Showing posts with label autobiography. Show all posts
Showing posts with label autobiography. Show all posts

1 July 2010

My Novel - A Self-Critique

With The Ming Storytellers, I was not merely writing to thrill. I wanted to create an entertaining work of fiction that merged interesting characters, narrative, history with ideologies that were important to me. Visually I also wanted to evoke strong images that could do well on screen. Because I love film.

If after having read the book, a reader can, either consciously or subconsciously, perceive parallels between the events unravelling in this novel and society today, then I will have been successful.

If a reader can, either consciously or subconsciously understand the fallacy of Eurocentrism and gain a fresh perspective on the world, then I will have been successful.

The setting is China and the world during the 15th century. It is a remote and, to date, unfamiliar setting especially for non-mainland Chinese including myself. This remote and therefore, one may argue, arbitrary setting is perfect because it may be used to teach, it may be used to introduce a new paradigm about the world and society. However unlike the fictitious worlds of sci-fi or fantasy, it is still a world that is closer to home, a world that has set in motion certain patterns today and from which many parallels may be drawn with our world today.

The world in that period, when China, the Middle Kingdom, was a dominant power comes with its norms and its ideologies just as the English speaking world today has its own dominant Western centric ideologies.

The setting is also perfect because it encourages readers to see outside and understand that what we call normal is a myth.

One particular strategy I have used is to depict the society of the Nakhi people. While I have done this superficially and in no way do I call myself an anthropologist, the depiction of the Nakhi does put into question the generally accepted view of women in the Asian world. In the Nakhi kingdom, women were not submissive. Even the vocabulary used by the Nakhi attribute strength to feminine words and weakness to masculine words.

To conclude, all my characters have beliefs that are relevant to their times. In no way do these beliefs directly reflect my own although to some degree, a few of my characters' ideologies are informed by my values.

The themes explored in the novel include:


  • racism / xenophobia
  • gender roles
  • the nature of sexuality
  • power
  • existentialism
  • ambition / success
  • imperialism
  • dreams


I will flesh these out when I have time and explain the main ideas presented. I will also explain how these ideas challenge the dominant ideologies today.

It is no secret that for me the greatest joy would be that this novel becomes part of some education curriculum. All my life, given my multi-cultural background, the experiences I have had living in different countries and reconciling my multiple cultural identities while learning more about other cultures, then studying social psychology and understanding the influence of prejudice/perceptions/attitudes in human thinking, all these things have taught me that NOTHING that we take for granted as NORMAL is normal.
And when we cease to think in black and white, our tolerance and acceptance for others follows.

The Ming Storytellers is a historical novel set in the Ming Dynasty, at a time when China was in its Golden Age. It is a rich account of life in the Forbidden City and beyond drawing on four years of research on Chinese concubines, eunuchs, the Ming government, international relations and world travel in the 15th century. The novel draws on psychology and speculative history but belongs to the newly coined Ming Gothic genre.

24 March 2010

Girl with a Gun

No sooner had I started work after almost two years of being a self-employed writer/student that my social life exploded in my face.

I was invited to a 60s themed birthday party a couple of weeks ago.
Everyone looked swish in their psychedelic mini shift dresses and coloured knee high boots. I didn't follow the 60s theme, preferring to wear a black mini skirt and a cream and black polka dot corset that I had succumbed to while shopping in Bardot.
I tried saying I was Minnie Mouse but my delicious hostess corrected me and said I had come as Betty Page. I knew better than to contradict the birthday girl!

One of the guests who was wearing khaki ranger pants and shirt carried a revolver attached to his waist. So I asked if I could "borrow his gun" and decided to pose with it. Shane took a couple of photos of me.


This was taken about an hour before I developed introversion-itis and left the party early. I still had some energy left when it was taken and the noise/smoke/alcohol had not yet affected me.

2 February 2010

Ming Gothic


Today is a great day in the history of literature!

I have created a new novel genre called "Ming Gothic". This, by the way, is also the name of a Font I stumbled onto while working on my novel's website. I did not use the font in the end but was inspired by its name...

According to this site, Gothic literature includes elements such as: an ancient prophecy; omens/visions; supernatural or otherwise inexplicable events; women in distress; women threatened by a powerful, impulsive, tyrannical male; the metonymy of gloom and horror (including a sense of mystery, danger); and overwrought emotion.

All these elements feature in my novel and are integrated within Ming history which makes for a perfect coinage of "Ming Gothic".

Why would I want to create this new genre?

1. A Different Type of Historical Novel - I had never thought of my novel as an 'epic' even though the sheer scale of the story was a superficial indication that it may fit that description. Also, unlike Edward Rutherfurd's historical novels which tend to have multiple serial plots and introduce/drop characters while progressing along multiple centuries, my novel retains all its characters, is considerably narrower in focus (it only spans 40 years) and has an ongoing central plot element.

2. Doing Away with Action Figures - I also wanted to shift conception of what this novel could be about, especially for Western readers who may not be familiar with Chinese history. Whenever I am asked, "What is your novel about?" and I answer, "It is a historical novel set in Ming China", I shudder to think what is going on in the other person's mind. After all, setting the novel in China invites all sorts of stereotypical speculation that the story may deal with 'warlords', 'warriors', 'kung fu masters', 'travelling monks', 'young apprentices being taught swordsmanship' and the likes. So overall, I wanted to do away with this Action type view of Chinese characters which in a sense has been perpetuated by films.

3. Changing Perceptions - Another reason is perhaps more ambitious. I basically do not want the English-speaking reader to experience medieval China as an exotic 'other'. Rather, I want them to conceive a world or rather, an atmosphere that is known universally through the Gothic form.

4. Future Projects - Finally, in the future, I am interested in writing another novel set in Ming China. Together, these books will I hope pioneer the genre of Ming Gothic.

18 January 2010

Creativity

Creativity is not a fad that one adopts and wears as a status symbol. No. It is grimy and self-sacrificing. It locks itself in isolation for days and emerges at whim. In a conversation, it embraces all possibilities, eluding the facts and the established knowledge du jour. It is often showered in ridicule. Often imprisoned.

Creativity is immersion in activities and products that most people can not understand. It is doing something that will often take the non-creative mind months, years, perhaps decades, to appreciate. It is often visionary.

True creativity transcends the current fashions and their popular appeal. True creativity does not cater for the masses. It is beyond the masses.

Creativity in no way seeks to make one cool or popular.
Popularity often results in the propagation of ideas and behaviours that echo established opinions and ideological desires or strategically rebels against them.
Fuck popularity.

Take a book, for example. The masses will make a book popular by consuming and devouring it.
If it is published, it will be to cater for the whims of the masses with the very purpose of making $$$money$$$.

Fuck the masses.

6 January 2010

My Delicious Holidays

After finishing my degree on 20 November, I had planned to work on my novel and get it to the completion stage. The good news is that I did manage to write a fair bit before the Christmas period so that I have about 9 days of writing to go before starting the editing process. The bad news, is that recently, I have been distracted by far too many social events...my alibi for not yet having completed my novel's 1st draft.

So here is a snippet of the fun I have been up to.

On 12 December, I attended a lovely housewarming at a friend's place. She lives in Newfarm and her riverside apartment offers gorgeous views of the Story Bridge. Again, it made me seriously consider moving to Newfarm.

Over Christmas, I stayed at my boyfriend's place in Teneriffe. For three days, he cooked delicious food for me and we saw Lovely Bones and Sherlock Holmes at the cinema on Boxing Day.

Apart from the wonderful sets, costumes and witty screenplay, one aspect I most preferred in Sherlock Holmes was Hans Zimmer's playfully engaging soundtrack. It is now one of my favourite soundtracks. I interrupt this post to share with you my top favourite film tracks of all time:

1. Hans Zimmer- The Might of Rome for Gladiator

especially from 1:21 onwards

2. Vangelis - End Titles for Blanderunner


3. Lisa Gerrard - Whale Rider


4. Hans Zimmer - Discombobulate for Sherlock Holmes


5. Mark Isham - Flames for Crash

especially from 2:18 onwards


Now, where were we???

