Solitude

"The solitude was extreme because it wasn't physical. It was extreme because you felt it while in the company of the person you loved. It was extreme because it was in your head, that most solitary of places."

- The Marriage Plot, Jeffrey Eugenides

street old and chic

hypnotic rain

"Maybe it was an illusion, i thought. I stood there a long time, gazing at the rainswept streets. Once again I was a twelve-year-old boy staring for hours at the rain. Look at the rain long enough, with no thoughts in your head, and you gradually feel your body falling lose, shaking free the world's reality. Rain has the power to hypnotize.

"But this had been no mirage. When I went back into the bar, a glass and an ashtray remained where she had been. A couple of lightly crushed cigarette butts lay in the ashtray, a faint trace of lipstick on each. I sat down and closed my eyes. Echoes of music faded away, leaving me alone. In what gentle darkness, the rain continued to fall without a sound."

South of the Border, West of the Sun, Haruki Murakami

All that remains is a desert

"I love the process of starting from scratch, creating something, seeing it through till it was absolutely perfect. It was my bar, my own little world. Could you find this kind of happiness proofreading school textbooks? No way." - p.61

"Our world's exactly the same. Rain falls and the flowers bloom. No rain, they wither up. Bugs are eaten by lizards, lizards are eaten by bird. But in the end everyone of them dies. They die and dry up. One generation dies and the next one takes over. That's how it goes. Lots of different ways to live. And lots of different ways to die. But in the end that doesn't make a bit of a difference. All that remains is a desert. 

When I left the bar just before dawn, a light rain was falling on the main street in Aoyama. I was exhausted. Soundlessly, the rain soaked the rows of tall buildings, standing there like so many gravestones. I left my car in the bar's parking lot and walked home. On the way, I sat down on a handrail and watched a large crow that was cawing from the top of some traffic lights. The four a.m. streets looked shabby and filthy. The shadow of decay and disintegration lurked everywhere, and I was part of it. Like a shadow burned into a wall." - p.71

South of the Border, West of the Sun, Haruki Murakami

smiles

the few things that kindle a little warmth in me these days.

Lessons from the pool

I remember taking swimming lessons when I was still a little boy in primary school. Those were the days when mum and us would take a 15 minute ride on bus 98 (this excludes waiting time for the bus) which would take us through one of the oldest housing estates in the area. I know, because the 1-room flat where we used to live in was in the estate. Now the area only spots modern high-rise housing blocks with clinically well-planned neighbourhood parks and standard HDB amenities - nothing like the days of yore where shanty-looking flats were the norm.

Two weeks ago, I managed to catch a break and found time to swim again. I used to do that on a more regular basis when I was working in Toa Payoh and the swimming pool was just a street across the office. But the last time I swam was more than a year ago when I could still afford the time during lunch hour or after work. I enjoy swimming because it's is an easy sport which cost little; the water has a calming effect which never fails to relax me while I'm at it. Swimming in the pool, I often thought this is how a fish lives its life: slicing through water, under the surface, gliding calmly across the water body. Like any other sport, once you find your rhythm and pace, swimming becomes second nature and you start to enjoy the steady motion of moving in the water body. The water glides across your body as much as you cut through it.

Walking to the train station the other day, the image of the old swimming pool, now already gone, came to my mind. Almost intuitively, I could mentally reconstruct the physical setting of the swimming complex: the big spacious toilets with open cubicles and old pipes; the spectator gallery at where our belongings are dumped before we hit the pool; the small opening from the restaurant where hot drinks were bought; and the deep 12 ft pool and musky interior of the entire complex. All these details came to mind easily. But above all, it was the rather mundane journey of travelling weekly to the swimming complex that made the memory warm. This is just amongst a handful of memories from the yesteryears which come to the fore every now and then when one is hit by a bolt of nostalgia. Like all nostalgic memories, it harks back to a simpler life - that of an easily contented child who has yet to deal with the sobrieties of life.

diwali sky bliss

quaintly charming

They were moving on, I had to make do with a quick pause, so I moved closer to the beckoning gate, flipped my camera out and took a shot. I was drawn to the building the moment I saw it. I like how the gate opens up to a road leading to the main house, and how the fallen leaves and shrubbery around the gate gives the compound a quaintly charming facade. Just a chance discovery like this makes a whole lot of difference to an otherwise usual morning ride. Lovely.

Old is Gold

Old school breakfast at an old world Kopitiam. Eggs better than yakun (you've got to break them yourselves though), and toasted bread of the kind that I like (i.e. not the hard kind from yakun).

once in a purple moon Friday chill-out lunch

The weather was not so kind. Plans for a late morning swim were duly aborted when it became clear that this was no ordinary rain; I just didn't expect it to be an extraordinary downpour. [A day later, I read in the papers that there were flash floods at various locations because of the sudden deluge of rainfall.]

With a good one hour to spare before lunch, I decided to brave the heavy downpour and head to a nearby cafe and read my book. I folded my berms and risked being spotted in indecently short shorts to avoid the splashing of dirty water from the ground. With a small foldable umbrella and a breath of resignation drawn, I started into the crazy rain and adjusted my umbrella with the futile aim of averting the invasive rainfall. I huddled my bag and shuffled slowly across the street and corridors, mindful of the risk of slipping and falling. Having to find my way around this unfamiliar area, I thought to myself: It could not have been a worse time to be out navigating my way through this housing estate.

When my lunch mates finally arrived an hour later (I had settled in the restaurant instead of going to another cafe), I was almost done with my cappuccino. We talked about the restaurant and the merits of a shabby-chic design for restaurants. Therein was born the quote of the day, courtesy of my discerning and comfort-embracing friend: 'Toilets cannot be shabby-chic; they have to be swanky.'

a paris-esque moment

Balloons and romance go together, don't they, just as a bicycle and quaint shophouses make for a perfect match. In the absence of deep blue ocean and wind-swept coastal roads (with that occasional lighthouse in the distance), I think this is a decent backdrop for a whiff of snazzy romance.

Thursday, then and now

Thursday night, lounging in a cafe, daydreaming and reading my book - it seems almost crazy to imagine doing this just a few months ago. But this is for real, I am breathing and whiling away time on a working thursday evening, a period which for many months had disappeared from my life.

That's the past. This is the now.

Crackling Dusk

Stepping out of Clarke Quay MRT station yesterday evening, I was a little thrilled at seeing the sky.

Plumes of droplets-leaden clouds somehow managed to break away from the precarious mass that usually envelops the sky these days. They were at the furthest end from me, starkly contrasting with the rest of the darkening sky.

The ephemeral beauty was matched by its own sense of fragile transition. This was an image that either portended a yet to finish rain storm, or it was a crackling respite that marked the end of a dreadful rainy afternoon.