Two sweaters - a haiku

There were two
In shades of yellow
One was new
The other mellow

The magic that comes from simplicity

Tonight I finally succeeded in making the perfect plate of Spaghetti Alfredo. It  was so simple I'm surprised it took me this long to get it right.

I can remember the moment I first tasted the dish. It was sometime in 2001 when my dad received his MBA. We were at tha banquet following the graduation ceremony and I decided to try this peculiar, pale-looking pasta dish. I was smitten from the first mouthful.

The sauce was creamy but not heavy. There was a hint of some kind of cheese but not overwhelming enough for me to pinpoint. Interestingly enough, it reminded me of Laksa Kelantan, a popular laksa dish from my hometown.

Ever since then I had been trying to recreate this pasta dish. The bolognaise sauce was a breeze to me by then but the alfredo eluded me. I must have tried at least a dozen different recipes and reluctantly swallowed half a dozen failed concoctions. I've used fresh milk and powedered milk, margerine and olive oil, chicken stock and beef boullion, crumbled and grated Parmesan. But tonight, finally, I got it right. And it was surprisingly simple.

All it took was some butter, heavy cream and *Parmigiano in the right proportions. It also took keeping myself calm when the butter initially separated from the cream or when the Romano initially refused to dissolve. When I finally stirred the pasta in and sprinkled some fresh chopped parsley from the backyard, the dish looked, smelled and tasted like the one I first had over ten years ago. And where did the recipe come from? An old cookbook I got from a thrifstore for 50 cents.

Magic, isn't it?

Bon appetit.

*I used Romano cheese instead because I didn't have any Parmigiano at hand. The result was the same as far as I could taste.

Canadian economy off to a lackluster start in 2012

Prime Minister Stephen Harper once again reaffirmed his goal of whipping the Canadian economy into shape by implementing more austerity measures, but economists worry that this may lead to further decline in the country's GDP. The energy sector is to blame for November 2012's sharp drop in GDP. The drop followed a pattern of no growth in October.

This page is now Occupied

by Lin Abdul Rahman

Photo by Deanna Budgell

The Sputnik, Fal 2011, Issue 6

On September 17, a group of protesters set up camp on Zuccotti Park in the Wall Street financial district to demand a reform to the US financial and economic system. Over the next few weeks, the number of campers swelled, media attention grew and the movement’s influence began to spread.

Although criticized as being leaderless, the movement’s goal of ending corporate greed and lobbyist control over government policies resonated across the globe.

On October 15^th, 900 cities around the world staged their own “occupations”. In Malaysia, over 200 people “occupied” Dataran Merdeka. In Spain, over 46, 000 people “occupied” Madrid Square. In Toronto, over 1000 people gathered at the corner of King and Bay Street and marched to St. James Park. Later, “occupations” sprang up in Vancouver, Ottawa, Calgary, London and Windsor.

Despite the movement’s growing popularity, authorities have shown little sympathy and no sign of acquiescing to occupiers’ demands. The occupiers, meanwhile, show no signs of leaving. Mainstream media attention has been largely pessimistic while critics question the movement’s ability to sustain itself. After all, these occupiers are just rabble-rousing anarchists and hippies without clear objectives, right?

This image seems to be at odds with the movement’s growing influence and my curiosity was naturally piqued. I decided to visit St. James Park myself.

It quickly became apparent to me that a lot of planning and organization had occurred even before the October 15 March took place. As soon as the contingent arrived at the park, various areas were cordoned off for specific purposes. The camping area came with family-friendly and female-only sections. The Sanitation Committee had prepared rows of port-a-potties and hand-washing stations. The Medic Committee put up signs saying “no photos” around the medic area, as would be the normal procedure in medical facilities. The Media Committee kept occupiers and everyone abreast on everything occupation-related. There was also a “free occupy library” with free reading materials and an occupation “must read” list.

There was no shortage of what society calls “hippies” but they were mostly involved with the basic mechanisms that kept movement running smoothly. There were trained marshal teams patrolling the park in the evening to keep it safe. The Sanitation Committee keeps the park clean. The Facilitation Committee keeps discussions going and ensured the movement remained as participatory as possible.

