Truths of Old

Blogger is messed up. Right now, as I type this, the usual toolbar is spread out halfway across my screen... vertically.

As the adage goes... you pay peanuts...

*****
The words left my lips as I thought aloud. What is the measure of a person?

The next day the lyrics from Twenty-five minutes (Rent) came floating to mind. But right then, as we messaged each other in a rare spate of furious exchanges, I wondered...

...perhaps the measure of a person isn't courage, or beauty, or goodness... but simply her capacity for decency.

all else should follow, no?

*****
He closed the door quietly and turned around...

... and nearly walked into her.

They paused for a microsecond, their eyes registering surprise before continuing to walk past each other.

"Hi!"

"Hi."

*****
Honesty such as this (joewei.blogspot.com) is hard to find.
I pray that nobody mistakes it for weakness and seeks to exploit it.

*****
Running at 15

And then the suicidal urge hits in the last four hundred metres.

15.5...

then after that, ceroc class.

and now I feel like I am almost dead...

I've been away, I've had too much to drink, Blogger's been broken, and I need to sleep.

But there were things I wanted to write.

They'll come back to me eventually.

I have nothing to say; or rather I have many things I would like to write, none of which should be written here. Or perhaps at all.

Something about a pair of slippers which I still haven't repaired yet; I keep forgetting to. But I will, and then I shall return them to their owner, perhaps as a last farewell.

Something about wishing someone didn't fear riding her bike quite so much, because of the almost portents of... shrug. Either way, it's all a bad thing; would that I could help - or that you would let me.

Something about a stunningly beautiful six-hundred dollar blue dress which keeps lingering in my mind... laugh. You poor women... I begin to empathise with the horrible phenomenon that is women's shopping.

Anyway so right now I'm sitting here watching LMD, Xena and Oberon playing scrabble, and wondering where LMDs foot-devouring dog has gone to.

I caught A Sound of Thunder last night and it wasn't half bad. Special effects were pretty good... but I was somewhat preoccupied. Puzzled that the testee had... passed. And wondering if perhaps I had been too harsh all along, as I am wont to do.
Perhaps feeling sad that there seems to be no true way to make amends and restore things to the way they were. (It takes two.)

And then after the movie and an Erdinger (which I am becoming quite fond of) the words were spoken...

... my mind is... unravelling.

Trivial, all of this.

Later I shall go to the gym, and run. For my life.

At some point during the evening, conversation turned to settings for wedding reception dinners.

It seemed unanimous that the way forwards was a lawn party, very genteel, very civilised.

And then as the words left her mouth, memories came crashing back.

I've written about this somewhere before... but I've written so much junk now I can't find the entry anymore. Or perhaps it's not even here on my blog... but on one of the older pages that predate blogger... or perhaps even in an email somewhere.

But as I heard her say the word "beach" I remembered - as if yesterday the thoughts arriving in my mind - as if today.

I think I even wrote then that I must be a little crazy for writing about a wedding dinner at that age... when it felt so far away as to be unimaginable, this lifetime.

*****

Sundown.

The rhythmic sound of the sea, breaking and ebbing. No music.

Muted voices murmuring to each other, shadows in the dark. No yaaam seeng. No tea ceremony.

Tables, anchored in the sand. Shoes filling slowly with sand. Maybe five, maybe ten tables. A small affair - intimates only.

Dim candlelight, flickering warmly off familiar faces.

Waitors bearing courses treading through draped tables.

She, looking resplendant in her gown, to the backdrop of the dying sun, transforming gradually into a black sillhouette cast against the sky, her eyes catching the candle-light, bright against the darkening sky.

A speech, a call for a toast. Someone quietly taps a spoon against a glass; words begin.

Hers, then his. Two speeches. Quietly, and immaculately delivered.

No photographs, no vid-cam enshrined memories. Memories embodied in words, thought and deed. Memories crafted with love, of love.

No uproarious cackling carrying overtones of derision - just cosy laughter. amongst friends and family.

And perhaps after, dancing by the sea.

They stood across from each other, hesitating slightly shyly in farewell.

He looked at her, as if for the first time.

She was quite lovely.

They had come to know each other, over the few weeks since they had met.

Perhaps they would never meet again; or perhaps they would.

They stepped forwards at last, and hugged.

Goodbye, I shall see you again soon, I hope.

*****
Somehow, she had become his friend.

People come and go out of our lives all the time.

A friend is someone who makes the effort to stay...

... and someone you make the effort, in return, to keep.

Regardless.

A friend is someone you trust, and who trusts you.

We are friends, I and her.

But you and I... are not, any longer.

I hope you liked the dress, anyway.

It's... a test of decency he said.

(Or perhaps, the limits of decency)

Again the words were vague, but grasped implicitly.

The question was not - what is the test, but who is the tester - and who is at test?

The answer was evident (until several drinks later) - He was the tester.

*****
Don't waste your time on her. I won't waste my time on her.

She didn't understand.

It wasn't about time, or money spent - what is the measure of a person's... worth?

That was the question that had to be answered, and time and money were quite secondary to the answer.

*****
And so she declined his help, on the grounds of not being able to pay him back for his help. He wasn't sure if he'd been expecting that.

That too was a strange form of decency which he had always sensed about her - she had passed the test again. She did not speak of it again; she did not ask for his help.

And yet... her decency was one he would never understand.

Nonetheless, what was to be a clinically delivered, emotionless gesture was transformed into a heartfelt gift of apology, purchased on the fly and delivered on the wing. No time to pause, but this is me, really giving you a gift...

*****
It was beautiful. Tastefully dark blue, with flowers trailing down one hip. It was gorgeous.

It cost six hundred dollars. But if they'd had it in the right size... he'd have bought it.

Money was no objection when it came to seeking, and finding answers.

*****
I know absolutely nothing about shopping for women's clothes.

That's probably a good thing.
Cough.

Once upon a very long time ago, she was going to drag me out to help find her (another her) a dinner dress from zara.

It would have been... perfect. I've always trusted her judgement unquestioningly. Everything from the size, to the "extra considerations" (including wraparound bra and heels) would have been considered... from all angles. A single chance meeting would have given the precise bust and hip measurements.

I've always trusted your judgement, dozer.

Laugh.

TImes had changed though, as he read her reply. No, she would not help him. Don't waste your time on her.


*****
In the aftermath he stopped to wonder.

Who and what had he really been putting to the test...

her decency? ("User"? or not?)

Or his faith in himself to act with magnamity, regardless of her answer.

Is it even true magnamity, this double-edged weapon I wield...

... perhaps the most honest and precious thing about a present, is not the present itself, but the intention of the giver.

Perhaps I am secretly glad that I passed the test as well.

At the end of the day, regardless of all that happened, and all that should not have happened - when the moment came I gave, simply to help. And was glad to.

I have not yet been beaten by my own cynicism.

*****
So in several days time I am to meet an uberbabe, who is, according to my newfound german friend - "uhh".

Complete with hand motion. Which looks a bit like doing the moonwalk sans elbow movements.

"Uhh".

Vacant, faraway eyes. Pause in conversation.

I think that's german for ooh la la.

Nevermind that she's possibly some gorgeous (I wonder about his taste in women...) SPG looking to raise a blonde haired baby.

I'm sure I may not get her number in the all of three seconds he took, but perhaps in about thirty years she'll come around....

haha.

*****
So here I am, blogging from LMDs notebook, thanks to my brother dismantling all traces of internet connectivity at home in the pretense of "upgrading".

I am disappointingly sober, and her dog keeps trying to eat my feet.

Nonetheless, it is pleasant here, and I am glad my "good stuff" magic mushroom moonshine medicine is helping her with her pain.

heh heh heh.

(Written post-event)

My brother's modem is acting cranky.

This before-work post probably shouldn't and won't come into existence.

Dinner at Iggys, as always, didn't fail to disappoint.
The food, as always ranged from interesting to exquisite, and while it was a little disappointing that Iggy himself didn't come to tend to us personally, everything else about the evening including the company and dinner conversation was immensely enjoyable.

The one rather odd thing was sitting next to a couple who were disconcertingly familiar. The second she spoke, I looked up in horror (I hate the way this country is so damn small...) only to verify what I had suspected. I remembered her from barely a week ago terrorizing instructing the nurses how to do this-and-that...

My dinner companion leaned in to me and asked a muffled question which had me in stitches.

