Ice

This is Ice. It's my favourite among the few from the Kabuki ceremic mask series that I got awhile ago. I missed Kabuki's original one, but I have Scarab and Siamese (a pair). They're from the comic series Kabuki, by David Mack.

I love masks and have several cheap, simple ones. I guess my interest started when Roger Jenkins introduced maskplay when training my drama group in school. I found them intriguing and full of depth. Something about the strong, silent, purely visual way they spoke appealed to me very deeply, and that got me thinking about the way a body moves, what it says, and what it feels like to watch someone whose body didn't go with their mask (blogged something related to this earlier). And then there's that irritating yet apt scene from the movie The Mask where a stone-faced psychologist says, "We all wear masks, metaphorically speaking."

Perhaps it is the security of hiding behind a mask that comforts me and appeals to me. The feeling of being protected, of minimising exposure and vulnerability. It has also taught me never to take any person purely at face value.

Getting back to Kabuki, David Mack is a truly brilliant artist and storyteller, and the fully painted issues he's published are amazing and read more like works of abstract art than comics. But I think that the black-and-white storylines that he came up with are actually more of a triumph than his painted issues.

This is the first comic I ever bought. I happened to be flipping through a $1 pile at a comic store for the heck of it, and this cover leaped out at me. I took it home, read it, and was stunned. Over the following months, I scrambled through every comic store I knew of to find the rest of this series. Mack tells his stories intelligently and with very effective mood devices.

Kabuki was my jumping off point to other comics and graphic novels. My favourite are:

1. The Dream Hunters by Neil Gaiman (one-off from the Sandman series)
2. Kabuki (of course)
3. Neil Gaiman's Sandman
4. Several titles by Slave Labor Graphics, like Johnny the Homicidal Maniac and GloomCookie (hey, did you know Singaporean artist Foo Swee Chin is published by SLG? How cool is that.)
5. Will Eisner's graphic novels

I miss the old me. Very much.

Climb high, climb high
Life was never meant to be caged

Push past, push past
Glass and metal won't hold you in

Look up, look up
A spire of infinity

Hold out your hand
I'll show you the stuff
That dreams are made of

Not a half-assed attempt at poetry. Just my little message to you. Don't leave any dreams on the shelf when the fire burns out.

First and last haiku

This was the one and only haiku I ever wrote, when I was twelve.

The frosty wind bites
The trees are covered with snow
Beggars die of cold

Beneath it, I drew, in coloured pencils on lined paper, a bare, snow-laden tree in the middle of a snow storm. A man in rags sits propped up against the tree hugging his knees, but he faces the other direction so you cannot see his face. I never really thought about whether I was drawing a dead man or not.

Frankly, I never saw what all the fuss was about haikus in English. If you ask me, even so-called well-written haikus don't sound right in English because the dynamics of the language just don't allow for the same kind of beauty that this poetic structure may bring out in Japanese.

Empty

Tonight again I find myself walking across an empty stage and turning to look back at it, feeling the cold silence of the black box, and then feeling it recede from me as I walk away. I exit thinking about the stage's calm expectancy when we first entered it on Thursday, and now its indifferent repose.

Just an hour ago, it was all so different. Energy and excitement flooded the stage from the first step onto the stage to the last note. Damned if we didn't do our best yet this evening. It was life we breathed into the music and the spoken words, teeming with its own electricity and tenacious pulse. Then, when the last line had been said and the last note had been sung, we took our leave of the stage.

And hence I find myself once more mourning my departure from a performance space - a space of magic and undeniable allure.

And I find myself empty inside again. When will I be with my beloved stage again? Our union was, as always, brief, intense, electric, but never enough.

Photo of the Day

Light and shadow inside the Esplanade.

Rain

It's raining outside now in the wee hours, and all is quiet save for the soft rustling of the water making its journey down.

