Grilled Cheesus

I am agnostic. I was Christian.

To be honest I’ve always avoided breaching this topic because sometimes discussions about religion draws out the worst in people (on both ends of the spectrum). Interestingly my earliest experience with such intolerance was on Neopets forums (Yes I had no life even as a kid, I went on Neopets to play Meerca Chase and debate with people about the existence of Santa Claus #fml). Discussions about religion that I’ve seen almost invariably begin with accusations and end in profanities, and I would have held my tongue/ left before it ends because the impatience (or intolerance or eventually  ugliness) of people disappoints me. Though admittedly I adore and admire the wicked humor of people like Dawkins, Harris, and Hitchens, their writing eradicates whatever semblance of Socrates argument I had in mind for. (Disclaimer: I do not agree with everything they say.)  So here’s the thing, I don’t want to start an argument for or against religion, it was one of my topic-of-choice for A’s GP prep so I’ve already done plenty of that. I’m writing this now because yesterday I watched Glee (thus Grilled Cheesus) and received heart-breaking news so I thought it’s appropriate to share some personal thoughts/experience.

To begin with, I haven’t a clue if God exists. I cannot prove that God doesn’t exist because there is no evidence of absence (which is problematic because by this logic you can’t prove that there aren’t rainbow-coloured unicorns flying around in another galaxy). Yet I cannot prove that God exists because (besides the fact that we can barely concur on what constitutes ‘existence’) God cannot be experienced through physical senses and there are no known form or mass or any quantitative evidence to support it. People who claim that God exists do so by basing it on ‘faith’ or the argument of ignorance. There is TOO MUCH to this (read up on Russell’s teapot as a starting point if you’re really interested), so I will not go into because 1) it’s boring and 2) there is no end to it. 

Personally, I was a Christian for about 3 years. There was a period of time in my life when the idea of God being a fallacy was simply unthinkable. I read my bible religiously (pun intended) and was convicted that if I can’t convert my friends they’re all going to hell and it’s going to be on me. Which of course sounds very foolish now but was a very serious matter back then. I’ve been asked countless times why did I ‘backslide’ and to be honest there was no specific event that lead to it. I had been church-hopping for awhile then because I noticed that there was a startling divide between Church and Jesus. I already knew that was no way to logically convince myself of the existence of God so in a sense I had a decision to make. And you know what I chose. It was a… very undramatic and logical and pros-and-cons kind of decision, which happens very rarely for me. 

While I don’t have a conclusion to existential questions, I understand the need for religion (note: religion and God can be mutually exclusive) because it is “opiate of the masses” as said by Marx. I identify with it even if I don’t respect it. Whenever I’m going through a rough patch in life I would be evangelized to and I would be tempted to seek something/one greater than me for help or healing. But I don’t because 1) I think that is escapism and 2) it’s pretty rude to God if you only think of him when you’re in deep shit isn’t it? On a more angsty note, I’ve been told that I shouldn’t think that way because God planned for things that would propel me to seek him. If that is indeed true, I am sorry to say that I have no respect for a greater power who makes my life hell just so that I have no choice but seek refugee in him. If God exists then I’ve been mad at him since Indian Ocean Tsunami and more so after Sichun Earthquake. Do not say that it’s all part of the plans for greater good because all I think is – Hero Homicide much? 

Please understand that it was not my intention to offend anyone so if you feel offended, I apologize. I stand by my opinions and amongst all that I’ve heard in relation to this topic, the only thing that struck me was Ms Huda’s question – ‘If we can prove the existence of God then would we still need faith?’ I respect your faith and I’ve never commented on claims/proclamations I disagree with, so I hope that you will not attempt to change my mind too. I’m only sharing all these because last night, for the first time in years, I wished I could say to a friend ‘I will keep you in my prayers’.

I wonder why Eric Arthur Blair chose ‘George Orwell’ as his pen name?