It's funny how two doctors generally invariably talk about work, work and work here. Even when they go to a swanky restaurant for a bit of downtime, and err apparent romance. heh.

A muscat wine to end the perfect evening, and we were back on the road towards tomorrow, and the usual spin-dry routine.

*****
It's funny how you resisted going there so actively, without even asking what it would be like.

Would it have been as it was last night, a thoroughly enjoyable dinner in the company of a friend?

*****
Pink is the new black.

I'll drink to that.

Happy belated. :)

So, at last, I am home again...

... if only for a while.

*****
And as he walked past her, he looked at her - not searching for her eyes, but just looking again, scanning, wondering.

And all he saw was a girl...

*****
I felt good as I mounted the machine. No pain, no fatigue. Invincible.

And then I started to run... that familiar breathless exuberance (ok ok I'm going crazy sue me) filling me.

And then the left iliotibial tract began to protest. It's been doing that for quite a while now... oft-times I've just run past the point of pain... but today I was humbled.

I had a dinner to attend, and I don't reckon it would be a good idea to stagger into a five star restaurant clinging to the arm of my dinner companion... laugh.

I stopped.
And stepped down.

*****
In the pool, as I pulled and counted down the strokes and slowly but surely began to drown...

(fifteen strokes, one breath, twenty five meters)

... it struck me that it's not so much attaining the goal that's draws me, like a moth to the flame...

... it's the flame. It's that feeling of going past the point of endurance, and out the other side...

... of hurting so much that the pain... goes... away.

(fourteen strokes, one breath, twenty five meters)

Working casualty was like that; just working, mind focused, till the point of exhaustion, and slightly beyond. Then home, draw the curtains tightly shut, and die...

... and awaken to a beautiful sunset, and the breath-taking sight of a million stars strewn haphazardly across the sky, myriad diamonds on blue velvet; the moon, a jewel set deep in the lazily rippling windswept waters of the hospital lake; ice creeping insiduously across its surface numbing it into gradual, yielding paralysis.
A few forlorn ducks drifting aimlessly in the turgid waters, freezing gradually into popsicles. The air, crisp and clear, slicing through the inadequacy of my white coat as I stride, arms akimbo...

...back to work.

It was a good life, then.

Now, all I can do is run, and swim.

So I found out what happens when you run the whole thing through at 15.

9:45

oh yeah, and a whole lot of pain.

*****
He let his eyes wander over the page.

The words : Will be late.

Ah. I see. So that really was you at church.

*****
Found

The words were innocuous enough, perhaps even a little crptic. They could have meant anything.

And yet he knew, instantly.

... and as time passes, I become less important.
And then the truth becomes easier to tell.

*****
It was strange, listening to her giving voice to the thoughts that he had long thought about her; that he had even written about on his other private blogs.

He sat in the glare of the midday sun on the ground (earning curious stares) and listened, oblivious to the world around him.

The words didn't matter for once, as much as the thought behind them :
You are a prisoner in your own mind of your own device.

He didn't become angry; he knew what she was trying to do. He'd tried it many a time, only his friends had become angry - and some had stopped being friends as a result. He understood her intention, and in a way, it was a strange form of kindness.

He set down the sword in his soul, and allowed the onslaught to overrun him...

*****

From another place and another time :

"This woman, this fragile creature telling me about her year from hell and the loss of the love of her lifetime was beautiful, too.
Not pretty, which is the word I reserve for good-looking strangers, or very pretty which is the term I reserve for good-looking friends.
But beautiful...
...something from my past stirred me and wanted to reach out and touch her face, let her know it'd be all okay, to be strong. That she was too good for all this... mundanity.
Except that this sadness she was relating to me wasn't of my doing.
And I could do nothing to repair it.
And there was no point lying to her; we are all of us trapped in the prisons of our own heads.
And I knew her now; she was someone very like myself. We circle in our jail cells fretting, regretting, reminiscing, all the while seeing out the windows and cynically watching the world. We even see that the door isn't really locked and the cell isn't guarded, but we stay anyway, hurting by ourselves. We don't let other people in easily, and only by our choosing - not theirs.
I stayed my hand."

*****
So, to the Dozer,

you made me think a lot.

The picture has never been clear for me.

I don't believe that I did put Her on a pedestal. There was a time when I was afraid I was doing just that. Each time, I willed myself to forget, to demean, to trivialise her memory.

Each time she came back, She was more than I remembered.

There was a time as well when She was afraid that I was doing just that. She showed me her faults, and warned me of her flaws. They completed her.

I wrote much of it down - and yes time has dimmed my memory. And yes, I know that memories are highly selective. Did you watch The Final Cut? (Robin Williams) I did.
But re-reading what I wrote reminds me. So much so, that I do not re-read any longer. That time is past now.

Bumping into her cousins occasionally, and hearing them wax lyrical about Her makes it hard to pretend that She wasn't anything out of the ordinary.

And yes, there were the other saps.

(I remember watching them in sec 3, and feeling the third party fly on the wall. I remember how close they were then, how he bent in when he wanted to speak to her. I remember watching, from afar, and feeling an odd tinge of jealousy and sadness. For he was my friend, too. I knew.
And yet we spoke frequently, She and I, nearly every night on the telephone. And that was enough for me. I loved being Her friend. I loved Her - though I could not acknowledge it.
And years later, it was we who were still friends.

So perhaps She was an expert conwoman.

But I knew Her, and you did not. And if She was a conwoman... She didn't know she was doing it.

Perhaps you are correct and I will never give anybody else a chance; perhaps She will forever be my yardstick upon which to fall back.

I would rather believe that there will come a day when another stranger will arrive in my life, and impress me as much - or perhaps more so, than she.

But it is difficult. Time passes. We lose our way, and sometimes we forget what we wanted. Sometimes it is only when we are astray that we remember who we wanted to be, and what we wanted in life.

I acknowledge - as I have done for quite a while - that we are changed now. It has been a long time. I am changed, at the very least.
We are strangers now.

I did this. And it was my intention from the first goodbye.

I do regret it.

Who in his right mind wouldn't?

And as to your advice that I should seek Her out and ask for a resumption of friendship :

I would like nothing better. But I... have neither the words, nor the way.

*****
Dearest Karin,

I don't quite know what to say to you.
I've often wondered if you read me. And always known that you probably don't. Life where you are is so far removed from the rest of the world; it would be rather bizarre if you were to be doing something as mundane and trivial as perusing blogs.

Maybe that's part of the reason I've always wanted to live there... laugh.

You'd probably marvel at how weird it is I have the time to write at all.

I never sent you the URL to this page, or to any of the other more private pages I have, because it would not have been decent to do so. It would be a form of intrusion to force my thoughts upon you - of all people.

Perhaps that is why I stayed silent once, a long time ago when you ranted at me; and perhaps that is why I fumed a little when you told me how J first got together with you by telling you to shut up for a while.

I never did manage to forget you... but that is a You from another time, and another place. We spoke recently, and it was more apparent than ever how much we had become utter and complete strangers. I drove aimlessly across the country for a quite while after that; I think perhaps I just needed to run; perhaps I just needed to grieve. At a past so completely, and utterly cast away - by me.

I think I burnt those bridges because I was afraid of myself. And my irrational propensity for falling in love with you again, and again. And now I cannot return to my past, my objective is clearly achieved.

I wish there had been some other way. Really, I do.

Because it came at the cost of a friendship I'd always valued above anything else I ever had. You were good, and clean, and decent. Not spotlessly clean, and not angelically good. But somehow I became a better person around you. Perhaps cleanliness rubs off. laugh.

Thank you for trying to give me chances to undo my stupidity, those many years ago. Thank you for your email, asking that I not excommunicate you any longer. And for that invitation to your Christmas party, years later.

This silence has been bad for me; and I think you were right. I should have stayed on, like J; perhaps I would have grown out of love with you, the way I have done now... and we could have remained.

I did not, because I did not want to be like J - or to compete in the shadows with him. I could not lurk and wait till you were vulnerable enough for me to try my luck on you. Nor could I watch him do it.

I was a fool then.

I think perhaps I am still a fool now.

But I am a fool who has found - or perhaps permanently and intentionally lost his way.

It feels far, far too late now.

But this is me, asking you if we could get back in touch again.

It was a lovely church. It wasn't beautiful, in the way many of the old churches he'd been to in England had been, but he could see the simple grace with which it had been designed, and how perhaps in a hundred years time, when architecture had moved on to something sleeker and shiner, it would be a place of fond remembrance and great beauty.

