Size Seven Shoes

I'll admit it up front. I'm one of those strange individuals who tends to catch up to things a little late. I'm sure most of you normal people out there have been singing songs about the New Year coming round probably as early as the start of December, or maybe even long before that. But me, it's only now that I am feeling a stronger sense of that spectrum of emotions that accompany an anticipation of the brand new things to come in the soon-be-to year 2010. Well, whilst more than half the working population of Malaysia is still in its party-holidaying mood, I have been trudging to work every morning to an office that's two-thirds empty. Technically, somewhere in the back of my mind I realise that I am not alone doing this. Yet somehow, when I'm out on the roads driving to that faraway place where I work, it doesn't always feel that way. Nevertheless, I have been trying in my own little ways to keep myself motivated. For one thing, the roads are much c...

I dreamed a dream And it was grand With castles majestic and not made of sand I held the world And it fit snugly In the palm of my hand Then I realised in my dream That it was a dream, a figment of imagination Climbing and scaling the walls and interiors of my brain What a shame That it should not be real Because it was beautiful And well, admittedly, a tad surreal In it the horses rode wide, white meadows And the sky was pink and purple in shade Kings and queens came to visit and share pots of tea Then I envisioned you with me With fits of hearty laughter and priceless company Smiles for kilometres (not miles) And time that stood still, albeit awhile In my dream I was gorgeous and charming And you were gentle and sweet and not at all alarming Then suddenly... No kings and queens graced the table Nor horses galloping came to rest in the stable The castles crumbled And the beauty faded The tea got spilt The sky got raided Then I sighed And looked Then t...

One moment of silence please, as I mourn the loss of face from being unable to complete Nanowrimo on time. Again. *sigh* But three cheers for the fact that this writer has landed an editorial job, albeit only a contract basis. Life is about to change. Yet another time. 

I will tell you a story that is only half true. Which half that might be is really up to you. I used to be a gorgeous princess once. Well, at least that's what my Mother used to call me. I wore the prettiest dresses and was the admiration of everyone who saw me. Only that what they admired wasn't the dress nor the beauty. What they admired was really, my ability to be brave. Not many girls are brave. Or rather, not many girls are as brave as they portray themselves to be. I was once brave. I was brave enough to stand up to the boys. Boys are full of nasty ideas, and they are big bullies. One or two tried to tease me and call me names a number of times. At first I just smiled nicely and pretended like I was too sweet to do anything to retaliate. Then, one day, when all the boys were out playing football, I exchanged the shirts of the nasties so that none of them got to wear back their own shirts. Of course, they never knew it was me who did it. I was careful about that...

Entry #0002 Cardboard box They hosted an entertainment event today. Various performers, but mostly from amongst themselves. The idea of course, was to generate publicity. Many of us were asked to attend. No, wait, let me rephrase that: many of us were forced to attend. What good would a public event look, if there were too many empty seats? But in all honesty, their ideas of amusement are feeble, to say the least. Back where we came from, music festivals were joyful and full of vigour. There is nothing of that sort here. If you would just look at us, we are nothing but the living dead. We have lost our souls almost entirely. I am a performer at heart. I miss the freedom of singing in the open streets. And dancing. It thrills the heart, and sparks life into the bones. Dancing is forbidden here. And so is singing. But in the dead of night, I hear voices. There are some among us who have not yet forgotten the tunes of yesteryear. One day these songs will resound in thi...

There is a great deal of difference between doing something because you have to and doing something because you want to. That is, I believe, the essence of passion. Take now into consideration the fact that I am up at this superbly late hour working on freelance articles. Of course I'll get paid for it and of course I have to deliver because I agreed to deadlines and it would reflect on my professionalism. But yet I could choose to simply kill off word limits by writing nonsense or simply plaster in facts without putting effort into coining catchy puns or putting life into the words I write. It would consume less time, and the work would still get done. However, ladies and gentlemen, I take pride in the articles I churn out, regardless of how pressing the deadlines or how daunting the topics. The reason lies in the existence of passion. I will be downright honest with you and tell you quite frankly that the amount of money I am being remunerated right now for what I do versus the q...

