The Eve of

I think I used up my store of Christmas cheer by being over-enthusiastic last year. The kitchen is a mess, and I almost tore out my hair... while icing smiley faces on cupcakes.

*****

I once had a dream where a close friend of mine got married, and everyone was invited except for me. There I floated, watching the proceedings with a painful stab in my heart at not being included. Of course, it wasn't any fault of the characters mentioned above, because they've been nothing but brilliant to me. Don't ask me why I was floating, I suppose the entire dream was a trick my subconscious was playing on me. It's normal, to be left out (from reunion gatherings), shunned (for being Christian), even mocked (for not being able to play sports). Sometimes I feel like the only one in the world to go through such persecution, but then I shake myself out of it and remind myself that the world doesn't revolve around me.

Everyone feels left out at one point or another in their lives, or so I am told. It is normal for human beings to long for love, respect and inclusion. Yet, sometimes; no matter how far we've come, or how 'normal' we portray ourselves, those traces of self-doubt and insecurity sometimes make us feel like we're right back at square one. I hope I'm not the only one who feels that way.

One of my favourite songs will always be "Beautiful Letdown" by Switchfoot, simply because it takes rejection and turns its meaning upside down. Basically it talks about how we, the church, are made up of a bunch of losers and rejects of the world. The song shouts out triumphantly that 'we don't belong here', and that's a good thing. We, the odds and ends, the weird people, are misplaced in the cruel world, and yet we are held to each other by that all-purpose adhesive that is the love of Jesus Christ who died for us.

"I pray also for those who will believe in me through their message, that all of them may be one, Father, just as you are in me and I am in you." John 17:21

May you find belonging of the deepest kind this Christmas.

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This is the first and last post about him, I promise

It is no secret that I am madly and utterly smitten.

There are a million and one reasons why I shouldn't, I know. His music is so... inconsistent. At times brilliant, at times downright campy. I am angry, I feel cheated. His wannabe angmoh accent should rile me up, and yet I am enthralled. Why?

The phenomenon of celebrity leaves me scratching my head. My brain tells me that it's stupid and worthless, that it's a waste of time and resources. We shouldn't put fellow humans on pedestals anyway. And yet I find myself... mesmerised.

Who can deny Lee Hom's charisma anyway? I'm not the only one who has been bewitched. I for one, only like his zhong guo feng / chinked out work; which accounts for 2 albums out of 12. Essentially, zhong guo feng is where artistes fuse modern genres of music with oriental influence. Of course, it's not as simple as just replacing a violin with an erhu.

But I digress.

I don't like to think of myself as a superstitious person, but there is one thing that I absolutely adhere to. If I intend to meet someone I adore in this lifetime, I must not put their poster on my wall. Which is why my room is devoid of Lee Hom and Jason Mraz's faces.

I will meet them someday, but not as a whimpering fangirl. Not as the person who bought concert tickets and memorized lyrics at night in her bed. I'll meet them with dignity or nothing at all.

This is Crissida Wong, here to meet you for your interview / Crissida Wong, fellow songwriter / Crissida Wong, woman of calibre / Crissida Wong, wanita yang bukan calang-calang orangnya.

Picture courtesy of pg. I know he doesn't look like jay chou.

That is exactly why I was so mortified when the beloved stooges presented me with the pillowcases with Jay Chou and Lee Hom's faces plastered all over. How to look at people in the eye if ... no, WHEN I meet them and I know I own a pillowcase with their mug on it.. So shameful. All dignity would have flown out of the window by then right.

So now you know why. Why oh why must I have such big ambitions? I am stabbing myself in the foot. Setting more than I can accomplish. Taking more food off the table than I can eat.

Not! As if I can ever not finish my food *diabolical laughter*.

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Underrated : Soulboys

I went to One Utama today in my gallant quest for good music, and once again was dissapointed. I will write today about two musicians, both from the soul genre. Soul is not an easy genre to tackle. It is defined by many turns in the fabric of the music. This technique of seemingly bending the structure of a phrase is called 'portamento'; I'm sure you were waiting all your life to know that, weren't you?

I am fond of two of these guys that sing soul; namely Khalil Fong and Elijah Kelley. Comparing them both, would be like talking about two similar yet significantly different objects...

Kind of like smooth and chunky peanut butter.


If Khalil Fong were to be a kind of peanut butter, he would definitely be of the smooth variety. Everything, from his voice to his delivery, to the crafting of the song is just; smooth. His music is ultra cool and completely under control, just like what conditioner is supposed to do to your hair. But seriously, from what I've heard, his meticulousness and attention to detail really impresses me.

In fact, when we were in Singapore during the last sem break, his music was being heavily marketed everywhere. We saw a 10 second ad of him on television, and Justin and I were like "Waaaaaaaahhhhh". They were selling his album quite prominently at Tower Records over there; too bad I didn't impulsively buy it. Wasted. So surprising that his popularity over the Causeway didn't translate here. I suppose it's because we have a smaller percentage of Chinese here?

