charm's blog

On People, Ideas and Law School Distractions.

2009-05-07T11:42:00.005+01:00

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

2009-03-05T22:19:00.008Z

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

2009-02-15T22:53:00.002Z

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

2009-01-07T20:24:00.003Z

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

2009-01-05T22:17:00.011Z

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

2009-01-04T14:00:00.001Z

No resolution for the year.

2009-01-02T10:14:00.006Z

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.

I will attend to the trees and their gracious silence that to winds move

2008-12-30T10:48:00.010Z

since I was not bewitched in adolescence and brought to love

I cannot believe it has been a whole month since I last posted. In other words, I have been single for nearly a month now. (To the person who tagged "I smell love in the air", damn you) This journey of incomprehensible grief has been tiring: obsessing over the past sickens me now, and all imagined futures refuse to shed their feathers. I am once again suspended in some kind of brutal limbo that the coward in me wishes I could sleep away. Perhaps, it is as Jervis has said, in spite of everything, I've truly fallen in love with you, sunshine, but you have grown cold. I've packed my bags for a while now, and I leave with too many words unspoken: but perhaps, sleeping dogs should be left to lie. Do I wish I could have done it over, done it better, not done it at all? I won't pretend: Yes, I do. But I cant unfry an egg, so I must take the lessons that come with it and emerge.

I am slowly crawling back into life and all its wonders - how can one not?

Sorrow is so consuming I've forgotten that 2008 has gained me a wealth of experience, love and beyond. Life has found me, now I have to suck the marrow out of it.

On romance

2008-11-30T21:23:00.005Z

- he enviably reminds one of Peter Pan, indulges in women, wine and song ( and I'm not even using clichés) though he has both feet planted firmly onto the ground. He's unassuming, kindhearted, intelligent, loves art, and a fantastic lover. I am continually surprised that he is actually not bad looking (he protests, he thinks he's "very hamsome"). For all of five, six (?) glorious weeks, we shared a dizzying, immediate attraction. I was growing convinced that I had tripped into something possibly, possibly special, but the circumstances are proving difficult for us to carry on. He's a decade older, and being in a relationship with a mere 19 year old is, as he expresses, absolutely unpractical. I think my heart is breaking (only just) a little. It's probably futile, and too late, to regret the investments I made (now likely lost). It would be a lie to say there were no warnings, there were plenty; still, I should be upset with his apparently false kisses, but I can't bring myself to be. How do you blame him, who dreams of a real, beautiful future? I am fine, though.
We are holding on to a kind of limbo, but I'm not sure for how much longer. I am giving him space to sort his issues out, because I think that's how he ticks. On my end, though, I am left to play the reactionary role - I must wait for his decision, which doesn't seem fair at first, but the alternative is more unfair: a relationship with an unwilling, unsure and unfulfilled party. I am being most rational, but it still hurts (only just) a little.

Camden Town

2008-11-03T21:33:00.010Z

Camden Town boasts streets and streets of markets, but unlike Portobello Market, things here are affordable. The magic is of a different kind, and the people here shout, 'if we can't be rich, let's just be weird.'

This pub sits at the mouth of Camden Town, swallowing spent shoppers, completing the intoxication. It claims to be the largest in the world, and I promise you that I have no photo of the interior of this pub shows that they're shitting you not.

For the record, while we were at Horse Tunnel Market, a beautifully calm voice (framed by the most lullaby-like siren I have ever heard) came over the speakers urging everyone to evacuate the building 'due to an emergency'. I laughed, and Mdm Enid Blyton at the antique ornament stand laughed back. And then she stopped, "Fuck honey, this is for real" - and that was the last I saw of her.

I can't believe she swore.

Vintage Car Rally, Regent Street

2008-11-02T16:34:00.006Z

'Tis not hereafter

2008-10-25T18:00:00.003+01:00

O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear; your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low:
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

from the tirelessly re-read, Twelfth Night

London Calling

2008-10-25T09:51:00.011+01:00

The Strand from the Waterloo Bridge. Sunday, 19 Oct 08

Denmark Street, Friday, 24 Oct 08

At the junction of Tottenham Court Road and Windmill Street, Friday, 24 Oct 08

I am properly falling in love with London now, the place where bodies found under trains cause but minor disruptions to the Westminister crowd, where strays provide shelter to homeless people, where museums that hold the most famous paintings of all time are in turn hosted by bright graffiti, where free runners boast among men with stiff black coats, where houses are old and people are new, where rivers are proper divides and bridges real roads, where Europe is a playground park and Asia is indoors, where stony actors bump into laughing stockbrokers on the Tube, where everyone reads The London Paper on the tube and leaves them like seats for the next man in the bowler hat.

It is humbling and small to be a Londoner, to stand as a speck on the Waterloo Bridge knowing that the embers on your cigarette (not that I smoke) cannot burn more brightly than the stream of headlights both overhead and underground. If you stop to breathe, the crowd will walk through you, but on the The London Paper tomorrow, on the page titled "London Love", you know you'll find a two-lined poem asking to meet the sad raven-haired girl who stood still last night, and you will wonder just how many people will answer to this London's call.

And I know you don't care for London, and it does not inspire your dreams. But London is where I am, where (I now know) you will never be.

Like jewellery?

2008-10-20T02:38:00.003+01:00

Don't fight your inner flower princess!
Yuelin's jewellery blog!

And then I knew I was my own misery

2008-10-18T21:21:00.007+01:00

"Shit, I'm the only Chinese in this freaking competition," I told my new teammate, surveying the 60-team debate tornament.

"Yeah, and I'm the only tall guy with blue eyes and brown hair."

What a wonderful world.

An exercise in contextualisation

2008-10-15T00:33:00.007+01:00

“Can see not? Can see not?”

KS’s raised chin was a poor substitute for the conventional pointing finger – now too deep within his orange Crumpler bag to be of any use.

“No.”

It was mildly exasperating sometimes to be with KS. Every muscle in his body seemed to be dedicated to a different activity. He never walked. He had to run, jump, skip, stride. And talk about three hundred different things at the same time. Now he was talking about the laksa he had for lunch.

“KS! Where is it!”

“Aiyah. You very lousy leh. We’re almost there – now can you see it?”

A temple of red and gold emerged from the thick of Kensington Gardens. Fortified by gates of scarlet rings, guarded by statues of the four main continents, on a dais of white stone steps, there sat the gold likeness of Prince Albert, reclining in a dome that promised to extend to the heavens. That was the measure of a Queen’s royal love.

“Damn cool. You know the story not? Prince Albert was the husband of Queen Victoria. They loved each other a lot. Like, a damned lot: they had eight children –“

“Why is their having eight children a measure of their love –“

KS silenced me with a glance and ruffled back into his theatrics. “Prince Albert died really young. When he died, the Queen very sad, so she built this thing for him. Cool right?”

He lowered himself into a squat and squinted up at the monumental love, dropping his customary social flippancy for a moment. I sat next to him, and in that moment, we held a woman’s immeasurable grief between our two shoulders.

“When my Ah Pa died, my Ma put a chicken out.”

“Oh, KS…”

My sympathy was shorted by the rudely modern sound of a digital shutter closing in my face. KS smiled softly behind the small camera he held up.

“Okay kid. I’m going. Got to work.” He was up on his feet again. The romance of history was truly past. He pulled out a tie from his bag that seemed to hold all the wonders of the world and ran it around his collar.

“Don’t so sad leh. You’ll learn to love your new home. Maybe you’ll be like me – don’t wanna go back.”

“Habitat.” I corrected. Not home. But KS’s newly oiled Clarks were skipping along the pavement. I watched as his receding figure was stopped by an American – no, Frenchman – all Caucasians looked like – who asked for directions to Gloucester Road.

“Gloucester? Right, take the left turn at the second junction from this way. Walk straight ahead and it should be just beyond the Zambian Embassy house. Did you get that?” KS clipped.

The man smiled his thanks, and the boy whom I grew up with in an island far away picked himself up a little taller and walked on into the streets of London.

Soho

2008-10-05T22:42:00.010+01:00

Soho is a wonderful place filled with people from the fringe, high on the chimney smoke of commercial giants that makes real the illusionary possibility of success. Prices are high, men and women are cheap, and the lights are unfazed by the English rain.

20th Century Fox offices

Bloomsbury Headquarters

Paul McCartney's recording studio

No. 54 Dean Street, where Big Brother believes Karl Marx once put up.

Second hand (art)bookshop.

Ever wondered?

My Life in London

2008-10-05T22:37:00.001+01:00

Love is Portobello on a Weekend Morning

2008-09-20T15:57:00.019+01:00

Portobello Market
begins here

The people of Portobello

You look wonderful, I told her, may I take your photo? And she smiled.

He sang American Pie with a voice that went straight through my heart.

The most beautiful stranger I've ever met.

Viagra, Pot, Paris, London

(The Good Fairy is a rabbit hole to jewellery wonderland.)

Of course, no trip to Portobello should be without the frivolous Notting Hill fanatic chase (but I was on business... for the Hugh Grant Appreciation Club). I couldnt tell which was The Blue Door, so I took a photo of every blue door I could find..

This has to be it. The Blue Door. Who am I to argue with a sign?

But I secretly wish it could've been this one. Right where we began, only I didn't see it at first. Sign says: " Secret Beer Garden @ the Rear. Come snog in safety, they'll never know!"

Signing off,

your comrade

The Last Day

2008-09-06T08:21:00.007+01:00

This is the last day.

I am aching all over and grouchy and my suitcase is 10 kilograms over the limit. Book loans long overdue sit on the dining table, which has been a war zone of unpacked leftovers fighting for attention for the last few days now, and I tell myself I have to find a way to send them all to their respective homes at the airport. My handphone is jammed from the flood of affection the nanyang girls undammed last night, and I leave it choked in case the love I am still waiting for isn't as substantial as I need it to be.

We rush out to our favourite fishball noodle shop for breakfast, then visit my grandparents. My grandparents are beginning their day like they have done for the last half a century. We tease my grandfather and ask him if he wants to go to England with me - he laughs and says in doddering Hainanese he does not speak English. I laugh. Then I catch my father's eye and remember that it was my grandfather who took me when I first started Primary school. He stood outside the classroom the whole day, looking at my seven year old self through the brown window panels. I say in my carefully rehearsed Hainanese (at a speed of 3 words per minute), "Gong gong, I am going to England tonight."

