Given that today's grey skies and gusts of wind were doing nothing to lift my spirits, it probably wasn't the smartest idea to listen to Josh Groban and Eva Cassidy, both extremely gifted musical artists in the sad song genre. But still, I did it. Call it the masochist in me.
The new story is doing quite well, considering. Developing new characters (New? As compared to what? Hard to believe this all hit me just 6 days ago) and trying to build some sensible plot structures around my scattered thoughts run wild. Back to my old writing style though--- long-hand, no longer on keyboard--- since prolonged exposure to monitor glare has been giving me headaches lately. Happy to say it has seemed to boost the creative process. Hope I don't run out of paper, as even Jo Rowling did recently. And, more importantly, I hope I can decipher my handwriting when I need to read what I've written down!
While showering, I got hit by an inspiration for a song, something which hasn't happened in a while. Trying to capture it before it dissipated into eternal nothingness, I tried to figure out how to do it. No guitar, no keyboard. Can't sight-read music or do the opposite. Have always done it this way: Inspiration hits, I sit on the keyboard and figure out the notes I just sang/heard in my brain, and then I transcribe the notes onto paper with the words, if any come. Now, with no instrument on hand, not even a sound system to record on, I am forced to try to hum it as often as I can till I figure out a way to record it. Will probably try recording directly onto the computer's hard drive with a mic, but that might be weird. Sigh. Lord, You are forcing my resourcefulness to the limit, indeed! When will You stop having me always be a girl scout?
How much I miss singing. I miss writing songs. I miss making music. I miss performing live. I miss recording in the studio. I miss playing with a band. I miss the rush of creative energy just sitting in a room with musician friends, expecting magic to be made any moment.
I miss all that. Can't do anything about it, though. For now, here is where I'm supposed to be, and here is where I am.
At least, Josh Groban did me favour today while all this went on in my head--- his music put E soundly to sleep :)
Friday, May 26, 2006
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Further Into Your Heart, O Lord
Just back from a women's overnight event with Antioch women. It was unbelievably bursting with grace and newfound love. An incredible spiritual, emotional, relational top-up. A weekend of nonstop a-ha moments and eye-openers.
On the train to King's Cross-St Pancras, I was clutching my handbag and was suddenly struck by a tremendous, overwhelming thought: For the first time in many years, I was alone, by myself, on my way to a place I'd never been. No pushchair, no baby bag, no nappies, no milk-stained jacket or crumb-covered sleeves to define me. I was no one's wife or mother, no one's daughter or friend. I was just, well, me.
The thought petrified me for a timeless minute. I mutely rummaged around in my thoughts, digging deep into the depths of my soul, searching for the Old Me, fingers fumbling, groping around as if for a missing paperclip in the bottom of a very cluttered purse. Where are you? Is this you? What about this? Or this? Where IS that dratted girl?, I asked vexedly.
I was looking for the Old Me, a fearless, adventurous traveler and explorer, who was perfectly at home in her own skin, alone but never lonely, enjoying good company but never needing it to complete the joy of her journey. And after those first earth-shattering minutes, I can gleefully report that I found her. After all those years, she's back. With a vengeance, I might add.
And just imagine, all this was just on the trip to the event itself!
Met up with newly-found mate Joyce at King's Cross and both of us lamented, almost at the same time, that we had very conveniently forgotten our own cameras and had been hoping the other would somehow remember to bring hers. Alas, our common wavelength resulted in common memory loss and trounced us this time. No matter. Maybe we were meant to savour the weekend by BEING THERE instead of busily taking snapshots to reminisce over later.
The talks were nothing I hadn't heard before: God's personal love for me, Loving one another, Loving others enough to bring them the good news... But somehow, they cut me to the heart, moving me to fall in love with the Lord all over again, inspiring me to put aside my lame excuses about talking to the other mums in school about God, giving me spiritual eyes as I looked into my new sisters' faces and saw them, not as they are now, but as they will be, as God is making them. And I felt a sudden rush of profound love for these women, all of whom I had never met a year ago, but who were now faces of God's love for me here, in this foreign place. Beautiful faces, all of them.
I remember a plaque in the chapel where Antioch meets: "In this house are no strangers, only friends we do not know." It comforts me and convinces me even more that this is where I am supposed to be. God knew the tentpegs of my heart had grown too comfy where they had been. I was then in a place where I was known and loved, and where I never had to reach out or reveal myself to people I'd never met. And He said, High time for a stretch, RiverPilgrim, and did just that by bringing me here. Where I have to step out of my skin, my comfort zone, and know and be known all over again. Can be exhausting at times, but I know in my gut that all this stretching is enlarging my territory, extending my borders, widening my perspective. For good. Always, for good. I really thank God for all He has been doing in my life. What would I do without Him? Where would I go? How would I live? How would I love?