I love rain. Its smell, its comforting rustle, the way the raindrops feel on my outstretched palm. There's little I like better than sitting on the porch of my previous home in Seletar with a book open on my lap while a veil of rain falls all around me and the wind carries its heady scent past me. Walking through a shower, hearing the short pitter patter on my umbrella, feeling tiny splashes on my ankles above my socks, watching the hem of my pants get wet, the feeling of being by myself even while walking through a busy street in the rain.

Even indoors, the rain feels magic. Lying in bed at night, its whispering soothes me and comforts me. I remember the rainy nights sitting on my window ledge in the university hostel, watching the world transform into a Monet painting, or just lying in bed feeling cool and safe.

Just another element of magic and beauty amidst the ugliness of the city.

Defining moments in life

How often does one pause and think about the most significant moments in life - those that shape you, change you, define you, mark out the topography of your life? This is a list of my top 20, as far as I can remember for now.

1. 3 years old: Being given a small hibiscus by a boy named Adrian in playschool - first time being embarassed by a boy.

2. 4 or 5 years old: Being caned by my mother for climbing into the neighbour's yard to play (in spite of the fact I was invited by the neighbour's mom) - first time I realised parents can be irrational.

3. 6 years old: Had a water fight with my sister in the kitchen - learned fights can be fun.

4. 7 years old: Had a seriously f***ed up operation for appendicitis - realised doctors can kill you as much as they can save you.

5. 8 years old: Made fun of an unpopular classmate - first time I felt truly mean and regretful.

6. 10 years old: First took notice of the beautiful, long fingers of the church pianist and the even more beautiful music he played - fell in crush for the first time.

7. 11 years old: Joined the drama club - birth of my life-long passion.

8. 12 years old: My sister left Singapore to study - felt true loss and loneliness for the first time.

9. 13 years old: Discovered a friend had a crush on me - first awareness of being desired.

10. 14 years old: First held hands with a boy I liked very much - experience of my first romantic touch. (But no, nothing happened.)

11. 17 years old: A brave friend died - first true source of inspiration.

12. 17 years old: Fell in love completely.

13. 19 years old: Had my heart ripped to shreds - first wound from which no full recovery is possible.

14. 20 years old: First truly unpleasant discovery about myself.

15. 21 years old: Started my first real job - learned that financial independence = bonds of parents' high expectations loosened.

16. 23 years old: Dated an older man - lesson that some preconceived notions come with a reason.

17. 23 years old: Finally fully emerged from a long depression - discovered life really can be happy.

18. 24 years old: Got together with Kelvin - unprecedented advent of someone with such perfect chemistry and wavelength.

19. 24 years old: Nephew Sean was born - (see post below).

20. 25 years old: Second truly unpleasant discovery about myself.

And I'm sitting here waiting for the next big moment.

Single-digit teenagers

My sister told me about her friend who has two daughters, one eight years old and the other five. The mom didn't want to buy her eight year girl old T-shirts that were too short. So what did the tike do? She wore her little sister's T-shirts and raised her arms...so that her midriff would be exposed.

Is it just me, or is there something wrong with this? Absolutely no one I know would call me conservative (hah!) but I'm frankly a little disgusted with this sexualising of kids these days. It's one thing to occasionally let a little girl wear a peasant top that exposes her cute little belly button. It's quite another when she wants to dress provocatively before her age even reaches two digits. The eight-year-old in question calls herself an eight-year-old teenager. 'Nuff said.

I was somewhat horrified to see these covers for a magazine called Koolkidz. Am I overly conservative to think that children should just be children and not be glamourised like that? What's disturbing is that this magazine is aimed at parents. It's telling parents, "This is how your little darlings should look."

Some parts of it look like the inside of a women's fashion/shopping magazine:
True, most kids will want to look older at some point. Hell, I'd even taken photos in make-up and tube tops with socks to fill out the chest area when I was nine. But a disclaimer here: I was my sister's experimental mannequin for when she was just learning how to put on make-up (and armed with a brand new camera), so I wasn't the one to ask to be made up like a kiddy karaoke contestant.

