In the Age Old Game of Love

Just before a work day started, I scribbled something on my note pad, half-poem, half-prose, or whatever you choose to call it, and lost the draft after. It was something about being rejected goods, me, that is, in the age old game of love.

I was never much a high-achiever, being more laidback, the stroller who smells the flowers, instead of reaching for the stars. This is reflected in my income earning, although, I am more than comfortable in my financial state. Perhaps it was all in the moment, but I would never know, when something small happened to trigger the memory of that draft. There was a slight dip in esteem. For not being seen an attractive proposition for the ladies in the age old game of love.

Months later, I was to, out of the blue, come to another point in my life. Or perhaps, it was there all along inside, only to raise up over the grinding of time.

It was through a conversation with a rather close friend, who has made a habit of airing grievances about his wife. True to my philosophy, I've always advised him to compromise in the name of love. "Love is giving unconditionally. Love is sacrifice," I preached, a café my church. My point was since his wife is able to accept all his flaws in her sacrifice, can't he accept hers? It was then that I realised, despite all my flaws - and I have no small amount! -  it is just that I have not meet the one who love me enough, who make that sacrifice. The reason wanes for that instance of low esteem. It is only imperative to remind myself, at this point of writing, to continuously improve myself as a person. On another hand, it is perhaps myself who is not willing to make that sacrifice. I know, it all seems so elemental. But to practice what one preaches is two different matters. So this is food for my thought.  

To Live

I live to be a better person everyday. Apart from that, I have nothing to live for. Not a shred of attachment for this physical world. Then again, I have always be the one for a mental world. Sometimes I wonder, what good am I for this world? It doesn't need me, neither do I it.

The Ship Named Confidence Sinks...

I am beginning to wonder: where did it all go wrong? My words twist into themselves and fall flat. Tied limbs of tongue carry no punch, or kick. I can't help myself. Again, I am but a pure shadow of myself. Literarily. There is no searching light. Only blindness. In mind's eye.

The ship named Confidence sinks, hitting some icebergs near the promised land of poets. Perhaps, but perhaps, I am the outsider, never belong.

Last Words

My words twist into themselves,

fall flat. Tied limbs

of tongue carry no punch,

or kick. There is no searching

light, only blindness

in mind's eye.

Of Love, of Needs, and of What is beautiful...

Reading Cyril Wong's short stories collection, "Ten Things My Father Never Taught Me And Other Stories". Riveting. And perhaps, one only for the lonely soul. With residues of a not-so-quiet mediation with his past, his father, etc. There is no resolution, of course, contrary to the author's belief. The past serves as part of what we are presently; and naturally we are constantly reminded of that every single day of our lives, most of the time unconsciously, I realised.

Presently now reading the last second story in the collection, “The Vomiting Incident”, and was prompted to write this. One of the certainty in life that the protagonist un-learned was, I quote, “That marriage had to be founded on love.” There perhaps lies the incurable romantics in us all. It began with the “happy ever all” symptom you inherit from fairy-tales. In this short life, there are so many things we want, or in other words, desires we want to fulfill. So much so that love (one of many desires) takes a back seat. So much so that love becomes as insignificant (close to null?) as it can get in a marriage, considering other needs, like companionship, financial security, etc. Of course, this is just an erudite guess - none from personal experience, apart from what I observed between my own parents.

Then again, I may be missing the point. An air ball, in basketball term. For at least at one point in his life, the author believed in love in marriage. And I believe, at another different time somewhere in the future, he may look back at his childhood and suddenly remember one precious day, in their own little way, in a short-lived, private moment, one tiny glimpse of tenderness exchanged between the parents.      

==

Our Story

Everything is much more reasonable

because beauty cannot last
and is vulnerable.

Or what cannot last and is vulnerable

is beautiful.

And this is our story.

The Axis

I try to hold on to something. An axis-like body. To watch the world spin around me while keeping the centrifugal force in check. This is the deal: one needs discipline, resilience, and self-pacing. I have been fortunate.

