Alright, uncle. I've done it. Given in to my weak, commitment-phobic tendencies and jumped ship. What can I say? Shiny new things are always hot. Gosh, I just had a flash-forward of myself, 80 years old in a rocking chair, leering at some 20-year old and saying the exact same thing.

I'm guessing now that your desire to leave has never been stronger. Enjoy.

Of late I have been breathing deep and feeling sharp pains where I'm assuming my heart would be - if, in defiance of all evidence to date, I actually had one. But instead of rightfully worrying about whether the pain is prelude-to-heart-attack pain or too-much-pizza-before-bedtime heartburn pain, I am outraged. Life shouldn't be this unsubtle. It shouldn't be a dark and stormy night, sunsets shouldn't look like they were painted by overenthusiastic amateurs and a palette consisting solely of powder pinks and blues, and hearts shouldn't literally feel like they're breaking. I mean, holy sledgehammer over the head, Batman! Heart pain as a metaphor for heartbreak? Who woulda thunk!

How is anyone supposed to write anything good like this? Where is the delicacy? Where are the little things? Where are the fine strands of creative inspiration? Come on, throw me a bone here!

You know what's sad? I seem to only be able to stick to a blog for a year, tops. I've been blogging since 2002, and have had no less than 4 blogs. You know what's sadder? That's still longer than all of my rather many relationships, bar one.

Anyway the point is... I'm thinking of switching to Word Press. Unfortunately, it looks pretty uncustomisable unless you host it yourself. But, on the other hand, lockable posts! Which is what I need, or probably will need soon. Tempting, tempting. What do you guys think?

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Eh, Grace. My baby lion is cuter than your baby lion!

I like to think that he was as disgusted as I was:

Actually, if you look closely at his expression, you can almost hear him going, "Euuch. Yeah, you don't taste so hot yourself." Excellent.

What was the point of the above? I don't know. But Paradise Valley was fantastic! There was this open stream with fresh water they claim is drinkable, and while we were debating the finer points of drinking untreated water located so close to so much animal poop, Craig exasperatedly scooped some out with his hand and drank it. He regretted it a few seconds later when we cheerfully reminded him that he'd just before let some goat/emu (gmu?) hybrid creature lick that same hand.

I really like the animal parks here. So far I've been to the ones in Auckland, Rotorua and Christchurch, and they've all subscribed to the whole "open concept" thing. It's nice. Plus, there was a HUGE rickety flying fox in Orana Park, which totally made up for having to pay entry.

And to continue in the theme of the organ post from before: it's much bigger than it looks.

I love playgrounds! Love love love love love!

I'm SO tired.

But I have to stay up and wait for the office to open and print and hand in my way overdue essay. If I take a "nap" I'm going to end up waking up at 7pm and the sun will have set and the offices closed and I will be screwed even worse than I am now.

And BECAUSE I have to stay up and wait for the office to open and print and hand in my way overdue essay, BECAUSE I can't take a nap in case I wake up at 7pm, I'm going to float on a crazy stream of consciousness and keep going until someone else in the flat wakes up and I can talk to him or her instead of myself.

I'm TIRED.

Random photos from J's graduation (really, it's better than me attempting to write):

Isn't their graduation ceremony posh?
Actually, I couldn't give a crap.
I just really wanted to say CHECK OUT THAT HUGE ORGAN.
And now my life is complete.

Some of the people I'm closest to in Ilam

We got really bored waiting to take photos with the Man of
the Hour at the pub. So we entertained ourselves by taking
photos of the best-lookers there.

Okay someone's alarm just went off. I'm going to go and have breakfast and watch my flatmate's face as he labours (for a few seconds at least) under the mistaken belief that I actually woke up before 4pm. Silly!

Here's the thing: I really, really don't like Singapore. Not even a little bit. I don't like the way people think. I don't like the rampant homophobia. I don't like that the rampant homophobia is encouraged by the state. I don't like that homosexuality is still illegal, and I don't like that questions like "Are you suffering from any mental illnesses? E.g. homosexuality, schizophrenia" are appearing on scholarship forms. I don't like the hypocrisy. I don't like the politics, the ennui, or the obsession with social and financial status. I don't like the fact that 9 out of 10 youths will reply to a simple "How are you doing?" with "Sian," instead of "Great, how are you?" Like, when did that become an okay thing? It's depressing, and should cause us to take a good, long look at our workloads and lives.

I don't like the misogyny. I don't like the "Asian/Confucian values when it suits us, forward-thinking Singaporeans when it doesn't" argument. I don't like the foregone conclusions about kids in EM3. I don't like that knowledge is drilled in instead of taught. I don't like our beaten path, and I don't like that few people will take a chance on anyone venturing off it. I don't like that our schools and state don't know how to separate secular morality from religious morality. I definitely don't like that we have stupid laws like "oral sex is permissible only in the pursuit of godly heterosexual intercourse".