There was little semblance of anarchy at the park, except maybe for the multitude of signs hung on trees and tucked among bushes. – signs that cleverly and clearly articulated the need for change.

These signs highlighted problems regarding a myriad issues: inadequate health care; rising tuition fees and student debt; lack of citizen participation in government; infringement upon native, minority and immigrant rights; violation of workers’ rights; a failed capitalist economy; increased military spending; the list goes on.

To the movement’s critics, this underscores its lack of focus. To me, this illustrates one simple fact: there are so many things wrong with our system today that it’s hard to pinpoint one single problem that can be easily addressed. The global economic and political system has become so corrupt that it is harming rather than serving the interests of the people, also known the “99%”.

Evidently the Occupy movement’s slogan, “we are the 99%” is not an oversimplified concept designed to appeal to the lowest common denominator. A research team at the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology in Zurich developed a complex model which demonstrates how a few transnational corporations (TNCs) own disproportionately large chunks of the world’s economy. Simply put, there is a small network of 1318 corporations worldwide, each owning several other corporations and businesses, each of which have ownerships in several other businesses. This multiple ownership gives these corporations control over 60% of global manufacturing revenues.

This means that most of the world’s wealth is going to top tier of this network, which largely comprises of financial corporations like Barclays Bank and the Goldman Sachs Group.

Hence, it makes perfect sense for the movement to begin on Wall Street and spread to Ontario’s financial hub on Bay Street and elsewhere on the globe. Our political and economic systems are closely linked and the problems we face are multi-faceted. Instigating change, therefore, will require a global effort.

While the movement has mobilized people from diverse backgrounds, it appears to attract a lot youths in particular. This is not surprising as the younger generation’s future hinges precariously on the stability of today’s economy, whether they are entering post-secondary education or the job market. Nonetheless, it is contingent upon society as a whole to ensure that there is an economy for youths to graduate into.

Students in Chile took this to heart when they protested against increasing privatization of universities and rising tuition fees. Over 80% of Chile’s population responded in support of the students, forcing the government to replace its Minister of Education, negotiate terms with the student movement and reform Chile’s education system.

Perhaps it’s time for us to do more than just gripe about our own rising tuition fees and increasingly unsatisfactory educational experience. If there’s anything we can learn from Chile and the Occupy movement it is that we all have a voice and, when we speak in unity, that voice will be heard.

Hello Kitteh!

The little fella showed up at our house about a week ago looking scrawny and mangy. It's fur is the colour of charcoal with little specks of yellow. It must be about five or six months old. It hissed at us but didn't retreat completely, as if to say, "I'm coming close so you can be nice to me but you should know that I can be mean too."

We gave it a few pieces of crushed keropok that were gobbled up within seconds. We left a few more for the night, alongside a bowl of milk.

We've since gotten some proper catfood for the little furball and a regular supply of milk. We don't see it more than once or twice a day but the bowls are usually emptied within a few hours, which is a good sign.

Cautiously eyeing the bowl of milk. Hakim sprinkled some catfood on the floor to encourage it to eat.
(PC: My brother, Hakim)

Yesterday the little kitty ventured up our back doorstep and took a few cautious steps into our kitchen. I guess it's trusting us a bit more. I try not imagine what it must have gone through to have become so edgy and fierce.

I brought the food bowls from our front porch and refilled them. Mama and I continued cooking while the little kitty enjoyed its dinner. Since Mama is mildly allergic to cat fur, I didn't let it get any further than our kitchen door. It seem to get the message and lounged on the steps, hissing whenever I came near but never leaving its perch.

I think we might actually have a pet. It's time to investigate 'it's' sex and choose a name now.

Sniffing out its new spot.

Getting comfy but still giving me attitude.

Settled in and chillin', finally.

Simple pleasures

It's day 14 back in Canadialand. Yes, I'm still counting the days to remind myself of lessons learned.

I draw pleasure from simple mundane things these days, like Popeyes fried chicken for example.

In my two-and-half months' stint as a jhr intern in Ghana, I only ate meat once. (Well, I might have unknowingly ingested bits of meat on several occasions, but I only knowingly ate meat on one occasion and it was halal.) Consequently, I not only craved meat in general but I also longed for the greasy, MSG-laden crispiness of Popeyes fried chicken. So when Abah suggested we break our fast at the only Popeyes outlet in Brantford, my head automatically bobbed up and down in agreement.