Then we do our last minute shopping - instant noodles in my favourite flavours, more health supplements, more food. My brother insists on getting a pair of new shoes for himself as well, and I am glad that the focus is no longer on me (or my stomach).

The last errand for the day remains, we have yet to buy enough English pounds. I forgot all about money. My parents take the car out and leave me to collect my life. So this is my last day.

My sister gives me a silver, heart-shaped locket with photos of the whole family in it. It is a beautiful. My brother gives me a spork - a spoon and fork combined, with a knife's edge, he explains. I wonder why "knife" doesn't get featured in its name. It could've been called a sporfe, I guess, but then even I know that it sounds much less marketable than a spork. Some things have to be left out. I leave all my pajamas in the closet, and I place my favourite sneakers-with-three-holes by the door. They will be here for me when I get back.

I am dreading going to the airport. There will be those who will cry, those who will make me cry, and those who will wave cheerily and overlook the knife's edge.

This is the last day. But it is also the day before tomorrow.

Chicken Soup for the Ego

2008-09-04T03:25:00.003+01:00

King's College.

Hm, Oxford? Cambridge?

Uh... London.

Aha! Excellent choice.

In other words, I have armtwisted the affections of my friends..

2008-09-03T02:58:00.008+01:00

You know what makes me feel really good? People who promise to write (not type), especially if they don't particularly like to, but do it anyway because they know how much I love getting mail. (Of course, in one case it was guilt, but it's all the same to me..) What's the point of being 6754 miles away if I don't get snail mail, right?

Extra brownie points for (s)he who promises to write neatly.
(:

I'll Keep My Eyes on the Prize

2008-08-31T16:10:00.004+01:00

BFF smacked me right across the ego and said that my leaving should be a happy and exciting thing. Considering how I made a pact with life not too long ago to "get me to London or else"... my leaving should at the very least, be a satisfying outcome. So I was forced, rather painfully, to reflect on my perpetual expression of doom.

I think it is the weight of unfinished business that I find difficult to bear. An absence counted in years doesn't make the heart grow fonder, I'm sure, and the taut strings of threadbare relations threaten now more than ever.

Packing brings the uneasy decision of defining this trip as a "stay" or "live" in London. The only certain detail of this trip is that I will be at least 22 when I return. It is a large chasm, widened further by the vast potential promised by these prime years of my life. And all the things I've wanted to do here, with the people here, are starting to call out to me. It kills me that the other thing that grows more certain is that I'm running out of time. And opportunities.

I looked at my dad this morning and realised he was old. I've walked alongside him for the last 19 years, but I don't know how he got to this greying stage, with a crook in his back and an ache in his leg. Over the next three years, I wonder how much I'll notice with my occassional appearances in the form of video calls and bills.

Perhaps now I am atoning for the largely selfish reason of broadening the mind I used to apply overseas - or maybe this is the exact lesson I was craving for: a good jolt to broaden my mind.

But I am not all sad. This leaving is the price for the reality of my romantic dream. I have paid my dues, and now, I'll keep my eyes on the prize.

Perhaps my heart really is a red red rose.

2008-08-27T09:46:00.006+01:00

If a broken heart is entirely metaphorical, why does the chest actually clench inside? Why does it actually hurt?

I googled a heartbreak, like all self-respecting curious persons would. No doctor explains the physical manifestation of this emotion, and no poet prescribes a remedy.

2008-08-26T16:47:00.003+01:00

Even between haphazard packing and shuttling between meetings like getai singers, life managed to squeeze in one big lesson anyway. It was a spectacular lesson - one spanning across the entire syllabus, covering Fragility, Carpe Diem and Friendship all at once, and in the signature style of life, one big rude surprise.

In what was supposed to be a farewell dinner of sorts among Jervis, Hong Zheng, Colin, Adele and me, Grace ended up in the Accident & Emergency unit with a fractured skull and a bruised frontal lobe. My mind is still twisting around the details, but to the best of my ability: the dinner somehow turned into a cycling expedition at Pulau Ubin, Adele couldn't make it, Jervis fell sick and Grace was invited in stead. And Grace - sports junkie, cycling pro Grace was thrown into the air like a rag doll 10 metres in front of me and landed head-first, face-down into the shrubbery and didn't move.

It took nearly ten minutes for the boys to realise we didn't catch up, and when they did, Grace had lost some 10 minutes of her memory and the sky turned into a sea. Between rousing Grace, washing her wounds, and trekking around to pick up her strewn belongings and getting help, I didn't have time to freak out, but now, I think I am thankful that the boys arrived at that point. We took her to a shelter and because we had the good sense to pick an offshore, rural island with no phone reception, the boys pedalled through the storm to get a ride.

At the A&E, we laughed the day off as we huddled outside the observation unit, shaking off the beads of rain. Then the next day, she was back in - with a crack that ran through the base of her skull to her forehead and sensory malfunction.

I am afraid now. I am afraid of how danger lurks behind sunny island-mornings and youthful laughter. And how even as her insides are broken, the eye cannot detect a difference in Grace. I've learnt now not to trust the lithe nymph of normalcy, but I know we cannot live in fear and trembling.. perhaps I will have mastered this lesson when I know how to draw up this fine balance.

Late Night Coffee with Jack

2008-08-17T15:40:00.033+01:00

13 Aug 2008

It was the blueprint of meeting between two people in a feel-good movie: the kind that happens just before one of the two people dies. In the movie of my life, Jack would be the one to perish, of course, for the availability of a convenient C.O.D. (conscripted life in the depths of the Bruneian Jungles) if nothing else. And I would sit in an obscure corner at his funeral, watching the dearly beloved wail his virtues and touch his cold cheek. I would sit silently, numb with the secret of our perfect rendevous, almost doubting if it ever was.

He walked me back as we tried not to talk about us. Bye, he said carelessly, but with that look in his eye that pierced souls. Bye, I said with all the gravity I could muster, but leaving the only way I knew how: a receeding silhouette of indifference.

2008-08-13T17:00:00.001+01:00

Coffee and popcorn are always better when they remain as ideas, and not food in me.

2008-08-12T16:42:00.004+01:00

Somebody's Always Saying Goodbye
Anne Murray

Railroad station, midnight trains
Lonely airports in the rain
And somebody stands there with tears in their eyes
It's the same old scene, time after time
That's the trouble with all mankind
somebody's always sayin goodbye
Taxi cabs leave in the night
Greyhound buses with red tail lights
Someone's leavin and someone's left behind
Well i dont know how things got that way
But every place you look these days
Somebody's always sayin goodbye

2008-08-03T15:11:00.002+01:00

1. I went cycling at East Coast Park on Sunday night with the family. Butt hurts, but never had more fun. Sea breeze, (relative) speed, family, and great food.

2. Dinner at Seng Kee's tonight with Grandma and family. Fantastic. My Grandma kicks ass. Durians later at Four Seasons Durian Cafe - snobby name for a roadside display of tables with the most heavenly durians. I think I'm in heaven.

(:

Things I wish I could change

2008-07-31T15:21:00.008+01:00

I love receiving text messages that share an interesting thought, or a new muse, or a beautiful line, or ask lovingly how a day has been.

But people dont do these things very often anymore, do they? They prefer to message to remind, to make future arrangements, or to condense another source of information.

Felix Cheong taught me to write SMS poetry. He showed me how the constraints of a text message could be turned into the discipline of craft, how words from a text message didn't always have to be so neglectably transparent.

But he didn't tell me who I could send them to.

This is what I hope "3 hrs of contact time per week" means.

2008-07-29T08:44:00.002+01:00

I could love University life! :D :D :D

It's so easy to love a piece of land.

2008-07-29T06:10:00.011+01:00

I've been meaning to take my Singapore Tours for so long, but I've finally realised I've got it all wrong. I don't want to study and photograph the streets of Singapore, I want to live on them, in them.

I fell in love with Still Road and its Changi and Joo Chiat appendages the other night. The eateries, noisy and loud and run in arrogant dialect, sprawled across pavement and road, durians tossed continuously out of trucks like some Broadway parody, people from all walks of life in T-shirts and slippers, holding hands - and I think to myself, what's there not to love? And the cars - little worlds of yellow light buzzing up and down - they tell me that hundreds of other families feel the same way I do. My attachment certainly isn't one of childhood familiarity (my landscaped, avant-garde, globalised childhood). The streets have a charm I cannot fight. I need to be able to put on my crummy made-in-Pattaya flipflops and smell the living world.

Time is a growing consideration, especially when I notice all the hawkers and durian sellers are old and nicotine-rotted. How many of them will die out in the years to come? I made a small speech that roused the MPs and several reporters at a youth forum a couple of weeks ago about heritage and building conservation, but I secretly fear that conservation is a losing battle. The future is inevitable in more ways than one.

I am trying to live your Tumultous Love

2008-07-26T10:57:00.007+01:00

Last night, it hit me that I walked through the Zouk's Beatnik party, a gazillion pubs and the glory of Clarke Quay without ever once feeling a part of it. It didn't help that I was flanked by Seng and Yunsong, who (between them two) define young adulthood.

I can't decide if my life is stuck in the dormancy of a child, or sedateness of an old person. Whatever it is, I am not my age. I feel almost sorry for my friends who have to skip around the clubbing scene and other loud and young-adult championing activities to keep my company.

My life is interesting, and will always be, but my youth is a silence, my prime is a void.

(I have reverted to the bad habit of living for the future.)

It's never too late.

2008-07-08T15:42:00.005+01:00

Mr T won the MOE graduate scholarship to study film! Grown-up Mr T, married Mr T. He'll be relocating his whole family to London, or to USA, he doesn't know which yet.

His glow of excitement was infectious, all the more precious because it emerged from a pallor of doubt. It means so much for someone so settled in his life to pluck out those roots and chase dreams again. I loved the way he was generous with his lessons, how he always had a ready smile and a patient ear. I love more his indomitable spirit (I've never used that phrase before - "indomitable spirit").

Geek Moment.

2008-07-01T05:45:00.009+01:00

This is why I hauled my butt down to physics lectures for 6 years, and listen to Colin. Really.

I shall not pretend that I'm not also excited by the frivolous knowledge of how freaking laaaaaarge a machine has to be to check out protons. 2.7358 x 10^4m versus 10^-15m! (I'm allowed to - my miserable, mere mortal mind cannot fully comprehend such fantastic science.)

Oh, and I finally own a copy of The Philosophy of Andy Warhol (from A to B and back again) from the Whitney Museum! Laughed till I cried. I don't understand why everybody doesn't love Andy. I'm in love.

