A cathartic moment as I was bringing a couple of the fledglings through a sebaceous cyst excision the other day...
I remember back when I was first starting out at an un-named district general hospital, and how the MO(S) used to talk me through the op before each op, and then observe me struggling and take over for a bit to show me a trick or two. I still feel like the same inept rookie sometimes, even doing something as simple as an excision biopsy - but I've learnt a few tricks through the years to make things easier for myself, and I know enough to guide my baby MOs back on track when they're so certain that sebaceous cyst with that almost unnoticeable scar-distorted punctum is a lipoma...
... and then it struck me that I'm the other guy now. Perhaps more patient than KR had been, or perhaps less. Perhaps spoon-feeding too much, or perhaps taking over too-often. I don't know. It doesn't really matter anyhow.
I thought to myself as I drove home how it feels like I learnt most of my basic surgical techniques in day surgery a lifetime ago, prompted along by veteran nurses itching to go home, and how lucky the kids are nowadays that we make it a point to always be there with them till they're ready to fly solo... and then I realise that one day those kids will probably be feeling the same way too, driving home from a long day's work, or not.
Learning how to do angioplasties today from M, realizing that one day I might well be the one teaching the rookie how to do something as basic as set a peripherally-inserted-central-line... something he said sank in through my haze of trying to look calm in the midst of my (hopefully) concealed panic and bewilderment at an unfamiliar routine - "they come back. They always come back."
He was talking about stenoses reoccurring in blood vessels, in arteries clogging up again after ballooning.
But somewhere in the disjoint mess of my head I know he's right - everything comes back in the end. Everything comes full circle. Life goes on, the scripts keep writing and unwriting themselves.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
For Life
"I've slept with a few hot chicks in my time..." he said.
"How about you? How many girls have you fucked?"
I looked at him, and thought : this is him when he's sober?
"You don't need my stamp of approval." I said.
"Damn right I don't, I've already got her, and I'm marryig her" he said, missing the point entirely.
It turns my stomach sometimes, interacting with elements of "high society" in Singapore.
*****
I've made some monumental mistakes in my time, loved people I shouldn't have bothered with and hurt people I loved; told a few misguided then-white lies that have caused too much pain, spoken too bluntly and caused more.
I remember things wrong, I'm emotional, I'm fraught with fallibility.
But if there's one mistake I don't ever want to make, it's to rush headlong into a marriage destined for disaster.
Because marriage is for life... not for-ever, but for life. For a shared life that ought to be special to two people.
Not for anything else, wealth, fame or power. But for life.
"How about you? How many girls have you fucked?"
I looked at him, and thought : this is him when he's sober?
"You don't need my stamp of approval." I said.
"Damn right I don't, I've already got her, and I'm marryig her" he said, missing the point entirely.
It turns my stomach sometimes, interacting with elements of "high society" in Singapore.
*****
I've made some monumental mistakes in my time, loved people I shouldn't have bothered with and hurt people I loved; told a few misguided then-white lies that have caused too much pain, spoken too bluntly and caused more.
I remember things wrong, I'm emotional, I'm fraught with fallibility.
But if there's one mistake I don't ever want to make, it's to rush headlong into a marriage destined for disaster.
Because marriage is for life... not for-ever, but for life. For a shared life that ought to be special to two people.
Not for anything else, wealth, fame or power. But for life.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
What's Hot and What's Not
Hypothetical scenario.
Imagine a bloke. Goes out clubbing to meet girls. Meets and flirts with a lot of girls, gets it on with one or two, hooks up with one, gets her believing that they're committed to each other.
After an undefined and variable while decides that he is stuck in a rut, starts going clubbing and flirting with other girls again ("acting single", a nurse I knew once put it) even while continuing to claim love and committment to the first girl, perhaps gets it on with one or two, then loses the first girl for the second. Feels no remorse about it, because after all he didn't love the first girl, and it's not really cheating right... and it's all about me! Repeat cycle ad-nauseum, over and over again.
What words come to mind?
Certainly to mine, all sorts of unpleasant ones.
Now turn it all on its head.
The other half has been following the blog of a girl who's just like that. (of course, she goes out with blokes and not birds.) She thinks that must make the girl hot.
I guess it's one of those societal stereotypes...
Sometimes we have the same discussion about one of her some-kind-of-friends who is kinda skanky and puts out a lot; boasts to her about being fingered by strangers in public etc, and for some crazy reason the other half thinks makes her hot.
I look at said friend and see someone who just isn't hot. She's just... cheap. And a little sad. I feel a little sad for her.
It's the same with the girl in the story above. Sad.
These people call themselves hot. They desperately want to think of themselves as hot, and they want the world to see them that way too.
But at heart they're unhappy with themselves. They're insecure. They're just... ill.
It strikes me as just a little funny, and unfair in an odd way that we automatically peg guys who "play" as bastards, but girls who "play"... must be hot to play. Men get moral judgements, women get assumptions into the way they look.
Hot isn't about being able to sleep with a lot of men at once, or to turn many of them over like an autumn gust of wind turns over leaves.
You can be ugly. Short. Fat. Have weird cheekbones. A weird nose. Bad teeth. And still sleep with a lot of men / women, or run through girl/boy friends like water. If you're undiscerning, if you're cheap, if you don't really care... the point is. If you don't treat relationships like they're special. If you don't treat your partners like they're special. If you only treat yourself like you're special. Then you get all that...
You don't have to be hot. Just very, very self-centered.
Hot is... simply about being hot.
Hot is in the way a girl's eyes light up when she laughs, the way her hair falls across her face, the shape of her lips, the way she moves. Perhaps the shape of her body, the length of her legs, perhaps the way she speaks.
Hot is something unconscious that you simply have, or that you learnt, or that you were born with.
I never thought either of the two girls above were hot. I thought one of them was attractive, once - but that was because she wore an elaborate mask, built entirely out of lies.
*********
It's easy to play; it's easy to run through women like water, or men like a hot knife through butter. You just have to show that you want to play, and that you don't really... care. You just have to... put out.
S wanted me to play; she wanted me to be the guy in the book. She thought I might need lessons, that it would do something good for my self confidence.
She didn't quite get it right.
I don't need to play. I don't even want to.
One of J's friends - an image consultant who creates "players" - was rather acerbic when she was asked to work on me, once upon a lifetime ago. She said but you're already right, just the way you are...
I know I could play; it would be so very, very easy. I know the words; I know how to time the little smiles, I know how to make that kind of eye contact. I know how to reach out and touch at just the right moment, I know how to lie.
