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.

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.

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.

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.

perhaps what stands out is that he said i'm as charming as i told him he was. i remember lying on my bed, prostrate, feet up in the air, a girlish action of twirling my hair around my fingers. it's been a while since i spoke to someone while lying on the bed.

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.

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.

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.

today, i lived a solitary life, him being away from the hotel since 10am. the toilet bowl was choked up and i'd to be there while housekeeping cleared up the mess. we went to the gym last night and i was turned away for not having the proper attire. he later on told me that the gym instructor had said to him, "your wife is very pretty." i should have been flattered, but i wasn't really flattered. compliments, like everything else, pass me by very simply nowadays.

i think of families and mothers cooking up a storm of pork chops in eras gone. i think of cuff links and cuff links. i think of mr and mrs smith, the movie. i think of playing with chopsticks and sheepish smiles that evade quickly. i think of yoga poses and hand holding and balancing on one leg and thinking about falling. i think that the longest distance in the world can be the shortest at times. of damn carpets and crisp white shirts and black shorts that hang low on hips. of fingers, neck and skin. of ears. of ergonomical swivel chairs and laptops and palmtops, of luggage tags and priority.

***

I drew her to me and kissed her. It was a heady kiss, a nostalgic kiss. Then we drank our umpteenth brandy-and-soda, and snuggled together while listening to the Police. Soon Mei had drifted off to sleep, no longer the beautiful dream woman, but only an ordinary, brittle young girl. A class reunion. The clock read four o'clock and everything was still. Mei the Goat Girl and Winnie the Pooh. Images. Deductible fairy tales. What a day! Connections that almost connected but didn't. Follow the string until it snaps. I'd met Gotanda after all these years, even come to like him, really. Through him I'd met Mei the Goat Girl. We made love. Which was wonderful. Shoveled sensual snow. But none of it led anywhere.

***

the phone's on vibration mode, a tribute to someone else who sets it on vibration mode, then deigns not to answer calls from associates at half-past eleven at night. club sandwiches at night, toasted bread with fries on the side - don't tempt me with that last piece, don't eat already lah. i'll tell you what i want - i want toasted bread, lettuce, ham. that's about it. the tray was heavy. i wondered how i'd managed to balance it while opening the door while he - he? he? i think he was out. where was he? i met him on the way to the shopping centre. like a flash of recognition. they were holding on to umbrellas. i think it was raining before that. that someone brought in a blower to the room and the noise made me leave the hotel room even though i'd told him that i would prefer not to leave. i know that girls don't like to eat alone. no. i'm fine with that - i just don't feel very safe going out at night.
he wrestles me to the bed. an odd memory of me being astride him and asking him a question. unexpectedly, he bursts out in brief laughter, "call my engineer". we spoilt the moment, but we spoilt it beautifully. yesterday, i decided to embrace grief. and i've embraced it beautifully so far.

coffee in the mornings to clear my head. my morning smoke, ash drips into my coffee cup and i lap it up, the acrid taste of smoke with ash mixed with coffee, a thin blend, instant coffee. there were tiny packets of coffee placed in a nice box upon the shelf near the wardrobe - you know, hotels always have this tiny place where they place two identical cups, with saucers and a jug with which to heat up water - the exact word for it eludes me- milo before you sleep, coupled with a yellow pill under your tongue.i can't sleep without drugs, you say. i just keep thinking.small wonder, i think. you're thinking, thinking, full of vitality, energy. heat rub. around your body. a small tube in a red box. i saw it in the bathroom and was wondering - muscle ache? aches? muscles?

dance, dance, dance. revolutions, convulsions to the tunes, music, words, pop, retro tunes. dance. a lampshade, bright hues of yellow. a switch that can only be turned on or off by turning it clockwise. you can't turn it otherwise. when the man came to do the plumbing, another showed up to fix the switch. it seem ludicrous that he would complain about it. what did he call it? an intelligence test - and i failed it. the man showed me the paper on which was written the complaint - by GOH. guest of honour? cue laughter, please. the piece encasing the keycard that i found in the bin. GOH again. the second piece encasing the keycard that i slipped into my white saddlebag. and which is still in my white saddlebag. i'm comtemplating putting it into my black leather wallet - is there a display slot? a plastic one?because there are some rushes of memories from yesteryear. because such are the things that i will take away with me. i hardly know if they will matter, years down the road from now. i hardly know. a heavy head from sleeping past 3 last night, no yellow pill under my tongue, i stared at the night scene and remembered that a particular building was there, as though it had morphed out of nowhere - i never deigned to take particular notice of it till yesterday. the words in blue and red lighting up the cityscape, i thought of - i thought of - people in the lit offices. i thought of - steel circular handles on black rosewood cabinets.

