Monday, September 26, 2005


I know that everyone knows how it feels like when you are still kinda hanging on. The breathe you hold on to when you click onto his blog to see what he has to say.

Right now, I am feeling pretty good about this particular man of my past and his blog I stumbled upon. Reading his entries, seeing how he has moved on in life in the last few years, how he now shares his dream with someone else, has someone else to cook the food I once did, I smiled, and this really good sensation just came (never as good as an org of course).

Because I know that I have totally absolutely let go him already. I even feel so happy for him. It's almost like hearing from an old friend after so many years, but even better. Because I don't need to face him. And I want it to remain like this: absolutely nothing from him, as it has been for the past few years. No suppers no phonecalls. There are some people who you just want to cut off all ties with, and just let that memory remain.

We used to...

And that's that.

And Ping, I happen to just know that there is someone you want to do the same about. Don't you just love me for knowing. And for the everyone else who wishes he/she could, perhaps it just takes time. But maybe though, there may never come a time, where enough is enough.

Monday, September 19, 2005

"You are the music while the music lasts"

-T. S. Eliot

Friday, September 16, 2005

Quite right about buying and buying though

What Your Underwear Says About You

You tend to buy new underwear instead of doing laundry.

You're sexy, in that pinup girl, tease sort of way.

Monday, September 12, 2005

Did I move from being like this to like that or have I been fooled by myself that I am actually always like that but pretended to be like this, but always thought that being like this is well, me?

I wish I feel more. If I feel rage, at least I can scream into my pillow and hit my fist. Or poke holes into photos. If I feel pain, at least I can cry and hurt. If I feel happy enough, at least I would bother to do something more interesting than painting my picture frames black (though honestly, they look so good with the postcards).

Well at least something. At least motivation to move from this state of zero emo to something. I'm sorry for all the promises to go to this place and that. And then not turning up, not picking up or just sleeping. But it's not my fault. I'm locked in my house. I cannot think. Don't ask me.

I wish I'm busy. It will help alot.

Saturday, September 10, 2005

I'm not exactly in the social butterfly mood of the late. The feeling I'm having is so similar to the beginning of this year, when I just came back from Thailand, when I did not want to reconnect my handphone, nor did I want to get out to "reunite" with the people I have not seen for half a year. I dreaded the meetups and catching ups. I just wanted to be at home in my bed on the third storey where I will peep out of my window if I kneel on my bed and lift up the curtains a little to see the world go by. Not like there is anymore activities than the morning qigong lessons by the greens. Oh but there was somebody to wave to.

It was a big room, but it didn't belong to me. Alone.

Now I no longer peep out of the window. I lie in bed and stare at my room. It is so pretty. I have my beautiful lamp, my bedside table, my barang barang chair and everything else that just blends in totally. I visualise my new easel and chair by the bed. I might even paint the easel black to match everything else in the room. Maybe a new beret will complete the look.

It is a small room, but it belongs to me. Alone. Here, where I do my solitary dance, sing my solitary song and drop my solitary tears. Here where I live in effy's world, confined by 2 walls of plum and 2 walls of white, where I can ignore the knocks on my door and convince myself that I can live my life just the way I want it to be. I can have as many imaginary friends as I like - Billy Mary Tommy. I can have wings and I can fly.

And I have no intent on moving anywhere else from this state. Maybe that is why I am beginning to love Mr Johnny Walker. He keeps me in this half dreamy state I like.

Monday, September 05, 2005


S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma per cio` che giammai di questo fondo
Non torno` vivo alcun, s`i`odo is vero.
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you an overwhelming question. . . .
Oh, do not ask, `What is it?'
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, `Do I dare?' and, `Do I dare?'
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
[They will say: `How his hair is growing thin!']
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
[They will say: `But how his arms and legs are thin!']
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all--
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons:
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it the perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl,
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?. . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep. . .tired. . .or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I after tea and cakes and ices,
have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: `I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all'--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: `That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.'

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning towards the window, should say:
`That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.'

. . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old. . .I grow old. . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.