Charm has a dream!

2008-06-30T10:29:00.002+01:00

I want to work in a car repair shop. You know, open up cars, tweak engines, haul tyres, get dirty.
:D :D

The boy who taught me it was okay to let go

2008-06-27T06:23:00.009+01:00

I couldn't have been more than ten and still suffering acutely from my childhood fear of losing things. He was the boy who lived in the corner unit, down the half of the corridor in which we never played. He was ducking like a spy behind the railing that kept us from falling seven storeys onto the pavement, popping up every now and then to shoot a playing card-dart at his demoniacal nemesis disguised as a puff of cloud.

What are you doing, I asked, outraged that he didn't realise he would never get those playing cards back.

Shooting, he said. A five of spades catapulted out into the sky and was duly licked up by a tongue of wind.

I don't want them anymore, he explained, sensing my stiff upper lip and quavering knees. He stopped and looked at me. Try it, he said, and put an ace in my hand. I rolled my eyes and flicked it outward with two fingers the way he showed me. The ace sliced our blue bit of sky beautifully.

Whoa, he exclaimed. Together, we finished the deck.

Off To New York!

2008-06-01T14:20:00.002+01:00

Won't be taking calls or messages till 13 June.

Life, at the moment, is a mess.

An interesting mess. But I will sort it out soon, I promise.

Starbucks in the Hospital.

2008-05-16T03:43:00.006+01:00

The service guy behind the counter has put on a new CD - Latino, or something. He puts a spin on his heel as he froths the milk. Seven doctors sit on the the centre couch discussing work over coffee, ocassionally cracking a joke, occasionally leafing through the magazine rack. Two men sit in another corner, business suits bent over serious matters, trying not to melt their starched bodies. I sit at the last corner alone, spent from making phonecalls, in a blue armchair taken from a childhood dream, sipping a grande latte.

A bit of perspective goes a long way.

2008-05-14T06:42:00.004+01:00

Lord I'm (going to be) one,
Lord I'm two,
Lord I'm three,
Lord I'm four,
Lord I'm
6754 miles away from home.

The Old Man in Bed 56

2008-05-13T14:31:00.009+01:00

makes an odd rasping sound. It takes a while for me to realise it is deliberate. I scan his bio-data almost automatically, reading his 84 years in 6 lines and 1 alphabet. He speaks Malay.

I go to him. The odd rasping sounds are words.

What do you need, Uncle? I ask, in spite of the language. I think I catch the word tandas, which means toilet, I think. A thick canvas chord runs industriously around his waist and behind the mattress. I’ve seen those chords before – bundled by every bed. I know that on some nights, when family isn't around to, they hug my grandfather to sleep. But I have never seen them in use. Until now. I do not understand him. I put my hand on his loose shoulder, trying to pretend that his thoughts would seep through his stained pajamas and diffuse into my arm.

He tries to sit up, but the green vines catch his vertebras and root them. I tell him I will get the nurse. I try to speak with my eyes, but I don’t really know how to.

The nurse hurries in; a young Chinese girl who immediately picks up the sharp, loud voice of every nurse, doctor and officer that enters the geriatric ward. The old man is getting frustrated. She croons and cajoles and probes. In Hokkien. I cringe and tell her he speaks Malay. Her plastic face falls to her feet and scuttles away to bring back a Malay colleague.

Apa? The second nurse calls into the hollow of bed 56. The other patients begin to stir and frown. Uncle 56 relaxes gratefully into familiar words. He begins to explain. The nurses are tightening the knots.

He’s demented lah, the second nurse flicks a laugh carelessly. The two nurses giggle, link arms and leave.

The rasping begins all over again. I cover my ears and sit tightly by my grandfather at the other end of the ward.

The rasping is no more. Now I am sure I heard the word tandas.

They said I could be a writer, so I tried

2008-05-11T08:10:00.007+01:00

"The whole history dwindled soon into a matter of little importance but to Emma and her nephews: - in her imagination it maintained its ground, and Henry and John were still asking every day for the story of Harriet and the gipsies, and still tenaciously setting her right if she varied in the slightest particular from the original recital."

-- Jane Austen, Emma.

Fiction, written with an austere pen trying too hard to be a debonair, has taken over my life. It always begins with some kind of expedition to uncover some kind of small truth, and always, ends in a smothering, woolen fabrication (never free-size), marked with a price tag.

I think what I'm trying to say is that I suck, but I do it anyway. Shucks.

A Memory.

2008-05-10T15:03:00.014+01:00

He would place his hand just briefly, barely, briefly over mine (like a promise), putting his body slightly forward (like a shield) whenever we were about to cross a road. I would stand still and silent (like marble, or glass), hardly daring to breathe (hardly daring to be real). I always wondered if he would let his brushing fingertips slip through mine and pick my hand up.

(How fragile a memory that belongs only to me! The danger passes, we are on the other side, and you let go, as if it never was (and we never were). Nobody to check back with, nobody to witness - even my own eyes never stopped upon the small space between your body and mine where my memory lingers.)

On Dying.

2008-05-09T15:14:00.004+01:00

Once you catch the smell dead and rotting human flesh, it never really leaves you - until you start to wonder if the stench really comes from within you.

Eh Buddies

2008-05-08T14:31:00.005+01:00

We don't have much time left! Apart from the time I'll be spending in New York next month, I'm just a phone call/message away until... it's too late. (:

I'm calling you lah, but you must also take initiave what.

(My wings! I can feel them growing.)

A Dinner

2008-05-04T04:58:00.008+01:00

Dinner at Yunsong's last night, with Olivia and Karweng. And of course, Yunsong.

If I ever need a moment to confirm the realisation that writing never perfectly captures a thought or feeling, this would be it.

Everything began on Wednesday or Thursday, 23rd or 24th of April 2008 in a white envelop I couldn't recognise, bearing the words "Ms Charmaine Han" and my address. I wondered so hard what it could be I didn't even wait till my standard post-dinner treatment of mail. It was a black card, handmade, bearing Yunsong's unfamiliar but known elaborate signature. An invitation to (a homecooked!)dinner! I couldn't stop smiling for the rest of the week. In all honesty, if everything had stopped with that card, I'd still be over the moon.

I thought the day would never come since the invitation bore no date I could count down to or mark on my dandy new calendar in bright colours. But it did come - last night. Yunsong, Karweng, Olivia and I had a lovely dinner of Asian Style Shrimp Soup (we still don't know which part of Asia), Coq de Vin (the french way of chicken romantically marinated with red wine), asparagus wrapped in raw ham (the fine dining way), carrots sweated in orange juice and herb, and home made custard (which tasted like chawanmushui that soon gave way to vanilla. We are no chefs, obviously). I hate cooking, ordinarily, but I think I would cook everday - okay, every month - if the three of them were around. I would have never imagined friendship could lead to a dimly lit dining room washed out with our favourite songs, over a lavish dinner.

Cooking is love. I am now convinced that I'd have to be thoroughly, ridiculously, compulsively and hopelessly in love to slave in the kitchen to touch the insides of smoeone else (or helplessly indebted). Even knowing the wonderfully romanticised person Yunsong is, the dinner - its planning, finery and effort - took my breath away. His handwritten cooking notes were planned in quantities for two, but I wouldn't have guessed he how he originally wanted it with the enthusiasm displayed at the suggestion of turning it into a gathering. But I think it was just lovely the way it happened. If it had been any more intimate, I think I might have taken him in the kitchen and ruined us forever. Men who cook romantically are not to be resisted.

For the sheer effort that went into that single dinner, I think my heart moved a little. (I think I'm still in awe of Yunsong's parents too, who took everything in their stride and played amazing hosts to the point where I felt really bad.) I wish I had better ways of describing how immensely nice it was to be laughing among Karweng and Olivia, chopping stuff, making messes and injuring each other.

I have given up. I have stopped seeing things as beginnings or ends in Life's plot. Only moments. Beautiful moments.

The Nineteenth Year

2008-04-26T07:20:00.012+01:00

I was born roughly around this hour, nineteen years ago. I'm still not sure if mommy's regretting having her then-nubile figure ruined for life, underside split open, and then coerced into signing a lifelong contract of responsibility and worry.

It has been a good year. Although if it is true that 18 is when you look better than you ever will in your life, then I think I am going to be a witch. But apart from that, I think this year, I am little bit more sure of myself. I have decided that I am super (and Steven says lovable, hahaha), and I'm going to stay that way (and more lovable). (:

I am no longer afraid of the future (because I'm lovable), and I tell those who ask now with confidence that I want to be a(n) (lovable) academic. So between now and those golden years (my aim is 50), I am interested in (in no order of merit) 1) understanding public policy 2) changing the world 3) keeping my mind sharp 4) living and making art. Of course, I still wish I could be a doctor, a brilliant mathematician, a rocket scientist, a truck driver, a star, steven spielberg etc. But I think growing up is about finding your centre. Unfortunately, a little bit of me will always be off-centre, but I'm learning that it isn't always a bad thing.

I have left Kate and Josh behind for a while now, because I am no longer afraid. Tough decisions are still tough, but I am looking forward to making them. I no longer live in the fear of losing people to the complexity of the future. I think the three musketeers taught me a little about this one. Curiously enough, there has been absolutely nothing I can rely on to say that I'll see Mingy and Steven again in the future, but I have never felt more at peace. In the sweetest of birthday gifts, Steven gave me a special book, inscribed with the invitation to think of him when I'm feeling lonely in "little Britain". I'm packing the book to London. It has already begun - we lost our Third Musketeer to Tekong yesterday. But I have a feeling we've got a small something going that's going to persist for life in occasional coincidences and guileless camaraderie (like shoe shopping). (And puppy-balloon surprises)

Shum, Eleen and KC renewed my faith in humanity and friendship all over again when they dragged my flu-ridden butt out to celebrate my 'early birthday'. We dont see each other except on birthdays anymore, but we still call each other best friends. I can't say it to their freckled faces, but they mean more to me than mushrooms (which means a bloody lot). Time stops when we meet and we're 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19 all at once. It broke my heart that they thought to do all this, even till this day, when we all live our own separate lives. Their love came in a pretty, dollish, miniature drawer set to pack to London. (I am going to feel very loved in London)

(P.S. I will also need a bolster, a huggable teddy bear, some bedroom slippers, a mug for milo and someone to tell me bedtime stories)

Something has changed, but I don't know what, or why. But something has changed such that I can now face Perm Secs, CEOs, hardened professors and tell them what I am going to say will sound idealistic, but I am unapologetic. It has changed such that I can look at the hands waving goodbye and remember that I know how they feel when holding me, instead of feel the growing distance. Something has changed.