Now, fast-food-chain fried chicken is hardly our typical Ramadan feast. But then again, I’ve been lucky enough to see happiness in people who have a lot less than I do (to say that they have nothing at all would be a gross exaggeration, if not a sign of ignorance). I’ve seen people carry heavier loads, walk farther distances and endure hotter suns in a day than I have had to endure in my entire life. I find it a little bit harder to complain about things now. Too bad I had to go on a $5000-internship half-way across the globe to learn this but I suppose every lesson has a price.

As I write this, I can’t help but see how inconsequential this seems. But then I remember feeling absolutely contented on the drive home from Popeyes; the most important people in my life are alive and well, I’m doing what I love most in life, my belly is full and I have a home to go back to. My happiness is the sum of little inconsequential parts and I’m thankful that I have the capacity to recognize them. I hope I stay this way.

The sun made a beautiful display of receding elegently behind the funeral home across from Popeyes as we were leaving. The day couldn't have had a better ending.

Back in Canadialand

It's 6.30am on day 9 back in Canadialand.

During the early hours of a day like this, Ghana feels like a lifetime away. The pangs of sadness that accompany every thought of those I left behind are slowly fading. My eyes no longer well up whenever I think of my office mates at Luv/Nhyira FM. I no longer get choked up whenever I think of the people I see every morning on my way to work - Ahmad Musa the elderly security guard at our guesthouse, the old lady selling roasted plantains and coco-yam, and Mable, the ten-or-so-year-old girl who helps her mom at her little breakfast stall. Yup, I was that emotional during those last few days in Kumasi.

I haven't shed a single tear since I came back but I still use the exclamation mark extravagantly whenever I chat with my friends from the Gold Coast. I still miss them terribly and the feeling is bitter-sweet. I'm glad to be back on my home turf surrounded by all my creature comforts but it still hurts a little to grow so attached to some people over such a short period of time and then leave them.

I miss my morning routine of catching a tro-tro to work, getting let off in the middle of traffic (sometimes) and dodging between cars and motorbikes to get to my office. I miss walking into the lively newsroom at Luv/Nyhira and setting up my laptop at the 'international desk' - the side of the newsroom reserved (or relegated, depending on how you look at it) for those of us with our own laptops.

I miss the way people greet each other so wholeheartedly with a 'good morning' and a heartfelt handshake, as though they haven't been meeting one another every single morning. I miss the way every visitor to the newsroom goes around to acknowledge every person with a greeting.

I miss the way my single-syllable name gets played around with or discarded completely;
Saeed: Shazleeeeeeennn!
Ohemeng: My Lin. Our Lin. Their Lin. Lin Lin.
Kofi: Lin hu shuu!
Kwabena: Miss Abdul Rahman.
Kate: Oieebo!
Benji: Obruni!
Dela: Lane!

I could go on and on with my list of why I miss Ghana but I won't. As much as it saddens me that these things have to be in the past in order for them to be cherised, I'm thankful to have had the experience. I must have been asked a hundred times if I will return to Ghana. My response was initially vague or ambivalent; now I can say with resolute certainty that I want to go back for another visit. Ghana, Kumasi and every one I met there will always have a special place in my heart no matter how many times I return to Africa.

My last day at Luv/Nyhira FM. I brought everyone some farewell gifts so they rushed out and got me a kente-print dress and some beautiful wood carvings in 'retalliation'. I was, and still am, deeply touched.
From left: Freddy, Zarau, Kofi, Cynthia, Eric, me, Gloria, Ohemeng, Kwabena.

The high point on a roller coaster ride

It's day 28 in Ghana.

We discussed the emotional roller coaster that accompanies culture shock during our pre-departure training in Toronto. We'll go through emotional ups and downs and plateaus during our stay in Ghana.

I can firmly say that I am at an emotional high right now, especially so today.

I feel great walking to my tro-tro stop in the morning. I wave good morning to the security guard Ahmad Musa and Alhassan. I wave to the lady selling roasted yams outside the guest house where I'm staying. I wave down the tro-tro that I take to work. I wave to the security guard at my office and greet everyone on the news room with a happy 'good morning.'

