today, i lived a solitary life, him being away from the hotel since 10am. the toilet bowl was choked up and i'd to be there while housekeeping cleared up the mess. we went to the gym last night and i was turned away for not having the proper attire. he later on told me that the gym instructor had said to him, "your wife is very pretty." i should have been flattered, but i wasn't really flattered. compliments, like everything else, pass me by very simply nowadays.
i think of families and mothers cooking up a storm of pork chops in eras gone. i think of cuff links and cuff links. i think of mr and mrs smith, the movie. i think of playing with chopsticks and sheepish smiles that evade quickly. i think of yoga poses and hand holding and balancing on one leg and thinking about falling. i think that the longest distance in the world can be the shortest at times. of damn carpets and crisp white shirts and black shorts that hang low on hips. of fingers, neck and skin. of ears. of ergonomical swivel chairs and laptops and palmtops, of luggage tags and priority.
***
I drew her to me and kissed her. It was a heady kiss, a nostalgic kiss. Then we drank our umpteenth brandy-and-soda, and snuggled together while listening to the Police. Soon Mei had drifted off to sleep, no longer the beautiful dream woman, but only an ordinary, brittle young girl. A class reunion. The clock read four o'clock and everything was still. Mei the Goat Girl and Winnie the Pooh. Images. Deductible fairy tales. What a day! Connections that almost connected but didn't. Follow the string until it snaps. I'd met Gotanda after all these years, even come to like him, really. Through him I'd met Mei the Goat Girl. We made love. Which was wonderful. Shoveled sensual snow. But none of it led anywhere.
***
the phone's on vibration mode, a tribute to someone else who sets it on vibration mode, then deigns not to answer calls from associates at half-past eleven at night. club sandwiches at night, toasted bread with fries on the side - don't tempt me with that last piece, don't eat already lah. i'll tell you what i want - i want toasted bread, lettuce, ham. that's about it. the tray was heavy. i wondered how i'd managed to balance it while opening the door while he - he? he? i think he was out. where was he? i met him on the way to the shopping centre. like a flash of recognition. they were holding on to umbrellas. i think it was raining before that. that someone brought in a blower to the room and the noise made me leave the hotel room even though i'd told him that i would prefer not to leave. i know that girls don't like to eat alone. no. i'm fine with that - i just don't feel very safe going out at night.
he wrestles me to the bed. an odd memory of me being astride him and asking him a question. unexpectedly, he bursts out in brief laughter, "call my engineer". we spoilt the moment, but we spoilt it beautifully. yesterday, i decided to embrace grief. and i've embraced it beautifully so far.
coffee in the mornings to clear my head. my morning smoke, ash drips into my coffee cup and i lap it up, the acrid taste of smoke with ash mixed with coffee, a thin blend, instant coffee. there were tiny packets of coffee placed in a nice box upon the shelf near the wardrobe - you know, hotels always have this tiny place where they place two identical cups, with saucers and a jug with which to heat up water - the exact word for it eludes me- milo before you sleep, coupled with a yellow pill under your tongue.i can't sleep without drugs, you say. i just keep thinking.small wonder, i think. you're thinking, thinking, full of vitality, energy. heat rub. around your body. a small tube in a red box. i saw it in the bathroom and was wondering - muscle ache? aches? muscles?
dance, dance, dance. revolutions, convulsions to the tunes, music, words, pop, retro tunes. dance. a lampshade, bright hues of yellow. a switch that can only be turned on or off by turning it clockwise. you can't turn it otherwise. when the man came to do the plumbing, another showed up to fix the switch. it seem ludicrous that he would complain about it. what did he call it? an intelligence test - and i failed it. the man showed me the paper on which was written the complaint - by GOH. guest of honour? cue laughter, please. the piece encasing the keycard that i found in the bin. GOH again. the second piece encasing the keycard that i slipped into my white saddlebag. and which is still in my white saddlebag. i'm comtemplating putting it into my black leather wallet - is there a display slot? a plastic one?because there are some rushes of memories from yesteryear. because such are the things that i will take away with me. i hardly know if they will matter, years down the road from now. i hardly know. a heavy head from sleeping past 3 last night, no yellow pill under my tongue, i stared at the night scene and remembered that a particular building was there, as though it had morphed out of nowhere - i never deigned to take particular notice of it till yesterday. the words in blue and red lighting up the cityscape, i thought of - i thought of - people in the lit offices. i thought of - steel circular handles on black rosewood cabinets.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Friday, December 01, 2006
just like any other night. the nights seem all the same to me. i stalk the streets, i tumble upon concrete, my heels clicking down stairways, the salty smell of the sea - tangy, upon my face. wafting. cars flash past me and i think of them encasing a memory each, a story, lives, screams, sniffles. they all drift past me.
