In Continuum.

The Swallow Lady

I walked in the rain today, and I don't know why I did it. It's been a while since I did so, and it is kinda stupid if you think about it. My gray t-shirt is supposed to be plain, and after that walk in the rain it became polka-dotted. Even the lone coffee session that I was supposed to have with myself was rudely interrupted by myself. For some reason, that seat in the corner of the Coffee Bean didn't feel right on a rainy February afternoon. It was too cold there, too cold to be alone. The harmonica the old man was playing in the corner was too cheerful, a stark contrast to everybody all around. I wonder if anybody paid him, with coins or attention. I hope somebody did, I dearly hope so. Because at least I know, that even for a person like me, somebody in this world might give a shit, they might pay a little attention on me too.

I care so much about my hair it is disgusting. Running out of umbrellas at home, I covered my head with my bag only because I didn't want to ruin it. Strange to think that in the case of a rainstorm, all somebody cared about was his hair and nothing else. That was me, trotting down the side of the road in the rain with a bag on his head, heading towards the bus stop. I ignored the natural weather forecast outside, the window of my room acting like the frames of the television, forecasting the coming of a heavy rainstorm. But I went out anyway, probably just desperate for the unfamiliar air outside. Sick of the air at home perhaps, sick of breathing in the same room of air I breathed in times of depression and self-sympathy.

At the bus stop, I met the swallow lady, my college Maths teacher. The only reason why I call her the swallow lady is because of her name, for it is the same word as the birds that fly in the skies. She couldn't recognize me at first, until a few seconds later when she finally did, and waved back at me. "I'm sorry!" she said, "I couldn't recognize you! But do forgive me, I am pregnant."

"I noticed," I said. "Again, too. Congratulations!" I remember her presence in my classroom back in those days, and back then she was mostly on maternity leave because of her pregnancy. For half of 2003, she spent the better half of the months away from the classroom, and at home resting. That was the second child, she explained. This is the third.

She asked me what I am doing now, and if I am still in the army. With astonishment clearing written on her face, I was certain that she did not expect me to be out of that dreadful lifestyle already. "Time flies, and I am feeling old!" She gave a loud trademark laughter, and I remember those frequently resonating around the walls of the classroom. I used to be infinitely annoyed by her laughter, but right there and then in the cold bus stop as rain threatened to invade the dry spots, there was a surge of warmth from the old familiar days of school, as much as I hated my stay there.

Seeing her brought a bunch of emotions back to me in a way, particularly because the image I had of her when I left the school was one with her pregnant. Of course, she already had a second child when I left, but I'm not too sure why the bulk in her belly never really left my impression of her. Two years later and she is still pregnant, and it seems as if it hasn't been more than a day since I walked home in the rain with the result slip in my bag. It seems as though nothing has happened from that day and now, that everything has remained the same, just a day older that's all.

I thought about this on the bus with her to the interchange, all the way talking about the old times and school politics. The air in the bus was freezing, and I found myself shaking uncontrollably as she went on and on about how the new principal seems to be more academically focused than the older one, the friendly grandmother Mrs. Ho. But anyway, as we went to different ways inside the mall, I thought about how much and how little I have changed, and a dilemma came across me as I was caught in the middle, unable to make a decision about myself. So much and so little has, and there I stood in the middle of a bustling crowd and the rain falling down, caught in a time capsule and paralyzed.

Desolation was the word to describe my imagination, as I sat outside the Coffee Bean avoiding the air-conditioning. The seats exposed to the rain remained where they were before the weather changed, and no one bothered to remove them from there. Puddles gathered upon the white tabletop, and rolled off the sides like little waterfalls. It got me thinking, that if nobody touches that set of table and chairs, it is probably going to remain exactly as they are, a hundred or two hundred years from now. The fact is, if that really is the case, then what is the difference between then and now? What is time, if it isn't more than just a measurement conjured by humans?

It was a strange thought I admit, to have as one lean against the giant windows of a Coffee Bean, right in the middle of a Coffee Bean. I wondered who the hell has such strange thoughts after meeting their old maths teacher, and was later answered by the voice in the back of my head, soft and sharp: Only you.

People cared nothing more than where their next step is going to fall all around me, or where they are going next in the raging storm all around. But there I was sitting, missing the old times I had back in school no matter how much I might have hated it. So much have happened, looking back at the old archives on my blog and so little, for I have changed little as a person and what a failure I am in terms of that. I saw the breaking down of myself and the people all around me, and there I was left in the middle of an alien crowd having no one to seek comfort to.

I wanted to grab the Caucasian lady next to me who was reading a book about Dinosaurs, and scream into her face. I wanted to throw a chair through the giant sets of windows so that at least somebody is going to notice my existence. I was that desperate, and then then, I hadn't the guts to do so. I failed in that too, and as cold as I was I made up my mind to head on home.

Because the meeting of the swallow lady reminded me of something, that life goes on with or without you. People whom you used to know, people that drifted away, they are going to live their own lives on their own. They still got to work, they still have to eat, they still have babies and more of those despite your departure. That is the brutality of life on you, because not everybody is as sentimental as you. Being that sucks, being sentimental. But I hate to lose that in me, that part of me that still screams to the irrational, less sensible side of me to regain consciousness and sanity. Life goes on with or without you, and that is something I have to learn my own way, even if it means that I have to have my shirt vandalized into an ugly pattern of polka-dots after walking in the rain, so be it.

Too much thought on the same day, too much to think about. It still seems to be raining out, and I don't seem to have a reason to go out anymore. Not for my books, or to meet the person that I love. What is left, if not those simple purposes in life? I guess I just want to fall asleep, a deep long sleep that will last me till the end of the year, the end of the beginning of adulthood. There are too much at stake, too much to lose and I don't think I am ready to lose all those yet.

Just let me sleep, take a good long nap. Because like John Coffey from The Green Mile which I am watching now, we are both awfully tired. Dog-tired.

Obsession/Possession

Through this organization my family is part of, we got to know other fellow Taiwanese in Singapore. We don't go to their parties or their gatherings anymore, but I think my parents are still in contact with some of them. One of them, Mr. Q, lives on the fourteenth floor of the same block. He is a big man in his mid fifties, and has a daughter who is studying in America right now, a friend of my sister. I remember the numerous dinners that the two families had, and the way Mr. Q would gang up with me when it comes to poking fun at my father. I was merely fourteen or fifteen, and already the line between father and son was blurred.

Mr. Q is a hard-headed man, with half of his hair already turned snowy white. A humorous guy whose strong in his beliefs, and never fails to crash his car into something on the road. Every time my mother notices a new crack or bump in his car downstairs, she would whisper into my ear and say that," It must have been Mr. Q."

My neighbors are all devoted Christians, and all of them have words like "God Bless Our Home" or "Jesus Loves Us", hung outside their front door. My family is the odd one out really, and whenever there is a gathering held next door, the other two households would join each other in prayers and songs. That usually happens on Fridays, and I remember looking at my mother with a quiet understanding with each other, whenever she fetches me home from camp every Friday while we are at the front door. All of them would be on their feet, hand in hand and singing on top of their lungs just how grateful they are to God's blessings and love.

Mr. W and his family is probably the most devoted neighbor I have. You see a whole hill of shoes before their doorstep whenever there is a gathering, and you can imagine what happens when it is the Good Friday or Christmas. The shoes would be reaching halfway to my own doorstep most of the time, and closing the door of my house wouldn't make a difference to the sheer volume of their singing. What goes on behind their doors remains there, and my family never cared or interfered with them, despite being invited over a dozen times. My mother has been skeptical about their religion, though she never doubted the fact that it preaches the good and never the bad, as do most religions.

Somehow, Mr. W and Mr. Q met one day, and they soon became friends. It must have been the tennis courts where Mr. W visits often with his friends, or the swimming pool where Mr. Q takes long and relaxing swims as he enjoys his retirement years. Wherever they met, Mr. W invited Mr. Q over for one of their Christian gatherings one night, and Mr. Q was over during the Chinese New Year holidays to tell us all about it, with much enthusiasm and amusement.

