Friday 29 February 2008
Please tell me that I'm not alone.
I worry that my brain is turning into mush, and that when I finally get down to trying again, I'll find that I can no longer do the mental gymnastics as easily as before. Or not at all.
Thursday 28 February 2008
Arguments from and against the real world
I have never reflected on being out of school; never proclaimed to feel 'more alive than ever', nor broken down to curse the working world or shut it out. There is little time to miss school between my two jobs, Wednesdays at Crawford, and the humbly-jumbly social events I find myself entangled in. But I have sampled both ends of the polemic, and I suppose there is no better day than the last day of my first phase of post-school life (I resign from both current jobs this week) to ruminate.
I think a number of us are beginning to feel the unexpected disjoint between society and life. While fellow classmates call it a 'culture shock', others, old hands at the Office, call it 'the real world'. Over the last two months, I've developed an aversion to the words 'the real world', because whenever they are invoked in conversations, they always imply that all problems are chronically stabile and ideals, principles and theories are but pretty lies. I routinely refer to glimpses of the 'real world' as the popping of carebears and rainbows.
I have discovered that The Real World differs from my world on ethically, economically and socially.
On Ethics.
1. Fair Employment
Sickeningly, that racial discrimination no longer exists, I've discovered, is a myth that exists only in our Singaporean social studies and history textbooks. I was thunderously upset to find out that the homogeneity of my workplace staff (all Chinese, young and female) was not an act of God to impress upon us the reality of Fate and Destiny, but the will of bigots, who (incomprehensibly) believe that intelligence, conscientiousness and generally positive dispositions choose sides on racial lines. I remember being very impressed by their conclusions, because none of dear people who proclaimed their views so earnestly had for themselves good qualifications (or social intelligence, for that matter) to prove their Aryan superiority. Worse, as I went about trying to clarify employment policies and principles with others, I found out that such employment 'regulations' are not at all uncommon.
It is easy to allow the passion of injustice to overwhelm you, which I did for a while. I realise now that as bigotry is easy to sift out, eradicating it is a completely new, demanding situation. Since no policy will ever bear the words "Thou shalt not hire non-Chinese", typical unfair employment practices are generally carried out within the buffer of the "personal judgment" of the employer. It is as simple as putting aside the forms - distributed to everyone and collected from everyone - of an applicant who does not fall under your "criteria". These forms go out under pretexts of "unsuitable personalities" or because the applicants they represent "pale (ironically) in comparison to other applicants". The 95478 clauses that our Tripartite Alliance for Fair Employment may draw up have no arbitration over what goes on in the interview room, so long as the words "not Aryan" do not turn up in the rejection report. And they never do. Fair employment is not enforceable.
What legislators can do, and have tried to do, is to impose as many tangible limitations as possible on the areas they can control; such areas largely pertain to the advertising for applicants. It has been made illegal to use words that pointedly refer to a select group of people in society, for instance, one may not advertise for "a manageress" or ask for "a crew comprising members under the age of 35". It goes to the extent of prohibiting questions on the marital status of a woman. While one may not advertise for a "Malay teacher", there are easy alternatives such as calling for a "teacher to teach the Malay language", suggesting a look-out for people proficient in the required skills, who tend to be, but are umnecesarily, Malay.
Unfortunately, things are not always that simple. There are problems associated these noble intentions that we may not ignore either. Certain jobs are arguably not made for everyone. During the process of hiring a security guard for his firm, one of the directors from the local office of a multi-national company vented his frustrations with the impossibility of leaving out knowledge of a female applicant's marital status. It was crucial, he argued, to know if she was making plans for a family, because her ability and commitment to the job would be drastically affected. A lady with a melon-sized human being attached to her waist would not, as one imagines, be very good at chasing theives and terrorists. In taking the preventive measures we have against workplace discrimination to protect the rights of employees, we risk neglecting the rights of employers in situations aforementioned. This implicating clash of rights makes any attempt to expunge discrimination in employment tenuous and painful.
In pointing out what I felt employers should not do, I wondered what it was that employers should do. The answer, almost instinctive to my Singaporean brain, appears to be to adhere to the principles of meritocracy.