My heart has not grown wiser, but it has grown more honest. The World has been an intensive classroom, and I am an enthusiastic student. I thank the many many who have loved lucky me - I feel it and I will always be grateful.

I wish sometimes that I had a hand to hold along this wonderful new path, to share beauty and fears, but for now, it must be enough to know that many lone hands are walking down this same path too.

2008-04-23T05:40:00.002+01:00

I do believe that Ming and Steven are just about the most adorable people on earth.

A Happy Woman.

2008-04-21T08:56:00.001+01:00

The curious thing about Waterloo Street was the way it glowed with all the colours of the rainbow even in the black of night. It was almost difficult to understand its pink and green fluorescence. Waterloo Street was sleeping; the neon signs of motels and shops leaned in soft afterglow against the sturdy backs of resting temples. Between day and day, between trains of commuters, between masses of devotees, this moment, when Waterloo Street slept, she claimed as her own.

Breaking the silence, her heels tapped rhythmically against the red road, although she told them to contain themselves. Perhaps she was the phosphorous heart of this glow-worm. Why, even her ears must be luminous now. Perhaps that was why the shiny lamps of the street were so bright – they reflected the tips of her ears.

The lotuses of the morning lingered, spirits of the hopeful who came and wished and wished at the chalked feet of the immobile idols. Their earnestness left but mortal traces - wilting leaves too unpretty for the altar and old sandals forgotten after prayer.

But she was not one of them tonight. She threw a wave to the standing gods, and laughed deep into the night.

Charm is a little bit confused.

2008-04-18T13:39:00.007+01:00

My passage to London (and anywhere in the world should I please) has been bought! I am hearing that the world should be my oyster now, and Life is welcoming me with open arms. Yet, shuffling between prisons, psychiatric remand wards, hospitals and other help clinics, I feel like everyday is a battle with Death.

Perhaps all these is supposed to help me learn to appreciate life more.

Grandfather's condition - critical.

Mom cried when I told her I got the scholarship.

Dad laughed, but the lines of sleepless nights didn't go away.

But at least now, I've fulfilled that promise I made to myself. I've earned my education, so I don't have to bear the pain of my parents' love which would have propelled them to send me overseas even without a scholarship, at their expense. Now it doesn't have to be the un-makeable choice between my brother's special needs education or mine. Now my parents can have their retirement scheme. Now my grandpa can have better medical care. The best.

I am remembering a person I almost left behind.

2008-04-15T15:37:00.004+01:00

The only thing that keeps him from being someone Left Behind is the leash of conscience that tugs his memory away from oblivion. But I don't have the guts to call him. I don't know if the line he once told me was always open to me is an offer that still stands.

He was - I use the past tense on him because my present doesnt dare claim him - a very curious man. A rather tiny one too, for I don't believe he was very much taller than me. The first and only time I met him, he was wearing weathered skin beaten brown by the suns of various continents and denim covered in sprays of emulsion paint. They were torn too, I think.

Scrutinising this memory, I realise that the only thing I truly remember are his eyes - large and beautiful, like a girl's, with a ring of black lash that seemed too dainty for the rest of him. But even then, I can't remember their real colour.

Oh, I remember his voice too. When I first heard it over the phone some time between 11 pm and 12 am, I remember thinking, "What a burly man he must be!" His voice was deep and like what Ms Kee would have called "like God's". God with a China-man's American twang.

"Oh, Charmaine." He laughed throatily, more to himself than to me. He had been waiting for my call, he said. He knew me before I knew him.

I believe he would be in his late thirties now. I could never decide if he was young or old. He tried to make me call him "Father", but mostly, we alternated between "Friend" and "Shi Fu".

For a number of weeks (I don't remember how many), we conversed exclusively over the phone. It was like Sophie's World and I was Sophie. Instead of letters, technology intervened and I got phonecalls. He was an artist, I was his new project. A live one, and one that would possibly succeed him.

My first lesson was so crisp I suspect he fried it into my brains. He never allowed me to call him Mr Lim. Only by his first name, and later, diminutive.

But what about Respect, I asked.

Respect isn't accorded by age. Besides, respect isn't about using pretentious addresses.

Nonetheless, it took me over a month to say the words exactly the way he wanted.

He told my art teachers he wanted to adopt me. He wanted to take me out of school and train me to become an artist. He wanted to take me to Venice.

But I stayed in school. I stayed in Singapore. I stayed Student-and-by-the-way-doing-Art. Not Artist. Not Apprentice.

He told me about his career, his ideas, his lovelife (he made me write poems on his behalf to court his lost love). He lent me books. He lent me movies.

I listened. I learnt. I lived.

I don't know what happened, but the phonecalls stopped. I got busy. I supposed he got busy too. Busier.

He dropped me a couple of messages a year later, now two years back. I can't say for sure if I replied them.

I hope he found a better Sophie.

I wish I could have been that better Sophie.

The Grandfather

2008-04-15T15:05:00.005+01:00

Is it crowded out there?

No Grandpa, just a couple of people milling.

That's not good. It's seven - almost dinner time. There should be a crowd.

Maybe later. People will come after work.

Is the staff busy?

There are always things to do, Grandpa. Always someone needing a spoon, or napkin, or help.

The families should be here soon. It's only right.

Yes, they should.

Is that roast duck I smell?

No, porridge. No roast duck here.

Porridge! Porridge is not good enough!

Roast duck is not good for health.

Not for me - for the banquet! The lady in white - is she coming over?

No, Grandpa. She's going into the pantry.

Why? Get her out. The bride should not have to bother with the kitchen personally.

Grandpa -

The boys dont listen these days! You must treat your customers like king! Call her over. I will apologise.

Grandpa -

Call her over.

But -

I said call her! Are you disobeying me?

Alright Grandpa. Here comes the nurse.

Until it comes

2008-04-13T15:15:00.002+01:00

Pain is _____________________.

I can't find the right words.

Charm ponders about Life.

2008-04-11T15:54:00.003+01:00

The first thing about the geriatric ward is the sharp stench of urine and other bodily wastes. It hits you and tries to knock you out, so hopefully, you don't stay long enough for the second thing: old, dying people.

But you have to.

And you learn that 8 am feels likes 6pm and Friday feels exactly like Tuesday did. And that it doesn't take much to do the things you once thought you'd never be able to do without flinching. And that you can love someone who doesn't even know your name. And that hope is a thing with feathers.

(Today is a good day, though. Two of the beds were 'turned over', and it was because the occupants were discharged (: )

Malaysian Marital Muddles.

2008-04-05T14:38:00.002+01:00

1) Woman sues husband for loss of virginity. I do not understand her.

2) PAS supporting Dad refuses daughter's marriage to UMNO supporting boy.

My TV Exploded.

2008-04-04T10:44:00.002+01:00

My TV just exploded.

Just as well, because I was trying to think of an opening line which would nicely summarize the week. So yeah, my TV just exploded. =\ As in, boom, black out, sparks, smoke and a strange smell.

I believe in magic!

2008-04-01T16:22:00.005+01:00

You wouldn't believe who I met on the train today, on the way to town - Eugene!

It's almost ridiculous. The trains run every 7 minutes on each line. This means approximately 200 trains a day. There are five lines. Each train has six carriages, each carriage has 4 doors. There are six million people in Singapore. And I had to meet one. Again and again.

I think God is trying to speak with me.

Anyway, he asked for my contact, but I took his instead. Now I don't know what to do with it. I am vaguely tempted to text him - "Now we must construct for ourselves what Fate has begun!" Fate has a way of drawing out the writer's hyperbole.

I'll always be

2008-03-30T14:42:00.000+01:00

The Girl from Yesterday
The Eagles

It wasn't really sad the way they said good-bye
Or maybe it just hurt so bad she couldn't cry
He packed his things, walked out the door and drove away
And she became the girl from yesterday

He took a plane across the sea
To some foreign land
She stayed at home and tried so hard to understand
How someone who had been so close could be so far away
And she became the girl from yesterday

She doesn't know what's right
She doesn't know what's wrong
She only knows the pain that comes from waiting for so long
And she doesn't count the teardrops
That she's cried while he's away
Because she knows deep in her heart
That he'll be back someday

The light's on in the window; she's waiting by the phone
Talking to a memory that's never coming home
She dreams of his returning and the things that he might say
But she'll always be the girl from yesterday
Yeh, she'll always be the girl from yesterday

Charm's Anatomy.

2008-03-28T07:55:00.009Z

Women, stop complaining -
men get pregnant too.

So this morning, we had this big argument at our office desks over whether he had nipples or not, and the difference between a masectomy and hysterectomy (I swear this is not even a bio thing). Anyway, I'm wondering why men have nipples, really, if they don't have active mammary glands.

On a second and almost irrrelevant note, I think I'm kind of horny.

But to quickly salvage my reputation as a refined and demure person, here's a lovely poem that's been haunting my soul. A song for my patriot's heart, my student's soul, and my lover's longing.

If Hands Could Set You Free, Heart
By Philip Larkin

If hands could set you free, heart
Where would you fly?
Far, beyond every part
Of the earth this running sky
Makes desolate? Would you cross
City and hill and sea,
If hands could set you free?

I would not lift the latch,
For I could run
Through fields, pit-valleys, and catch
All the beauty under the sun
Still end in loss:
I should find no bent arm, no bed
To rest my head.

On Lawyering, Intelligence, and Quitting Art School

2008-03-25T09:48:00.021Z

I met Ben, who used to be provide random debate coaching support back when I was an itty bitty debater in yellow, at Drew&Napier! But then again, considering how much of the debating population graduates into the legal service - probably not another Act of God.

Increasingly, I'm feeling like lawyering isn't too different from debating - the knowing that victory may be divorced from truth. Distance from my mentor (I've been outsourced to other lawyers!), whose discipline pervades space like a glowing halo, makes me feel that this industry is dark. Everybody somewhat lies, and the side that presents itself best wins. I felt that a little too strongly for comfort at the High Courts today, and it makes me wonder if Justice belongs to this world. I vow never to flex my intellectual muscles with ill intent.

