How to catch a cloud

With your eyes tight shut and your arms outstretched,
Hopes held high, though not a dream in sight just yet
Open wide your mouth and rhythmically swallow
Before long you’ll catch some
A wind of change,
A path to follow; 
That’s yours, that cloud
So wait as long as you need for it
It will surely come soon 
Today or perhaps tomorrow. 

***
Been awhile since I wrote poetry. This title seems worthy of converting into a short story. Perhaps if I manage to conjure a plot, I shall. Someday. 

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Failed!

So it’s August already and I might as well say it now. I failed at Camp Nanowrimo. Me and the word “Nanowrimo” really don’t seem to jive very well. It’s sad.

But a part of me knows that I had sort of already declared myself defeated (internally) before it actually happened in real life. Funny thing is that I did try at first. Yet I kind of expected it. 

And when that distasteful blowup occurred with family lately (an incident that I suppose I should address to some degree of greater detail at some point), I guess I gave up keeping on with the writing. Because it all made me feel so lousy. Like, why bother doing it when I’m such a horrible person inside?

See, the thing about this family issue was that it hits at one of my core beliefs that family is everything, and a huge part of my heart is broken when I realise that sometimes the things I felt about my family weren’t always valued as much by the people on the other end. Also the glaring reality that family members still to this day do not really understand what I am all about nor seem to actually care that I have an avenue to express my feelings or be myself. 

Well, this is something that has been brewing under the surface for awhile now, so I guess it’s no wonder that an eruption would take place at some point.

Whatever it is, it feels like there’s a splinter that just got embedded on the inside of my heart. And although melancholy does sometimes help writing along, something of this magnitude isn’t something you’d want to hope to have even if it is for art’s sake.

Perhaps I have myself to blame? For all these unfinished writing endeavours. For even starting in the first place yet being halfhearted and torn about it all. Ironic too that the theme of my writing project had been imperfection. Oh yes. Seemed like a brilliant idea at the time.

And then there are all these relationships I’m supposed to have nurtured better. Which I am apparently not doing too well at either.

It’s never fun when things explode or implode in front of you. I feel like I just had both.

A pinch of green

There’s something strangely therapeutic about gardening. Even if I am only scooping tiny bits of soil with a Chinese spoon into small makeshift pots that are just upcycled hair mask jars and IKEA food containers.

I think it’s something about that stark contrast between the green shades of the plants and the dark tones of the soil in which they are rooted into. Also it’s rather calming arranging them neatly in containers and moistening the soil. And that bit of hope that comes with nurturing life and hoping it will grow.

I recently thought I should try rebuilding a balcony garden again (not that we ever had much of one, but there used to be at least 2-3 plants that would survive out there before Jamie came along). So my current strategy is to salvage as many kitchen scraps as possible which can be regrown into vegetable or herb plants.

So far, I’ve tried with lettuce, spring onions and shallots. Only the last two have shown positive signs of growth, which led to me actually potting them last week. The lettuce, sad to say, did not go much farther than sprouting a tiny shoot (the first time) and having its roots turn black (the second attempt).

This small spot of gardening came at a time where I did need some form of comfort. Having recently had a rather nasty family argument where it was me against another three folk, it was nice to have an activity that offered a dose of peace, even if it was just a tiny serving.

I opted to start fresh with just plain old black soil: Some time not too long ago, Deric and I bought a bag of it while it was on offer at Tesco. It has been sitting in the study for what feels like ages now, so it’s great to finally break open the bag and use its contents.

Jamie is more than eager to help, wanting to assist in scooping the soil and patting it in place with a fork (which is just the right size to rake and arrange the soil for these small plants). He also is forever interested in watering the plants. This is potentially a great learning avenue for him. And it’s a healthy thing too, because it will help develop in him a love for nature.

But… I feel rather anxious each time I do let him help (times when I absolutely loathe these perfectionistic tendencies of mine) and keep trying to intervene and prevent disasters. Sigh. Oh why can’t I just let him do as he likes and ignore notice the mess and clean up afterwards?

Anyway, I’m really NOT good at all with all these nurturing of green living things. So let’s see how long these things survive. Hopefully long enough so we can at least have one round of harvesting.

Nobody reads this

It's just a hunch, but I'm almost pretty sure that none of the people I know in real life are actually reading my blog. Or even know that I have this one out there.

I could do the narcissistic thing of posting about it on social media like what most people might do. In fact, I had done so in the past. But then it feels so much like asking for markah kesian from the school teacher. I'd rather people stumble upon the blog than me having to stuff it in front of their face and make them feel obliged to comment or do anything about it.

But this isn't saying I don't appreciate you, my random reader. If even one person out there reads any of this and derives something positive out of it, at least I can feel that this is all worth it.

