A Million Bucks

At the risk of sounding endlessly childish and needy, I have to say, ‘I woke up this morning feeling like a million dollars.

Yes. I feel like a million dollars. Even though every bone in me feels as if it is disintegrating into fruit loops. Even though my pants seem to pinch me tighter after all the eating out I have been doing for the past month. Even though my eyes are heavy with the deprivation of sleep. Yes. I. Feel. Like. A. Million. Bucks.

The past week has been a rush of a week and it does not help when I am moody, snappy and prissy. If experiments possess a neck, I would have strangled it thoroughly. Hey, and think about that considering that they have been chugging along and working fine for the past few days. There are no excuses for this state of me. I know its me when I am on the brink of asking certain individuals, ‘What??? Did you donate your brain to the brain foundation or ate it for breakfast???’ Everything seems to present itself with thorns for teeth. Even the timed toaster has to be watched like a hawk to prevent a carcinogenic supper toast.

I never think I would say this. But this is how it is when Mr. S.O is out of phone contact. I lost my nightly debrief of Cliffnotes on how to maintain your sanity and there is no one else around to administer this remedy for my angst-filled and muddled brain. My mind is filled with so many unsaid things that I am oh-so-certain that it will visually spill over and out through my eyes soon. It would permeate every surface in the room, flowing like hot molten larva, dissolving all thoughts, emotions and breathing being.

Till I get my dose of remedy.

And I feel like a million bucks today, because I am anticipating my next available slot in his schedule. Tonight or tomorrow morning, whichever and whenever Mr.S.O feels like saving the world from self-destruction.

Borrowed Thoughts

IF, and IF. They often seem to make or break the numerous things that happened to us. I often wonder if I never have told you, will the outcome be different? But I’m glad I did. It’s better that I told you than regret not telling you, it meant hell lots of difference. What if, doesn’t matter anymore, we both understand it could never be. And now we say goodbye, otherwise I’ll surely never want to let go.

A seemingly nonsense rant/comment by ironcheflady left on the blog hosted by Kenny Mah. But it yields its hidden truth upon repeated reads.

Just thought I should remember

The Rain

I am.

longing for the rain.

I miss the cryptic puddles. Steaming bitumen and raindrops on my face. The reward of turning your head to the rain.

Violent sheets mirror my mood when I prod the silhouette of my umbrella against the wind. Trekking in a thunderstorm is a fight of the fist between nature and me. I am always losing. A personified struggle against God whom I know will always have the last say. It doesn't hurt to try to make Him sense my desperation in all my times of need. Doesn't hurt to make him understand my anger and frustration. Except that He already understood long before I did.

The gentle platter may greet my runners, sprouting from the toes, forming an elegant arch of gold and silver before disappearing into the next puddle. Gone, and just like *that*. Recall the dread of the squishy toes and relief of footprints on dry concrete. The desire for something warm. The half-memory of the last time a car splashed you with muddy rain water. The shiver of delight at the thought of a warm toasty bed on a rainy morning.

The silver dabble. A sprinkling of spots. Not nearly enough to convince you to stop and retrieve the trusty brolly, but more than enough to quicken those half-hearted steps. I remember that wash of relief when you are home before the sky began to pour. That sheer joy of escaping the peak of the storm. Realize that you are safe after all.

Smell the sweet tinge of air after the rain. The loud audible tones of the grass and drainage. The novel mix of sun and water assaulting your nostrils. You remember the clearing of grey, the tempting puddles of mud and the heavy damp that remains.

I long.

For the rain.

Just One Thing

Happiness is like sand. One can never hold it in the palm of ones' hand. It slips past ones fingers and before you know it, everything is lost forever. Contain it in a bottle, and it turns moldy and clumpy. Take a photo of it, but you cannot adequately capture the soft and silky feel of it. It will just look like concrete flooring. Try to remember it, and the color will be forgotten and time will blur your memory of how it feels against your skin.

How does one capture happiness? And keep it happy and stagnant. But still happy?

Melbourne Leg of Things

Memorabilia from Aussie 2009, Spot My Lurking Macbook Pro

The Melbourne Leg of Mr. SO trip to Down Under is not any less exciting than that of the Sydney Leg. Sydney was wonderful because we masqueraded our existence under the idea of a vacation, but Melbourne had its own perks while being the cultural and fashion capital of Aussie Land.

The Melbourne Leg was thus marked by… multiple visits to museums and the likes. The State of Victoria was also very kind to host, not 1 but 2, Melbourne Winter Masterpieces (MWM) for our enjoyment. Generally for all the past years, Victoria has only had 1 MWM per year. But this year was special; they had 2 for reasons unknown to me. So we went to see the ruins of Pompeii and the surrealistic side of Dali.

