A badder day
Yesterday was one of the worse days in a time of bad patches, pleasant lulls, and some truly terrible moments.
The reasons are:
- dodgy guy
- broken glass bottle
- mobile phone :<
I think I have a gift for getting into mobile phone scrapes in particular. And now I'm lusting after little toys again. (get a grip on yourself!)
I rue the day Diana pressed a pager on me, in my final year of JC. I rue the day, after my A-Levels when, again at Diana's insistence, I got my first ever crappy Siemens mobile phone. I rue the day when Apple released iMac and changed the face of technology forever, or at least changed my attitude towards tech gadgets forever. Now I like new, pretty, slim, shiny toys, although I know kaput about their functions.
This winter back in Singapore, I briefly went laptop browsing with K, cos he thought I'd be able to help him shop. Me, my considerations for a laptop were: i) screen size (quite big but not too big), ii) weight. And that was all. And my third, but secondary consideration was the looks: colour, slimness etc. Not at all scientific as you see.
The Importance of Being Earnest
But on the other hand, the play last night was good at least. I've never seen a period play on stage before. And I really liked it. Watching Oscar Wilde on stage is a lot less tedious than reading him.
This past winter, for some reason, I ended up reading all of Wilde's major English plays within the span of a week. While Wilde is witty, after a while, his artificially constructed, deliberately meaningless and provocative clever phrases got on my nerves.
But watching a production (just one. not a string of them in succession.) was great because the acting really brought his play and puns to live: the sardonic expressions of the actors, their deliberately extravagant gestures, the intonation, voice, and movements. Really excellent stuff. I discovered that they were more cleverness in the play than my oblivious self had realised while reading, especially the verbal sparring between Cecily and Gwendolyn.
For example (I have to admit I ought to have been shot for not seeing this one):
--> Says Cecily (country girl) to Gwendolyn Fairfax(London girl): "Oh, flowers are as common here, Miss Fairfax, as people are in London."
Since the dialogue is so extensive, I had always wondered how it would be acted: what would the actors do during those long, long conversations? But the director and actors were brilliant - the actors seemed perfectly natural in their affected upper class roles during the entire course of the play, and they managed to keep up natural behaviour during the extensive dialogues, which are always susceptible to be awkward and stilted in amateur productions. *sigh*
Frustrated partly because I have let the weekend slip away from me unproductively. Because there are strangers in my house, and I'm wishing they would go away. But mostly because there are many things I have to do, ought to have done, which I have yet to get around to doing. Today I am frustrated with myself. That I'm such a lazy, apathetic, un-pro-active girl. (Power of positive thinking: I am vibrant, full of life, assertive, and a go-getter) I am frustrated at my own nature, that I am a procrastinator. That I don't make the effort to overcome bureaucratic hurdles or manage my life better. Before, I used to tell myself that I've been doing pretty well as a non-adult. Now I have been 21 for coming to 8 months. I have no more excuses. I should get off my arse and do things that ought to be done. I should not shrink in horror from the complex intricacies of the adult world. Like the reality of litigation, filling out tax returns, and managing my finances.
I think every child or teenager should be warned about this, in more graphic, detailed terms than "Adult life is not as fun as you think", so that they will learn to appreciate their blissfully ignorant youth, instead of longing impatiently to grow up.
Every young person should be given a manual: "The Bumper Guide to Life: 1001 How-To Questions Answered". Or made to go through a course, before she can be officially certified with an 'approved for life safety' stamp, and be made to endure the vicissitudes of life. Or there should be 30-Day Adulthood trial period: 100% Satisfaction, or Your Childhood Back Guaranteed.
I feel terribly ill-equipped for Life.
My current attitude is dismal: Ignorance is Bliss. I just leave problems to rot until they jump up at me, shake me like a rag doll, and simply cannot be ignored.
If my parents knew how I managed my life, they'd be even more worried about me coming to an untimely end than they already are. Personally, I wouldn't leave an ugly PLASTIC plant in my own care.
Several months ago though, I took one more wobbly step toward Responsibility. I finally decided to apply for a credit card. Prior to that, I had refused to consider a credit card, since I knew that I'm apt to be unwise. Also, I have an unspeakable horror of dealing with the nuts and bolts of financial matters - an ironic state of affairs, given my career choice.
But I knew I had to overcome it. Otherwise, I fear I shall fall into a trap. The same trap that some have fallen into. I look at those who have gone before me, and mostly, I fear I will walk in their shadows. Role models are important. While I have had excellent role models for some aspects of life, I have also had bad role models for others, where the 'role model' should be a warning of: what-not-to-be, rather than an example to be emulated. And yet, children learn by imitation. And I fear I have absorbed too much.
