I've Seen You Somewhere Before, Haven't I?

I can't help but notice, you're beautiful.
No, it's true. I'm not a flirt.
You lit up the room when you walked in.
Just like how you lit up my heart many moons ago.
Now you're just a stranger.
Gosh, you're so beautiful.

Hey, I've seen you somewhere before, haven't I?
No, I'm not trying to pick you up.
It was last year, wasn't it?
You held my hands, and I held yours.
Now you're just a stranger.
But I vaguely remember,
I've seen you somewhere before, haven't I?

Can I buy you a drink?
No, I'm harmless really.
It's Champagne, isn't it?
You don't like anything else.
I used to remember all your favourite things.
Now you're just a stranger.
So, can I buy you that drink?

Can I have your number?
I promise I'll call.
Oh, you don't give out numbers to strangers?
I remember how we talked till we fell asleep... Silly us.
Now I'm just a stranger to you.
Can I have your number... please?

Would you like to dance with me?
Yeah, I have two left feet but that's ok.
You don't dance?
But you did, and we did.
Now we're just strangers.
Come dance with me.

Can I walk you home?
You don't have to invite me in, really.
I see, your boyfriend's home.
I used to be him. We used to have a home.
Now home's a stranger, just like you.
Is it too late to ask,
Won't you come home?

このクリスマス、私はひとりです。

僕は淋しいんだよ。
あなたに逢いたい。
君が愛している。

Hymn to Sekhmet

If you ever need strength, whether to face your fears or just to bring yourself back from the brink of an insane world, try reciting this hymn to the Goddess Sekhmet.


Mine is a heart of Carnelian, crimson as murder on a holy day. Mine is a heart of cornel, the gnarled roots of dogwood and the bursting of flowers. I am the broken wax seal on my lover's letters. I am the phoenix, the fiery sun, consuming and resuming myself. I pace the halls of the underworld. I knock on the doors of death. I walk into the fields to stare at the sun and lie on the green grass, ripe as a fig. The souls of the gods are with me. They hum like flies in my ears. I am I. I will what I will.
Mine is a heart of Carnelian, blood red as the crest of a phoenix.

The Power of Songs

I sent you a song today.

I forgot how powerful songs can be. It was a song that moved me. Made me teary-eyed.

I thought you'd just see it as a deep, slightly-melancholic song. I didn't know it'd make you cry. If I'd known, I wouldn't have sent it to you.

Songs are powerful indeed. With great power, comes great responsibility.

I shall send only cheerful songs to you from now on.

Gomenasai.

A journey has ended. A new one has begun.

So we have transitioned. I'm happy for us. Really.

We've been together for 409 days. That's one year, one month and a half.
I'll always remember this journey with you. It was beautiful.

And now we embark on a new one together. I promise you this: It'll be as beautiful as the last.

I love you. And I'll always love you.

*my pinkie finger hooked around yours* PROMISE.

Romantic Married Couple

Last night, I heard some music from my lawn.

Jane Monheit's Over the Rainbow is drifting in the air. I went to have a peek.

Found Lip Keong and Sabrina having a mini-BBQ all by themselves in dim-lit candlelights with a music system playing soft music.

They must've missed each other so much after being separated for so long. You see, Sabrina has to fly off often to far-flung corners of the world for her work. I always wondered how a marriage can stay strong under such circumstances. What holds them together?

Now I have the secret answer! Mini-BBQ!

So what do I really want from you?

I don't want to barge into your life.
I don't want you to need me to the point that you'll open the door and drag me inside.
I want you to invite me in. So we can share a cup of hot cocoa on a rainy night and snuggle up to each other to watch a movie.
That would be nice.

Somebody

I don't want a person who will need me like crack, or depend on me like a crutch.

That's too cruel.

I have no words of my own better than the words of Depeche Mode.
I'm sorry that my supposed "forte" of words fail me here.

