Half a decade ago
The then-girlfriend is irritating you by trying to widen your social circle with her own friends; she feels that you don't have enough friends; she quite fails to see that you're a loner by choice.
"There's someone I'd like you to meet" she chirps, dragging you over to her.
A strange, dreamlike moment. Shades of those eyes again; the chopsticks in the hair are a tad odd. The words just assume a life of their own; you're not in control anymore.
"Hello, X." The then-girlfriend's eyes widen as she realises her then-boyfriend didn't live his past-life under a rock after all.
"Hello, P_... You're Her cousin, aren't you?"
"Oh yeah, her. She's so smart, and so pretty..."
The then-girlfriend's eyes are stunned.
*****
Several months ago
Many years later and there's a rat pinned to the board before you; the girl behind you looks disconcertingly familiar. You look at her eyes.
It's a bit hard to recognise her without the chopsticks.
"Hello, P_"
*****
Today
And then you look up, startled, at the stranger and there's something familiar about those eyes, behind his surgical mask.
And then the moment of shock; the moment of not-quite deja-vu :
You're Her cousin.
It seems only yesterday you called me, to not-so-subtly hint to me that you'd found things out. You told me I had good taste in women; I marvelled at how wrong that sounded... that's your own cousin you're talking about.
Your eyes were blank; you'd either forgotten, or the confirmation name threw you off.
*****
Deja vu
I'm sure you've all had it; hows about this though, eating dinner, a word is said, some imaginary memory cell wakes up, and suddenly you're having a deja vu moment, and you remember that in that previous moment, in this exact same setting, but in some parallel universe you were having a deja moment too.
Perhaps this is the matrix after all.
*****
Claustrophobia
The walls are closing in. There is something familiar about all this.
But no. No.
I don't believe in serendipity.
*****
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Pei Wo Tao
Do this in remembrance of me
...Jesus the same night in which he was betrayed took bread And when he had given thanks, he brake it, and said, Take, eat: this is my body, which is broken for you: do this in remembrance of me. After the same manner also he took the cup, when he had supped, saying, This cup is the new testament in my blood: this do ye, as oft as ye drink it, in remembrance of me.
-1 Corinthians 11:23-25
*****
Amnesia
So C and E's sad little story continues to write itself / unravel, depending on which way one looks at it, and it strikes me that the world is the kind of fucked up, upside-down, inside-out place that a woman with a soul that looks blackened and dishonest beyond the point of redemption is afforded a chance to get to know God, and will probably pretend for the sake of keeping C dangling at the end of her line to be Good and Changed...
.. but that is the cynic in me speaking.
Who knows, if it be God's will perhaps something good and lasting will come into her life long after C has left it...
... and it strikes me that there are others out there who have souls that are only a bit grey; take away the selfish motivations of greed and ambition, involve fools who really care about how they feel and react and think, and somehow God is just so very, very difficult to even introduce; give it a month and everyone will have moved on, nothing lasting or good will remain.
Sad.
******
Wisdom
1) Forgive as you have been forgiven
2) Remember your immense value and worth as God's child and as God sees you always (that He would suffer and die for our worthlessness) and to reconsider voluntarily allowing anyone to treat you any less than a child of The King.
3) Understand - that the traumas that we do not know, that inspired these dark mind-games must not be trivial
4) Remember - that God's love is infinite and His grace boundless, remind your friend.
These were the words of advice a very old, and very Good friend wrote a week ago, in response to a story I recounted to her recently.
******
Reminiscence
I brooded as we drank; drinking has never given me joy and invariably burns a hole in my pocket. But it gives me an excuse to look moody as the Thoughts which I normally keep restrained or out of sight flit across my mind.
The singer beamed and started belting out her set. She was good, and sang with gusto and feeling.
I'm all out of faith, this is how I feel...
... and suddenly I was transported to another time, another place. London, Raffles Night. Much more brightly lit, a much larger, open space - a ballroom of a hotel, if I recall correctly. A very pretty young girl singing with that sweet, sweet church voice of hers, wearing and dancing grunge (slightly at odds with her virginal good looks) those exact same words : I'm all out of faith...
And then somewhat later in the evening, as I sat at the grand piano with my mind a million miles away, my fingers wandering lost, searching through the ivory maze for the keys to my soul... she draped herself on the piano, smiling sadly at me, and sang for me about these Foolish Games breaking our hearts....
The audience rose to their feet.
I walked out the door and just kept walking, and walking, plowing through the soup of suspended-animation microscopic raindrops that is London on a cold, chilly winter's night.
I'm wide awake and I can see the perfect sky is torn
You were so much better, J...
******
Catharsis
As we drank I listened to C's grand plans to escape with E, and felt a twinge.
Too familiar.
Too impossible.
And then today I found you again. And I had an epiphany.
The ties that bind us, that stay the invariably sowed seeds of infidelity from taking root, and remind us even on our loneliest, most self-obsessed nights - transplanted a million miles from home, out in the cold, alone, afraid and freezing -- to remain loyal souls, to turn away from our darkness, to choose Good over Bad... are all in our own heads : faith, and love.
Goodness and faith don't come from within.
They don't come from the Girl. Or the Guy.
They come from God.
...Jesus the same night in which he was betrayed took bread And when he had given thanks, he brake it, and said, Take, eat: this is my body, which is broken for you: do this in remembrance of me. After the same manner also he took the cup, when he had supped, saying, This cup is the new testament in my blood: this do ye, as oft as ye drink it, in remembrance of me.
-1 Corinthians 11:23-25
*****
Amnesia
So C and E's sad little story continues to write itself / unravel, depending on which way one looks at it, and it strikes me that the world is the kind of fucked up, upside-down, inside-out place that a woman with a soul that looks blackened and dishonest beyond the point of redemption is afforded a chance to get to know God, and will probably pretend for the sake of keeping C dangling at the end of her line to be Good and Changed...
.. but that is the cynic in me speaking.
Who knows, if it be God's will perhaps something good and lasting will come into her life long after C has left it...
