Midwestern shots

Was thinking about the 'secret' Midwest trip from just over a year ago and was fondly looking through the photos taken in Iowa and Chicago. Here are my favourites (sorry if you've seen these in my album before).

Between cracked earth and cotton wool.

Venus rising (as seen from the plane).

Caught napping in a pet store in Iowa City.
(Eleanor, if you get to see this, I know you'll love this.)

Did his parents try pronouncing it first before naming him?

Just loved the way this building looked, s'all (Iowa).

Millennium Park outdoor performing space (Chicago).

I was there! Dubious honour that rednecks would be proud of, but still - I was there!

Yellow ladybug lost in the car.

Last vestiges of fall (Iowa).

I loved this peaceful little park in Iowa.

Wet wet wet

I guess a lot of people would say the weather has been dismal the past few days, especially yesterday and today when it rained almost non-stop, sometimes heavy enough to render an umbrella almost useless.

But I like it like this. I've always loved cold, wet weather. Decembers and Januarys are hence always lovely times of the year, obnoxious Christmas carols and garish Orchard Road festive decor notwithstanding.

The smell of the rain is always lovely, and the feel of cool air is so refreshing. I like it being cool enough to step out of the house in a sweater and feel cosy. The wind is lovely on my face and I like to take turns breathing in through my nose and through my mouth, enjoying the different ways the moist air stimulates my senses.

Tonight, my room was in near-silence, with the gentle hum of the air-con and the patter of the rain outside to lull and comfort me. I sat in fuzzy PJ pants and a floppy sweater, holding a hot cup of tea (brown rice and green tea), the the warm, nurturing fragrance of the tea making my night just perfect. I realised it was a good day after all. I wished I could have opened the windows, but that would have invited a whole pantheon of bugs to take refuge in my room, so I settled for just listening to the rain.

Nevermind that I got shaken up early for a haircut (and ended up waiting an additional hour for my mum to finish her hair). Nevermind that my pants and sleeves got wet along the way and I was freezing the rest of the afternoon AND very hungry for the longest time. Nevermind that I got stuck in a traffic jam and waited a gawdawful amount of time just for parking on a day that I had work to deal with and didn't want to be X'mas shopping at all (guess who dragged me there?).

Relief came when I was finally home and had dealt with my clients, and was so tired I flopped into bed for a nap, so tired that it took two people three tries to wake me. And then I got a pulsing migraine just as I was leaving for my salsa class.

In spite of all that, sitting alone and comfortable in peaceful silence at the end of the day with a warm drink and the sound of the rain outside, my day was perfect again.

(Slight digression: I remember competing in the inter-hall swim meet during uni days, and it'd always be in January. Hence, you'd see a whole lot of goosepimple-y people in swimsuits hopping about trying to stay warm. The more enterprising ones would crowd into the diving pool while waiting for their turn to compete. I also remember diving into the ~freezing~ pool when it was my turn. Thank goodness adrenalin is a good (temporary) insulator.)

Passing shots

First things first: Countdown to new niece: 21 days!!

Brought Kelvin to this new brownie cafe that I'd gotten to try out while writing an article on it for a client. Called Cafe Melvados, it's at King's Arcade (next to Coronation Plaza) and has the most goooooooorgeous brownies you have ever tasted! Rich and soft and oh-so-tasty, and come in several varieties too. And they sell other food and drinks too, some of which are really yummy.
Some of their ice blends are really nice, though Kelvin and I had sodas that evening - the strawberry one looked as pretty as it tasted. The blue one was a bit more iffy.

Kelvin is so act-cute! Check out him posing with my seat cushion made to look like the back of denim pants: Doesn't he look adorable?

Countdown to baby girl: 30 days

The new baby girl is just 30 days away! Here's a precious shot of Sean giving his little sis a kiss. It's horrid that I can't be there when she's born, but at least I'll have lots to look forward to in spring. Hopefully the family will be able to come over in May as planned. I really can't wait to see them again, miss them to bits.

Another frivolous test: Which sports car am I?

I'm a Porsche 911!

You have a classic style, but you're up-to-date with the latest technology. You're ambitious, competitive, and you love to win. Performance, precision, and prestige - you're one of the elite,and you know it.

Take the Which Sports Car Are You? quiz.

Photo of the day

I didn't think much of this photo at first, but Kelvin liked it, so here it is, taken last Thursday while on the road. In case you're worried, no, I don't usually take photos while driving. Just sometimes.

November snaps

Been a while since I took any pictures for pleasure, so was glad to have a chance these two days en route to meetings and errands.

Was on Nicoll Highway and spotted a fabulous sunset sky under thick, heavy clouds. Finally found a chance to take a snap (albeit with the car still in motion). This doesn't capture anything close to what I actually saw, as my shutter speed isn't fast enough to capture the details of the curling, golden sunset that was happening in what looks like a bright yellow spot between the buildings (it just turned out over-exposed). But I still like the orange reflections on the underside of the clouds.

I don't see how anyone can walk past this at Bugis Junction and miss it. I saw one or two other passers-by stop and snigger, so I know I'm not just being dirty minded. Astroboy really is being profane.
Speaking of which, here's an Astroboy figurine I found a few weeks ago. Am I just being dirty minded again? WHAT is she about to do to his behind with that contraption?
Yesterday was a friggin hot day and I was just done with two meetings, both involving outdoor photo-taking and LOTS of walking...in heels. Nonetheless, it was still a pleasure to walk from Boat Quay to the Esplanade, my screaming calf muscles notwithstanding. My first time in this tunnel. Like it lots.

Walking through Esplanade Park, I saw this cloud at a distance. The front had this interesting saw-tooth look; the rest of it was a large, grey rain cloud. I have a thing for cloud formations (and just about anything to do with physical geography, for that matter) so this really caught my fancy. I wonder why it looks the way it does. Uneven winds?
This is so tiny and cute! My dad got a few at the breakfast spread in some hotel in Europe. Of course, Nutella being my ultimate favourite snack, I polished them off in no time. I adore these cute little bottles.

More twisted sayings

Carrying on from this previous post, here are more "whatever" sayings that will tickle anyone remotely dirty-minded...which means these entertained me to no end when I found them in www.urbandictionary.com. Let your filthy mind go and enjoy!