the moon hangs in the dark sky, a pallor of brightness in a sea of gloom. the streetlights illuminate my face, my being. i face the sky and drink in the moonlight.
i shall try and take a yellow pill today. flu medicine, each tiny pill lying encased in a metallic-like structure, individually packed. you pop it below your tongue. earplugs are a must. tiny orange earplugs that look like baby carrots. you lie beneath the sheets, the distance between you and me so near yet so far. the last night we were together, i'd crept past the distance and lay and held you and then crept off again. i heard your breathing and you started when i touched you because you were surprised. my hand on your belly, i felt your warmth and the closeness i felt at that time was enough. quietly i crept back to my bed, slid under the covers and curled up, feeling your warmth still on my skin, my fingers. i curl up in bed, my left feet placed against my right shin, the feel of feet upon feet reminding me of the time we lay with our legs entwined.
you get up and shuffle towards the bathroom and i hear you check if the door is double-locked. the chain slides into place and you enter the bathroom. a second later, i listen and hear the taps being turned on, water gushing into the basin, a clean, clear sound of water gushing, and then slowing to a trickle. i close my eyes and a second later, you are under the covers with me, holding me just as i held you. your hand on my belly, i reach for your hand and i interlock my fingers with yours - something that i've longed to do for a long time, and dream. i think of all shopping alone at night along orchard, people-watching, seeing mothers, fathers, families and couples striding by the street as the sky turns from a salmon-pink to a darker shade and how the colour eventually drains out of the sky all of a sudden and it seems as though i am the only one left around. i recall the first time this year that i stroll along orchard, just as the lights for christmas are turned on and how i feel that first gush of childlike joy and how i am surprised at myself - that such a joy could come through me is unfathomable. i'd reckoned that cynism had already taken over me. it is such a purified joy that surprise cuts through me like a knife. and with these thoughts, i fall into slumber.
the next morning, sun shines through the thin curtains. morning comes early to manila - it is already bright at 6 in the morning. similarly, the night begins at 6 in the evening - it's as dark as night in singapore. the days seem shorter. i glance at the other bed and i see that his eyes are closed. afraid that he may open his eyes and catch me gazing away, afraid that i may be caught unguarded, as if all my emotions are written on my face, i look away. however, i steal supretitious glances at him again. i cannot help it. his eyes, normally full of life and energy, are shut. his face looks peaceful, relaxed. the crows feet around his eyes are smoothed out, unlined for the moment. i turn over and look at the ceiling - it will be the last morning that i am waking up in the same room as him. a long journey stretches ahead of me - i've to be out of the hotel by ten, to travel to Angeles and then to Clark. the phone rings, unexpectedly, jolting me out of my reverie. he picks up the phone and mumbles a "Thanks" into the phone. it must be his wake-up call. i hear him move under the covers and pull them away from himself. i turn and watch him sit upright in bed, getting his bearings while still in that hazy sleeplike state. he sees that i am awake. "Get some more sleep girl," he says. i am somehow touched that he tells me to get more sleep, the same way that strange things touch me - the unexpected caress his fingers, the grin that breaks out unexpectedly while he is seated on his bed in the new room. strange things.
my mother swept my titus watch onto the floor today while taking a slice of bread for our sardine breakface. the piece encasing the watch face cracks badly and i recall the last time i really looked at that watch - it was in manila when i was waiting for him in the room - i'd idly picked up the watch, looked at the seconds hand ticking away and then to the back of the watch which was pressed against my wrist for the most part of the time i was wearing it. i noticed that the plastic covering the back of the watch was still intact, that it shielded the engraved words tian chang di jiu. such cryptic words ... such overused words that bring to mind how nothing ever lasts, that i no longer believe in faithfulness, in true love and in being a true believer.
We talk after we’re done with the food. And you smoke. Smoke relaxes a person. I don’t smoke yet, but one day I might just take it up. Things take its’ course. Better to let the water flow. What water?
