Roomful of people

Last Friday. "Hey. Up for a drink?"

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We made our way home shortly after dinner, so that she could get back in time to fall asleep and be jolted awake again by the next exciting episode of the locally produced sequel to the successful Scream trilogy: "Scream 4 (Me) - Love in the Woodlands." Also touted as Singapore's first reality show set in the heartlands where real people live their real lives, "Scream 4 (Me)" features the vocal talents of your neighbours.

No longer are horror movies visual feasts of serendipitously ripped clothing and aesthetically blood-splattered bosoms that make most males see, well, bosoms (and girlfriends / wives see red - not of the same variety on said bosoms). How can anyone appreciate the riveting plot with all that visual distraction? Instead, the intrigue of the unseen - but heard, and very loudly too - which the Japanese horror movies often use, builds greater psychological suspense and drama. Never doubt the power of suggestion, and your sleep-deprived imagination going into overdrive, as lying on your bed trying to sleep, you wonder why the voice of the usually more vocal woman has fallen silent, to be replaced by the grunts of her male co-star. Oh. Ohhh... Heh. Heh. Heh.

Meanwhile, I went to meet W for drinks. The rest of my evening out wasn't quite as titillating; though it did get just a bit weird towards the end. Roomful of Blues was a nice place to chill out - great vocalist (Filipino - the good ones all seem to be) who seemed as happy to perform as the patrons were to listen, and laid-back patrons. Everyone seemed content to soak in the atmosphere and enjoy themselves. Stepping in for the first time, and for the rest of the evening, the air was not charged the way it usually is with the hunting grounds along Mohamad Sultan, where appraising eyes and anticipatory smiles zero in on every piece of fresh meat. Or maybe the combination of sleep deprivation and alcohol had numbed my defences that night. Heh.

As the pub closed in the early hours of the next morning, and most of the patrons had already left, the small group of Americans (I suppose) who had been dancing earlier and were evidently in high spirits (of more than one kind) were still saying their goodbyes to the staff, and one of them was wearing black briefs under his pants. Eh?! Hold on, why do I know that?! Turning to look again - Black Briefs had his pants down around his mid-thighs and was trying to prove some point or other about his briefs, as he waddled towards the waitress, mostly with his butt leading the way, to everyone's bemusement. I could not tell if they were designer briefs, but I did notice BB's shirt was just a little too small and he had been dancing with another guy. And there was something asexual about his touch - when he came up behind me at the bar and put his arms around my waist to say goodbye. "You smell really nice." (Funny that the only female in his group also said that to me too as we bid our farewells, and she wanted to know what I was using.) Well, asexual or not, it was definitely a good thing BB's pants were already pulled up by then!

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W asked me if I had really gotten over the bear, because it did not seem so, from the way I still write about him here. He thought that when people have moved on, they will forget.

Will they? Should they?

Most of my feelings about the bear have faded and there is a certain finality that tinges the memories. But I still remember, and I still write - though not so much about him as a person, but the relationship - because the relationship and the lessons in the aftermath took up so much of my life as it was (six years), as it is, and as it will be. I grow through my relationships with people.

And so, some stories just have to be told. Before they are forgotten. And lost. Forever. And before I forget. Before I lose myself so completely that I fade into nothingness.

When we feel that something is missing from our lives, is it really that elusive search for the other who will complete us, or the parts of ourselves that we have lost along the way?

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Sometimes, when you have lost the words (to write), talking helps.

Thank you for the Long Island Horse Piss and Kilkenny. And the ride home :-)

Snapshots of the dead

Drifting out of my bedroom on Saturday morning, with barely four hours of uninterrupted sleep (way too little to make up for the late night out and too many disturbed sleep cycles), and already late for work, my rather excited mum greeted my disoriented state with news of the dead.

Excited Mum: "It's his grandmother! I'm very sure! The obituary came out on Wednesday and there's even a prominent write-up in today's papers! You see!"

Sleepy Daughter: "Uh huh." (Wondering, instead, if I should bring my blades to office for an evening workout at the beach, that is, if my body does not do an emergency shutdown.)

(PS: Which it did. So I crawled home to collapse on my bed. Heh.)

I did not think she would have remembered things I had only told her in passing, many years ago. Although she never met his grandmother, the uncommon surname in the obituary was the first giveaway, and she recognised the names of his parents and sister. She also remembered that his grandmother used to be a school principal.

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Do you ever wonder how some people seem so much larger in death than in life? And yet, lesser of a person - a real person. When a person dies, does she leave behind only shiny deeds that are worth remembering? But surely, behind the public face, even extraordinary people lived other lives too, and made a difference to the lives of family, friends and even strangers. Perhaps, she was also the doting mother whose love for her favourite son made her say harsh words to the daughter-in-law, which seemed incongruent with her spirited campaigns for women's rights. And maybe somewhere in the less pleasant recesses of a grown man's childhood memories, a grandmother berated her grandson in front of the party guests for unwrapping his birthday presents in their presence.

