Vaguely specific musings.
Somewhat educational. Wholly entertaining:
1. The same question asked of the same person in the same moment by two people can yield two very different answers, much to the chagrin of one of the people.
2. Answering a call from your equally verbose counterpart at 12:26am can only result in a 2:32am bedtime.
3. The Mona Lisa is just as intriguing as a puzzle as she is as a painting. If not more.
4. Sometimes, you just gotta party like it's 1999......
5. The chillest coolest people out there are sports events organizers. And outsourced puzzle labourers.
6. A to-do list makes it more fun to-do things.
7. One is more likely to feel smiley when one is wearing bright pink rather than when one is wearing gloomy grey.
8. It takes quite the effort to see the person you live with, regardless of how wonderful they are.
9. What a lovely feeling to receive a package in the mail! (Even when it's not addressed to you!)
10. The fewer the unread pages remaining in a good book, the more valuable they become.
11. Having been in someone's shoes makes it much easier to recognize them when you see them.
12. Once you've gotten used to great steak, you simply cannot (and cannot simply!) return to having fast-food burgers.
13. "A black cat is like a beautiful woman: she is intimidating to those who are too scared to get close enough to understand her."
14. The loveliness factor of one's day has absolutely nothing to do with the weather.
15. Pineapple, apparently, has some pretty interesting pretty R-rated side effects. (No elaboration to be provided. One should do one's own research!)
16. There is such thing as too much lobster, true, but only within a 24 hour period.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Double Entendres
The extensive ultimate collector's weekend edition:
1. A cosmopolitan at 3pm can only lead to an irresponsible shopping spree at Harvey Nichols and Tiffany's. Sans breakfast.
2. Explaining a Halloween costume is not necessary. Nobody listens past the word "slutty".
3. There is such thing as too much lobster.
4. Double entendres are highly entertaining, albeit sometimes elitestly so.
5. Late night chats with wonderful friends are exhaustingly enlightening. Even when disguisingly accompanied by a late night cup of tea or puzzle-making attempt.
6. Everyone has their story. Nobody leaves this world without one.
7. 'Consultants with social skills' is a narrowing pool of rare individuals. They can often be identified as the ones who can dance.
8. People's decisions are theirs to make, whether it be the right decision or wrong decision.
9. Some people, no matter how absent, have a way of being distressingly omnipresent.
10. A charming man with an accent is far more charming than a charming man without one.
11. Tiffany's is the only place to go when you have the mean reds...
12. Puzzles are excitingly intriguing when progress is being made. When faced with a lack of progress, one should politely sip on one's tea and point out certain pieces to the outsourced labour.
13. Sometimes first impressions are just that.
14. Musical exchanges lead to literary exchanges; both of which are dangerously revealing.
15. An owed favour is a highly appreciative currency. Invest.
16. Delivering a false hope is paramount on the list of irresponsible behaviour. Some questions are better left unanswered.
17. When guessing the amount of a bill and your wild "imagine-if" guess wins, it's usually not a good thing.
18. You can't have your cake and eat it too. But it's always okay to have just a slice.
1. A cosmopolitan at 3pm can only lead to an irresponsible shopping spree at Harvey Nichols and Tiffany's. Sans breakfast.
2. Explaining a Halloween costume is not necessary. Nobody listens past the word "slutty".
3. There is such thing as too much lobster.
4. Double entendres are highly entertaining, albeit sometimes elitestly so.
5. Late night chats with wonderful friends are exhaustingly enlightening. Even when disguisingly accompanied by a late night cup of tea or puzzle-making attempt.
6. Everyone has their story. Nobody leaves this world without one.
7. 'Consultants with social skills' is a narrowing pool of rare individuals. They can often be identified as the ones who can dance.
8. People's decisions are theirs to make, whether it be the right decision or wrong decision.
9. Some people, no matter how absent, have a way of being distressingly omnipresent.
10. A charming man with an accent is far more charming than a charming man without one.
11. Tiffany's is the only place to go when you have the mean reds...
12. Puzzles are excitingly intriguing when progress is being made. When faced with a lack of progress, one should politely sip on one's tea and point out certain pieces to the outsourced labour.
13. Sometimes first impressions are just that.
14. Musical exchanges lead to literary exchanges; both of which are dangerously revealing.
15. An owed favour is a highly appreciative currency. Invest.
16. Delivering a false hope is paramount on the list of irresponsible behaviour. Some questions are better left unanswered.
17. When guessing the amount of a bill and your wild "imagine-if" guess wins, it's usually not a good thing.
18. You can't have your cake and eat it too. But it's always okay to have just a slice.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Eternal Sunshine
An eclectic mix today... Musically influenced, surreally fathomed:
1. "The only reason you buy a bag from Mango is because Marc is inaccessible and you simply cannot afford it. Even though you would rather have a Marc, and you know the Mango will inevitable fall apart, you just have no choice."
2. Evenings spent with certain friends are always random. Yet very very enjoyable.
3. Grocery shopping alone is no fun at all.
4. Chats with mother are a great source of entertainment. And occasionally, love. But mainly entertainment.
5. When a friend confides in you, the only option you have is to support them.
6. 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind' and the question it poses will will never have a "right answer".
7. One should learn the delicate art of saying "no".
8. "When Rod Stewart was cool he used to be in a band called The Faces, who because of Ronnie the bassist had strong links to The Rolling Stones - he went on to join the later, shitter version of the Stones."
9. A sign is a good enough reason to do or not do something. Great enough reason.
10. To the large majority of girls out there, "Halloween costume" is synonymous with "slutty outfit". If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!
11. Fake meetings are the lottery tickets of a horrendous week.
12. Dave Matthews knows exactly how I feel.
13. Allowing someone to take care of you is not a sign of weakness.
1. "The only reason you buy a bag from Mango is because Marc is inaccessible and you simply cannot afford it. Even though you would rather have a Marc, and you know the Mango will inevitable fall apart, you just have no choice."
2. Evenings spent with certain friends are always random. Yet very very enjoyable.
3. Grocery shopping alone is no fun at all.
4. Chats with mother are a great source of entertainment. And occasionally, love. But mainly entertainment.
5. When a friend confides in you, the only option you have is to support them.
6. 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind' and the question it poses will will never have a "right answer".
7. One should learn the delicate art of saying "no".
8. "When Rod Stewart was cool he used to be in a band called The Faces, who because of Ronnie the bassist had strong links to The Rolling Stones - he went on to join the later, shitter version of the Stones."
9. A sign is a good enough reason to do or not do something. Great enough reason.
10. To the large majority of girls out there, "Halloween costume" is synonymous with "slutty outfit". If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!
11. Fake meetings are the lottery tickets of a horrendous week.
12. Dave Matthews knows exactly how I feel.
13. Allowing someone to take care of you is not a sign of weakness.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
On the shelf
The quotes were straight from the horses' mouths...
1. "It takes a certain kind of foot to fill the void left in a pair of Manolos".
2. Sometimes a cigarette is better than dessert. But ideally one should have both.
3. The key to making a man happy is to make him think he made the decision.
4. An unfinished book, no matter how once-engaging, must be closed, shelved or finished before a new one can be opened...
5. Conversations about music are far more revealing than one first believes.
6. "He just gets better with age, he's like a fine wine!"
7. When presented with seemingly important and supposedly life-changing information, stop and ask yourself "So what?"
8. Few women answer the age-old question of 'What do you look for in a man?' honestly.
9. Reading a friend's account of their achievements and hopes and dreams is inspiring.
10. There's a difference between fashion and style.
11. Radiohead are terribly depressing yet terribly calming. It's a wonderfully strange effect.
12. Even though we may deep-down believe something to be true, it is always reassuring to hear it from an objective source.
13. Sugar-free red bull and a Marlboro light do not comprise "lunch".
14. Sometimes lending a sweater to a friend makes you feel warmer than if you were wearing it yourself.
15. Devising a super-duper-cool halloween costume is terribly taxing and an unnecessary source of stress.
16. Outsourcing a puzzle is the best way to get it done.
1. "It takes a certain kind of foot to fill the void left in a pair of Manolos".
2. Sometimes a cigarette is better than dessert. But ideally one should have both.
3. The key to making a man happy is to make him think he made the decision.
4. An unfinished book, no matter how once-engaging, must be closed, shelved or finished before a new one can be opened...
5. Conversations about music are far more revealing than one first believes.
6. "He just gets better with age, he's like a fine wine!"
7. When presented with seemingly important and supposedly life-changing information, stop and ask yourself "So what?"
8. Few women answer the age-old question of 'What do you look for in a man?' honestly.
9. Reading a friend's account of their achievements and hopes and dreams is inspiring.
10. There's a difference between fashion and style.
11. Radiohead are terribly depressing yet terribly calming. It's a wonderfully strange effect.
12. Even though we may deep-down believe something to be true, it is always reassuring to hear it from an objective source.
13. Sugar-free red bull and a Marlboro light do not comprise "lunch".
14. Sometimes lending a sweater to a friend makes you feel warmer than if you were wearing it yourself.
15. Devising a super-duper-cool halloween costume is terribly taxing and an unnecessary source of stress.
16. Outsourcing a puzzle is the best way to get it done.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
The power play
This one might be a little more extensive than usual...
1. Getting screwed over twice in the same day, by the same person, is not much fun. Especially if the person in question is not much fun.
2. A great first date does not guarantee a "happily ever after".
3. Never underestimate the strength of a bond between comrades.
4. A series of unfortunate events often prevents two people from forming an otherwise great bond. We cannot control or change this. There will always be an elephant in the room.
5. When someone takes something from you, don't expect it to be handed back to you. Go after it. But only if it's worth getting back.
6. A skim milk vanilla latte with a lovely flaky croissant is the best way to start one's day. No matter how horrible the events which follow are. Holly Golightly had it right.
7. If you feel guilty about something, it doesn't necessarily mean you are wrong.
8. Apologies are seldom sincere. They are more often the antidote to terrible terrible guilt. People sleep better once they have "apologized".
9. Soap is very very hard to sell.
10. Well-written emails are hard to come by. As is an adequate vocabulary.
11. Unexpected compliments from unexpected people are unexpectedly pleasant.
12. A caramel-filled chocolate bar is a temporary fix. A bigger bar may be more effective. The jury is still out.
13. Starting your day incongruously with a ride from a friendly soul must have a hidden meeting and contain a cryptic message. To be uncovered...
14. Always make the power play. Even if the outcome is the same, you land on the opposite end of the mojo spectrum.
1. Getting screwed over twice in the same day, by the same person, is not much fun. Especially if the person in question is not much fun.
2. A great first date does not guarantee a "happily ever after".
3. Never underestimate the strength of a bond between comrades.
4. A series of unfortunate events often prevents two people from forming an otherwise great bond. We cannot control or change this. There will always be an elephant in the room.
5. When someone takes something from you, don't expect it to be handed back to you. Go after it. But only if it's worth getting back.
