The Dance of Layers

an old excerpt

2010-10-09T03:57:00.001+08:00

Do you remember the flutter of love at first sight, that cliché of clichés knocking upon the metal, barred door of your delicate alabaster heart. Slowly the blood trickles into the walls of your heart, growing stronger, pumping louder, with vigour. Hope springs eternal. You start to believe in magic. The world seems like a miniature globe in the palm of your hands. You wake up to the prospect of the next minute, the next hour, the next moment of pure contentment. The face of your loved one melds itself into your memory, every crease, every wrinkle, and every out of place hair. You adopt his habits and he eases himself into your routine. The blossoming of your relationship becomes a dance. You dream of today, tomorrow, forever wrapped in his enveloping love. Love is the irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired. So says, Robert Frost. The power of love bowls you over. Even as you start to see that love sits dangerously close to hate and anger simply because of the intensity of the passion. You hover on the brink of destruction, knowing that your dependency renders you ever so fragile. Then you await that blasted hour, when it comes crashing down. You are left at ground zero. Disease sets in, subconsciously invited. Once you knew your love was a lie, or at least held too big a missing piece to the jigsaw, nothing else makes sense anymore. Your weakened body tells the disease, take me now. And so you fade away into a greying mess of nothingness. Nothingness.

retribution

2010-03-04T17:15:00.000+08:00

It was the single most eventful day of my adult life. The hazy hours of drunken dawn were a swirl of pink in her bedroom, her lair. Her pink corset, her pink lacy bra, her luscious pink organza curtains hanging at her doorway, a peek-a-boo glimpse of what you could expect, from where you sat lounging on a sofa in the living room. The guys and I had gone out the night before. One of the many nights in that period of my life where I just left the small, suffocating apartment with Cat’s expectations and her burgeoning belly. And then the miscarriage. Her depression. I couldn’t deal with it. It was a trap right from the start; she copped out of taking her pills regularly and threw herself at me on a nightly basis, desperate for me to plant my seed in her, so that I would be rooted. Maybe she sensed that I was drifting, drifting away, dreaming pink dreams.
Things between Cat and I had always been easy, until her best friends started getting married and having kids and she began to transform into a competitive vicious creature and I became a mere tool to her. When she finally got pregnant I had no choice but to marry her. What else could I do? We’d been together since elementary school and I did promise her dying father that I would take care of her no matter what. And of course there was that slight matter of inheritance that our future child would come into once it turned 18. Cat’s eccentric father had made it out in writing that this inheritance would only be bequeathed if the child were borne of both Cat and I specifically. I always felt that he loved me more than his own daughter really and that put me in an excruciatingly difficult position.
So there I was sprawled on Tim’s musty sofa, wallowing in my misery. From where I sat I caught a glimpse of Sasha pottering about in her room. Sasha was Tim’s best friend and housemate. In my inebriated state I saw puffs of pink vapours emitting from her room, like in a Looney Tunes cartoon where the skunk is followed by these visual fumes. Sasha’s puffs of scent were so enticing; it was a vague blend of citrus, pink blossoms and pure sex.
At some point in our mish-mash of a conversation, Tim called out from the kitchen counter,
“Hey man, I’m gonna go crash now. My head is weighing a tonne. You can just stay over and make yourself comfortable, aight?”
“Yeah, sure. Thanks man,” I slurred.
