the warning.

sunday muse.

Sunday Life: is social media making me anti-social? by Mia Freedman

I think I’m losing my social skills. The evidence is mounting and it’s becoming hard to ignore. Consider this: I prefer emails and texts to voices. My mobile is always switched to silent. When my home phone rings, my reaction is usually ‘startled’ followed by ‘miffed’. My distaste for small-talk has escalated to the point where I’d prefer to stay home with my laptop than have to make chit chat with strangers.....

More evidence: l’ve become increasingly reluctant to ambush my friends with unannounced phone calls. Lately, I find myself texting them first to flag that I’ll be calling. I do this so they’re prepared when they hear my voice. Prepared for what, is unclear.

From an early age I’ve preferred to communicate in writing. Instead of throwing tantrums as a kid, I used to write notes to whichever member of my family had cheesed me off, explaining in detail why I didn’t like them, why my life wasn’t fair and why I’d decided to run away from home. I never did actually run away. The act of writing down my feelings somehow diffused them and I’d wander off for a snack instead.

And perhaps this is exactly why I’m drawn to writing. For me, the act of committing words to paper or a screen helps me to organise my thoughts and articulate them more clearly. In conversations, I can ramble and so more and more over the years, I find myself eschewing talking for typing.

It’s not that I don’t like people. I do. I like people very much. My girlfriends and my family are my lifeblood. Even people I don’t know fascinate me. I’m innately curious about everyone. It’s just that I find electronic communication easier. Faster. More efficient.

Part of this is a gender thing. One of the best yet most challenging aspects of being female is having the ability to mentally multi-task within a single conversation. This is both nifty and exhausting. It’s also a time-sucker because it leads to lengthy phone conversations as you dart about the place, jumping from subject to subject with endless tangents. Socially, these are the only type of phone calls most women are capable of. I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to a girlfriend on the phone for less than 10 minutes. And in that time we will barely skim the surface. There’s just so much to catch up on. Her life, my life, our jobs, kids, partners, gossip about people we will never meet, future plans to catch-up…..the list of subjects to cover is endless. And to skip any of them would seem plain rude. Ruder than not calling at all.

Electronic communication is a discipline. It doesn’t encourage tangents. Or verbosity.

Lately, I’ve been trying to explain this to my son when he asks why I don’t call a friend instead of texting her. “I don’t have TIME” I’ll sigh as he looks at me, puzzled. “But why can’t you just say: ‘Hi, do you want to go out for dinner on Saturday night?’ and they’ll answer and then you say goodbye and hang up.” Ah, youth. Male youth. “Look, it’s just not possible to have such a basic conversation when you’re female,” I explain. “If I call, I’ll be forced to chat, and ask and answer questions for 20 minutes AT LEAST which would be fine at another time BUT NOT NOW WHEN MUMMY IS ON DEADLINE.” Okay?

And then I read an interview with a neuroscientist called Susan Greenfield who warns that too much time spent communicating online could effectively ‘rewire’ the brain. [itals][“We know how small babies need constant reassurance that they exist,”[itals] she told a UK newspaper. [itals]“My fear is that these technologies are infantilising the brain into the state of small children who are attracted by buzzing noises and bright lights, who have a small attention span and who live for the moment.”[itals]
Now, Ms Greenfield was actually referring to kids who spend too much time on their computers playing video games and instant messaging each other but she could easily have been talking about me. Terrific. I already knew I had a short concentration span but I’m not thrilled to discover it’s on par with my baby. Or a goldfish.

For those of us who love texting and Twitter and email and all things online, we’re losing the ability to prioritise our communication. Technology is a pushy, queue-jumping little bugger. It’s easy to confuse immediacy with importance, which is why I will answer an email in the middle of writing this column. Or reply to a stupid text in the middle of a wonderful dinner with girlfriends I haven’t seen in months.

Real communication – face-to-face or voice-to-voice – is messy and that’s what makes it wonderful. It’s spontaneous and unpredictable. You can’t control it. You can’t abruptly terminate it when you’ve had enough and you can’t be sure that someone will let you finish what you want to say. Electronic communication, while cleaner, can also be narcissistic. In writing, nobody can interrupt you. Maybe that’s why I like it so much.

Do you think technology is changing your social skills? Do you prefer social media to socialising? Typing to talking?

source: mia, postsecret

pictorials

im feeling abit emo today.

source: postsecret, youtube and me.

on my mind.

