en kratos

Often, I forget to remember the trees

Are for me. 

All of creation is active; it 

Roars the mighty chorus, singing

"Holy, holy, holy is the Lord!"

Even in the stillness,

I still fail to be still. 

Sit down again with me, Lord

These green pastures are Yours. 

--

"Jesus started a revolution when he said the word 'Abba'. By starting a prayer with the word 'Father', He changed everything." - Jonathan David Helser

There are times when I wonder: what if I got pregnant? How would my father react? I live in a sex-saturated world, and I am often influenced and tempted. But I've been warned, and I don't trust condoms, just saying. 

This is me thinking from the standpoint of an adult. I'm old enough to know what not to do; I'm responsible to myself, my own body and the people around me. 

But when I start thinking of myself as a child in the presence of God, everything changes. The 'what if' fades. To know that he loves me much more than my deepest failures is enough for me. 

This is probably one of the reasons why we, as Christians, can relate to the children of Narnia. They are called to be kings and queens even in their youth and again and again as they return, older, because Aslan's, or in this case, Jesus' reign, is everlasting to everlasting. 

"And that's our position in warfare; to sit with him in heavenly places, and go and breathe on an army that's sleeping and see the sons and daughters wake up." (J.D.H.)

But before this happens, there must be discipline, or a sort of perseverance. Before soldiers go to war, they don't enter without having prepared first.

Without discipline, there is no self-control. The last fruit of the Spirit is self-control, something that jumps out at me every time I read the passage in Galatians. Perhaps it's because I don't see the ability in myself to practice it, and it's also because I'm being self-reliant. But I'm only beginning to see that it's not a virtue or a state I can immediately achieve. It's a fruit. It takes time to grow; it manifests and is produced to reflect His glory. And everything that is projected back onto the Father also comes from Him. Think of ourselves as vessels, but also as people who serve with delight, with joy. This is something I've been struggling with after my baptism: to delight in him. I've gone back to things that are afraid of being exposed by the light, and I'm addressing them now in this reflection. Gotta catch myself, yknow?

From John 15:5-6:

Jesus said "I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing. If you do not remain in me, you are like a branch that is thrown away and withers; such branches are picked up, thrown into the fire and burned." (NIV)

The word 'self-control' or 'egkrateia' [Greek] is derived from two other Greek words— 'en' and 'kratos'. 

'En' means "in" and 'kratos' means "strength" or "power." (www.ucg.org) 

"In power." The rhetorical question that pops into my head next is: Whose power?

Well duh, in God's, of God's. The word 'self' stands out as well, and is rooted in identity. For the Christian, it always goes back to who he/she is in Christ. I wrote a post on the lyric 'I' that was taught in CW2030 Poetry - with every 'I', there is an implied 'you'. 

Self.

What if I started thinking of the word self in relation to others, or rather, the other? That One Other. The One I Already Know, the One Who Gets the Glory (despite my failure), that Perfect Love who drives out all fear. 

The Father. 

Daughter (I) <---> Father (You, from whom 'I' come from, in whom 'I' am loved.)

Doesn't that change everything?

And ladies, it's better to know that you're a daughter of the King who values you so much more than to go out on a date with someone who preferred it if you weren't "so Christian". He ain't worth your time, ain't worth spending that #flawless heart on him. 

self-love

I had the sudden urge to prick my finger

To bleed out poetry on the page.

This was real, but I couldn't find a pin. 

Don't think of me, don't associate me with things you've recently discovered.

I'm sorry I'm not fully present.

It's only because I can't be

Swamped with Love

I'm officially 21 as of the 30th of November!
This marks another year gone by, which feels strange since the academic year starts in September and ends in December. June feels like it was ages ago, like it was 2013, when I was still working at Sitting In Pictures, thinking of what university was going to be like.
I can't believe that I'll be going home in a few days, back to see the faces I love so much. And just to spend time with them, to enjoy their company over great food.

It's 2 in the morning and I want to cry - but it's because I'm filled with so much joy.
Because Facebook makes us more judgmental, I tend to skim past the posts that go "oh I'm so grateful for this and that". I take things for granted all the time, and I haven't actually had the chance to properly thank the people around me and most of all, God, for His faithfulness.
I say "thank you" everyday - but to feel it. To feel it is a whole different thing.
Because it makes me want to reciprocate. It makes me want to do something for you, to honour what you've done for me - and the frustrating and most unreasonable thing is that there's nothing you can do to make people or God love you more. That's favour right there.
You get me, I'm so grateful I could burst.