The priest rambled a fair bit about collections for the church, and if he recalls right he didn't actually get around to a sermon.

During this time, he let his gaze wander.

It fell upon a familiar face sitting a ways across from him, a familiar pair of eyes.

It came as a bit of a shock - if not for anything other than that he had not been expecting her to be there at all. Going by the book, she should have been at work.

The post-call sleep-deprived mind refused to believe it, as he ran his gaze over her slightly knitted brow and those large, dark eyes.

Perhaps it was someone who just looked like her. Or maybe it was her sister...

But then thought lethargically crept back into the vacuous cavern between his ears. He'd met her sister, once before if only briefly, and they looked nothing alike.

The eyes continued to wander, wondering what it was really about her that attracted him - if at all. Was it just a simple, superficial matter of looks, or was it something in that level, slightly troubled brow and those dark, furious eyes... that rarely sparkled or spoke, except when she wasn't aware of herself. Was it something more... than words? More than he had acknowledged to himself ever wanting? Perhaps something instinctive, something that circumvented his desire for sparkling wit and shining intelligence and scintillating dinner conversation, and made simple proximity enough - skin on skin. Something comforting that just made him want to help her - even at the risk of being taken for a fool, and being shamelessly used. Because ultimately, in this life he had chosen his path - to make a difference. To help. Regardless.

He chose it once, when he was younger because he could not feel. Because he did not know how to feel. And then he fell in love, and it became a gradual reality to him thenceforth, and in the aftermath he knew how precious it was, to go on feeling.

Her eyes met his.

He looked away.

Perhaps it wasn't really her, perhaps it was really just a doppleganger. The crucifix at her neck was different, worn on a dark band rather than a chain.

But if it was truly her, then he wondered - what was it that troubled her so much today, that turned her from her usual gentle, nearly angellic self (she had been, when they went to church together) into the creature he saw, frustrated, impatient, and preoccupied.

He picked up his mobile, and wrote.

"It is truly a lovely church, that you go to".
Without friendship, there is little left to say, even if I still care.

They stood up to go, and he left without a backward glance.

*****
Kirsch. Cherry.

Kirsche. Church.

Laugh.

Fond memories of other malapropisms.

Die Undendliche Gesicht versus Die Undendliche Geschichte.

How subtle an extra 'e' can be.

(So, why the long face? Ha. private joke.)

*****
It came as a surprise after they walked into the German bar along Millenium Walk to pick up a pamphlet about Oktoberfeste 2005.

I pottered around (the nutplane would probably call it my shifty eyes darting around as I skulked...) and my gaze fell on the photographs in a nearby display case.

A group of people in rank and file smiling into the camera, and underneath it :

German Society Dragonboot team. The German Dragons.

Beneath it lay a gold medal, from a regatta race in 2004.

Strange.

*****
It was a strange feeling, returning to this church weeks later in different company.
His feet retraced the steps they had taken last of their own accord. It was familiar, in a sea of uncertainty.

Something about her presence had been comforting, yet at the same he had come solely to worship. It had not detracted, or distracted.

He remembered her now though, as she had knelt in prayer then; or when she had sung the hymns softly, almost under her breath - she had a lovely voice.

On this occasion he had come - not because it was a church so much nicer than his own - but because it had seemed... right - His new friend wore a pendant with the church's named saint on it.

He would not have revisited it otherwise - he did not want to intrude, or cause grief through unwanted meetings.

He bent his knee and slid into the pew, alongside his new friends. God took precedence, now.

*****
Illusion : 2 shots midori, 1 shot vodka, 1 shot gin, 1 shot malibu, 1 shot white cointreau and mix with equal volume of pineapple juice, and shake well.

I had two of those once.

They were nice.

Courtesy of T.

*****
I did enjoy going to church with you, though.

I don't know why.

A... sitcom moment.
They were kinda sweet, in a slightly offbeat way.

He glanced at her, automatically.

And found the glance returned.

His lips twitched in a smile. Unpremeditated. The moment... demanded it.

The smile... wasn't returned. It was shared; the moment was simultaneous, synchronous.

And then it was over, and they glanced away.

Familiar.

*****
Why do you do it, he asked. Remembrance? Or are you not quite over Her?

The truth was hard to explain; even to a new friend who he sensed he had... something indefinable in common with. And especially while he was driving and slightly full of dessert wine.

The words to him the next day as he was clinging on to running on the mechanised hamster wheel.

"Somehow it was indecent once to write... I had to hold my silence. For Her, somehow. Now the time has come when things matter less... When I matter less. And now is the time I must write, lest I forget - and lose the only decent part of myself left. That is why."

******
So was it just about... (the words are a little lost in time now) wordless intuition, he (Brian) had asked.

He thought for a while.

******
"I can't believe I'm sitting here, alone in my flat laughing my head off in front of the computer. The neighbours must think I'm loony..."

He watched the words appear on screen, and laughed.

There was something about the way they laughed that he would never forget; something simple, yet not. Something wholly spontaneous. Something... shared.

******
"What? Just plain coke?" to the effusive waitor hellbent on explaining everything on the menu to Her.

He didn't need to watch the waitor to feel the glare he received.

Instead, he glanced at Her, as She glanced back. They laughed at each other with their eyes.

******
He listened as She made Her speech. She was going to win - he knew it.

It was odd, as if He knew the words in advance; as if He knew the corridors within her mind that she would turn down next; the witticisms She would let fly.

She was devastating.

And She did win, in the end.

******
No, it was about more than wordless intuition. It was about words; and wordlessness. It was about... too many vague thoughts, shapes and ideas to explain. Which held poignancy, memorability. Significance.

To me.

******
Alternates

A lull in conversation.
They smiled at each other, then he reached into his pocket and took out a fifty-cent coin.

He looked up.

*****
Call it, He said.

She called it.

It all felt so final, so... cold as it parted from between his thumb and forefinger.

The coin flipped end on end in its upward arc, slowing towards an inescapable conclusion.

He watched her as it spun...

******
She waited till it fell, and asked Him Why.

He smiled, and said it had to be so. That fate had lent him the courage to do what He had to.

She asked Him what it meant.

He reached out and took hold of Her hand, and said gently - it meant goodbye, forever.

He stood, paid the bill, and left.

Perhaps he paused as he walked away; perhaps he didn't.

He didn't look back. He couldn't. In case He saw those eyes again.

******
She caught the coin as it landed, and put it away.

And demanded an explanation.

She seized his moment from him thoughtlessly and selfishly - in the extreme. It saddened, and possibly angered him a little.

Perhaps he answered Her, perhaps He didn't. That if She had called Heads, he would have left forever, and if She had called tails, He would have stayed and gone on pretending that friendship was enough; that his heart wasn't breaking, that he could be perfect for Her, forever. Perhaps he told Her more - that He was going to skew the flip Heads, no matter what. Or perhaps He didn't.

And perhaps She became angry, or perhaps just sad and bewildered.

And then he stood up, paused to pay the bill, and left.

*****
She picked the coin out of the air, and grinned.

She didn't understand at all. She couldn't see it coming, and His heart died a little more.

*****
He took the coin from his pocket, and looked up.

Her eyes were so beautiful.

He didn't have the chance to say a word. She took his hands in hers, and said just one word.

"Don't."

*****
“To say that would be presuming that my work is my life, and it is not.”

It was almost as if he knew the answer before he even asked. He was rather surprised when he asked it anyway.

*****
I once felt work would be my life - even after meeting Her. And especially in the aftermath

I wanted to wear the mantle of daytime physician, yet dedicate my life to research. Very Susan Lim - very altruistic.

I wanted to be crash-hot at everything I did, and hold my head high, be something.. more than I was. Stand for something.

Make that proverbial difference. And make it big.

Live, for others.

Somehow, something changed along the way.

It was an answer I knew well.

It would not have been Your answer, I suspect.
Our paths have changed.

*****
Why didn't we meet up earlier? She asked.

She said She had told all her friends about him coming over; she spoke about the things she had wanted to do, go blading, go out, see stuff...

He said he didn't want to interfere with Her exams. And left unspoken the part about this being his last goodbye.

*****
As I listened to her talk about her magic moments, about how they played hide and seek in the house, and how they played some bizarre game in a swimming pool called Genghis Khan. Or was it Marco Polo...

I couldn't help but smile wryly.
It was so sweet.