Being a hard-headed man, Mr. Q has a strict set of his own beliefs that no one should care to interfere. His wife promptly gave up on him years before, and part of the reason why his daughter went overseas - he said - was to get away from her father's stubborn personality and constant nagging. But anyway, this is where the funny part begins. What happens when you put a hard-headed free-thinker in a house full of devoted Christians? Mr. Q was there to tell us all about it.

He started with the first impression of the house. It was crowded with fellow Christians from Mr. W's church, and all of them were having drinks (No alcohols, mind you)in the living room, while the children ran around screaming their heads off. Like I mentioned, shoes were piled up in little hills before the doorstep, and Mr. Q had to pick his way carefully through them as he is a very big man.

After the dinner, the crowd gathered around and shifted the sofa aside. Mr. Q was in the middle of it all, being introduced to the crowd by Mr. W with a hand on his shoulder. Mr. Q never really liked crowds of strangers, especially smiling ones. But he swallowed his discomfort and followed suit.

The gathering started with the normal prayers and the normal songs, where different members of the church would take turns to sing a song for the crowd. As the night drew on, the inevitable attention fell back onto Mr. Q as he prayed to God only for the ignorance of the crowd not to have their attention placed back on him. But he was back in the spotlight again, and this time they asked him of his religion and beliefs. He revealed to the crowd that he doesn't have a set of beliefs, and that he is a free-thinker of sorts. That itself sent a shock wave of disbelief through the members at the gathering, and soft murmurs rose up from all around.

Soon enough, Mr. Q found himself in the middle of two rows of people, about seven on each side. All of them had their hands on the shoulders of the person before him or her, and in the middle of it all was Mr. Q. They were trying to exorcise him of demons, as Mr. W later revealed, and there Mr. Q was, standing in the middle of two rows of amateur exorcists, feeling more amused than disturbed. "Demons in me?" he yelled, as he sipped on a cup of hot tea in the living room of my house a few days later. "Look whose talking!"

He was then pulled to a side by Mr. W, and he started on a bunch of preaching about Christianity and religion that never went further than the ear drums of Mr. Q. He heard the man of course, being the nice old man as he is, but listened to nothing that Mr. W was trying to say. He was stubborn, and tried to argue his way out of the awkward situation, as he was being pinned to a corner by obsessive and potentially possessive believers. "Just 10%," Mr. W said. "Just 10% from your salary every month to the church, is that a lot to ask for?"

Mr. Q flew into a rage and said," 10%? I need to save money for my retirement, and I am already paying 20% to the bloody CPF! Do you think I am crazy?" Of course, he later told us that the 'crazy' part was merely added in after he left the house in a hurry, but at least that was when went through his head and not the lips. At first - he said - Mr. W was calmed and was still trying to be nice to Mr. Q, who strongly refused to join his church. But that calm was soon disturbed by a storm of urgency, and he ended up accusing Mr. Q of being stubborn and hopeless. "Guess the exorcism didn't help then" he said, finishing the cup of tea and asked for more.

As much as I respect other religions, I do think that they do go over the top sometimes. You might say that they are trying to be evangelistic, saving the non-believers before the Judgment Day. But seriously, if that person refuses to give in to your beliefs, I guess the least you can do is to respect them because, when you come right down to it, it is all a matter of whether you believe in something or not.

It is okay if you want to ask people to come to your church, but it is ridiculous to say that you have a demon living inside your mind if you refuses to go. Because seriously, in that house that night, the only sane person to me was Mr. Q, who respected their beliefs enough to keep quiet about how ridiculous everything looked to him, than some individuals who claimed the existence of demons inside his mind.

"Some neighbor you have." he later said, and all we could do was smile. When religion becomes an obsession, it soon turns into a sort of possession, and who is the one that needs an exorcism now?

Blacking Out The Friction



I don't mind the weather,
I've got scarves and caps and sweaters,
I've got long-johns under slacks for blustery days.

I think thats its brainless
To assume that making changes
To your window's view will give a new perspective.

The hardest part is yet to come.

I don't mind restrictions
Or if you're blacking out the friction.
It's just an escape it's overrated anyways.

The hardest part is yet to come,
when you will cross the country alone...

Wonderwall



There are songs out there that don't mean a single thing. When you listen to the song itself, the melody is pleasant to your ears and more often than not, you are probably going to enjoy the song if you like the melody. Into a deeper level, you start to examine the lyrics to the song and then you find that at times, they don't necessarily mean anything.

Not every artiste in my playlist writes songs with a lot of meanings in them. Even if they have, they are so cryptic and so seemingly meaningless that perhaps the only person that understands the song is probably the writer himself. Or, there are some songs that leaves the interpretation up to the listener, though on the surface they might not make any sense.

I have tried to do that with a lot of Goo Goo Dolls song, and I even tried to read the lyrics alternatively in terms of the lines, thinking that there might be two sets of meanings to each song. But that wasn't it, and I found myself pondering over the meanings of some songs and never coming up with a true meaning to them. You have your own definition to certain parts of the song but later on in it, it dashes your definition and you are back to square one. Then you start to wonder if the writer of the song was on drugs, alcohol or any substance that might have affected his ability to write something sensible. After all, not everybody can write lyrics like R.E.M. or Thom Yorke and have people accept whatever they wrote.

Wonderwall by Oasis is such a song, a song without an apparent meaning initially. I've never truly understood it when I first heard it, placing my attention only on the guitar in the background and then learning it later on on my own. But I only started to realize it's true meaning tonight, and blame myself for being so ignorant and blind all along.

When silence between us prevails and all you want is to be alone, there is nothing much that I can say whenever we do talk. As much as I respect your decision, I cannot deny that an avenue of my thoughts has been shut up because of this. Without this avenue, life has been different all of a sudden for me. I am not back to the past, back to the days before October or the days beyond. I am merely stuck here because of the silence, in silence. And with this avenue shut out, I have no one else to hold on to all of a sudden.

That is probably how one is going to feel after your parents die, the way you feel as if the last pillar of your life has fallen out. Now the weight of the roof is upon your shoulders and you have to carry itself, and without your parents to hold it for you, this is as good as it gets. After all, they are your parents and you are only going to get a pair of those. This is how I feel right now. But don't worry, my parents are both well intact, knock on wood.

I have this fear to touch my handphone these days, afraid to press anything that might have the wallpaper light up. I am afraid to go online because of that urge that might strike me when you come on. I have this fear of looking at the cupboard in my room because there your gift sits. Meals taste strange, because they are no longer energy-sources, in a way, that keeps me alive for one more day just to see your face one more time. They are just food now, just plain old food. "To keep me alive," I tell myself." And no longer 'To keep me alive just so I can see you again'".

Like I said, I respect your silence and I know that you should take your time about this, little by little and bit by bit. But that doesn't take away my right to whine about it, or to sulk. Because it hurts, and when it does I feel like leaning onto a wall, a great big wall with an empty surface just so that I can write my woes upon it. But there is no wall, no wall for me to lean on because, ever since silence prevailed, it has been the foundation of the wall and the bricks removed, gone.

So here I am my dear friend, thanking you once again. It was touching for me, to have you checking out on me every time you are online these days. "Are you okay?" you would ask. "Take your time, okay? I am your wall." I never knew the significance of that, but now I do, for the lyrics of Wonderwall struck me as something meaningful all of a sudden.

That is you to me, you are my wonderwall. Believe it or not, stout and small you might be, when all else fails you might be the only piece of wall that might stand against all else. I think that wall that I have depended on previously was broken down brick by brick, by my own bare hands and I am ashamed of that. There is a reason why I do not want to tell you anything, or vandalize your face even though you might be offended that I do not want to speak of anything. I have broken down that wall into pieces, and I fear that I might do the same with you. But thanks, I'd like to keep one wonderwall intact. Because who knows? The previous one might come back.

