Talking to a friend of a friend the other day, or rather was being plied by him for answers about what it was like to be a doctor.
Listening to him tell me he wants to make a difference, and help where he can, when he can puts me in mind of a different time and place...
I was him once, all earnesty and bright eyed, waggy-tailed sincerity. An army of old men telling me to be prepared - do you really really want this; you must really want this, because the sky's the limit but the sky has a low ceiling... a legion of old men couldn't dampen my hopes.
A panel of four interviewers listening intently while I tell them just Why; tell them about how my father (whom I love a great deal but just can't bring myself to show it - it's just how I was raised and who I am now) treated my grandmother in her last days as she succumbed slowly and painfully to the ravages of hepatocellular carcinoma; watching his stoic silence as he put up her morphine, watching how he made the long trek across the island every day to be there with her after work... watching as the life drained out of both of them day by day made me realise I wanted to be like him; I wanted to be Good. Perhaps it showed in my eyes as I babbled incoherently, who knows : but the interview panels wanted me. And I wanted them, because they didn't throw me tired, bitter lines like "Why Do you Want to be a Doctor aside from Saving lives and All that Crap"... but simply wanted to know about me, and why I wanted what I did, as much as I did.
Cut back to present day, and I'm telling him : this fuzzy feeling you have right now isn't enough; it will melt away - it's inevitable. We can't be that person all the time, and as time passes you'll be that person less and less. You need something more... you just have to really, really want this; i'm mindful how I was told the same thing once upon a lifetime ago, and I thought secretly, but I'm not like you, I'll be different... and I secretly pitied the doctor on the other side of the conversation intimating that he was burning out; I'm not like you, I won't falter... I know I really, really want this.
And I realise how futile it all is; or perhaps I'm just choosing the words wrong.
So for those of you hopeful bunnies for whom its not too late, and for the rest who I would like to share this with - S, I wish I could have told you this since you told me what being a vet was like, and Agent J, who's busy saving the world right now and loves me enough to feel outraged on my behalf...
Being a doctor is getting that phone call after 3 gruelling hours of medical statistics made Hard (ie taught all wrong) and racing back to hospital at ten pm to fly into OT. Not because you want to impress the boss, or even because of a sense of duty to help him out while he vanquishes the monster, nor even because you owe it to this poor patient whose liver just keeps packing up post liver transplant, but because you need to know what went wrong, and you need to learn how to fix it; because you need to be there, for no particular reason. You just do.
Being a doctor is scrubbing out at one am, and gazing glassy eyed at the desolate, deserted road stretching out before you.
Getting home and eating cold carbonara out of the fridge because you're so damn hungry you can't wait the two minutes it takes to nuke it back to life. And marvelling at how divine it tastes - cream is such a wonderful, wonderful thing!
Dropping your clothes in a trail behind you like Hansel and Gretal did (well, perhaps those were tidbits and not clothes, but clothes would make for a more exciting story, no?) as you meander towards the toilet (say hello, late-night cockroach) to wash the sebum off your face and out of your eyes.
Flopping into bed and picking up that biostats book because time is short, and tomorrow is another day - and thinking Thank God this is me having an Easy Time, imagine if I was full-time right now.
And yet feeling - yes, this is what I want. It sucks ass, and some of my friends are being paid triple my salary and don't have to fork out thousands of dollars for radiation protection wear. For high powered operating binocular spectacles. For all sorts of things the government will shriek at when I try to claim it from them.
And said friends are working maybe half the total number of hours I am each week.
But it doesn't matter, because this is... me.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Legacy
The thing about blogs is that they immortalize us.
The last time I spoke to Slinky she was still with The Boy; she was worrying about the future and where things were going. That's how long ago it was.
Reading Slinky's posts about Labradorboy, and Captain Starlight (although it gets too a bit too intimate and iccky for comfort) I can't help but marvel at how much happened in the span of a year.
The Straits Times article didn't make any mention of Celina Chua being a blogger; I suppose being a straight cut-and-paste job from the Australian newspiece it wouldn't have done...
The thing about blogs is they immortalize us - but usually only an impression of us, whether it be that part we want to be best known for, or whether it be that part in us that we wish existed, or want the world to believe really exists... Online personas are like that... Look over a long enough period of time and the cracks in the mask start to show.
Sometimes we write down what we really think, sometimes we hide what we think for fear of persecution or ridicule. For some they're vehicles to advertise their "faces" or their lifestyles, but for some others they're private journals laid bare to the world for all to see.
I guess, as House puts it, everybody lies. And almost everybody has an agenda.
But once in a while people just write - about their lives, their loves, their pasts and presents, their doubts about the future and the things that make them laugh and cry... and yes, perhaps as some of Singapore's "top bloggers" are wont to say, these people aren't really bloggers.
Perhaps they're something else, because who knows what a blogger really is in these crazy mixed-up days?
These people, the way they write... their blogs pay them tribute after they're gone. They capture their essence in some way, and let you know who they really were. They make you feel and empathise with the writers, even through that one-way looking glass of yesterday. And perhaps they make you wish you had known the writer a little better.
And I realize again what I realized a while ago: that even though I had not been happy in years, even though I am chronically sleep-deprived and exams are in two weeks, even though I'm always broke and I have no idea where my future is headed, I am happy with my life. -- Slinky, Saturday October 31, 2009
I'm glad you were, Slinky. I'm glad.
Be well, now.
The last time I spoke to Slinky she was still with The Boy; she was worrying about the future and where things were going. That's how long ago it was.
Reading Slinky's posts about Labradorboy, and Captain Starlight (although it gets too a bit too intimate and iccky for comfort) I can't help but marvel at how much happened in the span of a year.
The Straits Times article didn't make any mention of Celina Chua being a blogger; I suppose being a straight cut-and-paste job from the Australian newspiece it wouldn't have done...
The thing about blogs is they immortalize us - but usually only an impression of us, whether it be that part we want to be best known for, or whether it be that part in us that we wish existed, or want the world to believe really exists... Online personas are like that... Look over a long enough period of time and the cracks in the mask start to show.
Sometimes we write down what we really think, sometimes we hide what we think for fear of persecution or ridicule. For some they're vehicles to advertise their "faces" or their lifestyles, but for some others they're private journals laid bare to the world for all to see.
I guess, as House puts it, everybody lies. And almost everybody has an agenda.
But once in a while people just write - about their lives, their loves, their pasts and presents, their doubts about the future and the things that make them laugh and cry... and yes, perhaps as some of Singapore's "top bloggers" are wont to say, these people aren't really bloggers.
Perhaps they're something else, because who knows what a blogger really is in these crazy mixed-up days?
These people, the way they write... their blogs pay them tribute after they're gone. They capture their essence in some way, and let you know who they really were. They make you feel and empathise with the writers, even through that one-way looking glass of yesterday. And perhaps they make you wish you had known the writer a little better.
And I realize again what I realized a while ago: that even though I had not been happy in years, even though I am chronically sleep-deprived and exams are in two weeks, even though I'm always broke and I have no idea where my future is headed, I am happy with my life. -- Slinky, Saturday October 31, 2009
I'm glad you were, Slinky. I'm glad.
Be well, now.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Farewell
I first met her online, in the immediate aftermath of the last breakup when I was feeling a little distraught and betrayed, and the gradual creeping realization that I'd been a terrible judge of character - of my own volition - and loved and trusted someone who I shouldn't even have been friends with was starting to set in.
I was at turns bitter, disappointed and resigned, and was spending a lot of time hanging around the lab working on a project because of the quiet and solitude it offered me away from trivial thoughts of red flags that I had ignored, balances in relationships, people taking other people for granted, and whether it was inevitable to stray when absolute trust was gifted; I needed to do.
I think it was a Sunday afternoon; I remember the evening sun streaming in. I messaged her on a whim, she was one of the strangers on my gchat, friend of a friend, and author of a blog which I liked to visit from time to time.
She was studying for an exam - either path or physiology - but took the time out to listen and offer what comfort she could. We spoke in between doing our work far past sundown and got to know each other. I remember she was funny, humorous and a good listener. And that she was happy - so happy - to be chasing down her dream of becoming a veterinarian, under all the growly resentment of having to mug for the malignant "basic" science exam-monsters that I once slew myself.
Everyday life got in the way, and we spoke less and less frequently. She flew back once and rang me up, and we came within a hair's breadth of meeting up for a coffee, but our schedules were just a little too busy and it didn't quite happen.
Life went on, and she became The Person who Posted Funny Snips about Being Assaulted by Horses and other Farm Animals on my facebook wall. I took it for granted that she would always be there, and that we would meet someday in the distant future; that she was a stone's throw away on gchat and sms. I treated her the way I treat most of my friends, which is poorly.
I saw the post by one of our mutual friends on facebook yesterday while I was dozing off in the tea room waiting for the operation to start; I followed the link and read the newspaper article. And somewhere along the way the pieces finally fell into place, in my muggy post-call, food-deprived head. My God, this person - this faintly familiar firstnamelastname - was Her. Double whammy, She was dead.
Dead in the worst possible way, at the prime of her life, in a trivial moment that cost her her life, driving her family back to the airport, the unlucky sole non-survivor of a tragic accident, dying on site just as help arrived with her family incapacitated all around her. Five weeks away from graduation, from attaining her dream.
Dead and gone. Her facebook wall is flooding over with sadness, with people pouring out their grief about missing her and hoping that she rests in peace; that's what bubbly, cheerful, brave people get when they die.
It's just not enough.
What they deserve is life; to be going on doing all the things that we loved and knew she loved doing.
Goodbye Slinky. We never met you and I, face to face, but you were one of the few good people I'm honoured to call "friend".
I'll miss you.
I was at turns bitter, disappointed and resigned, and was spending a lot of time hanging around the lab working on a project because of the quiet and solitude it offered me away from trivial thoughts of red flags that I had ignored, balances in relationships, people taking other people for granted, and whether it was inevitable to stray when absolute trust was gifted; I needed to do.
I think it was a Sunday afternoon; I remember the evening sun streaming in. I messaged her on a whim, she was one of the strangers on my gchat, friend of a friend, and author of a blog which I liked to visit from time to time.
She was studying for an exam - either path or physiology - but took the time out to listen and offer what comfort she could. We spoke in between doing our work far past sundown and got to know each other. I remember she was funny, humorous and a good listener. And that she was happy - so happy - to be chasing down her dream of becoming a veterinarian, under all the growly resentment of having to mug for the malignant "basic" science exam-monsters that I once slew myself.
Everyday life got in the way, and we spoke less and less frequently. She flew back once and rang me up, and we came within a hair's breadth of meeting up for a coffee, but our schedules were just a little too busy and it didn't quite happen.
Life went on, and she became The Person who Posted Funny Snips about Being Assaulted by Horses and other Farm Animals on my facebook wall. I took it for granted that she would always be there, and that we would meet someday in the distant future; that she was a stone's throw away on gchat and sms. I treated her the way I treat most of my friends, which is poorly.
I saw the post by one of our mutual friends on facebook yesterday while I was dozing off in the tea room waiting for the operation to start; I followed the link and read the newspaper article. And somewhere along the way the pieces finally fell into place, in my muggy post-call, food-deprived head. My God, this person - this faintly familiar firstnamelastname - was Her. Double whammy, She was dead.
Dead in the worst possible way, at the prime of her life, in a trivial moment that cost her her life, driving her family back to the airport, the unlucky sole non-survivor of a tragic accident, dying on site just as help arrived with her family incapacitated all around her. Five weeks away from graduation, from attaining her dream.
Dead and gone. Her facebook wall is flooding over with sadness, with people pouring out their grief about missing her and hoping that she rests in peace; that's what bubbly, cheerful, brave people get when they die.
It's just not enough.
What they deserve is life; to be going on doing all the things that we loved and knew she loved doing.
Goodbye Slinky. We never met you and I, face to face, but you were one of the few good people I'm honoured to call "friend".
I'll miss you.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Apathy
Life passes by, and suddenly it seems I'm teetering on the brink of senility forgetting which day of the week it is. Give me another minute and I'll be on the other side of the looking glass, the guy in the hospital bed wondering why he's in hospital as hypoxia eats away the last vestiges of his sense and sensibility.
I remember what it was like to be a houseman; I really do. And I remember all the times I spent with L and A and D (hmm. my three closest friends. Left anterior descending... laugh) wondering about what we would be when we grew up.
I remember falling in... like... (because first reaction's always denial when it's real innit) with ***** surgery, impressionable baby houseman that I was. But there were so many possibilities then, and we all of us fancied ourselves a little bit of a House ourselves, a little bit of a Carter... Even bits physician and cool ER physician. No committments, just trial and error, a series of torrid affairs and blah relationships with subdisciplines, a life squandered. Come full circle, here I am again for real now after shopping thrice around the block for something else I could fall in like with and coming up nearly empty.
There are a few things I like, and they center about fine work; not because I fancy myself an artist but because there's something wonderful about sitting down and losing a few hours of your life doing something that feels slightly beyond your grasp and capabilities... and getting there against your own expectations.
Cruel irony then that thanks to the boss's excellent teaching I found myself flying through a laparoscopic operation today when in contrast I spent the rest of the day labouring on my own through much smaller operations.
All very boring.
Take home message, time flies, buildings collapse, people die, bad shit happens, and we turn into old farts.
I'm becoming a stereotype, blogging about work all the time. Work is becoming my life. Everything I feared, once upon a lifetime ago when I was roaming the streets of London as a free man are here and now.
And strangely, it's so very hard to care.
******
The other half is following xx's blog, and keeping me posted about her wedding and how her posts are blatent advertorials, her comments about expecting only the best if she has to pay for stuff because everything's given to her free these days, the rags to riches fairytale and forgotten roots, etcetcetc.
I find myself saying, well she wanted all this and she got it; good for her... and finding it... somehow unsurprising. Hard to really care.
And, well, really. Good for her... on to more interesting news...
I remember what it was like to be a houseman; I really do. And I remember all the times I spent with L and A and D (hmm. my three closest friends. Left anterior descending... laugh) wondering about what we would be when we grew up.
I remember falling in... like... (because first reaction's always denial when it's real innit) with ***** surgery, impressionable baby houseman that I was. But there were so many possibilities then, and we all of us fancied ourselves a little bit of a House ourselves, a little bit of a Carter... Even bits physician and cool ER physician. No committments, just trial and error, a series of torrid affairs and blah relationships with subdisciplines, a life squandered. Come full circle, here I am again for real now after shopping thrice around the block for something else I could fall in like with and coming up nearly empty.
There are a few things I like, and they center about fine work; not because I fancy myself an artist but because there's something wonderful about sitting down and losing a few hours of your life doing something that feels slightly beyond your grasp and capabilities... and getting there against your own expectations.
Cruel irony then that thanks to the boss's excellent teaching I found myself flying through a laparoscopic operation today when in contrast I spent the rest of the day labouring on my own through much smaller operations.
All very boring.
Take home message, time flies, buildings collapse, people die, bad shit happens, and we turn into old farts.
I'm becoming a stereotype, blogging about work all the time. Work is becoming my life. Everything I feared, once upon a lifetime ago when I was roaming the streets of London as a free man are here and now.
And strangely, it's so very hard to care.
******
The other half is following xx's blog, and keeping me posted about her wedding and how her posts are blatent advertorials, her comments about expecting only the best if she has to pay for stuff because everything's given to her free these days, the rags to riches fairytale and forgotten roots, etcetcetc.
I find myself saying, well she wanted all this and she got it; good for her... and finding it... somehow unsurprising. Hard to really care.
And, well, really. Good for her... on to more interesting news...
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
sigh
It's been a while.
