[sticky entry] Sticky: Sticky

Nov. 26th, 2025 12:22 pm
catalinarembuyan: (Default)

Who am I?

I'm Catalina. I'm an author and an educator. I teach literature to pre-university students and write fiction and poetry. 

Read and Get Connected:

Official: my complete list of published works
Medium:  writings on literature in long-form (to be set up)
Twitter: talk and conversations

What goes in here? 

I modeled this blog following George R.R. Martin's Livejournal. Read essays with a personal touch on the following: 

- travels
- quick reviews of books and journals
- book reviews
- literary or arts events in Kuala Lumpur

catalinarembuyan: (Hyouka - Oreki)

Foundation by Peter Ackroyd, A Brief History of Seven Killings by Marlon James
  •  Xiao Xiao and the Dragon's Pearl by Joyce Ch'ng
  • The History of England Volume 1: Foundation by Peter Ackroyd
  • Rules of Desire by Dipika Mukherjee
  • A Brief History of Seven Killings by Marlon James
  • This is How You Lose Her by Junot Diaz
  • Spring Snow by Yukio Mishima
  • Praise of Folly by Erasmus Desidirius
  • Tunas Cipta and Dewan Sastera -- January editions
I started Spring Snow even before I visited Japan. It's not a page-turner; simultaneously very intense and very dull -- specifically it is about eccentric, intense people who live under the expectations of social conformity, and are mostly compliant to it. 

This is How You Lose Her and A Brief History of Seven Killings were both very engaging -- though a bit bloke-ish, and by that I mean very casual references to sex and sexual violence. Both the writers are cisgendered men of colour, and Marlon James in particular has spoken up about the pressure to pander to a reading audience of white middle-class women. The statement is an interesting perspective on intersectionality and questions on privilege (and where they may lie) in publishing. 

On the subject of men and privilege, The History of England Vol. 1: Foundations by Peter Ackroyd has been (and is, I'm still reading it) a really good read. (Well, it is a national history of a people generally white, and the author is a man). I've read Ackroyd's biography of Thomas More and it was very good, largely because it actually avoided talking about the man himself (Ackroyd wrote about the world around him: childhood, education, religious practice, the courts). When Ackroyd writes he appeals to my visual sense. His people and places unfold like scenes in a film. 

Reading Ackroyd and his Wikipedia page makes me feel like an under-achiever. 

Closer to home -- at least geographically -- I spent my Chinese New Year Eve reading Xiao Xiao and the Dragon's Pearl. It's accurate enough a depiction of Chinese culture (at least that which I can derive from my banana-ish Chinese maternal heritage), without the painfully dramatic depictions of Chinese traditions I have associated with English-language writing of Chinese culture and customs, which may be a form of expression against oppression but which I have also suspected to be pandering to a readership who enjoyed a little barbarism in their exotic literature. Anyway, Xiao Xiao and the Dragon's Pearl is fun and is accurate. Yes, there are jealous first and second wives, and abandoned baby girls. But it doesn't get too heavy. Ancient China was harsh, and harsher still to women, but there must have been some joy somewhere. 

I haven't finished reading Rules of Desire. I have read two of Dipika Mukherjee's other works, The Palimpest of Exile (which I really liked) and Thunder Demons (which I did not). Rules of Desire is thankfully not Thunder Demons, though it's not winning me as quickly as The Palimpest of Exile. I'm not sure why though, because all the stories are solid. Maybe I'm just not the right demographic. 

I also read Tunas Cipta and Dewan Sastera while commuting, which gives me another idea: maybe, instead of just writing about books, I could write about the literary journals and magazines I have read over a month or two weeks. It would kind of be weird and outdated I guess; but stories never really grow old. 

I loved Praise of Folly. I love it so much, I'm considering writing a full essay on it to be posted on Medium. 
catalinarembuyan: (Odilon Redon)
Work has commenced. 

