Mundane Schmundane

Seems like almost everyone around me is going through some sort of upheavel or exciting phase. The tally:

2 office romances
1 new relationship with an older woman (ok, slightly older)
1 'one day stand'
1 job lost (accompanied by heaps of office drama)
1 working for free in an office with EVEN more drama than Days of Our Lives
1 person passed away (sincerest condolences to the Goh family)

Do weddings count? If so, make that 2.

And these are just the friends I've managed to stay in contact with the past 1 or 2 months through my crazy schedule. I seem to be the only one leading a 'steady' life at the moment! While steady is good sometimes, it gets boring after awhile. So it adds spice to hear about my friends' interesting lives! It's great to hear people you care about telling you about their latest adventure, and to share in their joys or sorrows.

And people, there's no such thing as "gossip" - only "collective sharing of experiences". So fire away to this listening ear!

Indulgence galore

I got a slightly botched pedicure during my trip. My sis and I were trying out this new place that had some opening offer. The first sign that all was not well was when I kept feeling little stings as the pedicurist was trimming my cuticles. Next sign was when I noticed a drop of blood welling at a spot on the big toe on my right foot. Undeterred, she dabbed off the blood, not a word said, then continued. Not only did the rest of the pedicure sting (try dabbing nail polish on an open cut and you'll see what I mean), she didn't bother sterilising the cut. I would've said something if I weren't feeling so cold, courtesy of the salon leaving the door open on a chilly day, and if only the Vietnamese lady actually spoke any English. She didn't seem to comprehend "Ow!" very well.

Next sign was an hour after I reached home. Apart from realising that the colour wasn't quite what I thought it'd be (I don't usually go for sweet colours), I noticed a wee bit of base coat that was applied a little beyond my right pinky toenail and had dried on the skin. I gently started to use my fingernail to try to peel that bit off...and the entire coat of nail polish came off - see exhibit on the left. So I've been going around for a week with one bare nail on my pinky toe.

Today I'm gonna treat myself to...GODIVA!! Got four pralines, two for me, two for Kelvin who's being a sweetie and accompanying me for dinner tonight. Ah, just the sight of that little yellow and gold bag gets my heart a-flutterin'.

Just went to a product launch today - VGO's V12 Cyber Relax massage chair. It's less 'cyberish' than it sounds, and what's cool is that I got to try it out! Oh man, if only my folks hadn't already bought that other chair last year! This one was pretty awesome, with rollers that kneaded my back all the way down to the small of my spine. The number of massage combinations is pretty amazing, and the lovely young lady that sat next to me explained every little detail of the massages she let me sample and patiently answered my dozens of questions. I felt kinda bad, though, as I was the first to sit down to try and the second-last to get up! I could certainly use more of that as part of work!
(Image courtesy of worldofsports.com.sg)

Hardware makes me tick

Woohoo! I've got a new keyboard-and-mouse set! They're both wireless and ergonomic, and the keyboard comes with a whole lotta buttons for the ultimate lazy computer user. Check it out.
Yes, I know it's a cheap thrill. But hey, hardware always gets me ticking. Excuse me while I salivate at the sight of a new gadget.

It's excellent to shop for computer stuff in San Jose as it's cheaper there than in Singapore for most things. Fry's is this big electronics place that always has deals and mail-in rebates. I was so tempted to get a 100GB hard drive and casing for less than US$200, but didn't get to go to Fry's this trip. Anyway, hand-carrying it would've been less than a lark, as I had to carry this baby (above) back as well - the keyboard is longer than it looks and didn't fit into the roll-along bag I had. So instead, I carried it on a cheapo canvas bag whose straps ripped even before I boarded the flight.

Excuse me, are you a hypochondriac?

I'm 26 years old and I just had cholesterol, blood glucose and uric acid tests done at my annual visit to the gynae last week. Yes, you read me right - the gynaecologist. Some years back, I figured I might as well make sure everything down there is alright all of the time. So yearly, I head to that freezing little office to be peered at, poked and prodded, and ultrasound-imaged inside and out (literally).

Imagine this: You're lying down, naked from waist down and spreadeagled; the airconditioning is set to deep freeze; the gel thing that the doc spreads on my tummy for the ultrasound is cold; the (plastic or metal?) external ultrasound instrument is cold; the internal ultrasound instrument she sticks in is cold. And she has the cheek to tell me, "Relax"??

Two weeks ago, the last two fingers on each hand started to become slightly numb, especially when I held up the phone for more than a few minutes at a time. The numbness extended from the fingers down the sides of my hands. Since numbness is one sign of diabetes, I got worried.

