ICQ Poll#1! and Old Jeans..

*silent brain scream*

*thousands of fat cells party away, sluggishly drunk in their adipose victory*

I hate jeans.
im going to starve. Until my exams are over. Until i get on that plane back to singapore. Im going running.

*thinks* Oh well. A few days ago i got another Bright Idea. I did an ICQ poll!! The topic was on wht each sex felt the opposite sex should/should not wear. Here're the results, all cut and pasted on, minimal editing done (for coherence).. Cleo/Cosmo/ELLE, here i Come!!!!!!! WHoo HOo! My future in thrashy female lifestyle bibles is On its way...

i have no opinion left on the clownish beng outfits. i say let them be...them and the lians... london has its punk scene, the states have their gangsta/street cred, we've got our bengs and lians!

    All these fonts are SUCH fun!! But (sortof) seriously, i happened upon the RGS homepage recently. For those who dont know, its my alma mater, i.e, my old school. Its a pinnacle of success, the embodiment of excellence, yada yadah. Its quite something, but i wouldnt go back. Living up to standards, once u slip, you're just crushed underfoot and u kinda stay there, regardless of your actual potential.
    In any case, I wasnt so much in RGS as i was in the GEP. If u dunno wht the gep is, nevermind. Call it the mould i developed in. the label on my jar for ten-odd years... Its a sense of belonging, its a sense of being a certain kind of person. Its ostensibly elitist, and sensibly, quite right. However, i left that program 1.5 years ago (it ends at sec4..), and the real world is alot less sensitive than the one im used to.
    Ah well. adjust and get used to it. What else is there to do. Yen, my friend and fellow gep since we were 9-10 yrs old, took up her pen and in her brilliant way, wrote a poem about 'us'. Sortof. Its everything i mean, but heaps better put. And personal. Enjoy it, and if u understand it, thats nice.

to be intelligent in this world:
to live in the middle of this chaos
of feverish hands and half-felt thoughts and midnight longings
tumbling head-over-heart across a chiaroscuro of days
red-mouthed, white-hot, molten as a Dali clock;
to be lucid:
not to squeeze into a rigid indifference,
but to dive straight into the tumult
and arise with handfuls headfuls of the weird and wonderful,
blazing, triumphant.

the desperate buoyancy of our days!
we lurch from almost-disaster to almost-disaster,
saved from stylised despair or a ghastlier cheerfulness
by the wry recognition in the smile across
and a strong sense of the ridiculous –
somewhere amongst the cling-filmed anger, the displaced ironies, the bright shoots of restlessness and the seductive grey drowse of respectability –
somewhere there must be a place for a life-raftful of fellow survivors
teetering on the borders of madness and rationality,
inadvertently united in hapless anarchy –

III

our tragedy is, we are in the wrong play,
the marriages and deaths have got all mixed up,
and we're laughing at the wrong bits
(what can you expect from experimental drama?)
we're not heroes or heroines
or even victims of a colossal perpetuation of divine humour
but ordinary people
given to the ordinary business
of life and love (and long lunches),
picking a path across this minefield –

this tiny space allocated to us –
the wreckage of academia amidst the honeyed clots of concretised boredom, packaged expectations of a future with unendurable steel ratchets –
this is just too small to be real.

because the blinds pulled down around us
crack every once in a while, and let in a glimpse
of a whirligig of sordidness and excitement,
and the weight of helplessness pounds down
between the eyes to remind us we have done nothing,
and every day we stay here we do a little less.

V

the thick black lines delineate
a square of the probable:
wool-smothered, respectably ersatz.

but the craft of creation inheres;
the flights of winged roses
our true birthright --

not to escape, but to light the fantastic
and keep the flame unwavering --
to live on the edge of the impossible