A pleasant afternoon.

Unexpected - I had a good time. (Though I cannot speak for the others.) The ease of smiling and laughing over lunch. The lighthearted teasing - even the Ex-Boss was not spared. Heh. To his credit, he never made his staff feel beneath him. And the smiles and niceties were sincere.

I had accepted the lunch invitation just to "give face" to the Ex-Boss. So there we all were, brought together to see how much awkward silence and tension could be generated within ninety minutes.

[1] Pointy-Haired Ex-Boss. Or rather, Ex-Boss with the Magnanimous Mole. Ok... ok... just Ex-Boss then. Better now? Heh.
[2] Colleague.
[3] Ex-Colleague.
[4] Secretary of the Ex-Boss. (Unknown.)
[5] I.

Expected - Everyone put on their smiley emoticons and lip-synced the usual and expected social niceties. But, we all remembered what it was like with each other. It was in the air. Yet, the unforgotten disdain and suspicions in my mind took a back seat in the lightness of the afternoon. Perhaps, the open concept of the place also helped.

Pointy-Haired Ex-Boss with the Magnanimous Mole, ok... ok... Ex-Boss, is not that bad a person. He HAS a good heart - in spite of the diabolical scheming, exploiting trusting staff to do his evil bidding, manipulating impressionable young minds, systematically inflicting mental distress on fragile sanities, hurling fucking vulgarities (including the female staff), alrrrright... alright... Where was I? Ah. Now, as I was saying, the man HAS a good heart, erm... well... somewhere under all that, that stuff. Heh. 'Sides, he helped me to get my very own Balls of Steel! How can I not be grateful for that, eh? Heh. Heh. Heh.

With the others, it was not that I could not see their flaws anymore, nor was I unaware of the subdued animosity cast my way. But, these did not overwhelm my senses as before. I knew their wary looks, and the careful, at times slightly puzzled, smiles. But they laughed when I did - caught up in the moment as I was too? The smiles and niceties were heartfelt, I meant them - most of them, anyhow. And for the moment, I drew upon these people's brighter sides, and the goodness.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Perhaps, I can learn to forgive the bad. But I never forget the badness.

"Speak softly and carry a +6 two-handed sword."
- Anonymous

Or in my case:
"Laugh heartily but never forget your [glowing] [humming] +12dam +12hit +3wis +3dex enchanted bronze claymore."

Oh, heck. Just give me a BFG! Laugh.

Itching. Shedding. Evolving.

As I laughed, heads turned and eyes looked up and smiled too.

Sometimes, I wonder. Is the laughter real? Sometimes, it scares me that in trying to be more positive about life, I may have become a Plastic Pollyanna; a hypocrite; to be despised like the rest of the Plastic People; fake; unreal; meaningless. Have I unwittingly given in to the ways of the world? (Oh, woe unto me!)

Often, she watches me warily, cogs and wheels squeaking behind those eyes. She; Yes-Woman; Good Guy; the one with all the smiles, friendly banter and niceties; but increasingly lesser. I; No-Woman; Bad Guy; Balance in the Force; Grim Reaper. Things clicking behind her eyes, assessing. I, now become so warm, friendly, and all lightness. She wonders: "What is SHE up to?" Does she know that I ask this of myself too?

Sometimes, it bothers me enough that I hold back the smiles and happy words to consider if they are real - are me. Is this, who I am becoming, have become? It feels surreal. And it scares me.

But I wanted this. I had always wanted this. (Sean told me how he was attracted by the positive outlook of the Other.)

Now, almost two years later, out of the big hulking shadow (heh) of the Ex-Communicated, is this what I still want? And even if I do, is this for real? Am I - real?

To become, we do not change overnight. We watch, learn, rehearse, perform, and repeat, and repeat. There is deliberation, consciousness, self-awareness, and reflection. And there is the desire to want to change - for the better, for ourselves. At which point does mere performance finally become You? When is the old skin shedded and the new one emerge?

