Two weeks absence, give or...give two days. My level of readiness at what is now roughly 14 hours away from takeoff is tip off to how I feel about the whole skipping town situation. That is to say, not ready at all. At least it won't be the all nighter ordeal that was the 48 hours before my flight back to Australia back in December.

I am feeling somewhat optimistic though. Finally leaving would also mean that I'll finally be on the last legs of being in such close proximity to the giver of my lifeblood, the lioness to my cub, the cause of all this buzzing in my head that I spend all my life trying to get rid of. The last three weeks has not been easy. I was kept sane by occupying what little space between us with things. Filling up all the time with anything but silence, or the promotion of conversation. Movies, mostly. Movies I knew would offer the least amount of argument, mostly Oscar winners and nominees of the past year that I didn't deem to be required viewing at the time of release.

But this post is not about that. This post is about the sunnier, sparkier, sweatier future awaiting my return. It would be July, and it would be glorious. This Summer break has not been much of a break yet, for a lot of people, but July would eventually come and lift the straps off our heavy heavy hearts, expertly running its fingers over our back finding every knot and kneading it back into submission. I intend on not doing very much in July. It would be the long refreshing nap that gets you ready. The one that's full of promise. Reader, we're going to love July.

***
Accompanying material:

Metropolis Unbound - David Bordwell
Observations on Film Art
***

I'm not too ashamed to admit that I've never seen more than 25 minutes of Metropolis. I've tried, 7 times in total, to sit through it but I always seem to fall asleep at about the same 10 minute mark into the film and wake up at around the same final 1/3rd before calling it a day and taking it back to the Video Ezy at which point the old man with the blue glasses that owns the place would again, laugh at me.

I don't think it's a silent film thing, I've begrudgingly sat through a back to back presentation of Battleship Potemkin and Oktyabr, which would arguably kill most people. Individually of course they're both worthwhile and thrilling and game changing as far as cinema goes (please don't shoot me Felicity!), but a double bill, well that's just a torture device.

And I'd be the first to admit. I've slept through a lot of films at uni. I don't know, once you start watching 4 prerequisite films a week in lecture halls that promote drowsiness it doesn't matter if you're watching Battle of Algiers (which you know is "important"), you will start nodding off (which I did). But that's not it either. I have tried to watch Metropolis in a variety of settings, with a variety of different soundtrack versions, at different times of the day, all to no avail.

Mr. Bordwell's article has ignited a renewed spark. Perhaps with all these gleaming new insights in mind I can give it a final college try.

***

Reading back on what I wrote last night, I must apologise for the lack of focus, structure, or anything really. I was trying to think while maintaining a conversation with my mother and the Quantum of Solace was also competing for my attention in the background. A lot of things, other than my thoughts, were happening.

I guess what I ended up concluding is that, I tend to glorify "real life". Something inside me obviously feels that I would never actually live that life. Man, woman, house, home, children, animal. I'm sure it's somehow Jungian, that it has something to do with the fact that I never grew up having all that. I'm also sure that some overpaid shrink would be able to trace my dramatic aspirations to this "lacking" childhood. It's simpler than that. I like to play house, because I am a child. For a period last year I had a brief go at domesticity. The relationship itself was a bit of a joke, neither one of us gave enough of ourselves for it to be in any way real but you know what my favourite moment was? That first day I stayed at his apartment for the whole day by myself without him, I made sure I cleaned, and had dinner in the oven by the time he stepped in the door. As he ate what I had prepared for us, he told me that was his favourite meal. That moment, like some stepford wife, was probably the highlight of the entire 8 month period I spent with that boy. The feminist inside me is rearing to have a right thrashing of that version of me.

Last night I was listening to a three week old podcast of LNL with Phil Adams. They were talking about the massacre in Congo and how rape has now turned in a weapon of war. The statistics are not shocking, though alarming. The UN estimates that over 200,000 girls and women has been raped during the extent of the civil war, and growing. With the youngest victims being about 3, and the oldest being 75. A vast majority of these rape cases are perpetrated against teens 12-17 years old, and an even more disturbingly large majority being gang rape of up to 7 armed soldiers on one girl in public. It's actually more shocking how unsurprising these horrific stats are, but the most interesting thing to have come out of these events is this women's movement that's starting to happen. Because of the public nature of these crimes, it's allowed for these victims, these women, to have conversations, march the streets even. It's prompted them to want change, to have women in positions of power. It's kind of exciting, to have a renewed surge in a women's movement, as opposed to the three steps back we're taking in our more developed worlds, and in my own world.

