And so ends 2013.

I have been infinitely blessed this year with the people in my life and my productivity. I've done and learnt so much this year, met so many different people and completely expanded my way of thinking. So many new experiences.

May 2014 teach me to aspire to greater heights.

Claire Organics

Okay, I'm gonna have to put it out there that I'm the biggest slob in the world and I kind of suck at maintaining any sort of skincare regime (until now, I can go days in a row without washing my face).

With that said, I am positively plagued with skin allergies. I seem to be allergic to various detergents, strong soaps, seafood and most metals. Lord. No surprise that I somehow itched at the back of my left knee until I developed eczema.

I began applying lotion all over for weeks two or three times a day to no avail. I would grit my teeth and restrain myself from scratching. Difficult.

Today a friend and I decided to check out the little stall Claire Organics was manning at the Oval in One Utama for the Christmas and New Year season (there were other stalls there too and all of them looked pretty good!). A friend of mine purchased their Guinness Stout soap at RM 17 for quite a chunk for his father. I took a sample swipe from a tester of their Healing Balm (specially for eczema, acne and suchlike) and applied it behind my knee. Dear God, I felt the itchiness recede immediately and then this minty sensation spread all over the area. Bliss. I purchased myself a little tub for RM 15 (totally worth it, guys, eczema sucks).

There it is! The Healing Balm for insect bites, eczema, acne, rashes, burns and cuts for RM 15.

Yes, I'm completely raving over this. I never rave. And I never review things like this. Also, you should totally check Claire Organics out. I am seriously going to keep a stock of their Healing Balm and I'm honestly considering faffing off Body Shop and buying all of my soap from here instead.

Click here for their Facebook page and online store.

UH HUH YOU KNOW WHAT IT IS

So there was this one time when I was 11 and kind of really bored in the Philippines so I read an entire dictionary.

The idea that innocence cannot live in tandem with sexual experience is completely antediluvian.

Take your sexist, slut-shaming propaganda away from me. I'm not interested in feminism that was created specifically for the comfort of men and privileged people.

I refuse to believe in the concept of female virginity - that the organ of another person could change my identity forever.

I am what I make of me.

47 Ronin

It looked like it was going to be a really cool film.

And then it turned out that they invented a whole new character for the sake of using a white actor against the backdrop of Japanese culture.

My, how exotic.

Click here for more.

I want to pick up art again.

I started drawing more this year as a reflection of my improving mindset. More often than not, I would catch myself doodling absentmindedly; circles, whorls, tendrils of black ink decorating the edges of my law notes and smudging some of the page numbers.

I would love to enrol myself in an art course but. Time. I have too many things to focus on.

Such a pity.

If you're a reader...

You could possibly check out the project my book club is working on. We've decided to set up a blog dedicated to our actual book clubbing stuff but before we sort out our book reviews, we're working on completing the 30 Day Reading Challenge.

Give it a go if you like books!

Martial law.

The exercise of government and control by military authorities over the civilian population of a designated territory.

Martial law is an extreme and rare measure used to control society during war or periods of civil unrest or chaos.

Martial law is the result of my heart beating triple time, of being wrong, of having had my defenses down (leaving holes in my guard and my ports open for ships to dock at).

You dropped your anchor and ravaged my city and all I can do is excise you out (like a tumour, a surgeon with the hands of a pianist and the fingers of a violinist with a scalpel fluttering delicately against her palm).

I fell in love.

Just a few hours ago, I'd ended my first capoeira lesson. Even before it ended, I knew I was completely, irrevocably, unconditionally in love.

I was a little tired during the warm up session but mostly due to having my first boot camp experience the same day (fitness test, arghhh - I did reasonably well, though). The instructor took me aside along with another beginner and the two of us went through basic kicks and I got to fiddle with my ginga. I got to attempt a handstand up against the wall too, which I also think I did fairly in.

(kicking moves are my one true love, seriously - no matter how badly I bomb at something, if it involves kicking, I know I should be able to do it well)

For years, I'd wanted to start learning capoeira but I lacked the push (possibly the time, as well). Quite recently I came to the realisation that if I want to do something, I might as well make the time for it instead of finding time for it. Subtle difference, but it means all the world.

So never mind the aches and pains and the blisters (a senior kindly gave me a Blisters 101 session after class when he noticed me walking on my heels), because they're all damn well worth it.