I get amazingly restless at work at times (I don't always get assigned work to do) but I feel great going home from work all the same.

My biggest gripe right now has to do with food and the less-than-hyginic conditions of my living quarters. If I were living here for a longer time, I'd get a place with a kitchen where I can cook and a bathroom that I can clean whenever I need to. Problem solved.

I can fully imagine myself living here for a longer spell. Let's see how I feel in two weeks' time.

Bracing for boredom, embracing slowness

It's 7.52am, day 14 in Kumasi and I'm waiting for my breakfast at the guesthouse's cafe. Both of the cooks are gone, mostly likely to get the eggs for the omelette that I ordered.

There is almost never any rush here and I’m starting to embrace the languid pace at which things inevitably get done. I never realized that I have this inert compulsion to rush things until I arrived in Kumasi.

‘Fast food’ here means ordering fried rice from a street vendor, then taking a seat on his wooden bench and spending the next ten minutes or so fielding his questions about my order – beans? No beans? Cream (mayonnaise)? No chicken, just veg? Eat here or send?

It’s been ten minutes – yes, I checked the time – and the cook with the sleeping baby on her back has returned with a package and heads straight for the kitchen. My stomach is growling from last night’s meagre dinner of instant noodles and a mango.

During the pre-departure training in Toronto, we were warned by previous Ghana interns that entertainment, especially by way of internet, is scarce here. We should stock up on books and movies because boredom and monotony will inevitably set in. At this, I felt a surge of panic.

My confidence at living with scarce – not completely without – internet for two months started to waver. My Dell Inspiron Mini – the one that is so portable and compact – doesn’t play DVDs. I never realized this before because I’ve always streamed movies and videos from the internet. I needed to stock up on the other alternative means of entertainment – books.

Interestingly enough, I stumbled upon Carl Honore’s “In Praise of Slowness.” In it Honore talked about the maddeningly fast pace at which the first world lives in today and its dire consequences. He talked about the growing ‘slow’ movement sweeping across Europe and parts of Asia which involves everything from slow foods to architecturally-structured slow cities to slow work out. I read the book throughout my flight here and I felt my panic subside. Perhaps this rush-free existence in languid Kumasi wouldn’t be too hard after all.

As I’m writing this, both my friends are out of town. Chris is en route to Paris and Leah is at a press conference in Accra. To make matters worse (perhaps better), it’s my day off from work so I have even more time to contemplate the passing seconds. I now remember what it'slike to have all the time in the world.

My to-do list for the next 2 months.

Note: I have since gotten myself an external modem so that I can go online whenever, wherever. However, the connection is never fast enough to stream videos and I have to ration my usage since I'm on a pay-as-you-go plan so, technically speaking, I'm still on a strict internet diet.

From Ghana with Love

It's day 3 here in Kumasi, day 2 at Luv FM and day 7 in Ghana.

I'm still adjusting to the heat but the move to Kumasi has certainly made things easier. The heat was constant and high in Accra. Here in hilly downtown Kumasi, the air is mostly cooler and drier.

My first day at Luv FM was full of excitement (at least, for me it was). I got to meet the lively staff at the station and two inspiring journalists who have done some amazing human rights stories.

The first is Ohemeng Tawiah, a small, soft spoken and somewhat shy guy. He showed me a video documentary he produced about a girl who was involved in a car accident and had had both her legs amputated while the driver of the car remained free. Thanks to his work, the driver has since be charged in court and the girl's family was awarded 6000GHc in compensation. Talk about power of the pen.

The second journalist is Kwabena. I was told by the station manager, Saeed, that I will be working with Kwabena as a start. Kwabena wasn't in the office at the time because he had gone to Agogo to investigate a story about Fulani herdsmen who have been ravaging local farmlands with their cattle. The Fulanis came from the Sahel region and are hired by influential Ghanaians to herd cattle. They graze their cattle on farms run by Ghanaian farmers, destroying acres of crops at a time. Locals can do little as these herdsmen are often armed with guns and AK47s. They also pollute water sources and have been known to harass and assault local women. Local authorities, in the meantime, have done very little to help.

