Who likes standing so close to huge fires? Heat that gnaws at skin, smoke bullying eyes into reacting. Uncontrollably. As if I needed a directive to cry.
I spent hours folding sincerity. Paper taels fat with grief, ready to incinerate in seconds. Each one meant more than an army of paper cranes. The landslide ratio of lost love versus love, the concept of eternity, realised.
On the Hell banknotes, the numerical value represented my regrets. Zeros the length of sentences, expressing the reconciliation of mortal limitations and lavish piety. Inflation was an alien concept, as the bereaved raced each other to establish the deceased as instant billionaires.
Each dollar thrown into the offerings was this: 'I cannot burn my heart for you, so this is what my heart wants to give you.'
Staring at the fire with the weight of your absence strapped to my shoulders,
every fiery emissary danced my sadness, crackling and folding and bending, yielding to fire. Showing me how everything had to happen. I would eventually return to dirt, life regenerates.
But back then all I sought was for my pain to disintegrate with the tribute, whispering ashes.
it's a sad day when you finally realise your "drinking buddies" aren't real buddies at i'm glad i won't have to spend any more money on my own birthday, as i've done over most of my birthdays.
OWS protesters are some of the dumbest people in the world. do they know what they want??? frankly if our function was pulled out of the banks, all the commodity trade flows in the world would stop because no trading house would trust each other. you wouldn't have bread, orange juice, gas, electricity, bacon. yes, even BACON.it's like all these hours i put in at work comes to nought because some people think everyone who works in a bank is a fat cat. i may be fat, but i'm not a pussy. try telling that in my face and i will shit on yours. if you were a true liberal you'd believe in free markets (WHICH INCIDENTALLY APPLIES TO HR MARKETS AS WELL, BTW.) bankers work on a low base pay and variable bonus. i don't prefer this model but it works because people have incentive to meet their budgets (and the more we lend out the faster the economy can recover, stupids). if you're gonna take the bonus away from us, a lot of smart people will leave the banking industry and put banks in an even more fragile position. people with banking experience are well sought-after in other finance-related jobs (especially since every company has a finance team). it is broad-based and numbers-intensive. you leave the banking to the dumber people and you will get fucked even worse than before (and btw, there are only a handful of IBs with trading desks big enough to hurt the american economy. most other banks earn their money the hard way: attracting deposits, analysing credit, and loaning that money out for interest payments. it's not glamorous for the most of us, and if you think you're punishing the investment bankers when you protest bonuses, you're not. you're punishing the compliance people who ensure money-laundering activities are regulated and reported, you're punshing risk analysts who ensure the deposits you put with us come back to us at the stipulated time, and you're punshing business-enablers who finance real trade flows and infrastructure building, without which the loan markets would go crazy and there'll be a lot of blood on the streets, literally. (when people don't pay up because nobody bothered to analyse the creditworthiness of the loan.)
Working life. The worries about money are replaced by anxieties every morning to arrive to work on time, to not let slip a vulgarity in professional conversation, and to successfully ignore being ignored.
Today I was introduced by M as a management trainee, like it was a dirty word. I’ve always called myself a trainee, because I am so new and inexperienced I don’t need the attention I don’t deserve. Because I’m an MT, people expect me to figure out everything by myself. Minimal guidance as if some people are trying to impede my progress. The environment is hostile but civil. That’s all I can say. That everyone’s civil towards me. There are no lunches, no post-work drinks, no casual conversations. A terse smile, and the inevitable quickening of footsteps as we pass each other by.
I understand. Nobody wants a young punk upstart to leapfrog the succession line in the department. I just hope they can soon see how little of a threat I will pose, and start to help me along.
People say they miss school for a variety of reasons. Hours are better, distinctions are awarded but more importantly, failures are seen as a signal for extra tuition, more help, and very rarely, expulsion. I think the thing I miss most about school was the structured education, starting with tricycles before removing the safety wheels. At work, you’re lucky to start with a unicycle, and no one will give you elbow and knee pads. No one will pick you up when you fall, and all your friends, the real ones, are too busy trying to balance on their own unicycles to help you out.
It’s a horrible world out there, and increasingly I find myself retreating into the comfort of my books on the daily commute, finding solace, comfort and familiarity in themes such as humanity and possibilities. Possibilities. Reading about other peoples’ dreams is the only way I can dream now. My window faces yet another tall building with double-glazed windows. My indication of dusk these days is the air-conditioning switching off at 7pm. Even as I get rebuffed when asking for more work (“I’ll get back to you, I’ll get back to you, I’ll get back to you…”), I have to stay back and wait till it’s a reasonable time to leave, to avoid being seen as a undedicated professional.
I’m writing this during work because no one wants to give me work. I cling on and savour to every bit of work that comes my way, just because it gives me something to do. Absurd.
"Someone told me once, after I'd spent so many years in high school and university running after a mirage, that the greatest fault in western education is that we're being educated for the future. We become deferred beings. By the time we realize that the present of our childhood had been robbed, we'd forgotten how to get back to it because now our heads are so stuffed with useless junk.
