deserving is not a good phrase some times. it makes one expect and expectations can be deceiving. such things can't be quantified hence how do you measure deserving? i don't want to write stuff of dramatised metaphorical deaths. i want to hide in my cranny and let no one know me. i also want to be the most famous wonderwoman in the world. how much at one time or other moments do the real parts of you leak out? how much can strangers and friends and loved ones decipher from you and your moods, words, and actions? real is not truth in absolute so there is no real real so thus we are all characters donning our costumes. this is not a bad thing. sometimes it can be. sometimes it is a good and fun thing and sometimes it is scary and sometimes it is confusing. when is a schizo not a schizo? music can change the world. so can tolstoy, balzac, and of course, any UK issue of VOGUE magazine. i am longing for some words but i can't find them, words to describe why i'd lean over and hug you and not let you go and words to describe how much i love you, poetic words, sylvia plath - intense and original words, but now i can't and i'm so frustrated. where's the apt song i need now? oh you urbane superlove!

"children ten years old wake and find themselves here, discover themselves to haev been here all along; is that sad? they wake like sleepwalkers, in full stride; they wake like people brought back from cardiac arrest of from drowning: in media res, surrounded by familiar people and objects, equipped with a hundred skills. they know the neighbourhood, theyc an read and write english, they are old hands at the commonplace mysteries, and yet they feel themselves to have just stepped off the boat, just converged with their bodies, just flown down from a trance, to lodge in an errily familiar life already well under way." annie dillard - an american childhood

it saddens me that much of what i read about singapore literature is majorly despondency and a longing for what is out there. when i read autobiographies and stories of protaganists describing their homelands and towns with great pride and rememberance, tracing their histories back a hundred, thousand years, myths, legends and all, i think back about my own childhood and realise i had a great time despite not having them rivers, lakes or castles or romanticised tragical pasts. maybe i can't really boast about my void deck singaporean history, because i didn't grow up staying in public housing, but i certainly can go on and on about my beautiful greenmeadows, perhaps with as much happiness as new yorkers are flushed with pride about their city.

today's song is koop's 'summer sun'. chill with ee jie and fish soup. luxury walk and drive. you're great. i love you to everlastingness.

i filled my diary with dopey love-dripping lines of your aptness for me, wonderstruck i am. it's you and me, and forever. courtesy of the cardigans yet again. holland village coffee bean. glazed grins and blended fingers, i think we basked in that crazy little thing called love.

i'm thinking, i should have one of those movie marathons i talked about before. i'm itching for a little home movie party.

tsunami tragedy diminishes my contained frustrations. shameful of the lassitude, i soaked myself in sweat. i ran and ran and ran and i don't know how long maybe 6 - 8 km, and i think i found bliss once more. how to tide over this i don't know how but God is almighty eh MY dear He is an awesome God so we shall do all things for the glory of Him, think not of the magnitude, this mountain can be dissolved. fish soup will cheer our spirits for sure. it's happy food.

MY CHOY i liked cruisin along the beach with you today. the beginning booboo, no matter at all. next time we will do a katong/marine parade cycling binge, that will be fun.

i don't handle my trials well. despair is not an option though. Ecclesiastes preaches true.

this year's eleventh hour Christmas tree, on the tabletop in front of the rosetti print.

whizz bang it came in a hurry and left in a huff and i'm left with remnants too dazed and blur to concretise a sweet packaged story. i'm talking about christmas. happy carols in church and happy present-opening at home with the regular dosage of nonsensical cheer and love-tinged laughter; we stuffed the refrigerator with chocs and candies. ee jie got me a pair of binoculars for watching theatre stage-gazing. pleasantries. it's a tropical one this year, i think that's why it felt so whambamhereandgoodbye. last year snowy canada tricked me into feeling christmassy whole december long. chistmas is always significant, and it should be. today pastor watson was spot on. take off, put on and forgive. begin the year without fear, pin all on the cross missy. christmas is nostalgic too cos that was when i tricked the trumpeter to my home for a party some years back. i'm a little scheming in such areas. but my intuitive vibes are to be trusted. i got me a sweet trumpeter for christmas and he's mine all mine.

