Sunday, July 31, 2005
Mechanical Madness
Okay someone explain this to me.
2.4 click.
Different circumstances - 4 hours of sleep for one.
Different initiation - injured foot, painful slow start, blah blah, feel like dying many times through, used support of handrail x3 (to shame), effort required infinitely more, sensation of imminent death... much more imminent - attributed to lack of sleep and injured foot.
Time first time (breezed through easily) : 10:15
Time second time : 10:03
What I don't get :
Same machine.
Same settings.
Shrug.
Graphical Representation of Re-minisce's attempt to break the ten minute 2.4 km barrier
*****
Protesting weakly, he allowed himself to be led onto the floor...
...drew her in and watched the surprise in her eyes as he led her, half a body length away, in a move he vaguely remembered from his younger dancing days...
... but then later, watching her doing the R&B grind against him, and watching the others doing the same - attached at the mouth, hands wandering with wild abandon - he stepped back just a little.
One of the others noticed, and poked fun at him... you can get in closer if you'd like to.
Perhaps he'd have liked to... perhaps he just didn't quite trust himself to.
*****
National Medley
Hahahaha... link courtesy of MrBrown
I agree wholeheartedly that this year's national day song sucks.
Come to think of it most of the recent ones have sucked, even from my perch far away in a colder place.
Whatever happened to sing-along classics like Stand Up for Singapore?
I reckon what went wrong was this pathetic meme-uber-"cool"-showmanship that the organisers indulged the songwriters with.
It's bad enough they're almost no-talents, but the songs are pretty much weak vehicles for themselves. Face it. There aren't any catchy phrases and awe-inspiring refrains for the public to latch onto.
Instead we have some cutesy (you can tell from the voice...) fresh-faced wannabe starlet prancing around an MTV video cheerily singing tired old words about us doing our part to an unnecessary complicated and unsingable tune made barely passable by a weak musical accompaniement.
I hate to say this, but they got it right in the old days...
2.4 click.
Different circumstances - 4 hours of sleep for one.
Different initiation - injured foot, painful slow start, blah blah, feel like dying many times through, used support of handrail x3 (to shame), effort required infinitely more, sensation of imminent death... much more imminent - attributed to lack of sleep and injured foot.
Time first time (breezed through easily) : 10:15
Time second time : 10:03
What I don't get :
Same machine.
Same settings.
Shrug.
Graphical Representation of Re-minisce's attempt to break the ten minute 2.4 km barrier
*****
Protesting weakly, he allowed himself to be led onto the floor...
...drew her in and watched the surprise in her eyes as he led her, half a body length away, in a move he vaguely remembered from his younger dancing days...
... but then later, watching her doing the R&B grind against him, and watching the others doing the same - attached at the mouth, hands wandering with wild abandon - he stepped back just a little.
One of the others noticed, and poked fun at him... you can get in closer if you'd like to.
Perhaps he'd have liked to... perhaps he just didn't quite trust himself to.
*****
National Medley
Hahahaha... link courtesy of MrBrown
I agree wholeheartedly that this year's national day song sucks.
Come to think of it most of the recent ones have sucked, even from my perch far away in a colder place.
Whatever happened to sing-along classics like Stand Up for Singapore?
I reckon what went wrong was this pathetic meme-uber-"cool"-showmanship that the organisers indulged the songwriters with.
It's bad enough they're almost no-talents, but the songs are pretty much weak vehicles for themselves. Face it. There aren't any catchy phrases and awe-inspiring refrains for the public to latch onto.
Instead we have some cutesy (you can tell from the voice...) fresh-faced wannabe starlet prancing around an MTV video cheerily singing tired old words about us doing our part to an unnecessary complicated and unsingable tune made barely passable by a weak musical accompaniement.
I hate to say this, but they got it right in the old days...
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Dirty Minds...
One of the funniest mis-hearings of all time occurred the other night as Re-minisce paid someone a compliment.
He confessed that the line probably sounded corny, but the girl had the most beautiful eyes...
She heard that the line probably sounded Horny, but she had the most beautiful Arse...
He confessed that the line probably sounded corny, but the girl had the most beautiful eyes...
She heard that the line probably sounded Horny, but she had the most beautiful Arse...
Friday, July 29, 2005
Amused
After the blogger con thingummy, one of my long-time friends asked me if I was cowboy caleb.
After doing a long double-take, I asked her why on earth she thought that.
Apparently something to do with secrecy and mystique or summat.
Rubbish.
Secrecy and mystique my eye. It's simple self-preservation.
If I can't keep myself concealed online, then my truth dies.
And so do I.
After doing a long double-take, I asked her why on earth she thought that.
Apparently something to do with secrecy and mystique or summat.
Rubbish.
Secrecy and mystique my eye. It's simple self-preservation.
If I can't keep myself concealed online, then my truth dies.
And so do I.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Advanced Combat Training
Over Chai at Borders today, S and Pink, two lovely lady friends of mine helped me to expound substantially on Fong and Re-minisce's compilations (with true-blue female input, and not just Re-minisce's virtua-female guesswork) with the help of a large piece of mahjong paper, and a handy blue pen.
We now have an encyclopedia of collective knowledge about the mysterious phenomenon called Romance which we are most anxious to share with the world.
Unfortunately this post will have to wait till I complete my on-call before I can adobe-photoshop / microsoft-excel all the graphs into existence.
We now have an encyclopedia of collective knowledge about the mysterious phenomenon called Romance which we are most anxious to share with the world.
Unfortunately this post will have to wait till I complete my on-call before I can adobe-photoshop / microsoft-excel all the graphs into existence.
Saturday, July 23, 2005
Rules of Engagement
Okay, I know this is a complete departure from the foam-at-mouth rant-mode I was in previously, but after talking to someone for the longest time tonight and delving into the spiritual aspects of life, love, and relationships it's suddenly become imperative to me (yes, even at three am) to post the wisdom I have garnered through the years about men, women, and love.
Many of these postulates originate from an esteemed colleague of mine. I pray he never discovers this blog, but if he does, well... err someone had to preserve these gems you been coming up with m8. What if you got hit by a bus tomorrow? Or, more importantly, your palm pilot got run over by a wantonly wayward woman in a ferrarri?
Fong's Rule Number One states that attractiveness of a woman is a gaussian distribution with the majority falling, unfortunately, in the average range of attractiveness.
Fong's Rule Number Two states that the percentage chance availability of a woman is inversely proportional to how attractive she is.
An early postule by Re-minisce, based on innate cynicism and personal observations led him to formulate Re-minisce's Initial Postulate, which hypothesized that women are directly attracted to unsavoury men. After several larger and more powerful studies however, Re-minisce realised he was incorrect.
Ergo Re-minisce's Incontrovertible Rule, which decrees that women are pathologically attracted to sleazy scumbuckets.
Fong's Preliminary Postulate states that in an ideal world, under carefully regulated conditions attraction follows a sinusoidal pattern through time. Breakups occur when troughs collide.
This postulate was unfortunately cruelly debunked with the advent of the phenomenon known as The Real World.
Undaunted, the Master Fong rose to the challenge and formulated Fong's Theory of Attraction Number One, which postulates that men and women approach relationships differently. After much thought, Re-minisce believes he has found the elusive factor governing this radical difference in mindset :
Reminisce's Extrapolation of Fong's Theory of Attraction #1
Many of these postulates originate from an esteemed colleague of mine. I pray he never discovers this blog, but if he does, well... err someone had to preserve these gems you been coming up with m8. What if you got hit by a bus tomorrow? Or, more importantly, your palm pilot got run over by a wantonly wayward woman in a ferrarri?
Fong's Rule Number One states that attractiveness of a woman is a gaussian distribution with the majority falling, unfortunately, in the average range of attractiveness.
Fong's Rule Number Two states that the percentage chance availability of a woman is inversely proportional to how attractive she is.
An early postule by Re-minisce, based on innate cynicism and personal observations led him to formulate Re-minisce's Initial Postulate, which hypothesized that women are directly attracted to unsavoury men. After several larger and more powerful studies however, Re-minisce realised he was incorrect.
Ergo Re-minisce's Incontrovertible Rule, which decrees that women are pathologically attracted to sleazy scumbuckets.Fong's Preliminary Postulate states that in an ideal world, under carefully regulated conditions attraction follows a sinusoidal pattern through time. Breakups occur when troughs collide.
This postulate was unfortunately cruelly debunked with the advent of the phenomenon known as The Real World.