I truly thought that the age of the voice was dead. The age of Sinatras and Nat King Coles. You know, where just the sheer force of a voice could drive a song to glory. I thought that in this day and age, musicianship reigned supreme. You'd tell me about good artistes you heard, and I'd ask you, do they write or play? These days, I thought, a voice is merely one thread in a tapestry of melodies (A good example is Dancing in the Moonlight by Toploader, where each instrument has a 'voice' instead of just backing the vocal).

But no...... they couldn't just let me hang on to my belief. Along came Elijah Kelley in Hairspray and swept me off my feet with nothing but the beauty of his voice. *sigh*

The way he articulates each phrase and slur is just so magical. Imagine an entire album filled with nothing but his voice... I would be happier than Pooh swimming in honey.

I leave you with "This Love" by Khalil Fong.

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Underrated: The Coffeeshop boys

I raided some CD stores yesterday and here's exactly what they didn't stock:

1. Heroes of Earth, Wang Lee Hom
2. Elijah Kelley, Elijah Kelley
3. Soulboy, Khalil Fong
4. Waiting for my Rocket to Arrive, Jason Mraz
5. These Streets, Paulo Nutini
6. Dragon Songs, Lang Lang

Frustration barely describes the state I was in. To be fair, these are all rather old albums, and I only searched 2 stores. Two problems : I have a liking for acts that are on the periphery of mainstream music; and I like my tastes to simmer a little, so that I'm sure that what I'm buying is going to be appreciated in the long run. The only impulse buy I've not regretted is Modern Minds and Pastimes by the Click Five, although my love for the album was soured when my sister brought back news from the showcase about how obnoxious Kyle Patrick is.

This is why, I am starting a series of posts on the above artists, to assuage the pain boiling within me at not being able to own those albums. The question is : How are we, the consumers supposed to be anti-piracy when suppliers don't stock the originals?

The Coffeeshop Boys

I have a weakness for these male singer-songwriters, and not without reason. They usually have achingly beautiful hair, a prowess on the guitar and a passionate way with words.



Paulo Nutini is not the least of them. He's Scottish, rather huge in the States and Britain, Sierra Miller used to have a crush on him. All this fame doesn't seem to have translated to Malaysia, because you're probably going "Paulo who?" right now. His music is the kind that's like stinky cheese; it gets better the more you listen to it. Some tracks are so quiet and nuanced that it seems almost dull at first, but after a while, the meaning and the lines of melody get to you. Of course, he does upbeat stuff too. The song New Shoes, about a penniless hack; will have you tapping your feet in no time. Yes, pun intended.

A common situation in my class goes like this. Our lecturers issue yet another mind-boggling edict, maybe a submission pushed forward or something like that. A friend will probably mutter "Life is good..." sarcastically, under their breath.

And I, being me, will burst into song "Life is good, and the sun is shining; everybody floods to their ideal place.."

And my friend will look at me like an idiot and go "huh?!" Like what you're probably doing right now. I would tell you to get the album, and you'll understand what I mean, but the problem is that the stores don't stock it. ARGGGH.

Who doesn't know who Jason Mraz is? Who hasn't heard You and I or the witty Wordplay? I dare anyone to resist Jason's saccharine sweetness, his mighty guitar, his clear tenor voice, his clever repartee, his melodic maestro.. okay, you get it.

During my high school prom, the organizing committee decided to name the tables according to celebrities, and I forced everyone at my table to agree to putting Jason Mraz on our entrance cards. Yes, that is how much I adore him.

It's not like Jason Mraz is some super alternative off-the-beaten-track guy. I really don't know what the store owner was thinking when they decided not to stock his work.

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To the right, to the right

To the right, see those links?

I am definitely not one with the computer, because I almost died recording and re-recording the stuff there thanks to something or the other not working.

There is more. I'll put up the other three songs in my diploma repertoire soon. And other amateur stuff.

*phew*

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My loved and cherished opinion

I never really wrapped my head around the visual arts, despite the title of my blog. Of course, I love the arts as a whole; the act of creating and communicating. It's just that I never really understood the act of whacking random objects and paint around for people to see.

I saw a boy wheeling past me today, doing some funky stunts on his bike on an empty road in Semenyih, and somehow Bull's Head, by Pablo Picasso came to mind.

Bull's Head

It's not that I'm so wonderfully smart or anything, it's just that in my course they make us learn this subject called Culture 202, and we have to learn all this stuff, and I find myself more often than not scratching my head at what is shown on the projection screen. Yes, in case you were wondering, we make a lot of jokes about cultured milk. *drumroll snare*

Well, I often imagine that what he did is exactly as I mentioned above. He whacked a bicycle seat and handlebars together and probably laughed to himself saying "Wahahaha, I am so clever, I dare you not to call this art."

And who is there to call Pablo Picasso wrong? It fulfills all the criteria of an artpiece. It has a beauty to it. It is obvious that the materials for the work were carefully selected and carefully thought through. Yes, it is a new idea and therefore can be called art.