For the first time in ages, I touched my violin again.

Disillusioned, I'd abandoned it and left it forgotten in its case for months.

This morning, I ran my hands over the hard wood and traced my fingers over its neglected springs. Unable to find my digital tuner, I made an attempt at tuning it by ear using my piano.

I managed to locate my little bar of rosin on my dresser and hesitantly went through the motions of preparing to play the violin. I wiped my chinrest, attached the shoulder rest and checked the tension of the strings. Then I drew my the hairs of my bow vigorously over the bar of rosin I'd found.

I absentmindedly sat on my bed in my underwear and having experience playing the classical guitar, I plucked out G major and D major on the strings.

Pizzicato.

Sounded fairly alright. I picked up my bow and pulled it across the strings.

Double stop.

Two thirds of a C major chord.

Quadruple stop.

The entire C major chord.

Gifted with long fingers and a wide palm, I'd never had much trouble with my musical reach. Even on the piano, on a good day I could reach a nine note chord.

I played notes on the higher string, remembering to keep to the scale I'd chosen.

B string. C#, D, C#, D... trill. I moved my fingers faster, making use of the the convenient placing of my fingers. Vibrato.

I could write love sonnets to the vibrato, gorgeous dissonance you could never play on a piano or any other instrument that isn't stringed. The sound waves oscillated around me as I wavered from high D to C# repeatedly (aural perception naturally favours the highest note in any tune with varying pitches - of course, I would manipulate biological facts to court musical pleasure).

I abruptly brought my bow into a détaché. What else now? My bow moved in rapid strokes of no discernible musical measurement. The fingers of my left hand climbed up the scale of E major, moving note by note every four counts.

I stopped when I completed an octave. And then I began playing my piece.

My all time favourite piece to play on the violin, besides Vivaldi's Four Seasons.

To all 'Assigned Male At Birth' people:

CHECK YOUR PRIVILEGE HERE.

Man of Steel 2013! Spoiler free, chill.

If you were to refer to a post I made on the movie the Immortals (2011) you'd see that I am a huge fan of Henry Cavill and have been since The Tudors back in 2007.

And so...

Yes. Premiere passes for Man of Steel!

I found it a very good movie, especially in terms of a Superman Origins film. I didn't nitpick the plot too much although I did think of a few plotholes. They didn't really weigh on my mind, though, so that was alright. The graphics were excellent. Overall, I didn't find it cheesy (my biggest deal with the Marvel movies and even Deathly Hallow II), thank goodness.

Contrary to my hang ups with most superhero films, I don't think Man of Steel did too badly with the portrayal of their female characters. Martha Kent had quite a few touching scenes with Clark Kent. Lois Lane's Pulitzer is mentioned, hurrah. For once, Lois Lane isn't sexualised. Neither is any other character sexualised, actually (except for Henry Cavill, but seriously nobody's complaining). I think Perry White's raceswap is brilliant.

Conclusion: I don't think it's a flawless film, obviously. There are many more things that could have been done right (lack of ethnic representation, can't Lois Lane get herself out of danger at all???, etc.), but I think that this wasn't too bad an effort.

Oh, it wasn't too bad a movie either.

Anyway. I watched it with Kelly, my Henry Cavill obsessed baby sister. She isn't ashamed to admit that she bawled throughout the entire movie, not because of the emotional scenes but because "Henry Cavill was finally getting the recognition he deserves" and not to mention the emotionally intense three year wait (chick was waiting on the movie ever since it was announced that Henry Cavill was casted - some relationships don't even last that long).

Definitely my favourite superhero movie.

A brief update.

I'm highly excited right now because just recently I registered for my first ever capoeira class (to begin next Thursday)!

If you've known me just a little while and the topic of martial arts has ever come up, I would definitely have mentioned that I've always, always, always wanted to learn capoeira. I don't actually have an inkling as to why exactly capoeira. Maybe because I've always been drawn to acrobatics and kicks.

Whatever it is, I'm sure to have fun. :D

So... This just happened.

I FINALLY GOT MY DOBOK.

This is a huge deal for me because it's my first ever blackbelt dobok (it's a really long story and it involves me forgetting that I'd gotten my Dan and staying Poom for several years- very technical stuff).