Undaunted, the Master Fong rose to the challenge and formulated Fong's Theory of Attraction Number One, which postulates that men and women approach relationships differently. After much thought, Re-minisce believes he has found the elusive factor governing this radical difference in mindset :
Reminisce's Extrapolation of Fong's Theory of Attraction #1Friday, July 22, 2005
The Price of Freedom... is Eternal Vigilance
And so the madness spreads.
I think death went too easy on him. But inaction might have cost many more lives.
Singaporeans the nation over will probably never see this article, or if they do will shake their heads in disbelief at how dangerous the rest of the world is.
Rest on your laurels; be complacent.
The real world is suffering, feel good that our fishbowl is still pristine.
When the time comes, it will shatter like a frozen glass.
I think death went too easy on him. But inaction might have cost many more lives.
Singaporeans the nation over will probably never see this article, or if they do will shake their heads in disbelief at how dangerous the rest of the world is.
Rest on your laurels; be complacent.
The real world is suffering, feel good that our fishbowl is still pristine.
When the time comes, it will shatter like a frozen glass.
Beam me up, Scotty
So dozer is sort-of okay, and I'm glad. Sorry I over-reacted. Gotta learn to be less cynical and paranoid.
Anyway this just hit the news.
I remember Star Trek from my childhood... and my years in London (back when I had a TV that is). Scotty was immortal, in my mind.
Live long, and prosper. Die well.
*****
It strikes me how trivial most blogs are, and how the most trivial of them spawn the most rabid fans; it's the blogs that deal with the dumbest topics (sex! sex! sex!!) that earn the most loyal followers.
Yet there's so much happening out there in the real world, so much beyond our fish tank... that we don't see, and don't want to see.
I was probably one of the first to hear about the explosions last night. The text message came as a shock - I'm okay, don't worry about me - and for a fleeting moment I thought perhaps the text had been delayed a week. But as she wrote me more messages, it began to sink in - it's happened, again.
On our many radio stations, teenagers were clogging up dedication lines, radio DJs were being "sexy and sassy" (or wannabes anywhow), and "blind dates" were trying to be coollll and composed...
I tuned in to BBC, and there it was, breaking news - london subject to more terror attacks.
It's strange, when I hear about London, or watch news clips about the bombings, the repair work, and the mourning.
It still feels so close to home to me. I still remember all the street names, the smells, the shock of chill air on my skin. The slate gray of the skies...
London was a real city, somehow. Grimy, broken, battered... but real.
Here I feel like I'm living in some kind of cartoon, some comic book cutout of utopia...
I don't feel real.
*****
At least I can distract myself from my vague sense of unease by dating hot nurses.
heh heh.
Anyway this just hit the news.
I remember Star Trek from my childhood... and my years in London (back when I had a TV that is). Scotty was immortal, in my mind.
Live long, and prosper. Die well.
*****
It strikes me how trivial most blogs are, and how the most trivial of them spawn the most rabid fans; it's the blogs that deal with the dumbest topics (sex! sex! sex!!) that earn the most loyal followers.
Yet there's so much happening out there in the real world, so much beyond our fish tank... that we don't see, and don't want to see.
I was probably one of the first to hear about the explosions last night. The text message came as a shock - I'm okay, don't worry about me - and for a fleeting moment I thought perhaps the text had been delayed a week. But as she wrote me more messages, it began to sink in - it's happened, again.
On our many radio stations, teenagers were clogging up dedication lines, radio DJs were being "sexy and sassy" (or wannabes anywhow), and "blind dates" were trying to be coollll and composed...
I tuned in to BBC, and there it was, breaking news - london subject to more terror attacks.
It's strange, when I hear about London, or watch news clips about the bombings, the repair work, and the mourning.
It still feels so close to home to me. I still remember all the street names, the smells, the shock of chill air on my skin. The slate gray of the skies...
London was a real city, somehow. Grimy, broken, battered... but real.
Here I feel like I'm living in some kind of cartoon, some comic book cutout of utopia...
I don't feel real.
*****
At least I can distract myself from my vague sense of unease by dating hot nurses.
heh heh.
Rant
It took a while to happen, as he listened to the polite message informing him that the number he was dialing was no longer in service.
At first, he thought, oh she changed her number.
And then worry began to set in, as all manner of unpleasant scenariors flashed through his mind.
*****
And then the news came through - more blasts in london.
London, burning.
Again.
*****
So this is me being angry, for once. Genuinely.
This goes out to all the fuckers out there who do stupid shit like this.
This time you lived post-event. You ran like cowards from the scenes of the crimes. Perhaps things didn't go right; perhaps timers were set off too early.
This time nobody was killed, apparently.
I hope they catch you, and I hope you don't receive the death you think will send you to your God a martyr.
I hope you go to jail for a long, long time. Until you are old and greying, and frail, and fragile.
I hope you get raped repeatedly by fellow inmates who have nothing but contempt for your inhumanity - even amonst an institution like a jail. I hope you get brutalised, and beaten.
I hope you suffer, for all the death and suffering you sought to wreak on unknown strangers, I hope you bleed.
But I hope you live.
And when you die, old, broken and alone, and maybe even filled with regrets, I hope you face your God, and find out you were wrong, and He never commanded you to target, kill, or harm innocents - even if their religion was different to yours.
I hope your families are ashamed of you.
*****
And this post goes out to the sad wankers who think they can screw women around... mess with their heads.
The sad thing is, you can.
You think that waiting till she is hurting and then telling her you still love her... is a good thing? Or a bad thing? Maybe you just feel compelled to for some unknown reason? Maybe you think you're just doing it out of love... some starcrossed lovers scenario?
Bullshit.
If you really cared, if you really were a man, you'd bite the words back.
You'd want her to get on with her life.
You'd wish her well.
You'd take her pain, and make it yours.
You'd hear the words in the song White Flag, and they would touch a chord in you.
And you would hold your silence; perhaps if you were more of a man than I you would stay friends so you can help her up whenever she falls.
But to irritate that near-terminal wound of "forbidden" love - and just how forbidden a love is it when you're with someone else... when you're so in "love" with someone you can't even break up with someone for them...
That's just pathetic.
The worst thing is, said women will be rising up to defend you wankers right now; you've got them so twisted around your fingers, you've played their insecurities and weaknesses like a vegas card dealer.
*****
And also to the guys who think they're being men by harrassing their exs, for loving them so much once that gifts from the heart suddenly turn into monetary transactions; for trying to intimidate them into "paying you back".
For letting money enter an equation that once at least must have been... priceless.
At first, he thought, oh she changed her number.
And then worry began to set in, as all manner of unpleasant scenariors flashed through his mind.
*****
And then the news came through - more blasts in london.
London, burning.
Again.
*****
So this is me being angry, for once. Genuinely.
This goes out to all the fuckers out there who do stupid shit like this.
This time you lived post-event. You ran like cowards from the scenes of the crimes. Perhaps things didn't go right; perhaps timers were set off too early.
This time nobody was killed, apparently.
I hope they catch you, and I hope you don't receive the death you think will send you to your God a martyr.
I hope you go to jail for a long, long time. Until you are old and greying, and frail, and fragile.
I hope you get raped repeatedly by fellow inmates who have nothing but contempt for your inhumanity - even amonst an institution like a jail. I hope you get brutalised, and beaten.
I hope you suffer, for all the death and suffering you sought to wreak on unknown strangers, I hope you bleed.
But I hope you live.
And when you die, old, broken and alone, and maybe even filled with regrets, I hope you face your God, and find out you were wrong, and He never commanded you to target, kill, or harm innocents - even if their religion was different to yours.
I hope your families are ashamed of you.
*****
And this post goes out to the sad wankers who think they can screw women around... mess with their heads.
The sad thing is, you can.
You think that waiting till she is hurting and then telling her you still love her... is a good thing? Or a bad thing? Maybe you just feel compelled to for some unknown reason? Maybe you think you're just doing it out of love... some starcrossed lovers scenario?
Bullshit.
If you really cared, if you really were a man, you'd bite the words back.
You'd want her to get on with her life.
You'd wish her well.
You'd take her pain, and make it yours.
You'd hear the words in the song White Flag, and they would touch a chord in you.
And you would hold your silence; perhaps if you were more of a man than I you would stay friends so you can help her up whenever she falls.
But to irritate that near-terminal wound of "forbidden" love - and just how forbidden a love is it when you're with someone else... when you're so in "love" with someone you can't even break up with someone for them...
That's just pathetic.
The worst thing is, said women will be rising up to defend you wankers right now; you've got them so twisted around your fingers, you've played their insecurities and weaknesses like a vegas card dealer.
