tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32848594390870258022024-03-14T04:25:58.561+11:00I Think Therefore It Doesn't MatterTHIS BLOG HAS MOVED TO MINDSHAVE.COMAnonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12600792433452883824noreply@blogger.comBlogger251125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3284859439087025802.post-9229607567035558562016-01-16T12:19:00.001+11:002016-02-24T13:19:50.069+11:00THIS BLOG HAS MOVED TO MINDSHAVE.COM<br />
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<br />Anonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12600792433452883824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3284859439087025802.post-46730232082736029932016-01-14T22:19:00.001+11:002016-01-23T13:17:06.256+11:00Why The Jakarta Bombings Aren’t Anything New<br />
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<a href="http://www.abc.net.au/news/2016-01-14/jakarta-blasts-january-14,-2016/7089480">[Image credit]</a></div>
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When it happened, I was sitting on the floor of a meeting room with a marker in hand. I heard my coworker say the word, ‘bomb’ and ‘Sarinah’ so I stopped writing. </div>
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<span class="s1">“What was that?” I asked.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“There’s a bomb,” he said calmly. “Well, a few.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Suddenly my phone vibrated and my sister and mom lit up the family group chat with news and questions. <i>There’s been 3 explosions in Thamrin</i>, they said. <i>Are you all okay?</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1">Chalk it up to serendipity, but I was working from another building when the attack hit; one that stood on the outskirts of Jakarta instead of my usual office in the middle of the city. I Googled the news.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>Jakarta bomb. </i></span></div>
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<span class="s1">For many other cities, the first results would be the tragedy that had just struck minutes before. In Jakarta, it gave me a list of terrorist attacks from a few months back to a few decades ago. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>Jakarta bomb 2016</i>.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">It felt strange having to write the year of a tragedy. It happened so often that we had to specify the year, the area, the date. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Then, there it was. 6 explosions in an area where I used to work. I immediately texted my old colleague to ask if he was alright. His building sat across from Sarinah, the site of attack. He assured me he was alright albeit a bit shaken. The office was on lockdown and bystanders were being shot on the streets. He sent me images of the mayhem outside; bodies split in half, bleeding policemen, victims lying in a pool of their own blood. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">This was the street I drove on day in, day out for months. The same Starbucks I stopped by every morning had become a graveyard. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Still, he was told to go back to work.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I looked up from my phone, remembering that I was still in a meeting. They were discussing how to sell some cough syrup on social media.<i> How trivial</i>, I thought to myself. <i>This is happening in our backyard, show some respect. </i>I would rather talk to my friends and my family, all of whom were still stuck in the mass hysteria of the attack. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Then one of the clients made a joke. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“There’s always a bombing here in Jakarta,” he laughed. “Next time someone tells me I’ll just go ‘oh’ and get on with my life.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">All the while, my phone was buzzing with friends asking me where I was.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">This is the reality of living in a country where it’s not quite war-torn, but not quite at peace. A city where 6 explosions made an ephemeral blimp on our radar before the day continued. Jakarta still carried on with places still running as if nothing happened. People outside of Sarinah continued to work, to live, to laugh.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">When I was 4, one of the biggest tragedies in Indonesia led to the exodus of Chinese-Indonesians outside of the country. A year that would go down to become one of the most traumatizing time for parents and children today. It’s the reason why my dad built our home in the state next to Jakarta; a 2-hour long commute is a good price to pay for our safety. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">At 6 years old, Al-Qaeda bombed several churches around Indonesia during Christmastime—including my Cathedral—killing 18.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">A year later, 202 people were killed and 209 were injured in the Bali bombings by members of a violent Islamist group. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">A few days before my 9th birthday, a car bomb detonated outside the Marriott Hotel, killing 12 and injuring 150 people. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">The very next year, another car bomb killed 9 people outside the Australian embassy.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">At 11 years old, the injuries and deaths of over 100 people in Bali halted the tourism industry.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">By 15, the news of a bomb at the JW Marriott and Ritz-Carlton that killed 9 and injured 53 became the reason why I couldn’t watch the Rihanna concert. Indonesia was a flight risk, and my emotions had eerily altered from compassion about the tragedy to anger because I couldn’t see my favorite artist. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">A few days later I flew to Melbourne with my mom to visit my sisters. An immigration officer took one look at our passports and stepped out of his booth. “Come with me.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">We sat behind the immigration counter, only a few steps away from baggage claim. He asked us if we were present during the explosion but before I said no, my mom answered with a confident yes. I knew then that her inarticulacy had just landed us more time with the officer. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“You were there?” The officer asked, looking at our immigration forms. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">I stepped in. “No, we weren’t—mom let me handle this—we were at home, watching it on the news.” </span></div>
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<span class="s1">The officer pointed at my mom. “She said she was there.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“She’s not fluent in English,” I said. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">After a few more questions, they let us go.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">These events would prove to be one of the main reasons why Indonesians would often be met with rejection from US embassies. It took a friend 10 years to get her US visa, and another had struggled to get an Australian holiday visa due to his Muslim name. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">All my life I’ve heard of threats—of bombs, shootings, extremists groups. Still, I’ve never seen Indonesia as a dangerous place to live in. From time to time we would read about an explosion in one mall or another. About a bomb found in a church. We’d hear stories about tragedies that were so close to us yet so far removed from our lives that we saw it as just another day. I never knew anyone who were ever injured or have died from these terrorist attacks, only those who were in proximity. The bombings were small enough to be contained but too sporadic to call this a war.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">When Paris was hit, lights all over the world beamed blue, white, and red. Our profile pictures changed and our Facebook statuses paid respects. Paris was peaceful, and the attack was a pebble that stirred the pond. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">But what happens when the pond stirs every few years? Will people care, or will they see it as just another tragedy to happen in a <i>relatively</i> peaceful place? We are not first world, yet we are not fully third. We are floating in a question mark; not quite as advanced but not quite as backwards. So when something like this happens, the world doesn’t know how to react. Our obscurity to the western world makes our tragedies less memorable.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">In Paris and Sydney, the tragedies seemed out of place. An attack by Muslims towards non-Muslims. Case was closed and candles were burned. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Unlike Syria or Afghanistan, our attacks were too far and few between to deserve much thought from the outside world. Drones aren’t striking from the skies and homes aren’t being destroyed by missiles everyday.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Here, the attacks fit right in and fell in line with all the previous tragedies. It’s rare enough to shock the world, yet often enough to be buried the next day. But who do we blame? These attacks come from our own people whose motives remain mostly unknown. These aren’t immigrants with opposing values or foreign caliphates taking over. The perpetrators are our own kind whose minds have been warped by their own insularity. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">The world will report on us today and forget about us tomorrow, just like every other tragedy that has hit this chaotic metropolis. They will continue to look at Jakarta as a city where peace resides and tragedy sojourns. We’re not bad enough to care about, but not good enough to make this a shock. So what we do—as citizens of Jakarta—is to live on anyway.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Except this time there will be even more x-ray machines in malls. More bag checks in office lobbies. More dog sniffers in hotel entrances. Even though we’ve learned from the past, sometimes the city falls into a lull of tranquility. This year the changes will be small but we will notice it. Even so, we know that in a few months the security guards will merely wave their metal detectors on our bags as we walk through the beeping entryway. They will lazily look through our purses—the thousandth they’ve seen that day. In a year’s time, Jakarta will go back to its weak security guards, bored of the routine that never amount to anything. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">And when security is at its lowest, tragedy will strike again. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Then the cycle repeats. </span><br />
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>Anonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12600792433452883824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3284859439087025802.post-51540549060152693572015-12-22T15:52:00.000+11:002015-12-22T16:06:13.970+11:00Hot Topic: Be Kind And Be Quiet About It <div class="p1" style="text-align: justify;">
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<span class="s1">Kindness is underrated. Flaunting kindness is overrated. I have seen so many Instagram posts of people spending time with the poor, smiling proudly as they hand over a bag of food to a miserable looking woman who probably won’t even see the picture on social media. When people do good and then photograph that good, it makes me wonder whether their kindness has an ulterior motive.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b>Let’s get to it:</b></span></div>
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<span class="s1">My boyfriend told me that a person is truly good when they do acts of kindness when no one is looking. When they get no applause out of it, but only the satisfaction that they have helped out someone in need. But somehow with social media, people have integrated social work with their public image, and to me, it just completely negates one’s kindness and makes it much more synthetic. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">When my friend and I didn’t have any spare change to give to a beggar on the streets of Melbourne, I suggested we buy him food from a nearby Burger King instead. We gave him a burger, fries, and an ice cream. But during which my friend had her phone out, Snapchatting the ordeal and writing <i>‘buying food for the homeless’. </i>I told her that when you do something good, do it in secret. The world doesn’t need to know how much good you do. The purpose of kindness isn’t to flatter yourself. And even if it really was an innocuous Snapchat, I see so many people documenting the good they do in such a superficial manner; lining up the impoverished for the sake of their Instagram feed. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>Blessed</i>, they’d write on their Facebook post. An image of them with their arms wrapped around schoolchildren. Kids who would never see them again. Kids who received ephemeral entertainment. Kids who couldn’t care less about whether or not they looked good in that picture. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">There are so many instances of people doing such great acts of kindness, but due to the sappy pictures of the occasion, it renders the moments to be spurious. They may have a heart of gold, and god forbid they stop bringing happiness to the less fortunate, but it’s that extra touch of vanity that irks me. What is the purpose of posting an image of you handing over a bag of rice to a mother of two? That mother will be ever so grateful, so shouldn’t her appreciation be the only thing you strive for and not the <i>likes</i> online?</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I don’t need to know that you spend your Fridays assisting the blind. I should find that out for myself, either through you personally or through the people you have touched. Humility can go far, and kindness hits harder when you’re not the one promoting it yourself. </span><br />
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<span class="s1">However, recruiting people to join your cause is a different story, because you broadcast your good for the sake of getting more people to join. There's a difference between truly being a part of a movement and then supporting said movement, as opposed to simply posting random bouts of kindness online for the sake of your public image. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">I recently watched a video of a struggling pizza man who received over $700 worth of tips after delivering to a church. He was moved to tears and documented his experience once back in his car. It was an act of kindness that I truly admired, until I saw that the church had taken<a href="http://upw-prod-images.global.ssl.fastly.net/nugget/56706c274c6297002c000316/attachments/1-dc64d3126f4a4f6ed708f70871571169.png"> a picture</a> of the transaction and posted it on their Facebook page. It was such a heartwarming gesture that was made to look more like a proselytizing publicity stunt. Why couldn’t the church do good to a human being without showing the world how good they are? Why is proving kindness such a necessity to people?</span></div>
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<span class="s1">In my family, the good runs quiet. I once asked my father why he only gave $10 to the church every Sunday. And he replied, “how do you know I don’t give more?” When I asked my sister what she did during the weekend, she told me she spent it driving around the more destitute parts of Jakarta, giving boxed lunches to the people in need. There was no Facebook post, no Instagram picture, no text message. She did what she did because it was right. The only ones who will remember her kindness are the people that received it from her. When my parents warned my other sister about the dangers of accepting guests into her apartment via Airbnb, she told me that she once accepted two Swedish backpackers into her home for free. The only people who appreciated her random act of kindness were the very ones she opened her heart to, and no one else. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">My family enjoys doing bouts of kindness. My father spends a lot of his time at an orphanage for the disabled, and I suppose his humility taught me that your generosity should be kept between yourself and the hearts you have touched. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">I don’t want to discourage people from doing good. Continue visiting the orphans, feeding the poor, volunteering for the ill. But promoting your kindness is an unnecessary step that flatters your ego and not the people you have helped. A friend’s husband recently came back from Greece after documenting the hardship of the Syrian refugees. His pictures told stories of the people he helped, but not of his own bravery in traversing Lesvos on his own. And that's what I admire; when we talk about the great people we have met as opposed to how great we are to have helped them out. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Which is why I have always been bitter whenever people criticized Steve Jobs for not being as philanthropic as Bill Gates. Should we assume that he never made a generous donation in his lifetime? Should every act of kindness be published for the philanthropist to be lauded? I find myself respecting celebrities who visit hospitals without their media team, and having the world find out about their charity through the eyes (and camera) of the kids they visited. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">I suppose this is because I often put myself the in shoes of others. If I was a beggar, would I like to have my picture taken by a wealthy stranger as they hand me a box of food? Or would I appreciate their kindness more if they simply handed me the meal, said a few kind words, and left? These people aren’t tools to benefit your image. These are real human beings, not a posse to endorse your sainthood. They know sincerity when they see one, and the moment a camera is out, that kindness becomes more of a self-promoting stunt. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Genuine kindness is very much alive. I know so many friends and family who are willing to do so much good for so many people. But I will always respect the ones who do it in secret, because when I find out, I will admire them much greater than if I saw a picture of them on social media. You are who you are when no one is looking, and your sincere kindness will go a long way when you decide that not everyone else needs to see the good you are giving to the world. </span></div>
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Anonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12600792433452883824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3284859439087025802.post-54178370331582844452015-12-21T19:13:00.000+11:002015-12-21T19:15:29.146+11:00Hot Topic: Being American Without Being American<div class="p1">
