Somedays I can't help but recall fondly my days as an emergency doctor in the NHS, when communication was effortless 99% of the time, when the 0.5% of the time a Chinese speaking patient walked into the department I was special, and when the 0.5% of the time a patient came in with thirty relatives presenting with many many paining communication was a lost cause, but it was such a laugh.
It's been three years, and the visceral desperation everytime a non-speaking patient walks in the room and babbles at me has never left me.
Visceral desperation is an understatement. I don't think I possess the vocabulary to do justice to this burning, choking, tachycardia-inducing flood of undirected resentment, anger, and even fear that rises within my gut and threatens to explode out my eyeballs everytime some linguistically challenged poor old biddie comes in and babbles insistently at me in hokkien. It isn't even about swallowing bile. This is just raw, stark emotion threatening to overwhelm me and result in the world's first clinic Columbine.
This morning
Me : Hello
Old woman : bu ke yi, jiang hua yu (cannot, speak chinese.)
Me : Ke yi jiang Ying yu mah. Wo de hua yi hen cha. (my mandarin sucks, could you please speak English)
Old woman : Bu Ke Yi. (No. Period.)
Great. Just great. My FIRST PATIENT of the day. Okay, keep your hands under the desk nice and far away from her throat...
Halfway through the consult, when I am clearly labouring to translate my anglicised brain into stilted pidgin mandarin the old bird switches to Singlish.
Keep it together. Keep it togetherrrrrrr
*****
I was somewhat disappointed to discover (through Google translator) that the mandarin for the adrenal is sheng shang xian.
Or, translated literally : that thing above the kidney.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Lazy Sunday on call
My ex houseman left me atas chocolates in the ward fridge!
How sweet =)
*****
The episode was very strange.
(setting : a year ago, shortly after post G holocaust, just before post C disaster, when Re-minisce was very, very, very, very, very, very, VERY sad)
My super down-to-earth mother, whose idea of a pretty girl is someone with the figure of a tangerine, whose whole life centers about playing the piano and going to The Club, and who brushes shoulders with celebrities perhaps once every thirty years, creeps up from behind me while I'm messing about listlessly on the Brother's computer and asks, with unconcealed concern, "Would you like to see a vet?"
I reply with all the enthusiasm of a lemur on tranquilizers : "Nooo, thank you, I'm feeling quite all... what?"
Bravely, she soldiers on : "She's not too bad looking... Her mother wants her to meet you!"
My mother's been hacking on persistently with this whole arranged marriage (It's a control issue. I know it is. Choose the Wife. Control the Son.) thingie for ages now.
Years of conditioning have turned my reactions pretty Pavlovian.
"No."
"Her practice is at.... you can drive past a few times and look at her..."
"What?? That's just crazy. That's like stalking."
"It's not. And actually she has a boyfriend."
"WHAT? Then why would I want to meet her!"
"Because her mother doesn't like the boyfriend. He's Ang Moh."
Roll eyes.
"NO. PLEASE LEAVE ME ALONE NOW."
*****
A few days back it was an SMS :
"Surgeon or Opthalmologist?"
It took me a while to figure out what she was going on about.
In a strange way... I almost feel... proud of my mother.
Perhaps I can capitalize on all this. hmm...
How sweet =)
*****
The episode was very strange.
(setting : a year ago, shortly after post G holocaust, just before post C disaster, when Re-minisce was very, very, very, very, very, very, VERY sad)
My super down-to-earth mother, whose idea of a pretty girl is someone with the figure of a tangerine, whose whole life centers about playing the piano and going to The Club, and who brushes shoulders with celebrities perhaps once every thirty years, creeps up from behind me while I'm messing about listlessly on the Brother's computer and asks, with unconcealed concern, "Would you like to see a vet?"
I reply with all the enthusiasm of a lemur on tranquilizers : "Nooo, thank you, I'm feeling quite all... what?"
Bravely, she soldiers on : "She's not too bad looking... Her mother wants her to meet you!"
My mother's been hacking on persistently with this whole arranged marriage (It's a control issue. I know it is. Choose the Wife. Control the Son.) thingie for ages now.
Years of conditioning have turned my reactions pretty Pavlovian.
"No."
"Her practice is at.... you can drive past a few times and look at her..."
"What?? That's just crazy. That's like stalking."
"It's not. And actually she has a boyfriend."
"WHAT? Then why would I want to meet her!"
"Because her mother doesn't like the boyfriend. He's Ang Moh."
Roll eyes.
"NO. PLEASE LEAVE ME ALONE NOW."
*****
A few days back it was an SMS :
"Surgeon or Opthalmologist?"
It took me a while to figure out what she was going on about.
In a strange way... I almost feel... proud of my mother.
Perhaps I can capitalize on all this. hmm...
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Farewells
Perhaps we're just shaped by our experiences and the choices we make in life down to the way we choose our words, perhaps everything is influenced by the paths we walk; or perhaps He guides our hands.
As we said goodbye, I began to write - Take Care, you.
And then mid sentence, I don't know why, I hit the backspace key, and wrote : Be well.
The stranger's words appeared on screen :
Take Care, you.
Exactly as I had written, capitals at all. An echo.
As we said goodbye, I began to write - Take Care, you.
And then mid sentence, I don't know why, I hit the backspace key, and wrote : Be well.
The stranger's words appeared on screen :
Take Care, you.
Exactly as I had written, capitals at all. An echo.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Significant. Other.
S and I were joint trainers to a group of junior fencers. She was one of the college babes (ah but the fencing team had almost all the babes. laugh) :
petite, tanned, vivacious, with a brilliant smile, gentle eyes and an irresistable Canadian drawl. When she fleched she would set loose a blood-curdling banshee-wail that would freeze the boys dead in their tracks, like bunnies caught in the headlights of a charging ferrarri; coupled with her left-handedness she left most of the blokes trailing in her dirt. Whenever I challenged her to bouts it was always with some trepidation that I might just wind up like J, the poor sod who went 10-0 down to her.
She probably doesn't know this, but a few of the juniors not-so-subtly asked me if we were together; it used to leave me completely bemused since in truth my mind was always so troubled and so very far away; I probably wouldn't have taken much notice of Claudia Schiffer had she fallen out of the sky right into my lap. (well, ok perhaps just Claudia.)
Interestingly, one of the other fencing babes did notice, and if I'm not wrong, she actually figured it all out; I'll never be able to understand how.
*****
London, on a cold winter's night, and he found himself holding her hands; his mind was a mess, filled with sympathy and anger at a story she'd just told him, filled with affection for a silly creature who almost knocked herself out on a blow-dryer in the 'loo (and raised quite a welt on her head in the process) and perhaps a little lonely, cast adrift in london amidst predatory and hormonal immature little girls. And so he found himself stammering to her that he might like her; perhaps that was all it took to fracture their friendship... or perhaps it was the apology somewhat later which must have seemed like a lame attempt at a retraction, that did it in.
In truth this is what happened : as the boy spoke, he heard his own words : "I think... I like you"
And in his head everything clicked into place. I... like you?
These are the strongest words I can say.
But somewhere out there is a girl that I (still) love, and I have been running, and running for the longest time... because... of so many, many reasons. And if I do not stop running, I will be here, tonight - a dozen different nights, a dozen different turns of spring, summer; autumn and winter... holding a myriad girls' hands in mine and mouthing words that aren't significant enough. I will turn liar, and user. I will lose my own truths.
And so that was what he tried and failed to explain to her on the phone the next evening, and that is why he was trying to apologise to her : he had meant the words as they were spoken, but they didn't quite mean what either of them had been expecting.
And that is why he flew headlong across the world, to tell someone that he loved Her, and could never see Her again, because she was seeing someone else.
petite, tanned, vivacious, with a brilliant smile, gentle eyes and an irresistable Canadian drawl. When she fleched she would set loose a blood-curdling banshee-wail that would freeze the boys dead in their tracks, like bunnies caught in the headlights of a charging ferrarri; coupled with her left-handedness she left most of the blokes trailing in her dirt. Whenever I challenged her to bouts it was always with some trepidation that I might just wind up like J, the poor sod who went 10-0 down to her.
She probably doesn't know this, but a few of the juniors not-so-subtly asked me if we were together; it used to leave me completely bemused since in truth my mind was always so troubled and so very far away; I probably wouldn't have taken much notice of Claudia Schiffer had she fallen out of the sky right into my lap. (well, ok perhaps just Claudia.)
