Keep A Peek

Eindhoven is a place of omnipresent contradictories. There is a kind of spirited slowness in the air. I’m sitting in the bar with the windows open and the sound of people streaming in. It’s a warm humid summer evening and there is jazz music playing in the streets. I cast my eyes across the room and met the sight of a man dressed in turquoise and wearing a cowboy hat. He smiled at me. I glanced away. Who the hell wears a cowboy hat under such weather?

I have many thoughts in my head but the music is making me too comfortable. So is this how people feel like when they’re happy, or high? The interceptions, the crooks, the kinks and the rough edges just seem to blend into this big blurry picture of sunlight, beer and Diana Krall.

Funny enough, I don’t feel like taking pictures although my camera is just a convenient 2 centimetres away from me. I don’t want to feel like a tourist here, and strangely I don’t. The only time I’ve felt compelled to take out my camera was when I see this painting of two naked girls in my hotel room, one of them balancing herself on the knee of the other.  I must say, ’tis a pleasing sight to fall asleep under.

I have too little time to myself nowadays and I’ve almost forgotten how good it feels to be alone and just, chill. For the longest time ever I have pushed off doing some uncluttering and spring cleaning for that congested head of mine and now seems to be the right time to get down to it. I have a whole bucket list to figure out and so far what have I got? Besides deciding that tomorrow I will finally write that email, and buy some Stroopwaffel, nothing much, really. But I feel just fine and even a little excited. I feel like lighting a cigarette with all the puffing going around me, but I fear the smoke might smear the tangibility of the moment.

Speaking of Stroopwaffel, today during lunch mister T was telling us about its origin (dutch!) and history when someone asked if the recipe was actually patented. Mister T said no, it’s open source. And the whole table laughed.

Geeky jokes, jazz and kinky art. Not bad. Not bad at all.

Blogging

Someone once told me people who blog are consciously or subconsciously an exhibitionist. The need to write and share all (un)important details of your (in)significant life and thoughts with the world is, when you think of it, not so different from flashing strangers on the streets. I don’t disagree with this. But I realise that as time goes by, I care less about whether or not there are audiences. I care more of what I feel when I read back on what I wrote and I care about the evolution of thoughts, and the pictures just don’t speak a thousands words to me anymore.

I miss writing. I seek refuge in words which elude my eloquence and pride. Its a pity that I don’t do that as often anymore. Life got in the way. Or is it a phase shift?

Moving

I have moved 11 times in my life. Across 9 cities and 4 countries. And two weeks ago it was my 12th. There is something weird about moving. It is just one of those things in life that you don’t get better at the more you do it. Everytime I move I leave behind a part of me. I still remember the first ever house that I lived in, there was a big rambutan tree that housed the nests of millions of ants. And then there is the swing. Oh how I loved it, that was the beginning of my obsession with swings. I left my childhood in that house, I remember the view from my bed, it was of the back of my dad sitting behind his desk. And I remember the scent of lemon grass and steamed fish and the creak of the iron gate.

I got better at packing, but not at moving. Packing is mechanical, but moving is variable. There is a finality to the word that I can’t get over. I remember the broken guitar chords and slam dunk comic books that I left behind in that crowded living room in Setapak and the four people that I never met again, yes, thats it. The possible never that comes with moving, it unsettles me.

And now I am living in the heart of a big city. Geneva is enchanting in the summer, but I’ve heard about how people feel lonelier in big cities. But maybe that’s what I need?

China

The trip did me good. I was in the presence of wonderful people and food and atmosphere that despite the hazy air and stiffling crowd and traffic, I was happy. I won’t get all philosophical about how a vacation always makes you realise something about the world and yourself and the whole, y’know, soul searching thingamajig. But I was mildly depressed, wait. Scratch that. It irritates me how this word is so overly used to dramatize every little pitfalls (and even that is a dramatization. pfft) one faces. For comprehension’s sake, I was demotivated and was feeling a lil lost during the few weeks before I went to China. Nothing was bothering me in particular, besides those same old quarter life crisis dramas. Anyway I wasn’t on top of the world, and China did me good.

I needed to let loose, to be stripped bare of all niceties and to see that what was left wasn’t shallow. I needed to share and to see. I needed to learn and to feel. I needed adrenalin and change. I needed depth. I needed to find out something about myself that has been troubling me. Talking with different people was therapeutic and rewarding. I was immensely lucky to have been in the company of fun, considerate and interesting people. I came back recharged and felt like one of those ridiculous self help book character. Har har.

Its not the place, its the people. They always say. But China was the catalyst. 回忆是快乐的温床，我猜？

Wedding

I am about to become the bridesmaid for my best friends wedding in like, 3 weeks time. Lately she has been telling me some of the agony and frustration of a wedding preparation. Its kinda … scary.

When the time comes, I am gonna elope with my beloved. Screw all the ceremonial crap and money politics. Seriously, nothing cheapens Love more than money.

That being said, Irene my dear, I won’t become a runaway bridesmaid, in sickness and in health, I’m staying. For the cake.

Friendship

I have a very idealistic view on friendship. In this forever-friends-like utopia of mine, friendship is built on essentiality. There is no tug and push, no calculative game-play, no ego booster nor bolster, no dominance nor submission, no tears. Friends with benefit are not friends, fuck buddies are just bed warmers.

But as the warped Creator (w00t look! I capitalized it!) of mine would have it, I’m not cutout for idealism. And lately one of the things I’ve been pondering about is how come I can’t seem to ever bare my soul to my friends, even friends that’ve known me for all my life. Despite my penchant for intimacy, that is also the one thing I can’t seem to really, feel. Fluidity is a baffling trait.

Gravity

I like his stoic presence. It calms me. I am staring into deep blue sea and all I can feel is the speed of air cushioning my fall. Its safe and dangerous at the same time. When there’s no one around I want to smell his hair and nibble his ear. I never seem to tire of that skip of my heart even when I am suffocating.

Love is weird.

I was reading some news about Obama, marvelling over his charm and confidence when a thought hit me - self confidence is not a nature. It is rather, nurtured.

I don’t think a person’s self worth and confidence come naturally. Well, maybe some people have the natural ability to shine and strut across a room exuding fluid confidence. But I think for most of us normal folks, that shine requires work, or at least some form of substance. Hard work and resilience towards failure, among some of the traits. You can’t build a tower without first building the foundation. You need to feel good about yourself and know that you’re well prepared to have that fearless self assurance. Yes what we see is the glitz and glamour of the president elect’s seemingly effortless boldness, but who knows behind those closed doors he had worked his ass off to pull off what he did?

I have this horrible tendency of beating myself up for anything that goes wrong or below par related to every aspect of my life. I think I have a twisted God Complex where I think I can do anything, but is terrified of failing because I never believe in myself enough. And then it dawn upon me that the reason behind my lack of courage is because I have never really worked hard (by that I mean really hard) for something that I want (note: not something that I am expected to achieve), I have always have this lackluster laidback attitude towards things that I am passionate about, confident (a somewhat misplaced one at that) that I will sail through and impress with my natural talent. Music and writing, among the few things.

Well, still not too late to polish that pair of dancing stilettos and prepare to strut, I guess.