I want somebody to share
Share the rest of my life
Share my innermost thoughts
Know my intimate details
Someone who'll stand by my side
And give me support
And in return
She'll get my support
She will listen to me
When I want to speak
About the world we live in
And life in general
Though my views may be wrong
They may even be perverted
She'll hear me out
And won't easily be converted
To my way of thinking
In fact she'll often disagree
But at the end of it all
She will understand me

I want somebody who cares
For me passionately
With every thought and
With every breath
Someone who'll help me see things
In a different light
All the things I detest
I will almost like
I don't want to be tied
To anyones strings
I'm carefully trying to steer clear of
Those things
But when I'm asleep
I want somebody
Who will put their arms around me
And kiss me tenderly

The Loveliest Story I've Ever Read

I'd like to believe forever that this is about us. Don't tell me everything in your blog is fiction. It would shatter my world and my heart to learn that this is not about us.

So don't ever tell me, if this is not true. Let me believe.

And this is the story you wrote, about us...

"
It is dusk. You are here with me, and we’re sitting with our backs to a cliff, eyes to the water ahead, our daughter burying our feet in sand with a little plastic shovel, the tide coming in. We interlock fingers. You hum something and then stop quickly and kiss my bare shoulder warmed by the sun. I pretend to be reading and you tickle me slightly, leaning your head down trying to catch my eye so I smile. I do. You know this trick works every time.

When the water slurps the last of the sun we gather our things and make the walk back to our house on the cliff, the sides weathered by the salt air. We are neighbourless and it’s something I’ve wanted for a lifetime – my family, the water, the quiet of the road leading towards it. Our home has a wrap-around porch with peeling pillars and squeaky wood floors with two sturdy rocking chairs along the edge pointing towards the sea. We sit here in silence, clutching hands and hearts, watching the sailboats come in.

At night we sit with our daughter in front of the inset fireplace, laughing as she tumbles and makes funny exclamations, and this, this is what I've always wanted - to feel my heart so full of love I fear it might burst. We soon dress her and lay her down for the night and you take my hand, your eyes smiling, towards the turret room you built years ago – an observatory, because you know my fixation with stars. You run a soft finger down the side of my face and along my chin and gently lift my chin up to find your lips, ready, as they have been for years in this room. Under your stare I pull away and tell you in a whisper, that I need you more than having air to breathe. You take that away from me enough, anyway.

Our bodies move in motion to a song in our heads. I tell you, when your hands move expertly across my skin, that I’m drunk with you and you know what that means. This is how it goes without speaking – just gentle sounds erupting and reverberating off of the glass windows.

In the morning we walk a short mile along the cliff to our favourite produce stand and buy ripe peaches, mangoes, and blueberries for breakfast. You put a blueberry on my tongue and put your other hand into the small of my back. This is the time when I adore you the most – those subtle touches that leave imprints on my skin.

And later, while watching waves on the beach surrounded by summer, I tell you this is how it will be for the rest of our days
and you believe me.
"

The Pause Button

I never thought that you'd hit the Pause button. I always offered it to you, but I never thought you'd use the option.

I was scarred before by this. But, even now, I still trust you. I put my heart gingerly in the palm of your hands.

Even if this turns out for the worse, I will willingly let you scar me. I am already yours.

Elevator

And so I read the hilarious entries of elevator buttons and how to "unclick" them.

It made me recall something about an elevator incident that I encountered when I went home to Penang in July.

My dad, mom and I stepped into an elevator of a swanky apartment block in prime real estate by the prime Gurney Drive area. It was my uncle's comfy pad we were headed to. He was out of town and I happened to be in town and so he wanted us to have the place for the time being. It was like a resort getaway for me.

So anyway, we were in the elevator, and along came a short, young man who stepped in with us. The elevator door closed and we pressed the button to the top floor, while the young man were headed to a few floors below ours.

I suddenly asked my dad why we couldn't take any of the elevators across the lobby and had to wait for the ones on this side. Before my dad could reply, the young man chirped in with a volunteered reply, "Oh, the other row of lifts only reach the 20th floor or lower. Your apartment is in the top floor, so only the lifts on this row will take you there."

