I want my dad to work again because he has the most beautiful leather shoes. Shoes that he does not wear now, not since he was retrenched and had to work as a taxi driver.
It's more comfortable to wear sport shoes when you work a taxi, you see. Comfortable to walk around in, less ostentatious, more befitting to his driver role. Red, black, white shoes - the standard issue for all Singaporean NS-men.
His old shoes were leather - chosen not just for looks, but comfort too. Not stuck-up, in-your-face pointed oxfords, but a boxed toe, smooth supple leather, often conditioned and cared for. Black, a soft black. My dad has always been picky about shoes.
To see his current shoes now, and recall those old shoes carefully packed away; shoes awaiting to see the light of day again, and go work, is a thought that hurts.
November 24, 2009
November 6, 2009
the mechanics of intimacy, or not-
A drizzle in the city, a long kiss, a nestling-of-head against your shoulder, a sense of time stopping, a world of our own.
Standing there, in a paradoxical land of sparse greenery among tall grey buildings looming over and covering the world in shadows, in a world of stranger faces, walking by with hurried footsteps, there's you, and there's me, and arms locked around each other and...
There is something different between imagination and reality. The penning down of imagination are fickle flights of fancies, - they are inspired-by. The penning down of reality is something entirely different - for all the flimsy abstract words which embodies them, they are real. Are angels any less miraculous by taking on air? Are experiences any less real by taking on words?
Yet still, flimsy, flimsy are the words that tries to prop up these experiences.
A drizzle in the city, a long kiss, a nestling-of-head against your shoulder, a sense of time stopping, a world of our own.
Standing there, in a paradoxical land of sparse greenery among tall grey buildings looming over and covering the world in shadows, in a world of stranger faces, walking by with hurried footsteps, there's you, and there's me, and arms locked around each other and...
There is something different between imagination and reality. The penning down of imagination are fickle flights of fancies, - they are inspired-by. The penning down of reality is something entirely different - for all the flimsy abstract words which embodies them, they are real. Are angels any less miraculous by taking on air? Are experiences any less real by taking on words?
Yet still, flimsy, flimsy are the words that tries to prop up these experiences.
September 13, 2009
什么是开心-
昨晚，她说，但在我班，你会比在hp较开心。
可能吧。但在心里似乎后悔的感觉，其实也可能是失望的感觉。把我最拿手的科目，用来换取进入hp的我，对hp是产生了某种希望。进入之后，才觉得，并没有我所想象中的那么美好。
当时想的什么？就因人人都说这是个非常好的一个课程，就决定赌一赌，结果是进了。本以为在那里会自然而然地交上朋友，进了忽然觉得格格不入。但，说实在的，这种感觉，是因为他们，还是自己的自卑感呢？