During the new year period, I tried three Brisbane restaurants with a good reputation.

The first one was Belle Epoque at Emporium.
I would have liked this restaurant more if the chef had not chosen to share his fastidious aversion to cooking a well done steak.
I would also have liked it more if the Steak and Frites had arrived heaped up on a plate as in most parts of France, rather than as it did, bite size with the fries served separately in what looked suspiciously like an ashtray.
I lament that this restaurant served to reinforce negative French stereotypes. I can assure you that eating out in places like Lyon, Corsica and Marseilles, is a casual and generous affair. None of this attitude.
I ordered the Bouillabaise. It was delicious with generous portions of fresh seafood. But the saffron aroma was more voluptuous in Bistro Vite's Bouillabaise which I had in Melbourne three years ago.
Overall, lovely rustic decor.

On New Year's Eve, I booked in for a celebratory night at the Hilton. Shane and I had dinner at the Hilton's Atrium buffet restaurant. All the meat dishes were exquisite and I loved the baby bocconcini & tomato salad. My favourite dessert was the cheesecake although I was disappointed with the spongy pavlova.
Breakfast was also fantastic!

Finally yesterday, Shane took me to Garuva in the Valley. This was by far my favourite place this summer. So three cheers for Garuva!

I had not been there for almost five years. I still adore the jungle feel in their lounge with its large animal print cushions laid out all over the floor and the green palms glowing under dim lights. When we arrived, the cocktail lounge was conveniently empty so after one eager sip of my juicy Garuva Ecstasy, I proceeded to crawl onto the stage and do a seductive dance before realising I hated the song. Oh, I forgot to mention that while crawling onto the stage, I was giggling so hard that I choked and began to cough furiously. Basically, Laura and alcohol do not mix.
Anyway, we were then escorted to our draped enclosure in the dark dining area.

Now if you haven't been to Garuva, the dining area consists of low, Asian style tables flanked by couches. Each table area is enclosed by white silky looking drapes suspended from the ceiling. Overall you could be forgiven for imagining that you are in a Japanese gothic story and that the drapes are floating in mid air swaying under ghostly breezes.

Oh dear, I have been distracted by the ambient decor and have not given due attention to the food. Absolutely fantastic. The Baha Beef was tasty and tender, coconut prawns were delicious, I could barely finish the bountiful tempura vegetables and the BBQ fish was one of the best fish I ever had. Overall, 11 out of 10 for meal size, flavour and quality.
Now the only thing I would have liked more of in Garuva, is privacy...

So that's for my dining experiences this summer. If that wasn't enough, I am heading to a film screening/pool party at a friend's place on Friday night. I am very much looking forward to it, everyone is so nice and so positive. I love creative and positive people who are not concerned with matters of consequences. They truly are amazing. Oh, wait, it's not the end. The day after that, I have to submit myself to a photoshoot which I admit I have organised for my vain self. But it will be lots of fun.

I may just be able to write this week but for now, I am still enjoying my delicious holidays.

6 October 2009

All About Eve

This post is not really about Bette Davis nor her film. I just finished an essay on Almodovar's Todo Sobre Mi Madre and there are still a few camp textual references lingering in my mind. But if you read the post carefully, you may discover why it's all about Eve...

So where was I?

It was my 34th birthday last Friday. On that night, Shane took me to Eves on the River. It was the first time I had been there for dinner and I absolutely loved it. Our table overlooked the gorgeous Teneriffe river walk, the company was delightful as always, and to top it all off, I celebrated by getting drunk on cake. Yay me! Yes, be warned, a mass intake of glucose on a previously empty stomach will often drive Laura to inebriation. Here are a couple of souvenirs from our enchanting evening.

Eves on the River's Braised Beef Cheek


Due to an Aioli addiction, I opted for Fries and Aioli. I also had the Braised Beef Cheek with cauliflower & field mushroom Gratin. I'm a sucker for melt-in-your-mouth tender meats and was not disappointed with my delectable choice. The mushroom was soooo cute! It was as tight and thin as a nori sheet and lay compressed underneath the little bed of cauliflower. Oh, the novelty.

Shane chose the Lamb Shoulder Pie and pommes mousseline & pea puree. Everything was delicious.

Ok, so it's not quite Yatala Pies but still!


After dinner, two lovely waitresses paraded a huge chocolate cake topped with burning sparkles all the way to our table. They sang happy birthday for me and I beamed like a little girl. That sort of surprise has never happened to me before and I must admit that I found it very enjoyable!

Spoilt Brat

13 September 2009

Where I've Been

What I enjoy most about travelling is the 360 degree visual overload which I scramble to capture with those absurd digital contraptions that tourists so often carry along with them. Other aspects I love include cultural immersion which so often involves tasting glorious, yummy food, the history of different places, the wonderous architectures and the beautiful natural scenery. Travel, for me, is systematic invited change. Surprises. It's about the joy of discovering a life that I am not familiar with and that I can learn from and grow from, it's about experiencing different things, living other paradigms and appreciating human difference. I aspire to be in a perpetual state of wonder where I take nothing of the world for granted and where my senses are overwhelmed every single minute. I also travel to have fun and to explore the past.

This is a list of places I've travelled to or lived in. It's nowhere as extensive as some of my friends' lists including Ginny, Cathy and Jacqueline whose broad travel experiences I greatly admire. Overall it makes me happy to see what I've done so far.
I hope to see much more of the world in the future and return to a few places that I enjoyed. I'll update this list regularly in the years to come.

Africa

Senegal
Dakar
Kaolack
Popinguine

Pacific

Australia
Bondi
Brisbane
Broadbeach
Bronte
Burleigh Heads
Caloundra
Canberra
Coogee
Clovelly
Coolum Beach
Fraser Island
Hamilton Island
Hervey Bay
Hobart
Maleny
Maroochydore
Melbourne
Mooloolaba
Palm Beach
Port Arthur
Surfers Paradise
Sydney
Watsons Bay
Whitsunday Island


New Zealand



Auckland
Dunedin
Fox Glacier
Motueka
Mt Cook Village
Nelson
Paihia
Picton
Queenstown
Wanaka

Society Island (Fr)



Moorea

Asia

China
Badaling (Great Wall)
Baisha
Beijing
Kunming
Lijiang
Hong Kong
Macau

Indonesia
Jakarata

Japan




Himeji
Kyoto
Nara
Tokyo

Malaysia
Kuala Lumpur

Singapore

Turkey
Istanbul

Europe

Austria
Vienna

Czech Republic


Prague

France



Aix-en-Provence
Ajaccio
Annecy
Avignon
Belfort
Bonifacio
Brest
Carcassonne
Carnac
Colmar
Dijon
Dinan
Etretat
Gordes
Honfleur
Lyon
Marseille
Mont-St-Michel
Montsegur
Nantes
Nimes
Paris
Perpignan
Quiberon
Rouen
Roussillon
Saint-Malo
Sartene
Vannes
Vanves
Versailles

Germany
Freiberg
Heidelberg
Schwartzwald (Black Forest)

Greece
Athens
Adamas, Milos
Apollonia, Milos
Cape Sounion
Fira, Santorini
Imerovigli, Santorini
Mykonos Chora, Mykonos
Oia, Santorini
Paros
Perivolos, Santorini
Plaka, Milos
Provatas, Milos
Psarou Beach, Mykonos
Vlyhada Beach, Santorini

Italy
Corniglia
Florence
Lido
Manarola
Milan
Monterosso al Mare
Riomaggiore
Rome
San Gimignano
Sardinia
Siena
Venice
Vernazza
Volterra

Slovakia
Bratislava

Spain



Barcelona
Cadaques
Cordoba
El Escorial
Figueres
Girona
Granada
Madrid
Ronda
Seville
Toledo

Switzerland



Geneva
Grindelwald
Interlaken
Jungrau
Lucerne

UK
Cambridge
London
Norwich
Peterborough

America

Canada
Banff
Calgary
Jasper
Vancouver
Lake Louise

USA
Los Angeles

6 September 2009

Lie Detection Anyone?