My mom and dad, gratified that someone who is more familiar with this apartment block volunteered an answer, began to strike a conversation with the young man. Turns out he had been staying here for over 3 years. And in that short span of what must have been under a minute, a steady stream of banter took place between my parents and this total stranger.

When we reached his floor, he gave us a polite nod, a cheery smile and a chirpy "See you again."

I found myself deeply perturbed by this scene, and yet I can't quite put my finger onto it. Something is amiss. It was then that I realized, this never happens in Singapore.

In Singapore, strangers just don't engage in conversations in the lifts. It's just unheard of, unpracticed, and almost an unwritten rule.

I find myself reeling from that thought. 10 years have passed since I first made my residence in Singapore. And in that 10 years, I find myself hardly talking to strangers. In elevators, or out of them.

In the few days that I was in Penang, I was engaged in conversations by no less than 4 strangers. And in all situations, it turned out to be mostly pleasant, at times eye-opening, and always benign.

I wonder if the Singaporeans are missing out on something. Something as simple as the joy of tipping your proverbial hat to a passerby, giving him/her a smile and saying "Nice day isn't it?"

And it doesn't have to be in an elevator.

Stupid Thoughts

Let me never have stupid thoughts of tragic sadness again.

There is no reason to anymore.

You gave me a bottle of cream when you first came to my room, you said it will help me heal the scars on my skin.

But more than that, you healed the scars that are unseen.

Number One

She keeps a blog.

I remember a line from the movie, The Thomas Crown Affair, when Rene Russo's character casually mentioned to the police inspector she is working with, "I keep an apartment here." The inspector mutters to himself, "Oh, she keeps an apartment." and then turns to her and say, "I keep goldfish."


She keeps a blog.

And I'm her number one reader, her number one fan, her number one eyeball impression for her digital scrawls, and her number one worshiper at her digital shrine.

Her number one - me.

I've always been obsessed with being number one.

In primary school, this girl in my class (let's call her Miss Nemesis) kicked my ass and was number one of the whole cohort, not just the class, for the whole 6 years. I studied hard. I studied smart. I studied with patience, finesse and art. And still, I was number two.

I tasted my first sweet victory when a teacher shoved me on stage and into a speech competition. She taught me how to conquer fear. She taught me how to hold attention. She taught me how to win the crowd. She taught me how to be number one. And I was number one. Then I represented the school in the district finals. And again, I was number one.

In the district competitions, I met a girl who sat behind me (let's call her The Crush, though she is not my first crush). So focused was I in the competition that I did not bother to turn around and see who's behind me. But when I finished my speech, she tapped me lightly on the shoulder and congratulated me. I turned around and I had a crush.

I was number one that day. And she was number two. Eventually, we would both represent our respective schools as competitors in the state finals. And eventually, we would both crash out of the state finals with no victories. But she talked to me. She was nice to me. I figured, maybe it was because I was number one in the district championships. I wanted her to be nice to me forever. And so, I want to stay number one.

In high school, I was always number one. For 6 years there, I was number one, if not in cohort, then in class. I was almost always the number one in speech competitions - in English and Malay - and in Chinese debates. I was number one in many other competitions. I even graduated as the top student, the finest honor any student can attain. Miss Nemesis was nowhere even close to touching my league.

And still, I was not number one. Not The Crush's number one anyway. For 5 years I longed to be her number one. But I was nowhere even close to touching her league.

I came to Singapore to study and to get away from the sad fact I was not her number one. I thought I could be number one here.

I was never number one anymore. Not in competitions. Not in studies. Not in love.

Till now.

She always let me read her blog first, before anyone else does.

I was worried the other day. That I would not remain her number one forever. That someone somewhere will waltz in someday and somehow sweep her feet off from my pedestal which I've put her on. And I shall never be number one again. And there will be no happiness from being number one in anything ever again.

She leaned in and whispered to me, "Remember, you were my first. And you are always my first."

I'm happy again. It's not that she told me I'm her first or that I'm number one that mattered. It's the way she said it.

Her eyes so lovingly engulfed me in their pools of stars. Her shoulder so nicely touching mine as she leaned in. Her nose tickling my ear lobe. Her voice caressing my cheeks like a light feather kissing dew drops.