脸皮厚的人，并不代表他们不会觉得自己不够好，只不过能比其他人大胆一点，在那一瞬刻，不顾自己丢不丢脸放胆地去拼了！大胆过后结果是好的，就开开心心地享受，但不成功的时候，心里那酸酸自卑的感觉，依然还在。出丑也！谁不怕。心里害怕，脑里却一直说不管了不管了，过去说hi吧。
但在班上，脸皮不知为何就是厚不起来。太多人了。原来，我的脸皮也不是很厚。
但认识你的同学，都是这里一个，那里一个。最多就两个人讨厌我，这我还受得了。如果真的在你班，第一天，可能也觉得格格不入。（大家的华文都说得比我好也！你看看，打出前面的几些字，我不知花了多久！）
并且，在我班上真的不真的是个错误，我想，我们应该是不会知道的吧？怎么说，我们也没有体念在别班的滋味。或许，在班可能还更糟糕呢！算了。有你这种朋友，我已经够满足了。知足就好！我在我班上学了不少，你也是，就当作人生经验吧。懂得向内看，又认识到别人的无理，是可贵的智慧。是朋友的话，就跟他说，不是的话，就跟是你朋友的我投诉吧 =）
大家都有可恶的一面吧。我在一位男生最需要我的时候，竟然跟他说，”stop draining us“。他从没忘记我说的这句话，我在他心里留的伤应该也不少。人人都犯过伤害其他人的罪，看他有没有悔改吧。没有的话，我自己是认为，希望当他发现在他周围的都变成一堆骨头时，终于会悔改。
但，说而容易，作得难。那人可能就真的如此瞎眼，看不出自己的无理。算了。若他不把你的话放在心里思考，也就代表他其实也不把你放在心里。放手让给能影响他的人吧。
BE HAPPY TOO KARENE
昨晚，她说，但在我班，你会比在hp较开心。
可能吧。但在心里似乎后悔的感觉，其实也可能是失望的感觉。把我最拿手的科目，用来换取进入hp的我，对hp是产生了某种希望。进入之后，才觉得，并没有我所想象中的那么美好。
当时想的什么？就因人人都说这是个非常好的一个课程，就决定赌一赌，结果是进了。本以为在那里会自然而然地交上朋友，进了忽然觉得格格不入。但，说实在的，这种感觉，是因为他们，还是自己的自卑感呢？
脸皮厚的人，并不代表他们不会觉得自己不够好，只不过能比其他人大胆一点，在那一瞬刻，不顾自己丢不丢脸放胆地去拼了！大胆过后结果是好的，就开开心心地享受，但不成功的时候，心里那酸酸自卑的感觉，依然还在。出丑也！谁不怕。心里害怕，脑里却一直说不管了不管了，过去说hi吧。
但在班上，脸皮不知为何就是厚不起来。太多人了。原来，我的脸皮也不是很厚。
但认识你的同学，都是这里一个，那里一个。最多就两个人讨厌我，这我还受得了。如果真的在你班，第一天，可能也觉得格格不入。（大家的华文都说得比我好也！你看看，打出前面的几些字，我不知花了多久！）
并且，在我班上真的不真的是个错误，我想，我们应该是不会知道的吧？怎么说，我们也没有体念在别班的滋味。或许，在班可能还更糟糕呢！算了。有你这种朋友，我已经够满足了。知足就好！我在我班上学了不少，你也是，就当作人生经验吧。懂得向内看，又认识到别人的无理，是可贵的智慧。是朋友的话，就跟他说，不是的话，就跟是你朋友的我投诉吧 =）
大家都有可恶的一面吧。我在一位男生最需要我的时候，竟然跟他说，”stop draining us“。他从没忘记我说的这句话，我在他心里留的伤应该也不少。人人都犯过伤害其他人的罪，看他有没有悔改吧。没有的话，我自己是认为，希望当他发现在他周围的都变成一堆骨头时，终于会悔改。
但，说而容易，作得难。那人可能就真的如此瞎眼，看不出自己的无理。算了。若他不把你的话放在心里思考，也就代表他其实也不把你放在心里。放手让给能影响他的人吧。
BE HAPPY TOO KARENE
September 11, 2009
September 10, 2009
September 8, 2009
food for thought-
How?
What has been like "water from the well of Bethlehem" to you recently-- love, friendship, or maybe some spiritual blessing (2 Samuel 23:16)? Have you taken whatever it may be, even at the risk of damaging your own soul, simply to satisfy yourself? If you have, then you cannot pour it out "to the Lord." You can never set apart for God something that you desire for yourself to achieve your own satisfaction. If you try to satisfy yourself with a blessing from God, it will corrupt you. You must sacrifice it, pouring it out to God-- something that your common sense says is an absurd waste.
...until I pour these things out to God, they actually endanger those I love, as well as myself, because they will be turned into lust.
If you are always keeping blessings to yourself and never learning to pour out anything "to the Lord," other people will never have their vision of God expanded through you.
- excerpts from My Utmost for His Highest
How?
August 28, 2009
the chicken-wing mentality-
I am by nature quite a contradictory person. Sometimes sensitive to the nuances of feelings, sometimes...
Let's just say the personality report said, I can be sometimes insensitive, and enter situations expecting to be accepted.
So sometimes I want a chicken wing, but all there is a chicken drumstick.
