You shower me with lullabies
As you're walking away
Reminds me that it's killing time
On this fateful day.

Tolstoy wrote this about society in his book, Confession:

Every time I tried to display my innermost desires – a wish to be morally good – I met with contempt and scorn, and as soon as I gave in to base desires I was praised and encouraged.

How's this different now?

That. Is Glencoe. And that is where I spent this weekend. Camping. Me. Yes. Camping. I was cooking and someone actually uttered the words 'natural born camper' at me and I laughed so much that I nearly fell into the fire. It was actually much easier than I thought, but then again we were camped five minutes away from a pub. Whenever it got too tough and I wasn't actually interested in undressing, dying in the cold, and giving myself to the wildlife of the Scottish Highlands, I would just pop over and grab myself some hot chocolate while I was there. Life was pretty good.

I actually really enjoyed it out there. Had it not have been so windy and cold, I would actually have benefitted from the surroundings, enough to write and feel liberated, free from what chaos uni life has and was. For so many years I've attributed almost all of my problems with my mother, that she was out of control, that I had to take care of her, that everything in my life was dragged down by her. Now that I've come to university, that I have oceans and mountains between us, and yet I still feel the same chaos, I'm knowing very abruptly that this is not the case. Something's inside of me, something deep and dark that makes me go crazy, makes my cry, and makes me so afraid that I need outlets like these, to lean on the charity of others because I cannot stand up on my own. I drown them. I say thank you. We get out of the murky waters, and we wait at the edge of the seaport for the next time I have to go down again.

I wish it weren't so, and I'm working on my way there, but it's a period of growth isn't it? I wonder whether I'm getting ahead of myself, that I really shouldn't have the answer to everything at the age of 18, but I'm impatient. Why am I not complete already? Why is it that my present maturity isn't enough, and that I look upon another level of maturity over the shores with such longing that I fall into the waters because my head is too far up in the clouds.

Presently, I'm at the place I always used to be. A stagnant place that longs for a vacation, somewhere far away, with new people, or with new attitudes at least, to get away from this same environment so that I may be made new. The nomad in me is itching, but another part of me is anxious. In less than a month's time, I'll be in Iran, and with a whole group of 35 new people that I might or might not get along with. The job never quite ends. There's just so many friends to make, and I hardly have enough energy to sustain it all. It seems that worrying and wanting to be witty and interesting is far more tiring than the act itself. I never remember this truth when it gets to crunch time though. I tire myself.

I miss home, and I want to go back. As much as I love what I have here, the opportunities available here, as ironic as this may seem, actually daunts me more than the insulated environment there is back in Hong Kong. Because the opportunities are there, I feel obliged to fulfill them, lest I neglect to live my life. I am constantly aware that time is running out, and that I should, 'carpe diem'. I want to make a move but I am afraid to. The leap of faith awaits with crocodiles and piranhas, and I cannot bear the pain of falling prey to that. There is peace and solitude in the lifestyle at home, as if time is a soothing, warm hand that strokes you to sleep, whispering soft words of comfort that tell you, it's okay to have the luxury of waste, to throw it all away and just be, and not having to be.

It's tiring being here. The weather beats down on your back and it's made to be like a fault if you were to have solitude in your room. There are heavy weights on my shoulders, and I lift them by writing. Let's hope that I get a book out of all this.

love,
Stina.

I might have a new trowel. But Lord knows what to do with it. ... or how...

Cast your eye to a different corner of the world, and this is what you would see. The last synagogue of the Bukharan Jews of Tajikistan in the capital, Dushanbe, was destroyed on the 22nd of February. The site was cleared for the construction of a new presidential residence, and there has been no apt reparation made towards the community of Bukharan Jews. Effectively, their entire centre of all religious and hence daily, normal living activities has been destroyed despite their protests.

This was the last synagogue in the entire nation of Tajikistan.

This marks a harrowing continuation of centuries of persecution and downsizing by the governing body towards the Bukharan Jews, a striving community of central asian Jews that have mostly left Tajikistan. The remaining community are mainly elderly and or lacking in funds that they would require if they were to build a new place of worship, bathing, and study.

Their classrooms, mikvahs (ritual bath centres), and kosher butcheries were all destroyed.

What was diminishing, has now been rendered diminished.

For a presidential residence.

Oh i can just die from how cute this is.

In Memoriam: Oolong.

Yes, this is the name of the bunny, pictured balancing a 'senbei' on his head. He was schooled in the art of 'head performance' at an early age by the Hokkaido based photographer, Hironori Akutagawa. Oolong has been known to balance objects such as film canisters, teacups, biscuits, bread, fruit, and pancakes on his well-trained and I must suppose, supple and snuggly head.

Unfortunately, Oolong passed on his mantle to Yuebing (the chinese name for Mooncake) on January 7th of 2003, and is now frolicking in the heavens with God Himself. Oolong has been a delight to earthly creatures, and will continue to be in heavenly realms.

Let us all take a moment and remember this remarkable bunny, and think to ourselves: my God, those Japanese are crazy.

Praise the Lord there's tango tonight.

love,
Stina.

(If by now you are still alive despite the cuteness overdose, there's more at this website for you to ponder Oolong's amazing life on. )

Oolong