I haven’t been writing here, but it’s been so busy! There was a constant flow of law essays to occupy me every-day, and points on Syariah law and all kinds of absurdities that sprung on myself like secret caramel cats in the middle of a stairway. I must have edited my papers a million times. My girl friends and I called each other a zillion times. In the end, we threaded a series of words which we were convinced the marker would never read, but felt very strongly about what we had written, which we knew we would forget about the next week. The strange absurdity about logical, practical law essays which demand camping in the library (the librarians now all know us and one of the women even waves at us excitedly when we leave and the photocopier auntie slams the photocopy machine on me as the clock strikes nine. But yet it is all an exciting blaze at times, and it reminds me of mooting, which I really miss. Maybe I should have gone for Jessups like they asked, after all.
I was reading a story tonight which felt queerly like how I felt growing up. Plenty like how I still feel, at all these sombre Equalia moments in the day when I feel a sudden ecstatic pleasure at something I remember- and how I would have learnt French better with a little village lass convinced of racial bias in the city. I think I am the sort of person who will wake up my husband at 8am one day and tell him about the flowers I saw in the forest, and be attracted to someone painfully practical and imagine myself wanting to be serious and logical for him, but our daughter will see through my eyes and lecture me on realities. I am convinced I see myself in the novel (admitably it is often in the novels I read, but this time I am really, really certain, but you will never believe me, Irving) and I will never be properly able to understand men and why they love golf so much. But it is true, I think I secretly would always prefer a man as a play-fellow more as a lover, but men don’t necessarily think like that, and they would much prefer the company of other men, and I am reserved for the life of tea and sudden remembrances during dinners. It is such a depressing thought, but perhaps it is only cats with hyacinth blue eyes which warm to affection. Don’t I sound frightfully feminist Irving, as I grow towards writing a thesis of the Old Woman and her Cat. You will marry TM in a big spring wedding with lots of dogs, turtles and hamsters, but I will be left choosing cat collars when I am 86 and reading Rosseau in Switzerland and trading in secret accounts. I am no longer housewifey grace in London cooking afternoon risottos and dreaming of baking and beautiful kitchens, but I will be writing and thinking of other people, just like Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf and see sakuras in autumn. You will then say I am too young and I will change the next moment I turn 24, and see myself changing opinions as quickly as I change my wallpaper to nursery room type mauve irises. But I must keep the hopes of Bibimbap Lawyers and be the New York-London trotting financier/lawyer and write a book on financial law with Irving like D and M are expecting me to be. I have very schizo ambitions and my cat has seemingly inherited those traits.
I suppose you could say I am in a happy sort of depression. I watched Wall Street and it was average, but I really want to watch the old Wall Street now and I was amused at the picture of Goya. More so because I thought much of the movie was too literal, but still it was enjoyable and had my kind of Simon & Garfunkel music. And much of the movie was actually very familiar, especially since finance and markets have always been quite my thing and where I want to be, and all that. But the insider trading was not smart enough, and there was no clue as to how it was done at all – and shorting in a private account vs. a bank is all too simple, and the whole CDS thing was left quite unexplained. It wasn’t as smart as I would have loved it to be. Someone should turn Harry Markopoulous’ No One Would Listen into a movie – I brought it when I was jetting through Dubai and it got me through eight hours in a lonely cafe with a random engineer guy from a Turkish land I could not pronounce (he told me a nicer meaning for the eye symbol Turkey is so famous for, and how he had felt lonely in his last job sitting in an oil (?) in the middle of an abandoned island and how he is going to be working for Shell in ___. ) I adored the whole investigation into Madoff’s Ponzi scheme and how everything all made sense, and the irritating nonchalance of the SEC. Lawyers. A good reason why I am always striving to get my numbers and finance theory right, even if M still laughs at me (but he is a genius and can do statistics in a second and strange stochastics formulas in his mind). I wish I was as mathematical, but investments has always attracted me in a lawyerly sort of way, something like my mentor who did law and specialized in international jurisprudence in America, but ran off to become a London foreign exchange trader and later started his own business, but whose first love remains classical music. So T is always advising me to get my priorities right and start making notes on the market again and go back to analyzing charts and learning t-doves and funny names for curves and every detail on companies and trends. And start up a website with him as we had promised a year ago when we were in banking and he is now screaming at interns at his own and learning Russian because he invests in Russian markets. Because you see, T always secretly wanted to be a writer too.