6. A skim milk vanilla latte with a lovely flaky croissant is the best way to start one's day. No matter how horrible the events which follow are. Holly Golightly had it right.
7. If you feel guilty about something, it doesn't necessarily mean you are wrong.
8. Apologies are seldom sincere. They are more often the antidote to terrible terrible guilt. People sleep better once they have "apologized".
9. Soap is very very hard to sell.
10. Well-written emails are hard to come by. As is an adequate vocabulary.
11. Unexpected compliments from unexpected people are unexpectedly pleasant.
12. A caramel-filled chocolate bar is a temporary fix. A bigger bar may be more effective. The jury is still out.
13. Starting your day incongruously with a ride from a friendly soul must have a hidden meeting and contain a cryptic message. To be uncovered...
14. Always make the power play. Even if the outcome is the same, you land on the opposite end of the mojo spectrum.
Monday, October 27, 2008
25% success rate
Yesterday's learnings... with a few from this morning.
1. To cut straight to the chase, "if he doesn't propose as soon as he meets you, he's just not that into you" (!) (a more comprehensive list to follow)
2. If you don't say "no", they will assume you meant "yes".
3. Impromptu DVD nights are the best kind.
4. Impromptu chats (initiated by heart-stopping scares) with one's roommate at odd hours feels strangely normal, especially if one is discussing the mundane.
5. PQ make excellent brownies.
6. One must ask for 4 wake-up calls in order to secure one. 25% success rate. Not awful.
7. Soap is not that easy to sell.
8. When the market in which you operate does so in the manner of a third world one, third world ideas are inevitable, if not expected.
9. Cigarettes before noon are an ominous indication of things to come.
10. The correct amount of coffee grounds needed to make an excellent cup of turkish coffee is not the amount I thought it would be. More experimentation required to learn said correct amount.
11. The easiest way to make someone's day is through carefully planted, supposedly unintentional flattery.
12. Bob Dylan improves one's day considerably... as does a concomitantly coincidental phone call.
1. To cut straight to the chase, "if he doesn't propose as soon as he meets you, he's just not that into you" (!) (a more comprehensive list to follow)
2. If you don't say "no", they will assume you meant "yes".
3. Impromptu DVD nights are the best kind.
4. Impromptu chats (initiated by heart-stopping scares) with one's roommate at odd hours feels strangely normal, especially if one is discussing the mundane.
5. PQ make excellent brownies.
6. One must ask for 4 wake-up calls in order to secure one. 25% success rate. Not awful.
7. Soap is not that easy to sell.
8. When the market in which you operate does so in the manner of a third world one, third world ideas are inevitable, if not expected.
9. Cigarettes before noon are an ominous indication of things to come.
10. The correct amount of coffee grounds needed to make an excellent cup of turkish coffee is not the amount I thought it would be. More experimentation required to learn said correct amount.
11. The easiest way to make someone's day is through carefully planted, supposedly unintentional flattery.
12. Bob Dylan improves one's day considerably... as does a concomitantly coincidental phone call.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Impulsive
Over the weekend, this is what I learned... (I am sure I could have learned more, but my thinking and judgment were somewhat impaired)
1. V short black dresses are a great investment.
2. An undisclosed, overpriced number of shots usually do the job. A little too well.
3. "Going with the flow" and "Acting on every impulse" are two very different things and must not be confused.
4. Outsourcing a puzzle may or may not be the best way to get it done. (Point of contention to be settled this week.)
5. Children between the ages of 7 and 15 are vile creatures.
6. Getting to work at noon is ideal. Hence, my goal is to find a high paying, low stress, dress-code flexible PART-TIME job.
7. One should not drive a real car in the same manner that one drives a go-kart. Otherwise, one should just invest in a go-kart. Especially if one lives in Barsha.
8. The name of the game is the "ten-year plan"... (Again, thank you, you know who you are)
1. V short black dresses are a great investment.
2. An undisclosed, overpriced number of shots usually do the job. A little too well.
3. "Going with the flow" and "Acting on every impulse" are two very different things and must not be confused.
4. Outsourcing a puzzle may or may not be the best way to get it done. (Point of contention to be settled this week.)
5. Children between the ages of 7 and 15 are vile creatures.
6. Getting to work at noon is ideal. Hence, my goal is to find a high paying, low stress, dress-code flexible PART-TIME job.
7. One should not drive a real car in the same manner that one drives a go-kart. Otherwise, one should just invest in a go-kart. Especially if one lives in Barsha.
8. The name of the game is the "ten-year plan"... (Again, thank you, you know who you are)
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Breakfast
Today's learnings (tomorrow's will surely be more cryptic but nevertheless more exciting)...
1. Breakfast is not the most important meal of the day. It's the most terrifying. Especially in the presence of bad company, or having to write a press release about it for a not-so-bad company.
2. Time differences suck. Maybe a flat earth would have served me better.
3. My colleagues are terrible pranksters with no scruples. I must adopt their ways.
4. If you thought it would be a lovely idea to have lunch outside in the lovely weather, so did a lot of other people.
5. Sugarfree Redbull must have some horrendous side effects because its effects are truly magical. You could say I feel like I could fly, like I have wings so to speak.
6. There is nothing quite like an A/C war to spice up office life.
7. If you have nothing to say to someone, then don't pick up the phone to call them. It's perplexingly awkward.
1. Breakfast is not the most important meal of the day. It's the most terrifying. Especially in the presence of bad company, or having to write a press release about it for a not-so-bad company.
2. Time differences suck. Maybe a flat earth would have served me better.
3. My colleagues are terrible pranksters with no scruples. I must adopt their ways.
4. If you thought it would be a lovely idea to have lunch outside in the lovely weather, so did a lot of other people.
5. Sugarfree Redbull must have some horrendous side effects because its effects are truly magical. You could say I feel like I could fly, like I have wings so to speak.
6. There is nothing quite like an A/C war to spice up office life.
7. If you have nothing to say to someone, then don't pick up the phone to call them. It's perplexingly awkward.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
8 snoozes
Today's "things I've learned":
1. You can never be too thorough. Seriously.
2. It's easier to wake up after one snooze than it is to wake up after 8 snoozes. Yes it's possible to snooze 8 times.
3. Wearing some sort of make-up leads to more people smiling at you. Which leads me to believe that I may look horrendous sans...
4. It's hard to say no to a tall, handsome "colleague" with lovely eyes. And a ravishing smile.
5. "Sometimes you have to make your choice... and know and bear the consequences when they happen" (Thank you, you know who you are)
6. The Blackberry vs. iPhone debate gets people's knickers in a twist. As does the Obama vs. McCain debate.
7. Having lunch outside is lovely. You get to smoke and keep your sunglasses on and check out handsome strangers discreetly.
8. When your phone rings it's either:
a) never who you want it to be OR
b) the last person you expect.
Both are terribly unnerving and irksome.
9. A really great book is one that you can't stop thinking about even as you do the terribly exciting or the terribly mundane...
10. The "nicest" colleagues can say the most inappropriate things sometimes. It's shocking really.
1. You can never be too thorough. Seriously.
2. It's easier to wake up after one snooze than it is to wake up after 8 snoozes. Yes it's possible to snooze 8 times.
3. Wearing some sort of make-up leads to more people smiling at you. Which leads me to believe that I may look horrendous sans...
4. It's hard to say no to a tall, handsome "colleague" with lovely eyes. And a ravishing smile.
5. "Sometimes you have to make your choice... and know and bear the consequences when they happen" (Thank you, you know who you are)
6. The Blackberry vs. iPhone debate gets people's knickers in a twist. As does the Obama vs. McCain debate.
7. Having lunch outside is lovely. You get to smoke and keep your sunglasses on and check out handsome strangers discreetly.
8. When your phone rings it's either:
a) never who you want it to be OR
b) the last person you expect.
Both are terribly unnerving and irksome.
9. A really great book is one that you can't stop thinking about even as you do the terribly exciting or the terribly mundane...
10. The "nicest" colleagues can say the most inappropriate things sometimes. It's shocking really.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Things I've learned
In an effort to not have "wasted" days and keep track of my life education, I've decided to kep a daily log of "things I've learned", inspired by my favourite page in Esquire and a recent e-mail thread between some of my favourite people here...
So here are today's "Things I've Learned":
1. Watching a movie over and over is not time wasted; you notice new things each time and depending on when you watch it, it carries a different meaning. Unless you are watching Zoolander for the hundredth time and you are not a male model with limited brain capacity.
2. Sleeping early does not ensure that you wake up early. And each time you hit snooze, it gets easier to hit snooze.
3. You should not crave a tall non-fat vanilla latte on the day that you choose to wear a Starbucks-branded "I loved being a tourist in New York t-shirt" for the first time. Especially if you actually go to Starbucks. And going to an alternative coffee-place, although perhaps less geeky, is more potentially poisonous.
4. Phones are funny devices and will often screw you over when you need them to function the most.
5. ATM machines have a secret soul and mischievous sense of humour. Enough said.
6. Cab drivers in Dubai never have change. OR a solution when you tell them that you have no change.
7. No dream is often more satisfying than a sweet dream. Especially upon waking up and realising that it's Tuesday, 9:34am and morning. Not Saturday, 3:28pm and not morning.
8. Lunch is the most over-rated meal of the day. Unless you're at the Atlantis and can take a long nap with fishies staring at you from an aquarium right after.
9. Mental health is the most important health of all.
10. It's all about timing...
So here are today's "Things I've Learned":
1. Watching a movie over and over is not time wasted; you notice new things each time and depending on when you watch it, it carries a different meaning. Unless you are watching Zoolander for the hundredth time and you are not a male model with limited brain capacity.
2. Sleeping early does not ensure that you wake up early. And each time you hit snooze, it gets easier to hit snooze.
3. You should not crave a tall non-fat vanilla latte on the day that you choose to wear a Starbucks-branded "I loved being a tourist in New York t-shirt" for the first time. Especially if you actually go to Starbucks. And going to an alternative coffee-place, although perhaps less geeky, is more potentially poisonous.
4. Phones are funny devices and will often screw you over when you need them to function the most.
5. ATM machines have a secret soul and mischievous sense of humour. Enough said.
6. Cab drivers in Dubai never have change. OR a solution when you tell them that you have no change.
7. No dream is often more satisfying than a sweet dream. Especially upon waking up and realising that it's Tuesday, 9:34am and morning. Not Saturday, 3:28pm and not morning.
8. Lunch is the most over-rated meal of the day. Unless you're at the Atlantis and can take a long nap with fishies staring at you from an aquarium right after.
9. Mental health is the most important health of all.
10. It's all about timing...
Monday, March 3, 2008
Meet me halfway
February 14, 2008 (Chick-flick day)
- I am being offered something that I don't want. I will refuse (albeit hesitantly). The outcome will be positive (there is light ahead of me. It is good but far. I am looking at this 'light' and doing anything and everything in order to attain it)
- Meeting: Along with one other person, I will meet someone important but also very nice, will give me a lot of ideas, which require hard work. This person has a great POV.
