Crazed is a sense of being.
“You have to endure. If you endure, everything will be fine. No worry, no suffering. It all disappears. Forget about the shadow. This is the End of the World. This is where the world ends. Nowhere further to go.”
The End of the World. Not a simple concept. How to tell when life ends and another begins? Or when life begins and then ends? Especially when one is still alive. In a dredge of monotony then, when repetition takes over and life assumes itself. I could be hovering about the End then.
Dreams, dreams, dreams. Not since the existence of C have I come across such vivid dreams that fill my mind. Experiences past, gone, dreams woven out of vividness. Hard to tell when reality ends and dreams begin.
Some memories are coated with a layer of dust. Some things I’d rather not look back on, coated with dust, swept under the carpet.
You were there. Infused into the air. Vestiges of another time and place, imprinted across me as I ate in the spaghetti house. I looked across, looking, not watching. And saw you there.
*****
Shuffle slowly, flip-flops on wooden floor. Grainy scratches of sand scattered randomly between floorboards. Trying to pick up some grains of rice and then watching the grains get wedged between wooden floorboards. Fingernails to try to pry them out and then, giving up.
The skirt I once wore to dinner. Bohemian, sequined on the base, rumpled, crumpled. You can’t wear a rumpled skirt with an equally rumpled top. Laughs, pauses. We laugh at those we scorn, whom we do not understand.
A pull, a sharp muscle pull. Pain shoots up her back and she winces. Tries to get up. Looks up, and for the first time, notices dust captured against the sunlight. Forgetting the pain for the moment. Captivated by the dust floating as in captured in space and time. Noticing for a moment how the sunlight enters the windows in streaks. Clutching the side of the table. Getting a splinter in her fingers. The pain gets better. It eased off. She sat down for a while and looked around in wonder – how was it that she failed to really see what was in front of her? A year had passed, she spent her mornings in the kitchen, everyday. How was it that she failed to notice the tree outside the window, already spanning the height of the window? When she first came, it had been nothing more than a sapling.
Nothing in particular had driven her here. Work was going fine and her superiors were warm and supportive. Nothing more that she could have asked for in a company. The work was sometimes mundane. You met with the occasional horrible clients. Not much of a push factor. Yet in all that, it wasn’t all what she was cut out to do. She knew it in the joylessness of the day. The way the day could drag on at times. Scouring the house on Sunday evenings, trying to find scraps of things that perhaps could trigger something in her. Going for long runs from one neighbourhood to another. The yellow pills she had to take before she could fall asleep. The doctor was accustomed to her lies and she was sure if he had not been her family doctor for such a long time, there would be no way in which he would offer her a packet of them each time she feigned illness. Unconvincingly.
The nightmares were gone now. Not nightly. No more waking up drenched in sweat. No more the same feeling of helpless that engulfed her whenever she was alone in the passenger seat of a car. Sometimes if she convinced herself hard enough, it just seemed like a bad dream. Like some memories that were invented. She looked back on other more tangible memories and tried to simplify them as dreams too. But it obviously wasn’t doing any good. Sometimes, she convinced herself that it was all a dream, her parents, her apartment, her job, her car. Just one big dream that she could wake up from. And then that sense of helplessness again. Engulfing her. Pills to sleep then.
They were all push factors. And nothing really, to make her stay. A trip to an island of one of the neighbouring countries. Airfares were cheap since there had been two air crashes in the year ago alone. Budget terminals and tired, lost looking souls. A wry smile that crossed her face as she remembered Clark airport in Angeles. The flight had been delayed after she had rushed there from Manila. How there had been no taxis in Angeles and she had momentarily panicked, then took a jeepney for an exorbitant price. Cheap coffee dispensed from vending machines. The thin and acrid taste of instant coffee. Nothing to look back on, just a novel and her clothes thrown together in an instant. Tops and shorts. Jeans. Sundresses. A swimsuit. Sunblock lotion. A cap. Pills. How strange it was that she had forgotten to take her mobile phone along. Or perhaps it was an intentional move.
She stayed at the second floor of a tiny hotel located along the popular beach. There was no air-conditioning but she hardly cared. Two books. One typical romance novel by Luanne Rice. The other by Kazuo Ishiguro. Dogged eared. She had stopped taking care of her books a long time ago. Since the end of her first real relationship. Everything was transient, therefore, there was no need to prepare much for the future. This probably contributed largely to her view on life. And the mini crisis she was facing now.
Flying up in the air, she had hardly though about anything at all. She wasn’t in shock like most victims were. It was merely a resignation – an awareness that whatever could happen, would probably happen. And she didn’t really care what it was. He had been concentrating on reading and the car had sped round the corner, past parked cars, which had probably obscured the driver’s view of them. She had contemplated whether to push his shoulders or waist for maximum effect and then had just thrown her palms against his waist with all her might. She felt a thin film of sweat, saw sweat staining the red fabric a darker shade, and then felt the car hit her. The last thing she saw of him was him turning around in surprise and then she spun upwards in the air. She didn’t even realise that she had fallen until her head hit the front bonnet of the car with a sickening crunch. Then rolling over the bonnet, hitting the ground arm first.
Surprisingly, her arm wasn’t broken, just sprained. She was told she had been very lucky. What was all the luck for? If Death had come, it would have been silently accepted. That proverbial man in the black coat, waiting to capture souls.
She was told she had been in a coma for a week. A bandaged head, an oxygen mask. Looking back, she envisioned herself in the hospital like what was shown almost everyday on television. The thought was almost comical.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Friday, August 17, 2007
looking down
the bus passed by the church for the third time today, around one in the morning, and i spied, beyond the structures of the floral walls already set up in preparation of the grand celebrations next month, the shadow of a man kneeling on the ground outside the chained gates of the church. the image touched me. the darkness as though seeping through my soul, imprinted that image upon my mind, and i'm left wondering who it was.
i imagine a frayed polo shirt. brown, worn loafers. a plea for release, or a plea for benovelence. or perhaps, a plea for self. just like the plea i'm thinking of.
the other day, a student of mine asked why i'm always clad in black. and then i realised that as a teacher, it's probably not the questions on the academic stuff that frequently stump you. it's the minor, causual, veiled-in-simplicity questions that probe things about yourself that you never realised was so obvious to those around you. and questions that i cannot answer, are just left there as they are.
it's going to be the 100th day since grandma passed on into eternal life this september. my parents have started wearing pink and purple, but not red. i've not started wearing pink or purple, only tops or bottoms of dull colours with the occassional tiny print of red, pink or orange. but i don't proclaim to be a saint. it's no longer part of mourning that i remain clad in dull coloured clothes. i can't say that her death taught me alot either. the death of a loved one, as with all passings, reminds us all that everything is but transitory - that we all turn into ashes at the end of it all.
i resented my job when i was so drained after a day of teaching that all i wanted was to just get home and sleep, despite knowing that her days were numbered, and that perhaps i could provide some form of comfort just being there, holding her hand and watching her sleep. i resent myself for wishing that i didn't have to watch her wither away, and for thinking that watching her wither was all-too-draining for me. it is never easy seeing someone slip away before your very eyes - the sadness that i never experienced before - it was almost too much for me to bear. the weighty feel of grief - it tired me out, and i, who was already drained from work and worry, failed to grasp the remaining time i had with her. i don't know if i've forgiven myself. on the outside, i can smile. i can smile remembering her, because she was such a gentle soul that i knew no blame would ever be attributed to me.
i mourn myself - the non-existence of an identity.
***
the sharp pain - what i will never forget. i was dizzy from the pain.
weekends and the city doesn't sleep. the bridge of dreams. music. the want of dance.