After about five seconds, Sasha came prancing in. She grabbed a beer from the fridge and promptly parked herself beside me on the sofa. She asked how am I. I said I’m in hell. She said poor baby and twirled the spiky bits of hair on top of my head. All I knew was that she was a vision in pink. She leaned forward and put her right hand on my left cheek and just looked at me. Then she tilted her beer bottle so that the rest of it trickled onto the sofa.
“Oops. I guess you can’t sleep here now.”
Nod.
“My bed is pretty spacious. You can come camp with me.”
Nod.
My legs steered my sluggish beer infested body to her pink boudoir. I laid motionless as she undressed me, caressed me and had her way with me. At some point I came alive and like a predator I punished her for all the wrongs I felt that womankind had done me. With each power-drill thrust I said, “Take that!”
She did take it. She didn’t seem to mind at all and that only propelled me to keep going. By the time the sun rose, I was spent. In every way possible. Sasha fell asleep. I leant toward her right ear and whispered, “Sorry.”
I grabbed my coat from the living room and ran all the way home to Cat. All the way home I had sappy Polaroid flashbacks of the two of us in my racing mind. My 8th birthday, our first school dance, a string of valentine’s days, the car crash, my parents’ funeral and the ensuing depression that she stood by me through.
I unlocked the door and headed straight to our bedroom. My head was never more lucid than at that moment. God I was so stupid! She was the one. She’d always been. No pink vision could replace her and I couldn’t just desert her when she needed me most. Even the money didn’t matter anymore.
I knew she hated it when I climbed into bed fresh from the streets, so I showered first. With romantic thoughts spiralling through my mind, I gently pulled back the comforter and shimmied under it. I reached out for her warmth. Then I heard her sobs.
“Baby, don’t cry. I’m home. I’m sorry I didn’t call, but I’m home now.”
“I waited up all night and I knew… I knew that if you didn’t come home before the sun came up that our marriage is over.”
“Hush. Don’t say that, love. I know things haven’t been easy but I’m gonna work harder and I will be a better husband, hon..I promise.”
Anguished sobs continued racking through her petite frame. Her sobs became wails and all I could do was hold her and wipe her tears with the edge of our 370 thread count satin mesh sheets.
“Since I lost the baby I’ve been so..broken… and now I’m losing you too, Marc. It’s just all too much for me.”
“Honey, you’re not losing me, I’m here.” I grabbed her and held her tight. I stroked her face and tucked her hair behind her ears.
She leaned in and whispered,”I know about Sasha. Tim called.” Then she pulled my hands off her and turned away to wail at the wall. Her fragile frame shuddered and shook with despair. Her shuddering grew more violent and then as I watched, her eyes rolled backwards and she lay still.
“Cat!!! Cat honey!!Are you okay???” Cat!””
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
I was the pub near the hospital later that day going through the events of that tumultuous day in my head. The panic of rushing Cat to the hospital. That beeping flatline I heard from outside the double doors of the Emergency Room. Charge! The flatline that went zigzagging again as my breath returned. Tragicomic timing. Or did my infidelity send Catherine over the edge? She’s always had health issues. Outside the ER, I was beyond useless and being there didn’t do anyone any good. So I’d rushed out in the blinding rain, entered the first pub I saw. Ordered ham and eggs, pretended that it was a normal day at the pub. Ordered some beer. I never needed a beer so badly before. After what seemed like an eternity, the waitress brought over my order. I rearranged my ham to make out a smiley face beneath the eggs. Then put it back the way it was. Coping mechanism. I ate the ham and eggs and drank the beer….

part 2 is the plot they gave me for a writing competition...

