Half a decade ago
The then-girlfriend is irritating you by trying to widen your social circle with her own friends; she feels that you don't have enough friends; she quite fails to see that you're a loner by choice.
"There's someone I'd like you to meet" she chirps, dragging you over to her.
A strange, dreamlike moment. Shades of those eyes again; the chopsticks in the hair are a tad odd. The words just assume a life of their own; you're not in control anymore.
"Hello, X." The then-girlfriend's eyes widen as she realises her then-boyfriend didn't live his past-life under a rock after all.
"Hello, P_... You're Her cousin, aren't you?"
"Oh yeah, her. She's so smart, and so pretty..."
The then-girlfriend's eyes are stunned.
*****
Several months ago
Many years later and there's a rat pinned to the board before you; the girl behind you looks disconcertingly familiar. You look at her eyes.
It's a bit hard to recognise her without the chopsticks.
"Hello, P_"
*****
Today
And then you look up, startled, at the stranger and there's something familiar about those eyes, behind his surgical mask.
And then the moment of shock; the moment of not-quite deja-vu :
You're Her cousin.
It seems only yesterday you called me, to not-so-subtly hint to me that you'd found things out. You told me I had good taste in women; I marvelled at how wrong that sounded... that's your own cousin you're talking about.
Your eyes were blank; you'd either forgotten, or the confirmation name threw you off.
*****
Deja vu
I'm sure you've all had it; hows about this though, eating dinner, a word is said, some imaginary memory cell wakes up, and suddenly you're having a deja vu moment, and you remember that in that previous moment, in this exact same setting, but in some parallel universe you were having a deja moment too.
Perhaps this is the matrix after all.
*****
Claustrophobia
The walls are closing in. There is something familiar about all this.
But no. No.
I don't believe in serendipity.
*****
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Pei Wo Tao
Do this in remembrance of me
...Jesus the same night in which he was betrayed took bread And when he had given thanks, he brake it, and said, Take, eat: this is my body, which is broken for you: do this in remembrance of me. After the same manner also he took the cup, when he had supped, saying, This cup is the new testament in my blood: this do ye, as oft as ye drink it, in remembrance of me.
-1 Corinthians 11:23-25
*****
Amnesia
So C and E's sad little story continues to write itself / unravel, depending on which way one looks at it, and it strikes me that the world is the kind of fucked up, upside-down, inside-out place that a woman with a soul that looks blackened and dishonest beyond the point of redemption is afforded a chance to get to know God, and will probably pretend for the sake of keeping C dangling at the end of her line to be Good and Changed...
.. but that is the cynic in me speaking.
Who knows, if it be God's will perhaps something good and lasting will come into her life long after C has left it...
... and it strikes me that there are others out there who have souls that are only a bit grey; take away the selfish motivations of greed and ambition, involve fools who really care about how they feel and react and think, and somehow God is just so very, very difficult to even introduce; give it a month and everyone will have moved on, nothing lasting or good will remain.
Sad.
******
Wisdom
1) Forgive as you have been forgiven
2) Remember your immense value and worth as God's child and as God sees you always (that He would suffer and die for our worthlessness) and to reconsider voluntarily allowing anyone to treat you any less than a child of The King.
3) Understand - that the traumas that we do not know, that inspired these dark mind-games must not be trivial
4) Remember - that God's love is infinite and His grace boundless, remind your friend.
These were the words of advice a very old, and very Good friend wrote a week ago, in response to a story I recounted to her recently.
******
Reminiscence
I brooded as we drank; drinking has never given me joy and invariably burns a hole in my pocket. But it gives me an excuse to look moody as the Thoughts which I normally keep restrained or out of sight flit across my mind.
The singer beamed and started belting out her set. She was good, and sang with gusto and feeling.
I'm all out of faith, this is how I feel...
... and suddenly I was transported to another time, another place. London, Raffles Night. Much more brightly lit, a much larger, open space - a ballroom of a hotel, if I recall correctly. A very pretty young girl singing with that sweet, sweet church voice of hers, wearing and dancing grunge (slightly at odds with her virginal good looks) those exact same words : I'm all out of faith...
And then somewhat later in the evening, as I sat at the grand piano with my mind a million miles away, my fingers wandering lost, searching through the ivory maze for the keys to my soul... she draped herself on the piano, smiling sadly at me, and sang for me about these Foolish Games breaking our hearts....
The audience rose to their feet.
I walked out the door and just kept walking, and walking, plowing through the soup of suspended-animation microscopic raindrops that is London on a cold, chilly winter's night.
I'm wide awake and I can see the perfect sky is torn
You were so much better, J...
******
Catharsis
As we drank I listened to C's grand plans to escape with E, and felt a twinge.
Too familiar.
Too impossible.
And then today I found you again. And I had an epiphany.
The ties that bind us, that stay the invariably sowed seeds of infidelity from taking root, and remind us even on our loneliest, most self-obsessed nights - transplanted a million miles from home, out in the cold, alone, afraid and freezing -- to remain loyal souls, to turn away from our darkness, to choose Good over Bad... are all in our own heads : faith, and love.
Goodness and faith don't come from within.
They don't come from the Girl. Or the Guy.
They come from God.
...Jesus the same night in which he was betrayed took bread And when he had given thanks, he brake it, and said, Take, eat: this is my body, which is broken for you: do this in remembrance of me. After the same manner also he took the cup, when he had supped, saying, This cup is the new testament in my blood: this do ye, as oft as ye drink it, in remembrance of me.
-1 Corinthians 11:23-25
*****
Amnesia
So C and E's sad little story continues to write itself / unravel, depending on which way one looks at it, and it strikes me that the world is the kind of fucked up, upside-down, inside-out place that a woman with a soul that looks blackened and dishonest beyond the point of redemption is afforded a chance to get to know God, and will probably pretend for the sake of keeping C dangling at the end of her line to be Good and Changed...
.. but that is the cynic in me speaking.
Who knows, if it be God's will perhaps something good and lasting will come into her life long after C has left it...
... and it strikes me that there are others out there who have souls that are only a bit grey; take away the selfish motivations of greed and ambition, involve fools who really care about how they feel and react and think, and somehow God is just so very, very difficult to even introduce; give it a month and everyone will have moved on, nothing lasting or good will remain.
Sad.
******
Wisdom
1) Forgive as you have been forgiven
2) Remember your immense value and worth as God's child and as God sees you always (that He would suffer and die for our worthlessness) and to reconsider voluntarily allowing anyone to treat you any less than a child of The King.
3) Understand - that the traumas that we do not know, that inspired these dark mind-games must not be trivial
4) Remember - that God's love is infinite and His grace boundless, remind your friend.
These were the words of advice a very old, and very Good friend wrote a week ago, in response to a story I recounted to her recently.
******
Reminiscence
I brooded as we drank; drinking has never given me joy and invariably burns a hole in my pocket. But it gives me an excuse to look moody as the Thoughts which I normally keep restrained or out of sight flit across my mind.
The singer beamed and started belting out her set. She was good, and sang with gusto and feeling.
I'm all out of faith, this is how I feel...
... and suddenly I was transported to another time, another place. London, Raffles Night. Much more brightly lit, a much larger, open space - a ballroom of a hotel, if I recall correctly. A very pretty young girl singing with that sweet, sweet church voice of hers, wearing and dancing grunge (slightly at odds with her virginal good looks) those exact same words : I'm all out of faith...
And then somewhat later in the evening, as I sat at the grand piano with my mind a million miles away, my fingers wandering lost, searching through the ivory maze for the keys to my soul... she draped herself on the piano, smiling sadly at me, and sang for me about these Foolish Games breaking our hearts....
The audience rose to their feet.
I walked out the door and just kept walking, and walking, plowing through the soup of suspended-animation microscopic raindrops that is London on a cold, chilly winter's night.
I'm wide awake and I can see the perfect sky is torn
You were so much better, J...
******
Catharsis
As we drank I listened to C's grand plans to escape with E, and felt a twinge.
Too familiar.
Too impossible.
And then today I found you again. And I had an epiphany.
The ties that bind us, that stay the invariably sowed seeds of infidelity from taking root, and remind us even on our loneliest, most self-obsessed nights - transplanted a million miles from home, out in the cold, alone, afraid and freezing -- to remain loyal souls, to turn away from our darkness, to choose Good over Bad... are all in our own heads : faith, and love.
Goodness and faith don't come from within.
They don't come from the Girl. Or the Guy.
They come from God.
Choices
I don't know what it means, but as I drove away from the music and their laughter, I was torn.
I'm all out of faith, this is how I feel
At the thought of being on call tomorrow, and the day after. At the thought of everything that has transpired over these last few weeks, and these last few years.
At my present, and my past.
And there was nothing I would have liked more dearly than to go home and pick up my sabre, and my bible.
But I made my choice, and here I am, in the office, paying for my Sins with a neverending audit.
Here I am, oh Lord.
I am your servant, once more.
I'm all out of faith, this is how I feel
At the thought of being on call tomorrow, and the day after. At the thought of everything that has transpired over these last few weeks, and these last few years.
At my present, and my past.
And there was nothing I would have liked more dearly than to go home and pick up my sabre, and my bible.
But I made my choice, and here I am, in the office, paying for my Sins with a neverending audit.
Here I am, oh Lord.
I am your servant, once more.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Picture Postcards from LA
J was telling me how much she appreciates postcards the other night.