... and it strikes me that there are others out there who have souls that are only a bit grey; take away the selfish motivations of greed and ambition, involve fools who really care about how they feel and react and think, and somehow God is just so very, very difficult to even introduce; give it a month and everyone will have moved on, nothing lasting or good will remain.
Sad.
******
Wisdom
1) Forgive as you have been forgiven
2) Remember your immense value and worth as God's child and as God sees you always (that He would suffer and die for our worthlessness) and to reconsider voluntarily allowing anyone to treat you any less than a child of The King.
3) Understand - that the traumas that we do not know, that inspired these dark mind-games must not be trivial
4) Remember - that God's love is infinite and His grace boundless, remind your friend.
These were the words of advice a very old, and very Good friend wrote a week ago, in response to a story I recounted to her recently.
******
Reminiscence
I brooded as we drank; drinking has never given me joy and invariably burns a hole in my pocket. But it gives me an excuse to look moody as the Thoughts which I normally keep restrained or out of sight flit across my mind.
The singer beamed and started belting out her set. She was good, and sang with gusto and feeling.
I'm all out of faith, this is how I feel...
... and suddenly I was transported to another time, another place. London, Raffles Night. Much more brightly lit, a much larger, open space - a ballroom of a hotel, if I recall correctly. A very pretty young girl singing with that sweet, sweet church voice of hers, wearing and dancing grunge (slightly at odds with her virginal good looks) those exact same words : I'm all out of faith...
And then somewhat later in the evening, as I sat at the grand piano with my mind a million miles away, my fingers wandering lost, searching through the ivory maze for the keys to my soul... she draped herself on the piano, smiling sadly at me, and sang for me about these Foolish Games breaking our hearts....
The audience rose to their feet.
I walked out the door and just kept walking, and walking, plowing through the soup of suspended-animation microscopic raindrops that is London on a cold, chilly winter's night.
I'm wide awake and I can see the perfect sky is torn
You were so much better, J...
******
Catharsis
As we drank I listened to C's grand plans to escape with E, and felt a twinge.
Too familiar.
Too impossible.
And then today I found you again. And I had an epiphany.
The ties that bind us, that stay the invariably sowed seeds of infidelity from taking root, and remind us even on our loneliest, most self-obsessed nights - transplanted a million miles from home, out in the cold, alone, afraid and freezing -- to remain loyal souls, to turn away from our darkness, to choose Good over Bad... are all in our own heads : faith, and love.
Goodness and faith don't come from within.
They don't come from the Girl. Or the Guy.
They come from God.
Choices
I don't know what it means, but as I drove away from the music and their laughter, I was torn.
I'm all out of faith, this is how I feel
At the thought of being on call tomorrow, and the day after. At the thought of everything that has transpired over these last few weeks, and these last few years.
At my present, and my past.
And there was nothing I would have liked more dearly than to go home and pick up my sabre, and my bible.
But I made my choice, and here I am, in the office, paying for my Sins with a neverending audit.
Here I am, oh Lord.
I am your servant, once more.
I'm all out of faith, this is how I feel
At the thought of being on call tomorrow, and the day after. At the thought of everything that has transpired over these last few weeks, and these last few years.
At my present, and my past.
And there was nothing I would have liked more dearly than to go home and pick up my sabre, and my bible.
But I made my choice, and here I am, in the office, paying for my Sins with a neverending audit.
Here I am, oh Lord.
I am your servant, once more.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Picture Postcards from LA
J was telling me how much she appreciates postcards the other night.
Her flatmate, in true high-society-hot-babe fashion rolled her eyes derisively, and snorted.
I understood about the postcard thing, though. It's about significance.
It's about remembering someone when you needn't do, and taking a little bit of time out of your busy schedule to post them a piece of you - this is me, thinking of you, sending you a piece of my life.
Different people attach different significances to things; for S significance is perhaps a branded wallet, or a $25,000 watch.
Different folks, different strokes.
Her flatmate, in true high-society-hot-babe fashion rolled her eyes derisively, and snorted.
I understood about the postcard thing, though. It's about significance.
It's about remembering someone when you needn't do, and taking a little bit of time out of your busy schedule to post them a piece of you - this is me, thinking of you, sending you a piece of my life.
Different people attach different significances to things; for S significance is perhaps a branded wallet, or a $25,000 watch.
Different folks, different strokes.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Resounding Disquiet
In my line of work we have attendants who "fly shotgun" with us, so to speak. It's easy to take them for granted when they're competent.
Today I'm squirming in my seat, and struggling to keep the darker part of my soul from exploding to the surface.
Growl.
And please, please stop trying to make smalltalk with me. Your pressure of speech and broken Singlish are just too much for me to handle right now. There's a reason I'm not talking back to you. It's to stop the Devil from erupting out my mouth and consuming you in flames.
******
It's always gratifying to read /hear someone else's rants about your own pet peeves. It reminds us that we're not alone.
Reading Dida's "Peeved" dated wed aug 27 2008 (ordinarily I would hyperlink "this" to a permalink, but this woman seems to go out of her way to inconvenience people who want to reference her) makes me smile a little sadly at all the times I've railed against all things Singlish, and the systematic way in which our glory boys are destroying English through their misguided Speak Good English campaigns (IT'S SPEAK ENGLISH WELL NOT SPEAK GOOD ENGLISH FOR GODS SAKES) and it brings back memories of angry readers unleashing furious barrages of poorly worded retorts upon hapless little me. (how come girl only, post naked picture of back dont get these comments ah?)
It feels like I've spent the last three years here ranting about... everything, to the point that I'm running out of ire and fire. The death of English (Widening the goalposts will never, ever improve the standard of play), kids with dead eyes, "you can't change the system", "it's like that because it's always been like that", "you're romanticising the rest of the world", Overwork culture, a culture of conformism, the "me" generation who thinks they're being unique by being cool... and just turning themselves into a sadder stereotype, a kiasu culture of "face" and hypocrisy... the list goes on, and on, and on. (anyone remember the time I wrote about homogenous HDB blocks marring the skyline? Oh, the fallout. I've had second thoughts since then, watching the boys in white "upgrade" Bata shoeboxes into avant-garde monstrosities.)