I don't want to. It wouldn't... give me anything worth remembering.
******
A friend of mine once told me how lonely he was; he was fucking a different girl almost every night. He went out clubbing, and got drunk, and the half-drunk girls thought he was kinda cute; best of all he gave off the vibe - I'm not serious, I don't want to know you, I just want a fuck.
And so he got fucked; it was that simple. Some of it's mind games, some of the girls wanted to "win", to change him. Some of them just wanted to fuck, and recognised a commitment free lay when they saw him. He got lots of action with all sorts of chicks, some hot, some not, some rather... cough... underaged.
On the surface he was happy, carefree, well-fucked.
Sometimes he'd confide in me though, and that was when he'd talk about how he hated his life, how little meaning it all had, how he missed The Girl, the one girl he went so crazy about he wrote poetry - imagine that! - and how they spent all summer together and didn't touch that much, and how he fell in love with her.
******
Fucking a stranger isn't a special memory. Regardless of how hot he or she was.
Special memories aren't the ones that are just about "me, me me."
Special memories are the ones that are shared. The things that really give us a sense of fulfillment are the things we share, the moments when we touch the lives of others, and have our own lives touched in return. Moments of actually giving a damn about someone other than yourself.
I think human beings are hard-wired that way; I think it all ties in with that unspoken fear of being alone, living alone, dying alone without meaning anything to anyone else. Of passing through this life unremembered, and being forgotten.
Imagine a bloke. Goes out clubbing to meet girls. Meets and flirts with a lot of girls, gets it on with one or two, hooks up with one, gets her believing that they're committed to each other.
After an undefined and variable while decides that he is stuck in a rut, starts going clubbing and flirting with other girls again ("acting single", a nurse I knew once put it) even while continuing to claim love and committment to the first girl, perhaps gets it on with one or two, then loses the first girl for the second. Feels no remorse about it, because after all he didn't love the first girl, and it's not really cheating right... and it's all about me! Repeat cycle ad-nauseum, over and over again.
What words come to mind?
Certainly to mine, all sorts of unpleasant ones.
Now turn it all on its head.
The other half has been following the blog of a girl who's just like that. (of course, she goes out with blokes and not birds.) She thinks that must make the girl hot.
I guess it's one of those societal stereotypes...
Sometimes we have the same discussion about one of her some-kind-of-friends who is kinda skanky and puts out a lot; boasts to her about being fingered by strangers in public etc, and for some crazy reason the other half thinks makes her hot.
I look at said friend and see someone who just isn't hot. She's just... cheap. And a little sad. I feel a little sad for her.
It's the same with the girl in the story above. Sad.
These people call themselves hot. They desperately want to think of themselves as hot, and they want the world to see them that way too.
But at heart they're unhappy with themselves. They're insecure. They're just... ill.
It strikes me as just a little funny, and unfair in an odd way that we automatically peg guys who "play" as bastards, but girls who "play"... must be hot to play. Men get moral judgements, women get assumptions into the way they look.
Hot isn't about being able to sleep with a lot of men at once, or to turn many of them over like an autumn gust of wind turns over leaves.
You can be ugly. Short. Fat. Have weird cheekbones. A weird nose. Bad teeth. And still sleep with a lot of men / women, or run through girl/boy friends like water. If you're undiscerning, if you're cheap, if you don't really care... the point is. If you don't treat relationships like they're special. If you don't treat your partners like they're special. If you only treat yourself like you're special. Then you get all that...
You don't have to be hot. Just very, very self-centered.
Hot is... simply about being hot.
Hot is in the way a girl's eyes light up when she laughs, the way her hair falls across her face, the shape of her lips, the way she moves. Perhaps the shape of her body, the length of her legs, perhaps the way she speaks.
Hot is something unconscious that you simply have, or that you learnt, or that you were born with.
I never thought either of the two girls above were hot. I thought one of them was attractive, once - but that was because she wore an elaborate mask, built entirely out of lies.
*********
It's easy to play; it's easy to run through women like water, or men like a hot knife through butter. You just have to show that you want to play, and that you don't really... care. You just have to... put out.
S wanted me to play; she wanted me to be the guy in the book. She thought I might need lessons, that it would do something good for my self confidence.
She didn't quite get it right.
I don't need to play. I don't even want to.
One of J's friends - an image consultant who creates "players" - was rather acerbic when she was asked to work on me, once upon a lifetime ago. She said but you're already right, just the way you are...
I know I could play; it would be so very, very easy. I know the words; I know how to time the little smiles, I know how to make that kind of eye contact. I know how to reach out and touch at just the right moment, I know how to lie.
I don't want to. It wouldn't... give me anything worth remembering.
******
A friend of mine once told me how lonely he was; he was fucking a different girl almost every night. He went out clubbing, and got drunk, and the half-drunk girls thought he was kinda cute; best of all he gave off the vibe - I'm not serious, I don't want to know you, I just want a fuck.
And so he got fucked; it was that simple. Some of it's mind games, some of the girls wanted to "win", to change him. Some of them just wanted to fuck, and recognised a commitment free lay when they saw him. He got lots of action with all sorts of chicks, some hot, some not, some rather... cough... underaged.
On the surface he was happy, carefree, well-fucked.
Sometimes he'd confide in me though, and that was when he'd talk about how he hated his life, how little meaning it all had, how he missed The Girl, the one girl he went so crazy about he wrote poetry - imagine that! - and how they spent all summer together and didn't touch that much, and how he fell in love with her.
******
Fucking a stranger isn't a special memory. Regardless of how hot he or she was.
Special memories aren't the ones that are just about "me, me me."
Special memories are the ones that are shared. The things that really give us a sense of fulfillment are the things we share, the moments when we touch the lives of others, and have our own lives touched in return. Moments of actually giving a damn about someone other than yourself.
I think human beings are hard-wired that way; I think it all ties in with that unspoken fear of being alone, living alone, dying alone without meaning anything to anyone else. Of passing through this life unremembered, and being forgotten.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Bad Apples
Much ado about nothing :
Singapore's best choice for the much-coveted crown of Miss Singapore World apparently goes, quite simply, to the best-looking contestant. (bad run this year, hey)
Nevermind if she turns out to have kleptomaniac tendancies and an almost-criminal-conviction for fraud waived for the "fact" that she's schizophrenic to boot.
Aside from the unspoken but obvious point that Sandra Bullock made a lifetime ago ("...world peace?") that International Beauty Queens are as much about an idea as an appearance... about quasi-diplomacy and representation on a world-stage of... many things... about choosing someone with that something extra special from a crowd of incredibly beautiful women, well.