This is a short essay that I wrote as part of a final psychophysiology exam.
The question asked for the pros and cons of using psychophysiology for lie detection in relation to an article on psychophysiological modelling. It was only worth 5% and I got full marks for it.
This is one of my passions. I'm fascinated by Event Related Potentials (ERPs), Electroencephalography (EEG) for the measure of mirror neuron activity, Electromyography (EMG) in the measure of attitudes and in general, I have an interest in any physiological response to psychological events.
I'd love to be able to complete my Honours year in the field of social neuroscience but I'm worried about being away from the workplace for too long. Hopefully in the future...


This essay uses arguments set forward by Cacioppo, Tassinary and Berntson (2007) in relation to psychophysiological relationship to outline the pros and cons of the use of psychophysiological measures in lie detection. In psychophysiology, a polygraph is often used to measure the increase in arousal resulting from lying and eliciting changes in heart rate, blood volume, skin conductance and respiration.

Cacioppo et al. (2007) argue that simply knowing that manipulating a particular element in the psychological domain leads to a particular psychophysiological response does not enable one to infer anything about the former based on observations of the latter. If we look at this in the context of the Guilt Knowledge Test, a subject’s response to a question relating to the crime when the subject is guilty would represent the psychological domain. Meanwhile, any significant rise in the suspect’s skin conductance would represent the psychophysiological response. What Cacioppo et al. argue is that it is not possible to assume with complete certainty that other psychological reasons might not have led to the observed physiological response. In lie detection, the skin conductance changes assumed to characterise the suspect’s increased arousal when they recognise information only a guilty person would be expected to know, may be a psychophysiological outcome resulting from other psychological states. This is one disadvantage of using psychophysiological measures for lie detection. Notably, there is a many to one relationship characterising lie detection. It implies that responses measured by the polygraph could arise from any other psychological state rather than the assumed guilt state. It has been found that some people can manipulate their own breathing, press their toes on the floor or bite their tongue, thus affecting polygraph measures. For example, Honts, Hodes and Raskin (1985) tested the accuracy of the Control Question Test (CQT) and found that guilty persons in a mock-crime experiment could produce enhanced responses to control questions and therefore be classified as innocent.

Using psychophysiological measures for lie detection can be advantageous if the relationship between the suspect’s state and their psychophysiological response can be defined as one-to-one. In this form of relationship described by Cacioppo et al. (2007), only one physiological response predicts a psychological event within a given context. The psychophysiological response becomes known as a marker and its presence is so strictly associated with a particular condition that its presence is more accurately indicative of the presence of this condition. In other words, presence of this marker in lie detection increases the accuracy of the decision about whether or not the suspect is guilty. The measure of event related potentials (ERPs) for lie detection may be the closest thing to this form of relationship. One of these event related potentials, the P300, only occurs where a subject is presented with deviant or interesting information. In the lie detection paradigm, this late P300 ERP can manifest if the subject is presented with information that only a guilty person would recognise. According to Cacioppo et al.’s terms, the presence of the P300 can be construed as a strict marker for suspect recognition of crime related stimuli. In this context, the presence of a P300 in a suspect’s EEG recording can indicate that the stimulus presented was relevant to the guilty person. Conversely, absence of the P300 can indicate that the same stimulus presented was irrelevant to the therefore innocent person. A study by Farwell and Donchin (1991) which measured the P300 response in a fictional spy scenario found that there were no false positives or false negatives and that wherever a decision could be made based on the P300, it was accurate. In a second experiment, target stimuli related to a given person’s offence produced large P300s while stimuli not related to the offence produced only a very small or no P300 at all. Overall, the determinations of this second experiment were 100% correct. It can be concluded that use of ERP measures offers promising results in the accuracy of lie detection making psychophysiological measures advantageous as tools for lie detection.

Another disadvantage of using psychophysiological measures in lie detection is that often, a psychophysiological relationship may be established with a particular measure when in fact this relation is not concomitant. As explained by Cacioppo et al. (2007), a psychophysiological concomitant is where there exists a many-to-one relationship such that a psychophysiological measure correlates with a known psychological state. However, it can be argued that changes in skin conductance thought to manifest when a person is lying may in fact turn out to be non concomitant. Cacioppo et al. indicate that manipulation of the same psychological element in a situation may alter or eliminate the covariation between the psychological and physiological elements because the latter is evoked not only by variations in the psychological element but also by variations in one or more additional factors. In a lie detection scenario, this would be the equivalent of skin conductance changes arising from an additional factor such as fear or anxiety such that the psychological state (guilt/innocence) may be overridden by this additional factor. So where a suspect is feeling anxious about being found guilty when they are in fact innocent, other factors may be at play in evoking the psychophysiological response and this may render the measured response non concomitant.



References
Psychophysiological science: interdisciplinary approaches to classic questions about the mind.(2007). In J. T Cacioppo, L.G. Tassinary & G.G. Berntson (Eds.), Handbook of psychophysiology, 3rd Edition. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press.

1 September 2009

Emilie Jolie: Le Hérisson - English Translation


From the age of three to four, I had a turntable with a red plastic case that I'd use to play records all day long. One of my earliest memories is a Philippe Chatel's children musical called "Emilie Jolie" that I'd listen to continuously until I knew the words by heart. I was not gifted with blonde locks and I did not have blue eyes like the lovely Emilie but as with many little French girls, I identified with her.

Emilie is basically this little girl who can't sleep at night because she finds herself all alone while her parents are out and she is terrified of the dark. I could readily identify with that. No sooner were the lights out that I had to fight the horrible products of an overactive imagination.

The narration is in third person with the narrator also directly interacting with Emilie as she flips through this book merging with each page's content into a magical universe. It's similar to Mary Poppins where the children enter into the park after leaping into one of the chalk drawings but in this case, Emilie is both inside the book and outside it, since she can still flip the pages. For each page, she meets fantastic characters each with a story and a personal song.


The first turning point of the story is the meeting with a witch.

"Il y a une sorciere dans cette histoire?" (Is there a witch in this story?) asks Emilie.
"Dans tous les comtes, il y a une sorciere et un prince charmant." (In every tale, there is a witch and a Prince charming) assures the narrator.

The witch's song is one of the highlights of the story. It is sung in the original musical by famous French singer, Françoise Hardy. She laments that she's been cruel and wicked, that being a witch has been to her detriment and she wishes someone could love her so that she could cease being a witch. Interesting psychology going on here and I can tell you that Emilie Jolie is a musical filled with double meanings so that adults along with children can both enjoy it. It's probably as deep as The Little Prince and when it ends, Philippe Chatel's last words have haunted me up to this day:

" Faites que le rêve dévore votre vie, Afin que la vie ne dévore pas votre rêve . "

basically,
Let your dream consume your life.
Such that life may not consume your dream...


It is a beautiful ending because it reminds the main character, Emilie along with every other child, to grow up honouring their dreams and their imagination. As a child, I did not understand the quote very well but as an adult today, I can see how easy it is to forget one's dreams and to let life, adult life with its adult concerns, its materialistic outlook and other "matters of consequence" take precedence over joyful fantasies. I'm determined not to let it.

Personally, I believe you can expect that level of depth from most French children's tales.

After the meeting with the witch there follows a quest to find a Prince Charming who will magically turn the witch into a kind, loving princess. Emilie Jolie must flip each page of her book and encounter one character after another asking each if they have at all seen Prince Charming. Of course none of them have but we are treated to their song nevertheless and learn a little bit about each one of them. Each character's song is well written and most are enjoyable.

My personal favourite as a child and also today, is "La Chanson du hérisson " (The Porcupine's song). Who has not met a porcupine? A depressed person who sees life through a negative lens and who only wants proof that they are worthy of love. It is easy to be rebuffed (prickled?) by their negativity and it often requires courage to overcome their rejecting ways and give them the proof they ache for. This is the lesson that this song teaches.