We're going to watch Mao's Last Dancer now, so that'll do for tonight before I get too distracted again.

A recurring theme of the past few years of my life has been this fort building game of mine. Finding out what I need, and discarding what I don't. Learning to live out of boxes and scuttle everything that constitutes a home with me. I had a hermit crab when I was younger, it never got a name, it didn't feel right to name something that carried its whole existence on its own back. Like any egotistical child who read too much and had too much time on her hands, I found great poetry in my hermit crab. I took pride in my ability to adapt, falling into new homes, new friendship circles, new living situations so easily. I guess I still am like that.

The pursuit of my perfect world becomes harder when each move puts more distance between the where I am now and where I was. I wish I could pack people and relationships up in boxes like my books. That would be the major shift from when I was young I guess, when friends became what they were meant to be, my lifeblood. If I had to put a finger on why this sudden wanting of the small life came about, it would simply be because of the fact that I finally found the the joy of something like family through my clinging onto to people I want to keep in my life, and now there's a growing urgency because it's becoming clear that I would never have everything I want in this utopia of mine. Who cares about all the new forms of communication in this world, for all your skypes and facebooks and emails, best they can do is maintain an ebbing stream of consciousness. As my roots in New York plant itself more firmly, I feel a pull from everyone back home. All the people who helped me find my feet, made a woman out of me, if you will, people who knew every embarrassing minute detail of my life, why aren't you here already? 2012 couldn't come any sooner, and when the moment arrives, you'd all better live up to your word. 'sall I'm saying.

With growing intensity, I've been wanting to do what we've always talked about, to drop everything and move to Oaxaca together for a month or two, or three. That would be enough for me, a small piece of my perfect small life. Soon, my kitties, soon.

No more week long death rituals this time, for which I'm thankful. No more monasteries either, which is a bit of a shame. China is always one of those place I reluctantly go because I have to, to visit people I feel a vague connection to, eat, sleep, and shop because there's nothing else to do. It's always a good time to catch up on some reading, and to catch a glimpse of teen Asia that which I so despise through hours upon hours of Chinese channel [V].

My diaspora exists somewhere within the collective unconscious of expats who grew up to run away. My memories of 'home' are happy and few, and of a place that is no longer there. I have no allegiance with the murky cosmopolitanism clouding those cities I'm supposed to call my own. Most of my mothers friends who have not let go of their motherland think I'm some kind of haughty, rejecting my traditions and culture. They think they understand on some primitive way, treating me like a rebellious teenager, "Westernised". What they couldn't understand is that this could never be some cookie cutter rebellion. Away with everything Chinese and long live the Queen! The traditions I remember are my own. Making wontons with my mother and grandmother. The music, my mother's performances. The dances I led in primary school. All the things that belong to the "New China" movement while it was still in its infancy. I embrace all of these. The bubbling motion happening now within a certain sect of Chinese intellectuals creating new art forms is incredibly exciting to me.

What I absolutely despise is the mass whoring out of that particular brand of "Chinese Culture", the kind that's meaningless. The kind you wear to show off the past you do not part take in. Someone once said of me in a somewhat dissenting tone, that apart from speaking in Chinese with my mother I may as well be white. Well, what should I do to satisfy your objectification of Chinese? Does it have to be specifically regional, or would anything that could be generally considered exotic to you be enough? My grasp of the language is very much the defining streak of my Asian identity. It's my only key to all the nuances of the culture that does not make me nauseous.

I'm hoping that my upcoming trip would consist solely of meeting interesting, like minded people, and a minimal of having to look at that which I hate. I know it's an annoying tendency that I have, my absolute refusal of having anything I don't like in my world. But it makes my world better, and until something happens that would make me feel different I don't see why I should be the one to change.

