The light I like...
23 March 2005
18 March 2005
The Dress
Once I saw this dress in the window. I fell for it instantly. It was so me. Just the right size. I tried it on. I gasped, because, it was like it was made for me. It made me look so fetching, put a glow on my cheeks. And when I walked, the perfect skirt bounced in a strange and magical way. Then I saw the price tag. Exorbitant. I would never in my lifetime be able to afford it. Not even if I saved for twenty years. And it hurt, because it was mine to begin with, but because I’m not a rich girl, it will soon belong to someone else. I put it back on its rack, alongside the cheaper, more lacklustre numbers.
Should I feel happy that I had the fortitude to encounter the dress of my dreams? Or should I feel really upset, because something I wanted so bad has made a fool of me with its price, as if saying I’m not good enough, that I am only an ordinary girl, and pouring contempt on me with its beauty?
Should I feel happy that I had the fortitude to encounter the dress of my dreams? Or should I feel really upset, because something I wanted so bad has made a fool of me with its price, as if saying I’m not good enough, that I am only an ordinary girl, and pouring contempt on me with its beauty?
15 March 2005
I am going to die alone.
Bridget Jones went a step further to say she’d be eaten by dogs and the only way her remains would be discovered is if the stench became too unbearable to ignore. Sounds tempting, but guess I’ll settle for the dying alone part, without the dogs.
See, men these days are either fickle wimps like Jude Law, or shameless sex fiends like The Doctor (forgot his name) from that illuminating movie, Closer. They just don’t make ’em like they used to. Men like Rhett Butler have been discontinued. Sorry, girls, but your letters to the manufacturer will only end up lost in the mail room, because they are still trying to sort out their anthrax problem.
And maybe I am just too hard to live with. My bad temper and negativity do get to people, I’ve observed. I just take such perverse pleasure thinking awful thoughts, like the subject of this blog.
The following observations will explain my shortcomings. In the 21st century, no-one puts up with nobody’s shit anymore. Living together is such a pain. Sharing the same bed is a nightly trial. Everyone has become too complex, obsessed with a pseudo-romantic, devastating idea of love. They are so afraid of falling out of love. They are preoccupied with fears of finding THE ONE only after marriage. They whine about being single, but at the back of their heads they know no one will be good enough for them, and they’ll never be good enough for anyone. Numbed by crippling fears, like a patient etherised upon a table.
I used to think Sumiko Tan was a woman whose columns I could read and feel consoled, because she was 38 and single. Now she’s 40 and single, and she laments at all the wasted chances she’s had in her illustrious dating history. I have begun to empathise with her, and now I actually LIKE reading her whiney “single-woman solace” column.
Maybe if I were a Victorian maiden with a tight corset and chastity belt, my droves of children would be at my deathbed, wiping my sweat and pleading with God to let me live. A life of oppression would end in a non-lonely death.
Now I’m thinking: as I lie dying, will I be staring at my flowery wallpaper? Will I have a nurse? How will I go to the toilet? Who will change my sheets? Maybe I should check into a hotel and die there, so I’d at least get room service… Will I have the strength to walk through the hotel’s revolving doors? Maybe a nice old bellboy will help me then I’ll have no reason to die alone and the nice hotel room can be used for something else, something that will beat dying for sure.
See, men these days are either fickle wimps like Jude Law, or shameless sex fiends like The Doctor (forgot his name) from that illuminating movie, Closer. They just don’t make ’em like they used to. Men like Rhett Butler have been discontinued. Sorry, girls, but your letters to the manufacturer will only end up lost in the mail room, because they are still trying to sort out their anthrax problem.
And maybe I am just too hard to live with. My bad temper and negativity do get to people, I’ve observed. I just take such perverse pleasure thinking awful thoughts, like the subject of this blog.
The following observations will explain my shortcomings. In the 21st century, no-one puts up with nobody’s shit anymore. Living together is such a pain. Sharing the same bed is a nightly trial. Everyone has become too complex, obsessed with a pseudo-romantic, devastating idea of love. They are so afraid of falling out of love. They are preoccupied with fears of finding THE ONE only after marriage. They whine about being single, but at the back of their heads they know no one will be good enough for them, and they’ll never be good enough for anyone. Numbed by crippling fears, like a patient etherised upon a table.
I used to think Sumiko Tan was a woman whose columns I could read and feel consoled, because she was 38 and single. Now she’s 40 and single, and she laments at all the wasted chances she’s had in her illustrious dating history. I have begun to empathise with her, and now I actually LIKE reading her whiney “single-woman solace” column.
Maybe if I were a Victorian maiden with a tight corset and chastity belt, my droves of children would be at my deathbed, wiping my sweat and pleading with God to let me live. A life of oppression would end in a non-lonely death.
Now I’m thinking: as I lie dying, will I be staring at my flowery wallpaper? Will I have a nurse? How will I go to the toilet? Who will change my sheets? Maybe I should check into a hotel and die there, so I’d at least get room service… Will I have the strength to walk through the hotel’s revolving doors? Maybe a nice old bellboy will help me then I’ll have no reason to die alone and the nice hotel room can be used for something else, something that will beat dying for sure.
07 March 2005
Memories of Comfort
Suddenly, the world isn’t a safe place anymore.
My bed, mobile and heart used to be blanketed in a thick sheet of certainty. Now they throb with unsettling possibility.
