Dreams of snow globes - short story. Once again in the life story of Allegra and Mark.
Mark sat gingerly at the edge of her bed, using his fingers to gently stroke her fingertips. She seemed peaceful, almost smiling in her sleep like an angel who would never wake up. The monitors strapped to her body bleeped from time to time, according to her vital signs. Everyone was praying for her. Would she wake up? Mark wondered. He had already lost his father. He had always wanted to start a family when he was young so that his children would not be fatherless. He touched her hair gently. Wake up, he whispered.
I love those snow-globes. Even though I never bought one, in the places of my travels, I would go into the gift shops and peer into the intricately designed cityscape inside the globe, and shake it. The tiny city would be covered with snow, or with little happy glitter specks. I love those globes the way I love hand written long love letters. It seems that we have become so technologically advanced that we have forgotten about what it feels like to read someone’s handwriting.
Walking barefooted on the sand with Mark. Wandering through meandering roads that lead to nowhere. Remembering the way he crinkled up his eyes in a warm smile when he saw me appearing.
With each shake, it reminds me about how fragile love is, one swipe of the hand can lead the city into a magical place of pure, clean, snow and glitter, or by not choosing to do anything, the city stays as it is, untouched, but sterile, and perhaps hostile.
Where are you now, Mark? I do not dare to let my mind return to the place where we once wandered happily. Fearing it would be more bittersweet than happy memories, now. Do you know that I think of you everyday? Yet I don’t seem to hear your voice, Mark. I don’t seem to see myself in your eyes. Where my soul is in, I don’t know. Perhaps it has turned deaf, and blind. I think I am dying. I can hear the sound of my heart, and it tells me it may not last the distance. Have you experienced the pain that comes from waking up one day and reading the headlines, and knowing that for sure, there is a sinking feeling in your heart – an omen that means that life as you knew it would never be the same? When I saw those planes flying into the landmark buildings in a country far away from me, somehow, I knew. I love planes, watching them takeoff. I love the feeling of flying in my dreams. I knew it was a sign, an omen. My best friend told me so, too. The beginning of an end, he said. I spiraled into a depression that even you knew nothing about. The emptiness ate me up, even when you were by my side. Even when I was with people whom I knew and loved. Only when I was travelling, on a jet plane, to a foreign land, then did it seem I was leaving it all behind. That was why I always travelled. To the same place. Almost every fortnight to a place I knew I could find peace. I had always left all my tears behind at the border passing. It seemed that each tear I cried made me weaker and helped the darkness to consume me further. I vowed not to cry. But tears consumed me daily.
Days spent in the national library, poring over Austen classics and reading aloud poems by Wilde and Pablo. Endless sunsets on benches and evenings whispering about how we loved each other. Those were my best memories about the times we shared.
I wanted to escape from the darkness haunting my mind. I left you, again and again. Reasons. Excuses. I was involved in my career advancement. I was involved with someone else. I was too busy. I was cooking up excuses to cover up the essence of my heart, that it was consumed with a grief that was bottomless.
She saw a bright light, and murmurings in the background. She stirred, and opened her eyes. She beheld her beloved’s face in front of her. And his eyes, filling up with tears, dripping soundlessly below, the kind of love that does not need words.
I’m back, Mark, she whispered in her heart. I’m back.
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Men.
Some observations about men.
Men. We love them, hate them, try to understand them, try to make them understand us.
The men in my life have always had an enduring fascination with women. ‘What do you girls talk about?’ And why do we like to ‘go shopping’ so much? I guess these are some of the questions on their mind. And perhaps being the only answer key to the multitude of questions left unsolved and unanswered, they probed, albeit on the surface, about a women’s mystery.
Women talk about the same things as men. We talk about men, the same way men, invariably talk about women, though in a different context.
We talk about our fears, and desires, and being woman – and born with what you men call, ‘a woman’s intuition’, we sense more than what is being said. Our girlfriends may talk about how much she fancies a chap we all know, but somehow, perhaps in a glimpse, a moment when she looks away momentarily, with a bewildered and disheartening look; we manage to catch the look that means, yes, I do like him immensely, but I also know that we are not meant to be. And we do. Not. Ask. But offer the friendship, and the listening ear when the time comes when she must move on.
And in all my conversations with the men in my life, I’m truly bewildered at how men fear women. We are the weaker sex, easily overpowered by men, with a far wider range of things to worry about, then them. We have health and hormonal issues, women get headaches twice the frequency (and intensity, I believe!)more so then the male gender, we have to worry about our skin, our hair, our body, more so than men, because whether we like it or not, we are more often, judged by our appearances than what is inside. So being already judged for being superficial, we also judge those around us who seem less put-together. And we are hormonally conditioned to like men who seem to be able to have the right criteria (Criteria depends from woman to woman) to be able to take care of us.
Men are clueless when it comes to the ways of women. So they are scared when they make women cry, or make them angry. They don’t know what to do. Keep asking’ Are you alright’ doesn’t help one single bit. Nor does avoiding the situation entirely. But men do not know the variables when a women cries. It could be that she is regretting being with him, and thinking of and not being able to forget her first love. And having these wretched feelings, she cries, or is angry, with herself and the world. But you won’t know that, because these are things that will remain unspoken of. It could be a stressful and hormonal period of time in her life/that month, and even speaking of it, explaining it to him, he wouldn’t be able to understand, and perhaps it would be better if he remained clueless. It could be that simply, women cry easily. Because after that, we feel much better than keeping it all in, like men.
Men fear that they become unattractive (Or never were attractive!!!) to women. Even though they stick to their boring old polo tees(for years, as if there were an ongoing competition!), you can hear them muttering to themselves about their burgeoning belly, even though they don’t seem to want to eat less or exercise more. And even pat each others’ bellies, supposedly as a sign of brotherly affection when it means a slightly sinister gloating at their comrade’s sign of ageing. All men have this sinister fear. Even those who are hunky and look dashing, all the other guys would admire their tight body, sexy back and handsome face, inside, they are afraid of not appearing attractive or desirable to women, too!
Some try to impress by becoming a Mr Know-it- all, offering up pieces of advice or showcasing their adept skills at something. Like blabbering on about the latest news or the newest movie/book/hot scandal. However, this often misfires as women are not as impressed as they think women would be.
Some act nonchalant, not seeming to care about the state of their polo tees or their belly.
Perhaps being more optimistic, they think that, surely, after some time, some beauty would be able to acknowledge their vast charms, and want to swim in the deep sea of their eyes. But as the years go on, they start to have a sinking feeling that the women only see them as ‘woodblocks’, ‘activity partners’, and not desirable in the way they see a man they would like to have by their side. And their deepest fear sees the daylight.
Why do some men play with women’s hearts? They want to make a woman like them. Maybe this is a subconscious thing – perhaps since their childhood days they have never felt love from any woman. And so they ‘woo’ the women in their lives. They appear nice. Sensitive. Very sweet. And always paying – perhaps a need for the women to have a monetary obligation to them, but the women tell themselves he is being a true gentleman. Each date or friendly meeting experience is tinged with the ‘romance feel’. Invariably, the strongest of women will develop feelings. But these men are insecure, worrisome, think too much about their own feelings and usually says things to make them seem nice that women will continue liking them, and not say it because it comes sincerely from the heart.
And most of the things that men do, or act,or feel, is ultimately centred on that. Being desirable, being attractive to women. Or maybe, some are more driven by the fear, of being undesirable, or unattractive to women.
Friday, December 26, 2008
A christmas story part 3
And he began his story.
For over two hours I was rooted to the spot, spellbound by his life story. Leaving behind, all he had, for love? Stable-looking, solidly built Uncle Frank was so adventourous, so...spirited? It seemed unbelieveable. Would I have the courage to do that...I mused to myself. Then again, being here in oh-so-safe Singapore, I don't think I'd ever have the chance. Some political journalist once said that he was amazed that the streets of Singapore were so safe, yet there wasn't a single policeman in sight to be seen. He wrote, albeit sardonically, that we Singaporeans have the policemen, in our hearts. All of us are, 'internally policed'. And I guess that was true for me as well. Oh, the days of my youth. I cringe now to think at my thoughts 3 years ago, though it ain't exactly THAT long ago.
Who knew, that after Uncle Frank's story, I would take the leap of faith to find, and to write the chapters of my own love story.
Who knew, that in 2009, I would marry Natalia, a lady who had so much love for others, yet only knowing her father's love for most of her life. That Christmas day, three years ago, I finally knew why Mom and Dad always looked at Uncle Frank with sentimental glances when he mentioned his wife. And why he never married anyone else again. I never knew that Mom had lost a sister when Uncle Frank lost his wife. And the pain that they all felt, bonded them together in a strange family unit. It was Dad who rescued Uncle Frank from an almost-suicidal state after losing his wife. Mom never mentioned her name. I found out that her sister, Uncle Frank's wife, was called Catherine. She did not die after Natalia's birth as I had previously thought, but almost one year later, the christmas after. It was auto-immune thyroiditis which became full-blown Graves' disease which developed due to a complication post-partum. Uncle Frank wondered at her rapid weight loss shortly after Natalia was born, then, as she started to lose more, he because worried. This disease is still prevalent now, though with the advances made in medical science with Interferon, it is wholly treatable. Then, though, there was imminent death for the sufferers of the full-blown disease. She survived till Christmas, to see the first snowfall, then... it was too cold. Just too cold.
Uncle Frank's story changed my life the way other people are changed by people. You could say I was changed by love, an enduring love, a love that dared to break the boundaries across nations, a love that has the courage to remain strong, for his only child.
Natalia inherited her Dad's talents of reading and writing, and that three years ago, Uncle Frank brought with him a christmas card she made, and what she wrote to me piqued my curiosity for her type of vocation. One year later, I packed my bags and used my medic expertise to the fullest, helping to rebuild the tsunami-devastated villages in Banda Aceh, where one quarter of the whole population died. We spent one month there, one month of hardship though it was the sweetest month I've ever experienced, being in her tantalising presence each day. I could not leave her side after that. And now? Well, you see...
Although her cooking is not as good as her words, I still eat the burnt brownies, and the overtly solid turkey this year. I smiled at Uncle Frank, seated opposite me. Marriage was on the cards and we plan for a spring wedding, next year.
I forgot, to mention, this tradition that we had every year for years since Uncle Frank came to visit. There was always an empty chair next to Uncle Frank, which we took as a time-honored tradition. Now I knew the meaning of the empty chair. The chair stood for the comfort of the presence God brought to Uncle Frank's life, when Catherine was gone. The chair stood for the hope that each Christmas brings, that we can still find something to be thankful for, despite the pain, despite the ache in the heart and the almost unendureable depression it comes with. The chair represented that somehow, faith means, that God was with you, He still is.
And me? I'm going to love her, forever. 'Love me or die!' I shouted aloud to Natalia as she brought out a yet another tray of brownies that smelt too smoky to be eaten...
(the end!)
This story is dedicated to Chester, an old friend who introduced me to the world of Classics, starting with Wuthering Heights.
For over two hours I was rooted to the spot, spellbound by his life story. Leaving behind, all he had, for love? Stable-looking, solidly built Uncle Frank was so adventourous, so...spirited? It seemed unbelieveable. Would I have the courage to do that...I mused to myself. Then again, being here in oh-so-safe Singapore, I don't think I'd ever have the chance. Some political journalist once said that he was amazed that the streets of Singapore were so safe, yet there wasn't a single policeman in sight to be seen. He wrote, albeit sardonically, that we Singaporeans have the policemen, in our hearts. All of us are, 'internally policed'. And I guess that was true for me as well. Oh, the days of my youth. I cringe now to think at my thoughts 3 years ago, though it ain't exactly THAT long ago.
Who knew, that after Uncle Frank's story, I would take the leap of faith to find, and to write the chapters of my own love story.
Who knew, that in 2009, I would marry Natalia, a lady who had so much love for others, yet only knowing her father's love for most of her life. That Christmas day, three years ago, I finally knew why Mom and Dad always looked at Uncle Frank with sentimental glances when he mentioned his wife. And why he never married anyone else again. I never knew that Mom had lost a sister when Uncle Frank lost his wife. And the pain that they all felt, bonded them together in a strange family unit. It was Dad who rescued Uncle Frank from an almost-suicidal state after losing his wife. Mom never mentioned her name. I found out that her sister, Uncle Frank's wife, was called Catherine. She did not die after Natalia's birth as I had previously thought, but almost one year later, the christmas after. It was auto-immune thyroiditis which became full-blown Graves' disease which developed due to a complication post-partum. Uncle Frank wondered at her rapid weight loss shortly after Natalia was born, then, as she started to lose more, he because worried. This disease is still prevalent now, though with the advances made in medical science with Interferon, it is wholly treatable. Then, though, there was imminent death for the sufferers of the full-blown disease. She survived till Christmas, to see the first snowfall, then... it was too cold. Just too cold.
