My Father's
sentiments fit into a small box.
A small wooden box.
An old small wooden box.
Squatting on the marble floor
Boxes and lugage all around him
because we're moving out.
He's wearing a red fisherman's hat for some reason
Soft and floppy edges
It covers his ears
Frames his face
When he laughs
Nothing else distracts the smile lines that highlight his face.
"Do you remember?"
Holds out a small notebook
I don't.
He opens it.
"dearest daddy"
I remember now.
A fathers' day gift.
Years ago.
On each page is a reason why
I love him
He has kept it.
I didn't expect him to.
My father never shows his heart.
Except on nights like these
and then I love him more.
"Look".
It's a gold ring
"It was your earring"
I haven't worn that earring since-
only little girls wear these earrings.
It's just a single earring.
He kept it all the same.
He throws it into the old small wooden box.
"Do you know what this is?"
"Yes, yes. It's a top."
And I am proud of myself for remembering.
"No. It's a Gyroscope."
[oh.]
Ships use it, he tells me,
because it never falters.
"It's rusty now", he remarks.
"Do you wear watches?"
Nope
"This one still can be used. I haven't worn it for so long, didn't even know it ran out of batt".
I look away for a moment, admiring my freshly painted maybelline nails.
I look up; he's standing beside me with three watches.
"Do you see this one?
I keep it because it's the first one your mommy bought me"
and all of a sudden I'm a young child again, back in our bishan home.
daddy's watch, that was always on his wrist.
I never even realised it has left.
I never knew daddy loves mommy like this.
Mommy always says he has no romance.
If this isn't romantic, I don't know what is.
Why does he hide this part of himself so away?
If I hadn't been present at that table, if I had been living my own world back in eusoff hall, I'd have missed this, daddy'd have kept his heart alone.
His provisional driving liscense.
He has kept his provisonal driving liscence.
The army knife from his ocs days.
Foreign currencies from around the world;
daddy and I promise to frame them up at the new house.
All of my daddy's heart-things fits into one box.
Why is his love shown through acts.
Quiet silent acts done at night.
That no one sees.
The settling of bills.
The payment of mortages.
The ironing done at 2am in the morning.
The failed business ventures.
The debts chalked up.
Why is he so silent and stoic.
Why is his heart in that one small old wooden box.
It should be cast in gold, wrought with the most elaborate fittings, filled with the most intrinsic gifts.
I do not understand.
Where is the poet's resolution,
the peace of heart I am supposed to find.
Why does it seem that only God and I see,
God who withholds my daddy's reward
and I, with my third coat of blood red nails. 
The bell sounded, and so the red transitlink bus trundled to a stop opposite raffles town club. She barely noticed, too busy dreaming in her world. When she looked up at the traffic light, she realised that there was a bus conductor doing what all bus conductors do. Momentary panic rose in her, not so much because she hadn't paid her fare but because it was a habitual thing after one bus conductor forced her to the police when she was 14 [but that's another story]. So after reminding herself that she had paid, she took out her ezlink card and waited for the bus conductor to make her way down the aisles, staring at her in the way she always did to people. Not a concious thing, mind you, such realisation usually came only after she was thinking of things in retrospect. Really relaxing only after the bus conductor returned her the ezlink, she tried to put her card back into her purse. It wouldn't quite fit. Sometime during the reshuffling of cards and other purse.y items, she realised that there was an auntie two seats down who had turned around and was glaring at someone. It wasn't a simple glare; it was one with such intensity and anger that the woman's eyes were bluging somewhat. Her right hand was gripping the seat in front of her, and the girl tried to see if she could make out the veins in the woman's wrist. Most startling of all, the auntie was so overcom with fury that her lips had virtually disappeared. Try being in such a rage that your lips aren't simply pursed in disapproval; they're actually inside the buccal cavity. It's rather painful.
She wondered idly who that auntie was angry at. It certainly couldn't be her; she didn't know any skinny chinese aunties dressed in cotton shirts of thin pink and white horizontal strips with bluging eyes and no lips. It was even rather amusing, and she tried to look into the woman's eyes, dropping them sometimes because it certainly wasn't polite to stare so conciously and heaven forbid, what if she caught the auntie's attention. After a bit more shuffling, she managed to close her purse and so looked up. The auntie was still turned, glaring. It was a bit unnerving, actually. How it looked as though she was the one being stared at. Rubbish, she told herself. An illusion.