***
the man with no face speaks to her. looking at the smooth grooves of his face, she feels no fear. it is just like being in a doctor's office, without the fear or anticipation of things to come. but there are no medical instruments, no cabinets filled with medicine, no faded posters of babies on the matted walls. there is a hard brown sofa, she can't remember the tiles on the floor, because staring at the white that was his face was so intoxicating enough.
in his face, she found that she could remember things more clearly. she recalled and looking deeper past the absymal white, she saw images of the past. images that had escaped her until then. remembering, they all didn't seem quite that far away. details that she'd long let go of came rushing back. she remembers wondering whether it was a good thing that her mind was just like a tap which could be turned on at whim. and who had turned it off so tightly that she had to open her eyes to the whiteness in order to see?
then she sees the white no more. immersed in images of the past, she flails , twisting and turning as they all rush together, combating the years past, worming their way into each and every crevice. tormenting the passages of time and flailing past the tunnels of darkness.
she immerses her pretty feet into water and inhales the smell of lavendar essential oil from an oil burner. a woman whose face she cannot remember gently massages her feet and she leans back and closes her eyes.
she is running on a dirt track and it is almost night. there is mud splattered on her white track shoes and her laces are matted with dirt. the ground is soft and squishy. she feels caked dirt hitting her shins as she tries to run faster and the back of her shoes throws up dirt, only to allow them to land on her calves. the distance she runs is no longer proportionate to the effort she puts in while running. the reduction in speed is not without a reason. she hears the roar of a car and turns to see a black utility vehicle approaching from a distance. eyes narrowing into slits, she tries to see who is in the vehicle.
flashing tailgates and the nervous laugh of anticipation.
he gets out of the driver's seat and slams the door hard. she waits for him to open the door on her side. the silence is overpowering. there is such a deep silence that she needs to put her hands to her ears and scream for a split second. to validate her existence. to allow herself to be aware that she is still alive, in the darkness. without knowledge of things around her, she falls and forgets that she exists. she is reminded of the time she was caught in a small, dark tunnel. unable to move back or forth, she felt goosebumps creep up all over her and the acrid taste of fear in her mouth. cold sweat trickling down her back, as it did now. mercifully or unmercifully, the door on her side opens, and she is dragged out. she hears him slamming the door shut, but she no longer hears anything from then on. she feels herself being pressed against the shut door and the force of that causing the door's exterior to be bent inwards. she places her arms behind her and her fingers reach to the top of her thighs. she digs her nails into the back of her thighs, but the pain is not sharp enough and she pinches herself instead.
the next day while showering, she feels a dull pain, either coming from her wounds or from herself. it seems difficult to differentiate.
it was just like the other day when she had drunk too much the night before and she woke up for a cup of coffee. opening the newspapers, she saw the letters floating around in the air, as though engaging in a word play and she had run to the toilet and thrown up.
a recent memory - the night before, she had dressed in a white tank top, a denim miniskirt and knee high black boots. looking for the toilet, a white man who looked half drunk whistled at her and mouthed the words, sex bomb at her. she found it getting easier to ignore people as the days passed. after all, they were always having their own preconceived notions of others and nothing could really change that. she regretted however, the time outside a greek restaurant when she was frantically delving through her bag and a man from inside the restaurant had actually come out of the restaurant to ask if she was alright, if she found what she was looking for. the shock from the man approaching her had put her on her guard and she scurried away. and looking back, she should have told that man that she didn't quite find it, and even as an afterthought, say that - yes, i've lost it. i know.
back to the night before, a cutesy blonde in an attire quite similar to her get-up walked out of the washroom, went up to the white man and hopped on one foot in front of him, while whinning about how long the others were taking in the toilet. seeing her going towards the toilet though, the blonde rushed back in to regain her place in the queue and grumbles to her instead, how they had all taken such a long time. the blonde pointed at one of the cubicles and whispers conspirally at her, "that one's taking really long, probably having a bad day." for want of something to say, she has nothing to say but replies, "bad day?" and the cutesy blonde nods.
a tongue reaches into her ear. a tongue so full of filth and grime that she has to bite her knuckles, first, to prevent herself from screaming in disgust and secondly, to stop herself from shuddering, over and over again.
it was just like a normal day, the sun beating down on the concrete. the smell of grease from the nearby food centres filling the air. crossing the road, she suddenly catches sight of the same utility vehicle, and she pauses in horror. she feels her legs turn numb and then feeling as though they could no longer hold her up. she stumbles to the green railings nearby and feels fear course through her. the driver's seat is empty. she turns back and in her haste, cannot make her way on her heels as swiftly enough as she wishes she could. turning back, fear written all over her face, she sees the face of someone she is more than happy to see, creased all over in puzzlement.
those shards, dribblets of memories are more than enough. she realises that she has been gripping the edge of the brown leather couch so tightly that her nails hurt, and that perhaps, was a reminder that enough was enough. the man with the white face was gone. without her even realising. there were walls around her. the rooms was the same. she looked around wildly.
there was no door.
i imagine a frayed polo shirt. brown, worn loafers. a plea for release, or a plea for benovelence. or perhaps, a plea for self. just like the plea i'm thinking of.
the other day, a student of mine asked why i'm always clad in black. and then i realised that as a teacher, it's probably not the questions on the academic stuff that frequently stump you. it's the minor, causual, veiled-in-simplicity questions that probe things about yourself that you never realised was so obvious to those around you. and questions that i cannot answer, are just left there as they are.
it's going to be the 100th day since grandma passed on into eternal life this september. my parents have started wearing pink and purple, but not red. i've not started wearing pink or purple, only tops or bottoms of dull colours with the occassional tiny print of red, pink or orange. but i don't proclaim to be a saint. it's no longer part of mourning that i remain clad in dull coloured clothes. i can't say that her death taught me alot either. the death of a loved one, as with all passings, reminds us all that everything is but transitory - that we all turn into ashes at the end of it all.
i resented my job when i was so drained after a day of teaching that all i wanted was to just get home and sleep, despite knowing that her days were numbered, and that perhaps i could provide some form of comfort just being there, holding her hand and watching her sleep. i resent myself for wishing that i didn't have to watch her wither away, and for thinking that watching her wither was all-too-draining for me. it is never easy seeing someone slip away before your very eyes - the sadness that i never experienced before - it was almost too much for me to bear. the weighty feel of grief - it tired me out, and i, who was already drained from work and worry, failed to grasp the remaining time i had with her. i don't know if i've forgiven myself. on the outside, i can smile. i can smile remembering her, because she was such a gentle soul that i knew no blame would ever be attributed to me.
i mourn myself - the non-existence of an identity.
***
the sharp pain - what i will never forget. i was dizzy from the pain.
weekends and the city doesn't sleep. the bridge of dreams. music. the want of dance.
***
the man with no face speaks to her. looking at the smooth grooves of his face, she feels no fear. it is just like being in a doctor's office, without the fear or anticipation of things to come. but there are no medical instruments, no cabinets filled with medicine, no faded posters of babies on the matted walls. there is a hard brown sofa, she can't remember the tiles on the floor, because staring at the white that was his face was so intoxicating enough.
in his face, she found that she could remember things more clearly. she recalled and looking deeper past the absymal white, she saw images of the past. images that had escaped her until then. remembering, they all didn't seem quite that far away. details that she'd long let go of came rushing back. she remembers wondering whether it was a good thing that her mind was just like a tap which could be turned on at whim. and who had turned it off so tightly that she had to open her eyes to the whiteness in order to see?
then she sees the white no more. immersed in images of the past, she flails , twisting and turning as they all rush together, combating the years past, worming their way into each and every crevice. tormenting the passages of time and flailing past the tunnels of darkness.
she immerses her pretty feet into water and inhales the smell of lavendar essential oil from an oil burner. a woman whose face she cannot remember gently massages her feet and she leans back and closes her eyes.
she is running on a dirt track and it is almost night. there is mud splattered on her white track shoes and her laces are matted with dirt. the ground is soft and squishy. she feels caked dirt hitting her shins as she tries to run faster and the back of her shoes throws up dirt, only to allow them to land on her calves. the distance she runs is no longer proportionate to the effort she puts in while running. the reduction in speed is not without a reason. she hears the roar of a car and turns to see a black utility vehicle approaching from a distance. eyes narrowing into slits, she tries to see who is in the vehicle.
flashing tailgates and the nervous laugh of anticipation.
he gets out of the driver's seat and slams the door hard. she waits for him to open the door on her side. the silence is overpowering. there is such a deep silence that she needs to put her hands to her ears and scream for a split second. to validate her existence. to allow herself to be aware that she is still alive, in the darkness. without knowledge of things around her, she falls and forgets that she exists. she is reminded of the time she was caught in a small, dark tunnel. unable to move back or forth, she felt goosebumps creep up all over her and the acrid taste of fear in her mouth. cold sweat trickling down her back, as it did now. mercifully or unmercifully, the door on her side opens, and she is dragged out. she hears him slamming the door shut, but she no longer hears anything from then on. she feels herself being pressed against the shut door and the force of that causing the door's exterior to be bent inwards. she places her arms behind her and her fingers reach to the top of her thighs. she digs her nails into the back of her thighs, but the pain is not sharp enough and she pinches herself instead.
the next day while showering, she feels a dull pain, either coming from her wounds or from herself. it seems difficult to differentiate.
it was just like the other day when she had drunk too much the night before and she woke up for a cup of coffee. opening the newspapers, she saw the letters floating around in the air, as though engaging in a word play and she had run to the toilet and thrown up.