Her flatmate, in true high-society-hot-babe fashion rolled her eyes derisively, and snorted.
I understood about the postcard thing, though. It's about significance.
It's about remembering someone when you needn't do, and taking a little bit of time out of your busy schedule to post them a piece of you - this is me, thinking of you, sending you a piece of my life.
Different people attach different significances to things; for S significance is perhaps a branded wallet, or a $25,000 watch.
Different folks, different strokes.
Her flatmate, in true high-society-hot-babe fashion rolled her eyes derisively, and snorted.
I understood about the postcard thing, though. It's about significance.
It's about remembering someone when you needn't do, and taking a little bit of time out of your busy schedule to post them a piece of you - this is me, thinking of you, sending you a piece of my life.
Different people attach different significances to things; for S significance is perhaps a branded wallet, or a $25,000 watch.
Different folks, different strokes.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Resounding Disquiet
In my line of work we have attendants who "fly shotgun" with us, so to speak. It's easy to take them for granted when they're competent.
Today I'm squirming in my seat, and struggling to keep the darker part of my soul from exploding to the surface.
Growl.
And please, please stop trying to make smalltalk with me. Your pressure of speech and broken Singlish are just too much for me to handle right now. There's a reason I'm not talking back to you. It's to stop the Devil from erupting out my mouth and consuming you in flames.
******
It's always gratifying to read /hear someone else's rants about your own pet peeves. It reminds us that we're not alone.
Reading Dida's "Peeved" dated wed aug 27 2008 (ordinarily I would hyperlink "this" to a permalink, but this woman seems to go out of her way to inconvenience people who want to reference her) makes me smile a little sadly at all the times I've railed against all things Singlish, and the systematic way in which our glory boys are destroying English through their misguided Speak Good English campaigns (IT'S SPEAK ENGLISH WELL NOT SPEAK GOOD ENGLISH FOR GODS SAKES) and it brings back memories of angry readers unleashing furious barrages of poorly worded retorts upon hapless little me. (how come girl only, post naked picture of back dont get these comments ah?)
It feels like I've spent the last three years here ranting about... everything, to the point that I'm running out of ire and fire. The death of English (Widening the goalposts will never, ever improve the standard of play), kids with dead eyes, "you can't change the system", "it's like that because it's always been like that", "you're romanticising the rest of the world", Overwork culture, a culture of conformism, the "me" generation who thinks they're being unique by being cool... and just turning themselves into a sadder stereotype, a kiasu culture of "face" and hypocrisy... the list goes on, and on, and on. (anyone remember the time I wrote about homogenous HDB blocks marring the skyline? Oh, the fallout. I've had second thoughts since then, watching the boys in white "upgrade" Bata shoeboxes into avant-garde monstrosities.)
This country is changing me; when I read her my first instinct was to giggle, and my second was to sympathise with the sheep - you can't blame them for it, they're born into chinese families, english isn't their first language, they don't think like you, they grew up in a different world, etcetcetc.
And then the cathartic moment of shock and realisation - this country is changing me. For the worse. (worst? No, worse!)
I'm backsliding. My guns are so greasy I can't hold on to them, much less keep my aim steady. My thoughts are losing their focus.
She's right - if you want to improve your English, then don't whinge about arrogant ang-moh-philes picking on you, and don't for God's sakes defend your fucked up English as something good, because "people tell me I write well", or "I have 4000 readers a day so I must be right and you are wrong". (heh. I dread the inevitable fallout that's going to follow this one. Before anyone takes it upon her.. or himself to blast me out of the water for this, consider first that you're exposing your own insecurities about yourself by replying to me, and leave me in peace, please, please. Please.)
And I can't change the system - but I know now that it doesn't deserve to be changed.
And I know that things ARE different out there, because I WAS THERE. And I remember everything. Including who I used to be.
Soon now, someday soon...
Today I'm squirming in my seat, and struggling to keep the darker part of my soul from exploding to the surface.
Growl.
And please, please stop trying to make smalltalk with me. Your pressure of speech and broken Singlish are just too much for me to handle right now. There's a reason I'm not talking back to you. It's to stop the Devil from erupting out my mouth and consuming you in flames.
******
It's always gratifying to read /hear someone else's rants about your own pet peeves. It reminds us that we're not alone.
Reading Dida's "Peeved" dated wed aug 27 2008 (ordinarily I would hyperlink "this" to a permalink, but this woman seems to go out of her way to inconvenience people who want to reference her) makes me smile a little sadly at all the times I've railed against all things Singlish, and the systematic way in which our glory boys are destroying English through their misguided Speak Good English campaigns (IT'S SPEAK ENGLISH WELL NOT SPEAK GOOD ENGLISH FOR GODS SAKES) and it brings back memories of angry readers unleashing furious barrages of poorly worded retorts upon hapless little me. (how come girl only, post naked picture of back dont get these comments ah?)
It feels like I've spent the last three years here ranting about... everything, to the point that I'm running out of ire and fire. The death of English (Widening the goalposts will never, ever improve the standard of play), kids with dead eyes, "you can't change the system", "it's like that because it's always been like that", "you're romanticising the rest of the world", Overwork culture, a culture of conformism, the "me" generation who thinks they're being unique by being cool... and just turning themselves into a sadder stereotype, a kiasu culture of "face" and hypocrisy... the list goes on, and on, and on. (anyone remember the time I wrote about homogenous HDB blocks marring the skyline? Oh, the fallout. I've had second thoughts since then, watching the boys in white "upgrade" Bata shoeboxes into avant-garde monstrosities.)
This country is changing me; when I read her my first instinct was to giggle, and my second was to sympathise with the sheep - you can't blame them for it, they're born into chinese families, english isn't their first language, they don't think like you, they grew up in a different world, etcetcetc.
And then the cathartic moment of shock and realisation - this country is changing me. For the worse. (worst? No, worse!)
I'm backsliding. My guns are so greasy I can't hold on to them, much less keep my aim steady. My thoughts are losing their focus.
She's right - if you want to improve your English, then don't whinge about arrogant ang-moh-philes picking on you, and don't for God's sakes defend your fucked up English as something good, because "people tell me I write well", or "I have 4000 readers a day so I must be right and you are wrong". (heh. I dread the inevitable fallout that's going to follow this one. Before anyone takes it upon her.. or himself to blast me out of the water for this, consider first that you're exposing your own insecurities about yourself by replying to me, and leave me in peace, please, please. Please.)
And I can't change the system - but I know now that it doesn't deserve to be changed.
And I know that things ARE different out there, because I WAS THERE. And I remember everything. Including who I used to be.
Soon now, someday soon...
Monday, August 25, 2008
Idealist
What makes us relinquish our ideals, one at a time; what makes it so difficult to remember what love was meant to be?
What makes us let go of our dreams and ideals?
Do people really change over time? Or do some things remain constant...
... reading this kid, so idealistic and so very, very young... I couldn't help but feel like reaching across the expanse of cyberspace and slapping him, hard. Life doesn't work that way, you moron.
It doesn't.
What makes us let go of our dreams and ideals?
Do people really change over time? Or do some things remain constant...
... reading this kid, so idealistic and so very, very young... I couldn't help but feel like reaching across the expanse of cyberspace and slapping him, hard. Life doesn't work that way, you moron.
It doesn't.
Remembrance
Listening to a friend tell me the other day about her man asking her in exasperation, "What do you Want?" I found myself reacting oddly.
This is it. This is the axe falling, the end of time.
This is the knife edge upon which fate hangs in the balance.
What do you Want?
I know the answer now.
I want us to be happy.
That's all. That's all I want.
This is it. This is the axe falling, the end of time.
This is the knife edge upon which fate hangs in the balance.
What do you Want?
I know the answer now.
I want us to be happy.
That's all. That's all I want.
The Game
I won't pretend to be an expert. I haven't finished reading Neil Straus's "The Game" which Sara forced upon me. (I can hear you howling from here, sasky)
But last night, watching one of my ex proteges, C. in action, I couldn't help but cringe.
Said protege has been having a rough time breaking up with a rather... psychotic female, E.
Lounging in my chair at Hacienda and listening absently to him alternating between his solliloquay about E and the two hot girls over there (and they were rather attractive. laugh.) I decided, hell, why not? He needs a bit of an ego boost, and C. was one of the debators, once... I bounced the idea off him.
Drinks were bought and delivered to the two babes, a subtle gesture from the waitor towards our table resulted in a friendly raising of glasses all around.
More solliloquay.
And then the two rather good looking women were at our table shaking our hands and bidding us thank you for the drinks, and goodbye, we really have to run now...
(which translated, means we're not sure if you guys are creeps, but we're being polite, and if you talk to us nicely we might be persuaded to hang around for a bit.)
I step back, mentally. This is your moment, C, to exercise all that charm and suaveness that, in my mind at least, all my ex debators possessed on stage.
"Ladies, I have a confession to make..." (ah, an interesting opener. good, good...)
"you see that waitor over there? He gets a free drink if you two sit down and talk to us!"
Oh my God.
Oh my Freaking God.
Cringe.
Just kill me now.
I cast an apologetic eye at one of the babes, and she casts a sympathetic one back. There's nothing that can be said to salvage the situation. They vanish in a hurry.
I'm not a player; never have been. I don't really know much about The Game.
But if I had been flying pole instead of wingman (why. Why didn't I recognise that the innate uncoolness in C would totally obliterate what charm we taught him ten years ago... why??!) I would have said,
"Ladies, I have a confession to make,
... I bought you two drinks because you've been sitting over there in your chairs the entire evening mostly in silence, sometimes talking, and from your eyes clearly thinking a great deal.