It looks gorgeous.

This is what years of hard work and sweat and tears and blood and injuries looks like (besides the certificates and medals, hehe):

EEEEEEEEEKKKK.

So I may have the weirdest mood swings ever...

5:20 PM and I was sitting in front of my laptop, bumming.

A minute later, I suddenly realised: I'm an attractive, fairly intelligent young lady. I have talents, skills, accomplishments. I'm well-read. I have quirky interests. I know I'm a good person. I don't tear other people (women, especially) down to feel better about myself. I'm not mean spirited either.

There's absolutely nothing for me to be sad about.

Then I felt like crying because I just summed up the the struggle I've had with myself and my self esteem for almost 21 years of my life and that it was so easy to put this new perspective into words but so much harder to actually believe and slot into place.

This is likely to be temporary but I will remember how this feels.

A chronological order of my development.

In chronological order:

I must have been four here.

A little bit older than four. Possibly almost six?

Ah. The ballerina days. Around eight or nine.

Well. Me at 15. D:

16 and at a dunking booth doing my prefect duty to raise funds.

Me at 17 and here begins my attempt at growing my hair out.

18 and obviously still immature.

Me at 19 and looking very, very creepy.

And this was taken a few nights ago and very obviously, I am 20 going on 21.

Interesting.

I look almost like different people. I do have to say that in all, I'm rather happy with the way I've grown up. Here's to hoping I keep blooming.

Or whatever metaphor seems most apt.

I don't want to be a feminist anymore. by LINE

I don’t want to be a feminist anymore. Like a five-year-old, I want to close my eyes, stick my fingers in my ears, stomp my feet on the floor and scream “No! No, you cannot make me, I won’t, leave me alone!”  I am, simply put, too tired. So very, very tired.

I am tired of fighting with my friends. I am tired of arguing that someone groping and slapping my butt isn’t “what I have to expect”, just because I’m at a bar, and the one attacking my butt has a drink in the other hand. I am tired of hearing “boys will be boys” and “when you’re dressed like that …” and “that’s just what guys do”. I am tired of trying to drown those sentiments in loud, repetitive no’s, screamed over and over again,  till my throat is sore and my voice weak – just to hear them repeated, as soon as exhaustion threatens to silence me.

I am tired of being afraid. I am tired of seeing someone writing something offensive, sexist, racist, ageist, ableist, somewhere online. I am tired of seeing those writings getting likes and lol’s, and SO TRUE’s.  I am tired of being consumed by confusion and anger, typing, typing, typing and typing a seemingly endless response, including research, links and statistics, and then hesitate clicking “submit”. I am tired of knowing that I hesitate because I am afraid of the flood of responses that will come. I am tired of knowing that I will be bombarded with lighten up’s, stop whining’s and get a sense of humor’s for so long, that I will start to wonder if I am indeed wound up too tight, a nagger and humorless. I am tired of the fact that I’m afraid of being called a cunt, even though I don’t find genitalia insulting or demeaning.

I am tired of being told. I am tired of being told that “a key that unlocks many locks is a good key, but that a lock that can be unlocked by many keys is a bad lock”. I am tired of the fact that nobody who says this has ever been able to tell me what it is that needs to be locked up. I am tired of being told “your boobs are awesome, you should show them of “. I am tired of being told that “that looks a little slutty”. I am tired of being told that I shouldn’t be a prude, but I shouldn’t be slutty. I am tired of that nobody seems to be able to explain how to do so. I am tired of being told that I can just say no, and I am tired of being told “come on, you know you want to”.
I am tired of being told “But we HAVE equality!”

I am tired of being asked. I am tired of being asked if I’m a lesbian or if I was raped. I am tired of being asked if daddy didn’t treat me right. If I was in an abusive relationship. If I was beaten. If I grew up with a single mother. If I don’t like sex. I am sick and tired of being asked “But, why are you a feminist, then?” I am tired of being asked why I wear make-up. Why I wear a bra. Why I wear skirts and dresses. Why I flirt with men. Why I shave my legs. I am tired of asking “why do you ask me this?” and hearing the answer “because real feminists are against those things, aren’t they?”