Dali. was. and. is. great. There is no way else to say it. The beauty of everything was so arresting at the National Gallery of Victoria that I was taken aback. I swore that at the end of it, I was a tad bit overloaded due to the sheer size of the collection. Unfortunately despite its’ size, my favorite piece was not even displayed, much less mentioned.

Pompeii came to life at the Melbourne Museum. Everything was resurrected and I think we saw the oldest bread ever in the history of mankind. There was a loaf of bread that was left in the oven during the eruption. This loaf of bread, blackened from the extended oven incubation, was on display! Imagine that! We also saw jewelery that they used to wear. Thick gold chains and arm bracelets. And of course the infamous body casts of the victims’ last moments.

The Melbourne Museum also housed other exhibitions for bugs and human body and other uninteresting bits and pieces. But the best display would be a depiction of what life would be like if cockroaches were to take over the world. They would mainly lounge all day long in your cow-print leather armchairs and watch cable all day long. I imagine this is the stuff of yh's dreams.

We also spent a large part of our time catching movies, Transformers and Terminator. My first movies ever since coming to Melbourne this year. This is the extend to which I lack a life without Mr. SO.

Walking around also brought us to Degraves Lane, home to the lesser-known winding little arcade stalls of Melbourne. Mini-cupcakes galore. They are the cutest things you have ever seen. Sadly they exist for less than a few seconds for one cannot resist the temptation of popping the entire cute thing into your mouth for an explosion of mousse and chocolate cupcake base.

A Size Comparison to my Handphone Pouch

Part of my love of Melbourne can be seen in the little things you see around town. I love the art/vandalism on the city blocks. I think it lends a little personality to the oblong and lifelessness of the building. I love the posters that go up everywhere telling me of the latest left-wing play available. And I love floor art. This would get you fined in Singapore, so while we are here, we had better be thoroughly amused and entertained.

Hell is a Lifestyle Choice. Spray-paint ads on the bitumen.

And last but not least. This is how desperation looks like. Enabled by the presence of a convenient slave, aka Mr. SO, who willingly fetched a 2 kg durian from 700 meters away. Such is adoration and devotion, I am blessed.

Consolidations

It came to me this morning, when I am lying awake, but not yet fully out of the realm of dreams and desires. I could barely see the rays of sunlight filtering through the blinds, but I had a clear picture in my mind of a photo that I saw yesterday.

Autumn of 2009 in Melbourne

Taken on a whimsical moment with the camera on my mobile phone back in May, it was a day that saw me trekking towards my 20km runs. What fascinated me then were the big fat colorful leaves, the graceful falling and the refreshing cold wind.

I clearly remember the chattering students going about their lazy and busy days. The lady from the catering place was clattering the trays of Dim Sims and coffee cups, on her way to an appointment. The loud snaps and clacks of the professional camera that a nerdy youngster was caressing in his large hands trying to frame every single moment of every falling leaf.

Now as I look at that photo, I am a little irked that I see not the glorious colors and wonderful act of nature. I see an impending tree of morbid limbs and disappearing foliage. I see the loss of moments. I see a naked and shivering core, trembling to its source.

But I am reminded of this post. I am reminded of the joy that Spring may bring to these trees that were busy shedding their leaves a few months ago.

And this is when I finally understood the meaning of docility to grace.

Far from being a conscious submission to God, it is the acceptance that our lives are in the hands of someone other than our own despite ones’ desire for ownership and self-identity. It is recognition that the universe of our future is far more than the transient mortal world of our waking moments. There is a certain release from the medals and trophies of our wanting minds. For what is imminent are not the rewards that we deserve but the riches of those that we will be entrusted with.

I now know not the estimation of the distances of my puny and juvenile life. But I finally see that the destinations are not one of my choosing. That the winds may carry music upon their wings, but one will never be deserving of appreciating their beauty while they go past. There are unfortunately certain privileges and riches in life, that may only be granted on hindsight.

Such is my solemn consolidation on a Sunday morning.

Grey Winter Moments

How can a day that began so late end so prematurely? It makes living so much shorter and easier. If days may pass without a notice and without a care, then life would not be a mess of meandering plains.

I long for a page of clear-minded simplicity.

Good things come to those who wait, with patience. Peace comes to those who keep silent vigil by those moments of violent thoughts. Nodding in efforts to acknowledge their presence and yet maintaining a strong resistance front and a absolute avoidance of succumbing to those thoughts. Is that all what it is about? And if it is, then it is all but a precarious dance between that which is here and there, and what is standing and falling.

Meanwhile, we all stand for long hours under the hot shower in the cruel winter cold, wishing, that everything may be as simple as taking a hot long shower. That the only requirement is a solution of water and soap, and that everything can be eventually washed away.