all bottled up

She feels all bottled up of late.

And so thinks she should write again.

Photo by the artistry of Georgia Wiggs on Flickr!

on rain

Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass

It's about learning to dance in the rain...

Image Courtesy of xmonstermaggie on Flickr

of pyjamas and things

I slipped into my pyjamas last night and curled into bed with my favourite pillow and a good book.

then the edges of my consciousness were awakened to a different time by the scent that wafted up from this old pair of PJ's.

they smelt of a different life and many many moons ago. the smelt of my apartment in Toronto, the bed I hardly slept in, the couch i spent far too many nights on, the kitchen and dining room I was proud of. they smelt of my first real taste of being a grown up.

a lot changed for me that year. i had a complete life earthquake. it was a year of many many firsts. in one flight, my whole world had turned on its head. i left my first grown up relationship (i came back to it and left it again many times that year which probably didn't help any), started my first job and started living alone in my own apartment in one fell swoop. i also decided to do it in a new city on a new continent.

*grin* I never was one for doing anything by halves.

it was the year i discovered a love for hiking and learnt to knit and sail. the year i fell in love with good photography. it was the year dance was rekindled in the form of Lindy hop. the year i realised who my friends really were. the year of devouring books by the harbour in the midst of a hot T.O. summer's day with a delicious ice- cream cone.

it was a growing year that i loved and abhorred in equal measure and i would never want to relive it that exact same way again.

it's perhaps the only year i harbour any regrets from. i was so caught up in trying to survive that i forgot to live. so intent on keeping afloat that i forgot i could swim. i spent too much time in bed, afraid of the world and not enough time living in it.

and though perhaps i could blame someone else for that, at the end of the day to use a ridiculously cliched phrase, no one is the captain of my own destiny but me. but you get through the darkness in your own time, in your own way.

No.

I wouldn't relive it the exact same way.

I would relive it and do it very very differently.

In the hopes of taking away more than I did the first time around.

Image courtesy of getthebubbles on Flickr.

To Ulanbataar with Love

Absence makes the heart grow fonder they say. And it does because I miss him. More so than normal because He's not just a phone call or a text message away.

He's off in a far off land that is but a concept to me, doing what he does best.

I guess even with the distance, you get used to being in touch and I feel strangely robbed of him despite knowing that it's only for a while. Despite never really having him here in the first place.

Last weekend was wonderful in the most obscure of ways. We did nothing of consequence but everything that mattered and it heralded a future filled with nothing, but everything to me. 

And to be without him in its wake leaves me feeling a little out of sorts.

For in a relationship like ours, without the contact, what are we? Little more than an invisible glittery string that stretches across the seas I think.

It reminds me that it's too easy to take his being "around" for granted. It reminds me of this, sappy though that may be.

i carry your heart with me

E.E. Cummings

i carry your heart with me
(i carry it in my heart)

i am never without it

(anywhere i go you go,my dear;

and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear no fate

(for you are my fate,my sweet)

i want no world

(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root

and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky

of a tree called life;

which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart

(i carry it in my heart)

image courtesy of Lars F. Menzel on Flickr

2 days a month

...

she gets despondent and paranoid

she over thinks things

she frets and cries

...

this is her lot, being a woman, and it's ok

but she does wonder

as it's the same recurring issues these two days a month

are they issues that she buries the remaining 28 days

or phantom issues that she imagines into place

to keep the grey thoughts company

for those 2 days a month

the many facets

Light hits a surface and reflects at different angles.

Perhaps this is a lot like Love.


For is there more Love...

... in letting your mask fall and knowing that you can ask for help from that one person when you're drowning?

or

... in realising that watching someone you love flounder is painful and scary and so choosing to keep your drowning to yourself?


Maybe there's not a lot between them.

Maybe it's just Love reflecting.


Photo courtesy of Karin Elizabeth on Flickr.

yet another little piece

as i start to let go of this lifetime

piece by piece

i am reminded everyday

of the things i will leave behind

and i know i will yearn

for the beauty in these Brunei skies


Photo Courtesy of Jasmine Wong.

on being daddy's girl

There is a story that people tell me. Apparently when I was born, Abah took me out into the garden, held me out to the sky and said that everything could be taken away from him but this.