*****
And also to the guys who think they're being men by harrassing their exs, for loving them so much once that gifts from the heart suddenly turn into monetary transactions; for trying to intimidate them into "paying you back".
For letting money enter an equation that once at least must have been... priceless.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
The Blower's Daughter
I don't know why, but this song's been running through my head all day.
Post call, and post coming down with the most vile (they always are) upper respiratory tract infection, and post getting four hours of badly interrupted sleep (nurse : doctor, we need a plug set NOW for iv mannitol...
doctor : nngaah? whaa...? It's... five...am... its not due for an hour, can't you wait two for the day doctor?
nurse : No.
doctor : what happened to the old one?
nurse : patient pull out.
sometime later
doctor : did you pull out your plug?
patient : no the nurse took out, said it was leaking.
at bloody five in the morning?! when the drug round is at six?? what kind of person wakes someone else up for that?!?!)
i've been wandering around the hospital in a bit of a daze singing it softly to myself. And earning a lot of funny looks from random passers-by.
Yes, I know I'm putting my obscurity at risk, but what the hey seeing as how the national nutplane completely destroyed it at the blogger convention (thank goodness there weren't that many people around) I figure it can't get any worse.
And so it is
Just like you said it would be
Life goes easy on me
Most of the time
And so it is
The shorter story
No love, no glory
No hero in her sky
I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes...
And so it is
Just like you said it should be
We'll both forget the breeze
Most of the time
And so it is
The colder water
The blower's daughter
The pupil in denial
I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes...
Did I say that I loathe you?
Did I say that I want to
Leave it all behind?
I can't take my mind off of you
I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind off of you
I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind...
My mind...my mind...
'Til I find somebody new
*****
dedicated to the nutplane, because she needs it more than I.
Post call, and post coming down with the most vile (they always are) upper respiratory tract infection, and post getting four hours of badly interrupted sleep (nurse : doctor, we need a plug set NOW for iv mannitol...
doctor : nngaah? whaa...? It's... five...am... its not due for an hour, can't you wait two for the day doctor?
nurse : No.
doctor : what happened to the old one?
nurse : patient pull out.
sometime later
doctor : did you pull out your plug?
patient : no the nurse took out, said it was leaking.
at bloody five in the morning?! when the drug round is at six?? what kind of person wakes someone else up for that?!?!)
i've been wandering around the hospital in a bit of a daze singing it softly to myself. And earning a lot of funny looks from random passers-by.
Yes, I know I'm putting my obscurity at risk, but what the hey seeing as how the national nutplane completely destroyed it at the blogger convention (thank goodness there weren't that many people around) I figure it can't get any worse.
And so it is
Just like you said it would be
Life goes easy on me
Most of the time
And so it is
The shorter story
No love, no glory
No hero in her sky
I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes...
And so it is
Just like you said it should be
We'll both forget the breeze
Most of the time
And so it is
The colder water
The blower's daughter
The pupil in denial
I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes...
Did I say that I loathe you?
Did I say that I want to
Leave it all behind?
I can't take my mind off of you
I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind off of you
I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind...
My mind...my mind...
'Til I find somebody new
*****
dedicated to the nutplane, because she needs it more than I.
Monday, July 18, 2005
The Price of Freedom
And then she said it, as he, in his hypoxic state, let his mind run away.
"Be careful"
She wasn't warning him about another woman.
She was warning him about... himself.
"Don't hurt her."
*****
The words came rushing back.
A long time ago, a warm evening, mottled shadows on the ground rippling with the wind, weak orange streetlamps casting soft shadows across the pathway.
"... are you sure you know what you're doing... I've hurt people."
He didn't understand, then. He knew what the words meant, and he was prepared to be hurt.
But he didn't know what was running through her mind. And her heart.
*****
Holding her close for the last time, holding her tightly with the intimacy they had shared the last two years, never wanting to let her go - for the last time, because tomorrow, he would be away from her... and liberated.
Holding her close, feeling her cry into his shirt. Feeling her hurt.
*****
And another, walking, lost through a busy street, telling him that she wasn't crying... standing at the top of a stairwell... hearing the hurt in her voice.
Wanting to tell her how sorry he was, but staying silent instead. Being the bastard that he could be, sometimes. Hearing her hurt, and feeling his heart break just a little... but not letting it break too much. Not letting things spiral
out of
control.
*****
Perhaps that's why he hasn't reached out and brushed the hair off her brow, and drawn her close - although every fibre in his being wants to. Although he remembers what is to be male, and what it is to be self-serving and self-seeking. What it is to want to be... happy.
Perhaps he holds back...
... because he doesn't want to hurt her.
*****
I know what she meant, now.
"Be careful"
She wasn't warning him about another woman.
She was warning him about... himself.
"Don't hurt her."
*****
The words came rushing back.
A long time ago, a warm evening, mottled shadows on the ground rippling with the wind, weak orange streetlamps casting soft shadows across the pathway.
"... are you sure you know what you're doing... I've hurt people."
He didn't understand, then. He knew what the words meant, and he was prepared to be hurt.
But he didn't know what was running through her mind. And her heart.
*****
Holding her close for the last time, holding her tightly with the intimacy they had shared the last two years, never wanting to let her go - for the last time, because tomorrow, he would be away from her... and liberated.
Holding her close, feeling her cry into his shirt. Feeling her hurt.
*****
And another, walking, lost through a busy street, telling him that she wasn't crying... standing at the top of a stairwell... hearing the hurt in her voice.
Wanting to tell her how sorry he was, but staying silent instead. Being the bastard that he could be, sometimes. Hearing her hurt, and feeling his heart break just a little... but not letting it break too much. Not letting things spiral
out of
control.
*****
Perhaps that's why he hasn't reached out and brushed the hair off her brow, and drawn her close - although every fibre in his being wants to. Although he remembers what is to be male, and what it is to be self-serving and self-seeking. What it is to want to be... happy.
Perhaps he holds back...
... because he doesn't want to hurt her.
*****
I know what she meant, now.
In Honour of Alice
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Unbidden
He stood across from her just listening to her, and watching her eyes...
*****
He remembered :
a time long ago, in the darkest of winters on a dimly lit doorstep, with the cold wind biting at them both, his overcoat billowing out around him and the frigid night air damp on his face, as he watched her reaching for her keys.
He reached out then, and brushed a strand of stray hair off her face. She smiled shyly, and looked at her feet. It was, by her account later, a touching moment for her, one that she recounted often.
Sometimes it made him feel guilty, the way she cherished that moment so much, the way she recalled his footsteps slowing down as they neared the house. (Something which, try as he might, he could not recall doing either intentionally or otherwise) It had clearly been touching for her...
Less so for him.
It had been premeditated... calculated. He had wanted to do it out of a cold, clinical curiosity, to find out what happened next... to find out what it felt like, to be normal.
*****
...and not for the first time that evening, he had this crazy urge to reach out and touch her face...
... unbidden. Unthought of. And nigh impossible to fight down.
He sat in the still of his car later, hands grasping the steering wheel - academic, given that the keys were still in his pocket - wondering why the hell he was even fighting it...
Maybe just force of habit. Or some ancient instinct from his past life for self-preservation.
Or maybe it just frightened him just a little... too old for this rubbish. Too old, at heart.
*****
He remembered :
a time long ago, in the darkest of winters on a dimly lit doorstep, with the cold wind biting at them both, his overcoat billowing out around him and the frigid night air damp on his face, as he watched her reaching for her keys.
He reached out then, and brushed a strand of stray hair off her face. She smiled shyly, and looked at her feet. It was, by her account later, a touching moment for her, one that she recounted often.
Sometimes it made him feel guilty, the way she cherished that moment so much, the way she recalled his footsteps slowing down as they neared the house. (Something which, try as he might, he could not recall doing either intentionally or otherwise) It had clearly been touching for her...
Less so for him.
It had been premeditated... calculated. He had wanted to do it out of a cold, clinical curiosity, to find out what happened next... to find out what it felt like, to be normal.
*****
...and not for the first time that evening, he had this crazy urge to reach out and touch her face...
... unbidden. Unthought of. And nigh impossible to fight down.
He sat in the still of his car later, hands grasping the steering wheel - academic, given that the keys were still in his pocket - wondering why the hell he was even fighting it...
Maybe just force of habit. Or some ancient instinct from his past life for self-preservation.
Or maybe it just frightened him just a little... too old for this rubbish. Too old, at heart.