Enough time to witness some bad things go down and wonder about healthcare and doctors in general in sunnyland. And to watch my boss recoil for fear of rocking the boat / repeating previously failed outcomes, and realise that perhaps one day i'll be like that too.
Listening to someone tell me today that I ought to complain to MOM about my seven day work week I felt like laughing.
And just tonight....
sitting down all ready for dinner, then the telephone call... we want to send for your case; we'll call you when we're sending ok?
hmm enough time for a shower then.
shower... riing.... hello? your patient is in OT now.
fume.
helter skelter pell mell back to work (twenty min, record time) dash in to OT, and .. voila, the gas men are only just wheeling the patient in to start the spinal.
sigh.
Enough time to witness some bad things go down and wonder about healthcare and doctors in general in sunnyland. And to watch my boss recoil for fear of rocking the boat / repeating previously failed outcomes, and realise that perhaps one day i'll be like that too.
Listening to someone tell me today that I ought to complain to MOM about my seven day work week I felt like laughing.
And just tonight....
sitting down all ready for dinner, then the telephone call... we want to send for your case; we'll call you when we're sending ok?
hmm enough time for a shower then.
shower... riing.... hello? your patient is in OT now.
fume.
helter skelter pell mell back to work (twenty min, record time) dash in to OT, and .. voila, the gas men are only just wheeling the patient in to start the spinal.
sigh.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Without a clue
Yesterday's news was all about a diplomat who allegedly ran down three people, killing one. Mainstream media went orgasmic, going to the extent of casting a verdict even before the trial had commenced (and in all likelihood will never begin thanks to diplomatic immunity). It was the kind of behaviour you'd expect from bloggers acting amateur sleuths (nancy drew without a clue) but not from people tasked with some form of responsible journalism. It reminded me how our supposed bastion of information is at the end of the day just another tabloid catering to the whims of a few.
Found out about the incident retrogradely; one of the consultants mentioned in passing on new year's eve that someone was getting the "gift of life" in emergency theater (ie a transplant). Didn't take much to connect the dots as more information came to light.
Badness begets badness. The perp who hit and ran deserves to be brought to justice whoever it was. But the lynch mob jumping the gun and pointing fingers with bloggers at the helm ought to be brought to task too.
The reality of the world is that neither will happen. Such is life.
*****
Found out about the incident retrogradely; one of the consultants mentioned in passing on new year's eve that someone was getting the "gift of life" in emergency theater (ie a transplant). Didn't take much to connect the dots as more information came to light.
Badness begets badness. The perp who hit and ran deserves to be brought to justice whoever it was. But the lynch mob jumping the gun and pointing fingers with bloggers at the helm ought to be brought to task too.
The reality of the world is that neither will happen. Such is life.
*****
Friday, December 4, 2009
The Wheel of Time
A cathartic moment as I was bringing a couple of the fledglings through a sebaceous cyst excision the other day...
I remember back when I was first starting out at an un-named district general hospital, and how the MO(S) used to talk me through the op before each op, and then observe me struggling and take over for a bit to show me a trick or two. I still feel like the same inept rookie sometimes, even doing something as simple as an excision biopsy - but I've learnt a few tricks through the years to make things easier for myself, and I know enough to guide my baby MOs back on track when they're so certain that sebaceous cyst with that almost unnoticeable scar-distorted punctum is a lipoma...
... and then it struck me that I'm the other guy now. Perhaps more patient than KR had been, or perhaps less. Perhaps spoon-feeding too much, or perhaps taking over too-often. I don't know. It doesn't really matter anyhow.
I thought to myself as I drove home how it feels like I learnt most of my basic surgical techniques in day surgery a lifetime ago, prompted along by veteran nurses itching to go home, and how lucky the kids are nowadays that we make it a point to always be there with them till they're ready to fly solo... and then I realise that one day those kids will probably be feeling the same way too, driving home from a long day's work, or not.
Learning how to do angioplasties today from M, realizing that one day I might well be the one teaching the rookie how to do something as basic as set a peripherally-inserted-central-line... something he said sank in through my haze of trying to look calm in the midst of my (hopefully) concealed panic and bewilderment at an unfamiliar routine - "they come back. They always come back."
He was talking about stenoses reoccurring in blood vessels, in arteries clogging up again after ballooning.
But somewhere in the disjoint mess of my head I know he's right - everything comes back in the end. Everything comes full circle. Life goes on, the scripts keep writing and unwriting themselves.
I remember back when I was first starting out at an un-named district general hospital, and how the MO(S) used to talk me through the op before each op, and then observe me struggling and take over for a bit to show me a trick or two. I still feel like the same inept rookie sometimes, even doing something as simple as an excision biopsy - but I've learnt a few tricks through the years to make things easier for myself, and I know enough to guide my baby MOs back on track when they're so certain that sebaceous cyst with that almost unnoticeable scar-distorted punctum is a lipoma...
... and then it struck me that I'm the other guy now. Perhaps more patient than KR had been, or perhaps less. Perhaps spoon-feeding too much, or perhaps taking over too-often. I don't know. It doesn't really matter anyhow.
I thought to myself as I drove home how it feels like I learnt most of my basic surgical techniques in day surgery a lifetime ago, prompted along by veteran nurses itching to go home, and how lucky the kids are nowadays that we make it a point to always be there with them till they're ready to fly solo... and then I realise that one day those kids will probably be feeling the same way too, driving home from a long day's work, or not.
Learning how to do angioplasties today from M, realizing that one day I might well be the one teaching the rookie how to do something as basic as set a peripherally-inserted-central-line... something he said sank in through my haze of trying to look calm in the midst of my (hopefully) concealed panic and bewilderment at an unfamiliar routine - "they come back. They always come back."
He was talking about stenoses reoccurring in blood vessels, in arteries clogging up again after ballooning.
But somewhere in the disjoint mess of my head I know he's right - everything comes back in the end. Everything comes full circle. Life goes on, the scripts keep writing and unwriting themselves.
Monday, October 19, 2009
For Life
"I've slept with a few hot chicks in my time..." he said.
"How about you? How many girls have you fucked?"
I looked at him, and thought : this is him when he's sober?
"You don't need my stamp of approval." I said.
"Damn right I don't, I've already got her, and I'm marryig her" he said, missing the point entirely.
It turns my stomach sometimes, interacting with elements of "high society" in Singapore.
*****
I've made some monumental mistakes in my time, loved people I shouldn't have bothered with and hurt people I loved; told a few misguided then-white lies that have caused too much pain, spoken too bluntly and caused more.
I remember things wrong, I'm emotional, I'm fraught with fallibility.
But if there's one mistake I don't ever want to make, it's to rush headlong into a marriage destined for disaster.
Because marriage is for life... not for-ever, but for life. For a shared life that ought to be special to two people.
Not for anything else, wealth, fame or power. But for life.
"How about you? How many girls have you fucked?"
I looked at him, and thought : this is him when he's sober?
"You don't need my stamp of approval." I said.
"Damn right I don't, I've already got her, and I'm marryig her" he said, missing the point entirely.
It turns my stomach sometimes, interacting with elements of "high society" in Singapore.
*****
I've made some monumental mistakes in my time, loved people I shouldn't have bothered with and hurt people I loved; told a few misguided then-white lies that have caused too much pain, spoken too bluntly and caused more.
I remember things wrong, I'm emotional, I'm fraught with fallibility.
But if there's one mistake I don't ever want to make, it's to rush headlong into a marriage destined for disaster.
Because marriage is for life... not for-ever, but for life. For a shared life that ought to be special to two people.
Not for anything else, wealth, fame or power. But for life.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
What's Hot and What's Not
Hypothetical scenario.
Imagine a bloke. Goes out clubbing to meet girls. Meets and flirts with a lot of girls, gets it on with one or two, hooks up with one, gets her believing that they're committed to each other.
After an undefined and variable while decides that he is stuck in a rut, starts going clubbing and flirting with other girls again ("acting single", a nurse I knew once put it) even while continuing to claim love and committment to the first girl, perhaps gets it on with one or two, then loses the first girl for the second. Feels no remorse about it, because after all he didn't love the first girl, and it's not really cheating right... and it's all about me! Repeat cycle ad-nauseum, over and over again.
What words come to mind?
Certainly to mine, all sorts of unpleasant ones.
Now turn it all on its head.
The other half has been following the blog of a girl who's just like that. (of course, she goes out with blokes and not birds.) She thinks that must make the girl hot.
I guess it's one of those societal stereotypes...
Sometimes we have the same discussion about one of her some-kind-of-friends who is kinda skanky and puts out a lot; boasts to her about being fingered by strangers in public etc, and for some crazy reason the other half thinks makes her hot.
I look at said friend and see someone who just isn't hot. She's just... cheap. And a little sad. I feel a little sad for her.
It's the same with the girl in the story above. Sad.
These people call themselves hot. They desperately want to think of themselves as hot, and they want the world to see them that way too.
But at heart they're unhappy with themselves. They're insecure. They're just... ill.
It strikes me as just a little funny, and unfair in an odd way that we automatically peg guys who "play" as bastards, but girls who "play"... must be hot to play. Men get moral judgements, women get assumptions into the way they look.
Hot isn't about being able to sleep with a lot of men at once, or to turn many of them over like an autumn gust of wind turns over leaves.
You can be ugly. Short. Fat. Have weird cheekbones. A weird nose. Bad teeth. And still sleep with a lot of men / women, or run through girl/boy friends like water. If you're undiscerning, if you're cheap, if you don't really care... the point is. If you don't treat relationships like they're special. If you don't treat your partners like they're special. If you only treat yourself like you're special. Then you get all that...
You don't have to be hot. Just very, very self-centered.
Hot is... simply about being hot.
Hot is in the way a girl's eyes light up when she laughs, the way her hair falls across her face, the shape of her lips, the way she moves. Perhaps the shape of her body, the length of her legs, perhaps the way she speaks.
Hot is something unconscious that you simply have, or that you learnt, or that you were born with.
I never thought either of the two girls above were hot. I thought one of them was attractive, once - but that was because she wore an elaborate mask, built entirely out of lies.
*********
It's easy to play; it's easy to run through women like water, or men like a hot knife through butter. You just have to show that you want to play, and that you don't really... care. You just have to... put out.
S wanted me to play; she wanted me to be the guy in the book. She thought I might need lessons, that it would do something good for my self confidence.
She didn't quite get it right.
I don't need to play. I don't even want to.
One of J's friends - an image consultant who creates "players" - was rather acerbic when she was asked to work on me, once upon a lifetime ago. She said but you're already right, just the way you are...
I know I could play; it would be so very, very easy. I know the words; I know how to time the little smiles, I know how to make that kind of eye contact. I know how to reach out and touch at just the right moment, I know how to lie.
I don't want to. It wouldn't... give me anything worth remembering.
******
A friend of mine once told me how lonely he was; he was fucking a different girl almost every night. He went out clubbing, and got drunk, and the half-drunk girls thought he was kinda cute; best of all he gave off the vibe - I'm not serious, I don't want to know you, I just want a fuck.
And so he got fucked; it was that simple. Some of it's mind games, some of the girls wanted to "win", to change him. Some of them just wanted to fuck, and recognised a commitment free lay when they saw him. He got lots of action with all sorts of chicks, some hot, some not, some rather... cough... underaged.
On the surface he was happy, carefree, well-fucked.
Sometimes he'd confide in me though, and that was when he'd talk about how he hated his life, how little meaning it all had, how he missed The Girl, the one girl he went so crazy about he wrote poetry - imagine that! - and how they spent all summer together and didn't touch that much, and how he fell in love with her.
******
Fucking a stranger isn't a special memory. Regardless of how hot he or she was.
Special memories aren't the ones that are just about "me, me me."
Special memories are the ones that are shared. The things that really give us a sense of fulfillment are the things we share, the moments when we touch the lives of others, and have our own lives touched in return. Moments of actually giving a damn about someone other than yourself.
I think human beings are hard-wired that way; I think it all ties in with that unspoken fear of being alone, living alone, dying alone without meaning anything to anyone else. Of passing through this life unremembered, and being forgotten.
Imagine a bloke. Goes out clubbing to meet girls. Meets and flirts with a lot of girls, gets it on with one or two, hooks up with one, gets her believing that they're committed to each other.
After an undefined and variable while decides that he is stuck in a rut, starts going clubbing and flirting with other girls again ("acting single", a nurse I knew once put it) even while continuing to claim love and committment to the first girl, perhaps gets it on with one or two, then loses the first girl for the second. Feels no remorse about it, because after all he didn't love the first girl, and it's not really cheating right... and it's all about me! Repeat cycle ad-nauseum, over and over again.
What words come to mind?
Certainly to mine, all sorts of unpleasant ones.
Now turn it all on its head.
The other half has been following the blog of a girl who's just like that. (of course, she goes out with blokes and not birds.) She thinks that must make the girl hot.
I guess it's one of those societal stereotypes...
Sometimes we have the same discussion about one of her some-kind-of-friends who is kinda skanky and puts out a lot; boasts to her about being fingered by strangers in public etc, and for some crazy reason the other half thinks makes her hot.
I look at said friend and see someone who just isn't hot. She's just... cheap. And a little sad. I feel a little sad for her.
It's the same with the girl in the story above. Sad.
These people call themselves hot. They desperately want to think of themselves as hot, and they want the world to see them that way too.
But at heart they're unhappy with themselves. They're insecure. They're just... ill.
It strikes me as just a little funny, and unfair in an odd way that we automatically peg guys who "play" as bastards, but girls who "play"... must be hot to play. Men get moral judgements, women get assumptions into the way they look.
Hot isn't about being able to sleep with a lot of men at once, or to turn many of them over like an autumn gust of wind turns over leaves.
You can be ugly. Short. Fat. Have weird cheekbones. A weird nose. Bad teeth. And still sleep with a lot of men / women, or run through girl/boy friends like water. If you're undiscerning, if you're cheap, if you don't really care... the point is. If you don't treat relationships like they're special. If you don't treat your partners like they're special. If you only treat yourself like you're special. Then you get all that...
You don't have to be hot. Just very, very self-centered.
Hot is... simply about being hot.
Hot is in the way a girl's eyes light up when she laughs, the way her hair falls across her face, the shape of her lips, the way she moves. Perhaps the shape of her body, the length of her legs, perhaps the way she speaks.
Hot is something unconscious that you simply have, or that you learnt, or that you were born with.
I never thought either of the two girls above were hot. I thought one of them was attractive, once - but that was because she wore an elaborate mask, built entirely out of lies.
*********
It's easy to play; it's easy to run through women like water, or men like a hot knife through butter. You just have to show that you want to play, and that you don't really... care. You just have to... put out.
S wanted me to play; she wanted me to be the guy in the book. She thought I might need lessons, that it would do something good for my self confidence.
She didn't quite get it right.
I don't need to play. I don't even want to.
One of J's friends - an image consultant who creates "players" - was rather acerbic when she was asked to work on me, once upon a lifetime ago. She said but you're already right, just the way you are...
I know I could play; it would be so very, very easy. I know the words; I know how to time the little smiles, I know how to make that kind of eye contact. I know how to reach out and touch at just the right moment, I know how to lie.
I don't want to. It wouldn't... give me anything worth remembering.
******
A friend of mine once told me how lonely he was; he was fucking a different girl almost every night. He went out clubbing, and got drunk, and the half-drunk girls thought he was kinda cute; best of all he gave off the vibe - I'm not serious, I don't want to know you, I just want a fuck.
And so he got fucked; it was that simple. Some of it's mind games, some of the girls wanted to "win", to change him. Some of them just wanted to fuck, and recognised a commitment free lay when they saw him. He got lots of action with all sorts of chicks, some hot, some not, some rather... cough... underaged.