i have to start somewhere don't i

2009-06-23T15:58:00.000+08:00

he prayed for wind. not just any old listless breeze, but a specific howling wind. the sort that would knock her laundry right off their poles and send her delicate pieces flying off into the bushes right next to where he sat. this was his grand scheme. each day his schemes altered, but the object of his affection did not. he dedicated a study to her laundry habits, she washed her clothes religiously, if today he saw her walk out of her neighbourhood in a yellow dress, said yellow dress would be hanging out to dry the very next morning. And if the sun chose to take a break, he'd see it hanging right below the ceiling of her balcony.
she seemed to live alone. and he wondered about that. the same way he wondered about her comings and goings just from watching her and what she chose to wear to face each day. like how just the other day, he saw her from his bedroom window, she headed towards the main road at 10pm, dressed in a very short black skirt and a pretty sequinned top. It drove him nuts wondering who she dressed up for, in his imagination she was many things, she was everything.
the wind didn't come, as he had hoped. so he had a new plan. he went out and bought a big, bright, beautiful umbrella. Now he prayed for rain. One day she'd be rushing home and the rain would start pouring down hard, big relentless splatters all over the clay paths leading to her lift lobby, then like the hero he was destined to be, he'd show up. With a trusty little spring and push of a button the pink umbrella would flap up ready to shelter her pretty head from the mean storm. Then she'd look up at him and finally say.."Hi."
and that's when he would tell her. Tell her what exactly? he thought. He and his umbrella trudged back home to the 10th floor of the block facing hers as he tried to summon up the speech that would change his life, and hopefully hers, forever. He lay in bed thinking about it, looking out the window as it began to rain. The first sign of rain in at least a month, and he wasn't prepared.

...........................

find life afresh

2009-06-02T21:48:00.003+08:00

you lament the futility of your life, or so you feel, if the one thing that used to make your heart race, the stringing of word after word into a lei of a beautiful phrase upon phrase. and all you feel and have ever felt is trapped within the mire of obligation. a path set out in iron clad concrete stone. this is your life, your future, chosen by the inkling of what is right, what is meant to be. this is your truth.
but there is perhaps a dewdrop of a deeper truth. an ounce of soul and spirit and fire, a thought, a hope, a shining dream that there could be , there must be more to what you have been destined for than this. The solace of pen and ink and type and font, and behind it all, the spirit of the written word. you say you have lost it, but really it is buried under your own gnawing voice of reason. the fear of always falling short. the unrecognized unconventionality of it all.
today, tomorrow, ever after, always, each second you can be reborn. you can summon the courage and will to find life afresh and breathe in the vapor of a new day, a bigger challenge, a grey-er hope. if and why and how, and all that repressed beneath the stubs of their question marks, the weight of doubt and the ever so subtle self-loathing.
each second you can be reborn.

(for sher)

oh the irony

2009-05-24T23:59:00.002+08:00

after several hours of wondering whether he was finally home, she sent him a text message.

" i am done staring at my laptop screen waiting for you to come online. and i don't wanna seem pesky by messaging to garner some response."

...

I am home...

2009-04-07T10:19:00.004+08:00

I am yawning the yawns of a person who has been sleep deprived for days, weeks and months on end. my yawns are infamous, boyfriend calls me the MGM lion. The truth is I have been having ample sleep.
I am savouring being home despite the upheavals, and rough seas. I have been away for too long, caused upheavals myself. A 6 month season of estrangement. And now I'm home like a prodigal daughter of sorts.
I am reading Paypal for dummies and learning how to build an e store, with bouts of creative ferris wheeling as i get back to creating for a function , a purpose, a public enlightenment.
I am eating things i have yearned for, flavours my tongue misses with a vengeance.
I am living from a suitcase, from which i rarely find the right ensemble for my everyday tasks. Whatever wardrobe extensions I've made over the past few months is still not adequate. It never is, is it??
I am content to be caught in simple togs, without a trace of make up in this town I call home.
I am excited about going to KL with my 16 year old sister to catch one of her favourite singers, LIVE. David Archuleta. It promises to be a blast and great bonding time.
I don't know how long I will be here. But it is okay. I can begin to be just me at home.
It is good to be home.

the dance of extremes

2009-03-25T16:45:00.002+08:00

you make me so mad sometimes. miffed. pissed. internally combusting. steam coming out of my ears in puffs. face flushed red. unable to contain it all, i blurt out my annoyance. you stay silent. exacerbating the situation. my heart starts doing yoga, contorting in awkward pretzel configurations. still, you say nothing.
and then slowly but surely, you react. in a way that calms me down. in a way that makes me forgive you almost instantly.

in you there sit two extreme labels.
the one who can make me most mad.
and...
the one who can make me most happy.

this is love.
this is us.

