The Space Between

To all the readers who still occasionally peruse the blog, looking for signs of life - I am well, thank you!

I have been up in New South Wales working and I will be here for about another six weeks. Unfortunately, the only internet connection I get is at work, and I wouldn't really want to be using the work computer to blog, if you know what I mean!

I am in Brisbane right now for the weekend visiting a good friend, Anthony, and I am tired but excited to be finally seeing this town! Now I can officially and finally say that I have been to Queensland.

The Waiting Room

I am sitting there in the waiting room, slowly examining Alain de Botton's The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work (thanks k!) like a fine wine - sipping the words into my mind, swirling it about, inhaling deeply and giving a smug knowing smile as I sample his now familiar writing.

There is a little boy of one, and he looks like he stepped right out of one of those medieval religious paintings - his eyes green and shining, his cheeks red and rosy framed by the golden curls that tail around his ear.

He is an unfair child - the sort of child who evokes the immediate 'Aww...' in you, and makes grannies automatically reach out and cuddle him, and cheeks which draw your thumbs to pinch it, and a smile that would melt a heart of stone - and all this simply by being himself. He is the envy of the other kids, who are throwing tantrums and screaming to be noticed; but all the eyes are on him, and his every move.

This is his first time in the airport, you could see - he is allowed to run free on the carpets of the waiting room, and he ambulates with the unsteady waddling gait of a drunk - he is still learning to walk. It is a miracle he doesn't trip over as his little legs stagger to chase his huge cherubic head, which is leading the way.

His large head is running towards something that has caught his eye - his first sighting of an aeroplane! He runs unsteadily to the glass window, and puts up five little fingers of his left hand against the window to stop his run just in time. His tiny mouth hangs open, his eyes unblinking as he is transfixed by the sight of the large metallic birdie before him.

What a big birdie! Quick! Tell someone! his little heart yells to him, and once again his head pulls the rest of his unbalanced little body towards his father, who is sitting about ten metres away, looking tired.

"Daddy, look, a big red birdie," he meant to say. But he didn't possess the words yet, and so his excitement came out instead in a siren "Oniyoniyoniyoniyo!" he yells, his left arm extending into his index finger pointed at the airplane.

The father smiles, and does not move.

No! his little feet stamp their indignation. You HAVE to see this! Oniyoniyoniyo! His babbling rage continues.

The father looks away, and the child sirens again in impotent protest, fearing that Dad would miss out on this most amazing sight if he didn't move to the window RIGHT NOW. The bird might have flown!

The father, who knew better, just sat and shook his head, and the little boy stood there, befuddled by his father's lack of enthusiasm.

Fine, your loss then, he babbled, and threw his hands down by his side in cute disgust, waddling quickly and precariously to the window once more to gape in wonder at his secret find.

______________________________________

I watched as the father hoisted up the boy and walked him across the tarmac, and up the stairs, the child a quiet awestruck sacrifice as it was eaten up into the belly of that great red beast.

The quickest of stops in Sydney, as I make it just in time to board the plane, and I watched the bright immense lights of Sydney disappear beneath me like a reverse night sky, the stars glimmering beneath me, and one and a half hours later, the clouds on night shift give way to the sparse bright lights of Brisbane.

Queensland, at last.

Of Love, In Its Own Terms

Do you have friends, especially couples who annoy the heck out of you when they act all cutesy and lovey in front of you?

There is a flurry of exchanges of 'honeybunny' or 'sweetiepie' or any other nauseating cute names that lovers dig up for each other because, somehow, calling each other by their given names was no longer good enough. (Take that, parents who took all the time to come up with a name for your child!)

I remember a time when I was on the outside looking in, and whenever I heard lovers call out to each other using their private names, my gag reflex would be activated and I would silently (or blatantly) snicker at these couples.

Only now, looking from the other side and guilty of the very same atrocities, can I begin to try and understand this need for the terms of endearment.

I am reminded of this clip from the wonderful Steve Martin's LA Story, both quirky and poignant at once. It shows his character, Harris, finally getting together with Sara (played by the ethereal Victoria Tennant) after pursuing her for most of the film.

(P.S. Just realised the clip won't play. You can watch it here.)

This scene, all at once magical and fantastic, truly spoke to me. It shows how two people, in the security of their love for one another, are safe and free to be like children once more in each other's presence.

And thus, these terms of endearment, while too saccharine and vomit-inducing to the ears of the outside world, makes perfect sense in the vernacular of lovers.

Of course, the love will mature and take different forms down the years, and perhaps we will all shed the tender names for each other, but just for right now, I choose to enjoy it.