On the surface he was happy, carefree, well-fucked.
Sometimes he'd confide in me though, and that was when he'd talk about how he hated his life, how little meaning it all had, how he missed The Girl, the one girl he went so crazy about he wrote poetry - imagine that! - and how they spent all summer together and didn't touch that much, and how he fell in love with her.
******
Fucking a stranger isn't a special memory. Regardless of how hot he or she was.
Special memories aren't the ones that are just about "me, me me."
Special memories are the ones that are shared. The things that really give us a sense of fulfillment are the things we share, the moments when we touch the lives of others, and have our own lives touched in return. Moments of actually giving a damn about someone other than yourself.
I think human beings are hard-wired that way; I think it all ties in with that unspoken fear of being alone, living alone, dying alone without meaning anything to anyone else. Of passing through this life unremembered, and being forgotten.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Bad Apples
Much ado about nothing :
Singapore's best choice for the much-coveted crown of Miss Singapore World apparently goes, quite simply, to the best-looking contestant. (bad run this year, hey)
Nevermind if she turns out to have kleptomaniac tendancies and an almost-criminal-conviction for fraud waived for the "fact" that she's schizophrenic to boot.
Aside from the unspoken but obvious point that Sandra Bullock made a lifetime ago ("...world peace?") that International Beauty Queens are as much about an idea as an appearance... about quasi-diplomacy and representation on a world-stage of... many things... about choosing someone with that something extra special from a crowd of incredibly beautiful women, well.
Ris Low isn't exactly beautiful. Perhaps good-looking at best (though not to my eye).
Nor does she possess a heart of gold (it takes an even measure of self-centredness, malice, and sheer stupidity to try to pull off credit card fraud on an ex-customer, methinks) and she doesn't have an impeccable integrity, or, now, even the semblance of one.
She doesn't have poise and grace (most commonly conveyed through cool-headedness, wit, and clear diction)
In short, she doesn't have anything remotely special, that might make her stand half a chance in a crowd full of women possessing at least some measure of the above - who have been SELECTED by their countries BECAUSE they possess qualities that stand out.
I can only hazard how she won her crown (hint, it involves a lot of Boomzing).
I don't know. I think I'd choose a well-spoken plain-Jane (plain but not ugly of course) with grace, poise, wit, intelligence, kindness and... a lack of a criminal record... to represent Singapore any day over a... badly-spoken plain-Jane with... none of the above.
I might even go with the first girl over a beautiful but inarticulate, self-centered, graceless, witless and stupid ah-lian... simply because it's all about putting our best foot forwards to the world. As opposed to our worst.
Yes, it's choosing to represent Singapore in a certain light, in a way that perhaps it's not. Our people aren't well-spoken (thank you, Beyonce) as a whole. Yes, it's all wayang.
But every other country out there is doing just the same. And none of those girls who'll appear on stage on the fateful day looks remotely like the average girl from her country, nor sounds or thinks like them. And none of them has a known criminal record.
Because it's impossible to fall in love with someone who is grasping, selfish and deceitful, if even for an instant, sitting at a desk with three other judges - or sitting halfway across the world in a sofa with the remote in your hand.
And that's what Miss World is about - the paragon of womanhood that all humanity falls in love with.
*****
People who lie, who cheat, who steal, who use, who hurt - selfish, self-serving people.
They are common. They are all around. They are the monsters within us set free by owners who love themselves too much.
*****
Talking to a friend the other night we found ourselves agreeing that you must never try to see the best in some people. And that it becomes too late if it gets personal.
I used to want to believe in people. I thought that perhaps being placed in positions of responsibility over other people made people think a certain way, and that maybe it was because people weren't doing much to contribute to other people's lives that they became self-centered and selfish enough to hurt others for their self-gain. Maybe if they did, they would change for the better. I used to think that criminals, given half a chance could be reformed, and that you can't help being born the way you look, the parents you were born to, the neighbourhood you grew up in... maybe if things were different then, well who knows.
I realise now that I was making excuses for them.
The truth is what I learnt living and working in London for the many years that I did.
Some people just steal because they want to - because it gives them a sense of achievement.
Some people just want so much to win, or to be loved, or to be worshipped... anything at all -- that they are willing to lie, cheat, or hurt others for their own gain.
That's just the way it goes.
Some people are just bad. You can't help them - and they don't want to be helped anyway - they want to be bad. And You must never try to see the best in them. Because if you do and it gets personal, then it's too late.
Other people are just ill. You can't help them. They will die ill. That's just the way it is.
Said friend says he can suss out within minutes who is "real" and who is not, and that the real people are few and far between.
They are; and they are precious.
These are people we are the richer for knowing, for however long we know them.
These are people who were good, or who chose to try to be good, or who turned good from bad - because they wanted to.
These are people to keep close; these are people worth remembering.
I came to the (now obvious) cathartic conclusion when I was very young, perhaps ten or so - that we only live life once. And then I had a host of existential worries about the lack of meaning of life; the lack of a reason for life at all, for order in a world doomed to chaos, for darkness in a world of fading light. I felt an overwhelming need to live my life "right", to tread carefully in places of light and avoid the darkness, to never take a step wrong. I was afraid that the darkness would infect and take some meaning away from who I thought of as "me". I thought that in that final moment just before we died... in that moment when we thought back and remembered our pasts, that that would be the clincher. That would be when I knew whether my life had meant anything to me, or not, or whether I had wasted and cheapened it.
Today I still think that the meaning in life is in how we live it. And I know first-hand that the darkness does rub off on me. Perhaps it does detract from some of my life's meaning, perhaps the bad people steal some of it away for themselves.
How we remember it is entirely up to us.
We can choose to remember the good people, and to not dwell on the bad. To remember the people who gave us truths, and forget the ones who lied to us.
******
Sometimes the other half worries that I might still love my past.
Perhaps it was because I was badly hurt when I met her, and having never been betrayed herself she equates the pain and confusion I felt then with love. I was "emo", and
unhappy.
Two of my ex girlfriends lied to and cheated on me.
One had the decency to come clean about it to me; the other didn't have the decency to even admit it to herself.
It hurt me both times, a lot. And it taught me something - about how to react to betrayal, I think. I'm still not quite sure. But it made a few things clearer in my head.
The reasons it hurts when lies start becoming exposed are - as they like to say in medicine - multifactorial. Firstly it shows you just how bad a judge of character you have been - these were bad people, not just at a moment in time but since they were born, the telltale clues were all there all along; Secondly it leaves you wondering just where and when truth ended and falsehood began - or if there was ever any truth at all. Lastly it makes you feel like your life has been cheapened, and some meaning taken away from you.
It's a different feeling to just breaking up with someone on honest terms. It's more than just disappointment, and it has nothing to do with residual love.
It's bad. Evil, almost.
The thing that lingers in your heart and mind isn't the person, but the betrayal; the pain they wrought on someone else without care - while claiming they loved them.
The people are easy to forget; they were betrayers and can never be trusted again. People like this are no good for friendship - much less love.
I made the mistake of trying to be "good" and to do the right thing and find forgiveness in my heart both times. Once I wound up being infected by the darkness and telling what I thought were white lies in the process.
Ironically in the immediate aftermath of the later-day ex I reestablished - if only for a while - contact with the "old testament"-ex and it was her words : these things (ie girls betraying) happen to you because you are too weak - which made me realise just how these people think. (and had me feeling "dirty" for even bothing to reply to that ex again)
How blind they are to the people around them. It takes infinitely more strength to live for someone else than to live for yourself; to inconvenience yourself for their benefit; to back down when you are right and they are wrong. How full of conceit and twisted they must be to feel that things like this are about the strong and the weak, and to borrow a phrase from Ris Low - "all about me!" (...Boomz)
I realised then that the solution is neither forgiveness, nor hatred, nor hoping for karmic retribution in the future, nor being assimilated and going rogue in return.
The solution is moving on and away, forgetting the past. Re-minisce, no more.
Singapore's best choice for the much-coveted crown of Miss Singapore World apparently goes, quite simply, to the best-looking contestant. (bad run this year, hey)
Nevermind if she turns out to have kleptomaniac tendancies and an almost-criminal-conviction for fraud waived for the "fact" that she's schizophrenic to boot.
Aside from the unspoken but obvious point that Sandra Bullock made a lifetime ago ("...world peace?") that International Beauty Queens are as much about an idea as an appearance... about quasi-diplomacy and representation on a world-stage of... many things... about choosing someone with that something extra special from a crowd of incredibly beautiful women, well.
Ris Low isn't exactly beautiful. Perhaps good-looking at best (though not to my eye).
Nor does she possess a heart of gold (it takes an even measure of self-centredness, malice, and sheer stupidity to try to pull off credit card fraud on an ex-customer, methinks) and she doesn't have an impeccable integrity, or, now, even the semblance of one.
She doesn't have poise and grace (most commonly conveyed through cool-headedness, wit, and clear diction)
In short, she doesn't have anything remotely special, that might make her stand half a chance in a crowd full of women possessing at least some measure of the above - who have been SELECTED by their countries BECAUSE they possess qualities that stand out.
I can only hazard how she won her crown (hint, it involves a lot of Boomzing).
I don't know. I think I'd choose a well-spoken plain-Jane (plain but not ugly of course) with grace, poise, wit, intelligence, kindness and... a lack of a criminal record... to represent Singapore any day over a... badly-spoken plain-Jane with... none of the above.
I might even go with the first girl over a beautiful but inarticulate, self-centered, graceless, witless and stupid ah-lian... simply because it's all about putting our best foot forwards to the world. As opposed to our worst.
Yes, it's choosing to represent Singapore in a certain light, in a way that perhaps it's not. Our people aren't well-spoken (thank you, Beyonce) as a whole. Yes, it's all wayang.
But every other country out there is doing just the same. And none of those girls who'll appear on stage on the fateful day looks remotely like the average girl from her country, nor sounds or thinks like them. And none of them has a known criminal record.
Because it's impossible to fall in love with someone who is grasping, selfish and deceitful, if even for an instant, sitting at a desk with three other judges - or sitting halfway across the world in a sofa with the remote in your hand.
And that's what Miss World is about - the paragon of womanhood that all humanity falls in love with.
*****
People who lie, who cheat, who steal, who use, who hurt - selfish, self-serving people.
They are common. They are all around. They are the monsters within us set free by owners who love themselves too much.
*****
Talking to a friend the other night we found ourselves agreeing that you must never try to see the best in some people. And that it becomes too late if it gets personal.
I used to want to believe in people. I thought that perhaps being placed in positions of responsibility over other people made people think a certain way, and that maybe it was because people weren't doing much to contribute to other people's lives that they became self-centered and selfish enough to hurt others for their self-gain. Maybe if they did, they would change for the better. I used to think that criminals, given half a chance could be reformed, and that you can't help being born the way you look, the parents you were born to, the neighbourhood you grew up in... maybe if things were different then, well who knows.
I realise now that I was making excuses for them.
The truth is what I learnt living and working in London for the many years that I did.
Some people just steal because they want to - because it gives them a sense of achievement.
Some people just want so much to win, or to be loved, or to be worshipped... anything at all -- that they are willing to lie, cheat, or hurt others for their own gain.
That's just the way it goes.
Some people are just bad. You can't help them - and they don't want to be helped anyway - they want to be bad. And You must never try to see the best in them. Because if you do and it gets personal, then it's too late.
Other people are just ill. You can't help them. They will die ill. That's just the way it is.
Said friend says he can suss out within minutes who is "real" and who is not, and that the real people are few and far between.
They are; and they are precious.
These are people we are the richer for knowing, for however long we know them.
These are people who were good, or who chose to try to be good, or who turned good from bad - because they wanted to.
These are people to keep close; these are people worth remembering.
I came to the (now obvious) cathartic conclusion when I was very young, perhaps ten or so - that we only live life once. And then I had a host of existential worries about the lack of meaning of life; the lack of a reason for life at all, for order in a world doomed to chaos, for darkness in a world of fading light. I felt an overwhelming need to live my life "right", to tread carefully in places of light and avoid the darkness, to never take a step wrong. I was afraid that the darkness would infect and take some meaning away from who I thought of as "me". I thought that in that final moment just before we died... in that moment when we thought back and remembered our pasts, that that would be the clincher. That would be when I knew whether my life had meant anything to me, or not, or whether I had wasted and cheapened it.
Today I still think that the meaning in life is in how we live it. And I know first-hand that the darkness does rub off on me. Perhaps it does detract from some of my life's meaning, perhaps the bad people steal some of it away for themselves.
How we remember it is entirely up to us.
We can choose to remember the good people, and to not dwell on the bad. To remember the people who gave us truths, and forget the ones who lied to us.
******
Sometimes the other half worries that I might still love my past.
Perhaps it was because I was badly hurt when I met her, and having never been betrayed herself she equates the pain and confusion I felt then with love. I was "emo", and
unhappy.
Two of my ex girlfriends lied to and cheated on me.
One had the decency to come clean about it to me; the other didn't have the decency to even admit it to herself.
It hurt me both times, a lot. And it taught me something - about how to react to betrayal, I think. I'm still not quite sure. But it made a few things clearer in my head.
The reasons it hurts when lies start becoming exposed are - as they like to say in medicine - multifactorial. Firstly it shows you just how bad a judge of character you have been - these were bad people, not just at a moment in time but since they were born, the telltale clues were all there all along; Secondly it leaves you wondering just where and when truth ended and falsehood began - or if there was ever any truth at all. Lastly it makes you feel like your life has been cheapened, and some meaning taken away from you.
It's a different feeling to just breaking up with someone on honest terms. It's more than just disappointment, and it has nothing to do with residual love.
It's bad. Evil, almost.
The thing that lingers in your heart and mind isn't the person, but the betrayal; the pain they wrought on someone else without care - while claiming they loved them.
The people are easy to forget; they were betrayers and can never be trusted again. People like this are no good for friendship - much less love.
I made the mistake of trying to be "good" and to do the right thing and find forgiveness in my heart both times. Once I wound up being infected by the darkness and telling what I thought were white lies in the process.
Ironically in the immediate aftermath of the later-day ex I reestablished - if only for a while - contact with the "old testament"-ex and it was her words : these things (ie girls betraying) happen to you because you are too weak - which made me realise just how these people think. (and had me feeling "dirty" for even bothing to reply to that ex again)
How blind they are to the people around them. It takes infinitely more strength to live for someone else than to live for yourself; to inconvenience yourself for their benefit; to back down when you are right and they are wrong. How full of conceit and twisted they must be to feel that things like this are about the strong and the weak, and to borrow a phrase from Ris Low - "all about me!" (...Boomz)
I realised then that the solution is neither forgiveness, nor hatred, nor hoping for karmic retribution in the future, nor being assimilated and going rogue in return.
The solution is moving on and away, forgetting the past. Re-minisce, no more.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Changes
One of the peculiarities of the singaporean healthcare system is the "black tag". Scaling the rungs of the responsibilitity-ladder earns you a nondescript black name badge that looks suspiciously similar to the low-cost primary school "monitor" tags we used to get as kids. People invariably wear them, it's a sort-of status-symbol cum insignia of "rank" - donning the tag confers on the wearer some form of intangible power which most patients and relatives probably don't know - much less care - about, but which identifies you to another doctor as a "senior" doctor.
The irony is that the nametags for junior doctors are actually kind of nice - sure, the hospital logo tends to rub off over time, but it's actually aesthetically quite appealing.