Ris Low isn't exactly beautiful. Perhaps good-looking at best (though not to my eye).
Nor does she possess a heart of gold (it takes an even measure of self-centredness, malice, and sheer stupidity to try to pull off credit card fraud on an ex-customer, methinks) and she doesn't have an impeccable integrity, or, now, even the semblance of one.
She doesn't have poise and grace (most commonly conveyed through cool-headedness, wit, and clear diction)
In short, she doesn't have anything remotely special, that might make her stand half a chance in a crowd full of women possessing at least some measure of the above - who have been SELECTED by their countries BECAUSE they possess qualities that stand out.
I can only hazard how she won her crown (hint, it involves a lot of Boomzing).
I don't know. I think I'd choose a well-spoken plain-Jane (plain but not ugly of course) with grace, poise, wit, intelligence, kindness and... a lack of a criminal record... to represent Singapore any day over a... badly-spoken plain-Jane with... none of the above.
I might even go with the first girl over a beautiful but inarticulate, self-centered, graceless, witless and stupid ah-lian... simply because it's all about putting our best foot forwards to the world. As opposed to our worst.
Yes, it's choosing to represent Singapore in a certain light, in a way that perhaps it's not. Our people aren't well-spoken (thank you, Beyonce) as a whole. Yes, it's all wayang.
But every other country out there is doing just the same. And none of those girls who'll appear on stage on the fateful day looks remotely like the average girl from her country, nor sounds or thinks like them. And none of them has a known criminal record.
Because it's impossible to fall in love with someone who is grasping, selfish and deceitful, if even for an instant, sitting at a desk with three other judges - or sitting halfway across the world in a sofa with the remote in your hand.
And that's what Miss World is about - the paragon of womanhood that all humanity falls in love with.
*****
People who lie, who cheat, who steal, who use, who hurt - selfish, self-serving people.
They are common. They are all around. They are the monsters within us set free by owners who love themselves too much.
*****
Talking to a friend the other night we found ourselves agreeing that you must never try to see the best in some people. And that it becomes too late if it gets personal.
I used to want to believe in people. I thought that perhaps being placed in positions of responsibility over other people made people think a certain way, and that maybe it was because people weren't doing much to contribute to other people's lives that they became self-centered and selfish enough to hurt others for their self-gain. Maybe if they did, they would change for the better. I used to think that criminals, given half a chance could be reformed, and that you can't help being born the way you look, the parents you were born to, the neighbourhood you grew up in... maybe if things were different then, well who knows.
I realise now that I was making excuses for them.
The truth is what I learnt living and working in London for the many years that I did.
Some people just steal because they want to - because it gives them a sense of achievement.
Some people just want so much to win, or to be loved, or to be worshipped... anything at all -- that they are willing to lie, cheat, or hurt others for their own gain.
That's just the way it goes.
Some people are just bad. You can't help them - and they don't want to be helped anyway - they want to be bad. And You must never try to see the best in them. Because if you do and it gets personal, then it's too late.
Other people are just ill. You can't help them. They will die ill. That's just the way it is.
Said friend says he can suss out within minutes who is "real" and who is not, and that the real people are few and far between.
They are; and they are precious.
These are people we are the richer for knowing, for however long we know them.
These are people who were good, or who chose to try to be good, or who turned good from bad - because they wanted to.
These are people to keep close; these are people worth remembering.
I came to the (now obvious) cathartic conclusion when I was very young, perhaps ten or so - that we only live life once. And then I had a host of existential worries about the lack of meaning of life; the lack of a reason for life at all, for order in a world doomed to chaos, for darkness in a world of fading light. I felt an overwhelming need to live my life "right", to tread carefully in places of light and avoid the darkness, to never take a step wrong. I was afraid that the darkness would infect and take some meaning away from who I thought of as "me". I thought that in that final moment just before we died... in that moment when we thought back and remembered our pasts, that that would be the clincher. That would be when I knew whether my life had meant anything to me, or not, or whether I had wasted and cheapened it.
Today I still think that the meaning in life is in how we live it. And I know first-hand that the darkness does rub off on me. Perhaps it does detract from some of my life's meaning, perhaps the bad people steal some of it away for themselves.
How we remember it is entirely up to us.
We can choose to remember the good people, and to not dwell on the bad. To remember the people who gave us truths, and forget the ones who lied to us.
******
Sometimes the other half worries that I might still love my past.
Perhaps it was because I was badly hurt when I met her, and having never been betrayed herself she equates the pain and confusion I felt then with love. I was "emo", and
unhappy.
Two of my ex girlfriends lied to and cheated on me.
One had the decency to come clean about it to me; the other didn't have the decency to even admit it to herself.
It hurt me both times, a lot. And it taught me something - about how to react to betrayal, I think. I'm still not quite sure. But it made a few things clearer in my head.
The reasons it hurts when lies start becoming exposed are - as they like to say in medicine - multifactorial. Firstly it shows you just how bad a judge of character you have been - these were bad people, not just at a moment in time but since they were born, the telltale clues were all there all along; Secondly it leaves you wondering just where and when truth ended and falsehood began - or if there was ever any truth at all. Lastly it makes you feel like your life has been cheapened, and some meaning taken away from you.
It's a different feeling to just breaking up with someone on honest terms. It's more than just disappointment, and it has nothing to do with residual love.
It's bad. Evil, almost.
The thing that lingers in your heart and mind isn't the person, but the betrayal; the pain they wrought on someone else without care - while claiming they loved them.
The people are easy to forget; they were betrayers and can never be trusted again. People like this are no good for friendship - much less love.
I made the mistake of trying to be "good" and to do the right thing and find forgiveness in my heart both times. Once I wound up being infected by the darkness and telling what I thought were white lies in the process.
Ironically in the immediate aftermath of the later-day ex I reestablished - if only for a while - contact with the "old testament"-ex and it was her words : these things (ie girls betraying) happen to you because you are too weak - which made me realise just how these people think. (and had me feeling "dirty" for even bothing to reply to that ex again)
How blind they are to the people around them. It takes infinitely more strength to live for someone else than to live for yourself; to inconvenience yourself for their benefit; to back down when you are right and they are wrong. How full of conceit and twisted they must be to feel that things like this are about the strong and the weak, and to borrow a phrase from Ris Low - "all about me!" (...Boomz)
I realised then that the solution is neither forgiveness, nor hatred, nor hoping for karmic retribution in the future, nor being assimilated and going rogue in return.
