Love...And Other Disasters.

It seems inevitable. You know that thing...that phenomenon? The one where, as soon as you become acutely aware of something or a realization occurs, that thing starts to show up everywhere? You notice it everywhere you go; or it really becomes that ubiquitous, as though the universe may be trying to setting up Vegas-style neon coloured signs of what to focus on. For me, all signs point to single-girl-dom and city-life.

After sightseeing for a few days, I hunkered down to a spate of movies, courtesy of HBO and Star Movies. I caught Love and Other Disasters. Others may scoff at her but I think Brittany Murphy is a top-class actress and totally underrated. If you look past the blonde locks and breathy voice, you'll see that she nails her characters with an air of unpractised ease. In Love and Other Disasters, she was playing a 20-something American intern at UK Vogue and I thought she pulled off the in-between accent so well. You know, the one that's hardest to do - because she was in the middle of an American accent but aptly stressed the right words with just the right amount of inflection. And she was consistent. Also, her choice of movies = impeccable and interesting.

Anyway, the allure of the movie (besides Santiago Cabrerra...dear god, I could just spread him on a cracker...) was the city of London. Which, of course, is vastly different from New York City. The main practices are the same - fashion, love, sex, nights out, local watering holes, gay roommates and sky-high rent - but the people, the attitudes are worlds apart. Which I thought the film captured silently and particularly well. You could spot it if you were looking at it.

Being in Singapore, which is a perpetual city and damn proud of it, reminds me of the lonliness of being within a city crowd. The consuming ache you feel after you step back on to the curb, after having just been in a crowd of poeple crossing the road and yet wanting absolutely no one to jostle you.

The shopping here is...unbelieveable. I've been to new York so many times now that the shopping just doesn't faze me - plus some of the hype is just that: hype. You have to know where to look, where to shop. And while that is true even of Singapore, where Fendi and Vuitton lives near vintage, somehow, it seems like everything is alot more accessible here in Singapore. Probably because I could catch a ride and cross the country in less than 20 minutes. Me, myself, I've been gorging on the piles of one-of designs and dresses, nameless t-shirts, funky shoes. Appearance here is a huge deal. I'd wager that, on average, Singaporeans spend at least 100/wk on shoes and clothes. Easily. And that is just the low end. Shopping is the national pastime here.

The level of safety is also amazing. I can catch a cab at 2 in the morning, hop up to a eating centre (yes...this is Singapore's second national pastime...and yet somehow everyone is super skiny. You thought French women were elusive...but these people are just magical - or very scary) and not worry about where I am or what time it is. As a chick...it's refreshing. Because, yes, you could hop a cabbie in NY or T.O. but there are always places that you know you shouldn't be going. It's not really like that here.

I don't know if I've spent money wisely perse, but I certainly know that I've bought from the heart. Each and every single one of my purchases has been completely whimsical, instinctual, with the speed of love-at-first-sight, not paying heed to the amount of money remaining until it was all gone. In my defense, I did take the time to feel slightly guilty (also known as Post-Shopper's Guilt Syndrome) but then rationalized that this is what I had set the money out for in the first place. And even though I got a few items for a...larger amount of money, I'd rather have quality than have multiple copies of the same shitty t-shirts. So many dresses! It was every girly-girl's vintage bohemian dream. I really must post pictures of my finds...they're like treasures.

When the money was gone, I spent a day in mourning of all the shoes and dresses and skirts that would never know a home in my closet and then moved on to sightseeing. Not really much to see - this is my second visit here. And the allure of the animal zoos, bird parks, butterfly conservatories has now been replaced with the grown-up 20 year old realization that zoos are hot and smelly (and how many variations of an elephant can you see?), birds poop alot and butterflys are beautiful but giant INSECTS. So I focused more on my surroundings, the people, the places, the smell. The good, the bad, the facades, the lights.

I missed Singapore Fashion Week so the Marc by Marc Jacobs exhibit was gone. But I did pay a visit to the National Museum of Singapore, the Ancient Civilization exhibit and the Singapore Art Gallery. Nothing really compared to the National Reserve Library, though. The nerd in me (which is 99/9% of my being) screamed for joy and was shamelessly and lustfully infatuated by the gorgeous library of glass and mahogany and steel. I finished off some research for my Saudi project, got a few sources. Nothing could parallel the feleing of immense...belonging and peace that settled over me as I got back to academia for three hours. Wow...guess this is proof beyond doubt of my hermitaged future.

