sometimes, someone who ‘gets’ you leaves you a little something on your desk, and makes your day. 
Archive for the “Books” Category
i was initially a bit iffy about spending $xx per ticket for a one-hour stage production with the kids, but i figured if i could spend $xxx on one ticket to watch a music concert, then it’s only fair that i do the same for them. you know, for the sake of, er, The Arts and such… (and you can tell from the over-fussing of little ‘sweethearts’ and ‘darlings’, chanel/prada-toting ‘patrons of the arts’ in the audience that they could afford plenty more ‘culture’ than me.)
i’ve only recently warmed up to Julia Donaldson’s children’s books, having previously always resisted the ubiquitous (somewhat ‘over-commercialised’) The Gruffalo. i really can’t explain the resistance, except that i was suspicious that the eponymous creature so resembled the ones in Maurice Sendak’s Where The Wild Things Are, and therefore, a derivative, i.e. Not Original. (i can be such a snoot.) BUT. i did eventually pick it up (out of curiosity at its overwhelming popularity), and then her other works (The Gruffalo’s Child, etc), and what can i say – they really ARE quite brilliant. AND oh-so-English. i think what works especially well are her clever, clever rhymes, the adventurous streak of the protagonists, and the story lines with a twist that somehow always ends with just the right rhyming word without seeming too contrived. (and btw, The Gruffalo has none of the dark undertones like in Where The Wild Things Are, i.e. Not Unoriginal). i guess you’ll know a good book when your kids spout random lines from it, memorise the plot sequence, and notice minute details in the illustrations – which was what happened with auni after readings of Stick Man. and to see a well-loved book come to life on theatre is to complete her experience (in 4D, no less). thankfully, the stage adaptation of Stick Man we saw had enough humour to appeal to both children and adults (and is oh-so-English!), so hmm, ok i didn’t feel too bad about that burnt hole in me pocket. Borders… Page One… Harris!? (prays hard for Kinokuniya. And err, libraries.) Posted with WordPress for BlackBerry.
********* the boy was down with one of those 24-hr stomach flus on tuesday, at around 1 in the morning. it was to be his first MC from school. at 6am he cried out, “but today i got spelling!” yeah, that was my first thought too, ha ha. ********* he did his spelling yesterday, all ten words in one go. and got them all correct. ( next week’s spelling’s going to be ********* a bit on ‘Flowers for Algernon’: it is a story of Charlie, a 32-yr-old with a low IQ, who undergoes an experimental brain surgery to artificially increase his intelligence. the result is a rapid rise to great intellectual heights. like a modern-day creation of Frankenstein’s, he begins to question his existence, and what makes up humanity since it soon becomes clear that intelligence alone does not fulfil the criteria. a subset of the story is the far-reaching repercussions of childhood traumas on one’s psyche. one of the memories Charlie gains from his new-found clarity of mind is of constantly being pushed – and punished – by his mother when he was young, to accomplish tasks other kids his age had already mastered, to no avail, and even to detrimental effect. all the doctors told her to give up hope that he would ever become smart. she eventually sent him away to a facility for the mentally-challenged, for the sake of giving her younger daughter of normal intelligence – aptly named Norma – a normal childhood. for Charlie, these memories and events have remained fuzzy all his life, but when they finally emerge from his subconscious, there is pain, anger, grief and disillusionment in place of blissful ignorance. the part where Charlie’s mother tried to teach him to read, and him trying so hard to please her yet only succeeding to make her even angrier, made me so, so sad. i ended the book last night feeling wretched. #greatread ********* i gave the boy extra kisses in the morning. i know i’m sometimes hard on him. they test my patience, each in different ways. but i am just grateful they are normal, average children. ********* but seriously, i swear i don’t know what to do about my spelling-nazi-ness! (brain surgery, anyone…?) i’m a little behind in discovering (and enjoying) graphic novels…
we both finished Craig/Thompson’s delightful ‘Blankets’ and ‘Habibi’ over a few nights, and we’re already craving for more! (we even went down to Planerds@313 on the second day of CNY, optimistically hoping it was open, but it wasn’t, to our disappointment.) i’ve always been a strictly-prose kinda person, but the first graphic novel i picked up – the husband’s copy of Marjane/Satrapi’s ‘Persepolis’ – surprised me, as a thought-provoking, insightful, evocative piece of literature, for all its comic-like illustrations and black & white panels. ‘Blankets’ and ‘Habibi’ similarly marvelled and moved me. i personally preferred the more understated ‘Blankets’, a semi-autobiography of thompson’s childhood and adolescence, a beautifully-told memoir of a boy who never quite fitted in, and his questioning of the relationships that formed him during those growing-up years – with his brother, with his parents, with his first love, and importantly, with his religion.