Blog Rules ok
Sunstruck
Luxuriating in the sun is an ang moh habit I picked up from my time abroad, which will probably earn me a melanoma or two when I'm old.
It's different here in Singaland though; over there you lie in the grass and hundreds of people lie around you, reading their books or lying in lazy embraces with their.. special friends... dogs trot past led by their beautiful mistresses. It's very tranquil and you invariably... doze.. off.
Over here you lie at home with your back to concrete (becauuse heaven knows what lurks in the lallang..) and for company you have
1) The new Harry Potter novel, which isn't disappointing thus far
2) a single inquisitive sunbird who surreptitiously sneaks up really close to you and tweets inquiringly (no doubt thinking of calling all his friends down to have a closer look if this big human thing is really dead), and
3) about a million ants all trying doggedly to latch on to this really big meal and drag it back to their nest.
They're quite literally a pain.
I'm thinking about buying a deck chair...
*****
Ms Utterly-Indiscreet writes about the blogger con that she didn't-quite catch yesterday, and about blog nettiquette... What you can, and cannot write.
Anyhow, here's my take on things in brief.
1) I can see why all the women think Mr Miyagi is so cute. So cuuuute, so kawai. Macham pika-chu.
Yer lawyerly bastard, stealing all our women... grr.
2) Mr Brown is not after all a man-mountain. He just poses with Mr Miyagi a lot. And Faith is beautiful. Even if only viewed from one storey below, through a glass window.
3) After much consideration I have decided that as in everything, there are bloggers, and there are bloggers.
Certain varieties of bloggers write for attention. I've labelled them media whores in the past, I now concede that they are shrewd and focused individuals adept at achieving their aims. Hence the frameshift in terminology from mediawhore to publicityprostitute - slightly more professional, perform cleanliness checks on themselves periodically, yet still willing to swallow anything - for the right price.
It still offends me that people use "personal blogs" as a vehicle to fame, since I'm one of the (if not the only) purists left who believes in words, and... people. And thoughts, and freedom; and sincerity.
I think that blogging should be done sans frontiers - write about the things you really think about (as opposed to what you think your audience wants to hear), the things you really love and hate (as opposed to the nasty things you can write about other people guaranteed to garner you an amused audience) - no matter how trivial. No matter how boring. No matter how much you'll alienate your readers. Because that is, essentially, your soul.
And hence in my blogsphere there will always be space for even theboring people intellectuals who write about politics - as long as it is true to their hearts, and they write with a passion that belies their insanity conviction.
There will be space too for pseudo bloggers using that two-bit "moblog" platform (ha) who write touchingly sweet stories about men and women, who are clearly really writing about the magical moments in their own lives... and that too is sincere.
So too for the satirists who stand poised with their chisels and hammers, against their sledgehammer wielding adversaries, thumbing their chubby noses.
But my own personal set of rules mirrors Ms Indiscreet's -
1) Never give up your identity. Your mask is the guarantor of sincerity - It's not, as the media is so often fond of writing - about cowardice and taking shelter behind the comforting rock of anonymity.
It's plain common sense. You can't write honestly about - work for instance - if everyone reads you. You'll lose your job. You'll hurt your colleagues. Everything you want to write - will be censored into politically correct drivel which even you won't want to read - let alone write. (This is essentially the theory of Schroedinger's Cat in a box - for those unfamiliar with the story, a cat is trapped in a box with a triggering device that will smash a vial of cyanide if the box is opened : you cannot tell if the cat is alive or not except by opening the box... but the act of observation alone may change the outcome of the scenario)
Why be a boring two-bit writer with a "real identity" when you can write your mind from behind your mask all of the time? Leave the two-bit politically-censored writing to the "professional" journalists, I say.
2) Never write to cause harm.
Euphemism and hyperbole are two of my favourite tools; they transform the world from the dreary, forgettable greyness that is apparent everyday to my eyes, to something colourful and worth remembering in my head.
But euphemism and hyperbole gone wrong can be hurtful.
I recognise this, because I've done it a few times. So all I can do is try to check the balance; and only fly off the edge when someone or something makes me so incredibly angry I cannot restrain myself. Fortunately that doesn't happen very often.
3) Ignore the rules.
What was with the blogger con anyway, from what I gathered it was a sit-down event where the famous five sat on stage telling other bloggers how to write, and what not to write. Only in Singaland would what should essentially be a huge meeting of diverse minds turn into a public lecture / tutorial, led by a team of "experts".
(- addendum - I am told that really, it was a sit-down symposium for bloggers to exchange helpful ideas with their blog idols... which doesn't quite detract from the fact that it was essentially Shep the sheepdog(s) herding lesser sheep towards blog-nirvana. Like it or not, that's the way the cookie crumbles. I'd have imagined a blogger con held in a convention hall somewhere, people standing on their feet, mingling and holding glasses of champagne - or at least coke, or hell blue lagoon cocktails dunked out of huge garbage bins - just chatting to each other. Shrug, playing party games in groups. Organising themselves by common interest. Maybe, yes, a brief symposium lasting an hour, with lots of public microphones and invitations to unknown writers to take the stage and share what drives them to write. Maybe even a large computer screen in the background with blogs of more retiring individuals appearing at the whims of the facilitators, to acknowledge their existence, and possibly even their aptitude as writers. Maybe roaming cameras in the audience to seek out said shrinking violets and put them up for all the world to see, to make them squirm in the public eye and take a bow, if only for an instant. Something fun.)
No, no, and no. There are no rules to blogging - we make them up as we go along. My three tenets here - are my own. And I'm damn well ignoring anybody else's rules (including the bits about legal repercussions) if they compromise my ability to write.
I don't care if I'm a "good" blogger or not (although trading punches with Mr Brown about how much we hate each other's blogs was good fun) - I don't care about publicity, or the media, or any of the other sycophants this country regurgitates from its pristinely clean bowels.
See, all I wanna do, is have some fun...
*****
He smiled at her reply to his gentle probing... whether, after getting to know him better she'd still agree to go out on a date with him.
(Isn't that what we've been doing?)
*****
The Second Rule of Dating
2) A date is a date... only as long as both parties know it is a date.
*****
The First Rule of Dating
1)
a) All men are bastards
however,
1)
b) All women are bitches
Luxuriating in the sun is an ang moh habit I picked up from my time abroad, which will probably earn me a melanoma or two when I'm old.
It's different here in Singaland though; over there you lie in the grass and hundreds of people lie around you, reading their books or lying in lazy embraces with their.. special friends... dogs trot past led by their beautiful mistresses. It's very tranquil and you invariably... doze.. off.
Over here you lie at home with your back to concrete (becauuse heaven knows what lurks in the lallang..) and for company you have
1) The new Harry Potter novel, which isn't disappointing thus far
2) a single inquisitive sunbird who surreptitiously sneaks up really close to you and tweets inquiringly (no doubt thinking of calling all his friends down to have a closer look if this big human thing is really dead), and
3) about a million ants all trying doggedly to latch on to this really big meal and drag it back to their nest.
They're quite literally a pain.
I'm thinking about buying a deck chair...
*****
Ms Utterly-Indiscreet writes about the blogger con that she didn't-quite catch yesterday, and about blog nettiquette... What you can, and cannot write.
Anyhow, here's my take on things in brief.
1) I can see why all the women think Mr Miyagi is so cute. So cuuuute, so kawai. Macham pika-chu.
Yer lawyerly bastard, stealing all our women... grr.
2) Mr Brown is not after all a man-mountain. He just poses with Mr Miyagi a lot. And Faith is beautiful. Even if only viewed from one storey below, through a glass window.
3) After much consideration I have decided that as in everything, there are bloggers, and there are bloggers.
Certain varieties of bloggers write for attention. I've labelled them media whores in the past, I now concede that they are shrewd and focused individuals adept at achieving their aims. Hence the frameshift in terminology from mediawhore to publicityprostitute - slightly more professional, perform cleanliness checks on themselves periodically, yet still willing to swallow anything - for the right price.
It still offends me that people use "personal blogs" as a vehicle to fame, since I'm one of the (if not the only) purists left who believes in words, and... people. And thoughts, and freedom; and sincerity.
I think that blogging should be done sans frontiers - write about the things you really think about (as opposed to what you think your audience wants to hear), the things you really love and hate (as opposed to the nasty things you can write about other people guaranteed to garner you an amused audience) - no matter how trivial. No matter how boring. No matter how much you'll alienate your readers. Because that is, essentially, your soul.
