I Miss

Sunsets.
There’s never anything quite as beautiful as a sunset. The colors and shapes that I try so hard to put on canvas never come out just the way I see it, because its just one of those things that cannot be replicated by humans; one of those gifts of nature that are meant to be seen and felt and absorbed, that are so fleeting and yet everlasting. These days it gets dark so fast that when I step out of class I can see the moon. I miss that moment when you look out the window and the sky is ablaze with a thousand colors and you are compelled to take a moment, just one, to feel each of them in your soul.

The ocean.
I didn’t make as much time as I should have to visit the beaches this summer, but this year I went to a couple of the most fabulous locations in the world. The oceans in Male are a dream. Crisp white beaches and dazzling greens and blues as far as the eye can see. The complete and absolute silence, the peace, the beauty, simply breathtaking. And then the beaches of Hawaii, with its secret coves and inlets, the towering mountains and volcanic backdrops, the vibrant, pulsating heart of it. And the beaches of Sri Lanka, maybe not as pristine and unspoiled, but charming and endearing in its own way. The character and atmosphere, the ragged line of sea shells on the sand, the quaint restaurants and bars on the beach, the twinkling lights of ships on the horizon at dusk. If there is anything that can hold me captive for hours, this is it.

Us.
Back when we were kids and life was simple and fun. When we saw each other everyday and shared love and life. When we fought and made up, and laughed and cried, and thought we were wise beyond our years. How silly we were, and how lovely it was to be that silly, and have an excuse for it. I miss us now. Those few months scattered among the years, that we get to share with each other, before we get too old to care. The first time I see you after so long, that ‘I missed you’ hug, the ‘god, I love you’ that resonates in my heart that I can never quite put into words.

Being part of a team.
Practice everyday, hours on end, morning and evening. Bleached hair and the chlorine smell that never quite washes off. Tiredness, the kind that takes over your body and mind, and yet through it, the satisfaction that you gave a 100% today. The exhilaration of improving two seconds on your time or finally perfecting that impossible shot. Teammates, your second family, bonding, team jokes and code words, victories, defeats, memories.

Believing.
In you. In myself. Believing I could be anything and do anything. That people are good and love is real. That life can be as simple as you want and everything is just as it seems. That good things come to those who wait, that life will be like the movies and everything will end happily ever after.

Being in love.
That feeling of absolute trust and safety. Late night phone calls and stolen kisses. Flowers just for the heck of it. Holding hands, dancing in the rain. Shared secrets and private jokes. Fighting and making up. Brown eyes, messy hair and our song. The look.


[Insomnia induced reflections]

I sing a song, while sitting at a red light..

but not always.

I'm currently hooked on these 3 songs:
Vultures - John Mayer
The Way I Am - Ingrid Michaelson
Red Light - Johnny Lang
Hooked meaning I put it on a playlist and then put that playlist on repeat. For the last 6 hours.

So, here's a question, courtesy Johnny Lang. What do you do while sitting at a red light?

PC Much?

Just when I got done laughing over this, another one of these ridiculously politically correct statements hilariarized my bleary day at work today. The staff was gearing up for their yearly round of Secret Snow-Person, previously known, back in the days of sanity, as Secret Santa. Utterly confused, I asked them exactly what a ‘snow person’ was, and it was explained to me thus: since Santa is a figure that has mostly Christian origins, in order to be all inclusive of December holidays, it was changed to Secret Snow Flake. But ‘flake’ apparently refers to a ditzy, blonde type person, so now its Secret Snow-Person. What will they think of next? Secret that-thing-around-december Person? Oh, the hilarity. Words fail me.

Of Cutlets and Celebrations

I have a secret fantasy. One day I will walk into an American party and see a plate of cutlets on the refreshments table. So I always glance over with a glimmer of hope that, next to the chips and dip, there will be a platter of deep fried, delicious, golden brown fish cutlets. It hasn’t happened yet but I still have hope.

So this weekend, it was with great pleasure and much greed that I indulged in many of those deep fried delights, along with some CBP, a few glasses of disgustingly, deliciously sweet Ice Coffee (Lankan style) and quite a bit more than a few glasses of alcohol. You can tell me there are better party planners the world over, but you’ll never convince me they’re better than us.

The occasion was this: everyone’s favorite aunt was turning 50 and this required much celebrating and drinking. So a surprise party was planned, with much gusto and secrecy. A 60s-70s theme was declared and everyone had to dress up or else. It was, needless to say, a huge success. The b’day girl was appropriately surprised, relatives traveled down from Canada and elsewhere, there were Sri Lankan delicacies galore and, of course, our favorite band providing the music. The costumes were brilliant, tequila and arrack were consumed in large quantities and the dancing went on till the wee hours.