And try as you might, you can't fake that.

She's MY number one.

And she loves me.

And she keeps a blog.

Stranger in My Own Home

Penang is a state in Malaysia.

It is also a state in divide, quite metaphorically and geographically.

There are two Penangs. Very few people outside of Malaysia knows that Penang actually refers to a state in Malaysia, one of 13 states. It consists of an island and a stretch of land on the Peninsula of Malaysia, divided by a small strait of sea.

But for most tourists, Penang is simply the beautiful island itself. In fact, for most people IN Penang Island, Penang IS the island and the island alone.

I was born on the island.

But I was raised in Province Wellesley. That's the part of land that is NOT the island. I had spent the most part of my life there. I lived there.

That is, until recently. Or more specifically, last year.

My parents decided to move to the island after their retirement. No longer are they tied to the old house by vocation (the schools they taught in), relation (my grandmother passed away) and incubation (I have since fled the safety confines of their nest to pursue higher education on another island).

So they packed their bags, so to speak, and moved in with my 3 aunts living in the old house my grandpa bought a long time ago.

I'm no stranger to that house. I spent many Chinese New Years there, as a visiting guest. But this Chinese New Year, I have to call it my home.

Nobody likes change. Especially when I had to figure out where everything was.

It hit me that I'm a stranger in my own home when I had to ask my mom, "Mom, I'm thirsty. Where do we keep the drinking water?"

It says something about how much at home you are when you're thirsty and you had no idea where the drinking water is.

At that moment, I realized, I had to find my own home.

And then I thought of you.

And I know where my home will be.

First Article (Not of Clothing or the Constitution)

There's always a good time for a beginning. And the answer is usually, "Now, or Never".

A fervent advocate of the concept I have been, but a lousy adherent to the doctrine I am. Like most people, I need markers for change. Markers that are sometimes fateful, sometimes just plain old clichéd. The marker for the Genesis of this blog, unfortunately (or perhaps it's fortunate, from a different point of view), is of the latter kind. And corny as the title of this post may sound, cornier it is the next sentence of which I'm about to write.

A new year. A new beginning.

So here I am starting a new blog. After all, I've always resisted the urge, never jumped on the bandwagon. I didn't even wave as the bandwagon drove by.

Don't get me wrong. I don't hate blogs. Quite the contrary, I happen to be an avid blog reader. Blogs like drawn.ca, mocoloco, and postsecret offered me plenty of distractions with all things beautiful. But I could never quite catch on to THE OTHER kind of blog. You know, blogs that yak away on all things personal and overladen with pictures, music and videos like a Christmas tree gone wrong. They are Diaries on Steroids (and maybe with a whiff of Coke too) hiding in digital sheep's clothing. And since I don't find these blogs very symphonic, I didn't want to contribute my share of the noise too.

Until now.

By why start at all? The reason for that is simple: I'm being nudged into it.

I met Lizzie in a writing event. We started our dance of flirtation over a common love interest in Neil Gaiman and W.H. Auden. From time to time she would sprinkle my room with lovely words scribbled on notes, and I would occasionally assault her with amateurish poetry. She has a blog now where she writes beautifully (and there's that secret diary which she won't let me read yet). You can say that our relationship would not have blossomed had the art of writing not evolved in human civilization. (And a whole host of other stuffs would not have come to be as well. For example, exams and tabloid magazines. But let's not get into that now).

Relationships don't work one way. I can't be the one who's always reading her thoughts and not sharing my words. So here we are. As a sign of my commitment and a willingness to perform the virtual-literary equivalent of undressing myself one article of clothing at a time, I shall write and post online, one article (of words, not clothing) after another, for as long as Kaishi shall fancy reading them.

Now back to what I was talking about before - the Timing.

It's Chinese New Year. A fitting time indeed to get started. And what better place to start than in the very hometown where I was born in - Penang.

But wait, that would mean we've moved on to talk about the place, and not the time. We'd need a separate article for that. So I shall end this one here.

And thus, this blog is born.