Entry #0001 The Trenches, 0000 hours I am finally alone. I am here at last. I have tried many times to make it here to write this, but as you might expect, things often get in the way around here. It's all their fault. There have been others before me, many who have tried to do as I now endeavour to. To write about what really goes on here. To make known everything that they do. They have kept us silent for far too long now. They try to strike fear into our hearts, to make us cower in their presence. To believe that there is no way that we can rise up against them. That they are not afraid. But they are. That is why they keep making efforts to silence us. It is the reason that they stalk us, the same cause for the violence. Yes. They resort to violence now. All their calm assurances that they would never lay a hand on those under their care is nothing but a hoax. That's what they are, anyway. Nothing but a giant lie. I shiver as I write this. I fear to be fou...

I look at their lives and the many colours and stories. I wonder why it is so full of activity, where mine is so empty. I wander through their worn paths, and ruminate about my own. I falter in my convictions as I study their certainty. I poke tentatively at the differences and cower at the mismatches. I fear. I fear. Look. At. Me. I fear.

Rough terrain slashing the backs of the weary wanderer The dread of the perils of the trail From the ones that were crossed before Uncertainty underscoring the lines The shapes and signs of the ever changing rhythm Time and moments to a life Tying memories around the things that matter The dreams that scatter and crease the brow The whys the wonder of the who how whens Some places you head towards The journey never seems to end or pace to slow Of growing old or grace enough to blanket imperfections Freedom fairness compassion justice to roam An old friend, the shoulder upon which to lean A pillow upon which to dream, to imagine the things that cannot be seen Hope, the age old wisdom, the comforting touch Puts words to songs and music to poetry Makes things so ordinarily missed and neglected Find their meaning And mean much

"Girl," the teacher's voice was a tad exasperated. "Go take the rubbish to throw with Dennis." She hadn't been listening. Or rather, had been pretending not to. "Girl, are you listening to me?" Somehow, this situation spelt trouble. She could feel it already. She lifted her gaze from teacher to Dennis and stared straight into his fidgety face. She didn't like him. Not one bit. The walk to the garbage collection area at the front of the school was a long one. Or maybe it seemed longer than usual because she was less than eager to make this trip. What student doesn't like time to escape classes? Well, she wasn't one to favour it. At least not for these sort of reasons. His pace was way quicker than hers. He didn't care, obviously, that she couldn't keep up. Every now and then though, he'd glance back at her. Pretty much just to gloat, more than for any other apparent reason. Finally, they reached the door to the garbage collec...

As they say, curiousity killed the cat. But then again, I ain't no cat. So... help me out with this survey. I'd just like to know what you think. :) Click here to take the survey :) *Psst... Part 3 of A Glimpse, A Glance, A Gaze coming soon, I promise ;)

Aloha :) It would appear that this blog has been lying idle for quite some time now. Rest assured, the blog author has indeed not abandoned this spot entirely, but she will most definitely return. For the moment, she has her hands full somewhat... having taken up 3 different freelance tasks, and has her fingers crossed on transitioning to a proper writing career sometime... The sooner the better, of course ;) Don't for a moment think that anything will be left incomplete here. I will most definitely finish off the last bit of A Glance, A Glimpse, A Gaze soon. Very soon. As soon as the deadlines over these next few days clear. In the meantime, kindly amuse yourselves with this untitled piece of fiction . Psst: it's a collabo between me and my bandmate, Joanne :) Teehee. No telling you who wrote what and which parts... that's the beauty of collaborations. United we stand, together we fall (spot the deliberate error haha). So, please dear readers, take note: this writer is no...

*Another update! Finally! :) Foreword This short trilogy is based on 3 sections, each taking on 1 of the 3 words from its title. Each section is inspired by a quote randomly chosen based on the presence of the keyword in its content. There is no plot, and the story goes wherever it wishes. :) Acknowledgments My special thanks to Deric for the selection of the 3 random quotes and for being a supporter of these unpolished writings. Read this first: Part I: Glimpses Part II: A Glance “The retrospective glance is a relatively easy gesture for us to make.” - George Crumb Mr Stiffellatrundle sat on the edge of his bed, staring in the direction of the strange brown box that now occupied a corner of his room. It felt like just minutes ago when he had arrived home with the box in tow. In reality, it has been three days already since the box first entered his home. It wasn’t much of a threat – just another harmless, inanimate object to grace his rather spartan home decor. Yet somehow, Mr Stiffe...

