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10 Things You Don't Know About Women By Parker Posey
(it's not the usual bitchy kind)

1. Compulsive hair playing equals great, unbridled passion, but not necessarily directed toward you or toward anyone in particular. In my latest book, The Secret Language of Hair, I attempt to bridge the communication gap between hair gesture and meaning.

2. You know those places that only sell smell-good, girlie products? There is a patron saint of these places--perhaps a cult leader--and that's all I can say.

3. When you see a woman chewing gum, she is counting. Next time you see a woman chewing gum, ask her what number she's up to.

4. Personally, I'm not one for lingerie. It would make me wonder where the cameras are rolling. Contrary to popular "culture," not every woman feels her best when she's dressed up looking like she was paid for. Not that that's bad. I'm just saying . . .

5. Some women, when they like someone, start to sulk rather than flirt. "I like him; now I'm depressed." Like in grade school, when boys threw rocks at girls they had crushes on. You are now that guy.

6. Often men confuse pensiveness with bitchiness, and I find that insulting!

7. An interesting way to a woman's heart is the gift of a self-help book.

8. Next time a woman is acting crazy, break into applause and see what happens.

9. If you can build something, brag about it, even if it's making sandwiches. Women love hearing about nice things you can do with your hands. Showing your hands off in moments of exasperation or self-explanation can be attractive to some women. Doing it in excess can drive her crazy!

10. Which brings me back to compulsive hair playing. Remember, romantic love is a theatrical experience, and some women love a good hair competition. "Look at me!" "No, look at me!" This could go on for hours--and it does.

el que quiera azul celeste, que le cueste.

Professionals

They never started out as the way we see them now. They started with the first lesson. And before that, they didn’t know nuts. But, they persevered in what they did, and hence became professionals. And that is the thing that I sand in awe of professionals, their determination.

The thing is, no one started out as professionals. I’ve just started my jazz sessions and I know I will be playing as well as those lounge musicians or even like Hugh Grant when he played the song ‘way back into love’ which you can hear in the background. However, having just started my lessons I’m seriously noob now. I used to think that an ABRSM grade 8 was superb, but I’m taking those sentiments back. There are about 15 different chords per key, not counting inversions, and I used to only know 4. I thought mastering waltzes by Chopin and Preludes and Fuges by Mozart were great accomplishments, but I now realize that the real challenge is in figuring out the accompliment of a melody or a song in just seconds.

From spending hours of trying to come up and link the correct chords in a piece to being able to play like my teacher (who is by the way an accomplished and professional lounge pianist) is a journey with a distance longer than that of earth to the moon, or even the sun for that matter. Nevertheless I’m thoroughly convinced that through sheer determination, I’ll be professional one day too.

This is such a simple logic, but to have personally realized it is life changing.

Guess I’m just writing this to motivate myself to continue working at it even during times when I feel like tearing up my manuscript book up.

To conclude, below is a story of three professionals. Three Zen masters to be specific. Personally, I feel that it’s so stupid, so stupid that I can’t believe it took someone to actually come up with it. I simply can’t come to terms with the concept it’s trying to convey to its audience. Anyway, here it goes, the story of the three Zen masters, retold by sasha.

There once were 3 Zen masters. They were walking past a temple when they saw a lit candle. The youngest Zen master commented, ‘look, the flame is moving.’ In response, the 2nd most senior master replied, ‘no, it’s the wind that is moving.’ To the surprise of the 2nd master, who was very much please by his higher order thinking, the most senior of them meditated on their words for a moment, then said, ‘actually, it's the mind, that is moving.’

this will make you laugh

"Her gestures were so animated, her expressions so full and graceful, that she seemed to appear in colour while the rest of the world faded into gray."

can someone please say this of me?

(honestly, i think it can only be said of me when i'm in the coffin)

an un-emo entry

it's hard not to write about emo stuff 'cos it's during the emo times that much feelings are generated and it's easier to write. anyway, by popular demand, meaning one person, i've changed the whole outlook of this entry.

the following dedicated to my dear friend who reads this page everyday, and even put up with my nonsense this evening on the bus, friday the 20th.

*there's a place where the wounded soul goes to hide, a place that cannot be reached by human caring, though it nods at the effort. it's a dark, retractable place, without windows and doors; a place where the soul would be more alone than it has ever known. unless someone, someone able to walk through walls was not already there waiting.*
'if i go up to the heavens, you are there; if i make my bed in the depths, you are there.' Ps 139:8

cheers again

an abstract

ANYWAY, glipses of PDA's (public displays of affection) in the dark corners of this huge library never escape me. It's almost as if BYU students make it a point to but the "P" in "PDA".