Having heard all this, I imagined Kwabena to be a giant of a man. The person that walked in at the end of the day instantly reminded me of Malcolm Gladwell with glasses and darker skin. He did not look like someone who would be seeking out men with AK47s. But he is. He reported that he had to take a bus to Agogo, and then had someone transport him on a motorcycle to get to the farm that had been hijacked by a group of Fulani herdsmen. Whenever he needed to record sound, he and the driver would pretend that there was a problem with the motorcycle. The driver would pretend to fix it while Kwabena discretely held out his recorder.

He's planning to speak to the Chief District Officer of Agogo tomorrow. It will be an hour's drive out of Kumasi and he warns me that I might not be able to handle it. I can't wait to go.

The High School Diva

What am I to think when my old high school's diva decides to get chummy with me? I'd be skeptical and somewhat suspicious if she were simply attempting to reconnect after over ten years apart. However, given the fact that we never even spoke to each other at school, I am downright baffled. It took me a while to even respond to her "Salam. Pekaba?". Of course, after several borderline awkward exchanges that spanned over several painful weeks, her motives for contacting me became clear. Her intentions, now that they are clear, are no surprise to me. However, I will not discuss them here as they are hers alone and I am no one to judge.

It goes without saying that she was not exactly my favourite person at school (I mean, I call her the 'diva' here for a reason) but I did my best to put the past where it belongs and behave like an adult (that I hope to be). I might have let some sarcasm past my guard but I think I did a pretty good job at being civil. I know this because she saw fit to pour her heart out to me after our third or fourth conversation. (Another matter which I cannot discuss here since I assume they are private).

And this is where I make one of my stupid mistakes.

I agreed to meet up with her when I come to Malaysia for a visit. We exchanged phone numbers and I promised to give her a call - as soon as I land, none the less. She wanted to 'catch up', talk about her life and how her current state could be changed. Up till now, I still can't explain what it was that compelled me to offer my shoulder for her to cry on. We had nothing in common then and, upon viewing her profile on Facebook, I'm convinced we still exist on different planets today. Meeting up with her will be, at best, awkward. It will be at a place I don't want to be, at a time not commodious to me and among people I am absolutely uncomfortable with.

Naturally, it took me several days to realize this and regret my actions. I took the coward's way out and stopped responding to her messages. But I suspect I will call her because, having made the promise, I will feel like scum if I don't. I think she's completely oblivious to the internal conflict that I'm suffering through right now.

(Darwin, if you're reading this please be assured that I'm not talking about you.)

Stuffed mushrooms

When I was growing up, I had always craved for mushrooms. For some reason, the only mushrooms I encountered (mostly in my mom's cooking) came in small portions; they were minor accompaniments to chicken or beef in soups or to veges in stir fries. These little bites never satisfied my craving and I bugged my mom to try an all-mushroom dish. (I later discovered that there is a myriad of all-mushroom dishes in the Malay cuisine. None of them, however, are part of parents' native culinary culture.)

One day, my mom finally acquiesced. I distinctively remember looking at the bag of mushrooms sitting on the kitchen counter; they looked like freshly-mined gold. My mom sliced and sauteed them with some garlic and oyster sauce. I remember spooning the mushrooms onto my steaming hot white rice. I remember the taste of the oyster sauce but what catapulted me to ecstacy was the texture; the mushroom is disctinctively rubbery, spongy and chewy at the same time. It was heaven.

Everyone else in my family weren't too keen on the dish so there was a lot left over (which probably explains why my mom rarely makes an all-mushroom dish). I took the liberty of finishing it, literally licking the bowl clean. It's not a pretty picture but it felt like the right thing to do at the time.

Later, when my family was settling down to an after-lunch siesta, I started feeling nauseaus. I started getting sudden bouts of light-headedness. Then, before I could even tell myself to start running, I was running to the bathroom. What happened next was, again, not a pretty picture. Suffice it to say that I developed a, what I like to call, psychological allergy to mushrooms.

After that incident, even the sight of mushrooms made me nauseaus. I would get a tingling sensation on the bridge of my nose and my throat would well up with imaginary bile. This went on for several years until I was in junior year at UTM. I had friends who were big fans of mushrooms so I started eating them again in small portions, making small increments until I finally graduated to all-mushroom dishes.