*Apologies for delay in updating. Time flies. But I can't. Tired. :P Foreword This short trilogy is based on 3 sections, each taking on 1 of the 3 words from its title. Each section is inspired by a quote randomly chosen based on the presence of the keyword in its content. There is no plot, and the story goes wherever it wishes. :) Acknowledgments My special thanks to Deric for the selection of the 3 random quotes and for being a supporter of these unpolished writings. Part I: Glimpses "Appearances are a glimpse of the unseen." - Anaxagoras Mr Stiffellatrundle stared blankly into the mirror before him. He grinned half-heartedly, and watched silently as his reflection greeted him with a similar expression. Next, he raised both his arms midway, and stretched his legs apart from each other. He watched the copycat movements in front of him once more, while allowing his thoughts to race in a million directions or more. Mr Stiffellatrundle was seriously bored. His face twisted...

It's coming. I've ideas for a mini trilogy in the works teehee. Without over-exaggerating things, basically it'll be a short piece comprising 3 instalments - hence the trilogy title ;P I dub it A Glimpse. A Glance, A Gaze , and it shall receive its inspiration from 3 quotes which I shall select soon. Anticipate something later. I shall return! :) Day #13 - Missing many days, and you too. But hopefully as I am recovering physically, so shall the consistency of writing pieces posted.

(to the tune of This Old Man ) This author She's been sick She's had no time to update WIth a sore throat, blocked nose Feeling tired and sleepy too That's why nothing here is new Hehe ;) There'll be something new here soon. I promised fiction. I remember :)

P/s: Kindly check out Word Economy as well. It counts for Day #9 too :) You are As you were Like the waterfall of words Flowing steadily Trickling drops of sunshine Down the fine streams Of evening traffic And the rhythm to the melodies That dance in twilight Masquerading by day The stories and reasons To everything, and there Your voice with its tones and tunes Laughter carried on the winds Blowing softly on them Flags of pride and patriotism Government and establishment Fallen to a heap Memories, inventories Of things gained and lost They cost you, and I Would relive them Again if you would Be the heartbeat To this rhythm Day #9, extras - For Day #7, where I missed out posting something due to tiredness and rushing out test articles. Idleness breeds inspiration for this writer :) And I promise you fiction tomorrow...

It doesn't take many words to make a point. Perhaps many of us don't realise this, but it's true. Often times, we say too much in order to convince others or to make ourselves understood. But really, you can say very little and yet carry your message across. Let's consider some examples. Candles. Cake. Wishes. Presents. What does that make you think of? Why, a birthday party, of course. Try this: Eyes shut. Pillows. Lights off. Moon. Stars. And that would be... sleeping at night. Simple, isn't it? So why do we labour so much on many words? Use just the minimal, by selecting the right metaphors, and be understood by everyone. Food for thought :) Day #9 - A little sick, but not without an active mind ;)

Update via email I looked out the window of my office building this morning, and it was raining. Not a drizzle, not a storm… but rain, nevertheless. I watched the drops trickle down the edges of the window. The small but growing puddles accumulating on the rooftops. The leaves of the trees wriggling uncontrollably at the whims of the wind, as though being tickled by a whispered joke. What is rain but just drops of water descending from the sky? Yet it is a sign, a proof of providence from a God that reigns above us. It is the way that the Earth receives her nourishment, and the means by which she grows. No other human methods could probably hydrate the face of the Earth as efficiently as the rain does. Personally, I am quite fond of the rain. It is a symbol of good things to me. However, I realize that there are many who view rain as a negative thing. More often than not, rain is depictive of sadness or calamity in movies, songs, poems… But just because the skies are grey...

Foreword I am SLEEPY. However, I cannot sleep due to having to write some test articles for a part time writing job application. But the one and only follower of this site (which is known at this moment) has asked if there'd be any updates here. Now, I promised a daily flow of written work here, so I should not disappoint. Self appointed "holidays" can only be stretched so far. Teehee. So as an easy way out, here's one of the test articles I had worked on tonight. And if my potential employers read this, it's my ORIGINAL work, alrights? ;) The Article Have you ever noticed how sometimes certain things can be similar, but yet not entirely the same? I made one such discovery recently whilst surfing online for juicer reviews. I hadn’t thought of blenders and juicers as being different all this while, but now I do. Put simply, a blender basically liquefies the food you placed inside it. The final product is a puree-like liquid, which contains both water as well as th...