Still, at least I recognise my limitations, and I am working to overcome it, in my own meandering, haphazard way.
My third credit card bill is due soon. I have just written a cheque, and will be putting it in the post tomorrow.
OMG, i'm so confused and all muddled. Thrown into a flux. I'm just stunned. Don't know what to do. Have. to. breathe. Why am i reaacting like this?? calm, calm, i must be calm.
My very first reaction was: WHOOP WHOOP!!!!!!!! i have SIX WEEKS HOLIDAAAYYYY!!!!!!!! SIX GLORIOUS WEEKS of freedom before work starts!! I hopped and bounced around in circles around the room in delirious joy, like some crazed bunny rabbit.
I slung my back over my shoulders and walked out the door.
Then reality hit me: OMG I have so little time to study. OMG my exams start and finish within 10 days. OMG OMG OMG. I don't know anything. OMG I'm gonna D.I.E.!!!!
By the time I reached home, I was hyperventilating. I could barely breathe, my typing was all wonky, I felt cold and lightheaded, and the back of neck TINGLED.
Hmmm.. this week might as well be designated "London Walkabout" week, for all the walking, and the talking about the walking, that I'm doing! Because, yes, after introducing the Gower Street, Malet Street, and Russell Square Gardens on Monday, and featuring Tottenham Court Road on Tuesday, today, Wednesday, I'm going to talk briefly about Whitechapel Street! (!!!) I've been in a somewhat pensive mood lately, and the little things in life seem to take on a greater significance and resonate. Personally, I don't understand why.
Yesterday, after an exhausting day, I came home to a little slip of paper, left by the post office. They had attempted to deliver a parcel that morning at 8.30am, but no one answered the door, and it was too big for my letter box. The collection point was the the post office parcel-collection centre at 206 Whitechapel Road.
So that was what brought me to Whitechapel Road this morning. No meandering stroll for me today. I hurried eagerly along, my spirits high with anticipation despite the cold weather, and the headache dogging me, spurred on by the little collection slip in my sling bag.
I love mail and I love parcels. There's something about seeing a postcard, or a letter, or a parcel addressed to you, especially when you wake up, or come home from a gruelling day. Nothing says "I'm thinking of you" more than a post-delivered item, especially a random shout out of the blue.
I used to have a friend, who would drop me hastily scrawled notes on the back of scrap physics notes, undoubtedly scavenged from the recycled-paper bin (since she does Economics). She'd suddenly think of me while studying for her mid-terms, pop that thought into an envelope, and send it flying across the Atlantic to me. Once, she stuck a New York quarter on the note, because it was a funky state (we both liked the Big Apple).
So today, I walked along the roads to Whitechapel Street, away from Tower of London and Tower Hill, key tourist attractions, through busy streets, deserted roads, until I reached Aldgate East, a mere stone's throw away from the City of London where a couple of banks, and several fund management firms are located. I took a right and walked towards Whitechapel Tube station.
This was a different London from the City, and from where I live, a scant ten minute walk away. Whitechapel seemed to be Middle-Eastern and Indian land. Beards, white haji skull-caps, and turbans abound. Girls and women in headscarves walk around, the girls giggling in groups, women strolling placidly along the make-shift sidewalk market and shops. Some are veiled, with only their beautiful, dark, heavy-lashed eyes staring out, and even a couple in all-encompassing chadors, except in deep turqoise or maroon, rather than the sombre black prevalent in the Middle-East. The shops here were: Chadha & Sons, Amar Electronics, Imran Travel, Ranee's, and Shalimar Shoes. I passed the East London Mosque.
A few years ago, younger, I might have been a slightly afraid. But today, I just took in the scene and thought about them building a community of their own. A home away from home, where their culture and way of life can be preserved, even in a foreign land.
I generally eschew immigrants congregating together in a enclaves divided along ethnic and nationalistic lines. I think it impedes integration, and aggravates the distrust and suspicion that existing locals have towards the newcomers.
And yet, that is the best way to preserve their own distinct culture and identity. The community network provides support and perhaps a form of social security.
I thought about this because UK and many EU countries are having all sorts of concerns about immigration, integration, and national identity. There was the hullabaloo over the headscarf ban in France. And apparently a plan to ban all forms of public display of religious identification has been mooted in the UK too. A few weeks back, we saw a group of turbaned Sikhs demonstrating to uphold their rights to turbans.