just like any other night. the nights seem all the same to me. i stalk the streets, i tumble upon concrete, my heels clicking down stairways, the salty smell of the sea - tangy, upon my face. wafting. cars flash past me and i think of them encasing a memory each, a story, lives, screams, sniffles. they all drift past me.
the moon hangs in the dark sky, a pallor of brightness in a sea of gloom. the streetlights illuminate my face, my being. i face the sky and drink in the moonlight.

i shall try and take a yellow pill today. flu medicine, each tiny pill lying encased in a metallic-like structure, individually packed. you pop it below your tongue. earplugs are a must. tiny orange earplugs that look like baby carrots. you lie beneath the sheets, the distance between you and me so near yet so far. the last night we were together, i'd crept past the distance and lay and held you and then crept off again. i heard your breathing and you started when i touched you because you were surprised. my hand on your belly, i felt your warmth and the closeness i felt at that time was enough. quietly i crept back to my bed, slid under the covers and curled up, feeling your warmth still on my skin, my fingers. i curl up in bed, my left feet placed against my right shin, the feel of feet upon feet reminding me of the time we lay with our legs entwined.
you get up and shuffle towards the bathroom and i hear you check if the door is double-locked. the chain slides into place and you enter the bathroom. a second later, i listen and hear the taps being turned on, water gushing into the basin, a clean, clear sound of water gushing, and then slowing to a trickle. i close my eyes and a second later, you are under the covers with me, holding me just as i held you. your hand on my belly, i reach for your hand and i interlock my fingers with yours - something that i've longed to do for a long time, and dream. i think of all shopping alone at night along orchard, people-watching, seeing mothers, fathers, families and couples striding by the street as the sky turns from a salmon-pink to a darker shade and how the colour eventually drains out of the sky all of a sudden and it seems as though i am the only one left around. i recall the first time this year that i stroll along orchard, just as the lights for christmas are turned on and how i feel that first gush of childlike joy and how i am surprised at myself - that such a joy could come through me is unfathomable. i'd reckoned that cynism had already taken over me. it is such a purified joy that surprise cuts through me like a knife. and with these thoughts, i fall into slumber.

the next morning, sun shines through the thin curtains. morning comes early to manila - it is already bright at 6 in the morning. similarly, the night begins at 6 in the evening - it's as dark as night in singapore. the days seem shorter. i glance at the other bed and i see that his eyes are closed. afraid that he may open his eyes and catch me gazing away, afraid that i may be caught unguarded, as if all my emotions are written on my face, i look away. however, i steal supretitious glances at him again. i cannot help it. his eyes, normally full of life and energy, are shut. his face looks peaceful, relaxed. the crows feet around his eyes are smoothed out, unlined for the moment. i turn over and look at the ceiling - it will be the last morning that i am waking up in the same room as him. a long journey stretches ahead of me - i've to be out of the hotel by ten, to travel to Angeles and then to Clark. the phone rings, unexpectedly, jolting me out of my reverie. he picks up the phone and mumbles a "Thanks" into the phone. it must be his wake-up call. i hear him move under the covers and pull them away from himself. i turn and watch him sit upright in bed, getting his bearings while still in that hazy sleeplike state. he sees that i am awake. "Get some more sleep girl," he says. i am somehow touched that he tells me to get more sleep, the same way that strange things touch me - the unexpected caress his fingers, the grin that breaks out unexpectedly while he is seated on his bed in the new room. strange things.

my mother swept my titus watch onto the floor today while taking a slice of bread for our sardine breakface. the piece encasing the watch face cracks badly and i recall the last time i really looked at that watch - it was in manila when i was waiting for him in the room - i'd idly picked up the watch, looked at the seconds hand ticking away and then to the back of the watch which was pressed against my wrist for the most part of the time i was wearing it. i noticed that the plastic covering the back of the watch was still intact, that it shielded the engraved words tian chang di jiu. such cryptic words ... such overused words that bring to mind how nothing ever lasts, that i no longer believe in faithfulness, in true love and in being a true believer.