So wonderful to hear. So warm.

We never got to do all the things you wanted, or all the things I wanted, You and I.
We just shared words, and meals.

And moments.

I wouldn't trade it for all the ice skating in the world.

*****
I remember when I met her. She was a little wide-eyed, fresh-faced, and square-jawed. Her shoulders were pleasantly wide, her arms perhaps a tad too thick - not toned, just thick. She had the most beautiful eyes.

She wasn't beautiful, just rather pretty.
She spoke, and it was obvious from the first words that words commanded her - and not the other way around.

She did not have Watcher's eyes - they were beautiful to behold, but so... incomplete.

I wouldn't have looked twice, to be honest. She epitomised many of the things about this country that I don't particularly cherish.

But sometimes our arms would brush, skin on skin... and something... comforting lay within.

Not quite lust... just... something wordless. Silent. Peaceful.

I looked again, and then again. She is sweet, and not-sweet to those she doesn't care for - a creature of abject simplicity. A child.

For a not-so fleeting moment, I nearly forgot the lessons of my past...

... but I remember now. And I want nothing more than to be... decent.

*****
They were sort-of eyeing the girls around them, as the (amazing) sounds of the jazz band washed over them.

So what does she score, out of ten?

Kenya? Brian said, and smiled to himself, his mind somewhere else for a moment.

She's a ten...

He took a swig of his Strongbow cider (yeha, teenage yobism here I come) and said "You're lucky."

They're lucky.

*****
Do I meet perfect tens?

Just one this lifetime. Thus far.

Of course, the number also factors in various subtleties, like :

unexpressive eyes : -1
unspontaneous : -2 to -5
not funny : -0.5 to -10
not eloquent : -0.5 to -5
not trust-able (as opposed to trustworthy) : -6
attached : -10

and

heavily photoshopped : -20000000

laugh

*****

Who was... V.

He wasn't expecting it, and he blurted out a reply before he could stop himself.

Caught offguard.

Damn.... when was the last time that happened?

How bizarre.

*****
9:53

A foolish decision, today, to run after four and a half hours sleep the night before, and after an extensive upper body workout.

I didn't so much run it as get dragged along by the machine.

The body screamed out its protests... you are asking too much, too fast... too difficult....

You crank it up to fifteen at the one kilometer mark.

You dig deeper; maybe you even cheat a little and cling hold on to the handrails (and honestly, it had nothing to do with the girl with the beautiful shoulders) and will yourself to go on.

You feel the bile rising in your throat... faster still. You glance down at the droplets - not so much dripping as cascading - off your skin onto the treadmill.

And when its finally over, you can barely hold back the bile as you stagger over to a chair and collapse into it.

It takes me half an hour to cool down after running.

But that high you get.... euphoria doesn't begin to come close.

I used to imagine that I'd double the distance once I broke my ten minute barrier... but today, the warrior princess messaged me to ask what my next breach would be... and I realised my purpose.

To run the whole damn thing through at fifteen.

God willing, I'll survive.

*****
Sometime later, it happened (quite suddenly) :

Twenty five meters. Fifteen pulls.

One breath.

Over, and over again.

A couple of giant german guys noticed after a while and tried to copy me.

Heh heh heh. heh. heh. Suck water, ya!

*****
It's the difference between writing, and blogging, he said.

He smiled.

Precisely.

*****
So what's your take on the internet as a medium for meeting partners? (sic) (hic!)

Her question caught him by surprise. It was a difficult question to answer. It required much more thought.

Next time I write... I will try to unravel my thoughts enough to present a coherent answer.

Till then : what is your take on the internet as a medium... blahblah? surprise me :)
Sleep beckons, at last.

Dear Stranger,

You do not know me; perhaps you know of me, as I only know of you.

But know this :

You have hurt her. And yet she loves you still.

There are many things that have come to pass; time waits for no man, or woman... and as time passes, so too does your past slide further away, day by day.

Let what has happened in the past remain buried there. Look to the new day.
She is changed now - you both know that.

What, and who you have now - is it truly what you want? Did you choose, and do you constantly choose now - because it is truly what you wish for, the rest of your life?

Would you compound the mistakes of your past, by projecting them into eternity?
Is Pride at stake?

Are you too afraid to hurt her, to choose happiness? That decision will come, one day of its own accord. It is inevitable.
Happiness may not wait indefinitely for you.

I do not presume to know your answers.

I have heard only one side of the coin.

I only know this - such a love, as she has for you - reminds me of a love I had for someone else once - it is rare, and burns deeply - but is not invicible, and can be eroded away, albeit with much time, pain, and heartache.

Need this be the case?

Know that you are no friend of mine, and never will be - because you have hurt her.

The time is fast coming when you must choose.

Choose wisely, and may God be with you.

Both.

"You seem like the sort of person who has no qualms or whatsoever to speak your mind even if it means hurting people. Or losing friendship that doesn't hold honesty...."

I read the words and paused.

Honesty, at what price?

When I was much younger, I saw things in black and white. Everything was in absolutes - people were good, or evil. Decisions were clear-cut : always do the right thing.

Always choose the path of light. Always tell the truth; always be compassionate; always help where you can.

I think life, and London have taught me to see in grayscale. Only till now, I have seen in greyscale, and tried to judge others by that same greyscale - but hungered to live my own personal life, and judge my own morals by black and white.

And now, I wonder.

Perhaps I shouldn't tell the truth all the time; perhaps I should weigh up the extent of hurt before I open my mouth.

Perhaps, yes, it is simply about tact - but really, tact can only do so much to temper the truth. Perhaps the problem is that truth - is wasted on some. Until they are ready to hear.

Perhaps sometimes it is better to stay silent - for a while longer; and sometimes it is best to hold on to friendships that do not hold absolutely honesty. Perhaps over time, honesty can filter into those friendships.

Perhaps trust can be learnt.

"There used to be a Delifrance there..."

They walked past Delifrance, into the foyer.

He had only ever known - and would henceforth only ever know - this building for the pleasant Indonesian restaurant on the second floor.

She was back on holiday, and they were on the way to dinner.

Something about a med-school "communication skills" project involving interviewing medical students.

They took the elevator up to her father's office and walked in.

He was still there. He remembers vaguely a pair of dark, watchful bespectacled eyes; a gaunt face, a man of height. Slightly greying.

They greeted each other rather perfunctorarily; she guided him into an office cubicle by the elbow as Her dad left. White; a lot of white.

He doesn't remember Her questions anymore, nor his answers. He wasn't really paying attention and his answers came almost automatically.

He remembers

the dictaphone on the table
her hand on the dictaphone

They watched each other's eyes, the corners of their lips twitching a little in tiny smiles, as the words ran from present to past, to nonexistence.

He remembers Her eyes.

Then they closed up, and left for dinner.

Wade through the fog back to the present : "Oh yes, now it's become a dessert place."

*****

A pleasant evening.

Dinner was excellent, and the company all around was enjoyable. He watched his two foreign friends experimenting almost tentatively with ? food... and then gradually relaxing into enjoying it.

Pool was strangely difficult that night though; his heart was simply not in it.

And afterwards, drinks - there's something to be said for rose champagne, even if only Moet et Chandon Brut Rose. Four or five glasses later he was actually enjoying the silly game they were playing.

He wondered what would have happened if they'd started writing a story instead... these four extremely disparate writers... now that would have been fascinating. He suspected they would have needed more paper though.

The drive home took an eternity after fatigue began to set in. His eyebrows weighed heavily, and once or twice he had to catch himself as he dozed off.

*****

"You enjoy the finer things in life, don't you?"

Unspoken : I don't think it's quite as simple as that. I appreciate the finer things in life. Age and leading a decadent lifestyle in a mature capital city have taught me how to.

He wondered what the question had truly meant.

If the question had been whether he only enjoyed the "finer things" the answer would have been no. Life is for the living, fine, and simple. All to be savoured and experienced, everything at the right time.

If the question had been whether crudity appealed to him - then the answer would have been an empathic no. Two years of toilet humour and... darkness - had reinforced what he had known all along.

*****

He watched them vanishing into the distance, the one tall, tanned and - i can think of no other word - curvaceous... the other lean, lithe and slightly fragile.

Two completely different individuals, yet sharing in common an easy grace on their blades.

He laboured on, learning to feel the ground beneath his blades and trying to find the courage to speed up... and not fall down. Trying to put out of his mind the fear of losing control.