a recent memory - the night before, she had dressed in a white tank top, a denim miniskirt and knee high black boots. looking for the toilet, a white man who looked half drunk whistled at her and mouthed the words, sex bomb at her. she found it getting easier to ignore people as the days passed. after all, they were always having their own preconceived notions of others and nothing could really change that. she regretted however, the time outside a greek restaurant when she was frantically delving through her bag and a man from inside the restaurant had actually come out of the restaurant to ask if she was alright, if she found what she was looking for. the shock from the man approaching her had put her on her guard and she scurried away. and looking back, she should have told that man that she didn't quite find it, and even as an afterthought, say that - yes, i've lost it. i know.
back to the night before, a cutesy blonde in an attire quite similar to her get-up walked out of the washroom, went up to the white man and hopped on one foot in front of him, while whinning about how long the others were taking in the toilet. seeing her going towards the toilet though, the blonde rushed back in to regain her place in the queue and grumbles to her instead, how they had all taken such a long time. the blonde pointed at one of the cubicles and whispers conspirally at her, "that one's taking really long, probably having a bad day." for want of something to say, she has nothing to say but replies, "bad day?" and the cutesy blonde nods.
a tongue reaches into her ear. a tongue so full of filth and grime that she has to bite her knuckles, first, to prevent herself from screaming in disgust and secondly, to stop herself from shuddering, over and over again.
it was just like a normal day, the sun beating down on the concrete. the smell of grease from the nearby food centres filling the air. crossing the road, she suddenly catches sight of the same utility vehicle, and she pauses in horror. she feels her legs turn numb and then feeling as though they could no longer hold her up. she stumbles to the green railings nearby and feels fear course through her. the driver's seat is empty. she turns back and in her haste, cannot make her way on her heels as swiftly enough as she wishes she could. turning back, fear written all over her face, she sees the face of someone she is more than happy to see, creased all over in puzzlement.
those shards, dribblets of memories are more than enough. she realises that she has been gripping the edge of the brown leather couch so tightly that her nails hurt, and that perhaps, was a reminder that enough was enough. the man with the white face was gone. without her even realising. there were walls around her. the rooms was the same. she looked around wildly.
there was no door.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
cosybay
was at cosybay for the first time ever yesterday with the cousins. i felt the past few weeks melt away in dinner at king satay with F, at nectarine (sp?) with KS and at cosybay.
at last, at long last, i think i've repeated this in all my blogs, but at long last, the setting of the exam paper is 99% done, the 4 mass lectures which saw me waking at 5.30am with palpitations and nightmares that whatever could have gone wrong would go wrong. strangely enough, i survived with little harm. or perhaps i am just delusional.
i didn't manage to walk along the bridge of dreams this time round.
sometimes, it seems like he never left. she would wake up in the mornings, the promise of a bright and sunny day ahead streaming into her mind. the sheets, the smell of the morning as a beautiful breeze drifted in - they were all the same. the cold floor tiles still felt the same as she padded around her bedroom. his bottles of wine still remain on the shelves, unopened. his coffee cup hasn't been drunk from since the day he sipped casually from it. on ordinary days, she'd watch television, half a mind on the television and half a mind on what was to occupy her for that day. term papers? they were typed out on the laptop at cafes along business districts, dreams drifting in the air. inhaling, inhaling.
at last, at long last, i think i've repeated this in all my blogs, but at long last, the setting of the exam paper is 99% done, the 4 mass lectures which saw me waking at 5.30am with palpitations and nightmares that whatever could have gone wrong would go wrong. strangely enough, i survived with little harm. or perhaps i am just delusional.
i didn't manage to walk along the bridge of dreams this time round.
sometimes, it seems like he never left. she would wake up in the mornings, the promise of a bright and sunny day ahead streaming into her mind. the sheets, the smell of the morning as a beautiful breeze drifted in - they were all the same. the cold floor tiles still felt the same as she padded around her bedroom. his bottles of wine still remain on the shelves, unopened. his coffee cup hasn't been drunk from since the day he sipped casually from it. on ordinary days, she'd watch television, half a mind on the television and half a mind on what was to occupy her for that day. term papers? they were typed out on the laptop at cafes along business districts, dreams drifting in the air. inhaling, inhaling.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
a smile
silence over the phone line, the silence that lasts an eternity before you give up and hang up the phone before the familiar ring tone begins, the ring tone that brings to mind the ability to make some noise in the world. some noise that could perhaps, in some mad way, connect you to wherever the phone rang there and then.
there and then, the moment, the past, vestiges of them replaying over and over in some lost space in time itself.
as a child, i traced the patterns of the moissac tiles in the kitchen. wondered about the grey inlets and whether they'd always been grey.
a breath of fresh air today, a refreshing one from the past. latches of memory that latch me onto the past as a baby latches onto mother's breast.
a smile, a smile within a smile.
a smile that finally reached to the eyes.
in this crazy world, i'm glad i finally saw a smile.
the darkness, so bleak. coloured by the chrysms of red that filled the air, it was almost a joke.
water, water, floating past me. i grabbed a green apple along the way, ate it, threw the core away and hailed a cab, as if i knew where to go.
the polished floors of the ladies room of the posh hotel. the tiny contraption of a dustbin surprised me. down went my foot and up went the lid of the dustbin. into the bin went the muffin.
into the wind. a collection of short stories done ten years ago in convent pinafores. a story of romance, crosssed romance between people of different races. objections. desire, lust, of leaving.
of lust and then leaving. to master that art. it is an art, you know?
a special belt that i'd thought was first to be worn as a form of identification. the form of identification that then took the guise of a circular lightstick. how very much like a puppy, i thought with some disdain.
the long walk back to what was my home for a few nights, alone.
there and then, the moment, the past, vestiges of them replaying over and over in some lost space in time itself.
as a child, i traced the patterns of the moissac tiles in the kitchen. wondered about the grey inlets and whether they'd always been grey.
a breath of fresh air today, a refreshing one from the past. latches of memory that latch me onto the past as a baby latches onto mother's breast.
a smile, a smile within a smile.
a smile that finally reached to the eyes.
in this crazy world, i'm glad i finally saw a smile.
the darkness, so bleak. coloured by the chrysms of red that filled the air, it was almost a joke.
water, water, floating past me. i grabbed a green apple along the way, ate it, threw the core away and hailed a cab, as if i knew where to go.
the polished floors of the ladies room of the posh hotel. the tiny contraption of a dustbin surprised me. down went my foot and up went the lid of the dustbin. into the bin went the muffin.
into the wind. a collection of short stories done ten years ago in convent pinafores. a story of romance, crosssed romance between people of different races. objections. desire, lust, of leaving.
of lust and then leaving. to master that art. it is an art, you know?
a special belt that i'd thought was first to be worn as a form of identification. the form of identification that then took the guise of a circular lightstick. how very much like a puppy, i thought with some disdain.
the long walk back to what was my home for a few nights, alone.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
hazy morning
a hazy morning, after a hazy night spent at the neighbourhood pub. haze, because of the smoke filtting around, smoke emanating from the burnt ends of cigarettes. the familiar acrid taste of beer, bitter a brew as any could be, the taste a memory from yesteryear when i'd last had beer. beer mixed with coke, a lemon or two, sliced and infused into the mixture. black straws, indiscriminate small glasses, a girl or two clad in a tiger-beer bluesuit. mismatched black lacquered tables, creaky high stools, put some of these together and you get my pub.
accompanied by the ballads of yesteryear, and we watched pot-bellied old men belt out hits from the time that we were not born yet, cringe at the shrill pitches trying to climb note after note, unsuccessfully, yes. that was my night. but there were nice songs too, the usual jay chou ballads, and whoever else you have, pleasant radio-friendly dittys that stay in your head long enough to allow you to remember the words and want to mouth them over and over again when the songs are being played.
dreams. part reality, part fiction. sometimes i dream of the last person i've thought of that night, never dreamt of my grandmother though. a grandaunt claimed to have dreamt of her one night, her clad in her peranakan outfit and black veil, standing just next to her niche in that peaceful church at bukit batok and when she ventured closer to my grandmother, my grandmother turned into a butterful. the story then goes that my aunt, her main caregiver during her final days, opened the balcony door one morning to see a butterful waiting outside her door. the butterfly flitted in when she opened the door a tad bit wider, made a circle or two of the house and then was gone, never to be seen again. such experiences. i've wondered whether such so-called experiences after the living are gone are triggered by some form of over-sensitivity to the things around us, our heightened awareness. the answers to that are probably never clear-cut. the other night i was just wondering why people cry when they are sad. is it merely a natural reaction or one that has been conditioned - that you cry because you know for sure it is a reaction for sadness. then again, we cry from birth, so that is something that is probably inborn.