Tell me you don't think this makes the little model look like a juvenile streetwalker.

Included in the contents of the September 2005 issue of this mag are a DVD review of XXX The Next Level (how's that for encouraging violent entertainment), music review of The Essential Michael Jackson and a restaurant review of L'Aigle d'Or (I quote "The grand dame of classic French dining").

My point is, are the media and retail industry giving out unwholesome signals to parents and kids alike? Ok, dumb question. I guess I'm just disgusted at how increasingly ridiculous it's all getting.

T'was foretold...

I just remembered an interesting thing. When I was in upper primary school, maybe P5, there was this computer career test thing that all of us had to take. Bear in mind, we were 11 years old at the time, and, to us, a career seemed like the faintest thing imaginable, barely a glimmer in the distant future.

With that programme, we'd answer various questions related to things like your personality, preferences, etc. Wanna know what my recommended career was?

Writer.

I found that amusing and poohpoohed it. It just didn't seem like a viable career to me at the time, as all I knew of as "writers" were those who wrote books, and my cynical young mind thought, how many people can survive just writing books, and earn enough from that? I didn't think I'd be good enough to write books and compete with other writers either.

Little did I know.(Ok, these are not my own fingers. They're Kelvin's hairy fingers.)

Finding my way

I’ve always known I was intelligent. I’m not saying this as an egotistic self-indulgence but as a matter of fact, neither complimentary not deprecating.

As a kid, I started to realise that having an inquiring mind was not unusual. Devouring volumes of encyclopaedias and other reference books to satisfy my curiosity was. Doubting the train of logic of common fairy tales was.

Up to my teens, I’d (almost) always be able to get away with last-minute preparation for exams. No matter how poor I was in a subject I’d pass the exam somehow, and often with only a night’s worth of studying. With each new step in my academic career, taking on more and more difficult and less and less likeable subjects, I managed to pull through, and even score more than decent grades.

That ended when I entered university. That was when I embarked on the worst, most dislikeable, most gawdawful difficult course of study. Worse than science.

Cosmologists have long theorised the existence of anti-matter as a logical have-to-be (sorry, the word eludes me right now). They say that for every thing, every particle, every atom, every sub-atom, there exists its anti-self, a negative version of itself. Theoretically, if you and your anti-you should ever meet, you’d cancel each other out of existence, leaving behind only a flash of energy to indicate that you ever existed.

I had finally met my anti-being, and it was accounting. That’s the way it felt anyway, to a less spectacular extent. I didn’t understand the least of it, and it didn’t suffer me to be alongside it. It was as if it drained the life force out of me as I was struggling to study it, and only after I’d forgotten most of it did I feel more fully alive again. No matter how much I mugged (which, frankly, was not as much as might have been necessary), I flunked just about half my way through the degree programme. After hurdling every academic subject I’d ever done, I’d finally hit a wall I couldn't go over or around.

In the end, I made it after all, but just barely, with a mere pass. Truth to be told, everything I studied for that degree flew out the window the moment I stepped out of the exam hall for the last time. And I actually contemplated a job in the line. I even went for interviews for auditing and accounting jobs. When I saw each of the interviewers’ faces when they looked at my university transcript, I knew I wouldn't be climbing up that corporate ladder very quickly. Yes, they all ask for your transcript and even question you on your grades for individual modules.

Then a window of opportunity opened, just a crack. But it was enough. A single company looking for an editorial assistant had decided to interview almost all candidates that wrote in. Hence, this fresh accounting graduate (with no portfolio) found herself explaining for the first time why she would make this drastic change in industry. It was the first of many, many times she would have to explain it over the years.

It was ultimately the writing test at the interview that did it. I finally found that a natural (and once thought of as useless) talent would become my money maker. I promptly dumped my young, dreary job in financial research and embarked on the start of my career in writing.

And I haven’t stopped since.

Alone vs alone

I'm feeling alone again tonight.