- I will meet a guy who is very interested in me--WARNING: he only wants to play around, not sincerily interested. My mistake? I am going to tell someone else about this which is going to make them upset. One good thing will come out of telling. (nice and vague, thanks Mom)
- Lately, there is a person (namely, guy) in my life- contact with this guy has decreased his contact with me, but despite this, he is still "there" and listening to me. I want him to know certain things and listen to certain points and ultimately he will be convinced.
- There is someone who is supporting me and 'carrying' me in many aspects of my life.
- I have been busy a lot lately; not in the mood to party anymore; missing someone.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Winds of change
December 25th, 2007 (Christmas day!)
- "Someone has their eye on me" (translated from my mom's good-old Arabic expressions!)--this person is very interested in me. It is easy to get over-excited but then might lose interest. Must be careful to take it slow but remain determined. Must find a good balance.
- Light: there is a strong sense of light/goodness/well-being coming my way. There may be money involved (always good too!). I am looking at it and staring at it and contemplateing it (it = light) and not sure how to reach it. I will meet someone who will show and advise me.
- Professionally: Someone will tell me something that pleases me. Relates to my professional life but not necessarily something related to my current job.
- "Proposal." Not THAT kind. I've heard about this opportunity indirectly. Will jumpstart phase of change. Must study the proposal and weight the pros and cons before making decisions.
- 2008: will be a year of CHANGE (that word again...)--changes will be taking place in more than one area of my life. (Note: CHANGE not necessarily positive or negative; but certainly different.)
- Holding a CARD (metaphorical, not poker!) in my hand: I will use this to bluff and get what I want. Will not have to ever show my "card". (Nice!)
Cryptic. Intriguing. Focus on change. Awaiting it impatiently :)
Newsworthy
December 9th, 2007
- Revolution: I go through excitement about something but now it's gone away--this had worried me earlier, but now it is disappearing. Related to something professional rather than personal.
- Very loyal friend: this person sometimes annoys me and gets on my nerves. Now he/she is confused but I will not know how to help or what to do. We will boh avoid the subject.
- NEWS: 2 pieces-
(a) Big & Important: will find out in the upcoming few days. I will be surprised. This news is related directly to me. I will be happy :) (--Note: coincided with my Dec. trip to Ammanland.)
(b) Small & Sweet: the news will come from afar (geographically). About someone else. Will also make me happy :) [Happiness; always good] - Race: between me and another person who is "stronger" and has a "further reach". Despite being "smaller or weaker", I am catching up to them. The overall tone is good.
- Guy (recurring from before?): has strong feelings towards me. Really cares for me. Not sure about my feelings towards him. Relying on time to clear it up and establish my true feelings. Some complications to think about. There is a girl involved who I will discuss this with--she is the only person that I will be truly honest with. She unintentionally reveals my hesitancy to him. He is not perturbed and continues to have strong feelings towards me. The outcome is unclear but there is a sense of attachment already.
- I will hear about someone who is seriously sick. They are not getting better. This person is not related (socially or family-wise) to me.
There is a recurring theme of racing, romantic confusion and change. Ah...only time will tell!
Spinning 180º
October 28th, 2007 (3:10pm)
(Disclaimer: slightly on the philosophical side; thank you mother!)
(Disclaimer: slightly on the philosophical side; thank you mother!)
- I am sitting at the summit--everything around me appears lower than me. I am standing alone. There are ideas that I want to pursue and fulfill. There is an obstacle--a dark cloud above me which I cannot see. I won't realise this until I am "there". I am perhaps choosing not to get there.
- Male presence: On some level, I see "perfection" in him--it is not clear in what sense. Despite this, I cannot get along with him because we are not on the same page; we have very different ways of thinking. This person will remain in my life for some time until another girl "shows up" (not romantically involved) and changes the way I feel towards him.
- Ladder: I am climbing and there is no-one else climbing with me. Climbing very slowly. If/when someone decides to start climbing too, I will have to move faster.
- There is going to be a 180º change in my life (yes exciting...ish!) after meeting someone who I eventually fall in love with. (Yes, love.) This guy appears virtually from nowhere; we had met before but I did not consider that we may be suited. He pursues me for a short period of time and the feelings develop into mutuality. THIS IS GOING TO CHANGE MY LIFE. I will be "embracing" him (best translation from Arabic that I could muster...) There will be one small incident that will disappoint me slightly but it will not matter because I will change my thoughts because of this person. This person is a "foreigner" in the geographic sense. Socially, we are from different circles and environment but sharing a strong link. The key word is CHANGE.
- There is a male whose name starts with the letter B: this person keeps going in and out of my life. He provides me with attention on a constant basis. This is not necesarily a romantic interest. Even though I enjoy the attention somewhat, I am uninterested and it doesn't really affect me.
- BEWARE: Female friend--I confide in her regularly. She is, in fact, relaying my mesages to the people which are involved in our discussions. Possibly, but not necessarily, a professional acquaintance.
On the whole, quite interesting. Some things which may be playing out and others which, obscure and vague, mean very little to me as of yet.
As with all things, only time will tell.
(If you posess any information pertaining to the above or any other of my readings, do not hesitate to share...)
Monday, February 4, 2008
Key thoughts
September 2nd, 2007
- KEY: will receive an "offer" in appx. 2 months. Will be v confused. Offer will be far beyond my expectations. I will be surprised. Will discuss this offer with only one person who is standing behind me and pushing me to take it. My thoughts are: "Leave me alone to think!" Note: There are 2 other people who have their eye on the same offer.
- A close and loyal friend may have to leave and move somewhere far. I will be upset for a while. This person doesn't have a choice and must go.
- I will have a discussion with a close female friend--this is the first time we discuss the topic. We will both be releived because the subject was broached. The change post-chat will be in her life not mine.
- I will be given an assignment that I'd like to do my own way but at the same time will feel very reluctant to due to reactions from others. I will work hard to complete it anyway, but not with all my heart.
- I am going to finally obtain something I have been wanting--material object.
Updates to follow soon. Keep visiting.
Note to self: Must keep eyes open for keys, vague assignments and disappearing friends.
coffee cups and mysterious men
I've decided to take this blog in a slightly newer direction. A direction which I am hoping will provide me with a little direction of my own, and help me make decisions, evaluate my actions and just overall provide me with some sort of whimiscal structure in life. Since my choice of outfit could be just as influential as my choice of a future job, I will take the equally nondescript path of analyzing my coffee cups to foretell, foreshadow and forewarn my future. Or perhaps merely to entertain. Either way, I hope for it to provide some sort of structure and help me make more "well-thought out" decisions and assist me in justifying the truly very me-like insane ones.
The posts which follow are coffee cup readings as seen by my dear mother who humors me and enlightens me whenever my poor mind is in disarray with "good news" and the occasional mysterious man...
The first dates back to September 2nd 2007. The most recent is just last week--January 26th 2008. I'll update the reading with possible events which could match up as they happen, so check back for possible "explanations" as my life unfolds.
DISCLAIMER: coffee contains caffeine which causes cellulite, high blood pressure, apetite suppression, weight loss and insomnia, often keeping you up all night to wonder the meaning of your life. I will only take responsibility for the last of these side-effects.
Enjoy your coffee :)
The posts which follow are coffee cup readings as seen by my dear mother who humors me and enlightens me whenever my poor mind is in disarray with "good news" and the occasional mysterious man...
The first dates back to September 2nd 2007. The most recent is just last week--January 26th 2008. I'll update the reading with possible events which could match up as they happen, so check back for possible "explanations" as my life unfolds.
DISCLAIMER: coffee contains caffeine which causes cellulite, high blood pressure, apetite suppression, weight loss and insomnia, often keeping you up all night to wonder the meaning of your life. I will only take responsibility for the last of these side-effects.
Enjoy your coffee :)
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Timely inspiration
Too soon to get back on the proverbial old horse? A few months of pent up thoughts finally spilling on the page.
We all talk of inspirations...what movie made us do one thing or the other, who unsuspectingly convinced us to go here or there, what song pushed us to accept or reject a proposal or creme brulee. Is there an inherent quality in the flick, chick or tune that helps us make decisions, or at least deludes us into thinking we are making the right ones? Or is it all just a misunderstood matter of righttime-rightplace?
We all talk of inspirations...what movie made us do one thing or the other, who unsuspectingly convinced us to go here or there, what song pushed us to accept or reject a proposal or creme brulee. Is there an inherent quality in the flick, chick or tune that helps us make decisions, or at least deludes us into thinking we are making the right ones? Or is it all just a misunderstood matter of righttime-rightplace?
Just some timely cake for thought...
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
the last word
After a four month hiatus, I woke up this morning knowing that I wanted to write. Not knowing what I wanted to write about. With thoughts of secrets overlapping those of cake and candy to time travel and photographs, it all looks blurry.
Is knowing what you want enough? Is waking up in the morning to the knowledge of what will make you happy get you any closer?
This morning I woke up knowing that I wanted to write.
You did write. Several words. Unconnected yet well-thought out. Letter after letter, building on what is already there, something begins to take shape. Not necessarily coherent but uniquely created through a dialogue...of sorts. Composed of small yellow tiles against a gridded canvas. A senseless tirade of words connected by nothing more than a mere letter or a regular plural.
TACT. COULD. DATE. PEEL. PEELS. SANE. NEVER. REACT. SHEEP.
You play the cards you're dealt. You play the letters you draw. You bluff and hide your cards. You place and arrange your tiles. Bluffing is futile--nothing remains hidden for long. A hidden Z reveals a resize while a guarded Q unveils a quote. LOVE. HAPPY. JOY. Triple word score. DECEIVE. LIE. HIDE. Not even a measly double letter score on E.
Three hundred and twelve to two hundred and eighty five. Close game. Nothing like seven strategically placed letters to give you the upper hand. BREAKUP. Will it pass? That's two words. Oh shit. Swap your tiles.
Her turn. TRYING. A feeble attempt. Just ten points. GREEDY. Double word score. She furrows her eyebrows; she rearranges her tiles. She sees a word but can't see the word. Your tiles sit patiently, waiting to morph the snaky form collecting dust.
QUIT. You raise an eyebrow. Meticulously, you voice your thoughts. QUITE. She looks at her rack, fingering the tops of the tiles, wondering which direction to go next. Unwavering and ahead by a dozen, one by one, she places her remaining tiles to complete her thought. UNREQUITED.
You look back at your rack but it's over.
She had the last word.
Is knowing what you want enough? Is waking up in the morning to the knowledge of what will make you happy get you any closer?
This morning I woke up knowing that I wanted to write.
You did write. Several words. Unconnected yet well-thought out. Letter after letter, building on what is already there, something begins to take shape. Not necessarily coherent but uniquely created through a dialogue...of sorts. Composed of small yellow tiles against a gridded canvas. A senseless tirade of words connected by nothing more than a mere letter or a regular plural.
TACT. COULD. DATE. PEEL. PEELS. SANE. NEVER. REACT. SHEEP.