Interestingly, one of the other fencing babes did notice, and if I'm not wrong, she actually figured it all out; I'll never be able to understand how.
*****
London, on a cold winter's night, and he found himself holding her hands; his mind was a mess, filled with sympathy and anger at a story she'd just told him, filled with affection for a silly creature who almost knocked herself out on a blow-dryer in the 'loo (and raised quite a welt on her head in the process) and perhaps a little lonely, cast adrift in london amidst predatory and hormonal immature little girls. And so he found himself stammering to her that he might like her; perhaps that was all it took to fracture their friendship... or perhaps it was the apology somewhat later which must have seemed like a lame attempt at a retraction, that did it in.
In truth this is what happened : as the boy spoke, he heard his own words : "I think... I like you"
And in his head everything clicked into place. I... like you?
These are the strongest words I can say.
But somewhere out there is a girl that I (still) love, and I have been running, and running for the longest time... because... of so many, many reasons. And if I do not stop running, I will be here, tonight - a dozen different nights, a dozen different turns of spring, summer; autumn and winter... holding a myriad girls' hands in mine and mouthing words that aren't significant enough. I will turn liar, and user. I will lose my own truths.
And so that was what he tried and failed to explain to her on the phone the next evening, and that is why he was trying to apologise to her : he had meant the words as they were spoken, but they didn't quite mean what either of them had been expecting.
And that is why he flew headlong across the world, to tell someone that he loved Her, and could never see Her again, because she was seeing someone else.
Disillusionment
Just noticed a touching little piece that Brainjuice wrote here. The take home message :
Based on John 2:24-25 ("Jesus did not commit Himself to them . . . , for He knew what was in man"), the passage notes that "Disillusionment means having no more misconceptions, false impressions, and false judgments in life; it means being free from these deceptions."
I disagree with her; I don't think that disillusionment was her salvation. It was Grace that allowed her to turn around after her bout of self-pity, and be the wonderful mother I always knew she would be.
Brainjuice and I go back a ways; we were in halls together back in uni. She was a student of Literature, I, of the human condition.
I don't really remember how we became friends; back then I had a very large and diverse group of friends. I think I was a very much more approachable person then, until Armageddon struck and I gradually became a more withdrawn, bitter individual, allowing my innate cynicism to creep back into my heart and perhaps stepping a little further and further away from God.
I remember a particularly short friend of mine, G (he was cute, like a button. Short with big eyes. Looked a bit like stitch, from Lilo and Stitch. He was part of the contingent of Malaysians I preferred hanging out with to the "fake" Singaporeans; who used to cheerily greet me Doctor in Cantonese when I would slouch in wearily from another exhausting day of all day lectures and practical demonstrations, and who were always good for a cheap watered hall-drink after dinner) warning me once in cantonese - that one is taken. Be careful.
I remember thinking -- taken?
I knew she was considered "hot" - it was an unspoken thing amongst the blokes; tallish, large eyes, fair, outgoing, sang like an angel, gentle but with a roguish bent (laugh I remember some of the things you used to tell me you saw, looking out your wnidow, Brainjuice.) I wasn't blind. And yes, we were friends close enough for us to visit each other once in a while.
Yes, she was marked, by one of the other Malaysians who wanted her so badly his eyes were red all the time (for some reason).
Taken? Yes, Somewhat later she was in a steady but slightly... non ideal relationship with another Malaysian born BBC guy.
But... taken?
I was bemused. If only they knew the things that were really going on in my head.
I never moved in on her, never tried to... take.
I was good for friendship; for sharing laughter and tears with. I was good as a confidant; there were many people who came confiding to me in those days, not just brainjuice. And in return I had special little gifts - when she sang with me, as I played my heart out to a past irretrievably lost, a year later. As I babbled excitedly to her about a present unfolding which was unthinkable.
I was good for friends.
You don't need to be untaken to give, and receive friendship.
*****
I remember a particularly unpleasant Singaporean law student -- always sneering subtly at me, for reasons I couldn't fathom. So Christian on the surface. So slimy.
I remember him sneering at me when we had barely met - after I had batted off the attentions of some of the girls (the first weeks of life abroad are turbulent times when girls, bereft of their normal, familiar male attentions from home seek out partners to give them solace and companionship... and perhaps more) by telling them I had a complicated history with a girl from australia.
I remember him curling his lip and saying How Very Convenient.
And perhaps for the first time in my life, I remember feeling pure hatred.
If you only knew.
I could have unleashed the tides of sadness that I had endured upon him and ranted about the girl with that... indefinable something... in her eyes. He would have seen the truth in mine as I raved. I could have smashed his unpleasantness into the ground.
Instead I remained silent, and turned away.
*****
Brainjuice wasn't the only "hot" friend I hung out with. I didn't just hang out with hot girls, mind you. I hung out with lots of different people in those days, mostly to let them talk, and hear out their sadnesses and frustrations.
But there were a couple of girls I liked talking to; one was a law student from Hong Kong. I don't remember what we used to speak about in her room; I'll unashamedly say I liked hanging out with her simply because she was very, very pretty. Laugh.
The other was R, a girl from Malaysia, who was pretty in that Hong Kong Actress kind of way - tall, extremely slim figure, large eyes, lanky. We used to hang out in our rooms, or head out to Pret for a coffee... and talk about everything. Philosophy. Science. Art. The Universe. There was something between us that let conversation flow, when it needed to, and be comfortably silent when there was nothing to say.
I lost touch with her after halls. I wonder what happened to her?
*****
I got to know N online, she hung out with the crowd from an exclusive mIRC channel. In later years she visited occasionally on her jaunts down to London from Southampton.
She was tallish, long-limbed, endowed, tanned, toned - from the sailing she used to do - and slept over in a very, very short kimono.
I remember an odd Sunday evening at the fountain at Whiteleys... looking in as if from a window at myself, running my fingers over her face as she cried, hushing her, and telling her she was still beautiful, it was okay... I think we hugged after that; I'm not sure. Wait, yes we did.
It sounds like the kind of story guys love to tell; fucked her senseless and left her crying in the dirt.
But no; it wasn't like that at all. That was the first and last time I ever touched her, and it was in compassion and... a different kind of love, to give comfort to a poor, poor girl who had smashed through a car windshield with her face, and miraculously only suffered minor, tiny, pinpoint lacerations from microscopic shards of shattered glass - in retrospect, she must had her own Guardian Angel standing over her.
She was a pretty girl who knew the value of her looks, in her career in life, and thought she had lost it all...
She healed without a scar.
Several hours later, I made that memorable headlong flight across the length of the world.
*****
Then there were my buddies Anna, a girl of french / English descent who was very disturbed once when I, lying on the floor of her room played with her nail polish buffer and exclaimed how remarkable it was that a strip of plastic could get my nails so shiny, and Dimitra, the cool, sex-exuding chain-smoking pool expert.
And of course there was Areya, who was my most constant source of comfort, as we walked in silence throughout the darkest parts of London, and looked out onto the world.
*****
Yes, most of my friends then were women. As they still are.
I'm not naive : neither too self-effacing nor too brash; I know who I am, my limits and my capabilities, and I know full well I could have led a very different life had I chosen to. I knew the moments of insecurity and loneliness which I could have taken advantage of. I knew the moments when they came - a hand on her face, a hand on her shoulder, her hand on yours, a glance too prolonged, a yearning to take that someone crying brokenly on your couch up in your arms, wipe away her tears and tell her everything will be okay... I let them go.
They were my friends.
Most of my friends were, and are women - not because I want to "take".
It's because women need to unleash their troubles on you, yes - but they also listen.
Men sneer.
*****
I don't know why I've proved so good at losing touch with old friends.
Right now I'm a little lost; perhaps a tad disillusioned.
Based on John 2:24-25 ("Jesus did not commit Himself to them . . . , for He knew what was in man"), the passage notes that "Disillusionment means having no more misconceptions, false impressions, and false judgments in life; it means being free from these deceptions."
I disagree with her; I don't think that disillusionment was her salvation. It was Grace that allowed her to turn around after her bout of self-pity, and be the wonderful mother I always knew she would be.
Brainjuice and I go back a ways; we were in halls together back in uni. She was a student of Literature, I, of the human condition.
I don't really remember how we became friends; back then I had a very large and diverse group of friends. I think I was a very much more approachable person then, until Armageddon struck and I gradually became a more withdrawn, bitter individual, allowing my innate cynicism to creep back into my heart and perhaps stepping a little further and further away from God.