La Chanson du Hérisson - Lyrics by Philippe Chatel with my English translation

Refrain:
Oh, qu'est-ce qui pique, ce hérisson
Oh, qu'elle est triste sa chanson
Oh, qu'est-ce qui pique, ce hérisson
Oh, qu'elle est triste sa chanson
Chorus:
Oh, how he prickles, this porcupine,
Oh, how sad is his song.
Oh, how he prickles, this porcupine
Oh, how sad is his song.


C'est un hérisson qui piquait, qui piquait
Et qui voulait qu'on l'caresse, resse, resse
On l' caressait pas, pas, pas, pas, pas
Non pas parce qu'il piquait pas, mais mais parce qu'il piquait
It was a porcupine that prickled, that prickled
And who wanted to be caressed,ressed,ressed
Caressed he was not, not, not, not, not
Not because he didn't prickle, but because he prickled


(Repeat Chorus)

Le hérisson:
Quelle est la fée dans ce livre
Qui me donn'ra l'envie d'vivre
Quelle est la petite fille aux yeux bleus
Qui va m'rendre heureux
The Porcupine:
Who is the fairy in this book
Who'll give me the desire t'live
Who is the little girl with the blue eyes
Who'll make me happy


Emilie:
Moi, je ne vois que moi
Il n'y a que moi
Dans ce livre là
Moi, je ne vois que moi
Il n'y a que moi
Dans ce livre là,la
la la la...
Emilie:
Me, I see only me
There is only me
In this book
Me, I see only me
There is only me
In this book
- I actually love this part because it has two meanings. In the first instance, Emilie is answering the porcupine's question, acknowledging that she is the only one who can help him. But at the same time, on a broader scale, she expresses her realisation that her book journey is solitary and that everything so far, has been a product of her imagination, or a reflection of herself. I love this.

Le conteur:
Emilie est allée caresser le hérisson !
Narrator:
Emilie has gone to caress the porcupine!


Emilie:
Elle n'est plus triste, cette chanson
J'ai caressé le hérisson
Emilie:
This song is no longer sad
I have caressed the porcupine


Chœurs:
Il n'est plus triste, le hérisson
Elle a caressé la chanson !
Chorus:
He is no longer sad, the porcupine
She has caressed the song!
(a bit of kiddish humour there....)

Le conteur:
Mais non, le hérisson
Narrator:
No, [she means] the porcupine...


Chœurs:
Mais non, le hérisson !
Chorus:
No, the porcupine!




Here's the song, in case you want to sing along!

20 August 2009

Eyeliner

It's strange being a woman and realising you haven't been to the hairdresser for 10 months and knowing that this 2008 hairdresser visit was also one year since the previous one...

I also took note that the one and only professional facial I've had in my entire life was a couple of years ago. It was a gift too...I wouldn't have thought of it.
That's not all, I don't do pedicures and manicures.

After applying SPF 15 moisturiser, I take less than 15 minutes to apply the little cosmetics I know of: primer, make-up, blush, lipgloss and very rarely, mascara. Truth is, I've only just learnt about primer this year.

And now I have reached a middle age crisis.
You see, this month, after years of shunning it, I've discovered eyeliner.
Yes, you read right. Eyeliner.
Being a regular contact lens wearer is one of the reason I avoided putting anything on my eyes.
So this eyeliner is quite a revolution for me!

Besides I think it's time I stop relying on my genes and actually start to groom myself.


I want to be made up to look like the gorgeous (and talented) Violet Vex. She recently completed a photo shoot with Mark Greenmantle to advertise for clothing store Voodoo Lulu in Fortitude Valley. Love the make up. Oh, and the clothes!

11 August 2009

August Reckonings

It appears that my July break during which I had planned so many activities has reached an unanticipated end. My Sydney trip was no sooner over that I was suddenly back at uni. How I would have liked to drag the July days and not sleep more than 4 hours per night in order to have more time for personal projects.


Time time time! WHO'S GOT THE TIME????

Disney's Mad Hatter - Try to beat that, Johnny!


In case you are wondering about this magic quote, it is ejaculated by the Mad Hatter in Disney's Alice in Wonderland. I always enjoy that part. For me, it's one of the highlights of surrealistic cinema. Anyway, the next thing you know, Mad Hatter grabs the White rabbit's clock which he promptly diagnoses as being out of tune and attempts to revive it with a healthy dose of condiments, spreading butter, jam and everything else that appears on the non-anniversary party table, well, everything except, and it must be clearly enunciated in case one should ever make that mistake: mustard!! So just remember that.

The report on the novel is that it's going splendidly. That is, I hate it. I've been reassured by a close writer/director/producer friend that this healthy hatred for a manuscript still in its early draft version is actually a very good sign.

Well let's be fair, I do enjoy reading the individual chapters but remain concerned about the momentum (or lack of) between each section. I also feel as though some sentences are far too long to convey action and build up interest. It's not complete and stands now at about 155000 words. I have, however, completed most of the research.

During the last bout of research, I found myself browsing through the Muslim architecture of Southern India during the 1400s. Meanwhile, the last chapter I completed related to the Tea Horse Trade at its peak, in particular, the trade route that linked the tea plantations of Pu'er (Yunnan, China) with Lhasa in Tibet, or Tubo as the Ming called it. As you can probably imagine, I've been around!

My plan is to write a little each week while I complete the last semester of my let's-call-it-what-it-really-is, Psychology degree.

So what else, have I been doing while my blog lay idle? Well the Tran Tien Genealogy is now complete and I'm also halfway through Aquarius. She is the fourth star chick from my Zodiac Girls series. This Mexican looking Gimp vamp shall be posted shortly. Please do not expect a woman carrying a pitcher. Aquarius is an AIR sign for heaven's sake. So no water thank you.

May I squeeze in an irrelevant-revelation?
I'm loving my current university subjects. One of them relates to the design of Psychometric Assessments. I'm learning how to design questionnaires to ensure that they are empirically valid in measuring the construct (e.g. introversion, risk-taking) that they purport to measure and that they are also reliable, that is, yielding consistent results for each participants over time. It follows that one of my great friends this semester is a Statistics application called SPSS. It's a lot of fun!

It must be said, SPSS is almost as fun as Matlab. I remember feeling a surge of excitement whenever I plugged in a formula on the Matlab command line while analysing the trajectory of a ballistic missile for one of my engineering assignments. Back then I really believed that I'd join Nasa and dabble in secret weapons. Little did I know that I actually had a conscience.


Anyway, that's my current SPSS passion. Many psychology students hate it, as much as they hate the Psychological Methodology aspect of the degree. Hang on, have you figured it out? Psychology is not at all about intuition is it? You have to use... wait for it...take a deep breath: maths! In fact, psychological findings are often very counter-intuitive so that without mathematical analysis it would not be possible to demonstrate that what we believe is "common sense" is actually wrong. Tell that to the next person who assures you that "human behavior is common sense and you don't need a scientist to figure it out."
Ahum, ok. Well having snubbed my nose at the infidels, and regained my integrity as a psychology student, I'd now like to re-align this post to what it was originally about...

What was it about?

Well, it's just this. Let's pretend my name is Mrs Smith.

I got a phone call from a Debbie from the Heart Foundation.
I picked up the phone and said hello.

Debbie: Mrs Smith??? Is that you??
Me: Yes. Speaking.
Debbie: Is that you Mrs Smith? (she says, in an alarmed voice bordering on rudeness) You sound really really young...you sound like one of those kids from the...
Me: Err...ok...(gee, why am I not surprised?)

etc... until I apologetically told her that I didn't have enough time to go fundraising in September and hung up.

Let's just say that I had a similar encounter almost 18 months ago when a police officer called to discuss the Police Youth Club. He was much more to the point. He asked to speak with my mother.

Yes, I know, I've already ranted about how young I look for a 33 year old. But this is much worse: I sound young too. Joy!

I'm not going to feign exasperation for having good genes but this voice thing better not work against me at job interviews! Imagine, it's like walking around with a "Don't Take Me Seriously" sign on my forehead. Debbie was sooooooo relaxed talking to me, I bet she'd have put on her best professional voice and donned on white gloves had she been speaking to a deep-throated gentleman on the phone.

