my etcetera

“I do not know what to do. You refuse to let me explain the situation and I do not know other methods to reach you — you have severed all the available ones. I desperately need one more verbal intercourse to discuss what has transpired, for you are so mistaken about me and about us. We have overcome many misunderstandings in the past — will you be so hard-hearted this time, and not grant us another chance? Do you honestly believe that I am a mistress of delusions? Can you swear to God that you and I were not sincere? When you deliberately did what you did to discomfort me, although I was upset and you were aware that I was upset, did I not forgive you and trust you again? When you in the past on multiple occasions rudely ordered me to leave, did I not forget my dignity and powder it with patience and past memories? I did not leave. I stood firm. Now, how harsh you judged me. You judged me for doing what you yourself also did. Yes, what we did involved two people. It is but the nature of that kind of dealing we succumbed ourselves to. Did you not secretly deceive? Did you not feel passion for someone or something inappropriate? How dare you judge me now! And your accusation — can I not say the same and claim that I may not be your first? But I won’t claim that, for I believe in you. This time, you jumped to conclusions too soon, triggered by three letters, non-vowel, capitalised. You must not do this to us.”

This post was inspired by the personal ads discussed on the website “Advertising for Love”. You can view my post either as a diary entry or a personal advertisement. What happened between the writer and the addressee, ‘You’?

1. Someone was sitting in front of me. I found myself staring at the back of his neck. None of my former boyfriends had hair exactly like his and it made me want to kiss this stranger’s soft, ginger strands. He turned and looked at me, as if he knew he was being watched. At first his face was blank, or perhaps slightly inquisitive, then he realised he’s looking at someone attractive, and he smiled. I could say something about his lips. I could say something about his stubble. But I was paying all my attention to his eyes. He had hazel eyes, large irises. He winked. How dare he! (Our history began at that moment. But sorry, you’re not privileged to know what happened that night.)

2. The advantage of having a window ceiling is that you can see the sky turns into dirty blue, then grey, then black. The disadvantage is that it reflects light, and when it doesn’t, you feel lonely again, in utter darkness.

3. Another stranger who sits next to me just grabs a bottle of red wine from god knows where, amidst a speaker’s talk. He’s bearded, thin; he wears old sneakers. He is rather handsome. He passes the bottle to his friends sitting on the same row. How dare he! He doesn’t even ask if I want to refill my glass! But I assume too early. He saves the last glass for me. He pours the wine gently. Gently, I say. And then he winks! Why does everyone wink at me?

I see he looks at my name tag, writes down my name. He knows I am looking.

(Pictured: The Anatomy Theatre & Museum, King’s College London)

• “The argument” — recordings by Jeff, Reid, Kristine, Kaolin, Blair, Surajit, Sam, Jakub, Robert, Ankur, Cyril new – song version, Morgan new, Arthur new and an anonymous contributor.
• “Your silhouette is blasphemous” — stunning recording by Joan.
• “The Christmas song” — recording by Oscar.

Isn’t this blog pampered? I am so so so grateful to have these lovely voices on my blog; I listen to them again and again. More to come.

In Literary News today, Reid Mitchell announced he is retiring from the rest of Tammy Ho Lai Ming’s life. “If you don’t understand her poems, talk to somebody else,” he said. “Furthemore, Neo-Vic, Schmeo-Vic, you dog farts!” When presented with the news, Ms Ho observed, “that is going to free up a lot of time for me to finish my dissertation.”

Although I am now old,
my tongue makes me a child again,
not finding the right words
in a foreign language
before those who are younger than me.
Amusing, am I not?
Tongue-tied at sixty.