It's a notion that appeals to the melodrama in me. Whether it's true or not, it doesn't really matter I suppose because it's a sentiment that Abah has echoed throughout my life.

We fight. We're similar in that we have strong opinions, stubborn and proud. But he's always hated seeing me cry and I remember many moments in my childhood when he would gather me in his arms after yelling at me and remind me that he only got upset because he loved me. And in those arms, I knew I was safe and I knew that his love was there to stay.

I remember when he went away to study and how I used to climb into the wardrobe where all his clothes were kept when I missed him. Just to pretend that he was around. The songs I made up for him that Mama would record and send over for him to listen to, because phone calls were just too expensive.

And how now, well into my 20's, he's still the first person I call when I'm scared and I need saving.

I came home a few days ago and found Abah asleep on the couch as he is most evenings. I realised that when i leave, I will miss seeing him asleep on the couch. I realised that soon Abah really cannot be the first man in my life.

I wonder how much longer I'm allowed to be Daddy's girl. And how I can even come close to letting him know just how much he means to me.

Photo courtesy of 62Lofu on Flickr.

my dope

The BFG once said to me that music is my dope. And he was right. It's my dope, my Aspirin and my Achilles heel. It's everything. Because music makes me feel.

In the lowest of my lows, Big Band music picks me up. Perhaps it reminds me of nights spent in a shabby Irish bar, jitterbugging the night away. When the cares were left at the doorway, stuffed deep into my snow boots. When despite the dark and the dreary, I managed to dream with my feet. It was only those nights dancing that year that I allowed myself to dream.

Randomly it was also that period of my life that I listened to music the least. For the simple reason that it was too painful. Too many songs on the radio were, and still are, about love and its loss. It was depressing and my obsession with lyrics made it hard not to personalise what I heard. So I stopped.

It was also around then too that I stopped singing. Or rather, trying to sing. I go through life with the most random collection of songs passing through my head. And very often it makes an appearance in my physical world. Much to the chagrin of others, I might add *smirk*. Crease worried when I didn't sing. I seem to recollect a conversation with her one summer to that effect. She said she was happy because I was singing in the shower again *smile*. It told her that I saw light at the end of the tunnel again.

The loneliest and happiest moments of my soul correlate directly to the absence and presence of music respectively. It lifts, it drags, it turns cartwheels with my heart. So perhaps music isn't just the food of love, but rather the sustenance of life.

Play on.

Image courtesy of Llina S. on Flickr.

he needs to be...

"he needs to be Big enough so you can both take cover under his coat when it rains.
Small enough for you to wrap your arms almost around.
Strong enough to restrain you from leaving too easily.
Gentle enough to know when to leave you alone.
and Man enough to know when to give you his hand."

the above is an exerpt from "The Datin Diaries" a now defunct blog I used to read. The Datin blogs no more which is a shame as her entries were thought provoking, heartfelt and well written. It's not often a blog with no gimmicks, of a random stranger, keeps me coming back for more. Some of her entries are reproduced in Notes from Venus.

The Datin's right. That's all he really needs to be.

Image courtesy of rebecca whitney on Flickr.

that word

She thinks that the word “Love” is bandied about too easily. One only has to watch an episode on American Idol to hear it umpteenth times. She’s no superstar so she does not know how they feel about their fans but seriously, LOVE?

It’s such a big, little, word isn’t it?

Not to say that she does not love easily. In some cases she does. Very easily and very quickly. Perhaps it comes from having family constantly separated by the big blue sea. When she sees them, she loves them, in the space of a heartbeat almost. Because she knows that if she doesn’t fall in love with them now, the next opportunity may be a squagillion light years away.

But then to say those words. To say “I Love You”, it’s a big thing to her. It’s not something to be thrown about. It’s not “luvya” or “love ya” or any other derivation. It’s those three words. In Malay “bulat bulat”. Literally meaning roundly, actually in context meaning unequivocally I suppose.