Whatever blows your skirt up (a hat tip to the infamous blonde, no doubt)

Whatever bums your mum

Whatever chunkays your dahl (ok, can't find a dirty association here; I just liked the ethnic adaptation, a la "Whatever gorengs your pisang")

Whatever creams your Twinkie

Whatever humps your camel

Whatever kills your baby (who the fuck came up with this one??)

Whatever mows your lawn

Whatever peels your banana

Whatever sizzles your bacon

Whatever takes you home

Whatever tickles your oyster

Whatever tingles your jingles

Whatever wets your harbour

And when I looked up "Whatever floats your boat", I found an alternative dirty explanation to it - while Jon had enlightened us on the male interpretation, here's what Urban Dictionary has to say about it: "Comes from the term "man in the boat" referring to the clitoris and the female genitalia. So, if your boat is floating, you are quite happy."

Translate men

Saw this 'women's talk translator' on Tanya's blog, and have seen it as a forwarded email before, thought it's high time someone came up with a man's version too.

*Disclaimer: This decoder is an indicator of reality only 70% of the time, bearing in mind that statistics are accurate only 20% of the time and that 45% of all statistics are falsely quoted.

**Disclaimer 2: This applies to straight men.

FINE
Don't care. Don't wanna deal with it.

FIVE MINUTES
If he's doing nothing: half an hour. If he's on the computer: 40 minutes. If he just told you he'll be 5 minutes late for your date: 1 hour.

NOTHING
Nothing. (As in, there's absolutely nothing going through their heads at that moment - this has been verbally verified by males.)

GO AHEAD
Don't care. Don't wanna deal with it.

LOUD SIGH
Whatever.

WHATEVER
Don't care. Don't wanna deal with it.

THAT'S OKAY
I'll be the generous matyr and lower my pride to forgive you your unforgivable wrongdoing. Just don't call me "Pooky" in front of my friends again.

THANKS
So you're finally doing it my way.

THANK YOU SO MUCH
Thank you (really).

Akan datang

T'is the season for stories galore, and everywhere I look, suddenly there are so many possibilities, which is unusual for me since I'm not terribly creative with stories.

New story brewing already currently, but probably can't pen it till the next one or two crazy weeks are over. Watch this space.

Meanwhile...

Sean update

The little prince is now past three years old and has discovered new oral skills, such as pestering his very pregnant mum to the point of insanity and singing long, originally-composed songs (that are tuneless and lyric-less, but hey, we all start somewhere). I'm convinced he's the cutest little nephew that ever lived.

Enjoying a long-distance phonecall with grandma. I can almost imagine him in exactly the same pose when he's sixteen and on the phone with his girlfriend.
Taken during a very happy (and brightly-coloured) trip to a pumpkin patch during fall.

No idea what that grimace was for, but oh-so-adorable.

Weird bugs

Just before moving into this current apartment, I was finding these weird little bugs in what would be my bathroom, which was then empty. At first sight, they looked like little pieces of wood chips or pulp, but I noticed they'd start to move slowly in a rather shakey, jagged sort of way. And then, on closer inspection, I noticed a little black 'head' that would poke out at one end.

They looked harmless, so I nudged one a little bit and it naturally pulled its 'head' back into what I figured was a shell of sorts (the woody looking part). To my utter amazement, the 'head' popped out the other end after some time! It proceeded to move about as normal.

I finally managed to get a decent photo of them when I found two in the kitchen last week:


I patiently waited till one of them have emerged quite a bit from the 'shell', such that I could see its legs, before taking this photo. I never saw it emerge completely though, not that it would have I suspect. I left the kitchen after taking this photo, and when I returned an hour later, they were nowhere in sight, so they move a lot faster than I thought. They're pretty small too - the entire 'shell' is only about 1 cm in length. Here's a close-up of the not-so-shy bug:


I've been trying to figure out what the heck this bug is, but haven't found anything remotely similar to these. I almost think that they use materials from their surroundings to build a shell that they can move about inside.

Anyone knows what they are? Do tell me! It's very intriguing!

*Update*

Finally, the mystery solved! Someone identified the buggers for me at Yahoo Answers: they're the larvae of a case-bearing moth. See more info here:
http://edis.ifas.ufl.edu/pdffiles/IN/IN12900.pdf

The night, part 2

She lay still on her side, her eyes firmly shut but her mind fully awake. The sounds of the night trickled into her ears. The muffled chirp of crickets. The rhythmic whir of the ceiling fan. The sound of him breathing deeply and softly beside her.

She lay close enough to feel his heat, but not enough to feel his breath; close enough to smell his low musk, but not enough to taste it. She realised she did not have her blanket on, and she suddenly missed her blanket but didn't dare to pull at it lest she awaken him.

He stirred and she opened her eyes, but he only sniffed for a moment, then resumed the deep, slow breaths of sleep.

She watched his still form in the gloom of the darkened room. He lay on his side, facing her, his arms folded over his chest. She noted bitterly that he slept in his clothes - he hadn't taken them off at all throughout that night.

Her own clothes were still on her as well. At that moment, she realised her panties had bunched into a wedgie, and she reached down and gingerly adjusted them. She then felt the cold residual wetness in her underwear and her bitterness sharpened.

She thought about their lovemaking just a couple of hours before. No, it wasn't lovemaking. It had been a half-hearted attempt to consummate the awkward, uneven desire between them that neither truly wanted. She hardly knew where his lips, tongue, teeth were on her skin. He had made her nipples hurt, but she kept silent, biting her lip, knowing he couldn't see the hurt he was causing. His fingers found her wet, but just barely. Their loins had met in quick, fleeting motions whose heat never reached deep enough within her.

He'd closed his eyes and tilted his head back trance-like. Their sex took on a floating, dreamlike quality that left her wondering if he was really there. Then she realised that he wasn't there at all.

They never took off their clothes.

And never once did he look at her in the eyes. Never once did he kiss her on her lips or on her face.

And he had withdrawn without a single word. It had ended with a pause, a hesitation before he pulled away without finishing. They had both lain in the stillness of their own thoughts before drifting off to sleep.

At least, he slept. She didn't.