This country is changing me; when I read her my first instinct was to giggle, and my second was to sympathise with the sheep - you can't blame them for it, they're born into chinese families, english isn't their first language, they don't think like you, they grew up in a different world, etcetcetc.
And then the cathartic moment of shock and realisation - this country is changing me. For the worse. (worst? No, worse!)
I'm backsliding. My guns are so greasy I can't hold on to them, much less keep my aim steady. My thoughts are losing their focus.
She's right - if you want to improve your English, then don't whinge about arrogant ang-moh-philes picking on you, and don't for God's sakes defend your fucked up English as something good, because "people tell me I write well", or "I have 4000 readers a day so I must be right and you are wrong". (heh. I dread the inevitable fallout that's going to follow this one. Before anyone takes it upon her.. or himself to blast me out of the water for this, consider first that you're exposing your own insecurities about yourself by replying to me, and leave me in peace, please, please. Please.)
And I can't change the system - but I know now that it doesn't deserve to be changed.
And I know that things ARE different out there, because I WAS THERE. And I remember everything. Including who I used to be.
Soon now, someday soon...
Today I'm squirming in my seat, and struggling to keep the darker part of my soul from exploding to the surface.
Growl.
And please, please stop trying to make smalltalk with me. Your pressure of speech and broken Singlish are just too much for me to handle right now. There's a reason I'm not talking back to you. It's to stop the Devil from erupting out my mouth and consuming you in flames.
******
It's always gratifying to read /hear someone else's rants about your own pet peeves. It reminds us that we're not alone.
Reading Dida's "Peeved" dated wed aug 27 2008 (ordinarily I would hyperlink "this" to a permalink, but this woman seems to go out of her way to inconvenience people who want to reference her) makes me smile a little sadly at all the times I've railed against all things Singlish, and the systematic way in which our glory boys are destroying English through their misguided Speak Good English campaigns (IT'S SPEAK ENGLISH WELL NOT SPEAK GOOD ENGLISH FOR GODS SAKES) and it brings back memories of angry readers unleashing furious barrages of poorly worded retorts upon hapless little me. (how come girl only, post naked picture of back dont get these comments ah?)
It feels like I've spent the last three years here ranting about... everything, to the point that I'm running out of ire and fire. The death of English (Widening the goalposts will never, ever improve the standard of play), kids with dead eyes, "you can't change the system", "it's like that because it's always been like that", "you're romanticising the rest of the world", Overwork culture, a culture of conformism, the "me" generation who thinks they're being unique by being cool... and just turning themselves into a sadder stereotype, a kiasu culture of "face" and hypocrisy... the list goes on, and on, and on. (anyone remember the time I wrote about homogenous HDB blocks marring the skyline? Oh, the fallout. I've had second thoughts since then, watching the boys in white "upgrade" Bata shoeboxes into avant-garde monstrosities.)
This country is changing me; when I read her my first instinct was to giggle, and my second was to sympathise with the sheep - you can't blame them for it, they're born into chinese families, english isn't their first language, they don't think like you, they grew up in a different world, etcetcetc.
And then the cathartic moment of shock and realisation - this country is changing me. For the worse. (worst? No, worse!)
I'm backsliding. My guns are so greasy I can't hold on to them, much less keep my aim steady. My thoughts are losing their focus.
She's right - if you want to improve your English, then don't whinge about arrogant ang-moh-philes picking on you, and don't for God's sakes defend your fucked up English as something good, because "people tell me I write well", or "I have 4000 readers a day so I must be right and you are wrong". (heh. I dread the inevitable fallout that's going to follow this one. Before anyone takes it upon her.. or himself to blast me out of the water for this, consider first that you're exposing your own insecurities about yourself by replying to me, and leave me in peace, please, please. Please.)
And I can't change the system - but I know now that it doesn't deserve to be changed.
And I know that things ARE different out there, because I WAS THERE. And I remember everything. Including who I used to be.
Soon now, someday soon...
Monday, August 25, 2008
Idealist
What makes us relinquish our ideals, one at a time; what makes it so difficult to remember what love was meant to be?
What makes us let go of our dreams and ideals?
Do people really change over time? Or do some things remain constant...
... reading this kid, so idealistic and so very, very young... I couldn't help but feel like reaching across the expanse of cyberspace and slapping him, hard. Life doesn't work that way, you moron.
It doesn't.
What makes us let go of our dreams and ideals?
Do people really change over time? Or do some things remain constant...
... reading this kid, so idealistic and so very, very young... I couldn't help but feel like reaching across the expanse of cyberspace and slapping him, hard. Life doesn't work that way, you moron.
It doesn't.
Remembrance
Listening to a friend tell me the other day about her man asking her in exasperation, "What do you Want?" I found myself reacting oddly.
This is it. This is the axe falling, the end of time.
This is the knife edge upon which fate hangs in the balance.
What do you Want?
I know the answer now.
I want us to be happy.
That's all. That's all I want.
This is it. This is the axe falling, the end of time.
This is the knife edge upon which fate hangs in the balance.
What do you Want?
I know the answer now.
I want us to be happy.
That's all. That's all I want.
The Game
I won't pretend to be an expert. I haven't finished reading Neil Straus's "The Game" which Sara forced upon me. (I can hear you howling from here, sasky)
But last night, watching one of my ex proteges, C. in action, I couldn't help but cringe.
Said protege has been having a rough time breaking up with a rather... psychotic female, E.
Lounging in my chair at Hacienda and listening absently to him alternating between his solliloquay about E and the two hot girls over there (and they were rather attractive. laugh.) I decided, hell, why not? He needs a bit of an ego boost, and C. was one of the debators, once... I bounced the idea off him.
Drinks were bought and delivered to the two babes, a subtle gesture from the waitor towards our table resulted in a friendly raising of glasses all around.
More solliloquay.
And then the two rather good looking women were at our table shaking our hands and bidding us thank you for the drinks, and goodbye, we really have to run now...
(which translated, means we're not sure if you guys are creeps, but we're being polite, and if you talk to us nicely we might be persuaded to hang around for a bit.)