I think a number of us are beginning to feel the unexpected disjoint between society and life. While fellow classmates call it a 'culture shock', others, old hands at the Office, call it 'the real world'. Over the last two months, I've developed an aversion to the words 'the real world', because whenever they are invoked in conversations, they always imply that all problems are chronically stabile and ideals, principles and theories are but pretty lies. I routinely refer to glimpses of the 'real world' as the popping of carebears and rainbows.
I have discovered that The Real World differs from my world on ethically, economically and socially.
On Ethics.
1. Fair Employment
Sickeningly, that racial discrimination no longer exists, I've discovered, is a myth that exists only in our Singaporean social studies and history textbooks. I was thunderously upset to find out that the homogeneity of my workplace staff (all Chinese, young and female) was not an act of God to impress upon us the reality of Fate and Destiny, but the will of bigots, who (incomprehensibly) believe that intelligence, conscientiousness and generally positive dispositions choose sides on racial lines. I remember being very impressed by their conclusions, because none of dear people who proclaimed their views so earnestly had for themselves good qualifications (or social intelligence, for that matter) to prove their Aryan superiority. Worse, as I went about trying to clarify employment policies and principles with others, I found out that such employment 'regulations' are not at all uncommon.
It is easy to allow the passion of injustice to overwhelm you, which I did for a while. I realise now that as bigotry is easy to sift out, eradicating it is a completely new, demanding situation. Since no policy will ever bear the words "Thou shalt not hire non-Chinese", typical unfair employment practices are generally carried out within the buffer of the "personal judgment" of the employer. It is as simple as putting aside the forms - distributed to everyone and collected from everyone - of an applicant who does not fall under your "criteria". These forms go out under pretexts of "unsuitable personalities" or because the applicants they represent "pale (ironically) in comparison to other applicants". The 95478 clauses that our Tripartite Alliance for Fair Employment may draw up have no arbitration over what goes on in the interview room, so long as the words "not Aryan" do not turn up in the rejection report. And they never do. Fair employment is not enforceable.
What legislators can do, and have tried to do, is to impose as many tangible limitations as possible on the areas they can control; such areas largely pertain to the advertising for applicants. It has been made illegal to use words that pointedly refer to a select group of people in society, for instance, one may not advertise for "a manageress" or ask for "a crew comprising members under the age of 35". It goes to the extent of prohibiting questions on the marital status of a woman. While one may not advertise for a "Malay teacher", there are easy alternatives such as calling for a "teacher to teach the Malay language", suggesting a look-out for people proficient in the required skills, who tend to be, but are umnecesarily, Malay.
Unfortunately, things are not always that simple. There are problems associated these noble intentions that we may not ignore either. Certain jobs are arguably not made for everyone. During the process of hiring a security guard for his firm, one of the directors from the local office of a multi-national company vented his frustrations with the impossibility of leaving out knowledge of a female applicant's marital status. It was crucial, he argued, to know if she was making plans for a family, because her ability and commitment to the job would be drastically affected. A lady with a melon-sized human being attached to her waist would not, as one imagines, be very good at chasing theives and terrorists. In taking the preventive measures we have against workplace discrimination to protect the rights of employees, we risk neglecting the rights of employers in situations aforementioned. This implicating clash of rights makes any attempt to expunge discrimination in employment tenuous and painful.
In pointing out what I felt employers should not do, I wondered what it was that employers should do. The answer, almost instinctive to my Singaporean brain, appears to be to adhere to the principles of meritocracy.
Tuesday 26 February 2008
I saw Eternity the other night
Like a great ring of pure and endless light
But the other night -it was so long ago.
Dreams of London (now my private metaphor for a life-not-this) have now been entirely replaced by the sluggish, but very (aversively) occupying lifestyle of an average adult in the city. I no longer allow my mind to slip into English summers in brown dormitories, springtime walks down pavements of history and tall libraries dusty with the incense of knowledge. Next week, I tell myself, all my plans for the future will have to become real - real and realistic.