"Pre-baptism selfie"

Also, I got baptised yesterday (I HAD A BAPDAY, geddit geddit) and as I was led to fall

backwards into the water, time stopped. I could see the water rushing towards me even as my eyes were closed, and it was the most beautiful form of healing I had ever experienced. I know how relaxing it is to lie in a warm bath, okay. This was different. Coming back up from the surface, there was a breaking out of tongues from within, and I just took comfort in the fact that getting baptised was the best thing I could do. Like Nikki said, "When I said baptism feels like marriage, I literally just realised then that today was more important than my wedding day." 

I guess I was excited.

I mean, W.O.W.

Homies and I celebrated over Runnymede Chicken after :")

I feel like I'm entering a season of restoration and dayum, does it feel FRESH. Even as I write all this, I forget that these posts are also prayers, (considering that my previous post was basically my cry for help) and I'm realising a lot of things within this stream of consciousness. I use the words "I realise" a lot. That's because I am literally REALISING A LOT as I write. But more importantly, I'm conscious of the fact that these thoughts are also inspired by God's Spirit (though I definitely make the decision to get all vulgar and sad and I push these good thoughts away sometimes). A simple thought that blew my mind just seconds ago was this:

God has been the most faithful friend throughout it all.

It feels funny to think of God as a friend. My relationships with people are very defined - especially with my father. It's strange to think of my dad as a friend. It's probably because it's an unspoken thing, and come to think of it, my dad is actually one of my bestest friends evaaar. I mean, we ate expired chocolate together and swore, "you die, I die". That's friendship, ...right? Ok back to the point. I want to say that throughout these three months, and like every season in life, there have been highs and lows - and I mean really high highs and pretty deep, low lows. But every single step of the way, at every milestone, God gave me a group of girlfriends (mah baes) from the start till finish and as I was sitting on the toilet just now (enjoying a poo), I couldn't even fathom the amount of emotional support they've given me. I sat there thinking: I'm actually SWAMPED WITH LOVE from everywhere; from above and all around! I get that some friends don't journey with us forever. But man, this was one hell of a journey, even over the span of three months. And shit happens at uni, we all know that. Things pass by us so quickly; we can't keep tab on everything that happens and on why things happen. But these angels stop to make me think, to make me see that my time spent with them will be what I miss the most after I graduate.

Then it suddenly hit me that the one person I felt I was most faraway from has fulfilled his promise from afar: Christ drew near to me while I felt the driest, and even then, I kept trying. And you don't get how crap I am at even trying. It's literally the tiniest effort where I just flop down onto my bed and ask God whywhywhy and please save me and Father I'm tired of life - then boom, I'm asleep. But the whole drawing near to Him thing was a prayer I didn't know I had been focusing on and which, strangely, had also been a theme that kept popping up at Ascot Life for weeks. James 4:8 says, "Come near to God and he will come near to you." Why did I ever doubt that You wouldn't do that for me?

Through all this, He has shown me that

He is a God who journeys with us. 

And we need to choose who journeys with us. Yesterday morning, David, Nikki and I sat to talk. "You have to be careful with who you get close to; they can either be a huge blessing or cause you a lot of emotional pain. The best relationships start from friendship." Yeah. I kept nodding.

From Exodus 14:

"And I will harden Pharaoh's heart, and he will pursue them. But I will gain glory for myself through Pharaoh and all his army, and the Egyptians will know that I am the Lord." 

"The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still."

Today in Physical Theatre, Dick said, "torn muscles take time to heal." Mm. I am not afraid of Pharaoh and his hardened heart or of the armies that might come against me, because my heart is made out of flesh. I am not afraid of the crap that I've let in, because even though I feel it and it lingers, it is no longer evil, and it is not longer toxic. All because my heart is made out of flesh: and the One who owns it is fiercely jealous for me; ferocious in might; strong in love; joyful and bright as the morning sun. This was a great birthday/bapday, because it wasn't about me. He gets all the glory in the end. ...I just got goosebumps, eep!