She reappeared at his side and smiled wordlessly.

Spoken : "You came back!" (how inane)
Unspoken : Thank you.

Her eyes were green, in this light. Grey-green. He smiled.

*****

Interestingly he only ever did lose control whenever he was thinking about it, and when he did his body would automatically wrench control back from his mind and set him right.

It was only towards the end when he had finally mastered the courage to try sprinting - when aging and atrophied bits and pieces had begun to ache and the skin on his feet had begun to wear thin... that he finally fell over, his body failing to even raise a finger (let alone a leg... whimper) in his defence.

Get back up, get back up. Argh. I can't move...

Afterwards, they went swimming in the rain.

The water was cool against his skin, and pleasantly refreshing. He swam a little, then towelled off and lay down to read.

And was out like a light.

******

Get well soon, LMD!

She looked so fragile, lying asleep in bed.

I saw with a stranger's eyes, the many tubes perforating the fragile shell of her skin, these strange coloured lines tracing out - almost dictating - her continued existence on an impassive flatscren monitor.

And then she stirred as the warrior princess called her name, returning reluctantly to life, almost as if from another place... or perhaps just the depths of a drug induced slumber.

We spoke, briefly; the words awkward and terse... we felt, both of us, how much she needed to rest, how we were almost intruding in her world.

She was worried about what a sight she must look... (women!)

I looked again, my own eyesight restored now at the numbers on the screen and they were perfect. I told her so.

And then we left.

Be well.

*****

Empathy.

Is seeing with a stranger's eyes - or trying to bridge the divide.

I see it now. she had little empathy. Certainly not enough to bridge our divide. Certainly not enough to care.

*****

It struck me as I spoke to them, these two new friends of mine - as I watched their gray eyes watching mine...

... that they too were watchers.

He looked into her eyes. She held his gaze.

They met somewhere in the middle.

How strange.

*****

I will miss her, when she leaves.

*****

She commented that people in this country cannot speak properly, and they cannot pronounce 'th'... how when she first arrived she could not understand what people meant by 'te' (the) and 'tree' (three).

he added with a chuckle that he had asked the taxi driver what language he was speaking in, only to be told "english".

He laughed.

*****

As he read her write "ppl come in and out of life all the time..." (ostensibly either to reassure him, and tell not to grieve at the passing of their friendship, or else to try to make him admit that he was in love with her and grieving for that reason...) he realised that she did not understand the value of friendship.

People do walk in and out of our lives all the time.

The ones that stay, for even a while - despite the odds - despite the disagreements and arguments - become friends.

*****

He remembered Her telling him how She had been so excited at the news that he was coming to visit; how in truth She hadn't rushed to book a ticket to darkest Peru, but told all her friends (strangers to Him) how He was coming to visit, and how they had always been friends for yonks, and how they would always be friends forever...

... how wrong you were, eh.

My bad. You understood... and in a funny way, I did too. But I still chose poorly.

It's too late now, but I wish there was some way to find those two people again, K.

I wish there was a past in which they'd both stayed fast friends, despite his stupidity.

But now they're forever lost, hidden from each other in the maze of time.

I shall never receive Your forgiveness, because You are not Her anymore, and to You today, there is, after all... nothing left to forgive.

I shall never be your friend, again.

I miss you, old friend.

I miss our friendship.

Okay.

Uninspired. Post call. Best time to write. Not.

So head is in a mess - unsurprising.

Did not study - also unsurprising.

Let's see.

Every so rarely (often would be a gross misrepresentation of the truth) I stumble onto sites that link mine, with gushing descriptions of a blog about some long-lost love, and about how time changes perceptions of love. blahblah.

So while I'm here feeling grouchy and sleep deprived, let me state explicitly what this blog is not about.

This blog is not about Her.
So She crops up a lot - more so in the past than now. It's just a reflection of the thoughts that creep into and out of my mind.

We were close once, and the very act of meeting her (we were young when it happened) shaped me into who I am today. I admit, I think about her once in a while. And it would probably creep her out to know - so so much the better that we are no longer on the same continent, let alone in contact, I guess.

This blog is also not about love.
I mean, sod it - I don't know the first thing about love. I've had a phenomenally bad track record when it comes to love. Including letting the big fish slip back into the ocean - or rather, setting it free, out of stupid, oxymoronic selfless selfishness.

This blog is not about work. I can't write a work-blog anymore -- it would probably cost me my job.

I guess this blog is really just meant to be about my thoughts - mine.

Lys writes :

"The first theme sounds hauntingly sweet. Beautiful, full of memories ... and when it modulates to major key, it sounds rather cheerful but too short, too short ... it seems to be cut off suddenly.

Then there is an abrupt stop in the middle just before the 2nd part. Too sudden, too disruptive.

2nd theme (2nd part after pause) sounds bitter sweet. searching searching..."

If only you knew how close you came.

There are reasons, for everything; reasons even for that abrupt stop; reasons for the very form of the song...

... and reasons why I cannot complete it.

Because "words" are not enough.

*****

He ranted at her... he wished he hadn't; she was so sad already.

A beautiful premise... but...

...hollow... so, so hollow.

And in a fit of self-centredness -

Like my life.

*****

He's off now to visit LMD in hospital and wish her well...

as he's text messaging her to ask her if she'd like to come along, he realises what has been so special about this little group of watchers.

As flaky as it sounds, in this strange cardboard effigy of a city; in this weirdly depersonalised "social experiment" he drags himself through day through day... they're somehow... real.

*****

Let's go.

We can't.

Why not?

We're waiting for Godot.

There's this theme that's been running through my head for quite a while now.

It started towards the end of my last relationship.

The ex used to go out partying a fair bit with her "khaki".

I joined in dutifully at first; but somehow as time passed and my mind changed... I stayed home alone more and more, on the pretext of studying - just to play on her klavinova.

And I remembered. Stuff.

So it comes out completely differently, everytime I play it... But this is sort of what it sounds like, me, just reaching (hence the occasional blip, or pause) for that tune in my head - just on the edge of hearing, just on the fringes of sight... just out of my reach.

And it's driving me mad, because I cannot finish it.

I will explain, perhaps later, what I mean by that.

But right now I invite your comments, whoever you may be.

Be honest. If need be, be harsh, or brutal.

When I explain myself, perhaps we shall agree.

*****

It's occurred to me that I shall have to give that theme a name, someday when it's finished.

For a fleeting moment, I was considering name it M******, out of regret for truth, unspoken, miunderstood and disregarded.

Then for a moment more I thought of naming it K****. Just... because of who She was.
But then I realised that would be too direct, too insignificant. And I toyed with the idea of calling it "Paddington".

I think though I shall simply call it "Re-minisce".

Any lingering ambitions of actually being a good boy and staying home to study flickered out the instant he bumped into them at the gym.

We are going for Tango later, would you like to come?

Hmm. Study. Exam. Exam Fees wasted.

Tango. Two very new and very good friends. Tango!

*****

Unwritten till now : 9:56 last saturday

9:53 today.

At the end of it, lying draped over the handrails, gasping for dear life... I felt quite literally like dying, or perhaps vomiting up my intestines... and then dying.

It was simply exquisite.

I can't wait for the next time I run! :)

******

Okay, so the real reason behind the running is...

... I'm trying to beat a memory.

Sure, the endorphines play a large part of it, but getting to the high takes a lot of pain. I've always been a practical person, and I never really (till I started this ridiculous need for speed quest) relished it.

Even in fencing, the climax of the moment was never the pain, but the destination. In foil, it lies in that secret moment just after you've found - at last - that flaw in your opponents defence, and you launch yourself fully committed at him...

... those fleeting seconds while you hang in the balance, reaching... reaching... towards eternity. And his guard comes up, almost agonisingly slowly...

and in the final moment - too late for him aha! - contact. Crystal clarity of thought, yet near nihilistic nothingness. Perfect.

In sabre, the magic moment for me is when I parry, when you feel your opponents blade crunching - sweet! - into your guard, in that instant, your mind clears of every, and anything. You explode.

It's always been a case of suffering through pain to reach that near-orgasmic moment of perfection...

Running, however is a case of suffering... to reach that near perfect moment, of... suffering.

A younger me would have raised and eyebrow, and declared this older me quite, quite mad.

But once upon a time...

... there was this girl. (hah, isn't there always)

She was the best friend of another girl, whom I shall confess I was madly in love with at the time. Moving swiftly on.