As if all these weren't enough, I've been given another bonus, as well: During one of our times of prayer, an idea for a character popped into my head and was so real, she almost walked bodily into the room. Overnight, the few scattered images and concepts she brought into my head quickly snowballed into enough material for a short story, then for a novelette, then for a children's book, then for a trilogy! All on 4-5 back-to-back pages of hastily scribbled notes which kept me writing furiously till 1 am.
Only three people on this planet know my heroine's name (starts with a D, but that's all you're gonna get from me, sorry) and parts of her story, and I'll need to really remind myself to keep a lid on things while the story plays itself out in my head. And I think, well, even if it never gets published, it will be fun to write fiction. For the first time ever, too.
On the train to King's Cross-St Pancras, I was clutching my handbag and was suddenly struck by a tremendous, overwhelming thought: For the first time in many years, I was alone, by myself, on my way to a place I'd never been. No pushchair, no baby bag, no nappies, no milk-stained jacket or crumb-covered sleeves to define me. I was no one's wife or mother, no one's daughter or friend. I was just, well, me.
The thought petrified me for a timeless minute. I mutely rummaged around in my thoughts, digging deep into the depths of my soul, searching for the Old Me, fingers fumbling, groping around as if for a missing paperclip in the bottom of a very cluttered purse. Where are you? Is this you? What about this? Or this? Where IS that dratted girl?, I asked vexedly.
I was looking for the Old Me, a fearless, adventurous traveler and explorer, who was perfectly at home in her own skin, alone but never lonely, enjoying good company but never needing it to complete the joy of her journey. And after those first earth-shattering minutes, I can gleefully report that I found her. After all those years, she's back. With a vengeance, I might add.
And just imagine, all this was just on the trip to the event itself!
Met up with newly-found mate Joyce at King's Cross and both of us lamented, almost at the same time, that we had very conveniently forgotten our own cameras and had been hoping the other would somehow remember to bring hers. Alas, our common wavelength resulted in common memory loss and trounced us this time. No matter. Maybe we were meant to savour the weekend by BEING THERE instead of busily taking snapshots to reminisce over later.
The talks were nothing I hadn't heard before: God's personal love for me, Loving one another, Loving others enough to bring them the good news... But somehow, they cut me to the heart, moving me to fall in love with the Lord all over again, inspiring me to put aside my lame excuses about talking to the other mums in school about God, giving me spiritual eyes as I looked into my new sisters' faces and saw them, not as they are now, but as they will be, as God is making them. And I felt a sudden rush of profound love for these women, all of whom I had never met a year ago, but who were now faces of God's love for me here, in this foreign place. Beautiful faces, all of them.
I remember a plaque in the chapel where Antioch meets: "In this house are no strangers, only friends we do not know." It comforts me and convinces me even more that this is where I am supposed to be. God knew the tentpegs of my heart had grown too comfy where they had been. I was then in a place where I was known and loved, and where I never had to reach out or reveal myself to people I'd never met. And He said, High time for a stretch, RiverPilgrim, and did just that by bringing me here. Where I have to step out of my skin, my comfort zone, and know and be known all over again. Can be exhausting at times, but I know in my gut that all this stretching is enlarging my territory, extending my borders, widening my perspective. For good. Always, for good. I really thank God for all He has been doing in my life. What would I do without Him? Where would I go? How would I live? How would I love?
As if all these weren't enough, I've been given another bonus, as well: During one of our times of prayer, an idea for a character popped into my head and was so real, she almost walked bodily into the room. Overnight, the few scattered images and concepts she brought into my head quickly snowballed into enough material for a short story, then for a novelette, then for a children's book, then for a trilogy! All on 4-5 back-to-back pages of hastily scribbled notes which kept me writing furiously till 1 am.
Only three people on this planet know my heroine's name (starts with a D, but that's all you're gonna get from me, sorry) and parts of her story, and I'll need to really remind myself to keep a lid on things while the story plays itself out in my head. And I think, well, even if it never gets published, it will be fun to write fiction. For the first time ever, too.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
The Economics of Migration
Accuse me of leaving my homeland for money, dear friend, and you will hear me laugh in your face. Looooong and hard.