Uncle Frank's story changed my life the way other people are changed by people. You could say I was changed by love, an enduring love, a love that dared to break the boundaries across nations, a love that has the courage to remain strong, for his only child.
Natalia inherited her Dad's talents of reading and writing, and that three years ago, Uncle Frank brought with him a christmas card she made, and what she wrote to me piqued my curiosity for her type of vocation. One year later, I packed my bags and used my medic expertise to the fullest, helping to rebuild the tsunami-devastated villages in Banda Aceh, where one quarter of the whole population died. We spent one month there, one month of hardship though it was the sweetest month I've ever experienced, being in her tantalising presence each day. I could not leave her side after that. And now? Well, you see...
Although her cooking is not as good as her words, I still eat the burnt brownies, and the overtly solid turkey this year. I smiled at Uncle Frank, seated opposite me. Marriage was on the cards and we plan for a spring wedding, next year.
I forgot, to mention, this tradition that we had every year for years since Uncle Frank came to visit. There was always an empty chair next to Uncle Frank, which we took as a time-honored tradition. Now I knew the meaning of the empty chair. The chair stood for the comfort of the presence God brought to Uncle Frank's life, when Catherine was gone. The chair stood for the hope that each Christmas brings, that we can still find something to be thankful for, despite the pain, despite the ache in the heart and the almost unendureable depression it comes with. The chair represented that somehow, faith means, that God was with you, He still is.
And me? I'm going to love her, forever. 'Love me or die!' I shouted aloud to Natalia as she brought out a yet another tray of brownies that smelt too smoky to be eaten...
(the end!)
This story is dedicated to Chester, an old friend who introduced me to the world of Classics, starting with Wuthering Heights.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
A christmas story part 2
I could remember being young, too, Frank thought to himself. Was it really, so long ago?
Uttering a soft sigh to himself, Frank picked up the books from Borders which he wanted to buy for the family. Chester was a voracious reader and read virtually anything, from Leo Tolstoy epics to classics like Wuthering Heights. Frank smiled to himself as he perused the shelf of classics. Coral was also a book lover, but during those young adult years when they knew each other, she read mostly self-help books like the Dale Carnegies' type of literature. It was Chester who introduced her to the world of classics and after Dorian Gray, Persuasion, and Les Miserables, she was hooked.
Frank knew that they fell in love with each other after discussing the merits of the passionate love between Heathcliff and Catherine, and, seeing the sparks that light up their eyes each time they debated about love, and life issues, Frank couldn't help but smile to himself and thought how perfectly matched they were to each other. He found a book for Christopher, some cookbooks for Coral, and the latest bestseller listings for Chester; and as he stood by the wrapping counter, he made a mental note to call Natalia and wish her happy birthday, later. Natalia, Natalia. His sweet and kind daughter who chose a life of servtitude.
Already she was becoming quite well-known for her work in the peace corps during the 2006 East Timor crisis, and later, in the rebuilding works around the independent nation. It was a cruel time, thought Frank to himself. His fellow countrymen, killing each other over some political issue he would not and could not understand. Thousands of people, displaced because of land issues. Because of people who would not listen to sensibility, and take lives just like that - and recruit boys, some younger than Christopher, into the national army, and teach them how to fight.
He was worried that the next generation, people like Natalia and Christopher, would not know peace, a peace that he had, in the Green Apple Village, just the both of them living in their own little bubble.
But he knew that he could not change the way things were going to happen in this world, the same way he could not change himself. He had not expected that the pain of missing her would still strike his heart so deeply, that watching the rainfall over the Christmas lights at Orchard would still make him ache for her presence, for her cold hands - her small hands were always cold - and holding them just made him feel like wanting to light a fire for them and take away the cold that was there.
He rememebered that she had always wanted him to be happy, that she loved him for his cheerfulness, that his ability to make her laugh uproariously was one of the most important reasons she married him. They both had the ability to let go of their worries and look at each other, and laugh; thankful that no matter what happened, they still had each other. And that was enough, wasn't it...
==
Uncle Frank seemed in a pensive mood this evening, so after the Christmas dinner which I wolfed down most of the turkey, I found myself asking after Natalia. Was he worried that she was away, and perhaps, in a dangerous situation? It was customary for us to take a walk around the driveway and end up sitting in the backyard with some wine to celebrate the birth of Christ. Christopher. Mom told me Dad and her had decided to name me Christ's follower, and also because their names started with 'c'. Uncle Frank once told me to be glad Mom did not name me Heathcliff, though I'm not sure why she liked THAT name. I'm sure if I had a kid I'd name him after Frank, one day.
Uncle Frank just shook his head and smiled, benignly and told me Natalia was safe. He did not address my concern for her like the rest of the chaps would, if I enquired after a girl, but just motioned for us to sit down. And he began his story.
(To be continued)
It's only this year after so many years that I begin to be thankful for Kie's perpetual presence. If only... I had treasured it more before, then perhaps I would be more thankful for this season and the seasons past. Also, I still miss Captain Zero, although now, it's no longer that strong. Perhaps I will be the one to forget. If only we can all keep our memories close to our hearts.
Each time I write, I feel better, releasing the little moments that only people associated with the memories can understand. The only guy I had a soul connection with, all those years ago, I'm sorry for breaking your heart. I realise that I would have had a very different life right now if we were together. Maybe somewhere in the Green Apple village or in Jakarta. I love your country and I told God I wanna be somewhere there, although ironically, you seem to be content working and living in Sg. I've been to Aceh and Bali and next stop hopefully Timor-Leste. But anyways, it's not meant to be, we were not meant to be, we were, too young.
In a part, these writings have been the essay of my life, and writing them, and knowing that they are read, and comprehended by people who - also understand, makes me happy.
Uttering a soft sigh to himself, Frank picked up the books from Borders which he wanted to buy for the family. Chester was a voracious reader and read virtually anything, from Leo Tolstoy epics to classics like Wuthering Heights. Frank smiled to himself as he perused the shelf of classics. Coral was also a book lover, but during those young adult years when they knew each other, she read mostly self-help books like the Dale Carnegies' type of literature. It was Chester who introduced her to the world of classics and after Dorian Gray, Persuasion, and Les Miserables, she was hooked.
Frank knew that they fell in love with each other after discussing the merits of the passionate love between Heathcliff and Catherine, and, seeing the sparks that light up their eyes each time they debated about love, and life issues, Frank couldn't help but smile to himself and thought how perfectly matched they were to each other. He found a book for Christopher, some cookbooks for Coral, and the latest bestseller listings for Chester; and as he stood by the wrapping counter, he made a mental note to call Natalia and wish her happy birthday, later. Natalia, Natalia. His sweet and kind daughter who chose a life of servtitude.
Already she was becoming quite well-known for her work in the peace corps during the 2006 East Timor crisis, and later, in the rebuilding works around the independent nation. It was a cruel time, thought Frank to himself. His fellow countrymen, killing each other over some political issue he would not and could not understand. Thousands of people, displaced because of land issues. Because of people who would not listen to sensibility, and take lives just like that - and recruit boys, some younger than Christopher, into the national army, and teach them how to fight.
He was worried that the next generation, people like Natalia and Christopher, would not know peace, a peace that he had, in the Green Apple Village, just the both of them living in their own little bubble.
But he knew that he could not change the way things were going to happen in this world, the same way he could not change himself. He had not expected that the pain of missing her would still strike his heart so deeply, that watching the rainfall over the Christmas lights at Orchard would still make him ache for her presence, for her cold hands - her small hands were always cold - and holding them just made him feel like wanting to light a fire for them and take away the cold that was there.
He rememebered that she had always wanted him to be happy, that she loved him for his cheerfulness, that his ability to make her laugh uproariously was one of the most important reasons she married him. They both had the ability to let go of their worries and look at each other, and laugh; thankful that no matter what happened, they still had each other. And that was enough, wasn't it...
==
Uncle Frank seemed in a pensive mood this evening, so after the Christmas dinner which I wolfed down most of the turkey, I found myself asking after Natalia. Was he worried that she was away, and perhaps, in a dangerous situation? It was customary for us to take a walk around the driveway and end up sitting in the backyard with some wine to celebrate the birth of Christ. Christopher. Mom told me Dad and her had decided to name me Christ's follower, and also because their names started with 'c'. Uncle Frank once told me to be glad Mom did not name me Heathcliff, though I'm not sure why she liked THAT name. I'm sure if I had a kid I'd name him after Frank, one day.
Uncle Frank just shook his head and smiled, benignly and told me Natalia was safe. He did not address my concern for her like the rest of the chaps would, if I enquired after a girl, but just motioned for us to sit down. And he began his story.
(To be continued)
It's only this year after so many years that I begin to be thankful for Kie's perpetual presence. If only... I had treasured it more before, then perhaps I would be more thankful for this season and the seasons past. Also, I still miss Captain Zero, although now, it's no longer that strong. Perhaps I will be the one to forget. If only we can all keep our memories close to our hearts.
Each time I write, I feel better, releasing the little moments that only people associated with the memories can understand. The only guy I had a soul connection with, all those years ago, I'm sorry for breaking your heart. I realise that I would have had a very different life right now if we were together. Maybe somewhere in the Green Apple village or in Jakarta. I love your country and I told God I wanna be somewhere there, although ironically, you seem to be content working and living in Sg. I've been to Aceh and Bali and next stop hopefully Timor-Leste. But anyways, it's not meant to be, we were not meant to be, we were, too young.
In a part, these writings have been the essay of my life, and writing them, and knowing that they are read, and comprehended by people who - also understand, makes me happy.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
A christmas story
In tune with the season...
The arrival of Uncle Frank meant that, to me, Christmas, was here.
Uncle Frank was my godfather; and the stories he told to me was something I looked forward to hear, eagerly; when I was younger. The past few years however, he had to settle for talking to my parents, because I was always busy at Christmas.
Busy with girlfriends, busy with work, busy shopping, just too busy… Perhaps I just couldn’t find the time to listen, anymore. But this year, I was going to. Listen to Uncle Frank. Although we could only meet once a year, his life seems to have impacted me more than I could possibly imagine. I’ve heard my parents talk about the events of his life in hushed tones. It seems like Uncle Frank and Mom lived close by back then, when he still resided in Singapore. Although I’ve always wondered about how Dad could stand Mom being close to Uncle Frank, their friendship seemed entrenched on the grains of time. Myself? I’m a guy-kinda guy, favorite pastime hanging out with the gang - not like Dad who seems like a ladies’ man. Until now, he still can charm the socks of any girl. I’ve heard that in the past, Dad was droolingly handsome. Ah well, I can see where I’ve gotten my good looks from!
This year, I could see that Uncle Frank was getting older. His eyebags seemed that much more wrinkly than the last time I could remember, and the jowls on his face seemed more saggier. Horrors. He has a daughter, around my age – and for one period of time, I believed Dad and Uncle Frank fervently tried to engineer something between us. We were always friends, respectful to each other and acquaintances of a sort – but somehow, I could never connect with her and have that kind of soul-communication Mom and Dad had.
Of course, we were both too young at that point of time – I’m still not in the right frame of mind to pursue a long-lasting relationship, and there were hordes of girls to choose from at school, anyways. Later, I heard that she chose to go into social work and serve under a Women’s Association, helping underprivileged female orphans. Of course, that’s exactly what she would do. At that time, I despised Natalia for making that choice. Uncle Frank wasn’t exactly rich and social work doesn’t exactly pay. Being Uncle Frank’s only kin, she was putting him in a difficult position, or so I thought. No one asked you to put yourself through this torture, so why do so?
Later, I realized that Uncle Frank was proud of her choices, and now, after meeting so many materialistic, shallow girls who don’t seem to give a hoot about your heart, I realized that Natalia is really a true gem. Hmm, I wonder how she is now?
This year, Uncle Frank finally told me the story he said he would, when it was my 25th birthday. It was strange how Natalia and I were born so close to each other. And what he told me, I could never forget. It’s one of those stories you could make into a movie, you know.
==
He was finally going home.
Back to the Green Apple Village, 330km northwest from Jakarta. The plane was landing in a few minutes and it seems that he was always so far away, from her.
In the past, he always missed her for Christmas. It seemed as though cruel fate decided that they could never celebrate any festive holiday together, while they were dating. Each Valentines’, he had to be away from her because it coincided with the Lunar New Year holidays; and leaving for home at this time meant that he would have missed her birthday, too. She always said that she didn’t mind, that she understood he had to go and be with his family, but he could see in her eyes that she wished she could be by his side.
In the Green Apple Village you could see snow and that was what he loved most about the place. Their ancestral home, a sprawling mansion in the centre of the city near the Singapore Embassy was something he could just live in, but not really feel at ease, at home. He remembered walking past the Embassy all the time as a young boy, and wondering what’s it like on the other side. Now, he was on the other side, and somehow, not knowing how he got there, he was there.
Who would have thought how it would all turn out, that his parents would have turned him out, because he chose her, he chose love – they both chose love over rationality, over practicality – it was the days of the 70s where free will, peace, and love was the mantra of the days.
