In Continuum.

Like Woolf

(LONG LONG LONG entry ahead! But one of my best, in my opinion. Very Woolf-ish. Reminded me of the scene outside the florist's in Mrs. Dalloway. Kenzie, you know what I am talking about.)



I was at Gardens again today, and initially I had a purpose. I was there to return the movies I borrowed earlier this week: City Of God, The Usual Suspects and Casablanca. But the moment I stepped out of the rental store, the purpose of my visit to the Circus was blurred with my vision, as the glaring afternoon sun was filtered through the green-colored crown of leaves that lined the narrow streets. There was a foul smell of gasoline in the air, and looking down the street, a trail of black exhaust followed a white van, as it sped down the road and carelessly ruining our atmosphere. But then again, so little people care for our environment these days. Sure, The Inconvenient Truth knocked some sense into people but still, at the very core of human beings, we are just selfish animals, don't you agree?

A little warning to the readers before you guys decide to proceed after this very line. The following post is going to be a long one concerning the view from where I sat at the Coffee Beans, through the giant glass window to my left and then the rest of the cafe, bustling away and minding their own businesses. Personally, I am beginning to find a certain fascination with boring writings, like the ones from Tolkien's books and especially Ishiguro's. The art of transcending boredom from the pages of the books to the readers not through the word itself, but in the true sensation of boredom cultivated by the text...is beyond. I'm not sure if I am making any sense here, but do forgive me - it is 3 a.m. and I've just had a glass of liquor. Anyway, I have warned you, so proceed if you are really bored, prepared to be bored-er.

Familiar steps I took, aching beats from the chest. The pains were drowned by the constant reminded of a purpose I came up with a minute ago: To exorcise every possible places as soon as possible. Thus, every step was a new step to a new beginning. Happy thoughts, I repeated to myself. Happy thoughts.

I came through the glass doors at the cafe as a wave of air-conditioning cooled my warmed and humid skin. The cafe was unusually crowded today, and a rare queue at the counter was seen bending away into the insides of the store like a slithering snake. I waited at the back of this multi-colored snake and waited for my turned, all the time fumbling with the coins in my pockets. Like all the places that I have been to previously, this one was making me equally nervous. The wooden seats to my left where we sat so many months ago felt like a damp towel being brought towards my face from that direction. There was a natural urge to turn away from there, and as I was focused on the imaginary towel, the man from the counter called out for me, waving his hand in the air over the cash register to catch my attention.

I fumbled at the word "Mocha". What an idiot, I told myself as I tapped the ten dollar bill under the counter. He smiled at me as he wrote my name in the correct spelling on the plastic cover of the cup, the lights from above reflected upon the transparent surface.

The nervousness grew as I stood there in the queue, sweat pouring down my forehead like they did minutes ago in the sun. But I was in the air-conditioned room, perfectly chilled by the system and yet, there I was sweating like a dog in the queue, anxiously biting on the purple straw while keeping my change. Eyes were on me I felt, people must have been thinking that I am this strange mentalist that escaped from an asylum. The siren outside must have been the police looking for me, asking from door to door about an escaped Chinese man at the age of twenty, with a mole on his upper lips and black glasses. Somebody will recognize me, somebody will point me out and take me into custody. Turn back to check, turn back to check if anybody is looking, turn back now!

And so I did, and to my relief everybody was minding their own businesses, and for some reason I was utterly dismayed. The girl closest to me was calculating away on some chemistry equation, while the girl before her fell asleep on her folded arms, upon the homework that sprawled on the wooden table, so evenly that it almost became a tablecloth. They were from Anderson Junior College as I read the heading of the homework, and I gazed across from their table to see two plump women in their late thirties perhaps, chattering away in a language alien to me. Turning back to the queue, I focused back on the girl behind the counter.

The smoke twisted away and teased at the air above, circled the coffee machine in a mesmerizing dance as the girl with the glasses worked away. She smiled at every customer, and almost too young to have such politeness and enthusiasm. She was a rarity, to have such enthusiasm at her work, and from my experiences at cafes these people are hard to come by. I smiled at her when she called for my name, and she returned the smile and handled me the cup of chilled mocha with napkins. Our fingers briefly touched at the ends, and the sensation calmed my tensed nerves for a split second.