The nurse at the reception had trouble comprehending that it was I, and not my mother, who wanted the cholesterol and glucose tests done. Pray, what is wrong with wanting to know if the stuff that sloshes through my veins is going awry? I have a friend my age who actually does have high cholesterol. Since I don't have the healthiest of diets and a strong family history of diabetes, I figured it's high time to check on myself.

Hence, I found myself at the nurse's office, staring at two test tubes full of my blood. Dark, viscous and the colour of red velvet, sitting pretty in their little coffins of glass.

I never understand why people don't like getting tests done simply for fear of what they might find out. You mean, it's easier finding out later than finding out now? So to avoid the torture of a one-week wait for potentially disheartening news, they go through another few years of background suspense, before being hit with potentially devastating news?? That's utter rot, if you ask me. I'd rather know now and be able to do something about it.

Being a health writer has its pros and cons I suppose. Pro: I actually take the trouble to research find accurate information and am more concerned with my own state of health. Con: I'm becoming more paranoid. I now scan the ingredients list on every facial wash, moisturiser, toothpaste and snack I buy. Trouble is, how do you avoid things like trans fats and high-fructose corn syrup when almost everything has them? How do you not use alcohol on your skin when there almost isn't a single skin product that (truly) comes without it? Even 'natural' products come with all sorts of crap in them.

Children and young adults get cancer, cardiovascular disorders and other colourful ailments. How does one live with peace of mind with all these at the back of their head?

Guess I'll just have to go through life kinda hoping that I won't have to suffer anything too chronic.

The Sandman Cometh

Neil Gaiman fans got a treat earlier this month when the man himself showed up on our shores. The fans were evidently VERY happy too, judging by the ridiculously long lines of people queueing for the book signings (I hear there were about 1,000 people each evening!). Thank goodness I had a press pass and had my stuff signed during the considerably quieter press conference.

I was going to ask some general public-friendly type questions so I could say something about it in the next issue, but the hardcore questions that shot from the aggressive and kiasu journalists in the front were pretty discouraging, so I ended up not asking any of my questions anyway.

At least I got a nice signing on Coraline and Dream Hunters. He drew a rat in a jacket in my Coraline, though I've no idea whether it is Wilkinson (from Sandman: A Game of You) or one of the Coraline rats (I don't remember those wearing any clothes). His signing in Dream Hunters got a bit smudged as silly me closed the book before the silver ink had dried completely. Still, at least it's quite clear if you hold it at an angle.

Hmm, didn't get a good photo of him though. This one is the best shot I got, even with the fancy big camera I loaned.

Latest rave: Snow, Glass, Apples. It's Gaiman's re-telling of the Snow White tale, and how! For someone who loves dark, gothic tales, this one is right up my alley, from open to end. Told from the queen's point of view, it lends a whole new perspective to the story. The Snow White here certainly ain't the two-dimensional little saccharin sweet princess. "Snow, Glass, Apples" is the last story in the book Smoke and Mirrors.

I'd always believed that the 'fairy tales' that we read as kids were descended from far darker lore, and turns out I was right when I got old enough to read up more about their origins. The fairy tales themselves are often dark, disturbing and sometimes downright sadistic. But kids don't get the full impact of the notion of getting eaten by a wolf even if they understand the idea of it. If adults re-read the story, they may get nightmares, imagining the process of being painfully chewed, a slow, wet descent into the animal's gut, and the extreme, suffocating claustrophobia of being inside the wolf.

Oh, but how I love how twisted these tales are!

A moment with myself

"Have you ever had the feeling
That the world's gone and left you behind?
Have you ever had the feeling
That you're that close to losing your mind?"
~Angel Eyes~

I left my last phase of depression long behind me; probably my only major phase. Clinically depressed? I don't know, I don't think so. When you're feeling so low and you're convinced there's no way you can crawl back out, you don't really stop to think about what a shrink would classify you as.

No, I never saw any shrinks, never took any pills. Pills would not have done any good as long as the cause existed. Well, causes, anyway.

I remember what it was like. Feeling so utterly low and tragic that it was hard to breathe. Sitting up nights on darkened corridors with a single candle and a cup of tea, weeping my eyes out. Long walks alone in the wee hours on lonely roads, thinking, thinking and thinking. Lying next to a sleeping male body, feeling utterly alone. Looking into another's haunting eyes and seeing the world lying in between us. Mourning the death of true, intense love, believing it gone forever. One heartbreak after another in rapid fire, clamouring and tripping over each other. Staggering down a flight of stairs with my head spinning wildly, alcohol raging in my blood, self-pity in front of me and a worried friend behind me. The constant fear that there was no way out of this, no salvation imminent, all self-worth a distant memory.

It's a strange feeling, remembering who I was, what it was like during an entirely different state in my life. It isn't that far removed, just a few years ago, but feels a world away. Maybe it's because I don't see the people who remind me of it anymore, maybe it's because I'd moved on to a new life situation, making it easier to distance myself from the soap opera that occurred before.