Most of all, I am tired of knowing. Knowing that my eyes have been opened, and that what has been seen cannot be unseen. I am tired of knowing it, when I see something that is wrong. I am tired of knowing that only speaking out can change it. I am tired of knowing exactly how hard and scary it can be to do so.  I am tired of knowing that if I am not careful, the fight will eat up my hope and strength, and leave me only with bitterness. I am tired of knowing that I can never turn back to not knowing. I am tired of knowing that despite my fears and exhaustion, I am a feminist.

No, I don’t want to be a feminist anymore – today.
Tomorrow? Tomorrow I think I’ll try again.

From here.

It's Madelineeeeee!

After over a year of this happening I just realised that before we eat, my guy friends promptly chant:

We love our bread, we love our butter; but most of all, we love each other!

Firstly, guys. Seriously? Madeline?

Secondly, I don't think we've ever had bread and butter together.

I'm highly aware that this is my 100th post. Daaaaamn, I've come a long way.

A love song to your body.

I want to know your lips, the words they form, the way they move on mine.

I want to know your shoulders and the curve between them and your neck (my favourite refuge).

I want to know your hands. I want to know the length of your fingers, the way they flex, the hard fist you make and the gentle savagery of your grip on my skin.

I want to know your chest, your ribs, the harsh beating of your heart against my palm and the deep inhalations you take that push against my back.

I want to know your hips and the way they dip.

I want your feet and their warmth (my cold toes pressing into your ankles, your soft and muffled laughter).

I want to learn every part of you the way I am forced to study now as if I were to be given an examination in your anatomy.

I would do very well, of course.

Artsy Fartsy

Yes, it's been literally THREE YEARS since I've done something I actually love. Time to change that.

Though I went and made a mistake by cross hatching on the hair... well. Scheiße.

Is feminism losing to gender policing and the patriarchy?

I was 15 when my first serious-ish (it counts okay because it was a relationship that spanned three years- and I totally don't need to explain myself to you, really) boyfriend turned to me with an eyebrow raised and he asked with genuine bewilderment, "You aren't one of those ridiculous feminists, are you?"

That's when I knew that okay, this isn't a person I could fall in love with. Ever.

Romance aside, I now see that the poor boy was a product of his upbringing. Tall and rugged with broad shoulders and a natural athlete, he was intelligent and on the school football team. He was practically made to perpetuate misogynistic ideals.

In him, I discovered a treasure trove of "what a man should be like", ideas that he strived actively to live up to that spilled into our relationship. Never mind that I have always been naturally headstrong and outspoken about my opinions. Never mind that I'm frank and unafraid of adversity. These were all characteristics that he had associated (quite naturally thanks to centuries of male supremacy breeding) with a masculine personality and led him to the conclusion that... I was too masculine for a girl. As a heterosexual male, this was somehow a threat to his masculinity.

"You are an embarrassment."
"Be more feminine."
"What are you? A guy stuck in a girl's body?"
"Behave like a young lady."
"Dress like a girl."

I grew up being gender policed, just like everyone else around me.

My hair cut short, my (at the time) skinny build, involvement in athletics and specifically martial arts, this all served to make boys awkward around me.

Fast forward five years later.

I filled out generously. More than I could ever expect. It turned out that I was a late bloomer. However, the physical changes did nothing to assuage my anger at the guys my age who'd called me names and made fun of me. It certainly didn't help that these guys almost made a massive turnabout in the way they'd treated me (actually expecting me to be grateful that I sprouted breasts and my face rounded out from sharp angles, that my hair grew past mid-back, that I'd grown into the perception of femininity).

Never mind that I looked feminine. I didn't act feminine. In the eyes of many people, that made me less. Less than female. Less than perfect.

Gender is a social construct. Not a biological one.

Just like how only skinny is beautiful (not that it isn't, but so are all other body types!), just like how men shouldn't cry, just like how rape culture is alive and thriving, just like how depression is seen as a fault in character instead of chemistry.

Just. Like. That.

How Not To Study Gender In The Middle East
This is a good article for anyone interested in gender!

A Daddy’s Letter to His Little Girl (About Her Future Husband)

by Dr. Kelly Flanagan

Dear Cutie-Pie,

Recently, your mother and I were searching for an answer on Google. Halfway through entering the question, Google returned a list of the most popular searches in the world. Perched at the top of the list was “How to keep him interested.”