Plain agony

First, it was you flirting all around with your tricks, gaining chuckles of laugher and blushed cheeks. You amused them, teased them, till it was impossible for them not to fall in love with you. Then again, for the forth time I’ve noticed since the betrothal, you did it again. First it was that coin trick, which you turned a simple penny into a bunch of velvet flowers. Then, you pretend to pull out the same coin, which was neatly hidden in the tight grasp of your right palm, from your shirt pocket. Through sly and sleek moves, you allow the coin to once again magically disappear between the palms of your hand, and then causing it to surface from one of the pockets of the girls’ skirts. And after this, a few pairs of hands from your giggle audience will applaud, while others try to hid their excitement and blushes as you leave them a kiss on their cheek. That’s the way to a girl’s heart you’ll tell me when I tell you that the behavior is inappropriate. And as if I did not feel the punch of your all so insensitive words you continue, they are my pride and my passion. Every stolen heart is another trophy gained. I hate you, I hate your attitude, I hate your lifestyle.

Then it was my best friend. Just last year when we first met we were overjoyed to know that our dreams were so similar. And hence we planned, trained, played and studied together. First we would conquer the inter school intra state touch rugby matches, then the ironman triathlon, which we will be satisfied just by completing it and coming in last together, then it would be entering the semifinals of the FINA championships, and performing duets together in the various piano festivals. All was smooth until that guy appeared. He gave her gifts, took up her time, caused her to be ridiculously obsessed with her already perfect appearance, and the worst of all he made her desert me and our plans. Now, everyday after school she would be hurrying off to meet him leaving no time for us to catch up at all. When ever we meet on the way to class, she will ask about my interstate ice-skating championships, and for the past 6 weeks I’ve been giving the same reply that it was over and I came in 2nd overall. She claims that he is the pure, shining and ever true light of her world but anyone else can see that it’s destroying her slowly.

I’m lonely, hurt. And this fear, coops me up in bed, restricting me from venturing out into a beautiful world I know.

Loneliness

It’s the kind of feeling you get when everyone else around you shares at least one thing in common. It’s easy to patch up if that thing is material, but some things are just beyond your reach. Some times it’s regarding the things you are born with. At other times, it’s what you are born as.

Loneliness is having people converse around you and yet you can’t seem to be able to contribute in it in anyway. It’s not that you don’t understand them nor vice versa but every time you try, you just seem to be striking on a different chord. For example, everyone’s singing a song that is in the key of G major. However, when you offer a note, it comes out in the augmented key.

All that chatter around me I wish I could be a part. I’m helpless at being able to share their jokes nor understand why a topic as such interests them so much. Having to put on that fake smile or to pretend to be interested some times make me wonder why I am where I am.

It’s cold.

It feels like a chard of ice banging down on my head. Tonsils are swollen and my head’s closing in. it’s painful. Curled under my covers there is not an inch of energy to move. My muscles have shriveled up, contracted, and are unable to move myself from the bed. Joints are crumbling from the cold. Help, help. Remove this agony from me. I dream of running, but my legs are weak. I feel like dancing, but my head’s already swirling even without me spinning. I wish to read, but I know my eyelids won’t hold up for more than a page. I’m cold. Very cold. Covers are not working. No, I feel warm. The cotton sheets I’m resting on are warm. Wait. Then again, my legs are shivering and my arms refuse to come out from under the covers. I can’t even discern if I’m warm or cold.

My head’s hurting more every second. It feels like spokes piercing the crown of my head, injuring the one organ that keeps me thinking. I can’t take it further. I let out a whimper. A cry. But then again, I don’t want anyone to hear. i don't need pity. I don’t want people going out of the way for me. Are you sure? I ask myself. I’m hurting so bad, reduced even to tears. Are you sure you can take all this?

Someone walks into my room. The person asks me something I can’t hear. I’m too tired to hear. The tears and pain have clouded my mind and blocked all my senses. I’m unable to answer. I vaguely remember my temperature taken and after which was read to me. Took me a long while to understand what those numbers meant. It means you’ve struck on high fever and will be sent to the hospital shortly. I remember myself telling myself. It’s impossible, I don’t want it. I hate the drips, and the pale looking room, that reeks of illness and death. Sure there are glimpses of hope but the whole idea of going to a hospital is pessimistic.

I’m so cold, and in thorough pain. I don’t want to be moved. Not one inch.

small change, small wonders--these are the currency of my endurance and ultimately of my life.

political urgencies come and go, but it's a fair enough vocation to strike one match after another against the dark isolation, when spectacular arrogance rules the day and tries to force hope into hiding. it seems to me that there is still so much more to say that i had better raise up a yell across the fence. i have stories of things i believe in: a persistent river, a forest on the edge of night, the religion inside a seed, the startle of wingbeats when a spark of red light flies against all reason out of the darkness. One child, one bear. I'd like to speak of small wonders, and the possibility of taking heart.

-- small wonder by barbara kingsolver

you can definitely tell what i'm currently hooked on now.. only an author so good is able to put me in such a trance.

just an observation: nicholas sparks' are for preteens, and 'sweet valley' is for babies to poke at

watch it! and watch it with me in the theaters, all of you.
but remember to pause the music that's all the way on the right. haha