So young, so stupid, so vulnerable. Growing up doesn't take as long as some people think. I believe that the moment you get your heart broken, you grow up; and each time it gets broken again, you grow somemore. That makes me quite an aged hag, I suppose.

Why am I thinking back on all this? I'm not even thinking about the individual incidents on their own, the numerous times I had my heart diced, sliced and chucked into blenders. I'm hardly even thinking of the men and boys who whirled in and out, leaving destruction in their paths, their cruelty and/or apathy taking a part of me with them. I'm now considering them as a whole, a faceless generality (is there such a word?), collectively a part of my past and a part of who I am now.

What would I have been if I had never met them all? Don't think that's possible - I think I would have met all of them eventually, due to my nature and temperament. I've learnt and grown from all these experiences...but I do sometimes find myself wishing my youth could have been happier.

I'm in the last decade of my youth, and fighting hard to make the most of it. My first two decades was wasted on pleasing people, most of whom did not deserve the least of it, even those who loved me most. I'm much happier now, and am able to look back without feeling the pain in the same way, though I never forget how it felt. But I wonder sometimes, how long before I make an unforeseen turn and start down another street of sorrow?

"I walk along the street of sorrow
The boulevard of broken dreams"
~Boulevard of Broken Dreams~

A study in new beginnings

"A light January shower veiled the street, the trees fidgeting and shuddering under the drizzling droplets. The sultry smell of wet soil and tar softly drifted over the road, now a concrete mirror gleaming in the grey light. The rainwater trickled over the leaves, wood, pavement, concrete, seeping into the soil and storm drains, on its way to carry on its journey elsewhere. A new beginning was about to take place."

The Neurosis of Sk8ter Girl

I heard Sk8ter Boi again the other day on the radio, in the angsty, striking vocals of Avril Lavigne. Seems pretty straightforward right? Airhead ballet chick rejected a skater boy who later becomes a talented rock star while she becomes a lonely mother.

But think about it: In fact, the song is not really about little Miss Ballet (we’ll call her that for simplicity) – it’s in fact about the girl singing the song – Sk8ter Girl. It’s an ode to her neurosis, insecurity and immaturity.

We hear only the perspective of Sk8ter Girl and what she hears from Sk8ter Boi. So basically, she’s telling you what he told her about his high school rejection, and re-telling it in an angst-ified way.

How do we really know whether Miss Ballet rejected him because her friends looked down on him? We only hear what Sk8ter Girl thinks, and whether Miss Ballet really did like Sk8ter Boi or not is never quite revealed. Sk8ter Boi may jolly well have said that to salvage his ego – yes, we’ve ALL known of at least one guy who claims to know of some unavailable girl who “actually did like me”.

Besides, why is Sk8ter Boi dwelling so much on one teenage rejection? Adolescent crushes come and go all the time. It sounds more like a “Haw haw, you didn’t want me and now I’m great and you’re regretting it” revenge tactic, like a puny kid who grows up to be a bodybuilder and goes round hunting his childhood bullies so he could beat them up.

What Sk8ter Girl also didn’t take into account apparently is that when you’re a teenager, being able to conform and peer pressure are two really big influences on your identity. Even if Miss Ballet really did listen to her friends, could you really blame her?

And really, what the hell’s wrong with being a young mother? Why is Miss Ballet being laughed at simply because she has a kid to take care of while Sk8ter Boi is doing ‘cool stuff’ like being an MTV hero?

The words she chose to relate the tale are very telling of her mentality. She sounds like a teenager herself in her means of expressing herself. She makes up for her low self-esteem and insecurity, making herself feel better by putting someone else down.

One possibility crossed my mind – if Sk8ter Girl recorded the song without letting her man know about it first: if I were Sk8ter Boi, I think I’d be a bit creeped out that my girlfriend would be recording a haw-haw song about my unrequited teenage crush and taunt the ex-crush to get back at her.

It also makes me wonder – since she’s going on about how Miss Ballet missed out, what is she more in love with? Sk8ter Boi’s “soul” or his rock star status? She makes no small point in conspicuously implying that the main thing that makes Miss Ballet regret is the fact that he’s a famous star.

You can tell how naïve Sk8ter Girl is by assuming “that is how the story ends” (i.e. with her and Sk8ter Boi being a couple). In reality, put insecure girl with insecure boy together, what do you get? Vindictive flakes.

Who’s the airhead now?

[OK, you CAN call me inane for psycho-analysing a pop song, but, well...I like doing it. So there.]

Mei Niang

I thought about my grandma today. This picture above was from when she was still in school - wasn't she cute? I've been told that I got a lot of my features from her, which is nice to know.