I'm back at work -- my days are spent planning and conducting lessons, then planning and conducting extra-curricular activity. I'm teaching some contemporary short stories, some drama, and John Keats. The managing team for the student magazine has been selected. We have a theatre production to be staged in the upcoming months, too. 

On Education. 

Today is the first day of the Lunar New Year. I'm learning Latin, Russian and Mandarin this year. These are all difficult languages. 

1. I need Latin for my proposed doctorate research. Several years ago I got in pretty heavily into Renaissance English literature. I've decided to translate that into something certifiable -- but then, the English then didn't think of English as a great language.

2. I need Russian to read, listen and translate the materials I have at church (I attend a Russian Orthodox congregation). 

3. I need to get in touch with my Mandarin-speaking roots. I want to visit China, specifically Lufeng, the hometown of my grandfather. The old house where he used to live is gone, and each of his old friends' and family networks have moved on to the larger cities -- so no one will recognize me, but it is something I intend to do anyway. 

On Writing (or Editing and Reviewing, more specifically). 

1. Over the past few months I had my first experience working as an editor for an anthology. It's given me some insight into the selection process of creative writing journals and anthologies. I understand a little better about how some works get published and how some works don't. One day, I might reveal what those reasons are. 

2. Three of my book reviews have been published in The Star. Read my review of The Lost Landscape: A Writer's Coming of Age by Joyce Carol Oates, The Boy at the Top of the Mountain by John Boyne, and Girl in the Woods by Aspen Matis. These books are currently out in local bookstores, so do check them out. 

I feel that I have been doing a lot of work recently, but nothing very specifically for very extensively. I still have things to write about: I have a blog entry on books and more updates coming up about my recent travels to Japan. 
catalinarembuyan: (Hyouka - Oreki)
I've gotten some responses to my previous article. One of them was from my aunt, who said that the tour guide had made attempts to describe the attractions we visited, but had not made attempts to translate what he had said into English.

I think this has hit at one of the main problems with 'creative non-fiction' -- our experiences are subjective and may be inaccurate, but those inaccurate and subjective experiences are true to us. If the tour guides had made attempts to explain the significance of the places, I wasn't aware of them, and it was true that I viewed the guides with quiet contempt from the first day.

In writing this I've chosen to be true to my experience, rather than offer a factual account of my visit to Japan. To keep things balanced, I have not named the tour company or the tour guides I was dissatisfied with, although friends know which company this is.  


The next morning when I woke up I realized that I had gotten a cold. Our first item in our itinerary that morning was Osaka Castle, but we only had the time to linger around its gardens, and I bought a mask because it was rude to cough or sneeze in public in Japan.


We took photographs at Osaka Castle. It was late autumn, and the ginkgo trees that marked so much of the Japanese urban landscape were beginning to lose their bright yellow leaves. All around the castle grounds I saw students in their winter uniforms and tourists. I spotted people in hijabs on the castle grounds and guessed that they were Malaysians. 

The grounds of Osaka Castle were much larger than Wakayama's. We needed to cross a lake, then through a park surrounding a hill, then go across a moat. The grounds itself housed large heritage buildings: the main building was built in traditional Japanese fashion, but beside it was another building that looked as though it would be more at home in Europe than in Asia. I did not know what it stands for, but my aunt read the kanji and said it was a museum. 

We had been guided to the castle grounds by our guide, who later told us that we needed to re-convene at 9.50 AM, But at 9.45 AM we looked around and saw that no one we knew was on the castle grounds. "I think we were supposed to be at the bus" -- "Did the guide say we were supposed to be here or the bus?" -- "No harm going back to the bus." And so we walked back, across the moat, across the park, along the path beside the lake, until we arrived at the bus. The rest of the group was already waiting for us. 

This was the first real altercation that we had with our guides. We were late, but then again, we had paid for a guide who would be communicating in Mandarin, hadn't we? And they had been communicating in Cantonese, taking others not proficient in Cantonese for granted. From then on the guides made further attempt to remind us of the location and time of reconvening. But we would go on to have further issues with them. 

