Photo of the day

Passed by Clarke Quay at past one in the morning after Sunday night's post-performance supper. As would be expected, the place was almost deserted as the last stragglers had gone off after England vs Equador finished earlier.

From across the river, I caught sight of Clarke Quay, almost devoid of people, and marvelled at how the gaudy colours actually appealed to me. I normally balk at the kitschy facade of the place, especially by day, but at that moment, it looked almost lovely. Also another rare sight was the still water - ripples usually crinkle the water because of boats and such during the day. With such a perfect reflection, I couldn't resist taking as best a night shot as I could in the absence of a tripod.

Oh, but while on the subject of gaudy eyesores along the river, this hideous bridge is a landmark along the promenade, somewhere in between Robertson Walk and Clarke Quay.

Visible even from a point along Havelock Road, this monstrosity looks like an oversized playground monkey bar set with a crazed child set loose on it with a crayon. If it's attention they were aiming for when designing this thing, attention is what they got. It makes me cringe every time I see it.

Singing of whores and venereal disease

A Stella-r (geddit? geddit? guffaw...) performance calls for a reprise. We were invited to re-perform Blue Willow House and Victorian Days at the NAFA black box where it'd be opened up to NAFA students and anyone else who wanted to watch. Hence we found ourselves playing to a younger audience on Sunday in a freezing little theatre with air so dry that several of us found our voices cracking.
"Hear the Rain" was apparently the most addictive tune in the musical (Kelvin said the riff repeated over and over in his head for several days after watching our Esplanade run). Wish we'd gotten a picture of the finale version of it - we were all standing solely backlit in blue, giving us a deliberate ghost-like effect. Paul, our stage manager, says the effect is fantastic but I still have no idea what the heck it looks like.

Whadya know...when Paul finally gets due mention in the programme, lighting goes to hell. Apparently, the ageing computer that controls the lighting system ran out of RAM, which is how we found the house lights suddenly beaming over the audience in the middle of BWH, and Juz had to sing a portion of his lovely solo in complete darkness the next moment. Good thing they rebooted the computer during the interval so at least VD ran without a hitch.
Finally a decent shot of me on stage without my face contorted to some weird expression. Here I am in BWH as old, diseased whore May Lee. Contrast that with...

Me as a nun in VD! Wait...make that four of us that make the complete turnaround from 'ho to nun. I was seriously keh leh feh in VD, though. Spent most of the run sitting at the back gathering moss. At least in BWH I got to belt a few tunes in a schizo range.
This is my favourite photo of the lot taken during our dress rehearsal of BWH. (P.S. All photos above except for one with the nuns are courtesy of Chester, our VD accompanist and shutterbug extraordinaire.)
Yet another pic of us fooling around in the Esplanade dressing room. And those large white spots on our faces are our mics, not humongous zits. Me, Amanda and Jamie (L-R) tarting it up for Chester.

With it all finally over for good, we headed to Brewerkz for supper where I finally found a truly American-sized burger in Singapore (no, I couldn't finish it at midnight). Camera junkies Michelle and Amanda went from each person to the next doing Mich's famous long-arm DYI shots.

When I went home and took a look in the mirror, I decided not to let my creepy stage makeup go to waste and did a few of my own long-arm DYI shots. Besides, I reckon it'll be a while before I feel inclined to slap on this much makeup again. (Wait a sec...I'll be doing just that for my Riceball performance on Friday. Dang it.) Anyway, Art very gallantly offered to edit the photo for me so I wouldn't shine like a Thanksgiving turkey. Think he tinkered with the colour and contrast as well. Wish he'd given me a facelift too while he was at it.

Kabuki vs kabuki

This is one of my favourite covers from my Kabuki comic collection. It's actually a bit of a departure from David Mack's usual ethereal style of painting and colouring, but I think it achieves a beautiful ceremic quality to it. You can almost expect to reach out and touch the cold, smooth, white surface.

The eyes aren't part of the mask, though. They're Kabuki's eyes. The red isn't from her irises, as she's wearing red lenses.