I've been thinking about this for a while now. Every time I hear classical music, I realise again and again how charmed my upbringing was in relations to music. It takes a lot of virtuosity to impress my privileged mind. It was not until Elianto, that phenomenal little string quintet I heard in the goddamn subway station that stayed my foot for almost half an hour that I noticed the pain of something missing in my life. I have not touched a piano in a serious way now for about 8 years. Two more and that's about how long I played it altogether. In terms of childhood memories, the piano was a source of pain, even in the later years when I tried to alter my relationship with this instrument I had to strap myself to 2 hours a day, sometimes a lot more, it was too late. Like a bad romance novel, the negative habits had already set their form.

I'd give anything to have a chance to play again, but there really isn't a solution to this problem. Yes there are pianos at studio, but to practice something that's 8 years stale in such a public space horrifies me. Besides, I need to play about 48 hours worth of scales before my fingers would work the way I'd want them to again, and that is just not something that anybody wants to hear. Keyboards are....keyboards. I like a synthesizer as much as the next person but in terms of piano pieces, they take all the musicality out and replace it with a throbbing dance beat.

O woe is me.

A particular favourite of mine to play back in day. And, if I may be as bold to say, I would have kicked the shit out of this guy. (only this piece though, because I loved it so much.)

Do not fret, my kitties, I am just as sleep deprived as always when I come around to this blinking cursor, and my prose, I trust, would take on much of that same level of lucidity.

Taking the proverbial stroll down a narcissistic memory lane, I started reading my old blog posts and old emails these past two nights. As cringe inducing as moments were during this sojourn, I did find my old self to be a more interesting specimen that this person sitting here today. Thoughts were better phrased, ideas more succinct -- readers, I used to think.

(The above literary device taken from the first line of the final chapter of Jane Eyre was something else my more interesting former self used to utilise all the time. I have, I am ashamed to say, not accumulated any more such devices, because apparently I have reached my cultural peak during high school. Which was 7 years ago. She says as she cuts up another piece of Chocolate Peanut Butter Fudge and swallows it whole)

All this is by ways of saying, you may begin to notice slight changes at this address from now on. I wouldn't think of altering anything that has already been because, for some stupid reason, that form of self censorship feels like cheating. I may occasionally correct an obvious typo or 2 if I happen across them. Some of you may have already noticed that I have removed all traces of this blog from my facebook presence, barring the link in my website section of the profile. I will be more militant about updates. I will attempt new things. There will be a new category of posts I'm proposing to start working on. In the interest of full disclosure, it will be an instruction manual of sorts. It's an idea I've been toying with, oh what the heck, it's already out -- Madam Qin's Guide for the Girl About Town.

It would be just random bits of information that covers living in a city as I'm slowly working it out for myself, chapter by chapter. You know, there'd be a post on cooking and how to stock the perfect start-up kitchen and a few simple tasty recipes. Make up and fashion tips I can wax lyric on myself. How to clean things properly, what to use, it still amazes me that young people don't know about the windex + newspaper combo for mirrors. How to set up a home stereo system. How to change the oil in your car. How to shop for a second hand car. Basic home repairs. Simple life things that a lot of girls don't seem able to do on their own. Maybe include an etiquette section because we all know that's going out the window. I can spend a few paragraphs on the wonders of OxiClean, talk about breakups and have a humorous list of healthy and unhealthy ways of handling things. Sickness and how to feel better in every situation. Basic over the counter drugs guide. Healing powers of Matzo Ball soup (see rules #5 and #37 of my rule book). How to load a freakin' roll of toilet paper without needing Kleenex to conduct a nation wide survey. It's ALWAYS over, people, no exceptions.

Travel tips, I've already started on that. I have my air travel process down pat. Down to every single carry on item and where I store them and when I take them out at what point of the flight. The order I take off my coat, shoes, take out my laptop to optimise a speed through of the security checks. I'm an air travel ninja. Have you seen Up In The Air? I'm George fucking Clooney in that movie.

A big part would be how to fill out forms and what to look for in contracts for work or properties. I'll get my lawyer friends to help me with those. I'd get expert advice in each category except for the ones I don't need them on, namely, makeup. It's going to take a long time, and eventually published, I hope. It would be thick and weighty with lots of pictures. It'd be encyclopedic in information and parents would give it to their daughters on their 18th birthdays as a reference guide to the rest of their lives. In the print edition I would provide up to date lists for must read, watch, listen items, but less for actual quality, although quality would have to be guaranteed, but more for the cultural expansion of knowledge so that said daughter would get the references made in the world they're stepping into.