It startled me. I scanned several of the countless articles about how to be sexy and sexual, when to bring him a beer versus a sandwich, and the ways to make him feel smart and superior.

And I got angry.

Little One, it is not, has never been, and never will be your job to “keep him interested.”

Little One, your only task is to know deeply in your soul—in that unshakeable place that isn’t rattled by rejection and loss and ego—that you are worthy of interest. (If you can remember that everyone else is worthy of interest also, the battle of your life will be mostly won. But that is a letter for another day.)

If you can trust your worth in this way, you will be attractive in the most important sense of the word: you will attract a boy who is both capable of interest and who wants to spend his one life investing all of his interest in you.

Little One, I want to tell you about the boy who doesn’t need to be kept interested, because he knows you are interesting:

I don’t care if he puts his elbows on the dinner table—as long as he puts his eyes on the way your nose scrunches when you smile. And then can’t stop looking.

I don’t care if he can’t play a bit of golf with me—as long as he can play with the children you give him and revel in all the glorious and frustrating ways they are just like you.

I don’t care if he doesn’t follow his wallet—as long as he follows his heart and it always leads him back to you.

I don’t care if he is strong—as long as he gives you the space to exercise the strength that is in your heart.

I couldn’t care less how he votes—as long as he wakes up every morning and daily elects you to a place of honor in your home and a place of reverence in his heart.

I don’t care about the color of his skin—as long as he paints the canvas of your lives with brushstrokes of patience, and sacrifice, and vulnerability, and tenderness.

I don’t care if he was raised in this religion or that religion or no religion—as long as he was raised to value the sacred and to know every moment of life, and every moment of life with you, is deeply sacred.

In the end, Little One, if you stumble across a man like that and he and I have nothing else in common, we will have the most important thing in common:

You.

Because in the end, Little One, the only thing you should have to do to “keep him interested” is to be you.

Your eternally interested guy,

Daddy

———

This post is, of course, dedicated to my daughter, my Cutie-Pie. But I also want to dedicate it beyond her.

I wrote it for my wife, who has courageously held on to her sense of worth and has always held me accountable to being that kind of “boy.”

I wrote it for every grown woman I have met inside and outside of my therapy office—the women who have never known this voice of a Daddy.

And I wrote it for the generation of boys-becoming-men who need to be reminded of what is really important—my little girl finding a loving, lifelong companion is dependent upon at least one of you figuring this out. I’m praying for you.

———

(from here: Dr. Kelly Flanagan)

And from a post Dr. Flanagan made in the comments section:

There are three important threads in this conversation that I think need to be addressed and developed. First, there is a subset of people who are taking potshots. If that happens, I'd ask that we all kindly let them do so and either not respond, or respond gently. They desire conflict. Let's not give them what they desire.

Second, there is a thread expressing concern that unconditionally affirming the worth of children/girls and their inherent interesting-ness creates entitled, selfish princesses who will not be capable of mutuality in relationship. I know it may seem like a paradox, but the reality is that entitlement is actually created by a latent
sense of worthlessness. Individuals who have a deep and unwavering sense of
their worthiness are free from all of the ego needs that produce entitlement,
selfishness, and narcissism. Children who have been mirrored well and affirmed
of their worthiness are far more likely to spend their lives caring for others
than obsessively caring for themselves, because they have already been cared for
well.
Third, there is a thread that I have addressed in part but is worth another mention. It has to do with concerns regarding the heterosexism of assuming my daughter will marry a man. The reality is, the inspiration for the post/letter was a Google search, which revealed countless articles about how women try to keep men interested. That
naturally led to a post concerning men and women. But it's worth saying again:
my daughter's worth is unconditional, regardless of whether or not she
identifies as a lesbian, becomes a nun, runs a corporation and chooses a career
over family, etc. etc. She need do nothing or become anything to be interesting
to anyone. She already is. And so are you, Dear Reader.
I hope my comments here will move these threads forward, rather than inviting the same comments. If you want people to read this first and help the conversation progress, please feel free to up vote it. 


Thanks again to all.

Not a fan of fashion but heeeeey!

LOOK WHAT I FOUND!

Debenhams shows diversity in fashion.

This is gorgeous.

I can't exactly describe it without directly paraphrasing (in which case, you might as well check out the link yourself) but here's a teaser:

Friendship, now and then.