I've been watching one of my colleagues making the switch to his black tag with a little amusement; shortly after passing his surgical exam he - in typical fashion for him - took to wearing his new badge (almost with... wild abandon...) after his previous badge ostensibly "went missing" in his bosses car. Nevermind that he's wearing the trappings without having to don the associated mantle of responsibility of registrarship... the tag makes him happy, and well, we all share his happiness at taking that step towards the rest of his life. We all know how proud he is of, well, himself. :)
I've been slowly suffocating over the past fortnight after abruptly turning into the registrar-in-lieu for my team, our previous registrar having taken the opportunity to scamper for freedom once I swapped into her team. I don't begrudge her her holiday - I've been doing this a mere fortnight and I'm nearly running on empty... I can't begin to imagine how tired she must be after six months on the job... and I knew what I was in for when I decided to commit my life to my subspecialty. Still... the body is tired, the joints actually hurt (gee) and my back is aching... it's all somatisation I know, all in my head. But staying back till eleven in the evening post-call to chop off bits of my patients because there's nobody else who can do it, and because if I wait too long they're going to die... dozing off multiple times on the drive home... it's sobering.
I'm loth to put on my black tag. I'm not "official" yet, I'm still me. And I'm still weak; I want what little time I have left to zone-out before all this becomes all too real (as it is... right now...) and I can't wait for my reg to come back from her holiday... It's exciting to be handed that instrument that till-now only the consultant would wield intra-op and be told to go ahead and throw that stitch, and it's rewarding to see that anastomosis hold-up. It's.... a little frightening to be told to carry-on without senior support in ops which I've only ever watched or been brought-through once or twice before, but never actually flown solo in... and really rewarding to throw that final stitch and know that my patient ought to be just-fine. And it's humbling to be confronted with a retroperitoneal, retrocaecal appendix and be caught in a dilemma -- to play the registrar you're not-quite-yet and open the retroperitoneum -- or to call for senior support because if anything goes wrong you're still technically a junior - and realise that you're really not all that brave after all.
I guess I'm different from The Gentleman. I'll wear my blocky black tag when I have to - when I'm taking my team on the round when maybe, just maybe it makes that much of a difference when I'm doing battle with that nice old irish man's ex-SPG battleaxe of a wife who's inconsiderately called me out of operating theater just so she can try to browbeat me into keeping him in hospital - against medical advice and against his own wishes - because she needs time to formulate a concerted campaign in her quest to lodge a complaint about the ward nurses. But in between, well, I really like my old tag, and I still like cutting out little tiny skin lumps and creating cosmetically pleasing scars in the quiet sanctitude of the day-surgery OT making small talk with my nurses and patients.
The irony is that the nametags for junior doctors are actually kind of nice - sure, the hospital logo tends to rub off over time, but it's actually aesthetically quite appealing.
I've been watching one of my colleagues making the switch to his black tag with a little amusement; shortly after passing his surgical exam he - in typical fashion for him - took to wearing his new badge (almost with... wild abandon...) after his previous badge ostensibly "went missing" in his bosses car. Nevermind that he's wearing the trappings without having to don the associated mantle of responsibility of registrarship... the tag makes him happy, and well, we all share his happiness at taking that step towards the rest of his life. We all know how proud he is of, well, himself. :)
I've been slowly suffocating over the past fortnight after abruptly turning into the registrar-in-lieu for my team, our previous registrar having taken the opportunity to scamper for freedom once I swapped into her team. I don't begrudge her her holiday - I've been doing this a mere fortnight and I'm nearly running on empty... I can't begin to imagine how tired she must be after six months on the job... and I knew what I was in for when I decided to commit my life to my subspecialty. Still... the body is tired, the joints actually hurt (gee) and my back is aching... it's all somatisation I know, all in my head. But staying back till eleven in the evening post-call to chop off bits of my patients because there's nobody else who can do it, and because if I wait too long they're going to die... dozing off multiple times on the drive home... it's sobering.
I'm loth to put on my black tag. I'm not "official" yet, I'm still me. And I'm still weak; I want what little time I have left to zone-out before all this becomes all too real (as it is... right now...) and I can't wait for my reg to come back from her holiday... It's exciting to be handed that instrument that till-now only the consultant would wield intra-op and be told to go ahead and throw that stitch, and it's rewarding to see that anastomosis hold-up. It's.... a little frightening to be told to carry-on without senior support in ops which I've only ever watched or been brought-through once or twice before, but never actually flown solo in... and really rewarding to throw that final stitch and know that my patient ought to be just-fine. And it's humbling to be confronted with a retroperitoneal, retrocaecal appendix and be caught in a dilemma -- to play the registrar you're not-quite-yet and open the retroperitoneum -- or to call for senior support because if anything goes wrong you're still technically a junior - and realise that you're really not all that brave after all.
I guess I'm different from The Gentleman. I'll wear my blocky black tag when I have to - when I'm taking my team on the round when maybe, just maybe it makes that much of a difference when I'm doing battle with that nice old irish man's ex-SPG battleaxe of a wife who's inconsiderately called me out of operating theater just so she can try to browbeat me into keeping him in hospital - against medical advice and against his own wishes - because she needs time to formulate a concerted campaign in her quest to lodge a complaint about the ward nurses. But in between, well, I really like my old tag, and I still like cutting out little tiny skin lumps and creating cosmetically pleasing scars in the quiet sanctitude of the day-surgery OT making small talk with my nurses and patients.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Freedom
Words of wisdom to the inexperienced : never argue with your examiners.
Life after the final furlong, aka the membership examination... goes on. Going out for drinks and meals without a textbook in hand comes like a refreshing breeze after a stagnant summer's night; and then the "arrows" come flying thick and fast, and suddenly there's just too much to do all at the same time, amidst preparing to host the local examinations, applying for advanced training, and returning to on-calls.
Speaking of which, after a month's reprieve from calls, the First Call was absolutely exhausting. The body forgets these things, the way a night without any sleep on your feet feels (which is completely different to a night on the floor or in bed reading a textbook in an adrenaline-charged last-minute frenzy). At one point my back, feet and calves hurt so much I began to wonder if perhaps I was experiencing sciatica...
In older news, I remember a colleague and newfound friend de-stressing with me after work and chatting about life in general; for some (mm. some time back, but perhaps it was after we met the chest-drain bottle product rep) he volunteered that pharma reps are generally manipulative people, because in his opinion people self-select into their jobs. Once upon a time I might have argued that maybe it's the other way around; jobs change people. Looking around at my other medical colleagues, at him, and at myself, I realised he was right. People self-select into jobs; not just doctors, lawyers, drug reps... but pretty much every and any one. There's a reason orthopods all drive flashy cars, and why general surgeons don't...
Maybe it's the ones who selected wrong the first time who cross-careers... maybe... just maybe I'd be happy sending people to jail instead. Hmmmm...
Life after the final furlong, aka the membership examination... goes on. Going out for drinks and meals without a textbook in hand comes like a refreshing breeze after a stagnant summer's night; and then the "arrows" come flying thick and fast, and suddenly there's just too much to do all at the same time, amidst preparing to host the local examinations, applying for advanced training, and returning to on-calls.
Speaking of which, after a month's reprieve from calls, the First Call was absolutely exhausting. The body forgets these things, the way a night without any sleep on your feet feels (which is completely different to a night on the floor or in bed reading a textbook in an adrenaline-charged last-minute frenzy). At one point my back, feet and calves hurt so much I began to wonder if perhaps I was experiencing sciatica...
In older news, I remember a colleague and newfound friend de-stressing with me after work and chatting about life in general; for some (mm. some time back, but perhaps it was after we met the chest-drain bottle product rep) he volunteered that pharma reps are generally manipulative people, because in his opinion people self-select into their jobs. Once upon a time I might have argued that maybe it's the other way around; jobs change people. Looking around at my other medical colleagues, at him, and at myself, I realised he was right. People self-select into jobs; not just doctors, lawyers, drug reps... but pretty much every and any one. There's a reason orthopods all drive flashy cars, and why general surgeons don't...
Maybe it's the ones who selected wrong the first time who cross-careers... maybe... just maybe I'd be happy sending people to jail instead. Hmmmm...
Saturday, February 21, 2009
O_o
After arguing with the nice white haired old lady who was in for an investigation the next day about why I needed to take her blood...
Old Lady : "Ni jie hun le mah?" (are you married)
Re-Me : "... err hai mei you..." (no)
Old Lady : "Ni hen piao liang wor..." (you're very beautiful)
Re-Me : "... um. xie xie." (err. thanks.)
Whips out needle, and is taking blood in silence.
Old Lady : "Lang zai... lang zai..." (pretty boy.)
Re-Me : "..." (...)
Yep, that's me. Old lady killer.
Old Lady : "Ni jie hun le mah?" (are you married)
Re-Me : "... err hai mei you..." (no)
Old Lady : "Ni hen piao liang wor..." (you're very beautiful)
Re-Me : "... um. xie xie." (err. thanks.)
Whips out needle, and is taking blood in silence.
Old Lady : "Lang zai... lang zai..." (pretty boy.)
Re-Me : "..." (...)
Yep, that's me. Old lady killer.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Who's That Girl (in progress)
I can't help comparing this to this .
What strikes me most isn't that the two sites share a suspicious similarity but how completely differently they come across to the reader.
Check out the first link. Patrick Moberg saw the "girl of his dreams" on the subway in 2007. He was attracted to her but didn't get to speak with her, so he sought her out by writing on his blog about her, and asking strangers to help him find her.
The thing about his site - NYGirlOfMyDreams.com isn't how eloquent or effusive he is... it's simply how sweetly and sincerely the whole thing was done. It's rather light on text, and pretty in-your-face. There's so much to like there, from the unstated happy-puppy "I met you and I'm bowled over by you" sentiment, to the cutesy line drawings of the girl which betray just how much he noticed about her that he liked (fancy braided hair, flower in hair... etc), what she looked like (rosy cheeks) and just what she was doing (writing in a notepad... awwww) at the time.
This is a man who's either madly in love, or a nutjob stalker with the whole set of Ginsu knives.
But then there's more, he draws himself in too. No self-praise, but a simple self description to try to jog her memory a bit, skinny, tall, and he drew what he was wearing. And then there's that almost self-deprecating, slightly rueful little arrow pointing to his head that says "not insane".
It's just sooo cute; the guy knows he's lost it, and he knows everyone else will know it when they see his site, but he doesn't care... he just wants her.
He leaves his name and his phone number (and email address) for her, laying bare his whole life to all sorts of unpleasant repercussions. He takes a flying leap...
If I'd seen the girl, I'd have called him. Hell, if I'd been the girl (which, cough, since I'm male I couldn't have been) I'd have called him... without any reservations.
And there's more... she really did. There's that next little ecstatic post of mr happy-faced rectangle holding up a sign in joy. You know that something good happened... if only for a while, or perhaps longer.
The whole thing is almost saccharinely infused with hope and then happiness. It's really hard not to smile at.
And then there's our home-grown version, girl on bus.
(now at http://blog.girlonbus.com/)
I can't help but notice how often the word "I" appears in there.
I was labeled stalker. I was described as 'creepy'. How do I become a stalker when I've already lost her?
and
I was labeled 'despo'. Yes I'm definitely 'despo' or desperate. This is how I feel when I've lost something worthy. I have the attention from endless amounts of attractive people whom I think its worthless. If you've been wondering, yes, I'm gorgeous.
...and then
There were people who tried to find out who I am. I wouldn't mind letting you know, if you are a decent person, really. But this thing is set up by a friend who has a credit card to help me pay on behalf
... right. How much does it cost to host a domain again? $7 a month?
His next post, "lightheartedness" goes something like this :
I am taking this lightheartedly. Its like, who knows after knowing her she might disgust me or freak me out in certain ways?
Thanks again to so many of the kind people out there for the inspiring and flattering words. Thanks to those who helped in any way.
To the girl (if you have decided not to respond): I'm fine with it, but at least just tell me why. And you may also ask me to stop looking for you.
Next post on :
I've communicated with some local reporters. Some of them questioned about my identity. And they also advised that people would be more receptive if I were more open.
I tend to be a low-profile person therefore I'm not comfortable revealing personal info, especially on the internet. There are people who think that I'm not 'real'. Some even think that this could be some kind of a viral marketing. However, I need to protect my privacy. It's just simply being careful, although some people might think I must be up to no good.
Some of you might have already seen the article on me in (联合晚报) (31th Jan 2009). But just to give you a picture: I'm in my twenties, chinese and currently an undergrad.
And suddenly he's writing for an audience. About himself, being low-profile, but not, being private, but being in the paper, etc.
And then :
Like what I said in the previous post, I insist in protecting my identity (although some people still think that I'm not sincere/afraid of criticism), simply because but I'm not desperate/crazy enough to the extent of going public. Understand that some people dislike unwanted attention.
However, I did meet up with some of the reporters and had some photos taken. You might want to check out The Newpaper on Saturday the 14th, and The Straits Times on Sunday the 15th.
(Edit: For certain reasons The Straits Times did not run the story. 'D' from The Straits Times [if you are reading this] : I'm sorry to hear about it. But you're a great reporter who made me feel at ease. )
Some of you guys are right about the website being too direct and plain(not fanciful). Perhaps its because I have no hidden agenda and therefore the tendency to get my point across in a straightforward manner.
By the way, Happy Valentine's Day to all of you. Enjoy :)
The thing is, he's not writing to the girl anymore. He's not even writing for her.
He's writing for himself.
About himself.
He even went as far as to say the girl might gross him out, and that he's good looking, etcetc.
Over a month and still no girl; some of his "supporters" (and that's what it's turned into, a popularity contest) blame it on singaporean girls being this, and that, and uppity, and blah blah.
Some of the detractors think the girls will think he's a stalker, that he's creepy etc.
The truth is he's just lost the plot. The girl won't, because he's really more interested in himself now, than he is in her. This is his five minutes in the limelight, and she's just a badly drawn stick figure.
Sweet? I think not.
*****
Perhaps it just goes to show how sometimes there's a "right" way to say something, and .... a very, very wrong, in a "don't-even-go-there"-way to go about the same.
*****
ps : ... there are singaporeans that find the whole thing romantic.
sigh. I guess it's the concept that counts, not the packaging. roll eyes.
What strikes me most isn't that the two sites share a suspicious similarity but how completely differently they come across to the reader.
Check out the first link. Patrick Moberg saw the "girl of his dreams" on the subway in 2007. He was attracted to her but didn't get to speak with her, so he sought her out by writing on his blog about her, and asking strangers to help him find her.
The thing about his site - NYGirlOfMyDreams.com isn't how eloquent or effusive he is... it's simply how sweetly and sincerely the whole thing was done. It's rather light on text, and pretty in-your-face. There's so much to like there, from the unstated happy-puppy "I met you and I'm bowled over by you" sentiment, to the cutesy line drawings of the girl which betray just how much he noticed about her that he liked (fancy braided hair, flower in hair... etc), what she looked like (rosy cheeks) and just what she was doing (writing in a notepad... awwww) at the time.
This is a man who's either madly in love, or a nutjob stalker with the whole set of Ginsu knives.
But then there's more, he draws himself in too. No self-praise, but a simple self description to try to jog her memory a bit, skinny, tall, and he drew what he was wearing. And then there's that almost self-deprecating, slightly rueful little arrow pointing to his head that says "not insane".
It's just sooo cute; the guy knows he's lost it, and he knows everyone else will know it when they see his site, but he doesn't care... he just wants her.
He leaves his name and his phone number (and email address) for her, laying bare his whole life to all sorts of unpleasant repercussions. He takes a flying leap...
If I'd seen the girl, I'd have called him. Hell, if I'd been the girl (which, cough, since I'm male I couldn't have been) I'd have called him... without any reservations.
And there's more... she really did. There's that next little ecstatic post of mr happy-faced rectangle holding up a sign in joy. You know that something good happened... if only for a while, or perhaps longer.
