10 years away

2/11/18 09:28
invitan: (Default)
So today is the 10-year anniversary of me leaving home. November 2, 2008 was a point of no return. The disruption, engagement, push and pull of leaving home changed me forever. For the better or worse, it's one of the most important days of my life, despite it starting out so wearily. Note to self: maybe refrain from talking about discrete dates as "most important" - no one date marks a beginning. Why would the beginning be pertinent upon the shift of geographical location, and not, say, the first day of class in Singapore?

Ah, to hell with Nietschze. I'm not here to change the world.

So 10 years have passed, and I don't think I will go back within the next 10 years either. But in another 5 years, another milestone will be reached: I'll be officially away from home the same amount of time as I was home. Not that it matters too much. I doubt the first 5 years of my life is as densely populated with life experiences as a year in the past 10 years. Ah time again - it stretches and shrinks as it wants, what is the point of measuring it in years, months, hours, seconds?

I'm ranting again. The point is, so much has happened. I just got out of a 10-day hospital stay. Liver abscess. Killer of my Canadian dream. I'm sitting here, alone in my bedroom, heart pounding wildly and vulnerably. I feel lonely.

So 10 years since I sacrificed my privacy ("boarding" school, hah!) for friends and knowledge, since I ran away from my miserable middle school life, I'm here all alone. It's not true, the past few days I've been so indebted to the care of women of color, of women from all over the world in this little pocket of Brooklyn. I've been surrounded by languages, stories of cares in third world countries, people who saved me, people who almost killed me. I've been indebted to the love of Vietnamese girls, my sisters whose blood I don't share.

And then, through it all, I'm still a mess. I've been a mess for the past 10 years. Sometimes the mess get to wear a "put-together" sleeve, like the first few weeks of this semester when I operate on a routine. And then something happens and I realize that I'm bursting out of the seams, all these nervous bundled energy, the anxiety, the desperate feeling that I'm alone in this world. That I'm scared to wake up and face another day, that when I swallow I feel bitter.

I feel not ready. I don't think I'll ever feel ready.
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Nineteen years

29/4/18 23:40
invitan: (Kanda - lonely)
(Set against https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ogi6aMOYOEQ)

My dear remember those times
switched off, sinkin' in a twin bed,
hands stretched towards the blinds,
chasin' shadows traced by the light
that gave way to the December night
Five years fleet across the dark side
of their (our) eyelids, memories radiates
touches

Nineteen years old, she exclaimed
Nineteen years old and we should never feel this way
Nineteen years old, but we're reachin' forty five
Nineteen years old, fatigue chipping away our psyche

Nineteen years
Nineteen years
Nineteen years and we found someone to talk to


  • Music Lovesong - 311
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Sinking Deeper

27/3/17 13:25
invitan: (Kanda - lonely)
by Antoniette Costa



"knowing that we will never be
i want to let you know that I still love you so
and all the stars they lied to me
i want to let you know that I still need you though
even in my darkest fantasy
never dreamed you'd slip away from me

sinking deeper and deeper lately
feeling weaker and weaker maybe i'm
sinking deeper and deeper lately

the night's song sounds so incomplete
i want to let you know that I still feel you though
echoes of vacant melodies
i want to let you know that I still hear you though
but in my tacit memories
your presence still lingers and clings to me

sinking deeper and deeper lately
feeling weaker and weaker maybe i'm
sinking deeper and deeper lately

midnight strikes a chord
and I hear your voice
whispering sweetly
live and let be"


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Armine Lupian

7/2/17 21:17
invitan: (Default)
With a question, Mister split his class into two. In the instant Armine joined the people who raised their hands, her eyes flirted with Mister's and she knew that he was one of them too.

He had asked, "Who among you knew exactly how much your parents earned?"
~*~
Combing her faux mohawk with two fingers, Armine flashed a beam of sunshine for the waitress who said here was her sundae, please enjoy, and by the way did she know she looked like Ruby Rose. She had not known for about twenty five times.

The sundae though was a piece of impressionist art, but with more flat candidness than swirling fluidity (so Manet, not Monet). She felt triggered, wondering why on earth was there no warning for the graphicness of salted caramel munching on whipped cream carpet.

Suddenly a spoon. Hey, Armine protested the assaulting scoop from the other side of the table.

Rion licked her weapon, purring. "It's really good. I like it."

Armine gaped at the four-year-older woman-child.

"You're doubting me now, but it's delicious."

Armine's curled her left fist, leaving only the middle finger.

"Do you know what is more irresistible than ice cream though?" Rion's right eye was blinded with blistering love. Armine did not want to know.

