c*devotchka

having my Cake, eating it – and not counting every last calorie

je suis étudiante January 10, 2008

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i am glad that i can no longer say “oh, i’m a homemaker, ya know? the glorified bum?”

before the entire species of housewives turn on me with ladles and graters, i must clarify that the homemaker without children or even a pet to call her own is quite the glorified bum. homemakers with kids however, now they are the modern day feminists.

what i can now safely call myself is the unemployed student.

i’ve toyed with the idea of going back to school for years, having been derailed some years back by the intoxicating lure of money and independence from overbearing parents. but i was never sure. what does one study? if only we could be apprentices in livelihoods one could love, like during the Renaissance.

i’m sure i’d have dug up cadavers and sliced ’em open with glee. possibly with a mushroom or two dangling precariously from lips moistened with wine.

but these days, many intern at companies, learning the very pillars of money-making such as coffee-brewing, coffee-serving, photocopying, filing and collecting the boss’ silk shirts from the laundromat instead. when their talents might be better off writing the script of the next hit tv series or scrawling catch phrases on a board which may one day, be on everyone’s lips. we aren’t training to be barristas, no? or we’d have joined Starbucks – and many of us have.

we don’t hang around a musky studio, hacking away at an 8′ tall marble slab. for some reason, i think i’d quite like this type of apprenticeship. the kind where one sits in a straw basket supported by a basic pulley system rigged to the ceiling by a rudimentary iron ring, perfecting murals upside down on one’s ceiling over and over again. some kind of super hero floating in mid air in the Middle Ages with a brush, dripping pearls of exhaustion onto the cold floor below.

but the only one who has ever appreciated my art work was Miss Ong Hana from TKGS. and sitting in the dark somewhere is my styrofoam sculpture, waiting to be returned to its rightful owner. or more likely, at the bottom of a landfill, disintegrating at a rate of never.

this was back in the day when environmentalism wasn’t as sexy as Burger King’s Mushroom Swiss burgers.

tonight’s Orientation Night and i’m crossing my fingers.

oh God, please, don’t let me get freaks for classmates.

and Eds arrives tonight, what delight!

tomorrow, we will view the Greek exhibit on loan from the Louvre at the National Museum. and it will be a day of feasting. oh yes, it will be.

 

eureka! January 5, 2008

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but not in a good way.

we knew a luggage or a box was missing from the move but we didn’t know which exact one until tonight.¬† the granny’s coming in a few days, then the in-laws in a couple of weeks – they can’t sleep in a bedroom that resembles a store – so i cleared the remaining boxes from our move.

and i realised.

with a nauseating, sinking feeling in my tummy – it’s the box with all my photographs.

all.

i mean all.

from the time i was born up to the day i bought a digital camera.

i knew i should have listened to my instinct and bought that scanner last year.

i knew it.

and now, all those pictures are gone.

excuse me while i disappear to mope and get a string of anxiety attacks – the eagerness to spontaneously combust into special moments a camera can make permanent.