The solution is moving on and away, forgetting the past. Re-minisce, no more.
Singapore's best choice for the much-coveted crown of Miss Singapore World apparently goes, quite simply, to the best-looking contestant. (bad run this year, hey)
Nevermind if she turns out to have kleptomaniac tendancies and an almost-criminal-conviction for fraud waived for the "fact" that she's schizophrenic to boot.
Aside from the unspoken but obvious point that Sandra Bullock made a lifetime ago ("...world peace?") that International Beauty Queens are as much about an idea as an appearance... about quasi-diplomacy and representation on a world-stage of... many things... about choosing someone with that something extra special from a crowd of incredibly beautiful women, well.
Ris Low isn't exactly beautiful. Perhaps good-looking at best (though not to my eye).
Nor does she possess a heart of gold (it takes an even measure of self-centredness, malice, and sheer stupidity to try to pull off credit card fraud on an ex-customer, methinks) and she doesn't have an impeccable integrity, or, now, even the semblance of one.
She doesn't have poise and grace (most commonly conveyed through cool-headedness, wit, and clear diction)
In short, she doesn't have anything remotely special, that might make her stand half a chance in a crowd full of women possessing at least some measure of the above - who have been SELECTED by their countries BECAUSE they possess qualities that stand out.
I can only hazard how she won her crown (hint, it involves a lot of Boomzing).
I don't know. I think I'd choose a well-spoken plain-Jane (plain but not ugly of course) with grace, poise, wit, intelligence, kindness and... a lack of a criminal record... to represent Singapore any day over a... badly-spoken plain-Jane with... none of the above.
I might even go with the first girl over a beautiful but inarticulate, self-centered, graceless, witless and stupid ah-lian... simply because it's all about putting our best foot forwards to the world. As opposed to our worst.
Yes, it's choosing to represent Singapore in a certain light, in a way that perhaps it's not. Our people aren't well-spoken (thank you, Beyonce) as a whole. Yes, it's all wayang.
But every other country out there is doing just the same. And none of those girls who'll appear on stage on the fateful day looks remotely like the average girl from her country, nor sounds or thinks like them. And none of them has a known criminal record.
Because it's impossible to fall in love with someone who is grasping, selfish and deceitful, if even for an instant, sitting at a desk with three other judges - or sitting halfway across the world in a sofa with the remote in your hand.
And that's what Miss World is about - the paragon of womanhood that all humanity falls in love with.
*****
People who lie, who cheat, who steal, who use, who hurt - selfish, self-serving people.
They are common. They are all around. They are the monsters within us set free by owners who love themselves too much.
*****
Talking to a friend the other night we found ourselves agreeing that you must never try to see the best in some people. And that it becomes too late if it gets personal.
I used to want to believe in people. I thought that perhaps being placed in positions of responsibility over other people made people think a certain way, and that maybe it was because people weren't doing much to contribute to other people's lives that they became self-centered and selfish enough to hurt others for their self-gain. Maybe if they did, they would change for the better. I used to think that criminals, given half a chance could be reformed, and that you can't help being born the way you look, the parents you were born to, the neighbourhood you grew up in... maybe if things were different then, well who knows.
I realise now that I was making excuses for them.
The truth is what I learnt living and working in London for the many years that I did.
Some people just steal because they want to - because it gives them a sense of achievement.
Some people just want so much to win, or to be loved, or to be worshipped... anything at all -- that they are willing to lie, cheat, or hurt others for their own gain.
That's just the way it goes.
Some people are just bad. You can't help them - and they don't want to be helped anyway - they want to be bad. And You must never try to see the best in them. Because if you do and it gets personal, then it's too late.
Other people are just ill. You can't help them. They will die ill. That's just the way it is.
Said friend says he can suss out within minutes who is "real" and who is not, and that the real people are few and far between.
They are; and they are precious.
These are people we are the richer for knowing, for however long we know them.
These are people who were good, or who chose to try to be good, or who turned good from bad - because they wanted to.
These are people to keep close; these are people worth remembering.
I came to the (now obvious) cathartic conclusion when I was very young, perhaps ten or so - that we only live life once. And then I had a host of existential worries about the lack of meaning of life; the lack of a reason for life at all, for order in a world doomed to chaos, for darkness in a world of fading light. I felt an overwhelming need to live my life "right", to tread carefully in places of light and avoid the darkness, to never take a step wrong. I was afraid that the darkness would infect and take some meaning away from who I thought of as "me". I thought that in that final moment just before we died... in that moment when we thought back and remembered our pasts, that that would be the clincher. That would be when I knew whether my life had meant anything to me, or not, or whether I had wasted and cheapened it.
Today I still think that the meaning in life is in how we live it. And I know first-hand that the darkness does rub off on me. Perhaps it does detract from some of my life's meaning, perhaps the bad people steal some of it away for themselves.
How we remember it is entirely up to us.
We can choose to remember the good people, and to not dwell on the bad. To remember the people who gave us truths, and forget the ones who lied to us.
******
Sometimes the other half worries that I might still love my past.
Perhaps it was because I was badly hurt when I met her, and having never been betrayed herself she equates the pain and confusion I felt then with love. I was "emo", and
unhappy.
Two of my ex girlfriends lied to and cheated on me.
One had the decency to come clean about it to me; the other didn't have the decency to even admit it to herself.
It hurt me both times, a lot. And it taught me something - about how to react to betrayal, I think. I'm still not quite sure. But it made a few things clearer in my head.
The reasons it hurts when lies start becoming exposed are - as they like to say in medicine - multifactorial. Firstly it shows you just how bad a judge of character you have been - these were bad people, not just at a moment in time but since they were born, the telltale clues were all there all along; Secondly it leaves you wondering just where and when truth ended and falsehood began - or if there was ever any truth at all. Lastly it makes you feel like your life has been cheapened, and some meaning taken away from you.
It's a different feeling to just breaking up with someone on honest terms. It's more than just disappointment, and it has nothing to do with residual love.
It's bad. Evil, almost.
The thing that lingers in your heart and mind isn't the person, but the betrayal; the pain they wrought on someone else without care - while claiming they loved them.
The people are easy to forget; they were betrayers and can never be trusted again. People like this are no good for friendship - much less love.
I made the mistake of trying to be "good" and to do the right thing and find forgiveness in my heart both times. Once I wound up being infected by the darkness and telling what I thought were white lies in the process.
