Watch this space!
13 Jun 2012 Leave a Comment
Finally. Time to post the pictures for the blog post II.
I was glad that SPORE-Con was also open to families and that my own daughters were happy playing games.
That was my older girl gleefully playing a life-size version of Angry Birds.
My little girl with Damien, my husband (and the organizer for SPORE-Con). FTW!
I was also encouraged to see homegrown writers, artists and illustrators. Can we have more of this next SPORE?
Here’s a good SPORE-Con!
12 Jun 2012 1 Comment
Are you tired of the things said by Westerners? Do you always feel as if you want to give them a FAQ of things not to say in front of people who are from countries formerly colonised by Western states? Now you can play a bingo game!
If you think colonialism is dead… think again. Globalisation has indeed made the world smaller–furthering the dominance of the West over the developing world, shrinking and devaluing local cultures, and uniformising everything to Western values and Western ways of life. This is a pernicious, omnipresent state of things that leads to the same unfounded things being said, over and over, to people from developing countries and/or on developing countries.
It’s time for this to stop. Time for the hoary, horrid misrepresentation clichés to be pointed out and examined; and for genuine, non-dismissive conversations to start.
Accordingly, here’s a handy bingo card for Western Cultural Imperialism–and we wish we could say we’ve made it all up, but unfortunately every single comment on this card was seen on the Internet.
Card designed by Aliette de Bodard, Joyce Chng, Kate Elliott, Rochita Loenen-Ruiz, @requireshate, Charles Tan, @automathic and @mizHalle. Launch orchestrated with the help of Zen Cho and Ekaterina Sedia in addition to above authors (and an army of volunteer signal boosters whom we wish to thank very much!)
09 Jun 2012 Leave a Comment
If you are interested in illustrating any of my stories, please do drop me a line by commenting.
08 Jun 2012 Leave a Comment
My mother’s gift was a cedar chest. Intricately carved, with scenery from the homeland at the sides. The craftsman had etched my name, my personal name, on the lid: Peony, in the old script. Touching it brought back memories. Memories of my mother’s own cedar chest.
The chest was tucked away in a corner of her bedroom. A solid presence, with its own secrets. My mother opened it one day and I peered inside, seeing her wedding gown still cling-wrapped, her wedding shoes, old jewelery faded ivory in color and a handful of mothballs. What caught my attention was the white fur pelt. My hand trembled when I stroked it.
“Sacrifice,” my mother had said. Age did not seem to affect her. Her hair was a glossy black, combed and oiled daily by nimble fingers. “I gave up a lot, Peony.”
I was young then. Just fourteen, in secondary school and brimming with youthful energy. I loved the moonlit nights, the games in the dark. Such were the days of being carefree.
Then I met Bruce at uni and things changed as always. He courted me, an ardent lover he was. Presented me with gifts, with delicacies in pretty boxes and with poetry. He knew the old language, spoke it fluently. I guess I was instantly enamored.
He proposed. I accepted. My mother smiled her enigmatic smile, ordering the cedar chest. It came promptly, carried in by stoic-looking deliverymen.
Sacrifice. I placed my hand on the cedar wood, feeling its warmth. Soon, it would be filled with my own secrets, my own fur pelt.