I step back, mentally. This is your moment, C, to exercise all that charm and suaveness that, in my mind at least, all my ex debators possessed on stage.
"Ladies, I have a confession to make..." (ah, an interesting opener. good, good...)
"you see that waitor over there? He gets a free drink if you two sit down and talk to us!"
Oh my God.
Oh my Freaking God.
Cringe.
Just kill me now.
I cast an apologetic eye at one of the babes, and she casts a sympathetic one back. There's nothing that can be said to salvage the situation. They vanish in a hurry.
I'm not a player; never have been. I don't really know much about The Game.
But if I had been flying pole instead of wingman (why. Why didn't I recognise that the innate uncoolness in C would totally obliterate what charm we taught him ten years ago... why??!) I would have said,
"Ladies, I have a confession to make,
... I bought you two drinks because you've been sitting over there in your chairs the entire evening mostly in silence, sometimes talking, and from your eyes clearly thinking a great deal.
C here is being troubled by a crisis which could do with some thoughtful feminine insight; it involves a woman... if you could both spare ten minutes, we'd be ever so grateful..."
*****
If either of you two girls ever reads this, please feel free to drop me a line. laugh
*****
Hope
She says these give her hope.
I can't help but agree.
And they give me a laugh, even now :)
(originally from Where the Hell is Matt?)
I. Do not. As a Rule. Embed videos or images on my blog.
Ever.
*****
Embed high quality youtube videos
But last night, watching one of my ex proteges, C. in action, I couldn't help but cringe.
Said protege has been having a rough time breaking up with a rather... psychotic female, E.
Lounging in my chair at Hacienda and listening absently to him alternating between his solliloquay about E and the two hot girls over there (and they were rather attractive. laugh.) I decided, hell, why not? He needs a bit of an ego boost, and C. was one of the debators, once... I bounced the idea off him.
Drinks were bought and delivered to the two babes, a subtle gesture from the waitor towards our table resulted in a friendly raising of glasses all around.
More solliloquay.
And then the two rather good looking women were at our table shaking our hands and bidding us thank you for the drinks, and goodbye, we really have to run now...
(which translated, means we're not sure if you guys are creeps, but we're being polite, and if you talk to us nicely we might be persuaded to hang around for a bit.)
I step back, mentally. This is your moment, C, to exercise all that charm and suaveness that, in my mind at least, all my ex debators possessed on stage.
"Ladies, I have a confession to make..." (ah, an interesting opener. good, good...)
"you see that waitor over there? He gets a free drink if you two sit down and talk to us!"
Oh my God.
Oh my Freaking God.
Cringe.
Just kill me now.
I cast an apologetic eye at one of the babes, and she casts a sympathetic one back. There's nothing that can be said to salvage the situation. They vanish in a hurry.
I'm not a player; never have been. I don't really know much about The Game.
But if I had been flying pole instead of wingman (why. Why didn't I recognise that the innate uncoolness in C would totally obliterate what charm we taught him ten years ago... why??!) I would have said,
"Ladies, I have a confession to make,
... I bought you two drinks because you've been sitting over there in your chairs the entire evening mostly in silence, sometimes talking, and from your eyes clearly thinking a great deal.
C here is being troubled by a crisis which could do with some thoughtful feminine insight; it involves a woman... if you could both spare ten minutes, we'd be ever so grateful..."
*****
If either of you two girls ever reads this, please feel free to drop me a line. laugh
*****
Hope
She says these give her hope.
I can't help but agree.
And they give me a laugh, even now :)
(originally from Where the Hell is Matt?)
I. Do not. As a Rule. Embed videos or images on my blog.
Ever.
*****
Embed high quality youtube videos
Saturday, August 23, 2008
The stirrings of Faith
A memory
An unremarkable Sunday.
All Soul's Cathedral, London.
The day before I flew headlong across the world to see Her one last time.
The sermon passed me by, so full of regrets and unformed thoughts was my mind. I bowed my head and prayed for forgiveness, for my own stupid self, and my own stupid sins.
As I rose unsteadily to my feet, the disconcertingly creepy woman sitting in the pew by my side, a chubby dark old woman of african descent - garbed all in black, and wearing a black hat and veil - turned to me.
She'd barely moved through the entire service.
I could just about make out her eyes and her teeth through the veil as she smiled at me. It was frightening. And then she spoke, in a gentle voice.
"Do not worry, my child. Everything that you're about to do tomorrow...
... it will be all right. You'll see."
God works in mysterious ways. Everyday Angels appear where you least expect them.
It was beautiful, for a year, and then bad for ten.
And now, with Your Grace, it will be all right, again.
*****
I have strayed from your side, Lord. I deserve this, all this darkness unfolding upon me.
Please forgive me; and accept me back into Your house.
****
A Reply
Another ray of light in this darkness, and my God, such brightness.
Blinding enough to nearly bring tears to your eyes; exactly the way you remembered it.
An unremarkable Sunday.
All Soul's Cathedral, London.
The day before I flew headlong across the world to see Her one last time.
The sermon passed me by, so full of regrets and unformed thoughts was my mind. I bowed my head and prayed for forgiveness, for my own stupid self, and my own stupid sins.
As I rose unsteadily to my feet, the disconcertingly creepy woman sitting in the pew by my side, a chubby dark old woman of african descent - garbed all in black, and wearing a black hat and veil - turned to me.
She'd barely moved through the entire service.
I could just about make out her eyes and her teeth through the veil as she smiled at me. It was frightening. And then she spoke, in a gentle voice.
"Do not worry, my child. Everything that you're about to do tomorrow...
... it will be all right. You'll see."
God works in mysterious ways. Everyday Angels appear where you least expect them.
It was beautiful, for a year, and then bad for ten.
And now, with Your Grace, it will be all right, again.
*****
I have strayed from your side, Lord. I deserve this, all this darkness unfolding upon me.
Please forgive me; and accept me back into Your house.
****
A Reply
Another ray of light in this darkness, and my God, such brightness.