Why are people so fake? If you change your speech mannerisms while talking to different people based on their age (social background?), one day you are bound to find embarrassment because of incorrect assumptions. Personally, I much prefer to be humble and respectful as often as I can rather than adopt a power stance based on who I talk to.
You never know who that stranger is. And actually, regardless of who that stranger is, it ought not to determine how respectfully you treat them.

17 May 2009

Star Girl


I admit, with all that talk about psychology I'm a still a little bit of a renegade.
I break the rules. I'm shameless: no matter how many times I read a psychology textbook debunking the Zodiacs, I am still passionate about astrology. It's ingrained in my way of thinking, I've been studying it for years, probably since I was 10. I'm ready to have a debate with any psychologist that astrology may not be a science but it should not be so easily dismissed.

During my readings, I've come across details that are frightening. For example, this jewel about the Rooster Man's love behavior. I have yet to meet a male Rooster who doesn't manifest unconscious sadistic tendencies to protect themselves from their anxieties and self-doubts.
When reading about a person's chart, I like to concentrate on their Chinese birth year, month and hour. And I also combine those descriptions with their Western Moon, Venus, Mars and Sun signs. The combination reading is usually pretty detailed and insightful. There is nothing vague about it. Recently I've touched on the Indian Moon Nakshatras and I see some truths in my sign, Hasta. Also fascinating are the different Decans for each star sign. For example, I'm a First Decan Libran. From which I particularly appreciate this sentence:


These natives must guard against defining themselves in terms of a significant other and strive to "be their own person," which will raise self-esteem and make them no less loveable in the process.


Absolutely nothing vague about this description. Unfortunately, that is indeed a flaw I have. I need a backbone when it comes to my romantic relationships! But anyway yesterday I found a jewel of a description.
It's me to a T.

Here it is:

Rabbit/Libra
Here is an aristocratic Rabbit. This native's manners are delicate and studied. Diplomacy for him is an ethic and behind his frail appearance hides a prodigious inner strength that analyses each one of your attitudes to find your weak points. This subject is unpredictable and never reveals his game. He's also an aesthete.

Ah yes, my frail appearance has indeed misled a lot of unscrupulous people in the past and this to their eventual detriment.
Meanwhile, I pride myself on my unpredictability although sometimes I tend to also confuse myself with it so it's not always a good thing! I never know what I'm going to do next. (Incidentally that is a trait corresponding with my being born on the Hour of the Tiger, Tigers are unpredictable.)
As for me never revealing my game, well there are very few people I fully trust. I can count them on three fingers, if that.

20 April 2009

Gasping For Breath

Today is a bit of a lazy day. My brain is fried and it's only mid April.

I'm in the middle of a 3500 words psychophysiology proposal due in 10 days.
I'm looking at measuring EMG corrugator supercilii and zygomatic major responses to happy/sad facial expressions from Black and White dynamic avatars after priming participants to develop a greater negative bias towards Black people. It's a cruel setting but it's a test of how empathy towards outgroups can be negatively manipulated by the media, especially in times of war. I'm three quarters through the Introduction of this proposal. I still have to write my method and my predictions. Method will be a little difficult as I have to describe the electrodes...oops, the "sensors"... and the EMG process in details, something a little different from the other reports I've written. Effectively I'm looking at a 2 x 2 x 2 mixed quasi-experimental factorial design so I'm still overwhelmed with the predictions and how to formulate my hypotheses.
That's why I'm happily taking a break today. Woohoo!!
It's not easy to avoid feeling like a mad scientist. Blogging helps.

Actually on that topic, I'm still smiling at what my psychophysiology lecturer said in the first lecture:


Today we don't refer to electrodes as "electrodes". In front of the participants we tend to call them "sensors" instead. It's because we are trying to get away from the whole Milgram thing...


Anyway I thought it was funny.

So now onto a mental reckoning of the other uni subjects... I'm due for a Neuroscience Quiz in two weeks, the second in a set of three. This is where I'll have to remember all the charming names of neurotransmitters among other things. After that, I still have another Behaviour Analysis and Modification lab report assignment to complete, two workbooks to hand in, at least 4 psychophysiological lab practicals to complete (although that part is quite fun) and an oral presentation on the Prefrontal Cortex to prepare for. All this to be completed by the end of May while I continue to attend classes and try to have a life. And then it's exam period...

This is the hardest semester I've had for a while and so when it's completed, I'll feel great.

27 July 2008

On Novel Writing and Other Things

I'm up to the stage where my novel is playing games with my mind.

At the moment, it inspires dread. It horrifies me that I may have taken an Orientalist approach to one of the characters. The prospect of historians dissecting my novel also horrifies me. I imagine them as sparrows pecking out little snippets from the story and leaving it a bloody mess.

I've become moody. I alternate between grandiose illusions of literary achievements where I silently beam with pleasure, and moments of confusion in which I spiral out of control into some paranoiacal vortex where nothing is certain except for failure.

I don't even remember what the book is about. There are at least six subplots and most are unresolved. The writing style varies from mildly poetic dribble to presumptious prose. All the characters vie for attention and the main protagonist is being bullied from every direction because he can't think for himself. Some of the characters have not even been named yet because I'm purposely deliberating on something authentic and meaningful and as a result, there are Xs throughout a number of passages. X did this. Then X did that. Am I writing a novel or algebra??

I also wonder whether it's unnecessarily graphic. Why all the details? Am I playing with sensationalism and taboo topics or am I painting truth?

The last week has been interesting. I wake up dreading the thought of writing. I feel as though the characters are becoming impatient with me. They are waiting to pounce on me to impose their personality, their wills. They are agaced at my indecisions. I'm not even in control anymore. Which is just as well because uni has begun. I need a wait out. I haven't stopped ingesting Ming history for 6 months now. I need to get out and breathe the 21st century. It is mentally exhausting to wade through 400+ pages and juggle the plot, the passing years, the historical context, the different cultures and sequences of events while keeping the characterisation in perspective. And there is yet more to research...

I definitely need a break.

So why all the anxiety? It's just that there are so many unresolved passages in my novel. And I usually finish what I start... Leaving the novel in this state means that I feel edgy and dissatisfied. There is some dissonance from not meeting the requirements of my own value system. I want it completed and I am impatient to pen the vision that I've maintained and nurtured in my mind for what is now two years, yet I'm torn because I do need a break and I'm now eager for uni. In fact, I'm already addicted to two of the psychology subjects!

These days I'm always running around getting things organised. The irony is that my health is still in a precarious state. I'm on prescription drugs and vitamins. I've only just stopped coughing after two months. On Friday, my doctor was telling me that "I've had a stressful year and I need to take it easy because my immune system has been affected." But I just have so much to do...I'm now a full time student and I demand 6s or 7s. Nothing else will do. I've just booked a week to the Whitsundays for mid September which will be nice for relaxing. I also have another trip to China to organise. This one is more of an adventure rather than a holiday and it will take time to organise. Meanwhile my mandarin is going nowhere and I can't get my tones right so forget about talking basic Chinese with the locals. Won't happen.

I often think there are not enough hours in the day with everything I want to do and achieve for myself. I'm sure I'm not alone with this realisation. I create the anxiety because of the enormous expectations I place on myself. I've known this for years. But I don't know any other way to be.

To be continued...

21 March 2008

So you want to look young, huh?

Warning: This article contains bragging and may seem offensive to readers with low self-esteem.

I have a dirty little secret.
I look far too young for my age. It's true, too many people mistaken me for someone in their late teens.

It's a bother. Granted a good portion of women, including me, theoretically want to look young or at least, maintain youthful skin. But do we really understand the implications of looking young?

Appearing 2 or 5 years younger than your actual age can be reassuring, especially if the insecurities of turning thirty have kicked in. But appearing 10 to 15 years younger when you are turning 33 this year, can be a curse.

That's my life at the moment.

When I was 31, I tried getting into the Gold Coast casino in a green, bareback, halter neck dress. The security guard nearly had a fit after seeing my Id card.

"What's your secret?" he asked.

"Good genes", I mused.