Saturdays used to be effortless. Now it needs a plan. Plans to walk down the twisted avenue of “don’t-go-theres” and “out-of-bound” signs.
Sundays used to be full of cuddles and TV. Now it’s just saturated with my desk in the office, my mind filled with endless “what-ifs” and attempts to drown each one with the torrent of Friday’s leftovers.
Pardon my whining. May I continue?
Once the uncertainty of the deep sea terrified me. I was taking my diving test at Pulau Tioman. I just finished a terrible first dive. Water flooded my nasal cavity and it stung with salt. But I couldn’t give up. I was so scared… It was nothing I’d ever done before.
He told me to practise my breathing. He told me there was nothing to be afraid of, silly. He prayed a simple prayer. He told me I could do it. His arms said the same thing. The sea winds ripped at his bone-rippled chest. And I was okay.
Eventually though, despite several brave attempts, I didn’t get my diving cert. But he passed — he sailed through the test of the deep.
But best of all, he got flying colours on my scorecard.
My bed, mobile and heart used to be blanketed in a thick sheet of certainty. Now they throb with unsettling possibility.
Saturdays used to be effortless. Now it needs a plan. Plans to walk down the twisted avenue of “don’t-go-theres” and “out-of-bound” signs.
Sundays used to be full of cuddles and TV. Now it’s just saturated with my desk in the office, my mind filled with endless “what-ifs” and attempts to drown each one with the torrent of Friday’s leftovers.
Pardon my whining. May I continue?
Once the uncertainty of the deep sea terrified me. I was taking my diving test at Pulau Tioman. I just finished a terrible first dive. Water flooded my nasal cavity and it stung with salt. But I couldn’t give up. I was so scared… It was nothing I’d ever done before.
He told me to practise my breathing. He told me there was nothing to be afraid of, silly. He prayed a simple prayer. He told me I could do it. His arms said the same thing. The sea winds ripped at his bone-rippled chest. And I was okay.
Eventually though, despite several brave attempts, I didn’t get my diving cert. But he passed — he sailed through the test of the deep.
But best of all, he got flying colours on my scorecard.
04 March 2005
The enviable Camilla Parker Bowles
Never mind her her nickname of imperial frump. Never mind her status as the royal slut. Heck, I’d do anything for those wrinkles deep as the meanders of a river, that awful, laughable dress sense and her sordid reputation.
The late Princess of Wales will turn in her grave. Please forgive me, Diana, I do respect you, I adore everything you stand for, but like every other woman, I shamelessly crave insanely devoted, puppy dog love more than anything else.
Camilla’s Prince is her handmaiden. Bless him, he is brave. He risks the wrath of country and Queen, her cold stares, her scorns laced with cockneyed British wit.
As it turns out, most ironically, he’s almost the 21st Century’s greatest lover. Imagine loving someone for 27 years, with the eagerness that not even marriage (his/hers) could dampen. Imagine rolling in moist mud, in full view of rumour-hungry paparazzi just to deliver a perfectly romantic tryst.
I’m a bright shade of green. The most photographed and beautiful woman in the world, with impeccable taste, flawless skin and golden hair, wasn’t even close to re-ascending the throne in his heart. Insane, the red blooded men of the world would declare. And due to what? Her impeccable wit. The fact that she makes him laugh. The fact that he enjoys every moment of her company despite deplorable clothes, wrinkles, and a crooked smile that would send shivers down the spine of the aforementioned red-blooded men.
Which reminds me of my Tim Sum chef who migrated to this country with his wife. He looks like a moviestar. She looks like a housewife. She tells him he treats her mean, in front of the customers. He tells the world he got her flowers on her birthday. She loses her temper. He loses business on Valentine’s day from closing his shop to take her out.
Love is the strangest animal I’ve ever come across. But heck, I’m going hunting with the horses and hounds, and I'm going to shoot Prince Charles.
The late Princess of Wales will turn in her grave. Please forgive me, Diana, I do respect you, I adore everything you stand for, but like every other woman, I shamelessly crave insanely devoted, puppy dog love more than anything else.
Camilla’s Prince is her handmaiden. Bless him, he is brave. He risks the wrath of country and Queen, her cold stares, her scorns laced with cockneyed British wit.
As it turns out, most ironically, he’s almost the 21st Century’s greatest lover. Imagine loving someone for 27 years, with the eagerness that not even marriage (his/hers) could dampen. Imagine rolling in moist mud, in full view of rumour-hungry paparazzi just to deliver a perfectly romantic tryst.
I’m a bright shade of green. The most photographed and beautiful woman in the world, with impeccable taste, flawless skin and golden hair, wasn’t even close to re-ascending the throne in his heart. Insane, the red blooded men of the world would declare. And due to what? Her impeccable wit. The fact that she makes him laugh. The fact that he enjoys every moment of her company despite deplorable clothes, wrinkles, and a crooked smile that would send shivers down the spine of the aforementioned red-blooded men.
Which reminds me of my Tim Sum chef who migrated to this country with his wife. He looks like a moviestar. She looks like a housewife. She tells him he treats her mean, in front of the customers. He tells the world he got her flowers on her birthday. She loses her temper. He loses business on Valentine’s day from closing his shop to take her out.
Love is the strangest animal I’ve ever come across. But heck, I’m going hunting with the horses and hounds, and I'm going to shoot Prince Charles.
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