A British-Indian friend said that many Indians live at Wembley, and of course the Neasden area. And everyone knows that Edgeware Road is the little Middle-East. So it got me to thinking: where do the chinese congregate in Britain? Besides Chinatown, I don't recall any chinese-dominated residence areas. I wonder if our numbers are too few, or if we are merely more scattered, and perhaps more integrated into society?
And I was thinking about overseas Chinese. About how, many generations ago, China spat forth her sons and daughters, who have scattered like dandelion seeds across the globe, and settled where they fell. And now, every major city in the world has a Chinatown.
to be continued
[Sunday, March 14, 2004, 21:54pm]
Postscript:
- I had to rush off to school halfway on Wednesday. And I lost the mood to continue. So this shall be one of my randomly abandoned entries. :>
Today, in between my lectures, I decided to treat myself to KFC at the Goodge Street KFC. I had a few errands to run in the Tottenham Court Road anyway, so this was a great opportunity to get some (admittedly fatty) nutrition in me, especially since I have just realised that the whole of yesterday, I had only had instant noodles with an egg for breakfast, then brioche bread for lunch *and* dinner, as well as one-and-a-half glasses of orange juice (the other half got poured onto my jacket), and some junk food, which were scrounged from the Alumni Event reception that I was working at.
Some girl outside KFC shoved some KFC vouchers into my hand - buy one get one free and the like, valid at the Goodge Street KFC until 31st March. So, KFC anyone? (You can just get the vouchers off me)
After lunch, I made my way to Paperchase across the street. I am participating in a handmade greeting card exchange at RBJ, so today I made my preliminary materials-scouting trip for the design I have in mind. As I wandered along the aisles of Paperchase, through rows and rows of papers of all colours, sizes, patterns, and textures, I felt like a little girl in a candy store. Well... maybe not candy store exactly, since I've never liked candy. More like: an artist in a huge art supplies store, or a bookworm in a gigantic bookshop. I fell in love with all the different kinds of paper: rag paper, rag paper with flowers or leaves in them, rainbow-hued tissue paper, paper with bits of string or twine in them, paper inlaid with embroidery... I felt like I was in a dream, my senses overwhelmed by the luxury of having such a wealth of beauty and choice, just beyond my reach.
I walk around and find what I am looking for: the size and colours I want, with acceptable texture. Now I just have to go back home and think through the card size and check out envelope possibilities, then come back on Friday to buy the paper, and choose the card material. I am excited yet anxious. Excited that I will be physically creating an idea I have in my mind. Anxious that reality will fall short of expectations.
After I leave Paperchase, I attend to my other important errand: researching TV prices and obtaining quotes. My previous landlady has *yet* to return us our deposit (may she slowly roast on a spit in the deepest bowels of Hell), and we're having a meeting with the school's legal advisor again this Thursday. We will be bringing her to small claims court and are in the process of getting cost estimates for the TV, and plumbing, as well as a solicitor service. I can't believe she has the heart to con poor starving students out of £2000! Boy am I going to sue her ass off for damages for legal fees, emotional trauma, cost of time, and interest forgone on the £2000 for the past 8 months on a high-interest internet savings account!
...people who give a rat's ass about you normally, suddenly simper up to you during exam time (in this case, three months before the exam) to ask if they can read/beg/borrow/steal your essays.
I hate myself more for not being able to say: "Look if you don't care enough about me to make an investment in my friendship usually, why should I let you leech off my efforts? Especially when I know you wouldn't share even if I asked you to?"
I've just come back from another one of those research experiments where you just sit down, answer a few questions, make several choices, press computer keys, or speak into microphones, and you're seven pounds richer. The easiest money I've ever made. I should become a professional experimentee.
This time, the experiment is about risk aversion. The experiment attempts to measure risk aversion practically by asking me to gamble with my time, and theoretically with reference to money. I demonstrate that I'm extremely risk averse where money is concerned, inevitably picking the lower, guaranteed amount rather than gambling on a greater sum versus nothing. I am the walking epitome of Jensen's Inequality. The experimenter commented that, in contrast, I am not at all risk averse with my time. I smiled at her, and said by way of an explanation: "I'm a student."
Besides, I was perfectly willing to do the longer experiment if it could help her. But as it turned out, my gamble with my time paid off, as I did not have to proceed with the experiment after answering the few preliminary questions, making the initial choices, and throwing the dice.
As I walked back to school from Birkbeck, I walked with a bounce in my step, breathed in the early spring air and mused: What is the value of seven pounds? It's one-and-a-half Chinatown meals - something I've had far too often recently, one-half of my weekly grocery bill, and seven-tenths of my monthly electricity bill.