She thought about his reasons for wanting her, and her reasons for wanting him, and she weighed the two. The sheer size of the deficit overwhelmed her and the pain began, sharp, unwelcome and intrusive.

The blackness of the room began to take on shades of royal blue, gradually lightening to fill the room with melancholy cerulean. She watched as weak colours started to emerge out of the gloom of the half-light as the sound of crickets gave way to the chaotic quarrelling of the morning birds.

She could see his face now, lolling dully on her pillow. She stared at him hard, willing him to wake up and look at her. He didn't stir. She willed harder, silently calling him to wake up and look at her. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

His eyes half opened and he started to blink. She quickly shut her eyes and kept as still as she could. She heard his small intake of breath and the soft rustle of him turning his head. She felt the pillow lift slightly as he raised his head momentarily before carefully lowering his head again onto the pillow.

He was still, but she knew he was awake. She wondered if he knew she was awake, listening and feeling him. He hadn't turned, so he was still facing her - was he looking at her?

She felt the light grow brighter beyond her closed lids and it grew more uncomfortable to keep them closed. She counted. One. Two. Three. And she opened her eyes.

His eyes quickly darted away from her face. He lowered his gaze and fixed it onto the empty area of bedsheet that lay between them.

She searched his face long and hard, but found nothing. She could feel his body heat but he didn't move and she resisted reaching out for him. She could no longer hear his breath but could see the rise and fall of his arms crossed over his chest. The pain in her chest twisted and tightened as she lay there utterly alone beside him.

They lay a foot apart but she felt the chasm that plunged between them. He lay a touch away from her but felt so far away that she didn't think she'd ever reach him if she flew to him. The air between them felt cold and thick.

She knew then that he would never love her back.

The night, part 1

She liked the night. She loved the hidden shades of midnight wrapping themselves around her. The world would fall silent with a sigh and she'd take a moment to hear herself breathe.

She loved the luxurious seduction of 3am. She'd open her windows, close her eyes and feel the night wind passing softly over her skin like black silk, its scent pregnant with cold moisture and mystery.

But most of all, she loved the night for bringing him to her. He would come to her long after darkness had fallen, a guitar in one hand and a never-quite-full bottle of tequila in the other. Sometimes he'd wear a smile, but mostly he'd greet her with a momentary, searching look, a look that would haunt her nights and days alike. And then he'd break the moment and her heart at the same time with nothing more than a casual, "Hi, 'Rora."

They'd begin their nightly tribute to what she wasn't sure she'd call a friendship. Her voice cutting the night air, his fingers over the strings, the stars above them all. The night heard them and understood, accepting their raw offering of music and softly-spoken secrets.

She always searched his face when she thought he wasn't looking. She searched for the answers to the riddles he sent her way with nothing more than his unsubtitled gazes, but all she got was more riddles. She'd watch his fingers as they strummed, plucked and pressed, wondering what they would feel like beneath her own fingertips. She'd look at his bare shoulders on hot nights when he'd take off his shirt, and she imagined her lips on his salty skin. She'd look at his eyes, and she willed them to turn towards her and give her the answers she wanted, but they never did.

And then, one night, it all changed.

They both staggered to her room, boozed and giggly after a night of partying. They draped over her floor, telling dirty jokes and giggling even more. He took a look at the open bottle of red wine they'd brought back with them. They might as well finish it, he said. It was merlot, his favourite. But the night was not for sipping, so they swigged, and the wine was gone before long.

The giggles turned to low, throaty chuckles and the room swirled slowly and hypnotically around them. He turned to look at her, and held his gaze this time, a small, uncertain smile playing around his lips. He was tired to climb five storeys up to his room, he said. She said he could stay, there was enough room for two. They climbed clumsily onto her bed and collapsed on it, giggling again. Yes, there was room for two, as she'd said.

He suddenly mused that ears could be massaged. She laughed and asked how on earth one massaged ears. Reaching over, his fingers found the outer curve of her right ear. His thumb and forefinger began gently kneading the soft skin of her ear, slowly working their way to the base of her ear lobe, where they paused as they made contact with the hollow of her jaw. She drew a breath with a gasp, then held it, hyper-conscious of the feel of his fingertips lingering, almost swooning under his touch. Then, very slowly, his forefinger started tracing the line of her jaw, but he suddenly withdrew his hand.

The momentary silence between them lay pregnant and electric. Her voice broke the stillness as, raising her own hand to his ear, she asked if this was how it was done. Her thumb and forefinger softly kneaded the outer curve of his ear, as he had done, down to his ear lobe. There, her forefinger lingered for a moment. Then, she slowly slid her finger behind his ear, gliding down the length of his neck, tracing the length of his collarbone. There, she rested her hand on the warm skin of his chest. She moved her hand over his skin, silently relishing his smooth heat. Then, as her hand passed over his stomach and over his waist, she paused, suddenly unsure.

Her arm was by now stretched across his bare upper body, not quite daring to rest its weight on him.

Then she felt his hand over hers, moving up the length of her arm. She felt him turn, sliding his hand up to her shoulder, then resting on her neck as she felt the weight of his body on hers as he leaned over her, propped on one elbow, the other hand still on her neck. Lowering his lips to her ear, he whispered, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

She whispered back, "I love you."

He nodded once, then moved his lips to touch the skin of her neck as his hand slid from her neck to her breast.

Part 2...

What everyone needs

A best friend, of course. And for me, an entire evening of yakking with my dear Ruilian is always therapeutic.

I think we're the perhaps the best customers Coffee Club could hope for. We usually end up eating in the same place. We somehow end up ordering the same thing. We ALWAYS order dessert after dinner. She always smiles at the serving staff while I always say thank you to them. And, if they're eavesdropping carefully, we're always full of strange stories of strange people.

I think, between the two of us, we know too many weirdos than is healthy outside of an institutional setting.
Love a-plenty to my favourite chick! Always the most reliable and unassuming friend there is.

This 'n' that

Been awhile since I could be bothered with the blog. Somehow the past few weeks of utter craziness has left my brain fried and devoid of anything interesting to say. But now that I finally have a lull in workload, here're some little interesting things I've noticed here and there.