And later, having no money of their own, but deliriously happy with each other; she went with him to live in the village – this village. Ironically, he had to go back to Singapore to work, and it seemed that the work practically took over his life. Although it was not difficult to make a living in Singapore, he always missed her so, so much that each day was unbearable. He always counted down the days to Christmas, when their office would shut down on the Eve, and reopen again in January.
Each time he made the journey back, she had dressed up, wearing the earrings he had given her on their first anniversary, cooking his favorite ayam goreng, and sambal vegetable leaves. She would always say the same thing in halting words, when she opened the door to him - words that were not of her mother tongue, words she learnt because she loved him.
“Frank, bagaimana mempunyai anda ialah?
Saya sudah sangat merindukan anda, cintaku.”
I miss you too, I miss you too… Frank whispered in his heart.
He was always too overwhelmed for words to say anything back in return, just hold her close to him and feel her warmth emanating, embracing him and time stood still. He knew he would have to be gone again all too soon, and hated that, hated himself, hated everything for turning out this way. He missed her too, he missed her so much.
Later, Christmas time – the time he looked forward to all year round, was too painful for him to continue staying in the Green Apple Village.
Coming back to the Village made him remember too many things, almost as if he could feel his heart splitting in two.
Losing her meant he could never love another, again.
Again, he had nowhere else in the country to go. Being in boarding schools for most of his life, he could never call Jakarta his home. So he always found himself going back to the place where he spent most of his life in, Singapore. Although the Singapore of today was much changed, he still found solace in his old friends, especially with Chester and Coral. Talking to their son, Christopher, had warmed up his heart, because Chris was so much like him. Young, raring to go, and always full of energy, and a perfect match for Natalia. Although they were still too young to think of something more serious.
I could remember being young, too, Frank thought to himself. Was it really, so long ago?
(to be continued)
The arrival of Uncle Frank meant that, to me, Christmas, was here.
Uncle Frank was my godfather; and the stories he told to me was something I looked forward to hear, eagerly; when I was younger. The past few years however, he had to settle for talking to my parents, because I was always busy at Christmas.
Busy with girlfriends, busy with work, busy shopping, just too busy… Perhaps I just couldn’t find the time to listen, anymore. But this year, I was going to. Listen to Uncle Frank. Although we could only meet once a year, his life seems to have impacted me more than I could possibly imagine. I’ve heard my parents talk about the events of his life in hushed tones. It seems like Uncle Frank and Mom lived close by back then, when he still resided in Singapore. Although I’ve always wondered about how Dad could stand Mom being close to Uncle Frank, their friendship seemed entrenched on the grains of time. Myself? I’m a guy-kinda guy, favorite pastime hanging out with the gang - not like Dad who seems like a ladies’ man. Until now, he still can charm the socks of any girl. I’ve heard that in the past, Dad was droolingly handsome. Ah well, I can see where I’ve gotten my good looks from!
This year, I could see that Uncle Frank was getting older. His eyebags seemed that much more wrinkly than the last time I could remember, and the jowls on his face seemed more saggier. Horrors. He has a daughter, around my age – and for one period of time, I believed Dad and Uncle Frank fervently tried to engineer something between us. We were always friends, respectful to each other and acquaintances of a sort – but somehow, I could never connect with her and have that kind of soul-communication Mom and Dad had.
Of course, we were both too young at that point of time – I’m still not in the right frame of mind to pursue a long-lasting relationship, and there were hordes of girls to choose from at school, anyways. Later, I heard that she chose to go into social work and serve under a Women’s Association, helping underprivileged female orphans. Of course, that’s exactly what she would do. At that time, I despised Natalia for making that choice. Uncle Frank wasn’t exactly rich and social work doesn’t exactly pay. Being Uncle Frank’s only kin, she was putting him in a difficult position, or so I thought. No one asked you to put yourself through this torture, so why do so?
Later, I realized that Uncle Frank was proud of her choices, and now, after meeting so many materialistic, shallow girls who don’t seem to give a hoot about your heart, I realized that Natalia is really a true gem. Hmm, I wonder how she is now?
This year, Uncle Frank finally told me the story he said he would, when it was my 25th birthday. It was strange how Natalia and I were born so close to each other. And what he told me, I could never forget. It’s one of those stories you could make into a movie, you know.
==
He was finally going home.
Back to the Green Apple Village, 330km northwest from Jakarta. The plane was landing in a few minutes and it seems that he was always so far away, from her.
In the past, he always missed her for Christmas. It seemed as though cruel fate decided that they could never celebrate any festive holiday together, while they were dating. Each Valentines’, he had to be away from her because it coincided with the Lunar New Year holidays; and leaving for home at this time meant that he would have missed her birthday, too. She always said that she didn’t mind, that she understood he had to go and be with his family, but he could see in her eyes that she wished she could be by his side.
In the Green Apple Village you could see snow and that was what he loved most about the place. Their ancestral home, a sprawling mansion in the centre of the city near the Singapore Embassy was something he could just live in, but not really feel at ease, at home. He remembered walking past the Embassy all the time as a young boy, and wondering what’s it like on the other side. Now, he was on the other side, and somehow, not knowing how he got there, he was there.
Who would have thought how it would all turn out, that his parents would have turned him out, because he chose her, he chose love – they both chose love over rationality, over practicality – it was the days of the 70s where free will, peace, and love was the mantra of the days.
And later, having no money of their own, but deliriously happy with each other; she went with him to live in the village – this village. Ironically, he had to go back to Singapore to work, and it seemed that the work practically took over his life. Although it was not difficult to make a living in Singapore, he always missed her so, so much that each day was unbearable. He always counted down the days to Christmas, when their office would shut down on the Eve, and reopen again in January.
Each time he made the journey back, she had dressed up, wearing the earrings he had given her on their first anniversary, cooking his favorite ayam goreng, and sambal vegetable leaves. She would always say the same thing in halting words, when she opened the door to him - words that were not of her mother tongue, words she learnt because she loved him.
“Frank, bagaimana mempunyai anda ialah?
Saya sudah sangat merindukan anda, cintaku.”
I miss you too, I miss you too… Frank whispered in his heart.
He was always too overwhelmed for words to say anything back in return, just hold her close to him and feel her warmth emanating, embracing him and time stood still. He knew he would have to be gone again all too soon, and hated that, hated himself, hated everything for turning out this way. He missed her too, he missed her so much.
Later, Christmas time – the time he looked forward to all year round, was too painful for him to continue staying in the Green Apple Village.
Coming back to the Village made him remember too many things, almost as if he could feel his heart splitting in two.
Losing her meant he could never love another, again.
Again, he had nowhere else in the country to go. Being in boarding schools for most of his life, he could never call Jakarta his home. So he always found himself going back to the place where he spent most of his life in, Singapore. Although the Singapore of today was much changed, he still found solace in his old friends, especially with Chester and Coral. Talking to their son, Christopher, had warmed up his heart, because Chris was so much like him. Young, raring to go, and always full of energy, and a perfect match for Natalia. Although they were still too young to think of something more serious.
I could remember being young, too, Frank thought to himself. Was it really, so long ago?
(to be continued)
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Today, and a few months backward
Short, random story. This is how I write when my thinker self kicks in and introspectively psychologizes my world. The intellectuals will like this piece. The rest won't understand. It doesn't really end in anything. Maybe next time a better one.
===========
I like you older. Because although older does not equate to better, like the way men would liken themselves to a bottle of fine, aged wine, older means that we have had more time spent together. Finding out about things, in that relentless journey called Life.
I sometimes wonder what has happened to us, Zero.
//
I have always tried to live my Life as free as possible, detaching myself from all the protocol. All the rules and regulations, all the unneeded and unnecessary clutter that makes our life just impossible to live out, to have time for ourselves, and the ones we cherish the most. Because when I get older I don’t want to look back and lament the time spent doing up reports, attending countless meetings when I could be out spending a day in the sun. Maybe not everyone thinks like me, and I’m glad for that, because we do need people like them to maintain the systems, but I’ve always longed to meet someone who lives like me, happy for the system and living peaceably in it, yet wanting to live another way, as free from systems as possible. I’m not those who want to speak out or repeal the existing system, I’m actually glad for it. And a part of me wanted someone to chide me, someone stronger, to tell me what to do, to guide me when I’m living on the edge, or living in two different worlds – That’s how it seems to me at times. Increasingly it is becoming difficult to live this way, and while some fall out after sometime, most adapt to the system till it becomes ingrained in themselves, until they become the system and the system becomes them. And the system has no need for anomalies like me, so until it spots me, I will be low-profile, not wanting a ripple effect, just wanting to be happy. Actually wanting everyone to be happy, but some people do not see happiness as a desire for their lives, so.
//
And when we grow up, we realize that we see relationships in a different way. I just wanted to give. Like you. But you also realize that you want to claim something back. Maybe after all this is over, to claim a part of yourself, back. Having given it away, you are longer fully yourself, I am no longer fully me. In a scary way it is like something inside you has died, and maybe, it was supposed to happen to me. God wanted it to happen, God doesn’t make mistakes. When you pray and ask God who’s the best one for you, because you do not want to make a wrong decision for the rest of your life, and God answers your prayer, as HE ALWAYS DOES, and you decide there and then, "Not God’s will, but my will be done.”
And years later you wonder if you’ve blown it and all those meaningless times you spent sharing intimately with another person counts for nothing. Because in choosing to live free, you inevitably blow up the system. It’s like being environmentally friendly because everyone around you is, and you don’t want to spend the extra cash on wasting the environment without really meaning to be friendly, just wanting to do so for a materialistic or selfish reason. It’s like being a cell leader with low morals so that you can survive in this world – not for material gain, but because you really have big dreams and you want to be successful one day; but you enjoy the low-morals-situation so much that you wonder if everything you’ve ever done for Christ is a façade, and that slipping into another life just seems so easy, so easy… … And sometimes you think, living simply and happily; living and dying in a Hdb flat and taking public transport every day isn’t so bad after all, compared to what lies ahead.
//
When you realize that truth is relative – or perhaps you have known it all along, in the system, that the system is only a guide to life that must be taken with a pinch of salt, because you’ve done things that in another system would have brought you death in a pigs’ cage, but in these times it becomes accepted without a blink of an eye – and horribly, you realize that you do not feel guilt for those thoughts, or those actions, just a mere disappointment, when the system tells you to drown in your sorrows – the way the old system should be. Now the new one tells you to drown your sorrows and it’s a scary thing when you don’t drink that much but you can name every beer available in the island and the countries they come from.
//
And after many moons you realize why you feel the way you do. It’s not about her always blaming you every day, that the phrase ‘it’s your fault’ rings in your ears every day until you either vow to slap the next girl who says that to you, or you stoically endure until you really believe it is.
I’m not afraid of my feelings. I used to be, because from an early age, I saw how people suffered from it. Not only people but animals, societies, and … everything. How you can be changed by a book. How you can be changed by a kiss, or the sight of your beloved. How the SPCA has so many unwanted pets not because of a single night of passion but because someone had strong feelings that dissipated shortly after. But I would rather embrace my feelings than hide them, because I know that God is trying to tell me something. It’s all about obedience and trust, isn’t it. I’ve seen many lives play out their sad stories before me, and when I have the chance to decide what I want for my own, I hope I can make a better one. A better decision comes with time, and experience. To know what lies in your heart. And that it why I’m not afraid of my feelings.
Short, random story. This is how I write when my thinker self kicks in and introspectively psychologizes my world. The intellectuals will like this piece. The rest won't understand. It doesn't really end in anything. Maybe next time a better one.
===========
I like you older. Because although older does not equate to better, like the way men would liken themselves to a bottle of fine, aged wine, older means that we have had more time spent together. Finding out about things, in that relentless journey called Life.
I sometimes wonder what has happened to us, Zero.
//
I have always tried to live my Life as free as possible, detaching myself from all the protocol. All the rules and regulations, all the unneeded and unnecessary clutter that makes our life just impossible to live out, to have time for ourselves, and the ones we cherish the most. Because when I get older I don’t want to look back and lament the time spent doing up reports, attending countless meetings when I could be out spending a day in the sun. Maybe not everyone thinks like me, and I’m glad for that, because we do need people like them to maintain the systems, but I’ve always longed to meet someone who lives like me, happy for the system and living peaceably in it, yet wanting to live another way, as free from systems as possible. I’m not those who want to speak out or repeal the existing system, I’m actually glad for it. And a part of me wanted someone to chide me, someone stronger, to tell me what to do, to guide me when I’m living on the edge, or living in two different worlds – That’s how it seems to me at times. Increasingly it is becoming difficult to live this way, and while some fall out after sometime, most adapt to the system till it becomes ingrained in themselves, until they become the system and the system becomes them. And the system has no need for anomalies like me, so until it spots me, I will be low-profile, not wanting a ripple effect, just wanting to be happy. Actually wanting everyone to be happy, but some people do not see happiness as a desire for their lives, so.