She died in 1996. Some of my cousins barely even knew her, which is incredibly sad as she was an amazing woman. I wonder how many of them asked their parents about her, if they even think about her anymore. A person is never really dead until everyone who knew them has forgotten about them, so I guess she's still living in our memories.

Her story sounds unremarkable when you first hear it: she was a midwife. But when I hear my parents start to enthusiastically talk about the people whose lives she touched, it touches me too. She often midwifed for free or accepted only a small token from families who couldn't afford expensive healthcare. I figured this is the reason for her legion of god-children and grateful pseudo-relatives who bombarded our house during Chinese New Year in past years - in fact, some of them still visit us, even though they are of no blood relation to us at all. Her midwifing 'precinct' apparently spanned at least a three-neighbourhood radius. My dad would tell me about all the food the happy families would press her to accept in return for her services. He'd tell me how their tiny, crowded home was often crammed with kids that she would help to look after and feed. It was eye-popping to hear about the number of people that filled the humble abode at any one time.

I remember her as a gentle, positive person who never stopped finding something to do, save for her short afternoon naps. Even with a maid in the house, she'd pick up a broom and start sweeping up fallen leaves, find something to tidy up, or stop to chat with her grandchildren. I remember her and grandpa showing up at our doorstep with bundles of fruits each time they came to stay. I was rather disappointed when they stopped coming to stay regularly. As a kid, I was impressed that she could speak a few languages and many dialects (not too wonderfully, but hey, let's hear YOU speak more than two languages). From all accounts, she was the main person of the household, handling the multitude of people that came in and out of the house and keeping everything running well. I also remember she loved drinking sweet packeted drinks. She survived her first brush with cancer.

I remember the first time I saw her cry. Grandpa had died some weeks before and his picture hung in my study room. I was doing homework when she came in and sat down to talk. She looked at his picture and started to cry as she spoke about him. I had never seen her sad before.

The second time I saw her truly sad was at a time when she could hardly cry even if she'd wanted to. She was lying on a bed in Singapore General Hospital, dying. Going by the signs, she was simply hanging on that week, and there was no reason why she should still be alive at that point. Her moment of sadness was when my father held his mobile phone next to her ear and she pleaded my sister to come home. I remember her exact words (in Hokkien): "Ah Tieng, come home. Ah Ma is going to die." After that day, she could no longer speak. My sister flew 13,673 kilometres across the ocean and arrived two days later and rushed to the hospital to see my grandma the last time. Grandma then died the next day.

I still think about the stories told about her. I remember Grandpa's story of how he liked her and wanted to get her family to let him marry her. I remember my mum chuckling about how she heard about how sought-after she was, apparently the prettiest girl in the kampung (village). In my mind, the only other woman who measures up to her in capability, gentleness and strength of character is maybe Mother Theresa (and then again).

I'd glad I took the time to ask my grannies about their stories before they were gone, and that my parents are still glad to tell me more when I ask. I can't decide if my favourite story is my grandpa's dramatic tale of his flight from his village in China to Singapore during the war, or any of his half-baked funny stories told in broken Mandarin.

Everyone that has lived has a story. Learn their stories before you regret not having cared at all.

Volume 2 is out!! So much sweat and hard work went into this, I can scarcely imagine I'm still sane. Some of us practically camped out in the office to get this through. I think my record for the number of hours straight spent in the office was 31 hours....after which I went home at 4pm for a quick shower and then immediately headed to a meeting. Gotta admit it's immensely rewarding to finally have the magazine in my hands. Will have to stock up on more Red Bull and supper snacks for the next round.... One good thing that came out of it is I found out the downstairs noodle stall in the Beach Road food centre is the only stall open that late with decent food and good mee pok. (Psst! Bit of advertising here: Check out the mag at www.livewell.com.sg)

California dreaming

Sunset over Monterey Bay in Santa Cruz, CA

Pretty amazing huh? You can take a look at my California vacation photos at http://community.webshots.com/user/andromeda_carina if you like. Got some good pics of some of that great scenery that the West Coast is famous for.

Sean da cutie!!

I'm so excited, I just have to mention this. Sean, my cutest little 19-month-old nephew, tasted durian for the first time, and he liked it!! Which is great, considering his ang-moh dad also loves it. Little Sean has certainly acquired likings for a few edibles during this trip to Singapore – pineapple tarts, Yakult (he doesn't seem to like Vitagen Less Sugar as much, though), durian.

It was pretty interesting to watch him try to suck through a straw for the first time. He saw me sipping at Yakult and kept staring, so I let him try. He couldn't quite get the mechanics of sucking it up all the way at first, and it was funny watching the stuff go up and down the straw but never reaching his mouth. He put the straw too far up his mouth at first, though; my sis says it's a throwback from the instinct babies have, where touching the palate of the mouth activates their sucking reflex.