Ambitious, no? But that's the 5 year plan. For now, I'll start small, very small. In fact the moment I hit publish I am going to regret putting this out into the world at all and probably do nothing about it.

I also have a Momofuku's Crack Pie date to go to, so toodles for now!
(It would appear that I may need to write a chapter on stunt eating, and use myself as an example of what not to do.)

Did I tell you that my room is, for the moment at least, "complete"?

Bedside table, assembled. Posters, up. Bookshelves, overflowing. I have the most perfect cozy nook this side of 14st street (as far as I'm concerned), and I'm not afraid to roost.

The funds are getting tighter, which makes my 'easy living' something of a game. The weather is finally turning on the charms. I remember this time last year I was discovering new land, and myself, cohabitation, and making new friends whom I wish I could see more often, or even at all. Early Spring days that feel like summer could now only mean Coney Island, gelati, and spontaneous bursts of joy - all very good things to associate with (except for Coney Island, which is just hilarious). This time around it would never be the same again, and as nostalgic as I like to be sometimes, I'm still pretty freakin' excited.

Drama school is, as common knowledge, pretty much synonymous with psycho therapy. Either replacing it, or driving you towards it. Being the usual ball of needy mess that I am (while maintaining a perfectly painted and pruned exterior), the summer finally means a chance to get my breath back. Release from the 'Pause Poise', if you will. The well of insecurities which I managed to clamp shut most of this semester finally broke a few weeks ago, and with it everything else broke too. Got sick for the first time in ages, felt alone for the first time in ages, got back on my feet on my own for the first time in ages, and looked forward to a break from everything for the first time in ages. Do you ever get the feeling that you love everything that you're doing, but you just want it to stop for a while? That you are just so absolutely exhausted from everything, you could hole up in the fetal position and stay there for months? I am there right now, even with all the shit that the humidity of New York summer dumps on my face, I say, BING. IT. ON. I am so ready for you.

Someone once told me, I write a lot, but I say nothing in these blogs, and I realised that it's annoyingly true. I hate those viciously vague blogs that waft on about intangibles, and here I am, wafting on about intangibles. It's because the people I would have to write about, would most definitely object to being written about. You should write me an email requesting for clarification or anecdotal evidence. I compose excellently juicy emails that would ramble on ad nauseam about any number of topics. I am the fountain of random inconsequential knowledge peppered with sassy opinion seasoning on absolutely everything.

I'm not sure if this place feels exactly like home yet. I bought a refurbished 1950s rotary dial princess phone to go on the land line, connecting that made me feel a bit like an adult, the fact that the first phone call I received was a wrong number made it feel real. The bulk of my books are on their way to me now but the bookshelves are already full. I'm destined for homes that would perpetually look messy from stacks of books lying around.

Life evolves around our lady, Miss Adler. My days and nights are spent hauling ass to-ing and fro-ing from home, to studio. Sometimes involving an air-mattress.

It's been bliss.

Over a year in New York, I'm still not used to it. I've got my patterns and endless lists to do, to see. Try as I might I'm still scratching at surfaces, that's just a part of living here I guess, the constant realisation that the city has endless offerings. I'm sure I'll feel comfortable once all my books get here, and my posters go up, and the rest of this shoebox gets filled with things that make me smile.

All this is my fault really. I seem to settle into the discomfort of being in limbo. There's a bedside table that I have refused to assemble for the last 4 months, still sitting in its box in my entrance hall. there's the summer clothes I've set aside that I still need to put away, just in time for the approaching warmer months. I get into the habit of being too angry with myself to do anything about it. Masochistic much?

I had wanted to sleep early tonight, and it's now 1:30. So I'll leave it at that, but I'm not done yet, not by a long shot...

5 topics I need to cover tomorrow when I pick this up again:

1. Books not read
2. Films not seen (and therefore entirely uninformed Oscar predictions)
3. The outpouring of love I feel for a surprising number of people in my section
4. Cupcake adventures
5. The further misadventures of my romantic encounters.