Would I get into a relationship with a married man? You have questions that are loaded. With what I can’t be bothered to ponder. Better to drawl in a lazy tone and answer. Yes I would. Humans are all flawed, that is my excuse. Fidelity is gone. I don’t believe in many things, save for God. But of course, I’d be realistic, as I’d always want to be. A married man belongs to his wife. She fucks him and he fucks her. They probably have children. Little Women should always know their place. Never to be on the losing end. And why does this suspiciously sound like I’m a know-it-all when I’m a don’t-know-it-all? To know your place is knowing your limits, what you can do and what you can’t. Judge with all your heart and stop from getting hurt. Just don’t love.
Me? I don’t think of love anymore. Intimacy may be a close call to love, but just don’t mention love. That’s a word nothing short of dangerous. Women crave intimacy but we’re not beings that can’t do without love, really.
It’s dull being a weak woman. Weak women cry when they can’t get their way and are easily hurt. All women are born essentially weak. When I almost broke up with the old boyfriend in the autumn of 2003, I was broken and begged for his return. Things change and of course so do people. People are not always the same. The old me was dependant on having another person with me, of being loved and of going out with someone else on weekends. Now I no longer care.
So what then are my priorities? I’ve transcended the need to be loved, truly. I can’t say it’s forever. To say that would be too sweeping a statement and most probably a pompous one. But I can say that perhaps I recognize a few true facts of life, not rules, facts and realize that life is possibly much easier after the recognition of such facts.
All love stories are the same. Breakups or threats to break up are so bloody frequent. Misunderstandings can snowball into full blown fights and fights takes days before the other party cools down. Through sms-es, hurtful words are thrown at one another and painful accusations cut through to the heart. Over the phone, one party sobs and words are choked in the sobs. There are silences and many unsaid words expand and fill up the silence along the telephone lines, signifying how much there is to say till there is no way to begin, and in this way, time snowball and elapses. All love stories are the same. We love, fight, hate, breakup, patch. In the end, most true relationships end without a bang, a closure. We just drift apart when there is nothing more to be learned from one another, when (cliché enough) the flame just dies out.
So there is nothing to look forward to where love in concerned. All love stories are the same, like sand on the beach, like clouds in the sun. A lot of things happen when they are supposed to. It really doesn’t need to make any sense. Sometimes silence really is the best answer. Like sand that appears on the beach and like clouds that drift across the sky, life happens everyday.
the moon hangs in the dark sky, a pallor of brightness in a sea of gloom. the streetlights illuminate my face, my being. i face the sky and drink in the moonlight.
i shall try and take a yellow pill today. flu medicine, each tiny pill lying encased in a metallic-like structure, individually packed. you pop it below your tongue. earplugs are a must. tiny orange earplugs that look like baby carrots. you lie beneath the sheets, the distance between you and me so near yet so far. the last night we were together, i'd crept past the distance and lay and held you and then crept off again. i heard your breathing and you started when i touched you because you were surprised. my hand on your belly, i felt your warmth and the closeness i felt at that time was enough. quietly i crept back to my bed, slid under the covers and curled up, feeling your warmth still on my skin, my fingers. i curl up in bed, my left feet placed against my right shin, the feel of feet upon feet reminding me of the time we lay with our legs entwined.
you get up and shuffle towards the bathroom and i hear you check if the door is double-locked. the chain slides into place and you enter the bathroom. a second later, i listen and hear the taps being turned on, water gushing into the basin, a clean, clear sound of water gushing, and then slowing to a trickle. i close my eyes and a second later, you are under the covers with me, holding me just as i held you. your hand on my belly, i reach for your hand and i interlock my fingers with yours - something that i've longed to do for a long time, and dream. i think of all shopping alone at night along orchard, people-watching, seeing mothers, fathers, families and couples striding by the street as the sky turns from a salmon-pink to a darker shade and how the colour eventually drains out of the sky all of a sudden and it seems as though i am the only one left around. i recall the first time this year that i stroll along orchard, just as the lights for christmas are turned on and how i feel that first gush of childlike joy and how i am surprised at myself - that such a joy could come through me is unfathomable. i'd reckoned that cynism had already taken over me. it is such a purified joy that surprise cuts through me like a knife. and with these thoughts, i fall into slumber.