i called your disconnected number again last night, and then your still existing one. a few days ago, i noticed that your welcome message for the voicemail's been changed. no more of that irritating noise from a computer at the begining. the voice still remains, highly strung, if that can be used to describe your tone. last night i watched, men in their vertically striped shirts, collar unbuttoned, at the pool table. the backs of shirts, the center portion of an inseam, which always reminds me of a cleft lip.
vertically striped shirts will always remind me of one thing. dark nights and flashing tailgates.
the sun's come out now. light green leaves are fluttering in the tiny breeze, shadows on the gravel ground, some leaves a lighter shade of green than others, because of the sun's reflection.
accompanied by the ballads of yesteryear, and we watched pot-bellied old men belt out hits from the time that we were not born yet, cringe at the shrill pitches trying to climb note after note, unsuccessfully, yes. that was my night. but there were nice songs too, the usual jay chou ballads, and whoever else you have, pleasant radio-friendly dittys that stay in your head long enough to allow you to remember the words and want to mouth them over and over again when the songs are being played.
dreams. part reality, part fiction. sometimes i dream of the last person i've thought of that night, never dreamt of my grandmother though. a grandaunt claimed to have dreamt of her one night, her clad in her peranakan outfit and black veil, standing just next to her niche in that peaceful church at bukit batok and when she ventured closer to my grandmother, my grandmother turned into a butterful. the story then goes that my aunt, her main caregiver during her final days, opened the balcony door one morning to see a butterful waiting outside her door. the butterfly flitted in when she opened the door a tad bit wider, made a circle or two of the house and then was gone, never to be seen again. such experiences. i've wondered whether such so-called experiences after the living are gone are triggered by some form of over-sensitivity to the things around us, our heightened awareness. the answers to that are probably never clear-cut. the other night i was just wondering why people cry when they are sad. is it merely a natural reaction or one that has been conditioned - that you cry because you know for sure it is a reaction for sadness. then again, we cry from birth, so that is something that is probably inborn.
i called your disconnected number again last night, and then your still existing one. a few days ago, i noticed that your welcome message for the voicemail's been changed. no more of that irritating noise from a computer at the begining. the voice still remains, highly strung, if that can be used to describe your tone. last night i watched, men in their vertically striped shirts, collar unbuttoned, at the pool table. the backs of shirts, the center portion of an inseam, which always reminds me of a cleft lip.
vertically striped shirts will always remind me of one thing. dark nights and flashing tailgates.
the sun's come out now. light green leaves are fluttering in the tiny breeze, shadows on the gravel ground, some leaves a lighter shade of green than others, because of the sun's reflection.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
in my dream, my grandmother was as sprightly as i remember her to be, sitting upright, a twinkle in her eyes and we were high up in the mountains, on some sort of a verandah curving around a steep valley and far below us were trees and lush greenery. i remember a bagful of chips, previously opened, rolled up with a rubber band. there wasn't any hint of discomfort on her face, it was just like old times, her and me. there wasn't a sound in the air, just the peaceful knowledge of both of us existing in the world there and then.
sadly, her days are numbered and we're already talking about whether we have enough white and black clothes to wear for the days of the funeral. we're deciding between holding the wake in a church or in singapore casket, we deciding where to house her ashes.
i've often thought of my grandmother in her flat, alone with no one else but the maid, bidding her time away in prayer - she once told me that she prayed that the staff and heads at the school would be understanding towards me. it's touching - i find it extremely touching each time someone tells me that he/she prays for me. sadly, she's the only person who's ever told me that she's been praying for me. not the ex, not anyone else. actually i pretty much am non-existent in this world. no one except my parents and the workplace peeps - out of a sense of "who the fuck is going to take over her bloody workload kind - and except maybe a few ex-schoolmates would notice. i could disappear silently from this world, and no one would know. i wonder if it's a good or bad thing. but now, i don't find it particularly bad.
most nights, while i search through my house at night, rummaging through bags and the mail and old receipts and looking through travel books and flipping through murakami novels, she's hooked up on an oxygen tank, her leg in a plaster cast as a result of a hairline crack, her dignity lowered by the use of diapers all the time, the windows closed, the maid sleeping beside her on a thin mattress on the floor to change her diapers if the need arises. most nights she probably feels hot, so a thin bed spread serves as a blanket.
some days, life tires me out. staring at the faces of the other teachers at the coffeeshop while we're having our lunch, it strikes me that i hardly know anything about those around me. we co-exist, we speak but we hardly understand - the point, the point of whatever we're speaking about, the essence, the bliss, it's mostly lost, ungrasped, ungrappled with.
the afternoon sun hits down and soon the day's half gone, the day almost done, a smattering of students remain in the school. silent laughter, a tribute to the noise created hours ago, bounces rivetly off the walls. i see speckles of dust floating mid-air while on the way to the car park. i may let off a string of vulgarities, when while halfway to the car, i remember that i've forgotten to tap the card against the tiny electronic contraption that is attached to one of the pillars along the stairs to the staff room. thoughts fill my mind on this particularly hot day. it's been hot recently, so all i wear are sleeveless cotton tops and skirts - pants seem to trap heat rather well. empty thoughts expand and seem to fill up the void in my mind, lost in myself, i can hardly concentrate on whatever is at hand. i look without seeing, i smell without ingesting, i consume with little joy.
i might as well live in a well. then, in the darkness, i might perhaps realise something about myself. for without other things butting rudely into my thoughts, interrupting my respite, entrapping me, only then might i cease to think and learn to live.
you might still be taking a yellow pill per night, your MBA classes on saturday mornings, your pressed shirts. on a normal day you might miss the sights and sounds of coffee cups shatterring, walking to the clean restrooms.
sadly, her days are numbered and we're already talking about whether we have enough white and black clothes to wear for the days of the funeral. we're deciding between holding the wake in a church or in singapore casket, we deciding where to house her ashes.
i've often thought of my grandmother in her flat, alone with no one else but the maid, bidding her time away in prayer - she once told me that she prayed that the staff and heads at the school would be understanding towards me. it's touching - i find it extremely touching each time someone tells me that he/she prays for me. sadly, she's the only person who's ever told me that she's been praying for me. not the ex, not anyone else. actually i pretty much am non-existent in this world. no one except my parents and the workplace peeps - out of a sense of "who the fuck is going to take over her bloody workload kind - and except maybe a few ex-schoolmates would notice. i could disappear silently from this world, and no one would know. i wonder if it's a good or bad thing. but now, i don't find it particularly bad.
most nights, while i search through my house at night, rummaging through bags and the mail and old receipts and looking through travel books and flipping through murakami novels, she's hooked up on an oxygen tank, her leg in a plaster cast as a result of a hairline crack, her dignity lowered by the use of diapers all the time, the windows closed, the maid sleeping beside her on a thin mattress on the floor to change her diapers if the need arises. most nights she probably feels hot, so a thin bed spread serves as a blanket.
some days, life tires me out. staring at the faces of the other teachers at the coffeeshop while we're having our lunch, it strikes me that i hardly know anything about those around me. we co-exist, we speak but we hardly understand - the point, the point of whatever we're speaking about, the essence, the bliss, it's mostly lost, ungrasped, ungrappled with.
the afternoon sun hits down and soon the day's half gone, the day almost done, a smattering of students remain in the school. silent laughter, a tribute to the noise created hours ago, bounces rivetly off the walls. i see speckles of dust floating mid-air while on the way to the car park. i may let off a string of vulgarities, when while halfway to the car, i remember that i've forgotten to tap the card against the tiny electronic contraption that is attached to one of the pillars along the stairs to the staff room. thoughts fill my mind on this particularly hot day. it's been hot recently, so all i wear are sleeveless cotton tops and skirts - pants seem to trap heat rather well. empty thoughts expand and seem to fill up the void in my mind, lost in myself, i can hardly concentrate on whatever is at hand. i look without seeing, i smell without ingesting, i consume with little joy.
i might as well live in a well. then, in the darkness, i might perhaps realise something about myself. for without other things butting rudely into my thoughts, interrupting my respite, entrapping me, only then might i cease to think and learn to live.
you might still be taking a yellow pill per night, your MBA classes on saturday mornings, your pressed shirts. on a normal day you might miss the sights and sounds of coffee cups shatterring, walking to the clean restrooms.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
putrid.
you twist and turn
-my love
into a mimicry of love.
more than putrid it is.
the tone of your voice on the phone which belies all the agenda you harbour beneath you, it's managed to taint every good memory that i've had of you.
