spits and swallows.

My mother always taught me how to be sure that a guy really loves you. To put it briefly, the symptoms are the guy would do anything for you.

Back in her days, she would have numerous guys calling on her. They would write her poems, or bring her fruit baskets that are large enough to go around all 11 members of her family. She never lifted a finger, she said, never called them back, never asked them out, never gave them promises, but they kept coming nonetheless. And the most resilient, most persistent man became my dad. Because if you go soft on them, she warned in an energetic oratory, if you serve them and lull them with the convenience of your generosity and submissiveness, you will never know how far they would go for you. You would be trapped with a man that would not treat you the way a girl deserves to be treated. It is Woman’s Destiny, she says. We must be passive.

I always thought that I thought the advice was lame. You know those stories where teenage girls are determined not to end up like their mothers and suddenly sometime in their adult life find themselves acting exactly like mom? Well… there you go. I think as the questions become more complicated, you have only two choices: do as you were told its best to do, or invent your own untested formula. And that’s where all this storm inside is coming from.

Going Solo.

Oh today. Attended a ceremony the president was attending in Solo, the National Solidarity Day Event. It was at an open roofed football stadium at 11.00 noon, and the place was swamped with plump ladies from the Social Department all dressed up to the nines. I could not help but notice the one sitting next to me had extremely protruding front teeth, which her red-painted lips could never quite conceal. The air smelt of sweat as the onlookers watched the opening: an army of parachutes landing on the field, almost all of them missing the big yellow mark.

My boss still nowhere to be seen or heard, I hung out with the reporters instead. Their looks are to be doubted, these unkempt, lanky haired journalists, but the minute they ask you a question you know they can be deadly. But today I need not fear, for they were as bored as I was. The event bore no news, and some of them were only in it for the free trip home to Java.

Every trip has a reason for being, something you can bring home in your mind, and this time it was the reporters I made friends with. They’re probably the most knowledgeable people in the world on the merit of knowing what happens the minute it happens. And yet unlike the most knowledgeable people in the world, they’re extremely approachable. Ask them what they think of an issue and they can immediately give you a modest analysis based on their simple but intense observation. And they’re always honest about what they think. You can learn a lot from people like that.

So based on the above, I’m happy to report that my first solo trip to Solo proved fruitful!

I will be an excellent mother.

Female colleague is making ridiculous high-pitched gurgling noises at the boss's baby.
I fail to see the point.

Week Three.

So I go on my first business trip, and the destination is St. Petersburg. It’s winter, and our breath comes out misty white as we walk through the quaint lighted streets. Russian girls in black leather stiletto boots and fur coats walk briskly past. After work was completed, for a blissful hour I walked as the city closed down for the day. The next day was trapped with colleagues, sight-seeing beautiful St. Petersburg, on a tour bus.
I almost died of boredom.

And I would almost give up. Almost.
In a haze of confusion.

Neurotic

A ridiculously sickening paranoia of stepping on thin ice and losing everything.

Day Three.

“How’s the coffee? Need sugar?”
“No thanks. I don’t like my coffee sweet.”
“That’s right, you’re already sweet enough.”

Said a very old and lanky office boy. Ouch….

Day Two.

The palace is nice in the afternoons, for a stroll through the grounds as people bustle by after a leisurely lunch. The gardens are dappled and sunny, softening the classic colonial style buildings. Not lavish, but elegant buildings nonetheless. At night it would cast shadows and fall silent, softly spooky, and people say they feel things if not see things. But during the day I only feel the soft rustle of wind. I intercepted the flower carts coming out of the palace, loaded with the flowers of yesterday’s banquet, and picked some still pretty ones for my desk. I believe it would be, however, on very rare occasions that I would take this stroll, for my primary destination, the palace cafeteria, serves tasteless food. So there go my delusions of palace gourmet.

Hot Young Coconut Pudding.

Which was on the breakfast menu at the hotel where my colleagues stay, and later told me that they decided it was an "appropriate description for Teez, in a nutshell".

Now, I can't say that sounds too bad.

weathered.

Quietly the dust settles in the aftermath of a sandstorm.
Roughly piled and dry like dead twigs on a winter's day.
And you say you think I'm gone next stormy dusty winter.
And I say I think you're wrong.

notch down.

In the best of words: differentiate what you want and what you need.
Profound and surprisingly overlooked. It simplifies a life that wants so many things.
And cheerfully agrees with the fact that you "can't have it all".
I would think that the person who achieves this level would be a very peaceful person. Presuming he obtains what he needs. Think about it. It would be so easy to arrange life's priorities:
1. what you need and want
2. what you need
3. what you want
Of course, nothing is that simple. But once the frustation exhausts itself, once the turmoil dwindles, the options continue to escalate and the sadness still lingers, you need to arrange things in simple little boxes and make a straight beeline for one which makes you happiest.
Because in the long run, you only hit what you aim at.

to be young

It's as if my person is assumed. Life keeps moving, life keeps escalating. And soon I will reach the skies alone.

But see, that's an over-simplification. Mere plastic labels to explain complexities. Ambitious. Selfish. Competitive. Karma. There is no depth in such analysis. It does not take into account how souls mature like wine, and how faith and religion invisibly draws a straight unwavering line to follow. To come back to after you side-track. If you side-track. There are always echoes which balance the echoes in my head. And most importantly, it doesn't take into account that nobody can fight alone. And that I realise that.

constant vigilance

These are the days when I dream of where I will be precisely next year. Right now there are about a million feasible posibilities. Possibility number one being the most lucrative at the moment, which really consists of a combination of a certain this, this, this, and that.
But I keep having to remind myself, let's do this in small increments. Let's focus on goaling the balls one by one. Let's take a deep breath and realise that things do not happen without a struggle.
Let's focus on fighting for that dream-job first of all. And then focus on fighting for that dream-team. And then focus on fighting for the ultimate dream. And then, who knows?
There's plenty of battle yet to come. And sweet victories to be won.