a bittersweet story that i could connect with, for some reason, despite the geographical and cultural gaps. except, if you look closely, we are in fact of the same generation – certain icons of the early 90s tacked on the walls as clues.
and then, a line from The Cure did it for me.
the husband on the other hand preferred ‘Habibi’, an epic tale of a girl, sold into marriage at 9 years of age, who learned to read and write from her husband…
3 years later her husband was killed by thieves, and she escaped from being sold into slavery, along with an 3-year-old boy abandoned by another slave. she brought him up in the harsh, lonely desert, and as he grew older, the mother-son/sister-brother love evolved into something deeper and complex… and while that, in essence, is the central storyline, what was more fascinating to me were the other stories interwoven throughout, lifted from the Quran and other sources, of Prophets and angels and their relation to the main characters, and in extension, to us, the reader.
and of course, the beautiful, intricate Arabic calligraphy and motifs (amazing coming from a man who grew up in rural Midwest america, raised as a fundamental Christian no less), with poignant ruminations on each Arabic letter depicted in the ‘magic squares’ (exploring the mysticism of Arabic numerology), as each chapter unfolds…
while its hard cover and sheer volume feels as though you are holding the holy book itself, be forewarned that there are depictions of nudity and sex within the pages so you may feel some discomfort if you aren’t able to reconcile such images in close proximity to the scriptures, but otherwise, read it with an open mind and you may end up appreciating the Quran and its teachings, the Arabic language and its aesthetics, and what they stand for, even more… “When the last letter of the magic squares – Haa’ – reaches out to connect with the first letter – Baa’ – the word ‘Hubb’ – meaning ‘Love’ – is formed. ‘Habib’ means ‘Beloved’. Linked with the possessive ‘my’ – Yaa – it spells ‘HABIBI’.”
‘Stuck’ is a story of a boy whose kite got tangled in a mess of a tree, and his subsequent efforts to retrieve it, his mode of strategy being throw-something-to-knock-something-else-down. i can always raise a few chuckles out of the kids when we read this, especially the parts where, instead of things/people being used for their obvious purposes (i.e. ladder, saw, firemen), he heaves them all up into the tree where they each get, well, stuck.
not only is oliver/jeffers a multi-award-winning children’s book writer and a brilliant artist, he’s also irish… and a DILF. girl: “what’s that?” *points to a small fly on bathroom window* a moment later… sees a teaching opportunity… well, i guess if they smell as ‘lovely’ as cows…
now, maybe if Petr Horacek did one on lizards, i’d be able to empathise with them a liiiiiittle bit more… (but still, EEW!) on the way to the Page One warehouse sale, working up a frenzy at the prospect of “up to 90%” sale, declaring it as “like being in heaven”, and attempted to explain to the boy a consumerist’s concept of a 90% sale. me: “let’s say a sweet is $1, 90% off means you only pay 10cts! and let’s say a book costs $10, 90% off means you only pay -*pause for quick mental calculation ha ha* – $1!” A: *impressed* “that IS cheap.” me: “so, now you know why I say it’s like being in heaven? since I like books so much?” A: “no, but if you’re in heaven, you don’t need to buy the books – it’s all FREE.” me: *damn* -_- +++++++++ fine, scrap the heaven part – there’s an unbelievably long queue outside the warehouse and it’s hot as hell. +++++++++ still in queue. a guy just walked past triumphantly clutching onto big plastic bags of books, proclaiming “HANG IN THERE PEOPLE! It’s worth it!” looks like this was also someone else’s idea of heaven. heh. +++++++++
$1… $5… $5… $5… it is Day 3 of Mission Possible: Bedtime Protocol. with the boy starting P1 in the morning session come 3rd january, there is no choice but to start getting him used to sleeping early. well, at least earlier than usual anyway. i’ve been way too lenient in allowing them the habit of a late bedtime. by the time we’re done with their nightly routines, they’d still be rolling around in bed till ohhh i don’t know…. 11-ish? that’s VERY BAD, ok. especially for their… brain development and what-not. i don’t know how and why their tiny bodies have such a ridiculous reserve of energy, EVERY DAY. i guess, partly why i allow for the late bedtime is because of my working-mother guilt, for having only a few hours with them after i come home in the evenings. partly, i myself have the bad habit of sleeping late. my nocturnal habits are even harder to break as i age. anyway, it’s been working okay so far, after the initial resistance and excuses and protests. and i now find myself with more time in my hands at night to do things. like, blog about this:
i’ve watched one episode of charlie & lola some time back, and while it certainly is quite charming with their BBC accents (which i try my level best to imitate when reading their books aloud ha ha), i’ve resisted the kids’ pleas to add the printed series to our collection thus far because: 1) i can find any number of charlie & lola books at the library (and probably have borrowed the entire collection); 2) i didn’t want to encourage them to watch even more tv, even if it’s BBC-endorsed (i know, twisted logic); 3) i’m a bit iffy on lola’s excessive use of superlatives (although i know children have the same tendency to exaggerate like so, but still); 4) it took me a few books before realising charlie is actually a boy (ok this has little to do with my point). but then, there are undoubtedly good bits in their stories, and the kids really extremely especially like them so very truly much (;p) and would often remember certain episodes or words or phrases in the books, so i relented and got them (and ok fine, myself) this, in a pop-up version. also since it goes with our theme for this week.
