The men and women in secret.

I wanted to journal my thoughts today, to etch them in pen and paper like I so rarely do. I wanted to write them down in an indecipherable script, or use some kind of shorthand that only I can understand. But here I am, typing clearly, whispering my words. I'm not sure why I want to write this down, what to release to this digital world, or why the stirring and repetitive wonderings of my memory alone is not enough. But my observations of the passers-by, their ambiguous thoughts on love, life and lust, of things that were over and would not come back yet the belief that they were still vividly present somewhere within reach, these things almost forcefully guide my tone as my perspective manifests.

I took a long walk home last night, partially to think about the phone conversation I had before and also to reward myself with some quiet time. At one point I parked myself by a bench along a train station, perked a cigarette between my fingers, folded my legs and watched the rush hour leftovers hurry right past me. Around our lives there will always be hints and rumours and suggestions, and I wonder if it's just part of the time and place.

Everyone who walked by was carrying with them a heady aura of a second life which seemed half secret and half open, as if it was OK to know but not mention. I sat there and searched each face as it passed, trying to decipher what it might unwittingly reveal, straining to listen carefully to their thoughts for little nuances and clues to take a brief but substantial peek into the souls of these strangers. And for the brief moment that these precious ones allowed me insight into their world, I forgot my own.

For myself, I've learned never to disclose anything, and never even to acknowledge the moment when some new information was imparted. I seem to have mastered the act of behaving as though a mere pleasantry had been exchanged, one that never concerned me. The men and women in this literary country move about like players in a game of knowing and not knowing, pretence and disguise. I've learnt everything from these strangers who whizz by, those who guard their heart and thoughts with fierce protection.

But is it really just part of the time and place? Maybe in a different country or period people allow themselves to believe that you had no hidden and secret self unless you emphatically declared to the contrary. Maybe there's a culture out there... one of easy duplicity, the sense you'd get of those men and women as they casually withhold what matters to them the most. Wouldn't that be shocking.

I've never had such a strong affinity for the intrigue, yet I thrive in knowing secrets.
Because not to know would be to miss almost everything.

x

Noise: Saviour King, Hillsong.
Let now the lost be welcomed home.

New crossroad, new direction, new destination.

So life is gratifying. I finally am on the road to achieving the financial freedom I have been secretly wishing and vocally praying for. It comes in the form of a job... A different kind of job. A non salary-paying kind of job.

My dad is also finally getting some butter on his hands as he releases his unreasonably suffocating grip on my life, particularly in the form of my passport. So I have travel freedom too, and I'm going to celebrate by traveling A LOT more this year. This month, actually. On the cards as of now is a three day two night Bintan break with some media folk. Some radio people, some magazine people. Then at the end of June I'm hoping to head to Melbourne and maybe drop by Sydney to say hi to some of the friendlies at action sports.

Henry and I are oddly better than ever. This whole distance thing is such a healthy balance. Although I do miss him insanely, I'm sure whoever is reading this doesn't want to believe there is a sappy teenager inside the practical realist that is me.

Speaking of age, I turn twenty in a couple of days. 11 days, to be exact. 11 June is the day I say goodbye to being a teenager. It was fun while it lasted.

That's all, really. Life hasn't dished out anything all that arresting, nothing that would make a sensational read. At least not in my book. Give it a month or so.

x
Noise: Last Request by Paolo Nutini
"Grant my last request and just let me hold you,
don't shrug your shoulders...
Lay down beside me.
Sure I can accept that we're going nowhere,
but one last time let's go there..."

If you're my queen, it's a beautiful thing.

Finally, in this remote villate, his quest ended.
There, by the fire, sat Truth.
Never had he seen an older, uglier woman.
"Are you Truth?"
The wizened, wrinkled hag nodded.
"What message can I take from you to the world?" he pleaded.
She replied, spitting into the fire,
"Tell them I am young and beautiful."
- Robert Tompkins

It's hard to say exactly when it happened, but gradually my want for conversation has become an increasingly important entity in my life. It is starting to dictate my decisions, to distort my sense of myself, and, is about to eventuate into a constant, droning, hopeless backdrop against with everything else occurs. It's starting to become all these things in the form a voice, a voice that is telling me that I am never going to find good conversation because there is something fatally flawed in me and that I might as well just face it.