We went on. I took as many photos of the suburbs as I could, and of the countryside's red and golden autumnal hills, but my pictures just came out blurry. So I looked at the scenery until I fell asleep. 

At first, being in Japan made me feel ashamed. The roads were narrow but they were smooth, and the highway was elevated all the way. Things worked. I tried out the famous Toto washlets, which the hotels we used were all equipped with. The night before, I used the hotel WiFi to connect to Facebook, and saw that back home someone had threatened to rape a public figure because she was alleged to have committed khalwat. 

From Osaka we made our way to Nara. (The name Nara was familiar to me too, but then I realized that this was one of the few times when exposure to Japan was not through anime; the domain name BeautifulNara.com had been used by its current owner as a Malaysian celebrity gossip site.) We drove into tunnels and out of tunnels. We drove on narrow roads. Not a single one of them had a pothole; not a single one uneven. No heavy vehicle overtook us at inappropriate speeds. Everything worked as perfectly as they should. 

I felt ashamed. Why couldn't Malaysia be this? All this while, I felt as though I have been giving excuses for our nation: we are young, we are only slightly more than fifty years old. We have not known many decades without a form of war on our soil.  But the Japanese were the grounds for two atomic bombs in 1945 and experienced seven years of American occupation since then. The common devils that I thought were part of Malaysia's cripples -- the lack of proficiency in English, the feudalism of its people -- did not stop the Japanese from creating a society that worked. 

I am not the only Malaysian who have envied the Japanese. Mahathir Mohamad strove to fashion the Malaysian population into a nation of Asians as strong as the Japanese. The government then fashioned five principles for the civil service said to be modeled after Japanese values. But I do not think these methods are successful, or will be successful. Nor would I have been the only person who marveled that this small Asian nation could be so strong, so dignified. Francis Xavier once noted, upon arrival in Japan, that the Japanese were 'most desirous of knowledge...among unbelievers no people can be found to excel them.' He had been hoping to convert the Japanese, but was not successful in turning Japan Christian. 

What did the Japanese have that Malaysia did not? What did they not have, that Malaysia does? 

We left Osaka for Nara and at one point, I noticed that our tour guide, who had previously been speaking in Cantonese to us -- many of whom had dozed off -- turning to our driver and speaking to him in Japanese. They exchanged a few words. I had watched enough anime to know that the driver was displeased. Something something shiranai, our driver went. My Japanese, unfortunately, never extended beyond the basics, so I could not grasp anything more than that. 

Our destination at Nara was a large Buddhist temple made entirely of wood and a park where deer frolicked. Here we would be allowed to do a little sightseeing before proceeding to a restaurant to have our lunch. We went into the temple where again, familiarity with anime meant that I could guess at some parts of the temple: here (I think) are cards where people could write their prayers and petitions and could hang them up (or were they charms and blessings instead?). Outside were tiny white slips of paper tied to the fences of the temple, perhaps prayers. 

At Nara autumn was red and rich. I had gone to Japan to experience winter, not realizing that in Japan winter falls in January and not December. But autumn was good too, even though the vegetation in Japan was not the vegetation in England, the place I had been hoping to see autumn in. Born and raised in a tropical environment, I hungered for experiences in temperate climes, for no other reason than the fact that they formed so much of my reading life. One of my favourite poets has a poem that I teach over and over again in class: To Autumn. Superficially read, the poem praises the beauty of autumn. A more careful reading of the poem reveals a darker underlying message -- now it is autumn and it is beautiful, but winter and with winter, death, is coming. 


I remember reading an essay on Keats which mentioned that of all of his poems, only To Autumn embraces and accepts the inevitability of death instead of fighting it. I have always read To Autumn as a work that corresponds to the interest in the natural environment that could be found in the works of the Romantics, of whom Wordsworth is the best example for this. I feel that I can now recognize another layer to Keats's poem: now, I think that Keats saw in autumn what would be his life -- glorious, bright, and brief.