"Mary's vagina," Rion began nibbling the caramel off her ring fingers. "With candle wax and Armenian wines as topping, of course. But even without them, it's still the sweetest I've ever had."

Armine was eighteen and thus a kid who just had her ice cream stolen. That was what she told herself when she knocked on Rion's head and heart, spilling that Mary was heteroromantic homosexual. 
~*~
The first piece of herself that she gave Mister was a number that she scribbled onto the back flap of his notebook while he relieved himself in the washroom. He returned to his office to find his student replaced with a lover.

That night, Armine listened to his breaths in between ear nibbles and neck kisses. Her chest rose and fell as she bit her already bruised lips. "I want to do you like I do my daughter," he communicated without words. Back forming the Arc de Triomphe, she curled his right hand and guided it up her thigh.

Rion told her once that fisting desensitized. She told Rion to try punching herself sometimes.
~*~
Armine came out of the make-under looking like an old person.

Old-er, the computerized voice reminded her from behind the camera. In her case, as old as her own number of years alive. Nose rings off; tiger jackets swapped with a blue dress suit that dove strategically down her collar, covering just enough to conceal the bites; black extensions caressing her round cheeks. We finally saw her cheeks, exclaimed the computer.

She giggled at the notion that a computer could see, knowing that the showrunner would edit the footage to make it seem like she was giggling at her own empowered womanhood.

To give them credit, she looked ready to conquer the White House. 1995 White House that was, when Bill ran the interns.
"Before the make-under, ninety six percent of the public wanted to avoid you – notably one bloke said he would egg you on the street," the computer ran its data analysis. The production assistant signaled her to react with his own forced grin. She swung her hips dramatically and struck her best Kardashian pose.

"After the make-under, twenty two percent of the public wanted to marry you, and, wait for it," the computer raised its voice, injecting as much attitude as a machine could. "Seventy eight percent said they would happily fertilize your sweet egg."
She blew a kiss at the direction that the "public" would be placed on the screen after post production, thankful that she would not have to spend her negative savings on attire for the Monday job interview.
~*~
The next piece of herself was a painting. "I want you to see how I see you," she stared into Mister's soul as she unveiled the digital portrait she created by tracing a brooding photo his wife took on Instagram.

He winced at the face. She winced at the face too, so she deselected the skin layer on Photoshop, plastering the cobalt sky across his eyeballs.

"Now it looks like you," she smiled sweetly at the hollowness on his face.
~*~

Armine lay down the broken twin bed that had not been hers for five years. As horrific visions of puberty escaped her memory reserve, she stretched her arms trying to seize them but failed. The sensation of hands against skin, instead, invoked a kind of distant familiarity that was akin to an out-of-body experience.

She examined the latest discolored patch of skin below her chin. She nudged the crease of her stomach fat, and then – putting her hand into her own pants – the nook of her pubic bone. She kneaded up her inner thighs and closed her eyes, burying her head into the pillow.

"Today I will be gentle with my heart," she whispered to no one. "And today I will be gentle with my clit."
 
 
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What I do all day

31/1/17 22:29
invitan: (Default)
In fear of interrupting the snore of my roommate and in avoidance of clichés, I whisper to no one the number of pot-bellied pigs crossing the street. I drink some water. I caress the cover of Mankiw’s “Principles of Economics, Kindle Edition.” I slow-read its chapter on globalizing forces that leaves me questions on the GPA of your politicians. I gulp down a bleached caplet that promises to suppress stomach riots. I venture out the room to turn off the corridor light.

I drift to the kitchen, armed with a Tasty recipe with 3574 likes. I cherry-pick the brownest egg from the dozen of grade-A-jumbo-non-organic bargains from Family Dollars. I spin it and will my body to take its lackluster rotation as an inspiration. Since my body fails to submit, I crack the shell instead. I slap together my very first French toast dipped in caramel and mustard. On second thought, I fix another for Fiona and leave it on the counter. On third thought, I consume both and hand-write an apology card, explaining that I am better at judging than cooking my colonizers’ food.

On the way back, I subtract three and a sixth from seven to find the amount of time I have to disable Fiona’s alarm, a loop of twenty seconds of “Moves Like Jagger.”

Instead, I turn off my own alarm. Already on the phone, I gleefully bypass the Times’ paywall by reading it in incognito mode. I thumb-type a three-inch furious Facebook commentary on the legal obstacle course foreign workers leap through to come here. I hit refresh five times. I delete the post and ask Siri to schedule reposting at noon. I still send it to my ex anyway.

