Self Archaeology

I need to start piling stuff into suitcases again.

But I decided that this was the perfect time to rip out the contents of my room and strew them about the floor.

The room has now been in a state of destruction for the past 3 days, with me putting away something like 3 things each day. Yargh.


Something I invariably end up doing when I'm back in my room at home is what I term 'self archaeology'.
Sifting through the artifacts of the years I've spent on this earth.

Old diaries, lecture notes, scraps collected on travels, bits of childhood, letters, random 'junk'.

I'm quite a serious hoarder, I have to admit, and just can't bring myself to steel my heart and be 'ruthless' to throw things out.

This makes for a very full room.


Anyway, what I unearthed today were the journals I wrote for school way back when I was 11.

Two exercise books filled with my gawdawful and morphing handwriting.

Something like 90% of the entries featured my cat. xDD Strange little girl that I was.

And, flipping through them, I realised what an amazing lady my English teacher then was! She actually took the trouble to comment on all the entries, with little scribbled notes filled with humour and care. The teacher for the previous year simply arched huge ticks across the page without even correcting my mistakes.

I remember my Primary 6 teacher well. She was the one who was horrified at the distortedness of my handwriting even at that age, and made me copy out a book of my choice ('Martin's Mice' by Dick King-Smith xD) in parts to practice my penmanship. Harhar. ^^;
I don't really remember my exact feelings to this additional piece homework, but I do realise that she had gone beyond the requirements of the 'curriculum', and was motivated out of concern for the sorry state of my handwriting.

I really wonder where she is now. I felt a huge urge to contact her and express my appreciation, but google yielded no clues.

Anyway, reading my old journal filled me with poignant pathos, for the days that are long gone, for the cat who is no more, for the teacher who is somewhere out there, and for the girl who has gone far, far away.

A Crunch Opens a World of Thoughts

Granny Smith apples are one of my favourite fruit ever. I like them crispy and tart. If factors other than those gastronomical were to be taken into account, I think the crown of Favourite Fruit would be sitting firmly on the head of the Granny Smith apple, leaving the mango, blackberry, honey dew and all to bow down to its preeminence.

Green apples (as I used to call them before being acquainted with the, in my opinion, inferior Goldendelicious) are, for me, infused with childhood.

This used to be my daily habit when I was in primary school: When I got home from school, I'd be told to go wash my hands. Then, I'd make a direct course for the kitchen and rummage through the fridge for an apple. Green apples were my first choice. Then, with apple that has most likely already been crunched into in hand, my next stop would be my grandmother's room. In the cupboard under the window, the comic books used to be kept. I'd sit down on the floor, all the while jaws busy masticating, and spend some time selecting a volume. We had loads of Garfield, old Peanuts, some B.C., almost all of Asterix, and the occasional Andy Cap, Wizard of Id, and more titles that have slipped through the sieve that is my mind. Fixing my fancy on the choice of the day, I'd go back out and settle myself on some piece of furniture in the living room and so my apple eating and reading time would begin.

I remember how I used to skip over lengthier dialogue in the comics and focus on the more visually-driven strips.
I also remember how I never seemed to tire of reading and rereading the same volumes.
What a wonderful and simply satisfied thing the young mind is.

I also remember how my reading material also came in the form of the towering stack of library books piled either on the rattan rocking chair or the round coffee table.
My mother used to bring us to the nearest library (the building has still retained its original form. I visited it again for the first time in a long, long while last year and was submerged in nostalgia that clutched) and max out our entire family's borrowing allowance. Back then the lovely government gave each of its happy citizens something like 7 books each at a time. We could pull books off the shelves and stagger to the issuing counter with wanton abandon. Good times.

And so I've come to associate green apples with afternoons spent immersed in comics and books.

I also remember how I devised a system, as sort of procedure of steps, for apple eating. It's rather complicated to explain, and I'd just sound ever-so-slightly insane if I went into it. So simply put, I always eat my apples in the same manner, following the same sequence, even to this day.


Given the many associations and memories Granny Smith apples hold for me, I was delighted to find them in my local supermarket here. They're imported from Chile or the USA, and are rather pricey. But I treat myself to them, and munching on one makes me happy and unravels old film reels that my mind sleds down.