On People, Ideas and Law School Distractions.

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

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

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

"Turk, Alexander:
is sharp."

while

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

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

"Tan, Su Hui:
is defensive."

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

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

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

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

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

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

and

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

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

On Ballet

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

The wine of their jazz

Kensington Piano Bar

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

Walking a Protest

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


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

Preliminary Suicide of A Desolation

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

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

Yes, you can save me

No resolution for the year.

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

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

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

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

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

- 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

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

'Tis not hereafter

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

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.

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And then I knew I was my own misery

"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

“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

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

Love is Portobello on a Weekend Morning

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