//
And when we grow up, we realize that we see relationships in a different way. I just wanted to give. Like you. But you also realize that you want to claim something back. Maybe after all this is over, to claim a part of yourself, back. Having given it away, you are longer fully yourself, I am no longer fully me. In a scary way it is like something inside you has died, and maybe, it was supposed to happen to me. God wanted it to happen, God doesn’t make mistakes. When you pray and ask God who’s the best one for you, because you do not want to make a wrong decision for the rest of your life, and God answers your prayer, as HE ALWAYS DOES, and you decide there and then, "Not God’s will, but my will be done.”
And years later you wonder if you’ve blown it and all those meaningless times you spent sharing intimately with another person counts for nothing. Because in choosing to live free, you inevitably blow up the system. It’s like being environmentally friendly because everyone around you is, and you don’t want to spend the extra cash on wasting the environment without really meaning to be friendly, just wanting to do so for a materialistic or selfish reason. It’s like being a cell leader with low morals so that you can survive in this world – not for material gain, but because you really have big dreams and you want to be successful one day; but you enjoy the low-morals-situation so much that you wonder if everything you’ve ever done for Christ is a façade, and that slipping into another life just seems so easy, so easy… … And sometimes you think, living simply and happily; living and dying in a Hdb flat and taking public transport every day isn’t so bad after all, compared to what lies ahead.
//
When you realize that truth is relative – or perhaps you have known it all along, in the system, that the system is only a guide to life that must be taken with a pinch of salt, because you’ve done things that in another system would have brought you death in a pigs’ cage, but in these times it becomes accepted without a blink of an eye – and horribly, you realize that you do not feel guilt for those thoughts, or those actions, just a mere disappointment, when the system tells you to drown in your sorrows – the way the old system should be. Now the new one tells you to drown your sorrows and it’s a scary thing when you don’t drink that much but you can name every beer available in the island and the countries they come from.
//
And after many moons you realize why you feel the way you do. It’s not about her always blaming you every day, that the phrase ‘it’s your fault’ rings in your ears every day until you either vow to slap the next girl who says that to you, or you stoically endure until you really believe it is.
I’m not afraid of my feelings. I used to be, because from an early age, I saw how people suffered from it. Not only people but animals, societies, and … everything. How you can be changed by a book. How you can be changed by a kiss, or the sight of your beloved. How the SPCA has so many unwanted pets not because of a single night of passion but because someone had strong feelings that dissipated shortly after. But I would rather embrace my feelings than hide them, because I know that God is trying to tell me something. It’s all about obedience and trust, isn’t it. I’ve seen many lives play out their sad stories before me, and when I have the chance to decide what I want for my own, I hope I can make a better one. A better decision comes with time, and experience. To know what lies in your heart. And that it why I’m not afraid of my feelings.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Trying to Forget
short story
There comes a certain point of time in life when you realize that everything is just a façade, that nobody really cares if you have enough of yourself to last the whole month, or that if that fifty dollar bill in your wallet is supposed to take you through.
And while you can subsist on that, you listen, again, to your parents quarrelling, and tell yourself you will not let yourself get to that stage in your life.
But, perhaps, you already have.
And you lie in bed at night, tossing, turning, wondering if all the past sins you have done in your short life will come back and haunt you one day, or…or, not. And you weave dreams that can almost be believed in, if you did not have to wake up eventually and go to the monotony that is work, the next day. And the next , and the next. Until it is the weekend, again. So you weave dreams. You are not just an ordinary man trying to thrive in an environment that does not distinguish your abilities as worthy of value. For in this island the only value is the ability to make money and nothing else.
There are always ups and downs in life. I pray that when you are on an uptrend, you will not forget me. People are fickle, I know. I am, too. After all, we only seek out our friends when we need help, when we need to confide in them, or when we are bored. Sad but true, the schedules we adhere our lives to does not make room for the possibility of cultivating love between people. Only cultivate emotional bonds during downtimes. During uptimes, we forget, too easily. We forget that we had the fever, once and laugh at people who fall sick too easily. We forget that it takes more than a listening ear to bond with another person. It takes an open heart. And out of spite, or maybe pride, we fail to give the ones in our life who matters most our love, and our time. And then somehow later, we miss them. We wonder what has happened to us. Sure, we have more than a few fifty dollar bills in our pockets now. Maybe even enough to start thinking of getting a car, or a cute little minivan that is diesel powered.
But when you lie in bed at night, you know. You remember, somehow. Something that reminds you of them. Maybe you coincidentally come across their name in the Bible. Or you bump into someone who looks like them. So you tell yourself, it is up to you. That you have to try. No matter what it takes, all humans hearts have the inherent capacity for love. Give more of it, realize that you have even more left. If you want to do something great for God one day, start small. Believe in yourself. That no matter how difficult it is, you can thrive.
I am just an ordinary girl. For all my life, I had wanted to blend in. Not to be outstanding. Just average. Doing a simple job, having a simple life. I understand why people want to be outstanding. But do you understand why I want to be average?
I try to be funny sometimes, to make people laugh because I believe there is too much sadness in the world. So why add on to others' troubles, their issues, their complexes. I try, to understand the human psyche. Sometimes I think I know it very well. Other times I just can't be sure.
I appear incoherent at times although I am fully aware of my thoughts and feelings. Well, maybe not as fully as others with high emotional intelligence. I think it is difficult to surrender to God's will. Like William Wiberforce, I struggle at times. I have deep intellectual debates in my soul. And my expression takes on the world-weary, the haunted look of those fighting for their survival. How I wish I can just skip through life blithely, knowing God loves me and I Him and all is well within my soul. My blitheness at times is not a front though, I am truly at peace when I leave my mind at rest. Do you understand the turmoil within my heart? That now, I am letting go. Not because I don't care. I care too much. Is that a crime? To you it probably is. But to me, i identify with it more because of what happened before. But I've learnt from before. That letting go means staying free. It is not as if I do not care about the outcome, but to me, the outcome is not as important as what lies within. I scare myself with the intensity of my emotions. Its so much of a torture that many times I ask God to take it away from me. Not my will. Not my heart. And to release others who are in the same predicament.
To live in the will of God is more than what I could ask for. I think its important not to give up on yourself, even though you have failed in the areas you most wanted success. For me, maybe I gave up a long time ago. And I was not able to pick up the pieces, just trying to forget the pain.
It's never easy to look back at life and realize how it is, how he has blessed me.
short story
There comes a certain point of time in life when you realize that everything is just a façade, that nobody really cares if you have enough of yourself to last the whole month, or that if that fifty dollar bill in your wallet is supposed to take you through.
And while you can subsist on that, you listen, again, to your parents quarrelling, and tell yourself you will not let yourself get to that stage in your life.
But, perhaps, you already have.
And you lie in bed at night, tossing, turning, wondering if all the past sins you have done in your short life will come back and haunt you one day, or…or, not. And you weave dreams that can almost be believed in, if you did not have to wake up eventually and go to the monotony that is work, the next day. And the next , and the next. Until it is the weekend, again. So you weave dreams. You are not just an ordinary man trying to thrive in an environment that does not distinguish your abilities as worthy of value. For in this island the only value is the ability to make money and nothing else.
There are always ups and downs in life. I pray that when you are on an uptrend, you will not forget me. People are fickle, I know. I am, too. After all, we only seek out our friends when we need help, when we need to confide in them, or when we are bored. Sad but true, the schedules we adhere our lives to does not make room for the possibility of cultivating love between people. Only cultivate emotional bonds during downtimes. During uptimes, we forget, too easily. We forget that we had the fever, once and laugh at people who fall sick too easily. We forget that it takes more than a listening ear to bond with another person. It takes an open heart. And out of spite, or maybe pride, we fail to give the ones in our life who matters most our love, and our time. And then somehow later, we miss them. We wonder what has happened to us. Sure, we have more than a few fifty dollar bills in our pockets now. Maybe even enough to start thinking of getting a car, or a cute little minivan that is diesel powered.
But when you lie in bed at night, you know. You remember, somehow. Something that reminds you of them. Maybe you coincidentally come across their name in the Bible. Or you bump into someone who looks like them. So you tell yourself, it is up to you. That you have to try. No matter what it takes, all humans hearts have the inherent capacity for love. Give more of it, realize that you have even more left. If you want to do something great for God one day, start small. Believe in yourself. That no matter how difficult it is, you can thrive.
I am just an ordinary girl. For all my life, I had wanted to blend in. Not to be outstanding. Just average. Doing a simple job, having a simple life. I understand why people want to be outstanding. But do you understand why I want to be average?
I try to be funny sometimes, to make people laugh because I believe there is too much sadness in the world. So why add on to others' troubles, their issues, their complexes. I try, to understand the human psyche. Sometimes I think I know it very well. Other times I just can't be sure.
I appear incoherent at times although I am fully aware of my thoughts and feelings. Well, maybe not as fully as others with high emotional intelligence. I think it is difficult to surrender to God's will. Like William Wiberforce, I struggle at times. I have deep intellectual debates in my soul. And my expression takes on the world-weary, the haunted look of those fighting for their survival. How I wish I can just skip through life blithely, knowing God loves me and I Him and all is well within my soul. My blitheness at times is not a front though, I am truly at peace when I leave my mind at rest. Do you understand the turmoil within my heart? That now, I am letting go. Not because I don't care. I care too much. Is that a crime? To you it probably is. But to me, i identify with it more because of what happened before. But I've learnt from before. That letting go means staying free. It is not as if I do not care about the outcome, but to me, the outcome is not as important as what lies within. I scare myself with the intensity of my emotions. Its so much of a torture that many times I ask God to take it away from me. Not my will. Not my heart. And to release others who are in the same predicament.
To live in the will of God is more than what I could ask for. I think its important not to give up on yourself, even though you have failed in the areas you most wanted success. For me, maybe I gave up a long time ago. And I was not able to pick up the pieces, just trying to forget the pain.
It's never easy to look back at life and realize how it is, how he has blessed me.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
letting go allegra
holding on and letting go.
Allegra realised that she had been holding on to a piece of Mark for too long. After all these years. She had heard an urban legend earlier in the week. About how saying the person's name over and over, again and again, would expel the person's presence in her life. She had no problems over saying the name of her previous paramour. Xerxes. Xerxes. Xerxes. Allegra did not feel a thing. So in this way she realised that she had been healed of her affilation with him. However, while doing the same, trying to say Mark's name, she paused. And that pause, that slight nuance that only the keenest person could distinguish; that pause; it spoke volumes. About how she had let her feelings keep her from being healed, all those years. How she had kept a skeleton in her closet; or a nail in her door that prevented Allegra from being truly Allegra, truly free. Free to love wholly. Free to live, a life without this darkness enveloping her thoughts.
Gideon, her only trusted friend, told her that she sometimes had that dark, pensive look in her eyes. So Gideon realised it too, but was unaware of the torment she inflicted upon herself all these years. It had affected her friendship with him, too. He was the closest friend in her life at this chapter who could give her back her self-respect; but she had unwittingly treated this friendship ambiguously, and it was causing herself and him so much frustration.
So Allegra knew. She knew that by letting go, she has a shot in life to live, love, and be happy which was what she always wanted. She decided to meet Mark. There was no point in avoiding him anyways. She had nothing to lose but the skeleton in her closet.
Allegra realised that she had been holding on to a piece of Mark for too long. After all these years. She had heard an urban legend earlier in the week. About how saying the person's name over and over, again and again, would expel the person's presence in her life. She had no problems over saying the name of her previous paramour. Xerxes. Xerxes. Xerxes. Allegra did not feel a thing. So in this way she realised that she had been healed of her affilation with him. However, while doing the same, trying to say Mark's name, she paused. And that pause, that slight nuance that only the keenest person could distinguish; that pause; it spoke volumes. About how she had let her feelings keep her from being healed, all those years. How she had kept a skeleton in her closet; or a nail in her door that prevented Allegra from being truly Allegra, truly free. Free to love wholly. Free to live, a life without this darkness enveloping her thoughts.
Gideon, her only trusted friend, told her that she sometimes had that dark, pensive look in her eyes. So Gideon realised it too, but was unaware of the torment she inflicted upon herself all these years. It had affected her friendship with him, too. He was the closest friend in her life at this chapter who could give her back her self-respect; but she had unwittingly treated this friendship ambiguously, and it was causing herself and him so much frustration.
So Allegra knew. She knew that by letting go, she has a shot in life to live, love, and be happy which was what she always wanted. She decided to meet Mark. There was no point in avoiding him anyways. She had nothing to lose but the skeleton in her closet.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
allegra and mark, the neverending saga
Allegra saw Mark again. Just a glimpse of him, that all-too familiar blue shirt, sort of like the ones he always wore... Come to think of it, she never saw him wearing anything else other than polo tees and short sleeved shirts with buttons. She averted her gaze and did not even glance at him, wishing fervently that he had not seen her, did not want to talk to her again, or catch up with her. She had been in a moody sort of way recently. No, not like the other girls, always wanting to talk about their love lives, their romances, flings and likings. Allegra did not want to talk about it.
