On People, Ideas and Law School Distractions.

Today I was overcome by the idea of making little factual labels for the people around me. I am sure I absorbed this idea subconciously from a book I read; that, or all revision and no play over the past damned week has made me a person who sees everything in terms of little study cards.

So while brushing my teeth this morning, I started making mental notecards for all the people I knew, even filing them alphabetically like I would ever be able to achieve in reality (dear friends, update: no, I have not yet achieved the fine art of being organized). The cards would be 85.60mm by 53.98mm, white, type-written, containing the name and just one prominent fact of the said individual, as known to me of course. I would even write the names down the way the university did: Surname, - a nice little comma, then first name, bracketting all "other" names.

It was a great way of examining my relationships with them, reflecting on what I noticed about them, and pondering over their good characters, not least interesting to note that:

"Turk, Alexander:
is sharp."

while

"Sim, Roy (Siong):
bought and renovated a flat."

While dunking my ginger snaps into milk, I encountered the dilemma of whether I should exclude my judgment of the individuals. While biting into the soggy cookie, I realised how it would be impossible to exclude judgments, or at least, separate them from mere facts, if I had to condense an individual into a single statement. I could not, for instance, do any more than conclude that

"Tan, Su Hui:
is defensive."

And then there were categories of people to whom I did not even have to apply such "judgment-facts". These proved much more fascinating, and no less telling of their characteristics or quirks.

Some 'cards' made me stop to ponder the choices that people made.

"Bastrup-Birk, Tancred (Eric):
squints his eyes in concentration."

"Arczynski, Jessica:
wears her hair and nails in a lush red."

Some facts I could not even believe I noticed, and had to register surprise that I've been considering them the most prominent features of the people they were attached to:

Like "Campbell, Kenneth:
wears a navy blue blazer with gold buttons every tutorial."

and

"Watkins, Michael:
holds the opinion that the distinctions between the various forms of the estoppel, on the point that the estoppel cannot be used as a cause of action, should not exist."

And then I was jerked back most awfully into the reality of the upcoming contract law exam. I suppose, in conclusion, that this is why distractions (from studying) are sometimes good for you.

On Ballet

God knows that over these past three months, I have been the antithesis of life, and all things valiant and persevering. Life has never been difficult, so rubbing down my bruising toenails today came with the compulsion to ask - "How do I stop being so shitty at this ballet thing, sir?"

Renato, the fifty year old Brazilian who never teaches a new dance without an accompanying metaphor that would seriously compromise the austerity of ballet, looked up at me. For the first time, I notice the shrewdness in his eyes.'You keep coming every week, like you are doing now,' he says.

I didn't realise he noticed me in class, but I suppose it is a little bit difficult not to notice a hunkering hippo admist the swan lake. But Renato notices even my disbelief, even when two inches off the floor, entangled in arms and legs.


'Keep coming, don't stop. Ballet takes years. Every class you improve 1%. You feel happy you can do first half an hour of class at your level. You cannot jump or turn, but you should feel happy you can point and kick. Like when my boyfriend died, I think to myself, at least I have him for a few years.'

Three months ago, I would've tripped over the awkwardness. But I know only too well now what a sudden swerve like this in a conversation means. He smiles. But just as his legs can rotate without affecting his torso, his mouth turns without affecting his eyes. The awkward silence hangs, and I begin to wonder if I should give him a hug, or slide quietly out the door. But then he breaks the glaze in his eyes and laughs again like the Renato I know from every Thursday.

"The following Thursday, it is my birthday. You know the sushi place outside? I am going to celebrate it there. All of you are invited to join me. If you can, everybody!"

He looks at me again, "You can try this: yoko, mai, yoko, mai." He leaps to his feet, and I trip over mine. He laughs, "I am praticing too, see. I am going to Japan soon!"

In ballet, you hold your head up high and still, even when the floor beneath you slips away. You lift your head to the mirror and smile, even as your toes bleed. You float and touch the ground lightly, even as your muscles scream against gravity. So next Thursday, I will hold my arabesque, even if I feel like crumbling. And I will laugh, especially if I feel like crying, because I have a great teacher.

The wine of their jazz

Kensington Piano Bar

Three married men, two bespectacled, all balding. With an easy, smiling complicity, the wine of their jazz reminds you that 40 is definitely a prime number. The wife of the double bassist takes the chair next to me, occassionally putting down her copy of White Tiger by Aravind Adiga to beam at the of her life, cause of her laugh lines.

Walking a Protest

The Israeli-Hamas conflict sparked a huge protest here in London over the few days straddling the two years. About 5000 people gathered to form a human barrier across the road just outside the Israeli Embassy, where my apartment also happens to be. A protestor started a fire once, but the protest has been otherwise peaceful (though loud). The protestors march up every evening, just as the rush hour traffic comes on. I had to walk with them (too briefly) one day to get back to my apartment and I got a glimpse of who they really were - Palestinian men, women and their children. Some of them were crying, others in a daze. I saw a little girl in a pink jacket, possibly no older than 3 years of age, dragging a sign that said "STOP THE GENOCIDE" behind her, like an evil toy. I'm not sure why she was there. Though I am not sure what good a demonstration would do, it was moving, to say the least, to see so many people motivated by a purpose, a hope, an ideal, and worse to know that they were crying for loved ones.


(Londoners have sunk into complaining about how the demonstrations disrupt their traffic routes, and the world hasn’t stopped spinning.)

Preliminary Suicide of A Desolation

So I will let the frost consume me
And dusk crawl to my fingertips
The spiders of cold to ravage my lungs
And life to scuttle away
A moment now, any moment
I will be spared from thawing.

(It snowed in Central London today, briefly, lightly, beautifully)

Yes, you can save me

No resolution for the year.

My New Year's page comes a day late, but the Gods of the Future, of all entities, should not condemn me for not observing tradition, I think. But this year, I notice that this is exactly how it is: just another day. The autumn academic year that straddles the two calandars doesn't allow for a big upheaval of material goals and goods, and I grudgingly admit that 'spirit' is rarely thick enough to surivive without accompanying materialism. I have not woken up to a clean slate either, today, and the day after and after, remains dusted with the grit of 2008.

It has been a good year: one that opened my eyes, my heart and unfolded my spine. I have begun to see the world and all its people, and some of them. I am no longer watched: no one to chart my progress, no one to witness my achievement, no one to anticipate my future, no one to examine and explore my mind and body. I am watching now, and learing more than ever. I have come one full circle, back into a respite of anticipation and fear. Freedom masters too many of us that it fetters me.

But I welcome the year, the world. And perhaps one day, in some corner of the future, it will welcome me, too.