And hence in my blogsphere there will always be space for even the
There will be space too for pseudo bloggers using that two-bit "moblog" platform (ha) who write touchingly sweet stories about men and women, who are clearly really writing about the magical moments in their own lives... and that too is sincere.
So too for the satirists who stand poised with their chisels and hammers, against their sledgehammer wielding adversaries, thumbing their chubby noses.
But my own personal set of rules mirrors Ms Indiscreet's -
1) Never give up your identity. Your mask is the guarantor of sincerity - It's not, as the media is so often fond of writing - about cowardice and taking shelter behind the comforting rock of anonymity.
It's plain common sense. You can't write honestly about - work for instance - if everyone reads you. You'll lose your job. You'll hurt your colleagues. Everything you want to write - will be censored into politically correct drivel which even you won't want to read - let alone write. (This is essentially the theory of Schroedinger's Cat in a box - for those unfamiliar with the story, a cat is trapped in a box with a triggering device that will smash a vial of cyanide if the box is opened : you cannot tell if the cat is alive or not except by opening the box... but the act of observation alone may change the outcome of the scenario)
Why be a boring two-bit writer with a "real identity" when you can write your mind from behind your mask all of the time? Leave the two-bit politically-censored writing to the "professional" journalists, I say.
2) Never write to cause harm.
Euphemism and hyperbole are two of my favourite tools; they transform the world from the dreary, forgettable greyness that is apparent everyday to my eyes, to something colourful and worth remembering in my head.
But euphemism and hyperbole gone wrong can be hurtful.
I recognise this, because I've done it a few times. So all I can do is try to check the balance; and only fly off the edge when someone or something makes me so incredibly angry I cannot restrain myself. Fortunately that doesn't happen very often.
3) Ignore the rules.
What was with the blogger con anyway, from what I gathered it was a sit-down event where the famous five sat on stage telling other bloggers how to write, and what not to write. Only in Singaland would what should essentially be a huge meeting of diverse minds turn into a public lecture / tutorial, led by a team of "experts".
(- addendum - I am told that really, it was a sit-down symposium for bloggers to exchange helpful ideas with their blog idols... which doesn't quite detract from the fact that it was essentially Shep the sheepdog(s) herding lesser sheep towards blog-nirvana. Like it or not, that's the way the cookie crumbles. I'd have imagined a blogger con held in a convention hall somewhere, people standing on their feet, mingling and holding glasses of champagne - or at least coke, or hell blue lagoon cocktails dunked out of huge garbage bins - just chatting to each other. Shrug, playing party games in groups. Organising themselves by common interest. Maybe, yes, a brief symposium lasting an hour, with lots of public microphones and invitations to unknown writers to take the stage and share what drives them to write. Maybe even a large computer screen in the background with blogs of more retiring individuals appearing at the whims of the facilitators, to acknowledge their existence, and possibly even their aptitude as writers. Maybe roaming cameras in the audience to seek out said shrinking violets and put them up for all the world to see, to make them squirm in the public eye and take a bow, if only for an instant. Something fun.)
No, no, and no. There are no rules to blogging - we make them up as we go along. My three tenets here - are my own. And I'm damn well ignoring anybody else's rules (including the bits about legal repercussions) if they compromise my ability to write.
I don't care if I'm a "good" blogger or not (although trading punches with Mr Brown about how much we hate each other's blogs was good fun) - I don't care about publicity, or the media, or any of the other sycophants this country regurgitates from its pristinely clean bowels.
See, all I wanna do, is have some fun...
*****
He smiled at her reply to his gentle probing... whether, after getting to know him better she'd still agree to go out on a date with him.
(Isn't that what we've been doing?)
*****
The Second Rule of Dating
2) A date is a date... only as long as both parties know it is a date.
*****
The First Rule of Dating
1)
a) All men are bastards
however,
1)
b) All women are bitches
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Star Wars VI : The Jedi Cum Again
After listening to Sara's stepping stone to fame (which incidentally, is a really great song, so please click on it, download it, and store it away on your hard disks so that you will have a free illegal copy by the time she gets around to copyrighting her stuff) I've decided to tout my own talents as a screenplay writer.
See, me and me friends we wuz sitting down the other day at dinner dreamin this one up.
we call it the Empire Strikes Behind. Or maybe the Behind of the Empire!
Episode XXX
So Anakin wossname right, he's standing across from obi won whosit looking all constipated like un the way he does in the whole show, innit.
anyway, obi won intones dramatically
"Don't do it, anakin! I have the high ground! (Who comes up with these terribly forced dialog lines anyway... mutter)"
Anakin : "..." (looks constipated, does dramatic flying somersault over obi)
Obi : swings lightsabre thearetrically in the air
Anakin : lands adeptly on both feet (still connected to body), looks triumphant. "Ha you old coot! You missed! You are no longer a jedi master to me!"
Obi : "Ha! That's what you think! You are no longer a man!"
Anakin : (high pitched squeak) Nooooooooooooooooooooooo
*****
Cut to scene
Ugly old dude standing over big metal man, with big metal... prosthesis.
"Rise up... Darth... Dildo"
Okay I'll stop there. But I swears, me and my friends, we're gonna write more scripts. yeah. Watch out world, here we come.
See, me and me friends we wuz sitting down the other day at dinner dreamin this one up.
we call it the Empire Strikes Behind. Or maybe the Behind of the Empire!
Episode XXX
So Anakin wossname right, he's standing across from obi won whosit looking all constipated like un the way he does in the whole show, innit.
anyway, obi won intones dramatically
"Don't do it, anakin! I have the high ground! (Who comes up with these terribly forced dialog lines anyway... mutter)"
Anakin : "..." (looks constipated, does dramatic flying somersault over obi)
Obi : swings lightsabre thearetrically in the air
Anakin : lands adeptly on both feet (still connected to body), looks triumphant. "Ha you old coot! You missed! You are no longer a jedi master to me!"
Obi : "Ha! That's what you think! You are no longer a man!"
Anakin : (high pitched squeak) Nooooooooooooooooooooooo
*****
Cut to scene
Ugly old dude standing over big metal man, with big metal... prosthesis.
"Rise up... Darth... Dildo"
Okay I'll stop there. But I swears, me and my friends, we're gonna write more scripts. yeah. Watch out world, here we come.
Temptation
Okay, it's a lazy saturday afternoon, and I'm sitting here running on three hours sleep (thanks to dinner and walkabout last night) just having come home from work (where I spent all my time dreaming of collapsing into bed) wondering if perhaps I should pop down to that inane blogger con thingy just to, well, you know, have a look. I mean, there's blogger celebrities there and all, peeps like mrbrown and mrmiyagi who... i... really. want. to. check out.
pause.
well okay, there must be some chio bus who write who'll make the experience worthwhile...
I don't think it's the "celebrity factor" attracting me, really... it's just... the idea. Such a strange one. Lots of people who blog, meeting up to... what exactly? what will they say? Will they talk about their blogs? Themselves? Other people's blogs?
The concept intrigues me, although one suspects the reality will probably be rather anticlimatic.
Or maybe I'll just pop round to the gym.
pause.
well okay, there must be some chio bus who write who'll make the experience worthwhile...
I don't think it's the "celebrity factor" attracting me, really... it's just... the idea. Such a strange one. Lots of people who blog, meeting up to... what exactly? what will they say? Will they talk about their blogs? Themselves? Other people's blogs?
The concept intrigues me, although one suspects the reality will probably be rather anticlimatic.
Or maybe I'll just pop round to the gym.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Apocalypse Past
Shouting, loud, angry voices culminating in a declaration of hate.
A confused clattering of slippers on concrete, growing steadily more irregular till at last they ceased, their owner flying on barefoot without them...
*****
He watched the road slide by, his hands on the steering wheel and eyes fixed dead ahead on nothing in particular.
But he saw her still, out of the corner of his eye. He was acutely aware of her, without having to turn his head, he could see her; eyes glittering in the dark , head held high, furiously biting back the tears as her chest heaved in an uneven mix of anger and fear. Dark hair falling in rolling cascades over her broadly-set shoulders, which eventually she swept impatiently into a ponytail.
She didn't cry - even after all that - she just breathed. And thought.
So he didn't reach back and hand her a tissue, or reach out to her, to give her a measure of comfort.
She didn't need it.
She was too strong - her chains were from without.
*****
They were just words, on the screen.
Black text, on a white background.
But their uncharacteristic brevity told him how badly she was hurting. Where words usually cascaded from her effortlessly (and often thoughtlessly) they were focused now. Terse, acute. Unwasted.