Exhibit 1: Mystery suburban toilet bowl. Spotted at Serangoon Gardens along the pavement near where Liquid Kitchen is. Finding a toilet bowl stuffed with plastic bags and a slipper isn't something I see every day, so I deemed it worth a snapshot.

Exhibit 2a: Know how navel oranges have this little protrusion of extra flesh at one end? Well, this pomelo I chowed on some weeks back had a similar protrusion, and look - isn't it cute? The entire fruit was at least 8 inches across, but this little bump fit right in my palm. And it tasted just as sweet! Peeling it properly was a challenge, though.
Exhibit 2b: Single piece of the pomelo 'protrusion'. So small, so cute!

Exhibit 3a: If the haze has created anything good at all, it'd be the red sun we've been seeing. Didn't manage to catch the huge, bloody ball near sunset I saw awhile back, but managed to yelp at Kelvin to snap this sight from the car last weekend. Every now and then, little swirls of grey would glide across the red disc, which was quite a sight (a fleeting sight, considering I can only stop so long at a traffic junction).
Exhibit 3b: Close-up of the red-rimmed view of the sun.
Haven't taken any good photos of late, haven't found the impetus to venture out looking for interesting spots to snap. The haze is partly to blame I suppose. Tried taking a shot of the Deeavali light-up along Little India, but kinda hard to find a good spot to set up a tripod in the evening hours when people are thronging the streets in hordes.

Driving in that area during this period hasn't been a picnic either, not that it's ever been. People milling around that area seem to cross the road with some kind of death wish and I have to be quick with the brakes if I don't want to make hood ornaments out of these people. There are also few things more terrifying than driving down one-way traffic...and suddenly finding myself face-to-face with a cyclist or trishaw rider heading almost right into me. Looking for parking in the little lanes is another nightmare in ordinary times, and worse these past two weeks with MORE people gathering around the stalls set up along BARRIERS set up to close off lanes. It takes all my patience to not mow anyone down. But it's tempting.

Can't wait for Deepavali fervour to subside so that traffic conditions come back down to normal levels of insanity. Yes, I'm aware of how self-centred that sounds, wanting a festival to end fast just so I can drive more easily, but that's what city driving does to you. See how cabbies turn out?

Funky wine labels

Was speaking to a client's advertiser the other week, Denise Wine. Apart from my first glance at wine of eye-popping vintage (1921!! And they have even earlier ones). I saw these funky labels:
And it has a label name to fit - Obsession.The other place I've seen with really interesting wine labels was Bonny Doon Vineyard near Santa Cruz when my sis drove us out for tastings. The names usually come with label art with tongue-in-cheek humour, e.g. Cardinal Zin has the picture of an evil looking cardinal, Big House comes with a picture of a prison breakout (but I think they've discontinued these two).

As far as names go, I like Bouteille Call best (try pronouncing it out loud). Le Cigare Blanc comes with understated label art, but upon closer inspection, you'll notice that a UFO is beaming down on the vineyard - they even came up with a story to go with it.Check out the cool art on some of these labels:

'Round the 'hood and the r'ver

Don't ask about the apostrophes. I just felt like it.

Took another walk by myself along the river promenade yesterday, armed with just my iPod, camera, pen and paper. And brolly and keys and wallet and tissue and lip balm and gum and...well, I'm always over-prepared. Snapped a few sights along the way.

I think this new condo is called the Cosmopolitan or something like that. It directly faces my block and I must say the tall-pillar architecture sure does draw questions. There has to be a good reason for it, though it does seem like a big waste of cement. I'm just grateful we don't get earthquakes here, so far anyway. From the front, these blocks kinda look like popsicles on sticks.

Although the school building opposite my place has long been vacated, the SBS bus guide still has my stop listed as "opposite River Valley Primary School". (The real RVPS moved to different premises nearby.) There's something about a vacant school building that suggests invisible life within it, almost haunted - not by ghosts, but by the lingering essence of the past presence of children along its empty corridors and within its classrooms. But I can't help noticing how well-maintained it is, considering it hasn't been used for some years. Look at the fresh-ish paint and clean premises.

The school yard is obviously mowed regularly. It seems too tidy to not be in use, but there you have it.

And, strangely, although the grass was obviously mowed very recently, going by the rough crop of cow grass and brown grass shavings strewn about, no one has ever bothered picking up the broken pieces of rope from the dangly thing.
I've always wondered about the couple of broken-down looking godown buildings along the river next to where Saboo Street stretches over the river. I wonder if Bangkok Bank just keeps this one there as a hopelessly depreciated piece of asset, or if it just sold it to someone who forgot it was there, but this latter one seems unlikely, what with property in this area becoming more expensive and prime. Just check out the slick restoration of the buildings standing shoulder-to-shoulder to it:
This is very Singaporean - take our old nostalgic buildings and tart them up. But at least these are not pastel like Chinatown. I think it actually might be cool having an office here if I were in a creative agency (and there are already quite a few of those hiding out in shophouses in the area; also, clients will be grateful to not have to pay an arm and a leg for parking and ERP when dropping by, compared to town offices).

Yet another choice before me

This hasn't been a good week for me. I'm exhausted...but that's something I'm used to anyway. A couple of other things.

It started great - I learnt I was offered a role in what would have been my first job with a professional theatre company. Even better, the rehearsal schedule was entirely in the mornings, which clashes with nothing else I have. Then, during my first rehearsal (at 9am in the friggin morning!), I found out that performance times would clash with five of my weekend Y&W sessions. After some consultation, I realised it was unwise to miss those sessions. So I turned down the role, and another source of income. Not a big deal, but rather disappointing, considering it's the second role I've had to sacrifice this year.

Then the boom was lowered on me. As I was planning to book my tickets for my spring trip, I decided to confirm with Jon that Y&W indeed was going to end on time at the end of February. He confirmed it...before adding, "And there'll be the final showing after that." Contrary to my previous understanding, our final showing will begin production only after our coursework ends, which means another six to eight weeks.

This utterly fucks up mine and my sister's already precarious plans. We invested so much in plotting and planning and treading carefully. I can't imagine telling her this news. I almost can't bear to go through the same, if not more painful discussion again. As it is, some weeks ago when I told her I was planning to depart in mid-March, she was very sorely dismayed and upset. "I thought you said you were coming end of Feb!" "No, I said it'd END at the end of Feb. I need to play it safe. What if it ends late?" That took some soothing over. How about this? How will she react to this? I think I know, and it hurts to think of it.