80 isn't that old

2009-03-25T16:31:00.002+08:00

Last week, as part of my job, i went to shangri-la to oversee a jazz band. The band was going to be playing for a dinner event where the guests were 750 passenger from the cruise ship, Queen Victoria. This is what's said of the ship, "The world’s most anticipated ship has arrived. She is a sonnet in motion. Destined for legendary status from the moment she first touched the sea. Queen Victoria™ gracefully blends timeless British tradition with a rich array of modern amenities."
With soundchecks and getting the band ready, they remind us of two important things to note
1) the average age of the audience is 80
2) almost all have hearing aids, so don't play too loudly.
When evening crept upon us, the doors opened, greeters dressed in colourful ethnic costumes lined the aisles, and the guests started to trickle in. My first impression was, wow, they sure don't look 80. And they were all glamorously decked in rich fabrics, glittering bling, and fur coats for most. They sure knew how to have a good time!
At 10 o clock, when the band was in full swing, and with their dinner partaken of, these adorable couples took to the dance floor in throngs. The wooden floor was packed and it was simply dreamy watching them dance. Some ready to throw off any inhibition, slowed by age, but full of life. Some still highly active, bopping away. But all of them looking into their partners' eyes, full of love and joy. And that simply melted my very being.
Here i am at 25, thinking i feel old. Look at them!

The fish that made me cry

2009-03-16T18:25:00.003+08:00

The most ridiculous thing happened at home last night. After the 27th time of me heading to the kitchen to peek at dinner in progress, driven by immense hunger, i saw that the cooking was in full swing. I glanced towards the sink area and saw nothing strange. Fish being prepped for steaming. The boyfriend's folks deals in the seafood business so we have fish for dinner practically every night. What was strange was how the fish looked. It was a fish head, an obscenely large fish head with largely swollen lips and freakishly big eyes. The face looked almost human, and my reflex was to run from the kitchen. Gasping, with tears rolling down my cheeks, astonished by the fish...

sarah at sixteen

2009-02-27T16:08:00.003+08:00

I remember when you were born. We went to visit you in the hospital. All pink and wrinkly. Wriggling in your incubator. I remember, ever so vaguely, gazing at you in awe. Such a tiny seed of a human, i wondered how you would look like when your expressions began to ingrain themselves onto your delicate face. I wondered what you would be like. But i didn’t have to wonder if you would be beautiful, or if i would end up being proud of you, because i knew it would be so.

Sixteen years have gone by. Today you are almost double the age i was when you were born. All the movies and all the books and all the cliches could never really tell you what it’s like to have a baby sister. One you will always feel protective over. One you will always, always adore. One you wish you could be a role model for, at least in some ways, the ways that count, the ways that matter.

I am a softie and I end up making sacrifices big and small for people i care about, people i love, and i have the softest spot in my heart for you. I would save and scrimp and then i see something you’ll love and so I buy it for you. I would be so hungry looking forward to my sausage bun and then you come in looking for “snackie??” at teatime and so i give it to you. I would have 30 mins of guiltfree time to myself after an insane week and then you pop your face at my door, a little bit of loneliness giving itself away, and so i’ll deck myself out in my long pants, jacket and all to come and hang out with you in your igloo of a room.

I always lament the years and months I spend away from you, missing out on watching you grow up, catching the live action of this beautiful process. But I will always cherish the times we did have together, and I hope that even as you get even older
(but, not too quickly, yeah?), you will come to see me more as who I am as an individual, not just as an older sibling, who often “annoyed” you, like when i looked out for you or made sure you studied and ate all your food. I love you with all my heart, I always will.
You are beautiful, like sunshine on flowers, bubbles of loveliness and I am proud, so proud of you my baby sister. Happy Sweet Sixteen!

waiting...

2009-02-24T10:31:00.001+08:00

Application status

The general stages for the application status are
Application received --> Application processing --> Outcome of application

Your current status is Application processing.