Hello, meet shopaholic_k. Firstly, my net is so super slow $%^# b/c the sibling and i ran over this months limit *whine* So no fb/msn/whatever technological advancement I'm not uptodate with for the time being.

In 3+1 weeks I've bought
x3 blazers, nude, black, grey (seriously cant get enough of them)
x1 red wool peacoat
x1 backpack (best buy ever!), x2 patent black bags
Total damage $514 aud

and I'm going to buy some metal studs (gunmetal and silver) over at spike&studs.
Yesterday, the sibling asked me whether i wanted anything from asos (NOW DO I?!)
x1 heart bag
x1 cupcake bag
x1 sling bag
Total damage (inc studs) $71aud.
its alright i suppose, comparatively.

I can only ever imagine a future coming home and hiding away more&more clothes.
Please, slap me with shopaholic handcuffs.
Why do people pick and choose what they want to buy?!
Cant we have it all?! *pout*
And how am i ever going to save up for a bag??

Also, my new love is mia freedman.
She is the epitome of chic read and my favourite sunday columnist. me love.
ps. i also love chic lit.

Besides that, I may have just replicated what I had for brunch for dinner too *excited*
I just ate a toasted piece of multigrain bread topped with rocket leaves, smoked salmon, cream cheese and gherkins. ooo. sexy.

and, im a little backdated with my post so enjoy.

Bag lust

miu miu vitello. this is sex -i think i may just break my piggy and get one.


proenza schouler ps1.

Shoe porn, and im going to have enough single one of you.

ashish leopard wedges
how cute are these wedges?! omg. i love them.
ps. i also want leopard tights.





tony bianco red suede
anything red and leather, im in.

tony bianco nude patent

i think "nude" is the new black.


ed westwick.

first time im swooning over an actor.

now this is british sex -& britain's best export ever.


im currently in love with this song

mstkkrft -heartbreaker

love the lyrics, love the beat.

love it love it.

Remember when, I caught your eye,
You gave me rainbows and butterflies,
We did enjoy a happiness,
When our love was over, I was such a mess,
I smiled at you and you smiled back,
That's when I knew, there's no turning back,
You said you loved me and I did too,
Now though it's over, I still love you

feeling fat

It should be easy to write about feeling fat, after all I have ample experience to draw from. The problem is that accompanying every thought I have, each memory uncovered, is a gust of shame that slams the door quick shut. I’ll happily dissect almost any topic you care to name, in great detail if you’re up for it, and I’m not really known for my secretive nature. Let the conversation run to fat, however, and I’m a quivering mass of avoidance spiked with a hefty dose of repression.

It would have been sweet to throw denial into this mix, but it’s just not an option when you’re fat. You can banish scales, cover every mirror and adopt the kaftan as your signature garment, but you can’t avoid other people. There’s always someone ready to let you know you’re fat (just in case you hadn’t noticed). Whether it’s someone who loves you and just wants to help, or someone who doesn’t and aims to hurt, the message reads the same: ‘You’re fat, don’t you know it?’

Humiliation hovers just a heartbeat away, striking when you’re least prepared. The doctor who looked me up and down and sighed, “I do hate to see an attractive young woman looking like a baby elephant,” was a shining example. I took it lying down, sweating on the slick vinyl of the examination table, accepting the insult as my due. But then I was only 19. And a size 14.
Casual cruelty can bite, but the unintended barb also stings deep, like the parking warden who says,“Look love, just let them know and they’ll probably let you off.” “Let them know what?” you ask, cringing already. “That you’re pregnant,” he says, slowly and kindly. So kindly you don’t have the heart to tell him he’s 11 months out of date.

The thing is, I haven’t always been fat, I’m not always fat and I hope I won’t always be fat. Sometimes I wish I had a sign, or a T-shirt, signalling this vital fact for the casual scrutiny of each passing stranger. As it is I have a carefully edited selection of photographs snappily titled Exhibit A: For the Defense. This album tells the story of half a life, the half my vanity considers acceptable. I sometimes leaf through it and ache at the sadness and futility of my periodic vanishing act. Present yet invisible, missing in action, cut from the scene. Do the kids, flicking through, ever wonder where I went? I know precisely where I was, grimly and firmly positioned behind the camera, and why. Until suddenly, wonderfully, miraculously, I materialise again. I fit my jeans again, and therefore the picture. I’m smiling, showing off the cake, helping wield that great big knife, there, right in the centre of it all. Then I’m gone again, hiding, dancing around the edges of the frame, determined not to spoil this perfect day.