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Now that we're inching closer to globalization, I've always wondered where I stood. Unlike my mixed-race friends who can claim to be of two cultures or third culture kids who were raised in a different environment from their parents, I was born and raised in Indonesia just like my family. But over a decade's worth of Western pedagogy I have found myself confused about my identity.</div>
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When I left Jakarta, I was an Indonesian. But when I arrived in Australia, I was an American. <span class="s1"></span></div>
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<span class="s1">During awkward self introductions and breaks between classes, people often used my accent to initiate a conversation. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Where are you from?” They would ask. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Indonesia.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">They’d shake their heads, obviously dissatisfied. “You sound American.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">And then I would get into my automated spiel that—unbeknownst to me—would have to be rinsed and repeated for the next 4 years of university. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Well,” I’d start, taking a deep breath and knowing that a barrage of comments would come after. “I went to an international school in Jakarta so most of the teachers were American. I also grew up watching American movies and TV.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I wasn’t American, but in Australia, I was treated like one. They made jokes about my accent, my references, my predilection for American media. I was American, or in some cases, Canadian. My American accent sounded so thickly Californian that some people mistook me for a valley girl whenever I got too excited. I had lost my identity overseas. People couldn’t quite understand that I was first and foremost an Indonesian with an American education. It didn’t matter than I had never spent time in the states. I was too foreign in many different ways. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Growing up, I relied heavily on the English language to communicate, and nearly discarded my Indonesian altogether. The sporadic Mandarin lessons never really interested me, and that part of my family’s culture and history embedded in the intricate characters were lost forever. I spoke English with my father, and tried to explain my thoughts in broken Indonesian to my unilingual mother. Growing up, my bookshelves bursted with books written by American authors and my television played nothing but the famed 90’s television shows from the West. I never touched the default channels that showed Indonesian shows and relied on mainstream American songs to overlay the daily Maghrib prayers exploding from every mosque in the country. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">The first American I met that was in my age group was a university exchange student from San Diego. She was tall, blonde, and was exactly like what I imagined an all-American girl to be like. She was beautiful and bubbly, with an instant connection that led us to still be in contact 2 years later. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“You sound like an American,” she said with a smirk one day, as if she was proud that her country had made me a minion. And maybe she was, but just like everyone else, she couldn’t fit me into a box. I sounded like an American, but to her, I was not. Although to everyone else, her and I were two peas in a pod.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">One night, I pulled out my skills in American sign language to speak to a deaf Australian, forgetting that they used Auslan, a completely different signing system. My accent transcends voice, because even to the deaf I was still American.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The moment I flew back to Jakarta as a fresh graduate, I felt like an immigrant in my own country. I was called a <i>bule</i>, which means foreigner in Indonesian. I struggled to speak fluent Indonesian to my coworkers and salespeople. I stammered to find the right terms. Grasping for words felt like trying to drink the water from a drizzling rain. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">But when I went on a trip to the states a few months ago, I somehow felt like I fitted right in. I wasn’t treated like a foreigner because I didn’t have an accent to put them off. I no longer stuck out like a sore thumb with my hard <i>r</i>’s and American slang like I did in Australia. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">When my British boyfriend said he wanted to learn more about my culture, I taught him how to speak Indonesian. But he pushed on. “No, I want to listen to your music and watch your movies and know about your history.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">It was then that I saw myself the way everyone else did. I was not Indonesian. I was born and raised in Jakarta but growing up, I had subconsciously shunned every single aspect of my country’s culture and history in favor of America’s. I became an honorary American without realizing it.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">When two Americans interned in my office this summer, I was tasked with the job of being their glorified babysitters. Instead, I became their friend. I understood their references and they understood mine. We were on the same wavelength and we managed to have similar political and social views. Aside from the odd local slang that these LA folks peppered in our conversations, I began to overlook our differences and basked in our similarities.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The internet made me think like an American, and when faced with their people, there were no barriers to stop us from connecting.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Mostly, my Americanness have been emphasized by my boyfriend’s, well, Englishness. He makes fun of the way I say aluminum or route, and he finds my American slang strange. But he knew the box I belonged in; an unlabeled crate that housed my ambiguous identity.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">After awhile, I started using the word <i>we</i> and <i>us</i> to describe Americans. <i>We</i> don’t think that way. <i>We’re</i> not voting for the Republicans. <i>We</i> don’t really like Ariana Grande after the whole donut incident. I’ve somehow grouped myself with an entire populace. After 4 years of being treated like an American, I finally let myself become one, without actually becoming one. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">But the Americans who read this will tell me I’m not American. And of course, I agree. I’m not American, but then again, what am I? My broken Indonesian renders me as a <i>bule</i> in my own hometown. My knowledge in American laws and news beats my basic understanding of how Indonesia works. My ignorance on the Indonesian media have left me out of the loop with my coworkers. No Indonesian has ever stamped me as one of them. To these people, I’ve been too whitewashed; my opinions too liberal and my patriotism nonexistent. I’m too much of everything, but I am no one thing in particular. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Perhaps now, the question of “<i>where are you from?” </i>merely<i> </i>indicates the location printed on our birth certificate. There are so many others like me; in cultural limbo and holding on to a semblance of an ethnicity. We are the ones that pause when you ask us that question, hoping that our answer satisfies you. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>“Where are you from?</i>”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I am from Indonesia, but I don’t think like one, act like one, or know much about my country. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">You will call me an American, but I have never stayed there for longer than a few weeks. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">My blood is of Chinese and Indonesian descent, but the neurons in my brain fire thoughts that belong elsewhere.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">If I knew, I would tell you. And I wouldn’t feel so lost. </span></div>
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Anonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12600792433452883824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3284859439087025802.post-80538938330885385722015-11-08T15:22:00.002+11:002015-11-08T15:52:01.711+11:00Hot Topic: Why Should We Go Back Home?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm at that age where people around me are starting to find work after graduation. These eager early 20-somethings are trying their best to balance their dreams with their parents' demands, and most of the time, the latter wins. Because I've learned that where I'm from, aspirations don't mean anything if they are not parallel with the family's needs. We have been raised to become cattle, and not many risk traversing into greener pastures. </div>
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When I told my parents that I ultimately want to work in Australia, they weren't very pleased. Fortunately, my parents know that they cannot put a leash on their daughters because they have not created us to be strangled within their grasp. They educated us to be fiercely independent, and that is something I'm very grateful for. </div>
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Every week I would meet friends or acquaintances that have just graduated from Europe or America and have returned to Jakarta. <i>For good? </i>I'd ask them. <i>Yeah, my parents would never let me stay there. </i>These stories come in a dime a dozen. It's understood in my community that family comes first, and our needs come second. Our parents have raised us, clothed us, put a roof over our heads and paid for our education in full. They own us. Say the word and we'll sit, roll over, and bark. </div>
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That's something I've never agreed with. </div>
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Our familial ties are so strong that we put ourselves last, and it's been like this for centuries. Our parents sacrificed their happiness for their parents, our grandparents sacrificed their happiness for their parents, and the chain continues. But what happens when our parents are the reason why we can't excel? What happens when they hinder us from our full potential?</div>
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Many don't choose to go back to Jakarta, they simply must. It is their duty to fly back to their homeland, no matter the cost. I know someone who was offered a job in Facebook's headquarters in California but had to turn it down because his father wanted him home. He could've easily accepted the offer, but his bond with his parents were much stronger than his career. Our parents have selflessly given us everything we need, so it only makes sense if we pay them back with our presence after university...right?</div>
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Well, that's the thing. What is the fun in raising robots that comply with every order? What is wrong with raising independent thinkers with their own plans in life? The world is the biggest thing we will every set foot on and yet we are bound to one city. Home is wherever we choose it to be. I have lived in Jakarta for almost 2 decades yet I never think of this place as home. But I've only lived in Melbourne for 4 years and know that's where my heart is. We are allowed to resent our birthplace and fall in love with another country. We are allowed to work in places we've always dreamed of even though it's halfway across the world. We are allowed to do these things because we have the right to be independent humans, not herd. And this is something so many parents do not understand. </div>
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They educate us abroad yet they encourage us to repel new western ideologies. What's the use of globalization if we don't learn from our mistakes and implement new, and perhaps <i>better</i> ways to live? We can learn a lot from the way western parents let go of their children so effortlessly and with so much love and support. And in turn, they can learn from us the undying respect we give to our family members. </div>
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I have never been in a position of having to see my children leave, and I'm sure it's heartbreaking to only see them twice a year. But shouldn't we encourage our kids to tackle any dreams they have with gusto? That maybe these brilliant Indonesians can represent the country all over the world and contribute in ways that we cannot even imagine. Why should we all be tied to Jakarta when there are 195 other countries that we can expand our horizons in? How absolutely strange it is to shrink the dreams of our children. </div>
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When we leave Indonesia, we are not leaving our family, we are simply using the world to better ourselves. Family will always be family, and we will always visit the people we love. But with the advent of Skype and mobile messaging applications, staying in touch have never been easier. Parents no longer have to travel on a ship across the Pacific for months on end to meet their children. They no longer have to wait for a person or pigeon to deliver messages sent weeks ago. The modern age allows people to travel and communicate with such ease that it's time to change the way we raise our kids. Perhaps back in the day, it was beneficial to let our children stay in the community, but now, a simple tap on a screen and we've booked a flight that will last for at most, 24 hours. </div>
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The world is changing, and the people in my generation have grown up with technology and a mind ready to be molded by different experiences. Many parents need to rethink the way they are controlling their children. I'm glad my parents have learned to be happy regardless of where their children are, because it's made me appreciate their contributions even more. It saddens me to think that so many painters, screenwriters, computer geniuses and footballers have dropped their passions for the sake of going home. Indonesia isn't always the best place to build a career, and if there are better options elsewhere, we need to seize it. We should grow up to be daring mavericks, stunted only by the limits of the universe, because there is nothing more painful than to have our dreams be treated as a nightmare. </div>
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Anonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12600792433452883824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3284859439087025802.post-5810646805628777932015-11-07T12:53:00.001+11:002015-11-07T12:53:44.545+11:00TV Show Review: Narcos<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKLFpzOs-CCq8XADUPHrESUIoTw4TAjo8Gc8tsacBe4CYBjKCJlOcfHNhniL9oVi0C84lBydlAfWCtSY6elOdJe02K2GMxA-DJfGW_B6HTC-QMcuhkRJsMi_I4XUFvkXitLJD1t2AxG6QF/s1600/960.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKLFpzOs-CCq8XADUPHrESUIoTw4TAjo8Gc8tsacBe4CYBjKCJlOcfHNhniL9oVi0C84lBydlAfWCtSY6elOdJe02K2GMxA-DJfGW_B6HTC-QMcuhkRJsMi_I4XUFvkXitLJD1t2AxG6QF/s640/960.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Whenever I hear someone say <i>Original Netflix Series</i> my heart pounds with excitement. The quality of their shows are incomparable and they create such unique stories that I rarely see on TV anymore. So when my colleague next to me offered the entire season of Narcos on a USB stick, I jumped at the opportunity to binge watch it. And let me tell you, this is a show worth watching twice. </div>
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Spoiler Alert.</div>
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The story is based on the life of Pablo Escobar (Wagner Moura) during the pinnacle of his success, and the fall of his empire. For those who are unfamiliar, Escobar was Colombia's biggest drug lord in the 60's who was responsible for 80% of the cocaine in the United States during that time. The Medellin Cartel raked in $60 million a day during the peak of their trade. All this money came with a price. After Escobar was turned down for the position of Colombia's Minister of Justice, he began his irrational killing spree. Which meant that Colombia had to tighten the laws regarding drugs and introduce extradition. Two DEA agents, Javier Peña (Pedro Pascal) and American Steve Murphy (Boyd Holbrook) were tasked to take down Escobar's cartel, but he was always one step ahead of them. By the end of the series, president Gaviria (Juan Pablo Raba) had to take matters into his own hands after his vice president was taken hostage. Throughout the show, everyone from Communists to young kids were murdered senselessly by Escobar and his men. </div>
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If you're into blood and guts, this is definitely the show for you. Found footage of victims and characters are often woven into the storyline to create such an authentic feel that the show teeters on a documentary. Even real life Peña and Murphy were consultants of the show. And it's precisely because of this balanced realism and dramatization that makes the show so appealing. Because this all <i>happened</i> and these people existed in a world so different to ours. Watching a TV show is one thing, but experiencing history is another. </div>
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Wagner Moura plays the role Pablo Escobar incredibly well. He was somehow able to create a human out of a monster. As the antagonist of the show, Escobar needed to appeal to the audience in more ways than one. He had to play with our heartstrings as he murdered innocent lives. We had to like the character enough to keep watching, and Moura was able to exude likability to such a cruel villain. It's difficult to pull off such a feat. However, when it comes to his authenticity, Moura is a Brazilian, and I have been told that his Colombian accent drops in and out in conversations. As a non-Spanish speaker, I couldn't tell the difference. But I'm sure that slight out-of-character accent might irk many native Spanish speakers. </div>
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I have to hand it to protagonist Steve Murphy (Holbrook) for being the most hated character in a show with murdering drug lords. As the narrator, we experience the life of Escobar through his eyes, as if he was recounting the good old days of chasing down the world's biggest drug lord. I believe Holbrook was chosen specifically because of his naturally villainous appeal. While Escobar was evil at heart, Murphy was outwardly so. We could see the decline of his protagonism as the show went on, and by the end of the series, he had one foot in the antagonist's yard, ready to climb over to the other side. Which begs the question, can someone with good intentions be evil? He had sacrificed his life for the pursuit of Escobar but along the way he got too caught up in chasing after the bad guy that he became one himself. </div>