yesterday the loh family had a little bbq fun at ee jie's new place with the nice pool, nice for lazy laps, not for long laps though. it's a first, christmas bbq i just realise. we should do a first something every year.

tea with brenda the day before at delifrance after frantic shopping. i shall end this year end with days of peace and quiet and a resuming of running and swimming and drinking plenty of water; too much festive gluttony has resulted in bleh feelings in the mouth and body so thus i need refreshment. this year has been one of new sounds aplenty which is very good for the heart and soul. i've managed to make swimming a non-intimiditating and regular sport; second sis and me will continue with kickboxing classes. had one great semester, one lousy semester, which i will not allow to bury me deep but i will be determined to do what i have to, be focused and simplify. selfishness begone. henceforth, much love, much maturity.

this annual gathering is a delight to look foward to. great dosage of laughter and enjoyable comfortable company always. today it was dinner and ice cream at holland v and watching skycaptain and the world of tomorrow at s's house. such a beautiful film, must have been breathtaking on the big screen. film noir type with the romantic sepia washes, very seductive. chemistry with this group is sealed, i dont' know why i wanted so much to keep the group going, beginning remnants but i'm glad i did. gone are the teen insecure awkwardness, here, and now, conversation flows easy, rapport sits easy on the skin, and the friendship bonds dig deeper.


i'm not really into coupland. i feel the connection at times, i celebrate his many comments. too much feels too contrived though. i think, i want more epic moral story types, tolstoy or balzac. i'm a classics kid.

carols by candlelight tomorrow. first, a complusory mid-morning run.

today we had fun. many flashes of light in the studio. we have secret talents. my brother always makes a huge jug of ribena and puts it in the fridge. i'm stealing a glass now. douglas coupland - i think if you are like me, and you feel your flesh more in the past and/or future than the present, which you live in a surreal manner, which is ironic in itself, then you will know all that he is meaning to say and appreciate his succint perspectives. this year, we have replaced the christmas tree with a christmas bouganvilla. matt christmas balls in silver tones hanging on its fragile branches outside the flat gate. that's how you will identify my home this season.

run was satisfactory. but not that accomplished. tomorrow, again! this time, with new yellow reebok dri-fit loose top. woohoo! wanna swim but am dark enough, shall attempt an evening one.

pattaya. montien hotel. luxury. close one eye to shut out the moral trash.

chiangmai.

fragment of paradise

remove the sleeze and i'd be sitting her with a book in hand.

hard rock hotel our fancy neighbour

pattaya beach.

the golden triangle. meeting point in river of myanmar, laos and thailand. kids from the tribes posing for money.

four thousand baht a night. we stole their paradise and made it ours.

from our thrones we owned the view for a while. here i sat legs propped up after a morning beach run and twenty six lap swim at the gorgeous pool all to myself before the angmohs came, scribbling furiously in my black notebook as the music came rushing in - the observatory....harry connick junior...air...

new cal-de-zac found nestled between a christmas tree and burgandy neck-high sofa-ends. horrid chai tea - a little dent in my perfect swooning moment on getting the sweet corner. not ours exclusively since we were supremely generous in sharing the unused furniture and letting the strangers dabble in their grouptalk while we cuddle-talked with an edge over teen-esteem.

filled to the neck with lunch dim sum. shadows and blue shapes with yellow lamp lights beckons me to run. shrek or run? in my new blue nike running singlet. fun and sassy clothes doth inspires the girl to lace up her matching trainers and blast away to the music in the semi-darkness. nike wins.

Alfie is opening. The Aviator is opening.splashes into worlds of romance and passions fuelled by music and enchanting lovelines and stuff.

oh wonders! jazzy stuff, jazzy winter tunes to dust my nonsnow nonwhite christmas. i've sent out my christmas cards, snail mail for magic. a pity i've not tinkled much with tinsel and carols and christmas trees. finished with cousin bette finally. need to jumpstart myself from the thailand holiday.

so, with ernest inspired motivation, a run tomorrow morning before church in my new nike dri-fit. i'm all growls now for several sprints.

after the film we swaggered out of the cinema. cue to 'mysterious'. woooo. it was you and me always...and forever...(tribute, the cardigans)the trippy sky blue penguin polo makes you look incredibly dashing...i was laced pink and bought olive kitten heels with shiny stuff from JWest. flavourful dinner, carnivour's dream stuff. read cousin bette on the train back. i was a little disappointed when i first thought the story was just about an old maid but balzac captures my attention with his whimsical and witty analysis. eh MY CHOY....wooooooooo. hahahahahaha.