This is going to be long and (possibly) boring, I wouldn’t want to waste your time so please do not proceed unless you are at least one of the following:
1) A literature student (preferably PC)
2) still need to write GP essays every other week 
3) into politics 
4) irrevocably in love with Orwell’s writing
5) have no life and absolutely nothing better to do

An excerpt from George Orwell’s essay/short story ‘Shooting The Elephant’ (on imperialism):

“I had halted on the road. As soon as I saw the elephant I knew with perfect certainty that I ought not to shoot him. It is a serious matter to shoot a working elephant–it is comparable to destroying a huge and costly piece of machinery–and obviously one ought not to do it if it can possibly be avoided. And at that distance, peacefully eating, the elephant looked no more dangerous than a cow. I thought then and I think now that his attack of “must” was already passing off; in which case he would merely wander harmlessly about until the mahout came back and caught him. Moreover, I did not in the least want to shoot him. I decided that I would watch him for a little while to make sure that he did not turn savage again, and then go home.

But at that moment I glanced round at the crowd that had followed me. It was an immense crowd, two thousand at the least and growing every minute. It blocked the road for a long distance on either side. I looked at the sea of yellow faces above the garish clothes-faces all happy and excited over this bit of fun, all certain that the elephant was going to be shot. They were watching me as they would watch a conjurer about to perform a trick. They did not like me, but with the magical rifle in my hands I was momentarily worth watching. And suddenly I realized that I should have to shoot the elephant after all. The people expected it of me and I had got to do it; I could feel their two thousand wills pressing me forward, irresistibly. And it was at this moment, as I stood there with the rifle in my hands, that I first grasped the hollowness, the futility of the white man’s dominion in the East. Here was I, the white man with his gun, standing in front of the unarmed native crowd–seemingly the leading actor of the piece; but in reality I was only an absurd puppet pushed to and fro by the will of those yellow faces behind. I perceived in this moment that when the white man turns tyrant it is his own freedom that he destroys. He becomes a sort of hollow, posing dummy, the conventionalized figure of a sahib. For it is the condition of his rule that he shall spend his life in trying to impress the “natives,” and so in every crisis he has got to do what the “natives” expect of him. He wears a mask, and his face grows to fit it. I had got to shoot the elephant. I had committed myself to doing it when I sent for the rifle. A sahib has got to act like a sahib; he has got to appear resolute, to know his own mind and do definite things. To come all that way, rifle in hand, with two thousand people marching at my heels, and then to trail feebly away, having done nothing–no, that was impossible. The crowd would laugh at me. And my whole life, every white man’s life in the East, was one long struggle not to be laughed at.

Wow. Why and how is it that we never studied the Western perspective in PC lit? All we had was Suwen’s whining and Deven’s complaints. (I’ve said this a million times but seriously, Christine Suchen Lim’s writing does not garner an ounce of my respect. Why was she even published? So MOE can torture unsuspecting lit kids?) PC lit was a tragedy, in ways more than one. 

An excerpt from George Orwell’s essay ‘Politics and the English Language’:

The words democracy, socialism, freedom, patriotic, realistic, justice, have each of them several different meanings which cannot be reconciled with one another. In the case of a word like democracy, not only is there no agreed definition, but the attempt to make one is resisted from all sides. It is almost universally felt that when we call a country democratic we are praising it: consequently the defenders of every kind of régime claim that it is a democracy, and fear that they might have to stop using the word if it were tied down to any one meaning. Words of this kind are often used in a consciously dishonest way. That is, the person who uses them has his own private definition, but allows his hearer to think he means something quite different.

A scathing and terse essay on the decline of the English language. Includes a checklist for good writing (that you may find helpful for essays of any kind). Both essays are available here: http://www.classicshorts.com/ (and some other interesting reads). 

On a separate note, I’M SORRY I KEEP BLOGGING ABOUT BORING STUFF. I think I spend most of my time talking about theatre and writing/reading which I understand are things more than half the population don’t care about and I should take some photos but it’s too cold and I’m too lazy and I think I was going to say something witty but my brain is shutting down in preparation for TV-time so…

The Vagina Monologues

It’s a collection of monologues I came across while looking for monologues back in Jan. A little background information: Eve Ensler collects stories, writes them into monologues and performs them around the globe – to unite and empower women by helping them recognize themselves and their sexuality. There is even a V-day, as in Vagina-day (which is also on 14 Feb). 