But the costs and rewards of the experiment include the op-cost of time, the walk there etc. And truly, I feel like I've been rewarded above and beyond the seven pounds.
The experiment brought me back to the old Passfield area where I used to live in my first year. Back to the Gower Street Waterstone's, and Malet Street - the location of ULU, and where so many UCL students congregate. I love walking by student areas, seeing students in pairs or groups, walking along at leisurely pace, chatting, books in the crook of their arms, bags slung over their shoulders. Or students queueing up for the cash machine, the odd lounger with the cigarette.
It gave me the excuse to stroll through Russell Square Gardens, feel the refreshingly chilly London on my skin, as I looked at the bare trees silhouetted against a marbled sky. It was a break from my constant rushing from point A to point B, when all the time I'm going nowhere. It's just the way I am. I'm a naturally frenetic person, buzzing with barely contained energy and frustration. It is not always easy to get me relax and to let everything go. But for fifteen minutes today, I just walked, breathed, and lived in the now.
I like walking. One of my many treasured memories with B was walking all the way from East Coast Park, under the expressway, past the Pebbles condominiums (Pebble 1, Pebble 2, Pebble 3, Pebble 4), past Kallang Stadium, through Mountbatten Road, Brah Basah Road, Victoria Street, all the way to Bugis Junction. During the journey, one side of my sandals had broken, and I had alternated between walking barefoot, and wearing the sandals which cut into my ankles. It took a good 4-5 hours. And by the time I sat down at the Bugis hawker centre, both my smallest toes were bleeding, without me realising. Yet, I remember being very happy. I remember laughing as I finally collapsed into the metal chair, feet sore.
I like walking whenever I can find the time and excuse for it. Maybe that is why I am generally game to go places whenever anyone suggests it, and especially to walk there. My usual excuse is that I don't know the bus routes. I am highly incurious that way. I never bother finding out how to use buses. And maybe that is why I never remember directions. After three years in London, I only remember how to walk to Chinatown with some effort. Maybe, subconsciously, I am looking for an excuse to walk, to wander around lost, to take a meandering hiatus from my life which so often fills me with deep ennui.
The destination is irrelevant, I just want to walk on the road a while.
I have always been bad in living in the present, in the here and now. Instead, I am always looking back over my shoulder at my past. I root around in the attic of my mind, and poke around in dark cobwebby corners of giant trunks of stored memories. Either that, or I'm craning my neck eagerly toward the future, trying to see round the next bend in the road.
I used to wish I'd grow up faster. I wanted to be as graceful and mature as the adults, to have my freedom, my own money. An only kid, I'd sit and daydream about finding love, a boy who would sweep me off my feet, and we'd make babies and a happy family together. As I grew older, the dream changed to one of having my own car, driving to work, and returning home to my Siberian Husky and my sumptuous penthouse apartment in New York City or LA, never mind that I was stuck in Singapore, and had never been to the States then.
All my life then, I have looked forward. When I reach the future that I previously dreamt of, instead of smelling the roses, I yet again look ahead. But this means I never immerse myself in the wonder that is a cherished dream fulfilled.
Because I know it is unhealthy to live in the past or in the future, I try very hard to live in the present.
Especially now, with only three months of university life remaining before I have to step into the corporate world, mostly I wish for time to freeze. For my last three months of freedom to stretch forever.
And yet, even now, sometimes, just sometimes, I peer into the my future, and wonder what life holds for me.
I was suddenly reminded of this poem that Mrs Perry, my old JC Lit teacher, introduced to us: "Rising Five" by Norman Nicholson*. I quote from it:
"
The new buds push the old leaves from the bough.
We drop our youth behind us like a boy
Throwing away his toffee wrappers. We never see the flower,
But only the fruit in the flower; never the fruit,
But only the rot in the fruit. We look for the marriage bed
In the baby's cradle, we look for the grave in the bed:
not living,
But rising dead."
* full poem quoted in my livejournal.
* thanks to: sbc.org.uk
I woke up with a pain in my lower back today. I think I'm growing old.
Six pretty girls will be coming to my house for dinner today. Among other things (like helping out in the kitchen and having tonnes of washing up to do), it means that we'll be having a feast tonight.
Yesterday, my housemate came back laden with huge plastic bags of vegetables and meat: cai xin, kangkung, chinese leaf, bittergourd, lotus root, eggs, 'potstick' meat dumplings, peppered meatballs, pork escalope, pork ribs. That's not to forget the tofu, minced pork, chicken breast, and tang hoon that we have at home. I'm salivating just thinking of the kangkung, tom yam soup, lotus root soup, meat dumplings and all the delicious food we'll be having tonight.