Blinding enough to nearly bring tears to your eyes; exactly the way you remembered it.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Monkeying around
this - a beautiful darkness
*****
Pandora's visit
So a stranger stopped by to visit yesterday. I had never in my life seen her before, but she knew all about me, it seemed—she even knew my Chinese name. She was a little scary when she first arrived. Her hair was raven black and slick with oil, and styled to stick out in pointy spikes at the sides. Her eyes were darker than her hair, framed by sticky kohl lids and a glittery shadow in Prussian blue. I couldn’t help staring at her pale and powdered face and the cold, cold whiteness of her skin. And when she began to speak, the voice that came from within her muddy lips was nothing short of ominous to me.
They call me Pandora, she said. You should know me well. I looked at her a tad afraid, for I had no recollection of meeting this creature ever before. And there she stood in front of me, in her ghoulish make-up and shiny leather pants claiming I knew her well. Hello, Pandora, I said, trying to be friendly. I’m really sorry if it’s been otherwise, but I don’t believe we’ve met before. She rubbed her lips with blackened nails and I saw the chains of rusted silver twisted tight around her fingers, the noise of clanging metal creating disharmony in my ears. Perhaps you never noticed who I was, she said. But you can bet I’ve come by your home before.
Since when, I asked. Since when? And she brushed my questions right aside, ignoring my curious pleas. It’s all over. It doesn’t matter anymore, she said. Despite my good intentions, nobody likes me anyway. I felt bad because it seemed I’d wronged a friend, so I pat her on the shoulder and I asked if she’d like to come in.
Then just like that, she burst into smile, the white paint on her face cracking into loosened flakes and crumbs. That’s alright, my love, she said. But you must accept this gift I brought for you. And from inside her raggedy denim jacket, ripped and torn and hanging by fragile threads, she picked out a little box wrapped in pink, with sequined beads of fuchsia and shiny studs of crystal glitter. It’s yours, she said. And then she pulled me close and cupped my face, her fingers leaving icy trails along my cheek and chin.
“It’s my gift to you,” she said. “Pandora’s Box. Now, open it.”
The box weighed heavy in my hands; its cloying scent of perfumed sweetness suddenly familiar to me once more. And then I knew—I knew where I’d seen Pandora many times before.
So I pushed the bitch away, shoved her hard and sent the rusted chains she wore flying into her powdered face, cutting her skin and slicing open her already rotting flesh. She got up and snarled at me. You never understood, she said. Like you, no one ever does. I have nothing but noble intentions, but you cowards are too scared of truth. Then, she turned and fled my home, her heavy boots burning a trail of footprints outside the door, the clanging of the chains she wore slowly fading into a stony silence as she disappeared.
And I stood there by the door, Pandora’s Box in my hands. Months before I’d torn open the pink wrapping paper like a crazed kid at Christmas, ripped the beads and crystals off and flung the lid right open. But this time I looked at Pandora’s gift, and I didn’t want to open it at all.
- DiDa
*****
Pandora's visit
So a stranger stopped by to visit yesterday. I had never in my life seen her before, but she knew all about me, it seemed—she even knew my Chinese name. She was a little scary when she first arrived. Her hair was raven black and slick with oil, and styled to stick out in pointy spikes at the sides. Her eyes were darker than her hair, framed by sticky kohl lids and a glittery shadow in Prussian blue. I couldn’t help staring at her pale and powdered face and the cold, cold whiteness of her skin. And when she began to speak, the voice that came from within her muddy lips was nothing short of ominous to me.
They call me Pandora, she said. You should know me well. I looked at her a tad afraid, for I had no recollection of meeting this creature ever before. And there she stood in front of me, in her ghoulish make-up and shiny leather pants claiming I knew her well. Hello, Pandora, I said, trying to be friendly. I’m really sorry if it’s been otherwise, but I don’t believe we’ve met before. She rubbed her lips with blackened nails and I saw the chains of rusted silver twisted tight around her fingers, the noise of clanging metal creating disharmony in my ears. Perhaps you never noticed who I was, she said. But you can bet I’ve come by your home before.
Since when, I asked. Since when? And she brushed my questions right aside, ignoring my curious pleas. It’s all over. It doesn’t matter anymore, she said. Despite my good intentions, nobody likes me anyway. I felt bad because it seemed I’d wronged a friend, so I pat her on the shoulder and I asked if she’d like to come in.
Then just like that, she burst into smile, the white paint on her face cracking into loosened flakes and crumbs. That’s alright, my love, she said. But you must accept this gift I brought for you. And from inside her raggedy denim jacket, ripped and torn and hanging by fragile threads, she picked out a little box wrapped in pink, with sequined beads of fuchsia and shiny studs of crystal glitter. It’s yours, she said. And then she pulled me close and cupped my face, her fingers leaving icy trails along my cheek and chin.
“It’s my gift to you,” she said. “Pandora’s Box. Now, open it.”
The box weighed heavy in my hands; its cloying scent of perfumed sweetness suddenly familiar to me once more. And then I knew—I knew where I’d seen Pandora many times before.
So I pushed the bitch away, shoved her hard and sent the rusted chains she wore flying into her powdered face, cutting her skin and slicing open her already rotting flesh. She got up and snarled at me. You never understood, she said. Like you, no one ever does. I have nothing but noble intentions, but you cowards are too scared of truth. Then, she turned and fled my home, her heavy boots burning a trail of footprints outside the door, the clanging of the chains she wore slowly fading into a stony silence as she disappeared.
And I stood there by the door, Pandora’s Box in my hands. Months before I’d torn open the pink wrapping paper like a crazed kid at Christmas, ripped the beads and crystals off and flung the lid right open. But this time I looked at Pandora’s gift, and I didn’t want to open it at all.
- DiDa
Post Holocaust
I think there are two kinds of breakups, amicable and conventional.
In an amicable breakup, both parties feel relieved, forgive each other, and stay friends. I think.
And it feels right for them both.
No losers, only winners.
No tears for wonderful times lost, forever, and for regrets of the past.
I expected relief. I expected a desire to move on and look to the future. I expected a lightness of being, after being relieved of the burden of this consuming sadness that I have been enduring for months now.