Many of us from this educational and social circle, myself included and especially, graduated to find that our "grades and intelligence were secondary" in the real world. But in the courts today, Philip Jeyaratnam (double firsts from Cambridge) and his team of elite lawyers, together with pedigree Mr Ong Tze Boon, cross-examined a team of (poly graduate) designers, who paled in every aspect of analysis, eloquence and sharpness. It was very obvious that intelligence mattered. Very much. I believe the reason why so many of us fresh graduates were so impressed is because we did not realise just how small a minority we are. And since we were being shown a culture vastly different from our experience, the shocking contrast made us give too much focus to it. The world is made up of intelligent and not-so-intelligent people, I know now. And both have their places in the world.

Lim Tzu, a woman who retired to smell the flowers, asked me today after class why I wasn't going to pursue literature, film, theatre, art (I think she meant the Arts in general) further. After two lessons, she already found it strange (as everyone else has) that I proclaimed my plans to study Law so firmly. I swear I never told her about my Arts-Law dilemma - I guess I'm just too readable. I found that I no longer needed to scour for an answer. I will enjoy studying law. As my mentor puts it, Law is no rocket science, but it does require a specific disposition. I have that disposition. I suppose I am multi-talented :P

Sometimes I find it easier to pretend to be a struggling, suffering artist oppressed by social expectations, and wail that my parents would kick me out of the house if I choose to pursue Art instead. I still suspect my parents will not disappoint, but I know now that isn't my reason. But it is difficult to explain to someone that you also enjoy academic rigour and professional discipline. It will be tedious and trying sometimes, I have no doubt, but any self-respecting artist will tell you that Art (in fact, any other profession) is no bed of roses either.

Contrary to all expectations, I am now more sure than ever that I will always write and make art. Turning away from formal art education is not synonymous to turning away from art. I agree that for the artistic talent to be nurtured, it requires study, and there are great benefits to be reaped from an education in Tisch or Goldsmith etc. But to flourish, all it needs is dedication - in leaving school, leaving the co-erced discipline of formal (art) education, I have found that the very way I live is already inextricable from Art. I am practicing every single day of my life. And it helps that the increasing number of intensive, professional courses now available to the public keep me on my toes until I can find time to put on my mortar hat and lock myself up in a garret.

But I know one thing for certain - I will enjoy my life.

Friendship Charm

2008-03-19T10:43:00.006Z

I have a little Star of David crystal pendant that my parents bought from a fortune teller when I was a little girl. Although I know that the fortune teller's words should have been etched dramatically in my young, virgin mind, I forgot just about everything the fortune teller said. But I do remember the significance of the pendant - my mom told me to try not to take it off because it would help my "destiny" and keep the people I love close. I remember it because I found it amusing and frightening all at once at the possibility that I could lose those I loved, and that pretty little thing no larger than a dollar coin could change that all.

Now I am growing up, and my life is changing. I have loved and lost, and I'm starting to think that it is a pretty good time to put that pendant back on, just to remember all the wonderful people who have touched my life. But I have no necklace to wear it - it hangs now from a rather dirty and obtrusive leather strap which makes it difficult to wear. I was shopping around for a thin, unassuming chain for it when I thought perhaps, the charm might just work a bit better if it was completed with a gift from someone it was supposed to help me keep. And if magic happens, I'd love if you love me in this way that will help me love you.
(:

In the last two weeks

2008-03-19T02:28:00.003Z

the Chinese, Tibetans, and the rest of the world have started fighting (again), the Dalai Lama has offered to resign, Kosovo gained some new dead, Mas Selamat has become gaunt and berry-eating, Ong & Ong Pte Ltd launched suit against a team of designers, someone in the company got married on a boat, Gaby returned from Guangzhou, Eleen turned nineteen, and I'm half way through my Drew&Napier internship.

2008-03-18T02:05:00.001Z

Mingy and I had beehoon for breakfast today!
I enjoy breakfasting - a habit I picked up from the NUS days. It feels right to start your day with something in your stomach, especially if it's a nice something, with nice company.

On Love.

2008-03-15T14:49:00.002Z

Funny how my heart always breaks before it even allows itself to show its existence. I feel like running away to the other side of the Sun.

The Other Side of the Sun

Leaving on a boat
For beyond the other
side of the ocean
I’ll bet you in the morning
You won’t even know I’m gone
Tired of living here
In the middle of a mixed emotion
I might as well be living
On the other side of the sun.

Leaving with the feeling
I don’t know how I’m dealing
With loving you
Though once I knew
The special way
And what to do
To make you stay
Forever and ever
Even as I’m leaving
I’ll never stop believing
You are the one
Who can make me laugh
And can bring me back
From beyond the other
side of the sun.

Rolling down the river
I hope I can deliver the morning
Wishing on a star
For the sun to come out and play
Funny, when it’s over
You really don’t
remember the warnings
You might as well be living
Out beyond the Milky Way
(Forever and ever)

Leaving with the feeling
I don’t know how I’m dealing
With loving you
Though once I knew
The special way
And what to do
To make you stay
Forever and ever
Even as I’m leaving
I’ll never stop believing
You are the one
Who can make me laugh
And can bring me back
From beyond the other
side of the sun.

On flaws.

2008-03-12T06:02:00.009Z

I am an excruciatingly jealous and possessive person. I know I have always been, and I will continue to actively prevent my flaws from manifesting themselves. But every once in a while, like today, I feel positively ashamed of myself.

I think it's because I'm insecure. I can't imagine why anyone would choose me, over all the other wonderful people in the world. And I think that stops me from telling you how I think I'm falling (just a little bit) in love with wonderful you.

On Love and Weekends.

2008-03-11T07:33:00.011Z

If you are not too long, I will wait all my life for you. - Oscar Wilde.

The last weekend came and disappeared in a whirl and felt much shorter than their collective 72 hours. But I think they've provided more memories than a whole week in the office has.

We watched The Leap Year, which, in my opinion, marks the arrival of our local film industry. It was a simple case of storytelling, which is the most complex thing any film can do, set in a country no one can deny, after watching it, is beautiful. It never once did have to bring up the fact that it was local, which made it all the more closer to the heart. I was all prepared to put my reviewing skills to test and write a couple of movie reviews, but Yunsong spoilt it all (not in a bad way, I think) - thanks to him, The Leap Year will always mean more than just a movie to me. He said Li-Ann was exactly like me, and I had the strange feeling that he was (had been) watching me. It wasn't just the personality, it was the look in our eyes when we were thinking, the way we pulled back our hair. I didn't even know I had the habit of pulling back my hair. I know that in that situation, I would've done everything Li-Ann did - we even like the same things, but I am not sure I could hold a candle to that beautiful character on screen. I am real, with a real life, which has real consequences. I think that frightened me a little - his observing me frightened me a little. To find out how someone views you is always surreal. I think I was flattered, but I'm not sure if he's right.

Maybe one day, I will take the leap. Maybe, one day.

We watched Juno on Saturday, after tau hway at the Selegie shop that felt like life. I think I loved the way the weekend passed. The two stories, I think, remedied my aversion to love stories just a little. I found out that I no longer felt the urge to turn off the screen, or walk away. Maybe this means my broken heart is healing. Maybe.

One day, when the right person comes along, I will finally fall completely and truly in love, and my heart will be ready for it. I know it.

Raffles Place Kindness

2008-03-06T01:11:00.010Z

Being the wonderfully Romantic person that I am, I was, as usual, caught in the rain without an umbrella on my way to work. So I was ready to admit to the elements, and stood tall in the rain, feeling rather sad and stupid.

Without notice, a red umbrella popped over my head, and the young man holding it made an introductory sound that sounded like "Sorry".

I thanked him, out of surprise or gratitude I still don't really know. We stood in silence, with me occassionally stealing glances at him. We walked about 100 m to the underpass, during which he meticulously tried to keep me under the umbrella (at his expense I suspect).

I was determined not to let this nugget of humanity slip away, so as we parted, I asked for his name - Roystan. And then I walked away, not knowing what else to do.

(I am sitting in the office in a red, cotton dress with no sleeves and a short, crumpled skirt. I am me, without the armour of black-and-white. I was me as I put in on this morning, singing. I was me as I made my way here, smiling at the buildings and the sunrise. But I do not know if I can be me, when I sit next to my mentors in the board room with the clients, in my red, cotton, crumpled dress.)

Office amusement

2008-03-05T02:13:00.004Z

So I got to wear a power suit to work today, but my aesthetic spirit was reined in by the black-and-white dress code. It feels vaguely powerful, although I am certain the only person affected by my new-wardrobe-aura is myself. I've also realised that power suits, with their unfamiliar waist-clinching skirts, can be rather flattering when not made by school tailors who think boys and girls should look the same, when not yellow or brown, and most importantly, when not picked by blind and unfortunately very tall teammates who think that people generally come in the standard lengths. I got to wear my spankin' new suit (although the jacket was borrowed) for a grand total of 1 hour, broken down as such: 30 minutes - bus ride to Raffles place, 6 minutes - taxi ride to the Supreme courts, 11 minutes - climbing a lot of stairs and getting a bit lost, 7 minutes - pre-trial conference with the judge, 5 minutes - taxi ride back to the office. I suppose I will have just have to find more excuses to visit the pantry and the loo for the rest of the day for excuses to parade my spankin' new suit.

I met lawyers!

2008-03-03T11:06:00.003Z

Reflections on the working world (argumentative)

First day at Drew&Napier - rewarding. Mingyee, Genie, Steven, Sakshi and myself make five interns, each of us probably thankful in some small way not to be the only intern.

There are files and boxes and envelopes stacked on every conceivable surface. People marched through the fortress of information, armed with weapons of logic and intellectual muscles. I was Senhor Jose (All the Names, Jose Saramego), walking through rows and rows of words, each connected to a history, a story. The library was a beautiful shade of green and mahogany, with windows that let in a strange brown light. It was the smell of leatherbound books and paper, and I loved it even as I didn't understand how to use the periodicals, journals and nameless books.

The workspaces did surprise though, my computer is actually a cube - I haven't seen a computer without a flat LCD/Plasma monitor in eons, I think. The mouse has no scrolly thing either, which annoys me. And our desks are falling apart under the weight of dust. It was very exciting, really. And we didn't help the crawling internet by sending tons of emails to each other over the slightest discovery.

No Danny Crane/ Alan shore moments, as we were duly warned, not even Ally Mcbeal or even Elle Woods moments. I spent most of my day reading old law textbooks and doing a bit of research for my mentor. But I enjoyed it all the same. Check back again in 10 years, maybe I'll have a different opinion on critical thinking and investigative research.

But that's unlikely, I think.

