Full circle

It's 12.51 a.m., I'm now in Harvard, a second Cambridge. And I find myself drawn back to the world of blogging, a world I once dabbled in as a teenager.

2000: I start reading blogs, primarily ones describing the lives of others. A permitted voyeuristic glimpse into the lives of anonymous individuals around the globe.

2004: I experience heartbreak for the first time in my life, blogging becomes an outlet. Having kept a diary, an anonymous blog held much appeal, promising

"I hope I will be able to confide everything to you, as I have never been able to confide in anyone, and I hope you will be a great source of comfort and support." Anne Frank, June 12 1942

2006: Cambridge-bound, blogging was the easiest way to stay in touch.

2007: Flamed for the first and to my knowledge, only time on the internet. Interesting experience, emotional reaction very useful given current interest.

2009: Harvard-settled, blogging is an experiment to learn HTML. And to write to a non-existent audience.

The template of this blog has been tinkered with a wee bit, just to practice my hand at HTML which was scrappily taught over ICQ back in 2005, by a lovely neighbour who was in Australia and I was procrastinating in Malaysia. In a sense, I would like to think this epitomizes the Internet Dream - persons uninhibited by geographic barriers learning to use the Internet as a tool. Now using the tool as a means of dissemination of information.

Never have I ever made such a huge effort to learn anything. Possibly not something that will come up in any game of "Never Have I Ever".

Italy

After reading about it in my DK books, fantasizing about romantic Italian gondoliers and Casanovas and finally reading more about it in Dan Brown, Italy has always held my interest as a state in its own right and a historical treasure island. Needless to say, it was my first stop with my newfound liberty, and it did not fail me at all. Except maybe a flight of steps outside the il Duomo in Milan which is a gorgeous Gothic structure, but has ridiculous rules and steps. Anyway, moving on.

Rome was the 40 degrees equivalent of London with its bustling wide streets and heavy traffic. Also, it was full of American tourists and seedy characters. But if you took a closer look, you'd realise that this definitely isn't London. For one, the roads are wide slabs of stone which look as though they've been around long enough for the Romans to have once upon a time boasted about them being the straighest and smoothest road-builders in the world. Well, 2000 not so smooth and straight years later, cars and buses drive over them on a daily basis. Standing in the shade of the coliseum's shadow reminds you why we respect the Romans just as much as we condemn them. It was one thing to have shows of exotic animals battling to the death (although I don't know if one animals' rightist friend of mind will agree with me on this), it was something else to have gladiator fights, mass rapes of women from the East and slaughtering of Christians. Human rights lawyers probably would have had a field day back in Ancient Rome. I digress.

If Rome was London, then Florence has to be Cambridge. Absolutely adore Florence, 'tis gorgeous. Nestled amongst hills and mountains, it was once the stronghold of the Medici family. Also, home to Michelangelo's famous David and the famous green and white il Duomo. Every Italian town seems to have one of those huge cathedrals in the center of town. I'm not complaining, more overdecorated ceilings, lavish frescoes and wonderfully sculpted figures to admire. Florence has character. Rome's just an old man. Florence is like a middle-aged person, preferably a professional in law and male. At least that's the impression it gives to me. With its lovely piazza dotted with intermittent sculptures, such as the Rape of the Sabine Woman and Perseus with the head of Medusa. Yes, so maybe the Romans were a bit dodge in terms of sexual acts, but we like the way the Renaissance artists exploited their romantic tales. Florence was by far, the most beautiful of all the Italian towns I visited.

Venice was lacking in colour. It was merely built on islands with lots of waterways. The trip on the gondola was less spectacular than punting. At least with punting, falling in was a slightly comical possibility. In a gondola on the other hand, you do NOT want to fall in. The water was 18 m deep, sea water and infested with the filth of several centuries. Not really that romantic if you ask me. Not especially when they charge a minimum of 70 Euros for 30 mins. Even the straw hats and stripey shirts don't help. Milan lasted 10 minutes before it became a blur of hospitals, x rays and ambulances. Then wheelchairs and airports. Still, it was a good trip.

Home sweeeeeeet home

Whoever said there's no place like home definitely knew what they were talking about. Several plane trips, a broken ankle and a bomb scare later, I am back in good ol' Malaysia.

Inspired

So it probably isn't inspiration, more of a lack of a place (came out as splace - spot + place = splace in my head) to sleep which is driving me to blog further. I just realised that I'm one of the few bloggers who blog when they're relaxed, in their nightie and relatively calm.

By calm, I mean I'm not screaming at anyone, chucking my shoe at them or balancing a tottering pile of notes on each knee. Nope, I am the picture of serenity, though maybe not decency at this hour.

Reflecting on my 1st year at university, I'm still finding it difficult to perceive myself as a University student, much less a Cambridge one. A lot has happened in the past year, I left home permanently. I stopped studying Science, kissed my beloved hepatocytes and histology slides goodbye forever. Picked up a completely random new subject and fell head-over-heels in love with it. Was rejected for several posts I truly wanted, but with the benefit of hindsight am better off without. Am still as nerdy and studious as I always have been, but a recent acquisition in my "list of people I parade" has made me "chill out" or rather "chat down". Am currently sketching plans for castles in the air and toying with lesson plans on the other hand.