Instead I fought, reasoned, resisted and lost. To an argument that felt more like a rehearsed excuse than a sincere thought. And then we cried.
So tell me again what I'm not doing right.
And is it just me or does this feel... wrong?
*****
Love is a thought, a feeling, and a wish.
In an amicable breakup, both parties feel relieved, forgive each other, and stay friends. I think.
And it feels right for them both.
No losers, only winners.
No tears for wonderful times lost, forever, and for regrets of the past.
I expected relief. I expected a desire to move on and look to the future. I expected a lightness of being, after being relieved of the burden of this consuming sadness that I have been enduring for months now.
Instead I fought, reasoned, resisted and lost. To an argument that felt more like a rehearsed excuse than a sincere thought. And then we cried.
So tell me again what I'm not doing right.
And is it just me or does this feel... wrong?
*****
Love is a thought, a feeling, and a wish.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Faith rehashed
The thing about Faith is that it can be built and rebuilt, one stepping stone at a time.
His followers were not all physicians and saints, but sinners and fallen who had come to learn the meaning of Faith.
The problem with faith isn't that it can be eroded, but rather that it requires mutuality; without which it is vulnerable to abuse.
His followers were not all physicians and saints, but sinners and fallen who had come to learn the meaning of Faith.
The problem with faith isn't that it can be eroded, but rather that it requires mutuality; without which it is vulnerable to abuse.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Moment
A beautiful stranger, seated at the hospital cafe brooding, alone over her coffee.
She had very dark eyes.
Our eyes met as I approached.
(? imagined?)
Perhaps we both recognised something in the other. Perhaps a certain sadness.
I looked away and walked steadily onwards.
(real)
But as I passed, as she began to vanish out the corner of my eye, something made me turn my head and glance at her, only to discover she had turned hers as well. Our eyes met once more.
Walk on by.
Just walk.
*****
Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
Wake me up when September ends
Like my father's come to pass
Seven years has gone so fast
Wake me up when September ends
Here comes the rain again
Falling from the stars
Drenched in my pain again
Becoming who we are
As my memory rests
But never forgets what I lost
Wake me up when September ends
Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
Wake me up when September ends
Ring out the bells again
Like we did when spring began
Wake me up when september ends
Here comes the rain again
Falling from the stars
Drenched in my pain again
Becoming who we are
As my memory rests
But never forgets what I lost
Wake me up when september ends
She had very dark eyes.
Our eyes met as I approached.
(? imagined?)
Perhaps we both recognised something in the other. Perhaps a certain sadness.
I looked away and walked steadily onwards.
(real)
But as I passed, as she began to vanish out the corner of my eye, something made me turn my head and glance at her, only to discover she had turned hers as well. Our eyes met once more.
Walk on by.
Just walk.
*****
Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
Wake me up when September ends
Like my father's come to pass
Seven years has gone so fast
Wake me up when September ends
Here comes the rain again
Falling from the stars
Drenched in my pain again
Becoming who we are
As my memory rests
But never forgets what I lost
Wake me up when September ends
Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
Wake me up when September ends
Ring out the bells again
Like we did when spring began
Wake me up when september ends
Here comes the rain again
Falling from the stars
Drenched in my pain again
Becoming who we are
As my memory rests
But never forgets what I lost
Wake me up when september ends
Sunday, August 17, 2008
These small hours
I'm not the kind of person who cries easily.
I'm just not. When G "betrayed" me, and I was heartbroken to the extent that the world seemed to be going by in slow motion, the only time I cried was when I flew to Indonesia to say a last goodbye to her parents, and to pass them something I never had the chance to give to her personally.
It was when her mother, amazingly good woman that she is bless her soul, sent me an SMS that read "in my heart, you are already my son" that I cracked.
Alone in the airport, sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair, I wept.
When I threw away quite possibly the best person and friend I would ever meet and have, I wept, too, sometimes at odd moments late at night. Always very brief affairs, fiercely crushed by cynicism rearing its head and telling me to move on. In truth, the post traumatic reaction did last quite a few years; my rationalization of it being that she is so extraordinary.
Tidying up your room, your clothes, your stuff last saturday, and today again, and while writing and re-reading some of the letters which I wrote to you, and eventually binned, I found myself tearing so very often.
At the thought of losing you, at the thought of you losing yourself; at the thought of you, succumbing to your own darknesses.
I don't know what it means. And it's not the greatest thing in the world for a guy to admit to. And I'm sure it won't mean anything to you.
But anyway, there is nothing more I'd like to do right now, this very instant, than to just hold you, and comfort you.
It's okay, I forgive you, for faltering.
It's just the way things go; everything will be better in the morning.
And maybe tomorrow, or the day after, we'll have lost each other for good, leading two separate lives.
It's okay.
I still believe in you; be strong, and smile always.
I'm just not. When G "betrayed" me, and I was heartbroken to the extent that the world seemed to be going by in slow motion, the only time I cried was when I flew to Indonesia to say a last goodbye to her parents, and to pass them something I never had the chance to give to her personally.
It was when her mother, amazingly good woman that she is bless her soul, sent me an SMS that read "in my heart, you are already my son" that I cracked.
Alone in the airport, sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair, I wept.
When I threw away quite possibly the best person and friend I would ever meet and have, I wept, too, sometimes at odd moments late at night. Always very brief affairs, fiercely crushed by cynicism rearing its head and telling me to move on. In truth, the post traumatic reaction did last quite a few years; my rationalization of it being that she is so extraordinary.
Tidying up your room, your clothes, your stuff last saturday, and today again, and while writing and re-reading some of the letters which I wrote to you, and eventually binned, I found myself tearing so very often.
At the thought of losing you, at the thought of you losing yourself; at the thought of you, succumbing to your own darknesses.
I don't know what it means. And it's not the greatest thing in the world for a guy to admit to. And I'm sure it won't mean anything to you.
But anyway, there is nothing more I'd like to do right now, this very instant, than to just hold you, and comfort you.
It's okay, I forgive you, for faltering.
It's just the way things go; everything will be better in the morning.
And maybe tomorrow, or the day after, we'll have lost each other for good, leading two separate lives.
It's okay.