So here it is, we keep our secret loves, and even after falling in love with playfellows, cannot reveal the ecstatic joy we feel at seeing evening oak tree autumn leaves, and are doomed to a life of either realistic stochastic daughters or nonchalant cats with hyacinth blue eyes. Someone might speak to us – and catch a glimpse of that pattern we do not see. We might be as methodical analyzing the next oil price curve as we are about emptying the cat’s bowl. Work might not bring us the satisfaction we dreamt of as starry eyed university graduates, but there is always something about listening to Puccini’s La Boheme in the middle of the day and having cheese fondue for dinner.
And there’s God. He and I are complicated. I grew up with him and the Precious Moments verses on my wall, but things are difficult when I miss them being too simple. I think the problem is, things in life are always as such, difficult. And I am sometimes as impulsive in life as I am about choosing ice cream flavours.
I like the old, but so many people seem to be obsessed about the new. And yet I am so attracted to people who know nothing but the new. I am secretly cynical, how long can it last? But I am a reporter with a yellow beret behind the wall following the debutante for a feature on Bright Young Things. I always see myself in the distance, very peculiarly, and always imagine, that some day, far off in the distance, in some city which has to be Italian, I might pass by a garden at the top of a city and imagine myself in a foolish thought of suicide, and a strange who looks Harlequin might pass by and know how exactly I think too, in a very Mary Westmacott sort of situation.
Oh dear, I am writing so much tonight, but about particularly nothing at all. This comes off from having three hour conversations with the best friend. He has been on a cloud recently, and nothing but grazing on a cloud. He is even joining the orchestra! Playing the violin! I am always beseeching him to play my favourite Kreisler by Perlman, but he has always staunchly refused by claiming his violin (or piano) is in some offshore entity like the Cayman Islands. Each time I emerge from conversations with him I still feel very much in a mist and thinking about his new book covers and the girls he will be in love with and faded walls in restaurants (with egg benedict!) in Hong Kong. This is why having a male best friend is fatal, for I will have to pretend to be a handsome boy one day (and not sound very Oscar Wildean).
Tomorrow – to tackle insolvency tutorials, and lots of work on joint ventures! I don’t know how I will ever be done with it! Maybe I should have devoted some of tonight’s energy but I simply couldn’t. I should have read something sombre to calm my spirits. Something American with alot of boat symbols. The Commercial Practice Manuals. The State of Floating Charges in Singapore.
I miss Mokal so much, he was such a brilliant and evocative insolvency lecturer! He is heading the legal department in the World Bank now, and I remember how I used to spend literally hours in his office going over points of law and Dworkin for insolvency theory.
I miss someone having faith in me and telling me I can still accomplish great things. Mokal was one of those who always assured me, and I felt like committing the best I could to his work, to examine with detail even the points the old me would have accepted as a given. I never was one who excelled in socratic questioning, and never quite will be. I think some females secretly need it, like Sunday calla lilies. It is not a need as such, but men will only concentrate on the temporal nature. In a way, dishonesty is an old kind of affection. I miss feeling in control of what I do.
It comes to this – I sometimes feel lost at where I am going right here where I am – and I don’t know if I can ever find myself again.
In the meantime, there are the law tutorials to think about.
Near midnight, these thoughts often flit like agitated butterflies.
Below – a last photograph before heading out to a picnic! I am the sort of person however, who might prefer picnics in winter.