This axis has an inkling of solidity, yet shows amenability, allowing growth in strength with time: formless, hence accessible to change. I am a change agent in one sense, yet carry a hardened, heavy core to stamp my ground.

About the Unknowns and the Present

It must have been months. But it feels more like years. Since I write. Even the rafters smell moldy, and silvery cobwebs adorn every shadowy nook like Christmas's baubles swinging at the lamp posts along Orchard Road. Like a dated feather duster associated more with penance in my book, I pull my mind's tip across this blankness, effacing emptiness. Ants feel their single path from left to right, across a foamy-white ocean depth unknown. Each leaving an unseen trail for the other behind to follow. There is no sugary sweetness, though, at the end, that I am sure. Life, is after all, like the moon wavering on the river face, all mirage. But I live with it, so I live. And only so.

Some poems...

Pole in a Bus

I am cold and I shiver
in light. For what purpose I
am here I don't know. All
I know is I have to stand.
That is my life - to stand
and nothing else - to prevent
a fall, sweaty desperations hang
around me; I have to be strong
then, unyielding. I am not
moved by their warmth.

- mrdes, 28 Aug 13 (edited)

P.S.: Not sure if this works, though I like it all the same.

Bed

I cradle him like quick sand, or what
remained of his lonely soul sinks
searching for something he sees
only in dreams, when he thinks
he is resting on silent sea carrying
him to unknown places, the curtains
flapping in restless dark are sails.

This is where he is most happy.
In my palm he can be himself
and controls his destiny.
Tears would warm his
cold cheeks to wet clean
sheet, carrying me into
his pool of sadness,
or happiness spreading.

Now I do not know who is
carrying who. And do I only
exist in his dreams?
The confusions crease
my face in the mornings.

- mrdes, undated (edited)

P.S.: Man likes to think his destiny is, or to a large extent is, in his hand. Perhaps, this insanity (or sanity, depending on how you see it) comes only in this psyche that keeps us alive. The only unsoundness amidst the noise of unknowns.

So I've decided, or the pieces have fallen into their places: I will just take one day at a time. I am just glad to be alive, embracing this present.

Free

man is never free
from the common pull
of grounds, the comfort
of fake smile,
the intoxication of
sweet words,
the warmth of bare
sex, the centre
of himself

======

So this is where I end up. The other day KL blurted out of the blue: Have I given up? On marriage, or love, I guess he meant both, considering the context of our conversation. Thoughts in multitude stormed through the door: no, too fast for speech. Too late -  the genesis flashed past into wildness of the years gone. I only shook my head. Now, all calm, it all comes back to me. Through some back door. Vaguely. Like a ghost standing, waiting, forgotten, in some dark corridor - I wouldn't have noticed it if not for some fidgeting. Then again, it really doesn't matter, does it? I already knew then: it is a one-way ticket. And I took it gratefully. I was lucky. Or unlucky. It depends on how you look at it.

Once in a sweet while, your eyes linger just a little longer on a stranger's face, and wonder what it would have been.

And in that sense, I am never free.

P.S.: I think this is going to be one of those posts that years later, I would read through, and think "What the hell am I saying?"

Running Out

I am truly, utterly, running out of time. Age is a terrible monster that creeps silently and stealthily up my back. My mental diligence has faltered. The books, unread; poems unfinished. My body has been left to rot, an empty shell. What life, is that? I have not read enough, wrote enough, seen enough. I am breathing, and that does not mean I am living.

Maybe I am just exhausted.

A Life of Addictions

addiction (noun): the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice of to something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming, as narcotics, to such an extent that its cessation causes severe trauma.

Now, where should I start? Perhaps, aptly, for mornings: coffee. A swirling, numbing pain in both temple, if not. Cliched, when I say I can't start the engine. Words can be like mirrors - you hold them up straight, you glare hard: you love yourself, hence judgement is abandoned. That is but the deepest fear. But coffee is minor sin, compared to rage. I fell off the wagon yesterday. It got to me, like an untamed beast; and the beast became me. My superior remarked, half-jesting, that it'd only present me with high blood pressure; I wasn't half-listening; my heart was beating wildly. I know I am not that person. I know. Now that I hold the mirror up straight. But I need to do some more soul-searching.