But smiling and laughing feel good. This does not feel wrong or sinful. I feel good. I want to continue smiling and laughing.

The Changeling

"What do you do. After you have lost yourself?"

You have to find yourself. But do you know why it is so hard to find yourself?

"Because you cannot see yourself." - 22 April.

Or not? Not, actually. Because we are never really the same again. People change. We always find ourselves again, a little different - the same, and yet not quite. Do you know this? Or are you still living in the past, floundering in the whispering darkness, following the "wrong" voices, chasing mere shadows of the Old You?

Have you looked at yourself in the mirror recently? Do you recognise the person looking back at you? Yes, the one in the eyes. The soul - reborn.

Butterflies.

"The significance of the butterfly in Irish folklore attributes it as the soul and thus it has the ability to cross into the Otherworld. It is also a symbol of transformation and creation."

Methinks a butterfly tattoo is most apt.

(Now, to figure out how to do this without freaking out my mum, and be accused of being an unhealthy influence on my impressionable youngest sister. Yeah right, like she is not already unhealthy enough on her own smoke, I mean, steam. Laugh.)

The Haves and Have-Nots.

As I listened to SF recall her small talk with the only male from the client's side (simply because the other women did not deign to include her in their small talk after the meeting), I was already visualising the characteristic lively expressions, the easy conversation, and the charm she exudes while holding her Court, the way only she can.

Then, the animosity from the women, which unsettled her greatly: "Why do they dislike me??? What did I do?"

"Because you scare them. They are threatened by your charm."

Surely, she was hardly competition beside these much better looking women - she thought. I beg to differ.

Because, really, it is how effortlessly you exude charm and confidence, as if they were part of your being. Whereas these women - attractive, younger and well-dressed - just do not have it. These women know this. They know that charm and confidence cannot be bought off the shelf. They also know that beauty and youth, while not easily acquired (though increasingly possible with medical technology), are simply cold perfections without the fire of that special something that comes from within you. You have it. They do not. And they know this.

Or perhaps, it was just a territory thing. Females mark their spot too - and she was an outsider.

Ah, how often our kind scrutinise and assess each other, sometimes more than the men do :-) Not only the other women colleagues/ acquaintances of our boyfriends/ husbands; and yes, even our friends - "I wonder who else he hangs out with. How come he doesn't ask me to accompany him to that CD shop he likes so much?" And, especially, our romantic interests - competition. Not a pleasant feeling, but to be expected - natural, if not allowed to become an unhealthy obsession. A matter of self-confidence? Possessive nature? Or just marking territory? Perhaps, a combination.

But what does it mean when the usual questions you burn to ask, and the things you want to know, of the other women of a romantic interest, do not come as expected, nor even matter to you?

I need.

To sleep my fears away. And then, find Courage.

Still waters.

SM: "use to lunch with colleagues, but nowadays, i lunch alone... so in a way, more quiet in the head..."

I: "wah why you ljnch alone so cham"

SM: "i choose to lunch alone la... sian la, coz the gals.... ji ji zha zha... and talk abt office things... alamak... give me a break!"

He told me about another déjà vu sighting days before he met/ saw the person (not the same as the déjà vu sighting); including a new colleague. It has been happening more frequently of late.

In solitude. In calm. You will start to see the faces in the masses. And hear the voices in the noise.

The Celestine Prophecy.

I know why you wanted me to read the book.

But, had you known that the words in the book would take me even farther from YOUR path, where you had been waiting, would you still have persuaded me to read it?

Well, who can see the bigger picture? I cannot. Shrug.

The Butterfly Effect.

"Would you choose to erase someone you truly loved from your present, future... and (yourself from) her past, if it was the only way to keep her safe from harm?"

"that would mean you consider yourself, on some level, contributory to that "harm". or perhaps she thinks so too. too complicated for me. maybe for you too. :)"

What if it was not "contributory" per se? Which, actually, would make the decision an easier one to make - nobody wants to bear the burden of blame or guilt.