I remember a particularly short friend of mine, G (he was cute, like a button. Short with big eyes. Looked a bit like stitch, from Lilo and Stitch. He was part of the contingent of Malaysians I preferred hanging out with to the "fake" Singaporeans; who used to cheerily greet me Doctor in Cantonese when I would slouch in wearily from another exhausting day of all day lectures and practical demonstrations, and who were always good for a cheap watered hall-drink after dinner) warning me once in cantonese - that one is taken. Be careful.
I remember thinking -- taken?
I knew she was considered "hot" - it was an unspoken thing amongst the blokes; tallish, large eyes, fair, outgoing, sang like an angel, gentle but with a roguish bent (laugh I remember some of the things you used to tell me you saw, looking out your wnidow, Brainjuice.) I wasn't blind. And yes, we were friends close enough for us to visit each other once in a while.
Yes, she was marked, by one of the other Malaysians who wanted her so badly his eyes were red all the time (for some reason).
Taken? Yes, Somewhat later she was in a steady but slightly... non ideal relationship with another Malaysian born BBC guy.
But... taken?
I was bemused. If only they knew the things that were really going on in my head.
I never moved in on her, never tried to... take.
I was good for friendship; for sharing laughter and tears with. I was good as a confidant; there were many people who came confiding to me in those days, not just brainjuice. And in return I had special little gifts - when she sang with me, as I played my heart out to a past irretrievably lost, a year later. As I babbled excitedly to her about a present unfolding which was unthinkable.
I was good for friends.
You don't need to be untaken to give, and receive friendship.
*****
I remember a particularly unpleasant Singaporean law student -- always sneering subtly at me, for reasons I couldn't fathom. So Christian on the surface. So slimy.
I remember him sneering at me when we had barely met - after I had batted off the attentions of some of the girls (the first weeks of life abroad are turbulent times when girls, bereft of their normal, familiar male attentions from home seek out partners to give them solace and companionship... and perhaps more) by telling them I had a complicated history with a girl from australia.
I remember him curling his lip and saying How Very Convenient.
And perhaps for the first time in my life, I remember feeling pure hatred.
If you only knew.
I could have unleashed the tides of sadness that I had endured upon him and ranted about the girl with that... indefinable something... in her eyes. He would have seen the truth in mine as I raved. I could have smashed his unpleasantness into the ground.
Instead I remained silent, and turned away.
*****
Brainjuice wasn't the only "hot" friend I hung out with. I didn't just hang out with hot girls, mind you. I hung out with lots of different people in those days, mostly to let them talk, and hear out their sadnesses and frustrations.
But there were a couple of girls I liked talking to; one was a law student from Hong Kong. I don't remember what we used to speak about in her room; I'll unashamedly say I liked hanging out with her simply because she was very, very pretty. Laugh.
The other was R, a girl from Malaysia, who was pretty in that Hong Kong Actress kind of way - tall, extremely slim figure, large eyes, lanky. We used to hang out in our rooms, or head out to Pret for a coffee... and talk about everything. Philosophy. Science. Art. The Universe. There was something between us that let conversation flow, when it needed to, and be comfortably silent when there was nothing to say.
I lost touch with her after halls. I wonder what happened to her?
*****
I got to know N online, she hung out with the crowd from an exclusive mIRC channel. In later years she visited occasionally on her jaunts down to London from Southampton.
She was tallish, long-limbed, endowed, tanned, toned - from the sailing she used to do - and slept over in a very, very short kimono.
I remember an odd Sunday evening at the fountain at Whiteleys... looking in as if from a window at myself, running my fingers over her face as she cried, hushing her, and telling her she was still beautiful, it was okay... I think we hugged after that; I'm not sure. Wait, yes we did.
It sounds like the kind of story guys love to tell; fucked her senseless and left her crying in the dirt.
But no; it wasn't like that at all. That was the first and last time I ever touched her, and it was in compassion and... a different kind of love, to give comfort to a poor, poor girl who had smashed through a car windshield with her face, and miraculously only suffered minor, tiny, pinpoint lacerations from microscopic shards of shattered glass - in retrospect, she must had her own Guardian Angel standing over her.
She was a pretty girl who knew the value of her looks, in her career in life, and thought she had lost it all...
She healed without a scar.
Several hours later, I made that memorable headlong flight across the length of the world.
*****
Then there were my buddies Anna, a girl of french / English descent who was very disturbed once when I, lying on the floor of her room played with her nail polish buffer and exclaimed how remarkable it was that a strip of plastic could get my nails so shiny, and Dimitra, the cool, sex-exuding chain-smoking pool expert.
And of course there was Areya, who was my most constant source of comfort, as we walked in silence throughout the darkest parts of London, and looked out onto the world.
*****
Yes, most of my friends then were women. As they still are.
I'm not naive : neither too self-effacing nor too brash; I know who I am, my limits and my capabilities, and I know full well I could have led a very different life had I chosen to. I knew the moments of insecurity and loneliness which I could have taken advantage of. I knew the moments when they came - a hand on her face, a hand on her shoulder, her hand on yours, a glance too prolonged, a yearning to take that someone crying brokenly on your couch up in your arms, wipe away her tears and tell her everything will be okay... I let them go.
They were my friends.
Most of my friends were, and are women - not because I want to "take".
It's because women need to unleash their troubles on you, yes - but they also listen.
Men sneer.
*****
I don't know why I've proved so good at losing touch with old friends.
Right now I'm a little lost; perhaps a tad disillusioned.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Obi Wan wields a blue lightsaber
I took time off from the soul-destroying audit tonight; when J called I seized the chance to flee this lab which is fast turning into my prison to grab a quick drink. The bar owner is her friend and I had a chance to test the Clayderman grand piano which played surprisingly well; we then wandered over to his house to playtest his kid's new lightsabers (the expensive type) and watch a few batman anime clips.
Now I'm back here doing my hated audits again.
On the bright side I brought my sabre and bible back with me.
Nobody mess with me. I'm packing some serious heat.
*****
Legend tells of a legendary warrior whose kung fu skills were the stuff of legend...
hahahaha. I wish I had watched Kung Fu Panda in the cinema. Two thumbs up
Now I'm back here doing my hated audits again.
On the bright side I brought my sabre and bible back with me.
Nobody mess with me. I'm packing some serious heat.
*****
Legend tells of a legendary warrior whose kung fu skills were the stuff of legend...
hahahaha. I wish I had watched Kung Fu Panda in the cinema. Two thumbs up
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Be still.
If I let myself go, but I won't -
Gut wrenching sadness. Grief. Loss. Missing.
Resignation.
Acceptance.
If I don't -
ok most moments.
sudden moments of recollection at odd times, in full clarity like I'm right there. happy moments, that bring sudden tears to my eyes if I'm not careful. Worst in the presence of others. Must be careful.
*****
So are you happy now?
*****
J's been bringing me out a lot these last few days to distract me from... things.
Meeting lots of famous people, my hair a mess because I've been running my hands through it, don't have a clue who they are. It helps a little.
Sometimes I think what a nice place, I've got to bring... then I just stop.
Gut wrenching sadness. Grief. Loss. Missing.
Resignation.
Acceptance.
If I don't -
ok most moments.
sudden moments of recollection at odd times, in full clarity like I'm right there. happy moments, that bring sudden tears to my eyes if I'm not careful. Worst in the presence of others. Must be careful.
*****
So are you happy now?
*****
J's been bringing me out a lot these last few days to distract me from... things.
Meeting lots of famous people, my hair a mess because I've been running my hands through it, don't have a clue who they are. It helps a little.
Sometimes I think what a nice place, I've got to bring... then I just stop.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Frustration
So I'm standing here in the middle of the lab, hurling an eraser around the room off the ceiling and the walls because I don't have my sabre with me and I don't know what else to do.
I don't know what to do.
I don't know how to undo the damage that I have done.
I don't know whether I should; I don't know if I'm doing the right thing. I don't know if I manage to start where I'll wind up, or whether I'll just go crackers again.
I don't know whether I'm hurting alone.
I don't know why I'm bouncing this stupid eraser off the walls, it isn't really making me feel any better.
And now I don't know where the eraser's gone.
I don't know what to do.
I don't know how to undo the damage that I have done.
I don't know whether I should; I don't know if I'm doing the right thing. I don't know if I manage to start where I'll wind up, or whether I'll just go crackers again.