And I always forget that both of them are still chicken, and thus don't fully appreciate it.
I'm sorry dear, and I do realise it.
But forgive me too and consider that, sometimes, I would rather go for something else entirely than have the chicken drumstick anymore?
I am by nature quite a contradictory person. Sometimes sensitive to the nuances of feelings, sometimes...
Let's just say the personality report said, I can be sometimes insensitive, and enter situations expecting to be accepted.
So sometimes I want a chicken wing, but all there is a chicken drumstick.
And I always forget that both of them are still chicken, and thus don't fully appreciate it.
I'm sorry dear, and I do realise it.
But forgive me too and consider that, sometimes, I would rather go for something else entirely than have the chicken drumstick anymore?
August 24, 2009
I wish you joy, much joy, great joy.
There are some people who pace themselves, who weigh which is more important, which should be set aside for the moment, and which should be handled now.
Then there are those, who live in the moment, and give their all as much as they can when they can.
Sometimes, they burn out.
There are some people who pace themselves, who weigh which is more important, which should be set aside for the moment, and which should be handled now.
Then there are those, who live in the moment, and give their all as much as they can when they can.
Sometimes, they burn out.
August 23, 2009
August 4, 2009
I remember a guy, who when I first installed my hugs button, spammed it, and shot the number up to 1000plus in one day.
But more clearly, I remember a guy who really hugged me when I felt faint, queasy, tired, a guy who spins magic worlds with words, who reminds me, gets me to think, properly, clearly, to reflect on what I want and what I need, who tells me to pray, always, who is cold to me so that I would learn.
And I love, love him.
August 1, 2009
June 30, 2009
get rich idea no. 1-
Just kidding about the get rich part.
But if I ever become a brilliant baker one day, or just happen to know one, I would start a shop called laundry delights!
Um, laundry? And baker? Where's the link??
Oh but there IS a link. See see - we would have these beautiful plates with figures of cartoon people on them kind of thing... and then, all our cakes will be baked in the shape of garments! T-shirts, pants, skirts, dresses, overalls, sweaters... swimsuits even if someone is feeling particularly hot... or just want a small serving of cake. Get this - the cake will then be placed onto the plates. Edible paper dolls, how fun!
I mean, seriously! Strawberry cheesecake - pink and white frills; orange zest - orange pollka dots; blueberry crumble for jeans... Hey, this is seriously a good idea. I mean, you could even customise baby clothes for baby showers etc! And cake servings will be according to garments - a small serving would be a "bikini", a larger serving "swimsuit" or "big shirt", then you can add "shorts" or "pants" if you want another flavour, and "winter clothes" would be the biggest serving everrr! (And if you want a winter scene, ice cream on the side!)
Of course in a world where big rules, other shops will start popping up (because admittedly, it's an easy idea to copy), and then some big rich chain will jump in and kill us all. But heyyy, we;ll be the original, and maybe someone would want to buy our name. Sell it off, be rich!
(And yes, I would be willing to sell the name - please, just promise me, use buttercream -so delicious- and not fondant. Most fondant tastes awful...)
Just kidding about the get rich part.
But if I ever become a brilliant baker one day, or just happen to know one, I would start a shop called laundry delights!
Um, laundry? And baker? Where's the link??
Oh but there IS a link. See see - we would have these beautiful plates with figures of cartoon people on them kind of thing... and then, all our cakes will be baked in the shape of garments! T-shirts, pants, skirts, dresses, overalls, sweaters... swimsuits even if someone is feeling particularly hot... or just want a small serving of cake. Get this - the cake will then be placed onto the plates. Edible paper dolls, how fun!
I mean, seriously! Strawberry cheesecake - pink and white frills; orange zest - orange pollka dots; blueberry crumble for jeans... Hey, this is seriously a good idea. I mean, you could even customise baby clothes for baby showers etc! And cake servings will be according to garments - a small serving would be a "bikini", a larger serving "swimsuit" or "big shirt", then you can add "shorts" or "pants" if you want another flavour, and "winter clothes" would be the biggest serving everrr! (And if you want a winter scene, ice cream on the side!)