Went through some basics on kabuki as a Japanese theatre form during last weekend's Y&W session. It prompted me to go back to my Kabuki comics and I saw it in a new light, which intrigued me. [Note: When "kabuki" appears fully in lowercase, I mean the theatre form; when it's "Kabuki" in sentence casing, I refer to the comic series.]

David Mack obviously knows his stuff about Japan, its culture and art forms and uses much of it in Kabuki (duh). What fascinated me was the fact that he used a mask for his protagonist who bears the pseudonym Kabuki, whereas kabuki itself does not use masks, as compared to Noh theatre. It didn't make sense to me until I thought about it a little further.

Kabuki is one of eight agents in a group of assasins known as Masks of the Noh, each agent bearing a unique mask. Moreover, they were initially led by a villian in disguise who donned, surprise surprise, an Oni mask (the only mask used in kabuki plays, by demon characters).

I realised the parallel between Kabuki's origins and the kabuki theatre form. She was born of a peasant woman - kabuki rose as a 'common man's theatre'. Moreover, one realises that it's after her mask is taken off that her real connection with kabuki is revealed - she has the characters "ka bu ki" carved on her face. Hence, it's the unmasking that makes her true to her namesake.

If a reader is sharp, they'd also realise that her name makes her the odd one out in Masks of the Noh, since kabuki is performed without masks (with the exception of Oni). That in itself should foreshadow her pending fate. Also, the use of Oni's mask would immediately clue one in that he'd be the villian in disguise since it signposts him as the demon figure.

While I find David's storytelling too slick and sometimes overdoses the reader with stylo-milo and arty-farty images, his story arcs are filled with so much depth and symbolism that they're still a pleasure to read. My new discovery of kabuki as an art form has led me to further appreciate the art and richness of both the theatre form and the comic.

Sneak peeks from D-Day #2

Finally, the last day of The New Wave came and went. General excitement hummed in the dressing room throughout the long day as we went about preparing for the last day of the months of preparation (we thought). Chester, our composer and accompanist for Victorian Days took a bunch of gorgeous shots of us, proving that he has a magic eye to match his magic hands.

Tanya's present (of sorts) to me. Note the very buxom caricature of me at the bottom of the note. She'd been itching to grab my tits the past few weeks and it finally manifested in writing for all to see. Tanya needs a blow-up doll. Fast.

A lull moment amidst dressing room madness.

I noticed Chester loitering at the extreme left of my peripheral vision and I was trying not to poke my eye out while exclaiming to him, "Are you taking this??" In another moment of folly a while later, I told him, "Don't you dare!" when I spotted him pointing the camera at me while my lashes were in the grip of an eyelash curler. Never dare a trigger-happy man with a camera.

P.S. I had no idea my forehead sticks out like that in profile until now.

If I'm me, who're you?

Vinn sent me this picture awhile back when he was working with Nightlife.sg and I'd almost forgotten about it. One of his photographers caught this at some club. (To the girls in the photo, apologies for using your faces without permission.)

See that girl on the left? Well...that's not me!

She looks like she's smiling sweetly, which would make her my doppelganger, since 'sweet' is a quality few of my friends associate with me. I wouldn't be wearing that nor would I be posing like that. Still, gotta admit this chick is a dead ringer. Vinn himself could hardly believe it wasn't me, and he certainly knows me, being my ex.

Who are you and what are you doing with my face??

Babyface

Yes, that's me - babyface, or so I've been told. For those who haven't known me long, this is how I look completely without make-up (and in a frumpy T-shirt):

I've grown used to the looks of utter surprise when I tell people how old I am. "But you look like a teenager!" they tend to exclaim. I've had 19-year-olds mistake me for 19 years old. And back when I actually was nineteen, a US customs officer eyed me incredulously and asked, brandishing my passport, "Are you sure you're not twelve?"

And it's strange, considering I was mistaken for a 17-year-old when I was thirteen. Then, one time, when I was almost nineteen and waiting to start university, I was buying stuff at a provision shop and the lady good-naturedly struck up a conversation.