But that's not the worst yet. Marcel Duchamp has to come along and put a urinal on a stand in an art gallery and call it 'Fountain'

The curator must just have felt like smacking him hard on the head and saying "hei yau chi lei!" to his smirking face. Or whatever the equivalent or 'hei yau chi lei' is in French.

Anyway. I know that this is an oft debated piece, but I just cannot stand his audaciousness. Even putting the picture of his work on my blog is like defiling it. Okay, I just deleted the picture. I feel much better now.

Finally; my opinion. I must say that the opinion I choose to take is quite a largely held one. I am not the first to come to this conclusion. Still, it is my opinion, and I am of the opinion that opinions are important to have. Therefore, I shall love and cherish my opinion. Wahahaha.

My loved and cherished opinion is this:

Art becomes great art when it displays the creator in it. It must be your child, with your efforts and thoughts all squeezed out of every liang roma so that you are so proud of your work. Fine enough, Marcel Duchamp got the whole world debating over his new idea of art; and earned millions in the proccess (I think). But do you think a single person was moved by it? Do you think that it really touched anyone's heart because it was so beautiful that he or she wanted to cry for seven days? Can you imagine Marcel Duchamp cradling his urinal and showing it off to everyone who would look and saying "Look at my work! I made this, isn't it just wonderful?"

Because that, in my opinion, is what art should be. It should be heart-wringing. It would help if it looked good too, but that my friend, is so subjective. Perhaps another opinion formed on another day.

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Clearing out my head, flapping thoughts in the wind

It's either music or writing. I could work as an architect for a while for the money, but I simply am not in love with it.

Sometimes I wake up in the wee hours of the night because I thought of a melody. I lie awake thinking of structures and themes for a story. I daydream of lyrics. I can be wandering around the mall or the pasar malam when inspiration jolts me like little spurts of wonder.

I just don't get that with buildings. I am not in love with buildings.

I will be a writer. I feel it in my bones.

And in my kidney, in my lungs, in my skin, in my gills. No, I'm just kidding, I don't have any gills.

By my non-existant gills, may I pass my piano exam.

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Rites of Passage

I know SPM is just over, but I was cleaning out my room, as is mandatory at the end of every semester, seeing as how my room turns into a disaster zone for every final project with cardboard, paper, and seemingly everything related to architecture littering my room. While cleaning out, I found an old journal entry on the last day of SPM. I recorded everything for the two months after the exam, because I knew that there would be no time quite like it, and I was right. So here goes.

2.12.2004

Staring out ahead at a murky sunrise, I wonder how to undertake this gargantuan task ahead of me. After a breakfast of cheese omelette and bread, courtesy of my father, I drink my bottle of heated Brands Essence of Chicken. Mother does the usual exam morning prayers and sends me off through the back gate.

Walking through the sticky, dewy grass; I catch sight of Ben to my left. Our paths converge.

"Morning, Ben" I call out, trying to sound cheerful.
"Hello" he says with a cheeky grin, the one almost always plastered on his face.
"Last paper horh..." he continues
"Yeah..."
Only that it's three papers under the guise of one.

Stepping into the school compound, the air is thick with worry, disguised by laughter and consoling words. The schoolguard looks down from his guard house almost sympathetically.

I reach Sarah by the side of the school hall. She is amidst conversation with some of the guys. Evryone has a thick Biology reference book in their hands. She greets me and goes back to memorizing, while chanting about humerii and cortex and xylems and medula oblongata. Somewhere amidst the blur, Soon Chin, then Gladys, then Yen Yen arrive. The bell rings, signalling our doom.

Everyone is already in a bustle outside the classrooms, gathering stationery for the battle. Soon Chin and Zhun Wieng's fists are clenched over their weapons, poring over books placed on the balcony ledge. Both are in nervous fits, more so than everyone else. Zhun Wieng is chanting, staring blankly ahead. Suddenly, Soon Chin gives out a cry of "Yah!' and starts swaying back and forth. Attempts to console her are but wasted.

We take the paper. Everyone is serious and concentrated. The tall, skinny Chinese lady invigilator paces casually around the room. David sighs ans groans. Before we know it, we've finished the paper. Evryone waits enxiously for the second hand to hit twelve. Half the class leaves early, before she says "Sila berhenti menulis".

Repeat entire procedure two more times for the other two papers, fast forward to the last moments of the last paper.

Again, half the class leaves early. I do some last minute checking, mostly thinking about Yundi Li and listening to the sounds of fire crackers and ditsy girls rejoicing. The second hand again strikes twelve, a sigh of relief rises up as a sweet sound. Shoulders relax, everyone is smiling.

Bio is a purely science subject, therefore everyone outside the gate knows each other. Chattering happily, photos are taken for posterity. I skip all the way back home, Evelyn by my side. It is my last day wearing a school uniform.

*end*

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