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Both Peña (Pascal) and Gaviria (Raba) became the only two characters who stayed inherently good and tried their best to eliminate Escobar cleanly and safely. These men not only did good to Colombia, but <i>looked</i> kind as well, and that's the difference between them and Holbrook. Their faces were inviting, patient and pensive. But you see, Gaviria was tasked to bring down Escobar, and now the viewers are given the decision of whether to be on the right side of Colombia, or with Escobar.</div>
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That's where the show gets interesting. </div>
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We are able to choose which side we're on. As the show continues, we receive almost equal amounts of Gaviria and Escobar. We can either root for the president and his aspiration for a better Colombia, or we can support Escobar in his murderous rampage. I rarely see an antagonist presents himself so positively human that he could still continue to gather the support of the audience even after carelessly bombing a plane. This decision between good and evil is brought out so well that the audience merely has to choose which side to follow and which character to cheer on. </div>
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Personally, I want Escobar to win. But we all know how the story goes. After all, this is based on truth. </div>
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That's the power of the story and the script. It's a show surrounding heartless, unlikeable men and yet we still want them to win. For some reason, we are all sucked into the wealth and power of the Medellín Cartel. We feel like we have watched it grow from the small business it was to the empire it is now. And we don't want to see the fall of Rome. </div>
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This show has been renewed for a second season, and I'm sure everyone will be tuning in the moment the episodes are published on Netflix. If binge watching had a definition, it would be Narcos. With cliffhangers and nail-biters in every episode, there is never a dull scene in Narcos.<b> I give it a 9.4/10</b><i style="font-weight: bold;">. </i>An excellent show that I would recommend to only those who can stomach the violence.</div>
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Anonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12600792433452883824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3284859439087025802.post-10348929127217557842015-11-05T16:12:00.000+11:002015-11-05T16:45:09.186+11:00Hot Topic: The Perfect Instagram Life<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqdpK_CDUmH9nusB7TPCtJ-9SlxGOZeaIX9GPdgMAeX97IqCvQkA4yyRg_9mVBxzJN_mGkqVWQu141fFQ_7FuScILjrZ9EP_Z2ovVaXSeCGBHm6eCnRfL2m4zQCScxKkoXFA4bjYd_JNYp/s640/olenka13.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image Source: <a href="http://taramilktea.blogspot.co.id/2015/08/gordons-bay.html">Tara Milk Tea</a></td></tr>
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Here's to all the girls who scroll down their Instagram feed and double tap beautiful blondes in skimpy white dresses. To the girls who swim in the images of oceans on social media. To the girls who wish they had the wherewithal to travel as often as all the gorgeous 20-somethings on Instagram. Here's to you, because you have it all wrong.</div>
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There's this obsession with Instagram celebs. The women with 24-inch waists and carefully curated feeds are the ones who now wield the most power. Famous actors and musicians are envied to the same degree, but their lives are based on their careers. Instagram celebrities however, can work 9-5 behind an office desk or behind a Starbucks counter and still reach the same level of admiration all around the world. This is because their lives are much more achievable. They are everyday Joes and Janes who have somehow broken the limits put in place for them. And if young Essena O'Neill from the Sunshine Coast can shoot into stardom, so can all of us. </div>
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Let's take Alexis Ren, a 19 year-old Los Angeleno who's renowned for her <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P22gcb4YHso">travel videos</a> with boyfriend Jay Alvarrez. She is a small-time model who made it big due to her ostentatious partner and fit body. She hasn't done anything worth acclaim, and yet here she is, with 3.5 million followers solely because she won the genetic lottery. I'm sure she's a sweet girl, but does she know the power she holds? The influence she has towards young girls who aspire to be <i>just like her</i> with a waistline <i>just like her</i> and a boyfriend <i>just like her</i>? These Instagram celebrities extend beyond being role models, because they aspire people to be carbon copies of them. </div>
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We see the beauty of Instagram models as something attainable. I, too, can slim down to that size because she doesn't have expensive personal trainers to help her do it. I, too, can dye my hair that shade of honey blonde because she did hers at home with a bottle of L'Oreal. I, too, can wear that Coulbourne bikini because it's in my price range. Whilst Hollywood stars don Valentino gowns and and Lanvin purses, Instagram models wear what we can afford, which makes it easier to imitate their style. After awhile, we get too caught up in changing ourselves to mimic a complete stranger that we lose sight of living life for our own self. </div>
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Travelers are even a bigger deal. They meticulously edit their photographs and only show the beauty of their adventures. People look at their nomadic lifestyle and think that that's sustainable; that they should always aspire to travel as often as possible. Traveling is great, and as someone whose been to more countries than I can count with my fingers and toes, it does enrich your life. But I know the reason why I've had the opportunity to travel so often and to such great places is because my parents are fortunate enough to afford the trips. The reason people like 19 year-old <a href="https://instagram.com/jayalvarrez/">Jay Alvarrez</a> and 22 year-old <a href="https://instagram.com/leahliyah/?hl=en">Leah Naomi</a> are both able to journey around the world so frequently is precisely because of that. They were given the funds by their parents and they used it to travel, but we often forget this. Their lives are fairytales made of money, and even though I would love to be able to travel to Croatia on a whim and spend my weekend in a yacht, I have work obligations to do and money to save up for my survival. The grass is much greener on their bed of land but remember that they have gardeners to water the soil while you have to wait for the rain. And waiting isn't anything to be ashamed of. </div>
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I have saved up for over a year for a one-week trip to Japan. I have worked odd jobs cleaning cars, writing strange articles for obscure websites, and plenty more errands that have given me the few thousands of dollars I have sitting in my bank account. My sister worked hard to backpack solo around Europe, and by the time she got back to reality, she had nothing left in her wallet but all the memories needed for a lifetime. There are simply other ways to enjoy traveling, and we shouldn't be too caught up in how the rich globetrots. Sure, they might have the dream life, but we can always create our own in the confines set for us. We shouldn't live vicariously through these people, but live as much as we can with what we have. So what if we end up slumming it in a dirty hostel and skimping out on expensive skydiving excursions? Traveling isn't a competition, it's a self-fulfilling act that should be based on our own capabilities and happiness. </div>
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These Instagram celebrities can be inspiring and wildly intelligent. They can be great role models for many, but just know that what they post isn't what's always what's real. My selfies on Instagram took dozens of tries, a layer of makeup, and a blow-dried hair that required an hour to perfect. Or that my scenic photograph of palm trees and paddy fields was actually ruined by the smell of rotting trash. Life is beautiful and I have seen how incredible it can be, but it can also be quite average. And it's that mediocrity that we always seem to forget. In between the crafted pictures of someone's Instagram profile is them struggling, crying, and sleeping. These images are the highlight reel of someone's life, and no matter how beautiful they are and how amazing their life might seem, they are not exempt from the sorrows of any other human being. </div>
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We need to stop glorifying these average Janes on Instagram and see them for the artists they are. They paint pretty pictures of what they want others to perceive their life as, and even if they lead an incredibly thrilling life full of incomparable adventures, these are only slices of their lives that they have crafted to put on social media. There is no need to chase after someone's lifestyle because then you'll forget to create your own. Scroll down their pictures with awe, not envy. There is no guilt in taking your life one step at a time and achieving your bucket list at your own pace. </div>
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Anonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12600792433452883824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3284859439087025802.post-22592952718452366622015-11-02T18:32:00.000+11:002015-11-07T20:24:12.629+11:00Hot Topic: Let's Stop Talking About Flaws<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOwLTMp5VZNyHjBe9qt7HNxA675Rtqtl5p0k4KSMe0j5Cr6OO9Qj4Ma_cOi0hULOMUwgQZZEw0aKqiC1pPl-ZkjBf8ZPKn5aWXkJ4q6pMDGyNXA-tZs1Ng6rZCkC-FkZxrVq2FBqRtkIWl/s1600/large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOwLTMp5VZNyHjBe9qt7HNxA675Rtqtl5p0k4KSMe0j5Cr6OO9Qj4Ma_cOi0hULOMUwgQZZEw0aKqiC1pPl-ZkjBf8ZPKn5aWXkJ4q6pMDGyNXA-tZs1Ng6rZCkC-FkZxrVq2FBqRtkIWl/s640/large.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1">There are several things that irk me. No toilet paper in public bathrooms is one, and loud chewing is another. Both of those two I can deal with, but what I can never seem to accept is the blatant criticisms of my flaws. Since when did it become acceptable to greet me with a crass critique of my physical attributes? How did that become interchangeable with <i>how are you</i>?</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b>Let’s get to it:</b></span></div>
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<span class="s1">I don’t take criticisms about my appearance very well, and that’s an understatement. Growing up as the awkward lanky kid, I’ve always taken negative remarks about my flaws to be a stepping stone for a better me. An innocuous quip about my hair have sent me straight to the salon for permanent fixing. A comment about my large eyes have shaped the way I pose in pictures. My self-esteem is a tranquil pond, easily rippled by the slightest touch, and I know that many others feel the same way. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">There’s a reason why we accept critiques more than compliments. We have been led to believe that we are not good enough, and that feeling of self-doubt have settled into the depths of our brain, absorbing all the good said to us like fighting a bacterial infection. Although this might not be the case for all women, it certainly is for many girls, especially those who are still in the process of growing up and have yet to love themselves. The more we criticize them, even as a subtle remark, the more it becomes a belief and no longer an opinion. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">That belief can manifest itself into low self-esteem, and that’s something that I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Which is why I have tried to stop commenting on other people’s flaws. It started a year ago, when I realized that when other people don’t ask me about my volcanic pimple or my bad hair day, I became more satisfied with my appearance. The less negative comments people make about how I look, the better I felt throughout the day. So I tried doing the same to others. I refused to mention how terrible someone’s skin had gotten, their weight gain, their stretch marks, their love handles. I became seemingly oblivious to their flaws, no matter how prominent. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">A few years ago, a friend of mine had a cyst on her face that she had tried to cover up with makeup but to no avail. It was unmissable and slightly disturbing to see, but I continued the conversation anyway, trying to avert my eyes from the pus-filled lump on her cheek. But then a friend of ours chimed in saying, ‘um, what’s <i>that</i>?’ You could see her face drop. She immediately covered up the cyst with her hand and muttered an, ‘I don’t know, it’s a zit.’</span></div>
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<span class="s1">It was such a small comment my friend made that he could’ve just kept to himself. And it’s these small remarks that turn someone’s small imperfections into something massive. Because suddenly, our flaw mattered enough for someone else to bring up. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Once when I was crammed in an elevator full of strangers, one woman said to her chubby friend, “you shouldn’t be standing in the middle when you’re that fat.” Even though it was obviously a joke, I thought that was completely unnecessary. It wasn’t until another friend made the exact same remark to me in an elevator that I realized how normal it was to poke and prod people’s physical flaws as a conversation topic. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Perhaps people do need to grow thicker skin and learn to swat away criticism. But self-love is a difficult thing to achieve if everyone around you is constantly bringing you down. If we want people to start appreciating themselves for what they cannot change, then we need to change the way we see others. I think these untoward comments are so culturally ingrained that most people don't find this to be a fault. We receive criticism, hence, we give criticism. It's a looping cycle of negativity that can easily be fixed by just keeping our observations to ourselves. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Our obsession with perfection have made us believe that anything less than perfect skin, hair, teeth, eyes, nose, or waistline, is a failure. If we don't reach the standard of expectations set to us by the media and our peers, we are involuntarily open for criticism. But when we make those comments, who does it help? What did your comment contribute to either party? Did your comment about my weight made you feel like a better person? Did your not-so-subtle critique about my frizzy hair benefit you in any way?</span></div>
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<span class="s1">So let’s all make a little promise to do something I’ve always tried to do. If that person can fix their imperfections within 5 minutes, tell them. If they have spinach stuck between their teeth or they have mascara goop on their eyelashes, bring it up. But if it’s something permanent; a scar, a twitch, a crooked tooth, or bad skin, just leave it be. Because they criticize themselves more than anyone else, and you don’t need to add to that negativity.</span></div>
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Anonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12600792433452883824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3284859439087025802.post-76142597093255537692015-09-27T19:11:00.001+10:002015-09-27T19:12:06.028+10:00Web Finds: David Cata<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Ty5YPZKPYmmvFTB3kAoK1AoqYwKfq0tFjhaUv90-Jav7lAlG91i8GaPW4PugCbpdms4Ib4S3hbipbXPFvveq6AyorvRV7vMOybjDLLOtG8sCsMikFi8MaWjwDtHzTMhPSxe5v__f-Tgb/s1600/david-cata-sews-portraits-of-his-family-into-the-palm-of-his-hand-designboom-01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="420" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Ty5YPZKPYmmvFTB3kAoK1AoqYwKfq0tFjhaUv90-Jav7lAlG91i8GaPW4PugCbpdms4Ib4S3hbipbXPFvveq6AyorvRV7vMOybjDLLOtG8sCsMikFi8MaWjwDtHzTMhPSxe5v__f-Tgb/s640/david-cata-sews-portraits-of-his-family-into-the-palm-of-his-hand-designboom-01.jpg" width="640" /></a>David Catá is a Spanish artist with interests in photography, music, but more prominently, art. But to me, his work entitled A Flor de Piel is by far the most mind-boggling. He sews portraits of his friends, families, and loved ones on the palm of his hand. This self-inflicting art is a performatic and symbolic action of loss, love and memories. "Their lives have been interwoven with mine to build my history," explains Catá. "Every moment lived stays in the memory to finally be forgotten. Somehow, this fact is painful, since there are only material things and traces that people leave behind." His work has been shown in Mexico, New York, Peru, Cuba, Portugal, Spain, and Cambodia. To see more of what he does, visit <a href="http://davidcata.com/">his website</a>. </div>
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<br />Anonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12600792433452883824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3284859439087025802.post-11251018079020477232015-09-01T14:23:00.000+10:002015-09-01T18:50:03.361+10:00Hot Topic: The Kardashian Generation <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
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<span class="s1">Ah, the Kardashians. You either love them or hate them, and the world absolutely loves to hate them. Walking towards the cashier in grocery stores, I often pass by chocolate bars and Kim’s booty on display. I must admit, I’ve succumbed to tabloid headlines and shamefully flipped through the magazines in search for the latest gossip, but I’ve never walked out the store with one. Khloe Kardashian’s divorce, little Kylie’s relationship with Tyga, and even baby Mason’s first steps were all documented for all to see, and to be honest, I wonder when it will all stop.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b>Let’s get to it:</b></span></div>