You can so tell when he likes something and wants more of it: "MMMMPH!!" while leaning forward as far as he can. He looks pissed when he does that, but we all know it's because he wants something. Think he's gotten a bit spoilt while in Singapore – so many people to play with him and so much attention. It's so hard to get to work – the moment he sees me all dressed up, carrying my bag and heading to the door, he clings on to me, refuses to let go, and cries the house down if I leave. My dad and I had resorted to sneaking out the back door. You can see his noggin working each time we come home throught the front door. He should've caught on by now - us disappearing through the kitchen door and reappearing 10 hours later through the front door.

He's got this face that makes him look like a Precious Moments doll: those large doe eyes, cheeks that curve just like those characters and tiny lips that keep making weird expressions.

He's so cute.

UNGROOMED!!

I wish there was a word for the phenomenon where, on the one day you decide to go out totally ungroomed, you bump into people whom you wish could see you looking hot instead of frumpy. Then I'd actually have a term to describe my Wednesday night!

I met two people I really didn't want to see ever again in my life....well, one of them anyway, the other just comes attached to him. The last time these people saw me was when I was at least 5kg lighter and dressed better. I went out earlier that day thinking, "Hey, no one's gonna see me anyway, so why bother." So I head out without make-up, wearing an ugly, ugly cardigan over an unflattering outfit (hey, it was comfortable, ok?).

Sigh....this is almost worse than the foot-in-mouth disease that people get in similar situations. I was thankfully spared that when I had to rush off to meet my dad and couldn't (and didn't wanna) stop to talk to those two people, whom I might add seemed to have actually lost weight (rather than gained like the rest of us), making their already thin frames almost disappear. After my majorly self-esteem-killer experience with the dude in question in the past, the least I could do is look hot on front of them. But noooooooo, SOMEbody had to go out looking like a bloated, middle-aged fish with no eyebrows.

I know what you're thinking. Hey, even perfect people are entitled to frivolous grousing every now and then, let alone an excessively self-conscious neurotic like me.

Lip smackers

Let's talk about lip locking. Here are some milestones in my chequered kissing career.

Most disgusting kiss
This has got to be kissing a guy who'd just smoked. Why? Ever licked an ashtray? I didn't think so. And guys, popping in mints and sweets DOESN'T help; it just makes it more.... how shall I say, multi-dimensional?

Most virginal kiss
No, not my virginal kiss, someone else's. It's a very strange feeling to be kissed by someone who thinks he's frenching you but isn't. This dear, innocent boy didn't seem to realise that french kissing involves tongues – he apparently thought it was just open-mouthed.... and empty.

Most exhilirating kiss
The first, obviously. It's that moment just before, when I looked at those lips and thought, "Wow, am I gonna kiss THOSE lips??" Nothing prepares you for your first real one. At the rate it was going, I thought my heart was going to just pop out of my chest and start skittering away on little feet.

Cutest kiss
This has got to be a tie between butterfly kisses (where you flicker your eyelashes against your partner's) and Simpsons-type looooooooong-puckered kisses. In case you haven't seen the Simpsons in lip lock before, they pucker up such that their mouths look like little balloon-ends (the part where you place your lips to blow into the balloon) – when they kiss, it's like two little balloon-ends joining up.

Most uncomfortable kiss
Try kissing while your body is tilted backwards at about a 45-degree angle, with no support underneath, all the while you're trying to balance yourself by pushing upwards, but the numb guy is thinking that he's being super romantic by pushing you backwards while kissing like in a vintage Hollywood movie. At least in movies, the romantic dude would bother to support his lady's back. Strangest way to get a backache, probably.

My top movies for 2004 to Feb 2005

Best movies watched:
1) Being Julia
2) Before Sunset (see rave below)
3) Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
4) The Incredibles

Worst:
1) Kungfu Hustle
2) Troy
3) Spider-man 2
I'd love to continue this list, but I'm glad to say I seldom catch bad movies

What I wish I'd watched:
1) Super Size Me

What could have been wonderful if only the 3 main actors could actually act:
1) The Phantom of the Opera

This film has my vote: Before Sunset

This was one of the most enjoyable movies I caught in the past year. It's so outstanding because of its unconventional approach, which is totally unseen in mainstream movies churned out by the Hollywood and HK big screen machines.

Anyone who mistakes this for just another rose-tinted love story is sadly misinformed (in spite of what the posters look like). I'd never been so intrigued by continuous small talk in a movie than I'd been in Before Sunset. It's more about the synergy of minds and what it's like to totally hit off with someone simply because you had the right chemistry and complementary characters, and you can rattle off about just about anything under the sun (and beyond) just 2 minutes after meeting each other.