"the work of the mind, tracking down a quarry in the high regions of the intellect, is one of the most strenuous kinds of human endeavour. to achieve fame in art - and in art must be included all the mind's creations - courage, above all, is needed, courage of a kind that the ordinary man has no idea of, which is perhaps described for the first time here.

driven by the relentless pressure of poverty, kept to his path by bette like a horse blinkered ot prevent its looking to right or left, whipped on by that harsh old maid, an embodiment of Necessity, a kind of underling of Fate, Wenceslas, born a poet and a dreamer, had passed from conception to execution, leaping over the abysses that separate those two hemispheres of art without noticing their depth.

to think, to dream, to conceive fine works, is a delightful occupation. it is dreaming cigar-smoke dreams, or living a courtesan's self-indulgent life. the work of art to be created is envisaged in the exhileration of conception, with its infant grace, and the scented flower and the bursting juices of its fruit. these are the pleasures in the imagination of a work of art's conception."

"the man who can formulate his design in words is held to be out of the common run of men. this faculty all artists and writers possess; but execution needs more than this. it means creating it, bringing to birth, laboriously rearing the child, putting it to bed every evening gorged with milk, kissing it every morning with a mother's never spent affection, licking it clean, clothing it over and over again in the prettiest garments, which it spoils again and again. it means never being disheartened by the upheavals of a frenetic life, but making sure of the growing wokr of art a living masterpiece, which in sculpture speaks to all eyes, in literature to all minds, in painting to all memories, in music to every heart. this is the travail of execution. the hand must constantly progress, in constant obedience to the mind. and the ability to create is no more to be commanded at will than love is:both powers are intermittent.

the habit of creation, the unwearying cherishing love which makes a mother (that masterpiece of nature so well apprehened by Raphael), the intellectual maternal power, in short, which is so difficult to acquire, is exceedingly easily lost. inspiration is the oppotunity that genius may seize; and is not even balanced on a razor's edge, but instantly in the air and flying off with the quick alarm of crows. inspiration has no scarf by which the poet may grasp her. her hair is a flame. she is gone like those rose-coloured and whtite beautiful flamingos that are the despair of sports men. and work is a fatiguing struggle, dreaded as well as passionately loved by the fine and powerful natures that are often broken by it. a gerat poet of our own times, speaking of this appalling toil, has said, 'i begin it with despair, and leave it with grief'."

"let the ignorant take note! if the artist does not throw himself into his work like Curtius into the gulf, like a soldier against a fortress, without counting the cost; and if, once within the breach, he does not labour like miner buried under a fallen roof; if, in short, he contemplates the difficulties instead of conquering them, one by one, like those lvoers in the fairy-tales who, to win their princesses, fought everrenewed enchantments; then the work remains unfinished, it perishes, is lost within the workshop, where production becomes impossible, and the artist is a looker-on at his talent's suicide...the soloution of the sculptor's tremendous problem is only to be found in untiring unremitting labour, for the material difficulties must be so completely mastered, the hand must be so disciplined, so ready and obedient, as to enable the sculptor to struggle, in a combat of spirit with spirit, with that inapprehensible moral element that he must transfigure and embody. if Paganini, who made the strings of his violin tell his whole soul, had let three days pass without practising, he would have lost, together with his power of expression,what he would call the register of his instrument, by which he meant the close union existin between the wood,bow, strings and himself. if this accord were broken, he would at once become no more than an ordinary violinist. constant labour is the law of art as well as the law of life, for art is the creative activity of the mind. and so great artists, true poets, do not wait for either commissions or clients; they create today, tomorrow, ceaselessly. and there results a habit of toil, a perpetual consciousness of the difficulties, that keeps them in a state of marriage with the Muse, and her creative forces...."

- cousin bette (balzac)

sunset. chiangmai back from doi inthanon in the car.