There are the others. Some too disgusting to be printed: like wanking off (I almost forgot, this is my blog), where the world goes away behind door. Too late - it has been around too long. There is no more guilt like when I was younger; but at times, overclouding dismay. Perhaps, more positively, I can't cease my running regime. Once I did, and felt as if I was having a flu. It's a trap I suspect, becoming used to a certain amount of energy - that regular running gives - to function normally, anything less will not do.

Now this one I have to discount soon, given its waning power over me: 100 plus, or any energy drink after a run; it can cause tooth decay, and is not really more quenching than plain water, studies show. It was not easy; I can only cut it down progressively.

If having "me" time is an addiction, then I am it. Most days I have my own plan. Don't envy my luxury; this is the life I choose, but not without sacrifices. But it's more like habit, being in my comfort zone. So "comfort zone" is an addiction? Perhaps.

Now I wish I was addicted to change. No, that obviously wouldn't do for me. I need to read more though.

I am self-indulgent with my writing more than anything. But, no, it's no addiction: this writing, or whim.   

P.S.: Just finished reading my second W.Somerset Maugham's work, "The Moon and Sixpence", and Alfian Sa'at's "Invisible Manuscript". And no, reading is no addiction.

Randomness

Reading my old post bring me laughter.

Firstly, I have to declare: there is no point to this entry - just random rambling, to set things right at the start. I have fallen off the wagon, having stopped writing on this blog, though I still doodle on my journal.

Been rather busy at work. A new much younger colleague translates to much needed help. Well, I don't know much about the young people nowadays, but he is rather stuck-up, I think, as if he has the rest of his life rolled out like a red carpet, hence it closes his ears and narrows his mind. And he is impulsive, I think - almost coming to a row with my superior. Imagine that, on his probation period! I only have the decency to tell him that my attitude towards him is this: a win-win situation, where I am glad with his help, he is happy with us, and the company needn't go around hunting for recruits, hence saving cost and indirectly, boosting my bonus. I kept the last bit on cost and bonus to myself, of course; I know, I am rather a scheming person. But you've to give it to me for my honesty.

Love watching the Lions XII at Jalan Besar Stadium and on TV for the away games. Our players, being younger, play their hearts out, focus on quick passing, off-the-ball movements, all a joy to watch.

Now obssessed with all things "The Painted Veil", listening to the audio book, and watching the movie on youtube.

Wrote one poem the other day, during one of the many rainy nights:

emptiness

a hole

in the air

too big

too close

threatens to

swallow

everything

feeds

on time

hides

memories bright

with joy

like sun behind

clouds

leaving me

nowhere

- mrdes

So one thing I learnt about poetry-writing recently, and which I should have done so earlier and have only a vague idea of, is that it can be personal, yes, but it must also be comprehensible to the readers: no use writing something that people don't understand. After all, poetry is also art, not just self-indulgence.  

 

It Happened Last Night

We love, therefore we enjoy. Every detail and every space in time, lie every tiny pleasure. It's an ordeal, as you torture your body physically, suffer bruises and bumps along the way. But you lose yourself in it, all heart and soul, and the way the heart pumps and pumps for thinning air.

I would do it again. Anytime.

It looks kind of silly: ten grown men all in one big room of four empty walls, no furniture, they crazy-chase almost non-stop after a crazy-eluding cotton and synthetic-coated, air-loaded corner-less mass, with the only aim of putting it in a net. That is Futsal. And in my case, it all happened at The Cage last night.

And a new acquaintance asked how often we do this. To which I quipped,"Er, like once in a blue moon?".

So, did you see the colour of the moon last night?

P.S.: My blogging mojo is back, all in a sudden.

Can We Talk?