C here is being troubled by a crisis which could do with some thoughtful feminine insight; it involves a woman... if you could both spare ten minutes, we'd be ever so grateful..."
*****
If either of you two girls ever reads this, please feel free to drop me a line. laugh
*****
Hope
She says these give her hope.
I can't help but agree.
And they give me a laugh, even now :)
(originally from Where the Hell is Matt?)
I. Do not. As a Rule. Embed videos or images on my blog.
Ever.
*****
Embed high quality youtube videos
But last night, watching one of my ex proteges, C. in action, I couldn't help but cringe.
Said protege has been having a rough time breaking up with a rather... psychotic female, E.
Lounging in my chair at Hacienda and listening absently to him alternating between his solliloquay about E and the two hot girls over there (and they were rather attractive. laugh.) I decided, hell, why not? He needs a bit of an ego boost, and C. was one of the debators, once... I bounced the idea off him.
Drinks were bought and delivered to the two babes, a subtle gesture from the waitor towards our table resulted in a friendly raising of glasses all around.
More solliloquay.
And then the two rather good looking women were at our table shaking our hands and bidding us thank you for the drinks, and goodbye, we really have to run now...
(which translated, means we're not sure if you guys are creeps, but we're being polite, and if you talk to us nicely we might be persuaded to hang around for a bit.)
I step back, mentally. This is your moment, C, to exercise all that charm and suaveness that, in my mind at least, all my ex debators possessed on stage.
"Ladies, I have a confession to make..." (ah, an interesting opener. good, good...)
"you see that waitor over there? He gets a free drink if you two sit down and talk to us!"
Oh my God.
Oh my Freaking God.
Cringe.
Just kill me now.
I cast an apologetic eye at one of the babes, and she casts a sympathetic one back. There's nothing that can be said to salvage the situation. They vanish in a hurry.
I'm not a player; never have been. I don't really know much about The Game.
But if I had been flying pole instead of wingman (why. Why didn't I recognise that the innate uncoolness in C would totally obliterate what charm we taught him ten years ago... why??!) I would have said,
"Ladies, I have a confession to make,
... I bought you two drinks because you've been sitting over there in your chairs the entire evening mostly in silence, sometimes talking, and from your eyes clearly thinking a great deal.
C here is being troubled by a crisis which could do with some thoughtful feminine insight; it involves a woman... if you could both spare ten minutes, we'd be ever so grateful..."
*****
If either of you two girls ever reads this, please feel free to drop me a line. laugh
*****
Hope
She says these give her hope.
I can't help but agree.
And they give me a laugh, even now :)
(originally from Where the Hell is Matt?)
I. Do not. As a Rule. Embed videos or images on my blog.
Ever.
*****
Embed high quality youtube videos
Saturday, August 23, 2008
The stirrings of Faith
A memory
An unremarkable Sunday.
All Soul's Cathedral, London.
The day before I flew headlong across the world to see Her one last time.
The sermon passed me by, so full of regrets and unformed thoughts was my mind. I bowed my head and prayed for forgiveness, for my own stupid self, and my own stupid sins.
As I rose unsteadily to my feet, the disconcertingly creepy woman sitting in the pew by my side, a chubby dark old woman of african descent - garbed all in black, and wearing a black hat and veil - turned to me.
She'd barely moved through the entire service.
I could just about make out her eyes and her teeth through the veil as she smiled at me. It was frightening. And then she spoke, in a gentle voice.
"Do not worry, my child. Everything that you're about to do tomorrow...
... it will be all right. You'll see."
God works in mysterious ways. Everyday Angels appear where you least expect them.
It was beautiful, for a year, and then bad for ten.
And now, with Your Grace, it will be all right, again.
*****
I have strayed from your side, Lord. I deserve this, all this darkness unfolding upon me.
Please forgive me; and accept me back into Your house.
****
A Reply
Another ray of light in this darkness, and my God, such brightness.
Blinding enough to nearly bring tears to your eyes; exactly the way you remembered it.
An unremarkable Sunday.
All Soul's Cathedral, London.
The day before I flew headlong across the world to see Her one last time.
The sermon passed me by, so full of regrets and unformed thoughts was my mind. I bowed my head and prayed for forgiveness, for my own stupid self, and my own stupid sins.
As I rose unsteadily to my feet, the disconcertingly creepy woman sitting in the pew by my side, a chubby dark old woman of african descent - garbed all in black, and wearing a black hat and veil - turned to me.
She'd barely moved through the entire service.
I could just about make out her eyes and her teeth through the veil as she smiled at me. It was frightening. And then she spoke, in a gentle voice.
"Do not worry, my child. Everything that you're about to do tomorrow...
... it will be all right. You'll see."
God works in mysterious ways. Everyday Angels appear where you least expect them.
It was beautiful, for a year, and then bad for ten.
And now, with Your Grace, it will be all right, again.
*****
I have strayed from your side, Lord. I deserve this, all this darkness unfolding upon me.
Please forgive me; and accept me back into Your house.
****
A Reply
Another ray of light in this darkness, and my God, such brightness.
Blinding enough to nearly bring tears to your eyes; exactly the way you remembered it.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Monkeying around
this - a beautiful darkness
*****
Pandora's visit
So a stranger stopped by to visit yesterday. I had never in my life seen her before, but she knew all about me, it seemed—she even knew my Chinese name. She was a little scary when she first arrived. Her hair was raven black and slick with oil, and styled to stick out in pointy spikes at the sides. Her eyes were darker than her hair, framed by sticky kohl lids and a glittery shadow in Prussian blue. I couldn’t help staring at her pale and powdered face and the cold, cold whiteness of her skin. And when she began to speak, the voice that came from within her muddy lips was nothing short of ominous to me.
They call me Pandora, she said. You should know me well. I looked at her a tad afraid, for I had no recollection of meeting this creature ever before. And there she stood in front of me, in her ghoulish make-up and shiny leather pants claiming I knew her well. Hello, Pandora, I said, trying to be friendly. I’m really sorry if it’s been otherwise, but I don’t believe we’ve met before. She rubbed her lips with blackened nails and I saw the chains of rusted silver twisted tight around her fingers, the noise of clanging metal creating disharmony in my ears. Perhaps you never noticed who I was, she said. But you can bet I’ve come by your home before.
Since when, I asked. Since when? And she brushed my questions right aside, ignoring my curious pleas. It’s all over. It doesn’t matter anymore, she said. Despite my good intentions, nobody likes me anyway. I felt bad because it seemed I’d wronged a friend, so I pat her on the shoulder and I asked if she’d like to come in.
Then just like that, she burst into smile, the white paint on her face cracking into loosened flakes and crumbs. That’s alright, my love, she said. But you must accept this gift I brought for you. And from inside her raggedy denim jacket, ripped and torn and hanging by fragile threads, she picked out a little box wrapped in pink, with sequined beads of fuchsia and shiny studs of crystal glitter. It’s yours, she said. And then she pulled me close and cupped my face, her fingers leaving icy trails along my cheek and chin.
“It’s my gift to you,” she said. “Pandora’s Box. Now, open it.”
The box weighed heavy in my hands; its cloying scent of perfumed sweetness suddenly familiar to me once more. And then I knew—I knew where I’d seen Pandora many times before.
So I pushed the bitch away, shoved her hard and sent the rusted chains she wore flying into her powdered face, cutting her skin and slicing open her already rotting flesh. She got up and snarled at me. You never understood, she said. Like you, no one ever does. I have nothing but noble intentions, but you cowards are too scared of truth. Then, she turned and fled my home, her heavy boots burning a trail of footprints outside the door, the clanging of the chains she wore slowly fading into a stony silence as she disappeared.
And I stood there by the door, Pandora’s Box in my hands. Months before I’d torn open the pink wrapping paper like a crazed kid at Christmas, ripped the beads and crystals off and flung the lid right open. But this time I looked at Pandora’s gift, and I didn’t want to open it at all.
- DiDa
*****
Pandora's visit
So a stranger stopped by to visit yesterday. I had never in my life seen her before, but she knew all about me, it seemed—she even knew my Chinese name. She was a little scary when she first arrived. Her hair was raven black and slick with oil, and styled to stick out in pointy spikes at the sides. Her eyes were darker than her hair, framed by sticky kohl lids and a glittery shadow in Prussian blue. I couldn’t help staring at her pale and powdered face and the cold, cold whiteness of her skin. And when she began to speak, the voice that came from within her muddy lips was nothing short of ominous to me.
They call me Pandora, she said. You should know me well. I looked at her a tad afraid, for I had no recollection of meeting this creature ever before. And there she stood in front of me, in her ghoulish make-up and shiny leather pants claiming I knew her well. Hello, Pandora, I said, trying to be friendly. I’m really sorry if it’s been otherwise, but I don’t believe we’ve met before. She rubbed her lips with blackened nails and I saw the chains of rusted silver twisted tight around her fingers, the noise of clanging metal creating disharmony in my ears. Perhaps you never noticed who I was, she said. But you can bet I’ve come by your home before.
Since when, I asked. Since when? And she brushed my questions right aside, ignoring my curious pleas. It’s all over. It doesn’t matter anymore, she said. Despite my good intentions, nobody likes me anyway. I felt bad because it seemed I’d wronged a friend, so I pat her on the shoulder and I asked if she’d like to come in.