The silence is excruciating for me, and you know it. I have no idea what to say to you, because anything might just break the rule, that agreement of ours that you need to be alone. I agreed, and there is nothing that I can do to reverse that. But still, I wish dearly, that by the end of your silence in a couple of days that, we can be back to the days when we sit next to each other and talk about anything, anything at all. I wish dearly that by the end of this, you are not going to leave me, to seek your own way out of life or worse, go back to the arms of the Strange Man.

For as long as it takes, I am going to wait here for you as I promised while you go away to deal with yourself. But don't worry about me, never worry about me, because I have a good wall behind me for now, a good wall I call my wonderwall. Let me sleep for a while in this little corner of my life, and wake me up when your silence ends. I wish to see your face again by the end of this, and hear again with that sweet voice of yours that you found your way, and that you found your way back to me.

Before the silence is over my dear, don't let the lyrics of other sad songs get to me and overwhelm me. Come back and save me, like you always do in the middle of the night. Don't let them get to me, protect me...be my wall too.

And all the roads we have to walk are winding
All all the lights that lead the way are blinding
There are many things that I would like to say to you
But I don't know how...

I said maybe
You're gonna be the one that saves me
And after all,
You're my wonderwall...

Shiny Golden Statuettes

When sitting around the dinner table with a bunch of my father's friends or close relatives from Taiwan, the common conversational topics would usually revolve around their lives and our own. The scope of the topics sort of starts from the big picture of life, zooming in to more personal topics. Everything from taxes to politics in the initial stage, to their own married lives and then ultimately, inevitably: Yourself.

They will probably start to ask about me, where I study, what I am going to do in life and stuff like that. Most of the time they will ask my parents instead of me, which was rather rude of them because like any other people, I hate to be talked about like I am not even there in the first place. Thankfully, my parents would always divert the attention to me, allowing me to answer those questions about life with life-defining answers of my own.

"So, what do you want to be when you grow up?" most of them would say when I was much younger than I am now. It is one of those question that as a kid, you thought that they were genuinely interested with who you want to be, and you answer them with such enthusiasm. But now that I think of it, they probably were trying to be nice to me because, how many people actually have their dream careers at the age of eight come true by the time they really have a career of their own? They probably just asked for the sake of it, but it is not like I knew back then. So with much enthusiasm and pride I blurted out in numerous restaurants all around Singapore, when my aspiring ambition would be when I grow up...

"A movie director!" I would say, sending the people around the table into an eruption of laughter. I must admit, it wasn't a very common dream for average children. Most of them probably wanted to be policemen or fire fighters, superheros for the really ambitious and delusional ones and probably a couple of doctors and lawyers here and there. There is an American friend I know who claims that he wanted to be a porn star since he first saw porn for the first time. Well, that is an usual career and dream at the age of thirteen so, good luck on that.

When I was younger, that was the career I truly wanted to live. To be a movie director to me was everything that I ever dreamed of, though I knew nothing about movie-making or the directing business. I've always had a sharp eye while watching movies, my mother used to tell me, taking note of not just the plot or the actors, but other technical aspects like the cinematography, the score of the movie, editing and lights, etc. Basically, I was the geek at my age concerning movie, and that was sort of how my friendship with Krishna grew in the first place. He was my very first movie-geek buddy, and still is in numerous ways.

At the end of every dream is a destination, and the destination is of course the highest honor: The Oscars. I've dreamed about my movies winning the Oscars, or even myself standing upon the world's stage receiving those shiny golden statuettes. Of course, most of the so-called 'movies' never made it past the thick skull upon my neck, but still I deemed the storyline of those 'movies' to be good enough to win something, anything.

I experimented on my Lego toys mostly, making imaginary movie trailers for my movies and they were mostly action packed. I wasn't sure how many Hollywood blockbuster-type movies ever won a Best Picture but, now I know: None. Still, I was confident about it, and in one of my greatest efforts, I used boxes as the buildings in my imaginary city and had toy cars running through the streets - or the spaces between the boxes - and with my eyes as the camera I zoomed in between the buildings and then away from the city itself, creating an overview. I was proud of my 'work', though it never saw the light of day, not even my family knew what I was working on. It was my dream, and a childish one at that.

As I watched some of the processes in film making after I got older, I saw the amount of efforts put in to create a film, as well as the amount of resources needed that can never be found in Singapore, I was dismayed. That childish dream of mine was utterly dashed, and I found myself giving up the dream, tucking it into the back of my head like the way I tucked the toys back into the boxes and into the dark corners of the storeroom at the back of the house. There went my Best Director and Best Picture dream, with the brutal reality of growing up.

Despite all those, I still watch the Oscars every year, seeing those shiny golden statuettes being given out to the winners, I envied them but at the same time, respected and celebrated their works. Because really, movie is one of the greatest passions in my life, and like books, my movie-addiction is life controlling. I am probably never going to stop watching movies, never going to stop appreciating them, and never going to stop dreaming about being a movie director myself. Because really, there is so much more than watching a movie blindly an for that two hours, be transported into that fictional world with a $9.50 ticket.

So instead of saying that I am living a childish dream, let's just say that I am a stubborn person when it comes to something I love, or I hold dear. I am the sentimental type and never romantic, and I can never give up something that I've held on for so long ever since young. Somebody asked me what hobbies or passions I have for life, and I simply replied," Books, music and movies". Because movies are timeless, and less expensive than diamonds, they are forever.

Rhett Butler and Scarlett O'Hara

I spent the better part of last night finishing the book Gone With The Wind, and I must say this one thing: This is one of the best damn book I have ever read. Look beyond the fact that the book is over a thousand pages long, and you will know just why this book is the top-selling book in literature history. Margaret Mitchell has crafted a timeless story, and it lives even until today, almost forty years later.

As I read the last pages of the book at 3am, I had a sudden urge to read the book all over again. If not for the other books that are stacked now by the side of my bed, I would've done that really. Because like so many other first-time readers of this incredible book, I'm sure the moment you finished the book, you must have had this urge to revisit the characters all over again.

The following is from the last scene in the movie, adapted from the last part of the book, and this particular scene struck me as I read it yesterday night. I felt the pain in Rhett's words, felt the desperation in Scarlett's tears, and most of all the reflection of the scene unto my life as I read the lines and the ones between them. An amazing closure to an amazing book, and I highly recommend this book to anybody who has a passion for books, for reading and most of all, for the English language.

Scarlett O'Hara,"What are you doing? "
Rhett Butler," I'm leaving you, my dear. All you need now is a divorce and your dreams of Ashley can come true. "
Scarlett O'Hara," Oh, no! No, you're wrong, terribly wrong! I don't want a divorce. Oh Rhett, but I knew tonight, when I... when I knew I loved you, I ran home to tell you, oh darling, darling!"
Rhett Butler," Please don't go on with this, Leave us some dignity to remember out of our marriage. Spare us this last. "
Scarlett O'Hara," This last? Oh Rhett, do listen to me, I must have loved you for years, only I was such a stupid fool, I didn't know it. Please believe me, you must care! Melly said you did."
Rhett Butler," I believe you. What about Ashley Wilkes?"
Scarlett O'Hara," I... I never really loved Ashley. "
Rhett Butler," You certainly gave a good imitation of it, up till this morning. No Scarlett, I tried everything. If you'd only met me half way, even when I came back from London."
Scarlett O'Hara," I was so glad to see you. I was, Rhett, but you were so nasty."
Rhett Butler," And then when you were sick, it was all my fault... I hoped against hope that you'd call for me, but you didn't."
Scarlett O'Hara," I wanted you. I wanted you desperately but I didn't think you wanted me."
Rhett Butler," It seems we've been at cross purposes, doesn't it? But it's no use now. As long as there was Bonnie, there was a chance that we might be happy. I liked to think that Bonnie was you, a little girl again, before the war, and poverty had done things to you. She was so like you, and I could pet her, and spoil her, as I wanted to spoil you. But when she went, she took everything."
Scarlett O'Hara," Oh, Rhett, Rhett please don't say that. I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry for everything."
Rhett Butler," My darling, you're such a child. You think that by saying, "I'm sorry," all the past can be corrected. Here, take my handkerchief. Never, at any crisis of your life, have I known you to have a handkerchief."
Scarlett O'Hara," Rhett! Rhett, where are you going? "
Rhett Butler," I'm going back to Charleston, back where I belong."
Scarlett O'Hara," Please, please take me with you!"
Rhett Butler," No, I'm through with everything here. I want peace. I want to see if somewhere there isn't something left in life of charm and grace. Do you know what I'm talking about?"
Scarlett O'Hara," No! I only know that I love you!"
Rhett Butler," That's your misfortune. "
[Catches him as he's walking out the front door]
Scarlett O'Hara," Oh, Rhett! Rhett! Rhett, Rhett! Rhett... if you go, where shall I go, what shall I do?"
Rhett Butler," Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."