Of course in a world where big rules, other shops will start popping up (because admittedly, it's an easy idea to copy), and then some big rich chain will jump in and kill us all. But heyyy, we;ll be the original, and maybe someone would want to buy our name. Sell it off, be rich!
(And yes, I would be willing to sell the name - please, just promise me, use buttercream -so delicious- and not fondant. Most fondant tastes awful...)
June 29, 2009
April 12, 2009
no one-person kitchen-
When I grow up I don't want a one-person kitchen. A kitchen so small only one person can work properly in it. No.
If the kitchen is small then it shall be opened up. Big enough for two. Big enough for sharing, cooking with a loved one, a kid. Big enough to have oven to bake cookies, cupcakes and other sweet goodies, big enough for kids to pour shredded cheese over a casserole while you get a drink of water, big enough for a mother to teach you how to steam fish properly.
The heart of a house should be big, and loved.
When I grow up I don't want a one-person kitchen. A kitchen so small only one person can work properly in it. No.
If the kitchen is small then it shall be opened up. Big enough for two. Big enough for sharing, cooking with a loved one, a kid. Big enough to have oven to bake cookies, cupcakes and other sweet goodies, big enough for kids to pour shredded cheese over a casserole while you get a drink of water, big enough for a mother to teach you how to steam fish properly.
The heart of a house should be big, and loved.
February 25, 2009
this song is giving me goosebumps-
I love this song.
I am thinking it's a sign
That the freckles in our eyes
Are mirror images
And when we kiss they're perfectly aligned
And I have to speculate
That God himself did make
Us into corresponding shapes
Like puzzle pieces from the clay
And true, it may seem like a stretch
But it's thoughts like this that catch
My troubled head when you're away
When I am missing you to death
When you are out there on the road
For several weeks of shows
And when you scan the radio
I hope this song will guide you home.
They won't see us waving from such great heights
"Come down now" they'll say
But everything looks perfect from far away
"Come down now" but we'll stay
I tried my best to leave
This all on your machine
But the persistent beat
It sounded thin upon listening.
And that frankly will not fly
You'll hear the shrillest highs
And lowest lows with the windows down
while this is guiding you home.
They won't see us waving from such great heights
"Come down now" they'll say
But everything looks perfect from far away
"Come down now" but we'll stay
They won't see us waving from such great heights
"Come down now" they'll say
But everything looks perfect from far away
"Come down now" but we'll stay
They won't see us waving from such great heights
"Come down now" they'll say
But everything looks perfect from far away
"Come down now" but we'll stay
Such Great Heights by Iron and Wine
I love this song.
February 24, 2009
empty room-
I would like an empty room, to run to.
I dream of it being a white room, not stark cold sterile white, not warm white that is actually a dirty yellow and washed out, but instead, nice glowy white, with daylight drenching the room in a beautiful glow.
every time, no matter how upset I am, no matter how mean or angry or horrible, the beauty and space and love of that room will just envelope me, to fill me up with surprise and wonder somehow.
it'll be a good room to hide in. from other people, for their sakes. I can be hurtful when I'm raging, and raging simply because I'm moody, and moody because of, of...
nothing.
it'll be a good room to hide in, to stop hurting others. but I guess, I guess, there always come a moment that's too late, somehow. somehow.
it's ok. it's ok.
better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
better to have loved and lost than never to have loved (and gained) at all.
pretty pretty white room.
I would like an empty room, to run to.
I dream of it being a white room, not stark cold sterile white, not warm white that is actually a dirty yellow and washed out, but instead, nice glowy white, with daylight drenching the room in a beautiful glow.
every time, no matter how upset I am, no matter how mean or angry or horrible, the beauty and space and love of that room will just envelope me, to fill me up with surprise and wonder somehow.
it'll be a good room to hide in. from other people, for their sakes. I can be hurtful when I'm raging, and raging simply because I'm moody, and moody because of, of...
nothing.
it'll be a good room to hide in, to stop hurting others. but I guess, I guess, there always come a moment that's too late, somehow. somehow.
it's ok. it's ok.
better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
better to have loved and lost than never to have loved (and gained) at all.
pretty pretty white room.