I think I will not write anything today. *self declared holiday ;P* Day #6

It all started with a friend telling me that my GTalk status had triggered her to start writing a poem. So I suggested why not we take turns adding lines to it (since she was stuck) and see what comes out. So this is the final result: DAYS AND MINUTES by Anna Tan and Susanna Khoo the days, they fly but the minutes, they crawl i try to climb high but it's easier to fall into comforts familiar down these winding steps onto these well-worn pathways into familiar traps yet on the horizon a glimmer a wish, a hope, a dream the days have flown by still, no nearer it seems time, please stop do not eat me away these fragile thoughts should not be your prey all i have, precious jewels that i harbour all i ask is another second, minute, hour to love, live, pray and give to put my words in song to remember all the good to take back all the wrong the minutes, they crawl yet as ever they speed by and as everything piles again we wonder why the days, they fly by me, still unaware yet there's ...

You don’t hear it, but there is a sound. It is a hard, loud plunk of something at the back of your mind, in the middle of my heart. It is quiet, but it is there. It casts its long, creepy shadows when none of us are watching, and whispers tunes in the cold night air. It is alive. It thrives – on the words we utter, on the steps we take. Up the creaky stairs. Down the noisy lanes of buses, trucks, cars and trains. Everywhere and anywhere, all at once. Once in awhile, something catches you firmly enough to leave its mark. And then you cannot part with what you knew. The things you leave behind and what you cannot forget, even with the passing of time. Blind. But ignorance cannot forever be pleaded. I hear it and it makes a noise. It crashes, and splinters into a million pieces at the bottom of the precipice. Sit. Still. For. Awhile. Piles and piles of memories, heightening to the mountaintops of lean dreams. You sing. And I pretend to believe everything. All the words meld into one. Only...

“Mr. Paint Man, draw me a picture please.” The girl pleaded in a sweet, tiny voice. He stopped short with his roller brush midway across the large wall. There goes the momentum. For a moment, he contemplated being annoyed at having his work interrupted. But that was only for the split second until he his gaze met hers. There was a sadness about her, somehow. Perhaps it was in her eyes. They looked somewhat misty, and her voice cracked a little when she spoke. “What kind of picture would you like?” The girl beamed at the question, but shrugged in reply. “You don’t know?” “Something beautiful,” was all she could suggest. He bent down and picked up a small paintbrush. He paused for a moment, realizing that he had no canvas to paint on. Not that it was a surprise, really. He wasn’t an artist, anyway. What’s worse, he only had two different colours of paint on hand. How that would amuse the girl at all, he really didn’t know. He looked around. But there was no surface he could easily make u...

Day #3: Skipped a day of writing. Blah. Well, I'l try my best to keep up wherever I can. :P

if only, to be found for reasons to sing to alter anticipated passages of time rhyme, to fill out songs anthems, enthralling the world to join in and sing along not to hide, but to try with linked hands and hearts muster courage to fight not permitting the things that matter to pass or die minutes, hours, days, years the moments they fly yet sometimes, time, stands still waiting creating a scene, propagating the means did you notice, feel or find anything because what falls to abeyance sooner or later, irretrievable would only be lost Day #2 - albeit late, thanks to the author falling asleep

It isn’t right. What isn’t? What they’re asking me to do. And so you won’t do it, right? Well, yes. Maybe. But then again, it may not be much of a choice for me. But you can decide not to. If you want, that is. Nobody would blame you. No. Maybe they wouldn’t. But I might blame myself. So what will you do then? I don’t know. What would you do? Hmm. Yeah. You see now? I understand what you’re saying, of course. That’s good to know. So, it’s like this. I’m giving myself 24 hours. And then? And then, I do what I need to do. You know, people always think what they want to. What you do doesn’t really change who you are. Yeah. But the thing is, people tend to just look at what you do most of the time. Or… didn’t do. True. But you know, I’m sure you’ll do the right thing. Right is subjective. So it is. And so is justice. * * * Okay, I’m gonna do it. You sure this time? Yeah. I’ve done my 24 hours thing. And what happened in that 24 hours that made you so sure? I thought about it. And? Th...