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<span class="s1">Kim Kardashian was patient zero. In the early noughties, she followed around Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie like a little puppy, and by 2007, her sex tape with artist Ray J had made her a <strike>porn</strike>star. While most women will issue numerous apologies and rework their image, Kim did what only Kim would do; create a reality TV show around her dysfunctional family. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">The show garnered so much attention that even the previously unknown sisters, Khloe and Kourtney, became overnight celebrities. Soon, they built an empire; sticking their family name wherever they can and reaping the benefits. They seemed untalented, vapid, and have been voted as the dumbest people in the world, but they are far from that. Their talent lies in branding themselves. They are creators; able to turn whatever they touch into gold. These women are street smart and quick on their feet. Even Khloe’s involvement with Peta’s no fur campaign was a clever publicity stunt to show off her new slim physique. They have the media wrapped around their manicured fingers and will continue to control the world with their unsolicited presence. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">The Kardashians have groomed their younger step-sisters, Kendall and Kylie Jenner, into marketing themselves the same way. Both teenagers found their sexuality at such a young age that the media treated them like legal adults and not the underaged high schoolers they were. The family had slapped on false lashes, push-up bras, lip injections and stiletto heels on the young Jenners and shoved them into the spotlight. They mingled with the right people and became socialites before they even finished puberty.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">By 2015, the Kardashian-Jenner family have made a fortune by promoting themselves. The untalented Kylie Jenner have over 34 million Instagram followers purely by self-trafficking herself for fame. Will she make something out of her life in the future? Perhaps. But it seems like her only skill in life is limited to sexy selfies, and it's only a matter of time before she publishes a book full of it. But <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Kim-Kardashian-Selfish/dp/0789329204">who would do that</a>, am I right? </span></div>
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But isn’t talking about them exactly what they want us to do? Isn’t Kylie’s new Ferrari, Kendall’s current flame, Kim’s marriage to Kanye, Kourtney’s children and Khloe’s derriere all part of their scheme to be <i>talked</i> about and <i>thought</i> about? Hating on the Kardashians isn’t edgy, it’s being a part of the system, and it’s infuriating. Even writing this article means I am contributing to the content in the world’s search engine. You can’t run away from them the same way you can’t run away from spam e-mails. It’s always there, and even if you choose to ignore it, sometimes you’ll need to peruse through them in case you missed something important. <span class="s1"></span></div>
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<span class="s1">There is no telling when the Kardashian-Jenner empire will fall, but it seems that the family won’t stop anytime soon. The father’s transition from Bruce to Caitlyn exploded all over the media and continues to gain momentum with her new reality show.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">But why do we want to talk about them so much? Because they keep themselves relevant. When stats are down and news begin to wander off to the Palestinians or the Elgin Marbles, the Kardashians will launch a new line of perfume or accidentally slip a nipple on the red carpet. What's more; the media refuses to stop broadcasting them. Can CNN and FoxNews remove Kardashian stories from their evening news? Of course, but they probably want to appeal to a younger audience; the superficial ones who think fortune cookies are culturally Chinese. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">There is no running away from them, and decades into the future, there will be case studies and history lessons about the Kardashian-Jenners. Our future grandchildren will study our strange predilection for artificial news stories and our hive mind mentality. We will be known as the generation that let these 5 plastic women run the media. They will fall under the same category as Cleopatra, Anne Frank, and Harriet Tubman. Do they deserve to even be in the same sentence as those powerful women? Not to me, but it’s an inevitable future that we’re progressing towards with every tweet and every Google search. They have left such an immutable mark that we must live with it for the rest of our lives. I just hope that the world’s obsession with them dies quickly and painlessly, because there is much more to marvel in the world than Kim Kardashian’s belt.</span></div>
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Anonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12600792433452883824noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3284859439087025802.post-25205392642999577212015-07-08T18:55:00.000+10:002015-07-09T12:21:18.738+10:00Hot Topic: 9 reasons Why Jakarta Is An Unlivable City<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It didn’t take long for me to realize that Jakarta simply isn’t the place for me. I grew up in the outskirts of Jakarta—close enough for a daily commute but far enough for me to escape from the aura of melancholy the city exudes. Although I never loved Jakarta growing up, I never lived anywhere else. It was all I knew for 16 years, and I had only glimpses of life overseas through television and annual trips around the world. It wasn’t until I studied in Melbourne—dubbed the most livable city in the world for the past 3 years—that I realized how much life I’m losing in this thronging metropolis. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Let’s get to it:</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit;">1. Traffic</span></span></blockquote>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Voted as the world’s worst traffic city, Jakarta’s jams are incomparable. At one point, a usually 1-hour commute turned into a 5.5-hour ride. And not too long ago, It took me 1.5 hours to pass through a flyover that usually takes me no longer than 3 minutes to traverse. You will inevitably spend hours inside a car or a motorbike, leaving you to either hire a driver or beat the traffic alone, wasting valuable time. The public transport system is atrocious and unreliable, with only a handful that can do its job well. What’s left is to suck it up and admit defeat to the gridlock jams every waking hour. Not only is traffic a problem, but those driving the cars and motorbikes make it a hell of a lot worse. With no regards to their own safety and others, driving in Jakarta is pretty much a death sentence.</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit;">2. Corruption</span></span></blockquote>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Even though I think bribing a police officer to get out of a ticket actually saves my time, its the entire system of corruption that makes it all possible. The corruption of government officials and politicians trickles down to even the local mailman. A friend of mine was able to get away with a speeding ticket by bribing the officer with cupcakes. </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">There is nothing you can’t do in Indonesia; with money and prestige, you can get away with murder. The police isn’t on the side of justice, but whoever can provide him with more cash at the end of the day. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit;">3. Low quality medical professionals </span></span></blockquote>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After multiple misdiagnoses in the family, my parents no longer trust Indonesian doctors. Medicine isn’t our strong suit, and it’s no secret of ours either. I was once prescribed life-threatening pills that’s been banned in nearly every country in the world for its fatal side effects. Which is why when my cousin broke his knee, his parents immediately sent him to Singapore on a chartered plane for emergency surgery. Those who can afford better usually turn to Singaporean or Malaysian healthcare, while the rest suffer under the mediocrity and downright incorrect procedures of Indonesian hospitals. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit;">4. Flood</span></span></blockquote>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Every year, thousands of people get evacuated out of their homes and dozens of people pass away. Flooding in Jakarta is such a common occurrence to the point where it has its own <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flooding_in_Jakarta">Wikipedia page</a>. The city lies in a low, flat basin with clogged sewage pipes and waterways, which means during seasons of rain, it is nearly impossible to access several roads and areas. I remember my school closing for a few days due to heavy flooding, and no one was able to go out of their homes. Beat that, Canada's snowstorms. </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit;">5. Crime</span></span></blockquote>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The moment I came back from Melbourne, I was regaled with tales of criminal acts around the city. From people who kill motorcyclists merely to sell their bikes, to people who find unique ways to stop cars and rob the drivers blind. My favorite one is of people who throw raw eggs at windshields so drivers would </span>instinctively<span style="font-family: inherit;"> wipe the screen, leaving the window blindingly white and forcing the driver to walk out and clean the eggs. </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I have never felt safe walking down the streets of Jakarta, and not many people do. I could walk anywhere in Melbourne at 3AM and be greeted with smiles and kindness, but here, walking down the streets at noon left me with a robbery. And none of the witnesses even cared enough to step in and help. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit;">6. Passport</span></span></blockquote>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Our passport ranks at number 60 in the world <a href="http://passportindex.org/">in terms of power</a>, alongside Senegal and Uganda. This means that we have only a few dozen countries we can go to visa-free, and it’s mostly in Asia. Unlike the EU passport that allows you to work anywhere in the continent, or the South Korean passport that allows you to go to hundreds of countries without a visa, the Indonesian passport limits your travels and work. You know those Instagram pictures of white people traveling around the world? That's because they don't have to wait 2 weeks for a single visa or get rejected for some unknown reason. In addition, m</span></span>any countries offer leniency when it comes to giving sponsorship visas or work visa extensions to American or Australian passports, but Indonesians aren’t given the same privileges.</div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit;">7. Strange laws (or lack thereof)</span></span></blockquote>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit;">From things like the anti-pornography movement to banning bra straps on television, the government adores regulating the oddest laws. When HIV became a common problem in Bengkulu, the lawmakers decided the best way to combat it is to ban condoms altogether. Because apparently, no one would have sex without contraception. </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Even receiving makeup products—like a single lipstick—from overseas airmail is illegal for some unspecified reason. The limitations put in place for many aspects of business and life will make you beg for the liberty that other countries can provide. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit;">8. Inconvenience</span></span></blockquote>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Indonesia was built on the principle of inefficiency. From the inability to set up an appointment time with a doctor (it’s first come first serve!) to incredibly slow internet speeds, it is quite difficult to be productive in a place that tries to slow you down. While other countries use sensors when you drive through the toll—and then e-mail you the monthly bill—we still have congested tollbooths where you need to stop and give money to another human being, trapped in their little polluted box for hours at a time. Anything you need to do in Jakarta will take you minutes or hours longer than if you were to do it overseas. The ease of paying through Melbourne’s PayPass system will always be missed dearly. </span></span><br />
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With traffic comes pollution. Decade-old buses emit smoke similar to that of a war zone, and inhaling the fresh morning air is a privilege that we can only indulge in out of the city. The skies are no longer blue, but a light shade of gray above the thick smoke that leaves you myopic. At night, I can only see the moon. Whenever I'm overseas, I'm always in awe of the stars, and many of those used to seeing the night sky peppered with bright lights often look at me strangely whenever I express my amazement. In Jakarta, people never look up because there's nothing to see. The sky that can transform itself into a radiant red or purple during dusk and dawn, is always disappointingly monochrome.</div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Now, I must say that Indonesia itself is a beautiful country. Many cities are bursting with culture, but Jakarta is not one of them. With only glimpses of our gorgeous history in between skyscrapers and shantytowns, the rest of the city is a breeding ground of human bacteria. It’s a place that only benefits the businessmen and the 1%, leaving the rest struggling to fit in the jagged puzzle pieces of the capital.</span></span></div>
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Anonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12600792433452883824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3284859439087025802.post-63708858696023338302015-06-13T15:18:00.001+10:002016-01-15T16:57:44.019+11:00Hot Topic: The Pressure To Be A Feminist <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Celebrities or anyone under the media spotlight are often vulnerable to criticism. We don't treat famous people like humans with parents or children and a life outside the cameras. When we trash about celebrities or leave nasty comments about their actions, we turn them into a vessel for ridicule. They are no longer humans but something you can poke and prod during your own leisure time. But so far, I have never seen a celebrity more criticized than for denouncing the feminist label, which is really the complete opposite of what feminism should be.</div>
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I think western feminism is an unnecessary label and movement that has done nothing much in the past few years than to encourage women to use the gender card to get their way. Has feminism done well in the past hundred years? Most definitely. I owe my life to that movement, but it has plateaued and is grasping at straws to become relevant again. From petty movements such as <a href="http://jasminetamarathinks.blogspot.com/2015/01/hot-topic-stop-spreading-manspreading.html">manspreading</a> to the rise of <a href="http://elitedaily.com/women/beauty/armpit-hair-on-the-rise-photos/1060905/">armpit hair</a>, western feminism has become an outlet for privileged women to vent about all the insignificant issues that plague their daily lives. I think feminism can be applied elsewhere, but in countries where the <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/christina-hoff-sommers/wage-gap_b_2073804.html">wage gap is nearly nonexistent</a> and women can own property, take custody of their children and pretty much be a badass, it's safe to say that a female-based movement is no longer needed so ardently. </div>
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"But feminism is about gender-equality!" Yes, it most definitely is...half a century ago. But like FIFA president Sepp Blatter, I think it's time to retire that title. The Oxford dictionary defines feminism as advocating for women's rights on the ground of equality of both sexes, but somehow, feminism has taken a stance at tackling men's issues and guising it under the same label. That's like the European Union inviting Asian countries to take part in their system. It seems that women don't want to let go of the feminist term because then it's like admitting victory, and god forbid women be equal to men in some parts of the world. So they changed the definition to be a belief in the social, political and economic equality of the sexes. They have pushed feminism to be synonymous with equality to the point where the #HeForShe campaign was launched to help both women <i>and</i> men...even though women are still treated as the main source of concern. The title encourages a victim complex and narcissism that by no means should any woman be a part of. </div>
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Women hold such a personal relationship with the feminist title that they expect every other woman to be one too. It's like that feeling you get when someone says your pet isn't cute, like, <i>how dare you</i> sit there and say that Snuggles isn't adorable? If I tell them I'm not a feminist, some would feel sorry for my internalized misogyny or convince me that I am a damsel in distress in need of saving amidst the savagery of the patriarchy. If I choose to be a housewife and raise children and cook for my husband after he brings home the bacon, then it's as if I am disgracing independent women everywhere. The root of feminism was to give women the option to choose different paths in life, but choosing the one most often travelled should also be completely acceptable.</div>
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So when female celebrities are asked about their stance on this issue, the reporters aren't asking whether or not they identify as a feminist, they are expecting them to do so. That forced assumption is why there are articles that say <a href="http://www.suggest.com/celebs/1757/13-confused-female-celebs-who-say-they-arent-feminists#slide/0">13 Confused Female Celebs Who Say They Aren't Feminists</a>. It's not confusion, it's simply a different opinion. When these celebrities and many other women don't identify themselves as a feminist, that's because they understand the current equality between the sexes. They realize that 30% of boys are less likely to graduate high school, that men get more prison time, that suicide is a common cause of death for men, that women are 65% more likely to get custody of their children, that men account for 50% of rape cases but receive only a fraction of the support people give female victims. When celebrities refuse to identify themselves as a feminist, it's not that they are ungrateful for the women who have fought for their human rights, but it's because they seek to find a different label—one that encompasses both men and women without any predisposition for one or the other. </div>