Flattery of the day:

"Did you get a boob job?"

=)

Fortune Teller

The fortune teller said that I have many temptations. This is no surprise as life is full of temptations. Perhaps she reads not what is applicable to her clients, but reads what is foremost in her client's mind. For indeed it had been hovering about, nameless, until she nailed it and identified the squirming bastard.
I realise now that not only are mishaps a blessing in disguise as commonly quoted by elderly people, but blessings may also potentially become a mishap in disguise. If you exploit it, if you indulge in it, if you feel too confident about it. I do not.
But I feel immature. Because I am certain of how to handle my temptations, yet feel deprived. Because I am certain of where I want to go, but wonder where the other path leads. I feel I am not grateful for what i have, but that it is extremely humane to never feel satisfied. It is thirst, paired with an uncanny knack of getting water easily.
The fortune teller did not give me predictions of what my life is going to be, but she told me that the path I am trying to focus on is the right one. That's all I needed to know.

Just gimme my diploma.

Graduation ceremony was jading (is that a word?). As a custom, girls must wear the traditional garments and hairdo, which requires at least two hours of preparation. After all the fuss, we endure at least an hour of traffic as hundreds of cars queue up, filled with excited graduates and proud parents and relatives doing last minute make-up checks with pocket mirrors. We cover the beautiful meticulous garments with tacky overpriced graduation robes and step out into the blaring sun. We gingerly push the pentagonal graduation hat on to our painfully perfect hairdo. We jostle and jumble in our high heels with the crowd as we enter the building to endure a ceremony in which our names are not even mentioned because we failed to become cum laudes. And when the ceremony is finally over we jostle and jumble to get out, back to the blaring sun outside, sweat staining our beautiful hidden dresses, make-up running and fake-eyelash-glue melting.
And then we take pictures.

Sunday Spa.

Wafts of fragrant herbal scent

Swirls of petals immersed in wet

Froths of warm and bubbled sweat

Moments so sweet I shan't forget.

.

The story of the silent couple on the other table: what really happens.

As we were sitting in that coffeeshop a few months ago, having the most delightful animated conversation, I couldn't help but notice the couple on the other table.

I said, "Honey, d'you think they're a couple? They haven't spoken a word to each other. I wonder how fun that can be."
He promptly replied, "You're so prejudicial. They might be passing notes!"

So I thought about it, and he might have a point.

------------------------

He had been waiting. She helped herself to the empty chair beside him, set down her mug, leaned over and gave him a light kiss. His cheek was cold, indifferent. It was never warm unless they slept together, cheek to cheek. He lit a cigarette and she sat silently while the smoke shrouded them.
"Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked, unimportantly.
She ignored him.
Instead, she grabbed a paper tissue and started scribbling on it. She passed it to him.

"A kiss so sweet would prove to be
bittered by your smoking non-necessity. "

He smiled, frowned, scribbled, and passed it back.

"Non-necessities are bittersweet indeed
but being here with you is all I need. "

She smiled. He had a glint in his eyes. The cafe was slowly filling up, and the loud chatter of customers started to blend with the aroma of coffee and smoke. But he and she were oblivious to this. She looked up at him seriously now, the smile vanishing into a saddened expression.

"You haven't called me very much", she said.
It was a statement. Matter of fact. Non-accusatory, but unmistakably disappointed.

He slowly took a long drag and blew it out before taking another tissue paper.

"Should I be satisfied to hear your voice?
your lack of presence pains me without choice."

She took a moment to read it and a long moment staring at it. Her expression was unfathomable, but he didn't mind. He waited.

"What excuses, darling! But maybe it matters not
at rare times like this, lapses might well be forgot."

She slipped him the tissue but he took her hand instead and held it. It felt warm, unusually warm. For the remainder of the night, he and she remained oblivious to the crowd.
The rest of the world simply did not matter.

Here was a scene at a cosy coffee place at Clarke Quay. As usual, it involves merrily chastising my brother's Singaporeanised antiques. This usually involves: being fussy about wearing safety-helmets before cycling to the next block, washing your hands as soon as you get home, and being extremely worried about bird-flu. But we always listen to his life in Singapore with enthusiasm.

[bro:] "I haven't bothered reading Newsweek ever since I got here. Besides, I've been busy reading much more interesting stuff on the Singapore daily newspaper. Only last week there was a man prosecuted for cat abuse. They finally proved him guilty for abusing three cats. He's a friggin' serial-cat-abuser. It was all over the news."

[me:] "Atrocious."

[bro:] "I know."

The temporary pedestrian

"Brick, cobblestone and wood plank pavements were once common in urban areas throughout the world, but due to their high manual labor requirements they are in some countries typically only maintained for historical reasons, while in other countries they are still common in local streets."

In any event, I had a morning jog by the river with its cobblestone pavements. The morning was beautiful, the river was calm and deep green. By simple logic, obviously this is not Jakarta. Whether brick or cobblestone or asphalt, whether for aesthetic or historical reasons, whether for economic or cultural purposes (like, Javanese people don't like walking), Jakarta does not have significant pavements, let alone clean deep-green rivers. I'm very jealous. :( It's simply wrong for a midget country, a tiny red dot on the map to be this nice. For the sake of bittersweet chauvinism I shall say that despite everything Jakarta is ... exhilarating, unpredictable, and mysteriously lovable. In a way it's true; I actually can't wait to go home and embrace the familiar chaos.