Back home, we had a car to drive. I had a cellphone. An electronic CASIO keyboard. An RJ guitar. My own 3-2-1 sofa set. A chandelier. A big TV. A refrigerator. A dining table. Our own bed.
Here? No car. No mobile phone, the brands are too expensive. No musical instruments yet, not on our basic priority list. No TV, the annual TV licence fee (required just for OWNING a TV set here in the UK) is way too much. And as for the couch, the dining set, the fridge, the beds--- they all come with the house we are renting, and none of them belongs to us.
Back home, O and I could afford to watch a movie every other week or so. We could all eat at Chow King's or Jollibee or KFC or McDonald's once in a while, after our family grocery time. We had househelp to leave the children with when we needed to go out on dates or meetings. We could sit at Starbucks or Seattle's Best and have one-to-ones over white chocolate lattes.
Here? Movies for juniors (at ₤1 on Sat mornings) are all we can afford. Regular movies cost ₤6 or more and are considered a real luxury. A simple family snack in a McDonald's here could feed a Payatas family for a whole day. Never mind KFC, where you get to eat the same breaded chicken for 5x the price back home. We have never been out on a date by ourselves, O and I, ever since we got here; registered childminders are too expensive. And oh, the times I've gazed longingly at Costa's or Starbucks while walking past...
Back home, we had full and constant access to a rich variety of relationships in community. We lived near brothers and sisters we had known half our lives, and needed just a reasonable amount of time to travel to meetings.
Here, we are geographically isolated from our community in London. To attend meetings each fortnight, we need to take two trains, spending an hour and a half just to get to West London.
So tell me that we left our beloved country to get rich or have an easy life, dear friend, and I will consider that the joke of my entire uprooted year.
Not that we are miserable, no! We have never been happier, more united, more at peace, more contented, more fulfilled than we are now.
Here, I have a husband who doesn't need to work 12-14 hours a day just to bring us to subsistence level. My children have a father who isn't away by the time they wake up, who isn't still driving home in heavy traffic by the time they nod off. O walks B to school each morning, and is home for our family meal by 6pm each evening. O gives E his bedtime bath, and has time for cuddles and stories with the boys. After the children are tucked in bed, our evenings are spent talking, laughing, watching DVDs, praying. There is time to share, to discover, to laugh, to mourn, to wonder, to seek, to be.
Here, we are never tempted to take community for granted. It is much too precious a resource to squander, those weekend meetings. We breathe in all the spiritual fresh air we can, like whales surfacing, filling up their lungs before plunging back down into the depths. And fresh air, we get, with God's grace.
But forget all that, the bottom line still is this:
We feel blessed because we believe we are where God intends us to be. He has a purpose for bringing us here. We prayed, we discerned, we didn't just decide on our own, or weigh the pros and cons. We were led here by His hand, and we followed Him in obedience. We had sought his Will, and once He had made clear to us why he WAS and WASN'T calling us out of our homeland, uprooting us from all we had known, we chose to trust His leading. He didn't lead us here to make us rich, He never promised us an easy life, He never led us to believe that we were here for our own ends.
God wrought our move here, from beginning to end.
He marked the path, He went ahead, and He rode alongside us each step of the way.
God promised us that He can and will give us Life wherever He chooses to place us. And that Life is what we seek, that Life of childlike trust, that Life of abandonment to His Will, that Life of simplicity, contentment and joy, no matter where we are.
So no, sorry, we didn't leave home to get rich.
But we have grown closer to Him, grown in our trust in Him, grown in our understanding of His ways, grown in recognising where He still wants us to grow. As spouses, as parents, as persons, as souls, as pilgrims in search of Home.
A year away, and what have we got to show for it? Not a nice fat bank account, I assure you. Not a car, or a house, or gadgets, or furniture.
Instead we show you our hearts. Our children. Our marriage. Our love. Our new friends. The wisdom we have gained from trusting God. The joy we have felt in obeying Him. The peace we enjoy by being with Him.
Yes, we have ended up with wealth beyond measure.
PS In case you think I'm for or against migration per se, I'm neither. I am, rather, all for seeking God's will and direction for our lives at all times, in all circumstances. And then, to obey, and to bloom where He plants us. If you are thinking about leaving your country, pray. Be honest about your motives. If you are struggling or torn in prayer, pray some more. And if you are confused or are hearing too many voices around you, telling you what to do, pray, pray, pray. On our knees, fellow pilgrims.