The best part, or one of the best parts, is the morning after. Once the guests had left around 5am, whoever was left (i.e. too drunk to drive back) crashed for a few hours and then got right back up for the post-celebration period. A mass breakfast was cooked, usually a good kiribath, but this time it was bagels and the appropriate add-ons, pictures were uploaded onto laptops for group viewing and appreciation, and the best bits were re-lived over and over again, accompanied by much laughter and then filed away for future ‘remember when’s.

Its times like these that make me incredibly, intensely glad I have a big family. Not so much when your business is everyone’s business of course, but the times when you feel a little bit homesick and a little bit lonely, they always come through for you. With cutlets.

Being Sri Lankan

There was a particularly vicious comment left by anon on one of RD’s posts, which got me thinking about this whole ‘being Lankan’ business. Seems like many people have an issue with someone calling themselves Sri Lankan, if they don’t currently live in the country. I remember reading replies to comments left by N on political posts that say non too clearly that, if you don’t live in the country, you don’t get to have an opinion. Over the summer someone said something similar to me, why should I care since I don’t even live there anymore.

Quite frankly, I have trouble understanding the reasoning behind this. Do you really think that just because you leave a country, you can forget or ignore where you were born and raised? Or just because you weren't born someplace, you can't call it home? That the place where you’re family is from, and your blood, isn't home? If anything, I find that being away makes me miss home more and appreciate everything more; the food, the people, the places, the atmosphere. If anything, it’s made me strongly patriotic, and I wasn’t one to begin with. I read the news more, to find out what’s been happening at home; I talk more when someone asks me what it’s like there; I remember more every time I leave.

The issue of nationality and identity is very personal, I feel, and is different according to the individual. For instance, I don’t really like to consider myself Sinhalese anymore, since there seems to be such a disparity between Sinhala, Tamil and Muslim. I’m Sri Lankan through and through, and that’s all I’ll ever say. I also hear the ‘oh now do you think you’re American’ line. No, I do not. No doubt I’ve adopted some aspects of the country I live in, and I make no apologies for it. I enjoy cultural assimilation; I enjoy the combination of two or more cultures and the twists they give each other. The world would be a far more interesting place if we didn’t insist on forging singular, specific identities, and learnt to incorporate the world into ourselves.

So I fail to see how one person tries to assess whether another is Sri Lankan or not. What makes one person ‘more’ Sri Lankan than another, and how can you even quantify such a thing? Trying to insult someone by using the ‘oh you’re not even Sri Lankan’ line, is about as lame an insult as you can dish out, and to me, it just portrays your inferiority and lack of self identity, and complete ignorance about what being Sri Lankan truly means.

Anyone?

This is a little quest for knowledge and information. In one of my lectures yesterday the professor briefly mentioned an area of the brain called the ‘God Center’ which caught my attention, but obviously not enough, since I can’t seem to remember what she said about it. Something about how nuns and monks show more activity in certain brain regions, as seen by PET scans. Actually, that might be all she even said about it. Anyhoo, it got me interested, and, being the technologically savvy female that I am, I googled it. Imagine my horror when only one, ONE, relevant article popped up. This is that article. So then I Wikipedia-ed it, to no avail. Maybe I’m using the wrong terms, because it seems pretty unlikely that there’s such limited information on this. So does anyone know anything?

‘Twas a dark and stormy night

Three girls in a car on a lonely highway, three cups of coffee, Evenescence blasting on the sound system...

And so began the road trip, and what proceeded to be one of those ‘remember that time we…’ weekends. The official reason (as if there even needs to be one) was to visit a friend. I didn’t even know the boy, but was invited along because of my fabulously sparkly personality. Ahem. In the end the trip turned into one of those girls only, change of scenery, much needed mid-semester break type deals.

I won’t go into details, simply because details will just be too much. However, some snippets for personal reminiscing’s sake: there were fabulous haircuts involved, the kind where you walk around like a diva for the rest of the day, flipping your hair and smiling glamorously. There was alcohol involved, lots of Jack, some very sketchy jungle juice, and of course my personal favorite, vodka-cran. There was a lot of dancing involved, atop chairs and not, to unknown Romanian music and well known Reggae. There were boys and money involved, shady Romanian guys and American dollars, in the air, on the floor, on the chairs. And pictures galore. Good times, baby, good times.

The Bug

I’ve caught it. I won’t deny I have suffered from it in small but frequent doses in the past, but this time I’ve been hit hard and I’m down and out. And turns out I’m contagious. So if you value your money, avoid me at all costs.

Yes, the Shopping Bug, also known as the ‘I Want’ Syndrome, has been going around and is contaminating all aspects of my life. Symptoms include inexplicable and insatiable desire to buy things, muscle pain caused by speed walking and hoisting of heavy bags, fevered swiping of credit cards and increased respiration and heart rate at every new purchase.