I tend to think that having your driver's license examined by an ogling bouncer is not valid evidence that I have the package of an 18 year old. So I look for other guinea pigs to test my hypothesis. I monitor the attitude that uni students have towards me whenever I attend classes.

Uni students. They can smell it if you're a mature age student. They only have to look at your clothes and they know. Through their knowledge of popular culture, they can identify your generation in what you say, in the tone of your voice and in the way you carry yourself. They know. Obviously, if you have good skin and hair you can deceive them but ultimately, they will find out that there is something fishy about you. Uni students fresh from schoolies are youth incarnate and so in theory, you don't stand a chance.

All this doesn't worry me. Bare legs, teeny waists, luscious hair, rainbow wardrobes, painted toenails in cutsy sandals, toned arms dangling from barely-there singlets...I can do all that and go unnoticed. Thing is, I'm 32.

At university, during some of my tuts, we play ice breakers. The other day, we had to say two lies and one truth about ourselves to the person beside us. They had to guess which were the lies out of the three statements. One of my lies was that I was 25 years old. It was picked up as a lie...not because I looked 'much older' but because the guy thought I couldn't possibly be 25. I've tried this with girls too and they didn't believe I was in my thirties.

What fun!

But hold. There is a dark side and I now come to it.

When I was 28, flying Air New Zealand, I had the misfortune to be seated by the emergency door. You know...that plane seat where there is a latch and a little warning message indicating that you must be an adult to sit there so that you can open the door in case of an emergency.

That didn't go down well.
In the middle of the flight, I am interpellated by an air hostess:
- Excuse me, how old are you?
I smile.
- I'm 28.

I suppose I was wearing a pink jumper and I must have looked pubescent. What happens next is enough to annoy anyone who expects a little respect. The air hostess remains standing in the middle of the aisle, one arm on my seat as she rolls her eyes to the ceiling. Then, growing impatient, she repeats the question, "How old are you?"

Is she kidding?

So I flatly reply with my own impertinent question.

- Are you asking me my age??

- Yes.

I thought she was going to slap me!!
I'm now irritated and I don't bother to hide it.

- I'm 28!

She doesn't believe me and gives me the eye before sighing and moving off.
This upsets me. I mean, what's with her? Just because she looks like an old cow.

So there you have it. There are disadvantages to looking young.
If I thought being an adult would free me from age discrimination, I was wrong.
I find that I am often ignored, dismissed, snapped at in a condescending tone and judged. Think about it, because of my appearance, I am assumed to have had little life experience and to not really know what I am talking about. If, as an experienced 32 year old, I say something with weight, it is taken lightly. That's age discrimination for you.

I'm guessing there is light at the end of the tunnel. Well, sort of.
When I'll be 50, I'll look 35.
When I'll be 60, I'll look 45.
This will hopefully delay my entry into official old age and I may not experience old age discrimination until I am much older.

But you see what the problem is don't you. What is the point of wanting to look young when society remains ill equipped, both psychologically and culturally, to relate well with people of different ages without insulting, misjudging or unfairly treating them? With the manner that society operates as a whole, being a particular age (or gender for that matter) can hurt. And similarly, not looking your actual age can actually hurt too and make you wish you were no different to everyone else.

Growing up in Dakar Part III

In 1984, after years of living in Dakar, my parents decided to leave and build a new life in Australia.

We lived one and a half years in France, waiting for our immigration papers to be processed. We did not even know whether we would be admitted to Australia. All our stuff was in large metal crates, waiting to be shipped. During that time, I only attended school for 3 months. Originally the plan was to skip school and just catch up in Australia, but after an entire year of waiting, my mum gave up and enrolled us. Effectively, I skipped Grade 5.

During our time in France, the maid Marie-Hélène Sambou (in her late 20s from memory) flew with us to help my grandmother with housekeeping for 6 months. But soon enough, Marie-Hélène had to return to her native country. We missed her a lot.

I corresponded with her right up until I arrived in Australia. Months later, we stopped writing.

I recently found a postcard she had sent me in 1985, when I was 10. I have kept it because it meant a lot to me. You have to understand that she, as many Senegalese women from the villages, did not know how to write very well. So that she could write to me, aka, the little brat, she had to visit a trusted friend or literate person. She would dictate her letter, pay a price and the friend would write these words for her and send the card to the desired address. Receiving a card from her always made me happy and reminded me of my childhood in Dakar.

In this postcard, she makes an allusion to 2 little girls whose parents had hired her and whom we knew:

"Hello! It is with a light heart and great pleasure that I draft this letter to ask how you are and also wish you a Joyous New year 1985. I hope that God protects you and keeps you safe. Dear Laura, this letter is a secret between you and me. Once, you wrote to me to ask me whether Valery and Christelle are kind to me. You did well to ask this. I would like to tell you that Valery is very impolite. When I speak to her, she insults me on the spot. But Christelle is too kind, like you. She respects me a lot. I salute you. I dream a lot about seeing you again. Our separation has cost me dearly."



To be frank, I can't say I was very kind at all! Well maybe in later years, I was. And we grew very close then. But back in Dakar, I was capable of turning into a little monster. In my grandparent's appartment, we had a spare room where the maids kept their things (they slept at our place all week and only returned to their village during the weekend). This was their room and we were not allowed to touch their things. But when they were too busy with chores, and I was bored, I would often open their cupboard and play with their African combs, nail polish and toe rings. I also used their hair oil and once I spilled some oil inside the cupboard so that it was very obvious that someone had been there. Of course they enquired about this because it distressed them and my grandmother got me in trouble.

When I was 5, I used to think the maids had magical powers. Or at least that they could do things that I couldn't. Once, after walking home from school, I had asked Thérèse if she wanted some coconut. I shared a piece of my fresh coconut which she ate. But on returning home, I had a fit because I refused to have a shower. Nevertheless, it was my parents' wish and so half and hour later, Thérèse washed me while I bickered and whinged. I was so indignant at being forced to take a shower that I decided that Thérèse was annoying and that she didn't deserve my coconut. So right then and there, I imperiously demanded that she return to me my coconut or else I would dob on her and say that she had stolen it from me. Undeterred, Thérèse said, "Oh, you want your coconut? Ok." Then without fuss, she made this horrible regurgitating noise, spit all the ingested coconut bits in her palm and shoved her hand under my gobsmacked face. I took one look at the coconut bits floating in the saliva pool and was lost for words. After this, I confided to my sister that Thérèse was a witch. I mean, how did she vomit up only the coconut? Is that possible?

There are so many more stories and gosh, I do miss those two women, Marie-Hélène and Thérèse Sambou. They were cousins from Casamance, Sénégal. Has anyone heard of what happened to them? I would love to know where they are today.

Well anyway, eventually we made it to Australia. The custom officers raided our crates and we lost our carved ivory tusks, our leather poufs, our Calebasse bowls and all our wooden masks.
Fair enough.

Also See:
Growing Up in Dakar Part II
Growing Up in Dakar

18 March 2008

Phuong Lan - Anecdotes

The Vietnamese Chef


Until she was 25, my grandmother had never had to cook. In her parent's house, there was a "Thi-ba" (nurse) for each child and a cook. She said that while she had never made anything herself, she would spend hours watching the work of the household cook and learning from it.

Whoever this cook was, he was brilliant and must have deeply impressed his art on her because while growing up, I always believed that my grandmother was the best cook in the world. She was especially well organised and would think nothing of preparing 5 course banquets for twenty or so guests or family members. For example in Senegal, whenever my grandfather invited work colleagues, she would prepare 300 Nems, well in advance, just for the entree.

When I was little, my grandmother, rather than my mum, ruled the kitchen. This means, apart from frequent Senegalese and Lebanese dishes, I grew up on Vietnamese food. On our dinner table, there was usually a bowl of nuoc mam sauce. To be exact, there were always two bowls present: the kids' nuoc mam and the adults' chili nuoc mam.