You play the cards you're dealt. You play the letters you draw. You bluff and hide your cards. You place and arrange your tiles. Bluffing is futile--nothing remains hidden for long. A hidden Z reveals a resize while a guarded Q unveils a quote. LOVE. HAPPY. JOY. Triple word score. DECEIVE. LIE. HIDE. Not even a measly double letter score on E.
Three hundred and twelve to two hundred and eighty five. Close game. Nothing like seven strategically placed letters to give you the upper hand. BREAKUP. Will it pass? That's two words. Oh shit. Swap your tiles.
Her turn. TRYING. A feeble attempt. Just ten points. GREEDY. Double word score. She furrows her eyebrows; she rearranges her tiles. She sees a word but can't see the word. Your tiles sit patiently, waiting to morph the snaky form collecting dust.
QUIT. You raise an eyebrow. Meticulously, you voice your thoughts. QUITE. She looks at her rack, fingering the tops of the tiles, wondering which direction to go next. Unwavering and ahead by a dozen, one by one, she places her remaining tiles to complete her thought. UNREQUITED.
You look back at your rack but it's over.
She had the last word.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Unfinished short story. Title pending. Any thoughts?
Hazel stared at her cellphone, clutched tightly in her left hand, willing it to ring. In her other hand, a lit cigarette dangled absent-mindedly, and brought up to her lips and sending a rush of nicotine to her brain. She stared some more, flipped it open a few times "just to make sure it was working" and waited. She slipped it into her pocket, imagining the inanimate object to be stubborn, thinking perhaps it may ring if she stopped willing it to so impatiently.
The sun moved higher in the sky, forcing the little patch of shade Hazel stood in to get smaller and smaller, until she was completely exposed. Despite having half of her face obscured by dark sunglasses, Hazel squinted her eyes as the sun's rays, unwelcome yet indifferent, hit her square in the eye.
"Fuck it," she muttered, throwing her unfinished cigarette in a gutter, adding to the already growing collection of discarded rubbish and debris. She checked her phone again, sure there must be something wrong with the networks. Was it possible that he hadn't called her yet? He had said noon. It was fourteen minutes past. Could there have been a mix up at the drop off point? She looked around hurriedly, making sure she wasn't being followed or recognized and lit another cigarette. Inhaling deeply, she looked up at the sky where oddly enough, a crow circled overhead.
The sun moved higher in the sky, forcing the little patch of shade Hazel stood in to get smaller and smaller, until she was completely exposed. Despite having half of her face obscured by dark sunglasses, Hazel squinted her eyes as the sun's rays, unwelcome yet indifferent, hit her square in the eye.
"Fuck it," she muttered, throwing her unfinished cigarette in a gutter, adding to the already growing collection of discarded rubbish and debris. She checked her phone again, sure there must be something wrong with the networks. Was it possible that he hadn't called her yet? He had said noon. It was fourteen minutes past. Could there have been a mix up at the drop off point? She looked around hurriedly, making sure she wasn't being followed or recognized and lit another cigarette. Inhaling deeply, she looked up at the sky where oddly enough, a crow circled overhead.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Train of thought
(vintage pre-blog writing)
It must be cold out today. You shiver slightly, clutching your worn leather gloves close to your chest. You use your free hand to grab hold of the pole as the carriage lunges forward. Your thin brown hair brushes into your eyes and you’re careful to replace every strand in its place; glancing at your reflection in the window to make sure nothing is awry. Must be your new haircut. I wonder where you go every morning. I mean, you can’t possibly have a nine-to-five job, you take the 10:34 metro every day – and that’s including the weekends. I wonder if you have a boyfriend, or a girlfriend.
You furtively slide a perfectly manicured hand into your concealed coat pocket, fingering the buttons on your cell phone. You furrow your immaculately shaped eyebrows; you remember that there is no reception underground. Whose call are you waiting for? It is then that you notice me watching you. With only the shiny metal pole that you grip between us, you feel naked and exposed. You are not used to being watched – that position is reserved for the blonde, blue-eyed bombshells, you think to yourself. But I can’t help but watch you. I catch your eye and you are quick to look away, looking intently at your watch as an excuse not to hold my gaze. Although you look away, I know that you see me.
We arrive at the next stop. Your whole body jerks forward as the train comes to a halt. You seem to be caught off-guard. Maybe you have something important on your mind. I wonder if I am that something important. I guess I must seem strange to you; as I watch you. But you don’t seem bothered; you make no move to distance yourself away from me. On the contrary, you carefully choose your carriage every morning; as if to make certain that we are in the same carriage. Our daily proximity to each other almost validates our existence.
I turn my head away; compelling you to watch me instead as I have watched you. I yearn to look up and see whether I’ve been able to tempt you, but I decide not to. Instead, I look at my reflection, looking at you, you looking at me. I smile to myself; I have silently convinced you.
Why is it that I find you so intriguing? For one, you never smile. But you don’t seem unhappy either. I wish you would smile. We have never spoken but I want to believe that on some level, we communicate. I am not the shy type; I am the person standing in line at the bank and who talks to you endlessly while you mutely wish for my swift disappearance. So why is it that I can’t muster up the courage to talk to you? With each passing day, it becomes more and more difficult to make that verbal exchange. I have become too comfortable with our imagined telepathic exchanges.
You steal a glance at me, pretending to examine the metro map, which by now I am sure has been emblazoned in the depths of your mind. I wonder why you are always alone. But then again, I am always alone. Not by choice though. You reach into your oversized bag; it never ceases to amaze with its contents. You rummage through for something that you seem to have just thought of. The intent look on your face turns into a frown, and then suddenly, a smile lights up your eyes. You take out a DVD and hold it tightly in your left hand, your knuckles whiten after a few seconds – it’s a Hitchcock classic; ‘Strangers on a Train’. I wonder if you are sending me a message, after all, we are strangers on a train too. Now I would offer to exchange victims with you, except that I am your victim and you are mine. You have victimized me by consuming my thoughts as I stand in this carriage every day, watching you. And I have victimized you by making you the object of my every thought. Still, neither of us shows any interest of changing carriages, and neither of us has missed a day on the metro yet.
You often carry a cup of overpriced coffee from Starbucks, but not today. I notice that when you do, it is always full as you always empty it into the same rusty trashcan as you step off the carriage and onto the platform. You never drink your coffee but hold the cup gingerly in your left hand, shifting back and forth between the two hands, warming each one as you secretly inhale the deep aroma. I, on the other hand, don’t drink the stuff. It clouds my train of thought.
Only four more stops before you end our encounter. I am sometimes tempted to follow you out but something always holds me back. Maybe it’s your aura, lingering behind to keep me company. I usually stay on, finding a seat to rest my legs when you walk out of my day. But today is different. Today you miss your stop. For a minute I am stunned. I’ve already found a seat and now you’ve thrown me off-guard. My hands are soaked in sweat and I wipe them vigorously on my jeans, adding to the collection of stains I’ve gathered. I nervously stare at your back, trying to fathom why and how your schedule changed today. Your face is hidden from view but after a closer look, I can see your reflection, looking at me, me looking at your back. And then without warning, you turn and look straight at my face; your bottomless brown eyes penetrate mine.
You smile at me, take the empty seat to my left and extend your right hand. Then the unthinkable happens, you speak to me: “Hi, I’m Rachel.”
It must be cold out today. You shiver slightly, clutching your worn leather gloves close to your chest. You use your free hand to grab hold of the pole as the carriage lunges forward. Your thin brown hair brushes into your eyes and you’re careful to replace every strand in its place; glancing at your reflection in the window to make sure nothing is awry. Must be your new haircut. I wonder where you go every morning. I mean, you can’t possibly have a nine-to-five job, you take the 10:34 metro every day – and that’s including the weekends. I wonder if you have a boyfriend, or a girlfriend.
You furtively slide a perfectly manicured hand into your concealed coat pocket, fingering the buttons on your cell phone. You furrow your immaculately shaped eyebrows; you remember that there is no reception underground. Whose call are you waiting for? It is then that you notice me watching you. With only the shiny metal pole that you grip between us, you feel naked and exposed. You are not used to being watched – that position is reserved for the blonde, blue-eyed bombshells, you think to yourself. But I can’t help but watch you. I catch your eye and you are quick to look away, looking intently at your watch as an excuse not to hold my gaze. Although you look away, I know that you see me.
We arrive at the next stop. Your whole body jerks forward as the train comes to a halt. You seem to be caught off-guard. Maybe you have something important on your mind. I wonder if I am that something important. I guess I must seem strange to you; as I watch you. But you don’t seem bothered; you make no move to distance yourself away from me. On the contrary, you carefully choose your carriage every morning; as if to make certain that we are in the same carriage. Our daily proximity to each other almost validates our existence.
I turn my head away; compelling you to watch me instead as I have watched you. I yearn to look up and see whether I’ve been able to tempt you, but I decide not to. Instead, I look at my reflection, looking at you, you looking at me. I smile to myself; I have silently convinced you.
Why is it that I find you so intriguing? For one, you never smile. But you don’t seem unhappy either. I wish you would smile. We have never spoken but I want to believe that on some level, we communicate. I am not the shy type; I am the person standing in line at the bank and who talks to you endlessly while you mutely wish for my swift disappearance. So why is it that I can’t muster up the courage to talk to you? With each passing day, it becomes more and more difficult to make that verbal exchange. I have become too comfortable with our imagined telepathic exchanges.
You steal a glance at me, pretending to examine the metro map, which by now I am sure has been emblazoned in the depths of your mind. I wonder why you are always alone. But then again, I am always alone. Not by choice though. You reach into your oversized bag; it never ceases to amaze with its contents. You rummage through for something that you seem to have just thought of. The intent look on your face turns into a frown, and then suddenly, a smile lights up your eyes. You take out a DVD and hold it tightly in your left hand, your knuckles whiten after a few seconds – it’s a Hitchcock classic; ‘Strangers on a Train’. I wonder if you are sending me a message, after all, we are strangers on a train too. Now I would offer to exchange victims with you, except that I am your victim and you are mine. You have victimized me by consuming my thoughts as I stand in this carriage every day, watching you. And I have victimized you by making you the object of my every thought. Still, neither of us shows any interest of changing carriages, and neither of us has missed a day on the metro yet.
You often carry a cup of overpriced coffee from Starbucks, but not today. I notice that when you do, it is always full as you always empty it into the same rusty trashcan as you step off the carriage and onto the platform. You never drink your coffee but hold the cup gingerly in your left hand, shifting back and forth between the two hands, warming each one as you secretly inhale the deep aroma. I, on the other hand, don’t drink the stuff. It clouds my train of thought.
Only four more stops before you end our encounter. I am sometimes tempted to follow you out but something always holds me back. Maybe it’s your aura, lingering behind to keep me company. I usually stay on, finding a seat to rest my legs when you walk out of my day. But today is different. Today you miss your stop. For a minute I am stunned. I’ve already found a seat and now you’ve thrown me off-guard. My hands are soaked in sweat and I wipe them vigorously on my jeans, adding to the collection of stains I’ve gathered. I nervously stare at your back, trying to fathom why and how your schedule changed today. Your face is hidden from view but after a closer look, I can see your reflection, looking at me, me looking at your back. And then without warning, you turn and look straight at my face; your bottomless brown eyes penetrate mine.