Then just like that, she burst into smile, the white paint on her face cracking into loosened flakes and crumbs. That’s alright, my love, she said. But you must accept this gift I brought for you. And from inside her raggedy denim jacket, ripped and torn and hanging by fragile threads, she picked out a little box wrapped in pink, with sequined beads of fuchsia and shiny studs of crystal glitter. It’s yours, she said. And then she pulled me close and cupped my face, her fingers leaving icy trails along my cheek and chin.
“It’s my gift to you,” she said. “Pandora’s Box. Now, open it.”
The box weighed heavy in my hands; its cloying scent of perfumed sweetness suddenly familiar to me once more. And then I knew—I knew where I’d seen Pandora many times before.
So I pushed the bitch away, shoved her hard and sent the rusted chains she wore flying into her powdered face, cutting her skin and slicing open her already rotting flesh. She got up and snarled at me. You never understood, she said. Like you, no one ever does. I have nothing but noble intentions, but you cowards are too scared of truth. Then, she turned and fled my home, her heavy boots burning a trail of footprints outside the door, the clanging of the chains she wore slowly fading into a stony silence as she disappeared.
And I stood there by the door, Pandora’s Box in my hands. Months before I’d torn open the pink wrapping paper like a crazed kid at Christmas, ripped the beads and crystals off and flung the lid right open. But this time I looked at Pandora’s gift, and I didn’t want to open it at all.
- DiDa
Post Holocaust
I think there are two kinds of breakups, amicable and conventional.
In an amicable breakup, both parties feel relieved, forgive each other, and stay friends. I think.
And it feels right for them both.
No losers, only winners.
No tears for wonderful times lost, forever, and for regrets of the past.
I expected relief. I expected a desire to move on and look to the future. I expected a lightness of being, after being relieved of the burden of this consuming sadness that I have been enduring for months now.
Instead I fought, reasoned, resisted and lost. To an argument that felt more like a rehearsed excuse than a sincere thought. And then we cried.
So tell me again what I'm not doing right.
And is it just me or does this feel... wrong?
*****
Love is a thought, a feeling, and a wish.
In an amicable breakup, both parties feel relieved, forgive each other, and stay friends. I think.
And it feels right for them both.
No losers, only winners.
No tears for wonderful times lost, forever, and for regrets of the past.
I expected relief. I expected a desire to move on and look to the future. I expected a lightness of being, after being relieved of the burden of this consuming sadness that I have been enduring for months now.
Instead I fought, reasoned, resisted and lost. To an argument that felt more like a rehearsed excuse than a sincere thought. And then we cried.
So tell me again what I'm not doing right.
And is it just me or does this feel... wrong?
*****
Love is a thought, a feeling, and a wish.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Faith rehashed
The thing about Faith is that it can be built and rebuilt, one stepping stone at a time.
His followers were not all physicians and saints, but sinners and fallen who had come to learn the meaning of Faith.
The problem with faith isn't that it can be eroded, but rather that it requires mutuality; without which it is vulnerable to abuse.
His followers were not all physicians and saints, but sinners and fallen who had come to learn the meaning of Faith.
The problem with faith isn't that it can be eroded, but rather that it requires mutuality; without which it is vulnerable to abuse.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Moment
A beautiful stranger, seated at the hospital cafe brooding, alone over her coffee.
She had very dark eyes.
Our eyes met as I approached.
(? imagined?)
Perhaps we both recognised something in the other. Perhaps a certain sadness.
I looked away and walked steadily onwards.
(real)
But as I passed, as she began to vanish out the corner of my eye, something made me turn my head and glance at her, only to discover she had turned hers as well. Our eyes met once more.
Walk on by.
Just walk.
*****
Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
Wake me up when September ends
Like my father's come to pass
Seven years has gone so fast
Wake me up when September ends
Here comes the rain again
Falling from the stars
Drenched in my pain again
Becoming who we are
As my memory rests
But never forgets what I lost
Wake me up when September ends
Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
Wake me up when September ends
Ring out the bells again
Like we did when spring began
Wake me up when september ends
Here comes the rain again
Falling from the stars
Drenched in my pain again
Becoming who we are
As my memory rests
But never forgets what I lost
Wake me up when september ends
She had very dark eyes.
Our eyes met as I approached.
(? imagined?)
Perhaps we both recognised something in the other. Perhaps a certain sadness.
I looked away and walked steadily onwards.
(real)
But as I passed, as she began to vanish out the corner of my eye, something made me turn my head and glance at her, only to discover she had turned hers as well. Our eyes met once more.
Walk on by.
Just walk.
*****
Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
Wake me up when September ends
Like my father's come to pass
Seven years has gone so fast
Wake me up when September ends
Here comes the rain again
Falling from the stars
Drenched in my pain again
Becoming who we are
As my memory rests
But never forgets what I lost
Wake me up when September ends
Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
Wake me up when September ends
Ring out the bells again
Like we did when spring began
Wake me up when september ends
Here comes the rain again
Falling from the stars
Drenched in my pain again
Becoming who we are
As my memory rests
But never forgets what I lost
Wake me up when september ends
Sunday, August 17, 2008
These small hours
I'm not the kind of person who cries easily.
I'm just not. When G "betrayed" me, and I was heartbroken to the extent that the world seemed to be going by in slow motion, the only time I cried was when I flew to Indonesia to say a last goodbye to her parents, and to pass them something I never had the chance to give to her personally.
It was when her mother, amazingly good woman that she is bless her soul, sent me an SMS that read "in my heart, you are already my son" that I cracked.
Alone in the airport, sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair, I wept.
When I threw away quite possibly the best person and friend I would ever meet and have, I wept, too, sometimes at odd moments late at night. Always very brief affairs, fiercely crushed by cynicism rearing its head and telling me to move on. In truth, the post traumatic reaction did last quite a few years; my rationalization of it being that she is so extraordinary.
Tidying up your room, your clothes, your stuff last saturday, and today again, and while writing and re-reading some of the letters which I wrote to you, and eventually binned, I found myself tearing so very often.
At the thought of losing you, at the thought of you losing yourself; at the thought of you, succumbing to your own darknesses.
I don't know what it means. And it's not the greatest thing in the world for a guy to admit to. And I'm sure it won't mean anything to you.
But anyway, there is nothing more I'd like to do right now, this very instant, than to just hold you, and comfort you.
It's okay, I forgive you, for faltering.
It's just the way things go; everything will be better in the morning.
And maybe tomorrow, or the day after, we'll have lost each other for good, leading two separate lives.
It's okay.
I still believe in you; be strong, and smile always.
I'm just not. When G "betrayed" me, and I was heartbroken to the extent that the world seemed to be going by in slow motion, the only time I cried was when I flew to Indonesia to say a last goodbye to her parents, and to pass them something I never had the chance to give to her personally.
It was when her mother, amazingly good woman that she is bless her soul, sent me an SMS that read "in my heart, you are already my son" that I cracked.
Alone in the airport, sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair, I wept.
When I threw away quite possibly the best person and friend I would ever meet and have, I wept, too, sometimes at odd moments late at night. Always very brief affairs, fiercely crushed by cynicism rearing its head and telling me to move on. In truth, the post traumatic reaction did last quite a few years; my rationalization of it being that she is so extraordinary.
Tidying up your room, your clothes, your stuff last saturday, and today again, and while writing and re-reading some of the letters which I wrote to you, and eventually binned, I found myself tearing so very often.
At the thought of losing you, at the thought of you losing yourself; at the thought of you, succumbing to your own darknesses.
I don't know what it means. And it's not the greatest thing in the world for a guy to admit to. And I'm sure it won't mean anything to you.
But anyway, there is nothing more I'd like to do right now, this very instant, than to just hold you, and comfort you.
It's okay, I forgive you, for faltering.
It's just the way things go; everything will be better in the morning.
And maybe tomorrow, or the day after, we'll have lost each other for good, leading two separate lives.
It's okay.
I still believe in you; be strong, and smile always.
Friday, August 15, 2008
At the heart of Grace
"Did you find a church?"
*****
There are a million reasons for me to be disillusioned; betrayal comes in many forms. G was Catholic.
Christians, Catholics. We all sin.
It's not His fault.
It's been mine all along.
*****
"there's a church near my place..."
Faith.
Maintained by Goodness.
Blind in the presence of warning signs of darkness...
Everything happens for a reason. Everything falls into place.
*****
There are a million reasons for me to be disillusioned; betrayal comes in many forms. G was Catholic.
Christians, Catholics. We all sin.
It's not His fault.
It's been mine all along.
*****
"there's a church near my place..."
Faith.
Maintained by Goodness.
Blind in the presence of warning signs of darkness...
Everything happens for a reason. Everything falls into place.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Remembrance
A strange moment, an odd choice of words.
...and ever since then, you have been turning, trying to adapt.
Be still.
*****
When You called, everything melted away...
... and it was so easy to laugh again.
For a while, anyway.
...and ever since then, you have been turning, trying to adapt.
Be still.
*****
When You called, everything melted away...
... and it was so easy to laugh again.
For a while, anyway.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
At the Root of Faith
What is faith? And why do we trust.
Do you trust someone because you love him or her?
Do you trust him to tell you the truth, or not to betray you, because he knows you trust him? Or because you know him so well that you think he is incapable of betrayal...
Does someone deserve your faith simply because of the nature of exclusivity of your relationship - be it a serious relationship or marriage... or friendship.