The Hospital's Littlest Orphan

I'm finally back, and so many things are going on, especially with Mum and Sis being here! But first, let me tell you a story:

The Hospital's Littlest Orphan

She walks into the department and up to the ward clerk, her eyes dead and unblinking. I need to see a nurse, she says. I have taken thirty tablets tonight. The ward clerk lets out a silent sigh and inputs her detail into the screen for the second time that day.

Her name comes up on the Department screen, and the nurses roll their eyes. Not again! they curse under their breaths. She just left thirty minutes ago - what a bloody waste of hospital resources!

She'll wait outside in the waiting room, they decide, and we'll take bloods from her in four hours' time. She can be baby-sat out in the waiting room.

She watches the television flicker in the top corner of the waiting area, trying to make out what the silent moving pictures were saying. Her soft pink pajamas rub against the hard seats of the waiting room, and her glazed eyes look up into the fluorescent white lights which hummed a familiar lullaby to soothe the desperate quiet in her.

She closes her eyes, and she remembers how as a little girl, her Mummy had been really sick. They were in and out of the hospital so often that it was like a second home to her. She tries to remember her mother dying, but time and her mind has smudged the painting of that memory altogether.

She was shifted from foster home to foster home from the age of nine, and actually found a good foster mother when she was eleven. But happiness was never meant for people like her, and just as if life had a point to prove - her foster mother died when she was fourteen, leaving her orphaned once more.

She was completely out at sea then, too old to be fostered anymore; and wandered nomadically from the sporadic foster families who would offer to take her in, but she would act up and not last with any one family too long. She was old enough to feel like a trespasser into the lives of these families and the truth was, she was too afraid to love too much in case they were taken from her again.

Two years passed, and finally, she was old enough to live on her own. Her accommodation was nice enough, but she had no housemates, no friends, and no family. Her impermanent itinerant childhood, where the love of a parent was a distant memory rather than an innate feeling meant that she lacked the social skills of interaction, and had no way of making meaningful relationships.

She cries out to the world, pleading for someone to talk to her, to listen to how her day went, or how she liked the colour green or the sound of buses. No one had bothered to ask her where she had bought her nice new maroon sweater from.

She made five hundred calls to the ambulance one month, and was put into jail for her disruptive behaviour.

Her mind directed her lonely feet to the only other place that was a large part of her childhood - the hospital - and she would visit two or three times a week, sitting in the reception area talking to anyone who cared to listen. When the reception area closed at five, she would wander down to the Emergency Department complaining of some vague symptom to be seen, looking for any excuse to stay.

They would bring her in, initially, treating her like they would any other patient. She loved the questions they used to ask her, as that was the only time anyone even showed a vague interest in her. She hated the feeling of needles and would cry like a five year old with no one there with the promises of lollies if she were brave.

As she cried wolf more and more, the Department became less and less welcoming, sitting her outside in the waiting room, taking forever to see her. That was when she began popping the pills. Thirty, forty five of them at a time. Somehow that made everyone sit up and take notice, and the words I didn't want to live anymore seemed to have a magic effect of bringing on the sympathetic looks of strange nurses and the listening ears of concerned doctors.

Oddly enough, no one cares more about you being alive than when you tried to be dead.

But then she overplayed that card, sometimes turning up to the ED three times a day, and familiarity chipped away at the sympathy of her reluctant extended family of the Emergency Department.

And so she waits in the Emergency Department waiting room, her body shifting about trying to get comfortable on her makeshift bed of hard plastic seats, waiting to hear another human voice call her name.

The Fundamental Things Apply

So much to type, and so little time!

I will be heading up to M. again, this time for ten days, so I might not have the chance to share things with you until then!

Unless K brings wonderful internet access with her when she comes to visit this weekend! Yay!!

(All the elephants in the house, put your hands in the air!! Now wave them around like you just don't care...

... that you're letting go of the swinging vines and dropping to your death below! {Curse you, cute kiddie song!})

Till then, feel free to read up on some of my old stuff!

A big welcome to Melbourne to my mum and sis, who I will not be able to see at the airport, but who I can't wait to wrap my arms around when I finally come back!

Big farewell hugs and kisses! hK.

The Animal That Never Forgets... Now What Was It Again?

Walking with J down Acland St, we chanced upon the wonderfully named holy Sheet! which was a shop selling bedding and other fun stuff. I decided to get K this elephant which she has christened Baba.

The history of it lies here, if you will indulge our finger-in-throat, vomit-inducing cuteness. Hahaha!