I found a seat next to the giant windows where Corinna and I sat only a week ago. There was an old couple just to my two o'clock, pondering over the contents on a computer screen, while to my back three students were arguing over some mathematical formulas. The utensils and cups were not cleared when I moved to the table, so I helped myself with the clearing up by stacking them one above another like little pyramids, making a space for my books, cellphone and iPod. There, a comfort zone for myself and my favorite accompanies in the world. Now, to the reading I go. To the reading.

The Painted Bird is an awesome book, just the language of it is so vivid in a disturbing way. In the first few pages of the book, you know how the tone is going to be like for the next three hundred pages or so, starting with the burning of the poor squirrel with the lighted tree branch, and the attack of the ravens to the protagonist's head. It was a haunting book like all the reviews mentioned, but there was something distracting about the place that took me off the pages.

The only bookmark that I had was a business card gave to me by David, the computer engineer that I got to know through my numerous problems with the CPU. I placed that in between the pages and looked around the cafe, with a quote I read somewhere about writings coming into my head all of a sudden. I'm not too sure where I read or heard of it, but the woman's voice repeated the words at the back of my head saying," To be a writer, observe". And observe, I did. And this is the view from here - where I was.

Moments after I placed down the book, a couple came in with their new born baby and a child no more than two years old. The mother was in a simple blue colored t-shirt washed too many times, and a faded denim shorts that revealed her thick pale thighs. Along the sides of her thighs, the blue and red veins ran like spiderwebs, until they faded and disappeared under the layer of her skin. Her husband looked too young to be a father, with his student-like hairstyle and dorky spectacles, he looked as if he still belonged in a high school. But there he was with the younger of the two children, feeding her a bottle of milk with a yellow towel tucked underneath her chin. The mother was there, feeding her older child muffins in children-friendly proportions. On the back of the older child's shirt read "Hushush 85", so that is the name she shall be addressed as, while her younger sister would simple be known as: The Baby.

The Baby thrashed around in her pram the way little kids would, kicking around and attacking the upholstered sides. Her arms and legs were like sausages, round and bloated, almost too real to be a product of humans. Babies, to me, have always been like the product of some carefully calibrated machine, too intricate and delicate to be the work of mother nature, and the communion of a man and a woman. But there she was, in the pram comfortably while sucking on the plastic tip of the milk bottle.

Her older sister - Hushush 85 - on the other hand, choked on a piece of muffin and started hollering in the middle of the already noisy cafe. So on top of everything, there she was crying and spitting at the same time, all the while shaking her head this way and that with a drop of snort hanging from her nose like a earring, only less elegant. Her mother desperately attempted to comfort her child while wiping the vomit and the snort off her face, but for some reason the child looked at me after a series of seemingly endless screaming and stopped. I smiled at her, and she stared at me blankly with an almost fascinated wonder, and was placed back into her high chair roughly. Her mother followed her daughter's look and stared at me for a while. Embarrassed, I switched my gaze to elsewhere in the cafe - anywhere.

They were joined by a mutual friend soon after, man who wore white sports t-shirt with a pair of shorts, exposing his hairy legs that almost covered the yellow skin underneath. He had the lowest voice register I have ever heard, and there he was trying to convince Hushush 85 to hit her father. Hushush 85 stared back at this hairy creature with much wonder, and then returned her attention back to the plastic table of her high chair, where she left her unfinished work: The great piece of orchestra music she was composing moments ago by banging her fists upon the surface. And I thought only little boys do that to tabletops. I guess this is a sign of violence.

From that straight line that joined my iris to hers, I thought I saw a hint of sadness and exhaustion in the mother's eyes. Of course, the stare was too brief and too embarrassing to have any forms of accurate reading, but there she was sitting before her two children and her husband, feeling a thousand miles away from him. Her husband was in the moment, talking to his friend while stuffing The Baby with the milk bottle until white liquid flowed out from her nostrils. She looked at The Baby and then her husband, then transferred her gaze to the moving people outside the giant windows and the cars, the couples moving down the pavement hand in hand and so youthful and alive. She ignored the banging of her daughter's fists on the plastic table and the voice of the hairy man, and just indulged herself in that momentary span of sadness, only to be interrupted when her husband suggested to leave. There they go, they were leaving. Hushush 85 took a quick glance at my direction while The Baby started crying for no apparent reasons. I smiled back, and as they disappeared outside the glass doors, I placed my attention on the couple sitting just below the glass windows to my left.