February 22, 2009
a dream-
We were sleeping when they came.
Ever since the invasion began we had started sleeping together in the basement. "Safety in numbers." - that's what Father said. But everyone knew the truth was that no one really dared to sleep alone or even in pairs in their own room; no one could stand the thought of being brought away alone. It was a weird distortion of "misery loves company".
On the day Father decided we would all sleep together in the basement, family, servants, and all, we each took a stone and broke almost every window in the house. My heart broke when the first stone crashed against the big picture windows in the living room, and all that was left was jagged shards of glass. But it had to be done. Father said we had to make the house looked as abandoned and as ravaged looking as possible so that the Aztchens would dismiss the house when they walked by. We even broke the locks of the house, though that seemed very counter-intuitive. But no one disobeyed Father's orders.
The dogs were killed too. They were never my dogs, and I was never much attached to them, but their pleas would be a sound I would always remember. The way they whimpered and whined as the men approached them... for their sake I hoped it was quick, though I never would know. I shut my eyes tight and quick when the deed was about to be done - the clenching of the servant's hand across my shoulder told me when the deed was done.
Their carcass were left outside the house, and in time, it became more of a rank smell than dog.
I guess Father was hoping that we would never be disturbed till the war ended, and then everything would be fine again. But that was a wild dream, a wild hope. His plan never worked the way he wanted it to. They came. The Aztchens. They came. I always believed that his plan did work though. It bought us time, time long enough for almost all of us to dare hope again. Time long enough to gain strength. I like to think that a seed of quiet reserve and strength grew in each of our hearts during that time, a strength that gave us calmness when they came.
They came to take the girls. The twins were taken away, along with some servant girls. I awoke when they turned me round, and a cold cold fear gripped my heart, but all was quiet except for the shuffling noises of the soldier's boots. It was quiet, the twins were quiet, so I left my eyes half-open and pretended I was still asleep and dreaming. The soldier who turned me over grunted, and then left me alone.
They were actually about to leave when Amir woke up. He started up and whimpered.
The soldier's actions were quick. He ran, leapt back and over across seemingly sleeping bodies that could not possibly be asleep but lay so still. In a flash of a second the soldier had a vial in his hands. He uncorked it, grasped Amir's head, tilted it back, forced his mouth open, and poured the contents down.
We all knew what it was. Poison. As he gurgled desperately and gasped for air while the dreaded liquid made its way down to his stomach the soldier looked very intently at him until he made no more sound. The minutes that passed by while he choked and sputtered were long, and the cold fear in my heart that had faded when the soldiers left me alone rose again. My eyes were half-open, and fixed. Then he was quiet, and the soldier was satisfied. He stood up and looked round him once, before moving on.
The corpse was left in the house.
.
It was funny.
Amir had never been liked by the womenfolk of the house. He was rude and abusive, used swear loudly and in vain often. Got drunk easily. Was often drunk. The only woman he were nice to were the twins, in an extremely fawning way, and everyone, everyone knew why that was.
The twins detested him, even more than the rest of the womenfolk. Cook often complained about how he was drunk, but Father always kept him. He's an orphan, he would say. "But oh, hardened he is, that little black one, hardened, no heart. Drunk so often," Cook would reply. Still, Father kept him.
He had been excessively bold and arrogant to the twins that day when the Aztchens came however. Perhaps he was just bored, but the twins had picked up their skirts and went off in a huff, extremely fumed. Father soon heard and he got a harsh telling-off. Yet he was still unrepentant, and took his feelings of frustration and resentment on another servant girl, harrasing her till she broke into tears and cried.
The womenfolk were riled, but there was no way to hit back. They gathered together to talk about him, upset and angry, while the more matronly ones held the crying girl by her shoulders and comforted her. In anger Cook had said very vehemently, "I wish the Aztchens would get him, that black one, that no heart one!" The rest agreed, and curses after curses rained on. Almost all agreed a quick death for him was too merciful, and he should die by what the Aztchens were famous for.