It is easy to give in to the the voices that cry thinly of a starving bank account, needy family relations and allegations of ineptitude when you can't see London from your bedroom window. Increasingly, the grapple to balance humility with honesty and the (greater) battle to distinguish delusion from awareness wear me down; it is impossible to give myself an intellectual profile. But I think I've come to understand that no truth-promising assessment will balm this restlessness. It boils down to the fact that this is not an insecurity (any longer, at least), but a realization that the world extends for much longer and wider than I've ever imagined both Upwards and Downwards. Knowledge, with its outmoded implication of rigid, material claims, matters less than intelligence - the arrival at and manipulation of elegance, I have come to believe. I am a little contemptuous of those who believe, in their specific, mediocre environments that they may be dubbed "highly intelligent". Intelligence is transcendental, it makes you breathless and reduces all personality into a single humanity. Nobody dares claim it, I shudder at its feet. In this life I am living, I am forgetting what it feels like to feel eternal elegance and have it take my breath away.
All I wish for, I think, is to be able to watch from a window closer to this sublimity.
But the other night -it was so long ago.
Dreams of London (now my private metaphor for a life-not-this) have now been entirely replaced by the sluggish, but very (aversively) occupying lifestyle of an average adult in the city. I no longer allow my mind to slip into English summers in brown dormitories, springtime walks down pavements of history and tall libraries dusty with the incense of knowledge. Next week, I tell myself, all my plans for the future will have to become real - real and realistic.
It is easy to give in to the the voices that cry thinly of a starving bank account, needy family relations and allegations of ineptitude when you can't see London from your bedroom window. Increasingly, the grapple to balance humility with honesty and the (greater) battle to distinguish delusion from awareness wear me down; it is impossible to give myself an intellectual profile. But I think I've come to understand that no truth-promising assessment will balm this restlessness. It boils down to the fact that this is not an insecurity (any longer, at least), but a realization that the world extends for much longer and wider than I've ever imagined both Upwards and Downwards. Knowledge, with its outmoded implication of rigid, material claims, matters less than intelligence - the arrival at and manipulation of elegance, I have come to believe. I am a little contemptuous of those who believe, in their specific, mediocre environments that they may be dubbed "highly intelligent". Intelligence is transcendental, it makes you breathless and reduces all personality into a single humanity. Nobody dares claim it, I shudder at its feet. In this life I am living, I am forgetting what it feels like to feel eternal elegance and have it take my breath away.
All I wish for, I think, is to be able to watch from a window closer to this sublimity.
Saturday 23 February 2008
Souvenirs from Novus
Last night, I resumed my usual duties at Novus, after a long break. And I remembered why I enjoy working there.
Everybody there teases me about how I am perpetually smiling. They think I'm positive, charming, cute, and very, very disturbingly abnormal because of that. I smile a lot when I'm at Novus, but that's because I enjoy my job.
It makes me feel like a very lucky person, to own a wealthy childhood and a comfortable future. It makes me smile, because the waiters there are always laughing, playing, in spite of everything. It makes me laugh, because everyone there sings, dances and performs in the middle of his work. It makes me feel human, because some of my coworkers take their time to share their life stories, and ask for mine, like I was an interesting person. It makes me feel useful, when customers tell me I have a great smile, or great service, and when dirty glasses and dishes become sparkling again.
Next week will be my last week, and it makes me a little sad to go. It has been two short months, but there are some things that I know I'll miss, the way one misses a short, but lovely holiday. I'll miss Pornsing with his poker face, which never so much as moves a muscle, but reveals all emotion. I'll miss Faz, who serenades everyone, teases relentlessly, teaches patiently, and jokes that in spite of my giant face, he thinks I'm still hot. Aw. I'll miss Rodney and Michael, for their perpetual (false) gentlemanliness, Rodney for his jokes, Michael for his childlike wonder and Stephen Chow hair. And oh, I'll miss very much the 'Novus band' of Faz and Michael, who take the stage from our musicians sometimes to do their renditions of popular songs. I'll miss Serene and Jonas, two great mentors, who really lead by example; Serene for her caring nature, and good humour, who taught me the dynamics of latte making over a beer counter in the middle of the night, Jonas for his patience, jokes, and most importantly, because he owes me a beer :D. I'll miss the part-timers, whom I meet every function, where we'd laugh over the craziness of the affairs, tease, and sigh longingly at the food. Most of all, I think I'll miss Prashana. Quite a bit.
