❝ A painter paints pictures on canvas.
But musicians paint their pictures on silence. ❞
But musicians paint their pictures on silence. ❞
— Leopold Stokowski
… when one has so much to write about but has relevant no pictures stored in the family computer which is the only machine connected to a modem, there’s no WiFi so the stuffed-to-overflowing laptop can’t be utilized, and the USB drive won’t play nice when said frustrated person is trying to transfer photos.
TL;DR: Ahhhhhhhhh! /keeps hands away from head so as not to rip out hair
On the bright side, being barred from blogging means that I am forced to take a nap, yes? But I will be back. Soon. Once I’ve gotten my sticky paws on my ever-reliable-but-somehow-currently-missing sister’s hard drive!
In the meantime, have a film photo. Yum.
Frick! Am I going to start this in June? Yes, I am so going to start this in June.
There’s this little strip of shops near my condo that is shaded by great trees and will always be surrounded by an air of being in a country other than the one it actually is in. Here, people walk with leisurely andante rather than harried allegro, grocery shopping and stopping by 7-Eleven for a Slurpie (or two) and crowding in the newsagent’s to photocopy things and buy magazines, candy, and cigarettes. And I love this place.
Stumbled upon these one fine April day whilst cleaning out my room:
I could go into a long ramble about how the ’90s are more awesome than the present, everything was nicer then, etc. etc. etc., but what I am actually going to say is just this: somehow, the decade isn’t as important as the nostalgia invoked.
“MACARON CLASS IN SESSION,” the cream A4 sheet of paper stuck on the glass doors read.
Beyond these glass doors, four shiny white state-of-the-art mixers perched upon a long black glossy table; red, grey, black, and yellow walls with a trip of wooden pattern in the middle. A pile of dark grey aprons were heaped on a chair, and one by one we met there as fellow Macaron warriors, ready to learn the art. Three hours long and, at one point, with three freezing eggs in my numb hands, I finally got to do something I’d wanted to for awhile - bake, bake, and bake.
As it turns out, the chef of my college’s studio kitchen - the venue and host of our class - is rather proud of the fact that macarons are French. So he refuses to call them but their more common name, macaroons - not that I mind, it’s just one of his numerous idiosyncrasies that I happen to find amusing!
Learning under this particular chef was a whirlwind. I hung blindly on to his direction in bewilderment and at the end of two hours somehow found myself already piping the macarons and readying them for the oven with no clue as to how I really got there! Are all chefs this way, so caught up in the technique they enjoy that they end up forgetting they have a class to teach?
But I guess I didn’t care about learning how to make macarons as much as I just wanted to make something, and so that’s nothing huge to complain about.
Everything about macarons aside, the coolest thing about going for this class is that I was actually offered it for free. An RM 130 macaron session, completely free of charge, and I was allowed to take home a whole boxful! How amazing is that? I don’t think it’s a coincidence that I happened to be hooked on Junior Masterchef at the time and was wishing and praying for an opportunity to make something challenging and pretty and fun instead of just cake and meals…
I have an awesome Heavenly Dad.
It began with his hands, really. I’ve been fascinated by hands for so long with their fingertips, nails, knuckles, and hollows, and it’s embarrassing to admit I don’t know how to draw them as much as I’d like - especially not guys’s hands, which I ended up making too long, too delicate, and too slender. I liked Josh Hutcherson’s hands straightaway because they were big and the fingers were stumpy, and if those weren’t perfect for practising with - well, I had no idea what was!
I’m not sure how the thought came to me while I was hunched over my sketchbook, but it’s a strange one to mull over: how much do people know, really know, that you find them special? Do they know how much you like their company, being their friend, being there with them? I’m pretty sure this is part of the culture we have here… we don’t exactly say what we feel which is a shame. More than a shame.
Imagine not conveying to a person how special you thought they were, because you didn’t want to appear too over-eager or something.
I’ve done this too many times to too many of my friends, and the more I thought about it, the more unfair it seemed to just let them draw their own conclusions of how I might feel towards them. I was thinking about a certain friend of mine and how we had a friendship which was awesome but weirdly on and off at the same time, and then I realized I’d never even told her that I thought she was brilliant because I didn’t want to seem like I was trying to hard/being pathetic.
How am I such a self-minded person?
It isn’t even about me in the end. It’s about them, whoever they are in my life to whom I’ve accidentally conveyed under-appreciation. Or aloofness. Which they don’t deserve. Not. At. All.
Do you know how good it feels to forget about yourself and everything concerning yourself? Like, throw yourself wholeheartedly into making someone else happy? That’s how I ended up with a Josh Hutcherson face on my sketchbook when I’d originally planned on just his hands. My friend had mentioned jokingly that she’s like Josh for her birthday, so I made myself forget about being over-eager, pathetic, or lame and just went for it.
Apparently, I made her day. She’d had a rough all-nighter getting her law assignments done, and to read her happy tweet about what I’d sent her in her Facebook inbox (along with a loooooong note of appreciation), I felt like I was just - over the moon!
I have never known how good it was to forget myself and think about someone else instead, and I have never been more grateful for the opportunity that the Big Orchestra Conductor handed me with a knowing smile, whispering, “Go on, then.” I made someone happy. And I ended up happier than I was before.
And hey, Josh Hutcherson smiling at me everyday? I can deal with that.