Poison.
That very night the Aztchens came, and they took the twins away. And they got him. And all was quiet till next morning.
It happened so fast.
They were kinder when he was dead. "That black one, he could be nice. He got water once when I sprained my leg." But it did not matter anymore, not really. It had happened, that very night.
That. Everything. It was funny.
Somehow.
We were sleeping when they came.
Ever since the invasion began we had started sleeping together in the basement. "Safety in numbers." - that's what Father said. But everyone knew the truth was that no one really dared to sleep alone or even in pairs in their own room; no one could stand the thought of being brought away alone. It was a weird distortion of "misery loves company".
On the day Father decided we would all sleep together in the basement, family, servants, and all, we each took a stone and broke almost every window in the house. My heart broke when the first stone crashed against the big picture windows in the living room, and all that was left was jagged shards of glass. But it had to be done. Father said we had to make the house looked as abandoned and as ravaged looking as possible so that the Aztchens would dismiss the house when they walked by. We even broke the locks of the house, though that seemed very counter-intuitive. But no one disobeyed Father's orders.
The dogs were killed too. They were never my dogs, and I was never much attached to them, but their pleas would be a sound I would always remember. The way they whimpered and whined as the men approached them... for their sake I hoped it was quick, though I never would know. I shut my eyes tight and quick when the deed was about to be done - the clenching of the servant's hand across my shoulder told me when the deed was done.
Their carcass were left outside the house, and in time, it became more of a rank smell than dog.
I guess Father was hoping that we would never be disturbed till the war ended, and then everything would be fine again. But that was a wild dream, a wild hope. His plan never worked the way he wanted it to. They came. The Aztchens. They came. I always believed that his plan did work though. It bought us time, time long enough for almost all of us to dare hope again. Time long enough to gain strength. I like to think that a seed of quiet reserve and strength grew in each of our hearts during that time, a strength that gave us calmness when they came.
They came to take the girls. The twins were taken away, along with some servant girls. I awoke when they turned me round, and a cold cold fear gripped my heart, but all was quiet except for the shuffling noises of the soldier's boots. It was quiet, the twins were quiet, so I left my eyes half-open and pretended I was still asleep and dreaming. The soldier who turned me over grunted, and then left me alone.
They were actually about to leave when Amir woke up. He started up and whimpered.
The soldier's actions were quick. He ran, leapt back and over across seemingly sleeping bodies that could not possibly be asleep but lay so still. In a flash of a second the soldier had a vial in his hands. He uncorked it, grasped Amir's head, tilted it back, forced his mouth open, and poured the contents down.
We all knew what it was. Poison. As he gurgled desperately and gasped for air while the dreaded liquid made its way down to his stomach the soldier looked very intently at him until he made no more sound. The minutes that passed by while he choked and sputtered were long, and the cold fear in my heart that had faded when the soldiers left me alone rose again. My eyes were half-open, and fixed. Then he was quiet, and the soldier was satisfied. He stood up and looked round him once, before moving on.
The corpse was left in the house.
.
It was funny.
Amir had never been liked by the womenfolk of the house. He was rude and abusive, used swear loudly and in vain often. Got drunk easily. Was often drunk. The only woman he were nice to were the twins, in an extremely fawning way, and everyone, everyone knew why that was.
The twins detested him, even more than the rest of the womenfolk. Cook often complained about how he was drunk, but Father always kept him. He's an orphan, he would say. "But oh, hardened he is, that little black one, hardened, no heart. Drunk so often," Cook would reply. Still, Father kept him.
He had been excessively bold and arrogant to the twins that day when the Aztchens came however. Perhaps he was just bored, but the twins had picked up their skirts and went off in a huff, extremely fumed. Father soon heard and he got a harsh telling-off. Yet he was still unrepentant, and took his feelings of frustration and resentment on another servant girl, harrasing her till she broke into tears and cried.