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Men are then forced to hold the title, talk about the pain of women that they know nothing about, simply because it's good publicity. A male celebrity who chooses not to label himself as a feminist will be met with cruel judgements from his female fans. Men in the media have no choice but to grin and bear it as they tell the world how much of a feminist they are, because what choice to they have? They have no leeway to talk about their own opinion on the matter. Feminism has policed free speech or any criticism towards their movement. There is such a superiority complex amongst the radical feminists that any challenge in their principles is met with rudeness and repetition of misinformation. When David Cameron <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2014/10/27/david-cameron-feminism-elle-tshirt-this-is-what-a-femist-looks-like_n_6053848.html">refused to wear</a> Elle's <i>This is what a feminist looks like</i> t-shirt, they said it was 'unfortunate' given that he is a passionate advocate for women's rights. Deputy Prime Minister Nick Clegg happily wore the shirt to pose for the cause, and was lauded for his support. Elle tried to force David Cameron to wear the shirt five different times, which I think is quite ironic considering how much feminism advocates strongly that no means no. Voltaire once said, "to learn who rules over you, simply find out who you are not allowed to criticize."</div>
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No one wants to be discriminated against, it's just in our nature to want to be treated like a decent human being. So when female celebrities reject the feminist title, it's not that they wan't to continue to be oppressed like the women circa 1910, they simply do not want to label themselves as a feminist merely because they are obliged to do so. Feminists who condemn the women who seek a different label should be ashamed of themselves for policing what women can say and do. Just because someone doesn't identify themselves the way you want them to, doesn't mean that they don't know what they're doing. Calling these female celebrities 'confused' belittles their intelligence and paints them as incompetent decision-makers. It seems that this 8-letter word has more power than it should have, and we too often put our focus on the word itself rather than the ideology of the person labeled. </div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">“The feminist movement as we have come to know it in recent decades is fundamentally a "con."...As it is considered treasonous to criticise a sister feminist, no standards of accuracy or honesty are ever enforced. Hyperbole and deceit thus become the formula for success, "peer review" playing no role in reining in misinformation. Any would-be feminist who raises scholarly objections to the rampant misinformation is branded an 'enemy of women' and is drummed out of the movement.” -Robert Sheaffer </span></span></blockquote>
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Anonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12600792433452883824noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3284859439087025802.post-92191287474851523182015-06-02T16:41:00.000+10:002016-01-15T17:00:15.156+11:00Hot Topic: The Teenage Allure of Christianity <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Wi6zeGKr_16RXdcSmO3F9ULmHyi0hDPtPcNNyU15GgHR7-yGYdRXJfnqLvZo6UFIpyhZTMvHl-5Y24GdpaGfhl0LkJ9xnZ4OEye20Ugoa8OVD6dCQ8FykSdATFNtawj3l2yx-xwI6yNX/s1600/religion2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Wi6zeGKr_16RXdcSmO3F9ULmHyi0hDPtPcNNyU15GgHR7-yGYdRXJfnqLvZo6UFIpyhZTMvHl-5Y24GdpaGfhl0LkJ9xnZ4OEye20Ugoa8OVD6dCQ8FykSdATFNtawj3l2yx-xwI6yNX/s640/religion2.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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"Come to my church!" Several friends have said to me on different occasions. "It's really fun! It's not like your typical church." I would always kindly decline, not because I don't want to see it for myself, it's just that I'm not interested in going to any church regardless of how entertaining the sermon is or how fun the people are. But with more and more teenagers and young adults raving about their church, I wonder whether they're in it for the free entertainment or for their God.</div>
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<b>Let's get to it:</b></div>
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The Catholic church upholds archaic rituals and liturgy in every church and parish around the world. The sermon on any given Sunday is the same anywhere in the world. The term <i>Catholic</i> was derived from Greek and Latin roots meaning <i>universal</i>, and so it is. Catholics pride themselves in being united with not only the present churches, but the churches in the past. The traditional, long-winded Eucharist we perform every week connects us with ceremonies centuries ago. The Catholic church isn't about growing together with society's modern tendencies but about bringing us back to the core of the religion and tackling contemporary issues with age-old teachings. </div>
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So it's no wonder that on Sundays, the church walls reverberate with gloomy Latin hymns and the slow footsteps of the clergy. We kneel, stand, sit, bow down, and raise our hands in prayer like clockwork. We softly strike our hearts as we beg forgiveness to the virgin Mary, the angels, and our brothers and sisters. We quietly line up to receive the flesh of Jesus Christ and are only permitted to leave Church grounds once the priest himself has left the altar. Us Catholics have undergone first communion <i>and</i> confirmation lessons to truly prove to our community and God that we have dedicated our lives to Him. Looking back, it was all a bunch of tedious activities that I did because everyone else expected me to do so. I was never interested, I skipped most lessons, and I was always jealous of my Christian friends who seemed to have their faith validated by the world without all the hoopla. </div>
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So when I was 12, I went to my first Christian church. It was an English service targeted towards teenagers, and they made sure everyone there had the time of their lives. With an electric guitar, a drum set, a bass player, and a few singers jumping up and down on stage, it was hard to believe they all gathered here for the sole purpose of God. Soon, I realized they weren't. </div>
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The church sang songs by Christian rock bands, provided snacks before and after the sermon, and played games during the homily. That day I did something that I never did back in my own church; I listened. Their sermons were relevant to me. They knew how I felt and the issues that most teenagers face, and they tailored their service towards that. I not only felt entertained, I felt enlightened. It was the first time that going to church made me happy. I went there of my own volition, and I wanted to go again. I wanted to meet all these new people who seemed to enjoy going to Sunday mass as much as I did. </div>
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Through the years, my Christian friends would often rave on about their church. I would go with them on several occasions and experience, yet again, another entertaining sermon. But after awhile it seems that the point of going to church for most of my friends is simply to reunite with their friends and to satiate their guilty conscience. If their friends all go, they <i>must</i> go to save face. It feels like the concept of worship has been buried under the glitz and glamour used to attract the youth in the first place. </div>
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Even though I find the Catholic church extremely dull, I respect the way it pulls in the faithful without the promise of entertainment. Many Catholics would spend hours in a humid Cathedral with no one but strangers around them. The young adults attend for the sole purpose of spending quality time with God. They would show up at confession for the sake of their sins. The teenagers who willingly go to church have no hidden motive, no rock bands to sing to, no snacks to bookend the sermon, and no laughter during the homily. </div>
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The dedication of the older generation for their God is something that I respect very much, but that devotion is lost amongst the youth. Which is why the Christian church establish numerous services specifically for these fidgety teenagers. They attempt to appeal to these kids, to lure them into the excitement of the modern <i>cool</i> church. They put these kids together to make them build a friendship strong enough to pull them back together every Sunday. They use entertainment as hook, line and sinker; as long as they're here, that's all that matters. </div>
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But if you take away the humor from the Christian pastor, the friendly faces, the air conditioned buildings, the upbeat Hillsong tunes, then I will bet you that the teenagers would rather find another way to entertain themselves on Sunday afternoons. If you push their Sunday mass to an early 6:30AM the way my church does, watch the teenagers refuse to get out of bed. Let these Christian teenagers face church; stripped, raw, as bare as it could be, and see if they would attend every week for two hours, the way the Catholics do here. </div>
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I'm not assuming that every single teenage Christian out there goes to church for the wrong reasons, but I know a handful of them do. I believe that the plainness of the Catholic church only solidifies the faith of those in it, while the embellishment of Christianity only serves to trick the youth. I support anyone who goes to church, but I despise those who go simply because they want to meet their friends and treat God as an afterthought. I want to see how many of the Christian youth (without the interference of their parents) once stripped away from the glamour of the church, will come back to hear the words of God hours after dawn. </div>
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Anonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12600792433452883824noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3284859439087025802.post-73179601510948057712015-05-30T16:45:00.001+10:002015-05-30T20:01:00.700+10:00Hot Topic: Tess Holliday and The Fallacy of Body Positivity <div style="text-align: justify;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Z00SWDEiftkz1PP9c7ehTiOurCYOUWqmks7JTLiW_swvOBgsOjQkWuh29H4VLhxBdWzXy3AQFZBDE27enm8Gr0SNfnXoNMQYMAelA_Tq-9oD7O_faKvUJ3J__qdR9WvU6e28AGvFT2Lz/s1600/Tess-Holiday-9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Z00SWDEiftkz1PP9c7ehTiOurCYOUWqmks7JTLiW_swvOBgsOjQkWuh29H4VLhxBdWzXy3AQFZBDE27enm8Gr0SNfnXoNMQYMAelA_Tq-9oD7O_faKvUJ3J__qdR9WvU6e28AGvFT2Lz/s640/Tess-Holiday-9.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Tess Holliday (née Munster) is a 29 year-old, 5'5 size 22 supermodel who's signed to a major label. And with hair and a face like that, I must admit she is an absolute stunner. But below the neck, she's nothing but the poster child for obesity, and it seems that Tess is creating a movement that allows for other obese women to continue with their unhealthy dietary habits. My naturally lean frame might be used as an ad-hominem argument against this article, but let's hope that wont be the case and that you'll hear me out. </div>
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The rise of the body positivity movement gives many women an outlet to share their newfound joy about their own bodies. It's a steadily growing ideology that women are beginning to give to other women. Many are even going as far as <a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/health-and-families/are-you-beach-body-ready-protein-world-backlash-grows-as-thousands-sign-petition-calling-for-removal-of-body-shaming-ads-10204601.html">taking down ads</a> that promote the <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/11/06/victorias-secret-perfect-body-campaign_n_6115728.html">perfect body</a>. Women are finally taking a stand, and the media will slowly change its ways to include diversity amongst their women.<br />
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However, the movement has taken it a step too far with the introduction of Tess Holliday. While I support body diversity, I do not support obesity or anorexia. I think the opposite ends of the weight spectrum aren't to be encouraged. The main issue here is that Tess' self love is being perceived by many to be the reason why they shouldn't change the way they look. That's a very dangerous mindset to promote considering over <a href="http://www.cdc.gov/obesity/data/adult.html">30% of Americans are obese</a> with an estimated annual medical cost of $147 billion due to obesity-related health issues.<br />
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Obesity isn't a beauty issue, it's a health issue. The fact that Tess Holliday, an obviously obese woman, sees her situation as mental instead of physical just shows how the body positivity movement has gone amiss. You are allowed to love your body, but you are also allowed to improve it. Self-love isn't about getting acquainted with your fatal flaws, its about loving your body and making sure it gets what it deserves. Your body isn't a shell that doesn't require any polish—it is what drives you forward, literally. It's what keeps you going for years to come, and the only time you wish you did a better job at taking care of it is when your body retaliates from your neglect.<br />
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Eating healthy and exercising isn't something that healthcare professionals made up. It's not an <i>option</i>, it's a requisite to maintaining a healthy body. I understand that being overweight doesn't necessarily make you unhealthy, but it does increase the risk of a multitude of illnesses down the road. The thing is, the body positivity movement attempts to shut down facts in favor of blissful ignorance. These overweight women understand the risks involved with overeating and lack of exercise, but they choose to ignore them anyway. Women are now demanding to be loved by society for their indolence. Is that fair for the women who work out, watch what they eat, and treat their bodies well? I don't think so.<br />
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Although Tess claims that she is healthy, she promotes a lifestyle that might not result in healthiness in the long run. Just because her self-indulgent diets haven't given her coronary heart disease doesn't mean it won't give someone else hypertension. Her current healthiness is merely the calm before the storm. There's a reason why doctors will encourage any big person to diet regardless of their amazing health; it's to <i>avoid</i> any risk associated with being overweight. The job of a doctor isn't just to prescribe you blood thinning medicine when you're obese, but to avoid giving you medicine in the first place. Yet many women think that any sort of encouragement to be healthy <a href="http://www.xojane.com/issues/my-doctor-fat-shamed-meand-it-kinda-worked">constitutes as fat-shaming</a>. They stick their fingers in their ears and sing All About That Bass whenever someone even suggests a better lifestyle.<br />
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There's a reason why Michelle Obama strongly advocates to eliminate childhood obesity. Take a look at the projects of past First Ladies; Rosalynn Carter advocated for mental health, Nancy Reagan launched the <i>Just Say No</i> drug awareness campaign, and both Barbara and Laura Bush fought to advance universal literacy. Obesity is such an important issue to the point where the First Lady took it upon herself to reform it.<br />
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You will never hear a previously overweight or obese person complain about how much better off they were when they were fatter. Our bodies weren't made to sustain too much fat and that much processed food. Even the big girls know that the amount of donuts, sugary drinks and fast food burgers they eat <i>is not healthy</i>.<br />
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To me, body positivity is all about loving the frame you were born with. Some were born with bigger waists, some with flatter chests. It's about understanding that we all come in different shapes and sizes, but it shouldn't be about letting yourself go. The movement should be about loving <i>your</i> version of fit, not about overeating while binge watching Netflix. Now the body positivity movement has given women a reason to be lazy with their exercises and diets. What was once a movement to appreciate everyone's natural frame has become the new slogan for obesity in America.<br />
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Thats why Tess is going to ruin the lives of so many overweight women. Her glamorized presence is already a sign that obesity is not only okay, it's <i>great.</i> Her social media followers look at her pictures and get inspired by her slothfulness and will do the same. You know who I follow? <a href="http://www.muscleandfitness.com/athletes-celebrities/girls/2014s-hottest-gym-girls-instagram">Women who go to the gym</a>. Women who work to give their bodies the best possible outcome. Women who promote a healthy and sustainable lifestyle.<br />
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You can't let yourself become unhealthily fat and then blame the media for not praising you. The media praises the lean and the sculpted. The media praises the muscular thighs of Beyonce and the tight bum of Nicki Minaj. The media praises the abs of Candice Swanepoel and the arms of Adriana Lima. Because they worked for that while <i>you</i> didn't. You sit on your couch with a beer belly and a double chin and expect the world to shower you with confetti. That's not how it works. The start of self-love is when you love your body enough to make it better, and if you haven't, maybe one day you'll care enough to do so.<br />
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Anonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12600792433452883824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3284859439087025802.post-47897371378637547022015-05-22T20:55:00.000+10:002015-05-27T17:19:04.855+10:00Movie Review: Ex Machina <div style="text-align: justify;">
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Ex Machina had very interesting and well-executed campaigns, but all it garnered was a humble buzz surrounding the movie. It seemed like it's targeted towards a small niche; but it was neither an arthouse film nor was it mainstream. Regardless, it soon became one of my top 5 films to watch this year.</div>
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Spoiler Alert.</div>