I could go on about the people I have met who have somewhat measured up to some of all of my conversation-fantasy, but the truth is that the minutiae of many of my encounters aren't that interesting. Most of them start to seem the same in retrospect and eventually exhaust me. When they were taking place, each word weighed lightly. Maybe that is what makes them seem the same, in the end: They were not real.

So how do I live? I thrive off the memories. The way they used to listen, the things conversations used to say, the extent of their responsiveness; I would replay these details over and over, and live on them, use them as touchstones to brighten up my day in a bittersweet way.

I may seem like I am pining for a lost love, but what I really am doing is just trying to find my way back into the whirl of genuine social activity. This place is, after all, the only place - apart from Manhattan/London - I know of that moves at the speed of panic. So right now all I can do to escape this predicament is to distract myself with plans for the future. And that is something that I am attacking with a zeal that is beginning to border on compulsion.

x
Noise: Change Your Mind, Sister Hazel.

So you want to be a journalist?

There are many things in life that I have wanted to be, and still want to be. A lawyer, an actress, a mom, a model, a wife, a property agent, a plastic bubble...

But then I get my hands on something like this, and I know what I truly want to be. I want to be a writer. I want to be a creative writer, I want to be a journalist. A humourous journalist. Maybe this is why all the writers that I have admired seem to have that common denominator; humour. Humour comes easily to some, but it's a little challenging for others like me, who seem to have a knack for 'the crimson blood curled in a velvety fashion' type of language.

Wit is mostly inborn, and it seems like the British are very blessed with it. Singaporeans tend to be a bit more... uptight, for lack of better word. We access and re-access what we write, what we think, what we say... and that kind of takes the originality and character out of most things that we say/do/think because we are just so desperate to be politlcally correct. Which could possibly be a reason why our media tends to be great at the news items, but not so entertaining when it comes to... entertainment.

Here's a great example of entertainment. Of writing, of humour, and of something in life that I want to be. Or in this case, write.

P.S. I got hold of this because basically the guy who wrote it was with Henry in Russia and Henry was there at GQ Bar with him.

------

Gentlemen's Food

By Mark Ames ( editor@exile.ru )
I'm a GQ man. As more cultured readers know, I've had a regular column in the Russian edition of GQ for nearly three years now. I'm handsome, stylish, confident, and successful. Men want to be me, and women want to carry the weight of my burdens. My elitist contempt radiates across Eurasia from the magazine's glossy pages, but it's not the mean-spirited contempt you might find in the pages of this free rag rather, my GQ contempt says, "What can you do for me?" and "I'll give you ten seconds to wow me, starting five seconds ago."

So you can understand that I was not displeased when I heard that GQ had opened its own 24-hour elitist bar/restaurant, appropriately named GQ BAR. Finally, my own secure place to escape the noise and riff-raff.

I had the mud-caked Moskvich gypsy cab I rode in drop me off about two blocks away from GQ Bar, located a block from the Balchug Kempinski hotel. A GQ man should have a driver and a Lexus SUV. Unfortunately, my Lexus is still in the shop. At least, that's what I've been telling myself for about six years now, and will continue to tell myself and anyone else for the next six years.

If I was a plebian rather than a GQ man, I might have noticed the fine details about the restaurant's tasteful interior. As a GQ Man, I barreled past the door goons with contempt, and they reacted to my contempt as they always do: parting like the Red Sea.

Waiting for me at the far table on the room on the left was a group of international publishers from the world of glossy magazines. I can't tell you about the substance of our meeting you probably wouldn't understand it anyway, and besides, what can you do for us? but I will tell you that our waitress did not know the difference between whiskey and bourbon. When I asked for "Maker's Mark" she grimaced as if I'd just stuck my thumb into her ass. Poor peasant girl, I hope when they fire her, they let her down easy.