What if you had nothing to gain - absolving of blame or guilt - by leaving?

What if you had nothing to gain - but everything to lose?

What if you had to lose yourself?

How to find yourself again.

Do you know why it is easier to lose yourself than to find yourself? (Easier still, to find someone else.) Because you cannot see yourself. And that is why, as SF once said, you do not see your own face in dreams; and ghosts are mostly faceless - some believe that a sighting is a projection of the self by the ghost - or at best, shadowy wraiths.

Perhaps, we need a mirror. Or still waters.

A different kind of hunger.

Restlessness. And my disdain for people like R and the Wannabe Intellectual Whore. Conversational porn. So many words; cacophonous sounds; noise. Scratching only at the surface. Their pretty sugar coating disintegrating, so easily, too easily, at my prying fingers.

Some claim to live life. They suck up the marrow of life - gorging on it. But not tasting it, savouring the juices, knowing the essence of the animal that once was - breathing, eating, sleeping, playing, hunting, killing, mating, birthing, gasping, dying. And mayhaps, they dream too. Like us.

Not their fault they are like this. No. Hold on. Why even talk about faults and blame? Who am I to judge? (Though the ones who preach most against it do so with a religious fervour.) They ARE who they ARE. And they ARE "happy" - on their own terms. I seek... because it is my time to. They do not... yet.

I wondered if people like SF are so rare. And so, I began to dumb down and numb out from the moment I stepped into the train each morning for work. Better I become one with the nothingness, than to feel the emptiness. And invite less weird looks from my colleagues with my strange comments. "Ignorance is bliss" - so says a Long-Suffering Intellectual Whore. He has a point. Not a "good" one, but a reasonable point, nonetheless.

And then, slowly, among the meaningless sounds, whispers in the wind - those who taste the marrow and the animal.

Awakening. Again.

But I also wonder. What happens when there are no more questions?

Beyond words.

For the longest time, the Intimate Strangers came and went; though some still abide. They knew the deepest and the darkest - meticulously inscribed on the stone walls. Fingers trace sleek fissures - images and words. Laid bare. (SF: "Exhibitionist!" I: "Voyeur!")

And then, there are the Familiar Strangers. They who already know, and more, even before these inscriptions. Their eyes burn with the knowing that has always been there; waiting to be awakened from their deep sleep.

"Before Words."

Perhaps, even, before Time?

From the Nothingness, we are Made.

"There is power, in Words. They change the way you see the World."

What if there are more powerful things out there than Words?

Live.

Unplugged. Looking in.

Anwar: "Ride the wave and live the moment :)"

Erm, are you sure I won't get electrocuted? Ah well, what the heck. Plugging in. Happy now?

Which one am I?

I get a little distressed whenever someone observes that the online and offline personalities are not quite the same.

I asked my close friends if they ever felt a disconnect, reading me. They said my blogs are just another side to me. They know the real me, in person. Mostly reserved, the quiet one, far from eloquent, and often clumsy.

Figuratively speaking - stumbling over words and expressions, lost in mid-sentences. Abandoning thoughts halfway, letting my usual mumble drift into silence, hoping someone else will pick up the slack in conversation and nobody will notice while I sidle into a corner to hide.

Literally speaking - walking into glass doors head-on (and bouncing back) during peak hours at fast food joints *BONNNGGG*, and almost crashing into the glass partition behind my work cubicle. My only comfort is in knowing that I will get timely medical attention before I can die from loss of blood. An Arian thing. (Ah. He beats me to it. Again. But I already had this written down before I collapsed on my bed, to upload after some sleep. So tired.)

The Arian-Piscean (Sun in Aries, Ascendant in Pisces) divide. I have in me, two extremities; the climber and the swimmer; the first and the last in the astrological chart; the primal and the evolved.