At the stop opposite raffles girls, the auntie turned back to face the front. The girl was rather relieved. It had been fun analysing the auntie's face, and even stare back rather insolently pretending that she was a rebellious daughter and this was her tyrant mother, but there was only so much you could look at when there was a woman glaring at someone in her direction, before one's mind started thinking of too much nonsense. Then the auntie whipped her head back. And screamed.
It was a short phrase, couldn't have been more than six syllabus. What was more unsettling to the girl was that she couldn't place the langauge. It wasn't chinese, english or anything like that. It didn't sound like any dialect she knew either. After staring, and staring again at the poor person, the auntie turned back. The girl beside the auntie edged away from her and closer to the window. The girl noticed that and was grateful she wasn't the one closed in beside that woman. Suddenly the head was whipped around again and this time although the girl was prepared for another scream it came in such volume that she literally jumped. More people were turning their heads, and since she didn't want others to think that she was the one being screamed at [she certainly wasn't], she turned her head slightly too towards the back row. Must be that guy, she thought.
Far East Plaza was the next stop, and many people got off, including the girl beside the woman. So did the guy behind her. And suddenly she was struck with the fear that the woman had been screaming at her all the while, even if she didn't know her. She scooted into the inner seat, so she'd be out of the woman's eye view, the lady beside her having left too.
She can't quite remember how, but the next thing she knew was that the woman had gotten out of her original seat and was walking down the aisle and sat. down. beside. her.
The woman's head was fully turned towards her, while her body was still facing the front. The same bulging eyes were directed completely at her, the same lipless mouth staring at her. Her worse fear arose simply because she didn't know what the woman would do next. For one broad moment flight decisions of all sorts presented themselves to her. And then she urgently tapped the girl in front of her.
"hello. I don't know who she is or what she's saying. Can you please go to the bus driver and let him know? I'm very scared."
The girl just looked at her. Accessing the situation. Should she help? The one trapped wanted to scream at the entire ridiculousness of it all. How could that girl not immediately rush off to the driver?
"Do you need me to go to the bus driver?"
She looked up. Her eyes focused on a guy who had stood up from the opposite aisle, trying to ignore the appalling face below.
"Yes please." With emphasis. And with that, he was striding down the bus.
She wondered what would happen in the meantime. And wished desperately someone had come along with her on the bus. Then her brain registered another voice.
"I'll talk to her . Can you try and inch out?" Another young male.
"I would hope so."
[in chinese] "auntie, don't be angry. come and seat over here." The auntie complied.
She rushed out, and her first instinct was to hide at the back seat.
"Go GO to the front." The front was full. So she went just a couple of seats in front. Which was the auntie's original seat, although the horrible irony didn't strike her till sometime later. The bus driver, a young one, came charging down. His verdict was that since she wasn't violent, everythiing was alright. He went back to his seat, feeling all poweful. Random uncles from their seats started turning around to make comments and adding their reassurances to strangers around them. Shaken, she just stared out of the window, wishing that somebody was beside her.
When she got down some time later, she looked up as the bus roared past her. The passagers on the left aisle were staring curiously at her. And her last glimpse of the bus was that woman, whose face was still the same, directed at her.
my mind's playing 'City on a Hill', and somehow it's even better than not hearing it actually played. You know the difference. Having a song in your head is unreal, echo.ey and whispy, for some reason by brain is suggesting these words to me. I think unreal is a good description though. It cannot be verified by the senses. It is not an actual sound. Therefore it is not real? unreal? In any case, I'm embracing unreality again. I think sometimes I live too much in a world I make up for myself. but, it isn't very obvious, I think. shrug. just came back from dinner with vince; I really enjoyed the weather. Credit to him for pointing it out more than once. I loved how the world was gloomy and grey. I love the weather gloomy and grey. It calls out to me, inviting scope for imagination- or just drifting dreams. nus was gloomy and grey... I'd go out of the warm room and type this amidst the weather but I just checked the time and it's ohmygoodness kind of thing; just twenty minutes left to training. but it's still raining and - the message tone sounds- no training! pumps a fist in the air. Now I can sit back and ponder upon the existence of Self [vince's response when I told him training was cancelled]. wellwell whadyouknow. I'm doing it already.