She bled out her shattered emotional state even over the impersonality of the internet.
He knew her well.
This one had a fragile soul, and deserved to be held and comforted by someone she could trust.
Someone who would take her away to the faraway lands she dreamt of that you can only really reach from inside your head.
A prisoner of her own device.
(Composed and performed by Sara-ann K, linked on the left as "National Nutplane")
A confused clattering of slippers on concrete, growing steadily more irregular till at last they ceased, their owner flying on barefoot without them...
*****
He watched the road slide by, his hands on the steering wheel and eyes fixed dead ahead on nothing in particular.
But he saw her still, out of the corner of his eye. He was acutely aware of her, without having to turn his head, he could see her; eyes glittering in the dark , head held high, furiously biting back the tears as her chest heaved in an uneven mix of anger and fear. Dark hair falling in rolling cascades over her broadly-set shoulders, which eventually she swept impatiently into a ponytail.
She didn't cry - even after all that - she just breathed. And thought.
So he didn't reach back and hand her a tissue, or reach out to her, to give her a measure of comfort.
She didn't need it.
She was too strong - her chains were from without.
*****
They were just words, on the screen.
Black text, on a white background.
But their uncharacteristic brevity told him how badly she was hurting. Where words usually cascaded from her effortlessly (and often thoughtlessly) they were focused now. Terse, acute. Unwasted.
She bled out her shattered emotional state even over the impersonality of the internet.
He knew her well.
This one had a fragile soul, and deserved to be held and comforted by someone she could trust.
Someone who would take her away to the faraway lands she dreamt of that you can only really reach from inside your head.
A prisoner of her own device.
(Composed and performed by Sara-ann K, linked on the left as "National Nutplane")
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Adrift
I wasn't surprised, coming off call (but not being allowed to go postcall, thanks to the Larger Forces at work) to discover that I'm on call again the day after tomorrow.
I think all the surprise has been knocked out of me.
Life is beginning to circle in the sand.
I remember asking old friends how work was.
That dully glazed look in their eyes...
... okay lor...
(too many on calls. too little time to yourself. your soul melts away)
... okay. lor.
- they sighed. Lost, behind their eyes.
... that is who I am becoming.
But I cannot submit; I will not.
I refuse to. I will flail in the darkness, upstairs in the night-deserted areas of the hospital with my sabre; I will fight the machines in the gym when I am trapped against my will in the concrete confines of my prison that is work.
I will go out and do crazy things late at night.
I need to
live.
And it feels... sweet.
******
Revisited
Living... is pushing the envelope far beyond breaking point
and turning out a time of 10:20
25 seconds better than my last
and still feeling alive.
I burned to run today after my on call. But common sense prevailed. Bugger.
*****
Me?
Get to know yourself better
Your view on yourself:
You are down-to-earth and people like you because you are so straightforward. You are an efficient problem solver because you will listen to both sides of an argument before making a decision that usually appeals to both parties.
The type of girlfriend/boyfriend you are looking for:
You like serious, smart and determined people. You don't judge a book by its cover, so good-looking people aren't necessarily your style. This makes you an attractive person in many people's eyes.
Your readiness to commit to a relationship:
You are ready to commit as soon as you meet the right person. And you believe you will pretty much know as soon as you might that person.
The seriousness of your love:
You are very serious about relationships and aren't interested in wasting time with people you don't really like. If you meet the right person, you will fall deeply and beautifully in love.
Your views on education
Education is very important in life. You want to study hard and learn as much as you can.
The right job for you:
You have plenty of dream jobs but have little chance of doing any of them if you don't focus on something in particular. You need to choose something and go for it to be happy and achieve success.
How do you view success:
You are afraid of failure and scared to have a go at the career you would like to have in case you don't succeed. Don't give up when you haven't yet even started! Be courageous.
What are you most afraid of:
You are afraid of things that you cannot control. Sometimes you show your anger to cover up how you feel.
Who is your true self:
You are full of energy and confidence. You are unpredictable, with moods changing as quickly as an ocean. You might occasionally be calm and still, but never for long.
I think all the surprise has been knocked out of me.
Life is beginning to circle in the sand.
I remember asking old friends how work was.
That dully glazed look in their eyes...
... okay lor...
(too many on calls. too little time to yourself. your soul melts away)
... okay. lor.
- they sighed. Lost, behind their eyes.
... that is who I am becoming.
But I cannot submit; I will not.
I refuse to. I will flail in the darkness, upstairs in the night-deserted areas of the hospital with my sabre; I will fight the machines in the gym when I am trapped against my will in the concrete confines of my prison that is work.
I will go out and do crazy things late at night.
I need to
live.
And it feels... sweet.
******
Revisited
Living... is pushing the envelope far beyond breaking point
and turning out a time of 10:20
25 seconds better than my last
and still feeling alive.
I burned to run today after my on call. But common sense prevailed. Bugger.
*****
Me?
Get to know yourself better
Your view on yourself:
You are down-to-earth and people like you because you are so straightforward. You are an efficient problem solver because you will listen to both sides of an argument before making a decision that usually appeals to both parties.
The type of girlfriend/boyfriend you are looking for:
You like serious, smart and determined people. You don't judge a book by its cover, so good-looking people aren't necessarily your style. This makes you an attractive person in many people's eyes.
Your readiness to commit to a relationship:
You are ready to commit as soon as you meet the right person. And you believe you will pretty much know as soon as you might that person.
The seriousness of your love:
You are very serious about relationships and aren't interested in wasting time with people you don't really like. If you meet the right person, you will fall deeply and beautifully in love.
Your views on education
Education is very important in life. You want to study hard and learn as much as you can.
The right job for you:
You have plenty of dream jobs but have little chance of doing any of them if you don't focus on something in particular. You need to choose something and go for it to be happy and achieve success.
How do you view success:
You are afraid of failure and scared to have a go at the career you would like to have in case you don't succeed. Don't give up when you haven't yet even started! Be courageous.
What are you most afraid of:
You are afraid of things that you cannot control. Sometimes you show your anger to cover up how you feel.
Who is your true self:
You are full of energy and confidence. You are unpredictable, with moods changing as quickly as an ocean. You might occasionally be calm and still, but never for long.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
And Found
I've been meaning to write this for the longest time :
I did get something out of my General Surgery posting, after all...
... the ability to throw a scrunched up bundle of clothing / towel into a bin from across the room, unerringly.
I wonder if it works with a basketball?
*****
My two cents worth on the london bombings - I shan't really get started because if I do, I won't stop.
You bastards. I hope your God - if he be Allah - receives you in anger.
I hope you realise then that what you wrought, in the name of your God - was truly a sin.
I hope you all burn in hell.
*****
Her voice was girlish - much more so than he'd remembered.
It was the voice of a stranger. They spoke cordially, as strangers would have done.
Later, as he spoke to a friend, she told him that he was trapped in his past, in a time warp of sorts.
She told him many other things, of which he knew she was wrong. He had not romanticised Her into a memory more than She was. If anything, Her memory was less than she truly was. But as he listened, he realised... perhaps it didn't really matter anymore.
*****
And I am.
I realise it now.
I ran 2.4 km in 10.20 today.
I thought then that it was funny... I'm the fastest I've ever been, and the strongest (he thought, as he hit 55 kg on the machines) but I look exactly the same. Yet something has changed...
For better, or for worse, I have found myself. And I think it's time I started to live again... and have some fun.
Strange that in finding myself, I now feel more adrift than ever. Perhaps that was why I clung on - not out of hope for an impossible scenario, but because of fear of confronting an uncertain future. Perhaps I was afraid that I would never find significance again, and so unwilling to search.
I'm not certain what exactly changed. They say leapards never change their spots...
Goodbye, Old Friend.
I did get something out of my General Surgery posting, after all...
... the ability to throw a scrunched up bundle of clothing / towel into a bin from across the room, unerringly.
I wonder if it works with a basketball?
*****
My two cents worth on the london bombings - I shan't really get started because if I do, I won't stop.
You bastards. I hope your God - if he be Allah - receives you in anger.
I hope you realise then that what you wrought, in the name of your God - was truly a sin.
I hope you all burn in hell.
*****
Her voice was girlish - much more so than he'd remembered.
It was the voice of a stranger. They spoke cordially, as strangers would have done.
Later, as he spoke to a friend, she told him that he was trapped in his past, in a time warp of sorts.
She told him many other things, of which he knew she was wrong. He had not romanticised Her into a memory more than She was. If anything, Her memory was less than she truly was. But as he listened, he realised... perhaps it didn't really matter anymore.