Ironically in the immediate aftermath of the later-day ex I reestablished - if only for a while - contact with the "old testament"-ex and it was her words : these things (ie girls betraying) happen to you because you are too weak - which made me realise just how these people think. (and had me feeling "dirty" for even bothing to reply to that ex again)
How blind they are to the people around them. It takes infinitely more strength to live for someone else than to live for yourself; to inconvenience yourself for their benefit; to back down when you are right and they are wrong. How full of conceit and twisted they must be to feel that things like this are about the strong and the weak, and to borrow a phrase from Ris Low - "all about me!" (...Boomz)
I realised then that the solution is neither forgiveness, nor hatred, nor hoping for karmic retribution in the future, nor being assimilated and going rogue in return.
The solution is moving on and away, forgetting the past. Re-minisce, no more.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Changes
One of the peculiarities of the singaporean healthcare system is the "black tag". Scaling the rungs of the responsibilitity-ladder earns you a nondescript black name badge that looks suspiciously similar to the low-cost primary school "monitor" tags we used to get as kids. People invariably wear them, it's a sort-of status-symbol cum insignia of "rank" - donning the tag confers on the wearer some form of intangible power which most patients and relatives probably don't know - much less care - about, but which identifies you to another doctor as a "senior" doctor.
The irony is that the nametags for junior doctors are actually kind of nice - sure, the hospital logo tends to rub off over time, but it's actually aesthetically quite appealing.
I've been watching one of my colleagues making the switch to his black tag with a little amusement; shortly after passing his surgical exam he - in typical fashion for him - took to wearing his new badge (almost with... wild abandon...) after his previous badge ostensibly "went missing" in his bosses car. Nevermind that he's wearing the trappings without having to don the associated mantle of responsibility of registrarship... the tag makes him happy, and well, we all share his happiness at taking that step towards the rest of his life. We all know how proud he is of, well, himself. :)
I've been slowly suffocating over the past fortnight after abruptly turning into the registrar-in-lieu for my team, our previous registrar having taken the opportunity to scamper for freedom once I swapped into her team. I don't begrudge her her holiday - I've been doing this a mere fortnight and I'm nearly running on empty... I can't begin to imagine how tired she must be after six months on the job... and I knew what I was in for when I decided to commit my life to my subspecialty. Still... the body is tired, the joints actually hurt (gee) and my back is aching... it's all somatisation I know, all in my head. But staying back till eleven in the evening post-call to chop off bits of my patients because there's nobody else who can do it, and because if I wait too long they're going to die... dozing off multiple times on the drive home... it's sobering.
I'm loth to put on my black tag. I'm not "official" yet, I'm still me. And I'm still weak; I want what little time I have left to zone-out before all this becomes all too real (as it is... right now...) and I can't wait for my reg to come back from her holiday... It's exciting to be handed that instrument that till-now only the consultant would wield intra-op and be told to go ahead and throw that stitch, and it's rewarding to see that anastomosis hold-up. It's.... a little frightening to be told to carry-on without senior support in ops which I've only ever watched or been brought-through once or twice before, but never actually flown solo in... and really rewarding to throw that final stitch and know that my patient ought to be just-fine. And it's humbling to be confronted with a retroperitoneal, retrocaecal appendix and be caught in a dilemma -- to play the registrar you're not-quite-yet and open the retroperitoneum -- or to call for senior support because if anything goes wrong you're still technically a junior - and realise that you're really not all that brave after all.
I guess I'm different from The Gentleman. I'll wear my blocky black tag when I have to - when I'm taking my team on the round when maybe, just maybe it makes that much of a difference when I'm doing battle with that nice old irish man's ex-SPG battleaxe of a wife who's inconsiderately called me out of operating theater just so she can try to browbeat me into keeping him in hospital - against medical advice and against his own wishes - because she needs time to formulate a concerted campaign in her quest to lodge a complaint about the ward nurses. But in between, well, I really like my old tag, and I still like cutting out little tiny skin lumps and creating cosmetically pleasing scars in the quiet sanctitude of the day-surgery OT making small talk with my nurses and patients.
The irony is that the nametags for junior doctors are actually kind of nice - sure, the hospital logo tends to rub off over time, but it's actually aesthetically quite appealing.
I've been watching one of my colleagues making the switch to his black tag with a little amusement; shortly after passing his surgical exam he - in typical fashion for him - took to wearing his new badge (almost with... wild abandon...) after his previous badge ostensibly "went missing" in his bosses car. Nevermind that he's wearing the trappings without having to don the associated mantle of responsibility of registrarship... the tag makes him happy, and well, we all share his happiness at taking that step towards the rest of his life. We all know how proud he is of, well, himself. :)
I've been slowly suffocating over the past fortnight after abruptly turning into the registrar-in-lieu for my team, our previous registrar having taken the opportunity to scamper for freedom once I swapped into her team. I don't begrudge her her holiday - I've been doing this a mere fortnight and I'm nearly running on empty... I can't begin to imagine how tired she must be after six months on the job... and I knew what I was in for when I decided to commit my life to my subspecialty. Still... the body is tired, the joints actually hurt (gee) and my back is aching... it's all somatisation I know, all in my head. But staying back till eleven in the evening post-call to chop off bits of my patients because there's nobody else who can do it, and because if I wait too long they're going to die... dozing off multiple times on the drive home... it's sobering.
I'm loth to put on my black tag. I'm not "official" yet, I'm still me. And I'm still weak; I want what little time I have left to zone-out before all this becomes all too real (as it is... right now...) and I can't wait for my reg to come back from her holiday... It's exciting to be handed that instrument that till-now only the consultant would wield intra-op and be told to go ahead and throw that stitch, and it's rewarding to see that anastomosis hold-up. It's.... a little frightening to be told to carry-on without senior support in ops which I've only ever watched or been brought-through once or twice before, but never actually flown solo in... and really rewarding to throw that final stitch and know that my patient ought to be just-fine. And it's humbling to be confronted with a retroperitoneal, retrocaecal appendix and be caught in a dilemma -- to play the registrar you're not-quite-yet and open the retroperitoneum -- or to call for senior support because if anything goes wrong you're still technically a junior - and realise that you're really not all that brave after all.
I guess I'm different from The Gentleman. I'll wear my blocky black tag when I have to - when I'm taking my team on the round when maybe, just maybe it makes that much of a difference when I'm doing battle with that nice old irish man's ex-SPG battleaxe of a wife who's inconsiderately called me out of operating theater just so she can try to browbeat me into keeping him in hospital - against medical advice and against his own wishes - because she needs time to formulate a concerted campaign in her quest to lodge a complaint about the ward nurses. But in between, well, I really like my old tag, and I still like cutting out little tiny skin lumps and creating cosmetically pleasing scars in the quiet sanctitude of the day-surgery OT making small talk with my nurses and patients.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Freedom
Words of wisdom to the inexperienced : never argue with your examiners.