We talk after we’re done with the food. And you smoke. Smoke relaxes a person. I don’t smoke yet, but one day I might just take it up. Things take its’ course. Better to let the water flow. What water?
Would I get into a relationship with a married man? You have questions that are loaded. With what I can’t be bothered to ponder. Better to drawl in a lazy tone and answer. Yes I would. Humans are all flawed, that is my excuse. Fidelity is gone. I don’t believe in many things, save for God. But of course, I’d be realistic, as I’d always want to be. A married man belongs to his wife. She fucks him and he fucks her. They probably have children. Little Women should always know their place. Never to be on the losing end. And why does this suspiciously sound like I’m a know-it-all when I’m a don’t-know-it-all? To know your place is knowing your limits, what you can do and what you can’t. Judge with all your heart and stop from getting hurt. Just don’t love.
Me? I don’t think of love anymore. Intimacy may be a close call to love, but just don’t mention love. That’s a word nothing short of dangerous. Women crave intimacy but we’re not beings that can’t do without love, really.

It’s dull being a weak woman. Weak women cry when they can’t get their way and are easily hurt. All women are born essentially weak. When I almost broke up with the old boyfriend in the autumn of 2003, I was broken and begged for his return. Things change and of course so do people. People are not always the same. The old me was dependant on having another person with me, of being loved and of going out with someone else on weekends. Now I no longer care.
So what then are my priorities? I’ve transcended the need to be loved, truly. I can’t say it’s forever. To say that would be too sweeping a statement and most probably a pompous one. But I can say that perhaps I recognize a few true facts of life, not rules, facts and realize that life is possibly much easier after the recognition of such facts.

All love stories are the same. Breakups or threats to break up are so bloody frequent. Misunderstandings can snowball into full blown fights and fights takes days before the other party cools down. Through sms-es, hurtful words are thrown at one another and painful accusations cut through to the heart. Over the phone, one party sobs and words are choked in the sobs. There are silences and many unsaid words expand and fill up the silence along the telephone lines, signifying how much there is to say till there is no way to begin, and in this way, time snowball and elapses. All love stories are the same. We love, fight, hate, breakup, patch. In the end, most true relationships end without a bang, a closure. We just drift apart when there is nothing more to be learned from one another, when (cliché enough) the flame just dies out.
So there is nothing to look forward to where love in concerned. All love stories are the same, like sand on the beach, like clouds in the sun. A lot of things happen when they are supposed to. It really doesn’t need to make any sense. Sometimes silence really is the best answer. Like sand that appears on the beach and like clouds that drift across the sky, life happens everyday.

it still remains on the pedestal, mocking me.

i've flipped through the calendar countless times on, the memories of a night spent sleepless, trying to get a flight out, but to no avail. uncertainty pervaded, the scent of a million people in throes of dreams brushing past my skin. i recall forgetting to bring along my book and thinking to myself that perhaps i could get norweigian wood at the airport. i can hardly remember anything else, save the busy people milling about the train station waiting for their turns to board, to move, waiting for that one single bus to charter them to that next destination in life.
i was one of them, uncertain as i was, single-minded in my one desire to be away. everything seemed perfectly normal the day i left. the bus downtown was not crowded, as usual, on a weekday morning, the young at school, the adults far else away, the odd people on the bus. spaces, voids, empty places and a wealth of seats available for me. strangely, everything seemed familiar, as if things have been written on the stars at the beginning of time and all we have to do is play out our roles in motion.

a cup of coffee at pacific and i start to think of life in all its' normality - how i wake everyday at the same time, feel that same sense of dread at leaving the house and getting to that tiny cubicle where i waste almost half my life away, switching on the radio and listening to the familiar voices on air at the same time every morning - small things provide us with comfort. or how a familiar voice beckons out to you that you belong here and now, that there are people who recognise you for who you are, that you have been classified and fitted into this tiny portion of society, that you are able to recognise the roles you should play, the things you should do and not. that essentially, you know your place and where you belong. lost in this knowledge, there's still room, however, for your thoughts to wander. for what is life if enclosed behind the facade of belonging all the time. yet, hidden comfort, hidden comfort! in simply belonging.

my dreams all around me, i crossed the glistening floors. i watched old men fall asleep time and again on hard plastic chairs, unknowing of whatever unfolded in front of them. a plane takes off and then another. behind the glass shards, one can hardly hear anything.

in a nutshell, i am sick of many things, routine, however comforting, is still one of them.
i make small talk, i cross my legs, i speak politely.