Back home, we had a car to drive. I had a cellphone. An electronic CASIO keyboard. An RJ guitar. My own 3-2-1 sofa set. A chandelier. A big TV. A refrigerator. A dining table. Our own bed.
Here? No car. No mobile phone, the brands are too expensive. No musical instruments yet, not on our basic priority list. No TV, the annual TV licence fee (required just for OWNING a TV set here in the UK) is way too much. And as for the couch, the dining set, the fridge, the beds--- they all come with the house we are renting, and none of them belongs to us.
Back home, O and I could afford to watch a movie every other week or so. We could all eat at Chow King's or Jollibee or KFC or McDonald's once in a while, after our family grocery time. We had househelp to leave the children with when we needed to go out on dates or meetings. We could sit at Starbucks or Seattle's Best and have one-to-ones over white chocolate lattes.
Here? Movies for juniors (at ₤1 on Sat mornings) are all we can afford. Regular movies cost ₤6 or more and are considered a real luxury. A simple family snack in a McDonald's here could feed a Payatas family for a whole day. Never mind KFC, where you get to eat the same breaded chicken for 5x the price back home. We have never been out on a date by ourselves, O and I, ever since we got here; registered childminders are too expensive. And oh, the times I've gazed longingly at Costa's or Starbucks while walking past...
Back home, we had full and constant access to a rich variety of relationships in community. We lived near brothers and sisters we had known half our lives, and needed just a reasonable amount of time to travel to meetings.
Here, we are geographically isolated from our community in London. To attend meetings each fortnight, we need to take two trains, spending an hour and a half just to get to West London.
So tell me that we left our beloved country to get rich or have an easy life, dear friend, and I will consider that the joke of my entire uprooted year.
Not that we are miserable, no! We have never been happier, more united, more at peace, more contented, more fulfilled than we are now.
Here, I have a husband who doesn't need to work 12-14 hours a day just to bring us to subsistence level. My children have a father who isn't away by the time they wake up, who isn't still driving home in heavy traffic by the time they nod off. O walks B to school each morning, and is home for our family meal by 6pm each evening. O gives E his bedtime bath, and has time for cuddles and stories with the boys. After the children are tucked in bed, our evenings are spent talking, laughing, watching DVDs, praying. There is time to share, to discover, to laugh, to mourn, to wonder, to seek, to be.
Here, we are never tempted to take community for granted. It is much too precious a resource to squander, those weekend meetings. We breathe in all the spiritual fresh air we can, like whales surfacing, filling up their lungs before plunging back down into the depths. And fresh air, we get, with God's grace.
But forget all that, the bottom line still is this:
We feel blessed because we believe we are where God intends us to be. He has a purpose for bringing us here. We prayed, we discerned, we didn't just decide on our own, or weigh the pros and cons. We were led here by His hand, and we followed Him in obedience. We had sought his Will, and once He had made clear to us why he WAS and WASN'T calling us out of our homeland, uprooting us from all we had known, we chose to trust His leading. He didn't lead us here to make us rich, He never promised us an easy life, He never led us to believe that we were here for our own ends.
God wrought our move here, from beginning to end.
He marked the path, He went ahead, and He rode alongside us each step of the way.
God promised us that He can and will give us Life wherever He chooses to place us. And that Life is what we seek, that Life of childlike trust, that Life of abandonment to His Will, that Life of simplicity, contentment and joy, no matter where we are.
So no, sorry, we didn't leave home to get rich.
But we have grown closer to Him, grown in our trust in Him, grown in our understanding of His ways, grown in recognising where He still wants us to grow. As spouses, as parents, as persons, as souls, as pilgrims in search of Home.
A year away, and what have we got to show for it? Not a nice fat bank account, I assure you. Not a car, or a house, or gadgets, or furniture.
Instead we show you our hearts. Our children. Our marriage. Our love. Our new friends. The wisdom we have gained from trusting God. The joy we have felt in obeying Him. The peace we enjoy by being with Him.
Yes, we have ended up with wealth beyond measure.
PS In case you think I'm for or against migration per se, I'm neither. I am, rather, all for seeking God's will and direction for our lives at all times, in all circumstances. And then, to obey, and to bloom where He plants us. If you are thinking about leaving your country, pray. Be honest about your motives. If you are struggling or torn in prayer, pray some more. And if you are confused or are hearing too many voices around you, telling you what to do, pray, pray, pray. On our knees, fellow pilgrims.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
The Vanishing Nut
Night falls, and it is cold and quiet outside my window. Time stops as I slowly, methodically bring out my old, long-forgotten things. Again.