I don't know whether I'm hurting alone.
I don't know why I'm bouncing this stupid eraser off the walls, it isn't really making me feel any better.
And now I don't know where the eraser's gone.
Serendipity
The thing about serendipity is that it happens.
It really does. Just not very often.
And if you're lucky enough to be right there in the thick of it, you feel... depersonalised because you never believed in stuff like this.
It looks the way it does in the movies to the people around you, but to you, while its happening to you, while fate has you bound and gagged as her helpless victim... it isn't all that wonderful, isn't simply that swell of excitement and joy everyone else perceives, from the outside in.
It's bittersweet.
Something rare.
Something painful.
Something good.
Something won.
Something lost.
Something filled with hope for tomorrow.
Something mourning hope lost yesterday.
Something that can bring life, to life.
Something that can die in an instant.
Something to dream about
or something to escape from dreaming about.
*****
I remember as I leafed through the magazines at the QVB, watching for You out of the corner of my eye, killing time.
And then You were there, walking towards me; our eyes met; there was that look in your eye, that I knew by heart.
You came to a stop before me, and we smiled at each other in silence for a while.
*****
She hadn't closed the room door as she changed; she probably thought he was dozing on the couch.
It happened quite by accident; he caught a glimpse of her naked back.
And then he turned away, and sat down at the piano. And played a dirge with a heavy heart.
It really does. Just not very often.
And if you're lucky enough to be right there in the thick of it, you feel... depersonalised because you never believed in stuff like this.
It looks the way it does in the movies to the people around you, but to you, while its happening to you, while fate has you bound and gagged as her helpless victim... it isn't all that wonderful, isn't simply that swell of excitement and joy everyone else perceives, from the outside in.
It's bittersweet.
Something rare.
Something painful.
Something good.
Something won.
Something lost.
Something filled with hope for tomorrow.
Something mourning hope lost yesterday.
Something that can bring life, to life.
Something that can die in an instant.
Something to dream about
or something to escape from dreaming about.
*****
I remember as I leafed through the magazines at the QVB, watching for You out of the corner of my eye, killing time.
And then You were there, walking towards me; our eyes met; there was that look in your eye, that I knew by heart.
You came to a stop before me, and we smiled at each other in silence for a while.
*****
She hadn't closed the room door as she changed; she probably thought he was dozing on the couch.
It happened quite by accident; he caught a glimpse of her naked back.
And then he turned away, and sat down at the piano. And played a dirge with a heavy heart.
Bu She De
There were so many things I was looking forwards to doing, or doing again with her.
These were just some of the things :
Dinner at Iggys again, for our anniversary
Dinner at Le Saint Julien, Fullerton waterhouse, for her birthday
The bird park
asti at a park
running every tuesday
singing along in the car
Duck tours
Hotel stay - pseudo tourist
Dinner at michaelangelos
Dinner and drinks at Oosh
Drink at cafe del mar
Let her criticize my servers
Wall-E
Sydney
sleep, just sleep
*****
In the aftermath, I can see that I was just being selfish.
The plan was to stay friends, the way she wanted me to.
It was a confusing friendship where we could tell each other we missed each other, or kissed or hugged at certain times, but not others. She held the reigns of the when and wheres.
The plan was for me to watch her moving on; because I knew that she would go first; my life is filled with the burdens of audits and studying, hers is a (comparatively) carefree, hedonistic life.
I thought I would be able to be strong and bear the pain and shrug it off, be selfless. For her, as always.
But this morning I was weak, and I faltered.
Again.
These were just some of the things :
Dinner at Iggys again, for our anniversary
Dinner at Le Saint Julien, Fullerton waterhouse, for her birthday
The bird park
asti at a park
running every tuesday
singing along in the car
Duck tours
Hotel stay - pseudo tourist
Dinner at michaelangelos
Dinner and drinks at Oosh
Drink at cafe del mar
Let her criticize my servers
Wall-E
Sydney
sleep, just sleep
*****
In the aftermath, I can see that I was just being selfish.
The plan was to stay friends, the way she wanted me to.
It was a confusing friendship where we could tell each other we missed each other, or kissed or hugged at certain times, but not others. She held the reigns of the when and wheres.
The plan was for me to watch her moving on; because I knew that she would go first; my life is filled with the burdens of audits and studying, hers is a (comparatively) carefree, hedonistic life.
I thought I would be able to be strong and bear the pain and shrug it off, be selfless. For her, as always.
But this morning I was weak, and I faltered.
Again.
Unwelcome
I know I said too much for you, and I know there were many times I spoke off the top of my head and hurt you.
There were some things I couldn't tell you, face to face.
I didn't tell you that J, whom both E and you wanted to hate so much as the cause of your problems - stayed a true friend to me, yes. But she also told me she admired you, that you had managed to find a way to remain friends despite what happened between us, and not to let you out of my life - that one is so clever! -; perhaps in the future she could seek you out for advice.
You were so wrong about her.
I didn't tell you that when my mother found out we had split up - my mother, who despite my reassurances you were convinced didn't like you - was so distressed, and asked me why. And said you were such a nice girl, what had I done to you, and to go and patch it up, it's just a silly quarrel. And that she had been waiting for good tidings from us.
This, the same mother who said in the aftermath of G that that one could never be trusted, she had eyes that were not trustworthy, and who called K a whore and a god knows what else, for my committing the cardinal sin of calling her up long distance on the family line.
I kept telling her I didn't want to talk.
You were so wrong about her too.
I didn't tell you that I had come to the realisation some time back of the kind of person I need to fall for - a good Christian / Catholic girl, with morals more like my own who truly believes in truth, love, courage and faith; someone who I could bring to church on sundays and bow our heads together with before God, and repent for our unworthiness, someone who I could laugh with until I die. Someone, as S, Js flatmate said, like K.
I didn't tell you that I passed up that realisation for you, because I already loved you, cheap china cracks and all - and that was all that was important to me.
*****
She said she had a dream which she couldn't remember, and woke up with tears on her face, the other day.
I tried sleeping; I had a dream, so rare for me, but I don't remember much of it. I don't seem to recall any tears, but now I just can't sleep. I just can't. I can't.
Played the piano for a bit, and rediscovered my forgotten ability to play grand sounding random gibberish on the piano - it only seems to come out when disaster strikes, sadly. Or with enough whisky, which is probably much the same thing.
Amd now I have to go back to my audit.
*****
I saw a patient today bearing the name Mohinder Singh. I smiled a little at the thought that it would have made you laugh.
There were some things I couldn't tell you, face to face.
I didn't tell you that J, whom both E and you wanted to hate so much as the cause of your problems - stayed a true friend to me, yes. But she also told me she admired you, that you had managed to find a way to remain friends despite what happened between us, and not to let you out of my life - that one is so clever! -; perhaps in the future she could seek you out for advice.
You were so wrong about her.
I didn't tell you that when my mother found out we had split up - my mother, who despite my reassurances you were convinced didn't like you - was so distressed, and asked me why. And said you were such a nice girl, what had I done to you, and to go and patch it up, it's just a silly quarrel. And that she had been waiting for good tidings from us.
This, the same mother who said in the aftermath of G that that one could never be trusted, she had eyes that were not trustworthy, and who called K a whore and a god knows what else, for my committing the cardinal sin of calling her up long distance on the family line.
I kept telling her I didn't want to talk.
You were so wrong about her too.
I didn't tell you that I had come to the realisation some time back of the kind of person I need to fall for - a good Christian / Catholic girl, with morals more like my own who truly believes in truth, love, courage and faith; someone who I could bring to church on sundays and bow our heads together with before God, and repent for our unworthiness, someone who I could laugh with until I die. Someone, as S, Js flatmate said, like K.
I didn't tell you that I passed up that realisation for you, because I already loved you, cheap china cracks and all - and that was all that was important to me.
*****
She said she had a dream which she couldn't remember, and woke up with tears on her face, the other day.
I tried sleeping; I had a dream, so rare for me, but I don't remember much of it. I don't seem to recall any tears, but now I just can't sleep. I just can't. I can't.
Played the piano for a bit, and rediscovered my forgotten ability to play grand sounding random gibberish on the piano - it only seems to come out when disaster strikes, sadly. Or with enough whisky, which is probably much the same thing.
Amd now I have to go back to my audit.
*****
I saw a patient today bearing the name Mohinder Singh. I smiled a little at the thought that it would have made you laugh.