The whole thing is almost saccharinely infused with hope and then happiness. It's really hard not to smile at.
And then there's our home-grown version, girl on bus.
(now at http://blog.girlonbus.com/)
I can't help but notice how often the word "I" appears in there.
I was labeled stalker. I was described as 'creepy'. How do I become a stalker when I've already lost her?
and
I was labeled 'despo'. Yes I'm definitely 'despo' or desperate. This is how I feel when I've lost something worthy. I have the attention from endless amounts of attractive people whom I think its worthless. If you've been wondering, yes, I'm gorgeous.
...and then
There were people who tried to find out who I am. I wouldn't mind letting you know, if you are a decent person, really. But this thing is set up by a friend who has a credit card to help me pay on behalf
... right. How much does it cost to host a domain again? $7 a month?
His next post, "lightheartedness" goes something like this :
I am taking this lightheartedly. Its like, who knows after knowing her she might disgust me or freak me out in certain ways?
Thanks again to so many of the kind people out there for the inspiring and flattering words. Thanks to those who helped in any way.
To the girl (if you have decided not to respond): I'm fine with it, but at least just tell me why. And you may also ask me to stop looking for you.
Next post on :
I've communicated with some local reporters. Some of them questioned about my identity. And they also advised that people would be more receptive if I were more open.
I tend to be a low-profile person therefore I'm not comfortable revealing personal info, especially on the internet. There are people who think that I'm not 'real'. Some even think that this could be some kind of a viral marketing. However, I need to protect my privacy. It's just simply being careful, although some people might think I must be up to no good.
Some of you might have already seen the article on me in (联合晚报) (31th Jan 2009). But just to give you a picture: I'm in my twenties, chinese and currently an undergrad.
And suddenly he's writing for an audience. About himself, being low-profile, but not, being private, but being in the paper, etc.
And then :
Like what I said in the previous post, I insist in protecting my identity (although some people still think that I'm not sincere/afraid of criticism), simply because but I'm not desperate/crazy enough to the extent of going public. Understand that some people dislike unwanted attention.
However, I did meet up with some of the reporters and had some photos taken. You might want to check out The Newpaper on Saturday the 14th, and The Straits Times on Sunday the 15th.
(Edit: For certain reasons The Straits Times did not run the story. 'D' from The Straits Times [if you are reading this] : I'm sorry to hear about it. But you're a great reporter who made me feel at ease. )
Some of you guys are right about the website being too direct and plain(not fanciful). Perhaps its because I have no hidden agenda and therefore the tendency to get my point across in a straightforward manner.
By the way, Happy Valentine's Day to all of you. Enjoy :)
The thing is, he's not writing to the girl anymore. He's not even writing for her.
He's writing for himself.
About himself.
He even went as far as to say the girl might gross him out, and that he's good looking, etcetc.
Over a month and still no girl; some of his "supporters" (and that's what it's turned into, a popularity contest) blame it on singaporean girls being this, and that, and uppity, and blah blah.
Some of the detractors think the girls will think he's a stalker, that he's creepy etc.
The truth is he's just lost the plot. The girl won't, because he's really more interested in himself now, than he is in her. This is his five minutes in the limelight, and she's just a badly drawn stick figure.
Sweet? I think not.
*****
Perhaps it just goes to show how sometimes there's a "right" way to say something, and .... a very, very wrong, in a "don't-even-go-there"-way to go about the same.
*****
ps : ... there are singaporeans that find the whole thing romantic.
sigh. I guess it's the concept that counts, not the packaging. roll eyes.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
My way
"I'd like... an iced tea, please."
She raised an eyebrow. "I think you should have the ice tea with lemonade, would you like one, it's very nice..."
"Err. Okay, I'll have an ice tea with lemonade."
"Would you like it done my way?" (two thumbs up)
"What's your way?"
"Grande, my way... its good!"
"Rigghht. Okay, I'll have it your way."
(Several seconds later)
"Yeah, it's good."
"You won't get it done this way anywhere else!"
"What, not even at another S*******?"
"Not like this, this is my way!"
"Um. okay thanks."
"Will you be sitting down here?"
"... yes?"
... bemused.
*****
Sitting here pretending to study the RAAS, and missing the assassin.
She raised an eyebrow. "I think you should have the ice tea with lemonade, would you like one, it's very nice..."
"Err. Okay, I'll have an ice tea with lemonade."
"Would you like it done my way?" (two thumbs up)
"What's your way?"
"Grande, my way... its good!"
"Rigghht. Okay, I'll have it your way."
(Several seconds later)
"Yeah, it's good."
"You won't get it done this way anywhere else!"
"What, not even at another S*******?"
"Not like this, this is my way!"
"Um. okay thanks."
"Will you be sitting down here?"
"... yes?"
... bemused.
*****
Sitting here pretending to study the RAAS, and missing the assassin.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Ironside
Her eyes on his, as they lie eye to eye, tracing the line of his face with her fingertips.
"...scary"
"... that's just the way it goes..."
"...scary"
"... that's just the way it goes..."
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Anatomy 101
Sometimes as they're clowning around the Assassin does her Bolt impression, complete with huge puppy dog eyes, head tilt, and imaginary ear flop, and that little smile of hers, and although he knows full well it's not anatomical, and that emotion takes root from the cerebellum and not the heart, something in his left chest feels a little give...
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Contrasts (completed)
... don't think about it anymore; focus on the good times. There were good times... right?
*****
Some time later I come awake with my arm tucked under the crook of her neck and watch the dawn light diffusing in softly through the glass panes, caressing her edge of her face and creating a ghostly pale glow around the contours of her cheek, her temple and her nose, the rest of her fair, fair skin encased in grey shadow. And then those eyes - dark, dark, eyes, almost doll-like and so very alive - flutter open, and her lips twitch into a smile as I say Good Morning, then lean forwards to kiss them, and I feel... an almost wondrous joy.
*****
I remember I used to think when people asked each other "what do you really, really want in life?" that the answer "to be happy" was too simple, too trite for me. That I was different and needed something... more substantial. I used to think I just needed the truth, and that happiness was irrelevant to me.
Catch me now : ten years down the line, a little battered, edges worn down, paintwork a little scuffed and how I've changed. I just want to be happy now, too.
*****
Every hello? on the line a... leap... an unexpected but welcome surprise.
Every parting... reluctant, an almost sense of... loss.
Every meeting, a wonder.
Not a distant memory from over a decade ago of the mafia don and mafiassimo... but a moment in the here and now, between Doctor Whiskers and the Assassin.
*****
Some time later I come awake with my arm tucked under the crook of her neck and watch the dawn light diffusing in softly through the glass panes, caressing her edge of her face and creating a ghostly pale glow around the contours of her cheek, her temple and her nose, the rest of her fair, fair skin encased in grey shadow. And then those eyes - dark, dark, eyes, almost doll-like and so very alive - flutter open, and her lips twitch into a smile as I say Good Morning, then lean forwards to kiss them, and I feel... an almost wondrous joy.
*****
I remember I used to think when people asked each other "what do you really, really want in life?" that the answer "to be happy" was too simple, too trite for me. That I was different and needed something... more substantial. I used to think I just needed the truth, and that happiness was irrelevant to me.
Catch me now : ten years down the line, a little battered, edges worn down, paintwork a little scuffed and how I've changed. I just want to be happy now, too.
*****
Every hello? on the line a... leap... an unexpected but welcome surprise.
Every parting... reluctant, an almost sense of... loss.
Every meeting, a wonder.
Not a distant memory from over a decade ago of the mafia don and mafiassimo... but a moment in the here and now, between Doctor Whiskers and the Assassin.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Contrasts
I remember watching in the mornings as the sunlight would creep in through the window and cut a strip of blazing white across the tanned skin of her forehead and right cheek, and glow red in her brown-streaked hair. I remember how very at peace - at last - she used to look, her chest barely rising as she breathed. And sometimes I'd reach down and brush a stray wisp of hair from her cheek.
I remember how very, very sad I used to feel, watching her as she slept.
And just before I left for work I'd lean over and kiss her lightly on the forehead, and most times she wouldn't stir, but sometimes she'd move a little and let out the faintest of squeaks.
And that filled my heart with sadness too.
She pulled me in closer and said, hey... don't think about it anymore; focus on the good times. There were good times... right?
I remember how very, very sad I used to feel, watching her as she slept.
And just before I left for work I'd lean over and kiss her lightly on the forehead, and most times she wouldn't stir, but sometimes she'd move a little and let out the faintest of squeaks.
And that filled my heart with sadness too.
She pulled me in closer and said, hey... don't think about it anymore; focus on the good times. There were good times... right?
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Glass smilies
... that's because smilies was 2 days ago.
... I dunno, I have a funny feeling that memory is pretty much burnt in...
*****
I remember looking through the looking glass as she traced smilies on the surface; i remember the little smile on her face, and the way her hair was pulled back, and that look in her eyes, which words will never, ever be able to capture. I remember the way she glowed.
I remember catching myself smiling that same smile as I reached out and drew in a blob of a nose.
Yeah, that memory is pretty much burnt in.
... I dunno, I have a funny feeling that memory is pretty much burnt in...
*****
I remember looking through the looking glass as she traced smilies on the surface; i remember the little smile on her face, and the way her hair was pulled back, and that look in her eyes, which words will never, ever be able to capture. I remember the way she glowed.
I remember catching myself smiling that same smile as I reached out and drew in a blob of a nose.
Yeah, that memory is pretty much burnt in.
Monday, December 29, 2008
A play with words
... we shall play tomorrow
*****
And then it strikes me what makes the assassin so lethal to myself.
She plays - we play - with words, with thoughts, with language, with situations as they crop up... and it's so easy to just laugh, or to smile...
... and then we lean in, and the play stops...
*****
... after all, a play without words is a mime.
... == Learn the Words ==
*****
And then it strikes me what makes the assassin so lethal to myself.
She plays - we play - with words, with thoughts, with language, with situations as they crop up... and it's so easy to just laugh, or to smile...
... and then we lean in, and the play stops...
*****
... after all, a play without words is a mime.
... == Learn the Words ==
In good company
I remember disagreeing with a friend once upon a very long time ago, seated in a very small chair in her South Kensington apartment that activities were less important than the company you kept.
She, the pint-sized energizer/stress bunny, hard drinking, party-animal with the minuiture furniture and tatami mat (presumably because she was already so near the ground when standing up that lying on a mat made sense) asserted that it was all about doing exciting stuff; nevermind who tagged along. (We travelled in packs in those days, it just wasn't the done thing to go on dive trips or ski trips alone.)
I remembered a then not-so-distant time when lunch / dinner conversation, or just talking on the telephone could be... just about magical, and maintained that in the right company it didn't really matter what you did, at all, and only that you did it together. To my mind it extended beyond romantic love between partners, even to agape love between friends. Company outweighed activity.
Time passed and the years came and went, and with each new relationship / parting it seems a part of me weathered away; with the last ex it became apparent that activities were extremely, extremely important; up to the moment of... near / indiscretion - confessed from her own mouth to have stemmed from boredom.
Through the looking glass, and out the other side - suddenly activities were far more important than company alone; it only seemed natural that the only way two people could endure the mundanity of everyday was an expensive getaway somewhere exotic once in a while, or an out-of-this-world special activity of some form... some form of spice to liven up life; otherwise everything becomes mundane, no? As comfortable as it is to rush home and die in someone's arms, or to go out to all those shops every so often and buy girly stuff, or to watch the odd movie, or the odd meal... it isn't enough. I lamented what all us foreign returnees constantly harp on about : there's nothing to do or see here, in Singapore, except eat, shop and... eat.
And then this past week, just lying with her head on your chest listening to her speak, or sitting across from her watching her eyes sparkling as we eat, that random argument from another lifetime comes back to mind, and something strange seems to have happened to time.
She, the pint-sized energizer/stress bunny, hard drinking, party-animal with the minuiture furniture and tatami mat (presumably because she was already so near the ground when standing up that lying on a mat made sense) asserted that it was all about doing exciting stuff; nevermind who tagged along. (We travelled in packs in those days, it just wasn't the done thing to go on dive trips or ski trips alone.)
I remembered a then not-so-distant time when lunch / dinner conversation, or just talking on the telephone could be... just about magical, and maintained that in the right company it didn't really matter what you did, at all, and only that you did it together. To my mind it extended beyond romantic love between partners, even to agape love between friends. Company outweighed activity.
Time passed and the years came and went, and with each new relationship / parting it seems a part of me weathered away; with the last ex it became apparent that activities were extremely, extremely important; up to the moment of... near / indiscretion - confessed from her own mouth to have stemmed from boredom.
Through the looking glass, and out the other side - suddenly activities were far more important than company alone; it only seemed natural that the only way two people could endure the mundanity of everyday was an expensive getaway somewhere exotic once in a while, or an out-of-this-world special activity of some form... some form of spice to liven up life; otherwise everything becomes mundane, no? As comfortable as it is to rush home and die in someone's arms, or to go out to all those shops every so often and buy girly stuff, or to watch the odd movie, or the odd meal... it isn't enough. I lamented what all us foreign returnees constantly harp on about : there's nothing to do or see here, in Singapore, except eat, shop and... eat.
And then this past week, just lying with her head on your chest listening to her speak, or sitting across from her watching her eyes sparkling as we eat, that random argument from another lifetime comes back to mind, and something strange seems to have happened to time.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Fallen
You look pensive, she says.
He looks into her eyes, and silently traces the arch of her brow, the curve of her face, that small half-smile of hers with his gaze; then smiles and says but that's just the way my face falls...
*****
When he was young, he used to dream of falling; just falling through space, with the wind in his hair, and all around him, plucking at his arms and legs, caressing his face.
He looks into her eyes, and silently traces the arch of her brow, the curve of her face, that small half-smile of hers with his gaze; then smiles and says but that's just the way my face falls...
*****
When he was young, he used to dream of falling; just falling through space, with the wind in his hair, and all around him, plucking at his arms and legs, caressing his face.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Dry Christmas
So here I am, stuck in my jail cell on Christmas Eve, thinking :
Get me out. Get me out. Get me... out.
Get me out. Get me out. Get me... out.
Lust, caution
L, in her usual fashion advocated caution. Remember the past; beware the crazies.
I'll admit I'm not usually terribly cautious about things; thinking back I realise it's because (ironically) I wanted to be happy; I wanted for those... strange, yet precious moments to revisit me. I chose to be precipitous in the past - everything is a gamble anyway, and with nothing left to lose, what harm can it do?
There is something amiss this time though; the colours are inverted, the polarities reversed. I bite back the words but once in a while they slip out...
words and thoughts that intimate that I miss her presence when we are apart - even when the parting is but for a ludicrously short while. That indicate a certain... distraction, and memories that burn to remember.
I'll admit I'm not usually terribly cautious about things; thinking back I realise it's because (ironically) I wanted to be happy; I wanted for those... strange, yet precious moments to revisit me. I chose to be precipitous in the past - everything is a gamble anyway, and with nothing left to lose, what harm can it do?
There is something amiss this time though; the colours are inverted, the polarities reversed. I bite back the words but once in a while they slip out...
words and thoughts that intimate that I miss her presence when we are apart - even when the parting is but for a ludicrously short while. That indicate a certain... distraction, and memories that burn to remember.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Changed
Until recently, I thought life was about making memories.
The memories I wish to carry with me are the good ones; I suppose this is termed having a selective memory.