Today, I had that craving for mushrooms once more so I made this and refrained from overdosing again.

How do you break up with a friend?

Or, even more challenging, how do you break up with a friend and still be on good terms with him or her?

First of all, is that even possible?

In a romantic relationship, both parties mutually enter with a commitment, either explicit or otherwise. A friendship, on the other hand, supposedly comes about organically through casual encounters and shared interests. There is no official point of entry into a friendship; it therefore stands to reason that there can be no easy point of exit either.

What if, after several casual encounters, one party in a friendship finds that the mutual interest that the parties share were merely superficial; they were not substantial enough to sustain the friendship over the long run.

Brief, temporary friendships naturally dissipate over time when both parties feel that they no longer have much in common. However, when one party still feels that the friendship can and should go on, things get complicated.

Hence, my current dilemma.

I have a friend who is determined to keep the fire burning, so to speak. I, on the other hand, would rather staple my tongue to the floor than go out to the movies with her one more time.

The reason I feel this way is due to her personal attributes but I will not discuss them here. Let's just say that our personalities are not compatible. How do I explain that to her?

Even in the best possible scenario imaginable, she will take it as a personal rejection. Worst, she will be plagued by the fact that some of her attributes are unfavourable. Not just to me but to other people as well. That is a tragedy I am not willing to inflict upon her. There is no kind way to explain that we are simply not compatible and that those attributes I find unfavourable might in fact be attractive to other people. Simply put, I should just say, "It's not you, it's me."

However, given the way that statement has been used in the history of breakups, I know it will only bring more harm than good.

So the conundrum lingers. In the meantime, I have a trip to the cinema to weasel out of.

Old People

I love the old people I meet at work. They often come up to the counter so quietly that I don't even realize they're there. I'd look up from what I was doing and there they would be, smiling patiently even though they might have been there for a while. They always greet me with some form of pleasantry. They are seldom in a hurry since a majority of them are retired. They are hardly ever grumpy as old people are often depicted in the media. Sometimes they take a little longer to come up with the right change for their purchases. In return, they smile patiently whenever I make a mistake at the till. Some of them even try to joke in what I think was an attempt to ease me nervousness. The shopping carts that they push in front of them are meant more as a walking support rather than to carry their purchases. Often that's how I realize one of them was at the counter. They'd lose their balance or control of the shopping cart for a brief second and the cart would make a slight bang against the counter. No matter how gentle the collision, they would always apologize profusely, jokingly blaming their age and weak back. I love the old people I meet at work.

Of Dreams and Yearnings

i was at a farmer's market pushing an empty shopping cart. that must be from Food Inc. The producers recommended that we shop at local farmer's markets rather than at large supermarket chains.

there were samples for tasting in the bread aisles. i tried the babka and it was mildly sweet. that must be from looking through the bread section in McCall's Cooking School manual before i went to bed.

i looked in all the bread bins but there were no babkas left. somebody said they must be sold out. that must be from work. anything that goes on sale on friday is sold out by sunday.

someone came up to me from behind and grasped my shoulders. i didn't know who it was but i let her hug me and touch her cheek to mine. i felt the familiar softness of my mom's skin. i smelled the gentle perfume of her night time lotion. i felt my chest squeezed by how much i miss her. this must be from reading a text message from her the day before.

i don't know who this person is but she feels just like Mama so i let her hold me.

i turned around and it was her. Mama. between sobs and tears she tells me that everyone is back. we walk arm in arm down the street. my twenty-nine year old sister at age twenty came towards us. her husband and daughter doesn't exist and her cheeks had the blush that only innocence can give.

the men of our family waited by the car. it's a familiar scene. it's one of those nights when we're just returning from a special dinner somewhere. everybody is satiated and longing for bed but reluctant to bring the evening to an end. we jostle into the backseat, hear the engine hum to life and doze to my parents' quite conversation on the drive home.

this distant memory of a childhood ritual somehow made it into my dream last night.

Furniture

I assembled some furniture this week. Three five-tiered bookcases and a two-tiered shoe rack, to be exact. It's amazing how liberating such a simple task can make you feel.