21st Party: E is for Ezzat is for Effort

November has definitely been the craziest month out of all three this term. (December doesn't count. I'm practically in holiday mode already.) And the good that came out of it all was worth it in the end. It was exhausting - but God's never late! I need to remember that and stop being so impatient all the time........ Amidst all these God-centered events, I also threw a pretty wild 21st Underwater-themed party! Met cool new people and MY BEST SG REPRESENT PARTY POSSE TURNED UP WITH SO MANY PRESENTS and I swear there was a point in time when everyone was just chanting "SINGAPORE, SINGAPORE, SINGAPORE" hahahaaa. I remember knocking out for awhile (apparently it was 3 hours but it felt like 30 minutes to me) before I went back down, still drunk off my face, happily declaring that the party was over. I remember seeing + eating pineapple, lots and lots of it. Also, Georgie's water speakers were SO COOL. Added to the whole atmosphere - and everyone liked the jellyfish-inspired lantern that Nikki helped to decorate. The amount of Blutack that went into all this was NUTS. And everyone had fun!!! AND OH WOW THE AMOUNT OF ALCOHOL. WE STILL HAVE CANS OF BEER IN THE FRIDGE PLUS A WHOLE BOTTLE OF VODKA. ?!?!?! Surprised that our kitchen and living room turned out to be pretty good space for the amount of people that showed up. Shall throw another when I'm less broke. $$$

Hi Lamby <3

After-party breakfast

Mark's caption: "Home"

Okay goodnight and am PSYCHED for early morning poetry and all night long! Come watch Van Guard Poetry where I'll be performing three original poems, 7.30 PM, only at Medicine x

restore/ re-store

Don't think I've been fully present thus far.
If things were more interesting, I feel, maybe I'd invest more.

The learning regarding the technical side of things is only starting to kick in - and I'm thankful for that. Making art is a beautiful process; I'm being pushed in my writing, in my observations of the world. I'm more intuitive, but I need to be even more driven as well. Most of my poems are on www.jupiterriot.tumblr.com so check that out :)

I still want November to be a month of change.
I haven't cried in a long while, and I still can't cry. There has been an internal implosion within; I feel like I'm parts of a space shuttle exploding in space, and all the parts are drifting away from each other - it's painfully slow. Another part of me feels like there's a huge stone stuck inside of me, in my chest. And I can't get it out. And somehow, through this pain, there is nothing beautiful in the light.

What is at the core?

I was lying on the sofa yesterday, praying. God showed me a camel with two humps in a desert, and a well with water that I knew was clear, because I could see it in my mind's eye but what surprised me was how thick it was. I stared and stared because it was the thickest water I'd ever seen. Then I thought about the relation between the well, the camel and the desert.

What I've learnt about the desert: where God meets us - you think you'd get lost in the wilderness, but that's where God meets you; that's where you are found. He meets you when you realise you are completely dependent on him and when you trust Him to have already gone before you in preparation and expectation.

Well: Jesus as Living Water, that refreshes, restores, replenishes.

The camel was new to me. It reminded me of this verse that I based a poem's title on.
Jeremiah 2:23-25 says:

"See how you behaved in the valley;
consider what you have done.
You are a swift she-camel
running here and there,
a wild donkey accustomed to the desert,
sniffing the wind in her craving--
in her heat who can restrain her?
Any males that pursue her need not tire themselves;
at mating time they will find her.
Do not run until your feet are bare
and your throat is dry.
But you said, "It's no use!
I love foreign gods,
and I must go after them."

It's interesting because we aren't supposed to become accustomed to the desert. We're not meant to get used to spiritual drought. Silly analogy but that's why I have a huge bottle of cocoa butter lotion in my room. But why don't I 'moisturize' my walk with God more?

Also, about the camel. Wikipedia says this:

1. Camels do not directly store water in their humps as was once commonly believed. The humps are actually reservoirs of fatty tissue: concentrating body fat in their humps minimizes the insulating effect fat would have if distributed over the rest of their bodies, helping camels survive in hot climates.

1. I like this because I'm allowed to be fat. Nomnom.
2. The camel is still ultimately dependent on water; my soul is still entirely dependent on Christ as Living Water.
3. The whole storage thingy going on: to store God's word in the heart when trials and tribulations come, not just to survive but to prosper, to thrive. To bear fruit that lasts.

I can't see anything in the blinding light, but something tells me to trust. I need to trust the One who made the galaxies much, much more. That even after this slow-ass ex/im-plosion, I know there's something to look forward to. Because that way, I'll get to see the stars without any distraction.

Faithful

In silence, we clink
our plastic cups

to co-existence.

convex sky 

the shape of wooden bubbles

I have been meaning to rot

but my pupils are stuck to yours

see-through glass is

material made to bend;

we break diamonds for a living

but I still honk like a caged goose

I'm a free thinker but

the Oceans harp on 

songs of salt crystals, trailing

white, blazing

steel, touching 

fingers, running

over two bruised fruits,

the kindest stains on your skin

yes, most kindly,

until side by side, the

dotted line slices down 

the Adam's apple;

she can taste you while 

I take a bite of fettered breath.