And when does faith become blind?
I've been struggling to distill things down in my mind... this last week.
I think trust is earned and maintained based on initial impressions, and how well you continue to know a person.
If you meet someone and she seems like a good person, you'll obviously trust her.
If you see someone as a stalwart, honourable person you will trust him or her.
Conversely, trust can be eroded by aberrent behaviour. An odd reply. A subtle shiftiness. An abrupt change in normal habits - all may work to erode trust.
Faith is a measure of how much trust you put in a person, to do the right thing. Faith is only blind when one persists in trusting someone, in the presence of signs revealing a lack of truth.
*****
The memories might have become clouded / distorted by time and, I suspect, early-onset dementia.... but run something along these lines
Once upon a time there was a girl, who was telling a guy how much she had been looking forwards to meeting him, once upon a lifetime ago:
"...and I was telling all my friends how great it'd be to see him again, he's been my buddy since like forever... and they all thought (etcetc), and J******* thought he's probably (etcetcetc) "
there were other bits in there somewhere; about faithful friends who would be friends forever, and as we spoke, something about constants, and being the most stable and dependable... and dreaming of going blading...
*****
Memories arising from the dust, realisations reforming from the ashes. My truths, now and always, suppressed in memory by my pathetic pride, but spoken now :
You were my one constant
You were my one voice of reason, in this hateful, treacherous world
I could always depend on you to be practical, and sensible
If you told me something, I knew it to be true
And I trusted you, implicitly
*****
I'm so sorry I've let you down.
*****
You told me two nights ago that I would hear from you; and so here I am, waiting for you.
You said, once : These things seem more important than they are at the time, but they aren't really important at all...
I now know the other half of that thought : there are some things, and people that are truly irreplaceable. Some things that transcend selfishness and betrayal and lack of faith and stark, self servitude.
I was always a little (lot) slower than You.
If I could make a single change in my life, it wouldn't be to go back to a very confused, yellow-hued night Sydneyside when a remarkable girl was asking an unremarkable guy what he wanted, now that the ball was in his court...
...but to go back to a chilly English evening when a boy was standing somewhere on the Serpentine watching a girl as she fed some oversized geese bread from her bare hands, instead of throwing it out onto the water like any sane person would do, and at that very, very instant when the light of the setting sun backlit her and the curiously gentle geese, and the boy's heart and breath stopped yet again, and he was filled with a bitter, angry desperation at the thought of a cycle repeating ad-nauseum, and a normal life always eluding him... I would tell him :
These things don't matter. Be still.
A normal life is just a normal life, and you will learn that without Her presence, and counsel, it is a grey world filled with betrayal, lies and heartache.
Look at Her, right here before you; one of the best people you've ever known, and will ever know, in absentia.
Always faithful friends - is that so bad? You will know too late : an honour, and a privilege.
I've been into the future, and learnt the value of things.
Some people are irreplaceable, and you know it.
True friends don't do this kind of things to each other...
Don't be selfish - be still.
Stay true to that silent vow you made - to be there for her, regardless of what it takes out of you.
Because you will never find anyone else, worth it.... Never anyone else who will not try to take advantage of you.
And I would tell her, please, please don't listen to this moron, whatever he says to you. He isn't trying to manipulate you, bizarre as this may seem. The poor deluded creature means every word he says. And he is filled with a strange pride and bull headed stubborn-ness... and he will squander every undeserved chance you give him to undo his own stupid mistake, but if you could see into his stupid head... you'd find it surprisingly empty of malice. Or anything, aside from fear, for that matter.
*****
Dear Karin,
if I don't ever hear from You, I know there will have been extenuating circumstances. And I know that you will have had your reasons, and that they will be Good. And whatever they may be, I respect them.
But I would like to hear from You again, and I mean it literally. Too.
So here I am, waiting for you.
Do you trust someone because you love him or her?
Do you trust him to tell you the truth, or not to betray you, because he knows you trust him? Or because you know him so well that you think he is incapable of betrayal...
Does someone deserve your faith simply because of the nature of exclusivity of your relationship - be it a serious relationship or marriage... or friendship.
And when does faith become blind?
I've been struggling to distill things down in my mind... this last week.
I think trust is earned and maintained based on initial impressions, and how well you continue to know a person.
If you meet someone and she seems like a good person, you'll obviously trust her.
If you see someone as a stalwart, honourable person you will trust him or her.
Conversely, trust can be eroded by aberrent behaviour. An odd reply. A subtle shiftiness. An abrupt change in normal habits - all may work to erode trust.
Faith is a measure of how much trust you put in a person, to do the right thing. Faith is only blind when one persists in trusting someone, in the presence of signs revealing a lack of truth.
*****
The memories might have become clouded / distorted by time and, I suspect, early-onset dementia.... but run something along these lines
Once upon a time there was a girl, who was telling a guy how much she had been looking forwards to meeting him, once upon a lifetime ago:
"...and I was telling all my friends how great it'd be to see him again, he's been my buddy since like forever... and they all thought (etcetc), and J******* thought he's probably (etcetcetc) "
there were other bits in there somewhere; about faithful friends who would be friends forever, and as we spoke, something about constants, and being the most stable and dependable... and dreaming of going blading...
*****
Memories arising from the dust, realisations reforming from the ashes. My truths, now and always, suppressed in memory by my pathetic pride, but spoken now :
You were my one constant
You were my one voice of reason, in this hateful, treacherous world
I could always depend on you to be practical, and sensible
If you told me something, I knew it to be true
And I trusted you, implicitly
*****
I'm so sorry I've let you down.
*****
You told me two nights ago that I would hear from you; and so here I am, waiting for you.
You said, once : These things seem more important than they are at the time, but they aren't really important at all...
I now know the other half of that thought : there are some things, and people that are truly irreplaceable. Some things that transcend selfishness and betrayal and lack of faith and stark, self servitude.
I was always a little (lot) slower than You.
If I could make a single change in my life, it wouldn't be to go back to a very confused, yellow-hued night Sydneyside when a remarkable girl was asking an unremarkable guy what he wanted, now that the ball was in his court...
...but to go back to a chilly English evening when a boy was standing somewhere on the Serpentine watching a girl as she fed some oversized geese bread from her bare hands, instead of throwing it out onto the water like any sane person would do, and at that very, very instant when the light of the setting sun backlit her and the curiously gentle geese, and the boy's heart and breath stopped yet again, and he was filled with a bitter, angry desperation at the thought of a cycle repeating ad-nauseum, and a normal life always eluding him... I would tell him :
These things don't matter. Be still.
A normal life is just a normal life, and you will learn that without Her presence, and counsel, it is a grey world filled with betrayal, lies and heartache.
Look at Her, right here before you; one of the best people you've ever known, and will ever know, in absentia.
Always faithful friends - is that so bad? You will know too late : an honour, and a privilege.
I've been into the future, and learnt the value of things.
Some people are irreplaceable, and you know it.
True friends don't do this kind of things to each other...
Don't be selfish - be still.
Stay true to that silent vow you made - to be there for her, regardless of what it takes out of you.
Because you will never find anyone else, worth it.... Never anyone else who will not try to take advantage of you.
And I would tell her, please, please don't listen to this moron, whatever he says to you. He isn't trying to manipulate you, bizarre as this may seem. The poor deluded creature means every word he says. And he is filled with a strange pride and bull headed stubborn-ness... and he will squander every undeserved chance you give him to undo his own stupid mistake, but if you could see into his stupid head... you'd find it surprisingly empty of malice. Or anything, aside from fear, for that matter.
*****
Dear Karin,
if I don't ever hear from You, I know there will have been extenuating circumstances. And I know that you will have had your reasons, and that they will be Good. And whatever they may be, I respect them.
But I would like to hear from You again, and I mean it literally. Too.
So here I am, waiting for you.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Sympathetic Overdrive
Doctors make the worst patients.
It isn't that they fail to recognise their symptoms
it's that they're either neurotic and suffer from imaginary symptoms of the most dire nature, or that they recognise the symptoms early but refuse to acknowledge them...
Does everything really happen for a reason?
It isn't that they fail to recognise their symptoms
it's that they're either neurotic and suffer from imaginary symptoms of the most dire nature, or that they recognise the symptoms early but refuse to acknowledge them...
Does everything really happen for a reason?
Sunday, August 10, 2008
The Pursuit of Happyness
what is the source of happiness?
Is it the small things that give us little joys enough in this life? Perhaps about appreciating what is there in front of you, and letting happiness just come, and overwhelm you?
Or is it all about roller coasters of laughter and hearts just exploding with excitement and joy. Mystery figures who effortlessly draw out your happiness. . . who invariably fade into ordinary people when their mystique is lost.
Today, if I am very lucky I will have the chance to speak with one of the figures who never lost that ability to share laughter with, and make me laugh, too. Even long after her mystique faded.
It isn't about strangers giving you little thrills of excitement, really.
It's about not caring about anything very much other than listening, leaping in, and laughing with the other person. Friendship.
There're so many things I want to talk to you about, a decade of highs and lows, disappointments and achievements; sadnesses and betrayals... trusts breached, concealed truths and subtle lies... heartbreaks and heartaches...
... but these things can wait and can be told over (barring your approval) time. More than those things, I just want to hear your voice and laugh again. (Retiring by the sea can wait, too...)