This movie has far more interesting elements to it than its prequel, Before Sunrise. While Before Sunrise had been about new beginnings and discoveries, youth and hope, Before Sunset has more undertones. It has a lot more to work with, especially the kind of undercurrents and tension that stem from the experiences of both characters, both in terms of their individual paths and their link to each other. There is also a greater sense of immediacy and reality.

It's interesting to watch the characters' exchanges while being at the age I am. While I'm not in my thirties (...yet – patience, my pet), I'm already some way down that road of experience-borne cynicism, emotional baggage and growing worldliness from having been through heartbreak, disappointment, disillusionment, and just generally knowing more than you want to know about the world...yet holding on to sparks of hope, yet despairing that they are mostly just sparks of hope, not of possibility.

The question they ultimately ask themselves is one many people my generation are surely asking – are they with the person they should be with? Have they chosen the right vocations? What should they do about their regretful choices?

The ending is excellent. I frankly don't feel that it could have ended any other way. The ambiguity at the end is starkly different from the first movie. The first movie ends with hope in a more distant future, though to those two young minds, it is not so distant and is brimming with expectant hope. Before Sunset's ending has that feeling of immediacy, leaving us feeling that if only we could linger another 2 minutes, we would see the choices they would have made. This ending is not about hope – there's no time for hope. They are already late, as it is. You know that whatever decision they make, it would have to be now. They're no longer as young and will not play with as much time as they did before, now fully aware of the folly of missed opportunities. They've come this far in 90 minutes and there's no time to simmer – once this is over, it's over. Moreover, there's no win-win situation. There would be repercussions, whatever they choose.

The camera work is really interesting, if you stop to notice. It is subtle, but works fully to convey unspokens. For example, a sequence of them walking up a long flight of stairs in silence is captured in a single, unbroken shot, fully capturing that minute of quiet tension and subtle hints of what's running through their heads as they trudge towards Celine's apartment. Another example I love is the scene where she languidly describes Nina Simone in concert. The camera moves out and has Celine in the middle of a wide shot while she mimicks Nina Simone. It gives the impression of Celine being in a stage performance herself. It is in that moment that she actually is on a metaphorical stage, still somewhat personal and yet distant from her audience, Jesse. It is not said or shown, but we know they are taking that moment to think and decide where to place their fates. Why else do people make slow, trivial talk at crucial moments?

I love this movie because it's much more real than most other movies. We can all find a part of ourselves and a part of our lives in the way this story is told, and we identify with it because it happens they way real life does. Yet, it maintains more than enough emotional intensity and romanticism to capture our hearts. Its tender moments tug at our hearts and remind us to be afraid of love and yet desire it.

It's official - I'm famous!! Well, almost. My photos appears twice in this magazine, though I doubt many people who even know who the heck it is, what with the top of my head chopped off in the pics. Plus, with my sis, bro-in-law and nephew in it too, I've got 2/3 of my family in there!

Can't believe it. So much work for such a small magazine, quarterly too. Imagine if it were monthly. After writing almost half of this mammoth project and editing just about all of it repeatedly, I've gotta appreciate the madness of the publishing world. An article is never an article. Just preparing one page takes a lot of crawling through crap....especially if you meet some people who insist on dumping even more crap on you AND insulting you and your profession to your face.

At least I'm grateful that conscience isn't something I'm contending with at this moment. That's a major plus of writing for a health and wellness magazine that's not bound by pragmatic write-what-sells notions. I'd like to think that what I write helps, even if it makes me more cynical of what I read of other people's work (and I'm already very cynical to begin with).

Last week, I got a compliment on one of my articles. A small, humble little compliment, but it still feels great to be appreciated, especially for a piece that was written on a subject matter close to my heart.

The cycle has started again. Let the games begin....

He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

Had I the heaven's embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

~W.B. Yeats~

Talent and doubt

Some gifts of natural talent you get that don't go away. Right?

That's the question I often ask myself. While in school, I discovered that my gifts of prose and acting far exceeded my knack for school curriculum. While I can't say I was born with them, they certainly always felt like natural and essential parts of me, like the ability to write with my right hand and the ability to curl my tongue.

But will the lack of contact and use cause them to diminish? I'd stayed away from acting for so long, I no longer know if I'm any good at it anymore, and I can't help feeling that it doesn't come to me as naturally as it used to. I feel more stilted and uncomfortable, even though I still love it. Or is it because I just wasn't doing the right pieces for me?

I can write, that I know. Words flow from me with ease. But can I write prose anymore? I have not written a single piece of fiction or descriptive writing since I was 17. There's only one way to find out, if only there was time enough.