The womenfolk were riled, but there was no way to hit back. They gathered together to talk about him, upset and angry, while the more matronly ones held the crying girl by her shoulders and comforted her. In anger Cook had said very vehemently, "I wish the Aztchens would get him, that black one, that no heart one!" The rest agreed, and curses after curses rained on. Almost all agreed a quick death for him was too merciful, and he should die by what the Aztchens were famous for.
Poison.
That very night the Aztchens came, and they took the twins away. And they got him. And all was quiet till next morning.
It happened so fast.
They were kinder when he was dead. "That black one, he could be nice. He got water once when I sprained my leg." But it did not matter anymore, not really. It had happened, that very night.
That. Everything. It was funny.
Somehow.
February 14, 2009
Sweet-Heart, Valentine's Day-
Round thin circles that go on ceaselessly - for infinity. Ribbed with delicate bands of colour - red, blue, silver, rose, green, yellow - dangly thin metal bangles.
A red "sorry" scrawled rather crudely, hastily, onto a piece of white A4 paper. A coloured-in red heart with wings, all done with a red pastel, like a little kid, little boy. My heart melted.
(It melted all over again when I realised they were not meant to be wings, but sweet wrappers.)
A mass of black nibble fishes suddenly whipping round and flipping their tails, rapidly to his legs, worming between his toes, going up and down all over his legs - nibbling, nibbling, nibbling. "Wah, ticklish!" he yells, twitching and jerking slightly while he tries to hold his laughter in while I watch in quiet amusement. A naughty peal of laughter breaks through his tightly closed lips - I burst into laughter myself.
The fish theme continues, we end up at fish&co. The food there was really nice. Dumping fries onto his portion was even more fun. The drink was slightly sour - tangy - and gassy. Gassy passionfruit drink. I like. He tries some. He's ok with it. I continue sipping. Drinking. I am happy drinking it. I am happy.
We took 156 to school. The seats at the back were low, and it was nice. We were shielded. In a little world of our own. I felt small all over again, but not in a bad way. It is warm and nice resting on your shoulders. You nuzzle and nibble my ear, and it is nice.
I like the way you laughed so hard, and that stunned bright-eyed excitement/astonishment you sometimes get. The bear hug was funny.
It was a lovely night.
Round thin circles that go on ceaselessly - for infinity. Ribbed with delicate bands of colour - red, blue, silver, rose, green, yellow - dangly thin metal bangles.
A red "sorry" scrawled rather crudely, hastily, onto a piece of white A4 paper. A coloured-in red heart with wings, all done with a red pastel, like a little kid, little boy. My heart melted.
(It melted all over again when I realised they were not meant to be wings, but sweet wrappers.)
A mass of black nibble fishes suddenly whipping round and flipping their tails, rapidly to his legs, worming between his toes, going up and down all over his legs - nibbling, nibbling, nibbling. "Wah, ticklish!" he yells, twitching and jerking slightly while he tries to hold his laughter in while I watch in quiet amusement. A naughty peal of laughter breaks through his tightly closed lips - I burst into laughter myself.
The fish theme continues, we end up at fish&co. The food there was really nice. Dumping fries onto his portion was even more fun. The drink was slightly sour - tangy - and gassy. Gassy passionfruit drink. I like. He tries some. He's ok with it. I continue sipping. Drinking. I am happy drinking it. I am happy.
We took 156 to school. The seats at the back were low, and it was nice. We were shielded. In a little world of our own. I felt small all over again, but not in a bad way. It is warm and nice resting on your shoulders. You nuzzle and nibble my ear, and it is nice.
I like the way you laughed so hard, and that stunned bright-eyed excitement/astonishment you sometimes get. The bear hug was funny.
It was a lovely night.
February 12, 2009
your stories-
I don't know how to impress onto you that your stories are the best.
Not for the content, even though they make me laugh a lot. Not for the description, although when you describe the moon you bring me into an entirely new world. Not for the plot, not for your tone, not for the characters.