With apologies to k, with this video I now pronounce your declaration of "age + maturity + life’s experiences" null and void! Hahaha! Thanks for the book - I can't believe I am still rereading Essays in Love like I was reading it for the very first time, so I am sure I will revel in The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work (from life experience, that is, not from reading the actual book! Hahaha!)

Other People's Love Stories

Matters of the Heart - Triangular Love

Another love story I picked up from a conversation with another friend, and I thank them all for their honesty. In telling their story, I hope to come to some understanding of why we sometimes love the way we do.

Beginning with L

I was twenty something at the time lah you know and his parents were friends of my parents, and that's how we met at a gathering.

He was the whole package, man! - Good looking, rich, drove a flash car, smooth with his words - everything a girl could want lah you know.

He was studying overseas at that time, so when he left, we wrote to each other by e-mail lah. Almost everyday. He would occasionally call me on weekends as well, and we would talk for hours on end.

He visited me every time he returned and we would go on these dates out together. It was during one of these dates that I found out he already had a girlfriend.

Yeah, stupid, right?

How she came to know

I had brought out a friend of mine to meet him, and although we had a good time that night, she told me later lah that she had some reservations about him.

Now that I think about it, there was something peculiar about how the night had ended. He had asked her for her phone number as he dropped her off. Of course I thought nothing about it at that time lah.

He rang my friend later and dropped the bomb to her that he was in a relationship.

A steady girlfriend for three years, you know! Three years! He wanted to tell me but didn't know how, and so wanted her to tell me instead! What's wrong with you men ah?!

I was naturally fuming when I found out, and asked him lah why he never told me about it before!

His reasoning was that the whole time we were corresponding, I never once asked him whether he had a girlfriend. I thought that you would volunteer that kind of information, wouldn't you?

He said that he could never leave his girlfriend, as they had been through a lot of thick and thin together. He told me that if I only knew half of the things he had done, I would walk out on him. His girlfriend, however, wouldn't.

Give me 20 Good Reasons

Why did I stay in the relationship?

Don't know. I guess I was young and he was charming, and I still felt lah like this could somehow work out, him and I.

I did try many times to end it, but he would say things like "Can we at least remain friends, because what we share is special and I don't want to lose it."

We would stay friends, and write to each other again, and then it would escalate into a relationship, descend into arguments, leading into a breakup and the whole cycle would repeat itself again.

The Fourth Party

One day, another friend had something to tell me.

This friend's older brother was arguing with his girlfriend, a Eurasian chick whom he met at a club some time ago. This girl returned to the club to let off some steam, where she met this current guy that I was dating, and he chatted her up. They hit it off and started writing to each other.

He was sending her mushy smses and writing her loving e-mails behind my back, you know, the bastard! Thankfully, the Eurasian girl finally called it off as she wanted to work things through with her boyfriend.

I was pissed off as hell when I found out, and I confronted him! How could he cheat on me, the third party, with another girl now! He didn't know what to say.

But I still couldn't let go of him, and somehow things blew over after that. We continued seeing each other, and he assured me that the thing with the Eurasian chick was over. I never dared to ask him if there were any others, and frankly, I didn't want to know.

The Beginning of the End

There were many times when I really wanted to end it. I did.

Somewhere in the midst of our torrid relationship, I talked about him to an older friend from church, and she followed me through the rollercoaster of my on-and-off relationship with him for years.

One day, having seen me through my latest bout of tears and arguments, she sat me down, and she told me that this had to end. For real lah this time.

She knew that it wasn't going to be easy and she wanted to talk me through it lah. I had to get it into my head that this relationship was not going to end well, so I went to her place one day, and she had prepared a list of fairly confronting questions for me to answer.

It hurt to be honest, but through the pain I could see that he was wrong for me. And that this could not go on any longer.

The Post-it-ives of Breaking Up

And so, we scheduled another day - Breakup Day.

She was there with me in my living room, and I rang him up. We put him on speakerphone and the Breakup Conversation began.

It was quite funny actually - my friend sat quietly in the background, and without him knowing, her 2B pencil was furiously scribbling replies from me on Post-It notes to his every statement. It was like reading a script, you know!

You're just going through another of your phases. No, this is not a phase.
Ah, we've done this so many times before. It's different this time. It's for real this time.
Can't we at least be friends? No, I'm ending this for good.
etc.

The conversation ended. Little Post-It notes fluttered all over my living room.

The affair, too, had ended.

Or so it seemed

Unfortunately, it started with a reply to his many pleading smses. And then an e-mail. And then a phone call. And then, we got back together again.

(I know lah! It should have ended it there and then! What to do, right?)