Document status

The general stages for the document status are
Awaiting documents --> Documents received

Your current status is Documents received.

Payment status

The general stages for the payment status are
Awaiting payment --> Processing payment --> Payment received

Your current status is Payment received.

Appeal status

Current status : Not Applicable.
Last Appeal Received : Not Applicable.
Last Mode of Appeal : Not Applicable.

Everywhere there is a plight

2009-02-18T17:27:00.004+08:00

I'm back. Please excuse my absence. My excuse is that i have been drugged up, drowsy flu meds, antibiotics, etc. I was deaf in my right ear for a week, and went to the hospital yesterday to see an ENT specialist. By then , my ear had pretty much cleared up, thank god. Imagine being young and vibrant and loving MUSIC and having your ear go deaf? It was mildly traumatic.
But you know what was more traumatic? Seeing others at the hospital who were obviously suffering more or who had a much smaller sense of hope, or faith that everything would work itself out.

At the ENT clinic itself, things don't look so bleak. It is in the other areas, plenty of ailing old folk. Their symptoms unapparent, their sorrow mirrored in their posture, their countenance. The good thing is most of them had someone, at least one person by their sides, to take them down to the food court for lunch. To bring tiffins of home-cooked food for them. To show them they are loved.

The sad thing is that for some, it is only when sickness strikes that they begin to deign to share their time, and nibblets of love. Guilt pushes them to make up for all that lost time. Hospitals make me sad. They always have, ever since i had someone close to me get sick and have to frequent the hospital often. I used to be bold and not squeamish in the slightest, now, even the sight of a patient in a wheelchair causes me to feel a deep deep sadness that brinks on nauseousness. I have fainted in the hospital before, knocking down a chair and making a huge racket in the process, just upon the sight of a dissected cyst.
There was one incident at the pharmacy which struck a chord in my sense of humanity. There was a foreign worker at the counter, collecting his medicine. The pharmacist was speaking extra loudly since he seemed to not understand a word she was saying.

"Any allergies???"
"mumble mumble"
"Any allergies??"
He points at his fingers. She looks at his prescription
"No allergies. OK, go pay at the counter."
"MC??"
"No MC here, Go to clinic upstairs."
"MC?"
"MC upstairs. ASK FROM DOCTOR.CLINIC.B1A."
This exchange goes on for longer than necessary, until the pharmacist steps out of her zone to lead him to where he should be going. She leads towards the cashier first to pay for his medicine.
"Pay money first, 26 dollars."
"MC?"
" Pay money first take medicine then go upstairs take MC"
"MC"
"MC later. Pay money first"
Incoherent exchanges.
"No money, no medicine. You want medicine???"
Silence.
"No money, no medicine. You want medicine???"
He shakes his head. Leaves the medicine behind. And goes off. In search of his MC apparently.
I wonder what his medicine is for. I was tempted to pay for his medicine. But not knowing what his ailment is, it seemed a little frivolous. Nevertheless. I thought to myself, what if that was Jesus? And i hadn't done anything about it.

And still we hope...

2009-02-05T12:21:00.006+08:00

It isn't tomorrow. Well, not the tomorrow which Monday promised. Are you not familiar with that sinking feeling of being let down, disappointed. Followed by chastisement of your own naive self for believing in something, someone, a promise, a hope.

Nikki was 10 or 11, in the middle of a tear-fest, her parents lecturing in the background, that familiar scene of being scolded and nagged at. For what, really? She felt like her only crime was being born into a family where nothing was ever good enough. Each day a roller coaster of trying to impress, and seeking approval. Nothing was normal. Constant mind games. And never knowing, really, if it was them or it was her, since they could twist it all and always make her feel to blame.
So it was at that time, when she first heard of the word, resilient.
"At least she's resilient", she hears her mother say, speaking of her as if she weren't there. They say it as though it's a good thing, a wisp of a compliment and instantly, Nikki longs to know what it meant.
"What does that mean?" she asks in a small voice.
" Strong. Can bounce back. Like spring, " her dad says. And she hides that little nugget in her heart, in her being, in her very core for the next 15 years and probably the rest of her life. Amidst all the other things she makes of herself, she knows and insists that she be resilient, no matter what. Come what may.