MY CHOY bought me a delightful case of sounds today.
oh bliss. sushi tei today, we loved the prawnstuff.
you're cute.

ten days up north more than suffices. i relish in my takashimaya and my char kway teow. one can only take pad thai or dusty streets for so short a time. it was fun meeting up with all the relatives and friends though in bangkok. uncle dustin for seafood dinner and japanese lunch at the emporium. seafood dinner with dao's family one day and nuttapong's family the next with his cute mother. gesticulations a plenty. "tell sally, i think of her very much!". car break downs out of bangkok to ah yai's farm, dusty car-pushings. siam square was a dream and remained a dream, the quirky stuff was expensive. dream boutiques with bead lightings and fantastial tailoring. coolest.

fragments of old things. old spaces. tanjong pinang, the weekend. for now, the pa and two girls are off to chiangmai.

cannot, have these wasted cancellations. give in to the night time craving for words and music but not for belly-fillin'. cousin bette? or breakfast at tiffany's again? or none at all? what to read on a two day holiday? you are right, trumpeter sir, neither it shall be. but i will draw and sketch and write and attempt more to conjuure up more thought-filled poetic prose, a bit like madame plath at the beach with her wards. of course, we must add a dash of theatrics. so in comes the kings of convenience strummin' and balladin', the oakley's sunglasses perched up high as a head band, and hopefully, a decent view of a dreamy marbled horizon. i'd like to bring some colour pencils but i shall not be too ambitious in the luggage department. i shall, have a monochrome weekend. black scribbles on white sheets, and music and dialogue shall colour my scene.

eugenie g by balzac ended badly. apparently, money is what makes people tick and romantic love is an idealised piece of nonsence. poor eugenie gets sterilised at the end and stupid charles he killed her soul. well well but still it gets me down not, i still croon along with ewan mcgregor in moulin rouge, all we need is love. the ewan mcgregor type, not that of eugenie's lover in the book. moulin rouge is very good. cos' love is good there, i mean, tragic but good, and love should always be good, ideally. MY CHOY you are perfect!

holiday with the whole family, first in ten years. i shall try a little dialogue-jotting-down. we make funny conversation. three or four at a time. and we always keep up. nice, this quirky rhythm.

WORSHIP! You're inner Bombshell is the beautiful
Audrey Hepburn. Like her you've been blessed
with a "certain something" that no
one could describe accurately. You are more
reserved than other bombshells, and that shows
in your gentle, graceful nature. You like doing
things for other people and love volunteering
for your favorite charity. Yours is a rare gift
in this day and age. You don't need to show a
lot of skin to be sexy, all you need is your
eyes. To see Audrey at the top of her game
watch the movie "Breakfast at
Tiffanys".


Who is your inner bombshell?
brought to you by Quizilla


audrey! woohoo..

fish soup, blue penguin, cards and books. you looked so swoonsome today who can resist? i simply could not let go.

tonight was fun. phototaking for er jie's dinner and dance. didn't take many creative shots. hope they turn out fine. my sis was beautiful on stage. totally gorgeous.

thirty laps this morning,got me a bit more stretched, a bit more brown.

tomorrow, fish soup with the loveliest boyfriend ever.

today we watched the incredibles. laughable. stole glances to remind me you are truly back and here. huggable glory, you handsome trumpeter. devastatingly happy to see you. and your pretty presents were a treat. handsome pastel yellow and well fitted the top is. had a full day,full stomach too. i love every bit of you and all you say and do. the cd is great, i'm still listening to it. it's more lovely since it's from you. i feel drenched with affection. i love the chill hours, watchin' tv. the sniffin' was not so good but i'm good after some sleep tonight. gonna write write write and try to finish reading balzac. it's near the end. more apt than ever, the heroine and the power of love. tomorrow forty laps and picture taking. a sister's day and me and the fourth maiden, we're the night recorders. pretty pictures awaitin.

i did no 8km today but did a decent 5.5km in the morning. half was jog-walks cos of early morn stitches. i hate anything to come between me and my runs/swims. i'm taking a while to get use again to the tightening of muscles for runs cos' of my recent familiarity and love for the stretched feeling of the swims. it's lovely. okay, gotta be busy with the list of things to do by sat.

that said, more love, less self.