It catches up with you though; catches you out in sly, unforeseen moments. Showing wedding photos to a friend, her daughter stares at the deliriously slender bride on the page and then at the all-too-solid me. “Is that from when you were skinny?” she asks. No, sweetie, I’ve never been skinny, only by comparison. Her mother is mortified; I’m inured to it, tempered by decades of deflecting compliment and insult alike. It can be hard to tell the two apart. Not every fat girl has a pretty face, but almost every one will hear it. Curvy and voluptuous are offered up as some kind of consolation prize when you long to be a sylph; slender, fragile, deserving of protection.

They say that inside every fat person is a thin person screaming to get out. I’ve met my thin person; I’m a periodically lenient custodian and there have been long periods of compassionate leave. What they think is that inside every fat person there is a stupid, lazy person. It’s simple, they say: ‘Just eat less and move more and you won’t be a stupid, lazy fat person any more!’ Clearly it’s not simple; if it were we wouldn’t be having this conversation. What complicates the ‘energy in, energy out’ equation is the mystery of the individual psyche. The formula may be true in isolation, but in the real world we’re missing something crucial. Knowing this is not about making excuses, it’s about trying to understand the reasons why. I’ve never met a fat person who relished their rolls; who patted them proudly as the visible reward for a job well done; who wants this.

I can just remember what it was like to live free from the shadow of my unruly body. I was six and my brothers and I were playing in the paddling pool, squirting each other with the hose. I know that day was real; there’s a photograph on record, a faded black-and-white portrait that conjures up a suburban ‘70s childhood in all its buffalo grass glory. I stand, legs planted and tummy thrust defiantly, unselfconsciously, forward, wearing nothing but delight upon my face. I know that day I did not feel as though I took up more space than life had allotted me. After that, everything changed, because after that I knew I was fat. There was no dramatic dénouement, no cutting comment or casual revelation, just a creeping realisation. Turning through the album, it’s always there; the knowledge that, once gained, colours every moment, flickers in the background of every memory, dims every snapshot. Don’t be fooled by the smile, look instead to the eyes, to the uncertain need that blossoms darkly.

I know I am not my body; that I am more than what I weigh. I’m smart, nurturing and occasionally amusing. I’m fiercely loyal and my love, once given, is hard to break. I want to believe none of that changes with the size of my waist, but the truth is, something does. It was a good year the year I met my husband. I entered it in pleasingly neat form, and the thrill of love whittled me down to a place approximating slenderness. I felt full of love, worthy of love, and that made me easy to love, but nothing that good can last forever. Flick through the pages and watch for the gaps; if you look closely that’s where you’ll see the truth. That’s where I’ve hidden the yo-yo diets and wild weight swings. They’ve been expunged from the record except for the odd shadow on the wall, or the rare, undetected background appearance. The knowledge that shames me isn’t that I feasted and fasted, but that I smuggled a secret, other self into our life.

There’s a point over which I find myself almost unbearable. I’m so consumed with disgust at the heft of my weakness that all emotion is tainted. I become prickly, needy, defensive. I cannot love this version of me, so how could you? The simple votive acts of affection become trials to be negotiated. Snuggling on the sofa becomes a tortuous attempt to outwit physics, to dissolve my
mass in case the gravity of it suffocates your love. Entwined limbs lose their languor; the more there is of me, the less there seems to be of you. My bulk becomes ballast, a bulwark around my heart.

This is the heartbreaking, life-sapping crux of the matter, the sheer emotional waste, the relentless anxiety and self-absorption. Oh, and my constant companion: guilt. At what I eat, when I eat, why I eat, sometimes even that I eat. There’s a voice in your head, in your ear,
at your back, hissing through the greatest-hits compilation of every taunt you’ve ever heard, and the ones you haven’t. You can dim it but you can’t turn it off; your own little bully travels with you. In your normal, sensible heart you know the effort of maintaining this half life is equal to that required to do something about it, yet somehow it’s easier to stay where you are, sitting on your fat bottom and hating it.