They are not really that old: a letter from a friend, different memorabilia, remembrances, souvenirs, old photographs… No, they are not old. They are as ancient as time itself. And no, I have not forgotten…
Was it only seven months ago when I walked down the stage to proclaim that I survived high school? When I held that piece of paper ever so tightly, and vowed not to cry? When I resolved not to be too emotional, and ended up weak and confused, with my face a transparent mask of the fervid turmoil of emotions inside me? Was it true? Did it really happen? Was it me?
It must’ve been me, I mutter angrily, reproaching myself again. I don’t remember any schizophrenic blood running in my family, but sometimes I just wonder where the other side of me comes from.
Bit by bit, piece by piece, I bring out the things which are a part of who I was, and of who I am. Here and there are traces of yesterday: an old photograph, the pin which my friends and I wore in freshman year, the first poem I ever tried to write, my test paper in sophomore algebra, a copy of my first published work, newspaper clippings, birthday cards, letters… I stop.
Just after graduation, my friend Lilo gave me a letter. Which was surprising in itself, since I knew that she wasn’t one of those writers who had a reasonable respect for deadlines. And besides, I hadn’t assigned her anything, much less given her a deadline. So I simply gawked when she pressed the letter into my palm, recording every feature and emotion on her unnaturally serious face which was there for me to see. And long after I had gotten over the shock of getting a letter from her, of actually getting an honest-to-goodness letter from her, I still couldn’t bring myself to open it. Perhaps because I knew what it would say. Perhaps because I thought she might be right. Perhaps because I was afraid that she would be.
I start to read.
“I vowed centuries ago that I’d write to old friends at least once before I leave but I kept putting it off, comfortable in the knowledge that you are just around the bend and it would be a long while before you make your disappearing acts. In truth, I kept putting it off because I didn’t want to think that the time for goodbye would ever come. But now it has arrived and I guess I have no choice…”
Lilo and I became friends in high school during our freshman year. The closest description I could give to describe how we were then is but one word: crazy. We were the weird ones in our class, always opting for the unique, always laughing at the corniest jokes, always loving the same thoughts on dancing, on friends, on food, on art, on music, on the importance of reputation, on justice, on life. We were virtual soulmates.
Lilo taught me how to laugh, and together we discovered the real meaning of the word fun.
But…
Things changed, time passed, and I grew older.
“…You know what? A lot of people admire you for what you are now, but not me. I’M NOT IMPRESSED. Don’t get me wrong, though. I’m proud of what you have become, but somehow, in achieving these things, you had swamped a facet in your personality that I do admire- remember ‘Net-net the Nut?’ I met that girl four years ago when we were still full of dreams, ready to take risks and conquer high school, armed only with guts to accept the defeats. We have come a long way since, each choosing a different path. And looking back now, I have no regrets as to the route I have taken. And neither, I think, have you…”
Regrets?
Yes, I have achieved many things. I have gained many friends, and I have changed. I am happy and contented with what I have. I am satisfied in the knowledge that I have done my best. That I deserve what I have received. That I have done no one wrong. And no, I do not think I have any regrets. Or do I?
Doubts. Dreams. Illusions.
Is it worth giving up my old crazy self for? Is it worth experiencing all of the pain and fatigue I am going through? Is it worth it?
Oh, what to believe? But wait- have I really changed? Or is it still Me deep down inside?…
“People are surprised to find out that we get along famously, because from their point of view, we are the proverbial opposite poles: one is carefree and the other is serious. HA! If they only knew! As I always say, ‘Once a nut, ALWAYS A NUT.’ You have one good sense of humor, and I hope it stays with you until the time comes for me to read about you in the newspapers. Then I’ll tell my children that that girl is as crazy as I am. And that we once vowed to each other that we won’t let our near non-existent race die. I’d be extremely proud of you then but I’d be prouder still if I hear you laugh, for that means you didn’t allow our breed to dwindle and die…”
I wonder how many more nuts are left in this world? How many people still care for and nourish a childlike, carefree Me inside of them? A fragment of their personalities which craves for fun, for mischief, for the sweet days of youth? For freedom from the everyday hustle and bustle of life? For freedom from responsibilities and worries, even for just a while? For laughter, for cheer, for sheer abandon? For the child inside them?
“In this crazy world, one has to fight to survive, and what better way to fight than to fight laughing. This way you’ll always emerge victorious. And when you do, think of me…”
Things have changed, time has passed, and I have grown older.