You smile at me, take the empty seat to my left and extend your right hand. Then the unthinkable happens, you speak to me: “Hi, I’m Rachel.”
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Over-utilized and under-used
After having almost exhausted the topic of keeping secrets, I started to wonder about the virtue of honesty. Since I'm a fan of analogies and examples, here's one to make life easier.
Let's say there's a girl. And she's in love with this guy. We'll call her Sheryl and we'll call him Mike for now. Sheryl thinks Mike is hot, Mike finds Sheryl attractive. They've known each other for a few years now, maybe three. One day, Sheryl wakes up to the realization that the explanation for that uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach is that thing we call love. She's in love. With Mike. But Mike on the other hand, is possibly in love with someone else. Someone he can't have. But instead of doing the gentlemanly thing of putting Sheryl out of her misery and acting uninterested, distant and aloof, he makes the classic move of doing this part-time while sending out his famous male cocktail of mixed signals (sans olive) for the other half. Ignoring Sheryl is his usual behavior, but every once in a while, to keep things exciting, and Sheryl on her toes, he puts out his bat-signal. "I'm into you," it says to Sheryl. And we're not talking vague and open to misinterpretation "eye-contact" here; we're talking an undisputable message, but strangely without the fine print of an RSVP or even a return address. Both parties know that the message was sent and in turn received, but neither acknowledge its delivery. Her heart beats a million miles a minute, it drowns out everything else. His heart beats.....well this is the problem: we simply don't know.
And this is where our elusive friend Honesty pops in, rearing her frightening head and triggering what can only be dramatically described as a downward-spiraling obsession. At this point, Sheryl thinks: Maybe I should come clean. We're adults. It's not like I won't recover from this. What's the worst that could happen? At least I'll know once and for all where I stand.
But she does nothing.
People always say "honesty is the best policy"; possibly the most over-utilized but under-used clichés around. We throw it around like we would a frisbee on a Saturday afternoon. Easily, breezily... But like a frisbee, much simpler in theory. What we forget to consider is the wind direction, the glare of the sun, the gradient of the slope and, most importantly, the other frisbee-throwers.
In theory it's a great idea, but practically, we always end up lying on the prickly grass, staring at odd cloud formations with our lips firmly sealed, just hoping not to get hit by a rogue frisbee...
Let's say there's a girl. And she's in love with this guy. We'll call her Sheryl and we'll call him Mike for now. Sheryl thinks Mike is hot, Mike finds Sheryl attractive. They've known each other for a few years now, maybe three. One day, Sheryl wakes up to the realization that the explanation for that uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach is that thing we call love. She's in love. With Mike. But Mike on the other hand, is possibly in love with someone else. Someone he can't have. But instead of doing the gentlemanly thing of putting Sheryl out of her misery and acting uninterested, distant and aloof, he makes the classic move of doing this part-time while sending out his famous male cocktail of mixed signals (sans olive) for the other half. Ignoring Sheryl is his usual behavior, but every once in a while, to keep things exciting, and Sheryl on her toes, he puts out his bat-signal. "I'm into you," it says to Sheryl. And we're not talking vague and open to misinterpretation "eye-contact" here; we're talking an undisputable message, but strangely without the fine print of an RSVP or even a return address. Both parties know that the message was sent and in turn received, but neither acknowledge its delivery. Her heart beats a million miles a minute, it drowns out everything else. His heart beats.....well this is the problem: we simply don't know.
And this is where our elusive friend Honesty pops in, rearing her frightening head and triggering what can only be dramatically described as a downward-spiraling obsession. At this point, Sheryl thinks: Maybe I should come clean. We're adults. It's not like I won't recover from this. What's the worst that could happen? At least I'll know once and for all where I stand.
But she does nothing.
People always say "honesty is the best policy"; possibly the most over-utilized but under-used clichés around. We throw it around like we would a frisbee on a Saturday afternoon. Easily, breezily... But like a frisbee, much simpler in theory. What we forget to consider is the wind direction, the glare of the sun, the gradient of the slope and, most importantly, the other frisbee-throwers.
In theory it's a great idea, but practically, we always end up lying on the prickly grass, staring at odd cloud formations with our lips firmly sealed, just hoping not to get hit by a rogue frisbee...
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Fortified armour
Just when I thought I'd got all that secret business out of my system, it creeps up on me stealthily as I plod through my daily life, getting on with the mundane and the routine, camouflaging the truth.
Do we all have secrets? Simply put, yes. Some of us more than others, some of us less that we'd like and some of us more than others would ever imagine. But we all have them, things that we are ashamed we have done, feelings we are too scared to admit and perhaps relationships that are too taboo for us to emerge unscathed from.
I think I am coming to a realisation. Despite what Frank Warren is telling me; that getting my secrets off my chest and out into cyberspace will bring me some semblance of peace and clarity, I beg to differ. In fact, I like my secrets. Sometimes they may be haunting and sometimes they make me feel giddy inside, and even though I may not always like their content per se, I can't deny that I like having them.
I enjoy knowing that there are some things that only I know, or perhaps me and one other person. The secrets, on some level, contribute to defining who I am, and by giving them away, even to supposed strangers separated by no more than six degrees, I am willingly becoming more vulnerable. Less safe. Increasingly exposed.
Instead, I'll fortify my armour, reinforce my walls and widen my moat...and hold on to my secrets for a little while longer.
Do we all have secrets? Simply put, yes. Some of us more than others, some of us less that we'd like and some of us more than others would ever imagine. But we all have them, things that we are ashamed we have done, feelings we are too scared to admit and perhaps relationships that are too taboo for us to emerge unscathed from.
I think I am coming to a realisation. Despite what Frank Warren is telling me; that getting my secrets off my chest and out into cyberspace will bring me some semblance of peace and clarity, I beg to differ. In fact, I like my secrets. Sometimes they may be haunting and sometimes they make me feel giddy inside, and even though I may not always like their content per se, I can't deny that I like having them.
I enjoy knowing that there are some things that only I know, or perhaps me and one other person. The secrets, on some level, contribute to defining who I am, and by giving them away, even to supposed strangers separated by no more than six degrees, I am willingly becoming more vulnerable. Less safe. Increasingly exposed.
Instead, I'll fortify my armour, reinforce my walls and widen my moat...and hold on to my secrets for a little while longer.
Friday, June 8, 2007
Still life and strawberries
James squinted in the glare of the setting sun, visually scanning the piazza for Victoria. He spotted her in the distance, the gold hoop earrings he had bought her from a street merchant hung from her earlobes, casting a glow on her face. She haggled with a squat white-haired gelato vendor for "just an extra little bit" of the limone. Eventually, he topped up her cone, having given in to her batting eyelashes and flirtatious per favores.
James headed over to where Victoria was, eying a disheveled-looking flower girl on his way. He made a quick stop, signaling to the young girl that he wanted just one rose. Distracted by Victoria's innocent laugh as she stood by the gelato stand and watched the pigeons squabble over discarded crumbs, James hastily took the plastic-wrapped rose, exchanging it for a couple of euros.
As he approached Victoria, her eyes lit up. He handed her the rose and she took it excitedly, wrapping her arms around his neck, her ice cream cone firmly in hand. Drip...drip...drip... The ice cream was melting, creating a small puddle of yellow and pink on the brick floor just behind James.
"That's soooo sweet!" a hoarse-voiced Victoria exclaimed, before flinging the rose into her oversized handbag.
"Vic you know you shouldn't be having any ice-cream," James said but Victoria just laughed it off.
"I know you like my voice all sexy like this..." she playfully remarked, glancing away to find out which pigeon had claimed the final crumb.
James had met Victoria at a gallery opening for his photographs two weeks before. He had been described by the NY Times art editor as having "revived the still life movement". Bored and already on his third drink, James had left his fiancée with the formalities of explaining the influences behind his work to admirers for a refill when he stopped dead in his tracks. A tall brunette with hair which hung all the way down to the small of her bare back stood at the bar, flirting with the bartender who was obviously in raptures over everything that escaped her seductive lips. Her laugh was husky, and she spoke with a slight accent that he couldn't place. James set his empty glass down on the far side of the bar before making his way up to her, and unwittingly reviving his own still life.
Her black slinky dress skimmed the floor, hinting at the flawlessness that hid underneath it. James glanced back to where his fiancée stood with an older woman, deep in discussion on the similarities between the works of Kandinsky and Picasso. He brought his attention back to the stunning woman before him, who had by now noticed his less than obvious looks at her.
"Hello, I'm Victoria," she said, her voice still gravelly, giving him a light peck on the cheek, "you must be James Felding, there was a picture of you on my invitation!" She quickly fished the invitation out of her miniscule purse and waved it at him, "See?" she said with a smile so infectious that James found himself feeling elated by her effervescence. "Oh, I'm sorry," she began, having noticed that he hadn't said a word yet, "I didn't mean to be so forward but I absolutely have to have the strawberries and thought you might be more inclined to give me a discount if you knew me! So, I'm Victoria."
James cleared his throat, leaving his trance-like state of wondering whether she was real or merely a whiskey-induced apparition.
James mustered up the composure to finally speak to her, "Hello Victoria," he said, "I'm James; it's lovely to meet you." Her smile widened and she kissed him on the cheek again, lingering a little longer this time.
Victoria was talking about one of his favorite photographs, a jovial bowl of fresh strawberries that he had picked up from the farmer's market on a cold and wet Sunday morning, in hopes of surprising his fiancée with fresh strawberries atop her breakfast pancakes. As he had sat in his car, drenched from head to toe, he couldn't help but become immediately taken by the beauty of the unassuming scarlet fruits which sat against the background of the cheap green plastic netted box. He had stretched his arm to the back seat of his car, rummaging for a camera to snap a few shots of the strawberries. All he could find was an old disposable Kodak, thankfully one with a flash, with a couple of pictures left on it. He couldn't remember what else was on it, or even whose it was, but he had no choice. He couldn't let this moment slip. He looked through the viewfinder, and snapped.
Flash.
Having rolled the little gear until it could move no more, James readjusted the camera, flipping it round for a portrait shot and took his second and last picture.
Flash.
A few minutes passed before James realized he had been sitting in the car for nearly half an hour, contemplating what would become part of their breakfast later. He put the car in gear and sped back home, occasionally glancing at the strawberries that sat patiently beside him.
As he chatted with Victoria, James didn't mention his fiancée. Not a particularly calculating move on his part; the topic simply didn't come up.
They discussed furniture arranging, pie making and flight patterns of seagulls—anything but the mundane. In that moment, James couldn't imagine Victoria in a conversation with anyone about the weather.
Victoria was significantly younger than he was, and made him feel younger. He hadn't looked for his fiancée at all that night since his encounter with Victoria, which had now changed its venue—they were on the terrace, where the chill in the air ensured no one would venture out there.