I don't like the censorship. I don't like the truly disgusting way the PAP has handled the elections and the opposition thus far. I also don't like everything I learnt about politics during my Public Law module. I really, really, really don't like the whole "we function best without an opposition so vote for us" thing. In fact, I find it kind of revolting and kind of a gross perversion of democracy. Hey, let's not buy any other brand of shampoo but this one! Because if we put all the competing brands out of business, the one that's left will definitely only be concerned for our welfare! Maybe they'll finally come up with a cure for my split ends!

(I'm kidding, I have really awesome hair.)

(And yes, I know that's capitalism and not democracy. The analogy still holds.)

I don't like that our social policies pander to the most ignorant, boorish and judgmental denominator we can find, yet we dare call ourselves developed. I don't like the rather scary control the government has over our media. I don't like the "conflict is for silly Westerners, we should know better" bullcrap. I don't like that my mother has to work close to 12 hours thrice a week to keep from being laid off, because we appear to have no employment laws that keep companies from firing people to avoid paying retrenchment benefits. I don't like that while someone was apparently washing his hands with water from a golden tap, my family had to beg and cry to get a subsidy from NKF for my brother. I fucking hate that we don't protect the old, sick and disabled.

I don't like the stress, the social climbing, the aspirations to be something that we're frankly not and will never be. I don't like the fact that our education system fosters apathy and conformity. I don't like that we only do things if it betters us financially. I don't like being treated like cattle. I don't like the petty lawsuits our politicians seem to feel the need to bring at the drop of a vaguely libelous hat (and here I must say - a thin-skinned public figure? Seriously? Seriously?). I don't like that the PAP's one-size-fits-all response to criticism seems to either be "if you don't like it then run for government, otherwise you have no right to talk" or "you're not from Singapore, so you have no right to talk". When did that become a logical argument? Why not deal with the actual criticism instead of sidestepping it?

I don't like that we feel the need to treat Caucasians better than locals. My only sad hope is that it speaks to the Rich Caucasian stereotype, and not some kind of post-Colonial inferiority complex. I don't like that our most popular blogger's blog is a pseudo-controversial, intelligence-free waste of bandwidth. It is so devoid of substance that it practically creates a vacuum. The worst part? She's not even funny.

I don't like that our adverts are so horribly ungrammatical: "Drink and drive / Crushes lives". I can just about bring myself to forgive the approximate rhyme, and possibly even the feeble-ass tagline. But the national standard of English is bad enough. We really don't need the help.

I don't like the people on the train who don't give up seats when they should - I don't like that courtesy isn't common. I don't like that we're expected to work our whole lives to pay off that car and HDB flat. I don't like that there isn't a clear separation between work and home - that the time we have after work is never really completely ours; that we're expected to work through the weekend if need be.

I don't like that I don't know at all any of the real issues in contention for this election, and yet I know intimately the details of the lawsuits and accusations that have been levelled by the PAP against the opposition. I don't like that our Constitution? Is pretty much a sham. I don't like the puerility, Phua Chu Kang, the puerility of Phua Chu Kang. I don't like the lack of privacy, the paternalism, the apparent partisanship of the courts.

I don't like knowing deep down inside that I can't change any of these things. I don't like that I know this and secretly, I don't really care.

No, the food isn't good enough to make up for it.

Yes, I will be leaving as soon as I can.

I have SO MUCH WORK to do!

Worse still is the fact that I'm procrastinating and succumbing to all manner of inanitymundanitysleepanity. Online books and fluffy duvets will be my downfall!

Will someone please write me an essay on reification? Or CCAMLR. Or on intelligent machines having legal personality. I'll take anything! Ergh. 5 essays and a group project in 25 days, what was I thinking?

Sleeeeeepy.

Heavenly.

There's something decidedly singular about surfing. You paddle your tiny heart out as it pounds a crazy backbeat on the board, wait for the whoosh of the wave to take you, move frantically while trying to maintain balance and sort your suddenly-too-many limbs out... but when you're up on the board, nothing's left. Every other preoccupation in the world fades away, becomes subject to the need to just... ride. And when you do, when you do it perfectly? It's like no other feeling in the world. You've taken this tremendous roiling force of nature and surfed it. There is no subjugation, no taming. Just the amazing unity that comes with moving in tandem with something that is so very much bigger than yourself. In that moment, you are larger than life. You are unstoppable, a mighty reckoning, you are golden. And all you want? Is to just... ride.

I've been having one of those scarily good stretches of time. Time like when the weather's good, your days are filled with exciting activities, and even the threat of impending work-related doom doesn't seem that bad. Most importantly for me though (and feel free to skip this bit if you're not, you know, me), it's that feeling of getting better, all on your own. I used to think that this one thing I always do (excuse the vagueness) was a necessary path to wellness, but now I realise to my sudden-smile surprise that it is, instead, the heart's way of telling you I'm getting better. What I do, in other words, isn't so much a means of getting over it as it is a sign that I actually am.

I had almost forgotten the way it felt. Hope it lasts.

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Bouldering! (And already I can feel that this is shaping up to be one of those posts filled with a sickening number of "awesome"s and "excellent"s and "!"s)

So despite the complete lack of climbing gear ("It's alright, grass can't hurt that much to fall on, right? Maybe we just won't go too high."), we nevertheless set out to tackle the wondrous landscape at Castle Hill.