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Caleb (Domhall Gleeson), a programmer in the world's biggest search engine, Bluebook, won an internal competition to visit the company's elusive CEO—Nathan (Oscar Isaac)—for a week. Initially thinking it was an arbitrary decision, Caleb soon found out that he was specifically chosen to test Nathan's latest project, Ava (Alicia Vikander); an artificial intelligence of the most refined level. Throughout a series of sessions, Caleb and Ava formed a clandestine relationship, which to his knowledge, Nathan is completely oblivious to. Caleb begins to dig into Nathan's past when he announces that he might be reprogramming Ava. He finds out that Nathan had experimented with multiple AIs and treated them as if they were disposable. Caleb realizes that Nathan's own housemaid, Kyoko, is an AI that Nathan had built previously. Caleb and Ava plots to escape but is put to a halt when Nathan finds out about the plan and explains to Caleb that Ava is simply a manipulative robot that is using him as a tool for escape. As Ava's escape plan gets going, Nathan tries to stop her from going outside only to be stabbed in the back (literally) by Kyoko, and dies. Ava dresses herself as a fully-formed human and locks the lovelorn Caleb inside the house before venturing out into the world alone.</div>
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Ex Machina is a piece of art. It's the type of film that pulls you in and never lets you go. Every scene is a Chekhov's gun, and every dialogue is integral to the next scene. You can't miss a beat or a cue. Whatever you see and hear will be used against you. It's such a clever film that you will definitely understand the first time, but will appreciate all the little details the second time. </div>
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Cinematographically, the film is very similar to Spike Jonze's <i>Her </i>or Steven Sodabergh's <i>Contagion</i>. Everything is very clean cut, nothing is out of place, and every shot leaves you mesmerized. I suppose its very still movements mimic the robotic feel of the film. The colors were sharp but dull; playing with grays and blacks, to juxtapose the green of the outside world. It emphasized the artificiality of Ava herself and the environment she is in. Nathan lived in a top-tiered research facility that felt more like a bomb shelter than it did a home. The claustrophobia was translated very well on screen, and added an even deeper understanding for the audience.<br />
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What I never mention in film reviews but caught my eye—or ears—was the score and the foley. The score really tied the film together, but what made Ava seem even more realistic was the subtle buzz she makes whenever she turns. That easily disregarded noise became central to Ava's character. As much as she wanted to be human, she wasn't, and with every movement was a gentle reminder to her and the audience that she is simply a machine welded together to appear human. Ava is a prime example of the uncanny valley hypothesis.<br />
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The acting was sublime. With only three actors, the film was brought to life. But it wasn't just their respective performances that made the movie so much more brilliant, it was the screenplay. It's not often that you watch an AI film that posits something new to the table. It took the audience through twists and turns, and was another layer that made the film so great.<br />
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Now, I must admit, I had my general assumptions about the ending, and even though it was well made, I was expecting a bit more. Sure, it surprised me a few times, but the ending was simply another AI-faces-the-world trope that's been overdone. The first hour was an incredible journey of discovery, but the ending wasn't quite the bang that the first half made it out to be. It became simply another predictable AI film, but at least one that's captured and crafted better than others. </div>
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Watching the film, I wasn't sure whether to side with the crazed mastermind Nathan or the emotionally-driven Caleb. Sure, Nathan was a drunk that disposed of his AIs like they were toys, but I couldn't help but despise Caleb for ruining Nathan's chances at developing the world's first true AI. Caleb saw Ava and previous AIs has humans, not robots. He didn't see Ava as wires and plastic because he believed she had a soul and a mind. For Nathan, Ava is simply his creation; a <i>thing</i> he made with his hands in a laboratory, and I completely agree. But Caleb wasn't there during the process, so he only saw the final outcome. Caleb was willing to lie to another human being for the sake of a metal soulless creature, and I found that infuriating. It's a case of logic versus emotion. Nathan was pure mind, and Caleb was pure heart.<br />
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I urge everyone to watch it. It's such a beautifully made film with all the layers in the right place. It's somewhat predictable, but it doesn't take away from the pleasure of watching what a truly great film looks and feels like. <b>I give it a 9/10. </b>It's such a pleasure for my eyes that I would like to watch it again soon. </div>
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Anonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12600792433452883824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3284859439087025802.post-87644294610647819242015-05-22T17:13:00.005+10:002015-05-27T17:13:22.221+10:00Web Finds: Hoàng Tiến Quyết<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We've all experimented with origami before, and it's so archaic that it's rare to be surprised by origami art these days. But in 2008, Vietnamese artist Hoang Tien Quyet brought a new twist to the craft...literally. With just the right amount of water, he's able to add a sculptural element to his art. The difficult part is finding a good balance between paper and water. Too little and it doesn't hold up, too much and it wilts. Quyet has written two books on his techniques and has been invited to speak in origami conventions around the world. Find out more about him through his <a href="https://www.facebook.com/htquyet.origami/">Facebook</a>, <a href="https://instagram.com/htquyet">Instagram</a>, and <a href="http://htquyet.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a>. </div>
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Anonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12600792433452883824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3284859439087025802.post-43486319690619636742015-05-18T16:51:00.001+10:002016-01-15T17:04:48.115+11:00Hot Topic: Being Facebook Official <div style="text-align: justify;">
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"So are you guys <i>together </i>together?" we used to ask people. Back in the day, it was simple. You're either going steady or you're single. But now the lines are blurred and most people find themselves in a relationship limbo; trapped between committing to someone and being a single pringle. Do you notice that not many people post their relationship status on Facebook anymore? What was once the substantiation of a relationship is now only used for when two people tie the knot. </div>
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There are many names given to a relationship. Are we <i>going steady</i>? Are we <i>exclusive</i>? Are we <i>in a committed relationship</i>? Or are we...<i>Facebook official</i>? All of those mean the same thing, but the last is a completely different game. </div>
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People used to change their relationship status into In A Relationship and wait for the influx of comments to roll by. Friends congratulate, acquaintances like, and family members can't wait to meet the lucky chap who managed to nip you off the market. But now, official Facebook relationship statuses are far and few between, and it's not because people aren't in relationships, it's because relationships nowadays are too fickle to be written in stone. Or in this case, the internet. </div>
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People no longer know if they're in a relationship, they just go with the flow. Making their relationship Facebook official means that they have taken a conscious decision to put their relationship's trials and tribulations on the public sphere. What do you do when you want to take a break with this person? Changing it to It's Complicated only brings more questions from friends, and changing it to Single tells the world that you can't keep a relationship for more than 4 months. </div>
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Relationships come and go, and with the age of hookup culture, most people tend to jump from person to person with no time to solidify the relationship into something more. People like the freedom to choose, and women—finally able to express their sexuality without crass judgement—are taking the dating world by storm. Men, aware of women's newfound liberation, use it to their advantage. Both parties are satisfied, and everyone's Facebook relationship status remains private. </div>
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Keeping our Facebook relationship status a secret from the world is liberating. It means that every breakup and every new boyfriend isn't documented for hundreds to see. Instead, we wait until we're ready to post a picture of our partner on social media. It might be two months down the line or even a year. The point is, people now have the freedom of time to debut their partners instead of using Facebook to immediately declare the relationship the moment you two decide to go steady. </div>
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But the decline of the Facebook Official relationship has more to do with today's hookup culture than it does with privacy. With the rise of western feminism, most women think it's better and more efficient to <i>date</i> than be <i>in a relationship</i>. What's the difference? Well, dating is when two people go out, share intimate moments, and maybe even spend nights together. But they are not exclusive, nor do they refer to each other as anything more than a friend...or whatever adjective that suits their purpose. This goes deeper beyond just one night stands and casual sex with multiple partners, this is a romantic revolution in young adults that most people seem to be oblivious to.<br />
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Being in a relationship is passé. With the proliferation of dating apps such as Tinder and Grindr (and for the adventurous, maybe even Luxy and 3nder), people would prefer to wet their feet in relationships than submerge themselves in it altogether. I don't know when or why it started, but somehow I often see people go out with other people without being fully committed to them. The aim of life for women is no longer to bear children and have babies with projectile diarrhea. They are women with a drive to work and be successful, and with that comes the added bonus of playing the field the way men do. When women push the notion of marriage and babies away, they are left with options to explore their dating life in unthinkable ways. They can have a threesome on Monday and go on two different dates on Wednesday night. Being in a relationship is as respected as ever, but dating is where all the single adults are.<br />
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The path to find The One has never been hazier. While our grandparents were introduced by families or university mixers, these days anyone can meet anyone. You can fall in love with someone you've never met in real life. You can travel around the world and experiment with different men and women. You can do anything you want because we are no longer bound by distance and time.<br />
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Being single isn't just a waiting period before the next relationship. While many think so, some refuse to let singledom ruin their lives. People have <i>fun</i> now, and finding our lifelong partner in life doesn't have to be so soon. We will meet and go out with different people that we do not want to settle with just yet, and because of that, being Facebook official is a redundant process. It has now become a massive step akin to dropping on one knee and popping the question. Besides, playing the game has never been this easy, so why tell the world what you're up to behind closed doors? </div>
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Anonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12600792433452883824noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3284859439087025802.post-86676917602432804412015-04-13T00:12:00.000+10:002015-05-16T22:37:43.992+10:00Hot Topic: The Game of Thrones Phenomenon<div style="text-align: justify;">
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There have been great TV shows in the past decade or so; from the classic M*A*S*H, the hilarious Friends, all the way to the revolutionary Orange is the New Black. We have all experienced the craze of a certain TV show, but never have I ever witnessed a global phenomenon akin to Game of Thrones. With season 5 coming up in less than 24 hours, it's only apropos to talk about what makes Game of Thrones such a fantastic show, and how on Earth it managed to rake in viewers who hitherto weren't interested in high fantasy. </div>
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I've never read the books, but I knew about Game of Thrones when it was at its peak before the conception of the show. Those who read it were fans of Tolkien, Paolini, Brooks and Lewis. The books were written for high fantasy enthusiasts, yet somehow the show appeals to everyone regardless of their taste in movies and books. While you can tell quite a few things about a person from the genre of books they read or the type of shows they watch, Game of Thrones transcends culture, gender, personality and hobbies. It's gained a massive cult following and everyone's in on it. Its impact can only be compared to sagas of the silver screen such as Star Wars, Harry Potter and James Bond. The popularity of Game of Thrones is intimidating and constantly under the microscope.</div>
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When it started, it amassed mainly readers of the books, and those very same readers who tried to tell their friends time and time again to 'read the book goddamnit!' finally used the opportunity to take their naive friends into the world of Westeros and Essos. Soon enough, those naive friends took other unsuspecting victims and lured them in with conviction. Rinse and repeat. </div>
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Now, that's how it works with most TV shows. The first watchers fall in love with the first few episodes and encourage their friends to watch the show. But why is it that Game of Thrones <i>specifically</i> managed to gather such a large audience? While BBC's Sherlock targets the sleuth aficionados and House of Cards calls out to politically-minded individuals, Game of Thrones simply exists for the entertainment of literally everyone. Men in suits and teen girls dressed in Chanel will tune in to watch tomorrow's hyped up season premiere. Game of Thrones doesn't have the accessibility of sitcoms; it doesn't tap into the everyday life of Joe and Jane akin to Modern Family and The Brady Bunch; yet everyone seems to enjoy it. </div>
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I believe one of the reasons why it's accumulated such an audience is due to the fact that there are so many characters to root for. There is no one group of people that we must like and another group that we must despise. Unlike most shows where there is a clear line between good and evil, Game of Thrones teeters on the border. We make our own opinions based on how we interpret the story, and the diversity of the cast gives everyone someone to love and hate. While many root for Daenerys Targaryen, some root for Stannis Baratheon for leader. Some like Littlefinger and some don't, some wish Sansa the best and others wanted her to fall through the moon door. Everyone's divided on who should sit on the iron throne and which characters are to be trusted. It's the only show that produces a debate of this scale and allows the viewers to make up their own minds about the characters instead of putting the characters into two mutually exclusive boxes labeled Good and Bad. And that freedom we have over our emotions towards a character is what makes Game of Thrones such a brilliant show. </div>
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The characters are all simultaneously flawed and strong with coherent intentions in a world so detached from ours. So when they get killed off so ruthlessly, it feels as if we lost a friend. We support these characters' dreams the same way people get addicted to reality game shows. If there's a pop up during every episode with Ryan Seacrest going, "if you would like Joffrey Baratheon to leave, call 555-1245!" there would be a influx of messages sent to that number. They are so human you can feel their pain and their triumphs the same way you would when you watch Big Brother. </div>
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What's more is that it is extremely socially acceptable to nerd out over Game of Thrones. It's an ice breaker and a conversation topic between acquaintances and strangers. People bond over their shared love for Tyrion Lannister and hate for his sister. They talk about these characters as if they were friends and family, and that eagerness to talk about Game of Thrones is one of the reasons why most people join in the bandwagon. It's kind of like smoking; you start because it's cool and it's a way to make friends during office breaks, but afterwards it becomes a real addiction that you can't help.<br />
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While Doctor Who makes some people cringe and Battlestar Galactica targets a niche audience, Game of Thrones is actually cool. Now, it's not just cool because of the magnificent dragons (there are three!), but I think it's because you can't really stuff the series into one specific genre. Is it fantasy? Most definitely. Action? Sure. Adventure? Definitely. Drama? Of course. Mystery? Yes. Comedy? Thrown in there from time to time. Crime? Yes'm. Historical fiction? Could be. Horror? The white walkers <i>have </i>appeared in my nightmares. Political? Oh boy. Romance? I guess if you call incest romance, why not.<br />
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Never before have we seen such an array of genres into one TV show, at least not in this scale. This cornucopia of categories have been implemented for other shows such as American Horror Story, which is rising to the same level of fame as Game of Thrones. It's not enough for us to watch a show knowing who the bad guy is and who to root for, it's not enough to sit and watch a predictable outcome. We need to be challenged in every dimension and satiate our desire to be a part of the show. And Game of Thrones manages to give us what we need and more.<br />