Why did something that could have brought so much joy also bring so much pain? Yet how come some people seem so happy in love, and when they fall out of if, easily find another paramour of their desires?
No one really understood what went on between Allegra and Mark. Not even Grant, blessed with high emotional intelligence and the innate ability to perceive people's complexes and issues at first meeting. Perhaps, not even Allegra herself understood. Because she had thought that she would have never liked Mark. Not even have the slightest inclination to talk to him at a social event. Mark looked bored, uninspiring, sure; he had a promising future and was rich to boot. But unfortunately he looked staid and unimpressive, with languid bearish eyes that seemed sad at the sides. But it was also those sad eyes and staid looks that drew her to Mark. At a time in her life when it seemed that all she had worked for was not really what she had wanted, and her life was in chaos, he seemed to be the only semblance of normalcy in her whirlwind. There he was, offering to just spend time with her, following her around happily, as if it was his delight to do so. She didn't realise that by allowing him to do so, she had unwittingly allowed him into her life.
And seeing Mark reminded her of the missed shot at love that they had both not allowed each other to have. Now, facing the same situation, would she have the guts to tell the guy she really wanted him...would she dare to say that she was sure about this one?
Why did something that could have brought so much joy also bring so much pain? Yet how come some people seem so happy in love, and when they fall out of if, easily find another paramour of their desires?
No one really understood what went on between Allegra and Mark. Not even Grant, blessed with high emotional intelligence and the innate ability to perceive people's complexes and issues at first meeting. Perhaps, not even Allegra herself understood. Because she had thought that she would have never liked Mark. Not even have the slightest inclination to talk to him at a social event. Mark looked bored, uninspiring, sure; he had a promising future and was rich to boot. But unfortunately he looked staid and unimpressive, with languid bearish eyes that seemed sad at the sides. But it was also those sad eyes and staid looks that drew her to Mark. At a time in her life when it seemed that all she had worked for was not really what she had wanted, and her life was in chaos, he seemed to be the only semblance of normalcy in her whirlwind. There he was, offering to just spend time with her, following her around happily, as if it was his delight to do so. She didn't realise that by allowing him to do so, she had unwittingly allowed him into her life.
And seeing Mark reminded her of the missed shot at love that they had both not allowed each other to have. Now, facing the same situation, would she have the guts to tell the guy she really wanted him...would she dare to say that she was sure about this one?
Monday, July 23, 2007
Allegra: Mark's return
Thanks Jelly for the advice today. And the beautiful night out. Same situation, different plans. All I can say is that I'm glad you're strong enough to make it happen.
Thanks Grant for the listening ear. One day I want to be like you.
And C.Puff, we are so alike in thinking that it amazes me. I love the way we laugh. Let's not let our past bad experiences dampen our innocence and joy in finding new experiences to share. I'm glad I met you.
==
'You've lost some weight', was all Allegra could say when she looked at him. He was with her. Chatting over tea till she innocently walked past their table, not realizing Mark was there. Allegra was the other woman, someone his parents liked very much when they had not - did not - realise the subtle nuances that was between - had been - their friendship, of sorts.
It seemed like she had been here for too long. She barely thought of him now, not ever, even, at times. So it was strange when about a week ago, she had a sudden thought of him. "I came back last week." Mark was talking to her, her mind was in a whirl. What could she say? 'Yeah, I somehow sensed you were back.' And with a sudden realisation that she could not say anything to him - choked up, suddenly mindful of the deep memories they shared - she just looked into his eyes and saw the same expression that was there all the while, those same eyes that she had looked into for three whole months when they saw each other everyday. And could not get enough of talking to each other, spending time with each other, just being in each other's presence. Allegra saw Mark as a tree, always constant. Not boring, but stable. Just there for support. She needed support. She really needed support.
Before he left, he bought her a lime green icecream scooper. She just mentioned that her house was lacking in one. And he got her one the next day, as a little reminder he heard, and he knew. Allegra couldn't bear to use that lime green icecream scooper. It was just a sweet reminder of his presence in her life.
And when he left, when he was in that country, the country which could accept her post-college application, because her degree was from that country too, and she had graduated with top honours from that programme, just that she felt that studying the Masters' was too expensive... When he was in that country, he had to walk past 'her school'. The school of her dreams. Where studying there had been a dream for years, a distant distant dream, and now, with her grades, she was able to make it there, just that she did not want to pursue this path now, that she had 'given up' on this dream, just for this moment.
Allegra told herself that one day, she would build a city, with her husband, building another one. She would buy a car for her husband. And she would set up a global retail chain. And buy a carpark. It was her lifetime goals. And she felt, with a tinge of pain in her heart, that it would also be one of her lifetime regrets that she never studied in the school of her dreams - Central St Martins. And Mark, privileged Mark, whose Mom was heading an insurance company; had it set. He was there to study law. While Allegra was here to eke out a living.
These years passed by, just too fast.
Allegra never forgot that Mark told her he prayed for her every single day he walked past St Martins.
Every single day.
And she still kept that lime green icecream scooper like a silly little girl hoping for a childhood fantasy to come true, just holding on to that icecream scooper as though it held more significance that what it was meant to be.
She thought that she had forgotten about him. His notes to her tucked away in a metal cupboard with her God journals. So was the icecream scooper. No photos, she hated the way she looked like during that time. That awkward phase of a girl turning into a woman. Sometimes she wore her arty farty clothes. And her hair was always in a mess. It's neater now. Much neater. She knew against her better judgement to keep in contact with him. So after a few lengthy emails, she asked him to stop. Just stop. Don't ask me why. I would like it this way. Like a sturdy tree, Mark never sensed the turmoil in her heart. Or at least, if he did, he showed no indication. He was able to withstand the storm. But not her. She wished intensely that it had been different, that they had met each other earlier. Allegra knew he had no love for her. He never mentioned her until later, later, after Allegra had inexplicably fallen for him. It was said that the notion of 'marrying for love' only came about in this century or so. But it seemed horrid to Allegra that today, people marry out of loyalty to their families, already inextricably entwined by their union and their wealth.
And it seemed to Allegra that life wasn't meant to be that way.
After those years, she realised many things.
And she thought that she had forgotten about his existence, too.
It rained later that night. It hadn't rained for days. But that night, there was a violent squall. The wind was piercing cold and the raindrops felt like ice on her cold hands. Allegra knew it would rain. Because God always sent rain when she was sad.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Put down your stones (continued)
Put down your stones, continued. Please read previous post.
She made a thousand choices that led, inevitably, inexorably to a moment like this.
Let's pause for a moment.
The point that the author(John)of the biblical text where this story was written is actually not about the adulterous woman, but more about the 'righteous men' trying to ensnare Jesus in a sort of inescapable situation. Frankly, they were looking for something to accuse him of.
The Law says she should be stoned. The Roman authorities had forbidden the Jewish authorities from executing anyone. It's a Catch-22 situation. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.
So the Jewish leaders, much like the church leaders of today, just stand there, all looking smartly dressed in their black suits and expensive ties and shoes, just formal enough to be recognized as 'leaders'. They don't make a decision. They just stand there, with the awful words they have just spoken, ringing in the woman's head. "This woman... was caught in the act..."
Let's pause for a moment before you judge them too quickly. Are you holding a stone in your hand right now? We are most 'scandalized' by sins of the flesh. Jesus was most scandalized by sins of the spirit. It's not possible to love God and to despise people. A heart enslaved by coldness does not even notice how insidious the sins of the spirit can be. You just walk through life with a stone in your hand. Judgemental thoughts. A superior attitude. Impatient words. Bitter resentments. One thing the community of stone-throwers enjoyed: passing judgement on the spiritual inferiority of others. They looked forward to it. A woman is caught in adultery. Other people/leaders in the church talk about it. "Did you hear? What a shame. The poor children. How could she?" They shake their heads, disapprovingly. The stones will kill. What might our community look like if nobody in it were to pick up a stone?
So there they stand. Imagine with me. A woman, shivering, waiting to die. Her judges, with stones in their hands; and Jesus. The stone throwers ask him: "What do you say?"
Jesus does a curious thing. He bends down and starts writing on the sand. It bothers them, this act. He doesn't seem to be paying any attention to them. He writes, on and on. The Bible doesn't say what he was writing, so we have to guess. Maybe Jesus was a 'doodler', scribbling on the sand. Maybe he was writing the Ten Commandments.
Jesus stands up and speaks:"Go ahead and stone her. That's what the Law says. Just one rule: Let the man without sin go first."
One intruguing idea (dating back to the fifth century) was that Jesus was writing down the names of the sins of the leaders in the group. For instance: "Standing at the window watching adultery take place a lot longer than was necessary to gather evidence..." Whatever he is writing, he confronts these men with a decision. Throw stones if you want. It's your call. Condemn her. Pass judgement. But make sure you are sinless yourself. Just remember that sinful people are in no position to throw stones.
Then an amazing thing happens. Somebody lets go of his stone. Then another. And yet another. Maybe their hearts melt a little and they become more human. Maybe they remember when they first started out as leaders, young, and passionate, and in the life-saving business. Maybe they remember how it is like to stand in the need for forgiveness. None of the stones get thrown in anger. There is no room in Jesus' community for throwing stones. All of us are too broken.
You know the end of the story. No stones get thrown. It's a happy ending for the woman, whose sins lead to other inevitable sins. Deceit. Betrayal. Finally, despair.
Go and sin no more. Said Jesus. He was the only one who had the right to throw a stone. But he did not. Instead, he accepted her. Acceptance is not the same as tolerance. He did not fail to confront and to speak the truth in love. He helped her, by showing her how to heal. For the woman to fully examine her acceptance will require entering into a new way of life. The same grace that liberates her from past sin calls her to walk FREE of them in the future.
Radical acceptance.
Imagine being known as one who will never pick up a stone.
==
For me, it was a happy ending too. I learnt that there was truly no condemnation in The Church. After a six month period of healing, I still became a leader. Just that I was a very different one. Sometimes I wonder why do I have to go through these experiences. I guess it makes me a better leader. More importantly, I won't pick up any stones to throw at anyone.
Though my story is different, in essence it is the same.
Will my future husband throw a stone at me? I learnt how to be faithful to my husband, before even meeting him, in anticipation of the 'forever' we must learn to cherish.
No matter what.
Gratefully taken from the chapter "Put down your stones: Acceptance" from John Ortberg's "Everybody's normal until you get to know them." I've used lots of liberties and added my own personal touch so it's not my thoughts, but I'm just deeply inspired to share these chapters in my life right now. There is no better time, anyway.
She made a thousand choices that led, inevitably, inexorably to a moment like this.
Let's pause for a moment.
The point that the author(John)of the biblical text where this story was written is actually not about the adulterous woman, but more about the 'righteous men' trying to ensnare Jesus in a sort of inescapable situation. Frankly, they were looking for something to accuse him of.
The Law says she should be stoned. The Roman authorities had forbidden the Jewish authorities from executing anyone. It's a Catch-22 situation. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.
So the Jewish leaders, much like the church leaders of today, just stand there, all looking smartly dressed in their black suits and expensive ties and shoes, just formal enough to be recognized as 'leaders'. They don't make a decision. They just stand there, with the awful words they have just spoken, ringing in the woman's head. "This woman... was caught in the act..."
Let's pause for a moment before you judge them too quickly. Are you holding a stone in your hand right now? We are most 'scandalized' by sins of the flesh. Jesus was most scandalized by sins of the spirit. It's not possible to love God and to despise people. A heart enslaved by coldness does not even notice how insidious the sins of the spirit can be. You just walk through life with a stone in your hand. Judgemental thoughts. A superior attitude. Impatient words. Bitter resentments. One thing the community of stone-throwers enjoyed: passing judgement on the spiritual inferiority of others. They looked forward to it. A woman is caught in adultery. Other people/leaders in the church talk about it. "Did you hear? What a shame. The poor children. How could she?" They shake their heads, disapprovingly. The stones will kill. What might our community look like if nobody in it were to pick up a stone?
So there they stand. Imagine with me. A woman, shivering, waiting to die. Her judges, with stones in their hands; and Jesus. The stone throwers ask him: "What do you say?"
Jesus does a curious thing. He bends down and starts writing on the sand. It bothers them, this act. He doesn't seem to be paying any attention to them. He writes, on and on. The Bible doesn't say what he was writing, so we have to guess. Maybe Jesus was a 'doodler', scribbling on the sand. Maybe he was writing the Ten Commandments.
Jesus stands up and speaks:"Go ahead and stone her. That's what the Law says. Just one rule: Let the man without sin go first."
One intruguing idea (dating back to the fifth century) was that Jesus was writing down the names of the sins of the leaders in the group. For instance: "Standing at the window watching adultery take place a lot longer than was necessary to gather evidence..." Whatever he is writing, he confronts these men with a decision. Throw stones if you want. It's your call. Condemn her. Pass judgement. But make sure you are sinless yourself. Just remember that sinful people are in no position to throw stones.
