After two weeks of gradually exercising the quadricep muscles, my right kneecap is finally feeling back in place. Hooray to being able to bend both knees when using a squat toilet haha (Yup, I can better appreciate the invention of the sitting toilet now!), kneel in church and descend the stairs without feeling like my right leg got inverted or literally having two left feet! Some things are just better off without the extra mobility…
It’s the first day of fall today in New York, according to Ah Tan, who is currently nursing a jet lag on Long Island. The leaves are still pretty much green on the trees and she’s already missing the hustle and bustle of Singapore, familiar faces and places. She said all’s too quiet over there at the synchrotron.
Tonight’s a hot and humid one like most other nights on the island. Sugeo left for home two days ago and I’m missing the two chikoras terribly. There never seems to be enough time and enough days together, and the seasons change too fast. Melancholy hangs in the air of my room so thickly that it’d soon precipitate into rain. Hee… yeah, I’ll remember not to confuse the thyroids with the gonads lain kali alright? Something tells me that I’m never going to hear the end of that for the rest of my life from you two. Du du du…
They say the brightest colours of autumn are produced when dry, sunny days are followed by cool, dry nights- conditions favourable for the production of anthocyanins, the pigment that gives leaves their rich autumn riot of reds and purples.
Sitting atop a stack of plastic chairs in front of the house before Mama’s thanksgiving party, my eyes welled up as I told Atah how I’ve lost heart for what I am doing and that the three years may have been a waste. I will finish it, I said, although not as well as I started it. I suppose regrets were written all over my face as Atah replied that a mistake is only regretable when you don’t learn anything from it. It took everything I had to prevent myself from bursting into tears just as the evening rain fell around us.
The greatest goodbyes are usually the ones given in airports, bus depots or train stations but I guess the saddest ones are those said in the silence of the heart.
When you spend your days running away, there will come a time when all you want is to collapse into a big pile of fallen leaves, lay there breathless and then find yourself in the arms and warmth of someone who loves you, someone who is your sanctuary as much as you are his. Someone with the reasons for you wanting to stay.
So here I am, autumn in my heart… awaiting winter’s chill. Autumn is but a second spring, some might say… oh just let me say my goodbyes and make my peace, however incoherent, and then it’s full steam ahead, I promise, for I’ve got some serious catching up to do with growing up!
Fall, leaves, fall!
Japanese paper dolls, bridal shower invites and Jane Austen
Me and Chinese songs, we have a blossoming love affair.
I remember growing up with songs by Teresa Teng because Mama and Atah were big fans. There were also numerous Chinese folk tunes that Atah likes to sing with Mama although we have come to remember their comic singing more than the songs themselves. Anyway, I’d prefer listening to Teresa Teng over Engelbert Humperdinck anyday, anytime. Pleeeaaasseee release meeeeee…. let me gooooo, and let me run far, far away. Heh. Whenever his album was looping on the home stereo set, there was just no escaping the `torture’…
I guess I am especially enamoured with Chinese songs because there can be a hundred different songs about love for example, and yet every single one of them will still be unique and absolutely beautiful. The beauty lies in the honesty and creativity of the lyrics themselves. From simple direct ones to complex metaphorical lyrics, the songs never cease to amaze me with how meaningful they can be. A song can convey love despite not ever mentioning ai 爱 or about loving in its lyrics. Whoever says that Chinese people are not romantic must have never listened to any Chinese songs.
Being Chinese illiterate, I depend a lot on the vocals and the melody of a particular song to get me hooked enough to find out what the lyrics mean. Fortunately, the composition of Chinese songs rarely disappoint, especially those from my favourite artistes. I particularly love the use of piano, cello, guitar, violin and traditional instruments such as erhu, sanxian, or guzheng in ballads or pop/R&B tunes. I also appreciate the fact that the vocals take centrestage most of the time rather than playing second fiddle to the tune.
And when I do finally understand the lyrics, it simply takes the whole song onto a different plane of appreciation. Thanks to Chinese songs and being in Singapore, my spoken Mandarin vocabulary has expanded to a more decent size. Supra for example, learns written Chinese by translating Chinese songs that she likes with Atah’s help. I still remember Atah going “Hwahhh… these poor fellas, so lovesick ah!” or “Aiyoh… so painful punya love!” as he was helping her figure out the lyrics to several Michael & Victor songs. There were also times when he’d complain good-humouredly that the translation work is getting tiring because his bulu roma stood up so much.