you've managed to taint every good memory i've had of you. no mean feat.
the lights spun around me once more - i wasn't quite in the city of bright lights like i'd thought of, many times over. this time, it was a different time, another place.
or perhaps it was that i'd bought murakami's wind up bird chronicle and read it on the way back to singapore once more, even though i'd read it two years ago. each read is different. each read infuses different perceptions that come to mind in reading, splashing the words with different shards of memories.
i remember 2 years yon. i wrote these 2 years ago.
i'd be the worst person in the world to be a writer because i lack a vivid imagination. paint the sky a multitude of colours and i can spell how the sky was painted. insert a philosophical verse of crap or two, even, but hand me the paintbrush and i'll be dumbfounded.
reading about two halves of the self has made me go bonkers over someone having two selves. two detachable selves of oneself so that you can either exist in one self or another and forget totally about the other self. or perhaps not. we're but human, but human and being human, we're all fucking flawed to our annoyance.
i think of nails and tissue hidden under nails. sinew, limbs. i wore the pants for graduation. the shoes i still wear at times, pointy mules. i like to give. lines and squares. scissors to cut paper.
you twist and turn
-my love
into a mimicry of love.
more than putrid it is.
the tone of your voice on the phone which belies all the agenda you harbour beneath you, it's managed to taint every good memory that i've had of you.
you've managed to taint every good memory i've had of you. no mean feat.
the lights spun around me once more - i wasn't quite in the city of bright lights like i'd thought of, many times over. this time, it was a different time, another place.
or perhaps it was that i'd bought murakami's wind up bird chronicle and read it on the way back to singapore once more, even though i'd read it two years ago. each read is different. each read infuses different perceptions that come to mind in reading, splashing the words with different shards of memories.
i remember 2 years yon. i wrote these 2 years ago.
i'd be the worst person in the world to be a writer because i lack a vivid imagination. paint the sky a multitude of colours and i can spell how the sky was painted. insert a philosophical verse of crap or two, even, but hand me the paintbrush and i'll be dumbfounded.
reading about two halves of the self has made me go bonkers over someone having two selves. two detachable selves of oneself so that you can either exist in one self or another and forget totally about the other self. or perhaps not. we're but human, but human and being human, we're all fucking flawed to our annoyance.
i think of nails and tissue hidden under nails. sinew, limbs. i wore the pants for graduation. the shoes i still wear at times, pointy mules. i like to give. lines and squares. scissors to cut paper.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
hey, lucky 200!
i wonder what i'm doing here once again, typing, knocking the keys on my laptops when mounting piles of work are just waiting for me to delve into them.
then again, maybe i'll take the easy way out - the yellow pill and just fall again. to fall into a deep sleep once again.
are you still taking yellow pills?
i realised today that i no longer need an answer, a reason to carry on. whatever i possess belongs to me alone and i'm accountable to no one, really.
and wow, surprisingly, this is the 200th entry of this blog. when i started it off, i meant it to be a public one - one that i could showcase on friendster and have lame pictures on it and the like. then i realised that i wasn't quite comfortable with the idea of my friends reading so much about my life. bah. and so i shifted for a while, closed this blog occassionally when i felt the need to, and opened it again last july or thereabouts, i remember.
so what has this blog seen me through? 2 relationships, 2 memorable ones and though i can't say for sure that i was the "dumper" for both, i was certainly the initiating party, both of them got the hint, i guess. and while the first relationship reminds me of bliss, pleasantries, hot summer days and outings and joy, i can't really say the same for the next, because the other party was apparently so sore about not being the initiating party that "it" began to spread vicious rumous about me to our mutual friends. now that is what i call, telling. thank you for telling me that you truly wanted me and were so upset at my actions that you just had to do it. thank god for sms-es. the next time i meet our mutal friends who give me weird vibes as a result of what you've been telling them i can just whip out my phone and show them your mushy, mushy messages, kept not out of nostalgia but out of my stint in the civil service - everything must be in black and white ah!
i can't even believe how my colleague could actually bring herself to ask me about my bonus. pffft.
i've been accustomed to the way that there is a pause after you dial the eight numbers on your phone. yes, there will be a pause and once the phone is switched off, it only takes 2 seconds for the phone to get into the voicemail mode. once the pause is longer than 2 seconds, however, it means that the line is getting connected, and that is when i hang up the phone.
to leave no trace behind. to know that something is for certain without you ever knowing.
gads. it's already half past eleven.
backs. naked backs and you notice a mole that you've never noticed before. will he stir if i cover him gently with the blanket? pores. i lift a finger and try to put it as close to his skin as i can without touching it. will my fingers touch the fine hairs. my lips part in concentration. i paint a pretty picture of us together.
then again, maybe i'll take the easy way out - the yellow pill and just fall again. to fall into a deep sleep once again.
are you still taking yellow pills?
i realised today that i no longer need an answer, a reason to carry on. whatever i possess belongs to me alone and i'm accountable to no one, really.
and wow, surprisingly, this is the 200th entry of this blog. when i started it off, i meant it to be a public one - one that i could showcase on friendster and have lame pictures on it and the like. then i realised that i wasn't quite comfortable with the idea of my friends reading so much about my life. bah. and so i shifted for a while, closed this blog occassionally when i felt the need to, and opened it again last july or thereabouts, i remember.
so what has this blog seen me through? 2 relationships, 2 memorable ones and though i can't say for sure that i was the "dumper" for both, i was certainly the initiating party, both of them got the hint, i guess. and while the first relationship reminds me of bliss, pleasantries, hot summer days and outings and joy, i can't really say the same for the next, because the other party was apparently so sore about not being the initiating party that "it" began to spread vicious rumous about me to our mutual friends. now that is what i call, telling. thank you for telling me that you truly wanted me and were so upset at my actions that you just had to do it. thank god for sms-es. the next time i meet our mutal friends who give me weird vibes as a result of what you've been telling them i can just whip out my phone and show them your mushy, mushy messages, kept not out of nostalgia but out of my stint in the civil service - everything must be in black and white ah!
i can't even believe how my colleague could actually bring herself to ask me about my bonus. pffft.
i've been accustomed to the way that there is a pause after you dial the eight numbers on your phone. yes, there will be a pause and once the phone is switched off, it only takes 2 seconds for the phone to get into the voicemail mode. once the pause is longer than 2 seconds, however, it means that the line is getting connected, and that is when i hang up the phone.
to leave no trace behind. to know that something is for certain without you ever knowing.
gads. it's already half past eleven.
backs. naked backs and you notice a mole that you've never noticed before. will he stir if i cover him gently with the blanket? pores. i lift a finger and try to put it as close to his skin as i can without touching it. will my fingers touch the fine hairs. my lips part in concentration. i paint a pretty picture of us together.
Monday, April 02, 2007
mocking bird
it amazes me to be typing here in front of my laptop, comfortable as i am in my shorts and tube top. it amazes me to be able to witness the exact moment that the day turns to dusk and begins its' descent toward darkness.
or perhaps it's just that i'm been hibernating under the covers too much - the best times to fall into slumber are from the late mornings to the early afternoon, and then to get up a bit, read a murakami novel in bed, and then fall asleep again with your hair across your face, dreaming of norobu watayas, torus, creta and malta kanos, kumikos, birds that wind their springs, working in wig factories, men with faceless faces, hotel rooms, and of course, cutty sark.
and by the next time you rouse, it's already past seven, the skies are grey and dark and no more birds sing. the leaves of trees outside your window look unusually dark in the dimness and you don't bother to look harder at them. the leaves never change in reality anyway. or even if they did, like grow an extended network of veins overnight, you wouldn't know the difference.
you may shuffle along the cold white tiles in your bare feet, contemplate having a bath, then decide that it is probably not worth the trouble since you have been lying in bed all day anyway. and quickly, dusk slips into blissful darkness.
at night, i may wander around the house, looking at things around the house - the antique vase in the corner - i've never noticed its' existence before! the magazines dating back to 1991, i idly pick them up and flip through them. things that came through the mail and are lying in a heap upon the floor. i pick them up and read through bits and pieces of letters, bills, ads. crumpled receipts in my bag, long forgotten - not! i uncrumple them, smooth them out and read them - cashier's name? date? item bought? i recall and try and think what i'd bought, purchased, what i did that day, factors that led to the purchase of that item. and when i'm done with the skimming through of the receipts, i look into the shoe cabinets. i like to buy pretty shoes that i almost never ever wear - i'm the sort of person who can wear a single pair of shoes to death. that's why that single pair of shoes must go with practically everything in my wardrobe. which isn't difficult, considering that i'm such a blah-dresser. black, whites, greys. never the bohemian, though i'd once gone through a jappy dresser stage a month or two back. rouge, eyeliner, kohl, red streaks and the like. but anyway. shoes. pretty laced ones, wedges, pink heels, ballerina lookalikes. sandals. in a variety of colours, sizes, even. i buy and hog, and almost never wear them out. i run my fingers over the pretty texture - shoes from hongkong and london, the touch brings to mind a memory. and i stare, fixated at everything else unfolding in front of me - this is what i like to see - elements of my past life being brought to life just by thinking, reminising.