Then an amazing thing happens. Somebody lets go of his stone. Then another. And yet another. Maybe their hearts melt a little and they become more human. Maybe they remember when they first started out as leaders, young, and passionate, and in the life-saving business. Maybe they remember how it is like to stand in the need for forgiveness. None of the stones get thrown in anger. There is no room in Jesus' community for throwing stones. All of us are too broken.
You know the end of the story. No stones get thrown. It's a happy ending for the woman, whose sins lead to other inevitable sins. Deceit. Betrayal. Finally, despair.
Go and sin no more. Said Jesus. He was the only one who had the right to throw a stone. But he did not. Instead, he accepted her. Acceptance is not the same as tolerance. He did not fail to confront and to speak the truth in love. He helped her, by showing her how to heal. For the woman to fully examine her acceptance will require entering into a new way of life. The same grace that liberates her from past sin calls her to walk FREE of them in the future.
Radical acceptance.
Imagine being known as one who will never pick up a stone.
==
For me, it was a happy ending too. I learnt that there was truly no condemnation in The Church. After a six month period of healing, I still became a leader. Just that I was a very different one. Sometimes I wonder why do I have to go through these experiences. I guess it makes me a better leader. More importantly, I won't pick up any stones to throw at anyone.
Though my story is different, in essence it is the same.
Will my future husband throw a stone at me? I learnt how to be faithful to my husband, before even meeting him, in anticipation of the 'forever' we must learn to cherish.
No matter what.
Gratefully taken from the chapter "Put down your stones: Acceptance" from John Ortberg's "Everybody's normal until you get to know them." I've used lots of liberties and added my own personal touch so it's not my thoughts, but I'm just deeply inspired to share these chapters in my life right now. There is no better time, anyway.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
short story copyright mine...
Dear Christian Mittelberg,
There seems to be little the world can offer when day to day, time passes. Are we all resolved to be trapped in the cycle of growing up, getting married, and then...?
If my life could be made miserable, I would not think that it could be; not least of all, by her.
She had a strange name. Arielle. In your time, perhaps strange names like hers would be all the rage. But in mine, people had proper names like Jane, or Susan, Christian names like James or Charles. Arielle sounded like it was out of a book, like she was a faerie sprung out of Neverland into real life; bewitching, captivating, me.
At forty, I never thought that I would fall in love, again.
The first time I fell in love was when I was seventeen. A girl, older than me by a few months. She lived across the road from my family, and we would often meet by chance, at the town's only bookstore sometimes, at others near the playing field where I would sit on the swings, despite being slightly overgrown for them. When I swing, I feel as though time stood still, that by closing my eyes and imagine, I am flying, I can conquer the world. I believe that one day, they would take down the swings, take down the slides, and replace them with boring, safe toys. Maybe not for a decade more. But things are changing rapidly, and I hope that you will always remember that feeling when you are in the air, legs dangling and all.
When we moved, I missed the swings. And I also missed the feeling of being in love, of having someone to miss you, to support you and to just have someone close by, smelling her hair, loving her outline, her voice, her everything. Strangely I never had that desire again, not for any other woman. Women found me, I dated them. But I felt that deep inside, no one truly could see me or know me for the person I was deep inside. I was devastated by thinking that maybe life is meant to be that way, perhaps you never find the perfect one for you, someone who could love you for the way you are inside. Someone who bothers enough to look out for you, in such a tender way that moves you deeply. Maybe I was too perfectionistic in that sense. But Christian, I could never stomach the fact that there would be a woman living in my house, with me, someone I did not love and could not love for the rest of my life.
And so the years passed till I met Arielle. She was just a wee wisp of a girl, fragile looking, almost like the wind could blow her down. But beneath that exterior was a woman made of steel. She exasperated me like no one else can. Most of all, her dancing eyes made me feel alive again, as though I could live a thousand lives with her. I think I never realised how happy I was then. It's only when you have time off from your daily schedule then you can be alone and think of how good God is, how much people mean to you in your life. And loving Arielle is like loving life itself. I could not imagine how life was, without her before.
I know I will never get to see you. In fact, I don't know how much longer I have, to live. But Christian, don't think of me as someone you never knew. Time stole away my health and youth, and now it is impossible to provide for you and Arielle the life that I have always longed for. Why do people die? Why do you have to be born, without a happy family? Arielle is strong, she can look after you, and when you are old enough to understand, don't blame your mother for running into the arms of another man. She needed what I was unable to provide for. When we were together, each day seemed like a blessing, a miracle for my life. I never asked how long she would stay, and her parents could never accept us being together. Me, her professor, and she, just a wisp of a girl that enchanted my heart. I was just grateful for the time she chose to be with me. Secretly, I was hoping that there would be a place in her heart for me, as well. I never knew what I meant to her, for she never told me. I guess her life had troubles of her own, something she never could tell me. Myself, I told her everything about my life. My passions, my life story. She would never write to me, not even when things happened. She could not write well, she laughed. Sometimes she sent telegrams. I've always longed for more than this with your mother, but perhaps that would be my lifelong sorrow. After all, if she had been around always, I might have had lost the feelings for her long ago, and treated her almost as an objet d art in the house.
Some chapters in life write themselves our in a most unexpected way. I never expected Arielle to stay, nor did I expect her to leave, so soon. I do hope that she is at peace. Christian, all these while, I never really believed in it. In our love. It was as though everyday, I was holding my breath, waiting for the magical spell to break.
Those were the best years of my life.
Always be true to yourself, although circumstances dictate that I cannot be around for you, I want you to know that I care about you deeply. I am dying, Christian, but I am at peace. Knowing you are safe, and knowing Arielle has been a joy that I will always cherish in my heart.
Yours truthfully
Your father
Prof. Johannes Otto Christian Mittelberg,
University of Malmo, Fall of 1923.
Dear Christian Mittelberg,
There seems to be little the world can offer when day to day, time passes. Are we all resolved to be trapped in the cycle of growing up, getting married, and then...?
If my life could be made miserable, I would not think that it could be; not least of all, by her.
She had a strange name. Arielle. In your time, perhaps strange names like hers would be all the rage. But in mine, people had proper names like Jane, or Susan, Christian names like James or Charles. Arielle sounded like it was out of a book, like she was a faerie sprung out of Neverland into real life; bewitching, captivating, me.
At forty, I never thought that I would fall in love, again.
The first time I fell in love was when I was seventeen. A girl, older than me by a few months. She lived across the road from my family, and we would often meet by chance, at the town's only bookstore sometimes, at others near the playing field where I would sit on the swings, despite being slightly overgrown for them. When I swing, I feel as though time stood still, that by closing my eyes and imagine, I am flying, I can conquer the world. I believe that one day, they would take down the swings, take down the slides, and replace them with boring, safe toys. Maybe not for a decade more. But things are changing rapidly, and I hope that you will always remember that feeling when you are in the air, legs dangling and all.
When we moved, I missed the swings. And I also missed the feeling of being in love, of having someone to miss you, to support you and to just have someone close by, smelling her hair, loving her outline, her voice, her everything. Strangely I never had that desire again, not for any other woman. Women found me, I dated them. But I felt that deep inside, no one truly could see me or know me for the person I was deep inside. I was devastated by thinking that maybe life is meant to be that way, perhaps you never find the perfect one for you, someone who could love you for the way you are inside. Someone who bothers enough to look out for you, in such a tender way that moves you deeply. Maybe I was too perfectionistic in that sense. But Christian, I could never stomach the fact that there would be a woman living in my house, with me, someone I did not love and could not love for the rest of my life.
And so the years passed till I met Arielle. She was just a wee wisp of a girl, fragile looking, almost like the wind could blow her down. But beneath that exterior was a woman made of steel. She exasperated me like no one else can. Most of all, her dancing eyes made me feel alive again, as though I could live a thousand lives with her. I think I never realised how happy I was then. It's only when you have time off from your daily schedule then you can be alone and think of how good God is, how much people mean to you in your life. And loving Arielle is like loving life itself. I could not imagine how life was, without her before.
I know I will never get to see you. In fact, I don't know how much longer I have, to live. But Christian, don't think of me as someone you never knew. Time stole away my health and youth, and now it is impossible to provide for you and Arielle the life that I have always longed for. Why do people die? Why do you have to be born, without a happy family? Arielle is strong, she can look after you, and when you are old enough to understand, don't blame your mother for running into the arms of another man. She needed what I was unable to provide for. When we were together, each day seemed like a blessing, a miracle for my life. I never asked how long she would stay, and her parents could never accept us being together. Me, her professor, and she, just a wisp of a girl that enchanted my heart. I was just grateful for the time she chose to be with me. Secretly, I was hoping that there would be a place in her heart for me, as well. I never knew what I meant to her, for she never told me. I guess her life had troubles of her own, something she never could tell me. Myself, I told her everything about my life. My passions, my life story. She would never write to me, not even when things happened. She could not write well, she laughed. Sometimes she sent telegrams. I've always longed for more than this with your mother, but perhaps that would be my lifelong sorrow. After all, if she had been around always, I might have had lost the feelings for her long ago, and treated her almost as an objet d art in the house.
Some chapters in life write themselves our in a most unexpected way. I never expected Arielle to stay, nor did I expect her to leave, so soon. I do hope that she is at peace. Christian, all these while, I never really believed in it. In our love. It was as though everyday, I was holding my breath, waiting for the magical spell to break.
Those were the best years of my life.
Always be true to yourself, although circumstances dictate that I cannot be around for you, I want you to know that I care about you deeply. I am dying, Christian, but I am at peace. Knowing you are safe, and knowing Arielle has been a joy that I will always cherish in my heart.
Yours truthfully
Your father
Prof. Johannes Otto Christian Mittelberg,
University of Malmo, Fall of 1923.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
The Dog and The Angry Man
Sometimes, you never know what you say to someone can change the person's life. For the better, in a way you never knew possible. Lately, been having nice friendships and they tell me things about myself and about themselves; that changes our lives, forever. You know why I dare to open my heart and share? Because you did, first. And that gave me the courage to. =)
Here's a story I received via mail today from a local writer.
==
THE DOG & THE ANGRY MAN
"Watch out! You nearly broad-sided that car!" My father yelled at me.
"Can't you do anything right?" Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn't prepared for another battle.
"I saw the car, Dad. Please don't yell at me when I'm driving." My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt. Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back.
At home I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my thoughts. Dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil. What could I do about him?
Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions, and had placed often. The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested to his prowess.
The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone teased him about his advancing age, or when he couldn't do something he had done as a younger man.
Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. An ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing.
At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating room. He was lucky; he survived.
But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctors’ orders. Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned, then finally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone.
My husband, Rick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him adjust.
Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out on Rick. We began to bicker and argue.
Alarmed, Rick sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close of each session he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad's troubled mind. But the months wore on and God was silent.
A raindrop struck my cheek. I looked up into the gray sky. Somewhere up there was "God." Although I believe a Supreme Being had created the universe, I had difficulty believing that God cared about the tiny human beings on this earth.
I was tired of waiting for a God who did not answer.
Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it. The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically called each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problem in vain to each of the sympathetic voices that answered.
Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, "I just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article."
I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study done at a nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a dog.
I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs - all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied each one but rejected one after the other for various reasons, too big, too small, too much hair.
As I neared the last pen a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to the front of the run and sat down.
It was a pointer, one of the dog world's aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the breed. Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hipbones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly.
I pointed to the dog. "Can you tell me about him?" The officer looked, and then shook his head in puzzlement.
"He's a funny one ~ Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him. That was two weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow." He gestured helplessly.
As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. "You mean you're going to kill him?"
"Ma'am," he said gently, "that's our policy. We don't have room for every unclaimed dog."
I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision. "I'll take him," I said.
I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached the house I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch.
"Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!" I said excitedly.
Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. "If I had wanted a dog I would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don't want it." Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back toward the house.
Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded into my temples. "You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's staying!" Dad ignored me.
"Did you hear me, Dad?" I screamed.
At those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate. We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when suddenly the pointer pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his paw. Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently.
Then Dad was on his knees hugging the animal.
It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship.
Dad named the pointer Cheyenne. Together he and Cheyenne explored the community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet.
Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad's bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many friends.
Then late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne's cold nose burrowing through our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at night.
I woke Rick, put on my robe and ran into my father's room. Dad lay in his bed, his face serene; but his spirit had left quietly sometime during the night.
Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad's bed. I wrapped his still form in the rag rug he had slept on. As Rick and I buried him near a favorite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad's peace of mind.
The morning of Dad's funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church.
The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog that had changed his life. And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. "Be not forgetful to entertain strangers..."
"I've often thanked God for sending that angel," he said.
For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right article ~ Cheyenne's unexpected appearance at the animal shelter ~ His calm acceptance and complete devotion to my father ~ and the proximity of their deaths. And suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all.
Written by Catherine Moore
Here's a story I received via mail today from a local writer.
==
THE DOG & THE ANGRY MAN
"Watch out! You nearly broad-sided that car!" My father yelled at me.