I still believe in you; be strong, and smile always.
Friday, August 15, 2008
At the heart of Grace
"Did you find a church?"
*****
There are a million reasons for me to be disillusioned; betrayal comes in many forms. G was Catholic.
Christians, Catholics. We all sin.
It's not His fault.
It's been mine all along.
*****
"there's a church near my place..."
Faith.
Maintained by Goodness.
Blind in the presence of warning signs of darkness...
Everything happens for a reason. Everything falls into place.
*****
There are a million reasons for me to be disillusioned; betrayal comes in many forms. G was Catholic.
Christians, Catholics. We all sin.
It's not His fault.
It's been mine all along.
*****
"there's a church near my place..."
Faith.
Maintained by Goodness.
Blind in the presence of warning signs of darkness...
Everything happens for a reason. Everything falls into place.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Remembrance
A strange moment, an odd choice of words.
...and ever since then, you have been turning, trying to adapt.
Be still.
*****
When You called, everything melted away...
... and it was so easy to laugh again.
For a while, anyway.
...and ever since then, you have been turning, trying to adapt.
Be still.
*****
When You called, everything melted away...
... and it was so easy to laugh again.
For a while, anyway.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
At the Root of Faith
What is faith? And why do we trust.
Do you trust someone because you love him or her?
Do you trust him to tell you the truth, or not to betray you, because he knows you trust him? Or because you know him so well that you think he is incapable of betrayal...
Does someone deserve your faith simply because of the nature of exclusivity of your relationship - be it a serious relationship or marriage... or friendship.
And when does faith become blind?
I've been struggling to distill things down in my mind... this last week.
I think trust is earned and maintained based on initial impressions, and how well you continue to know a person.
If you meet someone and she seems like a good person, you'll obviously trust her.
If you see someone as a stalwart, honourable person you will trust him or her.
Conversely, trust can be eroded by aberrent behaviour. An odd reply. A subtle shiftiness. An abrupt change in normal habits - all may work to erode trust.
Faith is a measure of how much trust you put in a person, to do the right thing. Faith is only blind when one persists in trusting someone, in the presence of signs revealing a lack of truth.
*****
The memories might have become clouded / distorted by time and, I suspect, early-onset dementia.... but run something along these lines
Once upon a time there was a girl, who was telling a guy how much she had been looking forwards to meeting him, once upon a lifetime ago:
"...and I was telling all my friends how great it'd be to see him again, he's been my buddy since like forever... and they all thought (etcetc), and J******* thought he's probably (etcetcetc) "
there were other bits in there somewhere; about faithful friends who would be friends forever, and as we spoke, something about constants, and being the most stable and dependable... and dreaming of going blading...
*****
Memories arising from the dust, realisations reforming from the ashes. My truths, now and always, suppressed in memory by my pathetic pride, but spoken now :
You were my one constant
You were my one voice of reason, in this hateful, treacherous world
I could always depend on you to be practical, and sensible
If you told me something, I knew it to be true
And I trusted you, implicitly
*****
I'm so sorry I've let you down.
*****
You told me two nights ago that I would hear from you; and so here I am, waiting for you.
You said, once : These things seem more important than they are at the time, but they aren't really important at all...
I now know the other half of that thought : there are some things, and people that are truly irreplaceable. Some things that transcend selfishness and betrayal and lack of faith and stark, self servitude.
I was always a little (lot) slower than You.
If I could make a single change in my life, it wouldn't be to go back to a very confused, yellow-hued night Sydneyside when a remarkable girl was asking an unremarkable guy what he wanted, now that the ball was in his court...
...but to go back to a chilly English evening when a boy was standing somewhere on the Serpentine watching a girl as she fed some oversized geese bread from her bare hands, instead of throwing it out onto the water like any sane person would do, and at that very, very instant when the light of the setting sun backlit her and the curiously gentle geese, and the boy's heart and breath stopped yet again, and he was filled with a bitter, angry desperation at the thought of a cycle repeating ad-nauseum, and a normal life always eluding him... I would tell him :
These things don't matter. Be still.
A normal life is just a normal life, and you will learn that without Her presence, and counsel, it is a grey world filled with betrayal, lies and heartache.
Look at Her, right here before you; one of the best people you've ever known, and will ever know, in absentia.
Always faithful friends - is that so bad? You will know too late : an honour, and a privilege.
I've been into the future, and learnt the value of things.
Some people are irreplaceable, and you know it.
True friends don't do this kind of things to each other...
Don't be selfish - be still.
Stay true to that silent vow you made - to be there for her, regardless of what it takes out of you.
Because you will never find anyone else, worth it.... Never anyone else who will not try to take advantage of you.
And I would tell her, please, please don't listen to this moron, whatever he says to you. He isn't trying to manipulate you, bizarre as this may seem. The poor deluded creature means every word he says. And he is filled with a strange pride and bull headed stubborn-ness... and he will squander every undeserved chance you give him to undo his own stupid mistake, but if you could see into his stupid head... you'd find it surprisingly empty of malice. Or anything, aside from fear, for that matter.
*****
Dear Karin,
if I don't ever hear from You, I know there will have been extenuating circumstances. And I know that you will have had your reasons, and that they will be Good. And whatever they may be, I respect them.
But I would like to hear from You again, and I mean it literally. Too.
So here I am, waiting for you.
Do you trust someone because you love him or her?
Do you trust him to tell you the truth, or not to betray you, because he knows you trust him? Or because you know him so well that you think he is incapable of betrayal...
Does someone deserve your faith simply because of the nature of exclusivity of your relationship - be it a serious relationship or marriage... or friendship.
And when does faith become blind?
I've been struggling to distill things down in my mind... this last week.
I think trust is earned and maintained based on initial impressions, and how well you continue to know a person.
If you meet someone and she seems like a good person, you'll obviously trust her.
If you see someone as a stalwart, honourable person you will trust him or her.
Conversely, trust can be eroded by aberrent behaviour. An odd reply. A subtle shiftiness. An abrupt change in normal habits - all may work to erode trust.
Faith is a measure of how much trust you put in a person, to do the right thing. Faith is only blind when one persists in trusting someone, in the presence of signs revealing a lack of truth.