"Xiao mei mei, what are you doing now?"

"I'm waiting to start school again."

"So which secondary school are you going to?"

Secondary school?? How in the blazes did she think I was twelve? But it was the first time my baby looks struck me.

This is how I usually appear. In case you're wondering what's the difference, it's in the eyebrows. I don't come naturally endowed with much, so, these days, I rarely ever leave home without my eyebrows. I don't like putting on too much make-up, but I need those ebony arches.

I'll probably appreciate being mistaken for younger when I'm over the hill, but that's still a good 13 years away. Right now, I'd be lucky to be taken seriously in work situations. I look like a kid even when dressed professionally, like this:

It's only in the past one year or so that I've stopped getting carded for ordering booze or entering clubs...well, not as often anyway. Also probably because my dress sense has changed somewhat and little lines have made their appearance under my eyes - hooray, my first wrinkles! Then again, I see similar lines in people younger than me too.

And even after wearing a face full of make-up, which I ordinarily hate piling on too much, I've been told I look "sweet", even if it's a look I NEVER go for. See Halloween specimen on the right. (By the way, I learned that night that coloured feather boas aren't always colour fast.)

Maybe it's in the genes. Both my parents looked remarkably young for the longest time. It's only in recent years that my dad actually looked his age (he's now sixty). My mum has aged, but she still looks a decade younger, thanks to her very extensive efforts to preserve her looks. Both my aunts on my dad's side look fairly young for their age, especially the youngest aunt who is health-conscious and has a personality that seems to make her glow.

Then again, I could, like my father, age all of a sudden without warning and everything might decide to droop and crinkle all at once. But, by that time, who cares?

One drunk night

This is the one night some years ago that put me off bourbon for life. One of the nights that is marked as a landmark in my life, for some bizarre reason. Abject depression, drunkeness and double-edged kindness render this night indelible in my memory.

The phone rings. I pick up the receiver. "Hello?"

It's Boon. "Hey Daph, meet on the roof? Have a fresh bottle of bourbon."

"Sure."

I pick up my guitar, grab a mug and am about to head out of the hostel room when I spot a small envelope on my desk. I'd just received it today and forgot about it until now. Tucking the guitar under my arm and balancing the mug from my pinkie, I quickly open the envelope.

Inside is a single, small, square piece of paper. Only two lines are scribbled on it. "Please return to me the baby photo and the picture of me in Ubin that I'd given you. WJ."

I stand there for a moment, frozen, staring blankly at the paper. Then, dropping the note and the envelope on the floor, I continue on my way to the roof. I spot the Big Dipper hovering in the northern night sky as I enter the roof from the corridor.

Boon and Brian are already waiting for me there with their hammocks, a bottle of bourbon and a few cans of Coke. Just like every other night when we'd enjoyed each others' company. Music and chatting and some soul baring.

Not tonight.

Passing the guitar to Boon, I make for the bourbon and start mixing myself a stiff drink. Wincing at the taste at first, I gulp most of it down in a flash and start pouring another. Brian starts mixing his own and Boon's.

I finish my second drink and start pouring a third. Brian looks at me.

I finish my third and start pouring a fourth.

"Slow down, Daph," Brian chuckles.

"Don't want to." By now, swallowing the drink is getting more difficult and I slow down.

Boon looks up this time, pausing in the middle of tuning the guitar. From the corner of my eye I see his face turned towards me. I think he frowns, but I'm not sure, as my peripheral vision is starting to blur. When my eyes start to feel hot and wet, I realise why. A familiar, twisting tightness begins in my chest. I raise the mug to my lips again but find it hard to drink when my nose starts to run. The tears roll onto my lips and I taste salt instead. After a while, all I can do is stand there, clutching at the mug and sobbing shamelessly.

Suddenly, I hold my breath and down the rest of my drink in a single gulp. I splutter and choke. A staggering cough mixes with my sobs. I try to take a step backwards and teeter instead. Brian catches my arm and steadies me. Putting his arm around me for support, he leads me to the side and we sit on the floor propped up against the wall. I bury my head between my knees and cry my heart out.