"Can't you do anything right?" Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn't prepared for another battle.
"I saw the car, Dad. Please don't yell at me when I'm driving." My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt. Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back.
At home I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my thoughts. Dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil. What could I do about him?
Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions, and had placed often. The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested to his prowess.
The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone teased him about his advancing age, or when he couldn't do something he had done as a younger man.
Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. An ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing.
At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating room. He was lucky; he survived.
But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctors’ orders. Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned, then finally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone.
My husband, Rick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him adjust.
Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out on Rick. We began to bicker and argue.
Alarmed, Rick sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close of each session he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad's troubled mind. But the months wore on and God was silent.
A raindrop struck my cheek. I looked up into the gray sky. Somewhere up there was "God." Although I believe a Supreme Being had created the universe, I had difficulty believing that God cared about the tiny human beings on this earth.
I was tired of waiting for a God who did not answer.
Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it. The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically called each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problem in vain to each of the sympathetic voices that answered.
Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, "I just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article."
I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study done at a nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a dog.
I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs - all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied each one but rejected one after the other for various reasons, too big, too small, too much hair.
As I neared the last pen a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to the front of the run and sat down.
It was a pointer, one of the dog world's aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the breed. Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hipbones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly.
I pointed to the dog. "Can you tell me about him?" The officer looked, and then shook his head in puzzlement.
"He's a funny one ~ Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him. That was two weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow." He gestured helplessly.
As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. "You mean you're going to kill him?"
"Ma'am," he said gently, "that's our policy. We don't have room for every unclaimed dog."
I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision. "I'll take him," I said.
I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached the house I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch.
"Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!" I said excitedly.
Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. "If I had wanted a dog I would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don't want it." Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back toward the house.
Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded into my temples. "You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's staying!" Dad ignored me.
"Did you hear me, Dad?" I screamed.
At those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate. We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when suddenly the pointer pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his paw. Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently.
Then Dad was on his knees hugging the animal.
It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship.
Dad named the pointer Cheyenne. Together he and Cheyenne explored the community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet.
Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad's bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many friends.
Then late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne's cold nose burrowing through our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at night.
I woke Rick, put on my robe and ran into my father's room. Dad lay in his bed, his face serene; but his spirit had left quietly sometime during the night.
Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad's bed. I wrapped his still form in the rag rug he had slept on. As Rick and I buried him near a favorite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad's peace of mind.
The morning of Dad's funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church.
The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog that had changed his life. And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. "Be not forgetful to entertain strangers..."
"I've often thanked God for sending that angel," he said.
For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right article ~ Cheyenne's unexpected appearance at the animal shelter ~ His calm acceptance and complete devotion to my father ~ and the proximity of their deaths. And suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all.
Written by Catherine Moore
Monday, March 19, 2007
The story of my life?
My life is NOT turning out like my story... Nooooo.
It's scary when reel life mirrors reality.
It's even more freakish when you write, and then it turns into real life. Man! Maybe this will make a formulaic win for a blockbuster hit.
Anyways I'm at the end of my short story. In my mind, at least. On the MS Word 2007 it's just about 37 pages of font size 24 calbri handwriting, scrambled up paragaphs and sentences. I can imagine the length of time it takes to write a full-length novel. Most people take about a year. I can't imagine spending a year on a story, just writing...
I didn't plan to write that much, seriously. I did attempt to start a novel (twice) once when I was 14. I sent that manuscript to Times, and some local publishers. It was sadly, rejected - which I expected anyways. The next one was some years back. It was titled "Catch a star for me when you sail away", some sappy love story which didn't seem to have enough grit to work out. I did publish a few chapters online which had nice comments from the few people who bothered to email me. One asked what the ending was like. I think the most exasperating part is that, perhaps I don't know the ending myself. But for "Sometimes we think too much", the ending came naturally for me. It's almost as if it took on a life on its own and it wrote itself. And no matter how busy I am, I want to finish writing it. Although the story might seem at times jerky, like a first time novelist who doesn't know how to blend the lines together, I hope at least people can relate to it the way I do.
It's scary when reel life mirrors reality.
It's even more freakish when you write, and then it turns into real life. Man! Maybe this will make a formulaic win for a blockbuster hit.
Anyways I'm at the end of my short story. In my mind, at least. On the MS Word 2007 it's just about 37 pages of font size 24 calbri handwriting, scrambled up paragaphs and sentences. I can imagine the length of time it takes to write a full-length novel. Most people take about a year. I can't imagine spending a year on a story, just writing...
I didn't plan to write that much, seriously. I did attempt to start a novel (twice) once when I was 14. I sent that manuscript to Times, and some local publishers. It was sadly, rejected - which I expected anyways. The next one was some years back. It was titled "Catch a star for me when you sail away", some sappy love story which didn't seem to have enough grit to work out. I did publish a few chapters online which had nice comments from the few people who bothered to email me. One asked what the ending was like. I think the most exasperating part is that, perhaps I don't know the ending myself. But for "Sometimes we think too much", the ending came naturally for me. It's almost as if it took on a life on its own and it wrote itself. And no matter how busy I am, I want to finish writing it. Although the story might seem at times jerky, like a first time novelist who doesn't know how to blend the lines together, I hope at least people can relate to it the way I do.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Sometimes we think too much #4
(kai)
Allegra, can you hear me?
Allegra, sometimes I look at the stars in the sky -now showing up so brightly, too brightly where I am; and I wish that you can be here. It's the simple things like this that really captivates you, isn't it? Those little moments of bliss where you can sit, and stare - entralled in nature's beauty.
Where I am now is near the coast, near the frightening sea you have always disliked. But in the same way that I could never share in your sorrow, I never shared your aversion for the sea. Even at night, in the dark, the big, splashing sounds the dark waves make seem more like a lullaby to me. I wished I could help you, Allegra. I am not the kind of person you make me out to be.
Through the years, I sort of realised all of us have changed, somehow. We were no longer the carefree type of college students we used to be -without a care in the world. Somehow along the way we grew up, and then we realised that we had a choice in determining our future for ourselves. Yours was nicely mapped out, too nicely, perhaps, that you chose to do something else, something many people might have condemned you for. But not me, I wanted to see you happy above all else, to see your curved eyes light up again, like they did so often when you were with him. When time steals the precious things we love, all of a sudden it seems like nothing matters anymore. How could we, both young as we were, face this world and think of it as nothing but a means of survival?
But when all else fails, love conquers all. I think I read that from a book somewhere. I never liked reading, you know. It was Allegra who taught me to love books. She was happy in them, almost in a sexualised way. She took to completely absorbing herself in them, and then when it was finished, look up, stretch and her face showed complete contentment and bliss. It was the simple things in life that pleased her the most. I believe no one wanted to make things this complicated. I hoped to make it better, for her, for all of us. Yet perhaps my part to play in this story of life is just a bystander, watching, evaluating, seeing things happening yet not knowing when it is going to end or how.
Someday perhaps I will have my own life story, where I play a central role, where I am the author of my life. Sweet. For now, I must help them, change their minds, let them know how important it is not to hurt anyone, least of all themselves.
Allegra, can you hear me?
Allegra, sometimes I look at the stars in the sky -now showing up so brightly, too brightly where I am; and I wish that you can be here. It's the simple things like this that really captivates you, isn't it? Those little moments of bliss where you can sit, and stare - entralled in nature's beauty.
Where I am now is near the coast, near the frightening sea you have always disliked. But in the same way that I could never share in your sorrow, I never shared your aversion for the sea. Even at night, in the dark, the big, splashing sounds the dark waves make seem more like a lullaby to me. I wished I could help you, Allegra. I am not the kind of person you make me out to be.
Through the years, I sort of realised all of us have changed, somehow. We were no longer the carefree type of college students we used to be -without a care in the world. Somehow along the way we grew up, and then we realised that we had a choice in determining our future for ourselves. Yours was nicely mapped out, too nicely, perhaps, that you chose to do something else, something many people might have condemned you for. But not me, I wanted to see you happy above all else, to see your curved eyes light up again, like they did so often when you were with him. When time steals the precious things we love, all of a sudden it seems like nothing matters anymore. How could we, both young as we were, face this world and think of it as nothing but a means of survival?
But when all else fails, love conquers all. I think I read that from a book somewhere. I never liked reading, you know. It was Allegra who taught me to love books. She was happy in them, almost in a sexualised way. She took to completely absorbing herself in them, and then when it was finished, look up, stretch and her face showed complete contentment and bliss. It was the simple things in life that pleased her the most. I believe no one wanted to make things this complicated. I hoped to make it better, for her, for all of us. Yet perhaps my part to play in this story of life is just a bystander, watching, evaluating, seeing things happening yet not knowing when it is going to end or how.
Someday perhaps I will have my own life story, where I play a central role, where I am the author of my life. Sweet. For now, I must help them, change their minds, let them know how important it is not to hurt anyone, least of all themselves.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Sometimes we think too much #3
(allegra)
Life is fair – I’ve always believed in that. Some things just come easier to you, some, not. Like how ugly people get really sincere, nice friends.
I guess I’ve always had an easy life. Born in a well-bred family, though only Dad was there for me, I had no lack of anything at all. Blame it on my grandfather, he opened a bank and then died of a heart attack. Guess banking is quite stressful especially when you are a womanizer like Grandpa. So I never really got to know him, mostly only through articles about how visionary a person he was. The Royal Port Bank in New Melalunia is still one of the top banks in mutual funds so, I get a decent monthly income from the estate, though I seldom touch it.
Being born rich doesn’t mean things come easy for me. I still had to study hard like everyone else. After we graduated, a few friends and I pooled together what resources we had to start a small café on the East Side of Harly.
The concept was good, we met and discussed about it for ages. There were six of us. And that was how it all started.
Mark was one of the guys who started the café with me. At first, I hardly noticed him. I never even had an impression of him. To me, he was there, just there. No one talked about him much, as he was actually a friend of Jeff, so we just left it as that. It was only much later, after the café had disbanded, that we got a little closer, then a little more.
So that was how it started. When a chapter closes, another one begins. And although life was good to me, relationships were never easy. I was happy enough to play a supporting role in any man’s life, to be a nice wife with beautiful kids. That was every girl’s dream: of a white garden wedding, and a happy family. Coming from an unusual family background however, did not bode well for me. At the very least, it made things difficult for all my previous lovers. Coming from a close knit community, I had no chance to fit into their average, white suburban middle class circle. For one, I was not purely white nor was I middle class. Thought I could pass for one on first sight. Unfortunately I used to fancy nice collegiate boys with a penchant for running under the sun playing hockey. So there goes. It’s nice to believe in love. Love is supposed to be unrealistic, where two people meet and realize that their lives are not complete without the other. But Life is not like that. In this essence Life has been unfair to me. For my privilege has brought me down in this area. Where money is concerned, most men would not choose someone from the upper class. I know things are changing now, and probably in a few years no one would care. But in my early dating days, everyone did.
The café had problems from the start. It was a great, simple concept, nice hot soups, and the usual scones, donuts, cakes and pies. With fantastic premium blends of coffee and tea. However, we had many issues with the staff and the location was simply too quiet. Well, all of us still made a bit of profit in the end.
Mark helped out the most, at the end. It turned out that he was fresh out from selling off his computer parts biz, and we were the ones left to close the café down. At that point in time, Emily was getting married, Jeff was buried in his banking job, and the rest just drifted away. I don’t even keep in touch with the rest now, only Kai. Kai was always there to help me. After all, we’ve been bosom buddies for years now. I remember that I’ve always cried on his shoulder for some tea and sympathy which he always gave freely, after my horrid turbulent relationships. After each one I vowed to stay away from guys, and I was doing quite a good job of it, till Mark came. And I was not looking for him, either. He was unconventionally nice looking, with a pouty mouth, almost too big but just alright for his slightly above average frame. His hair jutted out in strange angles, and he always had to put tons of hair products to keep it looking sane. I’ve always had thick, flyaway dark hair, thanks to Dad, so I knew what it was like to have hair with a life of its own. Even now I have to put at least three different types of products before setting out.
If I could live life over again, I wouldn’t have chosen this to happen to me. Not like this. Not a love like this. While the love and the emotions were pure, the context in which it was found was not. Call me idealistic, but I had always believed in love. True enough, it was a decision to continue on in the relationship. Was this decision made by me, or him? Sometimes in life when you make decisions, it is not in your control to choose how they turn out to be. Knowing the context, I should have closed the chapter. But knowing me, I just let myself go.
(to be continued)
Life is fair – I’ve always believed in that. Some things just come easier to you, some, not. Like how ugly people get really sincere, nice friends.
I guess I’ve always had an easy life. Born in a well-bred family, though only Dad was there for me, I had no lack of anything at all. Blame it on my grandfather, he opened a bank and then died of a heart attack. Guess banking is quite stressful especially when you are a womanizer like Grandpa. So I never really got to know him, mostly only through articles about how visionary a person he was. The Royal Port Bank in New Melalunia is still one of the top banks in mutual funds so, I get a decent monthly income from the estate, though I seldom touch it.