*****
And I am.
I realise it now.
I ran 2.4 km in 10.20 today.
I thought then that it was funny... I'm the fastest I've ever been, and the strongest (he thought, as he hit 55 kg on the machines) but I look exactly the same. Yet something has changed...
For better, or for worse, I have found myself. And I think it's time I started to live again... and have some fun.
Strange that in finding myself, I now feel more adrift than ever. Perhaps that was why I clung on - not out of hope for an impossible scenario, but because of fear of confronting an uncertain future. Perhaps I was afraid that I would never find significance again, and so unwilling to search.
I'm not certain what exactly changed. They say leapards never change their spots...
Goodbye, Old Friend.
Tired
It took a while for the news of the blasts to filter in.
When it finally did, post-call fatigue melted away as concern... and fear... filtered in.
He picked up his phone...
*****
The phone's been rather quiet since this morning.
It's... odd. I had gotten used to the messages.
*****
The cynic in him wanted to ask several awkward questions...
will the room be shared? are you... just... friends?
And perhaps to relentlessly pursue a rather brutal line of questioning.
But he had no right, and it was not his place to do so.
The answers are apparent in his mind though.
One gets used to the way the world works.
When it finally did, post-call fatigue melted away as concern... and fear... filtered in.
He picked up his phone...
*****
The phone's been rather quiet since this morning.
It's... odd. I had gotten used to the messages.
*****
The cynic in him wanted to ask several awkward questions...
will the room be shared? are you... just... friends?
And perhaps to relentlessly pursue a rather brutal line of questioning.
But he had no right, and it was not his place to do so.
The answers are apparent in his mind though.
One gets used to the way the world works.
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.
Post Script
Finally caught batman begins.
It was pretty good, and that car... droool.
And Albert looked just right.
I couldn't help noticing my evening companion freezing to death though, and I automatically reached for the nonexistent jacket / coat that I used to wear out on evenings in the UK to drape her with...
... only it isn't the UK anymore, and there was no warm, snuggly overcoat.
*****
He ran by the line about his personal rule about not mixing work, and "play" - something he'd always lived by but never really spoken about. Regardless of attraction, mutual or otherwise.
Perhaps he should have completed the thought though... that for some crazy reason, with her, for the first time ever, he kept coming dangerously close to breaking that rule...
It was pretty good, and that car... droool.
And Albert looked just right.
I couldn't help noticing my evening companion freezing to death though, and I automatically reached for the nonexistent jacket / coat that I used to wear out on evenings in the UK to drape her with...
... only it isn't the UK anymore, and there was no warm, snuggly overcoat.
*****
He ran by the line about his personal rule about not mixing work, and "play" - something he'd always lived by but never really spoken about. Regardless of attraction, mutual or otherwise.
Perhaps he should have completed the thought though... that for some crazy reason, with her, for the first time ever, he kept coming dangerously close to breaking that rule...
Monday, July 04, 2005
A Friend in Need
It's been a rough two weeks at work.
One of the other MOs went off sick for two days and naturally it fell to me to provide cover. It was stressful.
Then I had the fortune of being scheduled for two calls on alternate days, meaning I had all of one day to recover from the previous call... right?
Wrong. I wasn't "allowed" my post-call because said MO "had" to attend an optional conference with my registrar somewhere fancy... apparently it was above and beyond the call of daily work, leaving the remaining two MOs (the rest were all on leave) to cover the entire hospital by themselves. During the day. While I was post-call.
And then I started all over again the next day at seven thirty.
Seven thirty am to five thirty pm the next day, then seven-thirty am to ten thirty the next, with the prospect of another seven-thirty start.
I was too dazed to feel anything other than fatigue, but said MO got it into her head that I must hate her... and so offered me a late start, heck a whole "day off" today (which technically, since it's five am, starts in two hours).
Suddenly, I caught a scent of freedom. It was seductive, and I began to dream of all the things I would do with a day-off. I didn't really pause to think the dynamics of it through... it was, in my fatigued state, pleasure beyond measure.
I asked my reg about it, and he quashed my dreams in a hurry.
No, you cannot go, he says.
That will leave only two MOs to cover the entire hospital.
Resentment bubbled up.
What about friday, I asked.
He said that was different - that was the kind of thing which should not have happened.
And then it struck me that no, it should not have happened, really.
She didn't have to go for that optional seminar after all, did she?
And now I'm left feeling all sorts of unpleasant emotions. I suppose this is the path to the dark side...
*****
Naturally, after my (pretty much) 72 hours in hospital the last thing I wanted to do was go home and sleep, despite everyone's advice.
Life (outside work) is too precious to waste being asleep.
So somehow I found myself sitting on some rocks luxuriating in the warmth of the sun on my skin, the smell of the sea in my nostrils, and a humid seabreeze on my face watching a dragonboat race, only the person I'd come to watch (and support) wasn't in her boat.
I wondered about many things, staring off into the distance. Someone once told me that I wasn't really alive anymore, living mired in my past. I wasn't really living. I wondered if perhaps she was right - or was I just too unsleep-befuddled to make any sense right now? Perhaps today, if I gave it a chance, would be different.
I looked down at the phone clasped within my hand, and thought....
A lazy feminine voice just behind me, to my left : "Getting a tan, ah?"
I turned, and smiled.
"Hi."
*****
He stood on his perch just outside the gym surveying the city-scape.
It was so grey, shiny, and soul-less. So... perfect.
so sterile.
And he missed the time when perhaps he was a little younger, a little more naive, a little more willing to trust.
He missed having a friend he could speak to - really, just speak to. He knew what he had to do, and his fingers did it for him almost automatically as they keyed in a now-unfamiliar telephone number.
He raised his phone to his ear, heart quickening just a little, thumb on the blue "telephone" button.
And, after the longest time, he let it fall back to his side.
We are prisoners / of our own device - is that a line from Hotel California by the Eagles?
He keyed in several text messages to a few people he knew... he needed someone to talk to, tonight - too many thoughts floating through his head.
None of them had the time, or inclination.
A friend in need, is a friend in deed.
He had a need... but none of his "friends" would do the deed. And he thought about many things, including what a friend really was, and how, in their times of need he had often abandoned what he was doing to offer them help.
Such is the way of the world.
Later, as he sat in solitude on a shiny black stone cube watching the river by night and thinking still, about a person from once upon a time, his phone buzzed.
It was a new acquaintence, and fast-becoming friend who had time to kill, would he like to meet up.
He thought for a while more, and figured, ah what the hell.
And the evening wasn't so bad after all.
One of the other MOs went off sick for two days and naturally it fell to me to provide cover. It was stressful.
Then I had the fortune of being scheduled for two calls on alternate days, meaning I had all of one day to recover from the previous call... right?
Wrong. I wasn't "allowed" my post-call because said MO "had" to attend an optional conference with my registrar somewhere fancy... apparently it was above and beyond the call of daily work, leaving the remaining two MOs (the rest were all on leave) to cover the entire hospital by themselves. During the day. While I was post-call.
And then I started all over again the next day at seven thirty.
Seven thirty am to five thirty pm the next day, then seven-thirty am to ten thirty the next, with the prospect of another seven-thirty start.
I was too dazed to feel anything other than fatigue, but said MO got it into her head that I must hate her... and so offered me a late start, heck a whole "day off" today (which technically, since it's five am, starts in two hours).
Suddenly, I caught a scent of freedom. It was seductive, and I began to dream of all the things I would do with a day-off. I didn't really pause to think the dynamics of it through... it was, in my fatigued state, pleasure beyond measure.
I asked my reg about it, and he quashed my dreams in a hurry.
No, you cannot go, he says.
That will leave only two MOs to cover the entire hospital.
Resentment bubbled up.
What about friday, I asked.
He said that was different - that was the kind of thing which should not have happened.
And then it struck me that no, it should not have happened, really.
She didn't have to go for that optional seminar after all, did she?
And now I'm left feeling all sorts of unpleasant emotions. I suppose this is the path to the dark side...
*****
Naturally, after my (pretty much) 72 hours in hospital the last thing I wanted to do was go home and sleep, despite everyone's advice.
Life (outside work) is too precious to waste being asleep.
So somehow I found myself sitting on some rocks luxuriating in the warmth of the sun on my skin, the smell of the sea in my nostrils, and a humid seabreeze on my face watching a dragonboat race, only the person I'd come to watch (and support) wasn't in her boat.