I attacked the first bookcase with much anxiety and an overdose of attention to detail. I read and reread the instructions. I checked and cross-checked the diagrams to make sure I had all the pieces in the right position and that I used the right screws. My throat was dry and my heart palpitated as if I was going on stage. It's ridiculous how afraid I am of making mistakes.

The second bookcase was less of a challenge. I was familiar with all the pieces and how they fit together. I tried different maneuvers to see if the task could be made easier. It was a right decision in some instances, wrong in others. No matter. I told myself that perfection is for God. We humans settle for a lot less.

The third bookcase was a breeze. I hardly glanced at the instruction sheet. The wrong maneuvers were avoided, the right ones were repeated. My fingertips were sore and red. My pyjamas were covered in wood dust and wood chips. The bookcases seemed to be leaning against one another.

No matter.

I have assembled three bookcases all on my own. Now I feel as if there's no limit to what I can do with my little orange screw driver.

The Dream

I had a dream about some family friends that was as disturbing as it was mind-boggling.

In the dream, the father was mercilessly kicking the wife, who had her arms around her daughter in a protective hug. She resolutely stared at the floor, grimacing with each blow but not making any attempt to run away from the attack. Her stance had the certainty that the assault would end soon. All she had to do was to weather it. It will be over soon.

I stood at a distance as one witnessing a dirty family secret finally being exposed.

That family I saw in that dream resembled nothing of the family that I know in real life. The father is most loving and the mother has the vocal disposition of someone who shall and will never stand passively in the face of violence against herself or her child. The dream was completely false and I know that.

Yet it disturbs me so much. I felt as if I’d been divulged a secret through that dream. Although it was completely false, I felt as if it was inspired by some measure of truth. I can normally trace every aspect of my dream to some occurrence I had witnessed or experienced during the day, even the ones that didn’t make any sense.

Had I witnessed something that hinted of abuse within the family? A discrete shove, a secret glare of disapproval or a quick ducking behind someone’s back after a wrong doing? Is there a truth to that dream that’s hiding somewhere in the recesses of my mind? Are there pieces of a puzzle that are waiting to be put together?

Perhaps this is just a matter of my brain firing off the wrong signals in the wrong sequence. Perhaps there is a truth to that dream that evades me. Perhaps its truth is too ugly and my defence mechanisms kick in whenever I come close to uncovering it.

So much time, so little to do

I'm missing some people so terribly I'm rendered inarticulate, blog-wise.

My days have suddenly been flooded with time and space again. No amount of cooking, cleaning, organizing, facebooking, sleeping and praying can fill the hours graciously allotted to me each day. At the risk of sounding like a nerd, I will say that I can't wait for school to start again.

Exams, assignments, deadline pressure, stress and quick, inadequate lunches - YUM.

Summer dear, I'm thoroughly done with you.

My Twilight Years Abound

I finally managed to force myself to watch 'Twilight'.

For the entire duration of the movie, only two thoughts recurred to me. The first was that this was just another teenage-vampire-love story. The second was that the reason I can't relate to the media frenzy that it's caused may be strongly related to my distance from my high school days. I feel so old.

Summer Project

Sprout your ornaments!

What you need:
1. A decorative pot of your choice
2. Any bean of your choice - you can even make your own mix of sproutable beans!
3. Water - preferably in a spray bottle for easy application

How:
1. Spread beans in a thin layer at the bottom of your pot - just about enough to cover the base of the pot.
2. Soak the beans over night in water - they will expand up to twice their original size. You will need roughly once cup of water for one table spoon of green beans. Adjust the amount of water according to the size of beans you are using.
3. Drain the water and spread the beans evenly in the pot. Place the pot where there is enough sunlight for the beans to sprout.
4. Spritz the beans with water periodically and toss them gently around to make sure they are evenly coated in water - do NOT drown them. Ever.
Note: if the beans start to smell funky or if fungus start to appear, simply rinse the beans in cold water and be gentle so as not to damage their sprouts. Once they are fully grown as seen in the picture, you can water them regularly once a day.

Time required : You should be able to see green leaves as shown in the picture in approximately two weeks's, depending on the type of beans you use.