Life after the final furlong, aka the membership examination... goes on. Going out for drinks and meals without a textbook in hand comes like a refreshing breeze after a stagnant summer's night; and then the "arrows" come flying thick and fast, and suddenly there's just too much to do all at the same time, amidst preparing to host the local examinations, applying for advanced training, and returning to on-calls.
Speaking of which, after a month's reprieve from calls, the First Call was absolutely exhausting. The body forgets these things, the way a night without any sleep on your feet feels (which is completely different to a night on the floor or in bed reading a textbook in an adrenaline-charged last-minute frenzy). At one point my back, feet and calves hurt so much I began to wonder if perhaps I was experiencing sciatica...
In older news, I remember a colleague and newfound friend de-stressing with me after work and chatting about life in general; for some (mm. some time back, but perhaps it was after we met the chest-drain bottle product rep) he volunteered that pharma reps are generally manipulative people, because in his opinion people self-select into their jobs. Once upon a time I might have argued that maybe it's the other way around; jobs change people. Looking around at my other medical colleagues, at him, and at myself, I realised he was right. People self-select into jobs; not just doctors, lawyers, drug reps... but pretty much every and any one. There's a reason orthopods all drive flashy cars, and why general surgeons don't...
Maybe it's the ones who selected wrong the first time who cross-careers... maybe... just maybe I'd be happy sending people to jail instead. Hmmmm...
Life after the final furlong, aka the membership examination... goes on. Going out for drinks and meals without a textbook in hand comes like a refreshing breeze after a stagnant summer's night; and then the "arrows" come flying thick and fast, and suddenly there's just too much to do all at the same time, amidst preparing to host the local examinations, applying for advanced training, and returning to on-calls.
Speaking of which, after a month's reprieve from calls, the First Call was absolutely exhausting. The body forgets these things, the way a night without any sleep on your feet feels (which is completely different to a night on the floor or in bed reading a textbook in an adrenaline-charged last-minute frenzy). At one point my back, feet and calves hurt so much I began to wonder if perhaps I was experiencing sciatica...
In older news, I remember a colleague and newfound friend de-stressing with me after work and chatting about life in general; for some (mm. some time back, but perhaps it was after we met the chest-drain bottle product rep) he volunteered that pharma reps are generally manipulative people, because in his opinion people self-select into their jobs. Once upon a time I might have argued that maybe it's the other way around; jobs change people. Looking around at my other medical colleagues, at him, and at myself, I realised he was right. People self-select into jobs; not just doctors, lawyers, drug reps... but pretty much every and any one. There's a reason orthopods all drive flashy cars, and why general surgeons don't...
Maybe it's the ones who selected wrong the first time who cross-careers... maybe... just maybe I'd be happy sending people to jail instead. Hmmmm...
Saturday, February 21, 2009
O_o
After arguing with the nice white haired old lady who was in for an investigation the next day about why I needed to take her blood...
Old Lady : "Ni jie hun le mah?" (are you married)
Re-Me : "... err hai mei you..." (no)
Old Lady : "Ni hen piao liang wor..." (you're very beautiful)
Re-Me : "... um. xie xie." (err. thanks.)
Whips out needle, and is taking blood in silence.
Old Lady : "Lang zai... lang zai..." (pretty boy.)
Re-Me : "..." (...)
Yep, that's me. Old lady killer.
Old Lady : "Ni jie hun le mah?" (are you married)
Re-Me : "... err hai mei you..." (no)
Old Lady : "Ni hen piao liang wor..." (you're very beautiful)
Re-Me : "... um. xie xie." (err. thanks.)
Whips out needle, and is taking blood in silence.
Old Lady : "Lang zai... lang zai..." (pretty boy.)
Re-Me : "..." (...)
Yep, that's me. Old lady killer.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Who's That Girl (in progress)
I can't help comparing this to this .
What strikes me most isn't that the two sites share a suspicious similarity but how completely differently they come across to the reader.
Check out the first link. Patrick Moberg saw the "girl of his dreams" on the subway in 2007. He was attracted to her but didn't get to speak with her, so he sought her out by writing on his blog about her, and asking strangers to help him find her.
The thing about his site - NYGirlOfMyDreams.com isn't how eloquent or effusive he is... it's simply how sweetly and sincerely the whole thing was done. It's rather light on text, and pretty in-your-face. There's so much to like there, from the unstated happy-puppy "I met you and I'm bowled over by you" sentiment, to the cutesy line drawings of the girl which betray just how much he noticed about her that he liked (fancy braided hair, flower in hair... etc), what she looked like (rosy cheeks) and just what she was doing (writing in a notepad... awwww) at the time.
This is a man who's either madly in love, or a nutjob stalker with the whole set of Ginsu knives.
But then there's more, he draws himself in too. No self-praise, but a simple self description to try to jog her memory a bit, skinny, tall, and he drew what he was wearing. And then there's that almost self-deprecating, slightly rueful little arrow pointing to his head that says "not insane".
It's just sooo cute; the guy knows he's lost it, and he knows everyone else will know it when they see his site, but he doesn't care... he just wants her.
He leaves his name and his phone number (and email address) for her, laying bare his whole life to all sorts of unpleasant repercussions. He takes a flying leap...
If I'd seen the girl, I'd have called him. Hell, if I'd been the girl (which, cough, since I'm male I couldn't have been) I'd have called him... without any reservations.
And there's more... she really did. There's that next little ecstatic post of mr happy-faced rectangle holding up a sign in joy. You know that something good happened... if only for a while, or perhaps longer.
The whole thing is almost saccharinely infused with hope and then happiness. It's really hard not to smile at.
And then there's our home-grown version, girl on bus.
(now at http://blog.girlonbus.com/)
I can't help but notice how often the word "I" appears in there.
I was labeled stalker. I was described as 'creepy'. How do I become a stalker when I've already lost her?
and
I was labeled 'despo'. Yes I'm definitely 'despo' or desperate. This is how I feel when I've lost something worthy. I have the attention from endless amounts of attractive people whom I think its worthless. If you've been wondering, yes, I'm gorgeous.
...and then
There were people who tried to find out who I am. I wouldn't mind letting you know, if you are a decent person, really. But this thing is set up by a friend who has a credit card to help me pay on behalf
... right. How much does it cost to host a domain again? $7 a month?