It's rare that I feel alone. I like solitude and I pretty much enjoy my private time every night, so much that I'm almost always reluctant to go to sleep. I stay up till the wee hours, until I feel it's ridiculous to stay up any later, and "ridiculous" gets a new definition each time.

But being alone is very different from feeling alone. I feel alone now.

The clock reads 4.24am. I've turned off my music, so it's silent, save for the tap tap tapping of my keyboard. I realise how quiet it is, not because there is no sound, but because there is no one to talk to.

My MSN regulars are not there, so no solace online.

Kelvin is asleep, and had gone to bed on a rather unsatisfactory note. We had hardly spoken all day, and after getting home from a very long night of rehearsal, I was really looking forward to our nightly chat. But the moment I heard his voice over the phone, I knew he was sleepy and in no mood to even listen, let alone talk. Unhappily, I let him get his snooze. So that end is silent.

Can't call my sister, as our conversations are never short, and I have to be up in 6 hours (Her Majesty wants me to drive and escort her around again today).

lus I’m having PMS, and progesterone alone would be a very good reason for me to feel the need for Prozac and Lithium right now.

I’m lonely, and it’s too quiet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Her Majesty ticked me off AGAIN for staying up late. Which is reasonable for any parent to do...provided there is a good reason to, and provided the child is actually still a child. Week after week after week of pulling out the same irritating excuses:

1) "You're wasting electricity." This is coming from the woman who cannot get by without airconditioning and sleeps with it at full blast while wearing a thick sweater and scarf. Go figure.

2) "You're being so unfilial." Go figure too.

3) "You wake up your parents." This is the woman who, from childhood, wakes up several times a night to visit the john, with or without my help. My dad has absolutely no trouble falling asleep.

4) "It's abnormal." This sounds almost reasonable, until you consider that she's a person who wants EVERYTHING exactly how she thinks it ought to be in her perfect little world. Normal is when everyone does exactly what she wants and thinks exactly what she wants them to.

Take the above 4, throw them together into a Guilt Remix, and then hit the "repeat" button. You will also need "variations on a theme" and “self-gratifying monologue” options. There, now you’re ready to be my mother. It occurred to me that she's given up the old "You won't get enough sleep" excuse because she finally wised up to the fact that it doesn't work on me. After using it for about a decade, of course. Which explains why, after using the abovementioned remix for months, she still hasn't understood why I'm still being the bad girl staying up late and being such a disobedient, unfilial daughter. The bad daughter who does her bidding almost all the time, not only drives her around but accompanies her to most of her week’s errands, just-feel-like-being-out, and so on.

I've been contemplating telling her this when next she berates me for my sleeping hours: "From now, for every time you say all this again, I will go to bed one hour later." I wonder how ugly that scene would be. Very ugly.

Great Revelations Come in Small Packages

I wrote this for the first issue of LiveWell. Whenever I think about little Sean and hear his adorable voice over the phone, this article comes to mind, and it is the most honest and heartfelt article I've ever written. It had been edited for space in the issue, but this is the full and unabridged version (I love saying that).

Great Revelations Come in Small Packages

3 August 2003: I am holding a small, soft little person in my arms, bundled snugly in his white hospital swaddling cloth. He had just opened his eyes to the world two days ago in a hospital in California, and while I fancy that he stares at me, he will see things only in shades of black and white for at least another few weeks.

No, this is not my baby – little Sean is my sister’s newborn son. He is the result of my sister and brother-in-law’s decision to start sharing their life with a beautiful new person. He was conceived among much worry and apprehension. The experience of conception for a woman with metabolic syndrome is never an easy one and is fraught with doubts.

January 2002: My sister is 29 years old when she discovers that she has metabolic syndrome. My heart sinks as I hear her voice over the phone, telling me that her life is changed forever, at that young age. A month later, she miscarries her first child.