And just in case I don't find space, or courage to say it then; in case I fall out of time or life unexpectedly, just in case I ever gave you this blog link, which I don't think I ever did: I've been missing you.
Is it the small things that give us little joys enough in this life? Perhaps about appreciating what is there in front of you, and letting happiness just come, and overwhelm you?
Or is it all about roller coasters of laughter and hearts just exploding with excitement and joy. Mystery figures who effortlessly draw out your happiness. . . who invariably fade into ordinary people when their mystique is lost.
Today, if I am very lucky I will have the chance to speak with one of the figures who never lost that ability to share laughter with, and make me laugh, too. Even long after her mystique faded.
It isn't about strangers giving you little thrills of excitement, really.
It's about not caring about anything very much other than listening, leaping in, and laughing with the other person. Friendship.
There're so many things I want to talk to you about, a decade of highs and lows, disappointments and achievements; sadnesses and betrayals... trusts breached, concealed truths and subtle lies... heartbreaks and heartaches...
... but these things can wait and can be told over (barring your approval) time. More than those things, I just want to hear your voice and laugh again. (Retiring by the sea can wait, too...)
And just in case I don't find space, or courage to say it then; in case I fall out of time or life unexpectedly, just in case I ever gave you this blog link, which I don't think I ever did: I've been missing you.
Blasts from the pasts
The craziest, craziest thing happened last night.
And now all I'm doing is sitting down here, with butterflies in my stomach.
I haven't had the butterflies in a decade.
It's as if time is hanging in the balance, and should I be so lucky, a few hours from now... should I be so lucky. I may have reconciliation at last.
I never told anyone till last night.
When I turned Catholic, I had to undergo Confession.
It was frightening.
And the words I told the priest, the story I told, was of wronging an old, old friend. And casting her away.
The priest told me that that was not a sin, and surely there is something more my son? He wanted me to talk about sex or masturbation...
But it was a sin, in my mind.
The biggest one.
I pray. I pray to make amends, a few hours from now. Thank you for giving me this chance, Lord.
And now all I'm doing is sitting down here, with butterflies in my stomach.
I haven't had the butterflies in a decade.
It's as if time is hanging in the balance, and should I be so lucky, a few hours from now... should I be so lucky. I may have reconciliation at last.
I never told anyone till last night.
When I turned Catholic, I had to undergo Confession.
It was frightening.
And the words I told the priest, the story I told, was of wronging an old, old friend. And casting her away.
The priest told me that that was not a sin, and surely there is something more my son? He wanted me to talk about sex or masturbation...
But it was a sin, in my mind.
The biggest one.
I pray. I pray to make amends, a few hours from now. Thank you for giving me this chance, Lord.
Friday, August 8, 2008
The Saddest Day
Today will be the hardest day
to smile and hide my heart, and conceal the cracks.
True courage is not about having never felt fear, but about facing a tragic death, expectant of pain, and knowing that it will be done; because it must.
The time is fast upon me now
The hour of our death
*****
Goodbye, no use leading with our chins
This is where our story ends
Never lovers, ever friends
Goodbye, let our hearts call it a day
But before you walk away
I sincerely want to say
I wish you bluebirds in the spring
To give your heart a song to sing
And then a kiss, but more than this
I wish you love
to smile and hide my heart, and conceal the cracks.
True courage is not about having never felt fear, but about facing a tragic death, expectant of pain, and knowing that it will be done; because it must.
The time is fast upon me now
The hour of our death
*****
Goodbye, no use leading with our chins
This is where our story ends
Never lovers, ever friends
Goodbye, let our hearts call it a day
But before you walk away
I sincerely want to say
I wish you bluebirds in the spring
To give your heart a song to sing
And then a kiss, but more than this
I wish you love
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
The Truth about Oberon and Titiana
Something to get off my chest, after an exchange online with someone who used to be my friend, but now apparently has become an unpleasant stranger.
*****
It looked to be a match made in heaven at first; both of them bloggers, both apparently in love, he, charismatic, she, good looking. They wrote online about their perceptions of love developing, and it was sweet.
Coming out of something rather unpleasant (I wouldn't even bother to call it a relationship.. just an unpleasant exerience) I couldn't help but feel just a little envious. I always seem to get the short end of the stick, in love.
Oberon was my friend first, Titiana his handmaiden. I was never particularly close to her. He was charismatic, and easy to like.
I was close to the common pool of friends we shared, friends from before I had even met him.
I write these truths which I have kept hidden for a long time now, because they no longer seem to matter. Titiana has truly moved on, and is safe now in her brave new world. Everything that transpired... inconsequential memories now.
...when things began to sour, Oberon would gripe ocasionally to us about her paranoia and unwarranted insecurities, and in truth he painted a very persuasive picture. She seemed quite the fruitcake.
Titiana spoke a little to me though, and I realised two things :
The first that every coin has two sides, and whilst she was partly fruity, he was no angel either.
The other obvious thing was that he had many friends to support him; she in contrast had so few to hear her truths.
And so I chose to hear her out.
This angered Oberon, who ordered me to desist - which rankled me, because nobody has that right... nobody at all.
As I heard her story, I was disturbed to find that the truth lay incontrovertibly closer to her side of the coin than his.
Daily exposure to precipitants - writing plays with the Ex as the lead, writing about sexual experiences with her - although she was in the past... repeated trips overseas with the Ex, some concealed, all "on business"....
small wonder for her "paranoia"?
But these were just her words; I am too old to choose sides so simply.
The darker side of the story which my ex-friends will never know, unless they read this entry - he turned her into his sex-toy, constantly telling her they could never be and that he was not with her, that it was Over... then choosing to make love to her afterwards, because presumably, she was there, doable, and attractive.
She was torn between the mixed signals despite all the advice from her own friends and myself to dump him like so much bad rubbish, and felt that there must be some hope left for them.
Double standards : he was free to date, but he was also free to become jealous if she chose to try the same. She was not free to do either.
Triple standards, I was judged a competitor, and ostensibly out for her sex, which apparently incurred feelings of jealousy in him. Ludicrous, since our friendship had always ever been nothing but platonic. She is a creature of silence and self; I am the opposite. We operate on different operating systems. There could never be love between us, other than the little care we showed each other as friends and confidants, and wastrels of time.
Caught in the crossfire, it seemed I had chosen a side - the side that had been wronged. And if there was anything I could do to help, I would : help her move on.
And in the end she did, through various men, and it gladdened me.
I alienated myself from the Group; it did not feel right, and meetings were tense, and forced. In the end it simply proved easier to concentrate on work and exams, and my own personal life... I chose the path of least resistance, and put it all away from me.
And that is the story of Oberon and Titiana.
*****
It looked to be a match made in heaven at first; both of them bloggers, both apparently in love, he, charismatic, she, good looking. They wrote online about their perceptions of love developing, and it was sweet.
Coming out of something rather unpleasant (I wouldn't even bother to call it a relationship.. just an unpleasant exerience) I couldn't help but feel just a little envious. I always seem to get the short end of the stick, in love.
Oberon was my friend first, Titiana his handmaiden. I was never particularly close to her. He was charismatic, and easy to like.
I was close to the common pool of friends we shared, friends from before I had even met him.
I write these truths which I have kept hidden for a long time now, because they no longer seem to matter. Titiana has truly moved on, and is safe now in her brave new world. Everything that transpired... inconsequential memories now.
...when things began to sour, Oberon would gripe ocasionally to us about her paranoia and unwarranted insecurities, and in truth he painted a very persuasive picture. She seemed quite the fruitcake.
Titiana spoke a little to me though, and I realised two things :
The first that every coin has two sides, and whilst she was partly fruity, he was no angel either.
The other obvious thing was that he had many friends to support him; she in contrast had so few to hear her truths.
And so I chose to hear her out.
This angered Oberon, who ordered me to desist - which rankled me, because nobody has that right... nobody at all.
As I heard her story, I was disturbed to find that the truth lay incontrovertibly closer to her side of the coin than his.
Daily exposure to precipitants - writing plays with the Ex as the lead, writing about sexual experiences with her - although she was in the past... repeated trips overseas with the Ex, some concealed, all "on business"....
small wonder for her "paranoia"?
But these were just her words; I am too old to choose sides so simply.
The darker side of the story which my ex-friends will never know, unless they read this entry - he turned her into his sex-toy, constantly telling her they could never be and that he was not with her, that it was Over... then choosing to make love to her afterwards, because presumably, she was there, doable, and attractive.
She was torn between the mixed signals despite all the advice from her own friends and myself to dump him like so much bad rubbish, and felt that there must be some hope left for them.
Double standards : he was free to date, but he was also free to become jealous if she chose to try the same. She was not free to do either.
Triple standards, I was judged a competitor, and ostensibly out for her sex, which apparently incurred feelings of jealousy in him. Ludicrous, since our friendship had always ever been nothing but platonic. She is a creature of silence and self; I am the opposite. We operate on different operating systems. There could never be love between us, other than the little care we showed each other as friends and confidants, and wastrels of time.
Caught in the crossfire, it seemed I had chosen a side - the side that had been wronged. And if there was anything I could do to help, I would : help her move on.
And in the end she did, through various men, and it gladdened me.
I alienated myself from the Group; it did not feel right, and meetings were tense, and forced. In the end it simply proved easier to concentrate on work and exams, and my own personal life... I chose the path of least resistance, and put it all away from me.
And that is the story of Oberon and Titiana.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Moments magical
Life is funny.