His next post, "lightheartedness" goes something like this :
I am taking this lightheartedly. Its like, who knows after knowing her she might disgust me or freak me out in certain ways?
Thanks again to so many of the kind people out there for the inspiring and flattering words. Thanks to those who helped in any way.
To the girl (if you have decided not to respond): I'm fine with it, but at least just tell me why. And you may also ask me to stop looking for you.
Next post on :
I've communicated with some local reporters. Some of them questioned about my identity. And they also advised that people would be more receptive if I were more open.
I tend to be a low-profile person therefore I'm not comfortable revealing personal info, especially on the internet. There are people who think that I'm not 'real'. Some even think that this could be some kind of a viral marketing. However, I need to protect my privacy. It's just simply being careful, although some people might think I must be up to no good.
Some of you might have already seen the article on me in (联合晚报) (31th Jan 2009). But just to give you a picture: I'm in my twenties, chinese and currently an undergrad.
And suddenly he's writing for an audience. About himself, being low-profile, but not, being private, but being in the paper, etc.
And then :
Like what I said in the previous post, I insist in protecting my identity (although some people still think that I'm not sincere/afraid of criticism), simply because but I'm not desperate/crazy enough to the extent of going public. Understand that some people dislike unwanted attention.
However, I did meet up with some of the reporters and had some photos taken. You might want to check out The Newpaper on Saturday the 14th, and The Straits Times on Sunday the 15th.
(Edit: For certain reasons The Straits Times did not run the story. 'D' from The Straits Times [if you are reading this] : I'm sorry to hear about it. But you're a great reporter who made me feel at ease. )
Some of you guys are right about the website being too direct and plain(not fanciful). Perhaps its because I have no hidden agenda and therefore the tendency to get my point across in a straightforward manner.
By the way, Happy Valentine's Day to all of you. Enjoy :)
The thing is, he's not writing to the girl anymore. He's not even writing for her.
He's writing for himself.
About himself.
He even went as far as to say the girl might gross him out, and that he's good looking, etcetc.
Over a month and still no girl; some of his "supporters" (and that's what it's turned into, a popularity contest) blame it on singaporean girls being this, and that, and uppity, and blah blah.
Some of the detractors think the girls will think he's a stalker, that he's creepy etc.
The truth is he's just lost the plot. The girl won't, because he's really more interested in himself now, than he is in her. This is his five minutes in the limelight, and she's just a badly drawn stick figure.
Sweet? I think not.
*****
Perhaps it just goes to show how sometimes there's a "right" way to say something, and .... a very, very wrong, in a "don't-even-go-there"-way to go about the same.
*****
ps : ... there are singaporeans that find the whole thing romantic.
sigh. I guess it's the concept that counts, not the packaging. roll eyes.
What strikes me most isn't that the two sites share a suspicious similarity but how completely differently they come across to the reader.
Check out the first link. Patrick Moberg saw the "girl of his dreams" on the subway in 2007. He was attracted to her but didn't get to speak with her, so he sought her out by writing on his blog about her, and asking strangers to help him find her.
The thing about his site - NYGirlOfMyDreams.com isn't how eloquent or effusive he is... it's simply how sweetly and sincerely the whole thing was done. It's rather light on text, and pretty in-your-face. There's so much to like there, from the unstated happy-puppy "I met you and I'm bowled over by you" sentiment, to the cutesy line drawings of the girl which betray just how much he noticed about her that he liked (fancy braided hair, flower in hair... etc), what she looked like (rosy cheeks) and just what she was doing (writing in a notepad... awwww) at the time.
This is a man who's either madly in love, or a nutjob stalker with the whole set of Ginsu knives.
But then there's more, he draws himself in too. No self-praise, but a simple self description to try to jog her memory a bit, skinny, tall, and he drew what he was wearing. And then there's that almost self-deprecating, slightly rueful little arrow pointing to his head that says "not insane".
It's just sooo cute; the guy knows he's lost it, and he knows everyone else will know it when they see his site, but he doesn't care... he just wants her.
He leaves his name and his phone number (and email address) for her, laying bare his whole life to all sorts of unpleasant repercussions. He takes a flying leap...
If I'd seen the girl, I'd have called him. Hell, if I'd been the girl (which, cough, since I'm male I couldn't have been) I'd have called him... without any reservations.
And there's more... she really did. There's that next little ecstatic post of mr happy-faced rectangle holding up a sign in joy. You know that something good happened... if only for a while, or perhaps longer.
The whole thing is almost saccharinely infused with hope and then happiness. It's really hard not to smile at.
And then there's our home-grown version, girl on bus.
(now at http://blog.girlonbus.com/)
I can't help but notice how often the word "I" appears in there.
I was labeled stalker. I was described as 'creepy'. How do I become a stalker when I've already lost her?
and
I was labeled 'despo'. Yes I'm definitely 'despo' or desperate. This is how I feel when I've lost something worthy. I have the attention from endless amounts of attractive people whom I think its worthless. If you've been wondering, yes, I'm gorgeous.
...and then
There were people who tried to find out who I am. I wouldn't mind letting you know, if you are a decent person, really. But this thing is set up by a friend who has a credit card to help me pay on behalf
... right. How much does it cost to host a domain again? $7 a month?
His next post, "lightheartedness" goes something like this :
I am taking this lightheartedly. Its like, who knows after knowing her she might disgust me or freak me out in certain ways?
Thanks again to so many of the kind people out there for the inspiring and flattering words. Thanks to those who helped in any way.
To the girl (if you have decided not to respond): I'm fine with it, but at least just tell me why. And you may also ask me to stop looking for you.
Next post on :
I've communicated with some local reporters. Some of them questioned about my identity. And they also advised that people would be more receptive if I were more open.
I tend to be a low-profile person therefore I'm not comfortable revealing personal info, especially on the internet. There are people who think that I'm not 'real'. Some even think that this could be some kind of a viral marketing. However, I need to protect my privacy. It's just simply being careful, although some people might think I must be up to no good.
Some of you might have already seen the article on me in (联合晚报) (31th Jan 2009). But just to give you a picture: I'm in my twenties, chinese and currently an undergrad.
And suddenly he's writing for an audience. About himself, being low-profile, but not, being private, but being in the paper, etc.
And then :
Like what I said in the previous post, I insist in protecting my identity (although some people still think that I'm not sincere/afraid of criticism), simply because but I'm not desperate/crazy enough to the extent of going public. Understand that some people dislike unwanted attention.
However, I did meet up with some of the reporters and had some photos taken. You might want to check out The Newpaper on Saturday the 14th, and The Straits Times on Sunday the 15th.