For a long time, that is all I do. Sob my pitiful heart out.

Brian gets up and walks away. He returns with a fresh drink and hands it to me. "What happened?" he asks gently. Boon is sitting aside, watching quietly.

I raise my head and look at Brian with my weepy eyes. I take a sip of the drink. After a moment's hesitation, I down the entire drink. "He...he...WJ sent me a note. He wants his pictures back."

He looks puzzled for a moment.

"Those were the first things WJ gave to me to treasure." I bury my face in my hands and start to weep again pathetically. For a while, Brian does nothing. I suspect he still doesn't understand. I don't fully understand it either. All I know was that I am hurting, a knife twisting deep within.

I feel the gentle weight of his arm on my back as he puts his hand on my head. We sit like that for some time.

I don't know how much time passes before he slowly gets up and walks away. I hardly hear him leave, still overwhelmed by the pain.

After a long time, I look up. Brian is not there, and his hammock is gone. Boon, who has been softly plucking at the guitar strings, stops and looks at me, concerned. I realise my head is swimming.

"Brian's gone off?"

Boon nods.

Using the wall for balance, I try to get up, and realise I can hardly balance myself. The world does a few whirls, and I can't see what's in front of me. Holding my hand out, I use my best effort to focus on the corridor light through the haze of tears and intoxication and haltingly walk towards it. After a few steps, I realise I am feeling quite violently sick.

Staggering as quickly as I can towards the stairs, I half climb, half walk down the stairs, clutching desperately at the handrails. At the bottom, I spot the harsh fluorescent lights of the toilet and stumble towards it. Finding the first toilet cubicle, I hurl a disgusting cocktail of bourbon, Coke, and semi-digested supper. The foul reek saturates my senses and I hurl twice more before straightening up and wiping my mouth. I lean against the cubicle wall, panting in exhaustion and nausea.

Eventually, I stumble blindly out of the toilet. I sit on the bottom step of the stairs with a thump and bend over, holding my forehead in my hands and moaning.

It is a few moments before I become aware that Boon is standing in front of me.

He holds out his hand to me. I take it and he helps me to my feet. With him half pulling me, I make my way back up the stairs with some difficulty. He leads me back onto the roof, towards his hammock. I allow him to help me into the hammock, my head pounding and my stomach squirming. I finally lie down, the hammock swinging lightly, but enough to dizzy me and make my head whirl uncomfortably. Boon takes his jacket and places it over me.

I spend the next few hours in a fitful attempt to sleep. Queasy, drunk and heartbroken, I fidget continuously in the hammock, wild half-dreams flitting uneasily in and out. Faces come and go, sometimes WJ's large, hard eyes and stubborn, fixed jaw, sometimes Boon's sad, haunting gaze, and they make me cry. I whisper in my semi-conscious haze but forget the words after whispering them. Amidst the dreams, faces, whispers and tears, I fall asleep.

I open my eyes, and immediately shut them tight when a rude shock of sunlight stabs them. I suddenly become conscious of the heat beating down on my face and I start to get up, pushing aside the jacket. Dazed, I look about, and I see Boon nodding off on a chair facing the hammock. The bottle of bourbon still sits on the ledge with my empty mug next to it. The Coke cans are gone.

I try to get out of the hammock, and then the headache hits me like a sledgehammer. Putting my feet on the floor and sitting up, I press the base of my palm against my left temple until the throbbing eases slightly. I then stand up, put on my slippers and walk towards the ledge. Boon opens his eyes then and, with bleary eyes, watches me pick up my mug and shuffle to the corridor and start down the stairs.

I walk three stories down and walk down the long corridor towards my room. I can hear Boon behind me but my head hurts too badly for me to want to turn around. I open my room door, remove my slippers, plonk the mug down on the floor and collapse on my bed. I hear Boon put down the guitar by the door. I feel him pull my blanket over my shoulders. He then walks out and closes the door.