Memories, and then some

2008-03-02T09:18:00.004Z

I am leaving my life of the past two months! It was a beautiful and interesting life, but I'm sure what life has in store for me will not disappoint. Some things will continue, in spite of the change. Wednesdays at Crawford will remain, and Elise as well as the guys from the bar have joined my facebook pages. Figuratively, of course, since I do not use facebook.

This was my desk! The post-it stickers aesthetic is an office fad, honestly. Promised not to put photos of Elise on the web, so this blog shall miss her pretty face.

Last days are also great excuses for photo whoring. Even at 2 am.

Pornsing, me and Jonas! Eddy-face in the background not planned, but loved anyway. Pornsing had to be tricked into being in this photo.

Prash and me.

A gift from Prash, which I'll keep for good luck. Contains the three most important words in the world in his language (Nepalese), Han Ling Charmaine. :D

A table of boys gave me this on the last night. Sometimes, waitressing pays off. (:

Old friends with new hair :D cant wait to see everyone again.

Please tell me that I'm not alone.

2008-02-29T02:36:00.002Z

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.

Arguments from and against the real world

2008-02-28T04:36:00.005Z

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 saw Eternity the other night

2008-02-26T07:28:00.011Z

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.

Souvenirs from Novus

2008-02-23T07:11:00.007Z

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.

A letter to California

2008-02-21T01:04:00.005Z

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

All the world's a stage, really. Either that, or a computer screen, running programme: The Sims.

2008-02-16T12:27:00.009Z

[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.

Interpersonal Relations

2008-02-15T08:17:00.003Z

“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.

Valentine's Day Magic

2008-02-14T18:10:00.005Z

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.

Unthinkable things are not thoughts.

2008-02-12T02:22:00.000Z

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.

Charm says

2008-02-04T03:12:00.000Z

Will Be Back Someday.

Working

2008-01-28T12:28:00.000Z

Although I haven't been forcibly relocated from my comfortable home, shaven clean, thrown into an offshore jungle, armed and made to march every minute of the day, the last two weeks here, too, have been rather interesting.

Reality

2008-01-22T14:14:00.000Z

I was standing in the train, as the outside world fell away into darkness. People stood like bowling pins all around, fitted closely, always expecting to be toppled. Five inches was all that we had to wade across to get to each other, but no one made the effort. I had to fight the sudden, insatiable urge to kiss the cheek of the woman standing next to me. I think I wanted to find out if other people were real. Either that or I wanted to make others see that I was real.

Romancing Jesus

2008-01-22T14:06:00.000Z

My sword he took and sheathed
My shield he broke,
My Christian soul he took and loved
But my girlhood lay fragmented, unknowed.

A soldier

2008-01-17T06:54:00.001Z

He said to me, before he put down our childhood and left to collect his manhood, You'll be there in happiness and in heartache.

And he left, to become a man, leaving me, a girl.

Dreams

2008-01-17T05:29:00.000Z

I wonder if dreams mean anything. I wonder if they're figments of extended imagination, or manifestations of our subconscious desires. Some people believe they tell the future. My aunt believes they're channels into the supernatural - once she claimed my great grandma tried to speak with her.

I wonder if recurring dreams mean anything. I wonder if they reveal our innermost obsessions, or flippant, passing thoughts we need to get out of our system.

I wonder why I dream of some people, but not others. I wonder why dreams of these people sneak up on you when you're not expecting it.

Illyria

2008-01-11T08:59:00.000Z

My body has slid into some mode of waiting: my senses are quiet, my brain is conserving itself. Only, it can't be waiting, because there is nothing to wait for.

The last week spent in Phuket with Olivia, KC, Seng and Yunsong was idyllic. It was everything I wanted and more for a coming-of-age trip; a nice balance between the serene and the exhilerating. The only down side was probably that Yunsong and KC took such good care of us, our brains rotted and our independence died during this trip. Looking at them, I know exactly why I have failed my parents, who never wanted anything more than their child to be able to take care of herself and those around her. But now, back home from Illyria, I am invincible again.

Back home from Illyria, I've also realised that Time can't be beaten. No amount of strength can stop the passing of days. I was standing in my shower, washing out my hair, when I found that I could stop my hands from moving, but the suds would not stop sliding down the brown curls. I could hold my breath and keep very still, but when I, inevitably, got out of the shower, it would be well into the afternoon, and going yet further in.

And yet I am here, waiting for something I cannot see, while Time slips by.

Hello 2008!

2008-01-03T03:06:00.000Z

New Year's resolutions are long overdue, but I think this year, I'm going to give up making them - not even in celebration of dumb hope and 'lofty aspiration' as I usually do. Instead, I'm going to check off the lists I've made in the recent past.

Recalling:
After the A levels, I will
1) Paint Yunsong - DONE2)
2) Read economics
3) Take a writing trip around Singapore - DOING
4) Learn animation
5) Learn photoshop
6) Make Art obsessively - DOING
7) Accomplish all Lee Ang Films - DOING
8) Accomplish all local films
9) Accomplish all good films - DOING
10) Hopefully pull together a small art exhibition, from which I may earn some money.
11) Learn how to make soon kueh and ou kueh from Grandma - well, Mama gave up after the soon kueh, so I'll consider this DONE
12) Learn how to make rendang from Suhui's aunt
13) Learn how to bake a bake alaska.
14) Visit Shum in JB
15) Read obsessively - DOING
16) Make a short film
17) Make awesome Christmas cards and put Hallmark out of fashion - ABANDONED(So sorry)
18) Learn how to use makeup - ABANDONED
19) Jog everyday - aah, don't remind me. ABANDONED
20) Overhaul my red cocktail dress
21) Start and finish Indie Fashion project with Gab.
22) Get myself re-employed by the Substation
23) Become a curator
24) Throw an awesome party
25) Get a biking licence - SHELVED (for now) in view of parental objection26) Become fantastic at the piano - ):
27) Learn how to dance - ditto

From last year's resolutions, I would like to announce that I have managed to
a) Not kill bugs. At all.

Well, one is better than nothing.

Okay, I can't resist - I'm going to make a list. But I'll take a leaf out of Su's lists this time round, and make more specific, attainable goals.

- Try out 3 different jobs, not including private tutoring by the time I have to enrol into university.

- Finish the following books:
a) A Severe Mercy
b) Crime and Punishment
c) The World is Flat
d) Lolita
e) The Everlasting Man
f) Dracula

- Become fitter.

- Survive independently.

- Paint my room.

I actually find this fun

2008-01-03T02:56:00.000Z

British
[x] You drink a lot of tea.
[x] You know what a brolly is.
[ ] Deal or No Deal has taken over your life.
[ ] You wanted Ben to win X Factor.
[x] You use the word "bugger"or the phrase "bloody hell."
[x] Fish and Chips are yummy.
[ ] You can eat a Full English Breakfast.
[ ] You dislike emos almost as much as you dislike chavs.
[ ] Its football...not soccer. (charm says: bah)
Total: 4

Australian
[x] You wear flip flops all year.
[ ] You call flipflops thongs not flip flops.
[ ] You love a backyard barbie.
[ ] You know a barbie is not a doll.
[ ] You love the beach.
[ ] Sometimes you swear without realizing.
[ ] You're a sports fanatic.
[ ] You are tanned.
[ ] You're a bit of a bogan.
[x] You have an Australian something
Total: 2

Italian
[ ] The Sopranos is a great show.
[ ] Your last name ends in a vowel.
[x] Your grandmother makes her own sauces.
[x] You know how a real meatball tastes.
[x] You know Italian songs.
[x] You have dark hair and dark eye color.
[ ] You speak some Italian.
[x] You are under 5'10''
[ ] You know what a italian horn is
[ ] Pizza/spaghetti is the best food in the world!!!
[x] You talk with your hands.
Total: 6

Spanish
[ ] You say member instead of Remember.
[ ] You speak spanish or some.
[x] You like tacos.
[ ] YoU TyPe lIkE ThIs On Da CoMpUtEr.
[ ] You are dark skinned.
[ ] You know what a Puta is.
[x] You talk fast occasionally.
[ ] You have had highlights or have dyed your hair.
[ ] You know what platanos are.
Total: 2

Russian
[ ] You say villian as: Vee-lon.
[x] You get short tempered.
[x] You know of somebody named Natasha.
[x] You get cold easily.
[x] Rain is fun for you.
[ ] You get into contests all the time.
[ ] You can easily make do with the cold weather.
Total: 4

Irish
[ ] You think beer is the best.
[ ] You have a bad temper.
[ ] Your last name starts with a Mc, Murph, O', Fitz or ends with a ley, on, un, an, in, ry, ly, y.
[ ] You have blue or green eyes.
[x] You like the color green.
[ ] You have been to a st. pattys day party.
[ ] You have a family member from Ireland.
[ ] You have blonde hair.
[x] You have/had freckles.
[x] Your family get togethers always include drinking and singing.
Total: 3

African American
[ ] You say nigga/nukka casually
[ ] You have nappy hair.
[ ] You like rap.
[ ] You know how to shoot a gun
[ ] You think President George Walker Bush is racist.
[x] You like chicken.
[x] You like watermelon.
[ ] You can dance.
[ ] You can 'sing' gospel.
Total: 2

Asian
[x] You have slanty/small eyes.
[x] You like rice a lot.
[ ] You are good at math. (HAHAHA)
[x] You have played the piano.
[x] You have family from Asia.
[x] You laugh sometimes covering your mouth.
[x] Most people think you're Chinese.
[x] You call hurricanes typhoons.
[ ] You go to Baulko.
Total: 7

German
[x] You like bread.
[x] You think German Chocolate is good.
[ ] You know what Schnitzel is.
[ ] You hate it when stupid people call you a Nazi.
[x] You went to Pre-school.
[x] You're over 5'2"
[ ] You speak some German
Total: 4

Canadian
[x] You like/play/played hockey.
[ ] You love beer.
[x] You say eh.
[ ] You know what poutine is.
[ ] You speak some French.
[ ] You love Tim Horton's.
[ ] At one point you lived in a farm house.
[ ] You watch/watched Degrassi.
Total: 2

American
[ ] You hate foreigners.
[ ] You hate non-Christians.
[x] You're lazy.
[ ] You are not cultured.
[ ] You hate abortion.
[ ] But love the death penalty.
[ ] You don't read.
[ ] You shop at Walmart.
[x] You think this survey is rather biased.
Total: 2

Love the Americans! Hahah.