The boy was in a smart white shirt, accompanied by a pair of dark blue jeans and designer's shoes. Clearly from a family rather well off, and the girl was not too badly dressed as well. In a white top hanging from her shoulders by two thin straps, she fumbled with her phone most of the time throughout this seemingly awkward date. Their conversation reached only to the outside of the window and not to my ears, and I could only guess so much as to how deep into a conversation they were. I shall call the boy Zombie Man and the lady Zombie Woman. Zombie Woman was playing with her shoes, that dangled from her toes from golden straps. Her back was facing me, but her chin was on her palms while on the other hand, the evaporating dews from the condensation dripped down her fingers. Zombie Man was poking his lips with the purple straw, constantly making circles around his lips as if nobody was looking at him. He tried to make a conversation, as I saw his lips part and said something inaudible. Zombie Woman replied, and then they sank back into their exchange of silent rituals.

The couple that replaced that old one on the computer moments before was no better either. Zombie Man #2 sat with his right side facing me, while surfing through his gallery on the phone. He kept pressing right rigorously with his right thumb while his partner chatted away happily on her cellphone. I can't say that this lady is a zombie like the other couple, but she sure was giving little attention to Zombie Man #2. She was in a plain white full length dress, almost translucent at the top and underneath it, the white undergarment showed ever so faintly under the yellow lights from above. She smiled as she talked, biting on the nails of her index finger and looking out at the streets at the same time. Zombie Man #2 watched as his partner drifted slowly away into another conversation world where he wasn't involved, and aside from the boredom that was clearly written over his face, he must have been furious at the ignorance of his existence before the girl. Her chest heaved upwards and down as she laughed at a joke through the receiver, and staring at her Zombie Man #2 grunted under his breath, for the person who made the joke wasn't him. I wondered if we were ever like that, I wondered if that is going to be the scene in the future with me and anybody. Will it?

Coffee Bean plays the best music all the time, and how aptly they were when I recognized some of the songs played softly over the overhead speakers. You and Me by Lifehouse, You're Beautiful by James Blunt, and my favorite: The Blower's Daughter by Damien Rice. The repeated line of "Can't take my eyes off you" overwhelmed the dying noise in the cafe as the evening started with the darkening of the streets, and I found myself mouthing to the words overhead, and wondered if anybody saw me doing so. As I was fully indulged in my own moment of silent singing, the attention was broken by a sudden sound to my left. Looking up, the friendly girl from the counter was looking at me through her thick glasses and smiling at me all at the same time with a big plastic basin of some kind in her arms.

"Excuse me?"
"Sorry, do you mind if I clear your plates and cups?"
"Oh, sure. Not a problem. They are not mine anyway."
"Do you want me to clear everything?"
"Please. But I still get to stay here if you do, right?"
"Of course!"
"Thanks...Shu Mei."

The zombie couple from my two o'clock stared at me, and from the corner of my eyes I felt their look as I addressed the waitress by her name. There her name was, on her name tag that hug lazily on her chest, and I wondered if anybody ever called her by her name, and at the same time thought if they actually had to pay for the making of those name tags. Those stares were ignored as the friendly girl smiled back at me and cleared the utensils. I helped out a bit, and every time I handed her something she would say thanks, until finally I told her in the face "Nah, it's okay. Save it." But at the same time, I wonder if she was putting up a front, a face to the customers and if she weeps into her standard brown apron in the back room dimly lit with light. There was a happiness in her face that didn't look real and convincing enough, and the sound of my heart cracking in my chest was heard as she walked out of the air-conditioned cafe to the outside to collect other stuff.

All the while as she arranged the tables and the chairs, cleared the food and the utensils then wiped the surfaced clean of coffee stains and bread crump, her hair fell over her face time and time again and she had to brush it back with the back of her hand. There was a moment when she leaned upon the table where the blue cloth was laid opened, and stopped for a second of breather and rest. That break was interrupted when a colleague of her walked by and asked if she was all right. She smiled at him, a man with his hair pulled back into an afro of sorts, and continued with her work, all the time trying to keep her hair back behind her ear. I asked her inside my head if she ever felt any heartbreak, if she knew what I was feeling. For some reason, the way she brushed her hair back was almost as if she was answering my silent questions posted through the thick glasses to my left. I wondered if she was okay, if she needed somebody to talk to after work. Probably not, and I am being pathetic here thinking about another possible relationship - of any kind - merely weeks after a break up. Silly, silly, silly, silly. Knock it off.