Only for the sheer joy of listening you talk for more than 30 seconds, of suddenly seeing the same thing that is existing in your mind (as you think about the images and translate them into words, and thus put an image into my head too), for the sharing of a moment, moments, for having to do something for it when you're feeling slightly unwilling, for not having to do something for it when you decide I shall have one, for the way you try to get out of it, for the way you gamely face it, for the way you do it.
Do you hate it that much?
I speak in the language of stories. I look at pictures of frogs and my tongue goes slightly dry, I want to tell you, point out to you those brilliant colours and gorgeous form, their lives, their stories, the horrible spiders. And then I'll switch to the perspective of spiders and talk about how horrible humans are. And then I'll look at pictures of humans and journeys and try to read the word printed on the documents, and trace the curl of the smile of the nice old man with my eyes, and wonder what stories they had, and then admire the bath suits of the ladies - such nice pretty bath suits, I wonder why they don't have bath suits like that anymore -
and then I'll switch to a story of you, except that I don't do it in front of you, I talk of you to others, often, often, how you're taller, the things we went through, etc, etc.
What are stories.
Stories are the silly things you tell me about the Amazon flooding because the monkeys needed to talk to the fish.
Stories are about flatted factories and how they're little small houses, just for business.
Stories are the, "shhh" and then pointing to a squirrel that is just ahead of us, and creeping very slowly to look at it closer.
Stories are the description of the moon, or tree, of what happened today, of how cute that little boy is, a laugh.
Stories are your every single word to me that does not involve me, the words that reveal you, and not me.
I don't know how to impress onto you that your stories are the best.
Not for the content, even though they make me laugh a lot. Not for the description, although when you describe the moon you bring me into an entirely new world. Not for the plot, not for your tone, not for the characters.
Only for the sheer joy of listening you talk for more than 30 seconds, of suddenly seeing the same thing that is existing in your mind (as you think about the images and translate them into words, and thus put an image into my head too), for the sharing of a moment, moments, for having to do something for it when you're feeling slightly unwilling, for not having to do something for it when you decide I shall have one, for the way you try to get out of it, for the way you gamely face it, for the way you do it.
Do you hate it that much?
I speak in the language of stories. I look at pictures of frogs and my tongue goes slightly dry, I want to tell you, point out to you those brilliant colours and gorgeous form, their lives, their stories, the horrible spiders. And then I'll switch to the perspective of spiders and talk about how horrible humans are. And then I'll look at pictures of humans and journeys and try to read the word printed on the documents, and trace the curl of the smile of the nice old man with my eyes, and wonder what stories they had, and then admire the bath suits of the ladies - such nice pretty bath suits, I wonder why they don't have bath suits like that anymore -
and then I'll switch to a story of you, except that I don't do it in front of you, I talk of you to others, often, often, how you're taller, the things we went through, etc, etc.
What are stories.
Stories are the silly things you tell me about the Amazon flooding because the monkeys needed to talk to the fish.
Stories are about flatted factories and how they're little small houses, just for business.
Stories are the, "shhh" and then pointing to a squirrel that is just ahead of us, and creeping very slowly to look at it closer.
Stories are the description of the moon, or tree, of what happened today, of how cute that little boy is, a laugh.
Stories are your every single word to me that does not involve me, the words that reveal you, and not me.
January 14, 2009
when love is found-
What be love?
When there is someone, someone whom I can sing this song together with all my heart, perhaps, I'll know he is the one.
when love is found and hope comes home,
come and be glad that two are one.
when love explodes and fills the sky
praise God and share our Maker's joy.
when love has flowered in trust and care,
build both each day that love may dare
to reach beyond home's warmth and light,
to serve and strive for truth and right.
when love is tired, as loved-ones change,
hold still to hope though all seem strange
till ease returns and love grows wise
through listening ears and opened eyes.
when love is torn and trust betrayed,
pray strength to love till torments fade,
till lovers keep no score of wrong
but hear through pain love's Easter song.
praise God for love, praise God for life,
in age or youth, in calm or strife,
lift up your hearts, let love be fed
through death and life in broken bread.
What be love?
When there is someone, someone whom I can sing this song together with all my heart, perhaps, I'll know he is the one.
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