Finally a breather after a very eventful few days.
Perfect Baudelairean weather. Appropriately dark and bleak, perfect conditions for scribbling or curling up with a good Gothic horror on the window seat. Weather teases us with hints of Spring and quickly runs away, hiding behind a somber cloud. I see muses climbing out the rain barrels and sliding their way along the roof tiles.
On a slightly negative tone, I am feeling a bit under the weather. Yesterday, I believe I was a bit delirious and apologize to anyone who crossed my path to whom I may have declared gibberish (under the influence of sleepiness, fever or sugar-high, I become a blubbering idiot. Or maybe that is my true nature shining through :P ). Bad throat, a throbbing head and a slight temperature. Phlegm has gotten the best of me.
However, I find fever to be a formidable muse. Quite persistent and at times, violent.
The occasion calls for me to be cheesy in public and say that I miss the man. It's been more than two months since we last held hands. I try not to think about it, keep myself busy. After all, days do fly by. Good news is, only a few weeks more :)
Can't help it. I'm an idealist. And a romantic sop. Bad combo.
I miss my room. I miss those old familiar walls that have seen much. They've seen me laugh, they've seen me cry, they've comforted me in times of apprehension. I've seen my happiness bounce off those walls, I've seen my grief contained within as well, those walls a silent, comforting presence. My room is cosy. It is home.
I get too attached to things, absurd things at that. It takes time when it comes to people, yes, as I have trust issues, but when I do get attached, I get ridiculously attached, a trait I am trying to curb. Not good this.
I miss the silent yet weighty presence of dad in the house. I miss his occasional clearings of throat or mild reprimands of how messy my room is whenever he does peek in. I miss the hushed murmur of the TV, volume turned down on the sports channel at night, thinking that I am working in my room.
I miss cooking for him. I miss the sundry discussions, future planning, dream-sharing, laughing at the many antics of Franky boy over afternoon tea. Oh well, just a few weeks more.
I also miss my favorite monster.
On home news today, Frankenstein Poopsalot is eating again and I try to skype with him whenever I can. Our interactions usually consist of father dearest holding the laptop down to him so that we can see each other and Franky boy barking frantically and trying to eat the laptop at the sound of my voice. I miss the old goofball. And his warm and sometimes smelly, but comforting presence.
Who would have thought that I'd be skyping with my dog.
Well, I am, a teeny tiny bit homesick.
What I've realized is I am fond of stories. That is why I read, write, collect books and watch movies. I want to surround myself with stories, all the time. I will probably make myself a fort with books one day. I like that idea.
Melbourne Writers Festival is happening these days. It's a fun experience, sharing experiences, thoughts and ideas with a bunch of like-minded people, a rare kind indeed. There are a lot of questions related as well. One of the most oddball questions that I've come across so far went like this; “Why is it that most of the writers I know have curly, unruly mops of hair? Either creativity sparks from crazy hair or brilliant people just do not brush their hair. Like, ever. Do you brush your hair?” It took me a while to get over my initial shock and then the spurt of laughter to answer that question.
And yes, I do brush my hair.
I was fortunate enough to witness penguins in their natural habitats just recently. Easily, the most magical nature experience in my life. St. Kilda beach provides shelter to a group of penguins who waddle home to their refuges under the rocks at the end of each day. It's such a beautiful thing to just watch them come home after a hard day. Some are shy and will withdraw under the rocks while most will just stand there and stare at you with a bemused expression on their faces. Some will flap their wings (?) frantically in an energetic evening workout, not giving two hoots about who is watching. Others will just lie on their sides, wings aside and just sleep upon the rocks. Like old grannies some would jump/flutter from one rock to another and waddle-waddle their way to wherever their little hearts desire. It was all I could do to stop myself from scooping one into my arms and squishing em in a hug. I wonder if he or she will have the same quizzical expression in their faces when I do.
It's a shame that my camera is useless in the dark without a flasher. It is advised not to use a flasher on these whimsical creatures as it can easily startle them and possibly, cause blindness. So I recorded them in my mind. The slightest whiff of that memory just makes me smile. This would be a memory that I would fondly turn to when life saddens me from time to time.
Longing for a proper Sri Lankan chicken curry, laden with spices and whatnot, preferably the 'kade' kind. Personally, I'm not a fan of chili (spices are all good, but I do not agree with the Sri Lankans' abuse of chili ruining the most beautiful ingredients. Indians on the other hand are more disciplined with their use of chili), but right now, I wouldn't mind one. There is no Australian cuisine per say, what constitutes of Australian cuisine is mostly steak, potatoes, boiled veggies and etc. Very bland and quite unable to satiate our taste buds being used to more vibrant and more flamboyant flavors. Asian cuisine is thriving here though. A little bit 'Aussied' but still good. I am hooked on Japanese these days. I've always been fond of Japanese cuisine but this is a whole new level of Japanese fondness. I dare daub myself the Mistress of the chopsticks now!
But nothing really beats the Sri Lankan chicken curry. Not for me anyway.
It's fascinating wherever you go, you carry the whole of your roots with you, isn't it?