Well before I had turned 9, I had already tasted a wide variety of Vietnamese dishes, prepared exclusively by my talented grandmother. I was familiar with Ban Cuon (usually stuffed with beef or shrimp and dipped in Nuoc Mam), Chinese steamed buns which were my very favourites, Hue stuffed pancakes, caramelised pork, pineapple chicken, crab & asparagus soup, shrimp fried rice, Vietnamese spring rolls dipped in a sweet potato & peanut sauce, stuffed cabbage leaf soup, fish and pineapple soup...the list goes on.

Nothing compared to my grandmother's steamed buns. I loved the smell of the yeasty dough when it was left to rise. I equally loved watching my grandmother knead a sample of dough into a tiny flat pancake inside which she would delicately place a rolled pork ball, a morsel of Chinese sausage and a portion of chopped boiled egg before her agile fingers sealed the dough ball and placed it on an aluminium disc in preparation for steaming. My duty was to cut the aluminium into little circles and hand these over. Whenever I could, I'd eat bits of Chinese sausage. Or if she was making Nem, I enjoyed dipping each rice paper sheet into the water, watching its crystal surface soak up and grow limp before I laid it out on a moist cloth so that my grandmother could fill it with pork, shrimp and greens. One of my favourite dishes was Mi Xao Don Do Bien (crispy noodles and seafood). But I was never a fan of Beef Pho.

When we lived in Senegal, my grandmother was the best Vietnamese chef. Everyone who knew me at school had heard about her Nems. During school fetes where parents contributed by providing international food to sell, my grandmother prepared hundreds of Nems. Hundreds. During our almost weekly visits to the restaurant at the Pointe des Almadies (Dakar) whose owners were also Vietnamese, we'd expertly examine the Nems there and compare them with my grandmother's. Each time, my sister and I agreed that her Nems were better and we proudly told her so.

Back to Tran Genealogy Index

5 September 2007

Mystical Me

I was thinking the other day of how fickle I have been throughout my life, shopping around for a religion and never really being satisfied with what I found. It dawned on me that while I most relate to the energy of the Goddess Kaali, I 'm an orphan when it comes to religion.

Roman Catholic - I was born into the Roman catholic church. It means that when I turned 7, my entire life revolved around my first communion. You know how girls in their last year of school shop around for that perfect prom dress? I spent years trying to imagine what I'd wear for my first communion. And I wanted a crown. I had to have a crown.
My early primary school years saw me belting out church songs from the top of my voice, attending church service every Sunday with my little mass booklet and coveting every pretty rosary beads I saw in the parish shops. When I was bored, I'd read my illustrated PG-rated version of the bible. And, I know I wasn't supposed to think that way, but those Canaanites sure were pretty with their long black curls and their slave bracelets.
Two particular Bible stories stood out.
1. I loved the story of Joseph. No, not the Joseph from the manger with baby Jesus. Joseph who was sold by his jealous brothers and who in the end, climbed his way up by interpreting Pharaoh's dreams. He was so cool. I liked how he turned out better than his siblings and how he tricked them into reflecting on their own natures and eventually forgave them.
2. The other guy I liked was Aaron. Aaron's brother Moses got all the attention for some reason. But I loved how Aaron battled with the Pharaoh's magicians and how he could transform his sticks into snakes. Who needs Harry Potter when you have the bible?
And if I ever suffered from insomnia, out came the rosary beads. I loved nothing better than sink deep into martyrdom, reciting Hail Marys and sincerely believing that my humble prayers would save the world. Being a Roman Catholic in those days had its pitfalls. I felt guilty all the time. Everything was 'bad'.
I didn't like the taboo surrounding the occult. I was once thrown out of my school library for reading Tarot cards to my friends during recess. I had to pack up my cards and get out. I still can't believe it. ( I forgot to tell you that I attended a Dominican high school. More on those Dominicans later....)

But one ultimate thing that stood out the most for me as a Christian, was Jesus. If you read the New Testament, he is just such an awesome, awesome guy. He was kind, egalitarian, a feminist, a healer, anti-capitalistic, anti-institutional, forgiving, selfless and very intuitive. Come to think of it, even today, someone like him would certainly be thrown into jail.

Coptic - I became Coptic for a very short time. It was foolish of me. I was in love with this guy and since his religion forbade us to be together unless I converted, I began to lie to myself until I was adamant that I would be Coptic. They baptised me whole in a cotton robe, inside what look like large sink. I felt very uncomfortable that day and I wanted to puke because the smell of the incense was so overwhelming. I think apart from the fact that I broke up with that guy, the one thing that put me off this very Orthodox church was its insistence on protecting men from their own lust and segregating males and females inside the church. Women had to cover their heads 'lest their heads be shorn' by wearing a veil inside the church while the men seemed to go around giving us the don't-you-dare-tempt-me-you-evil-woman look. We women couldn't take communion if we were menstruating. And fasting went on and on and on throughout most of the year. It just wasn't for me.

The Pagan - I met the pagan just after I broke up with the Copt. Let's call him Damien, as that was his name. He was everything that I called 'bad'. That is, he had no Christian guilt, he sometimes didn't wash, he smoked and his house was a mess. But I knew I had something to learn from him. Besides, I was 22 and he was 34. When he talked about paganism, he made it sound so free that very soon, I questioned my rigid Christian beliefs. After a few months, I was free from all guilt. In a way, Damien liberated me. I owe him that. I'm still not sure what paganism means though.

The Cathars - Around the time I lost my Christian fervour, I began to detest everything it stood for, particularly the Crusades and the Inquisition...and 'St Dominic' in person. In fact, I injected meaning into this pseudo-adolescent rebellion by taking the cause of the Albigensians. I became obsessed with everything Cathar. The Cathars were a sect who lived mostly in the South of France, in the Languedoc. I identified so strongly with them that even today, the sound of Latin makes me cringe. Soon, I was avoiding meat,living in black, making a solemn pact never to reproduce and visiting France to pay homage to such places as Carcassone and Montsegur. I read Zoe Oldenberg's "Massacre at Montsegur" twice, I had a go at learning the Occitan tongue and listened to Era's music over and over again.
I even began to entertain the idea that I was a reincarnated parfait who had been burnt in 1244. I think I may have been deranged in those days but the experience remained enriching.

Kaali - Feeling a little lost and angry around that time, I embraced the one deity that could deal with the intensity of my feelings and allow me to face my fears. The goddess Kaali. The feminist par excellence. What is Kaali? In a nutshell, she is the most ferocious incarnation of the Hindu goddess Durga. She was summoned to kill the demon that no one could kill because it kept multiplying. Kaali, you don't mess with. She trashed the shit out of the demon. (How I like that. A female superhero.) But she had such a mighty temper that she couldn't stop her destructive dance. (And she can dance too.) Her husband Shiva had to lie at her feet in order to appease her and so that she would realise what she was doing. It sounds so much like PMS doesn't it? All hell breaks loose and the husband cops it. But seriously, this destructive energy has another side to it. It is about facing truths, eliminating fear, about renewal too. About not pretending. That is how I interpret that energy and whenever I have felt lost, I think of Kaali. She is my one ally.

Lately I have begun to ponder about what religion I would embrace if I had to choose one. But mostly, I have felt a need to adopt some discipline that would help me deal with my horrible temper and to relax. I NEED TO RELAX!!! I think as Daniel Goleman puts it in his book on Social Intelligence: any religion which allows a person to maintain a harmonious mind and harmonious relationships, has health benefits. Forgiving, for example, lowers blood pressure. On the other hand, anger has a worst effect on the immune system than stress does. (I should keep that in mind!!!!) Among other things. Anyway, "Social Intelligence" is an excellent read for anyone interested. It delves into all sorts of scientific evidence, like mirror neurons and their role in empathy. It's wonderful stuff.

Since I've mentioned quite a lot of religions I thought I'd make a special mention about Islam. Some of the most beautiful people I have met have been Muslims. I have been touched so much by their energy that it made me curious years ago. But though I undestood their 5 main rules about living, I never read their text. Last year though, I uploaded a version of the Quran on my mobile phone and I sometimes read it. I think it's simply beautiful and such an intimate, unpretentious address by Allah. I think Islam is a beautiful religion. And save from films like "Kingdom of Heaven", there are few Western films that recognise Islam as what it is and what it was. It is one of the most misunderstood religions and one of most maligned by those who ignore so much of REAL Muslim people. That's right, not those Muslims that are portrayed by Hollywood. REAL Muslims. Incidentally, Senegal is a Muslim country and the people who live there are beautiful.
Sadly, I still have some issues with Islam. But I'm wondering whether those issues are more sociological rather than religious. That is, they differ depending on the country. Things like the intolerance for homosexuality are an issue for me for example.
I could never be Muslim anyway, I love ham too much!!!