I was born into a very sterile family; it has something to do with the way my own parents were brought up. We love each other, but can't show it, and what few moments of emotion we do display when we can spare them are wasted on angry or irritated outbursts at each other.
I'm sure there're many who will empathise with me; Singapore is a slightly fuc... mixed up country, and sometimes the blend of east meets west doesn't turn out quite right...
I was pretty much a creature of science from the word go, and I even have vague memories of playing chess on the national circuit and doing fairly well at some point. It wasn't entirely by choice, the Father, being the classic overachiever of his time was an athelete, playboy and brainiac all rolled into one, and having fathered an athlete he then invested his efforts into creating a brainiac... trusting to genes to fashion the ladykiller, methinks.
My world was ruled by logic, and cold, hard facts. I was a cynic to the core, and love was a construct hollywood scriptwriters and producers crafted to lure guilliable moviegoers into enriching their already engorged pockets. I wanted to be a cynic, and I thought of irrationality as weakness...
It's funny how some people spend their lives without really falling in love, or experiencing movie moments, and how others trip over their feet into love and magic almost daily. Breaking it all down, I think perhaps life is just a fickle creature, and for those whose lives are already filled with warmth and laughter they don't really encounter the same chances as those whose lives are cold, and rigid... perhaps it's some karmic balance thing.
*****
The First
We were young, and complete strangers to each other; seated at a chinese banquet directly across, yet miles away from each other, it was hard not to notice her.
She was very pretty, fair with flawless skin, with large, yet delicate eyes. She had a very angular face, and was very, very sleek.
Trapped against our wills at a not-at-all random parents-introducing-kids-to-each-other (think arranged-marriage within the upper-class, only not quite so formal) meeting, there was nothing in the dinner conversation for us to do except pick at the food.
We took turns glancing at and away from each other, yet always feeling the other's gaze brushing the peripheries of our own; we didn't speak a word.
After dinner it became obvious what the real deal was. The Brother was bundled away into her family's car, and she was hustled into ours. Subtlety is always lost on parents, somehow.
The Inquisition began (somewhere out there my brother must have been squiriming... haha) with the Mother launching the first salvo : "So what do you do in school?"
The words left my mouth before my till-then relentlessly scientific brain could kick in...
"air rifle, and track-and-field..."
I tailed off into a shocked silence, and she, seated on the far side of my mother in the back seat gazed wordlessly at me.
"how did you know...?" Her voice was melodious, and she spoke well.
I shrugged. I just knew.
We arrived at the mansion that her parents owned. It was colossal, and the parents bundled the brother off to see the Karaoke room.
To my mind, any home (back then) with a Karaoke room in it would have been a palace, but... take my word from it, remembered from the point of view of a thirtysomething old-geezer... the house was pretty damn big.
We stood in silence for a while, then she turned to me. Would you like to see my room?
And so we did; I, in silence, letting my gaze run over the racks of trophies on her mantle, before becoming transfixed by a painting. I don't remember what it was now, but it was abstract (a genre I have never really been able to get my head around, to be honest... even now) yet somehow engaging.
"Do you like it?" she asked, her gaze never leaving mine.
"Yes, I do. Very much." I replied, as my gaze sought and held hers in return. We smiled, and stared at each other in silence for a while.
I remember how it felt then. Surreal. Exciting, yet strangely distant. Watching from the eyes of an audience, yet at the same time, my own.
*****
She was very, very beautiful. Not merely pretty - she had a quality about her that turned heads... a perfect face, and gorgeous hair. She was one of the lucky child-models who grew up beautiful.
She was clever as well, and could wander into the most complex, yet beautiful melodies on the piano.
She wasn't perfect; her soul was fraught with insecurities about what other people thought about her, and she didn't really believe in herself; masked with a veneer of mild narcissim and stand-offishness.
Even in the battered state I was in back then, there was no mistaking her beauty, and perhaps superficial male that I am, I was drawn to her for it.
Or perhaps it was White Knight syndrome, and I just wanted to help her try to be all that she could, and was honoured that she turned to me for help.
I don't really know.
The moment magical came by way of mirc and icq (roll eyes. Those were the days when it was still fashionable, ok?).
It transpired that we shared the same birthday, and the same tastes in music.
Nights dwindled too quickly into flurries of keypresses. Illegal mp3s were exchanged. Ah, how young we were back then.
The moment was really quite silly... but went something like this :
She : whats your favourite Haagen Daas ice cream flavour?
a brief pause, then simultaneous replies, letter for letter :
Cookies and Cream, and Baileys.
a shocked silence, then mutual laughter.
Surreal.
*****
Another table, another congregation of people.
A much more cosy setting this time, a party of four at a cheap chinese restaurant somewhere in London.
A mutual friend had asked us all out, and it was an odd pair of pairs we made; my friend and her sister, she and I.
Her sister was the original dragon lady; generously sized, with dark eyes and huge, thick, hornrimmed spectacles. And about as tactful as a bullet in the head.
It didn't start well... seconds after the initial pleasantries (I seem to recall being a little late) the Evil Sister launched her assault.
"So I hear you just broke up... why!"
The rest of the lunch conversation doesn't bear repeating.
Somewhere in there, salvation came in the form of her. She sat diagonally across from me, and was very quiet, watching with a little pity, and a little amusement in her eyes.
She had very pretty eyes.
And it wasn't so much desperately trying to escape from her sister's crazy eyes, as the relief of drinking from an unexpected oasis that kept my gaze locked on hers.
Later, as we sat around in a circle with more strangers at their apartment, I couldn't help but notice that she was rather attractive, beyond her eyes. We smiled without-quite smiling at each other, as one does, and then I had to leave - mine is a career cursed with early starts and late nights.
As I left felt a little wistfull. She was flying away the next day to America... and in another lifetime I would have reached out to make contact... but there was little point... as stunning as she had been, I would never see her again.
Some time later, listening to Thush laughing at how the girl had gushed about me after I left, and how the other girls had to remind her she was flying away to america... to be with her boyfriend...
... I couldn't help but laugh.
*****
We were at a club.
My housemate was every girl's dream; tall, rugged, yet sensitive, slightly geeky with his glasses, yet wide shouldered. Mild mannered, gentlemanly, a sensational cook (his thai green curry mussels were to die for...), a master of jazz on his clavinova electronic piano. One of London's Sexiest Doctors (how many of you ever saw that? laugh)
Clubbing with him was always the same story, watching from the sidelines as he got mobbed by male buddies and fawning females alike, feeling slightly out of place.
She was a pretty little thing, brunette, with very fair, pale skin, nursing a neglected drink in her hand..
Our eyes met, and somehow we found ourselves stepping towards each other.
Hello, she said.
It was a familiar accent, and I asked her if she was australian... She smiled, and we stepped in a little closer to blot out the noise of the club around us.
Her speech and body language were shy, yet hinted of an adventurous, humourous streak.
I don't quite remember what we spoke about, but I learnt somewhere in there that she was one of the lab techs, and that holding indefinite eye contact with her was quite, quite effortless. Mutually so, it appeared.
The Housemate stood in mute shock beside me, uttely Ignored for the first time ever. He fidgeted, then eventually excused himself. I don't think either of us really noticed.
Eventually, it was time to leave.
In another world I would have asked for, and received her number. The moment was patently obvious, when it came.
I don't think I'll ever be the Player that Sara wants me to learn to become... but in a darker world perhaps I would have tried to create the moment to snog her. laugh.
But there was something on my mind, and the moment passed. We said goodbye, and I never saw her again.
*****
The rest of the Moments center about a single person, and there are too many to write about tonight.
I suppose I've been very lucky, this lifetime.
In my youth I came to hunger for the Moments, and hold them as a basic necessity in life and love.
Now, weary as I am, I prefer to think that life creates these moments for us to remember.
And it doesn't matter that they came to naught, and it doesn't even matter that much if they never come again.
Life is about making memories, and I have so very many in my head now, already. Perhaps more than I deserve.
I was born into a very sterile family; it has something to do with the way my own parents were brought up. We love each other, but can't show it, and what few moments of emotion we do display when we can spare them are wasted on angry or irritated outbursts at each other.
I'm sure there're many who will empathise with me; Singapore is a slightly fuc... mixed up country, and sometimes the blend of east meets west doesn't turn out quite right...
I was pretty much a creature of science from the word go, and I even have vague memories of playing chess on the national circuit and doing fairly well at some point. It wasn't entirely by choice, the Father, being the classic overachiever of his time was an athelete, playboy and brainiac all rolled into one, and having fathered an athlete he then invested his efforts into creating a brainiac... trusting to genes to fashion the ladykiller, methinks.
My world was ruled by logic, and cold, hard facts. I was a cynic to the core, and love was a construct hollywood scriptwriters and producers crafted to lure guilliable moviegoers into enriching their already engorged pockets. I wanted to be a cynic, and I thought of irrationality as weakness...
It's funny how some people spend their lives without really falling in love, or experiencing movie moments, and how others trip over their feet into love and magic almost daily. Breaking it all down, I think perhaps life is just a fickle creature, and for those whose lives are already filled with warmth and laughter they don't really encounter the same chances as those whose lives are cold, and rigid... perhaps it's some karmic balance thing.
*****
The First
We were young, and complete strangers to each other; seated at a chinese banquet directly across, yet miles away from each other, it was hard not to notice her.
She was very pretty, fair with flawless skin, with large, yet delicate eyes. She had a very angular face, and was very, very sleek.