and yes, i flew to hongkong again, this time, not a sense of nostalgia beckoning me over - for heavens' sake it's only been a friggin' 4 months!
i am never taking a morning flight that departs at six forty a.m in the morning. ever. again.
i felt dead and deprived of oxygen in the plane. words in my murakami novel swarmed before my eyes and i stared at the empty seat next time, conjuring a world of possibilities in my mind. i checked into the low budget hostel at mirador mansions that i'd booked, and was horrified when i ascended the building in the creeky lift - the noisy doors opening up to different faces of hongkong that i'd never seen before - sickly patients on one floor on stretchers with feeding tubes attached to them, chinamen in cheap, thin shirts, negroes with kinked hair and large builds, fair-skinned indians who gave me the once-over. the room was a tiny one, so tiny, yet comforting in the abode it was to me.

***

my history - in messages that are sent fast and furious over the internet. messages that i hardly recall we've sent. incongruous messages that i hardly remember reading through. delving through history is a strange way of remembering time itself.

i waited today at the bus stop for half-an-hour while buses of all kinds whizzed past me. even the dismal-looking bus with the words "duck tours" painted on it whizzed past me. i hadn't realised that the numbers at the bus stop told a lie - that the bus didn't pass by that stop at all.
in the time that i was there, i spied people, returning from work, downcast faces, an endless waterfall, ties and shirts, SUVs.

and the mundane friday returns. i often wonder how is it that a day can cause so much unhappiness. yet, after all, you could be dying and another person could be laughing.
it's all so ironical, as we play out our parts here on earth.

a restless friday night last week, one with promises of bright lights in the city, hands, togs in black, unknowing, omnipresence, the closure of eyes against light, the beat of the music, sway, alcohol slipping down your throat, madness. the endless gleaming cabs in the city, on the way back, the way back, and you don't feel happier than when you first stepped out of the door.

i wonder how people live. satisfaction at their lives? i've been reading the zahir by coelho during these 4 days of the PSLE marking and with the usual questions of what the fuck are we doing with our lives, i've come to be annoyed with the questions. the searching and never finding, and not even knowing what we're all looking for. how could we ever hope to find something as insipid and as flighty, as evasive, elusive, obscure. and perhaps it's something only artist who can hope to understand this. others get by their lives fine and dandy the way they do, they meet up with friends, lead normal lives at the offices, attend meetings, fag and go to the bar for drinks ocassionally after work, they get married to pretty and desirable women who desireness fade with the sands of time, scattering, placidly. then the dreams start, with the words, i could have, but all's too late and soon, they resign themselves to the plain ole' story called life.

well, if everyone's life isn't the same.

what do i remember about last week? i remember nothing. slipping past traffic on a dreary and hazy night. the traffic was light, the roads clear for a friday evening. the expressway - did we pass through the tunnels? i'm not quite sure.

cheap thin fabrics. lying face up. hairs on the pillows. a key made of paper. rattan fans that are used to keep nocturnal insects at bay. i was Kiki the callgirl in the Dolphin Hotel.

The hotel envelops me. I can feel its pulse, its heat. In dreams, I am part of the hotel.
I wake up, but where? I don't just think this, I actually voice the question to myself: «Where am I?» As if I didn't know: I'm here. In my life. A feature of the world that is my existence. Not that I particularly recall ever having approved these matters, this condition, this state of affairs in which I feature. There might be a woman sleeping next to me. More often, I'm alone. Just me and the expressway that runs right next to my apartment and, bedside, a glass (five millimeters of whiskey still in it) and the malicious — no, make that indifferent—dusty morning light. Sometimes it's raining. If it is, I'll just stay in bed. And if there's
2
whiskey still left in the glass, I'll drink it. And I'll look at the raindrops dripping from the eaves, and I'll think about the Dolphin Hotel. Maybe I'll stretch, nice and slow. Enough for me to be sure I'm myself and not part of something else. Yet I'll remember the feel of the dream. So much that I swear I can reach out and touch it, and the whole of that something that includes me will move. If I strain my ears, I can hear the slow, cautious sequence of play take place, like droplets in an intricate water puzzle falling, step upon step, one after the other. I listen carefully. That's when I hear someone softly, almost imperceptibly, weeping. A sobbing from somewhere in the darkness. Someone is crying for me.
The Dolphin Hotel is a real hotel.