--- Gone With The Wind (1939)

To me, the best books and best movies act as the best mirror of self. The above scene did exactly that for me, right now. But as true as Rhett may be, I DO give a damn, at least for as long as my stubbornness lasts. I still give a damn, so come back to me. Come back to me.

The Angel and the Janitor Boy

And I don’t know where you went
When you left me but
Says here in the water you must be gone by now
I can tell somehow

One hand on the trigger of a telephone
Wondering when the call comes
Where you say it’s alright
You got your heart right


Swollen eyes and the taste of morning in my mouth. The same sensation I felt when I went to sleep, for it was already morning when I did. The calm morning sun licked the side of my bed, warmed not the sheets or my frozen bedroom and heart. The temperature controlling device of the air-conditioning must have went haywire in the night, because my legs were frozen even under the cover of the sheets.

Nothing has changed outside the bedroom window, only the color of the scenery and the people busying the streets. Cars stopped and cars moved at the lights, people busying themselves about the streets, and the security guard welcomed the next one who came to change shift with a stretch of their arms in the air, from the exhaustion and lack of sleep of the previous night. Nothing has changed, and the world went on as usual.

Still, the trauma of last night did not leave me, even as I stood by the window and stared out into the brightening sky. There was a strange and insensible urge to open the window and scream into the horizon, just how the hell the world is able to function and go on with me being on the brink of oblivion. But then again, who are you to say that the world should seize with the breaking of your heart? Who are you, in the first place - or what? Everything happens as it should, even if for you, nothing happened as it should have.


Mom," Good morning! Are you going out today?"
Me," ...no."


I stared at the blue and white patterns on my bed for the longest time, watched as the dots started to merge and form strange shapes before my eyes. My eyes were playing tricks on me, conjuring strange hallucinations. Hallucinations - how I wish everything to be just that, and not the brutality of life's honesty. I cuddled myself under the sheets in the night, feeling the phone with the tip of my left hand, hoping for a slight vibration to hint the coming of the words of regrets; of apology; of love. But nothing happened throughout the night, just the constant surfing through the old messages saved through time.

I told you before of the image that I have at times, of the light in the ceiling turning into the moon, and the bed turning into a wooden plank in the middle of the vast ocean. The floor and the furnitures falling away into the dark waters, and just me and the sound of the waves lashing at my side. No one ever accompanied me on those imaginary voyages of mine, and for last night, I only wished you to be there with me, even if your presence was merely the result of my hallucination. Even so, you never came. Just the sound of glass cracking I hear all around the room, which was later realized to be merely the sound of something breaking inside my chest.


Maybe I’ll sleep inside my coat and
Wait on your porch ‘till you come back home
Oh, right
I can’t find a flight

We share the sadness
Split screen sadness

Nobody begins a beautiful thing expecting an end. Nobody buys a beautiful dress thinking about throwing it away sooner or later. Humans do not work like that, no matter how you see yourself - a Romantic or a Sentilmentalist. Either way, nobody ever falls in love thinking that it is going to end inevitably. That is not the way humans are built, and we only want to feel like we think this way because it sounds or feels romantic or heroic to do so. But in truth, there is nothing romantic, or remotely heroic about breaking the heart of yourself and somebody else's.

I hate myself, because I am a disgusting partner. This crime that I have committed cannot be forgiven, for I have sinned against her in my thoughts in the deep night, fully prepared for the day to come when she leaves me. Like I said, nobody should ever think of such possibilities, but deep in the night, my thoughts wander out into the far reaches of my mind, and in those places I have no control over myself whatsoever.

I took a walk today in my neighborhood, just walking the narrow pavements and under void decks. This is the neighborhood that I grew up in, I thought to myself. This is the place where I have grew up in, gotten used to, and numbed in. Numbed, a sudden smile streaked across the face of mine right then, for that word struck as being fitting of my emotions then, surging through my heart.

This break - this deep breath that you are taking now - must be the closest I'll ever get right not to a break-up. We both need answers, and perhaps you more than me. This is the closest I will ever get to the deepest pits of emotional hell, and the disturbing aspect of it was that I was not afraid of it, mentally prepared and just waiting for it to happen. It is wrong of me to be ready, to be on standby because this is not what I had in mind of a relationship, not what I had in mind at all.

This is like the deep breath before the punch in the stomach, the way you brace yourself against something shocking, something terrifying or painful. But this is not a punch, this is not the wooden plank you stand on before you leap off the side of the bridge during a bungee jump. This is a heartbreak, and can anybody be fully prepared for that? Can anybody confidently say that they are prepared for a heartbreak? As much as I am afraid of it, I am afraid that I might be prepared, or am I making any sense? I am bracing myself for the worse, because at the end of your deep breath my dear, I see myself breaking into pieces and with you, never turning back.

If one of us leaves, it is going to be you first and not me.


You," An optimist would say 'The world is ending!', and a pessimist would say 'No it is not'. I think it describes me very well, and it isn't so bad being a pessimist."

My ass.

To the Fat One, My Father

My father left for Taiwan again, all of those happening in the early hours of the morning while I still cuddled under my sheets, after merely an hour of sleep. The air-conditioning felt a tad bit too cold this morning, despite the fact that my knees were up to my chest the whole time and my arms were wrapped around them. Perhaps it was because the blanket is a little too small, but what the hell. It's not like turning it off would make me feel warmer - or better - anyway.

Like I said, my father left for Taiwan this morning yet again, for the nth time in a long time. I don't remember the last time he stayed in Singapore for more than two weeks, always rushing off to China or Taiwan for his business. I remember reading somewhere when we were still PR(Permanent Residents) in Singapore, there was a certain number of days you need to stay in Singapore to be eligible for the privileges of being a PR here. My dad clocked two hundred odd days overseas, just under the maximum limit.

So you see, I haven't had the time to be with my father my whole life. The times that I spend in Taiwan, he is usually busying himself in the offices and running around the country going for meetings, looking for businesses and always on the run. He is the kind of workaholic that cannot and will not understand the beauty of idle, and money is his passion. It has nothing to do with greed really, but it seems to be in the blood of his family. Everybody in his side of the family sort of cultivated a passion for business-making since young, starting from the oil barrel carrying days when he was a teenager for the family business. Afterwards, the part of the genes that is a workaholic never left him until now, two years over the age of fifty.

My father is the kind of person who has a stern face in the office, feared and often respected by his colleagues and liked by his friends. He has friends everywhere and especially on the golf course. That is where he made most of his money and his friends anyway, because golf for businessmen is like a cup of beer for two strangers. Once they tee off, they are good friends and money isn't a problem anymore. That is how businesses are done nowadays instead of being around the boardroom, and my Dad has done a great job at that.

Every year, he would return for the Chinese New Year holidays, and whenever he does, he would sit at home and do nothing. All right, maybe the word 'nothing' is a little too absolute, but he sits in front of the television most of the time, eat snacks and meals and spend the rest of the time sleeping. He has early morning coffee with my mother at the balcony at times, and once in a while they will visit the fish farm at Tampines to pick up bags of fishes or corals. That is a rough idea of how he spends his time in Singapore, the life away from his work. And to be honest, as much as I'd like him to stay, he isn't happy whenever he does.

