Category Archives: Love and Friendship

let em’ laugh


“ Solitude devastates me; company oppresses me. The presence of another person derails my thoughts; I dream of the other’s presence with a strange absent-mindedness that no amount of my analytical scrutiny can define. ” – Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

Woke up derailed on thoughts of another city, another place. Consumed with strange desires and longing, memories of old paths and Belgian mussels in restaurants and dreaming of things to come, all in the 5am cotton wool lightness of my mind. I never want to have any conception of time and place in the morning – I want to live madly – as Walt Whitman declared – sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world – take off and live in another city – linger in night streets – snow angels – old friends like bookends – we’re sentimental so we walk in the rain, I go to the corner and end up in Spain –  stardust clowns, you and I.

So let people wonder

Let ’em laugh

Let ’em frown 

You know I’ll love you 

Till the moon’s upside down


Juliette on Tombstones;

It’s been a passage of time since the last entry – I use ‘passage’ as it seems as though so much has happened, romping through the good times like a little joyous foal! It is my country’s National Day and so I hear little children singing songs in the background, and I remember my childhood days swinging little flags.

I met up with S and A last week in Arab Street- and fell in love with the stranger streets, the way we could slip up to a random restaurant and find Morrocan lamb dishes with all sorts of tea that taste like the same apple concoction. A rendered us with beautiful stories of Nepal and trekking. She also introduced me to Yasunori Kawabata, a Nobel prize winner in literature pretty much unknown to me, but the poignant titles stir a little something in me of many things said in very little words. S’s conception of beauty is newly bound up in a mermaid, and we talked about living in Japan and hiding away. These are two of the people I love the most in the world – and listening to the soft curls of A’s laughter (”kikikiki”) and the clip of her bangles (Scottish, even if they are ethnic, she says) seems to stir something magical. It feels sometimes that the time spent in between meeting such people as A and S is sleeping time – and the secret part of me awakes again in a dream. There is a little of the past – Celine Dion plays in the background as I dabble in some source and observe the little plate of dates and the shopowner seems to have emerged from an Asterix/Obelix comic / and yet the feeling is modern familiarity, things have changed but I am not able to discuss how and in what manner, and all we can do is share a hint of stories that have shaped who we have came to be.

A says I follow her like le’ detective and I seem more curious about people moving through streets. But I love the soft warm orange highlights of the night and the streets which I do not know. The shadows mimic a little film noir adventure. So many things are closed at night and yet they run their own stories in the morning, and it has been this way for years.

J drove me past his old home, a little shophouse, recently. I imagined him as a boy, climbing up and down the stairs, and looking down from the window, of him running away from the vacumn cleaner. He has always told me that he felt that he had lost his childhood, and when I look up the window, I think of years passed with that impish face pressing against the window.

We trooped into a little shophouse because the shopowner told us to. There were little Aladdin-esque corners with rainbow cushions and elaborate carpets, and people smoking shisha in a decadent sort of way. You take off your shoes and lose yourself.

Forever I’ll Love you – Otsuka Ai

It seems a waste of time, to think about you
But, i want to keep you mine, all the time
I don’t really want to remember you
It’s embarassing, I mean, grinning to myself

Even thought you’re coming home late, tired of hard work all night
you took me in your arms, I could feel it, even in my dreams

I miss you so much
I couldn’t feel more helpless
I miss you so much
I will always love you

Do you know, what I wished for, that night,
When we were driving on your motorbike?
Do you know, that I saw our happiness in the sky
We looked up together?

you took this one ‘me’ lying there
made her beautiful, always supporting her

I miss you so much
I don’t want to be away from you
I miss you so much
I will always love you

I miss you so much
I couldn’t feel anymore helpless
I miss you so much
I’ll always love you.

Coffee with company;

Today, I finished reading an old book by a girl who also had insomnia.

Plath, the growing-of-age everyone-read-when-15 book, Bell Jar.

Going through the motions, living on the high life, wondering which figs to clutch on, and so many things that she wanted to do. But I understand how she described that she would never know when the darkness came back to cover her one day.