Another uncalculated move—simply one in a series of uncalculated but convenient moves that evening.
Hours passed, and unbeknownst to both James and Victoria, everyone inside had left, save his fiancée and fiscal-minded agent, who stood discussing the possibility of another showing in October. Victoria, noticing his distraction, questioned him lightly, "Looking for someone?" This was his chance to come clean, be honest, no longer able to chalk it up to happenstance. But before he could utter a word, she quickly interjected with "Oh, and I forgot to ask you, how do you feel about sandcastles?" She had changed the subject, uninterested in the answer. James let her be, as he delved into a childhood anecdote of a destroyed sandcastle on the beaches of Brighton.
Midway through his story, his fiancée had come out to the terrace in search of him. "Almost done?" she asked. She seemed impatient to leave.
"Do you mind going ahead without me while Victoria and I finish up the paperwork on a sale? She's taking the strawberries," James said in a composed tone.
Victoria had walked off to the edge of the terrace, smoking a cigarette and counting the stars.
His future wife smiled faintly, "Congrats babe! Are you sure you don't mind that I don’t wait for you? I’m absolutely knackered."
James nodded. He gave her a quick peck on the lips before adding, "Let me know when you're home safe." Before he and Victoria had shared anything more than anecdotes and cigarettes, the guilt was already creeping up on him.
But with his fiancée gone, James felt lighter. He crept up to Victoria, gesturing for a smoke. She lit a cigarette and placed it gingerly between his parted lips. He inhaled. So did she. Silently, they exhaled at the same time. James threw the cigarette to the floor, stubbing it out with his shoe; Victoria did the same. Mutely, he leaned in towards her, and intoxicated by her scent; fell into a deep kiss with her. She kissed him back. The moment was surreal; they were alone but out in the open, fueled with the rush of getting caught.
As he pulled away from her, James could see her smile widening. Casually, she picked up her purse, pulled out her invitation and using her eyeliner, scribbled her number on the back. "I was serious about those strawberries," she said. Her eyes were sparkling; he could still taste her on his lips. "So you’d better call me," she added teasingly. And just like that, she walked out of the gallery, leaving James staring up at the fateful basket of strawberries.
It was two weeks later. James had been seeing Victoria at every moment he could since their meeting at the gallery. What his fiancée perceived as a new project in still life, was actually a personal project in crawling out of his still life. She thought he was away on business. His strawberries hung in Victoria's bedroom.
Victoria's gelato was almost completely devoured. Her hair kept falling in her face; she used her free hand to whip it away. She teased James with the last bite, before placing what was left of the cone in her mouth, savoring it all till the very last bite. She smiled at the old man who had sold it to her, mouthing "Grazia" at him as they walked past.
The sun had almost set on an almost-perfect day. As they walked through the bustling streets of early-evening Rome in search of somewhere to have dinner, the plastic wrapped rose peeking out of Victoria's bag caught James' eye. He lifted it out to smell it. It was then that he noticed the rose was artificial. It made him uncomfortable, he felt deceived.
They found a secluded trattoria and sat down. Strangely, James' appetite had escaped him while Victoria, having just finished her raspberry and lemon gelato, was already ready for more. Excitedly, she scanned the menu, studying every choice to determine what would be the best decision, and eventually settled on a pizza topped with "local ingredients". James, on the other hand, couldn't make a choice.
As he listened to her talk, wondering the origin of the non-local ingredients on the menu, James became slightly annoyed. Victoria's voice seemed unusually loud, and her conversation immature. His appetite had disappeared completely. The big hoop earrings that hung from her earlobes had lost their charm and now just seemed gaudy.
James had trouble breathing. He excused himself from the table, mumbling that he needed to use the bathroom. Unworried and unperturbed, Victoria signaled to the sommelier for a bottle of rosé.
As James walked out of the restaurant, he took one last look at Victoria’s long chestnut hair resting comfortably on her back, and walked out of her life for good.
It was time to return to his still life.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Heroic measures
Hercules: husband, hero & hunk. He fought against the seemingly impossible, supported by his loyal half-sister and somewhat estranged father. He endured his father's jealous wife and came out on top. He suffered a serious Hades-induced overdose but still managed to make his way back and have everything come up roses.
Today, he would be endorsing a footwear line, designer watch and carbonated drink. The Meg 'incident' is conveniently spun and Herc becomes nothing short of an international hero.
Wait a minute, wait a minute, let's go back just a little. What got him into the mess to begin with? And why are we so quick to forgive his actions? His winning smile, bulging biceps and apparent suffering have made our hearts melt. The Brad Pitt of ancient Greece. After having forsaken (and accidentally (?) murdered) his woman, Meg, he wins the hearts of the masses with nothing more than some good PR. Highlight his achievements: Hercules, strong and loyal. Brad, supportive and doting.
But what of our favorite friend? Swept underneath the rug, this damsel in distress is unfairly forgotten--nothing more than an inconvenient skeleton in the closet. Left to sit in an old book on a dusty shelf somewhere, merely an afterthought. Shuffled to the last pages of US Weekly. Jen and Meg are conveniently diminished, while Herc and Brad adorn the covers. When will Meg get the attention and sympathy she deserves? Or will directing sympathy at her make us love Herc just a little less?
As a staunch supporter of Jen, I can't help but take Meg's side. How can a man who slaughtered his wife and kids have made it to the ranks of hero, and one of the greatest no less? His lawyers sorted the whole thing out, "We'll plead insanity" they told Herc reassuringly. "Don't worry about a thing, with your winning smile and that just-got-out-of-bed hair, the media will eat the whole thing up." The jury must have bought it too, hook, line and sinker. Poor Paris (Hilton, not Troy), if only she had hired Herc's attorneys.
And what of retribution??? Forget rehab, leave Promises and Wonderland behind; only Eurystheus will really bring you back. A custom twelve-step program is the new "I'm sorry". If only Britney and Lindsay had known.
So is there any hope for Meg? Doesn't she deserve just a little more recognition, even if it is at the expense of the man-of-the-moment? Sadly, Meg has bad PR. No press releases worth being picked up, nor newsworthy scandals surrounding her. Sure, her murder was tragic, but where's the blockbuster in that? And the murder of her children? That would never pass the PG 13 censors ratings.
What Meg really needs is a little sneaky PR of her own: an underground grassroots movement. 'Free Paris' and 'Team Aniston', move over, 'Save Meg' is where it's gonna be at.
(Don't miss out on all The Twelfth Task action: Watch the coolest trailers around and join the Facebook group of the moment...)
Today, he would be endorsing a footwear line, designer watch and carbonated drink. The Meg 'incident' is conveniently spun and Herc becomes nothing short of an international hero.
Wait a minute, wait a minute, let's go back just a little. What got him into the mess to begin with? And why are we so quick to forgive his actions? His winning smile, bulging biceps and apparent suffering have made our hearts melt. The Brad Pitt of ancient Greece. After having forsaken (and accidentally (?) murdered) his woman, Meg, he wins the hearts of the masses with nothing more than some good PR. Highlight his achievements: Hercules, strong and loyal. Brad, supportive and doting.
But what of our favorite friend? Swept underneath the rug, this damsel in distress is unfairly forgotten--nothing more than an inconvenient skeleton in the closet. Left to sit in an old book on a dusty shelf somewhere, merely an afterthought. Shuffled to the last pages of US Weekly. Jen and Meg are conveniently diminished, while Herc and Brad adorn the covers. When will Meg get the attention and sympathy she deserves? Or will directing sympathy at her make us love Herc just a little less?
As a staunch supporter of Jen, I can't help but take Meg's side. How can a man who slaughtered his wife and kids have made it to the ranks of hero, and one of the greatest no less? His lawyers sorted the whole thing out, "We'll plead insanity" they told Herc reassuringly. "Don't worry about a thing, with your winning smile and that just-got-out-of-bed hair, the media will eat the whole thing up." The jury must have bought it too, hook, line and sinker. Poor Paris (Hilton, not Troy), if only she had hired Herc's attorneys.
And what of retribution??? Forget rehab, leave Promises and Wonderland behind; only Eurystheus will really bring you back. A custom twelve-step program is the new "I'm sorry". If only Britney and Lindsay had known.
So is there any hope for Meg? Doesn't she deserve just a little more recognition, even if it is at the expense of the man-of-the-moment? Sadly, Meg has bad PR. No press releases worth being picked up, nor newsworthy scandals surrounding her. Sure, her murder was tragic, but where's the blockbuster in that? And the murder of her children? That would never pass the PG 13 censors ratings.
What Meg really needs is a little sneaky PR of her own: an underground grassroots movement. 'Free Paris' and 'Team Aniston', move over, 'Save Meg' is where it's gonna be at.
(Don't miss out on all The Twelfth Task action: Watch the coolest trailers around and join the Facebook group of the moment...)
Blueberry muffins
How often do we do things in life just to avoid disappointing people? Once again (and this seems to be evolving into a theme of sorts...should I rename my blog?) Postsecret is providing me with something-to-blog-about.
Mother's Day (the Americans tend to be better at commercializing it) seems to offer a deep well of issues, encouraging buckets of bottled-up secrets to spew forward. People looking for someone to blame, someone to thank or simply someone to bake them some blueberry muffins...
This is one of my particular favorites.
Mother's Day (the Americans tend to be better at commercializing it) seems to offer a deep well of issues, encouraging buckets of bottled-up secrets to spew forward. People looking for someone to blame, someone to thank or simply someone to bake them some blueberry muffins...
This is one of my particular favorites.
Friday, April 20, 2007
"So what?"
My post on secrets has caused me to think a lot more than usual. (Yes, this is possible).
As I struggled to produce something life-altering, shocking and pretty to look at, I found that I could decide on just one secret, and that the more I thought about it, the more secrets I had that I hadn’t previously considered as secrets, or even thought about for some time. But the main issue, when it came down to it, wasn’t the plethora of secrets buzzing around in my head, meticulously placed there by a concerned but disturbed BFG-like figure, but the difficulty of wording the secret.
Like most of my obstacles, the main cause of my procrastination was writer’s block, fueled by my recurring fear of feeling inadequate with a hint of mental exhaustion (and a pinch of salt)... My attempts at getting a secret down on paper, and creatively no less, felt very much like my struggle to post on this blog. I look forward to the final product, reading it later and wondering why I thought it would be so difficult to write, but still, I dread the process. It’s like someone crawling inside me and photographing everything inside, only to post it all on some drab wall in an obscure location. Out in the open for some people to sort-of see, but did it even make a difference?
Now back to the content of said secret. After I had finally, sort-of decided upon it, I actually started to worry that someone would recognize the secret as mine. By attempting to free myself of it, I worried that it would come back to haunt me. A postcard from the past, traveling right into my future. I started to wonder whether the risk was worth it. I also thought endlessly about the “creative” part.