Can we talk?
Not too long, not
Too short. Like
A river runs
Into infinite
Night.

Can we talk?
Not too long, not
Too short. In an endless
Moment the sun takes
Closing the door between
Heaven and earth.

----

Can we just talk?

Sometimes, I wonder how does the mind work? This constant flow of quiet monologue. Flashes of soundless, shapeless words glinting in a dark abyss. Like intermittent lightnings lashing a grey sky open. Does it leave scars in the mind's wall? The result, an impression, or image indelible? Like a fall on a child's first walk, or during his first bicycle ride.

This is but my prologue.

The fluted tree trunk stands in the wind, only to be scarred by the wind, in its struggle for life and growth.

“It’s not just other people we need to forgive. We also need to forgive ourselves. For all the things we didn’t do. All the things we should have done. You can’t get stuck on the regrets of what should have happened.” ~ Morrie (from "Tuesdays with Morrie')

Regrets. Their guilt and pain. I never quite got around to talking about these. I used to say that pain or joy, both of life, in its whole spectrum of emotions, allows us to live fully. You can't simply deny the existence of either.

I've forgotten how it started; it has been so long the way I live this life. Almost piously. I was telling a friend how suddenly I felt so busy, having a packed schedule all the time: going for a run this day, a movie that day, a football match on another. All I remember, at the beginning, was thinking to myself: to follow my passions. What's life without hope and passion? So that's where it started: books, running, films, soccer...stuff like that. All the while, unconsciously, I refuse to dawn on what I don't have. I accepted regrets. I chose to move on. Till I don't know what I miss, I guess. Marriage, parenthood? I've said before that the road ahead, as I grow older, is going to get tougher. Regrets accumulate. Like dust. They don't go away. So now I have them for company. What have I done to my life? How did I end up in this mess? No, I say. I am just me. This is the life I know best to live. And I am going to live it the best I can. With regrets.

Two times. People gave me a puzzled look. Complete blank, so to speak. I was light years ahead, I thought, when I talked about regrets, how we should accept them as part of life. Perhaps, in their mind, regret is not a right thing to have; it does not fit into their framework of a successful life, a complete life. Perhaps, they are right, in the context of their lives. But perhaps, not mine.         

Edited on 21 Sep 2012

Indecisive Night

Indecisive Night

You have no idea
And it hurts, that
You are too close.
The tentacles of
Our presences whip
Every cell awake.
You fake nonchalance,
Looking ahead, face
Steeling, emotions
Caught in a traffic jam,
Perhaps It's the cold?
Then, concrete silence -
Perhaps it will breed
Intimacy? I can't
Decide, I only dare steal
Looks at you. Men have
A streak in breaking things:
Silence is only but
One of them; another
Is distance – the shorter
It is, the further you want
To be. And we should be
From different planets,
But yet you are too close,
In a short trip your
Supple fingers send
The breeze in your perfumed
Hair into my pressed face,
My only escape route
From love's claws – oh,
How they are despised
And desired - thinly spreads
Before your bended knees
Into the night looming
Indecisiveness, through
The crowded bus.

P.S.: Now, where did that come from, I wonder. Poetry is amazing, isn't it?

Being "Jesus"

If to live is to act and think, regardless wrongly or correctly, literally, then one would have contributed in some way to this world: as a hero, or a villain inspiring heroics. Of course, assuming this world needs a hero, in that old world sense - like Superman, the one you can always depend on to resolve the most difficult problem saving the world, willingly sacrificing himself, and most importantly without thoughts of personal reward. Even considering there is only grey, no black or white - but that is another story and pushing too close to the truth, which can be bad for argument. On one hand, my defensive mechanism - and it's only for my own good - prohibits me from thinking that flawless "hero" still exists, on another hand, it's like a miracle that we want to believe, and for some, fuelled by religion - like the Christian's God - and some unfounded childhood innocence, we continue to. And part of me continues to believe that I can be that "hero" - without the world-saving part, that is, but doing good among the "ugly faces", thinking they too have some goodness in them around me. Yes, I am "Jesus" being crucified, yet smiling to all mankind. And I don't even believe in His existence. Or maybe, humans are fallen angels who have only lost their power upon falling in love with this place we called Earth. And that is good enough for me.