Friendship then resembled empty Starbucks containers left discarded in the wake of equally vacant smiles and laughter. I never knew what to keep and what to leave behind. It took trials, errors, misconceptions, mistakes before I realised that cliches exist and that you really do have to discover your real friends (empty platitudes I learnt to mean so much more).

Friendship now is settled for the most part, like the sedimentary spices sinking to the bottom of a chai latte (smooth, soothing, dependable).

*this piece refers to this conversation I had with an amazing friend

Something worth sharing.

I stumbled upon this video and I think it's amazingly powerful, very beautiful.

You are more beautiful than you think you are, and I believe that this applies not just to women but to any other gender identity as well.

Note: There are problems I have with the video which I will not go into detail about, but I suppose this video is a fairly alright forward step.

"Elementary."

Okay, I hear and see nothing but good things about Elementary, such as:

1. A lack of romance between Sherlock and Joan.
2. Cultural diversity (sadly lacking in Sherlock).
3. Positive portrayal of current issues.

Good job there. An American counterpart that outdoes the British one. You certainly don't see that very often.

Darling, darling, darling.

Darling, It's Alright by Francis and the Lights

I love this song. Francis and the Lights is an act I stumbled on last year. One of favourite musical discoveries besides Amanda Palmer.

He obviously needs more recognition!

In my head.

Hair strewn in a mess, like hands were running through the strands just a few seconds ago. Hands smooth them down only to clench fists in them moments later.

Eyes wide and wild behind thick, dark purple frames. Seeing nothing (not in this world, anyway).

Thoughts run wild and free, drunken in the non-permeant spaces between a pair of ears scarred with multiple healed piercings.

They play hide and seek with your demons.

Self Injury Awareness Day.

March 1 2013.

Wear orange to support it or write LOVE on your wrists!

More info here.

For a young boy: this is how I see you.

Curious half hidden smiles, bashful laughter and shy touches.

Bright eyes, disillusioned laughter, gentle hands.

Too much love in a cruel world, a touch of cynicism and contradictory naivety.

Fair skin, lean and lanky, lips that are full yet innocent in their sensuality.

Graceful movements, the hands of a musician, the voice of a breathy fog.

Startled chuckles, soft conversations, a mirror held to a nicer portion of the world.

Sensitive to undercurrents, sensibly grounded and strong arms to cradle.

(I will always love the boy you are and the man you will become.)

It struck me.

The problem with teenage me is that I was unconsciously attempting to be the younger version of Lisbeth Salander.

Noun. The state or condition of being free from being observed or disturbed by other people.

Too many people watch this space, waiting for the politically correct humanist Zarrah to slip.

Too many people are able to access this, to gain considerable insight into my mental processes.

Too many people who may know me or not.

I crave intimacy. Privacy.

I'm thinking of setting up a private blog just for my thoughts. Or even an anonymous one.

If you were to love me...

You would need to know that:

• I am a scrawling mess of spilled thoughts and fragments of memories. Rarely will I ever be able to express myself with eloquence let alone sense.
• Sometimes, I share the things that go through my mind. More often than not, I won't.
• I will resist falling in love with you (as opposed to loving you, which I will do very well).
• If I casually mention "I have never told anyone this before", I've entrusted into your care something that I never found the courage to tell any other person.
• There will be moments (hours, days, maybe for longer) when I wish to be alone. Please respect that.

And if I were to love you too? I wonder.

Denna's stone tale.

From The Wise Man's Fear by Patrick Rothfuss:

Once there was a boy who came to the water, this is the story of a girl who came to the water with the boy. They talked and the boy threw the stones as if casting them away from himself. The girl didn’t have any stones, so the boy gave her some. Then she gave herself to the boy, and he cast her away as he would a stone, unmindful of any falling she might feel. It isn’t a sad stone. But it was thrown once. It knows the feel of motion. It has trouble staying the way most stones do. It takes the offer that the water makes and moves sometimes. When it moves it thinks about the boy.

Image is powerful.

You are beautiful regardless. You should not have to be insecure over how you look.

007 crossdressing for equality.

This is truly, truly brilliant! I can't believe I haven't heard of this much earlier.

I'd never actually liked Daniel Craig prior to this video. Right now, I completely respect him as a person for his stand on equality.