Let's be honest here, because I don't know my Dad all that well. Of course, you can always argue that one does, but then again when you come right down to it, for me, I really don't know my father all that well. He comes home every time and starts his routine on teasing and possibly, pissing off the whole family somehow. But we all know that it is just a bit of fun, and most of the time we react to his pokes and ear flicking by doing the same thing back, or putting an ice cube on his stomach, practical jokes like that. That is as far as I know my Dad for, and to be honest though it is not exactly how a father-figure should be like in a household, I am glad that at least I have this with him, I have this.

But his true passion lies with his work, and I bet he can't wait to get back to his work again. We all want him to be happy I guess, want him to be satisfied with the life he lead and the life he chooses. As much as we want him to be around, we cannot afford to be selfish because, you can never catch a bird long enough if you still want to admire its beauty. Sooner or later, kept long enough, it will shed its feathers and die. Truth to be told, The further he is from the house the better, as long as he earns that hot wet wad of money, he is a happy man.

I cannot imagine how his retirement life would be like, sitting at home all day with his business ran by somebody else. Someday that is going to happen, and there was this once when he approached me on taking over his company. But I declined his offered, siting that I never had much interest in business-making or oil-related products. He jokingly disapproved of my interests in writing and music - art - but at the same time despite those jokes, I think underneath them he really wants somebody to take over the job. But that is not where my passion lies, or where my interests are. I've been pretending to enjoy a working environment for too long, and I don't intend to have the rest of my life earning hot wet wad of money by pretentious happiness, however guaranteed it might be.

So, to the fat one - my father - I do hope that some day you will lie in bed after retirement and be proud of what you have done, be glad that you led a life in your own unique manner, even if it means that most part of that life was spent away from us, the family. Just be happy Dad, because really, all I want for my own life is to be that way as well. Cheers to you Dad, and stop eating so much.

Screaming Quotes

These quotes from the same movie are screaming at me for some reason. It must be the day, or the night, or this moment in time... Closer is officially one of my favorite movies, and congratulations on the comeback from the ashes. Feast on the words that sting and drown in your blood, for they speak of the truth, and truth is brutally honest.


Dan," And you left him, just like that?"
Alice," It's the only way to leave. 'I don't love you anymore. Goodbye.'"
Dan," Supposing you still love him?"
Alice," You don't leave."


Alice," I'm waiting for you."
Dan," To do what?"
Alice," Leave me."


Alice," No one will ever love you as much as I do. Why isn't love enough?"


Alice," I don't want to lie, and I can't tell the truth. So it's over."


Dan," You think love is simple. You think the heart is like a diagram."
Larry," Have you ever seen a human heart? It looks like a fist, wrapped in blood! Go fuck yourself! You writer! You liar!"


Alice," Where is this love? I can't see it, I can't touch it. I can't feel it. I can hear it. I can hear some words, but I can't do anything with your easy words."


Dan," I hate that I'm hurting you."
Alice," Then why are you?"


Alice," You still fancy me?"
Dan," ...of course."
Alice," You're lying. I've been you."

--- Closer (2004)

Red Checkered Tabletops (Unfinished)

This is how it feels like to be alone, this is how it felt like to be alone. I almost forgot just how good it feels to be unknown to the lady next to my table, the man sitting to the right. I almost forgot how good it is to be ignored, to be given a cold shoulder, and to be noticed for a person's mere existence. I am getting addicted to this sensation, and more and more often I find myself having an urge to burst out of the house and into town, amidst the crowd of familiar species but unfamiliar faces.

Books are just an excuse, for the lure in reading does not overpower the temptation of being alone and doing something - anything. As of late, the solitude part of me has been waking up gradually and I foresee that sooner or later, it is going to take over my body entire. I am sick of this part of myself, the part that needs to be loved and the part that needs to be touched, known and felt. Perhaps I am just tired, tired of caring and tired of...tired of...

*

The gloom under the giant umbrellas of Starbucks yesterday was thick. In the shadows I could hardly read my book, and the two guys next to my table were rather distracting. They were playing Magic: The Gathering cards, and I wonder just how many people in this world are still enthralled with that card game. I remember playing it in early Secondary School days when it first started. But those two boys played with much enthusiasm. So much so that I was practically distracted from the pages of my book and proceeded onto staring into the darkening skies as the rain clouds gathered, menacing and threatening.

There is something about the rain which I do not understand. As much as the Geography textbooks taught me about the nature of rain - the evaporation process, the rain cycle, etc. - it never seizes to baffle me whenever I hear a thunder far off in the distant skies. And that is: The same piece of image can be made so much more beautiful with the veil of rain. The view outside my bedroom hasn't changed for the past sixteen years since I've lived here, but I always have this urge to stare out of the windows into the gray world, as if for the very first time. It always changes, and always for the better no matter how sad or wet everything might look.

To my left, the outdoor seats of Cafe Cartel were placed, mercilessly against the forthcoming storm mother nature was about to let loose on the great earth. The waiters busied themselves with whatever they were able to salvage from there, and when the rain finally came down they too took refuge under the shelter of the mall. So there laid the tables and the chairs, uncleared and left in the open, facing the rage of the rain alone.

I stared until my eyes were painful. The wind was so strong that the crowd under the giant umbrellas had to shift inwards, and the rain only got heavier by the minute. I watched as the dry tabletops over at the Cartel's side, slowly being vandalized by the raindrops. The red checkered tabletops weren't removed at that time, and they too were not spared by mother nature. And I watched, with Damien Rice's music in my ears, and saw the imaginary destruction of...

*

I blogged until the above and decided to seize. I am not really the kind of person who likes to delete entries, but at the same time I do not see the need of continuing one when I no longer feel the need or want to do so. I'm feeling a little strange right now for some reason, and maybe I might return someday to finish this entry. But for now, it is to the next entry.

I'm tired of that, I'm tired. And as much as I am tired and am petrified about my own potential lies...I cannot concentrate anymore, there are too many thoughts clouding my head. As much as I want to scream, there is a more sensible-self within me tugging frantically at myself, slapping some senses into me before I blurt out the hurtful words...I am afraid of my potential lies, and I am not even sure if that makes any particular sense.

I'm caught in a mess.

I hate myself, there I said it.

Why Starbucks Sucks

I am officially never going to visit Starbucks ever again. I've always liked Coffee Bean, but in the past I never had a raging dislike for Starbucks. Sure, I think it is a more popular franchise in the coffee world, but let's face the truth: Starbucks sucks. That is the conclusion I came up with after my last visit to the cafe today at Plaza Singapura.

I remember trying out Starbucks for the first time in Taiwan in XiMenDing. That day was blistering cold, and the crowded streets did little to warm my freezing hands. So I decided to grab a cup of hot chocolate from Starbucks and held on to it more often than I was drinking it to be honest, because it didn't taste so good. It was forgivable in a way, because at least that cup of hot chocolate kept me warm, and thus not as worthless as it might sound.

Then the second time was in Singapore when I went out with a friend of mine. We were at Bugis, and for some strange reason I wanted to get their ice-blend, just to see if it is any better than Coffee Bean's. Turned out, that the ice were too coarse and the coffee itself didn't taste too good. That happened for the last time when I visited it with my beau right before watching the movie "The Queen", when their so-called ice-blend turned out to be the worst tasting ice-blend I have ever tasted. Their bloody idea of an ice-blend is to have the cold coffee with ice floating on top of it. They must have missed out the crucial word "blend", because I didn't see any blenders being involved in the production of that horrid drink.

Today was a little different as I made my way down to Plaza Singapura. A part of it was because I wanted to meet my beau out of impulse, and the other reason was the fact that I am just about to finish Gone With The Wind, so why not try to finish it in the cafe? So I ordered the Iced Mocha Americano and sat myself down in the corner of the cafe and drank one sip of the supposed coffee and almost died on the spot. Because really, that was the most horrid drink I have ever tasted, and even worse than all the alcoholic drinks that I've had in my life.