P.S.: Say, did I ever proclaim that if there is a God, or a Creator, he must be alien, mutated, or able to transform himself or herself (whatever, He is not even human) into any ordinary, everyday shape - that is why he is everywhere, knows everything and just like that breeze. Like that Corrinne May's song about an angel before her eyes, and she only sees him when he performs a generous act.

Much Ado About...(*tittering*)

I was on the train, enveloped by sweaty pungency and squeezed by human cargoes, with my read Waiting opened just enough to put my face in. Of course, this is partly fictional. I'm too much of a model Singaporean for my novel to take up another passenger's valuable standing space. So much for my brief digression.

The curious thing about reading is that sudden sense of deja vu: life as in fiction, and vice versa. So, I was reading about Lin Kong's wet dream, how he wasn't sure about his virility until his daughter was born. Then, I had to search down the corridors of my memory, as if driven by some mystery force.

Al, Qw and me, we were the best of friends in Secondary School. At about thirteen of age, all puerile and wet behind the ears, we went about our lives indulging in movies, pop music and Karaoke. Other than that, we were very much different as individuals. Al was the academically brilliant one, while Qw was rebellious-spirited; I was just me, nondescript and diffident. Yet, boys being boys, we were strongly-opinionated, and had egos larger than our ordinary lives could suggest.

There was this day that we were supposed to meet at Clementi MRT station. For some reason I've forgotten, I was early, and I saw the despondent figure of Al approaching, head drooping with a languid gait. I was rubbing my palms, ready to rub salt on wound. But Al was reticent, and my verbal thrust and push fell on marshmallow-like defence that left a bad aftertaste. That spelled trouble deeper than the Pacific Ocean, or that was what I thought. Then, Qw arrived and sniffed out the nuance in Al all too soon. Being a weekend, the station was swamped by teenagers, couples and small families enjoying their day off.

Without warning, Al pulled my left elbow, not hard enough to hurt, leading me to a corner with Qw following. In a low, dry croak, he whispered:"I've never had a wet dream, is there any problem with me?" Right, as if I'd know! He was the bookish one, remember? Partly out of sympathy - overnight wavy grooves seemed to cut his forehead with brows knitted - and partly out of pool toilet's hearsay (this is another story), the blind led another blind out of darkness. Relief was written all over his flushed, awkward countenance, which led me to ensure myself: no point rocking the boat if the sea is all calm, right? It never occurred to me then what might have happened if I had said otherwise.

These are all but bittersweet memories of an innocent age. We were to go our separate ways after I went to Junior College; Al to a Polytechnic despite his superior result, and Qw was to earn his first paycheck while retaking his GCE "O" level. As we probably would have joked: Qw's English and Mathematics really can't "swim".

My, how I miss those days...

Conversation with an Old Mate

So, have you settled down?

He said it, as nonchalantly as he could, as if afraid a nerve would be touched to send tremors breaking a feeble heart.

The old mate, he caught me by surprise, really. After his marriage, he had moved away from his parents' house, which is in the same area of my parents', and is now the proud father of a one and a half years old baby boy. Such happiness, I saw, lighting up his eyes. The last time I saw them in expectancy was when her partner was heavily pregnant, and we were serving our in-camp training.

Maybe it was in consolation, I don't know, but he claimed to envy my freedom which my bachelorhood bestows. I beg to differ, half in jest, offering that there are always two sides to a coin.

So, have you all but given up?

What? Giving up? Me? No way, man. There is always hope...

But, are you still active in finding a soul mate?

Well, not exactly. Frankly, I was never proactive with matters of the heart; just letting nature takes its course...

But, don't your parents nag? Or have they already given up?

No. I prefer the word "accept"(This cracked me up; my standup's moment).