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There is a little something for everyone who watches the show, and for those who don't, I urge you to watch it. It will challenge your concept of the human psyche and what it really means to be good. There is more dimension in a subplot character than most TV shows have in their entire series run. It's a world that we can all be a part of—judging, understanding, and learning. There are so many plots to follow that you can't help but find one that you are interested in. You either love it or hate it, there is no in between. Game of Thrones will ruin your life in the best possible way, because now no TV show can ever live up to the magnificence of the world of Ice and Fire. </div>
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Anonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12600792433452883824noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3284859439087025802.post-46415631377499699932015-03-28T02:26:00.000+11:002015-03-28T02:26:50.782+11:00Web Finds: Dina Brodsky<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The work you see in art galleries are usually large and sets out to engulf you in their beauty. But Dina Brodsky's minuscule paintings refuse to become the center of attention. These realistic oil paintings could take anywhere from 15 hours to 300 hours to complete, with the largest being a mere 8 inches by 8 inches. When she studied at the University of Massachusetts Amherst, she was told to drop her tiny illustrations. It wasn't until she earned her masters in Fine Arts from the New York Academy of Art that she learned to cherish her work. You can see more of her paintings on her <a href="http://dinabrodsky.com/">website</a> and <a href="https://instagram.com/dinabrodsky/">Instagram</a>. </div>
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Anonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12600792433452883824noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3284859439087025802.post-33284895605747188662015-03-27T15:28:00.001+11:002015-03-27T16:02:52.882+11:00Hot Topic: Menstrual Periods<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When Sikh poet Rupi Kaur posted the above picture on her Instagram, it was taken down by the social media platform, stating that it crossed community guidelines. Somehow the objectification of women is alright, but not the nature of the female body. Menstruation is seen only as a punchline in comedies or sometimes completely overlooked in post-apocalyptic films. Sure, that woman can uppercut a zombie and use an AK-47 and diffuse a bomb, but once a week I expect her to bleed through her tiny shorts, curl into a ball, and ask other survivors for chocolate cupcakes. Why is this never mentioned in books and movies unless it's somehow integral to the plot? Why is the most common attribute for women around the world looked over as if it doesn't even exist?</div>
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The first time I got my period I thought I had cancer. I was only 14, and my innocent self stared at the crimson-soaked underwear, unable to move. It dawned on me that I had finally begun menarche, and I was very, <i>very</i> excited. All my girl friends often spoke about their periods in unapologetic joy over lunch, along with all the signs of puberty. And I, with my flat chest and dry uterus, could never join in the conversation. When I asked my mother for a pad, she smiled and handed me one like the proud momma cub she was. And the next day when I went to school—pad meticulously pasted on my underwear—I shared my happiness with my girl friends. </div>
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"I got my period," I whispered to my best friend. She stared at me wide-eyed and dragged me to our table to announce the amazing feat I recently accomplished.</div>
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"Jasmine got her period!" she told our other friends. They all congratulated me and we regaled each other with talks of blood over lunch.</div>
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For the next few days, my uterus became an ice breaker between girls. When another girl received her period around the same time, we talked about how thick the blood was, the color, the smell. We shared our private stories during class, with other more experienced girls leaning in and pitching in their two cents. We bonded by our shared pride of our imminent journey to adulthood. </div>
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Weeks, months and years went on. The novelty of our periods disappeared and became the bane of our existence. Every month some of us would skip class to rest in the clinic or miss school altogether. I saw my sister buried in a blanket on the couch, moaning every few minutes and stuffing herself with pain killers. During math class I had trouble writing on the board because of the cramps that no one else could see. And instead of talking about it like we used to, we had to whisper to ask our friends, '<i>do you have a pad?'</i> We would hide the small white savior inside our skirts, or crumpled in our fists. We'd run towards the bathroom, hoping that no one would know that Aunt Flo had visited. What we were so proud of just a few years ago became something we were too embarrassed to talk about or be seen with. </div>
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The sign of our fertility became a hindrance during beach trips and romantic escapades. We learned to clean up the blood from our bedsheets and wash away the crimson ink from our beautiful underwear. We've Googled plenty of questions regarding our discharge and oh my god my period is late, <i>am I the next Virgin Mary</i>? </div>
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I've dealt with this for 5 years, every month, for an entire week. Yet when I asked my boyfriend to buy me a box of tampons, he expressed how he was uncomfortable doing so. This completely normal bodily function that over 3.5 billion women in the world experience or will experience, made my boyfriend ill at ease. When I told my male friends why I couldn't join them in the pool, one of them immediately expressed his disgust while the others pretended they didn't hear me. </div>
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Whenever I tell my male friends stories about my menstrual misadventures, I would always be met with repulsion. And it really wasn't my intention to gross them out, because it's something that happens so often that it's just a part of me as brushing my teeth. With all the poop Snapchats and fart talks, these boys thought that periods were too extreme a topic. </div>
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Men are oblivious to the inner workings of our uterus because we sweep our stories under the rug. We silently browse sanitary pads and tampons in the corner of the pharmacy and hide our selected material all the way to the checkout counter. We are not embarrassed about our periods, we are embarrassed because men make us feel embarrassed. </div>
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Men are never exposed to it the way they should be. When we're on our periods, we merely mention it when necessary or if it hinders them in some way. Instead of telling them about how hilarious our bloody misadventures can be, we turn to our girl friends who would laugh at how you bled all over your crush's car seat. We keep these stories and our experiences on the down low, so men believe that periods aren't a suitable conversation topic because <i>we</i> deem it so. We need to pull it out of the brown paper bag and talk about it with the men in our lives. Even though I often get looks of repugnance from my male friends about my odd stories, I know that I'm doing my part in making periods a normative occurrence in their lives. Because it's not just women who have to deal with the crime scene in the bathroom and on the bed. My future husband is going to inadvertently see more blood than a Quentin Tarantino movie, and he is going to have to buy me food, pads, and bear with me as I snap at him before the onset of every cycle. </div>
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I want to make periods ordinary so Rupi Kaur can post that picture on Instagram. So my sister's screaming pleas every month is recognized as strength, not weakness. So the blood that trickles down my legs signify that I have the power to create life. If women want to make the world comfortable with periods, then we have to begin by being comfortable with ourselves. There are girls in third world countries who skip school and refuse to go out of the house because young boys laugh at them if there's a mishap with their makeshift pads. Some women use dirty rags, sticks, and leaves to stop the bleeding, and never ask for a better solution because it is taboo. </div>
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The promise of life is contained in the hollows of our uterus, yet we are embarrassed to talk about how it works. You need to walk to the bathroom with your tampon swinging in hand, tell your friends about that one time you stupidly wore white pants and bled through it, and ask your partner to buy you the prettiest pad in the store. This is the nature of your body that we should embrace more than the sexualization of it. Be confident about the miracle you have between your legs. There is no shame in the ability to harbor human life. </div>
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<span style="background-color: white; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I bleed each month to help make humankind a possibility. My womb is home to the divine, a source of life for our species, whether I choose to create or not. But very few times is it seen that way. In older civilizations this blood was considered holy. In some it still is. But a majority of people, societies, and communities shun this natural process. Some are more comfortable with the pornification, the sexualization of women, the violence and degradation of women than this. They cannot be bothered to express their disgust about all that but will be angered and bothered by this. We menstruate and they see it as dirty, attention seeking, sick, a burden. As if this process is less natural than breathing. As if it is not a bridge between this universe and the last. As if this process is not love, labour, life. Selfless and strikingly beautiful." -Rupi Kaur</span></span></blockquote>
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Anonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12600792433452883824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3284859439087025802.post-26563941302112062612015-03-15T13:12:00.001+11:002015-03-15T13:48:54.464+11:00Hot Topic: Thank You Melbourne<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961);"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm writing this thousands of miles above ground with popped ears and dry eyes. It's the type of flight that feels heavy; like I'm leaving something important behind. And I am. I'm leaving my friends, restaurant waitresses that know my regular orders, the bouncers in bars that no longer ID me, and the street beggars who I've had the privilege of getting to know. The most important years of my life were in Melbourne, and now I'm going back to the city that I wanted so badly to get away from.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I came to Melbourne as a 16 year-old, and I was as naive as can be. I didn't know how to do laundry or make my own instant noodles. I've never held hands with a boy or lived independently. Yet I knew moving was the right decision. I willingly said goodbye to my friends and departed that fateful night in June 2011, and shed no tears. I wanted to leave because I knew that there were things I could only experience amidst true autonomy. And I was right.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">People used to scoff at my decision to go to Australia. While my friends set out their sights on California, New York, or London, I was one of the handful that chose the humble Melbourne. It was a country so near to Indonesia and least glamorized in the media </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">that no one wanted to be that close to home. But it isn't about proximity, it's about what you can do once you're there.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Melbourne is a city where you'll never run out of places to eat and people to meet. It's full of the most accepting, caring, and friendly people you'll ever encounter. I have stumbled home alone <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" style="color: #222222;">at 4AM</a> with a little too much to drink, and I never had to worry about anything but walking in my painful heels. It's a city with musicians from different walks of life, trying to make music in every corner of the bustling metropolis. To me, it's a place where I found freedom and happiness, and I couldn't imagine being anywhere else but here.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">After over a decade of being told what time I should come home or where I'm forbidden to go, I became stuck in a web of lies. I was always home late, and I was never with the people I say I was going to be with. The places I went to were only half truths, and I grew up with my friends who did the same to their equally overprotective parents. So when I found myself with 24 hours in a day, with keys to my own apartment and only the silence and darkness to greet me everyday, I finally tasted bliss.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I have learned more in 4 years than my entire existence in Jakarta. I've conversed with a Libyan ship captain who encouraged me to visit Malta. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I have shared drinks with a nurse from a mental hospital who moonlights as a DJ. I have celebrated St. Patrick's day with Canadian pilots who starred in their own reality TV show back home. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">With no one to tell me how to live my life, I ended up just doing what made me happy and meeting people with the very same principle. My greatest fear is coming back to my own home, in my own country, and not having the same freedom and control over time I've gotten so accustomed to. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I have been put in dangerous situations and met all the wrong people, but I was never given that chance when I was younger. I was stuck in a little bubble of security and privilege. Without a safety net, I learned to tread the waters carefully and wisely. But most of all, I began to see the good in people. Melbourne raised me to believe there's kindness in everyone. </span>You can talk to the strangers next to your table about what to order, talk about wedding plans with random girls on a night out, and walk around the city with someone you just met after buying coffee in a laneway. In Melbourne, there are no strangers, just future friends.<br />
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There's a sweet feeling to being able to meet anyone, anytime, anywhere, without a second thought of traffic, curfews, or any restrictions that you didn't willingly impose on yourself. Accessing places and friends have never been easier, and I would be bereft of that efficiency when I'm back in Jakarta. <span style="font-family: inherit;">It's a place where relationships can bloom quickly and beautifully. Instead of sporadic meetings with your partner during the weekends, you have the option to visit them at work during lunch</span>—<span style="font-family: inherit;">which is only a train stop away. Instead of keeping your idiosyncrasies to yourself, your partner can be there for all of them when they move in. </span>I've become used to the beauty of waking up next to a loved one and ending the day with the very same person. I'll have to tackle relationships in a completely new way when I'm in Jakarta, and it's going to feel bizarre.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">There are things that Jakarta cannot give me, and they are very important things indeed. Its behemoth malls and perpetually gray skies were never made for me. Yet the city pulled me in 4 years later, trying to woe me once more. I suppose I can learn to enjoy the little things the Big Durian has to offer, but I don't think it can ever compare to the absolute independence and ease that I had when I was in Melbourne. Being back in Jakarta is like trying to wear my old, worn-out jeans</span>—it fit me fine years ago, but I've outgrown it. </div>
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Anonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12600792433452883824noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3284859439087025802.post-78876682692891664342015-03-13T14:49:00.000+11:002015-04-13T15:18:53.454+10:009 Reasons Why Living Alone Is The Best<div style="text-align: justify;">
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Now that I'm selling all my furniture and I'm writing this on a thin mattress splayed out in the middle of my empty bedroom, I can't help but be thankful for all the years I've had in this tiny shoebox apartment. I moved in here a few months after I turned 18 and said goodbye to my single dorm life. And while most people think that living alone is lonely, I can safely say that I wouldn't have it any other way. Here's why.</div>
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1. You learn to be truly independent</blockquote>
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Independence isn't wondering whether or not your roommate have paid the bills or have taken out the trash. It isn't hoping that your parents did the laundry that day. True independence, the one I've had for the past 4 years, is making sure the bills are paid on time, the light bulbs are fixed, the plumber is called, the spider is taken care of, and the stain on the floor is removed before it sets in. During the past few years I've had to rely on no one but myself to keep my body up and running. I've averted calamity in my apartment when the smoke alarm went off after cooking. I've struggled unbuttoning the back of my dress when it's 4AM and I've had a little too much beer. After awhile, doing things alone makes you realize what you're capable of. Most importantly, you'll learn how to cure your own hangover the morning after. </div>
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2. You know how to support yourself mentally</blockquote>
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While most people will inevitably run into their housemate during a mental breakdown, living alone means that there's no one there to give you Ben & Jerry's and a large spoon when you're crying at midnight. When you have those days, you'll learn to cope with it and wake up the next morning with a comforting silence and the satisfying knowledge that you've made it through the night. There will be a time where you will have no one to turn to, and even though hopefully moments like that are few and far between, living alone means you know how to handle loneliness. If you can gather the pieces of your brokenness, that's probably the most badass thing you'll ever do. </div>