Anyway, whatever the case may be, I'm still committed to writing here and keeping this blog alive. For now. Unless and until something tells me to stop. That moment hasn't come yet.

Time and again

Ironically enough, it's become extremely hard to write anything that I feel is heartfelt and of significant worth nowadays. I've been feeling so ever since I made writing my official career path, I think.

Funny, isn't it, since you'd think that because you're devoting more time perfecting your craft, you should be better at it and everything should come so much more naturally than it did in the past?

But this is how it's been. Regrettably too, might I add.

I revisited the old, first proper blog I ever wrote, Veritas Project, recently. It surprised me just how differently I used to write. So uninhibited. So candid.

In some ways, I wish I was back at that place and time of my life, and that I had utilised those moments more fully to revel in the emotions of that season more, to write more wholeheartedly. Because now that I am where I'm at in life, here in my 30's, there's a great difference in the things I'd write and how I'd write them.

Yet, of course, I'm not discounting the value of experience and where it has gotten me. I write now through the lens of someone who has seen more, who realises what she is capable of, and who now knows so many more precious things about the world and the seasons and rhythms of life.

Time and again, though, I keep returning to this point of contemplation that I need to put forward a more genuine version of myself whenever I write. Particularly when I blog for a wider audience, like I do here.

The difficulty here lies in the fact that having been a journalist in the not-so-distant past, my writing disciplines have been shaped to habitually involve the practice of self censorship. We do it all the time in the newsroom, although the reasons for doing so may differ each time. The words we allow to escape our keyboard are filtered: tapered down in its depth of feeling, politically correct, shifted and sorted to take on a supposedly neutral form, appealing to the average reader. Which is, in reality, probably no one.

Here in Blogdom, everyone is writing nowadays to garner as much Likes as possible. Building a band of followers that will faithfully swallow whatever you put out for them, just because they feel like you know them. You are like them.

For that is what is being peddled. Writers putting on a front of being an expert and knowing something special. Teasing readers with minimal prose, abandoning the art of it all, and replacing it with GIFs, memes, haphazardly compiled lists of things that nobody needs but everybody identifies with and wants to know about. A place where words are money, so make as much as you can, with as little beauty infused into those sentences. Because, what is the point in poetry? It is unnecessary and underappreciated.

Then there are those writers' circles, those exclusive associations formed amongst writers on social media platforms. Where writers rant and rave about the perils of the realms of publishing and lament the naivety of rookies seeking their way into the fellowship. Spouting advice like, "If your writing is rejected by publishers, it's because it's worthless. Please move along".

I somehow cannot fit into this landscape.

As it is, I already have trouble believing that I am a writer, and even more so calling myself one. And all this… this massive community of successful people before me; corporations who make profits from the words crafted by others; the formality of it all; the formatting of pages, columns, fonts; the rigours of being part of the publishing process… all of this feels stifling to me.

I want to go back to that spot where simplicity and freedom of expression were. That quiet corner in the middle of nowhere that I could sit at for as long as I needed to, use as many paragraphs and pages as I wanted, and express precisely how I feel without fear of judgment or ruthless editing.

Where it was just me and you, my darling reader.

I still want to tell my story. But (and this may be hard to believe, coming from a person with a history like mine) I am having trouble finding the right words.

Turntable 

I think the way expectations are set up for apologies makes it way too easy for “I’m sorry” to be said and for grievances to be brushed off. 

That since it’s expected of gracious human beings to forgive, it is entirely possible to do whatever you like and then come apologising for it later on. 

Because if the other person doesn’t forgive you, then it’s all on them. 

You’re not perfect, are you? So you should forgive. It’s an expected response. 

Never mind that you don’t like the options left to you because of someone else’s mistakes. You were given options… so can you afford to be ungrateful? 

Suddenly, even though you’re not the one who made a slip-up, you can quickly turn into the one to blame. And it’s something that can even be taken offence of. 

Such a sad state of affairs. Sometimes I wish being kind wasn’t my life goal. Then I can be ruthless and rude and not care about consequences. 

Camp Nanowrimo excerpt: Eczema & me

If you’re wondering how things are going for me at Camp Nanowrimo, thing’s aren’t going too great. As expected, I have fallen behind. I guess I was trying to inject too much creative writing into the project. I shall be attempting to craft more candid, straight-up kind of writing pieces to fill in the gaps. And hopefully, I will catch up somehow. The prognosis is rarely good at this stage: I typically give up. But… well, fingers crossed. 

For now, though, here’s an exceprt of something I wrote in the spirit of catching up. It’s still within the theme of my project, of course, and also features me getting a bit vulnerable in my writing by sharing with you about my personal life. 