After I heard Jon on the final showing, I couldn't help it - I had to leave the room to bawl. From the way Jon reacted when I told him that the trip was very important, I don't think he understood just how much it really means to me and how much goes into it.

I miss my sis and little Sean so much, almost unbearably, and I won't even be there when the new baby is born. Being away from them for so long hurts, and it doesn't help that I sense some sub-surface resentment in her about Y&W, even though she does understand what it means to me.

Then it occurred to me - if I delay it two more months, things would get even more fucked up. The Dowager is already lobbying hard for me not to go, not wanting me to be away from her. If I push my trip back to May-June, that will collide right into the annual family July-August trip. I'm pretty sure the notion of not having me around for four months will be all the reason she needs to pull out her entire arsenal to prevent the trip. As if she isn't already putting us through hell.

This boils down to a choice - I have to choose between doing the showing and going on this trip. Both mean so much to me. How do I choose?

This whole Y&W thing has been so emotionally draining for me, even though it makes me really happy as well. Between putting up with my parents' silent denial (my mum referred to theatre as my "hobby" the other day) and dealing with my sister's disappointment, working long hours and indirectly being made to feel like my commitment tp Y&W isn't complete, this is taking a lot out of me.

It feels selfish, but it made me think of all the sacrifices I've had to make. I've always been the one to bend for others and take whatever they send my way up the rear.

Before this year, I haven't gone on any holidays of my own because all my leave was spent on the Santa Cruz trip. Yet the moment I make a choice to do something for myself, everyone goes ballistic on me. My sis understands, but can't help being disappointed, and I don't know if she even realises she's guilting me. She runs away from S'pore to find her own life, leaving me behind. Why does two weeks of MY own life make her so upset with me? I'm totally understanding of her life decisions and don't resent her, so how do I express these thoughts to her without her thinking that I'm guilting her for it? She already gets enough of this from The Dowager.

I spend as much free time with The Dowager as I can spare without being driven to homicide. But that only seems to make her complain more that I'm not spending enough time with her. She doesn't want me to spend time with my sis, yet she kept guilting me for missing this year's trip.

And what was I, the bad sister/aunt/daughter doing on Sean's birthday during this missed trip? I was crying my eyes out alone, missing Sean and my sis, feeling selfish as hell.

And I still feel selfish for wanting to do the showing. I know I shouldn't, but that's what you get for being the youngest, always being the one who has to give way to everyone else without a fight, knowing I'll never ever win. Daffy's never right. She lives her life for everyone else.

After speaking with dear, patient Kelvin and supportive friends, their choice is unanimous. From the start, I already knew in my heart what the choice should be. But it's so difficult, so heart wrenching. Both are equally important to me. But what will be waiting for me, and what will not?

All these thoughts feel so SELFISH!! I feel like standing in front of the mirror and yelling, "SELFISH SELFISH SELFISH!!!" Selfish for thinking that my sis and family will still be there even if Y&W won't wait. Selfish for risking hurting her by telling her about the delayed (and possibly cancelled trip...OUCH to even think of it this way). Selfish for enduring the additional hurt I will feel from missing them even more. Selfish for even wanting my way.

How do I choose?

Ninagawa's Medea

Anyone knows how I can get my hands on a video copy of Ninagawa's Medea production?

I saw a screening of it a couple of months back, and it was absolutely AMAZING, even if it had no subtitles. It blew me away and I had my jaw hanging open most of the way. It was translated into Japanese, but if you know the story and the general plot progression, you won't really need to understand Jap to get what's going on.

I'm hungry to get a copy, but it's impossible to find. So if anyone knows where I can obtain one, let me know.

Now I'm also curious to see what his take on Macbeth was like...

When you allow the dirty minded to come up with sayings

Here are some sayings uttered during my very educational Y&W session this evening. Some are well-known sayings, some were just invented tonight, all are supposed to be dirty. See if you can guess which ones are which.

Whatever tickles your pickle.

Whatever floats your boat.

Whatever pulls your tab.

Whatever gorengs your pisang.

How nerdy am I?

Hooray! I'm hopping on another meme bandwagon!

Lessons for a little girl

Clutching Drooper the floppy stuffed dog and her box of Chinese Chequers, the little girl dashed out of the house onto the front porch. The old family driver sat dozing in his chair. She shook his arm till he opened one bleary eye. She rattled the marbles in the Chinese Chequers box and asked him to play with her. But the sleepy old driver didn't want to play Chinese Chequers. He wanted to rest till it was time for him to drive Mummy somewhere.

The little girl played alone.

The next day, the little girl took Barbie and Ken and ran to the maid. But the maid didn't want to set up a mini rock concert for Barbie and Ken. The maid had to cook lunch after cleaning the living room.

The little girl played alone.

The next day, the little girl pressed her ear against Mummy's room door. She heard the sound of the TV inside Mummy's room. She quietly crept away. Mummy wouldn't want to play while watching her movies.

The little girl played alone.

Then one day, the little girl spotted tiny Susan. Tiny Susan ran about unsteadily on her chubby little legs and was excitedly clambouring after the fat sausage-dog that padded around the yard. Tiny Susan stumbled, landed flat on her tummy, picked herself up with a giggle and ran after the dog again. The little girl clutched the fence grills that separated her from tiny Susan and watched with bright eyes. Tiny Susan's mummy came over and smiled at the little girl. "Would you like to come over play with Susan?" The little girl's heart leapt with excitement, but she didn't dare do any more than smile back shyly.

That evening, the little girl asked Mummy if she could go over the fence and play with tiny Susan. Mummy got angry and said no. The little girl asked why. Mummy got angrier and the little girl didn't dare to ask why again.

The next day, Mummy went out. The little girl stood clutching the fence grills again, watching tiny Susan run around, chasing an errant ball this time. Tiny Susan's mummy came by again and asked, "Won't you come play with Susan?" The little girl looked towards the gate - if Mummy came home now, she'd see her in tiny Susan's yard from the driveway. But if she asked the maid to help her look out for Mummy, she wouldn't get caught. So that's what she did.