As for food, I have no fucking idea what we ate or what the prices were. They gave us chopsticks to eat European dishes like Lamb's Tongue (which I didn't touch), gnocchi with kidneys (tasted a bit Kal-Kan-ish), liver with mashed potatoes (m'm-m'm! I felt like a Senator!), another plate of thinly-sliced flesh with a demi-glace which no one bothered explaining, and finally a plate of dumplings that looked nice, but lacked substance. Sort of like me.

The international publishing titans paid for my meal, so I have no idea what it cost. And frankly I don't care. If you're a GQ Man, you don't bother with such silly trivialities. In fact, you don't bother even writing a review that offers relevant details to readers. If you want that kind of information, go read one of those plebian magazines like Afisha. But if you want to live vicariously through me and to envy me, then re-read this review. Either way, whatever you choose, I really couldn't care less. I'm too busy being great.

GQ Bar
Balchug Ul. 5
956-7775
24 hours
Metro: Tretyakovskaya

------

x

Noise: Miami Ink on Discovery Travel & Living

When I see you.

I have been so busy that my breaks are never real 'breaks'. They are usually a chase to fulfill (the remnants of) my social life or time spent reassessing my life and relationships.

With hindsight, I expect everyone to just know what I want, but I forget to realize that the loud reverberations in my head are just that - thoughts in my head. I think one of the most valuable characteristic that I have picked up is my ability to be honest. I tried the mind game technique once, and even though that gave me a rush sometimes, it eventually only led to grave disappointment and immense sadness. So now I've found that it is so much easier just to say what you feel, because we can all live with the hope that people know what we want, but chances are, they don't. I will apply my honesty and give the issues in my head a voice.

---

I miss serious conversations, about life and death and success and failure. I miss talking about me, talking about you and the thoughts that plague us. I miss watching you watch your surroundings, understanding your interpretations of the things around you, and witnessing your train of thought. We're distanced emotionally, and to me, the emotional aspect is worth so much more than the physical. Let's give our thoughts a voice.

x

Noise: Watermark, Enya.

Friendly grief.

I think I am just sad because I feel like I am drifting away from the ones I've known because not only are we in different points in our lives but we have different values and beliefs and unfortunately, nobody seems to know the definition or boundary of friendship and nobody wants to adhere to them even if they did know the fundamentals.

Those wasteful, uncaring scuzzballs.

In other related news, I don't think I have ever been this longing for money. Sure modeling had those peaks but surely I can survive without succumbing myself to such meaningless labour? I understand that others in my age group may not have the allowance that I get but neither are they at a point in their lives that I am in. And I have already altered my lifestyle to suit my... less than normal amount (I refuse to say 'lack') of money.
So this new found 'desperation' has given me a whole new perspective on the true 'needy'. My friends – my scavengers -, we are scavengers, but yet in reality we are only poor because we splurge on $200 jeans. Ok, I don't splurge on $200 jeans but.. the others do. I don't think we/they really realize what it is like to be poor; to have to count your coins. If anything this has taught me not to use my words so candidly. It is true that your words have power. So today I will not say that I am broke, because to be broke is something I never want to be. It's nothing to be laughed about, it's an honest desperation that will only inspire frustration, anger and disconnection between parties. And I can say that that is not a very pretty time to have to go through.

It's funny how so few actually, really, genuinely care. And it's not just the let me sit down and nod while you speak care, but the... let me try and see how I can help, or oh look there is something I can do that can help you or... that kind of care. It is so rare, and I think it is sadly dissipating. You know what friends are? Friends are people who will offer you their home when you are running away from yours. Friends are people who loan you their life savings for you to build your life. Friends are those who offer you a job when you need money.
I'm obviously trying to say something but I don't know who reads this and I don't want to be so.. well, obvious, but this vague alternative isn't exactly coming out very well either.

I should just go back to the insecure industry. Nobody succeeds at being vague there.

x

Noise: Walk In Fire, Doves

P.S. There are no pictures because 1) my camera has just fizzled out and died (I have no idea how/why), 2) Henry is enjoying life in his fancy Mayfair apartment in London (he has a concierge! like in the movies! how excellent!) so I have no motivation to be... exciting, 3) I am so consumed with school, moping around and saving money that I have no time for anything picture-worthy and 4) I don't have $700 of disposable cash to get a new camera.