Perfect Baudelairean weather. Appropriately dark and bleak, perfect conditions for scribbling or curling up with a good Gothic horror on the window seat. Weather teases us with hints of Spring and quickly runs away, hiding behind a somber cloud. I see muses climbing out the rain barrels and sliding their way along the roof tiles.
On a slightly negative tone, I am feeling a bit under the weather. Yesterday, I believe I was a bit delirious and apologize to anyone who crossed my path to whom I may have declared gibberish (under the influence of sleepiness, fever or sugar-high, I become a blubbering idiot. Or maybe that is my true nature shining through :P ). Bad throat, a throbbing head and a slight temperature. Phlegm has gotten the best of me.
However, I find fever to be a formidable muse. Quite persistent and at times, violent.
The occasion calls for me to be cheesy in public and say that I miss the man. It's been more than two months since we last held hands. I try not to think about it, keep myself busy. After all, days do fly by. Good news is, only a few weeks more :)
Can't help it. I'm an idealist. And a romantic sop. Bad combo.
I miss my room. I miss those old familiar walls that have seen much. They've seen me laugh, they've seen me cry, they've comforted me in times of apprehension. I've seen my happiness bounce off those walls, I've seen my grief contained within as well, those walls a silent, comforting presence. My room is cosy. It is home.
I get too attached to things, absurd things at that. It takes time when it comes to people, yes, as I have trust issues, but when I do get attached, I get ridiculously attached, a trait I am trying to curb. Not good this.
I miss the silent yet weighty presence of dad in the house. I miss his occasional clearings of throat or mild reprimands of how messy my room is whenever he does peek in. I miss the hushed murmur of the TV, volume turned down on the sports channel at night, thinking that I am working in my room.
I miss cooking for him. I miss the sundry discussions, future planning, dream-sharing, laughing at the many antics of Franky boy over afternoon tea. Oh well, just a few weeks more.
I also miss my favorite monster.
On home news today, Frankenstein Poopsalot is eating again and I try to skype with him whenever I can. Our interactions usually consist of father dearest holding the laptop down to him so that we can see each other and Franky boy barking frantically and trying to eat the laptop at the sound of my voice. I miss the old goofball. And his warm and sometimes smelly, but comforting presence.
Who would have thought that I'd be skyping with my dog.
Well, I am, a teeny tiny bit homesick.
What I've realized is I am fond of stories. That is why I read, write, collect books and watch movies. I want to surround myself with stories, all the time. I will probably make myself a fort with books one day. I like that idea.
Melbourne Writers Festival is happening these days. It's a fun experience, sharing experiences, thoughts and ideas with a bunch of like-minded people, a rare kind indeed. There are a lot of questions related as well. One of the most oddball questions that I've come across so far went like this; “Why is it that most of the writers I know have curly, unruly mops of hair? Either creativity sparks from crazy hair or brilliant people just do not brush their hair. Like, ever. Do you brush your hair?” It took me a while to get over my initial shock and then the spurt of laughter to answer that question.
And yes, I do brush my hair.
I was fortunate enough to witness penguins in their natural habitats just recently. Easily, the most magical nature experience in my life. St. Kilda beach provides shelter to a group of penguins who waddle home to their refuges under the rocks at the end of each day. It's such a beautiful thing to just watch them come home after a hard day. Some are shy and will withdraw under the rocks while most will just stand there and stare at you with a bemused expression on their faces. Some will flap their wings (?) frantically in an energetic evening workout, not giving two hoots about who is watching. Others will just lie on their sides, wings aside and just sleep upon the rocks. Like old grannies some would jump/flutter from one rock to another and waddle-waddle their way to wherever their little hearts desire. It was all I could do to stop myself from scooping one into my arms and squishing em in a hug. I wonder if he or she will have the same quizzical expression in their faces when I do.
It's a shame that my camera is useless in the dark without a flasher. It is advised not to use a flasher on these whimsical creatures as it can easily startle them and possibly, cause blindness. So I recorded them in my mind. The slightest whiff of that memory just makes me smile. This would be a memory that I would fondly turn to when life saddens me from time to time.
Longing for a proper Sri Lankan chicken curry, laden with spices and whatnot, preferably the 'kade' kind. Personally, I'm not a fan of chili (spices are all good, but I do not agree with the Sri Lankans' abuse of chili ruining the most beautiful ingredients. Indians on the other hand are more disciplined with their use of chili), but right now, I wouldn't mind one. There is no Australian cuisine per say, what constitutes of Australian cuisine is mostly steak, potatoes, boiled veggies and etc. Very bland and quite unable to satiate our taste buds being used to more vibrant and more flamboyant flavors. Asian cuisine is thriving here though. A little bit 'Aussied' but still good. I am hooked on Japanese these days. I've always been fond of Japanese cuisine but this is a whole new level of Japanese fondness. I dare daub myself the Mistress of the chopsticks now!
But nothing really beats the Sri Lankan chicken curry. Not for me anyway.
It's fascinating wherever you go, you carry the whole of your roots with you, isn't it?
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