Have you wondered what it is inside you, or in some people but not everyone, that gives you that conviction and strength to bounce back from tragedy, hurt, pain, disappointment, time and time again, without getting too emotional about it. Some call it faith in a higher being, or an innate sense of maturity balanced with a healthy dose of positivity, and then there are those who just detach themselves from the various outcomes of life because somewhere deep inside they've given up long ago. And yet they have a little place in their battered hearts where they store this little seed of hope that things may turn out well for them. These are those who aren't lost causes. Then again no one really is a lost cause.

So once you've lived enough, you know that even though someone says they're going to do something the very next day there is a great likelihood that it just won't happen. But now that I've given you this little pang of displeasure, you will have built a little resilience, you can bounce back from slight injury. And you're one step closer to being unfazed by slight disappointment. The truth is, I am a nice person, and i will spend half a day lamenting on having disappointed you, if i knew that it indeed had disappointed you. (And many days spent in regret the bigger the hurt i may cause.) BUT since we are only now beginning this merry acquaintance, let us not get too emotional, and simply enjoy the stories we will share with each other.

Yes.share. I look forward to reading your stories,too. and thoughts. and ideas. and most importantly...COMMENTS! What do we live for if not to make the lives of others happier? And how can that be achieved without knowing the hearts of the "others"? I have mentioned that in this post I will shed light on how exactly this blog will be divided, bla blah blah. As usual, I have overcommitted. After some thought, I feel it would be best to let this blog slowly take its own shape rather than imposing certain demarcations before it has even grown a voice. Like an overzealous parent who sends their child for french, violin, art, kumon, baby gym and then some before finding their individual strengths.

I do have some plans in mind, but I shall keep you all in sweet delectable suspense=)

I'm still thinking about whether to reveal the story behind the title "dance of layers" in the next post. Anyone wanna make a guess?

shadow of a dream

2009-02-02T21:30:00.003+08:00

sunday, april 8, 2007
so we've both come to realize that we have our moments, rather many in fact where we're out and about living life and as something strikes us, we start thinking hmm, i wanna blog about this and the words form a line and the sentences are conjured up in the bold and creative recesses of our minds. but when we're faced with the blog post screen or even a blank journal for that matter, all is lost. something holds us back. for me, a lot of the time it is someone that holds me back. oftentimes that someone is me.
talking about our washed out writing aspirations helps shed some light on the stash of hidden sentiments gathering dust in the storeroom. perhaps, together, spurring each other on as individuals, we may once again find the burning passion to write in a voice that speaks to everyone and no one in particular. a voice that is constantly heard..

that bit was plucked out from a now decaying blog called "just write" started by an ancient classmate and i.

in my first post, i feel like i should give a little background info.
i suppose all of us on project blook have at some point in our lives, whether in a flaming distinct moment, or with the growing shade of certainty, sensed that we were born to write.
my friend sherry has always been an avid fan and advocate of my dreams. she writes, as well. i wish she did it more.
we often talk of our writer ambitions.
and talk.
and write a bit.
then talk more.
today i hope i am one step closer to having the conviction when i tell people,
"i'm a writer".
today i hope i inspire her.
to go for her dreams.
and stop being a tax auditor!
not because it isn't a great job. but because i think she belongs with her pen in books.
i am excited. and i hope you are too.
to all who know me.
and all who don't.

hello, hello=)
it's going to be a fun ride...

tomorrow i'll tell you more about i'm going to divide my blog into categories for different posts, etc etc and how YOU can be a part of it.

tomorrow, tomorrow, i'll love ya, tomorrow=)
(you can tell i'm from THAT generation, the one who watched annie at 6)