No such thing as an amicable breakup
The only way two people can part amicably and still stay friends is if both people have stopped feeling for each other.
I was looking forwards so very much to a nap, and watching Wall-E with her today. So, so, so very much. I'm so very tired. Just so very tired.
*****
Just in case you read my blog, and just in case you threw away my letter without reading it; just in case, if you did, you feel one day like knowing what was in it.
It was this :
Dearest T,
I'm sorry that I have to do this, I just don't know what else to do.
Whichever one of us moves on first will hurt the other, if we really still love each other. That's just the way it goes. I don't want to be hurt by you, and I don't want to hurt you.
I'm going to miss you, and your family so very, very much.
With all my love,
' Boy.
PS : I'm going to miss telling you all about the interesting and funny things that happen in my day; i miss it already.
*****
My last memory of us wasn't of us leaning against each other watching a movie that made us both laugh; it wasn't of us being warm and comfortable and happy one last time before I caught her by the shoulder with my hand, smiled, and shook it hard in that friendly way we use to kid with each other about, once, as we said to each other "see ya, thanks for all the memories". I wanted so very desperately for... something truly amicable, but I guess she was right : that would have been selfish of me, to dictate the terms of our passing.
So instead my last memory of us was of her sitting by my side in the car, looking beautiful and immaculate as always to my biased eye, glancing away and never meeting my eye, her face an impassive mask, her mind intentionally closed to mine while I struggled to say that I had nothing left to say; each last second passing inexorably by, counting down to our closure.
I, tired, fatigued, dishevelled after 48 hours on shift asked her what she wanted.
She : "I don't want to be friends anymore".
I said "Wait", and handed her the letter, my shortest ever to her, to date.
And then she stepped out of our... no, my car, bumped into a client and went to work, and I drove away.
So thank you, T, for setting us free.
*****
Thank you for being my friend, my lover and my confidant during the time we were together. I'm sorry I hurt you with too much truth, and I'm sorry you hurt me with too little.
Thank you for the times you made me laugh, and for the times I made you laugh. I still can't help but smile when I remember you singing uninhibitedly and slightly tonelessly in the car, waving your hands around like a lunatic.
I'll never forget us, and all the wonderful memories that we made together.
Thank you.
Goodbye, Bonviva girl. I really, really hope you find your way, and I wish you only bluebirds.
This won't mean much to you, I know, but God bless you, and your family. You will be in my prayers.
I was looking forwards so very much to a nap, and watching Wall-E with her today. So, so, so very much. I'm so very tired. Just so very tired.
*****
Just in case you read my blog, and just in case you threw away my letter without reading it; just in case, if you did, you feel one day like knowing what was in it.
It was this :
Dearest T,
I'm sorry that I have to do this, I just don't know what else to do.
Whichever one of us moves on first will hurt the other, if we really still love each other. That's just the way it goes. I don't want to be hurt by you, and I don't want to hurt you.
I'm going to miss you, and your family so very, very much.
With all my love,
' Boy.
PS : I'm going to miss telling you all about the interesting and funny things that happen in my day; i miss it already.
*****
My last memory of us wasn't of us leaning against each other watching a movie that made us both laugh; it wasn't of us being warm and comfortable and happy one last time before I caught her by the shoulder with my hand, smiled, and shook it hard in that friendly way we use to kid with each other about, once, as we said to each other "see ya, thanks for all the memories". I wanted so very desperately for... something truly amicable, but I guess she was right : that would have been selfish of me, to dictate the terms of our passing.
So instead my last memory of us was of her sitting by my side in the car, looking beautiful and immaculate as always to my biased eye, glancing away and never meeting my eye, her face an impassive mask, her mind intentionally closed to mine while I struggled to say that I had nothing left to say; each last second passing inexorably by, counting down to our closure.
I, tired, fatigued, dishevelled after 48 hours on shift asked her what she wanted.
She : "I don't want to be friends anymore".
I said "Wait", and handed her the letter, my shortest ever to her, to date.
And then she stepped out of our... no, my car, bumped into a client and went to work, and I drove away.
So thank you, T, for setting us free.
*****
Thank you for being my friend, my lover and my confidant during the time we were together. I'm sorry I hurt you with too much truth, and I'm sorry you hurt me with too little.
Thank you for the times you made me laugh, and for the times I made you laugh. I still can't help but smile when I remember you singing uninhibitedly and slightly tonelessly in the car, waving your hands around like a lunatic.
I'll never forget us, and all the wonderful memories that we made together.
Thank you.
Goodbye, Bonviva girl. I really, really hope you find your way, and I wish you only bluebirds.
This won't mean much to you, I know, but God bless you, and your family. You will be in my prayers.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Serendipity
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.
*****
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.
*****
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.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Random thoughts
What is love?
Is it even important?
I tell myself from time to time that I would rather die alone and loveless, than trapped in a love that does not become me.
It's been a constant refrain ever since Karin.
Time has shattered the sanctity of these memories; once I protected my past from prying eyes... not so much for me, but for Her.
Now I realise it really really doesn't matter anymore. Time heals some things, and breaks others.
Time has shown me the ultimate truth - that I really don't know anything at all. And where once I lived in black and white, everything now is just shades of grey.
I have become a Grey man, like the timestealing creatures in Momo. One of the hordes.
I don't think I ever knew what love is; I was just trying to find meaning in my life.
Things have been rather bleak these last few weeks, resulting in an attempt to relinquish what little meaning I had rediscovered, from my life.
I'm just so tired, tired of soul-consuming work, tired of this country; tired of the rigid mindsets of those around me; tired to discover that those like me have relinquished their.. life, and blended comfortably into the comfortable, calm, lulling little niches this society opens up for them. I am tired of fighting to stay alive.
Love, to me once, was that pitter patter (or the Singlified version, as a friend of Ting's said in passing, the pikpokpikpok) in your heart when you met someone.
It was the thrill of looking into Her eyes, every time you met Her, and falling.
It was listening to her very witty comments, sharp like a razor's edge, and being caught off-guard, and laughing from the soul.
Scrutinizing her as she said Grace - and unconsciously shutting the world out; the other people around us... friends, strangers, or even an absence of people - everything faded. Tunnel vision. And feeling something tender, yet fierce.
Listening to Her ramble about what our friends would think, if they knew we were together (and in truth, just her friends, because mine wouldn't know what to think. Hers, methinks, would have been shocked, because She was so very much, and so clearly unsuitable for me)... hearing incredulously, her say things about a future that I knew could never be.
And believing Her for a while, and feeling only happiness.
Wanting to stay forever friends.
Leaving because you did not wish to seek to jeapordize her world any longer.
I took all that to be love. An even mix of infatuation, perhaps-love, and.. the knowledge of an impossible love, fleetingly conquered by hope.
I look back now and realise that perhaps I was wrong.
There are so many different kinds of love.
Wanting to exist for someone.
Craving affection and adoration from someone - anyone.
Appreciation of someone loving you.
There are more; I have not, this lifetime experienced the full complement.
I don't know what I want anymore.
All I know is that, looking back...
I remember Grace, a little.
She had a pretty face, and a wickedly curved beak of a nose. Her attraction lay in her love for life, and her laughter. She was fiercely alive... spoilt, and passionate.
She wanted to be loved, and was capable of betrayal to serve her own needs.
I don't remember her eyes.
I remember Lynette.
She, too had a desire to be loved, and a great capacity to give love in return. She craved the perfect little life... to show off to the world.
I don't remember her eyes, either.
I remember Vaya, we were more friends who spoke of loving, than two people truly in love..
She was vivacious, and quirky. She had a pretty, elfin face that belied her age, and a mind that lived for, and thought in music. Something in my gut told me that her random-ness was born of something painful in her past, a front that had become so practiced it was her new persona.
I wish her well now; I wish her all happiness with her new life.
I don't really remember her eyes very well, but there is a slight memory in my head.
And then I remember Karin. Chia Kim Mae, Karin.
And all I remember are her eyes.
The knowledge is here now, hammered in by age and a life thus far wasted.
It is all gone, all my past.
It doesn't matter any longer, because it was so long ago; and I can speak freely here at last, now that I have nobody left to read this, or care about it.
All I wonder is ... next week, when the axe falls.
Or the week after next.
Or years from now, perhaps a myriad relationships from now
One day when I am old
Whose eyes will I remember?
Is it even important?
I tell myself from time to time that I would rather die alone and loveless, than trapped in a love that does not become me.
