream house with its trademark squeaky floorboards.

It’s haunting, alluring, and I feel so unapologetic that I fainted while waiting in line for a ride at Six Flags.

Spring has a quality of superstition about it. Hades and Persephone, a fave. It can be dark, but light, humorous, but itchy. I wonder how this year will go. Will it be inescapable? Will it be richly flavoured?

Hmm, hmm, hmm…

Empathy.

I have been ill for three consecutive weeks. I have missed two work days out of five for these three consecutive weeks and it is more than putting a glower on myself, I am feeling a basketful of guilt for leaving the manning of the fort to my two superiors. My two unequivocally professional and beyond worthy to my superiors. They are vastly more improved than I in this profession (I still use the Media and Comms excuse) but their invaluable kindness and mentorship has made it much, much easier for me to be ill. And I say this for the entire company.

The company that knows just how much an individual person is worth.

Even so, in the creative department, I have disappeared upon these pages too. How have you all been? Did any of you have a sweet apple today? Dipped it in yoghurt for a snack? Did someone climb a particularly challenging staircase this week? Or fumbled down the couch as they reach for the remote control?

I know I have done less than dismal of physical activities. If I count walking to the car, walking to the refrigerator, stretching by the bed, using my thumbs as I wreak havoc on a gaming console…

To continue is to make a fool of myself.

Alas, I feel braver. Braver in my insecurity, that is. As oftentimes I catch myself needing to apologise for my human condition of illness. And I thought, why should I?

But it helps. It thoroughly helps when empathy is your ally.

Fashion spiel

I cannot account as to how long it has been since I last shopped at a direct factory outlet. I recall driving past and pausing at our local shopping centre not ten-minutes away, and usually I’ll get driven thanks to some learner pals.

So when I went today, after having returned some notes from my piggy bank, I felt far from disinterested when the sale signs launched their marketing assault. What kind of brands do I silly in?

Pfft, everything, I think to myself as I lunge after that orange box numbered “size 8”. Appalled by my brother’s holeful socks, I did not have time to deliberate. I was taken straight to the counter.

My real purpose was to buy myself a camera bag and some mints but instead, my name was screamed at a store and I was given a 50% discount by my fashionably A+ friend. Here’s my fashion rundown, Tavi Gevinson:

Peach is the new rose gold. Even if a CEO scoffs at it.

Always white shoes over black and white. Because you already have a black and white somewhere, don’t be greedy.

Slightly expensive black socks.

Coats.

It’s a must.

 

 

Anniversary countdowns and exorbitant buys.

I’m excited to my bones for this wintery month of June. Summer, for those who live in the hemisphere that still refuses to measure in metres.

Work has been loaded with luncheons here and there and call me nasty, but I’m starting to understand why the term “food snob” was purposed. Perhaps, it’s to limit the collateral damage, but mostly because the food in this city, this gorgeous, luminous, effervescent city is just unparalleled. Nevertheless, I still enjoy a fusion Chinese night out with my fam and a half.

The rollercoaster ride of reaching three months at work is at its peak now that we’re halfway through 2017. To be more specific (alluding to my topic sentence above), June went on a metropolitan train ride to the likes of SoHo or the Emporium armed with recyclable shopping bags and a thirst for the adventurous efrits.

Firstly, my parents’ wedding anniversary is finally on countdown. They are booked for the wondrous, unexpected glory of New Zealand, a southern journey closest to our penguin pals down in the whitest south. Us begotten children o’ theirs have ramped up their sojourn with as much luxury as we can afford between a university student, two full-timers with bills to pay, and one with a monthly Netflix subscription.

Let’s just say we told them to pack heavy and to pack in style. *insert wink face*

To the personal creative, I, the filmmaker, finally bought myself a cinema camera worth all that marketing collateral changes and in-house designing with my very limited eye sight. It’s the perfect time to bust out the cinematic perspective of two odysseys ahead: 1. An all-expenses paid photoshoot slash hike come July, and 2. My own New Zealand trip with my “Denmarkian” upon thine end of her Masters exchange in November.

All day I’ve been thinking up of brewing tea and never getting around to it as I launched tab after tabs of research into the best lens for a dandy Blackmagic, ready to unleash the Patty Jenkins in me.

Sure, it seems costly to an Adidas shoe-buyer, but I’m a future-thinker gal. I invest on solid certainties only. i.e. I don’t buy books if I won’t re-read them again. And that’s a guarantee.

Suffice it to say, I have not been this excited for exorbitant purchases for a while now. Sending my parents off has always been my dream, and something I’ve worked very hard towards. I am enraptured for them as I peruse the bookings we made, and the places they will visit. They deserve much more, but this is a start.

I am also keeping myself accountable for all such spendings by creating an excel spreadsheet, and if my glasses don’t say otherwise, I am really feeling the “adult” in me butterfly-ing.

But hey, I love new chapters. Especially in my own book.

Steam train no go’s.

Harper nudges me with her elbow, pretending that I am not constantly aware of her presence at all times. She sighs belatedly, sliding down her chair till her head’s about the height of the ignition.

“We were supposed to go on a steam train journey on Saturday.”

Ah yes, she mentioned that. In fact, I believe she mentioned it to everyone at her work and now she’s afraid that she has no adventurous story to tell any longer. 

“Sure, we had stuffed crust pizza and I binged and slept like a mama without her newborn.” She makes a noise at the back of her throat that resembles a choking dog. “But a steam train. That was supposed to be my grand weekend adventure! Doesn’t matter if, by the end of it, I’m an icicle.”

When Harper’s exchange friend visited from the U.S. last July, she was keen on making certain she made the most of what her wonder-home had to offer. One of them was said steam train adventure, mostly for young children, but they were all unabashedly children at heart, anyway. And so they went for a little trip to Belgrave, blasting Frank Ocean tunes and admiring the gables and rusty greens. 

They reminisced about that time they watched “Something Rotten” in Broadway, recalling the annoying couple who watched themselves more intently than the wonderful display of art and music before them. They all agreed: #WhatAWaste

And upon arrival at the end station, they grabbed hot cocoa and took pictures of pretty birds, not minding their vanity at all. Harper recalls how much her friend hated birds (a flamboyant flamingo said cause) but she stood courageous enough to snap some shots. For her dad, apparently, whom she expressly missed so.

“Perhaps we can go next time,” I tell her, strapping her seat belt on. 

“They’ll probably go this Saturday and I won’t be able to come.” They, meaning her family. “I specifically made sure that it was last Saturday. Specifically. I even declined a surprise birthday party.”

I offered to buy her fast food to sate her and she simply shakes her head. Then her eyes light up like someone turned on the switch too early, blinding everyone in the room.

“Let’s go and watch a musical!”

And that’s another story to tell…