Enjoy! 😉

*    *    *

Eczema & me

Apparently I was diagnosed with this skin disorder even before I was one year old. As far back as I can remember, I have been quite literally plagued with skin problems. Many times, it seemed like there was hardly ever a moment of reprieve.

What this means is that I am almost always scratching or having a previously clawed wound in the midst of the healing process at some spot or another on my body. On those even more unfortunate times, I’d also be battling some curious allergic reaction in addition to my typical eczema woes.  

Nowadays, it appears to be rather common for children to suffer from eczema. But back in the days when I was growing up, it was less so. So I endured a fair share of teasing and getting ostracised. I guess that’s because it not only looks unsightly, but some have the mistaken belief that I might pass on some allergy to them if they hung around me. I recall being called “kucing kurap” by a peer in primary school before. 

Seeking to alleviate my discomfort, my parents made it a point to write letters to my teachers requesting that I’d be exempted from Physical Education (P.E.) activities. So I’d often find myself sitting it out while my classmates played netball, ran in circles around the field, etc. Oddly enough, I do remember joining in on certain days… but as to why I participated during certain P.E. periods and not others is something that has since been forever lost from my memory.  

“Don’t scratch!” is probably the most frequently used phrase that I heard growing up. Usually, I would ignore this instruction. That’s mostly because you just have to scratch an itch. Those who believe it’s possible to completely endure it have obviously not had enough of them throughout their lifetime.  

Besides providing a sense of relief, scratching eczema patches is also hugely therapeutic. This is especially so when it’s a large patch of dry skin that has recently healed and is covered in scabs. There’s something strangely satisfying about peeling off an entire surface of scabby skin with your fingernails, one piece at a time. You’d have to experience it for yourself to understand. (FYI, I’ve talked to a friend who also suffers from eczema and he has verified this fact too as he finds it is also true in his own life).  

A common reaction to the discovery that I have eczema is to recommend a cure for me. I suppose most people mean well when they do this, but to be honest, I find it rather annoying. That’s probably because my parents actually took up some of these suggestions in the past and I had to experience all sorts of things in the name of getting me healed of eczema. I don’t recall any particular one working out in the long term.  

So, in many ways, perhaps it’s to save myself the disappointment that I never heed any of the advice that people give me about eczema. (See earlier paragraph. Perhaps I’ve grown too fond of scratching as a technique for coping with life).  

The other thing about having eczema is that you fall under the category of People Who Ought To Be Prayed For To Receive Supernatural Healing within the Christian community. Believe me, many have prayed. The eczema endured, just as surely as God is eternal.  

What conclusion does this leave me with? I cannot accept the notion that God is cruel enough to want to continue afflicting me with eczema because He doesn’t love me. But then comes the often proffered classic Christian perspective: “This is a test which God puts you through to refine your character and make beautiful things emerge from your life”. Oh and there’s also the “by the measure of your faith it will be given to you” angle whereby it’s supposedly my lack of faith which defines whether or not my eczema will vanish after a wholehearted prayer of a devout believer.  

No matter the reason, the fact remains that I. Still. Have. Eczema. Today.  

However, I should add that it has gotten much easier over the years. Partly it’s because I’m so used to having these skin woes. But it’s probably also due to the fact that there has been much less eczema patches appearing on my body as there used to be when I was a child.  

They say you can apparently “grow out of it”. And then when you don’t, they’ll say, “Oh, since you didn’t get rid of it before you reached adulthood, it’s now permanent”. Why not just tell me from the get-go that this is because my body functions in a certain way and that my best shot is to figure out a way to manage it that works well for me in the long run? 

Honestly, living with eczema isn’t too bad. As long as I don’t let flies lay eggs on my open wounds such that maggots start wiggling out of them (an unfortunately true story of a fellow hospital inmate that I was woefully made aware of while being admitted to the children’s ward), I suppose I will be alright.  

Sometimes I do face the setback of not being able to wear skirts or shorts whenever I want to because of weepy eczema patches on my legs, but it doesn’t happen too often (or I medicate quickly enough that the situation doesn’t persist for too long OR I completely ignore the issue and wear the desired item of clothing anyway).  

Although I do have some ideas about what triggers my eczema breakouts, most times I cannot say which of those causes is responsible for a particular episode. So, in many ways, que sera sera, and I continue to live life and not worry about abstaining from this or that unless something really huge occurs.  

And, as gross as it sounds that I like to scratch and peel of layers and layers of scabs, I’d like to make it known that I usually clean up my own mess afterwards. Especially on shared spaces around the home such as the bedroom mattress.  

There are far worse ongoing health issues to be stuck with, so I’m not complaining about my eczema. I just do what I can to live with it. Perhaps someday God will heal me of it. Or not. I just hope that I don’t pass it on genetically to any of my offspring so they can be spared of the agony.