*****
The memories might have become clouded / distorted by time and, I suspect, early-onset dementia.... but run something along these lines
Once upon a time there was a girl, who was telling a guy how much she had been looking forwards to meeting him, once upon a lifetime ago:
"...and I was telling all my friends how great it'd be to see him again, he's been my buddy since like forever... and they all thought (etcetc), and J******* thought he's probably (etcetcetc) "
there were other bits in there somewhere; about faithful friends who would be friends forever, and as we spoke, something about constants, and being the most stable and dependable... and dreaming of going blading...
*****
Memories arising from the dust, realisations reforming from the ashes. My truths, now and always, suppressed in memory by my pathetic pride, but spoken now :
You were my one constant
You were my one voice of reason, in this hateful, treacherous world
I could always depend on you to be practical, and sensible
If you told me something, I knew it to be true
And I trusted you, implicitly
*****
I'm so sorry I've let you down.
*****
You told me two nights ago that I would hear from you; and so here I am, waiting for you.
You said, once : These things seem more important than they are at the time, but they aren't really important at all...
I now know the other half of that thought : there are some things, and people that are truly irreplaceable. Some things that transcend selfishness and betrayal and lack of faith and stark, self servitude.
I was always a little (lot) slower than You.
If I could make a single change in my life, it wouldn't be to go back to a very confused, yellow-hued night Sydneyside when a remarkable girl was asking an unremarkable guy what he wanted, now that the ball was in his court...
...but to go back to a chilly English evening when a boy was standing somewhere on the Serpentine watching a girl as she fed some oversized geese bread from her bare hands, instead of throwing it out onto the water like any sane person would do, and at that very, very instant when the light of the setting sun backlit her and the curiously gentle geese, and the boy's heart and breath stopped yet again, and he was filled with a bitter, angry desperation at the thought of a cycle repeating ad-nauseum, and a normal life always eluding him... I would tell him :
These things don't matter. Be still.
A normal life is just a normal life, and you will learn that without Her presence, and counsel, it is a grey world filled with betrayal, lies and heartache.
Look at Her, right here before you; one of the best people you've ever known, and will ever know, in absentia.
Always faithful friends - is that so bad? You will know too late : an honour, and a privilege.
I've been into the future, and learnt the value of things.
Some people are irreplaceable, and you know it.
True friends don't do this kind of things to each other...
Don't be selfish - be still.
Stay true to that silent vow you made - to be there for her, regardless of what it takes out of you.
Because you will never find anyone else, worth it.... Never anyone else who will not try to take advantage of you.
And I would tell her, please, please don't listen to this moron, whatever he says to you. He isn't trying to manipulate you, bizarre as this may seem. The poor deluded creature means every word he says. And he is filled with a strange pride and bull headed stubborn-ness... and he will squander every undeserved chance you give him to undo his own stupid mistake, but if you could see into his stupid head... you'd find it surprisingly empty of malice. Or anything, aside from fear, for that matter.
*****
Dear Karin,
if I don't ever hear from You, I know there will have been extenuating circumstances. And I know that you will have had your reasons, and that they will be Good. And whatever they may be, I respect them.
But I would like to hear from You again, and I mean it literally. Too.
So here I am, waiting for you.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Sympathetic Overdrive
Doctors make the worst patients.
It isn't that they fail to recognise their symptoms
it's that they're either neurotic and suffer from imaginary symptoms of the most dire nature, or that they recognise the symptoms early but refuse to acknowledge them...
Does everything really happen for a reason?
It isn't that they fail to recognise their symptoms
it's that they're either neurotic and suffer from imaginary symptoms of the most dire nature, or that they recognise the symptoms early but refuse to acknowledge them...
Does everything really happen for a reason?
Sunday, August 10, 2008
The Pursuit of Happyness
what is the source of happiness?
Is it the small things that give us little joys enough in this life? Perhaps about appreciating what is there in front of you, and letting happiness just come, and overwhelm you?
Or is it all about roller coasters of laughter and hearts just exploding with excitement and joy. Mystery figures who effortlessly draw out your happiness. . . who invariably fade into ordinary people when their mystique is lost.
Today, if I am very lucky I will have the chance to speak with one of the figures who never lost that ability to share laughter with, and make me laugh, too. Even long after her mystique faded.
It isn't about strangers giving you little thrills of excitement, really.
It's about not caring about anything very much other than listening, leaping in, and laughing with the other person. Friendship.
There're so many things I want to talk to you about, a decade of highs and lows, disappointments and achievements; sadnesses and betrayals... trusts breached, concealed truths and subtle lies... heartbreaks and heartaches...
... but these things can wait and can be told over (barring your approval) time. More than those things, I just want to hear your voice and laugh again. (Retiring by the sea can wait, too...)
And just in case I don't find space, or courage to say it then; in case I fall out of time or life unexpectedly, just in case I ever gave you this blog link, which I don't think I ever did: I've been missing you.
Is it the small things that give us little joys enough in this life? Perhaps about appreciating what is there in front of you, and letting happiness just come, and overwhelm you?
Or is it all about roller coasters of laughter and hearts just exploding with excitement and joy. Mystery figures who effortlessly draw out your happiness. . . who invariably fade into ordinary people when their mystique is lost.
Today, if I am very lucky I will have the chance to speak with one of the figures who never lost that ability to share laughter with, and make me laugh, too. Even long after her mystique faded.
It isn't about strangers giving you little thrills of excitement, really.
It's about not caring about anything very much other than listening, leaping in, and laughing with the other person. Friendship.
There're so many things I want to talk to you about, a decade of highs and lows, disappointments and achievements; sadnesses and betrayals... trusts breached, concealed truths and subtle lies... heartbreaks and heartaches...
... but these things can wait and can be told over (barring your approval) time. More than those things, I just want to hear your voice and laugh again. (Retiring by the sea can wait, too...)
And just in case I don't find space, or courage to say it then; in case I fall out of time or life unexpectedly, just in case I ever gave you this blog link, which I don't think I ever did: I've been missing you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)