Tip-toeing to bed, I google the time of sunrise to solve the mystery of my dark window. I close my eyes.

I surrender to Adam Levine’s subjugation of my auditory nerve fifty-four seconds later. I listen to the world’s awakening as my eyelids glare back at me. I mumble, “Five more minutes,” and “Morning,” and “Yup I’ve seen the news,” and wave goodbye and lie very very still.

In the comfort of my visual cortex theater, I watch a giant citrus fruit doodling your country with gold flakes and red dust. In response, I scrub marble floors and wipe frosted windows and cement glass ceilings and ask everyone to come together and march for the freedom of your society in the protection of our bubbles and I-

I am jolted alive by the call from Pakistan. I kiss him goodbye and melt into my pillow, this time really sleeping.
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48 hours

24/10/16 17:02
invitan: (Default)
It took me 48 hours to realize that I love you:
48 hours
from the third time you told me
that you were not ready,
48 hours
from the second time I asked you
about that-which-I-promised-not-to-
-mention, and from the first time
I asked my heart to halt
all hope.
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On self-documentation and procrastination

17/8/16 14:09
invitan: (Default)
I have always been inconsistent in terms of recording my life. The period when I was the most productive was also when I was at the height of loneliness, and looking through old records and documents shed a certain light on how I think at the time, including all the embarrassing tidbits that I do not want to remember. Memories are always edited to make you feel better about yourself, and so documentation of self is important to foster self-awareness.

I've been rereading whatever I posted on this blog since the beginning of 2009, and I did not realize how angry I was at everything. Most things posted are full of frustration, angst, and biting sarcasm at petty happenings. In my mind, however, I was always sensible, calm, mature for my age. I am sure that this version of myself would never make it onto the page, because I would only write when I have no other outlet to express my pent-up frustration.

This explains the overwhelming lack of content over the last four years. I wish I kept a better record of my college life, but it was the direct consequence of not being alone. Does solitude necessitates records? Do all writers have to maintain a degree of isolation to create? 

I can perhaps describe it as a volcano, or a water valve. To be able to write, I need to achieve a degree of pent-up neediness - neediness to express myself, neediness to get heard. Having someone around means a valve leaking; pressure could never build up enough to overcome the inertia that comes with entertaining diversion. Maybe that's why philosophers don't want to be happy, but that would be a side-story.

Who knows. Maybe this would be how I resume writing again?
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My twelve-year-and-counting history of writing

23/7/16 09:29
invitan: (Akira)
One: How to Write about Animals

One of my first memories involved a pre-school teacher hunting down my four-year-old self all across the Hanoi City Zoo as I ran around squawking aloud every sign on the cages (South-Australian-Ostrichs and Siberian-White-Tigers). During an innocuous dinner years later, my mom tossed me a health magazine article which claimed that children literate before 6 years old were at a higher risk of near-sightedness. I pushed thick pair of glasses up my face.

"What did you expect, mom? You made me spell when I was two!”

"If only you could write as well as you read." Mom was not very subtly taking a jab about the 7/10 grade on my latest effort at school literature - the equivalent of B- in the US elementary education, or in simpler term, an embarrassment on my otherwise perfect record.

It was unfair, because writing was something I could never seem to improve. No matter how warmly purple the feathers of my rooster were in my essay, the only places such a rooster had ever existed were my city-girl mind and the model essay that our puritanical fourth grade educators expected us to cut and paste from.

( Read more... )
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I am actually productive these days

20/6/15 02:48
invitan: (Hikaru - Become stronger)


The Snowgirl


The Snowgirl

First painting with graphic tablet. I have a pretty-up version with a shorter forehead, but there is something striking about this tall forehead so I let this be.
Drawn in about 2 hours.

===========================

My Sky That Has Been Stolen



So this is the colored version of this sketch that I did 5 years ago.
Colored on Photoshop CS6. Time spent: roughly 6 hours?
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5 Unconfirmed Facts About D.C.: A Convo Edition

18/7/14 19:57
invitan: (Hikaru - Become stronger)

My DC backpacking trip a month ago had me engage in crazy cool meetings with friends, both old and new, in a way that a tour could hardly supply. Featured in this post are snippets of conversations (the dramatized version) between me and local DC citizens.

( #1: Humbling the Romans )( #2: Drawing Circles )
( #3: Photographic Memories )( #4: Navigation )
( #5: Speeding and Google )
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From the Desk of a Novice CouchSurfer

1/7/14 22:09
invitan: (Hikaru - Become stronger)
Disclaimer: I am not in any way affiliated with CouchSurfing. This is just some sharing from the standpoint of a beneficiary who is dying to spread the love. Also, this was posted on my school blog, but I have edited it a bit to be journal friendly.

