Pictures from home

I miss the weather.  Believe it or not, I miss the stultifying, sticky, oppressive heat, that burns your feet through the soles of the shoes, that turns the air above concrete and tarmac a shimmering white.

I miss Orchard Road, again, believe it or not.  More like, I miss wandering down Orchard Road with you, going in and out of shops, the smell of Ion and the jingle of jewellery in Forever 21.  I miss standing in Borders next to each other, browsing books and magazines, I miss you standing outside dressing rooms and appraising each outfit with that uncanny eye.

I miss how we groaned over cheeseboards at Jones the Grocer, extravagant but exquisite right down to the aroma of the cheese filled peppers and every sliver of quince and walnut jelly.

How the neighbourhoods looked under clouds so wispy they could have been painted by a brush; and always under the most glorious flaming sunsets, sunsets I have never seen paralleled anywhere even though I've been on Balinese beaches, on the sea just by Kerala, under the Barcelona sky.  I miss that.

I miss my friends from work (although I'll be the first to admit that is the ONLY thing I miss about work) and how we would go everywhere together, even hang out on weekends because we had become best friends in those three years and no one outside of us would understand it.

I miss going out late at night, when the paper had been pushed and everybody else was in bed and Kim would drive with the windows down and no seatbelt on and we would go to all kinds of random bars and pretend to be depressed or gossip or bitch, but laughing, always laughing.

I remember when someone came by my desk, always piled so high with rubbish that Dianah would not shut up about getting me to clear it, and they said "All you have on here is letters from your friends.  Do you really have so many best friends here?" And the truth is yes, I did and I miss them all. 

I miss my family, because I know no matter how mad at me my mother is, I can talk in a voice that will make her laugh.

I miss especially my brothers because they understand almost everything I have to say and we make each other weep with laughter.  I miss slouching over the couch and watching TV with them, or Hindi movies and listening to Hanshen laugh at the "Yindian camedy" and watching him reenacting the dances. 

Hanwei and I used to walk almost every night after I went on no-pay leave, six, seven rounds of the estate talking about anything and everything under the stars until a shouting match one night made both of us cry and we made up when he said, "I love that we are close enough that we can fight like this and still be friends."

I yearn for how the city feels and smells because even though some say it's cold and too clean, it feels always alive and some people love it and it's my city and they can just go to hell.

And I love about it that at midnight, two, four in the morning, I can find any number of establishments open and ready to serve me the most eye-poppingly good food, sometimes with most skin-crawlingly bad service and that there is a cool, fragrant Starbucks round every corner where the staff joke with me and recommend me cake flavours and if it's not golden light that's pouring in, it's beautiful, blissful sheets of rain pouring down outside.

And I miss standing next to you, because I always have this laugh on when I'm with you, and I miss shooting each other with our Nerf guns and walking upstairs to get coffee with you and waiting to open capsules together and the time we went really crazy at the Toy and Comic convention and bought Smerry tofu and a blushing llama and I miss the walks to Parkway Parade where we would meander everywhere - across the playground and into the bookstore, into bubble tea and DIY shops.

I miss all the times we've strolled to the beach, all the times we've strolled anywhere - Toa Payoh, Upper East Coast, in the city.  I miss sitting beside you in the car and talking about everything, sometimes, for so long that we have to park and turn the headlights off so we can argue.  Tomorrow, I'm even going to miss being the designated driver.  I miss how it feels to hold your hand.

And I miss you, little boy. 

I miss you most of all because you can't call, or write or know that I dream about you almost every night, that I dream about the day when I will pick you up again and finger the rough pads of your paws and feel the whisper of you sniffing my ear and I wake up crying, filled with self-loathing and ashamed that I should be crying over a dog. 

I miss you because I know you don't understand why I left or when I'm coming back, because even though it's been thirteen years, you panic every time I leave your sight and you only truly slept when I slept and woke when I woke and you will wait, just like you do outside every closed door I've ever been behind, gently scratching the wood, whining to be let in and the truth is every day I am dying, dying inside to fly back home just for you. 


I have never felt so far from home before.

To weather the weather

I don't want to become one of those depressed people who talk about the weather all the time, but here in Inklund, it can be a very depressing prospect. 

A couple of weeks ago in the minus seven sheer, menacing needles of frost sprang up on everything like teeth. 

They cut and scratched when you brushed against them and combined with the worst flu I've had in three years, even the prettiest landscape seemed, quite frankly, hostile. 

Well, I'm in the business of making bad things feel better, and I know there's no point getting depressed over the fact that the sun sets at three or that it's cloudy three quarters of the time, so I'm trying to make the best of the weather.

Whether it's appreciating how light slices through the fog like blinds or how the frost turns every spider web into openwork lace, standing in one hour of weak winter sun and feeling my pineal gland rejoice, or making a hot broth full of nutritious vegetables and chicken, trust me, I'm trying.

All that I have to

This is almost a complete digression from everything I've been talking about recently, but I guess now is as good a time as any to say that this time next week, if all goes well, I should be on a plane to a land faraway.

I'm leaving Singapore for a year, to study something that is really close to my heart: writing.  I didn't actually believe I had managed to get into a school to study writing, I don't actually believe it right now.

I don't think I'll believe it until I'm on the plane, eating barfy plane food and trying to watch a movie I should have caught in the cinema, without getting a headache.

I am going to do my darndest to keep this blog going, although I'll probably be taking my own pictures mostly, and you'll have plenty of new scenery.

It's strange because while I love to travel and I do it fairly often, I get really homesick, particularly peoplesick.  I miss walking down familiar streets and seeing familiar faces, feeling the heat of the Singapore sun on my face.  And yet, when I'm here, I long to be elsewhere, taking in sights and sounds and experiences.