Since six pretty girls will be coming over tonight, I am finally galvanised to clean my room, and at least clear out a pathway on the floor. There's something about me which always falls prey to pretty girls. Pretty girls motivate me the way guys rarely do. Maybe because it is easier to offend girls' sensibilities with my outrageously messy room. I can barely bear to see their stunned faces: their eyes glazing over, and their aghastness desperately disguised by a frozen smile of politeness.
So once again, I allow myself to be guilt-tripped by a pretty face, a sweet smile, and a pair of crinkly eyes shining at me.
I am always cross at guys who easily fall under the enchantment of beautiful, charming girls. I denounce them as being stupid, addle-brained, spineless men who are led by their dicks. But in all fairness, how can I really blame them, when I myself am so susceptible to female wiles? Show me a beautiful girl with a radiant smile, warm eyes, and a sweet piping voice, and the male part of me rushes to her adoring protection. One of my housemates used to give off such an air of frailty when I first knew her, that I had to physically restrain myself from holding her elbow as we crossed roads.
Even if I know that the captivating ways of a girl may belie a strong, steely character, nonetheless, unable to resist, I am drawn into the whirlpool. The flash of her eyes, her stifled giggles, her fingers fidgeting and tucking her hair half uncertainly behind her ears, her face animated with excitement, laughter dancing in her eyes and voice. There are times, it is like I am watching a silent movie. Nothing exists for me but this beautiful picture of an exquisite girl, happy. I am in awe. And as long as she's smiling, it seems like the sun will shine forever, and I am happy to sit quietly and contentedly for eternity, basking in the warmth of her enchanting performance.
So I have become only half-hearted in my denunciation of the male of the species. I can understand the allure. And sometimes, in the presence of these ethereal fairy girls, I find myself becoming more girly. Unconciously, I find myself mirroring them. I become gentler in their presence, because it seems wrong, even violent, to be loud and crass with them.
So now, I shall return to my task of making my room presentable. To make the world a little bit gentler for these seemingly gentle creatures, who my head (but not my heart) knows are actually highly capable women, who will achieve much in the workplace in years to come.
Here are pictures of my desk and my old room layout:
I'm ruminating about Rasee's March 3rd 2004 entry, entitled "This is what dreams are made of". (I can't directly link to the specific post)
Somewhere halfway down the entry she asks: "Do you ever stop being someone's ex-girlfriend? Especially if you're still on civil terms with your ex-boyfriend."
Okay, so I'm not on civil terms with him. Or at least we never talk.
After the early days when I was on his visible list, and he on mine, the time came when I put him on my INvisible list. Then I took him off either visible or invisible list: he had a normal friend status. But since I am perpetually invisible, I was offline to him. During that long period, I never saw him on ICQ at all. I wonder if I was in his invisible list, or whether he just never logged on.
The drama has all passed. And now he sits quietly on my visible list on ICQ. He knows I'm there, but never talks. Me, I see him online, the eight-petalled flower smiling at me benignly. I never talk either. Partly because I am not a chatter. Mainly because, there is nothing much to say is there? He has a (new - I still think "new", although he been with her for a year and a half, and it has been two and a half years since we first flew here together, already apart) girlfriend. I pray for his happiness at the temple if I remember when I'm there. It is enough knowing that he is alive and well somewhere in this same cold foreign city.
So, I don't know if I can be considered to be on civil terms with him. But the question still remains: Do you ever stop being someone's ex-girlfriend?
I don't say I am still in love with him. He must be a changed person. But I still think of him with great affection. I still pray for his happiness. I still find it awkward to say his name or think his name, when I am addressing him, whether on ICQ or in my mind. He is still "dear" to me.
Rasee writes: "Perhaps the reason you never completely let go is because you never love two people the same way."
I wouldn't know. Because I have been in love just the once. But if a part of my love is forever for him, it means forever more, someone else - the next person - will get (L - e),
where L = the whole sum of your love and where e = epsilon, an infinitessimal (or a substantial) amount - does it not?
I was chopping up two big, round, perfect onions yesterday, when my eyes began to sting with so much pain, that the tears couldn't come to soothe my eyes. I was blinded and helpless. I couldn't open my eyes, and staggered about, knife in hand, unable to even reach for the tap to wash the hurt away.
I wonder what chemicals in onions allow them to do that. Allow them to hurt those who trespass, and make the would-be violaters wary.
I always say that my mind is like a giant onion. Layer upon layers. Where is the core?
Now I also want to say: I am onion. Think twice before you approach.