The quality of the drink aside, for some reason, every single time I visit Starbucks, their plastic cups will be leaking. Always dripping coffee out of the sides as I drink, and they should be lucky that none of those dripped onto my shirt or else somebody might appear in tomorrow morning's headlines, being drowned in a tub of coffee beans.

My ass cracked on top of the seats, and I missed the straw seats that they have over at Coffee Beans. I like Coffee Bean simply because of the drinks that they have(Which is always good), and of course the comfort. Even the non-sofa seats are relatively comfortable compared to the ones in Starbucks. In fact, I reckon that long exposure of your buttock to the surface of the chairs provided will cause a permanent damage to your anus, I swear.

Therefore, I am probably never going to visit Starbucks anymore. It's not like I have been visiting it very often, and that they are going to lose a valued customer. But still, a customer is a customer, and I cannot imagine myself ever studying for long hours in that cafe. Imagine the medical bills involved after one day of intense studying, and not to forget the surgery afterwards on the buttock area. That is of course, if you do not get any poisoning from the drinks that they serve.

So what if Starbucks is more famous than Coffee Bean. I say Coffee Bean is like indie music. You don't need to be mainstream to be good.

Pyramid Song



I jumped in the river and what did I see?
Black-eyed angels swam with me
A moon full of stars and astral cars
All the things I used to see

All my lovers were there with me
All my past and futures
And we all went to heaven in a little row boat
There was nothing to fear and nothing to doubt

I jumped into the river
Black-eyed angels swam with me
A moon full of stars and astral cars
And all the things I used to see

All my lovers were there with me
All my past and futures
And we all went to heaven in a little row boat
There was nothing to fear and nothing to doubt

There was nothing to fear and nothing to doubt...
There was nothing to fear and nothing to doubt...

Christian Goes to Sleep

One hour ago.

Already the hot steam condensed on the mirror to his left, his own reflection barely visible from where he was, as his vision was clouded by the drifting steam upon the air. It has been almost an hour since Christian has been in that bathroom, his fingertips and toes pruning under the glistering surface of the water. The light above hung low and steady, illuminating every inch of the bathroom but not the darkening heart of Christian, for under the surface of his chest where the waters lapped like the shores of the beach he was at hours ago, a storm of gathering clouds waged in a blinding rage.

He took a deep breath, feeling the moisture of the air feeling up his lungs, and with one last heave of his chest he plunged under the surface of the lukewarm water, bubbles escaping from his nostrils and bursting at the top. With the last bit of hope and faith they dissolved into the swirling mist all around, lost and promised the silence to be found by no one.

Eight hours ago.

Not used to the sensation of pure silk brushing against his skin, Christian found his way around the tables and the chairs in the restaurant. He has been here before, with his father long ago when they still lived in New York. He was a child back then, and he was there with his father to celebrate his belated birthday.

Nineteen Oaks is one of the most expensive restaurants on the 17th avenue, and he remembers his father's beard across from the table, spreading out into a wide grin as he revealed the present especially prepared for his tenth birthday. It was pair of tickets to the New York Yankee's baseball game for next Saturday, and despite the exquisite air all around, Christian gave a reserved but sudden yelp of joy. He went across the table and gave his father a large wet kiss on his cheeks, and the rest of the customers returned to their meals.

Christian ordered the most expensive dish on the menu without thinking twice about the food. The waiter smiled, and as he collected the menu Christian whispered into his ears if the waiter knows of any escort services around the area. The waiter smiled, and moments later returned with a glass of white wine accompanied with a small note just under the base of the wine glass. Upon it, the name and number to call for the escort service, and for that Christian tipped the man with a generous ten dollar bill.

The meal was both satisfying and nostalgic, for the smell emitting from the red meat was exactly like the dish his father ordered years ago. His father only just returned from his business trip, and this time it lasted longer than usual. Christian, at merely ten years old, understood not of his father's constant absence from his life, nor did he understand why his mother left his father for another man. Adult life was all too confusing and far away to the young Christian, though Christian now smiled at his own naivety and innocence, almost to the extent of mocking at himself. 'What did you know?' he murmured to himself. 'What did you know?'

Seven hours ago.

With one down, there were three more to go. The yellow paper fluttered in his hands as he got out of Nineteen Oaks. The bustling street was full of people of the night, hurrying in their own lives and caring not at all of the man in his posh silk suit and hat with a piece of yellow paper in his hand. He crossed out the first part of the note and found his way through the busy crowd on the sidewalk to the nearest pay phone. The rest of the world busied themselves behind him as he made the call, the receiver smelling of dried sweat and saliva. But he couldn't care less about them, as much as how the world was caring so little of him. The world never cared, for we are all writers of our own lives, contributing to this giant novel of life.

On the highest floor of the tallest hotel in town, Christian's room looked out onto the dark waters of the Hudson's. The city lights reflected off the surface of the waters, with the peaceful dark only interrupted rudely by passing ships and boats, still doing businesses deep into the evening hours. Doing businesses, their own businesses, carefully minding them but not anybody else's in the world.

Christian wondered what caused people to be so detached from one another, so cold and so ignorant with one side of his brain, while the other answered his own repetitive question: Look into the mirror, look into the mirror. He was both the guilty and the victim, both the accused and the owner of the pointing finger. Christian looked out into the Hudson River, and next to it his pale and vague reflection stared back. Because he never cared for anybody before, not for his father's death when his own name repeated over and over again on the death bed which Christian was never next to ever before. Or the pleading tears of his wife Melanie when she was dragged upon the wooden flooring of his three million dollar mansion back in California, begging him to stay for the sake of her and if not, for his young son Daniel.

Because he never cared, thus he was never cared for. Action and retribution, life and death. The universe is set upon a balance, just as his life was as he started on the long letter addressed to his wife across the country.

Four hours ago.

It took a long time, but it was complete. Christian waved the piece of paper in the air for the black ink to dry in the air, and folded it carefully into two halves. In his mind as he sealed the envelope with his saliva, he went through the content of his letter and most of all, the guilt and regrets that went into every single word and letter, and even the spaces in between those untouched by the black ink.

The imaginary ran through his head, of the scene of his wife in bed with another man, his best friend Alan. Still naked and wrapped in Alan's shirt, Melanie ran after the anger charged Christian out of the front door of their mansion. She collapsed under his feet, and clawed at his chest for forgiveness and mercy. But Christian stared upon this woman that he no longer recognized with disgust and an appalling taste in his mouth, not because of the scene he only so recently witnessed and the image so vividly engraved in his mind, but because of his own face set upon Melanie's. He knew that he could never forgive Melanie what he so conveniently forgave himself for. Because he too has a mistress, and he too has been disloyal to his own wife and child.

Christian fled the scene, with Alan's naked silhouette in the doorway comforting Melanie. He fled, not because of anger but mostly of shame and guilt, and the realization that that child that sat before his bearded father was stupid enough to not see that his parents separated for the exact same reasons. The constant moaning and groaning in the night while his mother wasn't at home, and the strange women coming in and out of his own house when he was younger. He never realized, and he never knew. But he knew right then, and he was committing the exact same crime that his father committed, the crime that he realized and hated his father for in the very first place. So much so that even till his father's death, Christian never gave in to his dying pleas, nor his butler's urgent calls to his home. He hated the man, and now he became that very man.

He confessed and he confessed, and he wrote and he wrote. 'Sorry doesn't even begin to justify the crime that I have committed upon Daniel, you and mostly myself" he wrote, and as he sealed the letter and wrote the address, the crossed out the second wish upon that little note that he held outside Nineteen Oaks, and awaited patiently for the last one to arrive.

Three hours ago.