I crunch down but god,

the echo feels like 

glass in my mouth.

Cry after Orgasm

you broke my heart

from across the table:

one draw of smoke

and i wasn't there

all intensity  

lost to the night

falling

into a sleek slice of

cold air, cold space

selfish / jealous cut

    t    tt  ttt   ttttttt      tt     t

hands too warm to say “hold”

and there i was,

searching for some higher form of healing

to cure some higher form of heartache

man.

i was far,

far

gone

Mud Feud

When we are dry, we are drought.

Nothing overflows. 

The mouth is scorched

through and through: a 

Dry crevice 

That cannot close.

But in the mud feud, you

lick me like a core commandment:

Your hands the soothing of thunder,

Your bones the first smiting of lightning

Your gaze the holiest drops of rain—

I can hear your face.

The inner voice where 

The pain breaks

         '                         '

                    '   

               '            ''

     ''

           '''         '         ''                            

      

    ''''                                  ' ''

        '        '''         

                            '

and you smell like petrichor 

once more. 

So sing me like a song of Solomon

Forgive this prostitute heart, I am

Unashamed. Brazen.

But as long as you still expect the storm,

I'll run back

Chest first into wet arms,

The heart bowed in service

Like a happy, flippant Prodigal cunt. 

08/10

In poetry class today, we talked about the Figure in lyric poetry or more specifically, the lyric 'I'.

'I' cannot be defined without a 'you'. There is always an implied 'you'. But there is no actual need to move outside of 'I' - AKA Narcissus and his reflection; a hedonistic, self-absorbed relationship that does not open up. 'I' defines itself. Whereas 'you' opens up space, or spatiality of relation, a relationship between two parties.

In my notebook, I wrote: The God of the Bible says, "I am who I am."

But Who Are You? What makes You... You? Which made me start thinking and the question that gets thrown back at me is: "Ling, who am I to you?"

Here, God is not a Narcissus: the emphasis is placed on learning of and leaning on God's Identity before our own. And if Man and Creator are intended to be related and to be part of a two-way relationship (<->), who takes the lead? Who is the 'I' and who is the 'you'?

"I am who I am - but really, Who am I to you?" Do we really get God and who He actually is?

"Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known." - 1 Cor 13:12

Life is great and I'm singing tomorrow
There really is nothing to be sad about
But god I just want to cry and feel everything stream down my cheeks
Thought by thought
but
There is nothing I miss
I am in the moment, I am in the present
I am not looking behind or towards
Anything at all
I've always wondered if there was a reason for grumpiness
For a bad mood, because surely
A mood is more than a mood
It is an overflow of the heart
Why is my heart not satisfied?
What else is there?
What the actual shit???

??????????????????????????????????shit???????????

One day I woke up thinking,
"Maybe I'm not a drama student anymore"
There's an annoying little voice in my head that's constantly telling me,
"Paint. Paint and you'll be happy"

I wonder what it's like doing an art degree
Sure, it must be tiring as hell, but I don't mind spending hours in front of a canvas not needing any interaction with humans just so I can find myself again.
Some days I get embarrassed, even when I'm alone, on my own

I don't like one bit of it at all

Can I detach myself from my emotions
Because they are just not helping
Somebody tell Paul Layzell I'm going to art school

Art

"What is he (dancer/artist) then to do with the rest of his life, knowing that he was no longer a glimpse of God? This is one of the most painful reconciliations to make in a creative life. But maybe it doesn't have to be so full of anguish if you never happened to believe in the first place that the most extraordinary aspects of your being came from you. But maybe if you just believe that they (talents) were on loan to you, from some unimaginable source for some exquisite portion of your life to be passed along when you're finished with somebody else."

- Elizabeth Gilbert's words from a TEDtalk: Your Elusive Creative Genius, and author of Eat Pray Love.

A very, very short story that I wrote at 6 AM because I could not sleep.

ART

It is the 21st century.
We are learning to see things in black and white alongside Brannan, Nashville and Valencia.
Emotional distance is sacred; We are our own heroes.
Apart from that, it's either subdued Willow or everybody's favourite, harsh-ass Inkwell.