If you’re starting to feel a little queasy now it’s completely normal and understandable. The reason that I’m writing about this now at the end of Feb is because I read the first few monologues in Jan in such excruciating embarrassment and discomfort that I gave up. I picked it up again a couple hours ago (because I hate leaving books unfinished, even if they’re crappy) and the first 40 over pages was… impossible. I don’t know about you but as an Asian (Chinese, mind you) girl I’ve pretty much never said the word ‘vagina’ out loud or even came across it apart from in Bio classes. So honestly, it was the first time I’ve even seen the word ‘vagina’ so many times (if you’re still reading this I’m pretty sure you’ve officially seen it more than the average teenager). And if you didn’t figure, it felt extremely awkward. But as I flipped on (virtually, on my iPad), I realized that my awkwardness is precisely the problem. 

Objectively speaking, what on earth is so embarrassing/awkward/uncomfortable about ‘vagina’? We seem so much more at ease saying ‘penis’, and it is apparently easier to say that than more suggestive versions like ‘dick’ or ‘cock’. So what’s wrong with saying ‘vagina’? I am now a convert – the book includes background information on each monologue as they were all based on true stories, interviews, conversations and there is really no reason, no reason at all, to shrink back in shyness/discomfort from rape victims talking about how their vaginas feel polluted or girls who suffered genital mutilation talking about their vaginas being cut or sewn.

Frankly speaking, I don’t know if saying ‘vagina’ being so much harder than saying ‘penis’ is really because women are subconsciously oppressed and feel an almost instinctive shamefulness about their bodies, or because, yknow, it seems crass and inappropriate for women to talk about genital. Either way, it’s unnecessary. Though in my opinion, V-day is also unnecessary, maybe it’s just the Asian-ness in me but I don’t feel a need to chant ‘vagina’ over and over again to feel empowered. I think what’s important is recognition: recognizing that women are embarrassed to talk about our bodies and recognizing that we shouldn’t be. (Really irrelevant analogy but it’s kind of like knowing you’re not dumb because you’ve got a high gpa and thus feeling self-assured, but there’s no need to parade around with your result slip stuck to your forehead yeah?)

So while not empowered per se, reading The Vagina Monologues (some of them are actually really good and funny, there’s one entitled ‘My Angry Vagina’ – imagine that) has certainly enlightened me. 

P/S I’ve been thinking about this quote: “Often it is the most deserving people who cannot help loving those who destroy them.” – Hermann Hesse, Gertrude.

P/P/S I should probably blog about my life but, I really have none now. Going iceskating later before taking the rest of my day to reply mails and msges I’ve drifted off mid-sentence from. Have a blessed day!

An attempt to make sense.

I hate structures and essay planning of any kind, but today I will do just that because perhaps a little ritual or routine or framework is what I need to help me find a way out through the rubble in my head. 

Introduction:
My writing no longer suffice but,
“I write only because 
There is a voice within me 
That will not be still”
― Sylvia Plath

Point 1 (Saying thanks):
To you, who’ve written to me since my ‘Last post on WordPress’ to let me know that both my writing and I are adored. It means more than I can possibly tell you. I’m sorry for always disappearing mid-sentence for hours, days, or even weeks on end – there is so much in my head that I can’t format into coherent replies right away. 

Point 2 (Why I need to write):
“If I don’t write to empty my mind, I go mad.”
― Lord Byron
“The reason one writes isn’t the fact he wants to say something. He writes because he has something to say.”  
― F. Scott Fitzgerald

I think for some of us, there has never been a choice as to whether we should write or not. We either write, or the faint cacophony and deafening silence in our heads would simply take turns driving us towards asylums. If you’re someone like that you would know about silence. Not a physical silence but your silence, a silence so absolute it thunders against your eardrums and makes you dizzy and want to write and write and write until it goes away. I think we feel too much, too deeply. So much more than we were meant to or built for, so much that some of it has to find its way out of us somehow or I imagine we’d one day spontaneously combust, so much that the only way we could live is out loud. 