With age came the burden of responsibilities, things that weren’t mine to take care of before but now were completely left in my hands. And as I matured, as I learned, as I hardened, and as I transformed into the butterfly that I was somehow meant to be, I forgot the crazy Me that I was before. I thought that she had gone. I thought that she was nothing but a part of yesterday, my yesterday.
But no, she was there. She was always there, deep inside- waiting, hoping, yearning for the day when I would let her come out again. Longing for the moment when I would set her free…
Once more, I look at the letter in my hand.
I close my eyes. And I wipe off the tears.
{Written in 1988 at age 17}
Monday, May 15, 2006
Your Comments
I have FINALLY been able to sit down and respond to all your wonderful comments posted on the different blog entries from April till now, both here and in my other blog. Hope I didn't leave any comment unanswered.
That's one tick on today's to-do list. Now about the twenty others... hmmm...
Will write more soon. Promise.
That's one tick on today's to-do list. Now about the twenty others... hmmm...
Will write more soon. Promise.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
A Book Inside Me Waiting To Come Out
Wanna know a secret? I've been thinking about writing a book lately. Not that it's the first time it's occurred to me.
Half of me has been toying around with plotlines and background and characters, but half of me is terrified witless at the mere thought.
I feel privately guilty when I write, even just on blogs like this. Can't help it. Is writing for rich mums who can afford to pay someone else to do chores? Hard to write when your daily schedule revolves around cooking, cleaning and childcare. If I indulge in the luxury of write-till-I-drop, B won't have a way home and dinner won't be ready at six.
It would sure be nice to write, though.
Half of me has been toying around with plotlines and background and characters, but half of me is terrified witless at the mere thought.
I feel privately guilty when I write, even just on blogs like this. Can't help it. Is writing for rich mums who can afford to pay someone else to do chores? Hard to write when your daily schedule revolves around cooking, cleaning and childcare. If I indulge in the luxury of write-till-I-drop, B won't have a way home and dinner won't be ready at six.
It would sure be nice to write, though.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
What's A Blog Anyway?
That's what I asked myself when I first heard the word.
What's a blog for?
Is it a kind of diary? But if it is, why not just save it on a hard drive instead of letting the whole world read it? In my day, diaries used to come with a lock and key, hidden in secret drawers, sometimes even written in clever code. Now I can read blogs of people from all over the world, and be let in on their dreams, thoughts and private musings.
Is it the written equivalent of reality TV, then? A chance for licenced, anonymous voyeurism into the private lives of strangers, as much as they are willing to expose themselves to the world?
And for the blogger, is it a conceited thirst for attention, for recognition, for affirmation? Is it a self-centered appeal to be noticed? To matter? To prove to the world that we are here? A case of "I blog, therefore I am?"
Or is it a chance to be heard? To express oneself, whether for clarity or catharsis? To put out one's thoughts into the vast reaches of the Web and see if anyone will care enough to listen?
And why is it called a "blog" at all?
Before I did "Ask Jeeves" about it and find out that "blog" is a nickname for the very boring "weblog," here were my theories, which were immensely more colourful than truth, I think:
What's a blog for?
Is it a kind of diary? But if it is, why not just save it on a hard drive instead of letting the whole world read it? In my day, diaries used to come with a lock and key, hidden in secret drawers, sometimes even written in clever code. Now I can read blogs of people from all over the world, and be let in on their dreams, thoughts and private musings.
Is it the written equivalent of reality TV, then? A chance for licenced, anonymous voyeurism into the private lives of strangers, as much as they are willing to expose themselves to the world?
And for the blogger, is it a conceited thirst for attention, for recognition, for affirmation? Is it a self-centered appeal to be noticed? To matter? To prove to the world that we are here? A case of "I blog, therefore I am?"
Or is it a chance to be heard? To express oneself, whether for clarity or catharsis? To put out one's thoughts into the vast reaches of the Web and see if anyone will care enough to listen?
And why is it called a "blog" at all?
Before I did "Ask Jeeves" about it and find out that "blog" is a nickname for the very boring "weblog," here were my theories, which were immensely more colourful than truth, I think:
- the term was coined from "blah log," which describes the common content of a huge chunk of the 60 million blogs in existence to date;
- it was inspired by the Batman/comics-type sound effect "kah-blog," denoting the sound of a heavy object hitting solid ground; and
- for me, especially, it came across as a shortcut for "back-log," representing my list of 30-plus (and growing) topics which I thought would be interesting to talk about in my blog.