delta

the dissapated scent of a million people who have streamed past you, each awash in their own memories and caught up in carrying on in the moment. smoke gets in my hair and i recall being burnt by the lit end of a cigarette, the other end of which looks dipped in cheap pink lip rouge. my hair airs the tired smell of smoke and odour and the scent of a million other people. i lie prostrate on the couch, wondering why my head does not spin as much as before. perhaps it is time for another vodka, indeed. mix one with coke and down the combination. add the lethal combination of a pill or two, and send yourself to high heaven.

of pierces and art, of tiny red dots and bleeding lips.

the emptiness that seems reflected on the walls. the shadows empty existences of inanimate objects. and then perhaps your head stands to spin, the vodka burning a thin thread of acidity down your throat. you feel it moving swiftly through your gullet and then identify where the alcohol has gone to by a burning sensation in your stomach.

in a nutshell, it is close to the end. the first end if not the second ending and it already feels like it. to hang on for the moment, uncertainty shrouded in the desire to cling on just for a little more. ahh.

i care little, because i've found out the divergence between caring and how things divert from going the way you think they should, just because you cared. subject to realism, perhaps.
and i am nearing the end of my teether. another hiatus again, perhaps?
of going to a place where i become faceless and nameless.

you were there that day when i left. you were in the hall, togged as you were, all the time. perhaps you were running, perhaps you stopped for a moment. were you there when i felt the helpless urge to speak? did you look up into the sky and think of different people, different worlds? worlds apart, as we are, would you ever know the significance of any item to me?

would you have known that tiny contraption placed upon a pedestal at my desk, that i wanted to hurl it down 30 storeys below and then watch it lying in bits upon the concrete? but what good would that have been? i recognise flashes of vengence now as crumply bits of salvaging your own self-worth. as if it were of any good.you drift now, with the practiced air of nonchalance, mastered through years of being too uptight about everything else. nothing else seems to matter, you seem to say.

i'd smile and look at you one day on, perhaps then you'd be the person i'd hoped you'd be.

lights up!

a tiny plastic ornament hangs from a pedestal, mocking me as it swings forwards and backwards. a cheap object, gained from a pseudo-machine taking in cash in the guise of amusing young children, reminding me of the time all the children swarmed around us in taipei, squealing in delight and counting down as the toys tumbled down from the machines in return for a paltry 10 yuan.

fun, laughter, and joy. these remind me of another scene. intersperse the present moment with the precocious delight of children. eyes wide in disbelief and unbriddled curiosity at what could have caused so much joy - half in bewilderment too, at the huge concept of happiness itself, little of which they have grasped - for how would they have known that without sadness, they would never have known joy. joy, pure unadulterated, a bane to those who realise that joy at the present moment would only serve to remind them of "the better time", as so-called when it comes to their turn to be down and out?

i crossed the path of death once this week, ignoring the flashing green man and insistent on going across the road. i stopped in the middle and glared angrily at the motorbike taking precendence, moving forward, then realising that all the vehicles were moving forward, and none were looking at my bike stuck in the middle of the road, crossing towards the right side of the road as i was, and turning right to the expressway as they were. i flustered. yet, the classic instance of half your life flashing past you while you are facing imminent death never falls true, for me, anyway.

in the past month, i have been busy. i have grieved far lesser than i thought i might have. i have flown to taipei with tickets bought the day before again, as usual. i walked the streets of ximending and took the jieyun again. i didn't buy any taiyangbings back anyhow. in a flash, it is difficult to sum up what i've been up to these past few months when i've been unreachable. it could have all been a dream, it could have not. anyhow, like kafka on the shore, i do think i might be in a sandstorm right now. perhaps the best resort would be to take my hands and cover my ears with them, to close my eyes and to hope that my lids offer the best protection against the flying dust in the wind.

as always, the lights are still on. i don't know how or why, but that is a consolation.

interspersal

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

***

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

***

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

***

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

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

***

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

- Murakami, Kafka from the Shore

***

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

***

I once had a girl,

Or should I say

She once had me.

She showed me her room,

Isn’t it good?

Norwegian wood.

She asked my to stay and told me sit anywhere,

So I looked around and

I noticed there wasn’t a chair.

I sat on a rug

Biding my time,

Drinking her wine.

We talked until two,

And then she said,

‘It’s time for bed’.

She told me she worked

in the morning and

started to laugh,

I told her I didn’t,

and crawled off to sleep

in the bath.

And when I awokeI was alone,

This bird has flown,

So I lit a fire,

Isn’t it good?

Norwegian wood.

-The Beatles

Wan Chai

on the plane back to singapore, i sat beside this lady with a protruding mole on her ear and i wondered if anyone, like me, had ever mistaken it to be a black ear stud. her daughter sat next to her, and cramped as jetstar planes are, i had to squeeze past their feet to get to the toilet - the perils of having a window seat instead of an aisle seat - you'd to hold your bladder.
she took out a tiny notebook halfway through the journey and began to jot down things, saving a finer manuscript for writing in a larger notebook. i tried not to peek - i was bleary from nodding off in my cozy corner and had mistakenly thought that the mother and daughter pair had swapped places sometime while i was asleep and half berating myself for not having gone to the loo at the exact same moment that they had swapped places - making it easier for me to move through two seats.
i'd no idea what made me come to that assumption - that they'd swapped places, but anyhow i later realised, with a start, that it was the mother who was writing next to me. i'd no idea what to do - was i supposed to notice that she was writing? most people i know wouldn't write on planes. would one writer know another?
i've no answers to these questions, but seeing someone actually writing a great deal made me feel less special.

the trip back to the airport was a heartwrenching one. i stared at the neon lights initally, wanted to remember them as they were and as the neon lights gradually gave way to the more pleasing view of the city as the shuttlebus went across a long bridge, i thought of the short time i had spent in Hong Kong. a ticket bought on a whim, when i was still unsure, a forced click on the mouse, and more than three hundred dollars was transfered to the airline company. it never fails to amaze me how much can be done in the comfort of anywhere - as long as you have internet connection and a working computer/laptop. i booked my hotel online as well, not a decision that was made with a great amount of care or research, but one that came with necessity - oh where the fuck am i going to sleep tomorrow night? a call was made to some tour agency which happened to be the first i saw when i flipped open the newspapers, as i returned, half-dead from camp. a call later, a return fax with a signed copy of a payment slip, and i was assured of a place to spend the night for the next day. out of convenience, i booked the same hotel for the next 2 nights and it was a decision that i did not regret. the rooms were tiny, yes, but the staff did have a way of making me feel at home, and perhaps, it was the novelty of being in a new place all alone - a place that offered possibilites for me to be totally free from everything, and even perhaps the person i'd thought i was.

the weather was wonderful for the few days that i had spent in Hong Kong - breezy, cloudy with a hint that it might rain, but the umbrella that i had packed along for my trip was left unused in my luggage bag. i wanted to travel light but ended up lugging loads of stuff around in that fred perry bag of mine - bless its' soul - which had provided a perfect solution to go along with any outfit. there was the makeup that had to go into the bag for touchups, a camera to take pictures to remember the moments by, my glasses in case my contact lenses popped out suddenly - no it never happened -, the wallet, the handphone, a book to occupy myself during meals, a notebook and a pen to jot down any sudden inspiration, and yada, yada.

i went wherever i wanted - time being of no consequence to me and neither was there the desire to please a travel mate - my only desire was to please myself - sounds well, whatever, but true. i woke early most days, took a look out of the window, and upon seeing that the sky was still a milky blue hue, turned the other way and fell asleep into my sheets again. i woke when i wanted to - most of the time around 10 and then took my time to wash up, maybe read a bit, if i desired.

the first day, i'd gone to tsim sha tsui and had a meal there, then shopped and had my highlights done - oh, i have red highlights now. blimey, how am i going to rid myself of them before school returns? miss punk-teacher? but i don't care about all that now. it's as alien as book checking was to me, lying supine in the sheets in the tiny dorsett hotel room.

the day i was due to fly back, there was a terrible storm, in return, perhaps, for the fine weather that i'd experienced there so far. the airport was on red alert and no planes flew from the airport. the boarding gate for the airline that i was to take, was changed, a consequence of the storm and all of us passengers, had to take a quick one and a half minute train ride to reach gate 43 from gate 12. i was tickled by a sign next to the train doors that said - Relax, the train will be here in three minutes - that was how i'd gathered that the train ride took one and a half minutes - you mean you thought i had timed the entire thing?

the plane remained on the ground for a very long time before it finally took off, once more, a testimony to how nature can always wreck her fury upon us - look at the earthquakes for inspiration!
when the plane took off, the airbus rattled with such intensity that i thought it might fall apart. then, the plane took off into the stormy clouds and for a moment, all i could see was a white light, a bright blinding white light that was almost epiphanic - as if we had all died and the plane was taking us all to high heaven - literally. it hurt to look at the white light that glowed outside the windows and for a moment, i regretted taking the window seat.
i remembered what i had thought about while waiting at the departure lounge, that if the plane crashed - and i have this morbid thing about always thinking that the plane i am about to take might crash, that i died living my dreams and then i would think to myself in the final moments that the plane would take a downward spiral - of the possibilites of a life not lived - of a boy lying in a fitful fever against the headboard of an old bed, of me in the classroom once again, of my parents, of old friends and companions. and i realised in Hong Kong, that there really wasn't much that i could possibly think about in the course of my lifetime that i could want to recall when i was facing death.

i've always not known the phrase - life is but a dream, but over the past few days, in trying to capture each moment as it is, in trying to narrate each moment as it occurs to me, and failing, i see how life really is a dream - i can never capture each transcient moment in its posterity, as it is. and i will never be able to.

my song

i dream of black ants that moved together on white tiles, strange though that there was no food present that could attract them.

i dreamt of that faceless boy again yesterday and i looked down upon the empty hall and thought of shadows being flung against the brown tiles of the school hall.
i think i dreamt of him again, having an ice cream from those old-school ice cream motor carts. i sat down from a distance, watching him again as usual and he was looking in my direction, looking but not seeing.

i listen to an indie tune and it makes me think of an accident.

an accident that takes place at the happiest moment of a boy's life. he performs and perfects his stance and then pauses for a while.
at that exact same moment, a girl was crossing the road, not knowing how and why to live her life any further. the car inches closer steadily and she would never know why the horn was never sounded.
the impact sends her flying upward, but not for long as she begins her descent downwards towards the car, her back hits the front bonnet of the car in a sickening crunch. her head dangles over the edge of the bonnet for a while and then the weight of it pulls her body downwards to the ground and there is a sickening thud as her body hits the ground.

the song has ended and no more. the driver exits and the onlookers swarm. sound is strangely absent, as if everything is happening in a vaccum.

at this very same moment, it is announced that he is the champion and his face lights up.

***

the decision to go to Hong Kong was a rather sudden one, spun up from thoughts of wanting to kill myself, frustration at wasting 3 precious days of my life in a stupid Brownie camp - on hindsight, it made me realise that time IS precious, and i just wasted 3 days of my life there, and so, instead of looking back in regret - which i am still doing - i am more determined than ever to live everyday of my life as if it were my last. yeah. as if.

so in line with that, i booked my air tickets to HK on a whim on that saturday morning at 830am, just before we went to that fateful camp where the girls pissed the hell out of me by being so excited about every single thing in the world and asking extremely stupid questions which i shall not care to recount over here in case my blood pressure shoots up and i die before i reach HK.

girl guides. a mystery to me, always and forever. i can't see what's with the spirited cheers, the cooking of food, the using of axes, the telematches and the games that are reminiscent of JC orientation days which i was once crazy over - hell, i was even an OGL before *dies in shame* but those days were fun ones.
perhaps the passing of the times have jaded me, shaped me up to be more prepared for the hard knocks in life.

***

i can't help but keep thinking of that song. the start of the song sees paramedics swarming around, deathly silence prevails, save the song that was playing eerily in the background.

a boy walks out of the school gate with his sister and they turn towards the scene of the accident. the boy is captivated, and so is his sister, but his sister thinks of dinner, piping hot, served at home and after a long day of training, just wants to get home. she walks away and then turns and calls out the name of the boy captivated by the scene of the accident. i can still see him in my mind, the brows creased in concentration, fixated, staring, captivated by the possibilities of whatever lay on the stretcher, on that white sheet, and then turning to look at his sister who called his name, turning back again for a final glance at the scene and taking decisive steps in the direction of his home, turning back to face another direction only when his feet had carried him some ways ahead.

i did dream of walking along tsim sha tsui dressed in a spag top and pedal pushers perhaps, pockets being a necessity, i for the present moment having a strange affliction for pockets - oh, to simply put my hands in them and swagger along the streets.
so plans are in store for loads of shopping, a haircut, hairdye - i have decided, streaks of red - highlights, perhaps a spa, facial and eyelash extensions - whatever, whenever, at my own time. and afternoon naps in the tiny rooms of the dorsett hotel too, screw all those i've travelled with who say naps are a waste of time - it's my holiday and my life.

so hong kong later and i'm living my dreams.

his thoughts were of the sky

noon time and i walked to my car, the keys hidden deep in my pocket, both my hands in my pockets, an air of diguised nonchalance as i spy your form in the yard. you are happy.

that i just received an email from a long-lost lecturer whose life i assumed went on in the university in the same way that mine did - that it was comforting to know that most things didn't change while my life did - that he is about to transfer to NTU's humanities faculty. that i am thinking of the lull period in the university right now - that it will mostly be deserted and i think about the last time i walked through the library, the last time of walking past the shelves with aphra behn on them.
that i walked back from the train station and thought of many things while i was strolling under the wide, night sky, my hands tucked into my pockets and whistling a sad song to the tune of the song in my i-pod shuffle, the material of my fred perry bag sending off waves of refractions.
that i no longer care about most things, save thinking.

i strolled past the closed shops - closed since it was after 11pm and the odd fruit sellers were hawking their cheap durians and the odd old man would look at me with a glimmer in his eyes.
somewhere far below the curtain of the night sky, a boy sits at his worn out couch, pointing at the characters acting out real-life on the television screen. he passes a random comment and his sister, sitting on the floor beside the worn-out leg of a coffee table responds to the comment. they both laugh.
below a streetlight, a man trudges home from his lover's home, worn out by the endless drudgery of life. his hair is wet from the shower that he had just taken and tiny beads of seat sparkle on his forehead - he thinks of love but quickly sends the thought away. oh, to live for the moment!
in a tiny room, a woman breastfeeds her newborn daughter and thinks of the full month party that they will be holding on her behalf this coming sunday.
the show ends and the boy looks around his flat. it is the same, day-in, day-out. the images and situations he has just watched on tv play out endlessly in his mind - the male and the female, of love and of a chance meeting in a foreign country - he thinks that perhaps, that will happen to him one day. then he catches himself smiling, shakes himself and almost laughs at himself for being so foolish - how could such a thing ever happen in real life?
he looks at his brother quickly to see if he has caught on to the emotions he thinks he has betrayed on his face. but there is none.
the living room are still the same, the same furniture that he has looked at since he was a child. he can hear the sounds coming from the cars speeding by on the highway next to his house.
perhaps one day, things would change, one day, many days ahead, but today is the present. until his mother called his name to attend to a mundane matter, his thoughts were of the sky.

my lover's home

when next we will be lovers
crossing the path and jumping over the bridge of friendship
which sadly wasn't meant to be.

i held your hand
and traced them
over triangles.
you looked down and i could never see into your eyes.
or perhaps we would see something there
neither of us wanted to see.

like a leaf that falls to the ground
cutting through the air
i know i've already hit the ground
transcended most boundaries.

one day you will sit outside on the ground
your face awash with tears
and i will ride by
as if by chance.
i'll take your hand and lead you for a drink
and yet i know
the distance between us.
too great.

it'll be two years past
so i would offer you a smoke and watch
as you inhale your first puff
and think of all your first -times
and mine.

you'll grow and take your first-steps.
time waits for no one.
one day you'll love.
one day you'll suffer.

i think the shutters are already down,
a joss stick or two lights the lonely night.
there are holes in the shutters
but i'll not peep.
like the nobody i am,
i'll slip quietly into the night
so quietly that you'd never know i was there.
just like all the times i'd watched you.

waxing contradictions.
my lover's home.

wafting stars

i waited in the quiet carpark today and let the remnants of the day wash over me in a pool of moonlight.

holiday by green day reminds me of the time when i wore a violet mango halter and let go of my inhibitions. that was the very same day that i danced behind the window and forgot that the world existed. i have a dream to pack up and leave one day and to leave the sign at my cubicle that says "gone to look for myself". otherwise, my dreams are pretty much the same - i dream of wonderment, of seeking myself, of looking and seeing, and not just watching.

the words "what is life if full of care, we have no time to stand and stare" came to mind too, as i stood in the lonely carpark, the day done, the vestiges of darkness threatening to wash past me in a tide of nothingness where loneliness lurked behind the covers and tears threatened to see the light. and then i looked up and saw the sky awash in a myraid of sparkling lights, of stars and wonderment and i wondered if far, far away, you were looking up at the skies too.

but probably not, it is not your turn yet, no matter how far from your peers you are. you still have far longer to wait.

i flipped through pages of memory today, each page giving off a different waft, a different scent.

i counted the shimmering stars tonight and they numbered ten. the glittered invitingly in the sky. next to my foot on the ground, a snail went on its own shimmery way, meandering through the crevies of the concrete ground and leaving silver dust in its wake.