And so the little girl slipped between the fence grills to play with tiny Susan. They chased after the ball, giggling all the way. They teased the fat sausage-dog, shrieking with laughter all the way. The little girl tickled tiny Susan, both of them beside themselves with delight.

And then, the little girl saw Mummy's car pulling into the driveway. The maid pointed out to the little girl, somewhat too late, that Mummy had reached home. Mummy got out of the car and glared at the little girl. Mummy commanded the little girl back through the fence and marched her into the house. The little girl listened to Mummy and walked up the stairs. Halfway up the stairs, she turned around, and there was Mummy behind her, a frightening, menacing, angry grimace-smile on Mummy's face, Mummy's eyes bulging fiercely. She went into Mummy's room as Mummy said to.

She fetched the cane from the cupboard like Mummy told her to. She gave the cane to Mummy like she was told to. She then pulled down her own pants and bent over as Mummy told her to, trembling in fear.

Twack! Twack! Twack! "You dare to cry?!" TWACK! TWACK! TWACK! TWACK!

The little girl learnt a valuable lesson that day. She learnt never to reach out to people - that would only lead to pain. She learnt that the only way out of loneliness was more loneliness - she should never try. She learnt that to venture was to get punished - risks were never meant to be taken. She also learnt that it was normal for a mummy to begin the torture of punishment long before the cane ever touches the skin - a long, withering look, dreadful anticipation and the prolonged agony of bringing about your own pain are essential parts of life as a younger. She learnt never to trust someone else to help her watch her back - no one is trustworthy enough to save you pain.

The little girl learnt a lot of things from Mummy.

I'm afraid the tale of the little girl above is a historical representation, with some slight poetic license inserted for more efficient narrative. But the events and essence of it are entirely true. I can even still see the exact expression she had walking up the stairs behind me, the one that turned my blood cold.

Sticking my head into it

If anyone remembers me complaining that work was slower last month, now's the time to snigger at me.

One of my clients was giving me less work because some of his advertisers decided it was cheaper to write the editorials themselves than to let the magazine's writers do it. Also, another client's client pushed back publishing their current issue, so there was a few less articles for me right there. Of course I was bummed as that meant less money for me. So, of course I wished for more work and encouraged all my clients to give me more.

Always be careful what you wish you as you just might get it, as many fiction and screen writers like to use in their stories, all probably thinking what an original idea that is (yeah right). Here's why I feel like I've stuck my own head into a pile of poo - my current work load as of this week is:

- 13 short newsletters, of which I've done 4
- 1 long article, research- and people-intensive
- 1 short article, with interview + product shoot tomorrow morning
- 1 medium article, with interview with 2 people + photo shoot next Monday/Tuesday
- 1 medium article, with interview with 5 people + photo shoot next Monday
- 3 short articles, with event coverage (at least I won't have to do the photos myself)
- plus an upcoming 'major' project that a client warns me is coming up in mid-September

I think I can safely say in advance that my social life is gonna get dampened next week at least!

Hands

When a cadaver is used for research or study purposes, apart from the face which is covered or excluded, its hands are removed.

Few people even think about them, but hands are so immensely personal and hold so much of one's humanity that they have to be removed so that the medical student can work on a cadaver, not a person. It's often only in death that one realises the humanity of another's hands.

I've always loved hands, love looking at them. They say so much and so little about the person at the same time. They live the person's life for them. They speak for the person when they don't open their mouth.

The first real crush I had was on the most talented pianist I know. He had beautiful hands with long, slender fingers. They looked so delicate yet held so much strength in them and created so much magic. It was his hands I fell for first. Through the years since, I've realised this is the type of hands that I like best, and when I see hands like that, I always wonder what it would be like to have them touch me.

Gnarled hands. Cold hands. Sweaty hands. Delicate hands. Big hands. Hairy hands. Thin hands. Short hands (like mine). Six-fingered hands. Freckled hands. Brown hands. They all draw my eyes to them.

I took the above picture of Sean's hands when we were on a road trip in November of 2004. His hands have always intrigued me and I fell in love with them the first time I saw them, tiny and wrinkly as he wrestled them free from his swaddling cloth in the hospital where he was born in August of 2003.

Small babies do strange, wonderful things with their hands. They seem to be perpetually amazed at their own fingers and play with them every chance they get. (And they flip you off surprisingly often, hopefully without realising it.) Sean, too, always played with them, staring at them in wonderment, turning them this way and that. Till today, I love to take his little hands in mine and feel how smooth and soft they are, how small they feel in my hands, and feel the way his fingers curl around mine. I love it even when he takes it into his head to dig his fingernails into my palm just for the heck of it.

On the same road trip, my sis was less pleased about having her picture taken. Her hands are self-explanatory.

Show me the way to the stage

An audition and a late-night chat with Winds reminded me of something.

The audition was for I Theatre's next musical. I received a message saying I didn't get into the show but was shortlisted for their next production. Disappointment was mild, and I found myself chatting with Winds about it tonight. A few things came to light which comforted me greatly about not getting into the current show, but what struck me was him mentioning one thing he liked about I Theatre - they tended to recall actors for future productions.

While that sounded promising to me at this point in time, it made me think back to the time where I was trying to start out in theatre after leaving school. Totally green with regards to the local theatre scene then, I was at a loss as to how to even find out about casting. What made it even harder was that I was working at my first full-time job. Looking around, all I found were barriers to a total newbie trying to find her way to the stage.

Out of frustration, I posted my thoughts in the singaporetheatre.com forum. Why was it so hard for a newbie? Why did we consistently see the same faces on the stage over and over when there were so many talented and eager non-professional actors out there? Why was it so hard to get hold of resources on the local scene (apart from the wonderful but limited cache of info Ee Hoon put on her website)? In a more accusatory tone, I touted that the industry shouldn't be so protective and set up so many barriers.

This is when I had my first contact with Malti, who emailed me explaining a few things about the local theatre industry and helping me with some resources. I then realised I just didn't know where to look (well, that was one of my peeves in the first place).