Why blog at all? Why do people do it? What drives us to reveal our secret selves to anonymous readers? What compels us to show the world what we think and how we feel? How do bloggers overcome the instinctive gut feel of protecting their privacy, which many of us prize more than we are aware of ourselves, in order to share bits and pieces of themselves to people they might never meet?
And what does blogging say about what society has now become? About culture? About humanity? Are we morphing more and more into a global, albeit virtual, village? Or are we becoming more drawn to faceless friendships, preferring these to real-life relationships? Are we growing more detached from people around us, growing disinterested in direct, physical interaction with other humans? Are we craving for nameless intimacy in a safe medium? Are we becoming a virtual community?
Are we asking to be touched and known? Or do we mask ourselves under layers of unsigned prose for fear of it?
Saturday, May 06, 2006
MSPSL
Had another 2-hour go at the Driving Simulator today.
Perfecting Gears didn't go too badly, but I absolutely sucked at Accelerating and Braking.
Not that I didn't brake "firmly and progressively," as the well-modulated female voice said of my performance, but because I kept taking too long getting to (and correctly changing gears to reach) the desired speed, which in my case was 60 mph. But my foot was pushing the gas pedal as far as it could go, and my gear change speed wasn't too bad, I think. I must've done the exercise a dozen times, wasting precious time, until I finally asked the staff for help, and she gave me a few tips to get around the machine's limitations. Finally, I was able to hit 60 by the time I passed my first post, maintained speed, braked at the second post and stopped and secured the car on the target spot on the road. But I was so frustrated at the time wasted, grrrrr! Simulators really are useful only up to a certain point, compared to actual on-road driving with an instructor, as you can't ask questions or ask your instructor to show you how it's done properly. So you're doomed to learn from your mistakes by trial and error, and hooray for you if you're a fast self-taught learner.
Then it was Emergency Stops, which was a piece of cake, as my reaction times were consistently quicker than average and my braking distance was shorter than was typical. I tried to make it make me feel a bit better, but then I thought, how many times in my life will I need to stop "as in an emergency," anyway? If you ask me, I'm hoping never.
Then it was Turning Left, Turning Right and Turning Right with an Oncoming Car, using the acronym MSPSL:
So MSPSL, were you to blame for a bad run at the Simulator? Or maybe it was just my PMS?
Oh well. Till my next and last Simulator date on Thursday.
And then, come Saturday--- heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it's on-the-road we go!
Perfecting Gears didn't go too badly, but I absolutely sucked at Accelerating and Braking.
Not that I didn't brake "firmly and progressively," as the well-modulated female voice said of my performance, but because I kept taking too long getting to (and correctly changing gears to reach) the desired speed, which in my case was 60 mph. But my foot was pushing the gas pedal as far as it could go, and my gear change speed wasn't too bad, I think. I must've done the exercise a dozen times, wasting precious time, until I finally asked the staff for help, and she gave me a few tips to get around the machine's limitations. Finally, I was able to hit 60 by the time I passed my first post, maintained speed, braked at the second post and stopped and secured the car on the target spot on the road. But I was so frustrated at the time wasted, grrrrr! Simulators really are useful only up to a certain point, compared to actual on-road driving with an instructor, as you can't ask questions or ask your instructor to show you how it's done properly. So you're doomed to learn from your mistakes by trial and error, and hooray for you if you're a fast self-taught learner.
Then it was Emergency Stops, which was a piece of cake, as my reaction times were consistently quicker than average and my braking distance was shorter than was typical. I tried to make it make me feel a bit better, but then I thought, how many times in my life will I need to stop "as in an emergency," anyway? If you ask me, I'm hoping never.
Then it was Turning Left, Turning Right and Turning Right with an Oncoming Car, using the acronym MSPSL:
M-irrorSome creatively-challenged person must've really hurt himself coming up with such a dorky acronym, I thought to myself. I mean, how much harder can it be to remember? I pictured myself on the road, trapped, driving past turns I should have taken, unable to turn because I couldn't remember the acronym that was supposed to make it easier to remember how to turn in the first place... Ummm, was it PSLMP? LPSPM? PSSP? MYMP? PPM? Waaahhh, I need to turn! There goes my son's school round the corner!!... Well, maybe my imagination needs a shorter leash, and maybe the "dorky" bit was unfair and hyper-critical of me, I admit, but I was having a frustrating session and needed to vent some bad vibes, remember?
S-ignal
P-osition
S-peed
L-ook
So MSPSL, were you to blame for a bad run at the Simulator? Or maybe it was just my PMS?