After this day, there would be fewer opportunities to enjoy autumn. Over the course of a week, the leaves would fall from the branches and the trees become barren. 

From Nara we went to Kyoto. The only introduction I had to Kyoto before this was through Rurouni Kenshin. I remembered how Kenshin playfully battled Misao upon his arrival in Kyoto in the recent film adaptations. Those were gorgeous films, even if the plot did not do enough justice to the comics. 

I really liked Kyoto. 

We spent our time in Kyoto visiting the great Buddhist temple at the top of the hill. The temple's presence at the top of the hill overlooking the entire Kyoto felt apt, a benevolent presence overlooking life in the city. Perhaps the warmth at the temple contributed to, or was formed by, the many happy faces I saw. I saw people, some dressed in school uniforms, many dressed in traditional attire, making their way up the hill to the temple. Young people, in their early teens, jumped along the staircases at the temple and laughed with their friends in one of the few demonstrations of pure unadulterated glee. Along the sides of the path on the way up and down to and fro the temple were shops selling all sorts of desserts. I spotted Puella Magi Madoka Magica mochi, but did not buy them. 

One of the things I noticed at the temple was the presence of people in kimonos and yukatas. Was there a festival going on? I wasn't sure. In any case, it was a really nice place to be. If I ever return to Japan, it would be to visit Kyoto again. 

When we got back on the bus I noticed our driver making notes in a book: he was recording the time of departure and arrival in each location. As the bus left, I looked outside and observed the buildings, and noted how many of them looked older, and more beautiful than the places we had seen before. Perhaps many of the buildings were pre-War. The closest comparison I could make to a town I was familiar with was George Town. Kyoto was nearly bombed during World War 2. 

From the bus I looked out into the houses and shophouses. I noticed that the Japanese are very neat.

We then left Kyoto for Nagoya.

I associate Nagoya, rightly or wrongly, with gaudiness. I think this is because the first time I spotted signs of entering a city -- that I identified as Nagoya, whether accurately or not -- was the sight of bright and garish signboards for hotels that were visible from the highway (and all the highways that we took were elevated, all the way). We had dinner at an All-You-Can-Eat buffet, though I was not sure where it was. I do not think it was in Nagoya yet -- it must have been a suburb of the city, or a town close to the city -- but anyway, I liked it; its orange interior made me feel at home. The food was not great, but it was good, and there were UFO catchers and capsule toy dispensers near the entrance. I played with a Doraemon and Hello Kitty capsule toy dispenser and got one with a sticker inside. The teenage daughter of one of the families in our tour group fiddled with another capsule toy dispenser, but bought nothing. 

We ate: barbecued beef and chicken, takoyaki, mochi, pasta and sushi. Midway through our dinner a group of tourists came in speaking Hokkien. I knew they were tourists not only because of the language they spoke, but because they were loud and a little disorderly. One woman called out: "Lai! Lai! Lai!". A child of about two or three started jumping for no reason at all. They took about five to ten minutes to settle down. I laughed to myself at their loudness, brashness, and how they made heads turn in irritation. They were such obvious outsiders, ungraceful against the Japanese obsession with decorum and order. And they made the place feel like home. 

(If that was a backhanded compliment, it reflected my genuine feelings of spending a week in Japan. I admired their order, but I also missed the organic spontaneity that the orderliness erased.)

We arrived in Nagoya still in time to wander about the city. I had started to feel better about the cold, but was getting paranoid about running out of medical supplies, so my aunt, her colleague and I wandered about trying to find a drug store to get medicine. It was easy to get around: a brightly lit cross marked a pharmacy. At the pharmacy one of the attendants responded to enquiries in English -- though this was not unusual, as even back in Osaka some of the shop attendants at Wego could communicate in Mandarin -- but I tried to practice my limited Japanese anyway, enough to begin every sentence with 'Sumimasen' and to conclude everything with 'Arigato' (eventually, towards the end of the week, I dressed it up a little, to make it 'Arigato Gozaimasu'). 