I also hit the (Eye of London) Singapore Flyer. I insisted we go at nighttime, because city lights are what my heart soars highest for. Pictures to come, I had a shitty disposable with me so once that gets developed...=( but anyhow, it was nothing short of magical. Granted, I kept trying to super impose my beloved NY skyline on the view at the very top but Singapore is really booming - and beautiful beyond words at night. I reckon that in a couple of years, they'll have a killer skyline of their own. Of course, NYC shall still eternally pwn them. The cabin itself was gorgeous, especially at night, all lit up and spacious. My girlfriend kept telling me with a pang that though she loves being single, she wished had an on-call boyfriend to spend romantic moments like this with. I kept telling her I wished I had a digital SLR for moments like this. She told me my priorities were worrying.

The quiet days are now coming to an end, what with my three younger cousins returning but not before I had a chance to visit Chinatown, wherein I proceeded to buy dirt-cheap crap for friends and Little India (wherein I got stared down by women and ogled by men like the foreigner I am). After some healthy haggling in Pagoda Street, I ended up getting some fabulous kimono-type bathrobes for Mother and I. If I spoke like that I would say that they were really quite a steal - that is a big if, however. In Little India, it started to rain, thankfully, so people ran out of sight and into shops while I stayed out and got drenched but got some lovely shots of alleyways and gaudy Christmas lights strung over shops. Amazing.

I also applied for the TIFF as a volunteer but ended up doing the most effing STUPID thing. I hit the submit button without sending my resume in. So after freaking out for three minutes, I then filled out another application and realized that, if I were the interview people, I'd disqualify me just for erring in such a large way, taking it as an ominous sign of volunteer incapabilities. Fuck man. Fingers crossed though - hopefully, they won't notice; besides, there are so many Sarah's in the world, bless their souls. It's easy to get mixed up, right? That's what I keep telling myself, at least.

OOh! I also got a chance to see the very cool, very hip, soul-pumping, adrenaline-chugging band, Voodoo Singapore. In front of Paragon, a group of six or seven boys smashed the living daylights out of drums and various percussion instruments in an unbelieveable coordinated effort and produced some of the most beautiful music I have ever heard. I'm making it my personal mission to spread the word about them - it was so capturing, like nothing I've ever heard before. It made me wish I was their manager or I was the daughter of some hot-shot music producer or record label head honcho bloke because then I could totally pass on their music. The way they jsut had SO much fun working off each other, working the crowd, killing the beat on those drums - unbloodybelieveable. I'm in love. With music. Again. Sigh. Open air music gigs are alot more fun than those within an arena or club or indoor space. I guess it depends on the bands and their audio acoustics but I could say without fear of argument that percussion was made for an outdoor jam session. Check them out at http://www.myspace.com/VoodooSG. I keep trying to find some vids on youtube...so far a no-go. But the outdoor busking is sure to continue and, like a true groupie, I shall surely follow.


There is alot more to come, I'm sure. These past few days have been quite and lazy. Still, there's to weeks more before I return to reality and do things such as apply to OSAP and argue when I get turned down because my father makes to much, trying to swing the fact that I am an independent and no longer a minor, look for places to live in T.O., and scrounge up money for living. =)

Tune in next time as Sarah tries to look for an internship in 2010 at Conde Nast and Mirabai Films.

cheers.

Fresh Eyes

Being here in Singapore is not merely giving me a chance to explore a new country. It is also allowing me some much required brain space, breathing time, peace and quiet from the regular, tumultuous cataclysms that is my life in toronto.

I keep writing posts and then not publishing them because they are too long-winded, too detailed. And yet, they work; they slowly draw out the emotion into words like pulling at a loose thread in a spool and watching it unravel. The heap of thread is still there...but it is not so tightly wound.

So it is that these words make me feel. Anyhow, something short and sweet; not resolutions but decisions that I have made in my life, about my life that is going to and will change. In no particular order...