My long lost mate, he expressed his surprise, and maybe as some kind of encouragement, that his elder sister, at the grand old age of 36, is tying the knot. I don't know what to think of it, such is the distance of marriage from my thoughts.

I bid my welfare as his stop approached, but not before he flashed me a photo of his precious from his handphone. Huge, raisin-like eyes shone under tousled black hair; the sweet kid had his father's dimples.

I shouted "All the best to you, and to your kid too!", as he disappeared down the steps in a hurried stride, hand up in recognition of my blessings, his boy undoubtedly flitting in his mind.

Send Me An Angel

Life is a huge farce - I know, I must have read that somewhere and written that down some time before...

I was in the lift after knocking off the other day, when I ran into EH. I first knew him from the Toastmasters Club that I belong to, though he did not even attend one chapter meeting. For some reason, we hit it off. EH is shy and soft-spoken, almost too demure for my liking. Perhaps, at times, he reminded me of myself at his age. With him, I like to see myself as a sort of life mentor.

Having obliged with the social greetings of norm, considering my STD - Small Talk Disorder - I was candid, shooting my mouth off about religion and its importance to one's life. I had always the impression that he was a pious Christian, thus I thought the subject might lure him out of his shell. How wrong I could get! In his own words, he is only a half-fledged (or was it half-fucked?) Christian, just going to church to see what Christianity is all about.

He stopped short there, yet, unconsciously perhaps, revealed the most elusive of matters clouding his mind, saying how he is still searching for "the centre of his life". The centre of his life? At first, honestly, it did not sink in. Then, he began talking about looking for people to go out, to have fun: for social outings like barbecue, hiking and the lots. Hiking? I thought for a moment: with his frail-looking body, surely he isn't into sports, or anything strenuous that work up a sweat.

Now, knowing he is also studying part-time, the "teacher" in me began to advocate reading as a hobby. I hit a cold wall then - no, books do not interest him; I thought I heard an echo bounding off the bricks. I guess I make a clueless uncle agony. And I felt our conversation was moving in a circle.

By some divine intervention, a flashback of our past conversation seeped into realm: he had confessed without restraint then, how he wishes for a special someone in his life.

So, the boy is now a man, waiting for an angel around which his life revolves.

How nostalgic, this feeling; I was also once there.

As we walked along, I was silent, deep in my own thoughts. I realised I had told him all I could back then.

Love is but a hope, though no less important. Passion for life, for learning, these are what make our journey significant. Being in love, or lonesome, either will have left our mind stronger. I just happen to fall into the latter.

Rambling News

Source

Short Take: Love and Tree

Short take: Now, I am beginning to think that one will have problem with love when one often associates it with tree. Like the Chinese saying, how one won't give up a whole forest for the sake of a tree, meaning one refuses to change his wayward skirt-chasing days to settle for one love. The teenager in my view, spouting complete nonsense beside me on a bus home, proposed to his friend on a handphone that he would just burn the lone tree. Then, it occurred to me that the forest might well catch the flames from the lone tree. Sooner than said, the greenery would be turned into smoky, barren ashes. Eventually, he would be left all alone. I, for once, thought that maybe I have been ignoring the existence of the forest, searching for the perfectly shaped love.

Sleepless Night Rambling

Sleepless I am now, being in a drug-induced daze most of the day since being inflicted with high temperature on Monday afternoon. Must be the haze hugging the sky and the haste of a hectic lifestyle - no better valid explanations.

I know I have to curb my late-night forage of MP3 or blog-hopping. Things could have been less complicated if my bed is warmer and less empty, that is what I think. Somehow, the obligation of evening class was still met, though nothing much got into my head. Yip, that's what sickness can do to you.

You know what? I am going to state the obvious: Singleton hates being sick, for there is no lovely word of comfort as you lie down helplessly weak and dejected; no, your friend or Mum don't count. I am glad to be well enough to attend the class. I say health is the greatest treasure that a singleton has. Either that or death I guess; pardon my morbid thought.