My bank account has shriveled into a miniature version of its previous self, and my closet is bursting at the seams. I’ve run out of hangers, there’s no more drawer space and my shoes shelves are sagging. Tis a pitiful sight.

And on that note, I Want..

OR

OR

Or all.

Can you...?

While sitting where you are, lift your right foot off the floor and make clockwise circles.

Now, while doing this, draw the number "6" in the air with your right hand.



I couldn't.

Of Addictions

I am, self admittedly, frivolous and generous with my affection and adoration. My love affairs change with the seasons. Some, like chocolate and shoes, are alas here to stay. Others, like dangly earrings and cherry tomatoes, were passing phases. This weekend actively involved two of my current addictions: NYC and piercings.

A year and 2 months have passed since I got my eyebrow pierced. Today, I took it out. It was difficult on so many levels. One was because, well it was actually quite literally difficult, cause after a rather harrowing re-piercing experience, I had screwed it on so tight that I couldn’t unscrew it. Another was because it cost quite a bit, and I was thinking of all the shoes I could have bought with that money. But a completely different one was that this one piercing had come to define me in the last year.

Bear with my dramatics for a minute while I explain. It was a change for me; a phase of excitement and drama, and maybe some rebellion. It somehow, to other people more than me really, seemed to signify an extremity and daringness I didn’t know I possessed. Now that I’ve taken it out, I just feel rather uncool. It’s ironic really, because that was what I profusely denied to my parents, who threw wild accusations at me of how I was trying to be ‘cool’ and American. “I was always cool”, said I, snottily, “and I have no desire to be American”. And it was true. I obviously had no desire to be American, why would I, but also coolness had nothing to do with me wanting to get the piercing. I even remember exactly when I decided I wanted one. It was in Grade 8, and that boy band Five was popular, and you know how everyone always has their favorite singer from each band? Well, mine was AJ from the Backstreet Boys, Mel C from the Spice Girls and J from Five. And J had an eyebrow piercing, which I thought was the snazziest thing ever.

And so I decided I wanted one. Back then it was just a little seed in my mind, my fear of needles being horrendous. Now, my fear of needles is still horrendous, but I’ve found that little thing you call courage. Where you can still be afraid, but you know its all about mind over matter. So one day, it was a Saturday I remember, I woke up and thought ‘today’s the day’, and I walked down to the piercing place, picked out the barbell, (because even though J had a ring, the barbell looks much better), and after much hyperventilation and wringing of hands, I got it done. And now, after much cringing from O and picture taking by J(of suitemate fame, not from Five), its gone. And all that’s left of it are two little holes in my face. Just two little holes. Sigh.

On a more positive note, I was back in the city, for the third time in as many weeks, to meet some friends, do some touristy stuff and obviously, drink. So we went to an amazing restaurant, had fabulously delicious margaritas at a fabulously swanky bar, visited Lady Liberty and took a ridiculous number of pictures. And now it’s official. I have to live there. It is, without a doubt, the hippest, most energetic, most refreshing, most exciting place I’ve ever been. The logistics of this operation are currently unimportant. One of the perks of being a 21 year old college student, whose biggest worry is tomorrow’s exam, is that lofty dreams of living the high life in New York are possible. And dream I will, and do, in vivid color with a strong bass in the background, intensified with scintillating tastes and aromas.

'There are more things in heaven and earth, T’, you might say. But for right now, this is it. The City has called and I must answer.

More Books

Online shopping and credit cards. Baaad combo. Well, at least I was book shopping and not shoe shopping. This time. Having decided it was time to add to my library once again, I took myself to the uni bookshop, not to, as one who does not know me might assume, to buy books, but to browse and peruse and then sneakily write down names of books so I could buy it off Amazon. The word you’re looking for, by the way, is economical. Not, for instance, cheap or anything like that.

So for the last two hours I’ve been researching the chosen ones online, doing side by side comparisons on Ebay and Amazon to see which ones are cheaper in better condition, and reading book reviews to see if they are worth buying in the first place. I like to get value for my money, so if I’m going to spend four whole dollars (ahem) on a book, I want it to be a good book. Of course, reviews are always subjective; I don’t read the review on the website of the book, nor do I pay much attention to media reviews since it always seems to either unnecessarily hype the book or ruthlessly condemn it. Rather, I like to read the general public’s opinion, and I visit quite a few websites before deciding whether to actually buy a book or not.

So, after having spent a grand total of 2.5 hours and $23.60, I should receive, in aprox. 4-14 days: The Five People You Meet in Heaven, The Memory Keeper's Daughter, Salt and Saffron, The Namesake, and Pledged: The Secret Life of Sororities. I am excited.