Would a person's passing be any less significant if her life (or other lives) were not as exemplary, or just ordinary - to the rest of the world?

In the twilight years of the really old ones, there can be too little else to remember and cherish. Even the most fearsome of dowagers can become a wasted wraith whose bones felt so fragile under her thin leathery skin that you feared breaking her arm if you held her a little too hard, just so she would not fall and break her leg otherwise (good thing I rarely got to meet her); or who turned to her son or the ex-communicated every ten minutes with a toothy grin and asked: "Who are you?" to their occasional irritation, but mostly, resigned bemusement tinged with sadness.

Do surviving family and friends hold on tenaciously to the better memories of the dead because sadness can be too hard to bear? Or do they find it hard to remember the dead, if not for the happier memories?

I wonder who - really - misses her most.

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In your snapshot upon death, how would you like to be remembered?

Motifs

"there is order in chaos itself. that is the kinda chaotic world/universe we live in. it's a scientific theory that's being demonstrated everyday. for eg, look at an umbrella-shaped tree, see how it branches off randomly, yet, similarly into smaller patterns of itself, ad infinitum."
~ One with the Core, 4 August 2002

Sometime in their conversation, he casually mentioned 'my wife' - for the first time. The easy chatter which I had been quietly tuning into came to an abrupt and almost audible halt. In those few seconds of silence, it was almost as if someone had just pressed the 'pause' button on the scene. And then, the conversation resumed, almost with the same ease as before. SF told me later that she was taking the few seconds to switch chat mode - you just do not talk to a married man in the same way. Which then begged my bemused question - exactly HOW was she talking to him before the revelation? Heh. I remember watching the times she sought his company, sitting close, leaning in, and sometimes, gazing a little too long at his face. Although she never did look as if she was coming onto him, she admitted to an attraction. His face, smile and mannerisms were reminiscent of the navy officer (though nowhere as polished as the latter's practised charm). Even the physical chemistry was similar.

Then, there was the one with the on-and-off-again relationship, who talked and laughed like her cousin's wife. And one of the other women reminded her, and me, of other people.

I seem to be meeting a lot of 'familiar' people on the dive trips, and quite a few of them each time. I suppose it has not been so much about coincidences, or even seasonal peaks, as my growing sensitivity to the intricacies and recurrent motifs in life. It started two years ago with the significance of events, and now, people.

Do you ever wonder about similarities, and why faces, personalities and sometimes, even life paths seem to come in 'sets'? Have you ever noticed that certain facial types correspond to similar behaviourial traits? But, surely, the Creator could have easily created six billion unique moulds? Or are these motifs that we observe part of a greater design? SF thought there was a certain ingenuity and functionality to creating motifs that would fit neatly into the bigger picture of life, and also allowed us to make sense of the world (and people) more readily.

And yet, in spite of the similarities, each motif is unique and has its own place in the greater design. And quite possibly, irreplaceable.

On a more personal level, do our lives reverberate with their own motifs? Do certain experiences return again and again, to teach and reinforce lessons in life? And what happens when motifs encounter each other (think radio frequencies) - perhaps to share or teach different lessons? Do they show us just how intricate this skein of life is?

Standing before this delicate web
Of a destiny we cannot question
Paths cross
And uncross
We contemplate the ethereal threads
That bind
And separate us in such strange ways
~ Meetings, April 2001

Methinks there is something very strange about the middle months in the past few years. One of the motifs in my life, I suppose.

Without him

"There are people who learn when they're in a relationship. For me, the learning often takes place in the aftermath when I'm alone. I learnt to play pool without you. Travelled to places without you. Read books without you. Watched films without you. Ran without you. It's like everything else is a substitute for the space you were supposed to fill, and now I'm more or less self-sufficient. I can't tell if that's a blessing or a curse."

After I let him go, I picked up yoga, rock-climbing, wakeboarding and diving. I began to read again and write with more passion. I learnt how to look at life more positively and to love myself. I also learnt that setbacks in life can be overcome given time and patience, courage and faith; and that ultimately, personal trials are not meant to break you, but to shape your spirit.

Sometimes, it feels more like I learnt these because of him, and not without him.

What did you learn because of him/her?


Exhaustion

My eyes feel like they are bearing the exhaustion for my entire body - a most unpleasant sensation. And the world looks different. I am trying to sleep this off but I keep waking up by six, no matter how late I go to bed. Urgh.


Tales from the Crypt

Some stories read like adventures where every unturned page draws forth your bated breath. This one reads like I am already on the last page, and am now re-reading the book - slowly - to find the things that I had missed before.

An epic in the making? Still?

Why? (And, why me?)