Gaiman, Winterson, and Plath have all made it clear that we don’t decide to write or become writers. They’ve always said ‘I am a writer’ as though that’s what they were born into and emphasized that it’s never a conscious choice. To be honest if I had a choice I would feel less, I would think less, I would stop reading, I would become a dentist so I wouldn’t have to be asked ‘why be happy when you could be normal?’ I know it’s unconvincing because my writing has a melancholic quality to it (that is unintended) but, I am not sad. I am a lot of things but I am not sad. And romantic love (or the lack of) is the tip of the iceberg to who I am and what I feel. There are too many things we just don’t talk or write about to anybody, (for me) not because they are secrets but because I know that nobody will understand. I say it matter-of-factly because there is no angst or misery towards people not understanding your experiences which they’ve obviously never been through. 

Before I digress further and forget the L to my PEE – I am still here because I can’t write yet I don’t know how not to. I understand that you are still here too either because you care or you take joy/ comfort/ refugee in my emotional upheavals. I don’t really mind either way – I will just be here trying to unravel my yarn ball of a mind with as much honesty as possible. 

Point 3:
For another time.

Conclusion:
And that concludes the end of my attempt. I think it’s good enough for one day after almost 3 weeks of backspacing and blank pages (“a blank page is god’s way of telling you how hard it is to be god”) It’s slow, painful and tedious, like physiotherapy. But healing and calming – writing makes me feel like I’m in the eye of a ferocious tornado. 

P/S Dear Girl, thank you for dropping me that message and I hope that someday you will. 

P/P/S I just finished reading The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath after a year of saying I would. It reminds me of Veronica Decides To Die by Coelho. It is more depressing and beautiful than I can tell you – the woman had such a way with her words. But I feel sad for her, her and almost every other poet or fiction writer. One of the unmistakable trends I picked up from studying CLL and Lit is that all great writers have unimaginably tragic lives and are all their own shade of crazy. 

Another One of Those Who Feel Too Much, Too Deeply

I would have beehive hair like
Amy Winehouse and crimson 
slapped onto my lips, 
I would wear nothing 
but little black dresses 
and pearl necklaces, 
I would write about love and 
dance about architecture, 
I would rein the
tornado of life and be
calm as the eye at its center.

Until one morning the world
wakes up to another, just another  
headline of plummeting into
oblivion 

(Melpomene)

An anonymous quote

“Lollipops turn into cigarettes. The innocent ones turn into sluts. Homework goes in the trash. Mobile phones are being used in class. Detention becomes suspension. Soda becomes vodka. Bikes become cars. Kisses turn into sex. Remember when getting high meant swinging on the playground? When protection meant wearing a helmet? When the worst things you could get from boys were cooties? Dad’s shoulders were the highest place on earth and Mom was your hero? Your worst enemies were your siblings. Race issues were about who ran the fastest. War was only a card game. And the only drug you knew was cough medicine. When wearing a skirt didn’t make you a slut. The most pain you felt was when you skinned your knees, and goodbyes only meant until tomorrow? And we couldn’t wait to grow up?”

The Queer Circumstances Under Which ‘I Love You’ Was Said For The First Time

I
the room is black apart from 
a small rectangle of gauzed yellow
florescent that spilled
to our ankles and the omnipresent 
Exit sign buzzing ominously 
just above the door like 
a gaudy invitation or 
timely warning 
which would flood my vision
were my eyes not 
squeezed shut with nausea from the 
butterflies in my stomach
I nudged Stop against the 
inside of your knee
and when you took no notice 
recited the poetry that
was your name till
propped up on your elbows 
above me you asked 
are you okay 
I replied, I love you, twice
once to convince you
once to convince myself

II
to your shrinking backview I shouted your name 
whispered I love you to give you a reason to 
stay but with a tight smile and an 
I love you too you walked away 
further and further shrinking 
smaller and smaller 
till there was 
nothing 
left
of

(Melpomene)