Everybody there teases me about how I am perpetually smiling. They think I'm positive, charming, cute, and very, very disturbingly abnormal because of that. I smile a lot when I'm at Novus, but that's because I enjoy my job.
It makes me feel like a very lucky person, to own a wealthy childhood and a comfortable future. It makes me smile, because the waiters there are always laughing, playing, in spite of everything. It makes me laugh, because everyone there sings, dances and performs in the middle of his work. It makes me feel human, because some of my coworkers take their time to share their life stories, and ask for mine, like I was an interesting person. It makes me feel useful, when customers tell me I have a great smile, or great service, and when dirty glasses and dishes become sparkling again.
Next week will be my last week, and it makes me a little sad to go. It has been two short months, but there are some things that I know I'll miss, the way one misses a short, but lovely holiday. I'll miss Pornsing with his poker face, which never so much as moves a muscle, but reveals all emotion. I'll miss Faz, who serenades everyone, teases relentlessly, teaches patiently, and jokes that in spite of my giant face, he thinks I'm still hot. Aw. I'll miss Rodney and Michael, for their perpetual (false) gentlemanliness, Rodney for his jokes, Michael for his childlike wonder and Stephen Chow hair. And oh, I'll miss very much the 'Novus band' of Faz and Michael, who take the stage from our musicians sometimes to do their renditions of popular songs. I'll miss Serene and Jonas, two great mentors, who really lead by example; Serene for her caring nature, and good humour, who taught me the dynamics of latte making over a beer counter in the middle of the night, Jonas for his patience, jokes, and most importantly, because he owes me a beer :D. I'll miss the part-timers, whom I meet every function, where we'd laugh over the craziness of the affairs, tease, and sigh longingly at the food. Most of all, I think I'll miss Prashana. Quite a bit.
Thursday 21 February 2008
A letter to California
Dear Daniel,
Did you know that conscription is compulsory for all boys here in Singapore? At the age of 18 or 19, all the men are put into the army and made to serve 2 years of National Service. This means that all my male classmates are in the army now. I miss some of them a lot, but it is difficult to contact them when their camp is located on an offshore, undeveloped, jungly island. Have you ever thought of serving in the army?
A friend of mine shared with me the last time we met (how long ago!), that when he was taught to fire live rounds from his gun, he felt afraid. The thought of it is scary - you're 18 and they're training you to kill. Sometimes it makes me wonder why the concept of patriotism has to be so cold and distant. In Singapore, especially among my classmates, the Ivy League/ Oxbridge/ President scholar potentials (no shit), National Service feels synonymous to 2 years of stagnation and degeneration. One of my classmates had to have his Oxford offer revoked, because the university would not hear of a 2-year deferment. It is a huge point of unhappiness among the 'educational elite' here.
Even though I'm a girl and I don't have to be disruptively relocated into the depths of a jungle, national service gets me a down too sometimes. With our straddled university entries, on top of how we might not get into the same universities, or even study in the same countries, this parting could mean we might not see each other again for the next 5 years, at the very least. Then there's the nagging reminder that things might not be the same again after 5 eventful years, and threadbare contact. When I think of my few good friends in there who lived the past 2 years with me, and how their own lives must be even more unrecognizable now, my heart starts to break a little.
I guess I should've said my goodbyes a little better. All too sudden, loneliness seems a bit more real.
Best wishes,
Charmaine
Did you know that conscription is compulsory for all boys here in Singapore? At the age of 18 or 19, all the men are put into the army and made to serve 2 years of National Service. This means that all my male classmates are in the army now. I miss some of them a lot, but it is difficult to contact them when their camp is located on an offshore, undeveloped, jungly island. Have you ever thought of serving in the army?