Inside every fat person dwells eternal hope. Hope that this time next year, we’ll be front and centre of the photograph, wreathed in smug satisfaction instead of surplus chins. I know that hope is real if only I can grasp it. The how is easily sorted – ‘energy in, energy out’ is a fact, not an accusation – but it’s pointless without the why. Anyone can do it for a day, a month, even a year. I’ve done that and more, but eventually the how slinks away and it’s back to the fat bottom of despair. This is what I’ve learned, that the how without the why is like a wheel without an axle; full of potential but prone to spectacular accidents. The problem with my body is all in my head and, for the first time, it’s there I have to go if I want a real solution.

francesca newby

the blog is dead..

so im going to revive it.


I think Ive been avoiding blogging in the past couple of months. I dont really know why exactly but I think it was because I didn't want anyone to hear my thoughts or post anything about how I have been feeling. Basically, the simplest solution was just to avoid?


Anyway, i need to write about something (which i have been wanting to get off my chest for ages now) but just couldn't do it. You could call it sheer stubbornness/having too much pride. Really, it doesn't matter to me. (not anymore that is)

Ray, of course, everyone knows Ive been with him for almost half a decade (which is a very long time), through the ups and downs and if i remember correctly, most have heard of the downs, if not, nothing at all. I would like to clarify that. He was not all bad and there was a time we were not like how we are today. We use to do everything together like a normal (happy) couple and really enjoyed each other's company. I mean I still do enjoy his company even now (especially when its cold or when my feet are cold..) and its just nice having someone always around either to hug, cuddle, talk, eat etc.

From my memory, we used to go out shopping everyday because I was (and still am) such a shopaholic. We used to skip classes together and sleep in. We used to go out for midnight mc/kfc runs (because he was such a huge fan of fast food) and of course, after the run (without a car), we would walk around the block for about a good half an hour, even during winter -because I would want to "work it off" after. He use to drive to my place everyday to pick me up, wait for me at my appointments (seems like I had more things to do/he willingly gave up the things he liked doing just to be with me) or wait around because I couldnt decide what/how to wear or if I would look fat in "that". I use to constantly ask him (daily) am I fat. Thinking back, even I would hate that question after 3 years of listening to it. And that was just a small part of the time we enjoyed together.

Needless to say, how could I hate the guy I spent most of my adolescence growing up with? I don't hate Ray, simply because I've stopped speaking to him, stopped speaking about him, stopped everything with him. No, I dont hate him. If anything, I still love him very much and he will always be my baby.

Maybe Ill do a postie just on this next time. hm.
xx

Lately, Ive been having less "heart to heart" talks with myself aka self talk especially since I started uni. (Previously, I thought I was either going crazy/setting myself to be a shizo?) Truthfully, I do feel lonely -sort of like a limb detached from me but I think Im handling it better now. I've been making friends (new and old) recently. Really good ones too and not the bad sort. I thought I would head down the same "bad" path again, spin out of control (assuming that was what I loved) but its different now. I enjoy being a goodyx2 as unfortunate as that may sound. Besides, my course doesn't allow me to be a little devil either (no choice!) and daddy is so proud of me nowadays..So now I am trying to maintain this new head I've got on and see where it will take me. Of course I still have fat days and nobody to talk to about it (what to do) but I guess nowadays I just sleep on it (literally) cz I am so tired everyday. And of course, I am not as optimistic as this everyday. Somedays I hide it better than other days. Other times I forget. hehe.

But most of all, I think God is calling me back to him, asking me to stop doing all my stupid things and start living in his name again. I know it sounds a little ironic and hard to believe. Let me give you an example. Over the past years, I have been questioning my own capabilities in getting things done. I became very confused and had little (if any) faith in myself. Recently, I feel much better since I started praying again (especially when my exam results were coming out) and Ray and everything. Miracles do happen and right now, I can say Im pretty much ready to accept God's work again but still there is the playful side of me which wants to break free but its minimizing (either that or I am just becoming plain boring). Anyhow, I do hope he gives me a sign/strength to refrain from temptation and help me a little bit along the way. I guess I dont want to dissapoint him again. All I can say now is I am very grateful to be where I am/close to where I was a long time ago.

Having said that, as you can see even the way I write is very different from before too.