She was the all-star athlete... Ms Perfect. Intelligent, athletic, droll, pretty... the works.

And she had a 2.4 time of 9:30 (or thereabouts)

When I first started running on the treadmill some two years ago, it was simply because I needed to run, and London didn't really give me the... space... to run in. I know it doesn't make sense, but there it is. I used to run the ten click everyone else does at the gym, mindlessly, without objective. It was boring.

One day for some strange reason, I remembered K... (the runner)

And then I wondered... what would it feel like, to actually run at that breakneck speed? And... Why did she do it?

It's been a long journey... I started running at a speed of 12.5 (whatever that translates to in km/h) - that gave me a time of 12:30 (ish)

Each time I felt my body becoming familiar with a particular speed (about four to five runs) I put the speed up by 0.5

And discovered that the time differential was... almost negligible.

I began to hunger for faster results in a shorter time (I do want to do this before I die...)

And so I began sprinting the last leg of each run, putting it up by 0.5 prematurely when I had 800m to go... then 1.2 km.. then 1.6 km... then 2.4 km...

I now run at a speed of 14.5 (effortlessly), cranking up to 15 at the 1km mark (effortfully. near death experience)

And now I know why you used to do it, K...

One day, when I hit 9:30, I'm going to switch back to running for distance rather than speed.

But right here, right now, I'm pretty amazed that I got here... I, the eternally pragmatic and unashamedly lazy.

*****

He watched them dance. Perhaps he watched her dance more than he... but she was his friend more than he. Although they were fast becoming one and the same now...

Her eyes were distant, yet ablaze. Her body taut, coiled like a spring. Her blonde hair unleashed.

She became quite a different person when she danced...

... she became quite, quite stunning.

*****

Premarital Sex, Part Deux

For all the time he had known Her, he had always loved Her.

It wasn't simply that she was so incredibly beautiful, or intelligent - or anything in particular - that he would give his life to, and for Her if She had so asked.

It wasn't physicality which had made him burn for her every moment they were apart, and mourn for Her memory, as time and distance took their toll, a petit morte time, and time again, every time they parted company - until he achieved ultimate finality with his last farewell.

It was something far more enduring, and something far more endearing than mere physicality.

It had something to do with magic. Something to do with meaningless words, and poignant silences.

Something in Her eyes, and Her words; something that told him that She knew.

And that She knew that He knew, too.

Something about the way he always sensed what She was about to say or think - from the first moment He met Her.

Something some people will never experience in an entire lifetime - and most will never experience more than once a lifetime.

It was enough to make him love her for fourteen years.

They had only touched twice before they parted companies forever.

Once, palm to palm, comparing hand sizes; the other when She took his hands in Hers to avert a fateful coinflip. Perhaps the second was a figment of his imagination; the past has blurred now into an indistinct haze in his mind, erased by conscious effort, and early-onset dementia.

And so the truth, which He kept concealed, despite his self-confessed obsession with Honesty...

... was that He did not believe.

With a vengeance.

******

But even that crumbled into nothingness, and in the aftermath, only physicality remains...

... all our ideals fall to naught, our dreams, our pasts lying one by one, by one last, to rest.

Watching her (well, actually most of the time he was actually watching the band because they were bloody good) flit from table to table and group to group, he realised what it was she really did.

Blog-host, actress, model...

... just words.

... she was all, and yet none - and at the same, much more than these.

She was a networker. She discovered, and then joined the dots.

And she was so good at it people took it for granted that it was just happening around them.

*****

Two different groups of writers, two very different outings.

One event captured in photographs galore, and even a video blog entry. The Singapore Writers Festival, sia. Hype. Media. Bright lights. Not so much a gathering, as a parade.

The other a cosy gathering of now-friends (and a mad woman) starting the evening with a, uh, "loaded" herbal drink. Was war es... ein LugerMeister, oder PanzerGeneral?

Lots of laughter, pina coladas (I'm a sucker for those), long island tea (yech), bacon (watch The Island...) and double entente / sexual innuendo galore (mostly from the woman whose wildest act ever in her life was skipping an exam...)

... ah yes, and telling a literature major that she should be a literature teacher. sigh. Foot in mouth syndrome.

Something about bad impressions, and very sexy swimsuits with no material at all. Hmm, and underwear.

Pool. She had a confident stance and an easy action (eh that sounds really dodgy) - she had played before and it was apparent. With time, forgotten skills would cleary return. He watched her play, and shook his head slightly sometimes when she looked up for "advice" -- she could handle her own already, and there was nothing he could teach her that she didn't already know.

She had an aggressive stance and hit the ball haaard. Sorta like the way she hit him earlier in the day. He couldn't help but notice all the muscley muscles under the tanned skin... whimper. He wasn't gonna give this one advice, oh nono. Might cost him an arm or an ear. Best to just hide away out of reach of her cue, and her cue ball...

She spent the evening at another table, mostly. When they played she was clearly exhausted, but watching her eyes tracing the paths of shots before they were made... she clearly knew what she was doing.

She was feeling self conscious, clearly. To start out with, she felt like she didn't know how to play, and so she couldn't.
He, and they chipped in, giving her helpful advice on where to hit the side cushions just-so so that the ball would rebound off it and pot something else... she did it remarkably well. Then even more remarkably... she started doing it on her own, without need for advice.

As the evening wore on, she relaxed, and much to his horror, he found that she was actually becoming damn good. damn fast. Oh dear... this looks bad for me... laugh. (shark! shark!!)

Two different groups of writers. Two separate events.

One preserved in hype and photographs...

The other preserved in words, and fond memories.

It stops to make you think, doesn't it?

*****

He re-read the words.

Sometimes it almost seemed as if someone else had written them... they were too well written. Writing about Her somehow made him outreach his abilities, and find something more.

They'd often shared something unspoken, something almost magical. He figured it was all coming from Her. She could speak with her eyes; when a perfect sitcom joke cropped up he'd find himself glancing at her, only to find her glancing back. Do you want to call this one, or shall I?

He read a little more, and stopped when it began to overwhelm him again.

Too vivid, too fresh, too here.

The light on Your face; the colour of Your eyes...
Reminiscence.

*****

He met her eyes - a stranger's eyes - and his gaze was held for a moment. Then she glanced down, as did he. Then, almost furtively, he looked up again - and again she was watching him... with a trace of a smile

Afternoon conversation barely remembered.... drowsing as all systems began to shut down :

How do you look at a guy?

(shocked) Pardon?

How do you, you know, check him out? Do you look at him till you get his attention, or would you rather just admire him from a distance and rather he not catch you looking? And if he catches you looking, will you keep looking at him to let him know you're keen... or will you look away, and then look back, to keep him guessing? (sic)

(shocked) PARDON!?

laugh.

As he wrote to her online (technically "chatting", in truth, coldly exchanging hostile fire) he was struck once more that she was not a creature of words.

She did not possess the ability or words to make herself understood to him, and she in turn felt that he did not possess the ability to intuitively understand her. Her temper flared.

She was wrong though; he had always believed in empathy and intuition... but more than anything, he didn't believe in making assumptions. He believed in truth.

She did not understand his guilt, or need for forgiveness; she was too simple a creature to understand his mind - only hers, their minds too different to meet in the middle for a simple act of reconciliation. She offered instead a dismissal of the past, because she was not angry.

In turn, he began to wonder why he even felt guilty. Is being too honest necessarily a sin?

She did not understand his motivations - it was not regret at an almost-relationship soured... it was not that he almost-loved her still and wanted to continue the status quo, at all. "These things always see so important at the time" - the words She used once.

It was simply guilt at having hurt someone he had cared about, through his callous obsession for truth.

In truth he had held back, those past weeks, months - perhaps subconsciously - because he had sensed an absence of words, and grace in her. And while he had still been charmed a little... without words, without grace, without "magic" -- there is little to hold on to, that time, and selfishness will not erode.

Sitting at a table drinking coffee with a friend (whom he had also wronged... sigh) she asked him : Is she worth it?

He had thought then, about the hypothetical scenarios in his mind, perhaps taking this creature home to his parents and, with her first words, watching their reactions... the "intimate talk" with them that would have followed... their eventual grudgingly uneasy truce...

And he had known (see Sarabat Store Owner post below) that love was worth it.