plus, have i mentioned how much i appreciate good paper engineering?
(omg it’s 1.40am, gah! brain development fail, hana!)
we’ve completely run out of shelf-space, despite occasionally handing down books to their child care centre, and regularly discarding worn-out toys, and with his recently acquired pile of primary one school books and paraphernalia, we’re even more hard-pressed for storage space. we seem to have little luck looking for the right bookshelf – many times our intention to shop for one was shelved (so to speak) due to circumstances; one time we managed to step into ikea tampines but the shelf we eventually decided on was sold out; and a few days ago we got round to the ikea at alexandra, finally purchased one to our satisfaction, but when we got home to assemble it, it couldn’t be fixed and the wood broke (we got a full refund). it’s as if SOMETHING is conspiring to prevent us from getting a new shelf in his room… or perhaps, just one from ikea?? i don’t know. (we could be reading too much into it.) meanwhile, our furniture woes continue. boy: “mummy, i want to tell you something. i like to hang out with you.” i’m not sure what brought about this line of conversation. we were walking around vivocity, me holding his hand tightly so he wouldn’t run off into the crowd. it’d been quite a day: i’d brought them to the office in the morning. (they’ve been asking to come to work with me again ever since.) i’d brought them on board a docked ship in the afternoon. i’d bought them books from the floating book fair. (but no, NOT any more of those princess ones she’s holding, please!) then, more books from the lovely Page One bookstore. (which now I hear is GOING TO CLOSE DOWN WTH?!) i’d brought them to watch the latest ‘Alvin & The Chipmunks’ movie, even though their high-pitched singing GRATED ON MY NERVES OMG. i’d brought them to the playground and a dinner of disgusting fried fast food. i guess, i like hanging out with them too. (until the end of the day when THEY grate on my nerves and i’ve had enough of scolding them. =================================== i’m not sure if that conversation earlier had anything to do with me telling him the story of ‘Room’ (by emma.donoghue). his interest was piqued when he read the title on the cover and asked me what it was about. so i’d been telling him the story in bits and pieces as i progressed through the pages. i’d finally reached the conclusion of the book the night before, and he was in rapt attention as i told it to him in the car on the way to the office that day. i could see how compelling the storyline would be to him: it’s written in the voice of a 5-year-old boy, who has never been outside of the room (or rather, the windowless garden shed) where he was born. his mother was abducted 7 years ago, and had been kept captive in the 11ft-by-11ft room by her kidnapper ever since. she was repeatedly raped, impregnated, then gave birth to the boy and raised him all by herself as best as she could under the dire circumstances. she never allowed her captor to touch, or even look at the boy, all his life. you might think that being locked in a room your entire life, never knowing the outside world (or even believing or understanding that there is one), would be a truly horrific thing. but to the boy, the room was his world, and it was enough, because he had his mother. like a protective womb, the room for him was safe and secure, even as he lies in the wardrobe at night while the kidnapper makes his mother’s bed creak. she was everything to him – his playmate, his teacher, his friend, his nurturer (he’s still breastfed at 5, and there’s a brief touching part near the end when they’re out in the world and he bids goodbye to his mother’s breasts, a symbolic ‘weaning’ off his dependency on her). she invents games to keep him active, tells him stories, teaches him to read, uses recycled materials for crafts, establishes a routine and good habits. i imagined living in a closed room with an active, curious child, with limited resources to keep him engaged all day, every day – i would DEFINITELY go mad in less than a week. but then i read this – the real case of elisabeth.fritzl, locked and abused in the basement of her house by her own father FOR 24 YEARS, and gave birth to 7 children in that span of time. the eldest child was 19 by the time they were released. it’s a miracle she did not go mad. the human will to survive is an amazing thing. for the boy, perhaps the story of Room drove home the point to be thankful for his life, his possessions, his freedom, and opportunities. and hopefully, for his mummy, who tries to provide him all those things, and more. =================================== i am my mother’s only one, i wear my garment so it shows, only love is all maroon - bon iver, ‘flume’ |
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
)
Entries (RSS)