It's been a constant refrain ever since Karin.
Time has shattered the sanctity of these memories; once I protected my past from prying eyes... not so much for me, but for Her.
Now I realise it really really doesn't matter anymore. Time heals some things, and breaks others.
Time has shown me the ultimate truth - that I really don't know anything at all. And where once I lived in black and white, everything now is just shades of grey.
I have become a Grey man, like the timestealing creatures in Momo. One of the hordes.
I don't think I ever knew what love is; I was just trying to find meaning in my life.
Things have been rather bleak these last few weeks, resulting in an attempt to relinquish what little meaning I had rediscovered, from my life.
I'm just so tired, tired of soul-consuming work, tired of this country; tired of the rigid mindsets of those around me; tired to discover that those like me have relinquished their.. life, and blended comfortably into the comfortable, calm, lulling little niches this society opens up for them. I am tired of fighting to stay alive.
Love, to me once, was that pitter patter (or the Singlified version, as a friend of Ting's said in passing, the pikpokpikpok) in your heart when you met someone.
It was the thrill of looking into Her eyes, every time you met Her, and falling.
It was listening to her very witty comments, sharp like a razor's edge, and being caught off-guard, and laughing from the soul.
Scrutinizing her as she said Grace - and unconsciously shutting the world out; the other people around us... friends, strangers, or even an absence of people - everything faded. Tunnel vision. And feeling something tender, yet fierce.
Listening to Her ramble about what our friends would think, if they knew we were together (and in truth, just her friends, because mine wouldn't know what to think. Hers, methinks, would have been shocked, because She was so very much, and so clearly unsuitable for me)... hearing incredulously, her say things about a future that I knew could never be.
And believing Her for a while, and feeling only happiness.
Wanting to stay forever friends.
Leaving because you did not wish to seek to jeapordize her world any longer.
I took all that to be love. An even mix of infatuation, perhaps-love, and.. the knowledge of an impossible love, fleetingly conquered by hope.
I look back now and realise that perhaps I was wrong.
There are so many different kinds of love.
Wanting to exist for someone.
Craving affection and adoration from someone - anyone.
Appreciation of someone loving you.
There are more; I have not, this lifetime experienced the full complement.
I don't know what I want anymore.
All I know is that, looking back...
I remember Grace, a little.
She had a pretty face, and a wickedly curved beak of a nose. Her attraction lay in her love for life, and her laughter. She was fiercely alive... spoilt, and passionate.
She wanted to be loved, and was capable of betrayal to serve her own needs.
I don't remember her eyes.
I remember Lynette.
She, too had a desire to be loved, and a great capacity to give love in return. She craved the perfect little life... to show off to the world.
I don't remember her eyes, either.
I remember Vaya, we were more friends who spoke of loving, than two people truly in love..
She was vivacious, and quirky. She had a pretty, elfin face that belied her age, and a mind that lived for, and thought in music. Something in my gut told me that her random-ness was born of something painful in her past, a front that had become so practiced it was her new persona.
I wish her well now; I wish her all happiness with her new life.
I don't really remember her eyes very well, but there is a slight memory in my head.
And then I remember Karin. Chia Kim Mae, Karin.
And all I remember are her eyes.
The knowledge is here now, hammered in by age and a life thus far wasted.
It is all gone, all my past.
It doesn't matter any longer, because it was so long ago; and I can speak freely here at last, now that I have nobody left to read this, or care about it.
All I wonder is ... next week, when the axe falls.
Or the week after next.
Or years from now, perhaps a myriad relationships from now
One day when I am old
Whose eyes will I remember?
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Tired
There was a perfect, full moon tonight.
Perfect to run under,
with her,
In another lifetime.
*****
It seems I have my answer now.
There are no second chances.
Perfect to run under,
with her,
In another lifetime.
*****
It seems I have my answer now.
There are no second chances.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Hush, my darling
It strikes me that silence is a secret language all in itself.
It can say nothing, yet speak volumes; imply consent or scream refusal.
It can be premeditated, or borne of spur-of-the-moment neglect.
It can be, by comission, an unspoken truth, or by omission, a lie untold.
It flits by before one can react, or crawls, one exponentially elongating second after the other, an agonising eternity within which to lose oneself..
A double-edged sword of the keenest intent.
*****
You say it all... when you say nothing at all
It can say nothing, yet speak volumes; imply consent or scream refusal.
It can be premeditated, or borne of spur-of-the-moment neglect.
It can be, by comission, an unspoken truth, or by omission, a lie untold.
It flits by before one can react, or crawls, one exponentially elongating second after the other, an agonising eternity within which to lose oneself..
A double-edged sword of the keenest intent.
*****
You say it all... when you say nothing at all
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Big Fried Fish
It amuses me when Sara tells me that my rightful place is in the Premiere league, not being wasted in the S league.
It reminds me of the scene in "Wanted" (which was very bloody with a so-so plot, but had angelina jolie in it...) when whositwhatsit (Somethingorothermorgan) is doing his Do you want to be like Them?? Ordinary?!?! rant (strangely reminiscent of something an ex girlfriend said to me once, but that had something to do with dress-sense)
I have no super powers, no lightning quick reflexes or bullet-curving skills.
But apparently I have (according to Sara, also known as HostSara, whom I shall publically name and shame today as one of my closest friends because she is not-shy-one, and doesn't care if being seen in public with shabby re-minisce will ruin her rep) charm, and am well-spoken, and if I learnt to control my powers, confidence and wit enough to melt a girl's heart, or at least her panties.
Oh, it would be fun.
And I think I would like that... play-acting like Style till it became second nature to me.
It's all sleight of mind. Being the string, and not the cat. Never professing your love, or even attraction. Being Bad.
And I can do Bad. It's been in my blood ever since primary school. Laugh.
But the thing is... the day I start playing the Game, I have lost hope in Good.
And the truth is I've never been playing in any league.
Just... walking on by.
From my past? Or from my future?
*****
There are three tenets in life, I believe.
Truth,
Love,
and Courage.
*****
Speaking online to a pretty stranger (If memory serves me right) tonight, she reminded me how good it felt, to be past trivial concerns like faith, and fidelity, and trust and truth.
It reminds me of the scene in "Wanted" (which was very bloody with a so-so plot, but had angelina jolie in it...) when whositwhatsit (Somethingorothermorgan) is doing his Do you want to be like Them?? Ordinary?!?! rant (strangely reminiscent of something an ex girlfriend said to me once, but that had something to do with dress-sense)
I have no super powers, no lightning quick reflexes or bullet-curving skills.
But apparently I have (according to Sara, also known as HostSara, whom I shall publically name and shame today as one of my closest friends because she is not-shy-one, and doesn't care if being seen in public with shabby re-minisce will ruin her rep) charm, and am well-spoken, and if I learnt to control my powers, confidence and wit enough to melt a girl's heart, or at least her panties.
Oh, it would be fun.
And I think I would like that... play-acting like Style till it became second nature to me.
It's all sleight of mind. Being the string, and not the cat. Never professing your love, or even attraction. Being Bad.
And I can do Bad. It's been in my blood ever since primary school. Laugh.
But the thing is... the day I start playing the Game, I have lost hope in Good.
And the truth is I've never been playing in any league.
Just... walking on by.
From my past? Or from my future?
*****
There are three tenets in life, I believe.
Truth,
Love,
and Courage.
*****
Speaking online to a pretty stranger (If memory serves me right) tonight, she reminded me how good it felt, to be past trivial concerns like faith, and fidelity, and trust and truth.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Love, actually (rehashed)
I've written about love quite a few times, dating back to the days when dinosaurs roamed the earth and modems spoke in audible handshaking signals to each other, and blogs were web-pages lovingly created by hand.
I look back now and marvel at my naivete.
Love, when I was younger, was something that was given freely. You give yourself totally to someone, and what happens in return is immaterial. You have loved.
Then I grew older, and after the infamous story of K, felt the need to receive love, but was strangely unmoved when I did. I thought then in my self-obsession that I had perhaps lost the capacity to love.
Now I realise that relationships between two people are by definition dynamic, and bilateral (bicameral? heh). They need not necessarily be completely reciprocal, but a balance must be struck between giving, and taking.
Or else all you have is an effigy of a relationship.
Slide the balance too far to the left, and one becomes the giver, taken for granted; the other, the taker, wielding power and the right to be merciful, or not.