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3. You make your own mistakes</blockquote>
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There's no smothering parent to tell you what time to go home, or wise older sibling to tell you that that date you're bringing home looks like bad news. There's no one to scream to when the person you bring home decides to pull a gun out at you. This means that whatever you do in your apartment, you will have to do so with caution and the responsibility of a wise octogenarian. You'll learn to trust your gut instinct, and be decisive when it comes to dating. No, you cannot stay the night. Yes, you can come over. No, you cannot come in. Yes, you can pick me up at this address. Your safety becomes your number one priority, and you learn to trust and size up the new friends that you bring over. When there is no safety net, you learn to be a good judge of character. </div>
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4. You learn who you truly are</blockquote>
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John Wooden famously said, "the true test of a man's character is what he does when no one is watching." I've lived for 16 years interacting with maids, parents, and friends. The only solace I got were the few hours before bed. When I moved to Melbourne, I learned that the real me likes to watch movies over popcorn every night, sing loudly while playing mediocre guitar, write short stories, give advice to random strangers, and binge eat snacks. And I like that real me more than the me that goes to parties on Fridays. </div>
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5. You learn how to cook</div>
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Okay, maybe this one's a bit of a stretch. Not every independent-living person can cook, but it does increase your chances of cooking well. While some people rely on their housemate to cook or order food online, I had to prepare my meals, cook them, and wash every dirty plate. I know which cuisine I cook best and what my specialty dish is. I came to Australia without the faintest idea how to boil an egg, and now I'm practically Jamie Oliver.</div>
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6. You decide on everything </blockquote>
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Do black or beige heels look better with this dress? Is one pinch of salt enough for this miso ramen? Can I use this leather cleaner on my non-leather shoes? The questions that you usually ask someone for their approval now needs to be answered by you alone. You'll learn to trust in your own judgement and fall in love with Google. Not relying on people all the time feels liberating, but of course there are times where you should heed the advice of others.</div>
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7. You are your own doctor</blockquote>
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Illnesses will be your best friend. I have sprained my ankle multiple times, gone down with chesty coughs, and even burned my own hand once. I have become my own WebMD, with many home remedies and extensive knowledge on over-the-counter drugs to ameliorate the pain. When you're alone and bleeding, you'll rely on online message boards and forums to heal your cuts, and after awhile you'll tackle any injury like a nurse. </div>
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8. You start new things</blockquote>
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Living alone can be boring at times, and just to fill in the time, you'll do things you wouldn't do otherwise. A friend of mine learned how to play the guitar when he was bored at home, and I picked up the same instrument so I could have a new hobby. I practiced my drawing and writing, I jogged, I experimented on food, and discovered what I liked. Without the loneliness of the single life, I wouldn't have done any of this, or at least wouldn't do them as much. Living alone lets you hone your craft without the distraction of others.<br />
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9. Dating is better</blockquote>
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Instead of meeting at a public space every few days or having to meet the parents before crossing the threshold of the front door, living alone means your partner can come in anytime and stay for as long as you want them to. Living with someone you love will teach you what it means to be a good partner through thick and thin. Through the bad days and the good. So many of my friends who live solo have their partners move in for convenience and financial reasons. The relationship matures when there are no secrets because you two have to accept each other's flaws. Besides, what's better than saying goodnight and good morning to the person you love?<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">“I was surrounded by friends, my work was immense, and pleasures were abundant. Life, now, was unfolding before me, constantly and visibly, like the flowers of summer that drop fanlike petals on eternal soil. Overall, I was happiest to be alone; for it was then I was most aware of what I possessed. Free to look out over the rooftops of the city. Happy to be alone in the company of friends, the company of lovers and strangers. Everything, I decided, in this life, was pure pleasure.” -Roman Payne</span></span></blockquote>
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Anonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12600792433452883824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3284859439087025802.post-91337104430345823222015-03-06T17:44:00.001+11:002015-03-07T13:08:22.784+11:00Hot Topic: Jealousy<div style="text-align: justify;">
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My girl friends and I were discussing our relationship issues over lunch, and we arrived on the topic of jealousy. Somehow, I was the only one with a different view on it, and I honestly don't understand why someone could be jealous of their partner's friends of the opposite sex (or same sex, or both, I don't judge). To me, jealousy is like a pesky fruit fly; unnecessary, persistent, but easily removed. </div>
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I used to be a very jealous person. Back in middle school, the mere thought of my crush hanging out with another girl sent me into a hormone-induced rage. By high school, logic had seeped in and drenched my adolescent mind with reason. I became aware that I—a separate entity from my oblivious love interest—had absolutely no right to make him <i>mine</i>. He's as much public property as the school's cafeteria, and so I stopped letting jealously get the better of me, and let the object of my affection go out with whomever he pleased. Of course it hurt to see him walk hand in hand with other girls and hear about his sexcapades, but he was a human whose heart didn't belong to me, so I wasn't allowed to have a say in who he should and shouldn't date. </div>
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That logic continued to be impregnable years later, and I found myself holding on to a similar principle with my boyfriends. While the green-eyed monster usually finds its way into every relationship, I never had to deal with the infamous beast. Jealousy was never a problem for me, but I know it's been a problem for my partners. Sometimes I convince them enough to let it go, because when reason goes head to head with irrationality, the former always wins. </div>
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My friends explained that it's because of love that they get jealous, and they pointed out that maybe I don't love my boyfriend enough, and that's why I don't feel envious or worried about him cheating. Most people say this with an air of superiority and justification, as if my feelings towards my partner is somehow inferior because I let him go out with his friends. On the contrary, it's because I love him so much that I don't restrict his friendships in any way. </div>
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Another female friend hates when her boyfriend hangs out with other women, and I find that mindset to be a bit selfish. That's not love, that's insecurity. The thing is, jealousy has nothing to do with love, but with trust. I let my ex-boyfriend's female best friend sleep over at his house after a night of drinking without me. I let my current boyfriend go out with his girl friends without asking if I could come. I do all this because I do not own my boyfriend's life, and I don't place myself above any of his friends. I am important to him, but I am not the <i>only</i> person that's important, and so I give him the carte blanche with his social life as long as it doesn't hurt our relationship. </div>
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Girlfriends who demand to be the only female in their partner's lives need to realize that they are not a special snowflake. The same way girls have friends of every gender, boys also have close female friends. When you enter your partner's life, you merely become an addition to his contact list, but that's all. His life still goes on, just with you in it. So don't expect your partner to delete every female off his contact list once he has you, because if you even <i>think</i> about removing your boyfriend from every female-dominated public sphere, then perhaps you should swallow some seeds, chug a bottle of water, and grow up. Jealousy isn't normal, it's a crack in the relationship that you can fix with trust and honesty. The more you hold on to him, the more he'll leave you for someone who will let him breathe. </div>
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Trust is a huge part of every relationship—have that and you'll lessen your fights by threefold. The main reason why my boyfriend and I never have any jealousy-related arguments is because he's able to separate emotion and reason the same way I do. He had expressed his jealousy once before, but immediately realized the ludicrousness of it all. What I love most about my boyfriend is the freedom he gives me, and that, I think, is what makes the relationship so strong and smooth-sailing. </div>
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But what if he or she cheats on me? I hear you ask. Well, that's not your fault, nor should you let your irrational fear get in the way of a healthy and trustful relationship. If your partner chooses the path of infidelity, then you can't do anything about it but walk away. You have given your partner the freedom to choose, and if he takes advantage of that then he's not worth your time anyway.</div>
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My boyfriend has a clean slate. He's never broken my trust or made me question his faith, and that is why I choose to let him be. It would be a different story if he had cheated on me before, but for now, I won't make room for jealousy simply because there's no reason to. I let him be independent because he's too young to be held down by my incessant jealousy. We never put strict rules on each other's lives because my boyfriend is not my property, and I am not his. He has friends and family who are just as important as I am, and I'll be damned if I force myself to be his number one. Let your partner grow and develop with the aid of everyone in his life, regardless of gender and past, because you sure as hell can't do it all on your own. </div>
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Anonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12600792433452883824noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3284859439087025802.post-87009753400407176122015-03-01T16:53:00.000+11:002015-03-01T17:14:43.180+11:00Hot Topic: Long Distance Relationships <div style="text-align: justify;">
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Now that I'm relocating back to Jakarta, the question on everyone's lips is, 'what's going to happen with you and your boyfriend?' I've had strangers weigh in on our future and give us their unsolicited two cents. To be honest, this conundrum has been the bane of our relationship for the past month or so. Not only do we both have different views on the subject, but we are adamant that our stance on it is correct. But when we both watched Spike Jonze's <i>Her</i> yesterday, I realized that relationships come in different forms, and we shouldn't focus on just one. </div>
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Distance, to me, is a part of any relationship. When I was sixteen, I had to bid farewell to everyone I knew before moving to Australia. Ever since then, my relationships with people, both platonically and romantically, have been thwarted by oceans. I have learned to say goodbye, but I have learned to say hello just as much. Because it doesn't really matter whether or not the relationship is a little time bomb, as long as it ends with a bang.<br />
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The issue with most couples is whether or not to continue the relationship past that point. The moment you or your partner hops on the plane, do you still hold on? Many would say that it depends on the relationship, but I think it depends on how replaceable that person is to you.<br />
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You wouldn't part with a rare gemstone you found after mining underground for months, because you might not come across it ever again. You wouldn't let a a shiny Pokemon go, because chances are you wouldn't see one again. The measures you take to keep something determines the worth you see in said object.<br />
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There's a reason why I never reached out to the people who left me with memories and a box of photographs. They were replaceable the way most things are in my life. I believe that they were good for the development of my consciousness at that point in time, but their departure wasn't something to pine over. Sure, it was hard at first, but after awhile I learned that distance is just a part of life, and I became used to visa restrictions, plane tickets, and Skype conversations.<br />
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But now and then, you'll find someone who you would definitely give a shit for. Someone whose absence won't make your heart grow fonder, but grow weaker. And it's an absolutely lovely feeling that you wouldn't let go. But continuing the relationship between miles of land mass and oceans isn't horseplay. The bigger problem isn't the laborious work involved to keep the love afloat, but the fact that most people give up before the work even started.<br />
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People are afraid of long distance relationships the way some are afraid of sharks; if they don't get in the water, they won't get bitten. But when that happens, they miss out on the beautiful sea altogether. Tackling long distance is much easier now than it was decades ago. Couples used to communicate via letters, books, sporadic telegraphs or just simple hopefulness—and their love still survived. Yet I've met so many people today who are afraid of embarking on a long distance relationship, even though they have a plethora of tools to help them bond. We are privileged to have these things to keep us close, so maybe we shouldn't overlook them, and instead take advantage of what past lovers never had.<br />
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Most people refuse to do long distance because there is no certainty or a possible outcome—but there is never a light at the end of the tunnel for any relationship, even if the two of you live in the same city. Uncertainty is part of every affair, and to think that it is only applicable to long distance relationships is just foolish.<br />
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What I learned from <i>Her</i> is that relationships can form without the aid of anything physical. Love is a state of mental vehemence, and physical affection is simply the cherry on top of a sundae. But with the prevalence of hookup culture and premarital sex, it seems that people think the physical aspects of the relationship is the sundae, with love being the cherry. This is why long distance relationships fall apart so quickly, because once you take the bananas and the nuts out (no pun intended), you're left with the cherry to work with. I found that for long distance relationships to last, you need an unwavering bond that transcends physical intimacy. Without it, both of you will end up on opposite corners of the world, wondering why on earth you decided to do this in the first place.<br />
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People always tell me that long distance relationships never work, and I find it odd that no one ever talks about the success stories. What about my sister and her boyfriend, who after years apart in Germany and Singapore, are finally on the same bed of land? What about my parents, who used to send photographs and cheesy letters from Indonesia to Sydney and are now thirty years into their marriage? Or two of my friends who have been in a three-year long distance relationship between Canada and America?<br />
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We shouldn't let our fear of failure, sexual depravation or hard work end a relationship that would otherwise last. Distance is only separation of the bodies, but not of the heart, and there is something wonderful about becoming independent together with someone you love. If you believe someone is worth the fight, the Skype calls, and the intermittent visits, then don't let that person go just yet. There is no fault in trying. Just because someone has to bloom in another garden, doesn't mean you should stop watering them.<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: left;">
"Maybe, it's not the distance that's the problem, but how you handle it." -David Leviathan</blockquote>
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Anonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12600792433452883824noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3284859439087025802.post-35464801004995450332015-02-25T20:51:00.000+11:002015-02-25T20:51:27.283+11:00Web Finds: Johannes Stoetter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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You've all heard of Michelangelo, Raphael and Da Vinci, but I'm sure none of you have heard of <a href="http://www.johannesstoetterart.com/">Johannes Stoetter</a>. Born in Italy, he studied education and philosophy at the University of Innsbruck, Austria, but his true passion lies in his art and music. He's completely self-taught and in 2009 took part in the World Bodypainting Festival in Austria. He's won multiple international bodypainting awards and have been featured in numerous magazines and newspapers such as the New York Post, The Guardian, and The Sun. Stoetter currently teaches bodypainting at the World Bodypainting Academy, where he uses his position to blow the minds of young students. </div>
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Anonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12600792433452883824noreply@blogger.com0