Tuesday, July 05, 2005
In Defence of Women
She was walking beside him - a... warm presence by his side... - when she blurted out the words.
"Do you ever feel happy because you're tired?"
It gave him pause. Words of... wisdom from this hithero simple creature beside him. She was more than she seemed, or perhaps it was the glimmering of who she would grow to be one day. The force ran strong in this one...
He knew exactly what she meant.
But he pretended, anyway; he raised his eyebrows and mock-recoiled in fake incredulity.
"Hmm... what do you mean?" - he wanted to know.
She coudn't really explain what she meant, floundering with thoughts about being so busy, and so tired, but happy - but he knew.
Sometimes it feels good to be running flat out, pushing the limits, drained almost to the point of oblivion...
... because that's the point when you stop thinking, and caring.
Because that's the place you can finally find peace.
That's why I run.
*****
He let her take the glass of water with ice chips so that she could chew on them...
... he didn't tell her that he liked chewing on ice chips too, but since she wanted them...
*****
The SPG phenomenon
Partygirl's really making waves thanks to xiaxue's misdirected attempts at discrediting her boobs.
Suddenly, partygirl's in the limelight, and deny it as she might, she's enjoying herself. It's flagrantly obvious.
I'd better make myself quite clear here.
I'm not an ardent fan of partygirl. What she stands for - powerfully orgasmic moments of rapture, exhibitionalistic decadence - they aren't so much a part of western culture, as a part of oriental culture that has been erased by a regime intent on obliterating independent - and immoral - thought. The two go hand in hand.
They are fleeting, here in the heat of youth today, lost in the calm of maturity tomorrow. They stand for little, and are inconstant. They may define us today, but they will not dictate us tomorrow... Wisdom is gained with age for some. We shall see.
I don't lather at the mouth (or other parts of my anatomy) upon beholding partygirls celestial orbs. They just look like breasts to me. I guess maybe I'm a bit dispassionate after having seen a fair number... and hers are clearly working models (I think) but not quite magnifique enough to send this male into epileptic fits of rapture.
And to top matters off, I don't really like the way she writes either. The sum total of partygirl, all that she is and says - carries the lingering scent of immaturity to me. Perhaps one day she will grow into something more refined, perhaps not.
What I do see, however, is a girl trying to express herself.
And tides of people intent on slapping her down. It's a singaporean phenomenon to gravitate towards the limelight, and try to eclipse it, if for just an instant. That's why people flock in droves to her blog, to try to stamp on her self-esteem - you're not pretty, you have an ugly face, you're boring, you're blah blahblah... you think you're so great? You're nothing. You're just an easy fuck for the white man. No cheena chink will want you. Etc.
The thing is, partygirl never claimed to be special. She never said she was beautiful, and she never wrote about wanting to be wanted, or fucked by local boys.
I've lived in the world that partygirl brushes shoulders with. It's almost like a comic-book, stepping from one dimension into the next via a door-shaped portal in empty air, only the portal is attached to a four engine jumbo jet, and the journey takes thirteen hours instead of a split second.
It's a heady, decadent world - where you're free to reinvent yourself, or be true to your base nature. You can be... anyone you want. Anyone. No rules, no chains, no fools to slap you down into self-doubt. You just exist, you are, you live.
Where the most important judge of yourself, is yourself.
Partygirl shares an intimacy with this world, and by proxy learns to appreciate it; sex, I suspect, is the least of her rewards (but she makes it very clear that she enjoys it nonetheless)
Sometimes, reading her - and this is why I don't like to read her - it seems an awfully empty world, and I pity her. Hers will always be the near-miss, the almost-coulda-woulda-but-wasn't... Her world will never quite squarly intersect the world beyond our borders the way mine did. She will never really be free...
But reading the sad wankers who rise up to slap her down... just reminds me of how narrow minded and parochial this pathetic little city we live in truly is. It wakes me from my slumber, and makes it difficult for me to ignore the fact that in this utopia live four million stupid, small-minded insecure people whose only means to joy lies in trying to take away someone else's freedom.
I may not like partygirl's body, or her thoughts, or her writing - but I respect her persona, and I respect her attempts at expressing herself.
And if I ever met her, or felt inclined to comment on her blog, it wouldn't be to take her down - I can do that on my own haha - it would be to tell her to keep writing. Just keep writing, and ignore the lunatic, malign idiocy thirty years of "independent" dictatorship has bred into us all.
*****
The first thing he did when he got home was slip on his shoes and run.
Well, no. The first thing he did when he got home was to look out the window at the liquid amber sunset sky, and think to himself, it looks like a good day for a run.
But I am far too tired. I worked two every-other-day calls last weekend, I only had three hours of sleep last night. I finished work one hour late again. I am on call again tomorrow. My body feels a wreck. My mind is exhausted.
So he sat down at the piano instead, and played some very uncharacteristically intricate random wanderings on it. They were tired today, instead of angry, and even more haunting than usual.
But his heart wasn't in it...
... and then he stopped, closed up the piano, put on his shoes, and ran.
Even when his feet turned to lead and his sweat-drenched shirt stuck to every inch of his torso - he'd forgotten how hot it got running outdoors in this tropical clime - even when his knees began to tremble, he ran, plodding along in fatigue at first, gradually gaining moment as the second, and third winds began to build.
And when he reached the home stretch, he began to sprint. Even though something had gone wrong with his socks, and he was starting to get a blister on the arch of his right foot.