I confuse even myself.

Itching. Shedding. Evolving.

MUDD gathering. 8 March 2004. 1900 hours. Marche Orchard.

A too-long gaze and a too-familiar smile. I already knew before she said: "You look like that Hong Kong actress, you know." Yah, yah, I know. She never noticed this before, in the old days. She supposed it was the rebonded hair now. Sometimes, they also say it is in the eyes. And sometimes, the mouth.

And again, those words: "I've never stopped loving you the last eight years." flashed on the screen. I responded with a *blush*. And then, we were quiet. More than a week ago, when we first met up again (after about six years), it was: "I've missed you the last eight years." Then, silence. The first time, taken aback, I pretended to have lost the message amidst the frantic scroll of a typical MUDD session. The flirting has been deliberately and shamelessly outrageous - in the name of old times, and fun and laughter - too outrageous for anyone to believe, including ourselves.

His choice of words. The specificity of years. Eight.

Déjà vu.

I try not to think too much about the lingering gaze, a little too intense, and the almost-offer to give me a lift home, as we waved our goodbyes - the same look on H's face as we boarded our trains on different platforms one night.

We ARE still playing, are we not?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

My eyes did not always look like this. I wonder if it has to do with spending so much time looking INTO eyes and faces, trying to read them. Or maybe, I am letting myself smile and laugh more often - the Grim Reaper scares people.

Knock. Knock.

I don't know what to "make" of this. All of it. I cannot "make sense" - to steal someone's words - of any of it, but it does not matter. Answers come in their own time. I learnt this.

There is something in the air.

Still waters.

In the flurry of blog discussions about The One (or Not), I found myself in a rather disconcerting state the past week. It started as I gave my own take; beliefs held for some time; words that have already been written before; words still remembered. And then the tears started; unbidden; free flowing - too free; quietly; some silent gasps. The crying was unexpected, but not as disconcerting as the too familiar aches in my chest.

An old wound, re-opened and weeping again.

I do not cry for him that was. He has faded into the undifferentiated sepias of yesteryears. Even the recent encounter with a stranger and the uncanny resemblance in the eyes - totally unexpected for so many reasons - was a dispassionate observation. The waters are still.

Yet, the tears continued. I wondered why, but I did not have an answer. And I wish I knew why my eyes welled when I told W: "People make mistakes."

There's such a fooled heart
Beating so fast in search of new dreams
A love that will last within your heart
I'll place the moon within your heart
- As the World Falls Downs. David Bowie.

Pandora's Pain.

Slowly, a faint tapping at the back of my mind. That, and what the stranger with his eyes said about it being painful reading my words. Strange, I thought.

Perhaps, I have put too much of myself into those words from long ago. I remembered gripping so tightly onto my sanity, to keep the broken pieces from falling apart. And there was always SF hovering nearby, nervous, anticipating, ready to catch me when I started falling. Then, the deliberate bleeding - pain into words, sentences, paragraphs. Night after night. Like a maniac. I just wanted to get it all out of me. All of it. As quickly as I could. Before it drove me over the edge.

And there were his comments about how different we wrote and remembered our past. His, in staccatos of dreamscape. Poignant, nonetheless. (And so beautiful, I thought.) Mine, almost sequential, the broken pieces carefully picked up, and laid out in their original image - even as the sharp edges cut my fingers raw and bleeding, I would do it this way. Get it out. All of it. I could not bear the pain. Any of it.

He called them desperate attempts at rationalising, making sense of the devastation. How true.

Revisiting the scene of crime. Reconstructing the events. Studying each minute piece of evidence.

Perhaps, the pain is no longer in me. But they did not die with my words. They did not die after I sent them out into the blue space of the internet. To be read. For someone else to read, to feel my pain, to take it all away from me.

Scattered words that take form so effortlessly as I summon them into the present; too readily, almost as if they have been waiting, knowing.

I put too much of myself in these words.