I am a displaced person. I don't belong anywhere. On the list of people for immigration, there are the options of National, Non-national and Displaced. I am the last category of persons. I felt like a stranger when I first arrived here with my incredibly strong Malaysian accent (which by the way, is not strong at all by Malaysian standards). Now that has mellowed into a "posh, upper-class Asian accent", by way of my friend's description. Formal 3/5-course meals are daily occurrences, and ditto for getting tipsy on a bottle of wine. I do not know what to do without dresses and heels. I do not know what to do with limitations and barriers either. I will leave my room at 2 a.m. for a wander, or hop on my bike and cycle around for a bit. In my more-decent pyjamas of course. I run to the library at 1.30 a.m. when the roads are dead quiet for a book I forgot. Can't do that in Malaysia if I want to stay alive. Sigh. I am displaced.

An update! She lives...

This is absolutely horrible. It is 1.15 a.m. and I am meant to be nicely snuggled in bed with one of my bed partners i.e. Patrick the red dog or his human counterpart. But I can’t sleep for the life of me and so here I am, clacking away at the keyboard, inspired by certain thoughts.

A few years ago, I wrote about love and what it meant to me. Whilst trying to find a comfortable spot on the hardboard floor of my university room as my beloved boyfriend snores gently on my bed, the L word came to mind again. To be honest, it has been lingering on the fringes of my consciousness recently, and I suppose now is the best time to manifest itself.

I remember distinctly describing love as a double-edged dagger. It is beautiful, ageless and intricately carved. Yet its silver is stained with the blood of the thousands who grasped it too hard and was cut yet they refuse to let go. Currently, my hand is reaching out to grasp my end of the dagger. I am blindfolded, I cannot tell if my partner has done the same. It is a leap of faith.

Being in love is truly about being two halves of a whole, however clichéd the saying is. It is like being party to an inside joke; a very long-running joke. If your eyes meet across a crowded room, there is the spark of “Joke sent” and “Joke received” instantly. It’s not about a message of “I love you” and “I love you too”. It’s more of a mutual understanding that he has not forgotten your presence. Of course he slips up every now and then. Then again, so do you. I know I do.

“Being in love means that you’re not afraid to say it aloud, to shout it to the whole world” – ditzy blonde in My Best Friend’s Wedding.

Alas, that is so far from the truth. We will be afraid to shout it to the whole world for a great many reasons, not least because it’s too early. Hormones working overtime could be another factor. I think the greatest one would be fear of rejection. I’m not shouting it to the world. Hell no.

All I’m saying is that I’ve reviewed my opinion on love slightly. It’s reached the point where I have agreed to go to church willingly (well, I was brought up as a good Christian. The recent crazy atheist was my doing), I don’t mind hopping on to the back of his bike and I trust him not to kill me. I care about him enough to grab his hand and pull him back although it stings my pride especially because we’re arguing. It kills me to see him disappointed in himself, more than how he disappoints me. I try very hard not to push him away and then realise I don’t have to try THAT hard after all. I am not going to start building castles in the air yet, but with fingers crossed, I will be able to.

Hmm, I should get a move on the planning permissions for castles in the air. Which local council would authorise them?

Hysteria

I have always been slightly unhinged, insane, mad, crazy, mercurial, incompetent, strange, weird, odd, freakish etc. but I think I have scaled the heights of craziness. I am in Cambridge and I am having a panic attack about work. Get this, I called my PARENTS. I WANTED my mother. I need to calm down. I actually went for a run at 3 a.m. around Cripps Court. I'm suicidal too, clearly.

I am absolutely rubbish at...

1. updating my blog
2. updating my parents
3. updating my friends
4. updating my playlists
5. updating myself in general

Falling in love all over again

Nice snazzy post title. This is a clear breach of the principle of 'fair labelling' which demands that a crime be named appropriate to the seriousness of the act and corresponding criminal liability.

Walking back from a post office I never knew existed, located on a street I have never explored, after sending off a parcel for the first time ever, I decided to retrace my steps (or rather the taxi's route) from the bus station on my first day in Cambridge. Coming up to Selwyn College, I fell in love with the place all over again. I noted for the first time the similarity between our college front and Corpus Christi and mulled over the discrepancy between the motto over the main entrance in Greek and a corresponding Latin one beside it yet again. Most importantly of all, I walked in through the main door and the sight of Selwyn's chapel (which is a miniature of King's chapel) contrasted against an azure sky took my breath away. It always does. Whether in the morning, with the sun barely peeping out from behind grey clouds, or at high noon or at midnight, with the full moon blazing behind it. My eyes took the same route it always does, leaping from the chapel to the Master's lodge and finally to our Hall.

I'm beginning to think I love Selwyn a wee bit too much for my own good. It's not just the place itself, but without its students, I can still see why some people decide to dedicate all their lives to this college. It's no more infatuation with the luxury of simply being here. This is real love.