A friend of mine shared with me the last time we met (how long ago!), that when he was taught to fire live rounds from his gun, he felt afraid. The thought of it is scary - you're 18 and they're training you to kill. Sometimes it makes me wonder why the concept of patriotism has to be so cold and distant. In Singapore, especially among my classmates, the Ivy League/ Oxbridge/ President scholar potentials (no shit), National Service feels synonymous to 2 years of stagnation and degeneration. One of my classmates had to have his Oxford offer revoked, because the university would not hear of a 2-year deferment. It is a huge point of unhappiness among the 'educational elite' here.
Even though I'm a girl and I don't have to be disruptively relocated into the depths of a jungle, national service gets me a down too sometimes. With our straddled university entries, on top of how we might not get into the same universities, or even study in the same countries, this parting could mean we might not see each other again for the next 5 years, at the very least. Then there's the nagging reminder that things might not be the same again after 5 eventful years, and threadbare contact. When I think of my few good friends in there who lived the past 2 years with me, and how their own lives must be even more unrecognizable now, my heart starts to break a little.
I guess I should've said my goodbyes a little better. All too sudden, loneliness seems a bit more real.
Best wishes,
Charmaine
Saturday 16 February 2008
All the world's a stage, really. Either that, or a computer screen, running programme: The Sims.
[Added on Monday, Feb 18]
The second part of Short+Sweet, the playwriting workshop ended in a whirl on Sunday. Eugene and I left on our separate ways with no further means of contact, but that's okay. I think of this stranger-with-a-smile as an ethereal moment to remind me that life isn't cold. There, God did send me a sign. (: Coool.
*
I did something for myself last night. I was inspired by Philip and all the self-help books ever published and the vague feeling of narcissistic irritation that if the world wasn't going to love me, I'd have to love myself. I signed up for a playwriting workshop, and went for it alone.
As I walked through City Hall with my Streetdirectory map printed on the back of a misprinted budget report, I had a strange feeling that something was going to happen. I wasn't sure what, and I wasn't really convinced. But I was excited anyway.
In the prettiness of the old parliament house, among plushy blue Ikea couches, something quite amazing did happen. I met a man with a great smile, whom I knew I'd seen before the moment he walked through the doors. Recognition was instant, we locked on to each other almost immediately, but we had absolutely no idea what the source of our Deja Vu was.
In the final moments of our meeting, as we sat in the MRT speeding off to a common destination, after discovering that he was enrolled in another film making course that I signed up for but didn't go, that he bought the second last ticket over the counter just not too long before I got the last one for this scriptwriting workshop, it hit us.
Turns out Eugene was my very first customer at the bar, on my very first night. The man who didn't like his cocktails too sweet, who wrote song requests in pictures on soggy coasters, who tried to tip me for good luck, who said I was a great, despite my incomprehension of the menu, my dropping of the tray into the pond, and general cluelessness about the bar's operation. (Oh god, I will always remember the incredulous look on bartender Pornsing's face when I asked for a "frozen Margarita, less sweet please". My greatest career ambition is to replicate that look perfectly should a customer ever request that again.)
I remember thinking, as I handled Eugene's bill that night, if I would ever see him again, if I would remember this one customer if he returned.
Very, very interesting. I am now convinced that a greater power has written a play governing all our lives. We are God's Sims, it cannot be denied.
All in a playwriting workshop.
The second part of Short+Sweet, the playwriting workshop ended in a whirl on Sunday. Eugene and I left on our separate ways with no further means of contact, but that's okay. I think of this stranger-with-a-smile as an ethereal moment to remind me that life isn't cold. There, God did send me a sign. (: Coool.
*
I did something for myself last night. I was inspired by Philip and all the self-help books ever published and the vague feeling of narcissistic irritation that if the world wasn't going to love me, I'd have to love myself. I signed up for a playwriting workshop, and went for it alone.
As I walked through City Hall with my Streetdirectory map printed on the back of a misprinted budget report, I had a strange feeling that something was going to happen. I wasn't sure what, and I wasn't really convinced. But I was excited anyway.