Simple little questions of doubt, flowing from insecurities and deep-seated fear - after all, who doesn't sometimes stop to wonder if there's a little less of themselves if they stop being able to do things that they used to be good at or love? Part of my soul is with the pen and the stage. Is there a hollow space within me where they used to fill?

The office panorama

The view from my office window. Pretty neat, huh? Of course, I've cropped off the part of the view that includes the dingy Golden Mile Complex carpark and what appears to be a makeshift outdoor storage area for some workers. That strange little white-&-black object in the lower right hand corner is apparently the laundry of the aforesaid workers hanging out to dry....and appears to include some underpants.

My office has had the 'privilege' of being right next to the Nicoll Highway collapse site. Right before I joined the company, Francis (my boss) told me that one day they were suddenly told to evacuate the building, though he had no idea why. He later found out it was because of the collapse on the highway that day. During that time, if you'd looked for my office in www.streetdirectory.com, you would have been pointed to a spot within a circle labelled "Accident Site"! But that also meant that if you'd travelled along Beach Road outside the office for the next six months after 5pm, you would've been trapped in horrible traffic.

Today, someone visiting the office commented, "Oh, it's quite nice and cosy, isn't it?" Whenever I hear that tone, I can't help but think that what that person really means is, "My, I never thought your office was so tiny." Each time someone waltzes in, gapes for a moment and then comments on the 'cosiness' of the place, you marvel at how polite people can be and yet be just as annoying as if they'd made a tactless comment.

My company's little workspace occupies a studio-apartment sized unit in InCity Lofts, a building that has based itself on a "live and work" concept, meaning that its units can be used as apartments to live in or small offices. This is perfect for our little outfit of five people, two of whom are hardly ever in the office (the sales gurus who bring in the moolah). We hope to move into the bigger unit next door when (and if) we expand. The next door unit is quite lovely, and includes two separate bedrooms (that can be converted into more 'private' working areas...*rubbing hands in glee*) and a kitchenette.

It's small, but quite pleasant in general. The ceilings are high, and there's a loft-like space above our huge wall cupboard. But to date, no one has brought in a ladder yet, so that space is not doing very much. It gets pretty dim too, since most of our natural light is obscured by Golden Mile Complex next to us. Even with the room lights switched on, it's pretty dim. The desk lamps don't do much except irritate my eyes. Our furniture almost entirely comprises Ikea stuff, right down to the letter holders.

There's an odd yet interesting phenomenon among the tenants here. Whenever a person is alone in the lift, and the lift stops at any floor other than the desired floor, the person will start to walk out without checking which floor it is, and look utterly shocked when someone else enters the lift. I've done that myself quite a few times! I guess everyone's so used to having few people around to share the lifts with. But it's still priceless to see the look on someone's face when they start to walk out of the lift and then have that OH!! expression when they see you walking in.

The OTHER view from my office window - none too inspiring. At least I didn't show you the carpark area....at least this view has some symmetry to it.

My desk at work. Yes, I'd neatened it to take this shot.

VJC revisited

VJC cleaned up real nice! This is the view from a landing next to the lovely stairwell next to the auditorium wing. It's got a rather ostentatious chandelier dangling down the middle, and a cool baby grand piano at the base. I'm jealous - I wanna be 17 again!

Bottom view of the stairwell.

Sunday in the 'arts' library

$15 per hour for a meeting room in the Esplanade library. That's not too bad, really, if you want to compare with other places, but yeah, I guess Yan has a point that it's not very encouraging for the arts to have a charge like that. But this is Singapore, we're pragmatic people. That room mightn't necessarily have been for the 'arts'.

Arts library indeed. They didn't have ANY Christopher Durang plays there! Got there on Wednesday night to find out that all the Durang plays are in the Marine Parade library. Then pray why tout this one as the arts library if they ain't got a comprehensive collection? Folks, it's OKAY to have duplicate copies in different libraries, ya know??

Was not entirely surprised to have only Joe and Kennie show up for today's gathering at the library. Two last-minute pull-outs and no response from anyone else....we're off to a good start, aren't we? But we made some good progress I think. Spent most of the time reading snippets of the plays we dragged out of the shelves. Very promising, some, but others inspire the phrase "What the...?!". Like Agamenon, which is actually an adaptation of Poe's immortal House of Usher story. I don't know about the others, but I'm not too sure I'm keen on learning lines that come mostly in stanzas.... Then there are some other plays that seem to comprise entirely of a series of monologues. And no, they were not classical Greek ones.

Hard to pick a suitable play. Can't be too male; can't be too female; can't be too abstract; can't be too comedic; can't be too dated. Such a series of 'can'ts'. This week's exploration of the theatre shelves has shown me that, for every brilliant work of playwriting, there's a horde of seriously crappy stuff.