Me and My Baby

2008-01-02T04:02:00.000Z

Up till now, I've never really made artworks that weren't limited to exhibition in school, or kept at home under the layers of dust beneath my bed, or abandoned and eventually used as practice paper for math questions. Well, that changed yesterday. It was not at all momentous, for there was no silver factory gleaming behind me, or wads of cash flung about my person, but I suppose there's something highly personal about giving away an artwork that's worth thinking about anyway.

It begins with conception, a fuzzy idea you're not really sure will work and big dreams of colour you hope to cling on to. So I made a solo trip down to Artfriend, feeling a bit like an idiot because I never imagined how many possible sizes canvas came in and how impossible all the sizes I wanted were. And then of course, I realised how lucky I was to have the school pay for all the canvas I ever needed over the last 6 years. Some things don't last, unfortunately.

There was something immensely nice about shopping for art materials alone - no art teacher or top-of-class student telling you which brands were best, or which colours were most important, or if triple-prime was indeed better than double-prime. Which meant that I picked the nicest smelling paint and the cheapest possible everything else. I wished I could live down the aisles of paints and brushes of all sorts of shapes and sizes that I'll probably never learn to use.

Then comes the days of staring at the pristine white surface, gleaming brushes and undented tubes of paint, wondering how exactly to grab that dream and pin it down, wondering if you'd be able to do the seductively professional tools justice. The beginning of a work is never certain. But you'll decide to take a wild stab anyway. In the following weeks, it grows.

(Oil) Painting is a solitary affair. For one, your family shuns you, because of the poisonous fumes that only you are immune to. You also need to build up a fortress of paint, wipes, containers, used brushes, turpentine and cloth, which results in an impenetrable moat that nobody would cross even if you paid them to. Then, no matter how much advice you may be given from painters and friends alike, your hand can't listen. Sometimes, it feels like its the only one who knows what potential a brown blotch can hold anyway - visions belong to you alone. You stay for hours at a time, mostly because you're too dirty with paint to do anything else. If you stay long enough, you forget the world. Or the world forgets you.

About halfway through, photographs don't work anymore and you have to turn to your memory. You realise you've forgotten how the cowlick you've seen almost everyday for the last two months looks like. You don't recall how curved the eyebrows are. You have recurring impressions of one particular smile, but you can't get close enough to understand how the lips should stretch and how the eyes should gleam. But soon enough, you realise that vague impressions are all that you need - you want to replicate a feeling, a connection, not anatomy.

There are always bits that never look quite right - the cheeks always seem a bit too round, a bit too thin, a bit too shadowy, a bit too bright. You place what you think should be your final touches in the dead of the night, stop to take a stretch and get yourself a drink. But when you get back, the face on the canvas just isn't him. You sigh and go back to work.

For most of us, it takes a trusted friend to pry us away from a painting so that we dont ruin it with overworking. You tell yourself as your hands are restrained that many a great artist have concurred that Art is never finished, only abandoned. You put it aside and call it a day. Or a month. And then you don't look at it again.

The day comes for you to pack it up and send it away. You must say you're surprised - did you really produce that? You couldn't possibly have willed that touch of buff titanium, or that crescent-shaped eye. That's when you know you're truly finished with a work, some people say. But then you also notice some flaws - some crookedness in a feature- and that it isn't really what you were hoping for, but you tell yourself that that was your best effort and try very hard to stop looking at it. You spend the rest of your time worrying if the new parent will like it.

You pack it up and piss everyone off because you can't get over the fact that a corner of the painting is slightly dented, but you know it's really because you don't know what's going to happen to your baby. You wonder if its new parent will receive it well, will love it as you do with the right mix of contempt and care. It is not the same as putting a work up for exhibition - you know that intellectual boundaries may never be put on art (every viewer must think whatever he wants), but this time you feel the physical vulnerability of your baby too. Will it last? Will it be shoved into some dusty corner, some unseen darkness? But as you close the door on it, you know that there is no problem - it isn't yours anymore, and you're okay with that.

Boxing up the memories.

2007-12-26T14:56:00.000Z

There are some things that I'll never forget this Christmas. For one, it would take some serious memory-erasing to rid myself of that image of my uncle, looking suspiciously drunk, wearing a shoe bag on his head and doing a little gig. Or my mother doing a weird little tease for my aunt, which involved a lot of even weirder booty-shaking. Growing up among my maternal relatives means being dragged through a swamp of boisterousness and too-loud love, but knowing deep down, that you wouldn't swap it for anything in the world.

Before the party officially began - that is, before the arrival of my grandmother and before everyone starts tucking in, properly (more than occasional munching doesn't quite count as 'eating' here) - Suhui took Mingming, her eight year old brother, and I to the Japanese cemetery nearby. About a decade ago, I, with my overactive imagination, would have sooner died (and become a part of the cemetery for eternity, ironically, but it didnt occur to me back then) than voluntarily place myself within any conceivable distance of a cemetery. Each Qingming, I would dread the hike into the columbarium and cemetery, regardless of the kind of jokes the adults cracked to keep spirits (ours) buoyant. But the roles were reversed this time round. My company had an imagination to rival mine, and he, like I did, knew it.

He expotulated at the suggestion and took off. I laughed and ran after him, tackling him into submission. Despite his protests, dear Ming ming was crammed firmly (and rather comically) between the two of us - the human safety barrier promised to him, and marched to the cemetery. Throughout the walk, he talked non-stop, jabbering away about his fear of cemeteries. Conversation was precocious but lighthearted, as we talked about ways he could "master fear" (his words, not mine). But throughout the walk, I made sure he had both his hands held and was always between us, because I knew that was all I had ever wanted in the cemetery vists of my childhood. (But daddy would always walk forward, with me clinging on to his shirt, and mommy no where to be found.)

As we walked out of the cemetery, he told me proudly, "I am not scared now because I have mastered my fear!" (Mastered, he told me, was the word, not conquered, or overcome.) But I knew that the moment he could talk about his fears. I never told anyone about my fear of cemeteries, or ghosts, or the dead - that gripping fear, worse that I had ever known. And I knew, that when he mastered his, he had also mastered mine.

And it was with the courage vested in me by my dear cousin that I tackled today's reunion with my Sec4 class. I was so afraid we wouldn't get along, that our meetings would be silent and empty. But we did, and it was full of laughter and friendliness. (: And I actually am beginning to miss them.

Christmas!

2007-12-23T14:35:00.000Z

Christmas is here again!

We've never had a more efficient year of Christmas shopping. You wouldn't believe it, but we managed to accomplish our shopping list of nearly 40-members within two days. We've become so profoundly proficient that we've even managed to use all the old newspaper advertisements as (passably) pretty wrapping paper, thereby propagating the spirit of goodwill AND greenness. I'm expecting Santa to visit me twice this year. I've noticed that the people in my family get great kicks out of ripping the wrapping off their gifts (sometimes I suspect they even enjoy it more than the gift itself), so, being the official giftwrapper of the Han Family, I've padded up all your gifts with newspaper :D (their actual sizes are really half of what you see)

The days leading up to Christmas have not been so unbearably long this year. In fact, this Christmas sort of snuck up from behind and devoured me before I could season myself with Christmas trees and goodies. When I look back on the Christmas of 2007, I'd like to think that it began on the night of the 20th, at the sleepover at Seng's, which set a comfortable mood I haven't been able to get out of. We started the night off at Harry's, and ended it trying to wrestle Seng's dog away from our poor violated legs. My poor legs almost lost their virginity to a jack russel, and I swear the same mutt sneezed all over me. Seng tried to comfort me by saying that he didn't really sneeze - more like "regurgitate its undigested meals and furball"; but I'm not really sure how that's of any comfort.

And oh, Yunsong cooked breakfast. Heh.

It was a lovely morning. And unless something more spectacular happens over the next two days, I'd say that was God's Christmas gift to me - simple and transcient. I'll leave my material needs for my friends and family to fulfil :P

The 21st was spent in the warmth of old friends in Geordie's beautiful house. His parents cooked a splendid Christmas feast! Think turkey, roast, log cakes, baked potatoes, wine and best of all Bailey's Irish Cream. I think I really like watching my friends sit around a large dinner table, eating elegantly in mock candle light. A far cry from the first time we looked at each other, caked in mud, soap and grime, gobbling off each other's styrofoam containers at Orientation. We've grown, I think, and I hope we age like wine.

Then there was Liangwei's party, the almost KI Christmast gathering, and Daddy's half's Christmas party. Tomorrow, Christmas would have truly come, with our annual and very traditional Christmas party with the Tan family and extensions. Tomorrow, my year will be complete (:

To know and to love

2007-12-23T08:47:00.001Z

To Know Him is to Love Him
Emmylou Harris, Dolly Parton, Linda Ronstadt

To know know know him
Is to love love love him
Just to see him smile
Makes my life worthwhile
To know know know him
Is to love love love him
And I do

I'll be good to him
I'll bring love to him
Everyone says there'll come a day
When I'll walk alongside of him
Yes just to know him
Is to love love love him
And I do

Why can't he see
How blind can he be
Someday he will see
That he was meant for me

To know know know him
Is to love love love him
Just to see him smile
Makes my life worthwhile
To know know know him
Is to love love love him
And I do

*
I am not so daring and dynamic as I thought I was. Some social interactions still leave me wondering what I should have done, and if what I actually did was right. Sometimes I get this insane urge to jump up and plant a small kiss on the cheek of the person I'm talking to, but I fear he or she might slap me, or think me too bold and too transparent. Then I wonder, what do I care that they do - for if they are to love me, then they'll have to love the spontaneous, unthinking, affectionate me. And by the time all the wondering's done, the moment would have past and my eyelids dropped too long to re-open any interpersonal connection.

If every action is willed, then I must be missing out on something, for I find it harder and harder to translate will into action, especially when it comes to dealing with others. I could sit and expire myself with hope, but it probably wouldn't change the fact that some of us walk our separate ways. Do you begin with a small desire, and sit and wait for them to act on a reciprocated feeling that might not exist? Or do you walk in and declare your intentions like foolhardy, sexually-charged boys do?

I feel desire like an embarrassing relative, who threatens to announce to the world my life's most intimate details. It is a constant battle - the twisting of knife-handles in backs, not against any offensive, grumpy aunt, but with the little voice that keeps calling me a blood traitor.

People who fascinate me.

2007-12-18T14:51:00.000Z

"Let's go." He said sharply. "I don't like the way he conducts his kids."