Theatre companies re-hire the same actors out of economy and comfort - because they know the actors and what they can do...and to pull sales using well-known names. And, if all goes well, this might even work for me in the near future now that I'm farther down the track. And is HAS worked for me - that's how I got my role in the last two musicals I did.

And it makes me feel like a bit of a sell-out (to-be), remembering all those unfamiliar, nervous faces I see at auditions, some probably where I was four years ago.

Incest is best

And now, still fairly new and inexperienced, having done only a few shows since, I'm already finding the industry incredibly small! It's almost filthy how everyone eventually knows everyone else, regardless of whether they're active in amateur or professional theatre. There are only so many training programmes and theatre companies here. It feels incestuous.

And it feels comfortable. Everyone gets mooshed together in a little pot of soup until it becomes more cosy than cramped. Lots of "Oh, you know HIM? And HER too? We did so-and-so show last year!" And, two years after you last see an actor you did a show with, you see them again in another setting and you give each other a big hug in delight. Because that's what performing together does to you, especially in amateur theatre. You recognise the same passions in each other, and those passions mingle and blend for two months. And when you take it back with you after the show is over, you take some of the other person's with you as well with no loss to either, because they're now greater than the sum of their parts.

Entering upstage right

It's hard work. It's so much tougher than what many people think it is. Just the craft itself takes so much work and effort. Getting there is another uphill climb. I think it was harder for me because I had no opportunity to train before now and no support for my love for it in my growing years. Finding the channels and the chance to develop took a great deal of time and effort. Damned if I'm ever going to give it up. I'm this close. I'm going to get there.

Along the way, it's right to stop to thank the people who benchmarked my journey:

1. Mrs Hazel Low - My introduction to and encouragement in drama in the years 1990 to 1991. Her favouritism boosted my confidence in acting and writing.

2. Roger Jenkins - For that one phrase of praise in December of 1993 that made me believe that acting was something I should keep at. And for showing me masks.

3. Malti - For showing me the doors and windows (and to Leigh for being a big big window!)

4. Luke and Esther - For saying, "Yes. We want you to be Stella." For giving my self-confidence on stage a huge upward hoist.

5. Ivan and Jon - For showing me what's behind the curtain.

Frivolous buys

What the heck, I'll succumb to a girly post and talk about shopping.

Far East Plaza is a wallet trap for me. It's almost impossible for me to walk in there and not do some damage. Last week, I spent almost $200 there, which I avoid doing these days because of my diminished income (dare to pursue the freelance dream). The shopping trip resulted in some uncharacteristic buys:

An oh-so-cute bag with a high heel attached at the bottom. How irresistable is that?


Blue jelly flipflops. They were very cheap ($9.90) and comfortable, and pretty on the feet in a way I never thought large blue plastic flowers would ever be.

Yet another quiz

Saw this quiz on Shouchen's blog and thought I'd give it a try just for the heck of it.

The Five Love Languages

My primary love language is probably
Physical Touch
with a secondary love language being
Quality Time.

Complete set of results

Physical Touch:		10
Quality Time:		8
Words of Affirmation:		6
Receiving Gifts:		4
Acts of Service:		2

Interesting. I didn't think I was that physical! I'm overwhelmingly a visual-learning person so it's a surprise that physical touch is my primary language. But it makes sense on hindsight. Most, if not all, my relationships had offically begun with physical touch, mostly by touching hands or a kiss...which was terrifying when I was younger. But yeah, touch is a very important component to me in a relationship, whether it's a romantic or platonic one. I think how willing I am to touch someone else is an indicator of how guarded I am with them. I think of how I (mentally) recoil whenever my mum touches me. I think of Kelvin and I and how our bodies just seem to meld when we hold hands or hold each other. I think of the sweet fondness Ruilian and I share when we hug each other at hello and goodbye.

I just realised the numbers above are in running multiples of 2. Very random thought.

Quality time - ah, that's something I like. I always love doing things with Kelvin. We can do the most inane things and make a big, fun discussion out of them, or just drape over the sofa watching The Simpsons, or just sit in the same room, each doing our own thing. Best of all, there's so much in common we like to do. I never have to worry about him falling asleep in a theatre and he doesn't have to worry about me getting bored silly in a gadget store. Perhaps the only activities we don't share are clothes shopping and watching boy flicks (I leave it up to you to guess who prefers which. No prizes for guessing). The best quality time is when you can combine it with physical touch. What fun is love without making out?

Before the parade passes by

Wednesday was the last time the National Day Parade would be held at the current National Stadium. I can't say I was terribly sad as I don't have any particular fond memories of the stadium. But I guess it was a fairly significant event.

This year was my first and possibly my last time attending the parade, and it had taken a bit of convincing by Kelvin before I even wanted to go. It was interesting, at least, and we had pretty good seats, though from my photos it's obvious I was just a little off centre, enough for all my photos to look every so slightly crooked. Oh well, it was a straight track in an oval stadium. There was no way to win. Anyway, I got my first up-close view of good old Caesar Lee who seemed to pause for a moment either for a breath or for applause (he got a bit of both).

My photos are in my Webshots album at http://community.webshots.com/user/andromeda_carina. Many of the photos are blurry because it was getting dark and my while my camera is good, it's still a basic consumer model. But hey, if you zoom out enough, the photos look alright! Anyway, it was mainly to capture several aspects of my evening there.

I have some thoughts on personal national identity...but it's 5am, so I'll share them another day soon.

The birds are back!

Upon one instance of channel surfing, I happened across an amazingly bad sci-fi movie called Pterodactyl on Cinemax. It's about two groups of people in the Turkish wilderness who start getting stalked by a group of prehistoric birds called pterodactyls. The tagline itself is enough to make me gag: "Ptowering Pterror". (Note: the "P" is silent in "pterodactyl".)

Even the trailer is unwittingly funny-bad! Watch it at this link.

Some ingredients that made this movie so awful it's funny:

1. A hilariously cringe-worthy script filled with cliches and one-liners. Blonde bimbo: "I just wanna go hooooooooooooommmmmme!!" (they even have this line in the trailer). Heroine into walkie-talkie while trapped in a giant bird's nest crawling with hungry baby pterodactyls: "Will I wake up in bed and find out that I am, as they call it, tripped?" Gung-ho army officer to hero at the most inappropriate moment: "She's something special. Treat her good."

