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| happiness is in the little things. | | |
| How to properly express all that I've experienced this week? How memory can deceive and expectations be let down. Would it be strange to say that sometimes memory is almost as precious as reality? And if reality tarnishes that memory - would it be better never to face it even if it would mean bringing things forward, if at all? That it is better, and perhaps more tragically romantic to hold on to "what if" rather than come crashing down in a hard landing. Perhaps it's good to realise, that we are only flesh and blood.
And why was I so nervous? So much so that I wasn't relaxed, myself? Even though I had expected, wanted nothing. It was like a kind of dementia.
But the highlights of this week came from such unexpected sources. A hilarious chat with a cab driver about love, life, having children, and why asian girls always stick together. We had no real answers, but I laughed throughout the over an hour drive. Fantastic meal in Zafferano - still my favourite Italian restaurant - I hadn't been back for... possibly over a year, but it was like coming home. Perfectly al dente lobster spaghetti with just a hint of chilli and chargilled tuna and prawns, which was nice but not fantastic but z's veal tagliata was.. sublime - it was tender and flavourful, and did in fact taste like a cow still in the spring of youth when it fell under the knife - oh well. At least it died for a very good reason.
And after dinner, drinks at a nice relaxed bar - full of wood paneling and cosy sofas but not in a dingy pub sort of a way. How champagne can cheer the heart  But. Sharing our misgivings, hopes, fears, in work, love, human connection - and that ever smiling waiter who in the guise of topping up our drinks were really eavesdropping on on our SATC like conversations.
Ended a whirlwind trip of one dinner in Frankfurt, two LFF films (one great, the other I slept through and the only film I ever felt such passionate dislike that I walked out), a free viewing of the Pop Art exhibition at the Tate Modern - although it would have been better if we hadn't gotten sloshed first and only managed to catch 15 minutes of it. But I'm not sold on the concept of Pop Art. But like J said, it's part of our lives whether we like it or not.
I haven't eaten home at all this week, and not this w/e either. Not properly anyway. I did come home and cooked vegetables one night - the other night I only had a bowl of cereal. The other I had burger king. I think I've turned into a man.
Maybe it's just best to go with the flow. We need to live in the here and now.
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| I woke up thinking, am I or aren't I? A cough and rush to the toilet later, made me think, maybe not. But colds / flus have a rollercoaster effect, and later as I ate soft boiled eggs and pomegranates, with my favourite tea at the moment, a lovely earl grey tea perfumed with delicate light blue flowers, I thought, yes, I'm much better.
And realised I was late for my London Film Festival movie marathon. Which was ironic since I hadn't been to the cinema, regrettably for the last two months - just. too busy, too tired, too distracted.
Mounting frustration as I am tapping my watch (late of course) waiting to collect my tickets, and of course, I had to choose the line where this guy with the bicycle wasn't there to collect tickets but to query about some lost or misprinted tickets, the kind of stupid, administrative mistake which nevertheless takes what seemed like eternity to sort out.
Finally, got to my seat, inconveniently at the far side of the cinema against the wall ("excuse me, excuse me, sorry, excuse me, sorry sorry sorry sorry"), peeled the layers of clothing off myself (leather jacket, beige scarf, wool cardigan), and sat back to enjoy the film. A slight twinge of annoyance at some girls beside me who seemed to laugh at everything even though it wasn't funny in the slightest, but then I found myself laughing out loud too, and I thought, how much I love the cinema.
It was the Fantastic Mr. Fox, which I thoroughly recommend, especially if you grew up reading Roald Dahl - I hadn't read this one before but it reminded me of another - Danny the Champion of the World - and in fact vaguely reminiscent of all Roald Dahl books - the plucky, bright, but misunderstood child (or in this case Fox) who outwits the establishment with outrageously brilliant and wonderful plans.
Left the cinema with a big smile on my face, then headed off in the direction Brewer Street in search of some food - thankfully Kulu Kulu was still open at 3:00p.m. but empty enough so I could read my free Times newspaper handed out at the end of the film whilst eating my tempura soba and lots of green tea, then headed off to Carnaby Street and off that, Newburgh Quarter, full of interesting but ridiculous expensive shops selling useless, beautiful things. A little Portuguese / Brazilian cafe by day cocktail bar by night at the corner caught my eye - the shop could not accommodate more than 10 - 12 people I would guess but seemed like an ideal spot to while away a afternoon if you could find a spot.
Bought a gift for a friend from Newburgh Street from Cowshed - which markets itself as a great place for the girls to have a manicure done and a cup of tea after - it was undeniably posh, but in an unintimidating, relaxed, rugged way. And not all the people there were blonde and perma-tanned. Which means I might go there.
Then hot-footed my way back to Leicester Square for my next film - Paper Heart. I had no idea what the film was about but it turned out to be a quasi documentary about love. It has its redeeming features - mostly the interviews the main character - Charlyne, conducts with people across the country - and some of these stories, were touching - if adding nothing new to the portrayal of love (except one story - the first in fact - where actually the person he considers his "true-love" was a girl he completely fell for, but who ended up marrying someone else. He then went on to marry someone else and that marriage lasted, I'm not sure, several years before it ended up in divorce. Quite recently he had a near death experience where he was caught underwater in Alaska, dragged by his horse - and as he was held under for about 20 - 30 seconds the face that appeared to him - was not that of his "true-love" but that of his ex-wife". Which made him question - who was his true love after all..). Anyway I digress. The thing was that I found the main lead so annoying, so purposefully annoying - she is meant to be truly doubting the premise of love and yet when confronted with all these stories and interviews, instead of coming back with an intelligent or thought out riposte, all we get is a "yeah, I dunno, I still don't get it" shrug and a giggle. There are a lot of giggles. I think now that the naive, wide-eyed "confused" girl was just an act, butwhy?? It was so unnecessary.