Perhaps he had thought in some vaguely narcissitic way, that he could have taught her the words, and the graces that she lacked. He was reminded of another creature from long ago, much more beautiful (ok? ok?? beautiful. not pretty. this to the friends who say I use the word pretty too often... hmph!) and graceful to the eye - but within her heart... much the same. His reaction then had been the same, to try to guide, lead, and perhaps even fall... For it is only by their sides that we can truly stay for long enough, to lead. It was a very... paternal, and rather patronising response. He knew it too well.

As they sat side by side cradling their coffees and gazing into the distance he too had wondered ... is she worth all that?

*****

My last day of leave, sitting here listening to the trickling splashes of my brother's fishtank and looking out over our morn-lit garden... I actually feel at peace.

Life is very mundane indeed; having muddied an almost-not-quite-romance and experienced the whole gamut of human emotions... life goes on. I've been steadfastedly trying not to remember my past. It is past the time for that now; I have moved on.

But I re-read nonetheless. At some point I wondered what it had been like once. I think I'm honestly beginning to forget the details, denying them slowly out of existence.

And as I read I remembered. My own words moved me - I, the cynic.
My mind was not mine to control for a while, as the images flashed back - not in sepia, but fully-fleshed colour.

Those times are dead, K.

But what I felt, perhaps even what we shared for a while... those were not mundane, not insignificant, not transient. Not quite eternal either... time has eroded us away at last.

But I can take small comfort in knowing that there is more to life than this. Somewhere, out there - perhaps, perchance - our truths shall find each other - whoever you be.

Look not to the past, dwell not in the present.

*****

Reading her latest entry, as always, made his heart ache for her.

He posted half the lyrics of a set - they seemed to sum up her words neatly.

The other half goes -

"just as long as you know, this land is mine"

Oh, dozer. Would that you know how often I hate that these fools tresspass upon you, how I watch you let them in and they invariably defile the sanctuary of your gentle soul.

It sounds crazy to write, "gentle soul" -- but yours truly is, hidden beneath that veneer of irrepressible insanity.

You've never believed me, I think.
Let me try again : tears do not make for a lack of courage; fears do. I've watched you so often rise up to the challenge, risk all in the name of love. And hoped that you wouldn't be dashed down again, broken yet again by some callous fool, yet graceful enough still to want to remember him well.

You are so much braver than I.

I've always loved you, you know. Just... a little too much to dare to tresspass on that remarkable land, where you reign as queen, with Grace, and courage.

Be well, my friend.

A medical student writes :

"I’m sure that most, hell, I’m willing to bet ALL of us, have had at least one of those moments. Those moments when we’re seized with the “rage of the righteous”, when we desire, so strongly, so live up to the hype and the age-old ideals of our chosen profession, when we tell ourselves that medicine isn’t just a career, isn’t just another job, but a higher calling, an annointment by the fates and the gods and the powers that be, when inspiration and determination in equal measure fill our hearts and make us want to get right out there and make a difefrence."

I remembered another conversation.

Older, wiser...

...truer to life.

We sat under the sky, slumped in our chairs.

I remembered an evening even before then, when we had sat in the very same chairs, in that quaint little garden upon a building (Cafe 211) in the dark savouring a hastily chilled bottle of Muscato D' Asti.

It saddened me for a moment to remember that moment, because I sensed that those moments with her were already dying, and fast gone. They are now...

So too did it sadden me that as we drank that she would never realise, never know - never appreciate - just how rare that bottle of wine, handbought in Italy, reared in London, and airflown to Singapore - truly was... but at the moment, it was enough to watch her enjoy it, watch the tension slipping from her shoulders in the dim twilight cast by the stars, as the lights winked out (thanks to some impatient restauranteers keen to be home in their beds by midnight) and the sounds of closing-time faded away.

We spoke, he and I, two old friends, two equals cast initially from the same, but ultimately from disparate moulds, different systems.

He spoke at length about how we were all fools, kidding ourselves that our jobs were a higher calling. That there was something more to medicine, which was why we were doing it. That it didn't matter that our peers earn four times our salaries... That we worked insane hours that the pay just didn't justify. That there was some meaning which we secretly all knew kept us here, in Medicine.

That we were somehow, truly the ubermensch, that we pretended to each other that we were.

I sat and listened to him rant.

And sadly, having been immersed in the system myself now... for a mere nine months...

... I couldn't help but agree with him.

We're technicians, here. We're service providers.

We're disillusioned. We're tired.

We're broken.

And I cannot maintain my own illusions, when all around me my compatriots lie beaten, their idealism knocked out of them by an angry public, and a callous overseer.

I was proud of what I did, back in the UK.

We all were, we, the nurses, paramedics and doctors.

We chose our fate; we were all clinically insane to do it, we knew... but we chose.

Perhaps it had to do in part with the free education for the locals, and with the sheer expertise and professionalism the nurses took joy in.

None of them were in it out of anything other than committment and... insanity idealism.

Here, things are so different.

And all of us are beaten, running scared of the next complaint letter cleverly designed to obtain a fee waiver... or perhaps even of the next complaint that will have to be painstakingly covered-up... "because in this country, doctors cover for each other"

A higher calling?

It's. Just. Another. Job.

"Something is broken..."

I wish I could fix it. I wish I had the super glue to repair you, kiddo. I wish I could just throw a suture, and put humpty dumpty back together again.

But I don't, and I can't.

For me, my blogrolling is broken.

*****

What do you do, when you've run out of words?

These past few days have been packed. Packed with distractors.

Play - 1000%

Study - 0.1%

It's been wonderful. I've been... as happy as I can be.

Yet I'm out of words; there is nothing left to say.

And sometimes when I'm alone in my head, surrounded by people... they notice it now. And say something about a despondent face when they think I'm not listening.

I think something...

... is broken.

*****

I will write about LMD though, the hustler.

Never played pool my eye. Some shark teaches her how to play pool, murmuring sweet nothings in her ear... she comes along, has us all fooled, and by the end of the night I'm pulling out all the stops to stop her from humiliating me... them backstrokes... them fancy slices off the side cushion... them hard shots into the middle pocket....

Ph-ew. Never played pool. Ya. Right.

Never trust a girl with a dog that looks like a log...

*****

Later now, when the words aren't quite back, but what the hell I want to write anyway so too bad, you just have to suffer me in a funny mood writing like a teenager...

Pleasant dinner company again, more talk, less dog this time, and a brief sojourn to a seedy club (always be on your guard when you hear the words : very nice, very nice!) and then pool, pool, pool.

I got home at four thirty last night, with just a wee bit of ethanol fuelling me engine.

And then it was off to mass as nine, as promised, with the S, student.

We watched the ex's father do his thing.

It was a strange experience. I didn't have flashbacks from the past or anything (those are at present reserved for some other female... and I just can't understand why blast it...) just hunkered down and kept my eyes down and hoped he wouldn't notice me... or the mom either...

He does have a good voice though.

*****

So, what's the craziest thing you've ever done?

Hers was jumping out a window.

It made me think of a long time ago when I watched some really important minister's son leap off the second floor balcony while being pursued through the halls of NUS by a bunch of crazed girls. (it was a game. A game.)

A heart-stopping moment later, I peered over the edge, and he was scrambling away, unscathed...

Hers was, ahem, flashing someone, to prove the beauty of her bra. Yes, quite.

His was... snogging a guy. Uh. ya. He writes about his penetrating episodes with women, and putting his (bleep) in her (unmentionable)... and the craziest thing he's ever done is kiss a guy, no tongue.

cough.

And hers was (yawn) skipping an exam paper.

Mine?
I thought maybe if I kept quiet, they'd forget...

Mine is lost in time... and only partially told.

The bear, in the box.

******

Frau Tan. Herr Chan. Herr Anwar.

It was so strange, hearing us speak the names.

And discovering the common... not-quite-indiscretion of signing up for free credits in first year uni.

Heh. Perhaps anyone would have done it... Perhaps we're all a little unscrupulous at heart. laugh.

"You speak german?

Ein bischen..."

Strange to hear the words... again. Spoken just a few days ago, to the medical student... roles reversed.

******

And then the flashback.
The flagstone paths, the sun beating down, the too-cold classrooms downstairs, the too-hot upstairs.

Standing in the shade waiting for the mother to pick him up.

Watching, hoping for a glimpse...

... and there She is, getting into Her father's Peugeot.

He opened his textbook and stared blankly at the words.

He couldn't do it. His heart was not in it.