Being born rich doesn’t mean things come easy for me. I still had to study hard like everyone else. After we graduated, a few friends and I pooled together what resources we had to start a small café on the East Side of Harly.
The concept was good, we met and discussed about it for ages. There were six of us. And that was how it all started.
Mark was one of the guys who started the café with me. At first, I hardly noticed him. I never even had an impression of him. To me, he was there, just there. No one talked about him much, as he was actually a friend of Jeff, so we just left it as that. It was only much later, after the café had disbanded, that we got a little closer, then a little more.
So that was how it started. When a chapter closes, another one begins. And although life was good to me, relationships were never easy. I was happy enough to play a supporting role in any man’s life, to be a nice wife with beautiful kids. That was every girl’s dream: of a white garden wedding, and a happy family. Coming from an unusual family background however, did not bode well for me. At the very least, it made things difficult for all my previous lovers. Coming from a close knit community, I had no chance to fit into their average, white suburban middle class circle. For one, I was not purely white nor was I middle class. Thought I could pass for one on first sight. Unfortunately I used to fancy nice collegiate boys with a penchant for running under the sun playing hockey. So there goes. It’s nice to believe in love. Love is supposed to be unrealistic, where two people meet and realize that their lives are not complete without the other. But Life is not like that. In this essence Life has been unfair to me. For my privilege has brought me down in this area. Where money is concerned, most men would not choose someone from the upper class. I know things are changing now, and probably in a few years no one would care. But in my early dating days, everyone did.
The café had problems from the start. It was a great, simple concept, nice hot soups, and the usual scones, donuts, cakes and pies. With fantastic premium blends of coffee and tea. However, we had many issues with the staff and the location was simply too quiet. Well, all of us still made a bit of profit in the end.
Mark helped out the most, at the end. It turned out that he was fresh out from selling off his computer parts biz, and we were the ones left to close the café down. At that point in time, Emily was getting married, Jeff was buried in his banking job, and the rest just drifted away. I don’t even keep in touch with the rest now, only Kai. Kai was always there to help me. After all, we’ve been bosom buddies for years now. I remember that I’ve always cried on his shoulder for some tea and sympathy which he always gave freely, after my horrid turbulent relationships. After each one I vowed to stay away from guys, and I was doing quite a good job of it, till Mark came. And I was not looking for him, either. He was unconventionally nice looking, with a pouty mouth, almost too big but just alright for his slightly above average frame. His hair jutted out in strange angles, and he always had to put tons of hair products to keep it looking sane. I’ve always had thick, flyaway dark hair, thanks to Dad, so I knew what it was like to have hair with a life of its own. Even now I have to put at least three different types of products before setting out.
If I could live life over again, I wouldn’t have chosen this to happen to me. Not like this. Not a love like this. While the love and the emotions were pure, the context in which it was found was not. Call me idealistic, but I had always believed in love. True enough, it was a decision to continue on in the relationship. Was this decision made by me, or him? Sometimes in life when you make decisions, it is not in your control to choose how they turn out to be. Knowing the context, I should have closed the chapter. But knowing me, I just let myself go.
(to be continued)
Monday, March 05, 2007
Sometimes we think too much #2
(allegra)
I had always believed that Love was a decision, not a feeling. I thought I could control my destiny, choose my fate, believe in my dreams and decide on a blissful future.
Faces. Look all around you. Don’t the faces all seem so nonchalant, so absorbed in their self interests, so bored with life, just walking pass you aimlessly, towards a destination that is not theirs? I used to watch these faces pass me by when I could still afford the luxury of a designer coffee. I need my mocha fix sometimes. It intrigued me how these faces reflect who they really are. If you are scheming, somehow there is that glint of the eye, or a mean streak that can be glimpsed, if you bother to look hard enough. I like people with poise. Not those hurried, scattered personalities who just walk quick paces without noticing their surroundings. Perhaps they hurry through life with eyes opened, yet seeing nothing at all.
I am like that at times.
When I am absorbed in a beautiful song, or when someone has occupied a place in my heart. Love – I had believed in it, yet it had let me down.
And with searching eyes, I was looking through the crowd for someone like me. Who saw things the way I do. A soulmate perhaps? It seems so contrived, but I do believe that one exists –or more than one, though from the way things seem to be, even one would be difficult to find.
It is always a surprise to me to find someone who could listen to my nonsense, or even bother to know me better. Yes, I fit the stereotype of a misfit – albeit with an angelic face. Apart from my long locks of raven hair framing my face, betraying my femininity, the rest of me is rather tomboyish, except for the figure, of course. I mean, if I had bothered to dress up, maybe show more skin, those lounge lizards and paperbag guys – men with the personality of a paperbag would come and offer to buy me more coffee, maybe. But anyways, being thin and almost hairless everywhere else, I am always freaking cold, so I am always decked out in sporty style, leggings paired with a thick blouse and over it, a parka. Comfort style for me. Nice too, most of the times.
So when we fell in love, idealistically, it was meant to last. But it started with an end.
I thought that if you do things knowing what the ending would be like, it would not be so painful. Like you had already anticipated it not to last, so that when it doesn’t, you can be nonchalant about it, and move on in a flash, or at least just savor the happy times and not the ones that tear you apart.
My favorite place to daydream, besides sitting by the creek with that designer coffee, is on the beaten path, along the further way to my house. There I can imagine that there are cute fluffy bunnies greeting me at every wooded shrub corner.
There I can imagine I am walking hand in hand with the man I love.
There I can imagine that Mark is there, listening to me and offering me comfort like no one else could.
Comfort is so hard to find nowadays, isn’t it?
(to be continued...)
I had always believed that Love was a decision, not a feeling. I thought I could control my destiny, choose my fate, believe in my dreams and decide on a blissful future.
Faces. Look all around you. Don’t the faces all seem so nonchalant, so absorbed in their self interests, so bored with life, just walking pass you aimlessly, towards a destination that is not theirs? I used to watch these faces pass me by when I could still afford the luxury of a designer coffee. I need my mocha fix sometimes. It intrigued me how these faces reflect who they really are. If you are scheming, somehow there is that glint of the eye, or a mean streak that can be glimpsed, if you bother to look hard enough. I like people with poise. Not those hurried, scattered personalities who just walk quick paces without noticing their surroundings. Perhaps they hurry through life with eyes opened, yet seeing nothing at all.
I am like that at times.
When I am absorbed in a beautiful song, or when someone has occupied a place in my heart. Love – I had believed in it, yet it had let me down.
And with searching eyes, I was looking through the crowd for someone like me. Who saw things the way I do. A soulmate perhaps? It seems so contrived, but I do believe that one exists –or more than one, though from the way things seem to be, even one would be difficult to find.
It is always a surprise to me to find someone who could listen to my nonsense, or even bother to know me better. Yes, I fit the stereotype of a misfit – albeit with an angelic face. Apart from my long locks of raven hair framing my face, betraying my femininity, the rest of me is rather tomboyish, except for the figure, of course. I mean, if I had bothered to dress up, maybe show more skin, those lounge lizards and paperbag guys – men with the personality of a paperbag would come and offer to buy me more coffee, maybe. But anyways, being thin and almost hairless everywhere else, I am always freaking cold, so I am always decked out in sporty style, leggings paired with a thick blouse and over it, a parka. Comfort style for me. Nice too, most of the times.
So when we fell in love, idealistically, it was meant to last. But it started with an end.
I thought that if you do things knowing what the ending would be like, it would not be so painful. Like you had already anticipated it not to last, so that when it doesn’t, you can be nonchalant about it, and move on in a flash, or at least just savor the happy times and not the ones that tear you apart.
My favorite place to daydream, besides sitting by the creek with that designer coffee, is on the beaten path, along the further way to my house. There I can imagine that there are cute fluffy bunnies greeting me at every wooded shrub corner.
There I can imagine I am walking hand in hand with the man I love.
There I can imagine that Mark is there, listening to me and offering me comfort like no one else could.
Comfort is so hard to find nowadays, isn’t it?
(to be continued...)
Sometimes we think too much #1
In the midst of writing a short story. Writing is therapeutic for me.
Based on own experiences, though some parts exaggerated and fictional ideas thrown in for good measure. For those who are looking for love... find it, and be happy.
#Chapter 1#
(kai)
My friend liked her. And that was how I got to know her. Allegra. Back then, she would look me up, each time her soul needed comforting.
Sure, most girls cry easily. But she wouldn’t cry over spilt milk. Or her own hurt. Most of the times she would cry over others. How she wished she could turn back time and be a little nicer. She was independent enough but I guess in that way she was vulnerable – she could not see it coming. You know, when guys hurt her. Saying insensitive things, or just treating her like dirt.
In some ways I felt that she was not meant to be here. She always felt that way too.
What could I do? She always told me that our friendship would end soon. I never believed her – perhaps inwardly, I did. She had an uncanny knack for predicting stuff that would happen. I was too slow, maybe I did not realize that some months later, we had grown apart so quickly in our different ways that our friendship was no longer what it was used to be.
And how I long for those times, extended times of sitting together on the wooden bench with cast iron curlicue motifs, enjoying just sitting in silence, for she was not those kind who would just blurt out everything she felt. So we would sit there, me just wanting to squeeze her hand or shoulders, looking at her pitiful forlorn face, but never really having the guts to. I thought she would mind, but looking back, I felt that maybe some physical comfort would bring more peace to her stormy feelings within.
Sometimes we still bump into each other now, being neighbors. It was quite a miracle both of us lived in the same district for so long. She is almost too friendly, waving at me furiously and exclaiming that it was so good to see me again after all this time. But we never did initiate another session. Maybe we both knew that then, and now, we were like totally different people.
And what happened to my friend who liked her? I guess they both liked each other at one point in time, just that he never told her about it, and knowing Allegra, she just moved on from guy to guy, trying to escape the pain – although each brought her more hurts and sadness. I think she just lived – simply lived for the happy times, knowing that those times would carry her through the pain.
I used to wonder how anyone could live like this but now I know, that to her, having an interesting life is better than dying from boredom. My wife hates her, I guess most women do, but I think deep down inside they admire her for going against convention, always speaking her mind, and most of all following her heart. I myself would never have the guts to admit liking someone like Mark. I think that is why after all these years, Mark is still in love with her. Even Damien has stayed single for so long – maybe he cannot forget her, or could not find any girl who was like her – the girl of his youth, the one he wanted to marry.
Allegra, Allegra. Sometimes I wonder who you really are?
(To be continued...)
Based on own experiences, though some parts exaggerated and fictional ideas thrown in for good measure. For those who are looking for love... find it, and be happy.
#Chapter 1#
(kai)
My friend liked her. And that was how I got to know her. Allegra. Back then, she would look me up, each time her soul needed comforting.
Sure, most girls cry easily. But she wouldn’t cry over spilt milk. Or her own hurt. Most of the times she would cry over others. How she wished she could turn back time and be a little nicer. She was independent enough but I guess in that way she was vulnerable – she could not see it coming. You know, when guys hurt her. Saying insensitive things, or just treating her like dirt.
In some ways I felt that she was not meant to be here. She always felt that way too.
What could I do? She always told me that our friendship would end soon. I never believed her – perhaps inwardly, I did. She had an uncanny knack for predicting stuff that would happen. I was too slow, maybe I did not realize that some months later, we had grown apart so quickly in our different ways that our friendship was no longer what it was used to be.
And how I long for those times, extended times of sitting together on the wooden bench with cast iron curlicue motifs, enjoying just sitting in silence, for she was not those kind who would just blurt out everything she felt. So we would sit there, me just wanting to squeeze her hand or shoulders, looking at her pitiful forlorn face, but never really having the guts to. I thought she would mind, but looking back, I felt that maybe some physical comfort would bring more peace to her stormy feelings within.
Sometimes we still bump into each other now, being neighbors. It was quite a miracle both of us lived in the same district for so long. She is almost too friendly, waving at me furiously and exclaiming that it was so good to see me again after all this time. But we never did initiate another session. Maybe we both knew that then, and now, we were like totally different people.
And what happened to my friend who liked her? I guess they both liked each other at one point in time, just that he never told her about it, and knowing Allegra, she just moved on from guy to guy, trying to escape the pain – although each brought her more hurts and sadness. I think she just lived – simply lived for the happy times, knowing that those times would carry her through the pain.
I used to wonder how anyone could live like this but now I know, that to her, having an interesting life is better than dying from boredom. My wife hates her, I guess most women do, but I think deep down inside they admire her for going against convention, always speaking her mind, and most of all following her heart. I myself would never have the guts to admit liking someone like Mark. I think that is why after all these years, Mark is still in love with her. Even Damien has stayed single for so long – maybe he cannot forget her, or could not find any girl who was like her – the girl of his youth, the one he wanted to marry.
Allegra, Allegra. Sometimes I wonder who you really are?
(To be continued...)
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