Nagoya was full of pachinko parlours. You can spot them from a long way of: they are brightly lit, garish, loud. One of them advertised an Evangelion-themed pachinko game (so it seems now that the generation that used to watch Neon Genesis Evangelion now lines up to play pachinko). We stepped into one, not to play but to sneak in to use the bathrooms. 

At the pachinko parlour I saw the saddest and strangest juxtaposition I had ever seen in my life: grown men and women dressed in office attire, sitting in front of the loud, bright and flashy pachinko machines and playing the game in absolute silence. 

On the walk back to the hotel I bumped into several young office workers; they were just done with a drinking session. A woman's voice could be heard, she was calling out to a friend. We had been warned of drunks at night, but they were not unpleasant; if anything, they seemed affectionate and happy. It felt less secure walking at night in Melbourne.

I did not think of it then, but I think now the sight of the men and women at pachinko altered my view of the Japanese as the perfect Asian nation somewhat slightly. For me, there was something wrong in utopia if one preferred to spend the night after work in a pachinko parlour instead of at home, with one's family. Later, I learned that it had been a Friday night -- so it was not wrong, wasn't it, to spend an hour or two at pachinko? But my admiration of the Japanese had already changed. 

I did not see much of Nagoya during the day; the next two days was spent in rural Japan. 
catalinarembuyan: (Default)
My tour began by travelling from Kuala Lumpur to Hong Kong. We -- my aunt, her colleague and I -- were to travel through Honshu, and we needed to make a transit at Hong Kong International Airport.

I started shivering in Hong Kong -- at midnight, it got chilly, and it was difficult to sleep without sufficient warmth. 

The architecture for Hong Kong's airport was beautiful.

Hong Kong struck me as a bilingual place, alternating between Cantonese and English. It felt both sufficiently close to Malaysia's culture and sufficiently distant from it, an intermediary between Japan's orderliness and Malaysia's chaotic multicultural blend. You can spot its British postcolonial heritage in its airplanes. In the flight safety video tutorial a white old man wearing a pilot's attire begins by speaking in perfect Queen's English, followed by a younger Chinese man speaking the same thing in Cantonese.

Unlike Malaysia, the colonial and colonized elements of Hong Kong do not seem to have blended. They function in separate worlds, coexisting, but not Creolized. I spotted a Jimmy Choo outlet at Hong Kong airport -- such is the Malaysian economy, capable of producing the minds that make luxury goods, but not able to buy them. 

From Hong Kong we flew to Kansai Airport. The only thing I knew of the Kansai district came from anime, with characters depicted in some way to be louder, more brash. People who spoke in Kansai-ben were said to speak in a twang not unlike that of  American Southerners. I tried to detect that twang when I was there, but I wasn't familiar enough with Japanese to recognize it.

At Kansai I spotted my first autumn trees.

Our first town was Wakayama. It is a small Japanese town, but when we speak of small towns in Japanese terms, it is important to note that it is a small town about the size of Melbourne.

As I looked out of my tour bus window I saw the many things I have come to associate with Japanese urban life through anime: the narrow roads, the electric wires overhead, the many traffic lights. We passed by a school and I spotted the familiar design that I had seen in numerous anime: the clock tower at the centre, the large field in the front of the building. 

At the heart of Wakayama is a castle built during the age of the Sengoku. The site of a seige, the castle was the final standing ground between a group of monks and soldiers against an invading army, with the soldiers on defense putting up a final stand against the invaders, fighting a battle they knew they would lose. The castle has since been converted into a museum.

I climbed to the top of the castle and looked at the town below. After gorging myself on photographs, I put my phone down and watched the scenery. 

The landscape, the cold weather, and the cries of crows resembled the many ukiyo-e paintings and the slice-of-life Japanese cartoons that had formed my imagination of the place. I watched and listened to this scenery in silence, for about one or two minutes, until my aunt called me away. We then had our dinner at Kuroshio Market. 