Personally, there’s nothing like a lovely playlist of Jacky Cheung, Sandy Lam, Wang Lee Hom, David Tao and Jay Chou ballads to accompany a sleepless night. Insomnia is bittersweet when one ends up in complete lam sei-ness (Cantonese for jiwang sampai mati) or just feeling all warm inside when one finally nods tiredly to sleep.
Oh, and another reason why I love Chinese songs- the look on Atah’s face when I do an emo rendition of the chorus line from Bobby Chen Shen’s 把悲伤留给自己:
“把我的悲伤 留给自己
妳的美丽 让你带走”
… utterly priceless! Hee…
Inspired by the lovely Korean drama series that Ah Tan and I are surreptitiously addicted to, we did some baking (God bless our most wonderful landlady for the Ariston oven)! Mexican wedding walnut cookies and vanilla muffins with peanut butter filling and chocolate chips… Hope they cheer our dear friend up!
“The body asks the heart, if I am in pain the doctor will cure me, but if you are in pain, who is going to cure you? The heart replies, only I can cure myself. Maybe that is why, each person have their own way of healing the pain in their hearts. Drink, sing, throw a tantrum, cry, laugh, talk to a friend, travel, run a marathon. The worst thing to do is to ignore the heart pain. My healing therapy is to wake up at dawn like this, bake a cake and make cookies. When my father passed away suddenly, and my once fiery love ended, when I felt put down, I will always bake at dawn in the kitchen and console myself with the wonderful smell. Is there any more beautiful therapy than this in the world?”
Kim Sam Soon in My Name is Kim Sam Soon
The late Lewis B. Smedes once said that “Forgiving does not erase the bitter past. A healed memory is not a deleted memory. Instead, forgiving what we cannot forget creates a new way to remember. We change the memory of our past into a hope for our future.” A new way to remember… hmm…
All I could remember of last September was crying myself to sleep on most nights and waking up with such puffy eyes that no amount of makeup could conceal. It was as if I had committed myself to the greatest fashion faux pas ever in my entire history of being alive- wearing pink eyeshadow. When this September ends, a year would have passed and all that would be left are just memories. Memories imbued in writings, drawings, photographs and perhaps a soft toy or two. I suppose toys can be given away or become just toys and photos deleted but poems and postcards are harder to deal with.
On one humid night not too long ago when we both couldn’t sleep, I asked Ah Tan when would it be alright to remove the relics of the past. We laughed about the idea of burning everything in a ceremonial bonfire. “When they no longer mean anything anymore, the way they used to mean to you,” she answered solemnly. I gazed at the two boxes and nodded in understanding.
When something gets broken and you glue the pieces back together however craftily, it could never be the same again. Mended lines and chipped edges now remain and infuse it with a new mien; albeit somewhat confused and fragile, belying a stronger character that is waiting to be whole once more. Like a lifetime of wrinkles, scars and lines etched onto the faces of old people, it renders them interesting, a testament of having really lived.
I closed the cover on the pale pink box and placed it back in the cupboard.
“All good things in good time,” my heart whispers…
I like mopping the floors. I love how my arms ache as I squeeze the mop dry on the final round while I’m completely drenched wet in sweat. I usually mop in three rounds: twice with soapy water and a final one with just normal water. Whenever it’s my turn to do the house chores, I like to mop in the late afternoon on a weekend when no one else is at home, or at night when everyone has gone to sleep.
When I’m alone at home, I’d mop while listening to music on my iPod mini. There’s something about stopping in front of the mirror with the mop stick in hand and miming a duet with David Tao or Gary Lightbody that cracks me up. In a case of syok sendiri, it’s so self-gratifying that floor areas in front of mirrors in the apartment are usually spotless. On hot humid days, I’d sing out loud and bring the rain for a pleasant night.
Sometimes I find mopping cathartic. I reckon it is the best cure for anger and malicious thoughts, other than cleaning the toilet and swimming laps. Working all the anger into cleaning the floor usually leaves me totally spent. Best of all, after a long shower and finally collapsing into bed, I’d go to sleep with a grin and a peaceful mind.
Late-night mopping is usually done in silence as my mind distills the daily tumult of thoughts. Like some act of self-renewal, every floor tile mopped clean is one more space for a lovely thought or feeling. Aahh… mopping, my yoga for the soul.
|
