Today’s Tuesday.. and finally I am able to- allowed to- write. It’s been quite queasy the last few days.. I’ve had so many words bubbling and boiling inside me, each one scrambling over the other in a bid to come up tops, to be heard. Only to reach a roof at the top of the cavern. An impenetrable, Word-Nullifier roof that inexorably slammed each word down to the sandy floor of the cave again. And more words tried to climb up and out.
Life’s really quirky. I finished my As with an irregularity report filed against me, slumped down on my chair. Yet I think that even if I didn’t have that report I wouldn’t have been screaming with euphoria the way some of the others were. I’d rehearsed it in my head so many times, countless times, in immeasurable ways. Explored all the possibilities. Fly out of the hall? Cartwheel down the ramp? Screech with Infinite Joy? Notwithstanding that I can’t do the last two.
I ended the paper before the time. Did a little pump-in-the-air and a little mental jig around the chair. There was a deep, certain satisfaction that enveloped me. For awhile.
I spent the rest of the day in church. Saturday morning found me in the rainforests of Singapore, running along the mud tracks and getting lost with Darrell. heh. Later on the ghosts of the air saw me playing wet games, getting soaking wet and then sitting on a plastic bag in the evening in kel’s car, trying desperately not to dampen even an inch of his luxurious, oh-so-comfy car. Spent the night in Sentosa with people I missed a lot, and then kel sent me home with a headache.
Started pmsing majorly on Sunday. I’ve stopped.
Throughout the weekend I was numb. As though somebody had coated me with quality Numbing Paint that left me feeling with the inside, but the pores were lacquered shut and wisps of madness couldn’t caper around the room. Any room. Perhaps I’m so used to feeling [for want of a better word] pressured that I’ve forgotten any other way. Even now that I’m [theoretically] free I load myself with Things To Do. Events that are supposed to be relaxing become its antithesis because the Self needs to feel directed.
It’s true. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead and Another Place make strange bedfellows in my head. Companionable, though rather awkward sometimes.
Before school ended I went for an interview with mrs kor, pjc’s hod in gp. She told me I was her second, if not first choice should they require a teacher. Last Saturday after the run mrs wee [pe hod] told me that a primary school in woodlands needed a teacher. Both positions for six months, same pay. One far away, one close to me. I love pj, I do. It’d have been a source of joy for me to teach gp in pjc. Woodlands is far away, is foreign.
But it’s a confirmed slot.
For pjc, I’d have to wait till mid December before I get any news. Even then it isn’t certain that I’ve secured the place. It depends on how many year ones there will be next year, as well as the number of teachers moe will send. And I must let mrs wee know by this week. I told her I'll tell her today. My heart is quite heavy actually. mommy proposed that I stay at my god grandparents’ home during the duration of my teaching course, since god grandpa john teaches in woodlands too. He can send me, well, somewhere close I suppose. But it’s so strange! I know and like them but to sojourn in a slightly familiar house for five, six months.. I’d rather live in a completely unfamiliar house. The obligations would then be merely that of strangers, and I am perfuctionary in that. It is living in a house that knows my parents well that I shy away from. Knowing my parents well is not tantamount to knowing me well. Will adults never learn?
On a side note, I’m quite surprised that mommy thought of it. I mean. She’s the one who cried so hard when my brother first went to live in the singapore sports’ school. What am I to do?
Maybe. I should quit pondering and be grateful that I have been provided two job offers so easily, whereas hundreds of other applicants have to wait via the system. Take what I can. sigh. Maybe it’s like, a trial run of hostel life next year. I need the money.
Guess I’ll go.
I guess I don’t really know what to say. I feel alienated.. having to make decisions on my own. To. In a way. Grow Up. Is this what being mature means? To make choices and then find the guts to stick with them? Maybe I’m a sucker for emotional hemorrhage. Maybe.
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