I wondered about many things, staring off into the distance. Someone once told me that I wasn't really alive anymore, living mired in my past. I wasn't really living. I wondered if perhaps she was right - or was I just too unsleep-befuddled to make any sense right now? Perhaps today, if I gave it a chance, would be different.
I looked down at the phone clasped within my hand, and thought....
A lazy feminine voice just behind me, to my left : "Getting a tan, ah?"
I turned, and smiled.
"Hi."
*****
He stood on his perch just outside the gym surveying the city-scape.
It was so grey, shiny, and soul-less. So... perfect.
so sterile.
And he missed the time when perhaps he was a little younger, a little more naive, a little more willing to trust.
He missed having a friend he could speak to - really, just speak to. He knew what he had to do, and his fingers did it for him almost automatically as they keyed in a now-unfamiliar telephone number.
He raised his phone to his ear, heart quickening just a little, thumb on the blue "telephone" button.
And, after the longest time, he let it fall back to his side.
We are prisoners / of our own device - is that a line from Hotel California by the Eagles?
He keyed in several text messages to a few people he knew... he needed someone to talk to, tonight - too many thoughts floating through his head.
None of them had the time, or inclination.
A friend in need, is a friend in deed.
He had a need... but none of his "friends" would do the deed. And he thought about many things, including what a friend really was, and how, in their times of need he had often abandoned what he was doing to offer them help.
Such is the way of the world.
Later, as he sat in solitude on a shiny black stone cube watching the river by night and thinking still, about a person from once upon a time, his phone buzzed.
It was a new acquaintence, and fast-becoming friend who had time to kill, would he like to meet up.
He thought for a while more, and figured, ah what the hell.
And the evening wasn't so bad after all.
Saturday, July 02, 2005
What is a Date?
I never really was any good at dates.
I think in my entire life, I might well have only have been out on one "official" date, and only because we were kidding around tongue-in-cheek (the term is flirting) about going out on a "date".
I suppose there's guys, and guys. I seem to have made a habit of getting to know someone really well slowly, one thing leads to another, blahblah, lines become hazy, blah blah, and suddenly I'm saddled with a relationship which I have to figure out (fortunately the relative frequency has been low, but unfortunately the duration of error has usually been long...)
So what really is a date? While I was going out with my ex, I don't think we really had any proper dates until we were nearing the end of the relationship, when one evening, sick of her rather dysfunctional family and fun-mates, I asked her out just the two of us after she'd had a disagreement with the family (it was a complicated relationship) and much to my surprise, she agreed (I was toying with the idea of breaking up if she had, like the other 12412 times clung to the family-mates instead and forced me to go out with everyone, one big "happy" family for a happy-on-the-outside miserable-as-sh**-on-the-inside outing)
I actually remember that evening pretty fondly, I remember the furnishing and the setting, and even how she looked. All the other stuff from the rest of the relationship, the intensely intimate stuff... it's all lost in the past to me, a vague scent blown away by the winds of time. Probably makes me sound a right bastard, but that's just the way my mind works.
What exactly is a date? Is it when a couple couples, and gets to first, or second, or maybe even third base? Is it candle-lights and starry eyes and maybe a leetle l'amour, hankie pankee in the panty after?
Is it in the hot and heavy, bodily secretions and sweat, rhythm nation, and maybe some music in the background to mask the moans?
Is it in the evening's foreplay, coquetteish glances, suggestive comments, binding eye contact, subtle twitches of the lips and sets of the heads over a romantic dinner setting?
I don't honestly know.
I do know the moments in my life that I will never forget, that I wished had been dates.
From the simple to the elaborate moments - just being there.
A simple foodcourt, two kids putting their hands palm to palm, and laughing
A not-so-simple country-club, a girl walking shamefaced through a glass door an hour late, lunch and laughter in the wheelhouse for a ridiculous four or five hours till eviction was served
An ugly orange-brick victorian shopping centre with a grand piano on every floor, and a girl walking up with laughter in Her eyes as he looked over the random magazine he had been thumbing through, and smiled
A bumpy bus ride in a too-low bus for the handicapped, sitting by Her side pressed by necessity against her, but just watching Her eyes and listening, and smiling
A quiet walk through the city, lost, but not quite lost, meandering towards the circular quay that made up the city-front, listening to Her talk about her uni days, and the places they went for dinner after exams
Red-hued candle-light, and the way it played in Her eyes and off her face, highlighting the angles that had formed after the baby-fat melted away years later; the cheekbones that came with womanhood... the beauty that had always been on the inside, now apparent on the outside as well. Coffee, jokes, and confessions. And exploding credit cards.
A slightly chilly evening, a very slight fog and a victorian-londonesque streetlamp, and a girl underneath it unwrapping a large cardboard box and squeaking with uncharacteristic girlish delight... Her guard fallen, her face lighting up in delight, the events of the night melting away. He wished that perfect moment could have lasted forever... just seeing Her happy.
A sombre, silent moment sitting outdoors under the sky, side by side on the three or four steps leading up to the uni. On the ground. Just listening to the night, and to Her breathing.
I don't know what a date really is, but I guess in retrospect, a date is only a date...
... if both parties think it's a date.
*****
Or maybe it's just a little fruity thingummagig.
I think in my entire life, I might well have only have been out on one "official" date, and only because we were kidding around tongue-in-cheek (the term is flirting) about going out on a "date".
I suppose there's guys, and guys. I seem to have made a habit of getting to know someone really well slowly, one thing leads to another, blahblah, lines become hazy, blah blah, and suddenly I'm saddled with a relationship which I have to figure out (fortunately the relative frequency has been low, but unfortunately the duration of error has usually been long...)
So what really is a date? While I was going out with my ex, I don't think we really had any proper dates until we were nearing the end of the relationship, when one evening, sick of her rather dysfunctional family and fun-mates, I asked her out just the two of us after she'd had a disagreement with the family (it was a complicated relationship) and much to my surprise, she agreed (I was toying with the idea of breaking up if she had, like the other 12412 times clung to the family-mates instead and forced me to go out with everyone, one big "happy" family for a happy-on-the-outside miserable-as-sh**-on-the-inside outing)
I actually remember that evening pretty fondly, I remember the furnishing and the setting, and even how she looked. All the other stuff from the rest of the relationship, the intensely intimate stuff... it's all lost in the past to me, a vague scent blown away by the winds of time. Probably makes me sound a right bastard, but that's just the way my mind works.
What exactly is a date? Is it when a couple couples, and gets to first, or second, or maybe even third base? Is it candle-lights and starry eyes and maybe a leetle l'amour, hankie pankee in the panty after?
Is it in the hot and heavy, bodily secretions and sweat, rhythm nation, and maybe some music in the background to mask the moans?
Is it in the evening's foreplay, coquetteish glances, suggestive comments, binding eye contact, subtle twitches of the lips and sets of the heads over a romantic dinner setting?
I don't honestly know.
I do know the moments in my life that I will never forget, that I wished had been dates.
From the simple to the elaborate moments - just being there.
A simple foodcourt, two kids putting their hands palm to palm, and laughing
A not-so-simple country-club, a girl walking shamefaced through a glass door an hour late, lunch and laughter in the wheelhouse for a ridiculous four or five hours till eviction was served
An ugly orange-brick victorian shopping centre with a grand piano on every floor, and a girl walking up with laughter in Her eyes as he looked over the random magazine he had been thumbing through, and smiled
A bumpy bus ride in a too-low bus for the handicapped, sitting by Her side pressed by necessity against her, but just watching Her eyes and listening, and smiling
A quiet walk through the city, lost, but not quite lost, meandering towards the circular quay that made up the city-front, listening to Her talk about her uni days, and the places they went for dinner after exams
Red-hued candle-light, and the way it played in Her eyes and off her face, highlighting the angles that had formed after the baby-fat melted away years later; the cheekbones that came with womanhood... the beauty that had always been on the inside, now apparent on the outside as well. Coffee, jokes, and confessions. And exploding credit cards.
A slightly chilly evening, a very slight fog and a victorian-londonesque streetlamp, and a girl underneath it unwrapping a large cardboard box and squeaking with uncharacteristic girlish delight... Her guard fallen, her face lighting up in delight, the events of the night melting away. He wished that perfect moment could have lasted forever... just seeing Her happy.
A sombre, silent moment sitting outdoors under the sky, side by side on the three or four steps leading up to the uni. On the ground. Just listening to the night, and to Her breathing.
I don't know what a date really is, but I guess in retrospect, a date is only a date...
... if both parties think it's a date.
*****
Or maybe it's just a little fruity thingummagig.