Osaka was not a place to experience this. We were dropped at Dotonbori, which was crowded, full of people going to and fro. It was raining. I came to recognize the reason for the popularity of transparent umbrellas in Japan: at least I could identify people beneath them, and they made a crowd less faceless. At the street crossings I saw giant screens advertising Japanese pop bands like Momoiro Clover Z. We bought a few things at Wego in Dotonbori; we ate. The waiters and waitresses moved with the efficiency of machines, and when we exited a restaurant it was not from the same place that was its entrance. 

At night we stayed at the Osaka Esaka Tokyu Rei. I had figured out then that my tour guide was fairly useless, since he never explained anything about the context of Wakayama Castle. I had gotten a good rest that night, waking up only to blow my nose and sneeze. 

catalinarembuyan: (Default)
 View from the top of Wakayama Castle, overlooking the town of Wakayama

I've just returned from a trip to Japan. 

They say that you should never meet your heroes, and I think that's true for places that you've come to mythologize. Growing up an anime and manga fan, Japan has been a part of my imagination for a long time. I've learned rudimentary aspects of its language by listening to its TV shows, and worked out its culture through its cartoons.

Japan was not a disappointment, but it was -- different.  

Far more reserved, conservative, and fastidious than I had expected it to be, the Japanese tendency to be a stickler to traditions and decorum struck me as admirable at first, but wearisome after a few days. Their attention to detail struck me as as obsessive-compulsive. I was glad to return, and even the messiness of Kuala Lumpur, with water taps that didn't work and people yelling down hallways, was relief. 

In spite of it all, I found that I admired the meticulous attention to quality that was present in almost all of the work that they produced. Everything, even candy, felt like a work of art. At Ginza I stepped into a store that sold nothing but paper products and stationery, called Kyukyodo. I am a bibliophile, and I appreciate the craftsmanship of good stationery. If I ever return to Japan, it would be to search for its stationery. 

I'm still not quite back home yet. I didn't return straight to Kuala Lumpur after Japan -- I'm typing this from Kuching, where I am spending my Christmas. I still have to re-orient myself to the idea that the place I had envisioned in my fantasies wasn't quite what it was when I went there. What about London? What about New York? What about the whole of England, especially, since I grew up an Anglophile postcolonial Asian, feeding on a diet of Penguin classics and teatime snacks with tropical fare? I have read, watched, and consumed material from these parts of the world and depicted these parts of the world; now I am beginning to doubt what the signifiers have signified. 

Perhaps over the next few days I will post details of my tour in Japan. In the meantime, I am going to write a letter of complaint concerning the tour company I used -- I had a poor experience with them, and will be telling others whom I know to avoid them. 

catalinarembuyan: (Self)
I am testing the compatibility of this app with my DW. Seems like I can't post pictures.
catalinarembuyan: (Default)
1. I have never been very successful at attempting blogs. They seem like secondary projects to my main writing work that never really fully go into flight. From time to time, I keep feeling motivated about starting something that will drive traffic and help me earn a little pocket money, perhaps over the course of several years. But I never succeed. I never attempt to post regularly for more than a few weeks at most.

2. Like many people I know who are pretty productive, I dislike sleep. Unlike many people I know who are very productive, when I do not get sleep, I feel the pinch, badly. I am writing this under conditions of sleep deprivation.

3. Goodness knows what this may turn out to be in the long run. I only know that I am partially motivated to start this again after reading excerpts from Joyce Carol Oates's published journals. She is very intelligent and insightful. I am not quite.

4. I think the reason why it is difficult to charge appropriately for good writing is because you need some kind of education and sense to identify good writing and why it matters; by the time you can do that you may not need to charge for writing, and most people who do not know how to identify good writing will not be able to identify why they need to buy it. It isn't like an insurance policy. It's not secured by figures and statistics and physical pain. It isn't like a piece of computer. You can't feel it break down until you can recognize it breaking down. You need people who can appreciate good writing to be willing to buy it. And by the time people can do that, maybe they won't. Perhaps.

February 2016

7 8910111213

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags


RSS Atom
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios