we smudge against each other, the thin upper epidermis on the back of my hand running a smudge against your pores. the distance narrowed, reality runs a rim between us again and we move apart as if on cue.
***
your words, like flat stones, are what i turn over and over in my hands.
i trace the base of the stones and graze my fingertips over them. i observe the nuances of the stones, the way your words change when i play them over in my head. i imagine words not said, words exchanged.
we could have all the time in the world and not a single thing to talk about.
to sleep, perchance to dream.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
as if the room has been stuck in a time warp, nothing has changed. i smooth my palm over the decorative sheet placed over the quilt at the foot of the bed and feel slight ridges in the fabric. they are squares imprinted upon the fabric, each overlapping the over, linking each other up, as if in a jaunt to nowhere. i run the back of my hand across the fabric and my nail catches onto a kink in the fabric. my mind wills me to walk across the carpet to the window, to push the curtains away and gaze across to the busy shopping malls, but that can wait, time is now mine to have.
we are part of a group in a room, happily chatting away. sitting in a circle, you across me. she by my side. my phone outside the room. how do i know this? it rings. and the first time, the ringing is stopped by a short beep, which only sounds when someone presses the end call button. the second time, the ringing is stopped the same way. but there was no one outside the room. my blood freezes as the second beep sounds. we look at each other, you included, and i see her eyes glaze over in horror as she points to the gap between the doorframe and the door. i whip around and see an image of you drifting past, your eyes haunted by loss. confounded, confused, i turn to you. you are resigned, as if the game is up. your eyes downcast, you turn a pallor of grey, your lips rapidly fading to a ghoulish blue. in horror, i watch as you slump to the tatami mat, your skin now paper grey and riddled with brown age spots.
it is uncommon to awake peacefully from a nightmare, but i did. beads of sweat draped on my forehead, i did. i find myself gazing upwards onto the absymal white ceiling and i think of a dream within a dream. all of a sudden, it seems as though i have travelled several yards back in time warps.
perhaps the past never leaves us then, for it should truly exist in another time, place or reality.
and where does that leave me now? my youth gone, like a shrivelled flower still lingering onto its stem after its prime. petals turning yellow with time, i still hold on to that stem, as though hanging on would mean time could be reversed, that i could enjoy and savour everything in slow motion, to see my life all over again, even if i could not change things.
we are part of a group in a room, happily chatting away. sitting in a circle, you across me. she by my side. my phone outside the room. how do i know this? it rings. and the first time, the ringing is stopped by a short beep, which only sounds when someone presses the end call button. the second time, the ringing is stopped the same way. but there was no one outside the room. my blood freezes as the second beep sounds. we look at each other, you included, and i see her eyes glaze over in horror as she points to the gap between the doorframe and the door. i whip around and see an image of you drifting past, your eyes haunted by loss. confounded, confused, i turn to you. you are resigned, as if the game is up. your eyes downcast, you turn a pallor of grey, your lips rapidly fading to a ghoulish blue. in horror, i watch as you slump to the tatami mat, your skin now paper grey and riddled with brown age spots.
it is uncommon to awake peacefully from a nightmare, but i did. beads of sweat draped on my forehead, i did. i find myself gazing upwards onto the absymal white ceiling and i think of a dream within a dream. all of a sudden, it seems as though i have travelled several yards back in time warps.
perhaps the past never leaves us then, for it should truly exist in another time, place or reality.
and where does that leave me now? my youth gone, like a shrivelled flower still lingering onto its stem after its prime. petals turning yellow with time, i still hold on to that stem, as though hanging on would mean time could be reversed, that i could enjoy and savour everything in slow motion, to see my life all over again, even if i could not change things.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
lost in slumber for too long, the blanket which pours a mist over my consciousness is lifted. suddenly the mist clears and i think i can see once more. for i have forgotten what it was like to be able to think after the day was done, that time could be seen in stolen snatches and fluidity, that it need not be compartmentalised into a regimented number of days and into a life that has been broken up into passages of time waiting to be lived out.
get lost, this poor imitation of a life. this poor pretence of living that hoodwinks every consumer into believing you to be the sacred vial everyone should drink from.
get lost, thoughts of sinking into bed arising every time the need to live out this poor pretence comes up.
instead, valour, impart and take over.
get lost, this poor imitation of a life. this poor pretence of living that hoodwinks every consumer into believing you to be the sacred vial everyone should drink from.
get lost, thoughts of sinking into bed arising every time the need to live out this poor pretence comes up.
instead, valour, impart and take over.
Monday, September 22, 2008
of california dreaming
an old song, by the mamas and the papas, that sustains me, for it is that song which reminds me of crampy hongkong, of sweatshops in torrid mansions and shady characters and sweat that forms a thin flim that plasters skin against a flimsy white singlet.
perhaps i should thank him, who picked up the call, for i had only deigned to ask for her presence, as though that alone would give me the courage needed to snap out of my limbo. to no longer leave my limbo peacefully, but simply to snap out of my limbo, the push arrived too late.
so of power dresses and killer heels and exquitisely priced bags, as though they could provide any comfort for the sorry old soul. for want of quirk, to pin a brooch on, to tidy off high waisted skirts with an elastic belt and so they go in the fashion magazines. once so eagerly anticipated, now the colours and whirls of products make my head spin.
for want of simplicity.
a tissue box between us as we talked, discreetly pulling out soft white tissue out of the cardboard hole and hearing the grate as softness catches and tugs upon hardness. the back of my eyeballs hurt and i don't recall the last time they did, so badly.
and so he went, in the still of the night, she spoke. of composure and yet the tears fall.
such an ironical moment, two women, united in grief and offering the oft said but not followed mantra - that life is too short.
i am who i am. you will not defeat me, neither shall you ever have a chance to break my spirit.
perhaps i should thank him, who picked up the call, for i had only deigned to ask for her presence, as though that alone would give me the courage needed to snap out of my limbo. to no longer leave my limbo peacefully, but simply to snap out of my limbo, the push arrived too late.
so of power dresses and killer heels and exquitisely priced bags, as though they could provide any comfort for the sorry old soul. for want of quirk, to pin a brooch on, to tidy off high waisted skirts with an elastic belt and so they go in the fashion magazines. once so eagerly anticipated, now the colours and whirls of products make my head spin.
for want of simplicity.
a tissue box between us as we talked, discreetly pulling out soft white tissue out of the cardboard hole and hearing the grate as softness catches and tugs upon hardness. the back of my eyeballs hurt and i don't recall the last time they did, so badly.
and so he went, in the still of the night, she spoke. of composure and yet the tears fall.
such an ironical moment, two women, united in grief and offering the oft said but not followed mantra - that life is too short.
i am who i am. you will not defeat me, neither shall you ever have a chance to break my spirit.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
vivid dreams, please leave me. i've so much to do and it rains. the rain puts a damper on me, renders me comatose on the sofa. it doesn't remind me of a rainy night when i watched the raindrops falling past the lamp posts outside my window, opening my eyes wide till they strained and i had to close them.
back to school tomorrow and the fiasco goes on. not to mention that on top of the normal hours, i still have to make my way to the far end of singapore for an excursion that lasts till 5 pm.
when the church bells rang at 6 pm, it seemed like pure agony that in 12 hours, it would be time to drag myself out of bed again - to begin things as though in limbo once more. to change, to eat and retch at the breakfast table as my stomach rebels against the thought of eating before seven in the morning. drinking tasteless coffee.
in a crowd, in a crowd, that three's a crowd. wasn't it just yesterday that i was part of a group discussing my friend's bridal plans with her? and that i was thinking - who the fuck would care how long the train of your gown is? or whether the bow's tied in front? or at the back, for any matter. so i silently was an outcast, as even a male friend of ours joined in all the excitement.
in a group once more - a year ago, i walked my bridge of dreams, and this time round, though i had plans after the event, nothing matters. i sat at brewerkz, bitching, nursing a glass of singapore sling, finishing up a pal's fruit beer. what else transpired? an impromptu drive to east coast's carls junior for a burger at 2 am, random drinks at 7 11 and flipping through magazines. and at the end of it all, i came back with a spinning head and fell asleep.
i see empty faces breaking into smiles - i see genuine smiles, and i wonder why i have to watch all these, as if to reassure myself of my presence.
back to school tomorrow and the fiasco goes on. not to mention that on top of the normal hours, i still have to make my way to the far end of singapore for an excursion that lasts till 5 pm.
when the church bells rang at 6 pm, it seemed like pure agony that in 12 hours, it would be time to drag myself out of bed again - to begin things as though in limbo once more. to change, to eat and retch at the breakfast table as my stomach rebels against the thought of eating before seven in the morning. drinking tasteless coffee.
in a crowd, in a crowd, that three's a crowd. wasn't it just yesterday that i was part of a group discussing my friend's bridal plans with her? and that i was thinking - who the fuck would care how long the train of your gown is? or whether the bow's tied in front? or at the back, for any matter. so i silently was an outcast, as even a male friend of ours joined in all the excitement.
in a group once more - a year ago, i walked my bridge of dreams, and this time round, though i had plans after the event, nothing matters. i sat at brewerkz, bitching, nursing a glass of singapore sling, finishing up a pal's fruit beer. what else transpired? an impromptu drive to east coast's carls junior for a burger at 2 am, random drinks at 7 11 and flipping through magazines. and at the end of it all, i came back with a spinning head and fell asleep.
i see empty faces breaking into smiles - i see genuine smiles, and i wonder why i have to watch all these, as if to reassure myself of my presence.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
and why did i have to dream of you again when i lost myself in slumber?
first, the cliff, the high cliff with the ravine at the bottom. the corner of the cliff broke off as both of us stepped on it and i watched the hills shift slightly as i flailed and panicked. i grabbed hold of the edge of the cliff and felt your palms against mine before i watched you fall head-first to the ravine. and then your unmoving body across the ravine, as water chose to weave its way past your body and your shirt was drenched.
and the words i scrawled in red - i borrowed it. and i took it away. i hid mine, to make sure you would not know i wrote that note just to have an excuse for you to look upon my words, to have your eyes move up on the letters, and foolishly hoping that you might, decipher me too.
we entered and exited many rooms. rooms that were arranged in a circular pattern. rooms that led nowhere but round and round and through countless openings. and loud boisterous music. after a while, i felt lost, i was lost.
first, the cliff, the high cliff with the ravine at the bottom. the corner of the cliff broke off as both of us stepped on it and i watched the hills shift slightly as i flailed and panicked. i grabbed hold of the edge of the cliff and felt your palms against mine before i watched you fall head-first to the ravine. and then your unmoving body across the ravine, as water chose to weave its way past your body and your shirt was drenched.
and the words i scrawled in red - i borrowed it. and i took it away. i hid mine, to make sure you would not know i wrote that note just to have an excuse for you to look upon my words, to have your eyes move up on the letters, and foolishly hoping that you might, decipher me too.
we entered and exited many rooms. rooms that were arranged in a circular pattern. rooms that led nowhere but round and round and through countless openings. and loud boisterous music. after a while, i felt lost, i was lost.
so near yet so far
you were right next to me
but we were miles apart in our thoughts.
and miles apart we'll always be.
my fingernails dig into flesh.
but we were miles apart in our thoughts.
and miles apart we'll always be.
my fingernails dig into flesh.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
while at the junction on my bike i watched the image of a red man on the traffic lights and saw that while i was waiting, clouds were drifting across the grey skies. and i turned and saw cars whizzing past me and while i waited i realised that this was my life.
i was waiting.
and i still am, at the crossroads.
i was waiting.
and i still am, at the crossroads.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
spurts of cold water
a wave of sadness engulfs me. i could die today, very peacefully. what a joy to revel in the beauty of sadness - the ability to feel tears springing forth from your eyes without even knowing why. and what a joy it is to sit, staring just ahead, at nothing at all. and the fact that i've felt this lingering desire to stay in my cubicle, though my mind has given up on me, miles ago, that facing scripts, i've lost my ability to mark, that i can stare and think of nothing at all. that the face of calm still presides me, above all odds. sad is a beautiful place to be.
***
i know that for everyone, there's a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. it's just when you can find it and the journey counts. i just wish that the journey wasn't so hard.
***
ever the expert at running away. you're so near, yet so far. the end of a life known, yet no beginning in sight. the strong sense of the end never nearing, the dread to wake up in the mornings and being so tired all the time.
***
it's 5pm when i hit the bed, inertia brought on by a heavy meal of seafood, body strung together by the constraints of being in a car throughout most of the journey, getting caught in a jam. the afternoon sunlight almost prys my eyes open to reality and harsh facts i have to face, but i immerse myself into the sheets, as though immersing myself into them would bring me away from this world. tears in eyes, i imagine a life not lived, children not born, a distinct line that draws me apart from everyone else running the rat race, indulging in wine and dine on weekends, burning the midnight oil on weekdays. i cry for the hand that used to fit in so well in mine, but now seems somehow haphazardly placed into my palm, like a foreign object that simply doesn't belong.
i think of pale wrists and protruding blue veins and white cloth being tied to the steel frame of a hospital bed. and when i wake up, my camisole is plastered to my back with sweat. i roll over and face the ceiling and close my eyes again, wanting to immerse myself in sleep once more, and when that proves impossible, i open my eyes again and discover that the rays of sunlight have disappeared along with my dreams and visions. i struggle to sit up and realise that the weight in my heart has not lessened, nor has the weariness in me. so this is what afternoon siestas render me to - an equally weary entity waking up in silence.
the house is quiet and dark. everyone has left the house. i stumble again the hallways, and turning into a room, bash my hip against the wall. there is a sharp pain and then a warm sensation. my legs feel cool now, as though my blood has curdled.
***
reminiscence is waiting for the bus, perched on metal railings with your feet swaying in flip flops - an ode to the holidays - with a hand draped lazily over your shoulder when you suddenly spy someone from the past drift over to you.
a few words exchanged and the past drifts merrily back to you. memories long gone dredged out, faces of people lain deep in memory almost as though a thin film of dust blanks out their faces, makes them somehow impenetrable to gaze, to scrutiny.
***
i dreamt a dream the other day, a dream which will one day seem wrapped thinly in a layer of dust as well, of a clear day. the skies were a lovely shade of blue and i was driving past the old cathedral. stopping the car, i looked at the steeple covered with bits of snow and the beautiful iron gates coated with white crumbs of snow. slowly, i turn into the driveway of the catherdral and realise that there is not a single car or person in sight. the pond has frozen over, no birds chirp as in summertime. something tells me to make a right turn towards the entrance of the cathedral and there i spy a familiar person looking up towards the closed gates, as though searching for a way to get in. i stop the car and watch him and a few minutes go by before he senses my presence and turns around. i remain seated as he walks over and comes to me, the glass window of the car being the only thing between us. he presses his fingers to the glass and i remember looking at the white on the glass spreading forth from his fingers as though a spread of the sorrow that pervades him. he speaks but i hear nothing - i am captivated by the face that i've not seen in ages. mind torn apart by the years that have separated us and this chance meeting that fate had arranged. the lines i've never noticed - that time has ravaged your face, though not in a bad way. the crows' feet arranged neatly at the corners of your eyes. my fingers shift to the button that makes the window slide down. i press down on it, not knowing that your face will slide down along with it into oblivion. i watch as your face moves along with the glass, as if a picture mounted on glass, the colours fading in the dying sunlight, the flicker of your eyes the only sign that perhaps you were real.
i wake facing upwards, my gaze taking in the ceiling.
an olive on my tongue, i watched the woman in front of me swirl the red wine in her glass, watching the imprint left behind by her lipstick from her sip. i think of the last time we shared a bottle of wine and downed it with baked mussels, the salty smell of the sea filling my nostrils, my skirt billowing past my thighs and how my beach chair sank into the sand as i threw back my head and laughed. red lips that will forever be etched in my memory, for from them i received the words i remember most painfully. a smudge of lipstick on her teeth is all i can think of as the news sinks in. perfect coiffed hair, a tiny wisp of fringe detaches itself from its place as i stare at her, the breeze reminding me of the last breeze that carressed us together, that was part of the moment as the sun went down and the red wine spilled onto the sand, making me think of drops of blood on sand. my mind searches desperately for reminders, for details to pry on, just so that reality does not sink in.
but it does. later on that night with a cheap bottle of whisky, i find myself in front of the television, crouched down on the cold marble floor, not even realising that i was crying till my tears fell on my arms, startling me.
***
I thought it strange how though the details of the dream had slipped through my fingers like fine sand, i could still clearly remember that the dream was about him. and i find it strange how fate intertwined and bestowed us with four days together, stolen hours and how time has conspired and stretched its way past me such that it's been almost a year and a half that i've not seen him face to face, not withstanding the two times i caught sight of him along the road, cold shock running through my veins like a spurt of cold water. i woke up knowing that i missed memories of him.
***
life moves on, time ticks by. or how should i have prayed before her niche? what was i to say? what am i supposed to believe? a small sliver of doubt that she still exists in the world today - her spirit? where is she? i really do miss her. or what should i recall as i stand before her niche, head bowed, hands together in prayer. sadly, all drew a blank. then i tried to think of her as i remembered her - the best memories ever - me springing a surprise vist to her laden with her favourite food and crying out to her loudly from the doorway, "GRANDMA!" and what joy it was to see her head raised in surprise and happiness slowly spread across her face. and the other good memories of sitting at the table next to the window with her, spooning out food that i'd bought, half for the maid and the ratty old fan that always freaked me out since it had no cover for its blades. i miss that house and all it stood for. and then i knew how i would never forget her and thoughts of her would still flit into my mind now and then and i really didn't have to think of how i should feel everyday or on the exact date of her death because i really do remember her in my own way, everyday. and that's why i can cry now typing this when i thought i'd healed after a year. grief never really goes away. i do love you. and i know you're happier wherever you are.
***
so, in a way, i'm glad for the push factor because i was starting to think - is this how i spend the rest of my life?
***
i know that for everyone, there's a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. it's just when you can find it and the journey counts. i just wish that the journey wasn't so hard.
***
ever the expert at running away. you're so near, yet so far. the end of a life known, yet no beginning in sight. the strong sense of the end never nearing, the dread to wake up in the mornings and being so tired all the time.
***
it's 5pm when i hit the bed, inertia brought on by a heavy meal of seafood, body strung together by the constraints of being in a car throughout most of the journey, getting caught in a jam. the afternoon sunlight almost prys my eyes open to reality and harsh facts i have to face, but i immerse myself into the sheets, as though immersing myself into them would bring me away from this world. tears in eyes, i imagine a life not lived, children not born, a distinct line that draws me apart from everyone else running the rat race, indulging in wine and dine on weekends, burning the midnight oil on weekdays. i cry for the hand that used to fit in so well in mine, but now seems somehow haphazardly placed into my palm, like a foreign object that simply doesn't belong.
i think of pale wrists and protruding blue veins and white cloth being tied to the steel frame of a hospital bed. and when i wake up, my camisole is plastered to my back with sweat. i roll over and face the ceiling and close my eyes again, wanting to immerse myself in sleep once more, and when that proves impossible, i open my eyes again and discover that the rays of sunlight have disappeared along with my dreams and visions. i struggle to sit up and realise that the weight in my heart has not lessened, nor has the weariness in me. so this is what afternoon siestas render me to - an equally weary entity waking up in silence.
the house is quiet and dark. everyone has left the house. i stumble again the hallways, and turning into a room, bash my hip against the wall. there is a sharp pain and then a warm sensation. my legs feel cool now, as though my blood has curdled.
***
reminiscence is waiting for the bus, perched on metal railings with your feet swaying in flip flops - an ode to the holidays - with a hand draped lazily over your shoulder when you suddenly spy someone from the past drift over to you.
a few words exchanged and the past drifts merrily back to you. memories long gone dredged out, faces of people lain deep in memory almost as though a thin film of dust blanks out their faces, makes them somehow impenetrable to gaze, to scrutiny.
***
i dreamt a dream the other day, a dream which will one day seem wrapped thinly in a layer of dust as well, of a clear day. the skies were a lovely shade of blue and i was driving past the old cathedral. stopping the car, i looked at the steeple covered with bits of snow and the beautiful iron gates coated with white crumbs of snow. slowly, i turn into the driveway of the catherdral and realise that there is not a single car or person in sight. the pond has frozen over, no birds chirp as in summertime. something tells me to make a right turn towards the entrance of the cathedral and there i spy a familiar person looking up towards the closed gates, as though searching for a way to get in. i stop the car and watch him and a few minutes go by before he senses my presence and turns around. i remain seated as he walks over and comes to me, the glass window of the car being the only thing between us. he presses his fingers to the glass and i remember looking at the white on the glass spreading forth from his fingers as though a spread of the sorrow that pervades him. he speaks but i hear nothing - i am captivated by the face that i've not seen in ages. mind torn apart by the years that have separated us and this chance meeting that fate had arranged. the lines i've never noticed - that time has ravaged your face, though not in a bad way. the crows' feet arranged neatly at the corners of your eyes. my fingers shift to the button that makes the window slide down. i press down on it, not knowing that your face will slide down along with it into oblivion. i watch as your face moves along with the glass, as if a picture mounted on glass, the colours fading in the dying sunlight, the flicker of your eyes the only sign that perhaps you were real.
i wake facing upwards, my gaze taking in the ceiling.
an olive on my tongue, i watched the woman in front of me swirl the red wine in her glass, watching the imprint left behind by her lipstick from her sip. i think of the last time we shared a bottle of wine and downed it with baked mussels, the salty smell of the sea filling my nostrils, my skirt billowing past my thighs and how my beach chair sank into the sand as i threw back my head and laughed. red lips that will forever be etched in my memory, for from them i received the words i remember most painfully. a smudge of lipstick on her teeth is all i can think of as the news sinks in. perfect coiffed hair, a tiny wisp of fringe detaches itself from its place as i stare at her, the breeze reminding me of the last breeze that carressed us together, that was part of the moment as the sun went down and the red wine spilled onto the sand, making me think of drops of blood on sand. my mind searches desperately for reminders, for details to pry on, just so that reality does not sink in.
but it does. later on that night with a cheap bottle of whisky, i find myself in front of the television, crouched down on the cold marble floor, not even realising that i was crying till my tears fell on my arms, startling me.
***
I thought it strange how though the details of the dream had slipped through my fingers like fine sand, i could still clearly remember that the dream was about him. and i find it strange how fate intertwined and bestowed us with four days together, stolen hours and how time has conspired and stretched its way past me such that it's been almost a year and a half that i've not seen him face to face, not withstanding the two times i caught sight of him along the road, cold shock running through my veins like a spurt of cold water. i woke up knowing that i missed memories of him.
***
life moves on, time ticks by. or how should i have prayed before her niche? what was i to say? what am i supposed to believe? a small sliver of doubt that she still exists in the world today - her spirit? where is she? i really do miss her. or what should i recall as i stand before her niche, head bowed, hands together in prayer. sadly, all drew a blank. then i tried to think of her as i remembered her - the best memories ever - me springing a surprise vist to her laden with her favourite food and crying out to her loudly from the doorway, "GRANDMA!" and what joy it was to see her head raised in surprise and happiness slowly spread across her face. and the other good memories of sitting at the table next to the window with her, spooning out food that i'd bought, half for the maid and the ratty old fan that always freaked me out since it had no cover for its blades. i miss that house and all it stood for. and then i knew how i would never forget her and thoughts of her would still flit into my mind now and then and i really didn't have to think of how i should feel everyday or on the exact date of her death because i really do remember her in my own way, everyday. and that's why i can cry now typing this when i thought i'd healed after a year. grief never really goes away. i do love you. and i know you're happier wherever you are.
***
so, in a way, i'm glad for the push factor because i was starting to think - is this how i spend the rest of my life?
Monday, March 10, 2008
nights are shorter now that i've stopped searching. scraps of paper just amount to clutter. i want to de-clutter. i've thrown receipts away, unwanted piles of clothes. on any given day i walk into one of those shops selling new-fangled clothing - shapeless dresses, cotton pinafores, black leggings that are a bane to wear in sunny singapore. on any given day, i walk the streets of singapore and feel as though i've aged twenty years in the ten that has spanned me by since my last days of wearing the pinafore in secondary school.
indecision has caught hold of me, and i am more in limbo than ever. to stay or leave? moments of indecision that sweep past me and then hold me in grasp, me sitting at my cubicle, wanting to leave everything behind. we all need a break - who's to say who needs it more than any other person?
on days when i want nothing more than to lie in and sleep in - a waste of time? whoever cares?
no longer yellow pills, white ones now. and these white pills are scary, for they render me into a walking ghoul - i stumble along the hallways bleary for want of sleep. it seems so easy to wake. stumble along, take a swig from the bottle of vodka and feel acid burn my throat and then my insides, and then another white pill - i don't even bother to halve the dosage now.
naysayers view sleep as a waste of time - i want for nothing more than to bury my head under the covers and sleep the day away. breathless under the covers - for want of air, but still, i lie, under the covers.
you're on a plane now, sailing through the clouds, far away from me. a moment of indecision, i could have easily joined you, but i didn't. things have changed.
but still, i miss the days of yore. i despise the ability to be dependent on another individual - the knowledge that there is always someone to run to and to confide in when things get wonky. i used to solve things on my own - to grit and let go - what was so difficult then? what can be so difficult now?
reminiscent of those days - one particular day when i walked the bridge alone and watched two ripples spread in the water. and wished - and made a wish for you. have i made wishes for people over the years? it all seems so inconsequential now, childish, even. for how could i even bear to hope that my voice, my thoughts, were important enough to be heard?
and when christmas now seems such a long way away and march seems dull and dreary and just speaks of days to get ridden of, while april speaks of hidden plots and days to overcome - i foresee days again of getting up, half in slumber, stumbling to the bathroom to wash up.
this is why i have to wean off the white pills.
indecision has caught hold of me, and i am more in limbo than ever. to stay or leave? moments of indecision that sweep past me and then hold me in grasp, me sitting at my cubicle, wanting to leave everything behind. we all need a break - who's to say who needs it more than any other person?
on days when i want nothing more than to lie in and sleep in - a waste of time? whoever cares?
no longer yellow pills, white ones now. and these white pills are scary, for they render me into a walking ghoul - i stumble along the hallways bleary for want of sleep. it seems so easy to wake. stumble along, take a swig from the bottle of vodka and feel acid burn my throat and then my insides, and then another white pill - i don't even bother to halve the dosage now.
naysayers view sleep as a waste of time - i want for nothing more than to bury my head under the covers and sleep the day away. breathless under the covers - for want of air, but still, i lie, under the covers.
you're on a plane now, sailing through the clouds, far away from me. a moment of indecision, i could have easily joined you, but i didn't. things have changed.
but still, i miss the days of yore. i despise the ability to be dependent on another individual - the knowledge that there is always someone to run to and to confide in when things get wonky. i used to solve things on my own - to grit and let go - what was so difficult then? what can be so difficult now?
reminiscent of those days - one particular day when i walked the bridge alone and watched two ripples spread in the water. and wished - and made a wish for you. have i made wishes for people over the years? it all seems so inconsequential now, childish, even. for how could i even bear to hope that my voice, my thoughts, were important enough to be heard?
and when christmas now seems such a long way away and march seems dull and dreary and just speaks of days to get ridden of, while april speaks of hidden plots and days to overcome - i foresee days again of getting up, half in slumber, stumbling to the bathroom to wash up.
this is why i have to wean off the white pills.
Monday, January 21, 2008
and what did thee have to offer me, december?
nothing but mild heartache, the lingering thought of events that transpired a year ago not quite cutting gashes into me anymore. the dull ache easing, giving way to a stale resignation.
october smelled of restlessness, of knotty shoes and the smell of freshly cut grass and concrete baked by the sun. closed doors, restlessness, a sense that the month would never end and a jaunt in the midst of it all - i ran away again.
november disappeared in a flurry of nothingness, a sense of just waiting for the end, a slow and unbearably placid way to journey to the last month of the year. knots to be tied up, a journey to the end and the impecably stark questions of wondering what came after the end. after all, when one only waits for the end, one begins to think about exactly follows after the arrival of the end.
the arrival of the end. - december came too soon, and thailand proved a wonderful distractor. amidst the sun on sunny Phuket, the sands that crept to my ankles and the orgasmic food - think thai tom yum, that, that under the bright blue sky, i could cease to exist, and the world could just continue spinning merrily on its own axis.
that november reminded me of jaunts to circular road, milling around the singapore river. of taking the bus home after that, of watching the blank painted faces of random pedestrians.
that december saw the roads all decked out in jolly christmas cheer, while the day itself passed on like any other day, with shopping centres doing a jingly-jang as their cash registers rang out in delight and the crowds thronged, spit-spat-spoot. that the decors looked sad and sorry and rain-spotted once the notion that christmas was over came through. the lights didn't seem quite merry, the mood flittered down to a damp and dimmering one. people trudging on in a sullen acceptance that another year was going to end, that the year did add a number of regrets to their growing list of regrets, despite the resolutions resolutely made.
and now, january. it's past mid january and the cheerily-irritating new year songs have crept their way onto the airwaves once more. the other day at my cubicle, a colleague stared at me in mock-horror as another new year song blared its way out of the speakers. i could only throw my hands up in resignation and declare that it was only serendipity that the song happened to be playing.
and so it's been a few years hence that i've longed for a visit to the noisy supermarket on the eve itself, people stomping their way across everyone else's feet to reach the cheap goodies. of floating past the expressway at midnight and catching random movies with teenagers and the anticipation of visiting the next day, visits to the temples, the smell of red packets and of falling asleep in front of the televisons and the smell of fresh money set aside as tiny bets for gambling.
when flipping over the pillow brings another state of mind into being. of the dreaded fear that tightens its icy grip upon your shoulder and the shivers that go down your spine as you realise how you can run away from anything but yourself, and the knowledge that to run away from yourself would only require one course of action.
and angry spurts of conversation, they are in vain. wake up. open your eyes and open up? i never want to have tears roll down my face again as they did in five years ago. five years - has it been that long? the world is moving too fast for me - leave me in my little cocoon - i never want to rear my head out again. let me lie in. i don't even want to feel the world spinning. sunday mornings at eight, my brain feels like a wet wad of paper.
the streets are the same and haven't changed from october. the street lights seem to pave the way, but i can only see an empty street. nor is there sunlight where i can see glimmers of dust dancing in the path of light.
nothing but mild heartache, the lingering thought of events that transpired a year ago not quite cutting gashes into me anymore. the dull ache easing, giving way to a stale resignation.
october smelled of restlessness, of knotty shoes and the smell of freshly cut grass and concrete baked by the sun. closed doors, restlessness, a sense that the month would never end and a jaunt in the midst of it all - i ran away again.
november disappeared in a flurry of nothingness, a sense of just waiting for the end, a slow and unbearably placid way to journey to the last month of the year. knots to be tied up, a journey to the end and the impecably stark questions of wondering what came after the end. after all, when one only waits for the end, one begins to think about exactly follows after the arrival of the end.
the arrival of the end. - december came too soon, and thailand proved a wonderful distractor. amidst the sun on sunny Phuket, the sands that crept to my ankles and the orgasmic food - think thai tom yum, that, that under the bright blue sky, i could cease to exist, and the world could just continue spinning merrily on its own axis.
that november reminded me of jaunts to circular road, milling around the singapore river. of taking the bus home after that, of watching the blank painted faces of random pedestrians.
that december saw the roads all decked out in jolly christmas cheer, while the day itself passed on like any other day, with shopping centres doing a jingly-jang as their cash registers rang out in delight and the crowds thronged, spit-spat-spoot. that the decors looked sad and sorry and rain-spotted once the notion that christmas was over came through. the lights didn't seem quite merry, the mood flittered down to a damp and dimmering one. people trudging on in a sullen acceptance that another year was going to end, that the year did add a number of regrets to their growing list of regrets, despite the resolutions resolutely made.
and now, january. it's past mid january and the cheerily-irritating new year songs have crept their way onto the airwaves once more. the other day at my cubicle, a colleague stared at me in mock-horror as another new year song blared its way out of the speakers. i could only throw my hands up in resignation and declare that it was only serendipity that the song happened to be playing.
and so it's been a few years hence that i've longed for a visit to the noisy supermarket on the eve itself, people stomping their way across everyone else's feet to reach the cheap goodies. of floating past the expressway at midnight and catching random movies with teenagers and the anticipation of visiting the next day, visits to the temples, the smell of red packets and of falling asleep in front of the televisons and the smell of fresh money set aside as tiny bets for gambling.
when flipping over the pillow brings another state of mind into being. of the dreaded fear that tightens its icy grip upon your shoulder and the shivers that go down your spine as you realise how you can run away from anything but yourself, and the knowledge that to run away from yourself would only require one course of action.
and angry spurts of conversation, they are in vain. wake up. open your eyes and open up? i never want to have tears roll down my face again as they did in five years ago. five years - has it been that long? the world is moving too fast for me - leave me in my little cocoon - i never want to rear my head out again. let me lie in. i don't even want to feel the world spinning. sunday mornings at eight, my brain feels like a wet wad of paper.
the streets are the same and haven't changed from october. the street lights seem to pave the way, but i can only see an empty street. nor is there sunlight where i can see glimmers of dust dancing in the path of light.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
beach house
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.
“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.
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.
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