Browsing the music scores section was lovely, though. Even if I couldn't find the score for South Pacific (was looking for the score for that ridiculous shampoo song). Seeing the shelves of classical scores brought back memories of my college days when I used to spend hours rifling through the collection at the Stamford Road library, picking out works that look promising to try out on my Albert (my beloved piano), and then having to reluctantly eliminate some from the inevitably large pile that ends up in my to-borrow list. I doubt I ever played half of those I borrowed, though. Still was always nice making my way to the library on my own. I still like that, though the opportunity comes by far less often these days.

I don't like libraries. I don't like borrowing. I prefer owning, collecting, so I prefer bookshops. But my pockets don't run so deep, so borrowing will have to suffice till I earn my first million and fund my own private library. (uh huh.) I like to be able to read something, put it away somewhere on my shelves, and come back to it again sometime when its spine catches my eye again. Even if I don't read it again, I like the thought that I can. Compulsive consumerism? Perhaps. But the value I attach to a book I own is something that can never apply to a borrowed book that I read and doesn't seem to stay with me. The contents of the book just seem to be more a part of me when I own the book. Same reason why I hate e-books - the feeling that I can't own it, that it's not real enough for me. I'm always so hungry for books, always looking for that next work of art, be it an astronomy reference, a social dissertion, graphic novel, an irresistable coffee table book, a piece of fiction. Bookshops are death traps for my wallet.

I like my camera. Please excuse the narcism. I was really bored when I took this picture in the mirror.

(Uploading this just so I can use it in my profile. I doubt anyone will see this post anymore!)

In-your-face art

I doubt many people missed this huge head by Botero sitting in front of the Esplanade. Gonna go Botero-snap-happy with my camera on Sunday I reckon. Don't we just love how Botero makes fat people look beautiful? I'm usually not much of a photographer, but I must say I'm quite happy with how this pic turned out, especially for a night shot. Good symmetry. This was taken without flash - the flash shots I took actually turned out really dark (which is why you're seeing this one instead of the one with Kelvin trying to pick the huge head's nose).

The arts superfluous? BAH!!

It is a fact that, if we had to strip to the bare necessities, 'the arts' would probably be the first to go, since it is not essential to survival in the same way that food, social system and security are. Singapore, being such a young society, is used to being practical, since that's what got us so far in so short a time. It takes time for people to take a leap to see the arts as more than just nancing about on stage or decorating museum walls.

What a lot of people here don't share is the view that the arts is pretty much an extension of our everyday existence; a different way of expressing the nuances of life. Everything we do is on a stage; every face we put on is a mask. We behave differently in different social situations. Isn't that some form of acting? We exclaim how beautiful someone's handwriting is. Isn't that a kind of art? What we collectively call 'the arts' is really setting aside something we do all the time and focussing on it, bringing it out as an entity on its own.

Perhaps we have to get over those days where actors and artists were seen as lower-caste, immoral leeches of society. Why should actors get scorned as idle and frivolous when they act or sing on a stage, while teachers telling children stories and singing songs at playschool are seen to be conducting a productive profession? They're doing essentially the same thing.

Why do audiences keep coming if they see the arts as superfluous? To partake in an hour or two of beauty and magic, and then forget about it as they return to the mundane everyday business of living? Are artists like alcohol - kinda fun to have around, but the first to be forgotten, minus the hangover? Maybe it will take a day, a week or a year of a total absence of arts for a society to realise how much emptier their existence is without it.

But hang on - that's impossible! Where there is beauty, there is art. Where there is role-play, there is theatre. Where there is a written word, there is prose. Art is not separate from survival. It is part of the very state of being.

PIT pendulums

17 days ago, I walk alone onto a darkened stage.

It begins with the first step. The outside world is now shut to all within the large black box. There is no denying me my sovereignty as I stride across the wooden floor, a hundred pairs of eyes straining to catch a glimpse of the faint silhouette that haunts the stage for a moment.

I sit - stillness. And then there is light.

I can almost feel the pulsating life of the living, breathing audience that sits just 4 feet in front of me. And I feed off that life. I feel the rush of air through my lungs as I breathe my lines into existence; give them form; give them being; make them entities. What kind of goddess possesses such power as to create life, create death, create energy?

~~~~~~~

Before I leave the stage that night, I turn back and cast a final, lingering glance at my sanctuary and tabernacle. The stage lies almost bare and waiting, like so many patriarchal gods of old, waiting for a new conquest, a new goddess-lover, with whom to share more nights and matinees of passion.

The stage has many lovers, and I am but a fleeting concubine. The promiscuous stage ensnares many with its allure, and is faithless and cold when the lights go out. But ever I pursue my love, ever I remain faithful, ever I long for the rapture of our next union.