One of the goals on my bucket list was to complete the US map, or traveling to all 50 states before my F-1 visa expires. ( Outrageous hotel rates and better options out there )
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Requiem of a kitten

9/6/14 16:42
invitan: (Kanda - lonely)
She died at 4 p.m., June 9, 2014, in her favorite bamboo basket. Her blue eyes remained wide open. I touched her face, slipping my hand down to her stomach. 

Her tail ceased to move. Throughout the endeavor of surgery, or recovery and failed recovery, her tail sometimes was the only sign of life left. And when life left her, so was her tail.

She had lived with us for 10 years without illness. In the end, ovarian cancer took her away from us. 

In the last few days, her walk was slow and sluggish. I thought of calling a pet when she was vomiting, but I stopped. Maybe I should have. Maybe it wouldn't have solved anything. 

What if, after all, is not the best mode of thinking right now. No bargaining. No bargaining. If I can jump straight to acceptance.

Gosh. It's not about you.

I am sorry. I am sorry. Depression.

Acceptance.

Goodbye.

Mi, the greatest cat in the world.

*Kitten: a term to call all cats in the United States, regardless of their age.

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Career crisis

3/3/14 23:14
invitan: (Default)
Gosh, career crisis is nasty.

Sometimes I wish I could just redo everything. Stop before it was too late. Before I fell in love with stories, and no longer was able to go on without them. Stop when numbers were still fascinating, and coding a viable mystery. Stop as mom and dad woke me up from this lavish dream, telling me that there was no going back.

When I look back on my life, it seems like a walking pile of wasted potentials. I did not take chances when I could; I did not take risks when I should.

But maybe everyone has those moments.

Middle school screwed me up so badly and its effect still lingered around at times. But it helped me filter people, and helped me learn to be fake; except that it was absolutely exhausting to act fake all the time.

Back to my career crisis. Everything I read recently only seemed to discourage me more from venturing into real movie-making, and it was exhausting. Meanwhile, I keep getting distracted by irrelevant things.

Or maybe I just have a big ego. Maybe both.

Jeez, never mind.
 
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There will be snow

8/12/13 22:09
invitan: (Fuji)
 I am writing more. This is either a good sign, or just characteristics of exam periods and the anything-is-better-than-studying mentality. Whatever the case, at least I am restarting, and not drawing a huge blank of my life. 

My FYS professor told me once that researching and reconstructing is difficult, because most people don't keep a record of their life. Except for those people who expect to be famous (followed by hilarious comments on letters by famous figures who are fascinating to read just because they expect to be studied later on). For me it's something different. I am not wishing to be famous, but rather to be able to remember what has happened to me. (Need to remind myself to keep searching for that lost notebook where I wrote down most of my teenage angst).

Anyway, going into the post proper, it's the first snow of the season today. As in real snow - the snow that leaves traces on the ground a day afterwards. It is so beautiful that it left me in awe. It made me want to write a poem about it - not that I know anything about poetry. I am however not an English major, and my language is no longer beautiful as it used to be, so I would leave that for another day. Just a stream of consciousness regarding snow as I was walking across the snowfield.

Snow is so much like sand, the way they shimmer under the moonlight and scatter around. The way that footsteps can be traced back to their origins, yet can be erased as easily as they are created. If footsteps on the beach are erased by the wind, snow steps melted into wet pathways, just as if it has been raining.

I was walking in my rainboots, and I realize that they are not fully water proof. Either that or I confuse wetness with coldness - both sensations feel the same at very low temperature. Yet the feeling when my boots left behind those footsteps is indescribable. The feeling that someone may know that I have walked this path just by looking at the footsteps - a natural record of my walk around the Quad - gives me a sense of existence. I exist, I am visible, I am recognized just by leaving behind those footsteps on the snow. Even if they will melt away into puddles of water just like a huge downpour, they remain for more than a second on the ground. Maybe it's enough, maybe I just need to know that there's someone out there who acknowledge me for a short-lived moment. 

It's pure bliss. And purity. The blissful moments that I walk across the quad are just priceless.

Another thing, snow makes me think of Christmas, and all sort of happy, fuzzy, warm feelings. Wonder how something so cold can bring about an emotion so wonderful. On another note, it's probably just dominant culture manifests itself though - take note about how I socialize all of that. Oh sociology, look what you have done to my romantic side. 
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Happy New Year 2013... Oh, wait a minute!