It felt good... so good, to be free.
"Do you ever feel happy because you're tired?"
It gave him pause. Words of... wisdom from this hithero simple creature beside him. She was more than she seemed, or perhaps it was the glimmering of who she would grow to be one day. The force ran strong in this one...
He knew exactly what she meant.
But he pretended, anyway; he raised his eyebrows and mock-recoiled in fake incredulity.
"Hmm... what do you mean?" - he wanted to know.
She coudn't really explain what she meant, floundering with thoughts about being so busy, and so tired, but happy - but he knew.
Sometimes it feels good to be running flat out, pushing the limits, drained almost to the point of oblivion...
... because that's the point when you stop thinking, and caring.
Because that's the place you can finally find peace.
That's why I run.
*****
He let her take the glass of water with ice chips so that she could chew on them...
... he didn't tell her that he liked chewing on ice chips too, but since she wanted them...
*****
The SPG phenomenon
Partygirl's really making waves thanks to xiaxue's misdirected attempts at discrediting her boobs.
Suddenly, partygirl's in the limelight, and deny it as she might, she's enjoying herself. It's flagrantly obvious.
I'd better make myself quite clear here.
I'm not an ardent fan of partygirl. What she stands for - powerfully orgasmic moments of rapture, exhibitionalistic decadence - they aren't so much a part of western culture, as a part of oriental culture that has been erased by a regime intent on obliterating independent - and immoral - thought. The two go hand in hand.
They are fleeting, here in the heat of youth today, lost in the calm of maturity tomorrow. They stand for little, and are inconstant. They may define us today, but they will not dictate us tomorrow... Wisdom is gained with age for some. We shall see.
I don't lather at the mouth (or other parts of my anatomy) upon beholding partygirls celestial orbs. They just look like breasts to me. I guess maybe I'm a bit dispassionate after having seen a fair number... and hers are clearly working models (I think) but not quite magnifique enough to send this male into epileptic fits of rapture.
And to top matters off, I don't really like the way she writes either. The sum total of partygirl, all that she is and says - carries the lingering scent of immaturity to me. Perhaps one day she will grow into something more refined, perhaps not.
What I do see, however, is a girl trying to express herself.
And tides of people intent on slapping her down. It's a singaporean phenomenon to gravitate towards the limelight, and try to eclipse it, if for just an instant. That's why people flock in droves to her blog, to try to stamp on her self-esteem - you're not pretty, you have an ugly face, you're boring, you're blah blahblah... you think you're so great? You're nothing. You're just an easy fuck for the white man. No cheena chink will want you. Etc.
The thing is, partygirl never claimed to be special. She never said she was beautiful, and she never wrote about wanting to be wanted, or fucked by local boys.
I've lived in the world that partygirl brushes shoulders with. It's almost like a comic-book, stepping from one dimension into the next via a door-shaped portal in empty air, only the portal is attached to a four engine jumbo jet, and the journey takes thirteen hours instead of a split second.
It's a heady, decadent world - where you're free to reinvent yourself, or be true to your base nature. You can be... anyone you want. Anyone. No rules, no chains, no fools to slap you down into self-doubt. You just exist, you are, you live.
Where the most important judge of yourself, is yourself.
Partygirl shares an intimacy with this world, and by proxy learns to appreciate it; sex, I suspect, is the least of her rewards (but she makes it very clear that she enjoys it nonetheless)
Sometimes, reading her - and this is why I don't like to read her - it seems an awfully empty world, and I pity her. Hers will always be the near-miss, the almost-coulda-woulda-but-wasn't... Her world will never quite squarly intersect the world beyond our borders the way mine did. She will never really be free...
But reading the sad wankers who rise up to slap her down... just reminds me of how narrow minded and parochial this pathetic little city we live in truly is. It wakes me from my slumber, and makes it difficult for me to ignore the fact that in this utopia live four million stupid, small-minded insecure people whose only means to joy lies in trying to take away someone else's freedom.
I may not like partygirl's body, or her thoughts, or her writing - but I respect her persona, and I respect her attempts at expressing herself.
And if I ever met her, or felt inclined to comment on her blog, it wouldn't be to take her down - I can do that on my own haha - it would be to tell her to keep writing. Just keep writing, and ignore the lunatic, malign idiocy thirty years of "independent" dictatorship has bred into us all.
*****
The first thing he did when he got home was slip on his shoes and run.
Well, no. The first thing he did when he got home was to look out the window at the liquid amber sunset sky, and think to himself, it looks like a good day for a run.
But I am far too tired. I worked two every-other-day calls last weekend, I only had three hours of sleep last night. I finished work one hour late again. I am on call again tomorrow. My body feels a wreck. My mind is exhausted.
So he sat down at the piano instead, and played some very uncharacteristically intricate random wanderings on it. They were tired today, instead of angry, and even more haunting than usual.
But his heart wasn't in it...
... and then he stopped, closed up the piano, put on his shoes, and ran.
Even when his feet turned to lead and his sweat-drenched shirt stuck to every inch of his torso - he'd forgotten how hot it got running outdoors in this tropical clime - even when his knees began to tremble, he ran, plodding along in fatigue at first, gradually gaining moment as the second, and third winds began to build.
And when he reached the home stretch, he began to sprint. Even though something had gone wrong with his socks, and he was starting to get a blister on the arch of his right foot.
It felt good... so good, to be free.