Ashley arrived with a soft knock on the door. In the light of the corridor beyond, Christian scrutinized the woman before him, clad in clothes that were hardly clothes, for they were hanging loosely from the woman's body, exposing much of her skin save for the more private areas. She smelled of strong perfume, and her blond hair rested in curls upon her netted top. Through them, the black brasserie hinted of a satisfying night to come.

As the door closed, Ashley pushed Christian against the door to the bathroom, and her soft wet lips met his as her hands went downwards into his pants. He stood like a statue there for a moment, unsure of what he was supposed to do because it was his first time making love to an escort. But his hands slowly found the way to the edge of Ashley's black top, and lifting them up he revealed breasts that he longed for ever since he ran away from his own home and the home of his mistresses'.

The lights went out, and the night drew on with loud moaning coming from his room. His naked body rubbed against Ashley's, and the air smelled of hot sweat and other bodily fluids as he paced around the bed for a change of position. Nothing else matters anymore, he told himself. Nothing else matters. Christian crawled back into bed, and in between Ashley's legs, he entered her.

One hour ago.

The last wish on the list was crossed out, the paper moist upon the brink of the sink. He has been in the bath tub for over an hour, and Ashley left long ago with a stack of money Christian left on the table for her. He smiled into the air, and cursed the heavens aloud in the midnight hours.

He emerged from the waters and gasped for air, running his fingers over his face. He got out of the tub naked and wrapped himself with the plain white bath robe provided by the hotel. The floor of the room felt cool under his bare feet, as he lid a cigarette. The light from the tip ignited the rest of the room in a dull flickering firelight, and in the gloom of the room Christian prepared for sleep.

Now.

Melanie rushed through the car park before the hotel despite the cold wind blasting against the side of her face, still aching from the tight slap that Alan gave to her a day ago. She wrapped herself up with her coat, and ran over the lines that she intend to tell Christian when she meet him in the hotel room later. Lines that were merely lines, with no words to fill them whatsoever because she herself didn't know what to say, or what to do at the sight of Christian's face once again. She prayed silently for his forgiveness, and most of all his return back home.

A loud crash, the sound of exploding glass. The car exploded without flames to Melanie's right, and she screamed as the glass sprayed onto her face. Onlookers rushed to her aide, for her face and dress was covered in blood. 'Are you hurt?' the man first at the scene yelled. 'Are you okay?'

Melanie stumbled to her feet and backed away from the exploded vehicle. Not my blood, she thought to herself. This is not my blood. On the hood of the car she then looked, and in plain white robes the body of a man that laid there no in pieces. His face disfigured from the fall from the great height, and his left arm was obviously broken in several places.

Melanie fainted then, not from the blood that was smeared all over her, but for the crushed letter that was held in the man's hands. Her name big and bold was on it, and the body of her husband Christian laid lifeless upon the top of the car, and the cold winter breeze blew mercilessly upon the both of them, screaming not only the chill that ran down her spine but the fleeting warmth between everyone in this world.

Lives As Elevators

Human emotions are like elevators. Two distinctively groups of emotions are the male emotions, and the female emotions. Under both groups, they are further sub-divided into smaller classes, but of course in general it is not difficult to see the clear difference between the way a guy deals with a problem, and a girl deals with the very same problem.

I'm not exactly sure how this simile came about, but my beau and I were on the train when that happened. And it is true in a lot of ways that us humans work like elevators. But of course, as elevators there are a lot of different types. You have the ones that goes through a shaft, the ones that hangs on the side of grand five-star hotels, the ones that travel at amazing speeds like the one in Taipei 101, and imaginary ones like the glass elevator in Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator, the sequel to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Men are like normal elevators traveling through a straight elevator shaft. You have different levels to get to by pressing buttons, and these buttons actually represents decisions made. For example, you are in a dead end relationship, with nothing ahead of you but more dread and more tears. You know that this relationship isn't going anywhere and the best way out is to have a clean break up. The 'break up' is of course, one of the levels, and the shaft is the emotional process that a man goes through before reaching that decision - the destination - eventually.

Men are simple creatures, and we love it. I used to hate the idea that people claim that men are simple, shallow creatures. I used to have a desire to distinguish myself from the rest, claiming that I am so much more sophisticated, so much more complicated emotionally. But in truth, I am no more simple than a mental sum tested in an ordinary Secondary School classroom in terms of my emotional processing. I do not go through long tedious mathematical workings to derive at an answer, but rather I rely solely on my common sense and brain to achieve it. The best possible way, the fastest, most efficent, most logical and rational way of dealing with a problem is usually what myself - or the majority of men - would do when dealing with emotional problems.

We are simple creatures and we (should) love it. There is nothing easier than to regard a problem with a simple mind, because there are times when the best way out is often the simplest. You save the pain, save the tears, save all the hassles and get down to business simply because your elevator shaft is straight up, or straight down. There is nothing complicated about that but only, different people - different men - have different numbers of floors. Some have lesser while others have more, and that differs between man to man. We reach different heights.

Women are like the glass elevator in the book "Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator". Similarly, the buttons represents the decisions that we have to make in life. We take the same example as reference, but this time in a female's context. That alone makes things radically different already before even going into details.

If you know the story behind the glass elevator, you would know that the chocolate factory that Willie Wonka owns is the biggest chocolate factory in the world. Thus, Willie Wonka - being the genius as he is - invented a glass elevator that not only goes up and down, but left and right and to wherever places he pleases, simply by pressing a button.

Girls go through a series of emotional ups-and-downs and twists and turns before reaching a decision. Breaking up, for the girl, under the same circumstances, isn't as easy as the guy involved previously simply because she doesn't have an elevator shaft that goes straight up or straight down. She goes sidewards, upwards, downwards, length-wise and everywhere. It doesn't follow the conventional route of emotional process but rather chooses the complicated way out.

You might say that, as men, it is stupid for girls to actually torture themselves in that. But I think like men, women love the fact that they are complicated, complexed creatures that at times, hate the idea of being logical and rational. It makes them think, it makes them feel, and even if it is pain that they feel, so what? The hurt makes them feel alive, and to them a straight shaft is too boring and too dead. Let's go in all different directions before reaching the final decision, even if it means that we have to scream and shout at each other in the process. This makes women amazing creatures, and more sophisticated beings than men.

But both are contented with their nature, both love how they are built to be. If I have a choice to be a man or a woman in my next life - if I have a next one at all - I would probably opt to me a man again. It's just easier to be one in terms of the emotions. I guess I just love the feeling of being in a complexed person's life, and telling her that simplicity might be the best solution to her problems. It's nice to see a ball of mess in this plain straightforward way I guess, and of course there are other reasons to want to be a guy again. But of course, some things never change. We are always going to live lives as elevators.

Till the Next Glimmer


I remember when I was much younger, my mother and I used to look at encyclopedias together on the sofa. Flipping to a page with the Himalayan Mountains, she suddenly asked why the temperature higher up from the Earth's surface is lower than the temperature on the surface itself, when it is actually closer to the sun. I didn't know that either, because I wasn't even half her age and was only halfway through my early primary school days. I didn't know anything about science of geography back then, only the names to the shapes of leaves or if birds walked or hopped.

I learned later on in life that, heat from the sun does not reach the Earth like the heat of the fire reaches our skin. It does not feel hotter because you are closer to it, or cooler when you are further away from it. It is because radiation works differently, and it is reflected off the surface of the Earth. Thus, at the surface of the Earth the air is actually hotter because that is where the reflection takes place. As the reflected radiation travels higher, it loses heat and thus because cooler in upper grounds.

Of course, we must also take into considerations such as dust particles in the air. Towards ground level the dust particles in the air are more saturated compared to the air near to the sky due to the abundance of air relatively. Dust traps heat, and thus towards the ground it is a lot hotter. Other reasons includes the pressure differences, altitudes, stuff like that. But that is the basic idea. The higher you go, the colder you get(Save for the exception of the stratosphere where it actually gets hotter suddenly).