15 July 2007

Growing up in Dakar Part II

These are just a few pics of my childhood.

Budding Little Thing



The woman in red is my mum. The little girl running on the beach is my older sister. And the beachbabe in the woman's tummy, well, that's me. I must be about 5 months.



Some early morning in the 70s. Just popped out. This is the clinic room and the woman in yellow is my mum. She's got her Ugly Betty frames on, as you can see. I dig the color yellow already! The box on the side table was probably a gift from visitors. I know what it is just by looking at it. It's filled with petits-fours from the Marquise cake shop, my favourite French patisserie in Dakar. My mum had a mammary infection when I was born and when she tried to breast feed me I could only draw blood (already the little vampire!) I guess that's why I'm crying. I want cake.


Early Childhood



This shot was probably taken at Tahiti beach. The topless little girl on the far right is me, probably eating a frozen yogurt. I know I'm 4 in this picture because my baby brother has now taken my place in the woman in red's tummy. The toubab on the far left is my uncle.



Here's me getting my hair in rastas by the maid Marie-Helene. She's lovely and smells like the oil she uses to moisturise her hair. I'm actually in France here. As a toddler, I was sent to France to live with my grandma for 2 years. Something about my health not being very good. I had colics and wanted to play during the night (you little vampire you!) When I was in France the only black person I knew was my beloved Marie-Helene. My grandma said that when we returned to Senegal, I called every stranger Marie-Helene. Funny me. When I finally saw my mum at 3, I didn't know who the hell she was. Apparently that was stressful for her.


Pre-school



Dakar. Kindy visit. My dad orchestrated this shot so he could send it to my grandmother. I asked him to take a shot of me with my friends. All the guys in the photos were my buddies so I'm beaming (far right). The teacher was nice: she didn't hit. No one forced me to use my right hand. It was all good.



I remember this. My dad insisted on taking a shot of the other kids. The two toubab girls sitting on my left were very catty towards me and they never played with me because I looked Asian. The girl with the strapless dress is espcially catty. Anyway, I didn't want them in the photo. To punish them. But my dad didn't listen and insisted on this photo with me in the center. It's obvious from the murderous gaze that I'm sending in his direction that I'm not impressed. I'm clutching at my shirt from sheer frustration while the two evil princesses are lapping it up.


School in Dakar



Grade One, Institution Notre Dame. This is my school in Dakar. It spans grade 1 to 12. My class, as you can see from this school photo is huge. There are actually in the vicinity of 50 students. The smart kids get to sit in the front and the trouble makers are relegated to the back seats. This system privileges wealthy families because some kids who come from nearby villages don't have sufficient breakfast nor enough sleep to be able to concentrate and the more they are sent to the back, the more their confidence dwindles while they don't get enough support and attention from the teacher to improve. This ingenious school is run by nuns. But the nuns are kinder. Lay teachers hit and humiliate students so that their self-esteem gets a 'big boost' from a very young age. Once, a girl wet herself and was publically mocked in the class. We were strictly asked to laugh at her while she was made to stand in her wet clothes in a bucket. It was weird.
I'm one of the few (and only asian) in the class. I'm in the front row wearing a white cardigan and sporting ugly mocassins. Contrary to the other years where the fear of punishment and humiliation motivate me to excel, I'm not top of my class during grade one, because I can't see the blackboard (this was remedied in the next year when I began wearing glasses). In the end of year rewards ceremony, I receive a "Little Miss something" book as a prize for coming fifth in my class. My mum is not happy and tells me that I should have come first. I remember looking down at my ugly mocassins and feeling that I don't deserve the "Little Miss something" book. Reading the book at home only depresses me.


Also See:
Growing Up in Dakar Part III
Growing Up in Dakar

9 July 2007

Growing up in Dakar

Yesterday I came across an amazing travel blog where the author worked with handicapped children in Senegal. She detailed her cultural experiences so well that I was happily transported to my childhood in Dakar. I was grateful that Karen would take the time to share her wonderful cultural experiences in Senegal and I welcomed this third party introspection into my childhood.

Karen's Travel Blog

For most people the thought of electricity cuts, water rationing, bug bites, food poisoning, rampant poverty, dusty unkept roads, overflowing sewers/garbage does not spell a happy childhood but for me, these things are inseperable from the magic of my early years. The person I once was, who took nothing for granted, is the person I admire today. After many years in Australia, with so much wealth surrounding me, I have grown to be very different from the frugal, empathic little girl that I once was. The wisdom of my youth has left me somewhat so that I have sadly grown to expect a certain level of comfort and to expect certain standards from my environment. Isn't that the way of the developed world? Still, though I know that this child still exists somewhere. I am reminded of my past frequently. I laugh everytime I see a water restriction ad in Brisbane. One of them advises: "Turn off the tap to save water while your brush your teeth." Well it's rather obvious, I think...

Here are some of my recollections from growing up in Dakar until the age of 9:


-the dirt and garbage littered streets - I thought Australia was amazingly clean when I first arrived here
-the never ending noisy constructions along our busy street
-daily walks to school past the unfortunate lepers
-maimed children wheeling themselves in tin carts
-children polishing shoes for a living
-the amount of people living on cardboards near the markets
-the stinky but exciting Marche Sandaga
-being spoken to in French, Wolof, Lebanese or basic English
-the mosquito bites that would leave me with no respite
-not showering for days due to water shortages
-watching the maids handwash our clothes and hearing that squishy soapy noise that as much as I tried I could not replicate, much to their amusement
-helping the maids sweep the floors with the reed broom
-getting whacked with the reed broom by a furious maid
-being frightened whenever the maid 'prepared' a live chicken for dinner
-learning traditional dance moves from Casamance with the locals
-playing awesome traditional games at school
-the friendly villagers outside my school gate who used to sell strange fruits that our parents forbade us to buy (for health/safety reasons) but which we ate all the same, like green mango with salt and chilli, the orange, pulpy 'mad' which is delicious and tangy especially with a little sugar and chilli, or the 'pain de singe' (monkey bread) powdered and served into a paper cone...
-the delicious Senegalese dishes: Domoda, Maffe (chicken/vegetables in peanut sauce served with rice), Yassa (fish or chicken in lemon sauce), fish pastels (fish filled pastries served with tomato paste and onion),Thiep Bou Dien (Senegal's national dish, tasty fried fish and rice served with a large array of vegetables including manioc and gombo, my favourites), couscous...
-Shelling and eating boiled peanuts
-Growing peanuts for fun
-Trying to wash my teeth with a plant called a soutiou (spelling?)
-Wearing a boubou and tying my brother to my back using a pagne.
-Singing the Senegalese lullaby, "Ayo Nene Touti" to my little brother.
-Listening to the maids recount legends and myths from their village.
-The resounding call to prayer and the "Allah w akbar" belting out of public speakers from the mosque minarets
-the elegant Senegalese men in their long white robes and fez
-the coquettish Senegalese women in their multicolored textiles and ample gold jewellery
-getting my hair done in rastas, as a toddler
-coconut vendors by the road on the way to the beach, buying coconuts and breaking a hole in the husk to drink the juice, then eating the tender pulp afterwards
-climbing rocks by the Atlantic sea
-climbing poles in the schoolyard
-climbing anything really....
-the array of pirogues lined up along the beaches
-swimming in the Atlantic ocean, among abundant seaweeds and pungent fish smells
-Losing consciousness and almost drowning in the Atlantic ocean and coming to after being rescued by Italian teenagers, only to watch my mum running frantically towards the beach. (scary memory that one)

How wonderful. I feel that I must write more on this subject very soon.