We got up from the long wooden benches in his lead and snapped our heels down the long aisle as the pastor's chastise of his altar boys continued. But as we reached the tall doors of the church, he stopped to pick up a bible. His slim fingers ran slowly down the spine of the old book, and in the stained dimmness of the church, he asked gently, "Would you like to say a prayer?"

2007-12-15T04:42:00.000Z

Woohoo! Breakthrough!

My (drawing and painting) skills have upped one level. I'm actually wishing now that I didn't scorn those Dota/computer games lingo, so I'd have some vocabulary to release some of this chest-pounding, grunty eruption.

I am now quite sure that I have a remotely enviable artistic talent. Okay, okay, if I'm going to be disgustingly arrogant about this, I'm going to be disgustingly arrogant about this. I think I'm on fireeee!

Take that, Limmy.

(:

2007-12-13T13:21:00.000Z

What The Holidays Mean to You

For you, the holidays are about celebration. You enjoy all the fun and fellowship that the holidays bring.

You celebrate the holidays in a offbeat style. You believe the holidays are for doing whatever you feel like - and some of your "traditions" are pretty wacky.

During the holidays, you feel magical. You love all of the decorations and how happy people are. You like to sit back and take it all in.

You think the holidays should be nostalgic and sweet. The holidays bring out your inner child.

Your best holiday memories are warm and intimate. You remember special moments more than gifts or parties.

What Do the Holidays Mean to You?

You Don't Know Much About Christmas

You only got 2/10 correct
So you don't know all of the history and trivia of the holidays...As long as you remember to put out some cookies for Santa, you're still ahead of the game.
Random Christmas fact: Thomas Edison has the first Christmas lights, three years after he invented the electric lightbulb.

How Much Do You Know About Christmas?

My top 10 Favourite Things about JC Life

2007-12-13T11:35:00.000Z

The wonderful thing about words, I've realised, is that they keep what the memory and pictures cannot. My favourite things about these two years tend to fall under categories of "prolonged processes" and "fleeting moments" that cannot be composed into postcards. So I'm writing them down, and if you've loved them as much as I have, we're going to find a way to do them again (:

In no order of merit

1) All the in-between (classes) moments with Gaby, invariably spent in the canteen at our favourite Sunshiney seat. These moments were spent either in close confidence, silent companionship, exchanging TV knowledge, amusing bickering, and always, always eating.

2) The pink moments with Siobhan. I still don't really know what we do, but it always involves a lot of giggling at the stupidest things, and a lot great advice from her on matters of the heart.

3) The few movies (memorably, Invisible Waves, Into Great Silence and Little Miss Sunshine) with Chen and occasionally others (I would name them, but they keep changing). It was always terribly exciting not knowing what we had paid for, and immensely satisfying to walk out of them shaking in laughter and having completely different ideas of what happened in the cinema.

4) The mornings spent with Colin (usually Thursdays), just before he elopes with Myf. Our mornings are always spent talking about everything and nothing in particular, and always in resulting in a beautiful heartbreak. Oh, and I'll miss those pen-paper-and-coin Quorridor games, in which we would always know who would win at least 6 moves before completion. We never found a way to play well.

5) The moments during KI lessons where we would all giggle - the class at John Butterworth's omnipotence, and Mr Lim at some unfathomable Mormon reason. (Okay, I know *now* that he's Methodist.) I also love the one-to-one conversations in Mr Lim's potpurried office, and I know that I got lucky again, to get a mentor who cared this much.

6) The daily walks from school down to Farrer Road/Adam Road. Bukit Timah Road, I think, is my second favourite road, next to the stretch of Balestier I live on. I love the quaint small shops and the sunny, sleepy sidewalks and it always saddens me a little when I have to board the bus.
And when I had memorized all the shops and little roads by heart, Liangwei came along and made sure that there was always something new and something gastronomically delicious to focus on.

7) The msn chatting with Seng. Unlike the above, this has not been determined by the physical presence of HC. And has been all the more lovely for it.

8) Great conversations with Yunsong, always perfectly balanced between the meaningful and the hilarious. And the dinners, a habit I hope will continue. Unlike most of the friendships I've had, I don't think I grew into this one. I think I fell headlong into it. And this rabbit hole adventure has been exciting. I suspect it always will.

9) Quirky AEP moments, which made school feel like home. It was the feeling that we could do anything in the world, that we were free and powerful and creative. I loved the being around Ms Kee and the generosity of Mr Tan, who always made us feel like they, in spite of everything, loved us. And not forgetting, the conversations with Mr Lee, especially the one we had in my little gallery, which we thought was entirely private except that the box magnified our voices and everyone heard my angst about being unbearably light and his wanting to be a nurse. I think what I loved best about HCAEP moments was that it made an incredibly normal thing (going to school) feel like a disguise for our superhero identities which allowed us to drive out of school during lesson time, wear pathetic shreds for clothes, dance like nobody was watching, cook in the middle of paints, brushes and other unsightly things and build things from scratch.

I liked how my cellmate Pow would speak ever so gently and adorably when we talked (I figure its because he thinks my being short is a handicap, lol), how Yingshi would propose every so often, and how Yeenseen would wrap her arms around me and tell me that she loved me. Or my body. I think Yeenseen thinks they're the same. And how Shum would give us all a bit of vinyl so we could have Phua Chu Kang moles/weird tattoos. How Sophia and I survived The Incredible Coursework Nights together, how Siewch and I would talk and get ourselves all depressed, how the boys would concoct songs and sing in perfect harmony and make everyone laugh, and how everyone got excited over Pizza Days, Sandwich Parades, and highly unsanitary Fondue Parties. And oh, I will never forget the night we all put up elaborate acts of cannibalism and deaths to make Ms Kee and Mr Lee feel bad about delaying our dinner. (It worked, haha. Dinner was on them.)

10) The mishmash crowd of Sixoh. Always something hilarious happening. I love the way we're all so hilariously different, and how we talk little and do lots, and how everything's so laidback and simple it makes me feel like we're part of a kampung. And someone's always teaching me a new way of seeing.

2007-12-13T01:21:00.000Z

Everything's baking really nicely now :D

My scones turned out well (or "quite edible" in yunsong's words), my internships are nicely settled (Drew and Napier!) , and my Maldives trip is not only happening, I know it's going to be one hell of a trip because we'll be celebrating the New Year's there too!

Met Yunsong and Karweng at a nice Christmassy cafe yesterday, and the outing, like almost all outings I make, consisted first of me getting quite lost, and like almost all outings with Yunsong, ended with a fabulous dinner in our tummies and no money in our wallets. The last time I frequented cafes, I was still Hiu's little measure of peace, and we would sit at Novena's Spinelli's (our favourite haunt) and do math problems, play, read and talk. I tried going back to the cafe after we split, but it wasn't the same - the coffee was too cold, the books were too empty and the crowd too hostile.

Lessons from Both Ends of Life.

2007-12-11T09:12:00.000Z

Last Saturday, Suhui and I popped down to Grandma's to learn the sacred family art of making Soon Kueh. It was fun, and I can't remember the last time I spent so much time alone with my grandma (alone being not hiding in my mother's skirts, mute and bashful in the presence of a strange tongue). Grandma made me tell everyone I gave the kuehs to that Su and I made them, because according to her, they were so goddamned ugly they would ruin her reputation as Toa Payoh's Soon Kueh Soh. But I think, secretly, she was really proud of her two grandchildren. Even though she refused to let us do the frying, steaming, preparation and cleaning up, the bags of new flour arranged for display weeks before our arrival whispered her enthusiasm at having us.

Somehow, word of my soon kueh endeavour got around to all my aunts and quickly translated into a newfound enthusiasm for cooking. Now I've been invited to bake scones at my little aunt's place, cookies in my big aunt's place, and sample turkey and blue cheese with my cousin. I assure you being Martha Steward was never my intention. I don't want to cook, I want to cook certain things - to understand how they're made, to ponder their making. But I do realise now, that cooking is a great way for bonding with the matriachs of the family, who while sometimes scary, I suppose, can also be quite endearing.

Any interaction with my grandparents wrenches my heart out. When I made an independent suprise visit to my paternal grandparents last week, my grandmother was so pleased I had to go back again in two days, just so I could sit and let her look at me. These wizened, weathered figures, whom I should be closer to than life itself, either talk too fast and too much in a language I cannot understand, or speak too little and are equally incomprehensible. They have lived lives that I do not understand, and live lives I will not understand. No earnest but helplessly ignorant ear or anxious but inevitably careless touch from their foreign grandchildren, I have learnt, will take away the pain in her back, stop him from shrinking in his cot, or remove the tiredness in her eyes. I am envious when my friends tell me about the things they do with their grandparents and how their lives intertwine so intimately under the same roof.

If the elderly are a puzzle, the young are not straightforward either. I do not understand when people say they love or hate children, with such grand sweeping statements. They are little people, and I love some people, and dislike other people. I think I like my little seven year old cousin, hyperactivity, loud voice and all. Today, he asked me how onions were grown. Then he asked where the bulbs were obtained. Which led to the question of where the first onion came from. I told him, maybe God made the first onion, like how people think God made the first human. (Su told him evolution made the first onion). But I wish now I had said nobody really knew how the first onion came about. It would have been honest, and more importantly, it would have been exactly the kind of answer I loved as a child. God and evolutionary science! - bah, I'm starting to think like a parent. (I will not!)

Amazing, isn't it. Life's greatest questions summarized in one brown, dusty onion.

Run mad as often as you like, but do not faint

2007-12-02T13:33:00.000Z

I am now sitting at the end of a day I thought would never come. And along with this day, many things have passed and are now gone forever. For every momentuous event I have lived over the last few weeks, I have tried to fit my reflections into incisive essays becoming of a bright young leader, but my stunning failure subverts this fate bestowed upon me by my nation. I couldn't, for instance, pin down my exact feelings when I sat with the Foundational stream students during the release of their PSLE results. I couldn't find the words to describe the view from the bottom dweller's collar, I couldn't decide if the difference between that and what I was, am, accustomed to was real.

I was not allowed, too, to document my forced metamorphosis from student to adult. I felt no feeling strong and clear enough for my pen to pick up. And when my dear cousin was finally married off, fixing the final chapter of a tulmultous romance in her life and foreshadowing adulthood for the rest of us Sisters, my words found themselves restricted to praise of the bride's clothings and the good wine.

I began this wanting to write about love and family and my frustrating lack of ambition, but this plague of wordlessness refuses to leave me.

2007-11-20T12:43:00.000Z

My heart is breaking.