I remember us at Chatuchak market; wandering through the puppies and the kittens, and being disturbed by the frightened squirrels; I remember eating in the little shop; but strangely the most vivid memory in my mind was of you sharing a green mango with me by the roadside; I suppose it embodied the best moments of you, and of us, in our relationship. You, sharing things with me, showing me things I didn't know, and taking joy from watching me, wide eyed in my sua-ku ness, enjoying things that gave you pleasure too.
I remember us in korea too, slipping on the ice as we walked late at night through the "snow", sharing moments of wonder with each other. And Coimbra, too, holding hands and walking slightly unsteadily uphill in the heat of the mid day sun after a refreshing roadside beer, and chancing upon a cat curled up on the wheel of an automobile, and laughing.
If I think back, I remember the others before as well; that's just the way it goes. We all have pasts, each and every one of us, and I want to take the best moments with me; I want for things to have meant something, because if I fixate on the worst moments all I'll feel is a lingering pain and sadness. I don't want to want to forget my memories, or to have to hide from other people.
I remember holding G close at the niagra falls, almost enveloping her with my jacket as the fine spray hit us from all around, as we shared the wonder of the lady in the mist, and the power of the niagra falls. I remember wandering along the top of it with her, and marvelling at the rainbow that hangs there, permanently, like some strange three D hologram.
And if I want to, I'll remember more -
- but something is different now; watching the assassin's eyes watching mine as we cup each others eyes with our hands, without need for words; sharing a moment of... almost childlike silliness...
life isn't about making memories anymore.
It's just about living the moment. And feeling happy when someone you care about smiles; even feeling happy, and just smiling of my own accord.
The memories I wish to carry with me are the good ones; I suppose this is termed having a selective memory.
I remember us at Chatuchak market; wandering through the puppies and the kittens, and being disturbed by the frightened squirrels; I remember eating in the little shop; but strangely the most vivid memory in my mind was of you sharing a green mango with me by the roadside; I suppose it embodied the best moments of you, and of us, in our relationship. You, sharing things with me, showing me things I didn't know, and taking joy from watching me, wide eyed in my sua-ku ness, enjoying things that gave you pleasure too.
I remember us in korea too, slipping on the ice as we walked late at night through the "snow", sharing moments of wonder with each other. And Coimbra, too, holding hands and walking slightly unsteadily uphill in the heat of the mid day sun after a refreshing roadside beer, and chancing upon a cat curled up on the wheel of an automobile, and laughing.
If I think back, I remember the others before as well; that's just the way it goes. We all have pasts, each and every one of us, and I want to take the best moments with me; I want for things to have meant something, because if I fixate on the worst moments all I'll feel is a lingering pain and sadness. I don't want to want to forget my memories, or to have to hide from other people.
I remember holding G close at the niagra falls, almost enveloping her with my jacket as the fine spray hit us from all around, as we shared the wonder of the lady in the mist, and the power of the niagra falls. I remember wandering along the top of it with her, and marvelling at the rainbow that hangs there, permanently, like some strange three D hologram.
And if I want to, I'll remember more -
- but something is different now; watching the assassin's eyes watching mine as we cup each others eyes with our hands, without need for words; sharing a moment of... almost childlike silliness...
life isn't about making memories anymore.
It's just about living the moment. And feeling happy when someone you care about smiles; even feeling happy, and just smiling of my own accord.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Life
I remember now why we didn't put labels to anything, why it was all very unspoken, why I called it the roller coaster.
I remember common, base feelings in the aftermath... regret. Confusion. Loss. Wondering what we had been, if anything at all - that eclipsed the memories of the moment, which were exhilirating... precious and special at the time, which should not have been corrupted in the aftermath, but were by my own dark nature.
This is the moment, now :
No desire to create boundaries with words; no need to. An almost-fear to... or a burning desire to... once mouthing the words silently against her neck, or blurting them out in the intensity of the moment, or hearing her, just the once, speaking my mind...
... there's no need : no need to think. No need to say. No need to understand, just to live.
No wish to spoil it all, by saying something stupid.
I remember common, base feelings in the aftermath... regret. Confusion. Loss. Wondering what we had been, if anything at all - that eclipsed the memories of the moment, which were exhilirating... precious and special at the time, which should not have been corrupted in the aftermath, but were by my own dark nature.
This is the moment, now :
No desire to create boundaries with words; no need to. An almost-fear to... or a burning desire to... once mouthing the words silently against her neck, or blurting them out in the intensity of the moment, or hearing her, just the once, speaking my mind...
... there's no need : no need to think. No need to say. No need to understand, just to live.
No wish to spoil it all, by saying something stupid.
Too fast too furious
From xena :
So i was just at the supermk. The guy in front has problems w his pin. The cashier tells him : "Harder. Enter Harder."
So i was just at the supermk. The guy in front has problems w his pin. The cashier tells him : "Harder. Enter Harder."
Distracted, too
"It's so easy to spend time with you..."
"...It's so easy for me to spend time with you, and be happy."
*****
"It's strange, it's so easy to talk to you... sometimes thoughts complete themselves... but it's impossible to say certain things to you..."
"What kinds of things?"
"Things that mean too much"
"...It's so easy for me to spend time with you, and be happy."
*****
"It's strange, it's so easy to talk to you... sometimes thoughts complete themselves... but it's impossible to say certain things to you..."
"What kinds of things?"
"Things that mean too much"
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Distracted
Uncharacteristically slightly incoherent for the assassin : sometimes... distracted at work, thoughts about... wondering what you're doing.
He : Yeah.
Unspoken : And I... if you only knew.
He : Yeah.
Unspoken : And I... if you only knew.
Monday, December 15, 2008
The First Day
Three indelible moments in time now, seared into my mind
*****
The First
She, half-turning in her front passenger seat to face me in the rear seat, her hair undone, streaming with wild abandon down over her shoulders, her eyes on mine.
Her eyes : filled with that strange, infinite, yet gentle sadness, somehow still encouraging, and forgiving.
*****
The Second
She, lying on the bed as I stood at the foot of it, gasping for breath, gasping, just gasping. All words exhausted now, all anger spent; all doors closed. There was nothing left to do, nothing left to say. Her brow furrowed in agony, her eyes on mine.
Her eyes : streaming, wet, filled with pain and darkness, and perhaps hatred, perhaps fear, perhaps other dark emotions I won't guess at, silently voicing what her lips were about to say.
*****
The Third
She, a dark, vaguely blue and grey striped silhouette in my car leaning forwards across the divide, her forehead on my sternum, my hands clasping the back of her head, clasping the hair bunched up at the back of her head, holding her forearm; feeling the droplets splattering one by one onto my forearm, left, then right, and feeling them turn cold as we sat in silence.
Her eyes : I couldn't even see her eyes. And yet the moment burnt in. How?.
*****
The First
She, half-turning in her front passenger seat to face me in the rear seat, her hair undone, streaming with wild abandon down over her shoulders, her eyes on mine.
Her eyes : filled with that strange, infinite, yet gentle sadness, somehow still encouraging, and forgiving.
*****
The Second
She, lying on the bed as I stood at the foot of it, gasping for breath, gasping, just gasping. All words exhausted now, all anger spent; all doors closed. There was nothing left to do, nothing left to say. Her brow furrowed in agony, her eyes on mine.
Her eyes : streaming, wet, filled with pain and darkness, and perhaps hatred, perhaps fear, perhaps other dark emotions I won't guess at, silently voicing what her lips were about to say.
*****
The Third
She, a dark, vaguely blue and grey striped silhouette in my car leaning forwards across the divide, her forehead on my sternum, my hands clasping the back of her head, clasping the hair bunched up at the back of her head, holding her forearm; feeling the droplets splattering one by one onto my forearm, left, then right, and feeling them turn cold as we sat in silence.
Her eyes : I couldn't even see her eyes. And yet the moment burnt in. How?.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Falling Stars
I remember the moment.
We were under the open sky; I seem to recall us standing just outside my bedroom door, and suddenly there it was; the first shooting star.
Look! we said, and we reached for each other's hands.
And as I clasped yours in mine, I thought to myself :
I wish this could last... for a little while longer.
*****
This is the kind of ramble that only happens late at night, perhaps only on select nights when you've stumbled upstairs hoping to catch a glimpse of something special, and come away unsurprised by a hatful of sky, and a skyful of clouds instead.
I was so young once.
There are so different many kinds of love. In my youth I knew I had blundered onto a powerful experience - and being the black and white thinker that I was, the logistician, I knew 1 - that was love, and 0 - other things were not. Perhaps I even judged the people around me by that same scale, if I did I was stupid for it.
Love comes in so many different flavours, I see it now, coupled with so many different ways of saying I love you.
There's a wondrous kind of love, the soundtrack of which might sound something like this :
I love you? I love you. I love you! I... love you? I love you!
It won't make any sense to anyone who hasn't walked that path; but it's a very young, very fragile, very childlike thing. Very simple, and perhaps in its own way, pure. I did it once, a world and countless timezones apart from a wonderful girl, and we shared a feeling that, in that point in time was special.
It melted away for me; it wasn't the kind of love that a cynic like me can maintain, or cherish and nurture, and in hindsight the dark side of me likes to laugh at myself - love? You didn't even begin to know the meaning!
But I don't think it melted away for her, in that she found it again, and so did her man, and I'm happy for them both now :) I think perhaps some people can hack that kind of thing, forever.
There's another kind of love, which is just words. I love you. Space fillers, the words spoken in comfort, in consolation, without any real feeling behind them.
I don't need to say much because we've pretty much all been there; I was there once, the second relationship of my life, stumbling through the darkness - I think it's how we learn - by making mistakes.... and for some people it's perhaps a mistake never to be learnt but to be lived by; for myself it's a mistake terrifying enough to run from, and never look back.
I can't live a lifetime by someone's side lying to myself, and to her. A lifetime... means too much to waste on lies; a lifetime better spent alone, in truth.
There're many other variants, I've lived quite a few - not because of any innate appeal to the opposite sex, but simply because I'm so old now... so, very, old. laugh. I've had a few chances, that and the fact that my relationships have by and large been short, dysfunctional affairs, and the concept of "long-term" to me is anything encountering the two year headstone, which is where everything usually falls apart.
There's a kind of I love you which is powerful, very, very dark and wrenching, very taiwanese soap opera; I laughed at Areya once upon a time (more fool me) and thought in my head : that's not love! as I watched her with her... taiwanese guy (laugh) and I saw how they brooded together.
And then I remember my hand on her (not areya. pfft!) cheek, sunlight streaming in the window as she slept, on her brow, my eyebrows creased wondering when the end would come, and knowing it would be so very soon; I remember silent I love yous while she slept, I remember the sense of loss even before the event; I remember knowing when she had betrayed me, before the fact; I remember after the fact and before the confrontation; I remember perhaps even knowing well beforehand that it would pan out this way.
I remember the tears slipping out against my will, the gentle sunlight forming a halo around her hair and face. The feel of your skin on my hand. The heaviness, and pain.
I could never hack that; I don't know what kind of psycho nutcase can, but taiwanese soap operas are enough to do a guy like me's head in.
And I can forgive, but I can't forget. I can in my weakness forgive so very much, but yes, she was right... things had changed. It's not that I would have made you remember... it's just that we were too different, you and I - I can't forget things by not talking about them, I can't un-make things by ignoring them. I can't let the world slide.
We were too different, she and I - she wrote "...I'd just tell him, I would really love for us to be friends again, a friendship with no hidden agenda, just two people who still ...enjoy the company of each other without the complications."
I would have loved that too, but to me friendship can only come to life with a mutual truth.
The "fuzzy friendship" thing that eluded her hinges on truth. Friends first, lovers second - friends who do not deceive. Even if the second follows on from the first rapidly, within weeks. And if it never does, then there's always friendship.
In the absence of truth, all that remains is lovers.. and I love yous that burn to remember, but fade with the breeze.
There's one more kind of ... I think it's love... but I'm really not certain anymore, and reluctant to put words to it.
It's that thing, that thing I knew once that I had pegged as the be all end all, that ridiculous roller coaster thing that in hindsight had been so obvious...
... only it's not. It's something that you mustn't put words to; it's something important that's just the moment, and it really doesn't matter anyway.
It's something that almost excludes the words "I love you" - not until you're very, very, extremely certain, because everything just means too much - This gleaned from a conversation with sasky...
And perhaps it never even reaches the words, perhaps it never reaches the stage... it doesn't really matter.
Perhaps it doesn't matter that there are no words that can capture it, none whatsoever, holding onto someone, or touching her face and looking at those eyes holding your own.
Perhaps there's a reason everything means too much to say things or make committments, and its a reason that's so simple it's selfish - because there's just too great a risk, too far to fall, to much to hurt if...
... and yet that doesn't matter either.
All that matters is now.
*****
I can imagine him, in mind's eye. Laugh.
Pointing at the sky with his stubby arm and saying, dramatically, And that's the Gemenids...
... and behind him cascades of stars beginning to crash through the canvas of sky...
*****
Meteor shower tonight! - ladygrey
I wish I could have been there, not here in the hospital, looking out at the clouds at three in the morning...
We were under the open sky; I seem to recall us standing just outside my bedroom door, and suddenly there it was; the first shooting star.
Look! we said, and we reached for each other's hands.
And as I clasped yours in mine, I thought to myself :
I wish this could last... for a little while longer.
*****
This is the kind of ramble that only happens late at night, perhaps only on select nights when you've stumbled upstairs hoping to catch a glimpse of something special, and come away unsurprised by a hatful of sky, and a skyful of clouds instead.
I was so young once.
There are so different many kinds of love. In my youth I knew I had blundered onto a powerful experience - and being the black and white thinker that I was, the logistician, I knew 1 - that was love, and 0 - other things were not. Perhaps I even judged the people around me by that same scale, if I did I was stupid for it.
Love comes in so many different flavours, I see it now, coupled with so many different ways of saying I love you.
There's a wondrous kind of love, the soundtrack of which might sound something like this :
I love you? I love you. I love you! I... love you? I love you!
It won't make any sense to anyone who hasn't walked that path; but it's a very young, very fragile, very childlike thing. Very simple, and perhaps in its own way, pure. I did it once, a world and countless timezones apart from a wonderful girl, and we shared a feeling that, in that point in time was special.
It melted away for me; it wasn't the kind of love that a cynic like me can maintain, or cherish and nurture, and in hindsight the dark side of me likes to laugh at myself - love? You didn't even begin to know the meaning!
But I don't think it melted away for her, in that she found it again, and so did her man, and I'm happy for them both now :) I think perhaps some people can hack that kind of thing, forever.
There's another kind of love, which is just words. I love you. Space fillers, the words spoken in comfort, in consolation, without any real feeling behind them.
I don't need to say much because we've pretty much all been there; I was there once, the second relationship of my life, stumbling through the darkness - I think it's how we learn - by making mistakes.... and for some people it's perhaps a mistake never to be learnt but to be lived by; for myself it's a mistake terrifying enough to run from, and never look back.
I can't live a lifetime by someone's side lying to myself, and to her. A lifetime... means too much to waste on lies; a lifetime better spent alone, in truth.
There're many other variants, I've lived quite a few - not because of any innate appeal to the opposite sex, but simply because I'm so old now... so, very, old. laugh. I've had a few chances, that and the fact that my relationships have by and large been short, dysfunctional affairs, and the concept of "long-term" to me is anything encountering the two year headstone, which is where everything usually falls apart.
There's a kind of I love you which is powerful, very, very dark and wrenching, very taiwanese soap opera; I laughed at Areya once upon a time (more fool me) and thought in my head : that's not love! as I watched her with her... taiwanese guy (laugh) and I saw how they brooded together.