When the time comes, I will say that it was my fault - I did not try hard enough.
The fault was entirely mine.

He closed the book.

... and then he was somewhere in little india, picking a blown blue-glass dolphin off a shelf.

He didn't know why he was doing it... just because.

*****

He remembered the first time he saw her.

He hadn't come to seek her out; he'd come to goggle at one of the other mini-curiostumpies present that day.

She... was a queen amongst the rabble, or perhaps a sheepdog amidst the herd. Head and shoulders above the rest, sheparding around her flock, acting every bit the personality role that he'd always been averse to. Her hair was brown, her glasses tinted, her features sculpted.

She was a cookie cutout, factory produced. Or at least that's what he thought, then - he was a very cynical bastard.

Never judge a book by its cover.

*****

Strange then, that he still remembers in every detail her walking past him close-by a few hours later, eyes still masked by those brown semi-reflective glasses... yet somehow he had sensed her lost in thought.

*****

He remembers the first time he met her. Dressed down, at ease - she was still, although she denied it - extremely attractive.

But it wasn't until she leant over and pretended to bite his best friend on the shoulder - over in a flash - that he took a second look.

Or perhaps, did a double-take. Heh.

And then, of course, he joined half the nation in having a bit of a crush (of course...) on her.

For a short while at least, before returning to the familiar prison of his past.

*****

He remembers a lot, now. Telephone conversations on his mobile as he shadow-fenced in the garden (heh. bet she didn't know that.)... banter about life, and love, and bastards, and bitches as he paced through his mothers prized hibiscii, taking whimsical swipes at the occasional offensive flower...

He remembers watching her, breathtakingly beautiful and looking suitably ladylike, sinking a finger most unladylike into a molten candle at a formal dinner table.

He remembers hearing her truths, and speaking his.

He remembers always wishing she could find the key to the cage of her remarkable mind; he remembers always wanting her to be free, and happy.

He remembers always feeling sad for her when her path faltered; when the many men in her life let her down.

In short, he remembers becoming her friend.

*****

He realised it now.

Wide-eyed innocence and child-like girlishness are things that expire, only to be replaced overnight by adult manipulativeness and cynicism. Wanting to stand in a shower of cascading autumn leaves was something out of the dreams of a child...

Grace, and dignity are subtle magics that only a few people will ever learn.

The thing about Grace is that she has Grace. And that is something rare and wonderful, something that should be cherished, and protected.

Not possessed, manipulated, and broken.

(It's late, and I'm falling asleep as I write this)

He watched her gently cradling her friend, imparting some measure of solace and comfort to her in a way that he had never dared to in the past... and somehow, in some small way, she healed.

Sometime later, as they spoke he noticed for the first time that her smile... reminded him of Julia Roberts' - wide, sincere... fragile.

*****

It was like watching a magic show... other women on big screen pull miniature pistols and cs-sprays and microfilm out from deep within their brassieres....

... she pulled out first a piece of prata... then a slightly dazed fly...

Devouring dinner last night while Ms Indiscreet watched.

"You really liked her, huh."

"Yeah."

"It seems such a pity."

"I think, you know... despite the differences..."

"Yeah, I believe you would..."

Well, nobody ever said I was clever. Heh.

*****

It was fascinating how easily she settled into the chair and faced down a multitude of curious inquisitors who were intently not speaking to her. It was like watching a meeting of two worlds.

And then one of the horde spoke, and their minds touched. He watched the other, as she spoke, her bronzed skin and delicate eyes unfamiliar, out of uniform. She had the instinct of words, if not the actual lexicon. It was an unhoned gift.

He remembered the first time he had noticed it in her.

Noticing him glance at someone else, as he joked about being too nice she looked him in the eyes -

"Be careful of being used."

He understood, instantly.

It came as a shock when he found out that she was his age... she looked so young. He almost laughed aloud, then. Two ageless Aes Sedai, speaking so animatedly and comfortably to each other, connected, perhaps, in maturity.

*****

He was concentrating on driving away, as calmly, yet as speedily as he could.

blahblahblah... project... blahblah, need more data, blahblahblah... how i'm going to write 20,000 words.

Pause. That's a lot of words.

(together) "I haven't got a clue". laugh.

"Try blogging about it first. It might help."

*****

They haven't just raised petrol prices... they've done something to the petrol too! I mean, geesh, cross the island once and I'm down a half tank of petrol?? Something just ain't right here...

From Aueralis

"venial

i hate people who judge(isnt that oxymoronic?)

i know every person has their own opinion, their likes, dislikes....
but when these drive a rift between people... its just.... irritating
why in the world is there a need to keep a distance from people?
can you not give them chances?"

We all judge; it's a survival mechanism. We judge poorly, and we judge well - we judge to discern friends from acquaintences, lovers from friends...

... I think it's assumptions that are the true forces that drive rifts between people.

A fortnight of silence; he bullheadedly trying to provoke the truth, she misinterpreting, misunderstanding, and becoming yet more silent - making assumptions.

He, at last, being driven to an inescapable assumption / conclusion. And in his typically melodramatic way, culminating the entire affair in a confrontation...

... in the aftermath, a friendship (though some would already have questioned the worth), ruined irrevocably. No second chances, no paths left with which to return to the past.

She will not read these words, she will not visit this page again, I know. She is not a creature of words... and were she to read these, she would not understand.

I write these words for You, and I.

*****

She : "... and if you expect me to fly across the world... well I won't..."

...something about a career, and how nobody would get in the way of it...

The largest assumption.

He : (silence)

The first painful silence; the first truth, witheld :

I would have flown across the world, for You, stupid.

The second truth, witheld, unchanced-upon :

I stayed my tongue... because I loved You.

*****

In the aftermath, a obsessive quest for truth, a burning urge to speak regardless of the consequences. A Need for Truth.

A regret.

*****

Let these be a headstone to the death of assumptions in my life; let this be a testimony to the wrongs that should never have been.

Taken from an email yet to be sent... due date, two months.

"...without honesty, a couple - let alone simple friends - have nothing,

Goodbye."

bitterness? no.

anger? no.

Just weary resignation.

*****

Staring in disbelief at the half-muffin my mom just brought to me to breakfast on.

So now she's trying to starve me out of the house... subtle... very subtle...

*****

Beautiful

*****

Beautiful

She stood with her back against the wall, dressed immaculately for "work", her immaculate, blonde hair slightly incongruent amidst the tides of black ebbing and falling all around her, looking alone, and lost.

As he neared, her eyes lit up.

She moved towards him, and he, to her.

Somehow, the country around him, his past and present melted away, and he stepped in to meet her. Perhaps it was just the association of germanic features with a world almost forgotten now.

Just a simple hello between friends, and sometimes even strangers - something he'd done for years abroad, something continental.

It felt warm, and familiar. Like coming home, after the longest day.

Just before they embraced though, reality came flooding back.

This was not customary here.

He paused, and they stood, uncertain, face to face, almost skin on skin. He smiled.

"Hello."

She smiled back.

"Hello."

******

There was something child-like about her, and her uncertain - but very sudden grins - that seemed to charm some of the people around her today. An authentic Little Indian restauranteer tried valiantly to explain every sauce he was spooning onto her place with what little garbled English he possessed. She just smiled blankly.

He wondered how pidgin english translated into german, and almost found himself giggling. (answer : ".......")

They spoke as they ate, and he reflected silently how well she understood the language.

As if reading his mind, she commented how easily she understood him...

... but not the other people in this country. Guess they speak too good english hor.

They walked side by side, occasionally bumping shoulders through the busy streets of Serangoon, both gawping like gawky tourists... which, essentially, they both were. Smiling at each other at times over silly things, sometimes her laughing at him over the smidgins of his half-forgotten german.

At one point, he picked up a blown blue-glass dolphin, toyed with the idea of buying it, then put it back down and thought something wistful to himself.

They explored two indian temples (colourful, boring) and one chinese temple (gigantic, beautiful) and many, many shops selling nick-nacks, ornate furniture, and lots, and lots of elephants.

She said how she thought people in this country were really friendly...

... he told her how wrong she was, and how very lucky she'd been today.
This was not the norm.

As he watched her mount the steps, alone, to her dormitary - he remembered what it felt like to be alone in a foreign country so different to one's own. Intimidating, scary, overwhelming.

It was an afternoon to remember. Not because of hidden romance, or latent lust - but because of pure and simple friendship, between two complete strangers.