A year is not so long, you say, and it's true.  But making this sojourn even more bittersweet is the fact that Chip, my bestest buddy, is now 13 and well, I'll be gone for a year and... he's already outlived most average dogs and... I don't actually want to say more, but I'll take it that you're astute enough to connect the dots. 

My grandmother is also terminally ill and considering that it's just a matter of time, I don't know how much I have left with her.

There are so many things I'm going to miss.

I felt a twinge when Dhany and I went down to the Marina Barrage on a spontaneous whim and decided to try our collective hand at flying a kite. 

The air was full of swooping colours and beautiful shapes and the ground was full of swooping colours and beautiful shapes in the form of people trying to keep the air that way. 

Some of the kite shapes cracked us up and some sadly struggled to stay aloft, constantly making a jagged, exhausted beeline for the ground.

Children running back and forth frantically, parents shouting "Let go, let go!".  People picnicking on the grass, some with reels of string tucked comfortably under their toes to maintain control on the kite over their heads.

And above it all, diamonds and triangles, fluttering so effortlessly they looked perfectly still, like ships on a horizon.

We ran like maniacs trying to get our rainbow-coloured triangle and its streamers off the ground.  Sweat was streaming down my sides, my throat was hoarse from shouting and my legs were starting to seize up.  A sprinter, I am not. 

The light was failing and Dhany had string burn all down his palms, but we kept saying, "one last time", hoping that our little kite would join those floating gently in the ether.

You probably think this is one of those stories in which our final run was a triumphant one and our kite soared upwards, a testament to our determination.  Well, it's not.  The damn thing wouldn't get more than four metres off the ground, and we walked all the way back to the city, making excuses about the number of tails, the weight of the kite and a lousy recommendation by the shop's proprietor.

But I didn't care.  Up on the barrage, watching the sky painted with colours and wispy clouds, feeling the occasional breeze lift my hair, I felt alive and loved.

 

Don't get me wrong.  I'm really really excited about taking this new step in my life and grateful for the chance that just fell into my lap.  But I can't look forward without looking back over my shoulder.  And there are so many things there.

It used to be that there was all that I couldn't leave behind.

Now, it's all that I have to.

Not the exception

Fashion is such a wonderful and personal and varied thing that it seems counter-intuitive to have rules to dressing up.  Which is why I don't really have any hard or fast maxims about it.

I think people should be free to express themselves as they wish and anything can be fabulous if done right - denim on denim, mixed metals, even cheesy 80s outfits and the overloading of accessories - I've seen fantastic examples of all of them.

Personally, however, I try my best to follow two (and only two) rules about what I leave the house in... or out of.  My "fashion rules" are as follows:

1)  Tights are not pants. 

Please friends, please, silently mouth these words after me.

I've seen this one everyone from tiny tots to women old enough to be my grandmother and I really don't budge on this one because if you think about it, a pair of tights, particular one that is fitting or especially sheer, is nothing more than a glorified wisp of control top pantyhose, which HELLO, read it, is PANTY related.  

And we all know that anything with the word "PANTY" in it, should be confined to places where the sun don't shine.  If said places are being lightly caressed by the morning rays, either you've found yourself a nice private beach (congratulations) or Houston, we've got a problem.

It doesn't really bother me if someone's wearing a shirt as a dress with tights as long as the top covers their bottom.  But otherwise, nothing is worse than walking down the road and seeing someone's derriere (no matter how toned) hanging out from below a shirt or, FSM forbid, watching as a lycra encased camel toe walks (or chafes progressively) towards you.  Do we really want to be acquainted with another woman's lady flower?!?! 

I'm all for wearing whatever you want, but it never fails to amaze me how people can be so unaware of how their nether regions are popping out to say hello to the world.  Either wear something that clings less to your labia, or for the love of puggle puppies, put on a longer blouse!

On top of everything, it looks unpolished and unbecoming, like something out of the American Apparel catalogue and beyotch, that's when you know it's not a beautiful day in the neighbourhood.

2)  Don't make your boyfriend carry your bag.

Okay, see, this really gets me.  I'm a bag freak.  I love handbags more than all other accessories put together.  So when I spend my hard-earned money on a new bag, I'm spending it because I think it will look cute on my arm or with my clothes.  

So I don't understand why girls give their bermuda-clad, hairy-legged boyfriends quilted, chain-handled bags to hold.  This is one of the few countries in the world where I see men happily toting pretty, frilly shoulder bags while their girlfriends prattle on expressively with their hands free.

For pete's sake, if the bag is too heavy for you to carry, then unload some of the things and make the dood carry them in a separate bag.  Besides, if you're really that weighed down, maybe it's a sign that the cargo needs to be reassessed.

Yes, I get that some guys carry things out of chivalry or politeness or love and I know loads of girls who are all right with this.  I know people who won't hesitate to divest me of my giant laptop bag or suitcases, but if said knight is going to carry something, does it have to be in a dainty handbag that would not look out of place holding a chihuahua?

Those are my rules for now, anyway, but like fashion, rules may change over time and I'm always curious to look at them in a couple of years and see whether anything's changed (READ:  Perpex accessories and vests).

What about you?  What fashion rules do you live by?

7pm

We don't have any crazily old monuments or rolling fields or caves or seasons.  There aren't any mountains or mad big rivers or crazy savannah animals or game reserves.  We don't even have any paparazzi or big celebrities.

But everywhere I've been, from the beaches of Bali to the snowy postcard perfection of Banff, there's no beating a good old Singapore-style sunset.

Photo by Dhany

By the way...

This is an interesting talk by Sam Harris - while not comprehensive by any means, it raises some really interesting points. He doesn’t answer many questions, but I think there’s some truth in his assertion that there is a scientific basis to morality.

Definitely worth a watch, I think, anyway.