I remembered those countless art contests my parents would enter me in when I was younger, expecting, not hoping, that I would win. The pressure was unspoken but immense, and I was frightened to death of failure. I worried that my secret wouldn’t be creative or shocking enough to make it to the Sunday Secrets. Mostly I was panicky at the prospect that my worst secret would be deemed trivial and silly by others. I was scared of being judged but even more terrified of someone reacting with a casually nonchalant “So what?”
So I’ve made a decision, and some of you may think I took the cowardly way out and it is no secret that taking the easy way out has been a specialty of mine. Anyway, it turns out that my secret wasn't ready not to be a secret…just yet, at least. Writing it down was difficult enough.
As I sat down to start my morning, some espresso was spilled all over it, mangling and obscuring my words.
Secretly, I took it as a sign.
As I struggled to produce something life-altering, shocking and pretty to look at, I found that I could decide on just one secret, and that the more I thought about it, the more secrets I had that I hadn’t previously considered as secrets, or even thought about for some time. But the main issue, when it came down to it, wasn’t the plethora of secrets buzzing around in my head, meticulously placed there by a concerned but disturbed BFG-like figure, but the difficulty of wording the secret.
Like most of my obstacles, the main cause of my procrastination was writer’s block, fueled by my recurring fear of feeling inadequate with a hint of mental exhaustion (and a pinch of salt)... My attempts at getting a secret down on paper, and creatively no less, felt very much like my struggle to post on this blog. I look forward to the final product, reading it later and wondering why I thought it would be so difficult to write, but still, I dread the process. It’s like someone crawling inside me and photographing everything inside, only to post it all on some drab wall in an obscure location. Out in the open for some people to sort-of see, but did it even make a difference?
Now back to the content of said secret. After I had finally, sort-of decided upon it, I actually started to worry that someone would recognize the secret as mine. By attempting to free myself of it, I worried that it would come back to haunt me. A postcard from the past, traveling right into my future. I started to wonder whether the risk was worth it. I also thought endlessly about the “creative” part.
I remembered those countless art contests my parents would enter me in when I was younger, expecting, not hoping, that I would win. The pressure was unspoken but immense, and I was frightened to death of failure. I worried that my secret wouldn’t be creative or shocking enough to make it to the Sunday Secrets. Mostly I was panicky at the prospect that my worst secret would be deemed trivial and silly by others. I was scared of being judged but even more terrified of someone reacting with a casually nonchalant “So what?”
So I’ve made a decision, and some of you may think I took the cowardly way out and it is no secret that taking the easy way out has been a specialty of mine. Anyway, it turns out that my secret wasn't ready not to be a secret…just yet, at least. Writing it down was difficult enough.
As I sat down to start my morning, some espresso was spilled all over it, mangling and obscuring my words.
Secretly, I took it as a sign.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
everyone loves a big fat lie
"It's a lie. It's a bunch of sad strangers photographed beautifully, and... all the glittering assholes who appreciate art say it's beautiful 'cause that's what they wanna see. But the people in the photos are sad, and alone... But the pictures make the world seem beautiful, so... the exhibition is reassuring which makes it a lie, and everyone loves a big fat lie."
Bright and shiny on the surface, no matter how dark and twisty on the inside, the cliché may actually hold--a picture is worth a thousand words. Or more, sometimes. In an age obsessed with photographs, from digital cameras and photo sharing sites to glossy magazines and gossip websites, we make every effort to "capture the moment" perfectly.
Regardless of how imperfect the moment in question is. We smile at the lens, hoping it won't see through our thin veneer, leaving our unhappiness on hold for a second. Oh wait, let's take it again--we give it a second chance.
Our own pictures, all happy and smiley on the surface, hide the truth. We smile for the camera, giving it our best angle, hoping to have nothing lodged between our teeth. And what about those sly shots, taken by someone when they think we are unaware, when we are in fact highly aware of having our picture taken. We portray the persona of who we want to appear to be to the photographer, deceptive through our false candidacy. We pretend we didn't realise we were having our picture taken; but secretly ecstatic in the knowledge that someone wants to capture us.
Our pictures are misleading, only pretending to tell the truth, yet, they remain strangely reassuring. Lonely and terribly afraid of being alone, we hold onto every fleeting moment of feeling desired.
How can a photograph of something so tragic turn into a work of art and beauty? The only explanation is that it doesn't. It exposes a certain humanity, an aspect of humanity that makes us uncomfortable. So we react in the only way we know how; we transpose it into "art", masking the tragedy in the photograph with a supposedly beautifully captured scene. And at the end of the day, that is all it is, merely a scene. The photograph places a barrier between us and its subject, keeping us a safe distance away and freeing us from any guilt as we sashay into pretentious galleries displaying a façade of beautiful art at the expense of deep sadness.
Beauty emerges from tragedy. But does it really, or are we selfishly just looking for one saving grace in hopes that it will make us feel better?
Broken Glass
(written by guest blogger HB)
I'm storming off. He's following. Why bother? What's done can't be undone. What's known won't be forgotten. but still, he insists. I reach the corner when he grabs my arm. "Let go of me." I tell him with such strength that he does. "It was a mistake" he says. He seems sincere but I don't care. "How can you sleep with someone by mistake?" I turn around. I'm storming off.
I'm tapping my foot. The seat in front of me is empty so I don't think I'm bothering anyone. "Can you please stop that?" she says in a tone that suggests we're just strangers, sharing a bench when the bus is half empty. I obediently stop and mutter "I'm sorry". After 15 years of marriage I'm weakened and don't bother with replies. I just output what's been programmed. The bus stops and picks up a young man wearing headphones. He sits somewhere behind us. I look out of the window and lose myself watching some pigeons. I'm tapping my foot.
He’s still following me. What could he possibly be thinking? I’m not going to take him back. It’s been two weeks, is it really worth it? Why would he care so much? I turn another corner and he’s still behind me, pleading. “Why are you still following me?” I say. “Because I think it’s worth it. I think we have something worth fighting for.” I’m about to say something but decide not to. I turn and walk off and he’s still following me.
She’s yelling at me. Why is she yelling so much? Does my tapping really bother her so much to make such a scene on a bus? Is she doing it to teach me a lesson? To subdue me? I haven’t retaliated to her attacks in about five years why would she feel the need to shout so loudly and so continuously. She’s bringing up things that happened years ago. I spilt coffee on the sofa seven years ago. I lost my job three years ago. She says it’s my fault we’re riding the bus. I'm jealous of that lucky young man wearing headphones who can listen to whatever he wants. I’m about to say something but decide not to. I shut my mouth and she’s yelling at me.
I cross the street. I’m afraid to hear him talk anymore. So I walk faster. But he still keeps up. “Sorry,” he says. “I don’t want this to end.” I don’t want it to end either but I can’t let him know that. I can’t allow someone to treat me like that and get away with it. If I do, it’ll just get worse and worse. But I can’t help it. “What we had was so good,” he says “we can’t just let it go to waste. Please.” He’s getting to me. So I start to slow down as I cross the street.
I look at her face, trying to ignore her constant screaming. I think about other things. How did it get to this? We were happy once. A long time ago, but still, we were happy. Was it really me as she claims? Could it have been my fault? I’m thinking about all the events that she’s talking about. One by one I can visualize them. They all feel very similar. I’m staring at her thinking of other things while she screams at me. The variable is what lies between us. A coffee machine. A toilet. A toothbrush. Some groceries. It’s her fault; she exaggerates, every time. She just wants to have control over me. It’s starting to get to me and I’m getting angrier. I’m glowering now as I look at her face.
“We can work it out,” he says. I stop now and turn around to look at him. I’m almost in tears but I’m holding them back. I’m sure it shows though. “Just give me another chance.” I’m looking in his eyes and it’s getting harder and harder to resist. “How do I know I can trust you?” He comes face to face with me and holds my hands in his. “Look at me and tell me you can’t trust me.” He squeezes my hands. I look into his eyes then across the street. The little man shows green. I could turn and leave him forever or I can stay with him. He looks me in the eyes. “We can work it out.”
“I’m sick and tired of you!” I scream back. An unfamiliar voice; a voice I’m certain she’s never heard. “I’ve taken enough of your shit. Stop blaming it on me. Not everything in the world is my fault and not everything is worth it.” She’s looking back at me, shocked. I know the guy with his headphones on would cheer me on if he had any idea what was going on. “I may have ruined your sheets but you’ve destroyed my life.” I stand up and walk to the front of the bus. She stays in her seat in complete silence but for the first time in our marriage, she looks genuinely apologetic. “I’m sick and tired of you.”
I let go of him in one more act of rebellion and turn to cross the street. The little man is blinking green now. As I cross the street I can picture his face. His apologetic face. I’m trying to let him go. I don’t want to be trapped. I’m trying to just cross this street. As long as I don’t look back I can leave him I can be free. Half way through my willpower collapses and I turn to look at him again.
I turn and look at her again. With that puppy dog look on her face. I’m standing at the door, I want to get off at the next stop; I don’t care where it takes me. I’m holding the handle and looking in front of me. I can picture her face in my head. For the first time I feel free. I feel alive. I want to turn and savor my first and only victory. I look at her and as I turn I let go of the handle.
I don’t see the bus in time but when I do the only thing I can think of is how weak I am. I’m glass.
As the bus brakes sharply and I hit the windshield I can think of only one thing. I’m strong. I’m iron.
I’m crystal.
I’m stone.
I'm storming off. He's following. Why bother? What's done can't be undone. What's known won't be forgotten. but still, he insists. I reach the corner when he grabs my arm. "Let go of me." I tell him with such strength that he does. "It was a mistake" he says. He seems sincere but I don't care. "How can you sleep with someone by mistake?" I turn around. I'm storming off.
I'm tapping my foot. The seat in front of me is empty so I don't think I'm bothering anyone. "Can you please stop that?" she says in a tone that suggests we're just strangers, sharing a bench when the bus is half empty. I obediently stop and mutter "I'm sorry". After 15 years of marriage I'm weakened and don't bother with replies. I just output what's been programmed. The bus stops and picks up a young man wearing headphones. He sits somewhere behind us. I look out of the window and lose myself watching some pigeons. I'm tapping my foot.
He’s still following me. What could he possibly be thinking? I’m not going to take him back. It’s been two weeks, is it really worth it? Why would he care so much? I turn another corner and he’s still behind me, pleading. “Why are you still following me?” I say. “Because I think it’s worth it. I think we have something worth fighting for.” I’m about to say something but decide not to. I turn and walk off and he’s still following me.
She’s yelling at me. Why is she yelling so much? Does my tapping really bother her so much to make such a scene on a bus? Is she doing it to teach me a lesson? To subdue me? I haven’t retaliated to her attacks in about five years why would she feel the need to shout so loudly and so continuously. She’s bringing up things that happened years ago. I spilt coffee on the sofa seven years ago. I lost my job three years ago. She says it’s my fault we’re riding the bus. I'm jealous of that lucky young man wearing headphones who can listen to whatever he wants. I’m about to say something but decide not to. I shut my mouth and she’s yelling at me.