I am going to move out. I must. It is essential if I hope to stay alive and not jump off a cliff. This will entail applying for osap, maybe dropping my cellphone service to a monthly top-off, picking up two extra jobs through the summer and applying more rigorously for scholarships, looking for a roomate and starting the house-search now. Buying furnishings and keeping them stocked fro the day I move out. Which will be by May 31st 2010.

I am going to work out, in a strict regime, every single day. Either a workout or cardio or both. Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. No more stupid, fat, body. It is so unattractive not because thin is in...but because its just a sign of how much I don't give a shit. No more apathy. I still love food...shall always love it. But...time to get healthy and not be a couch-rhino. Basically, the idea is to stop ignoring me; to take care of me. Not be lazy...be proactive. Sounds so New Age, I know, but I've been driving myself into the ground and quietly sitting in bed. NO More! I'm going to pay attention to my hair and skin.

I am going to be more organized. Because, in order for these things to fall in place, to get those jobs and pay attention to me, I must be organized. And I will be. No more age-old procrastinator...still going to be laidback, not uptight or dragon-lady about things. But just...care more. Not put things off.

Be more passionate. Well...express that passion instead of just merely bottling it up. Goodness knows I've got oodles of moxy; moxy is practically pouring out my ears.

Treat myself with something classy every once in a while. Not worry that it is frovolous and materialistic. The day will come, I am sure, when I completely shun society and go to live in the mountains like a monk (goodness knows I've been contemplating that over the last year).

Save up enough to retake driving lessons and get my G.

Not be so elitist. Somethings, however, like Miley Cyrus and the new 90210, are unforgiveable.

Stop running away. Stop being so angry. Or...being proactively angry...not explosively so.

Smile more.

Leave in peace. Live in peace. Try not to get bogged down by stupid family shit. Because, soon, that will all be gone. Or at least, the DVP will separate us.

Put Your Records On.

Girl put your record on / Tell me your favourite song / You're gonna find yourself somewhere Somehow

(A.D., you're mine. We are already together. Forever. And I'm having the time of my life with you.)

Moving Pictures

I'm very grateful. For music, for art, for pictures, still, moving, for imagination, for creativity, for immportality, for this plane of existence.

fuck yes.

So Its Not Just Me

Recently, I had an idea for a writing project and so, in research, I started to read Zadie Smith's White Teeth. For all hermits and rock dwellers out there, I'll reiterate: White Teeth is Zadie Smith's debut novel, for which the literary aniticipation was SO high (i dont even know how she got it that way but hell, she must have an amazing Ari-Gold SuperAgent for a literary agent, to get a bidding war started over HALF a manuscript) that when the book finally came out, the literary community pounced on it.

And yet...reading this, I could only maintain my quizzical brow. How to describe White Teeth in non-derogatory terms? How to say how bad it is in a helpful manner without moaning about the utter waste of time it was? How to exlain/understand why the fuck it was so loved? Okay, well that's an easy one. This was written around the Bend It Like Beckham time in England. To give it fair credit, BilB was in 2002 so I'm not insinuating that White Teeth is apeing. But the Asian London fad is hard to miss. Think Jay Sean and all.

But, honestly, for the quality of the book and the sheer number of utter stereotypes in the lives of Black and Asian Londoners relative to white Londoners is...appalling to say the least. There is not one redeeming quality to the book. Not even the wry smile it pulled from me at the butchering pigeons/halal meat shop can redeem the 480 pages of the great big NOTHING I just had to put msyelf through.

And for what? To read some mixed, divorced, over-privileged, 20 something, child's take on what culture is? I agree wholeheartedly that writing about culture - especially one that isn't your own - takes a huge amount of courage. Because you're always going to run into people who say well THIS is not the correct representation of me or my culture, this is not our people's general attitude, don't generalize, blahblahblah. And I get that, truly I do. Because, culture in itself is sort of a generalization too, isn't it? Any culture for that matter - the mere meaning of the word groupds together a mass of people. So, yes, there are going to be generalizations.

But my gosh! At least make it the right KIND of generalization! At least get it right. I'm not indignant because I'm Asian or I was a Londoner or anything. I'm indignant because the author seems to have taken NO pains whatsoever to research! To immerse herself, meet with people who are different, to truly go out there and capture the soul of a peoples. And for crying out loud, she had a 6 figure paycheck as an incentive! What was she doing sitting on her ass, screwing about with pre-Nick Laird-boyfriend??!