11/9/13 16:17
invitan: (Hikaru - Become stronger)
Ironically this demands to be posted on September 11. More on that later.

I just realized I never did a proper New Year post for this year - understandably as I was going through the Uni App Phase at that time, after which it just slipped my mind. I am currently taking a class on Stories from the Archive, and I just realize how important it is to recount everything that happens in my life (so that my children and grandchildren can read this. Jk, like I will let them judge me this way). So here we go, 9 months into 2013 and let's see what happened in the past one and a half year.

To do a resolution check:

( 2012 Resolution Check )

( Being a foreign worker in Singapore )

Enough of job ranting, although I would love to do a proper post on my job experience later on. Here is the resolution for the rest of this semester:
( 2013 Fall Resolution )
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A much self-appreciated effort of returning to fandom. Or not.

3/8/13 12:52
invitan: (TezuFuji)
Okay, enough with all the emo/sentimental/cheesy/sappy stuff I have been indulging myself in for the past year. Finally, I am returning to fandom, much to my stupid crazy RL mess.

Firstly, yeah, I finally got my own dreamwidth account: [personal profile] invitan . Finally, I know. Welcome to civilization at last.

Secondly, I finally manage to go to college. FINALLY. It's been decades since my peers enter this rite of passage. Or maybe 2 years. Lafayette College in the fall, here I come. Though truth be told, I am not that eager. Yet.

Thirdly, I finally had a job. A proper job that paid the rent. Yes, rent. In Singapore. It now sounds awfully like some sort of export labor. Nonetheless, working as a full-time waitress for 4 months did open my eyes a lot.

Fourthly, I need to stop this abuse of full stop if I do want to return to writing proper essays. I know right. Sigh.


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[Archive] Sep 12, 2008 11:07 AM

27/7/12 23:58
invitan: (Default)
From someone-who-used-to-be-so-close.

"Ban the day, tim mai moi dc mot cai anh cua cau

Chac la to la nguoi dau tien nhi, sau bo me cau, dc bao tin cau do....uh, kieu gi cau cha do. To thua biet tong cai dieu day, tu khi nghe cau noi cau sap thi, thi vao cai ngay khung bo 11.9 co. Tu luc day da buon` lam roi. Con hom nay thi nghe xong, khoc' that roi.......khoc that, nhu cai hom thi hs gioi y

Cha hieu sao tu nhien ngoi khoc....cam giac nhu sap mat...mat lam sao dc. Nhng ma toan the....cau di roi, luc nao to dien dien, ai choi voi to. Lam gi co ai ngoi nhan 3 cai tin cho to, keu to nay to no....lam gi co ai bat to lam` cai nay cai kia....lam gi co ai ke cho to nghe du thu chuyen tren doi....lam gi co ai ma cho to om khi to buon nhat ............lam gi co ai.....

Nai, to biet la cau se di. To chac chan la cau se di. cau se di thuc hien cai du dinh cau deo duoi, met pho` rau....bam riet....no luc....met nhoai ma van co gang.....

Nhung to van buon` lam.....

vi To thik cau lam lam......thik cuc cuc y......cau la nguoi duy nhat to nguong mo lam lam...yeu lam lam....

Neu la con trai, to chac chan thick cau roi.!"

Only question: What has happened over the last 4 years? Since when have we totally drifted apart? Is it my fault? Your fault? Out of sight, out of mind?
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Say goodbye to oldie 2011

31/12/11 23:38
invitan: (Hikaru - Become stronger)
...and extend our hands to babe apocalypse?

Another year has gone by, and for the last 12 months I only managed to post 12 journal entries? Gosh I wish I would not make that a tradition. In any case, I'll just get the resolution check out of the way first.


( My completely failed attempts )

From the few lines above, you probably have understood why I label 2011 as the year of unexpected twists.


( In retrospect... )


Anyway, enough ranting. It's been a while since my last post, and I really miss writing (pretty) long entries. As 2011 draws to a close, it's time for a new set of resolutions. I'm losing faith in myself though, seeing how last year's works out.


( 2012 resolutions )
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Untitled

9/8/11 23:51
invitan: (Default)

( bad poem )

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Statuses mix

13/7/11 00:46
invitan: (Kanda - lonely)
http://www.mediafire.com/?90w1298czn69yhc

Just a mix of a few songs, the lyrics of which I have been quoting in my statuses since the beginning of this year. Figure they can be fitted into a story.

 

( I'm mannin' up, gonna hold my ground )

 

 

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