There is nothing like a chance foregone that sets our resolve to do things right the next time. For months after the miscarriage, I get to hear about the rigorous regime she has set for herself to get into good shape for the next pregnancy. A treadmill has made its appearance in her home and is the source of her daily exercise. Always one to love food, she summons all her willpower to carefully restrict her diet. In no time, her blood sugar levels are normalised. Within the year, the bun is in the oven.

The Whole Nine Months

My mother has a rather annoying habit of making me guess what my birthday present is a week in advance but refusing to tell me if I’m right. Nature reminds me of exactly that – if it’s something good, you jolly well hone your patience, because you are in for a long wait. Say, nine months.

Meanwhile, nature entertains you while you wait. Having been a mother figure to me most of my life, it is very strange indeed to witness my sister’s usually level-headed disposition unravel as her pregnancy unfurls. Elation. Depression. Urination. Constipation. Indigestion. Indignation. Irritation. And those are just the beginning.

May 2003: Right about the time she starts to tell me about her increasing back aches, I start to wonder why on earth anyone would want to go through this. In my early twenties, I have just gotten my life on a steady track, with independence in my hand enabling me to finally start living life for myself. The sight of my sister’s growing belly and her physical and emotional fluctuations instil more than just fascination. It also instils fear. Fear of losing freedom, fear of pain, fear of unsettling changes in life, and, most of all, fear of losing the rest of my life to the life-long occupation of motherhood from which there will be no rest.

I ask my sister if she is afraid. Yes, she said, she is afraid of the possibility of the various health problems a baby might have. No – I mean, is she afraid of motherhood? She ponders this for a moment before saying, “No. You were an awfully difficult kid. I’ve had enough practice.” Although miffed at the backhanded reply, I am amazed at how prepared she seems to be, and how, in spite of her hormonal joyrides, her expectant happiness carries a sense of purpose and serenity.

In between fulfilling my sister’s need for company on the phone on sleepless nights and excitedly shopping for baby clothes, more questions start creeping into my mind. Will she and I stay as close as we have always been when her time and attention becomes focussed on bringing up a child? How much time will we be able to spend together during my yearly visits to her home in California? Will my nephew like me or even remember me? How will having a kid in the family change our way of life?

There is no hope of answering any of these questions yet. I will just have to wait.

The Eagle has Landed

2.00am, 31 July 2003: I awake to the persistent sound of the phone ringing. A few moments after it stops ringing, my bleary eyed parents burst into my room, brandishing the phone. Dazed, I listen to the ear piece.

“Sis, I’m going into labour. NOW!”

The family flies into a frenzy, the news having come two weeks before the expected date. The next morning, my dad is plastered on the phone, desperately trying to bring our flights forward. My mother and I are packing our bags as quickly as our hands allow. In less than two days, we have crossed 13,673 kilometres to meet the newest member of our family.

2 August 2003: I walk into the hospital room. I push aside the curtain shielding the bed from the door. I know in that instant that I will never forget the vision that greets me.

My sister sits on the bed, smiling at us as we enter. Tom, my brother-in-law, stands by her side, beaming as he says hello. A tiny bundle sits on her lap, wrapped in a white hospital cloth and wearing a soft little blue hat. I stand there for a moment, feeling my heart overflow.

I bend over to give little Sean his first kiss from his aunt. He barely stirs from his slumber as my lips graze his forehead. Absolute joy fills the room as everyone fawns over the beautiful little boy, and wonder at how such a small person can give so much joy without needing to do anything, by just being.

It is in that moment that I understand how all those months of pain, discomfort and effort are worth it.

The Road Goes Ever On and On

1 August 2004: I hold the camera up, hoping for a smile from the birthday boy, but the birthday boy is apparently more than a little upset from being woken from his nap, and utterly oblivious to the purpose of the festivities around him. It is a strange birthday picture. Gathered behind the table holding the cake is a crowd of people grinning and laughing at the camera, surrounding a pint sized boy bawling his eyes out on his first birthday. Still, no one looking at the picture could possibly mistake the joyousness of the scene.