There are tons of people who swear by the book, tons of people (Salman Rushdie included) that would gamble their literary reputations (as the endorsements littered on the jacket of the book can only lead me to believe) on what they think is the utter bible penned by a 20 year old with amazing insight into cultural communities and immigrants of London.

Let me tell you: it is not. Here's what White Teeth is: it is a mish mash of stereotypes - horny brown man, disgruntled white man, radical youth, absolutely 1 dimensional wives...the list is endless. And the reason it is so revered is because White Teeth...is for white people.

Seriously. The ones who put this book up on a pedestal are either naive people who tend to like their cultures oversimplified, commoditized and packaged, the people who have NO insight into multi-cultural lives or have lived around immigrants and are delusional enough to think that they are "in the know".

Yeah. Okay. LOL, is what I gotta say to that. It is utterly insulting, I think, that the author thought that she would sit in her apartment (and the apartments of others) and pen characters that are empty, hollow, and complete caricatures of just about every South Asian stereotypes you might have come across. The book lacks focus - what is she talking about? Love? Friendship? War? The Immigrant status? What? And more importantly...why do I care?

I'm an immigrant, technically speaking. Born in India, never lived there, move to Bahrain, then to London, then to New York back and forth and Toronto. I couldn't say I fully understand culture but I love to steep myself in it. I couldn't define it (at least not in such flat, dry terms as Zadie Smith) but I feel it all around me. Smith, on the other hand, is trying to package a Bollywood Crossover, an cheap imitation of Nair (in terms of pull of different cultures) and Rushdie in literary style, trying to write on the lives of people she clearly has no knowledge of...and doesn't seem to want to take the effort of getting to know!

While her use of colloquial dialogue is accurate, at best, the rest of the novel completely falls short. I don't know how she expected us to eat this garbage up; honestly speaking, i'm quite surprised. Her mother is Jamaican and her father is English and you'd think that she might have some empathy and understanding for stereotypes and the way they ensconce. But no...I have read English authors with more authority and panache with a similar topic, who excute a story in a much more unassuming, less brash, not as pretentious manner than what White Teeth has done with its poor, lifeless characters.

My thoughts, after reading such a massively POINTLESS novel are as follows: how dare she waste trees for this? How could they pay her so much money to spew out crap that she has clearly taken from silly crossover movies and the new "south asian author" fad that is going on? It is like she sat home and watched television, possibly re-runs of Skins and wrote this. Unbelieveably insulting that she clearly did NO research.

Not only is it slightly incoherent, what with the pastiche of timelines but its characters are unbearable. On more than one occassion I wanted to smack Samad and the lot (maybe not Clara though) because they were SO. RIDICULOUSLY. PREDICTABLE. This should have been marketed as a satire, seriously, because that is the only way I can take it seriously. If I knew that the book was aware of the caricature it was drawing up and thus mocking books that take this pretentious tone on the subject of immigrant-fare then I would've understood, maybe even clapped.

And to think: the painting of such a ridiculous, farsical image of immigrants from the country that gave us John Berger and the Ways of Seeing. For shame.

The book is serious. It is not a satire. It is not a farce. And it has been nominated for awards and the like. THAT is the satire, that is the comic tragedy, I think!

Which means two things: people are easy to amuse; everyone is looking for an easy packaged image or representation and nobody wants to question; everyone is happy getting fed utter bullshit.

And those literary awards are published by idiotic people who consider themselves scholars but eat up Deepak Chopra and Yoga like its going out of style and love Indian culture for its "bright colours" and "beautiful rituals" and "diverse people" and all that other people-commoditizing-a-culture speak.

Culture is a lot of things. I wouldn't presume to be the expert on its definition. But I know one thing for sure: culture sure as hell isn't White Teeth. If I didn't have any backbone, I would say I wish I had capitalized on this, thought of doing this first; I wish I had though to throw in stereotypical, idiotic, careless, farsical caricatures of several characters and show how their lives are all connected like a twisted version of Love, Actually.

Major Fails. Actually.