I was honest with my older friend, though, and told her we were together again. She told me off half-jokingly for wasting all her Post-It notes!

Resolutions of the Heart

A few months later, I just woke up one day and decided that this had to end. I don't know why, but I just knew it.

So I called him lah and we argued, and then he said angrily that I was bound to capitulate and call him back within a month, and that got me really upset.

We'll see, I said.

We have not been in contact since.

Love and War

Well, as you know lah, I've just got engaged with my current boyfriend. Going to get married soon.

I found out from a friend that he got married, man, before I did! That really pisses me off.

Huh? Why?

Because it feels like he's won. The evil have prospered. I was supposed to get married before him, not the other way round!

He finally married his girlfriend of eight and a half years. She actually knew about us all along, but stuck by his side anyway.

Yeah, so there you go. My love story.

I love how multi-faceted love is sometimes, and how varied the stories we have to tell. Thank you again to my friends who have allowed me to play the role of the witness, and never the jury.

Pretty Rainbows Make Me Cry

That's me, crying. I look this sexy when I cry.

Is it okay if a guy cries? Is it okay if a guy cries watching a movie? Does the Sentimental Police need to be called, to give him a swift kick in the nuts and inject some intramuscular testosterone into him?

(/start Counterstrike sequence)

All units...*keerrrch.*... Saline noted at corner of eye.....*kerrcchh*.... Subject about to cry.... Operation No-Boo-Hoo is now in full swing! *keerch* Take him down! *keerrch* Go! Go! Go! *keerrchh*

(/end Counterstrike sequence)

Yes, I must admit, I have cried while watching movies. I have even cried watching a cartoon once. (Why did you have to die, Bugs Bunny? Why? Why? You wascally wabbit! - Okay, so in all seriousness it wasn't Bugs Bunny. I actually cried during the last episode of My Little Pony and Friends. Hahaha!)

Don't get me wrong, I don't bawl my eyes out at every movie like I was some kind of Sensitive New Age Guy; but you know how you watch a movie sometimes, and it comes to a really sad scene, and you've prepped yourself : Okay, I'm not going to cry, I'm not going to cry, I'm not going to.... bwwaaahhh! Why does life have to be so sad!!

Some movies just pull at the heartstrings, and draw out the tears against your control. You try and fight it, but the saline just builds arounds the corner of the eyelids, then flood the nasal passages, and the next moment, you are crying until damn ugly, to borrow the words of Jan!

I don't often 'cry until damn ugly' at movies, in fact, I can almost list them all here (see if you agree!):
1) Crash
2) Braveheart
3) The Patriot (the scene where the little daughter runs at him and says 'Don't leave Daddy! I'll say anything!' because she didn't want him to go to war... heartbreaking)
4) Graveyard of the Fireflies (that's a Hayao Miyazaki cartoon - okay, I've just realised I've cried watching two cartoons now!)
5) Cyrano de Bergerac (the other cartoon... now I am crying in shame!)
6) The Passion of the Christ (I promised myself I wouldn't cry in the cinema. So much for that!)
7) Welcome Back, Mr. McDonald (best obscure Japanese movie ever!)
8) Dude, Where's My Car?

Okay, the last one was a joke. I only cried because it was 90 minutes of my life I will never see again.

Movie number 8 was actually this:

The irrepressible Geoffrey Rush

I have always wanted to watch this movie. Geoffrey Rush's performance as the damaged, quirky prodigy David Helfgott is unparalleled, earning this once obscure Australian actor the Oscar in 1996 for Best Actor, and he has never looked back since. This show is just beautifully crafted, and the performances all around are fantastic, especially Armin Muehller-Stahl who plays the domineering father who pushes David into his mental breakdown.

So call me soft and sentimental and all sorts of names rhyming with gay, but I will not apologise for shedding tears for movies that capture your heart and demand the investment of your emotions into them.

Random Memories: Seven Years Old

I remember watching this horrible Chinese movie on TV3 with Dad one night. I can't quite remember the title of the show, but it basically portrayed the relationship between a sickly mother-in-law with her subservient daughter-in-law .

The son had died, I think, and the relationship between the two women had soured. The mother-in-law was verbally and physically abusive towards the daughter-in-law, who bore the brunt of her wrath patiently.

The climax of the show was when the daughter-in-law made the ultimate sacrifice for the mother-in-law. The mother-in-law needed a herbal medicine to be cooked with meat in order for her health to improve. They were too poor to actually afford meat, but somehow the daughter-in-law came up with the goods.