*

With quick steps I rushed into my bedroom to grab the camera, then rushed all the way back out to the balcony where I came from to capture the picture above. I don't know the time or date I took it, but it was some time close to the evening and the sun was setting at that time. It was after dinner I remember, and I wandered to my balcony and saw the beautiful western skies. I have to take this, I told myself. And thus, the rush for the camera as if for life.

There is a certain peace in that picture that I still see, the reason why I took the picture is still evident to me. The image is so peaceful and blissful at the same time, and it looked like a melting pot of warm ice-cream, though still tasty somehow. The colors were telling me that everything is going to be okay, as if they spelled words of encouragements in the skies. I still look at the picture and marvel at the beauty of nature, and especially of the quality of my camera...okay, maybe not that. But still, I love this picture, and even from my home's balcony, such a picture can be produced.

They say that the higher you go into the sky, the colder you get. But it is not the chill I see solidified in the skies, but the frozen warmth that goes against all scientific and geographic explanations. But who cares about those, because they only further tarnish the poetic beauty of everything natural in this world. Forget about the scientific explanations of things, forget about reasons. Just admire, and plainly do so, in awe.

Despite the darkening skies, everything in this world tells people that there is always hope in this world, a glimmer light of the glory of the day before lingers still in the sky. Wavering though it is, there is confidence and courage still, that in hours the glory and beauty shall be restored to the skies.

To the person that I hold so very dear, there is always hope or faith in every obstacle that we face, even if you see yourself embedded in the obstacle itself. Do not fear your own reflections, because like the darkening skies, in hours there will be light. Even at the darkest hour of the night at 3am as the picture below, there will always be light somewhere in the dark. May that be me for you, and may you be that for me. So till the next glimmer in the skies, hold on. Just hold on, and breathe. Thank you for being the little light of hope in the little piece of sky that we share.

Only Through Pages


As much as I love to have my hand filled by the sweaty palm of my partner, there is a certain joy in grasping air, that emptiness that dominates the column of space on your side. Solitude is both therapeutic and murderous at the same time, though only so for the latter case with over-dosage. I love, and I appreciate the solitude that I get with myself, and as much as I love the times spent with my beloved, there is a more secret and desire for my solitudinous-self.

Yesterday was such a day when I was able to find time to spend the entire day with myself, to go salsa dancing with him. I miss the times I get with myself, just strolling down the city streets and admiring the lights, not caring a thing about the world and being anonymous in the crowd, not known by anybody or recognized. I love that feeling, and it was such a pleasure to relive that sensation all over again after such a long break.

The town on the second day of Chinese New Year is an empty one, with most of the shutters in stores pulled down and closed, I met with a lot of locked gates yesterday pacing down the sidewalk of Orchard, drenched by the early afternoon rain and here and there, dotted by puddles of water. I found my way between those, taking my time to get to the nearest Coffee Bean other than the one in the basement of Takashimaya(Since most of the building was closed).

Wheelock's Place has a Coffee Bean that holds much memory for me, and since it was a hot and humid day I decided to retreat to the outlet at the back, and managed to grab hold of a seat in the corner of the place with a cup of mocha in my hands, armed with Gone With The Wind and my iPod, I settled down in no time and began my terribly overdue times with myself.

So the afternoon went on this way, just the coffee, the music, the book and myself wearing down the slow hours. There is something about reading a book in the middle of a bustling crowd, because that seems to be the only way I can get down and read without be distracted at all. Quick fact about me: I can never read a book in proper at home, and I almost always have to rely on the quietness of midnight to force myself to read. And even so, I usually read about thirty pages and retire to bed at 3am. But yesterday's progress was brilliant! And by dinnertime which I forgot all about, I have progressed further than I expected and was excited about it. Taking a break from my book, I looked around at the people all around, and that was when it struck.

It is a hobby that was noticed only right there and then, and a hobby I am not good at just yet. I enjoy watching people all around me, what people call "People Watching", like watching birds in the wild with binoculars. Only, I didn't need any binoculars or any such apparatus, because they were all around me. People, just plain ordinary everyday people all around, minding their own businesses or conversing with others. Each moment seemed to have this really enchanting element to them, as if each wave of the hand, each scratch of their foreheads or each laughter, weaved lines of poetry in the air that spelled the most utter yet subtle brilliance.

There was a girl right behind me then, sitting across the aisle from a middle-aged man, and they were both on a lap-top at that time. The man was clearly from, or stayed for a long period of time, in the States and had a strong American accent going on. He was having much problems with his internet connection and kept asking the girl to help him out. For about half an hour he kept talking to her when she was busy on her work, and apparently she is a law student from NUS. She was obviously distressed and irritated by his constant call out for help, but she helped him out anyway. And to see her eyes roll or that smell gestures of annoyance was both amusing and humorous.

Hours later, there was a couple who came with the guy's friend, and while the male side of the couple went to buy drinks for everyone, there was an awkward air in the air as the friend faced the girl alone at the table, with their eyes covering all areas behind each other except the eyes of one another. Her legs twisted into each other, fingers rubbed against one another and her lower lip almost turned white from all the biting she was doing. The friend was kind enough to break the silence, but that - in the end - did not help at breaking the awkward situation at all.

That friend started going on and on about comics and movies, very geeky stuff. I personally found it terribly interesting, but to me I don't think that might have been the perfect topic of choice to break awkward silences, especially if you don't know the other person very well. He spoke about the Silver Surfer from the Fantastic Four series, talked about his alien homeland. Then he went on to talk how another alien race was threatening to destroy his homeland if he does not destroy Earth...something like that. Of course, afterwards he went on to talk about Epic Movie and the plot of the movie which, to be honest, doesn't have a plot at all. I pitied the girl somehow, but more on the boy because he was saying truly interesting stuff to me, but not to the girl who was right in front of him. They left swiftly after, and replaced by a Caucasian family.

The father of the family was a guy with a humongous body, but a voice that did not match at all. The mother was soft-spoken as she read the stories from a book they just bought from Borders to her son, who was sitting on her lap. Her daughter was looking through the CD she just bought, something about the top 20 greatest hits in the radio, and was going on and on to her father just how great the CD is because it has Beyonce and Christina Aguilera in it. Her father took the CD over and examined the cover in utter confusion, while the mother checked out the books they just bought. One of them was Khaled Housseini's The Kite Runner, and I had a sudden urge to say that," Hey, that's a great book." But of course, I didn't do that, and the family left with the daughter telling her mom to let her sit in the front seat because she wanted to check out the tracklistings.

Of course, I stayed there for almost seven hours straight, with a few toilet and shopping breaks in between. But I always ended up in the same Coffee Bean outlet, and the people there were always different from before. It was an interesting experience for me, and at the same time a rather strange habit to have cultivated and discovered. It may be seemed as a form of voyeurism, but I guess I wasn't peeping through a hole in the wall, watching a certain girl change out of her day dress or something. It was merely the gestures of people or what they had to say that attracted my attention, and it was fascinating how small actions suddenly meant so much to me. Like the man outside of the convenience store said in Waking Life," As the pattern gets more intricate and subtle, being swept along is no longer enough."

I am not still not too good at the craft of this habit yet, always getting caught in awkward eye-to-eye situations, with the observer always being caught by the observed. Like the time in Borders when I was looking through a section of books when an attractive girl came up next time me and took out the book "Why Do Men Have Nipples?" and commented that it was a great book. It IS in fact, a great book. But her boyfriend, friend, or brother did not share the optimism. At the title itself, he dissed the book and said that with a title like that, the book couldn't be any better. She tried to argue, but he refused to listen and walked away. As she placed the book back, she sort of caught me looking and our eyes met for a while. That was rather awkward, but I guess I just wanted to convey the message: Forget about him, you were right. It IS a great book.

Until I finally have mastered the skill, I guess I just have to look at people only through the pages of my books, like the pictures I took out of utter boredom, pathetic attempts at being artsy-fartsy. Wish me good luck on this new found interest of mine. Who knows? In this world, there is always someone watching.