It's the 21st century and stories are hard to tell.
She wishes she were born a hippie; she wants to live in a literary world of natural magic behind technicolored frames.
Focus.
Light spills out of the Stabilo colour pencil as she lasers the shit out of the empty page.
Ah. The smell of burning papyrus…
Desperate, the hippie gulps down every curlicue of smoke. This is when her eyes start rolling back into her head, like rabid, internal pinballs bouncing off every surface imaginable, not missing a single ding.

Woah.

She steadies her woozy self atop a weak stool, determined to prove her pinpricked focus to a blank wall in the smoke-filled room.
Grunting, the hippie gathers her black and white clothes, holds them against her abdomen, and with a monstrous heave, she does projectile like never before: every nook and cranny spewed in thick, tacky gunk and glittery saliva.
With flared nostrils the size of Russia, she stands over her masterpiece and yells, "Now THIS - this, is REAL ART!"

Across the street, her neighbour stirs, wonders what the heck that was, and goes back to sleep.

It's the 21st century and stories are hard to sell.
But fuck it.
Fuck fashion, fuck the press, and fuck this mediocre, never-gonna-make-it life.
The hippie wields her wooden lightsabre and holds it up like a trophy - a magnificent, shining middle finger to the black and white world.
So go grab your Faber Castells everybody, b'cos it's time to get high.

A monologue

I am thinking of turning this into a monologue.
Might be part of a future play.

Over these couple of years, I see myself laughing at things that I found repulsive in the first place. Moralistic as it sounds, I have learnt to embrace the perverse perspective, and many times, I don't actually like it. I laugh, because it shows that I have no fear. Until the day I saw you laugh. That was when I realised I didn't want to be like this anymore. I will say "Ew" at things I am truly grossed out by, and not mask it anymore. I try too hard to be like you, because I admire you. I want you to accept who I am - but 'who I am' was created according to your tastes, your interests and what you find beautiful. I know that to you, I am not beautiful and you wouldn't look twice at me if I continued wearing clothes you found tacky. Revolting. Tasteless. If you heard this, you'd probably be mad, and you'd lose steam in light of the countless of times and ways you've tried to show me your love, your acceptance of who I am, and that I am the one who is doing all the comparing. But recently, I've been observing the ways in which you un-love me. It started when loving me was no longer a necessity, where there was no longer pressure to keep this whole 'love' thing alive. I am not enough for myself, and I will never be enough for you. There are so many girls to feast your eyes on, and there is only one me - nobody looks at me. And I am okay with that.

So honestly, I am not tough. Not in this way, at least.
And I don't have to be.

I don't want to make you laugh anymore.

I am growing quite wary of our current domestic helper.
Or maybe it's because I'm a pretty suspicious person.
By the way, as a disclaimer, we respect her and empathize with the fact that she has to wash a daily batch of laundry contributed by four persons living in this house excluding herself, cook, tend to the garden and clean the rooms.
Most days it's hot as hell outside and she wears long sleeves so she doesn't get bitten by insects when watering the plants.
She smiles and greets us good morning, which I guess I'm quite crappy at returning (I don't like talking in the mornings, neither will I whisper sweet nothings to my husband in bed when he wakes me up next time).
I guess she wants us to accept and to commend the work she has done. But my parents aren't the most encouraging people around. I mean, what for? In fact, they are more critical than anything else, and I am quite critical as well but I guess the difference between me and them is that I'd actually say "The food is nice today," or "Thanks Elma."
I try to not be so nice all the time though, because it gets to her head.
When we tell her she did something wrong, she dismisses us with an "Okay" and a smile, and does the same mistake AGAIN.
Her command of English is pretty weak, and she doesn't write things down even though we've told her umpteen times - just so she may remember what to do the next time and not commit the same mistake.
When I come home to find my things rearranged, I get all stressed and my mother just says, "you have to tell her." I wish someone could record the number of times I've told her not to do this and that, but she never gets the message. I'd rather speak to an answering machine.

I don't trust her.
It's been six months but I still can't warm up to her.
I want Johnna back.

- but -

y'know,

i wait to write poetry but it never comes

the mood to write is so

delicate

it passes me by so quickly

i want it to be intrepid

- but -

i use vocabulary i don't quite understand,

can't quite explain

and still,

i am here

waiting to write

waiting for the words to flow

- but -

i am bogged down

by the depression a writer knows all too well

slipping beneath the undertow

the gnashing of rocks

against my head

and still,

the words will not flow;

they keep on

rolling,

rolling on,

like waves

in this head of mine

telling me

you have to write, you want to write

- but -

when it hits,

it just

leaves

full stop