And so there's this scene of the mother-in-law eating the soup, extremely pleased with the daughter-in-law for making the soup, but then questions her as to where she got her meat from. The daughter-in-law accepts the praise with an awkward smile, and she looks to be surpressing some pain.

The next scene cut to the back of the daughter-in-law's thighs, raw and bloody from where she had cut off bits of herself in order to give her mother-in-law the meat.

I found that scene really sad, and I was on the verge of tears. Dad, on the other hand, burst out laughing and said how the mother-in-law was an unknowing carnivore.

Eat up, Dad's cheeky smile goaded her on, but I could see the telltale gulp of his Adam's apple as Dad tried to surpress his tears in front of his seven year old son.

Road Trip Victoria: Geelong and Anglesea

Dear K,

Remember that time over the Easter weekend when we decided to go for our long drive? Well, it didn't turn out to be a very long drive after all, because by the time we rubbed sleep from our eyes, the sun was already near the peak of its travel in the sky.

The hour-plus drive brought us to the industrial town of Geelong near the sea, and we stopped by the information centre to ask for directions. You wouldn't let me have McDonald's or KFC, which is the reason many people go to Geelong.

We drove by the scenic route into the city, remember? Then we decided to get out and look at the sea. We noticed that there was a path that led down to the wooden pathway by the shore, and then a curious sight greeted us:

(Top left, going clockwise) K joining the queue to see the Wizard of Oz (she wants her boyfriend to have a brain, please); the Scottish bagpiper with nothing much to see under his painted kilt (he had wood); the photographer being photographed (I'm poetic like that); the phake phamily photographed by the phake photographer (I'm poetic like that, I told you).

There was a whole bunch of wooden mannequins beautifully painted scattered along the whole seashore. We laughed at some of them, and took some compromising photographs, which, rest assured, hon, will never make its way to the internet.

Oops.


(Top left, L-R) A serious looking policeman from the back keeps watch over the beach, ready to administer justice to criminals; only after he has his ice-cream, of course (I'm just surprised it wasn't a doughnut); K standing next to the hunky lifeguards, willing them to give her CPR with their moustached mouths; me subtly ogling some bikini clad female mannequins who have been out here sunbathing (looking pale despite being out here for the past three years); K disapproves of my obvious hamsapness, but was secretly ogling them herself.

It was cute and disturbing all at once, but it made for an interesting walk on a glorious day, didn't it, hon?

We then almost went to this place Go! for lunch (we wanted to try it because it had a quirky menu ie. 12. Froot Loops - most of our staff, really) but it was closed for the Easter weekend.

Ah well, we ended up trawling the modest city centre instead, and ended up having some savoury crepes at this restaurant:


It was crepe, wasn't it, hon?

The food was okay in a mass produced sort of way, although it would have been good to try out the sweet crepes as well. Maybe next time, hon. Maybe next time you'll listen to me and we'll go to KFC or McDonald's instead. Hahaha!

We then drove on to the beautiful little town of Anglesea, where the evening sun had brought families to play in the lake and at the beach. There were paddleboats, canoes and motorboats for hire on the lake, and although you were a little reluctant initially, I finally managed to convince you to hop into a motorboat with me, and to take the wheel:

(Top left, L-R) Canoe tell me which boat to take?; the lake before us dividing as our motorboat chugged through; K the sailor-(wo)man is strong to the finish, 'cos she eats her spinach; me looking relaxed, but actually clinging on for dear life.

Did you remember how fast the boat was, hon? Let's just say if the opening scene of a James Bond movie had him escaping from his enemies on these motorboat, it would have been a thirty-second movie.

(/start Bond movie)

JB: Don't worry, Miss Pussy Galore (best Bond Girl name, ever), we will outrun them on this motorboat.

(Boat chugs): Chugchugchug

*Villains rush to the pier, and shoot JB right between the eyes, simply by extending their arm out and placing their guns directly on his forehead*

cue credits and closing theme

(/end Bond movie)

We then wrapped up the day by walking along the hallowed glow of the Anglesea beach, hon, watching people play cricket or tossing a footy around, with some new lifeguard recruits getting training at the far end of the beach.


(From top, L-R) The surreal sky of Anglesea beach; K looking up, lighting the sky with her smile; me looking up, and for some reason I had brought my orgasm face to the beach; the very brilliantly named cafe in Four Kings.

And then our last souvenir from the day was the really good but expensive soy chai in that cafe in Four Kings, which we thought was cleverly named.

A great day out, hon, and I am glad I got to share it with you.

(P.S. We will go back and try Go! someday, okay? Or the McDonald's. I hear that's really good.)