And then I remember my hand on her (not areya. pfft!) cheek, sunlight streaming in the window as she slept, on her brow, my eyebrows creased wondering when the end would come, and knowing it would be so very soon; I remember silent I love yous while she slept, I remember the sense of loss even before the event; I remember knowing when she had betrayed me, before the fact; I remember after the fact and before the confrontation; I remember perhaps even knowing well beforehand that it would pan out this way.
I remember the tears slipping out against my will, the gentle sunlight forming a halo around her hair and face. The feel of your skin on my hand. The heaviness, and pain.
I could never hack that; I don't know what kind of psycho nutcase can, but taiwanese soap operas are enough to do a guy like me's head in.
And I can forgive, but I can't forget. I can in my weakness forgive so very much, but yes, she was right... things had changed. It's not that I would have made you remember... it's just that we were too different, you and I - I can't forget things by not talking about them, I can't un-make things by ignoring them. I can't let the world slide.
We were too different, she and I - she wrote "...I'd just tell him, I would really love for us to be friends again, a friendship with no hidden agenda, just two people who still ...enjoy the company of each other without the complications."
I would have loved that too, but to me friendship can only come to life with a mutual truth.
The "fuzzy friendship" thing that eluded her hinges on truth. Friends first, lovers second - friends who do not deceive. Even if the second follows on from the first rapidly, within weeks. And if it never does, then there's always friendship.
In the absence of truth, all that remains is lovers.. and I love yous that burn to remember, but fade with the breeze.
There's one more kind of ... I think it's love... but I'm really not certain anymore, and reluctant to put words to it.
It's that thing, that thing I knew once that I had pegged as the be all end all, that ridiculous roller coaster thing that in hindsight had been so obvious...
... only it's not. It's something that you mustn't put words to; it's something important that's just the moment, and it really doesn't matter anyway.
It's something that almost excludes the words "I love you" - not until you're very, very, extremely certain, because everything just means too much - This gleaned from a conversation with sasky...
And perhaps it never even reaches the words, perhaps it never reaches the stage... it doesn't really matter.
Perhaps it doesn't matter that there are no words that can capture it, none whatsoever, holding onto someone, or touching her face and looking at those eyes holding your own.
Perhaps there's a reason everything means too much to say things or make committments, and its a reason that's so simple it's selfish - because there's just too great a risk, too far to fall, to much to hurt if...
... and yet that doesn't matter either.
All that matters is now.
*****
I can imagine him, in mind's eye. Laugh.
Pointing at the sky with his stubby arm and saying, dramatically, And that's the Gemenids...
... and behind him cascades of stars beginning to crash through the canvas of sky...
*****
Meteor shower tonight! - ladygrey
I wish I could have been there, not here in the hospital, looking out at the clouds at three in the morning...
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Cut and Break
And if I told you that I loved you
You'd maybe think there's something wrong
I'm not a man of too many faces
The mask I wear is one
*****
So hungry... forage for food...
... deja vu.
*****
For all the justifications
all the aspirations
for all the desires to be different
you walk the walk or talk the talk
I know the truth now
I wouldn't have settled.
I would have dreamt, and perhaps hoped
but at the core of this soul
We had that in common, You and I
We have that in common, YOu and I
call it what you may, commitment phobia...
... or a need to run.
You intimidate me.
You'd maybe think there's something wrong
I'm not a man of too many faces
The mask I wear is one
*****
So hungry... forage for food...
... deja vu.
*****
For all the justifications
all the aspirations
for all the desires to be different
you walk the walk or talk the talk
I know the truth now
I wouldn't have settled.
I would have dreamt, and perhaps hoped
but at the core of this soul
We had that in common, You and I
We have that in common, YOu and I
call it what you may, commitment phobia...
... or a need to run.
You intimidate me.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Moment
Her hands on his face, her eyes on his.
"You're interesting..."
"so are you"
*****
The phone rings.
"Do you need to get that?"
"No, it's a common phone for the whole house.'
"One ring to rule them all!"
Laugh
"You're interesting..."
"so are you"
*****
The phone rings.
"Do you need to get that?"
"No, it's a common phone for the whole house.'
"One ring to rule them all!"
Laugh
Squits
Thanks to some Bad Sushi, re-minisce is experiencing the mixed blessing of a restful day at home alternating between bed, toilet, piano, toilet and bed.
No prizes for guessing the nature of the ailment.
Thus far the Mother has forc... coerc.... encouraged re-minisce to sprawl on the sofa and listen to her playing (why is it everytime i want to play alone she appears...) all sorts of beautiful classical refrains.
I had the remarkable experience recently of conducting a matching scheme for my mummy-mismatched socks.
I now have a frightfully large collection of unpairable socks remaining. Perhaps the washing machine is a portal to another dimension...?
No prizes for guessing the nature of the ailment.
Thus far the Mother has forc... coerc.... encouraged re-minisce to sprawl on the sofa and listen to her playing (why is it everytime i want to play alone she appears...) all sorts of beautiful classical refrains.
I had the remarkable experience recently of conducting a matching scheme for my mummy-mismatched socks.
I now have a frightfully large collection of unpairable socks remaining. Perhaps the washing machine is a portal to another dimension...?
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
Sliding Scale
D : you were too nice to her, she took your niceness for granted...
I remembered her saying almost exactly the same thing : don't be too nice to me, or i'll take you for granted.
I believed it, for a while too : relationships are a sliding scale of giving and taking, tip the balance too far in one direction and everything begins to unravel.
It was my only source of sanity, of solace during my darkest hours - because I couldn't find any other reason. And I... wanted to bear the cross.
But the idealist in this cynic, who wants to believe that hope springs eternal, wants to think : maybe with a few people it isn't like that; maybe giving just comes naturally to a few, and maybe if two people who give by nature find each other, maybe, just maybe they create... a moment that lasts, and many gifts to remember.
I remembered her saying almost exactly the same thing : don't be too nice to me, or i'll take you for granted.
I believed it, for a while too : relationships are a sliding scale of giving and taking, tip the balance too far in one direction and everything begins to unravel.
It was my only source of sanity, of solace during my darkest hours - because I couldn't find any other reason. And I... wanted to bear the cross.
But the idealist in this cynic, who wants to believe that hope springs eternal, wants to think : maybe with a few people it isn't like that; maybe giving just comes naturally to a few, and maybe if two people who give by nature find each other, maybe, just maybe they create... a moment that lasts, and many gifts to remember.
Rabbit Rider
Every so often the Phoenix decides to exercise her "kitten" (that's a kitten?!?! more like a cheetah...) and leaves the Dragon struggling to catch up saddled on his little rabbit with its stubby little paws......
... it always makes him laugh.
... it always makes him laugh.
Moment
I have many flaws... you're just not seeing them.
... I see them. Everybody is flawed; nobody is perfect.
*****
Uncanny. Words returning through time, echoes from the past.
No mask of perfection, but instead an admission of humanity.
... I see them. Everybody is flawed; nobody is perfect.
*****
Uncanny. Words returning through time, echoes from the past.
No mask of perfection, but instead an admission of humanity.
Infinity Past
I remember this place.
I remember us holding each other close and shivering as the wind buffeted us.
I remember watching in wide-eyed wonder as the sky lightened around us.
I remember feeling that anything was possible, all paths were unwalked, but everything was right, right at that instant as we lay still, and shivered.
I remember this place - it is just a place, now.
*****
I put my soiled hands,
behind my back,
somewhere along the line,
i must have gone off track, with you.
*****
Falling in love is more than a feeling;
it's a decision to make, a sacrifice to take,
an admission of weaknesses,
and vulnerabilities confessed
relinquishing pride
forsaking lies
a time to be true,
a moment past concealing.
Unspoken
You have nice eyes, he said, his hands cupping her temples.
You must get that a lot...
Maybe, she said.
Unspoken : You have nice eyes... even when they're tired.
You must get that a lot...
Maybe, she said.
Unspoken : You have nice eyes... even when they're tired.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Aggressive marketing
(In mandarin)
Where did you get this done? The wizened old man asks holding up a re-shod sole, obvious distaste, bordering on contempt oozing off his voice and visage.
... Chinatown? (timidly) he replies.
uncomfortable pause.
... it's not very well done is it?
You said it, I didn't dare to say it. (literal)
I'll come back to you next time, thank you, thank you.
Where did you get this done? The wizened old man asks holding up a re-shod sole, obvious distaste, bordering on contempt oozing off his voice and visage.
... Chinatown? (timidly) he replies.
uncomfortable pause.
... it's not very well done is it?
You said it, I didn't dare to say it. (literal)
I'll come back to you next time, thank you, thank you.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Gerbil
Cut it short, he said.
Shorter than this? Her eyes widened in incredulity.
It's meant to be a... surprise. It has to fit in this plastic bag.
We can do that, she said with a smile.
Shorter than this? Her eyes widened in incredulity.
It's meant to be a... surprise. It has to fit in this plastic bag.
We can do that, she said with a smile.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Tree Frog
And then as I sat holding her in her car, or perhaps she was holding me, and perhaps it was she breathing into my neck, or perhaps I into hers - presents were fading into pasts with the aging night, and it was late and we were so very tired - I knew.
I recognise the signs.
I know what it means when there always seems to be so much left to say to you and yet find myself so very incapable to expressing it, hear myself voicing mere fragments of the truths and thoughts I'd been meaning to share with you, to want to listen so much more than speak.
I know what it means to find myself gravitating unbidden towards you - not for the sake of it, nor because you asked, with or without words, nor because of intimacies we could potentially share... but simply because I'd like to see you again.
I know what it means to not dare to presume you think the same, even if your actions imply your thoughts.
*****
"Let me know if you'll need dinner tomorrow?"
Laugh.
"You know I do."
I recognise the signs.
I know what it means when there always seems to be so much left to say to you and yet find myself so very incapable to expressing it, hear myself voicing mere fragments of the truths and thoughts I'd been meaning to share with you, to want to listen so much more than speak.
I know what it means to find myself gravitating unbidden towards you - not for the sake of it, nor because you asked, with or without words, nor because of intimacies we could potentially share... but simply because I'd like to see you again.
I know what it means to not dare to presume you think the same, even if your actions imply your thoughts.
*****
"Let me know if you'll need dinner tomorrow?"
Laugh.
"You know I do."
Scrubbed Text
From the blue.
"Can you remove my full name from your blog."
Silence, for a while.
"I don't have to, you know."
"I know."
"But if you want me to I will, because we loved each other once."
"Z, Why did you use my full name?"
"I don't know."
I guess I just always thought of you as your full name, I don't know why. I guess, somehow you were more than just a first-name to me, or perhaps you were just different, in my head.
And yes, of course I understand how important it is to you - now that everything stands on the brink, now that the Rest of your Life is beckoning.
But I don't understand what kind of foundations you can build forever on, if you have to protect him from the truth, from the heart of the matter.
If he loves you, he will accept all your truths, and all your previous untruths; he will teach you truth, and forgive your past.
The truth of the matter is that truth always finds its way to the surface, one way or the other. And discovery of an intentional absence of truth is a harsh, harsh thing.
I wish you well, truly, I do.
*****
I remember hugging your father hard, man to man, in silence, fighting back the bewilderment and pain in my eyes, trying to beat back the deafening cacophony of silence in my head, trying to smile.
Goodbye, uncle.
I remember as I sat alone in the pathetic, dingy little airport hard plastic seat, staring out into the night.
And then the message from your mother :
"In my heart, you are already my son."
*****
You must be a wise hunter, your mother said.
And as I passed her the red box with my last gift out of time to you, whom I knew once, I knew her for a good woman, and I knew she was right.
I must be a wise hunter.
I must hunt prey that are... right for me.
"Can you remove my full name from your blog."
Silence, for a while.
"I don't have to, you know."
"I know."
"But if you want me to I will, because we loved each other once."
"Z, Why did you use my full name?"
"I don't know."
I guess I just always thought of you as your full name, I don't know why. I guess, somehow you were more than just a first-name to me, or perhaps you were just different, in my head.
And yes, of course I understand how important it is to you - now that everything stands on the brink, now that the Rest of your Life is beckoning.
But I don't understand what kind of foundations you can build forever on, if you have to protect him from the truth, from the heart of the matter.
If he loves you, he will accept all your truths, and all your previous untruths; he will teach you truth, and forgive your past.
The truth of the matter is that truth always finds its way to the surface, one way or the other. And discovery of an intentional absence of truth is a harsh, harsh thing.
I wish you well, truly, I do.
*****
I remember hugging your father hard, man to man, in silence, fighting back the bewilderment and pain in my eyes, trying to beat back the deafening cacophony of silence in my head, trying to smile.
Goodbye, uncle.
I remember as I sat alone in the pathetic, dingy little airport hard plastic seat, staring out into the night.
And then the message from your mother :
"In my heart, you are already my son."
*****
You must be a wise hunter, your mother said.
And as I passed her the red box with my last gift out of time to you, whom I knew once, I knew her for a good woman, and I knew she was right.
I must be a wise hunter.
I must hunt prey that are... right for me.
Just a dream
*****
Watching her gazing blankly at the countertop, occasionally glancing up with those oversized eyes into mine.
"And sometimes, you know, it feels like it never happened... all that time together..."
"I know." I know. I know...
"... I just knew that there was no way forwards except marriage..."
Deja vu.
"I knew that I couldn't do it for the rest of my life... the arguments which ended in his not calling me for days... until sometimes I'd cry. Towards the end I found myself pressing the auto-redial button on my phone, and going about the daily chores... checking on the phone now and again to see if it got through... just to make the effort, you know?"
"I know."
"And then the final time, he realised after a while that I wasn't calling back, and then he called me and was angry with me at first, and said I hurt him, and I thought all those times you made me cry... what, was it just to teach me a lesson?"
She looks up with those beautiful, liquid, sad eyes of hers.
"You're right, you couldn't have done that... it's the rest of every day of your life."
"But I miss him, you know?"
"How will you feel if he moves on?"
"Wah I tell you man, I'll cry...... I don't want to wake up one day, and you know, listening to you... Don't want to be like her, I don't want it to be too late, you know?"
"It won't be; it's totally different... I think you deserve someone who's better for you, someone who won't control your whereabouts, who won't expect you to stay home all the time doing housework, someone who'll give you space and make you happy."
"I want to be... me."
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Equality
Equality to my mind has always been nothing more complicated, nor less simple than just two people.
Two people, sans the bells and whistles of the attendant circus of the rest of the world.
Two people who understand each other, who laugh together, who dream together, who walk, just walk together. Who are decent to each other, and good for each other. Who respect each other, yet make each other laugh. Who forgive, and are forgiven for their trespasses. Who may not think in perfect tandem, but are able to think together. Who share and communicate the truth, and are stronger for it together.
It's never had anything to do with power careers, with family status, with wealth or poverty, or even with perfect compatibility.
Perhaps in my youth I was extremely hung up on a more superficial equality, of thoughts, of minds, of humours, of wits, of communication.
It was because of Her, because we were similar - and I pegged equality as precisely that. Similarity; near clairvoyance, common language, common turns of phrase to the extent that thoughts need not be completed, that sentences could be read before they were spoken.
As I aged so too did my convictions - perhaps this is the vaunted maturity of years - and my convictions of steel, my black and whites melted into something... wiser.
And so it is that everytime I fall in love with someone - which happens rarely - I burn for equality, and it starts that way - it always feels like an equal. Because if it didn't, I know from experience now when to pull out and escape - Self preservation, and preservation of others.
My friends sometimes chide me after the fact for perceived "inequalities" or incompatibilities, but that's not the way it works at all.
The truth is, while I'm in it with someone else, equality is only about her and I. And only for her and I. Everyone else, family, friends, acquaintences.... well their opinions are important at some level of course, and it's important to hear them out. But really they really don't matter.