I believe now that to give love a chance at growing (after initial infatuation, aka the inaptly named honeymoon period), there must exist a mutual respect, and admiration - which can only exist with Balance.
Having listened to Sara on the phone (sounds like a song title. Sara on the Phone) for almost the entire night now... the question foremost in my mind is this.
Can there truly be Second Chances? And can love grow once the balance has been lost - will the slider ever be able to rest comfortably in the center again - or does petty vengeance and self-obsession invariably tilt the scales.
I wonder.
I look back now and marvel at my naivete.
Love, when I was younger, was something that was given freely. You give yourself totally to someone, and what happens in return is immaterial. You have loved.
Then I grew older, and after the infamous story of K, felt the need to receive love, but was strangely unmoved when I did. I thought then in my self-obsession that I had perhaps lost the capacity to love.
Now I realise that relationships between two people are by definition dynamic, and bilateral (bicameral? heh). They need not necessarily be completely reciprocal, but a balance must be struck between giving, and taking.
Or else all you have is an effigy of a relationship.
Slide the balance too far to the left, and one becomes the giver, taken for granted; the other, the taker, wielding power and the right to be merciful, or not.
I believe now that to give love a chance at growing (after initial infatuation, aka the inaptly named honeymoon period), there must exist a mutual respect, and admiration - which can only exist with Balance.
Having listened to Sara on the phone (sounds like a song title. Sara on the Phone) for almost the entire night now... the question foremost in my mind is this.
Can there truly be Second Chances? And can love grow once the balance has been lost - will the slider ever be able to rest comfortably in the center again - or does petty vengeance and self-obsession invariably tilt the scales.
I wonder.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
The Game
I've started reading a book Sara literally bent my arm into reading, recently.
I don't know that I'll ever be out there playing the Game, but it's a good laugh, and, in retrospect there's a grain of truth in there...
There've been a few rather fetching women I've captured the attention of, this lifetime - in settings just such as the book describes. And in retrospect I realise it was quite possibly because I followed the "rules" of The Game, quite by accident.
Perhaps I am my father's son after all.
Laugh.
****
and besides, who knows? The thought is intriguing. None of the "students" in the book were remotely players to begin with.
In my youth I would have been horrified. laugh.
I don't know that I'll ever be out there playing the Game, but it's a good laugh, and, in retrospect there's a grain of truth in there...
There've been a few rather fetching women I've captured the attention of, this lifetime - in settings just such as the book describes. And in retrospect I realise it was quite possibly because I followed the "rules" of The Game, quite by accident.
Perhaps I am my father's son after all.
Laugh.
****
and besides, who knows? The thought is intriguing. None of the "students" in the book were remotely players to begin with.
In my youth I would have been horrified. laugh.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Sempre Fidelis
This isn't a boast, just a ramble.
Through this last relationship I have learnt a lot about my own kind.
The medical circle in S'land ... somebody has to say this... It's deplorably unethical.
Just the other day, one of the regs was commenting how disturbed he was by the lack of ethics as practiced here. (foreign trained too)
This is the kind of hush hush thing that is only said in private. Saying it in public like this is virtual career suicide, but since nobody reads my blog anyway, what the hey.
In my hospital (let's call it Old Chang Kee) it's a known fact that the doctors sleep around, with the product reps, with other doctors, with nurses, with physios, and most anything that wears a skirt, except perhaps clinic assistants. I postulate that clinic assistants skirts are not conducive to quickies.
Of course everyone here is whiter than white, so you can only hear all this on very exclusive grapevines. It's a bit like going satellite tv, or digital radio. Everyone else around you is stuck on regular viewing, which only shows PG.
When you're hearing it from the horse's mouth, it becomes that much more real. Hard evidence, ahaha.
There're other forms of para-ethical dilemmas of course, like mowing through patient queues for doctor's relatives (sometimes at the expense of patient safety) or politicians and their relatives. All the kettles of fish Oriental societies brew, because we respect face, power and position above all else, and all others. It's institutionalized, and it's not relevant to this article, so... skip.
You can see how it happens, doctors here routinely marry other doctors (early, too) and wind up with vastly contrasting schedules, never really meeting up with your spouse, young beautiful product / device reps and... the nurses (i have no idea what the appeal of these are, shrug. high hemlines??) all around you. one thing leads to the other... etc.
Or perhaps the wifey is always at home taking care of baby, and again the medicine man is surrounded by sweet, young, attentive women who flash their pearlie whites at them and engage their eyes, with whatever bits of their anatomy they commonly employ.
And then there are the floundering marriages - perhaps the wifey is too demanding, too argumentative, or perhaps the husband is starting to grey, or perhaps starting to cheat himself, or there's this hot young guy at work, and nobody will ever know if we bang each other...
So you meet up with her, and she looks you in the eye, and you meet up for dinner, and then drinks, and then one thing leads to another...
Or perhaps you eye each other at different desks in clinic, and when the doors are closed hands reach for one another...
I can see how it all happens, now that I know where to look. It's a bit like looking for a ghost in a window, in those horror movies. Blink, and you've missed it.
Back in the UK, it was much healthier, really. Everyone bonked everyone after going to the pub, and everyone else knew precisely what had happened the next day, and everybody would have a laugh.
Down here its all very cloak and dagger. Very reputation ruining to be caught, high stakes, high risk. And once in a while heads of departments are caught with their cigars out and their pants down. laugh.
Whilst I can understand it all, I don't condone it.
Maybe I'm just a prude.
But if you're really committed to someone (and isn't marriage the ultimate committment? aside from work. hah.) even if she's turning into somewhat less than angelina jolie...... you made the choice when you married her. through thick and thin, sickness and in health.
If some sexy slinky sweet young thing lands in front of your desk giving you an inviting view down her cleavage... then keep the door open, and your hands where everyone including the nurses can see them.
If marriage is turning into a routine, find something novel to do with the other half, that excites both of you. Perhaps a holiday somewhere exotic, perhaps... s&m. shrug.
If you don't want to cheat on your spouse, don't go out one on one with anyone tasty at work, period.
It's really all about minimizing risk, and preventing scenarios of tempation from arising in the first place.
Because, really, once you're both taking off each other's underwear in some dark, private hole somewhere, it's rather too late to stop.
But that's where my argument breaks down.
The truth is that people here may not confess to it, but they do want to cheat. As long as they don't get caught.
I've never been married, but I do tend to enter serious relationships. I've never cheated. Not because I am pristine, but because I steer clear of uncapped soy sauce bottles.
Through this last relationship I have learnt a lot about my own kind.
The medical circle in S'land ... somebody has to say this... It's deplorably unethical.
Just the other day, one of the regs was commenting how disturbed he was by the lack of ethics as practiced here. (foreign trained too)
This is the kind of hush hush thing that is only said in private. Saying it in public like this is virtual career suicide, but since nobody reads my blog anyway, what the hey.
In my hospital (let's call it Old Chang Kee) it's a known fact that the doctors sleep around, with the product reps, with other doctors, with nurses, with physios, and most anything that wears a skirt, except perhaps clinic assistants. I postulate that clinic assistants skirts are not conducive to quickies.
Of course everyone here is whiter than white, so you can only hear all this on very exclusive grapevines. It's a bit like going satellite tv, or digital radio. Everyone else around you is stuck on regular viewing, which only shows PG.
When you're hearing it from the horse's mouth, it becomes that much more real. Hard evidence, ahaha.
There're other forms of para-ethical dilemmas of course, like mowing through patient queues for doctor's relatives (sometimes at the expense of patient safety) or politicians and their relatives. All the kettles of fish Oriental societies brew, because we respect face, power and position above all else, and all others. It's institutionalized, and it's not relevant to this article, so... skip.
You can see how it happens, doctors here routinely marry other doctors (early, too) and wind up with vastly contrasting schedules, never really meeting up with your spouse, young beautiful product / device reps and... the nurses (i have no idea what the appeal of these are, shrug. high hemlines??) all around you. one thing leads to the other... etc.
Or perhaps the wifey is always at home taking care of baby, and again the medicine man is surrounded by sweet, young, attentive women who flash their pearlie whites at them and engage their eyes, with whatever bits of their anatomy they commonly employ.
And then there are the floundering marriages - perhaps the wifey is too demanding, too argumentative, or perhaps the husband is starting to grey, or perhaps starting to cheat himself, or there's this hot young guy at work, and nobody will ever know if we bang each other...
So you meet up with her, and she looks you in the eye, and you meet up for dinner, and then drinks, and then one thing leads to another...