I cross the street. I’m afraid to hear him talk anymore. So I walk faster. But he still keeps up. “Sorry,” he says. “I don’t want this to end.” I don’t want it to end either but I can’t let him know that. I can’t allow someone to treat me like that and get away with it. If I do, it’ll just get worse and worse. But I can’t help it. “What we had was so good,” he says “we can’t just let it go to waste. Please.” He’s getting to me. So I start to slow down as I cross the street.
I look at her face, trying to ignore her constant screaming. I think about other things. How did it get to this? We were happy once. A long time ago, but still, we were happy. Was it really me as she claims? Could it have been my fault? I’m thinking about all the events that she’s talking about. One by one I can visualize them. They all feel very similar. I’m staring at her thinking of other things while she screams at me. The variable is what lies between us. A coffee machine. A toilet. A toothbrush. Some groceries. It’s her fault; she exaggerates, every time. She just wants to have control over me. It’s starting to get to me and I’m getting angrier. I’m glowering now as I look at her face.
“We can work it out,” he says. I stop now and turn around to look at him. I’m almost in tears but I’m holding them back. I’m sure it shows though. “Just give me another chance.” I’m looking in his eyes and it’s getting harder and harder to resist. “How do I know I can trust you?” He comes face to face with me and holds my hands in his. “Look at me and tell me you can’t trust me.” He squeezes my hands. I look into his eyes then across the street. The little man shows green. I could turn and leave him forever or I can stay with him. He looks me in the eyes. “We can work it out.”
“I’m sick and tired of you!” I scream back. An unfamiliar voice; a voice I’m certain she’s never heard. “I’ve taken enough of your shit. Stop blaming it on me. Not everything in the world is my fault and not everything is worth it.” She’s looking back at me, shocked. I know the guy with his headphones on would cheer me on if he had any idea what was going on. “I may have ruined your sheets but you’ve destroyed my life.” I stand up and walk to the front of the bus. She stays in her seat in complete silence but for the first time in our marriage, she looks genuinely apologetic. “I’m sick and tired of you.”
I let go of him in one more act of rebellion and turn to cross the street. The little man is blinking green now. As I cross the street I can picture his face. His apologetic face. I’m trying to let him go. I don’t want to be trapped. I’m trying to just cross this street. As long as I don’t look back I can leave him I can be free. Half way through my willpower collapses and I turn to look at him again.
I turn and look at her again. With that puppy dog look on her face. I’m standing at the door, I want to get off at the next stop; I don’t care where it takes me. I’m holding the handle and looking in front of me. I can picture her face in my head. For the first time I feel free. I feel alive. I want to turn and savor my first and only victory. I look at her and as I turn I let go of the handle.
I don’t see the bus in time but when I do the only thing I can think of is how weak I am. I’m glass.
As the bus brakes sharply and I hit the windshield I can think of only one thing. I’m strong. I’m iron.
I’m crystal.
I’m stone.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Can you keep a secret?
We all have our secrets, some we are more ashamed to admit than others, and some which we’d deny to the grave. Whether you secretly wish that your gorgeous best friend would get fat and break up with her boyfriend, just so that you’d feel less inadequate, or that your crush would find out that you like him just so that you wouldn’t have to face telling him yourself, the secrets are still there.
If we all have these secrets, and hence all relate to each other in one way or another, why is it so difficult to admit them to each other? As a society, we have outlined what is acceptable, what is unacceptable and what is, the worst of them all, downright politically incorrect! Being jealous of someone who’s been in an accident for getting all the attention and leaving you out in the cold is plain wrong, as is being happy that the girl you secretly envy is being cheated on by her boyfriend. But the truth is, some people secretly believe that these things will make them happy—and in the end, how different are they from you and me?
It is my belief that it is not the nature of the secret that we are ashamed of, but rather the reaction by other people around us. Above all, we fear judgment from others, as if that will some way dictate our self-worth; and even if this is judgment from someone we have never met. Our deepest darkest secrets remain deep and dark for a reason, and that is because they are deep and dark and possibly very twisty but they are what makes us human. But they are never easy to admit.
PostSecret (as well as hard copy collections compiled by Frank Warren) has been an initiative that has interested and intrigued me since I came across the first collection on a rainy day when I had escaped into an Urban Outfitters store, and secretly flipped through the book, a glance over my shoulder with every flip of the page. I related to some secrets, shocked by others and as cliché as it sounds, felt hopeful that I wasn’t alone in feeling so many of the things that other people, people that I may never meet, were feeling too.
So then I started thinking a little about my own secrets, and which of my secrets I would share if I decided to send one. Would I send the one that I thought most people would relate to? Or would I send the one that haunted me the most? Would I care what people thought of me, as anonymous as I would be? And would I worry that someone would recognize me through my secret, that someone being the only one who really knew me?
Mostly, I wondered if sharing my secret anonymously and with strangers would change anything at all. Would it give me the courage to make the changes in my life that I want so badly to make? Would this finally be the catalyst that I have waiting expectantly, and a little impatiently, for? Or would it be another way to further procrastinate? Was I placing all my hopes on one flimsy 6x4 postcard?
In the end, there was only one way to find out.
If we all have these secrets, and hence all relate to each other in one way or another, why is it so difficult to admit them to each other? As a society, we have outlined what is acceptable, what is unacceptable and what is, the worst of them all, downright politically incorrect! Being jealous of someone who’s been in an accident for getting all the attention and leaving you out in the cold is plain wrong, as is being happy that the girl you secretly envy is being cheated on by her boyfriend. But the truth is, some people secretly believe that these things will make them happy—and in the end, how different are they from you and me?
It is my belief that it is not the nature of the secret that we are ashamed of, but rather the reaction by other people around us. Above all, we fear judgment from others, as if that will some way dictate our self-worth; and even if this is judgment from someone we have never met. Our deepest darkest secrets remain deep and dark for a reason, and that is because they are deep and dark and possibly very twisty but they are what makes us human. But they are never easy to admit.
PostSecret (as well as hard copy collections compiled by Frank Warren) has been an initiative that has interested and intrigued me since I came across the first collection on a rainy day when I had escaped into an Urban Outfitters store, and secretly flipped through the book, a glance over my shoulder with every flip of the page. I related to some secrets, shocked by others and as cliché as it sounds, felt hopeful that I wasn’t alone in feeling so many of the things that other people, people that I may never meet, were feeling too.
So then I started thinking a little about my own secrets, and which of my secrets I would share if I decided to send one. Would I send the one that I thought most people would relate to? Or would I send the one that haunted me the most? Would I care what people thought of me, as anonymous as I would be? And would I worry that someone would recognize me through my secret, that someone being the only one who really knew me?
Mostly, I wondered if sharing my secret anonymously and with strangers would change anything at all. Would it give me the courage to make the changes in my life that I want so badly to make? Would this finally be the catalyst that I have waiting expectantly, and a little impatiently, for? Or would it be another way to further procrastinate? Was I placing all my hopes on one flimsy 6x4 postcard?
In the end, there was only one way to find out.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Mirror image
Beatrice stared at her plate. There were too many staring back up at her, taunting her to reach out for them with her pristine silverware. Approximately twelve pieces of romaine lettuce occupied her plate, and as she struggled with the dilemma of how to best dispose of them, Beatrice mentally calculated their nutritional content, their fat content and calories, taking into account the calories spent on chewing them to a greenish pulp, and with a determined stab, she captured the first morsel of lettuce. As she looked at the last piece of lettuce still left on her plate, Beatrice began to feel the familiar wave of guilt that followed every meal. She looked around the room, wondering if anyone would notice if she didn't finish her plate, but she reconsidered and placed it gingerly into her mouth, and methodically chewed and swallowed it.
Beatrice felt guilty, incredibly guilty. She rushed to her room and lifted up her shirt, staring at her disappearing midriff in her full-length mirror. All she could see was fat and ugliness. She pinched the skin separating her bones from the rest of world and grimaced as she tightened her grip on the offending flesh. She turned slightly, trying to determine whether her profile gave away the contents of her stomach. Had it not been for that fattening salad dressing, she might have felt a little better, but all she could do now was hope that it didn't convert itself into ugly ugly fat.
Beatrice pulled her shirt back down and stared at her sullen face. It was getting harder and harder to hide the bags under her eyes. Her cheekbones protruding, she turned her face from side to side, inspecting it for imperfections. "Kate Moss wouldn't be caught dead looking like this," she thought to herself in a self-accusatory tone.
Sitting at the dinner table surrounded by the scrutiny of envious faces, Beatrice had relinquished her control for one hour. One measly hour that had resulted in having to eat something that she hadn't planned, something that she didn't deserve.
Beatrice carefully opened her jewelry box, looking over her shoulder to make sure no-one was spying on her. The romantic couple which crowned it ceased to dance, the music having stopped playing for them long ago. A secret compartment revealed a small jar of pills labeled Ephedrine, the rest of the writing indecipherable; some sort of East Asian symbols covered the label entirely. Beatrice tossed one pill into her mouth and washed it down with a swig of flat Diet Coke.
As she walked to the door, Beatrice caught her reflection in the mirror and stopped for another look. She tried to look beyond the shrinking flesh to the person inhabiting it but there was not a shred of recognition on the face staring back, only accusations. Beatrice walked out of the room, plastering a smile on her face and silently wondered when she would finally recognize the person staring back.
Beatrice felt guilty, incredibly guilty. She rushed to her room and lifted up her shirt, staring at her disappearing midriff in her full-length mirror. All she could see was fat and ugliness. She pinched the skin separating her bones from the rest of world and grimaced as she tightened her grip on the offending flesh. She turned slightly, trying to determine whether her profile gave away the contents of her stomach. Had it not been for that fattening salad dressing, she might have felt a little better, but all she could do now was hope that it didn't convert itself into ugly ugly fat.
Beatrice pulled her shirt back down and stared at her sullen face. It was getting harder and harder to hide the bags under her eyes. Her cheekbones protruding, she turned her face from side to side, inspecting it for imperfections. "Kate Moss wouldn't be caught dead looking like this," she thought to herself in a self-accusatory tone.
Sitting at the dinner table surrounded by the scrutiny of envious faces, Beatrice had relinquished her control for one hour. One measly hour that had resulted in having to eat something that she hadn't planned, something that she didn't deserve.
Beatrice carefully opened her jewelry box, looking over her shoulder to make sure no-one was spying on her. The romantic couple which crowned it ceased to dance, the music having stopped playing for them long ago. A secret compartment revealed a small jar of pills labeled Ephedrine, the rest of the writing indecipherable; some sort of East Asian symbols covered the label entirely. Beatrice tossed one pill into her mouth and washed it down with a swig of flat Diet Coke.
As she walked to the door, Beatrice caught her reflection in the mirror and stopped for another look. She tried to look beyond the shrinking flesh to the person inhabiting it but there was not a shred of recognition on the face staring back, only accusations. Beatrice walked out of the room, plastering a smile on her face and silently wondered when she would finally recognize the person staring back.
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