(Edit: For certain reasons The Straits Times did not run the story. 'D' from The Straits Times [if you are reading this] : I'm sorry to hear about it. But you're a great reporter who made me feel at ease. )
Some of you guys are right about the website being too direct and plain(not fanciful). Perhaps its because I have no hidden agenda and therefore the tendency to get my point across in a straightforward manner.
By the way, Happy Valentine's Day to all of you. Enjoy :)
The thing is, he's not writing to the girl anymore. He's not even writing for her.
He's writing for himself.
About himself.
He even went as far as to say the girl might gross him out, and that he's good looking, etcetc.
Over a month and still no girl; some of his "supporters" (and that's what it's turned into, a popularity contest) blame it on singaporean girls being this, and that, and uppity, and blah blah.
Some of the detractors think the girls will think he's a stalker, that he's creepy etc.
The truth is he's just lost the plot. The girl won't, because he's really more interested in himself now, than he is in her. This is his five minutes in the limelight, and she's just a badly drawn stick figure.
Sweet? I think not.
*****
Perhaps it just goes to show how sometimes there's a "right" way to say something, and .... a very, very wrong, in a "don't-even-go-there"-way to go about the same.
*****
ps : ... there are singaporeans that find the whole thing romantic.
sigh. I guess it's the concept that counts, not the packaging. roll eyes.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
My way
"I'd like... an iced tea, please."
She raised an eyebrow. "I think you should have the ice tea with lemonade, would you like one, it's very nice..."
"Err. Okay, I'll have an ice tea with lemonade."
"Would you like it done my way?" (two thumbs up)
"What's your way?"
"Grande, my way... its good!"
"Rigghht. Okay, I'll have it your way."
(Several seconds later)
"Yeah, it's good."
"You won't get it done this way anywhere else!"
"What, not even at another S*******?"
"Not like this, this is my way!"
"Um. okay thanks."
"Will you be sitting down here?"
"... yes?"
... bemused.
*****
Sitting here pretending to study the RAAS, and missing the assassin.
She raised an eyebrow. "I think you should have the ice tea with lemonade, would you like one, it's very nice..."
"Err. Okay, I'll have an ice tea with lemonade."
"Would you like it done my way?" (two thumbs up)
"What's your way?"
"Grande, my way... its good!"
"Rigghht. Okay, I'll have it your way."
(Several seconds later)
"Yeah, it's good."
"You won't get it done this way anywhere else!"
"What, not even at another S*******?"
"Not like this, this is my way!"
"Um. okay thanks."
"Will you be sitting down here?"
"... yes?"
... bemused.
*****
Sitting here pretending to study the RAAS, and missing the assassin.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Ironside
Her eyes on his, as they lie eye to eye, tracing the line of his face with her fingertips.
"...scary"
"... that's just the way it goes..."
"...scary"
"... that's just the way it goes..."
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Anatomy 101
Sometimes as they're clowning around the Assassin does her Bolt impression, complete with huge puppy dog eyes, head tilt, and imaginary ear flop, and that little smile of hers, and although he knows full well it's not anatomical, and that emotion takes root from the cerebellum and not the heart, something in his left chest feels a little give...
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Contrasts (completed)
... don't think about it anymore; focus on the good times. There were good times... right?
*****
Some time later I come awake with my arm tucked under the crook of her neck and watch the dawn light diffusing in softly through the glass panes, caressing her edge of her face and creating a ghostly pale glow around the contours of her cheek, her temple and her nose, the rest of her fair, fair skin encased in grey shadow. And then those eyes - dark, dark, eyes, almost doll-like and so very alive - flutter open, and her lips twitch into a smile as I say Good Morning, then lean forwards to kiss them, and I feel... an almost wondrous joy.
*****
I remember I used to think when people asked each other "what do you really, really want in life?" that the answer "to be happy" was too simple, too trite for me. That I was different and needed something... more substantial. I used to think I just needed the truth, and that happiness was irrelevant to me.
Catch me now : ten years down the line, a little battered, edges worn down, paintwork a little scuffed and how I've changed. I just want to be happy now, too.
*****
Every hello? on the line a... leap... an unexpected but welcome surprise.
Every parting... reluctant, an almost sense of... loss.
Every meeting, a wonder.
Not a distant memory from over a decade ago of the mafia don and mafiassimo... but a moment in the here and now, between Doctor Whiskers and the Assassin.
*****
Some time later I come awake with my arm tucked under the crook of her neck and watch the dawn light diffusing in softly through the glass panes, caressing her edge of her face and creating a ghostly pale glow around the contours of her cheek, her temple and her nose, the rest of her fair, fair skin encased in grey shadow. And then those eyes - dark, dark, eyes, almost doll-like and so very alive - flutter open, and her lips twitch into a smile as I say Good Morning, then lean forwards to kiss them, and I feel... an almost wondrous joy.
*****
I remember I used to think when people asked each other "what do you really, really want in life?" that the answer "to be happy" was too simple, too trite for me. That I was different and needed something... more substantial. I used to think I just needed the truth, and that happiness was irrelevant to me.
Catch me now : ten years down the line, a little battered, edges worn down, paintwork a little scuffed and how I've changed. I just want to be happy now, too.
*****
Every hello? on the line a... leap... an unexpected but welcome surprise.
Every parting... reluctant, an almost sense of... loss.
Every meeting, a wonder.
Not a distant memory from over a decade ago of the mafia don and mafiassimo... but a moment in the here and now, between Doctor Whiskers and the Assassin.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Contrasts
I remember watching in the mornings as the sunlight would creep in through the window and cut a strip of blazing white across the tanned skin of her forehead and right cheek, and glow red in her brown-streaked hair. I remember how very at peace - at last - she used to look, her chest barely rising as she breathed. And sometimes I'd reach down and brush a stray wisp of hair from her cheek.
I remember how very, very sad I used to feel, watching her as she slept.
And just before I left for work I'd lean over and kiss her lightly on the forehead, and most times she wouldn't stir, but sometimes she'd move a little and let out the faintest of squeaks.
And that filled my heart with sadness too.
She pulled me in closer and said, hey... don't think about it anymore; focus on the good times. There were good times... right?
I remember how very, very sad I used to feel, watching her as she slept.
And just before I left for work I'd lean over and kiss her lightly on the forehead, and most times she wouldn't stir, but sometimes she'd move a little and let out the faintest of squeaks.
And that filled my heart with sadness too.
She pulled me in closer and said, hey... don't think about it anymore; focus on the good times. There were good times... right?
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