and when searching in my own house no longer suffices, i just grab the keys to the car and run downstairs and get into the car and blast Cassie's Me and You and usually, the first place i head to is Astro hotel at the east side and i get out of the car and gaze across the drab carpark. then i get back into the car and make a slow drive this time across the singapore river and gaze at the majestic buildings, hotels and skyscrapers and i wonder what i'm doing while getting all the way there.
in that same breath i'd head back home and sated, i'd fall asleep in the hall, without a comforter this time, with the balcony door half open and the sounds of the first birds chirping in the air.
and so, another day passed.
or perhaps it's just that i'm been hibernating under the covers too much - the best times to fall into slumber are from the late mornings to the early afternoon, and then to get up a bit, read a murakami novel in bed, and then fall asleep again with your hair across your face, dreaming of norobu watayas, torus, creta and malta kanos, kumikos, birds that wind their springs, working in wig factories, men with faceless faces, hotel rooms, and of course, cutty sark.
and by the next time you rouse, it's already past seven, the skies are grey and dark and no more birds sing. the leaves of trees outside your window look unusually dark in the dimness and you don't bother to look harder at them. the leaves never change in reality anyway. or even if they did, like grow an extended network of veins overnight, you wouldn't know the difference.
you may shuffle along the cold white tiles in your bare feet, contemplate having a bath, then decide that it is probably not worth the trouble since you have been lying in bed all day anyway. and quickly, dusk slips into blissful darkness.
at night, i may wander around the house, looking at things around the house - the antique vase in the corner - i've never noticed its' existence before! the magazines dating back to 1991, i idly pick them up and flip through them. things that came through the mail and are lying in a heap upon the floor. i pick them up and read through bits and pieces of letters, bills, ads. crumpled receipts in my bag, long forgotten - not! i uncrumple them, smooth them out and read them - cashier's name? date? item bought? i recall and try and think what i'd bought, purchased, what i did that day, factors that led to the purchase of that item. and when i'm done with the skimming through of the receipts, i look into the shoe cabinets. i like to buy pretty shoes that i almost never ever wear - i'm the sort of person who can wear a single pair of shoes to death. that's why that single pair of shoes must go with practically everything in my wardrobe. which isn't difficult, considering that i'm such a blah-dresser. black, whites, greys. never the bohemian, though i'd once gone through a jappy dresser stage a month or two back. rouge, eyeliner, kohl, red streaks and the like. but anyway. shoes. pretty laced ones, wedges, pink heels, ballerina lookalikes. sandals. in a variety of colours, sizes, even. i buy and hog, and almost never wear them out. i run my fingers over the pretty texture - shoes from hongkong and london, the touch brings to mind a memory. and i stare, fixated at everything else unfolding in front of me - this is what i like to see - elements of my past life being brought to life just by thinking, reminising.
and when searching in my own house no longer suffices, i just grab the keys to the car and run downstairs and get into the car and blast Cassie's Me and You and usually, the first place i head to is Astro hotel at the east side and i get out of the car and gaze across the drab carpark. then i get back into the car and make a slow drive this time across the singapore river and gaze at the majestic buildings, hotels and skyscrapers and i wonder what i'm doing while getting all the way there.
in that same breath i'd head back home and sated, i'd fall asleep in the hall, without a comforter this time, with the balcony door half open and the sounds of the first birds chirping in the air.
and so, another day passed.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
in slumber
we talk, we laugh, we stub out our cigarettes on cold grey concrete tables and then we get up and leave. i feel cold because the cold stone benches have left imprints of the cold on my thighs. otherwise, i do not. i rarely feel cold anymore these days. even when i do, i shrug off the thought of wearing a cardigan, the thought of going through all that trouble, just to warm myself, seems inconsequential. why go to all that trouble just to ensure my own comfort? creature comforts, they just don't seem that important to me anymore. living is just a mere inconvenience - the very thought of having to wake up in the mornings, put on my make-up and go about my daily mundane tasks - the very thought just bores me. put me through endless meetings and the shoving of information down my system, the involuntary retch and fight against the ideals that are pushed across to me everyday, on a daily basis, nothing ever excites me anymore.
i've spent many days huddling under the comforters. in the comfort of my own room, i dwelled. the parents were away, so i had the whole house to myself. i padded around in nothing but my underwear and bedroom slippers. mornings meant i got up, brushed my teeth, opened the door to pick up the newspapers, accquainted myself with the obituraries - how very morbid a way to start the day. i'd look and gaze at 70 something men and women and wonder about their deaths and wonder if like what my father had said - those with the bible verses "i have fought a good fght" printed above their photographs really did die of cancer. i stared at thirty something men and wondered why they never had the chance to get married and what would happen to their wives and children, if there were any indicated below. i browsed through the business section, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone's name, but sadly, i never did. i skimmed through the home section, boring myself to death with details of gory accidents, news on huge corporations going to court for a variety of reasons and wondered about life going on while mine stopped.
i'd gaze out of the windows and stare at the bright morning sun till waves of multi-coloured spots wavered before me and i felt the ground move. then, shading my eyes from the sun, i had to sit and rest before i passed out.
under the covers was the best part of each day for me. i didn't feel sleepy, but i just felt the need to get away from the world and to just fall into slumber was the easiest way to do it. so i would close my eyes and lie under the comforter, no matter how hot it was, i always buried myself under the comforter and waited for sleep to consume me. it became easier each time i tried to fall asleep. i didn't even need my comfort source - the yellow pill designated to be take for flu - you taught me that. you who now are gone from my life and is heard of no more.
some days i just call your phone late at night and listen to your voice on the automated voicemail. i've never left a message before though. it wouldn't be my style.
strangely, now that you've not called and you've probably gotten the message, i feel lonely. i wish you were still calling me and messaging me and then i'd know that you perhaps remembered me at least.
that in some obscure corner of the world,
i might linger in a figment of your thoughts.
that in your unlined sleep,
i may slip in
as a shadow of a memory of a dream
i remember running 5km on the treadmill in the gym. no easy feat for a self-professed non gym bunny, but i made it, 2 days in a row. i felt as though i was trying to run as fast as i could, away from myself. and when i got tired, it perhaps stopped me from thinking further. perhaps that's why my body gave up on me. i needed the respite.
my tattoos and ear-holes. i never liked having them, but i felt the need for them. or, correction, not the need for them, but perhaps, i felt the need to go through the process of it. the pain. pain is important. maybe someday, laser can work to erase all my marks.
essentially, i hate looking forward to things, because time, ultimately, just passes you by, no matter how enjoyable the moment, like a slap in the face, like a yell of jubilation - there! the moment's gone and you won't be able to relive it! and if things don't match up, then it pretty much ruins everything else from there.
my huddled brain's too tired to think further. guess i'm better off in slumber.
i've spent many days huddling under the comforters. in the comfort of my own room, i dwelled. the parents were away, so i had the whole house to myself. i padded around in nothing but my underwear and bedroom slippers. mornings meant i got up, brushed my teeth, opened the door to pick up the newspapers, accquainted myself with the obituraries - how very morbid a way to start the day. i'd look and gaze at 70 something men and women and wonder about their deaths and wonder if like what my father had said - those with the bible verses "i have fought a good fght" printed above their photographs really did die of cancer. i stared at thirty something men and wondered why they never had the chance to get married and what would happen to their wives and children, if there were any indicated below. i browsed through the business section, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone's name, but sadly, i never did. i skimmed through the home section, boring myself to death with details of gory accidents, news on huge corporations going to court for a variety of reasons and wondered about life going on while mine stopped.
i'd gaze out of the windows and stare at the bright morning sun till waves of multi-coloured spots wavered before me and i felt the ground move. then, shading my eyes from the sun, i had to sit and rest before i passed out.
under the covers was the best part of each day for me. i didn't feel sleepy, but i just felt the need to get away from the world and to just fall into slumber was the easiest way to do it. so i would close my eyes and lie under the comforter, no matter how hot it was, i always buried myself under the comforter and waited for sleep to consume me. it became easier each time i tried to fall asleep. i didn't even need my comfort source - the yellow pill designated to be take for flu - you taught me that. you who now are gone from my life and is heard of no more.