Oh well. Till my next and last Simulator date on Thursday.
And then, come Saturday--- heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it's on-the-road we go!
Friday, May 05, 2006
Set Aside Every Fear
If you read the current entries in my other blog, you will see where I am right now. And if you do read, and you do see, then you will understand why I am choosing to share this "dialogue" with you here, on RiverPilgrim, for it is a prayer which has kept me company all week, giving me light and strength which I would not possess otherwise.
It is taken from Catherine of Siena's The Dialogue (with God), as presented by John Kirvan in his devotional book "Set Aside Every Fear: Love and Trust in the Spirituality of Catherine of Siena":
It is taken from Catherine of Siena's The Dialogue (with God), as presented by John Kirvan in his devotional book "Set Aside Every Fear: Love and Trust in the Spirituality of Catherine of Siena":
GOD SPEAKS...
If you choose me as your companion
you will not be alone;
my love will always be with you.
You will never fear anyone or anything,
for you will find your security in me.
With me as your companion
you will live in the light of faith
with hope and fortitude,
with true patience and perseverance,
all the days of your life.
I loved you
before you existed,
and knowing this
you can place your trust
in my love
and set aside every fear.
Enjoy my love,
live in me
and take from me
the light of my wisdom.
Confront the princes and tyrants
of this world
with my strength.
Take from me
the fire of my Spirit
and share with all
my mercy and my burning Love.
You are not alone.
You have me.
I RESPOND...
Be my companion
through the darkness of this night.
With your strength
let me confront
the princes and tyrants
of this world.
Let me borrow
the fire of your Spirit
and share with all
your mercy
and your burning love.
You have loved me
even before I existed,
and knowing this,
I can place my trust
in your love
and set aside every fear.
Amen.
Thank you for traveling with me on this unpredictable River of life, my fellow Pilgrims. Rocky beds ahead.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Bank Holidays in England
Today, the 1st of May, is yet another UK Bank Holiday. If you're like me, a novice to British customs and eager to learn as much as one can about it, you'd wonder why they're called bank holidays at all. (Back home, for instance, they're simply called non-working holidays.)
So I googled it and came up with the following explanation from Take Our Word For It at http://www.takeourword.com/TOW135/page2.html. It says:
As for me, I like bank holiday Mondays because it's a compromise solution to a problem I've long grappled with: how to recover from weekends gracefully. Weekends are always so busy. I always ask why God didn't give us an extra day between Sunday and Monday so we could really rest and get ready for the new week. So bank holiday Mondays are a godsend, a welcome treat for me, because we get to have O with us for an extra day, and we can have an excuse to just hang out in the house and do absolutely nothing, all together as a happy, rested family. :)
And I like May, especially, because there's a bank holiday both at the start and at the end of the month!
Three cheers for bank holidays!!! Hip, hip, hooray!!!
So I googled it and came up with the following explanation from Take Our Word For It at http://www.takeourword.com/TOW135/page2.html. It says:
"What is a bank holiday?I like the fact, though, that all UK bank holidays (there's one at the start of each season of the year, by the way) fall on a Monday, resulting in long weekends for family outings, tours, holidays, etc.
The term started out referring to days when banks (in the U.K.) were closed so that bank employees could have a holiday. Before 1834, banks observed 33 days a year as bank holidays, and these were mostly saints' days and the typical church holidays like Christmas and Easter. In 1834, however, bank workers had most of those taken away such that the only holidays left were Good Friday, May 1st, November 1st, and Christmas Day. Yet, someone felt for the poor bank workers, so that in 1871, Sir John Lubbock's Act was passed, naming the following as bank holidays in England and Ireland: Easter Monday, Whit Monday, the first Monday in August, and Boxing Day (December 26). In Scotland they got New Year's Day, May Day, the first Monday in August, and Christmas Day. These holidays came to be appropriated by non-bank workers, but the term had already stuck. So, no matter for whom one works, one gets bank holidays."
As for me, I like bank holiday Mondays because it's a compromise solution to a problem I've long grappled with: how to recover from weekends gracefully. Weekends are always so busy. I always ask why God didn't give us an extra day between Sunday and Monday so we could really rest and get ready for the new week. So bank holiday Mondays are a godsend, a welcome treat for me, because we get to have O with us for an extra day, and we can have an excuse to just hang out in the house and do absolutely nothing, all together as a happy, rested family. :)
And I like May, especially, because there's a bank holiday both at the start and at the end of the month!
Three cheers for bank holidays!!! Hip, hip, hooray!!!
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