Anyway, then off to Tesco's to buy some juice / fruits for a dinner party later and relished the sensation of walking through Covent Garden in the deepening dusk, lights twinkling, and the slight thrill one gets from walking in the crisp autumn weather. Caught the bus to marble arch and walked into the warmth of wonderfully prepared food - lovely grilled steaks, aubergines, a lovely sauce made with tomato and olives, and conversation - the best kind - among girls sharing our frustrations of wanting men but finding only boys, the endless and painstaking routine of making one effortlessly beautiful, and the utter relief of finding out you are not the only one with that non-life threatening but socially debilitating condition.
It was comforting just to know that I was not alone - that finding company in itself is comforting. But if that fails, well, walking around alone in the hidden streets of London the cool autumn air,discovering new enclaves, and watching films before general release - that's a close 2nd. I guess I'm not ready to leave just yet.
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| I had a super crummy day today. Well actually it's been quite a crummy few months, but the sun does shine on a bulk of my days.
The thing is that, whenever that happens, I find I have so little people to share it with. And I realised no one is to blame. We've just...defined ourselves...into individuals.
The more we progress professionally, the more specialized our skills become. We take on higher portfolios. With more disclosure restrictions. Even if I trust you not to say anything, I'm a better friend not to tell you because then you're obligated to keep that info to yourself. And let's face it. People are stupid, careless and greedy. Even I am.
Or like family stuff. "Don't wash your dirty linen in public", that's what I've been told too often. Plus, with the amount of "did you know Aunty blah blah" and "Uncle blah blah's son did blah blah", you really know people can't shut their mouth. And more evidently, that people can't pass the information correctly. My friend brought his gf to church for the first time - within that 2 hours (in service, mind you), I hear from "Oh, I heard he's brought her a few times already" to "Did you know she's from another church?" (she's not even a Christian). Personal stuff, sigh. Sometimes it just takes too much effort to story you on the story behind what I'm facing.
And also because of whom I've developed into, I've also defined the range of reactions I'm comfortable with. If you're going to respond with something I'm not used to, then I am going to get more peeved, and you're not helpful.
So when I'm sad or stressed, I find myself always going back to the same few. So I get it when someone just emails me a barrage of incoherent profanity on something she wants to do to someone for something he did or did not do, I just respond in something that probably hits the right note in everyone - "Come, I'll buy you a drink" | | |
| One week later, and I still miss it. And in some ways I don't want to stop. I miss the way life was broken down to its simplest elements. I miss the fact that it didn't take much to be happy - that I was truly thankful each day for the sun, for hot showers, for warm food after a hard day's work. I miss how plain old chicken can taste heavenly when shredded and stewed in a simple onion and tomato sauce, that *gasp* it's not necessary to have corn fed or free range chicken. I miss the comraderie of working together, painting silently in steady rhythm and in that simple act, finding a bond which transcends language and culture. I miss the sense of community, and realise that actually maybe I am not such a recluse after all. I miss the soaring mountains and its epic grandeur, a majestic declaration of all that is unchanging and immutable. I miss the sky and the sunshine, even the unforgiving heat that seems to pierce the skin. I miss that evening scrubbing floors, sharing our stories as we watched the sun set, casting a warm glow over the mountains, fields. I miss playing tag with a feisty 2 year old who ended up bullying me. I miss exchanging conversations in halting and broken Spanish, I miss fighting over the taps while washing up dishes (I was rinsing, he was soaping) and declaring war when it happened for the fifth time, I miss the impromptu massage sessions on the coach ride home. I miss the colourful spectacle of the GuelaGuetza, swirling skirts, dramatic and lively brass music, the life and energy. I miss cooking large flat tortillas smothered with frijoles (black beans), oaxacan cheese, and strips of meat on a large clay plate over a charcoal flame alongside mexican students who realised that this guero could handle the heat on her fingers as well as they could (I am Malaysian after all!). I miss teaching what limited Chinese I knew to Mexicans and learning indigenous Indian languages. Most of all, I miss the people - those students who had so much more to teach me, who I am convinced will one day occupy important positions of leadership in this country. I miss those who were so silent to begin with - how one friendship began with the unlikely connection of both knowing a little French, and I thought how strange, a Malaysian and indigenous Mexican girl from a secluded mountain village, speaking French together in Mexico, and how we parted with tears and hugs. She was only 16 and yet possessed a maturity and sweetness which belied her age. I miss the silent and enigmatic ones, and wished I had more time to find out more about what they thought, what made them tick. I miss the charming and charismatic ones too, and the goofy and silly ones who made me burst out in giggles and laughter. And I thought, the worst of all, is not being able to say, see you again, because I'm not coming back. And someone asked me, well why not? And then I realised, why not indeed. Swine flu or not, I'll be back someday. | | |
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