Vibration, a ring tone too loud for the already quietened cafe. I looked into the screen, and it was a message from RuiQi - in caps - telling me about her sister's win at the singing competition held at her school - I think. I smiled, and texted a message of congratulations back. It's been happening too often I guess, to have somebody close to you win a competition of some sort. First it was Samuel who won Superband and now Ruishan, RuiQi's sister, who sent me a demo of their singing just a few days ago. I remember myself loving their harmonization, but doubting if the song choice was right despite the climax at the very end. But they pulled through and thrashed the other team who sang Oasis's Wonderwall. I always say, that it is either sang by the original band or done in a remix. If not, don't do the song. Guess the 'Muggamummies' risk paid off at the very end. So congratulations to Ruishan and her friend from Muggamummies, brilliant job. I still want that autographed CD Ruishan! And don't forget to shove a skateboard up Marcus Mark, the Mucus' ass.

That message provided a momentary comfort. Great friends that I have made in the last few months, I comforted in the fact that she still maintained a great relationship with me despite everything. That message was read and replied to with Damien Rice's Cold Water playing in my head. And as I was enjoying that momentary departure from sadness and depression, the word from the song repeated itself over and over in my ears. Lost. Lost. Lost. Lost. Lord can you hear me now, or am I lost? Lost. Lost. Lost. Lost. Lost. Oh, bloody hell.

Flickered once, flickered twice. The yellow neon lights at Good Cheer Pub lighted up finally with much effort, ensued by a soft buzzing sound as electricity ran through the circuit. The evening air smelled salty, as if it was hinting the coming of yet another rainstorm. But the sky was clear, and hanging from the piece of sky above was three quarter of a full moon, hanging up there like a cold torch lighting up the world. There I stood, serenading under the moon and streetlight at the same time while the warm passing air from the cars blew. I stood before a public notice board with the old and new papers fluttering in the wind. There they were, old adverts and new ones overlapping one another and fighting for people's attentions, that is if people pay attention to the notice board at all.

Slimming Classes offered just around the corner from where I was, accompanying that a picture of a Caucasian lady with curly hair and a million dollar smile. Still smiling, despite the high chance that I might have been the only person to pass by the notice board since the first day it was pinned upon it. Next to it, a series of tuition classes tagged with colorful words and fonts attacked my senses, as the phone numbers were printed on paper strips and hung fluttered in the wind. Other adverts for stall rental at the nearby hawker center, following by the notice of a missing dog. The black and white picture of the dog glared back at me, with it's black eyes looking into mind like beads or pearls through the paper. Missing, it said, since last Wednesday. And I wonder if the dog has been found, and the owner forgot to take down the notice that's all. I hope dearly that the dog is safely in the arms of it's owners as I looked upon the entry in the wind. Because being lost isn't a good feeling, isn't a good feeling at all. Lost. Lost. Lost. Lost. Lost. Lord can you hear me now, or am I lost? Damn song is stuck in my head, and now I am making analogies to myself and a dog. I am being hysterical now, I better get home.

I should wait for a bus next, avoid people's stares. People might look, people might recognize. People might call the police station just around the corner and have me arrested. Take a bus, 136 is pulling in. Take out your wallet, scan the damn card and move into the back so that nobody sees you. Stop looking at me old man, is there something on my teeth? No, I licked. Nothing on my teeth, so what were you staring up? One more bus stop, take me home. Take me home, I need to blog this down, I need to blog everything down. Longest entry ever, most boring entry ever, but the best one all at the same time. I need to write everything down, join up the points that I wrote in my notebook into a story, a real one, like Woolf, in Mrs. Dalloway. That scene, the scene before the florist, the one with the car and the 'Important Person' in it. I need to write this down, I need to write everything down...

Then walk into the river with rocks in my jacket pockets,

and kill myself.