Or perhaps you eye each other at different desks in clinic, and when the doors are closed hands reach for one another...
I can see how it all happens, now that I know where to look. It's a bit like looking for a ghost in a window, in those horror movies. Blink, and you've missed it.
Back in the UK, it was much healthier, really. Everyone bonked everyone after going to the pub, and everyone else knew precisely what had happened the next day, and everybody would have a laugh.
Down here its all very cloak and dagger. Very reputation ruining to be caught, high stakes, high risk. And once in a while heads of departments are caught with their cigars out and their pants down. laugh.
Whilst I can understand it all, I don't condone it.
Maybe I'm just a prude.
But if you're really committed to someone (and isn't marriage the ultimate committment? aside from work. hah.) even if she's turning into somewhat less than angelina jolie...... you made the choice when you married her. through thick and thin, sickness and in health.
If some sexy slinky sweet young thing lands in front of your desk giving you an inviting view down her cleavage... then keep the door open, and your hands where everyone including the nurses can see them.
If marriage is turning into a routine, find something novel to do with the other half, that excites both of you. Perhaps a holiday somewhere exotic, perhaps... s&m. shrug.
If you don't want to cheat on your spouse, don't go out one on one with anyone tasty at work, period.
It's really all about minimizing risk, and preventing scenarios of tempation from arising in the first place.
Because, really, once you're both taking off each other's underwear in some dark, private hole somewhere, it's rather too late to stop.
But that's where my argument breaks down.
The truth is that people here may not confess to it, but they do want to cheat. As long as they don't get caught.
I've never been married, but I do tend to enter serious relationships. I've never cheated. Not because I am pristine, but because I steer clear of uncapped soy sauce bottles.
Bittersweet
When the moment came, there was a flash of relief, as expected
but then panic stepped in.
And then the realisation :
The crafted dream is over, but I wanted the reality, after all.
These thoughts always come too late.
I hate them...
*****
Being patient, going out of the way to pick someone up at three in the morning, with morning shift at seven, swallowing pride and losing arguments, bending over backwards to accomodate someone...
... those were the easy parts.
Patience? It's nothing special. Anybody can be patient, if they want to be... it doesnt bite. And if you do it out of love, it's really quite easy.
The hardest part was when I'd tell her as she got ready to go out, or as we stepped out the door that she looked wonderful, or beautiful, and she would brush me off, or almost sneer in disbelief... so saddening
... if she could have only known what I was thinking, as we lay side by side looking at each other, or as I sat over her at sunrise and looked down upon her sleep bedraggled face...
Thinking, feeling : the deepest, most aching sadness, for when the time would come, inevitably, when I would never get to see her again.
Thinking, seeing : Gut-wrenching, each time, looking down on those eyes closed in repose, and on her ears, and hair, and jawline, watching her breathing, and thinking how ugly she could look from some angles, and how how pretty from others, yet from all of them she was so, so beautiful to me.
And sometimes for no good reason at all, I found my vision misting over, as I drew my fingers lightly across her brow.
Perhaps I should have realised earlier, that it is in my nature, like it or not, to fall in love. And perhaps then I would have given us a real shot, and tried to live with her, rather than for her... who knows.
******
I set this up. I was ready for the consequences.
And maybe I will be, in time.
*****
I loved it when she bent my fingers or shoulder around at funny angles as we walked along, not because I loved the inherent sadism in it, but because it made her laugh...
Perhaps the lines got blurred, between loving, and falling in love, in my head.
Perhaps sometimes loving someone is as simple as wanting to make them laugh.
I hope I gave you something good out of all this, my love.
but then panic stepped in.
And then the realisation :
The crafted dream is over, but I wanted the reality, after all.
These thoughts always come too late.
I hate them...
*****
Being patient, going out of the way to pick someone up at three in the morning, with morning shift at seven, swallowing pride and losing arguments, bending over backwards to accomodate someone...
... those were the easy parts.
Patience? It's nothing special. Anybody can be patient, if they want to be... it doesnt bite. And if you do it out of love, it's really quite easy.
The hardest part was when I'd tell her as she got ready to go out, or as we stepped out the door that she looked wonderful, or beautiful, and she would brush me off, or almost sneer in disbelief... so saddening
... if she could have only known what I was thinking, as we lay side by side looking at each other, or as I sat over her at sunrise and looked down upon her sleep bedraggled face...
Thinking, feeling : the deepest, most aching sadness, for when the time would come, inevitably, when I would never get to see her again.
Thinking, seeing : Gut-wrenching, each time, looking down on those eyes closed in repose, and on her ears, and hair, and jawline, watching her breathing, and thinking how ugly she could look from some angles, and how how pretty from others, yet from all of them she was so, so beautiful to me.
And sometimes for no good reason at all, I found my vision misting over, as I drew my fingers lightly across her brow.
Perhaps I should have realised earlier, that it is in my nature, like it or not, to fall in love. And perhaps then I would have given us a real shot, and tried to live with her, rather than for her... who knows.
******
I set this up. I was ready for the consequences.
And maybe I will be, in time.
*****
I loved it when she bent my fingers or shoulder around at funny angles as we walked along, not because I loved the inherent sadism in it, but because it made her laugh...
Perhaps the lines got blurred, between loving, and falling in love, in my head.
Perhaps sometimes loving someone is as simple as wanting to make them laugh.
I hope I gave you something good out of all this, my love.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Unspoken
She took pity on him, and asked her to walk with them back to their cars; to give him some company while he waited for Her.
Later, alone, in her auntie's car she said you're very patient to wait for Her like this.
He laughed, and said oh it was nothing special. Anybody can be patient...
Later, alone, in her auntie's car she said you're very patient to wait for Her like this.
He laughed, and said oh it was nothing special. Anybody can be patient...
The Cruel Game
No apology
No attempt to reconcile
Only silent tears (of rage? of anger?)
A near-end
And so it stands
my cross to bear
*****
I remember when she was telling me how she told some guy who liked her that she couldn't be with him, because she would hurt the guy she really liked.
I remember falling, a little more.
*****
Two ways to fall. In and out.
Is this my lot? Always reminiscence.
I remember
when you would go out of your way, even at risk of losing your sacred siesta, or waking up early on a Saturday morning - unthinkable for you! - to accommodate me.
I remember when you warned me not to do things for you, lest you take me for granted
I remember how, watching you, asleep in the mornings, with the sunlight playing about your face, and tousling your morning hair, vowing silently to myself to do all I could, be all I could, for you.
I remember how you told me you would rather stay home with me, how you didn't enjoy the meaninglessness of clubbing; I remember releasing you to your friends because I could never want to cage someone whose independence and spirit I cherished.
*****
Perhaps the best things about you
Not that you were beautiful (to me), or gentle
Not your body, or those legs which are the stuff of men's fantasies
Not your wit or intelligence, which are apparent
But that you were considerate, and selfless, and kind
That you could look upon my kind - the whiter than white Pretenders - discern in them hypocrisy, selfishness, self-servitude, unfaithfulness, greed and deceit, and that you shied away from them
That you knew right from wrong, you had morals.
You were Good
No attempt to reconcile
Only silent tears (of rage? of anger?)
A near-end
And so it stands
my cross to bear
*****
I remember when she was telling me how she told some guy who liked her that she couldn't be with him, because she would hurt the guy she really liked.
I remember falling, a little more.
*****
Two ways to fall. In and out.
Is this my lot? Always reminiscence.
I remember
when you would go out of your way, even at risk of losing your sacred siesta, or waking up early on a Saturday morning - unthinkable for you! - to accommodate me.
I remember when you warned me not to do things for you, lest you take me for granted
I remember how, watching you, asleep in the mornings, with the sunlight playing about your face, and tousling your morning hair, vowing silently to myself to do all I could, be all I could, for you.
I remember how you told me you would rather stay home with me, how you didn't enjoy the meaninglessness of clubbing; I remember releasing you to your friends because I could never want to cage someone whose independence and spirit I cherished.
*****
Perhaps the best things about you
Not that you were beautiful (to me), or gentle
Not your body, or those legs which are the stuff of men's fantasies
Not your wit or intelligence, which are apparent
But that you were considerate, and selfless, and kind
That you could look upon my kind - the whiter than white Pretenders - discern in them hypocrisy, selfishness, self-servitude, unfaithfulness, greed and deceit, and that you shied away from them
That you knew right from wrong, you had morals.
You were Good
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