In the prettiness of the old parliament house, among plushy blue Ikea couches, something quite amazing did happen. I met a man with a great smile, whom I knew I'd seen before the moment he walked through the doors. Recognition was instant, we locked on to each other almost immediately, but we had absolutely no idea what the source of our Deja Vu was.
In the final moments of our meeting, as we sat in the MRT speeding off to a common destination, after discovering that he was enrolled in another film making course that I signed up for but didn't go, that he bought the second last ticket over the counter just not too long before I got the last one for this scriptwriting workshop, it hit us.
Turns out Eugene was my very first customer at the bar, on my very first night. The man who didn't like his cocktails too sweet, who wrote song requests in pictures on soggy coasters, who tried to tip me for good luck, who said I was a great, despite my incomprehension of the menu, my dropping of the tray into the pond, and general cluelessness about the bar's operation. (Oh god, I will always remember the incredulous look on bartender Pornsing's face when I asked for a "frozen Margarita, less sweet please". My greatest career ambition is to replicate that look perfectly should a customer ever request that again.)
I remember thinking, as I handled Eugene's bill that night, if I would ever see him again, if I would remember this one customer if he returned.
Very, very interesting. I am now convinced that a greater power has written a play governing all our lives. We are God's Sims, it cannot be denied.
All in a playwriting workshop.
Friday 15 February 2008
Interpersonal Relations
“It’s simple. You only need to fall in love once and have your heart broken.”
“Really.”
“Really. You need to be able to understand the depth of that kind of emotion. Good actors can’t rely only on superficial emotions.”
I look at him meaningfully. “What makes you think I’ve never been in love?”
“But you’ve never been in a relationship.”
“No, I guess I haven’t.”
“So go get yourself into a relationship, then get out of it!” He says like a strangulated lawyer. “You need to break up.”
The chef laughs in the kitchen behind us and the waiters put the candles on in a dance. We fall silent to the riot of orchids between us. So that’s why restaurants have centerpieces for their tables, I thought.
“I’ve been in love.” I say not too quietly. In that small moment I see his brain flicker to a vague impression of my Jack, then it snaps back to an intimate portrait of the girl whose name I never found out. But I am not thinking of Jack.
“Yes, you need to break up,” he says. He says, but I am looking at his newly-muscled arms.
“I’m sure I could understand the kind of feeling you’re talking about. Fiction is as much the basis of truth as truth is for fiction.”
We hold each other’s gaze in a battle between doubt and persuasion. His cheeks fold, turning his lips upwards, “I’d like to direct you some day.”
“What?”
“Yes, I’ll find a good script, and we can rent out a theatre.”
I throw him a laugh. “I know the guy who owns our favourite place. Maybe we’ll get a discount.”
He laughs. And we revert to talk about other people and the rest of the world.
“Really.”
“Really. You need to be able to understand the depth of that kind of emotion. Good actors can’t rely only on superficial emotions.”
I look at him meaningfully. “What makes you think I’ve never been in love?”
“But you’ve never been in a relationship.”
“No, I guess I haven’t.”
“So go get yourself into a relationship, then get out of it!” He says like a strangulated lawyer. “You need to break up.”
The chef laughs in the kitchen behind us and the waiters put the candles on in a dance. We fall silent to the riot of orchids between us. So that’s why restaurants have centerpieces for their tables, I thought.
“I’ve been in love.” I say not too quietly. In that small moment I see his brain flicker to a vague impression of my Jack, then it snaps back to an intimate portrait of the girl whose name I never found out. But I am not thinking of Jack.
“Yes, you need to break up,” he says. He says, but I am looking at his newly-muscled arms.
“I’m sure I could understand the kind of feeling you’re talking about. Fiction is as much the basis of truth as truth is for fiction.”
We hold each other’s gaze in a battle between doubt and persuasion. His cheeks fold, turning his lips upwards, “I’d like to direct you some day.”
“What?”
“Yes, I’ll find a good script, and we can rent out a theatre.”
I throw him a laugh. “I know the guy who owns our favourite place. Maybe we’ll get a discount.”
He laughs. And we revert to talk about other people and the rest of the world.