From here onwards comes the revamp. And hopefully this resolution sticks. The Challenge Write a short piece everday - could be a story, script, abstract piece, poem, etc Length should be at least one page in MS Word (single line spacing) Try to vary the topics as much as possible - one day different from the next Well, let's just see where this goes ;)

Long ago, I once had a blog called The Veritas Project. Veritas means truth. And truth, I believe, is the essence of really good blogging. You see, I've always believed in the sharing of the human experience. Of how what we've been through serves to encourage someone else. And that only can happen when we quite candidly open up and share about what we've gone through. Trouble is, after awhile, this gets pretty hard. I used to be one of those bloggers who could be super honest about how I felt on my blog, and would tell at great length about some current challenge I was facing, or some battle I was waging - emotionally, mentally or what have you. And those were the good old days when I was but a teenager, and felt so much more freedom for expression and other such liberal beliefs which we cling to when we're younger. But now I find myself having such difficulty to come clean with what is really going on my head and life. In particular, the private life. Which is probably...

I heard it said once that stuff you liked to do as a kid was an indication of what you should be when you grow up. Well, if that were true, I guess I should've ended up as either a teacher or a writer. I remember pocketing chalk pieces from my school classroom and then taking them home and writing with it on my grandmother's bedroom wall as I pretended to teach an imaginary class. I even came up with mock exercises and wrote them in exercise books. For the writing ambition bit, I wrote stories, complete with illustrations and even attempted writing a film script in Standard 6*. But as most life stories go, where we end up eventually can sometimes divert so far from what we initially intended or hoped. I am now a Programmer by profession. Quite a different skill set and job orientation as compared to what my so-called ambitions were as a child. In fact, looking back, I'd sifted through an entire spectrum of possibilities: everything from nutritionist, to singer/performer/act...

If you're anything like me, you find yourself every so often in this last minute dilemma of what to do or what to buy a certain loved one in your life. This is a common situation that crops up on birthdays, anniversaries, engagements and, of course... those special days designated to celebrate those important people in our lives. For instance, Mother's Day. Now, don't get me wrong, I've nothing against earmarking particular days in the year for such purposes. But the implication of the entire concept is that every child needs to find a way to condense the gratitude they feel towards their mothers all into just one day . There's the problem right there. It's quite a task to do, really. Because, for those of us with good mothers, we find that the debt we owe them is far too great to be encompassed in just one present or just one meal . Hence, the awful pangs of panic and guilt that seize you as you comb endlessly through your mind on what would adequately ...

Sometimes the things we fancy, we don't or can't necessarily own. I've never owned a Grand Piano 1 before. Though, of course, if ever I owned my own living space and it was accomodating enough in size, plus my financial circumstances permitted such spendings at the time, I'd definitely purchase one. I guess you wouldn't really appreciate the difference unless you've played on one before. An Upright Piano doesn't quite cut it. A Baby Grand is a compromise of sorts, and is somewhat acceptable for a season, I suppose. But nothing can beat the Grand Piano itself. Yet, in spite of never owning one, I'm proud to say that I've played a Grand Piano before on various occasions. Well, there were numerous situations which allowed me the honour, but I think the most memorable times I've played it was at the piano showrooms at Yamaha Music School. Those were times when I had to wait for my sister to finish her Junior Music Course class for the day. Glancing ...

My shoes are a Size Seven. They’re not so big, but I suppose, at the same time, they’re not too small either. Of course, maybe a Size Six might be easier to shop for, but I’m happy with my Size Seven. It’s perfect. Sometimes I wish my life were a Size Seven. That everything would fit together perfectly, and even when things got hairy, there’d always be a time where all the loose ends would slip neatly together again and somehow, I’d make sense of it all. But like my Mum is always telling me, life doesn’t come to you in nice, neat little packages. So I guess, it’s either we stubbornly cling to oversized expectations despite the limitations of life, or we change the way we live to accommodate the unpredictable bundle of experiences that life throws us. I guess most days I still cling to a Size Seven mentality. I suppose that’s one of my greatest follies.