I had no idea what to expect at the end of it all, but had a vague idea of some kind of a pot of gold. Too late I realized that it was a path that led absolutely nowhere. What angered me most was that no one acknowledged it. No one came to me and said, we're sorry we fucked up your life. The weird thing is that it's probably my own fault."
Last night, after not meeting in awhile due to work schedules, Chad smsed me out of the blue. Turns out he was in Shanghai, trying to get a hold of Gary from Shelter, the only club in Shanghai I've been raving about. I texted him Gary's cell, and reminisced about the fun times I had, dancing anonymous, dancing underground, dancing.
I remember hogging the speaker (it was a standing speaker) at every DnB gig, tilting it so I captured the whole spectrum of layers that came with each track. I remember not having to feel self-conscious, because I was just another expatriate (re: poor exchange student) in a foreign city doing crazy things. Sometimes I was alone, and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
This Saturday, Bukem and Conrad are coming Home. I'm not feeling very good lately, but having missed their show this time last year because of SH, I'm going to make it to this one. I might even wear a mask.
I suddenly remember while waiting for my connecting flight from Narita to New Chitose, I was in the smoking room drinking a can of shitty 120 yen black coffee, lighting a cigarette from the dying tip of the last, when I spotted a skulking monk hovering around outside the room, in the cold, as if looking for enemies.
After 5 minutes of aimless wandering, he took a deep breath and pushed through the glass door. He looked guilty as sin, whipping out a single cigarette from the depths of his mustard robes, and asked me for a lighter. I passed it to him without looking into his eyes, afraid I'd betray a look of judgement I didn't intend. Expertly, he lit the cigarette, took one solitary puff, before asking, "Where's toilet?"
I pointed him to the nearest one, he thanked me again, stubbed out his nascent cigarette, and walked powerfully out of the room.
Moments later -I was still on the same cigarette- I watched him rejoin his group of travelling monks from the window of the smoking room, both hands clasped in greeting. He drew his robes closer to himself, no one else was the wiser.
Years have stopped meaning anything. A change of numbers, time-markers. I'm completely, utterly lost. Am I supposed to feel something?
I'm going to snowboard, and just like the last few times it feels more like a duty than a sport. There's nothing to look forward to, not in Japan, not here when I get back. Even chocolate doesn't help.
Surrendering at 430am, the only one in the group to leave early, stumbling for 20 minutes on my aching feet, just to get to the SHUTTLE which would take another 10 minutes to drive to THE OTHER END OF THE ISLAND, just so I could collect the car and DRIVE BACK DOWN THE SAME ROAD and out of Sentosa.
At least there weren't roadblocks on the way home.
Still, as the baby of the group, I always seem to be the first one to slink home every time. Oh, the shame.
I never truly appreciated the concept of gifting. If I had things my way, I'd request all my presents to be of the "universal gift voucher" type, and fiat by nature. When other people decide what's good for you, what tends to happen is disappointment on both sides. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy my friends like me enough to give me presents, but to force friends to come up with good gifts every year is very demanding, and I'd never ask this of people I care about. Save your money to buy yourself gifts when you feel like you deserve them, birthdays or not. And I'll do the same for days I need to cheer myself up.
So this year, I decided to give myself the best present yet. To commemorate the date of my final exam (which happened to fall on my birthday), I decided to quit smoking. Before the clock struck midnight, I had finished the last stick in my pack, and was on the way to withdrawals (and subsequent happiness).
Of course, like most big projects in life, gross miscalculations form the foundation of any undertaking. Except for a heavy head and insomnia (muscles are tense and can't go to sleep), I actually haven't succumbed once in these 4 days. I haven't felt the urge for a cigarette, after 5 years of regular, intense smoking. I didn't actually need them! Yay!!!
However, with every silver lining there's bound to be a dark cloud. Having few friends who've managed to quit smoking, I was not warned about the weight gain that came along with quitting. Then again, I didn't tell anyone (except PZ) about it, and funnily enough nobody noticed. I've been out with a few groups of friends and no one has remarked on my lack of 5-minute disappearances! Anyway, since smoking increases metabolism and suppresses appetite, going off it results in slower burning of calories, and increased food intake. As I'm already fat to begin with, this presents a whole host of problems I don't like.
Oh well, at least I didn't tell anyone about it. I didn't swear quitting on anyone's life, it's not a matter of life and death. I don't actually feel as healthy as I thought I would be. Still, it feels good to taste less blood in my mouth when I wake up.
I rediscovered my capacity for unequivocal happiness after my last class, and my final presentation ever. For nearly 4 years now friends have heard me bitch and sulk and whine about school, sometimes so excessively even I myself began to suspect I was a compulsive pessimist.
Last Thursday, I realised this wasn't true. I grinned so broadly as I skipped out of class, fists pumping, and a happy buzz that wouldn't stop humming in my head; from my lips. In fact, I grinned for so long (over 2 hours) that my jaws starting cramping up. Nothing could get me down. Suddenly, girls lingered their gazes a little longer, I must have looked inviting.