Thursday 14 February 2008
Valentine's Day Magic
Two hours past Valentine's day and I remember that I've forgotten the rose the Professor gave me and all the other single women in his office this morning. I take it out of its shiny, overpriced wrappings and put it into the special vase reserved for single, long-stemmed roses. It is nothing like the one Seng gave me last year - a huge bloodred bloom, an Indian rose, I was told by my aunt who came by 2 weeks later and saw it. In fact, this bloom is tiny, charred by sunlight and already crinkled. But I know for a fact that a similar one makes Wei very happy today. This woman of coming thirty tells me as we walk home from the office that it is the first flower she's ever received for Valentine's day. I tell her that I would've bought her one for every year that I've known her. She laughs, but I mean it. Sometimes, women will say that flowers are wasteful and unnecessary, but everybody loves to be given flowers. And I mean everybody. I love my red rose.
For a while, I wonder what it would be like to be a man, and actually wish I could be one - just for a while. It would be nice, I think, to be able to waltz in with roses for the women, laugh and joke with them, and make them feel like women. Perhaps as a woman, I could one day waltz in with whatever-it-is-that-makes-men-feel-manly and make each man in the room feel like men. I don't know what makes men feel like men.
My sister gives me a pink rose that she bought from the budding entrepreneurs in her school. Now my red rose has competition. I place the pink rose in a bottle I've never been able to discard and place it by my red rose. I love my pink rose.
Two lizards run across the hall, one after the other. I've never seen so many house lizards at a time. But I should've expected it; all the lizard sightings in the house couldn't possibly have been of the same lizard. The lizards must know it is Valentine's day too. I tell Yeenseen, who is frantically rushing out her portfolio for art school application, about the lizards. She says that's what they do in the wee hours of the morning - they mate. Now I am sorry I asked.
I am remembering how we used to spend Valentine's day in school - with a flurry of gift exchanges, practical jokes, and late night singles' parties. This year has been different; quieter, but I refuse to let it be any less fulfilling. I think about how my day began with reading Daniel's request to be his valentine. And I look out my window and think of my sweet valentine, probably brushing his teeth, half way across the world. I review our ecard exchange, full of thanks for each other's penpalling throughout the years. Valentine's day is wasted on lovers tonight, I think, when friendship creates wonders like this.
For a while, I wonder what it would be like to be a man, and actually wish I could be one - just for a while. It would be nice, I think, to be able to waltz in with roses for the women, laugh and joke with them, and make them feel like women. Perhaps as a woman, I could one day waltz in with whatever-it-is-that-makes-men-feel-manly and make each man in the room feel like men. I don't know what makes men feel like men.
My sister gives me a pink rose that she bought from the budding entrepreneurs in her school. Now my red rose has competition. I place the pink rose in a bottle I've never been able to discard and place it by my red rose. I love my pink rose.
Two lizards run across the hall, one after the other. I've never seen so many house lizards at a time. But I should've expected it; all the lizard sightings in the house couldn't possibly have been of the same lizard. The lizards must know it is Valentine's day too. I tell Yeenseen, who is frantically rushing out her portfolio for art school application, about the lizards. She says that's what they do in the wee hours of the morning - they mate. Now I am sorry I asked.
I am remembering how we used to spend Valentine's day in school - with a flurry of gift exchanges, practical jokes, and late night singles' parties. This year has been different; quieter, but I refuse to let it be any less fulfilling. I think about how my day began with reading Daniel's request to be his valentine. And I look out my window and think of my sweet valentine, probably brushing his teeth, half way across the world. I review our ecard exchange, full of thanks for each other's penpalling throughout the years. Valentine's day is wasted on lovers tonight, I think, when friendship creates wonders like this.
Tuesday 12 February 2008
Unthinkable things are not thoughts.
Are we allowed to reach out for someone's hand when we feel like we can no longer survive alone? Are we allowed to ask for a kiss of life, when we feel like our lungs no longer work on their own? Are we allowed to want a crutch when our bodies no longer support their own weight?
No, it is unthinkable.
We are strong.
No, it is unthinkable.
We are strong.
Monday 4 February 2008
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