some days i just call your phone late at night and listen to your voice on the automated voicemail. i've never left a message before though. it wouldn't be my style.
strangely, now that you've not called and you've probably gotten the message, i feel lonely. i wish you were still calling me and messaging me and then i'd know that you perhaps remembered me at least.
that in some obscure corner of the world,
i might linger in a figment of your thoughts.
that in your unlined sleep,
i may slip in
as a shadow of a memory of a dream
i remember running 5km on the treadmill in the gym. no easy feat for a self-professed non gym bunny, but i made it, 2 days in a row. i felt as though i was trying to run as fast as i could, away from myself. and when i got tired, it perhaps stopped me from thinking further. perhaps that's why my body gave up on me. i needed the respite.
my tattoos and ear-holes. i never liked having them, but i felt the need for them. or, correction, not the need for them, but perhaps, i felt the need to go through the process of it. the pain. pain is important. maybe someday, laser can work to erase all my marks.
essentially, i hate looking forward to things, because time, ultimately, just passes you by, no matter how enjoyable the moment, like a slap in the face, like a yell of jubilation - there! the moment's gone and you won't be able to relive it! and if things don't match up, then it pretty much ruins everything else from there.
my huddled brain's too tired to think further. guess i'm better off in slumber.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Monday, March 19, 2007
i love thee from afar
i love thee from a distance,
rumbling clouds that drift
over my head to yours.
raindrops that rise again,
pitter-patter upon your cheek.
by the road each street lamp glimmers
shardes of hope that
pierce dreams into my soul.
by every dream that enters
the distance quelling.
i love thee from a distance,
the love turning to disdain.
putrid.
you twist and turn -
my love into a mimicry of love.
take the yellow pill,
you fall asleep,
your face unlined.
unbecoming, innocent.
devoid of emotions that captivate.
i love thee from afar,
let me count the ways.
not one, not two.
in everyday, in many ways.
in my life, you live.
i beckon to you when i wake.
your number's the first i call,
deep in bleary sleep.
to call, to connect, to
make sure i reach out
i love thee from afar,
your number appears to me.
i keep thee away to love thee more.
this much-
comprehend you?
reach out to you in some ways.
that in some obscure corner of the world,
i might linger in a figment of your thoughts.
that in your unlined sleep
i may slip in as a shadow of a memory of a dream.
i love thee,
a love steadfast.
a love complacent in knowledge.
that no one could ever have a hand in fate
again.
rumbling clouds that drift
over my head to yours.
raindrops that rise again,
pitter-patter upon your cheek.
by the road each street lamp glimmers
shardes of hope that
pierce dreams into my soul.
by every dream that enters
the distance quelling.
i love thee from a distance,
the love turning to disdain.
putrid.
you twist and turn -
my love into a mimicry of love.
take the yellow pill,
you fall asleep,
your face unlined.
unbecoming, innocent.
devoid of emotions that captivate.
i love thee from afar,
let me count the ways.
not one, not two.
in everyday, in many ways.
in my life, you live.
i beckon to you when i wake.
your number's the first i call,
deep in bleary sleep.
to call, to connect, to
make sure i reach out
i love thee from afar,
your number appears to me.
i keep thee away to love thee more.
this much-
comprehend you?
reach out to you in some ways.
that in some obscure corner of the world,
i might linger in a figment of your thoughts.
that in your unlined sleep
i may slip in as a shadow of a memory of a dream.
i love thee,
a love steadfast.
a love complacent in knowledge.
that no one could ever have a hand in fate
again.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
nibong
2 phones, 2 lines and both state the unreachable. over mountains and valleys, hills, planes and plateaus. i imagine skies, blue skies with white clouds drifting past. the movie watched just this evening showed a changing landscape of clouds, of a dormant building standing still while the clouds made a rush across the skies.
2 phones, 2 lines and both state the unreachable. should i have gone to meet you previously then? 10 days, 240 hours. pristine sparkling floors. never the weekend, i was never the weekend girl. i was never the girl you caught the movie with, neither was i ever the girl you visited spanking new malls with. ever.
and consciousness brings to mind - fleeting images, when touch reaches back and tugs at a memory gone astray, to bring it so clearly back to you that you wonder at how you could ever have forgotten.
the biggest mall in asia. food. taxis and cheap bars. rats.
memory pulled back. taut.
crusing along, nibong station. still unopened, unavailable for transport, even after a span of almost 2 years. nothing much has changed. the U-turn at the end. desertedness. no one. emptiness.
2 phones, 2 lines and both state the unreachable. should i have gone to meet you previously then? 10 days, 240 hours. pristine sparkling floors. never the weekend, i was never the weekend girl. i was never the girl you caught the movie with, neither was i ever the girl you visited spanking new malls with. ever.
and consciousness brings to mind - fleeting images, when touch reaches back and tugs at a memory gone astray, to bring it so clearly back to you that you wonder at how you could ever have forgotten.
the biggest mall in asia. food. taxis and cheap bars. rats.
memory pulled back. taut.
crusing along, nibong station. still unopened, unavailable for transport, even after a span of almost 2 years. nothing much has changed. the U-turn at the end. desertedness. no one. emptiness.
Monday, January 08, 2007
oh how i miss thee
lazy old days of yore.
buses, the bus rides. the joy of stepping out of the gym after a cold shower with my hair still wet, and to feel the blazing sun on my skin, burning through every pore, seeping past the tiny hairs on my arms and penetrating it's souless gaze upon each figment of cell. the feet on the ground, one in front of the other, in an endless cycle of walking. steps, cobbled pathways, concrete pathways, we walked through them all. the gaze that one gives another, the stay in the lift when everyone evades eye contact, the brief glance that you would entrust to a stranger when memory tugs upon your mind and connects you to another time and place, alive only in your heart and mind.
of hopping onto a bus and not knowing where it would go, if only you knew where i was. of whizzing past establishments, small cafes with men in striped shirts and ties and a metallic watch on the wrist, cuff links. whizzing past the past itself, alive in what you think you see, ghosts drifting in and out of your world as you turn upwards and feel cool air gushing out from the vents above you.
and how i miss thee, lovely, lazy days of yore, when the morning brought nothing but pleasures of the day. a lazy, languid day stretches ahead and you forget the faces of those you've seen almost everyday for almost the entire year - they drift away, they cease to exist in your world.
of leaving without thoughts, of getting on a jetplane and just to leave. of budget terminals and designated queues and a common waiting area for all those waiting for their flights, then the longer queue for the plane and striding past the blazing hot tarmac, so hot you wondered if the soles on feet would melt on the tarmac. you get on the plane and dump your baggage on the overhead compartment, whitish gas gushes forth ahead as the plane takes it's tentative steps to moving along.
and then the getting along there, i never hail taxis in foreign lands, the danger of being in an enclosed area alone with a total stranger disgusts me - one can drive the other anywhere, just anywhere. the only time i'd taken a taxi was to quiapo church, where i'd tried to go to the previous day, but ended up at the post office and the city hall area - it was only later that i realised why the police officer i'd consulted for the directions had given me a weird look - the words, you can't walk it - come to mind, mind drawing a time from ages ago when i was lost and tried to find. the other time i'd gone for a movie at orchard - some chinese movie which was average on the plot but the soundtrack was awesome and reminded me of a scene in years to come. of dancing in a dark room, hands and lips and a stranger in tow.
tales of a spinning head that have been told thousands of times, that stranger in the dark whom i never ever saw again - i realised last Saturday night that all love stories are the same and i wondered why i hadn't trusted in that mantra before. alcohol that seeps through my veins, that when i was younger, a few shots would take me to high heaven - not so now, not so. perhaps life has shaken me up, smacked me back to reality where i see how things are always grounded - nothing ever changes. in fact, i did predict several things, one of those a stay in a Hong Kong hotel. once you've lived through enough, you realise that most things never change and once you've gone through so many experiences, you already know how most things turn out. and since you are already in possession of that knowledge, there is nothing more to live for, for you know most things and hiccups along the way mean virtually nothing. then, life gets sad.
perhaps school has done me some good - i wake at six every morning, wash up, make up, am exasperated that there is simply nothing to wear although my wardrobe is bursting. routine, routine. brain-numbing routine that tells us how our lives are going to turn out and perhaps it is with this routine that we cease to accept change - we are resistant to it, we repel it, are horrified by the great unknown and bunch up in our little cocoons. or perhaps i live better this way, work does occupy us in some ways, however unwilling we are, whatever unwilling slaves we are.