Waiting for sweet relief.

Everybody around me is so tetchy today. I can practically feel them scratching against my skin. I've been barraged with irate henpecking, and the (supposed and dismissive) fatality of this situation has left me in a fit of pique.

I am stuck in the core of the doldrums, waiting for some relief, some outlet, some... anything.

Then there are those who scheme and lie just to pretend they are worth more. And those who go on and on about their successes, hoping I will say 'oh my god you are so cool let me worship the ground you walk on'. What is it with such vulnerability and insecurity and... immense naiveté? But the question really should be why I bother spending time with these wanting people. A part of me wants to 'rescue' them, but the other side says that they do not need rescuing, they need a good wake up slap.

I need to get back into my bubble of security and just shut myself off from these irksome individuals. Anger, frustration, cattiness and weakness make me physically sick.

Cursing, swearing and pretending does not solve any problems, does not make you stronger or feel better, and neither will it get you anywhere in life.

x

Noise: News.

Pride.

How much does pride matter when you've been hurt by a friend but don't want to seem to desperate to tell them?

I'm midly offended, and it doesn't help that this decision (that obviously doesn't include me) keeps getting rubbed in my face by those who were included.

But I'm not petty, really. I must have just been misled. Maybe I place my friends in esteems too high, along with my expectations. Or maybe it's a really simple and innocent reason. Maybe they just forgot. Although that may be the worst.

I wouldn't know; I'm too proud to ask.

x

Noise: Zone Reality.

It's a crisp yet cordial morning.

So I sit here, at 7.30am, in the middle of the business canteen with my cup of tea and sandwich, and type away to the rhythm of the classical music that harmonizes in the background.

I wonder why I don't do this more often - come to school early that is. It's so peaceful and cheery, even with the grey skies, glistening grass and chilly breeze.

It's a pity I don't have the chance to fully embrace this moment; such a rarity that tea and classical music alone can cut through my benumbed senses. But I've got an article to rush.

Blame it on the weatherman.

x

Noise: Classical, Media Biz.

Just Joy.

The idea of happiness is about a few centuries old.. People from years ago (and today, too) thought that happiness came from 'things' that gave them a sense of purpose or feeling of elation. But today, happines is just a state of mind. The happiness that comes from within, the one we all seek after, is joy.

Joy is a sense of meaning and purpose and it serves to comfort and calm. If you just glance at our socienty, you will notice that people are looking for bigger, better cars, richer friends, 'cooler' contacts and bigger breasts. So few are happy or contented with what they have; the things they need. No matter how rich or how poor people are, we always want more.
I read somewhere that scientists have found that babies who smile or laugh a lot have a lot of left frontal activity in their brain.
Joyful people tend to have a lot more friends, and find it easier to get people to cooperate with them.
Optimists expect only the best, and so they perform better to achieve their state of happiness and impression of joy.
Some people are happy just by doing the simple things that they love to do on a constant basis.
Close relationships with a person also gives a sense of joy and happiness, as you feel connected to that person and know that you are thought about and loved.
Extroverts who surround themselves with people are usually more joyful. They find excuses to laugh and interact with others and this makes them happy.

Personally, I don't find happiness just by laughing or being humourous, as humour is fleeting and eventually gives way to the emptiness that was always there.
Happiness doesn't come from drugs, sex and alcohol. These things don't give anybody a purpose, they serve no meaning or function, and they don't comfort. So when you say, 'I'm happy' or 'I'm filled with joy', what does that mean? What do I gain by being happy if there is no joy?

Honestly, I don't know what happiness means to me because it is only temporary.

Joy however, is my strength. It is what keeps me going when I realize that without all the materials in life, I am nothing.
Because he is with me, and I am successful because he is with me. I can speak to the walls, and they may not listen, but he's always with me.

And in that Joy I find my comfort, I find my meaning and my purpose, and most of all I find the love and the peace that allows me to approach everything in life with equanimity.

Joy is the essential heartbeat of existence.

x

Noise: Skin and Bones, Foo Fighters.