With some people she knows it instantly, and she tells them then and there. She’s not really one that waits for tomorrow, there’s no promise it’ll arrive. But with others she has taken her time, thought about if she meant it, before saying it, if ever.

Because it’s the lightest but the heaviest thing to say. It carries such resonance, so many unspoken vows.

It denotes a promise, a steadfastness of belief, an actual- honest to god- will defend with my last breath- feeling. It’s a pledge to stay, to try, to hang on for dear life, to see it through. An oath to be honest, to be true, to be vulnerable. To let go, to have faith, to aid that faith in every way you can.

So no, she does not bandy it around. She has meant it, each and every time she has said it. And she is proud of that.

Image courtesy of Hawee Ta3kees on Flickr.

in a steaming mug of tea

Ali my love,

It’s been over two years now.

And I still think of you with every cup of tea I make. Because I remember you coming over to ours on Warwick Street and drinking jugs of the stuff. This was when you decided it was scandalous that I hadn’t been to Durham and we made plans to go that very week.

I remember the last time I saw you up and about. We watched the then new Harry Potter film. It was one of my last few nights in the Toon. I needed to rush off straight after to catch the RSC doing a Midsummer Night's Dream at the Theatre Royal. There was a sense of urgency which I should have recognised in your embrace that night. You were never one to make a big deal of things. I should’ve known.

At what point do I take your number off my phone, your name from my birthday calendar and your email address from my book?

I miss you…

Photo courtesy of Yoshiko314 on Flickr.

on change

She was a little taken aback a few days ago having found out that Buddy was telling people that the reason for their demise was because she had "changed" after the programme.

She has never seen change as a bad thing, simply different. But perhaps her reaction came from the word being used pejoratively.

He helped her put things in context by saying that yes she probably had changed. For if she was the same person she was prior to the programme then she would still be with Buddy. Perhaps the only change was that post programme she realised that there were things she was putting up with that she didn't have to. But that was change enough.

And if Buddy needs to believe that was the reason for their demise, then so be it. We all need to somehow explain the bad things away. Is it the truth? Maybe it's the truth as it seems to him. She believes the truth is coloured by one's own perceptions.

Has she changed?

Probably

Is that a bad thing?

She doesn't think so. She likes the person that she is and where she is heading. And that person was partially moulded by that experience. We are the sum total of our experiences right?

He is a star for reminding her of that.

I was not born in a barn...

... therefore I close doors.

Literally and otherwise.

Lost One once told me in not so many words, that there were some women who he previously dated, to whom the door was always left ajar. At that time he was trying to close the door to me, hence the enormity of what he had said did not strike me.

It was not till many make ups and break ups with him later that this sentence came back to haunt me in the form of his first love. I have opinions on what the reasons were for their demise from what little he said. However, that in the context of this post is neither here nor there. What matters is that he had never closed the door to her.

And it stung.

How does one really take the fact that in some part of the man you thought loved you, is this tiny spark of hope that someday things might work out between him and someone else?

To me anyway, a large part of being in a relationship is tcerebral. I believe you can emotionally cheat on your partner without lifting a finger physically. I don't believe that the absence of the act makes this any less wrong or any easier to swallow.

So I close doors. At the dregs of a relationship, I will flog that horse till it is good and dead. I do this so that when I leave that relationship, I know there is nothing more I could have done. So I know I will never go back.

Some enter again through a different door, in a different context, in another lifetime. But it will never be that same door and never those circumstances.

Sure, it's natural to stare at that door for a while. To, in some way, wish it would open back up. And that's ok, so long as you don't look at the closed door so long that you miss one that's open.

Open doors let in too much, and seldom anything good. We owe it to the ones we will love in the future to close those doors in our past.

Photo courtesy of Engineer J on Flickr.

would you

If we are the sum total of our experiences........

would you relive your darkest days thus far to be who and where you are today?

harbour

"Sunday mornin’ rain is fallin’
Steal some covers, share some skin
Clouds are shrouding us in moments unforgettable
You twist to fit the mould that I am in"

Sunday Morning by Maroon 5.