The journey with my sister in her new-found motherhood has shown me that the true worth of being a parent does not lie only in Kodak moments such as that in the hospital room. It takes never-ending devotion, self-sacrifice and infinite love to bring up a baby.

My sister tells me about Sean’s dislike for sleep and fondness for throwing fits at meal times. She tells me about his stubborn tendency to climb into the forbidden kitchen. She tells me about the little whining sounds he makes in the wee hours, depriving her of a good night’s sleep. And each time she tells me these things, I almost feel the desire to swear off having children.

And that’s when I hear his voice over the phone, babbling in his secret baby language, giggling at some private amusement. I look at his chubby smile in his photograph and remember how his hair smells and how he squeals in laughter when I carry him and spin him around. Then I remember why mothers crawl through pain, depression, stress and fatigue, to travel with this perfect little person in their journey through life.

Hey, we all survive the nine months. What’s another few decades?

Revisited

This is based on myself from four years ago. Let me know if the narrative is too vague or there're not enough details to deduce the entire picture. I was hoping to hint at the setting rather than tell it outright.

It was evening when she took the path from the road, across the small field where some children ran about squealing in delight. She crossed the car park, dodging some haphazardly parked motorcycles. She stooped for a moment to pet a cat before moving on, towards the block of flats.

She stopped under a familiar window and looked up. A simple, unremarkable window, closed and dark. But she knew if it were open, she’d see brown diagonal window grills, and possibly a clothes hanger dangling from it on the inside. Today, the window was closed. Her heart began to ache.

She tried to remember the last time she had passed beneath that window, but found that she couldn't. It must have been, what? Four years ago? Almost. She’d passed under it so many times before, while her love was young and the world brand new, always turning to look up and often pleased to find she had someone to wave goodbye or hello to.

Suddenly afraid that she’d be seen, she hurried past. She entered the void deck and made a sharp turn to the right where she took the stairs up, emerging on the second floor. She paused in front of the first door she saw. That unremarkable, familiar door. She momentarily checked if anyone was near by, but the corridor was empty and silent. She then regarded the door before her, and the small, multi-paned window next to it.

The dark brown door stood closed and uninviting, but she almost expected it to open then, and she would see a soft smile beneath tousled hair. He’d probably be holding his violin in one hand and opening the door grill with the other. She’d walk in and take in the smell of the house in a deep breath as she’d always done. She’d walk past the foyer and into the living room where the curtains would be wide open, letting in a flood of light. The piano would be sitting expectantly against the south wall, waiting for her to open its lid, fold away its long, narrow blanket, and run her hands over its keys. She’d then pause and wait for him to come to her.

But no one opened the door. Presently, the doorstep was emptier than she remembered. His mother’s usual slippers were not there – in their place was a dilapidated pair of flip flops tucked as far into the corner as possible. She wondered at this.

She didn’t want to ring the doorbell, and hadn’t intended to at all. Her plan was to discreetly slide the gift under the door and slip away. She looked at the gift again. It was a large poster with cardboard backing. On it was a breathtaking photograph of a serene lake at sunset. A jetty reached out a short way and a small, white boat sat waiting at the end. It was the sort of scene he’d always liked. Her card was taped onto the back.

But now, she saw that gap under the door was too narrow. Dismayed, she examined the window, but found that its gap was too small to fit the poster. What was she going to do? She pressed her ear against the door, listening for any movement inside, but there was none. She tried to peer into the slit of the window, but it was dark inside. She decided to leave the gift leaning outside against the door, hoping it would be retrieved soon.

Then, she thought about the silence of the house, the darkness in the windows and the dusty slippers in the corner, and it dawned on her. He must have moved away.

Disappointment washed over her, but, unexpectedly, there was also muted relief. Undecided, she stood there for several minutes, wondering what she should do. It didn’t seem like the flat had been sold yet. Should she leave the poster there propped up against the door, hoping he'd see it when he came back to maintain the flat? Should she leave it with a neighbour? Should she try another day?