Another night without much sleep, like the past weeks, but tonight is a little better. Every night I have woken up, pretty much – the mousey art of pacing around unsure of myself, not being able to work or do anything practical but listen to absent jazz and finish a last portion of Somerset Maugham. I have been trying to write, or rather as always, dreaming of writing – the same way one dreams of baking a frilly cake, with rainbow sparkly icing, in the midst of a cold, dark winter. At night, it is quiet, and there is nothing to do but to pace around muttering to oneself that one should really fall asleep.

I could be the girl with insomnia without love, or the girl with insomnia with love, and both are essentially very different. It has struck me in the past week how a simple 3 days can change everything. One moment you are living your mundane excel-posterity life and the next moment you are shot up in a type of dream cloud and talking about substantial dreams with someone and having your feet hang in ski lifts (the Singapore’s version, the easier-termed ‘sky-ride’). It pretty much describes the whole of my life, where I have been caught unawares. I understand how Plath could sit at her table and pay so much attention to spreading caviar on her sandwich, and remember it. Then, in a strange, irreverent way, as all these substantial things begin to grow bigger and overcome you, the little moments (like caviar on a sandwich), start to eclipse them. They become somehow more real. A cavalier type of security, a simple moment of reading a book in front of a window (where the lights shine on a river). I don’t know how happiness lasts, how it begins to start, and what I think of it, anymore.

“If it’s a change in which you’re seeking, I would move you to the beat of a drum.

If it’s a push that you are needing, I would hold you parallel, for you’ll never be alone.If it’s truth that you are missing, I’ll persuade you until you don’t leave a mark.

And if it’s distance that keeps you waiting, three-thousand miles ain’t all that rough.

There’s no home for you here. ” – Christine




Victoria & Perry

A lovely friend in the egl circle, Victoria, had her wedding just last week, and she kindly invited many of the egl girls to her wedding. It was such a sweet affair, and I really liked the adorable story of how they had met as depicted in a cartoon video (they have been dating for 11 years), and how they came to pick up their little 4 felines (+ 1 chihuahua) through the years and found homes for them in their house and hearts.

Her dinner dress – the BTSSB Masquerade in Red, was a dream dress which she found only with much difficulty. But she looked absolutely ravishing and perfect in it. All her dresses looked so much like an egl princess’s dream!

I wish her happiness in her home and with her new hubby! But she is such a sensitive and caring soul, and I just think P is lucky to have found the sweetest wife.

(first 2 photographs and the last by Lim Chee Siong, the rest mine own from the night)

The next photograph, Victoria shared it was actually from her ‘rejected’ pile! But I thought she looked simply adorable…^-^

Other Lives and Dimensions and Finally a Love Poem

Here when I say “I never want to be without you,”
somewhere else I am saying
“I never want to be without you again.” And when I touch you
in each of the places we meet

in all of the lives we are, it’s with hands that are dying
and resurrected.
When I don’t touch you it’s a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever.

– Bob Hicok

I really quite like Hicok’s writing, it is rather unique and personal.

In his university page (lucky you liberal arts students): I write poems and stories. I have little faith or interest in my thoughts on writing. Those who do a thing are often too close to be perceptive commentators, particularly where love is involved. I love writing, maybe most of all because it doesn’t matter, because poems don’t lift bridges or make refrigerators shinier. The nakedness of the endeavor—just one person, sitting at a desk, trying to express something they feel in a way that will allow others into their mind—may be among the most human things we do. We are the mouths of the world, and through poetry we speak.

And it is also perhaps, time to revise a little Eliot. I’ve been chanting this to cats and think it is a perfect song… I am always story-telling to my cat. I wish she would act a little more interested, just from time to time. So I poke her a bit every now and then, to gather a little bit of ‘rattling’ reaction.

HEY are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,
And along the trampled edges of the street
I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids
Sprouting despondently at area gates.
The brown waves of fog toss up to me
Twisted faces from the bottom of the street,
And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts
An aimless smile that hovers in the air
And vanishes along the level of the roofs.

– T.S Eliot

WELVE o’clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said, “Regard that woman
Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin.”
The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.
Half-past two,
The street lamp said,
“Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter.”
So the hand of a child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child’s eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
“Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smoothes the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain.”
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars.”
The lamp said,
“Four o’clock,
Here is the number on the door.
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life.”
The last twist of the knife.

– T.S Eliot