Trapped against our wills at a not-at-all random parents-introducing-kids-to-each-other (think arranged-marriage within the upper-class, only not quite so formal) meeting, there was nothing in the dinner conversation for us to do except pick at the food.
We took turns glancing at and away from each other, yet always feeling the other's gaze brushing the peripheries of our own; we didn't speak a word.
After dinner it became obvious what the real deal was. The Brother was bundled away into her family's car, and she was hustled into ours. Subtlety is always lost on parents, somehow.
The Inquisition began (somewhere out there my brother must have been squiriming... haha) with the Mother launching the first salvo : "So what do you do in school?"
The words left my mouth before my till-then relentlessly scientific brain could kick in...
"air rifle, and track-and-field..."
I tailed off into a shocked silence, and she, seated on the far side of my mother in the back seat gazed wordlessly at me.
"how did you know...?" Her voice was melodious, and she spoke well.
I shrugged. I just knew.
We arrived at the mansion that her parents owned. It was colossal, and the parents bundled the brother off to see the Karaoke room.
To my mind, any home (back then) with a Karaoke room in it would have been a palace, but... take my word from it, remembered from the point of view of a thirtysomething old-geezer... the house was pretty damn big.
We stood in silence for a while, then she turned to me. Would you like to see my room?
And so we did; I, in silence, letting my gaze run over the racks of trophies on her mantle, before becoming transfixed by a painting. I don't remember what it was now, but it was abstract (a genre I have never really been able to get my head around, to be honest... even now) yet somehow engaging.
"Do you like it?" she asked, her gaze never leaving mine.
"Yes, I do. Very much." I replied, as my gaze sought and held hers in return. We smiled, and stared at each other in silence for a while.
I remember how it felt then. Surreal. Exciting, yet strangely distant. Watching from the eyes of an audience, yet at the same time, my own.
*****
She was very, very beautiful. Not merely pretty - she had a quality about her that turned heads... a perfect face, and gorgeous hair. She was one of the lucky child-models who grew up beautiful.
She was clever as well, and could wander into the most complex, yet beautiful melodies on the piano.
She wasn't perfect; her soul was fraught with insecurities about what other people thought about her, and she didn't really believe in herself; masked with a veneer of mild narcissim and stand-offishness.
Even in the battered state I was in back then, there was no mistaking her beauty, and perhaps superficial male that I am, I was drawn to her for it.
Or perhaps it was White Knight syndrome, and I just wanted to help her try to be all that she could, and was honoured that she turned to me for help.
I don't really know.
The moment magical came by way of mirc and icq (roll eyes. Those were the days when it was still fashionable, ok?).
It transpired that we shared the same birthday, and the same tastes in music.
Nights dwindled too quickly into flurries of keypresses. Illegal mp3s were exchanged. Ah, how young we were back then.
The moment was really quite silly... but went something like this :
She : whats your favourite Haagen Daas ice cream flavour?
a brief pause, then simultaneous replies, letter for letter :
Cookies and Cream, and Baileys.
a shocked silence, then mutual laughter.
Surreal.
*****
Another table, another congregation of people.
A much more cosy setting this time, a party of four at a cheap chinese restaurant somewhere in London.
A mutual friend had asked us all out, and it was an odd pair of pairs we made; my friend and her sister, she and I.
Her sister was the original dragon lady; generously sized, with dark eyes and huge, thick, hornrimmed spectacles. And about as tactful as a bullet in the head.
It didn't start well... seconds after the initial pleasantries (I seem to recall being a little late) the Evil Sister launched her assault.
"So I hear you just broke up... why!"
The rest of the lunch conversation doesn't bear repeating.
Somewhere in there, salvation came in the form of her. She sat diagonally across from me, and was very quiet, watching with a little pity, and a little amusement in her eyes.
She had very pretty eyes.
And it wasn't so much desperately trying to escape from her sister's crazy eyes, as the relief of drinking from an unexpected oasis that kept my gaze locked on hers.
Later, as we sat around in a circle with more strangers at their apartment, I couldn't help but notice that she was rather attractive, beyond her eyes. We smiled without-quite smiling at each other, as one does, and then I had to leave - mine is a career cursed with early starts and late nights.
As I left felt a little wistfull. She was flying away the next day to America... and in another lifetime I would have reached out to make contact... but there was little point... as stunning as she had been, I would never see her again.
Some time later, listening to Thush laughing at how the girl had gushed about me after I left, and how the other girls had to remind her she was flying away to america... to be with her boyfriend...
... I couldn't help but laugh.
*****
We were at a club.
My housemate was every girl's dream; tall, rugged, yet sensitive, slightly geeky with his glasses, yet wide shouldered. Mild mannered, gentlemanly, a sensational cook (his thai green curry mussels were to die for...), a master of jazz on his clavinova electronic piano. One of London's Sexiest Doctors (how many of you ever saw that? laugh)
Clubbing with him was always the same story, watching from the sidelines as he got mobbed by male buddies and fawning females alike, feeling slightly out of place.
She was a pretty little thing, brunette, with very fair, pale skin, nursing a neglected drink in her hand..
Our eyes met, and somehow we found ourselves stepping towards each other.
Hello, she said.
It was a familiar accent, and I asked her if she was australian... She smiled, and we stepped in a little closer to blot out the noise of the club around us.
Her speech and body language were shy, yet hinted of an adventurous, humourous streak.
I don't quite remember what we spoke about, but I learnt somewhere in there that she was one of the lab techs, and that holding indefinite eye contact with her was quite, quite effortless. Mutually so, it appeared.
The Housemate stood in mute shock beside me, uttely Ignored for the first time ever. He fidgeted, then eventually excused himself. I don't think either of us really noticed.
Eventually, it was time to leave.
In another world I would have asked for, and received her number. The moment was patently obvious, when it came.
I don't think I'll ever be the Player that Sara wants me to learn to become... but in a darker world perhaps I would have tried to create the moment to snog her. laugh.
But there was something on my mind, and the moment passed. We said goodbye, and I never saw her again.
*****
The rest of the Moments center about a single person, and there are too many to write about tonight.
I suppose I've been very lucky, this lifetime.
In my youth I came to hunger for the Moments, and hold them as a basic necessity in life and love.
Now, weary as I am, I prefer to think that life creates these moments for us to remember.
And it doesn't matter that they came to naught, and it doesn't even matter that much if they never come again.
Life is about making memories, and I have so very many in my head now, already. Perhaps more than I deserve.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Ennui
One of the biggest problems I've faced with living in Singapore is ennui.
It's only natural to think fondly of the "better times" while I was far and away in greener pastures, in favour of dull, drab and dreary blemished reality... so perhaps I'm just biased...
But I do remember how I was happy, doing the simplest things way back then; lying flat in the grass on a warm summer's day, imagining myself escaping the waves of heat rising above knee-level, watching white labradors play so very joyfully with each other.
And I remember the awe I felt as I approched the Golden Gate bridge, and crossed it almost holding my breath; I remember thinking I could do this every day and never tire of it.
I remember walking across sydney harbour bridge and gazing out across the harbour, and thinking... not very much in particular (there has always been too much on my mind when I'm in sydney, for some reason) but feeling... alive.
There is a disease in Singapore; it's a sly creature, almost a malignancy that invades your soul; it's the feeling that one feels... there's nothing to do.
In truth there's a lot to do.
Running with the other... people I work with the other day and looking out over the silly cable-car thing from Mt Faber, it hit me that there's nothing to see.
Nothing that makes your mind go blank with happiness or awe, nothing to be dwarfed by, or to simply precipitate introspective, cathartic moments under a great blue sky.
There is only work, friends, shopping and movies.
And when you're alone it can be oh so acute; movies, computer games, music... not in the mood...
There must be more in life... there must be some meaning.
And so we go about trying to distract ourselves, day to day, from the banality of this humdrum exitence...
Or else we allow ourselves to be consumed by work, so that we don't have to face up to the reality that there really isn't anything else out there.
I want to believe.
It's only natural to think fondly of the "better times" while I was far and away in greener pastures, in favour of dull, drab and dreary blemished reality... so perhaps I'm just biased...
But I do remember how I was happy, doing the simplest things way back then; lying flat in the grass on a warm summer's day, imagining myself escaping the waves of heat rising above knee-level, watching white labradors play so very joyfully with each other.
And I remember the awe I felt as I approched the Golden Gate bridge, and crossed it almost holding my breath; I remember thinking I could do this every day and never tire of it.
I remember walking across sydney harbour bridge and gazing out across the harbour, and thinking... not very much in particular (there has always been too much on my mind when I'm in sydney, for some reason) but feeling... alive.
There is a disease in Singapore; it's a sly creature, almost a malignancy that invades your soul; it's the feeling that one feels... there's nothing to do.
In truth there's a lot to do.
Running with the other... people I work with the other day and looking out over the silly cable-car thing from Mt Faber, it hit me that there's nothing to see.
Nothing that makes your mind go blank with happiness or awe, nothing to be dwarfed by, or to simply precipitate introspective, cathartic moments under a great blue sky.
There is only work, friends, shopping and movies.
And when you're alone it can be oh so acute; movies, computer games, music... not in the mood...
There must be more in life... there must be some meaning.
And so we go about trying to distract ourselves, day to day, from the banality of this humdrum exitence...
Or else we allow ourselves to be consumed by work, so that we don't have to face up to the reality that there really isn't anything else out there.
I want to believe.
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