Should she leave with it and never come back?

She thought about this last one for a moment. Then she picked up the poster. Tucking it under her arm, she started to walk away. She paused, then turned around to look at the door once more. She let her breath out in a sigh and turned away resolutely, trotted down the stairs, made a sharp left turn and exited the void deck. Not looking up this time, she passed under the window, crossed the car park and the field, and went away without looking back.

Photo of the day

Taken at the Singapore Art Museum one hot day.

Phuket photos up

Finally uploaded my Phuket photos here:
http://community.webshots.com/user/andromeda_carina

Compositions of yore - part 2

This was written when I was 14. Background: For us teenagers in my church then, the parish canteen was the hub of interaction on Sundays. The perfect place to ogle at the opposite sex and check out our crushes. I had a long-standing crush on the choir pianist at the time. He was rather geeky and had very short hair that wouldn't smooth down. ;) So this essay was sort of a little fantasy I had about how we would someday meet and sparks would fly. Obviously, I didn't know him at all, and never really did even after more than 20 years in the same parish. No, my crush on him didn't last anywhere that long!

This piece is nostalgic for me to re-read, also considering it was written how my teen mind thought back then - rather juvenile language used, I'd say. Hence, I've done a bit of editing here and there in this version to amend the cheesy parts.

First Encounter

Neither of them was especially attractive or popular. But it happened. Neither of them knew how or why, but it did.

Catechism had ended. She was at her usual table with her friends. The usual cliques of youths were there, just hanging out at the canteen like every other week. Celine was boy-watching as usual. She liked looking at the boy with the long, floppy fringe. She also liked looking at the boy who always wore black shirts. She saw them every week, but there was no infatuation, no real chemistry. She looked away. Heck, who cared? She caught sight of another boy. He looked familiar, but she couldn't place him. He had a pleasant face and broad shoulders, but he was rather thin and had very short hair that would not smooth down. Ugly shirt, too. She looked at his face. Nice eyes, though.

She was intrigued by the way he stared at her. He rolled his eyes from her face down to her feet and rested his eyes on the book she was holding. His eyes were wide and curious, filled with apparent fascination. When his eyes rose and caught hers, he swung them away. Celine shrugged and turned back to the book in her hands.

He was intrigued by the way she had stared at him. Her eyes, wide and curious, looked him up and down in fascination. They rolled from his hair to his shirt and stared hard before rolling up to his face. She had a pleasant face, with wide brown eyes and small, cute lips. She was not all that attractive though, at least not like the other girls in church. Another difference – she was reading a book with the other nerdy girls. One of them was his friend’s sister. They were so super square. Other girls would be talking to boys or chatting away. She was reading a book. But she kept staring! Oh gosh, so embarrassing! She had caught him staring, or was it the other way round?

A passing girl caught his attention. Marilyn was possibly the prettiest girl in church. Fancy clothes, good make-up. Many boys liked her. Maybe he should get that bookish girl’s number from his friend’s sister. Why was he thinking of that girl again? Maybe Marilyn would talk to him if he said hi. But would the girl with the book want to know him? He stole another glance at her.

He was staring again. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She stole another glance at him. She then remembered him as the pianist for the choir that her friend’s brother was in. What was his name? Jon? Yes, it was. Oh, why was she thinking of him? He was not even as good looking as the guy in the black shirts. She turned back to her book. She stared at page forty-one, as she had been for the past fifteen minutes. Maybe she’d ask her friend’s brother about the pianist.

He stood up. He straightened his shirt. He decided to talk to her. Yes, he’d do it. He took a deep breath. He was calm, cool, confident. He took four steps. His hands grew hot.

He stood up! He was coming towards her! She raised her hand and patted her hair. She glued her eyes to her page. Her breathing quickened.