There’s something about the image of two people asleep under the covers that makes this song my favourite from Maroon 5.

The bed is a strange sort of place. It moulds to suit the purpose for which you need it. No, not in that way and No I’m not the perennial bed- hopper *grin* In fact this post is actually nothing to do with anything carnal.

We’ve all I’m sure shared a sleeping space with various people, absolute strangers included, out of necessity. I know I have. The list ranges from random people I meet on diving trips to drunken acquaintances who’ve misplaced their keys. In such circumstances it really is something born out of necessity, to rest weary bones, recharge and nothing more.

But then you get the moments with the people that matter.

To share sleeping space is one thing, to share your bed is another.

For to share your bed is to share your most vulnerable moments, the vessel that allows you to dream, your harbour.

I remember moments spent growing up with Simian in her old double bed in Tampines when we would gossip till we fell asleep, Smeagol jumping into my bed with me when I was so floored by life I couldn’t get out of it. Breakfast in bed with Lost One talking about everything that mattered, yet nothing of importance. The many many nights when my bed seemed too big and the room too unfriendly for my broken heart when I would crawl up to Crease’s room, favourite pillow in tow, and all she would do was flip open the duvet, make room and let me sleep with her.

It is these moments when you realise how intimate sharing a bed with someone is. When you twist to fit the mould the other person is in, or they twist to fit in yours.

It’s saying, when your shelter fails you, let me engulf you in mine.

It’s saying, let’s run away. I’ll make sure you’re ok.

Photo courtesy of hdahlby on Flickr.

the language of the heart

She is English spoken this girl. When she needs to express herself she does it in English. She speaks Malay of course but does not have anywhere near the eloquence as she does in English.

But when she loves, the word closest to her heart is Sayang. Because for all her English speaking, she grew up with love in her household, and the language of that love was Malay.

There’s a certain sense of poetry, of sincerity in this language that she loves. Perhaps because it’s not language she uses to communicate her daily needs, Malay holds a certain romanticism for her.

Why is it that “tercari cari bayanganmu” means so much more than “looking for your shadow” which is what it translates to? The Malay conveys a certain hopelessness and despair which the English doesn’t.

Her head may speak in English, but her soul whispers in Malay.

And she would be lost if she never heard tender Malay words in her household.

Photo courtesy of Adibi on Flickr.

on loss

grief

noun

Mental anguish or pain caused by loss or despair: heartache, heartbreak, sorrow

But yet can such a simple sentence really relay the true meaning and depth of this emotion. As I sat in the church today I couldn't help but wonder how deep the well of grief really is.

Have I grieved?

Yes, undoubtedly, but on the periphery of my consciousness I am also aware that I've merely scratched the surface of it all.

As I watched Artemis say goodbye to her father today, I couldn't help but to cry with her. How can one possibly look at another, whose heart is clearing breaking before your very eyes and not grieve? How could I possibly stare into the eyes of this woman, whose 8 year old face I remember, and not want to somehow make it all better?

And yet you know you can't, and perhaps a part of you grieves for that. For knowing that no matter how much this person matters, there really is nothing you can do.

And I wondered if it was my place to feel for her in her grief. After all I did not know the man, I simply had vague memories. Is it not a feeling so intensely private that my tears may be seem to be a mockery of the other, stronger memories of the people who clearly had the right?

Rightly or wrongly, I empathised, I held her and hoped she knew the millions of things I couldn't and didn't know how to say...

the parts i forgot

in her elation she forgot, why it was she swore off relationships where he lived far far away oh so long ago.

tonight she remembered.

tonight she remembered the tears

Photo courtesy of *Vali on Flickr.

when we lose our humanity

With images like these I wonder how anyone could justify eating Shark's Fin Soup?

Yes we are the top of the food chain. There is however no need for this senseless torture.

Time and time again we lose sight of our humanity.

And if we lose that, do we not lose the very essence of being human?


Images taken from womaninawetsuit.blogspot.com