Lastly, I want to thank God for a few things.
That I met Ray.
That I manage to pass all my exam last sem
That I am part of a mentoring program
That I made friends who are so helpful and patient
That I am closer with my family even daddy

And i pray that God will give me strength/bless me with
An internship (because I plainly suck at that)
Continue in the mentoring program for another semester
Set up my store and sell
Study and not feel tired all the time (so I can get some Ds)
Not lose my pt job
Gain a little bit more confidence (I think Im doing well)
Assignment, mediation etc.
and guide me towards the direction/life he wants me to lead.

I think ive said too much.
Im gonna shower and play my DS (:

“We have courage in God’s presence, because we are sure that he hears us if we ask him for anything that is according to his will.” (1 John 5: 14)

random rant

It breaks my heart re-reading the messages only to find they appear more detached and shorter. The fewer words written, the more lasting the impact/hurt. I wish I could delete them. I wish I could delete you.

AND THAT MAKES ME ANGRY!
xx

Btw, I passed all my units.
Daddy Keah is so proud (he smsed me)
and I, Im so attached.

Ps. Yes, God really answers prayers. (IMO)
xx

glam lit

A Week in the Life of the Ethnically Indeterminate

Monday
Sitting in MacDonalds on 103rd & 3rd
I notice a couple staring at me
and hear them say Indian.
They walk towards me.
The woman has white skin,
blond hair, blue eyes.
The man has ebony skin,
black hair, brown eyes.
Excuse me, says the woman,
we were wondering
where you were from.
Yeah, says the man
because you look like
our people.
I look at the whiteness
and the blackness,
wondering who their people are.
We're Puerto Rican, they say
and walk away.

Tuesday
Walking to the store
in Crown Heights I see
an African-American man
sitting behind a table
selling incense and oils
he calls out sister, hey sister,
baby and then makes a noise
like he's calling a cat.
I don't respond.
On the way back
from the store
he calls out, mira, mira,
hey baby,
in any language,
English, Feline or Spanish
I don't respond.

Wednesday
I am buying lunch
at the falafel stand
on 68th and Lex
and the man serving me asks,
you from Morocco?
No, I say, Cyprus.
Where's Cyprus? he asks.
Above Egypt
to the left of Israel
and below Turkey.
Oh, he says looking blank.
How much for the falafel, I ask?
For you three dollars.
For Americans three fifty.
I go to pay and another man
stares hard into my face
and says, Are you a Jewish chick?
No, I say, just leave me alone.
I know who you are, he screams.
I know who you are.
You're just a nigger from Harlem,
passing for white
with a phony accent.
Nigger, he repeats
as I walk away.

Thursday
My boss calls me up.
I have a funny question
to ask you, he says.
When you fill out forms
what do you write for ethnicity?
I check other, I say.
Well, I have to fill out this form
and it doesn't have other.
We look really bad on paper.
all the positions of power are white
and all the support staff are black.
Could you be Asian?

Friday
I am with my Indian immigration lawyer.
Do you mind if I ask you
a personal question, he says.
Go ahead, I say, thinking
he is going to ask me
how I've reached my mid thirties
and have never been married.
But instead he says,
I know you're a Cypriot
from London
but do you have
any Indian blood in you?
There are so many
mixed marriages these days
and you look like the offspring.

Saturday
I am at a conference
and a European-American woman
looks at me excitedly
as though she's just won a prize.
Oh, I know where you’re from, she says
my daughter-in-law is an Indian
with a British accent too.
I'm not Indian, I say.
She continues to not see me
as she concentrates on
hiding her anger
for not winning the trophy
in her self-imposed
guess the ethnicity competition
and then she walks away.

Sunday
I go to lunch at the home of a friend
whose family are Africans of the diaspora.
They don't ask me where I'm from.
Later, my friend tells me,
They've decided you’re
a biracial Jamaican.

That evening,
I'm at a poetry reading
and an African-American woman
crosses the room
to ask me this question,
Are you the colonized
or the colonizer?
What do you think, I ask.
You could be both, she responds
and walks away

elena

inevitable

i need a sign, where do i head to.
its only the second day but im closing in.
i feel weak, and ive lost hope.
and although the feeling has been there all along, now its happening so fast.
we laughed, we cried.
now we move forward without the other.
as each hour grows, the seconds tempt me.
my will is strong.
but for how long?

out tomorrow, morning walk.
weather: cold, wet