interspersal

that i do miss the smell of freshly laundered sheets and towels and the common print of comforters and the silent hum of the air-conditioner and the padded footsteps of restless children running along carpeted flooring early in the morning and late at night. and i do miss the blare of the TV and the seemingly thin walls that separate one room from another that makes it easy for one to listen to conversation going on in another room. i miss waking up in a place that seems foreign and to be living there only for the moment, to reach for the digital watch placed asaunder on the bedside table, which would contain, among other things, the hotel phone, a map of the city (whichever it happened to be), the novel that would accompany me through the night, the purse that contained my rosary (i am prissy about carrying it around in a foreign country), a bottle of water and my glasses.
i yearn for the possibilities that a fresh new day brings, to learn and to glean from experiences. to watch the masses and to know that i don't belong here, that i am apart, i am different, just as i am.

I cycled close to a bougainvillea plant today and didn’t remember that there were thorn on such plants – scratch went the thorns, red welts appeared on my skin and soon enough, thin, shiny, red lines began to appear.

I recalled then, a time when we were carefree and lost and she hadn’t moved into your apartment and a time when you were alone and we seemed like one, big, happy family. The time when we played cards. And of course the moment that the bougainvillea plant reminded me of – your brother and her on a double bike – she wanting to make something of a U turn and thus reversing and not remembering that she was on the front portion of a double bike, reversed. and your brother gave a wail at his posterior being wedged into a rose bush. Ten years ago, this day, perhaps.

The welts on my arm are better now and will heal nicely with time, just as how time seeks to heal a great many other things. Angst ridden, I refuse to be.

Lost memories. Of a young girl. Of the city. Of walking on glass.
Sheets in the city.
Footsteps.
Vodka in a glass, a thin black straw.

***

tarry, tarry me. a note left on the floor saying that i'd gone to play mahjong at a pal's home and then i left, the keys jiggled somewhat and i unlatched the door and i was out in the cool breeze of the night. i tarried about where to go or what to do, the only thing was to get out into the open, the streets empty save for cabs.

***

it is a sight to behold. the ornate staircases, dim lights shining and leaving sparkles of glimmer everywhere. i think i look out of place. i stare down at my silver sandals which were purchased in HK just 2 weeks ago. i think that it is lucky that i didn't bring any luggage along - what i needed, i would buy. the bag just contained essentials, as in, essentials. a few clothes rolled up. some worksheets that i was supposed to mark during the flight and when i had nothing better to do in the hotel, work being work, brought all the way back to HK. i wish i had a stamp that read : been to HK and back and then i'd stamp it all over their worksheets.

***

i walk to the bus stop and there is a group of grannies waiting for the bus. i wonder what they have been doing to be still up at this late hour. the feeder service arrives and one of them get on the bus, waves at her friend and is whisked away.
i wonder if the bus to town will be coming. after a long wait, i decide to cross over to the bus stop on the opposite side of the road. the bus to some place comes and i break into a run for the bus, stopping halfway though. i had no idea why i stopped, i didn't want to get on that bus and drop halfway at some obscure portion of singapore, memories rushing up to hit me as i look around and spigments of thought assaulting my brains - i have had enough of thinking.

***

thanks, i say as i slide into the passenger seat. i remember the time when i almost fell as the vehicle is higher than most. i remember what he had said about the vehicle being a quiet one and how he now could get headaches from being in cabs in manila because they allowed too much noise in. i regret the time that i picked something that looked like a coin from the ground, a tribute to another lover who always noted that finders' was keepers'. i felt foolish.
you never told me that, he said.
there are many things you don't know about me. doesn't that preserve that aura of mystery about me? i laughed.

then there was the time when i had told him about some of my ex-loves, sleeping with a woman and flying to taiwan on a whim. i jacked up my legs on the leather seats and i remember his consternation at my feet on his leather seats. ah, men.

***

Cutty Sark came by to my cubicle today and said that i'd been looking better than ever. so, dating anyone lately?
i racked my brains and thought about the word, dating. it's strange how people can answer a simple question in a simple manner, just a yes or no, whereas my damn brain refuses to see things in black and white, pushes for an expansion on the term - dating while the other person in the conversation becomes wary of me cooking up some lie or some strange story.
dating?
finally, i said, i think so. and i gave her one of those ironical looks.
oh good, she said.
so you like him?
well, i really had difficulty with this one.
well, OK. i answered in the end.
she gave me a "i-don't-know-what-to-do-with-you-look".

***

i'm finally on the bed, lounging around. the view is a nice one, overlooking the harbour. my feet are bare on the carpeted floor and i think if i should change into something more comfortable. this in turn leads me to thinking about how i should spend the day, one of the precious two days that i am spending in HK.

i slip into the covers and look at the ceiling. there are no spots and no cracks. i close my eyes and inhale deeply. i smell, carpet, handsoap, and the smell of freshly laundered sheets. i listen to the quiet hum of the television and i heard the pad of footsteps outside the door.

why am i here? i had no answer to that.

perhaps i needed respite before the start of hell again. perhaps i needed companionship. perhaps i thought highly of myself and my ability to detach my soul from myself. i thought i could, previously, but was proven wrong. perhaps i've grown enough this time round.

i remember the stars and the planes that ceased in the night sky, waiting for their turn to land.

***

i boozed. i'd no idea that tuesday was ladies night and so i asked the bartender how much a glass of vodka ribena cost.
he gave me the eye and said that it was ladies night.
all for the better, i thought, and downed my glass of vodka in a few mouthfuls.
next i ordered a gin tonic, and it tasted bitter. a similarly bitter smile crossed my face as i recalled expecting a gin tonic when i took a sip of the drink and only found the unyielding blandness of iced water.

the last time i had a gin tonic, it was along the changi coast where i could see the planes in a line-up, waiting for their turn to land from wherever they'd come from.
never, never land, perhaps.
i like to watch men who are driven speak on topics that they are driven upon.
they become fixated. and somehow, more real. like unwittingly, they are stripping off some sort of a disguise.
it's really strange to take a sip of something and then realise that it is just plan water, that it lacks the taste of what is expected. and then you try to reconcile to the taste and then the water accquires a different kind of taste.

it was only when i'd drank half of the water in the glass that i said, "i do believe i'm drinking water."

it is also strange when someone whom you've locked lips with before chooses to take a sip of water from the glass itself, rather than from the straw that you've just used.
brings a new meaning to the word, strange.

***

Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.

And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.
And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That is what this storm’s all about.

- Murakami, Kafka from the Shore

***

He comes back in the evening while I am reading a book. I bought Murakami’s Norweigian Wood at the airport terminal. It is not easy to buy good novels in Hong Kong. The last time I checked the Yau Mei Tei bookstores, they only had Murakami’s Kafka on the Shore in stock. I was reading about Toru being drawn to Midori when he came in. My legs are entwined with the sheets, my hair down, falling past my back. I watch my reflection in the mirror for a while and marvel at the fact that I am where I am. He loosens his tie – how typically male, and sits at the foot of the bed.

***

I once had a girl,

Or should I say

She once had me.

She showed me her room,

Isn’t it good?

Norwegian wood.

She asked my to stay and told me sit anywhere,

So I looked around and

I noticed there wasn’t a chair.

I sat on a rug

Biding my time,

Drinking her wine.

We talked until two,

And then she said,

‘It’s time for bed’.

She told me she worked

in the morning and

started to laugh,

I told her I didn’t,

and crawled off to sleep

in the bath.

And when I awokeI was alone,

This bird has flown,

So I lit a fire,

Isn’t it good?

Norwegian wood.

-The Beatles