Castle Hill / Kura Tawhiti Scenic reserve - tussock-covered hills peppered by clusters of grey limestone rocks. Karst landforms! You know, geography would've made so much more sense if we'd only studied it in a country with actual... well, geography.

"Okay, how the hell did Darragh get all the way over there?"
"I have no ide - is he trying to say something?"
[Soft sounds from far away, carried by the wind] "...I caaaan't get dooo...nnn.. ... elppp meee..."

Caving! Cave Stream Scenic Reserve, with the some of the most beautiful views of the Craigieburn and Torlesse ranges.

Complete with heavenly rays of light from above. Sorry about the shitty stitching, if you can even call it that. All I have on the laptop here is Paint.

On to the caving...

Halfway down...                                                        Wheeee!

No photos of the caving itself, unfortunately - because none of us had thought to bring extra batteries, when Jamie's torch crapped out she had to use the ones from her waterproof camera instead. Also not pictured: Darragh's adorable head lamp thingy. Dorky, but so so so much easier to climb with.

So it was pitch bloody dark in the cave, and the stream at the start of it was above (my) waist level. The water, lovely though it looked, was an ass-clenching ten degrees celsius. What this meant was that if you stood still for too long (like, more than 15 seconds), you could and would literally feel your legs going numb. This also meant that, for the first few minutes after I'd entered, the wild, roaring beauty of Cave Stream was occasionally marred by the sound of my cries, ringing o'er the hills. "Holy MOTHER OF - FUCK ME this is cold!"

Apparently, the cave was once used by the Maori, and used to be a burial site. The cave is now home to large havestman spiders and eels. Thankfully, I didn't find any of this out until I was well out of it. I probably wouldn't have agreed to walk at the back if I had.

Along the way there were mini rockfalls and waterfalls, and since we'd started downstream this provided for real head-scratchers along the line of "how do I get up there on this slippery rock, holding onto my torch and avoiding a face-and-body-ful of icy water?" Anyhoo, we eventually made it to and up the 5 metre waterfall at the end safe and sound and surprisingly warm once we got out into the sun. Behold the wonders of polypropylene!

Mavens, not so much of style but of good sense. And, most of all, warm bottoms.

The gaping chasm you see behind us is where we emerged, whereupon we had to shuffle most terrifyingly along the teensy ledge you see pictured dimly above my right shoulder until we emerged from under the arch on Jamie's left.

The light at the end of the cave.

Post-caving high. (Wherein the importance of butt-scooching and strong ankles was learnt.)

Never ones to let mere fatigue stop us, we then proceeded to Flock Hill, a mere two-giant-hills away.

Almost at the base of Flock Hill. Who would put something like that in a place that requires you to WORK to get there to climb it? WHO? It's almost as bad as having to walk to the gym!

You might be wondering what the big deal about this place is. Let me tell you! This is where the climatic battle scene from The Chronicles of Narnia was flimed! WHICH MEANS Tilda Swinton was here! Exclamation marks abound! We all had to climb uphill for an hour and a half for me to gaze in awe at a rock. And now you can too! See the ledge at the lower centre of the picture? I'm almost sure that's where the eldest son (Peter?) watched his brother get stabbed by the White(-hot!) Witch.

The plains where they did the start of the battle scene - where the two sides were charging at each other - lie over the peak of the Very Steep and Incredibly Difficult To Climb hill. Or, if you want to be all boring about it, Flock Hill. I suspect though, that this is where I'll begin to lose most of you, so I'll leave off on the pictures of (even more) rocks and grass.

All in all, a very good day indeed.

How many people read Kurt Vonnegut or T.S. Eliot at the age of 11? Well, more than you'd think, since I recently discovered that two of our Concept module pieces were written by them: Harrison Bergeron and Macavity: The Mystery Cat (respectively). Did you non-RGPS GEPpers do that too? Also, I still can't find the author of Clarissa Montgomery; it bugs me.

Ooh and what other short stories did we study in primary school? I'm desperately trying to remember but I can only come up with that disturbing series of fairy tales (wherein, even then, I thought Prince Charming came off more creepy and misogynistic than anything else) we did.

This post has been brought to you courtesy of the twin effects of work avoidance and regression.

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Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw --
For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime -- Macavity's not there!

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation woud make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime -- Macavity's not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air --
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!

Macavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square --
But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there!

He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his foorprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's.
And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair --
Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!

And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty's gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair --
But it's useless to investigate -- Macavity's not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
'It must have been Macavity!' -- but he's a mile away.
You'd be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
Or engaged in doing complicated long-division sums.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibi, and one or two to spare:
At whatever time the deed took place -- Macavity wasn't there!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: The Napoleon of Crime!

This might also be a good time to confess that I once bought a poetry book simply because Macavity and You Might As Well Live (Dorothy Parker) - another childhood favourite, if one with much darker subject matter - were both in it.

Oh and Griddlebone is an awesome name for a cat. I'm partial to Melisande myself, but I suspect I'd feel a bit of a prat, shouting that out in a park.