Looking back, it's been nearly 20 years of institutionalised learning. I am very glad that after 3 more exams, I will no longer have to feel compelled to attend classes, and receive prescribed learning taught by instructors varied in consistency. No longer the pressure to mix with peers, who seem to conform acceptedly, never realising for most part, I only remained civil for academic expediency. Maybe I'm just not a very sociable creature. In any case, it is finally over, and I am glad. There is no bittersweet sorrow from this parting, I feel so much lighter now. I have started reading poetry again. Started doing things I forgot I loved.
No more fucking bullshit in the classroom, where I don't get paid to smile at dumbfucks; teachers and students both. I am young again, the time is mine again.
One day I was packing up to leave this Tibetan-themed cafe opposite the dormitory, when I froze with my laptop hanging in mid-air as I left it to dangle dangerously in my slippery grip.
I loved the cafe, because there was WiFi, good coffee, and every further latte you had came with a hefty discount. I was sure the place was opened by a genuine illy fan, not just a cafe owner aspirant. Oh, and I could smoke it up in there and no one kicked up a fuss.
The only downside was the music, a mixture of lounge music and lounge music. In fact I had the earphones plugged in every time I was at the cafe, doing reports and doing the whole coffee+cigarettes gig.
As I removed my earphones that day, my ears picked up a very familiar riff. It was the beginning of the Eddie Hazel solo. Agape, I slowly let myself down back into the chair, and stopped everything I was doing.
For 10 minutes. Then, in a daze, I scrolled down my iTunes for the song, paid up my bill, and on the way home, listened to it again.
I recently heard an old superstition from a friend which involved avoiding wearing red clothing in the Seventh Month (Hungry Ghosts Festival, where spirits of the dead are said to be released from the gates of Hell to come out and feast for a whole month, it's a pretty big thing amongst a majority of the superstitious Chinese community here). During a supper conversation, I was seated with my best mates, and the topic of ghosts arose, when I pointed out that PZ's red coat was inappropriate, if the superstition was to be believed.
Typically, as in all our conversations, dissent arose from all fronts, skeptics were questioning me about its origins, leaving me no pause to explain the superstition (that it attracts the spirits etc etc, a frivolous thing really.) When suddenly, SH mockingly asked -and I will never forget this as long as I live, even if I might, I will have this entry to remind me- if it was my father who appeared in my dreams to tell me about this superstition. Nose raised, eyes wide with challenge. If you can read Chinese, these were her exact words, "是不是你爸爸托梦给你？！"
Taken aback, I replied in the flurry of queries, "It's just a superstition. And don't joke about my father," I shot back with a curt and stern stare.
From a friend for what must be 7 years now, she actually dared to look bruised, and raised her nose further skywards, punctuated with an antagonistic and petulant "What!", as if I was overreacting. I stared back, but since Lester was leaving for NY tomorrow, and since it was so rare for the 5 of us to get together these days, I looked away, hoping the dinner could continue as per normal, before this episode was blown out of proportion.
Deep in my heart it was uneasy. Those of you who knew me before my father passed away would have known his death did not slide over me like a tropical shower. The days were long and grey. Till this day, whenever a father dies in a film, I cry. But logically, I figured, why spoil the party for everyone, when most of us have our own demons, our own problems back home.
This was about the time she pulled her trademark move. "I'm very tired. I want to go home already." 我很累。 我要回家了。“ The identical stunt she pulls each time she's unhappy. I mean, we're talking about the same immature fuck who drove off when I was halfway into her car, while trying to stop her and persuade her to stay, cleaning up the mess created by another friend who had pissed her off. I nearly lost it. The whole table went gravely quiet, and I was so angry at that time I actually didn't hear what they said to make her stay, but the whole time all I could think of was how I was the one who really wanted to leave the table, how it was terribly unjust that no one spoke up for me (then again what the fuck do they know about losing parents), and how ridiculous the whole situation was. Imagine the 3 of them saying nice things to her, massaging her fucking ego while I sat there seething away, staring at her in equal parts disbelief and rage.
Here is where I applaud myself. Because right after one of them snapped me out of my deathstare, I decided I no longer wanted to be friends with that one. There is absolutely no reason why she could have acted so self-righteously, and got away with it. The whole dinner resumed normally, banter was traded back and forth, at one point, I actually gazed generally in her direction, but it was only a weak sense of nostalgia. For me the friendship was dead, not because of the insulting remark, but because she was given a chance to apologise and didn't, and I was prepared to let the episode go, but she clung on to it, with whatever supremacy she summoned from whichever channels. This isn't a personal attack so I won't psychoanalyze and speculate why.
People (she amongst them) always claim that I remember people who have wronged me in the past. Actually, if you know me well, you would know I have the memory of a goldfish, and this is why I'm writing it down. If I could film it I would have. You should have seen that stare. It was the stare of absolute supremacy.
I am nodding off in Kirpal's class, which I only signed up for in hope of an easy A in Creative Writing. I am such a whore. I need to pull up my GPA, every bit helps. Much like a prostitute, I endure the put-on accent of a Malay boy, who hopes to be the next Alfian, maybe.
I feel so ashamed of myself, but not many people understand prostitutes.
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definitiv's journal