Silence is golden for sleeping

Now that I’m writing again, I need a bit of background music to keep myself company. There are many pros and cons to writing with music, a lot of advice given out there say it is best to work with no music at all, with complete silence for full-concentration. So I say, yes, that usually works for me…for a good 10 minutes before I fall asleep from the silence.

So my word for it, is silence is golden for napping. And napping is not good for productivity – especially if you nap the way I do. My naps tend to rage out of control. The next thing I know, it’s the next day and I’ve no idea what had happened.

I used to write to a lot of contemporary pop but now that I’ve cut down on my morning commutes, I rarely listen to the radio these days (unless it’s the BBC radio stations, which you’ve seen me wax lyrical on my blog time and time again) so I’m not that up to date with the latest stuff. And I am starting to really enjoy songs before my era.

My cousin reckons I was born too late, I should have been born in the 70s or the 60s. While my sister on the other hand reckons that I’m regressing, working my way back in time – when I’m in my 30s, I would be enjoying Gregorian chanting.

To think that as a teenager, I mocked my good friend’s older brother for listening to Air Supply. The shame, for nearly 13 years later, I was at an Air Supply concert. I know. I try not to talk about it in polite society.

The beauty of writing again means I get to explore good music to write to. I’ve not found anyone ‘new’ i.e. people I’ve not listened to before, not new contemporary acts, as of yet. I’ve just going back to some of the old ones that I really liked to write to. As I get more and more into my writing, I’ll be posting the songs I listen to, sort of the soundtrack to my writings. So if it ever gets published, and you’re curious as to what inspired me – it’ll be here.

Right now, I’m writing to Simon and Garfunkel. It’ll change in a week or two, when I’m bored of their music. But I can’t imagine being bored of them anytime soon, Scarborough Fair is still as haunting as I heard it before many years ago and I still wail aloud to Bridge over Troubled Waters. The dog next door joins along sometimes.

Eizwan can’t handle my ability to listen to songs to death. Which is a good thing that he’s not at home while I work because for now, this household is being serenaded by the wondrous Art Garfunkel and Paul Simon.

Moving along and on

Conversation with the fiance.

“Oh God, I’m so stressed out. All this wedding things are stressing me out. You know what would be nice?”

“What?”

“I’d love to just get married, and then have boom, a house, all-ready. Ready to move in.”

“Yes, I agree. You know, that Disney dream? The happily ever after. It’s a lie. There’s no such thing as a castle ready after the prince and princess gets married.”

“True. Fully-furnished castle.”

“With one aircond”

“And one water-heater”

Clearly, our fairytale castle is woefully under-furnished. And then later as we drove on forwards, Eizwan turns to me, puzzled.

“So wait. In Disney cartoons, when the princess marries the prince right, and they live in the castle…it’s the King’s castle isn’t it? So technically, the princess is moving to her in-laws, isn’t she?”

***

Eizwan and I spent the entire day not doing wedding things today. I know. Shock. Horrors. What we did was a valiant effort trying to jump-start Eizwan’s dead car batteries.

I was unconvinced that it could be started again, it was time to bid it farewell. But Eizwan was thoroughly convinced that he could. In a scene, right out of a science fiction movie, with the hot sun beating down on our backs, by an abandoned bio-mass factory, Eizwan attached big cables from my bright yellow car to his bright red car in a very empty car park, with not a soul in sight. The only thing missing from this scene were zombies.

I stood at quite a distance away – a part of me thought that it’s best to let the man handle everything, and a part of me thought if it did explode, I’ll be in the safe zone but not too far away to rescue Eizwan.

There were many reasons why, as you can see, I did not study to be an electrical engineer.

Anyway, long-story short, it was not a success. Eizwan gave in to his future wife’s nagging and called the insurance company to rescue us. And then from a scene one of those quirky, indie comedies, an elderly Chinese man on his little scooter with a car battery on his lap came to our rescue. All in all, three hours in the hot sun and a pat on my back is warranted since I stayed cheerful all day.

***

Eizwan and I sat down later in the evening to list down all the things that we needed to do, every single detail from the mundane (lighter clothes for Bali) to the wedding related (more hantaran shopping) to the mysterious (if it’s mysterious, I’m not going to share it here).

As I listed each item down, I put a deadline to every task list. One of the tasks was to pack up my room, and I was mentally calculating the number of boxes I needed, and imagined an empty room with all my stuff packed in neatly.

Unexpectedly, big fat tears began to roll down. I’ve always looked at this wedding practically, and I don’t want to cry on my wedding day – but as I stared at the Google Docs, it occurred to me that I was really moving out of my parent’s place. It’s not like university, where home is where my parents place is and despite going wherever, home is where my parents are. Home is now going to be where my husband’s place will be and I felt really, really sad.

Sometimes so much happens on this one day, I don’t know if I can manage it all.

***

None wedding related story. Two songs that I’m currently playing back to back. Thank you Radio 1, for making me love music again.

Fireflies by Owl City

Okay, sort of wedding related since Paolo Nutini has a wedding scene in the video. It made me tear up the end, but I warn thee not to watch, if you are of delicate nature and are easily embarrassed by slightly explicit scenes.

Please Don’t Stop the Music

After dinner this evening at Eizwan’s,  his family gathered on the living room sofa with two guitars, and sat around for a good conversation and some music. The star of the evening was young Hanan, a talkative and confident eight year old who was addicted to pop music and singing. Eizwan’s dad and Eizwan had their guitars out, they accompanied the precocious child through her song catalogue, which I had to admit, was impressive for an eight year old.

When I was eight, the only music I heard was Michael Jackson and the ridiculous Now, That’s What I Call Music albums. This young girl sang Billy Joel, Beatles with a mish-mash of music from the 1950s courtesy of her ancient music teachers in school.

‘I know, ‘Oh Carol” the child announced.

‘Oh, wow!’ Eizwan replied.

‘But I only know it as Oh, Rainbow.’

‘Oh what?!’I interrupted. What are they teaching children these days? Did I hear that wrong?

Hannah proceeds to sing a child-friendly version of Oh Carol, which lyrics were about the colours of the rainbow.

‘Oh, I thought you were singing ‘Oh Rambo!’ I exclaimed with relief.

In moments like these, I think how different Eizwan and my family are. They use music to relax. Music in my family is a very formal thing, with Jazz nights and music education. We don’t come together through music, we each have our Itunes list and our preference in music is eclectic. I’m currently partial towards retro and modern electronica, Hani towards ‘sad emo music’ while my brother, well, Kenny Chesney’s ‘She thinks my tractor’s sexy’ graces his playlist.

It’s not a bad thing, but it did remind me that I am a little uptight when it comes to music. I can’t just let loose like Eizwan; pick up the guitar and then sing with a group of small friends. Music is about hours of preparation and then standing on stage, darkened room, spotlights as you’re finally ready to play. It’s the theatre person in me.

I’m uptight and serious.

‘Hanan, why don’t you sing a new song!’ her mother said. ‘What about something by Lady Gaga.’

‘Oh, I love Lady Gaga,’ I exclaimed.

Hanan beamed as she began singing ‘Just Dance’. She stops singing it halfway. ‘I can’t remember the lyrics. But I can remember Poker Face’

And as the child started to belt out Poker Face, I can’t imagine how everyone would feel or worse, how I would feel if she started to sing at her top of her lungs, ‘It’s love if it’s not rough it isn’t fun!’

‘Tell you what! It’s late, so why don’t we sing another song?’

Hanan was a little disappointed. But yes, at that moment, it crystallized for me. Yep. Definitely uptight.