2. One-dimensional stereotypical characters: Handsome-ish professor with more than just research on his mind, sort-of pretty heroine with brains who ends up needing to be rescued by the dudes, blonde bimbo who takes off her clothes and screams a lot, bespectacled nerd who eventually gets a kiss from the blonde bimbo, black garang dude (played by Coolio) who spouts 90% of the smart-ass and/or cheesy one-liners, plus an assortment of baddies with foreign accents.

3. Bad CGI prehistoric birds.

4. Bad CGI prehistoric baby birds.

5. Cheesy effects and occurences, e.g. exploding giant birds, the obligatory pointless exploding car, gratuitous gore and ripping body parts, long sequences of shooting guns into the air while the giant birds swoop about, numerous separate scenes that were very obviously all shot in the same patch of field (why the characters had to keep defending themselves from the birds in the open field instead of running for the very nearby forests is beyond my comprehension).

It is an entertaining experience, that's for sure. If you're bored and want to snigger at something, leave your brain at the door and look out for it on Cinemax. Remember: evil is in the air...

Past anger

Can one still be pissed off by someone they've long ceased to care for? Fucking yes!

Blog surfing sometimes is, quoting a recent commenter for my blog, "like a freaking car accident, you can't help but stare" even if you know you'll probably find something that will make you scoff or seethe. Browsed through an ex's blog and found this in his latest entry:

"Yet my thoughts, my pride, and my love for my family and friends was curbed when I was with Daphne (no I'm not going to go on harping on and on about her, she's not worth it {no hurt intended to reader)). Though I was happy being with her, she basically took or demanded all my energy, my emotions and my time away, till I have almost no time for others."

What the fuck?! Curbed his love for family and friends because I demanded all his energy? No hurt, my ass! His memory has failed him miserably. Mr I-want-to-be-remembered-as-the-one-who-loved-you-most who would insist on spending time with me even though I pressed him to please go home to study/help his mum. Same dude who, without warning, bought my family presents and lavished compliments and neglected to get a single thing for his long-suffering mother at CNY, and refused to take home any of the gifts for her when I asked him to.

I hate when my name is sullied like that when I was the one who tried to set things right and was not listened to. Instead, because I couldn't feel the same way and couldn't always agree with him, I get all the failings blamed on me. Hello? I recall being the one to tell him not to try too hard, that I liked him as he was, but noooooooooo... I got accused of being unappreciative when I did that.

If he voluntarily spread himself too thin in trying his best for the relationship, I understood that completely and assured him so at the time. But the fact is I tried to talk sense into him that not everything he was doing was right, and I DID tell him that his family and personal life needed attention too. And I got the same response each time: either 1) he'd majorly pout and we'd quarrel about me "not appreciating his effort", or 2) he'd gush about how he wanted to try his best for me so that he could take the honour as the one who loved me most; indeed, he was HAPPY doing all that for me and sacrificing all else, against my strenuous advice.

Well, Mr Delusional Weatherman, to hell with you. Whatever forgiveness you sought from me just ain't happening. The fact is, you never ever saw any other point of view but your own. You never saw anything happening but what was in your head. You never heard anyone else's words but your own. Although I wasn't in love with you, I gave you my best at the time, and that was wasted on you because you never saw it. Fudge you.

Missing this year

This is the first time I'm missing Sean's birthday, having chosen to stay in Singapore so I wouldn't miss Y&W training sessions. I won't get to see him till the training ends in February.

Yesterday was his third birthday and I found myself crying my eyes out at home in the middle of the night because I missed him and my sis so much.

I'd actually forgotten to call earlier, so my sis called me at a little past midnight, which is around 9am over there. She was upset that I'd forgotten it's his birthday, but what did she expect when she began the phonecall with, "So it's National Day?" The first thing that occurred to me was no, it's not National Day! (Duh.) But I didn't think she'd be testing to see if I'd forgotten Sean's day. But anyway. After the big guilt trip, we had a halting conversation, which was awkward because she and I hardly ever get upset with each other.

Then she put Sean on the phone. He didn't say much, since the amount of chatter we get from him is always dependent on his mood, but when he said, "I love you, Yee Yee" I totally melted. I then sang him his birthday song. He loved it apparently, as I was told he was grinning the whole time he was listening to the song.

It was hard to try to hide that I was crying over the phone, but I think I did admirably. I didn't want them to hear how upset I was. It really sucks that I can't be there. I keep telling myself that I can see lots of them next spring and that I'll stay longer to make up for it. And that Y&W better be well worth it.

I miss them so much.

Listening for rain

It is night and it is quiet. I'm listening.

And then the rain draws near. Gentle from a distance, thunder rolls lowly, slowly, but each is closer than the last. A faint rustle moves through the trees outside my window like a passing spectre. It passes away, leaving silence behind, but the silence is full, pregnant, waiting.

An angrier, louder roll of thunder. The rain is close now.

A few patters. Then more. Faster, and more. The pattering gathers into a collective, drawn-out sigh as a million silver drops find the earth. The large, paternal sound of their accompanying thunder booms overhead.

I wish I could open my window and smell the sultry scent of the rain. I could, but I don't. I don't know why, but I suppress the impulse.

I imagine each drop finding contact with leaves, roofs, cars, street lamps, asphalt, windows, soil. Sliding over and off them, leaving a mirror sheen on everything. I imagine touching a cold drop, turning my finger over, watching the the half sphere of transparency wobble on my skin.

But I don't open the window to look out or hold my hand out in the rain.

I listen instead, the soft, hypnotic sigh of rainfall.

Theatre can be painful

Four weeks into movement workshops with Jing Hong at TTP and I've attained a wide collection of bruises and one elbow scrape to show for it. Given it's the first real exposure I've had to movement-based theatre, it's been a very interesting experience...and at times a painful one. Jing Hong must be almost 10 years older than I am but physical fitness-wise, she puts us to shame.

Muscle aches aside, being a creature of little grace and litheness, I find my limbs in frequent collisions with the floor.

My knees after 5 July's session:

Today, after last night's session (during which I found myself repeatedly flipping over on the floor and landing on my knees and forehead):

I should invest in knee pads.