Equality only breaks down when either party in the relationship perceives it. Or when they prove it.
*****
"You two look good together."
A remark, from the blue.
Two people, sans the bells and whistles of the attendant circus of the rest of the world.
Two people who understand each other, who laugh together, who dream together, who walk, just walk together. Who are decent to each other, and good for each other. Who respect each other, yet make each other laugh. Who forgive, and are forgiven for their trespasses. Who may not think in perfect tandem, but are able to think together. Who share and communicate the truth, and are stronger for it together.
It's never had anything to do with power careers, with family status, with wealth or poverty, or even with perfect compatibility.
Perhaps in my youth I was extremely hung up on a more superficial equality, of thoughts, of minds, of humours, of wits, of communication.
It was because of Her, because we were similar - and I pegged equality as precisely that. Similarity; near clairvoyance, common language, common turns of phrase to the extent that thoughts need not be completed, that sentences could be read before they were spoken.
As I aged so too did my convictions - perhaps this is the vaunted maturity of years - and my convictions of steel, my black and whites melted into something... wiser.
And so it is that everytime I fall in love with someone - which happens rarely - I burn for equality, and it starts that way - it always feels like an equal. Because if it didn't, I know from experience now when to pull out and escape - Self preservation, and preservation of others.
My friends sometimes chide me after the fact for perceived "inequalities" or incompatibilities, but that's not the way it works at all.
The truth is, while I'm in it with someone else, equality is only about her and I. And only for her and I. Everyone else, family, friends, acquaintences.... well their opinions are important at some level of course, and it's important to hear them out. But really they really don't matter.
Equality only breaks down when either party in the relationship perceives it. Or when they prove it.
*****
"You two look good together."
A remark, from the blue.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Fire in the Sky
Behind you, he said.
And for those brief minutes they sat in silence and watched the sky as it flickered, then flared to life, and faded into darkness.
It won't do it justice, she said as he drew his cameraphone from his pocket.
And sitting there across from her he knew she was right; some things simply cannot be captured on film; some things are best preserved in memory. Some memories will always be special come what may, that he was here with her under this blood red sky at all, and that through the span of that evening as she sparkled he drank, and drowned.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Harry Scary and the Goblet of Fairy
So re-minisce decides it's a lazy saturday afternoon, the shop floor's nearly empty, time for a nap...
... so the powers that be decide to admit the uber-man in white himself.
Whimper.
I like my head unbroken.
whimper.
*****
"Oh dear drinks might not be advisable but let me know if you need dinner delivered"
"You know i'd say yes just to get a chance to get foo... a chance to see you again."
Silver lining, or lightning? :)
... so the powers that be decide to admit the uber-man in white himself.
Whimper.
I like my head unbroken.
whimper.
*****
"Oh dear drinks might not be advisable but let me know if you need dinner delivered"
"You know i'd say yes just to get a chance to get foo... a chance to see you again."
Silver lining, or lightning? :)
Friday, November 28, 2008
Moment
"...the reason I'm crippled around you is because as long as you're talking and animating yourself with those eyes and being you, I just want to sit here and listen to you and watch your eyes, and I can't to do anything that might jeapordize the moment...
.... so shut up..."
and then he kissed her.
.... so shut up..."
and then he kissed her.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Whatever
Loving someone is never a mistake, if nothing else because it gives you a chance to learn something about yourself.
The only time you can truly regret having loved someone, truly regret having been involved with someone is if you learnt nothing, or if you lost more than you gained.
I've only regretted one relationship in my past, and it was a rebound thingie to some woman i remember as a nutjob. I don't regret my last relationship with you, I don't regret the sadness that I endured, for you.
If you want to live with the truth, then create truths you can live with.
The photos are out of my wallet now, as are the namecards.
But I won't ever forget, or regret the afternoon you offered me company, on my way to delifrance. I have good memories of us, and you.
Thanks for all the memories, and have a great life.
The only time you can truly regret having loved someone, truly regret having been involved with someone is if you learnt nothing, or if you lost more than you gained.
I've only regretted one relationship in my past, and it was a rebound thingie to some woman i remember as a nutjob. I don't regret my last relationship with you, I don't regret the sadness that I endured, for you.
If you want to live with the truth, then create truths you can live with.
The photos are out of my wallet now, as are the namecards.
But I won't ever forget, or regret the afternoon you offered me company, on my way to delifrance. I have good memories of us, and you.
Thanks for all the memories, and have a great life.
Irresistable attraction. To floor.
So I started the day by doing the usual effortless flop into chair routine and wound up on the ward floor on my back, with nurses making a beeline towards the source of the loud thump, only to walk away disgusted on discovering it wasn't a felled patient.
I do not. Fall. Over.
*****
LadyGrey : so I am your bad balance bear now?
mutter.
I do not. Fall. Over.
*****
LadyGrey : so I am your bad balance bear now?
mutter.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
The Question
I misunderstood her then, and assumed she was speaking in terms of mice and men, much the way S, J's friend said it in her oxymoronic hot-mama cool-chick hongkong-triad motherly fashion (it's a stretch of imagination, but still workable, really...) - waah a doctor and a .... hen pei.
But I don't think that way; I just see people.
In hindsight I realise that I hadn't told Sara yet what she did...
Sara : ...So what does it feel like... to date an equal?
I think I understand her question now; not a question of worth and measures at all.
*****
"You have remarkable eyes" he says, looking away before he can catch himself.
What the hell?!
We know how it's done, we've never had trouble before : you look the girl square in the eye and you smile a little; it's that easy. It's an act, easy peasy. And what's a bit of play acting..
... remarkable? Graah.
What was that??
*****
And then the curtain falls -
"when i asked you if you were on the rebound, you said it had been 3 months...
but you see, i don't think i was necessarily referring to your last relationship..."
Not a seer?
With X-ray vision like that?.
graah.
But I don't think that way; I just see people.
In hindsight I realise that I hadn't told Sara yet what she did...
Sara : ...So what does it feel like... to date an equal?
I think I understand her question now; not a question of worth and measures at all.
*****
"You have remarkable eyes" he says, looking away before he can catch himself.
What the hell?!
We know how it's done, we've never had trouble before : you look the girl square in the eye and you smile a little; it's that easy. It's an act, easy peasy. And what's a bit of play acting..
... remarkable? Graah.
What was that??
*****
And then the curtain falls -
"when i asked you if you were on the rebound, you said it had been 3 months...
but you see, i don't think i was necessarily referring to your last relationship..."
Not a seer?
With X-ray vision like that?.
graah.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Paralyzed
At some point during dinner while they're leaning in just a tad too close to each other as they speak, and his eyes are searching hers while they laugh, he realises why it's so... difficult... around her, and perhaps why it was so difficult back at fifteen as well.
As long as she's animating herself with those eyes, assaulting him with that wit... there is nothing he wants more, right then and there, than to just watch, and listen.
Hmm perhaps a blindfold might come in handy.
****
A girl who has dreams about saving the world, and dying.
How could anyone possibly resist that?
As long as she's animating herself with those eyes, assaulting him with that wit... there is nothing he wants more, right then and there, than to just watch, and listen.
Hmm perhaps a blindfold might come in handy.
****
A girl who has dreams about saving the world, and dying.
How could anyone possibly resist that?
Fifteen
She's struggling with the cap on her illicit ta-paod coffee martini in a perrier bottle; he offers to help and reaches through the metal bars of the gate. Their fingers touch and remain in contact as he loosens the not-terribly-tight bottlecap.
Hands withdraw and he smiles a goodbye as he backpeddles, laughing silently in his head; the few words exchanged between two habitual wordsmiths simple, honest and spontaneous.
*****
"I forgot to tell you this last night but sometimes you make me feel like I am 15 again."
"Just great, we have a mutually retarding effect on each other. So much for all that university education eh?"
Hands withdraw and he smiles a goodbye as he backpeddles, laughing silently in his head; the few words exchanged between two habitual wordsmiths simple, honest and spontaneous.
*****
"I forgot to tell you this last night but sometimes you make me feel like I am 15 again."
"Just great, we have a mutually retarding effect on each other. So much for all that university education eh?"
Monday, November 24, 2008
Unexpected
the measure of a woman
*****
"Unexpected like being mowed down by a three tonner while crossing a quiet residential street?"
Almost frightening, how he knew what the message would read, virtually word for word the second his phone chimed.
*****
"Unexpected like being mowed down by a three tonner while crossing a quiet residential street?"
Almost frightening, how he knew what the message would read, virtually word for word the second his phone chimed.
Different
(nervously) "I've been meaning to tell you for a while now... that you have very intelligent eyes. Just that it's kinda difficult to slip surreptitiously into everyday conversation...."
*****
Remembered from the past:
"You have pretty eyes..."
"Crazy eyes, crazy eyes!"
"I like your eyes..."
*****
(left unspoken)
Perhaps not the most flattering of compliments, but not so much a compliment as a simple statement of fact.
Pretty eyes... attractive eyes... engaging, expressive eyes that talk, and laugh when she's making others around her laugh, or running you into the ground - all true, but also completely missing the point, failing to capture the quintessential :
Quick, watchful eyes that miss little, (except walls, floors and other mundane physical barriers to gravity) eyes that dance with life, and bubble with mirth.
*****
Grappling to search out elusive words, that simply fail to do justice or refuse to be choked out when clearly conceptualized, regardless of effort.
Different.
*****
She : "How do you know you're not going through a rebound?"
He : "Well, it's been three months..."
She : "That's not very long at all."
He (with a smile) : "I've been through it before, I remember what it was like. I'm not."
Unspoken :
I remember the killing blow, delivered over the telephone as I forced it out of her -because the truth is so, so important.
I remember walking through the garden as she spoke, hands brushing the wetness on the leaves of the bougainvilleas, and looking up at the sky, and that full, full moon, and the sparse stars peppering the black canvas of the sky. I remember knowing in advance what was coming, that innate clairvoyance finally kicking in as I heard her speak, and heard instead everything Sara had been telling me about who she would turn out to be.
I remember bewilderment - the I love yous that still appeared on my phone mere days before; and suddenly there it was, the other guy who was always around her, the guy who irritated her for his childishness, the guy who angered her for trying to take liberties with her although she was with someone else.... there it was, we have to break up because he just tried to kiss me, and I did.
And then there was more, a single event turned into weeks, and perhaps months.
I remember walking dazed through life, almost as if the air around me had turned to treacle; hearing words pass me by, hands moving mechanically as i cleaned and draped, or closed wounds; my head an unending chorus of unanswerable questions. I remember how hard it was to relax, how tense, like a coiled spring about to explode I was.
I remember pervasive sadness, and above all that overwhelming sense of betrayal; and then a moment's madness - meeting another woman who sounded like her; someone to take away my sadness with something... familiar. I remember trying to tell myself I knew myself, I remember watching myself in mind's eye as we stood against the car and I looked at her without really seeing her. I remember everything happening too quickly, in accelerated time, that treacley feeling still all around me; awareness not quite regained; and then I remember when awareness returned and I found myself really looking at her, listening to her, and feeling trapped, unhappy, and wondering what the hell just happened...
I don't remember ever wondering if I would feel sadness as we parted, and I Remember the sweet, sweet relief that came at the end, even as she slapped me very deliberately, once to the left, and once to the right, and I raised my eyebrows in return and perhaps smiled in incredulity.
*****
And then I remember us unhappening; things were different. We both expected to feel relief - it wasn't something unexpected that happened overnight, rather something in the making for several months, something I'd tried to subtly and not so subtly shake you out of and failed repeatedly at; and when the moment came and passed there was no relief for either of us but only sadness.
I didn't become depersonalized and the world didn't slide by in bullet time; everything was real, and I didn't want the words in my head, didn't want to remember and hurt.
My salvation wasn't in the bottom of a glass, or in the eyes of a woman who reminded me of her; it began the night J introduced me to K; it began the night MM linked arms with me and we upended our champagne glasses an laughed.
It began with laughter, and friendship.
And it was so, so easy to relax, and to smile as K introduced me to his clutch of gorgeous handmaidens and I met eyes with them and laughed.
I didn't stop to hurt because I don't want to; I don't need to.
I need to laugh, and live for the moment - not for the past.
*****
Remembered from the past:
"You have pretty eyes..."
"Crazy eyes, crazy eyes!"
"I like your eyes..."
*****
(left unspoken)
Perhaps not the most flattering of compliments, but not so much a compliment as a simple statement of fact.
Pretty eyes... attractive eyes... engaging, expressive eyes that talk, and laugh when she's making others around her laugh, or running you into the ground - all true, but also completely missing the point, failing to capture the quintessential :
Quick, watchful eyes that miss little, (except walls, floors and other mundane physical barriers to gravity) eyes that dance with life, and bubble with mirth.
*****
Grappling to search out elusive words, that simply fail to do justice or refuse to be choked out when clearly conceptualized, regardless of effort.
Different.
*****
She : "How do you know you're not going through a rebound?"
He : "Well, it's been three months..."
She : "That's not very long at all."
He (with a smile) : "I've been through it before, I remember what it was like. I'm not."
Unspoken :
I remember the killing blow, delivered over the telephone as I forced it out of her -because the truth is so, so important.
I remember walking through the garden as she spoke, hands brushing the wetness on the leaves of the bougainvilleas, and looking up at the sky, and that full, full moon, and the sparse stars peppering the black canvas of the sky. I remember knowing in advance what was coming, that innate clairvoyance finally kicking in as I heard her speak, and heard instead everything Sara had been telling me about who she would turn out to be.
I remember bewilderment - the I love yous that still appeared on my phone mere days before; and suddenly there it was, the other guy who was always around her, the guy who irritated her for his childishness, the guy who angered her for trying to take liberties with her although she was with someone else.... there it was, we have to break up because he just tried to kiss me, and I did.
And then there was more, a single event turned into weeks, and perhaps months.
I remember walking dazed through life, almost as if the air around me had turned to treacle; hearing words pass me by, hands moving mechanically as i cleaned and draped, or closed wounds; my head an unending chorus of unanswerable questions. I remember how hard it was to relax, how tense, like a coiled spring about to explode I was.
I remember pervasive sadness, and above all that overwhelming sense of betrayal; and then a moment's madness - meeting another woman who sounded like her; someone to take away my sadness with something... familiar. I remember trying to tell myself I knew myself, I remember watching myself in mind's eye as we stood against the car and I looked at her without really seeing her. I remember everything happening too quickly, in accelerated time, that treacley feeling still all around me; awareness not quite regained; and then I remember when awareness returned and I found myself really looking at her, listening to her, and feeling trapped, unhappy, and wondering what the hell just happened...
I don't remember ever wondering if I would feel sadness as we parted, and I Remember the sweet, sweet relief that came at the end, even as she slapped me very deliberately, once to the left, and once to the right, and I raised my eyebrows in return and perhaps smiled in incredulity.
*****
And then I remember us unhappening; things were different. We both expected to feel relief - it wasn't something unexpected that happened overnight, rather something in the making for several months, something I'd tried to subtly and not so subtly shake you out of and failed repeatedly at; and when the moment came and passed there was no relief for either of us but only sadness.
I didn't become depersonalized and the world didn't slide by in bullet time; everything was real, and I didn't want the words in my head, didn't want to remember and hurt.
My salvation wasn't in the bottom of a glass, or in the eyes of a woman who reminded me of her; it began the night J introduced me to K; it began the night MM linked arms with me and we upended our champagne glasses an laughed.
It began with laughter, and friendship.
And it was so, so easy to relax, and to smile as K introduced me to his clutch of gorgeous handmaidens and I met eyes with them and laughed.
I didn't stop to hurt because I don't want to; I don't need to.
I need to laugh, and live for the moment - not for the past.
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