Oh no! Maybe she did not like him! Maybe she was staring at him because she thought he looked silly. Maybe she would tell him to mind his own business and go away. As the distance between them grew shorter, his hands grew hotter and hotter. He quickened his pace. She grew nearer, nearer, nearer, until she was in front of him…and he brushed past her. His left hand grazed her arm. It burned where they touched.

Her skin sizzled where they touched. The soft grazing of the fabric of his pants and the touch of his hand lingered on her skin. She shut her eyes and the world around her disappeared.

Her name was Celine. He’d noted the neat way she wrote her name on her pencil case. He thought about the smoothness of her skin. His left hand grabbed the side of his pants and squeezed hard, creasing the fabric.

Yes, No, Maybe

Girl talk. I sip my iced tea at the cafe, set the tall glass back on its neat little coaster and regard S, who is sitting across from me. She's busy stabbing another leaf of lettuce in her salad. We resume the ongoing discussion - S is gushing with excitement, and she can't wait to finish the story.

"You've been playing tennis together for weeks, and haven't had any hint from him?" I prod.

"No, not really. Nothing concrete, at least."

I've already heard her tales of his little supposedly-out-of-character acts of sweetness that almost-are-not-quite possible signs of affection. (I hyphenate too much.) It all sounded wishy-washy to me. "So do you know for sure whether he likes you?"

"Eve asked him the other day, "Do you actually like S?""

Now this is interesting. "That was direct. What did he say?"

"He said he's not sure."

Chey. "Not sure?" This doesn't sound promising.

"Then Eve asked him, "Will you like S?" And he said yes!" S beams brightly.

I'm incredulous. Is this supposed to be good news? "Will he like you? What kind of question is that?"

Her smile falters slightly. She knows it's only a matter of time before I start to rain on her parade. "It means, we have a chance in the near future. We might be together soon!"

"But doesn't that sound very half-hearted to you? It's like he wants to like you even though he may not be that keen in his heart."

I swear S is holding back a scowl. This isn't the first (nor the second, third or even tenth) time I've tried to burst her bubble by attempting to bring her back to reality, or at least try to make her open her eyes a little wider. Nope, she'll have none of that. "No, I think he just needs time to figure things out. He's the type of guy who needs to be sure before he takes a big step." She gives me her best confident, optimistic look as she polishes off the rest of her salad.

Denial...is not just in Egypt. Wasn't that in a song? Resigned, I say the only thing there is to say - what she wants to hear. "Well...I suppose you know him better. Things might work out great." I flash her a smile I don't feel.

She looks satisfied at this little morsel of agreement I've tossed her way. Daffy's giving up early this time, I'm sure she's thinking.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Some friends say I'm cynical, that I tend to see the negative what-ifs of situations more than the optimistic possibilities. This is especially so for gender and relationship issues. What can I say? I've been to the deep, dark layers of hellish love and have returned sans my idealistic perceptions. I can safely say that, through my own experiences and observation of others' situations, I have attained some depth of insight in this area and can spot certain trends when I see them. I don't ever meddle, though. I simply state opinion.

So excuse me if I rain on your parade, pals. Not my fault if you enter into your emotional messes with both eyes closed. And you know what? I'm often proven right, by your own admissions, time after time. But of course, you know what you want to hear, and what I have to say sometimes doesn't quite fit that. So I try not to say it all. But you're my friends, and I don't want you to go run yourself into the same walls. It's hard to know what a good balance is between giving well-meaning opinions and shutting up and keeping everyone in euphoria...for now.

At the end of the day, you're still going to hit the same walls at full speed. You're still going to hurt yourself again and again and again and again before you finally learn it all on your own, or sometimes never at all. All regardless of what I or other friends say. So the less said the better?

Intuition is a strange thing. I know I have it by the bucket, but what's the use of it when it has little power to positively affect events already in motion? Or even those that haven't begun moving?

Maybe all I should do is shut up and leave my shoulder available. Someone will need it sometime, the way things are going. In the meantime, I'll smile and do my darndest to be supportive and appear to actually believe S when she tells me things are going exactly the way she'd hoped.