the next morning, sun shines through the thin curtains. morning comes early to manila - it is already bright at 6 in the morning. similarly, the night begins at 6 in the evening - it's as dark as night in singapore. the days seem shorter. i glance at the other bed and i see that his eyes are closed. afraid that he may open his eyes and catch me gazing away, afraid that i may be caught unguarded, as if all my emotions are written on my face, i look away. however, i steal supretitious glances at him again. i cannot help it. his eyes, normally full of life and energy, are shut. his face looks peaceful, relaxed. the crows feet around his eyes are smoothed out, unlined for the moment. i turn over and look at the ceiling - it will be the last morning that i am waking up in the same room as him. a long journey stretches ahead of me - i've to be out of the hotel by ten, to travel to Angeles and then to Clark. the phone rings, unexpectedly, jolting me out of my reverie. he picks up the phone and mumbles a "Thanks" into the phone. it must be his wake-up call. i hear him move under the covers and pull them away from himself. i turn and watch him sit upright in bed, getting his bearings while still in that hazy sleeplike state. he sees that i am awake. "Get some more sleep girl," he says. i am somehow touched that he tells me to get more sleep, the same way that strange things touch me - the unexpected caress his fingers, the grin that breaks out unexpectedly while he is seated on his bed in the new room. strange things.
my mother swept my titus watch onto the floor today while taking a slice of bread for our sardine breakface. the piece encasing the watch face cracks badly and i recall the last time i really looked at that watch - it was in manila when i was waiting for him in the room - i'd idly picked up the watch, looked at the seconds hand ticking away and then to the back of the watch which was pressed against my wrist for the most part of the time i was wearing it. i noticed that the plastic covering the back of the watch was still intact, that it shielded the engraved words tian chang di jiu. such cryptic words ... such overused words that bring to mind how nothing ever lasts, that i no longer believe in faithfulness, in true love and in being a true believer.
We talk after we’re done with the food. And you smoke. Smoke relaxes a person. I don’t smoke yet, but one day I might just take it up. Things take its’ course. Better to let the water flow. What water?
Would I get into a relationship with a married man? You have questions that are loaded. With what I can’t be bothered to ponder. Better to drawl in a lazy tone and answer. Yes I would. Humans are all flawed, that is my excuse. Fidelity is gone. I don’t believe in many things, save for God. But of course, I’d be realistic, as I’d always want to be. A married man belongs to his wife. She fucks him and he fucks her. They probably have children. Little Women should always know their place. Never to be on the losing end. And why does this suspiciously sound like I’m a know-it-all when I’m a don’t-know-it-all? To know your place is knowing your limits, what you can do and what you can’t. Judge with all your heart and stop from getting hurt. Just don’t love.
Me? I don’t think of love anymore. Intimacy may be a close call to love, but just don’t mention love. That’s a word nothing short of dangerous. Women crave intimacy but we’re not beings that can’t do without love, really.
It’s dull being a weak woman. Weak women cry when they can’t get their way and are easily hurt. All women are born essentially weak. When I almost broke up with the old boyfriend in the autumn of 2003, I was broken and begged for his return. Things change and of course so do people. People are not always the same. The old me was dependant on having another person with me, of being loved and of going out with someone else on weekends. Now I no longer care.
So what then are my priorities? I’ve transcended the need to be loved, truly. I can’t say it’s forever. To say that would be too sweeping a statement and most probably a pompous one. But I can say that perhaps I recognize a few true facts of life, not rules, facts and realize that life is possibly much easier after the recognition of such facts.
All love stories are the same. Breakups or threats to break up are so bloody frequent. Misunderstandings can snowball into full blown fights and fights takes days before the other party cools down. Through sms-es, hurtful words are thrown at one another and painful accusations cut through to the heart. Over the phone, one party sobs and words are choked in the sobs. There are silences and many unsaid words expand and fill up the silence along the telephone lines, signifying how much there is to say till there is no way to begin, and in this way, time snowball and elapses. All love stories are the same. We love, fight, hate, breakup, patch. In the end, most true relationships end without a bang, a closure. We just drift apart when there is nothing more to be learned from one another, when (cliché enough) the flame just dies out.
So there is nothing to look forward to where love in concerned. All love stories are the same, like sand on the beach, like clouds in the sun. A lot of things happen when they are supposed to. It really doesn’t need to make any sense. Sometimes silence really is the best answer. Like sand that appears on the beach and like clouds that drift across the sky, life happens everyday.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)