Feeling somewhat pensive, and not in the mood for big words and much thought. Not a day for thinking, nor for thoughts to run away. Running is tiring, you know. Not much up for photos to cover the spaces either. Just feeling somewhat.. dreary.
I'll be leaving Singapore this thursday, and will be back on sunday night. Then on monday it's on the plane bound for Home and thank God, edna mode's leave got approved so he can play the bodyguard for kayan and I as we travel from singapore to bangkok and then to chiang mai and then Fang. I had no hope at all for his leave actually, after Joel's got rejected. I guess God has His plans.
And when I come back on the 6th [of january, of 2007], it's back to the grind. I'm tired of it. One sem's passed, seven more to go. It has passed fast, yes, and perhaps I even do enjoy what I'm reading. Right now though, I'm just asking myself if there isn't a better thing somewhere else. Like cooking school, for example. I like cooking. okay maybe I like eating more than cooking but that's beside the point, really. okayy fine maybe I'm not exactly seriously thinking of cooking school but my point is, can my life be better spent somewhere else? I'm not in uni for the piece of paper; honestly I'm not. It's the process more than the end. It's the experience more than the result. So are there worthier experiences out there? Or is it just the rain and norah jones and.. something else I keep in my heart that's playing tricks on me? I really shouldn't be writing when I'm in this state. I should....
just write and hope everyone understands that when I write during times like these to ignore whatever I say. Or at least take them with many pinches of salt.
Actually, most of the times when I write, people should just try and come on my terms and not on conventional rationality. Things Are always what they seem to be in my turf.. you just need to know what they Should seem to be. not necessarily what you think it should seem to be. Think like me and things, on my turf, will always be what they seem to be.
I want to be a housewife. Anyone wants to take me in? Open to all genders- but I can only marry the guys, I'm afraid.
That's enough.
okay I'm back from an overnight stay at camp, and a MEET thing.
First, I've learnt that I shouldn't be complaining yah. Who said anything worth doing was easy? And like king david put it, I won't give a sacrifice to God that doesn't cost anything. Besides, I'm the one being blessed in the long run. So, I need to be more far-sighted.
yay. Resolution reached. Have fun at camp guys. (:
It's 239 in the morning and I'm sitting here typing why? because I'm not at yf camp. why am I not at yf camp? because it clashes with MEET. what's MEET? something that seems to take away so much time.
Missions Equipping and Exposure Training, I think that's what it means. Basically all of us who got into the program meet once every two saturdays from 2-6 [these are Joint Meetings], and then we meet again in smaller groups every other week, thereabout. [Team Meetings] During the meetings we have things like bible study, lectures on the various aspects of missions, workshops and so on. This december, we have a camp from the 21st-24th, and to prepare for that camp, our team has a retreat from the 13th-15th. Which clashes with yf camp. ta-da. Reason why I can't go for yf camp. okay I wasn't like intensely into it but still. that's besides the point. So I basically train for 9 months, and then spend one month in the mission field. Going to the phillipines.
because of MEET, I've had to give up my long long stay at chiang mai. I can't go for yf camp. I can't go for carolling with yfers Or with my family. This is a bit thick. sigh maybe it's from the 21st-24th so that we'll be more vulnerable then. well yeah it's working.. people are questioning why I don't go for yf any more, why I'm so out of things. people are asking me why I'm not going for this, not going for that, and I'm like, oh it clashes with something. Something. and then I start thinking about how if I hadn't heard of MEET.
yet, the thing is, I couldn't have not signed up. The Great Commission is precisely about missions. If I am serious about obeying His commandment, then shouldn't I prepare myself the best I can? and I have learnt so much, really. and everytime I think about this, there is this very definite knowledge that my life'd be hallow, compared to life without MEET. What would YOU have done huh?
sigh. I'm just missing my friends.
It's barely noticeable, really. If it wasn't for the number you might not think it mattered at all. But I suppose twenty years count [count? counts?] for something. The big two 0 that goes round and round so that you think the liminal chronological dimension is infinite. Folly, innit. y'think yr so grown up and yet you feel so young. I still wish I could find something thoroughly entertaining online, actually. Nothing seems light-hearted nor interesting enough. so there's this utter boredom because it's from within and how do you change that huh.
oh help me my sec1 student's proposing to me on msn.
My Father's