the parents are back from Bangkok and while they were away, i led a solitary life. i hardly ate breakfast, save for that one Sunday when i went to yakun for delicious butter sugar toast and eggs. scrumptious, and i shall save that one comment that all girls make after writing about the apparent sin they have committed after eating. pah! the weekend was a frutiful one, especially since it was the first week of school and work hasn't really begun piling up yet. i booked my appointments for a haircut, a facial and a massage. did the first two around the bugis area on Saturday and did the last on Sunday after a visit to my grandmother's place at Marsiling. she was obviously delighted to see me and this put some guilt into me, especially when i'd to leave after an hour or so for my massage.
morning session is a weird session. you seem to think that you can leave soon after the bell goes and obviously that is the ideal situation, but nothing ever goes according to plan, as usual. instead, you more than often find yourself staying back to do some marking, which escalates into more work as you uncover more work undone, academic related or otherwise. teaching is a tiring job.
and so i miss the days of travelling and more so going into the unknown with narry so much a map, of looking at rail lines and train station maps and trying to figure out where to go. hotels and bellboys and those pulling along Samsonite luggage bags with priority tags of them. the other day, i'd slipped into hotel intercontinental at bugis for the use of the restroom and wanted to see if the lovely christmas tree adoring the spiral stairway near the tea lounge still stood and in it's place were two chairs and an elegant table. i turned and caught sight of a bellboy tugging some luggage along, with blue priority tags. i smiled as i remembered. the moments are gone, but not forgotten, and sometimes in the dead of the night, i suddenly wake, a placid and peaceful sort of a rousing and listen to myself exist.
in august, i wrote that i have grieved far less that i thought i would have, and the same thing goes for now. i have grieved lesser that i expected these past few weeks. back in singapore was a sort of an agony, like a shell, my emotions did not betray me - i ate, went around and basically continued with my life, until one day when i woke up in the morning and decided that if i was going to be sad, i would embrace grief with all my heart and with the capacity of all that i could take. i no longer stayed away from places that brought a tug to my heart, i no longer berated myself for dredging up memories and playing certain scenes in my head. i cherished these scenes, played them as many times as i wanted and thought of details, envisioned myself there again in that same time and place. i embraced grief, knowing what it could cost me. and through this embracement, i learned to let go. with all the beautiful memories dredged up, i learned to smile at what was, rather than think of what was not to be. i cherished certain things, recognised that things would totally change, unknowingly, unfairly, unexpectedly.
i do miss thee, lovely, lovely days of yore. work does keep me sane at times, but one does sometimes doubt and wonder if perhaps life is a dream and what if everything were in vain? what would we be then?
i miss thee, lovely, lazy days of yore.
buses, the bus rides. the joy of stepping out of the gym after a cold shower with my hair still wet, and to feel the blazing sun on my skin, burning through every pore, seeping past the tiny hairs on my arms and penetrating it's souless gaze upon each figment of cell. the feet on the ground, one in front of the other, in an endless cycle of walking. steps, cobbled pathways, concrete pathways, we walked through them all. the gaze that one gives another, the stay in the lift when everyone evades eye contact, the brief glance that you would entrust to a stranger when memory tugs upon your mind and connects you to another time and place, alive only in your heart and mind.
of hopping onto a bus and not knowing where it would go, if only you knew where i was. of whizzing past establishments, small cafes with men in striped shirts and ties and a metallic watch on the wrist, cuff links. whizzing past the past itself, alive in what you think you see, ghosts drifting in and out of your world as you turn upwards and feel cool air gushing out from the vents above you.
and how i miss thee, lovely, lazy days of yore, when the morning brought nothing but pleasures of the day. a lazy, languid day stretches ahead and you forget the faces of those you've seen almost everyday for almost the entire year - they drift away, they cease to exist in your world.
of leaving without thoughts, of getting on a jetplane and just to leave. of budget terminals and designated queues and a common waiting area for all those waiting for their flights, then the longer queue for the plane and striding past the blazing hot tarmac, so hot you wondered if the soles on feet would melt on the tarmac. you get on the plane and dump your baggage on the overhead compartment, whitish gas gushes forth ahead as the plane takes it's tentative steps to moving along.
and then the getting along there, i never hail taxis in foreign lands, the danger of being in an enclosed area alone with a total stranger disgusts me - one can drive the other anywhere, just anywhere. the only time i'd taken a taxi was to quiapo church, where i'd tried to go to the previous day, but ended up at the post office and the city hall area - it was only later that i realised why the police officer i'd consulted for the directions had given me a weird look - the words, you can't walk it - come to mind, mind drawing a time from ages ago when i was lost and tried to find. the other time i'd gone for a movie at orchard - some chinese movie which was average on the plot but the soundtrack was awesome and reminded me of a scene in years to come. of dancing in a dark room, hands and lips and a stranger in tow.
tales of a spinning head that have been told thousands of times, that stranger in the dark whom i never ever saw again - i realised last Saturday night that all love stories are the same and i wondered why i hadn't trusted in that mantra before. alcohol that seeps through my veins, that when i was younger, a few shots would take me to high heaven - not so now, not so. perhaps life has shaken me up, smacked me back to reality where i see how things are always grounded - nothing ever changes. in fact, i did predict several things, one of those a stay in a Hong Kong hotel. once you've lived through enough, you realise that most things never change and once you've gone through so many experiences, you already know how most things turn out. and since you are already in possession of that knowledge, there is nothing more to live for, for you know most things and hiccups along the way mean virtually nothing. then, life gets sad.
perhaps school has done me some good - i wake at six every morning, wash up, make up, am exasperated that there is simply nothing to wear although my wardrobe is bursting. routine, routine. brain-numbing routine that tells us how our lives are going to turn out and perhaps it is with this routine that we cease to accept change - we are resistant to it, we repel it, are horrified by the great unknown and bunch up in our little cocoons. or perhaps i live better this way, work does occupy us in some ways, however unwilling we are, whatever unwilling slaves we are.
the parents are back from Bangkok and while they were away, i led a solitary life. i hardly ate breakfast, save for that one Sunday when i went to yakun for delicious butter sugar toast and eggs. scrumptious, and i shall save that one comment that all girls make after writing about the apparent sin they have committed after eating. pah! the weekend was a frutiful one, especially since it was the first week of school and work hasn't really begun piling up yet. i booked my appointments for a haircut, a facial and a massage. did the first two around the bugis area on Saturday and did the last on Sunday after a visit to my grandmother's place at Marsiling. she was obviously delighted to see me and this put some guilt into me, especially when i'd to leave after an hour or so for my massage.
morning session is a weird session. you seem to think that you can leave soon after the bell goes and obviously that is the ideal situation, but nothing ever goes according to plan, as usual. instead, you more than often find yourself staying back to do some marking, which escalates into more work as you uncover more work undone, academic related or otherwise. teaching is a tiring job.
and so i miss the days of travelling and more so going into the unknown with narry so much a map, of looking at rail lines and train station maps and trying to figure out where to go. hotels and bellboys and those pulling along Samsonite luggage bags with priority tags of them. the other day, i'd slipped into hotel intercontinental at bugis for the use of the restroom and wanted to see if the lovely christmas tree adoring the spiral stairway near the tea lounge still stood and in it's place were two chairs and an elegant table. i turned and caught sight of a bellboy tugging some luggage along, with blue priority tags. i smiled as i remembered. the moments are gone, but not forgotten, and sometimes in the dead of the night, i suddenly wake, a placid and peaceful sort of a rousing and listen to myself exist.
in august, i wrote that i have grieved far less that i thought i would have, and the same thing goes for now. i have grieved lesser that i expected these past few weeks. back in singapore was a sort of an agony, like a shell, my emotions did not betray me - i ate, went around and basically continued with my life, until one day when i woke up in the morning and decided that if i was going to be sad, i would embrace grief with all my heart and with the capacity of all that i could take. i no longer stayed away from places that brought a tug to my heart, i no longer berated myself for dredging up memories and playing certain scenes in my head. i cherished these scenes, played them as many times as i wanted and thought of details, envisioned myself there again in that same time and place. i embraced grief, knowing what it could cost me. and through this embracement, i learned to let go. with all the beautiful memories dredged up, i learned to smile at what was, rather than think of what was not to be. i cherished certain things, recognised that things would totally change, unknowingly, unfairly, unexpectedly.
i do miss thee, lovely, lovely days of yore. work does keep me sane at times, but one does sometimes doubt and wonder if perhaps life is a dream and what if everything were in vain? what would we be then?
i miss thee, lovely, lazy days of yore.
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