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.

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.