Spring was a time I always looked forward to.
The little primary green buds,
The useless floral dresses that one couldn't possibly wear in the still-wintery weather,
The magnolias, pink and white, strikingly unabashed about its beauty.
*
Last night I packed into my suitcase what I hadn't looked at in a year.
2 black jumpers - one v-neck, one wrap-around
1 grey jumper - the charcoal sister of the black v-neck
1 apple green jumper - for a touch of spring
And a whole lot of silly tops I probably wouldn't get to wear.
As I took them out of plastic storage boxes
I smelt each piece.
Someone once told me his memories are intrinsically linked to his sense of smell.
Melbourne has always been like that to me.
Steam in the bathroom, frangipanni oil, lotus flower, mom's bathrobe, milo's paws, roast lamb, akira's broth, purple leather coat.
*
I'd never be able to tell you about all the memories that Melbourne holds for me;
Some pretty, some ugly.

I did something really brave the other night.
I tried to end my 5-year aversion to whiskey/scotch.
I made myself a whiskey water.
Sniff (gag).
Sip (no.. hold it in).
It's not so bad.
Sip (gag).
20 mins pass.
Sip (oh my god I'm going to throw up)
Well friends, at least I tried.
I thought about Clockwork Orange and Pavlov's dogs.

Love is when your heavily pregnant big sister gets on a bus and walks (the sister never walks) 15 minutes to buy your favourite roast duck, just because you're coming to dinner.
When dad secretly asks the sister how you're coping with living out.
When mom walks into a watch shop with you on the pretext of looking for a new watch, only to edge you to try on something you like (and in this case a square-face Chopard Happy Diamonds), and casually say 'I'll need an ocassion'.
When the nephew shows amazingly mature generosity by giving you his new toy to put on your desk at work.
When the flatmate puts fresh lavendar tea by your bedside while you lie there drowsy from the flu.
*
One heart; two addresses.
When people are willing to cross borders, leave jobs, friends, and lives behind,
Just to make it easier.
The one who fills your weekends wins your heart.
*
I still sometimes have the urge to just fly away.
*

1. Spend more time with those who matter. And less with those who don't.
2. Start the saving plan. NOW.
3. Exercise (baby steps here...).
4. Stop the instant mee-goreng supper habit.
5. Drink less (but I already do!), smoke even less.

Whenever I spend time with her
I go home with an emotion-soaked sponge of a heart.
It's not just that she remembers my favourite foods and delights in having me around for dinner.
She tells me that she added prawns into my soup (and not to tell the others) and justifies this with an unabashed favouritism (advantage- E).
Or how she keeps asking me to leave right after dinner, even though she really wants me to stay and watch some tv.
She is every bit an Ow woman. Caustic, resilient, proud, quietly supportive, Cantonese.
Everytime I see her I am reminded of just how unfair life can be. It always makes me cry. Because I become so overwhelmed by the injustice that has marked and marred her life. I feel so helpless, so frustrated that things are the way they are for her. That life has dealt a heart of gold with unrelenting blows of pain. That after all the years she'd spent watching me grow into the 26-year old baby I am now, I can't take away the lonliness, bitterness, alienation, and misfortune that she's constantly had to combat, alone. And I am ashamed that I don't try harder. For all the cotton dresses with big orange buttons, birthday cards (no matter where I am in the world, every year), and letter i's she made me write. Shame on me.
*
Heart broke when he came
Not long, he was everything.
Wails inside, resigned.
*

No no no.
I first woke to the sound of the shower.
Then came the storm.
I seem to have become conditioned to peel my eyes open everytime it rains, or the shower is going, or a hot flush rips through my body.
Last night the sound of heavy rain falling onto the cars below slapped me awake. And like hypnosis, so on cue, I automatically jumped out of bed and went outside to shut the windows.
So yea. Great. Another night with less-than-perfect sleep. Just what I need.

The best friend's company, finger-licking good grease, a couple of Bellini's, and Horlick's dinosaur, are always good for the dipping spirits.
It really doesn't take much to make me happy.
It sometimes surprises me how often I'm unhappy.
The nights I sew to replace small talk and schmoozing parties.
The nights I put on Catpower and write.
Really. Do I actively seek it?
Maybe because between plastered smiles and clinking champagne flutes
And trying so hard to quash the rolling eyes and the anti-sociable antics that now define my social life,
I know that I only want to be surrounded by people who truely interest me.
I don't mean that in any pompus condescending way.
Elitist, yes. Only in that I crave to be engaged. Let me want to look you in the eye and smile so that the fine lines that have made the corners of my eyes home show. Tell me a story. About designing typefaces, your children's diet preferences, Bach chorales, poppy fields in summer, silk worms and locusts. I don't care what you do. I only care that you tell a good story.
*
The maladies of urban life.
At 16 you are depressed about: boys. grades. baby fat.
At 21 you are depressed about: boys. career directions. stretch marks.
At 26 you are depressed about: boys. office politics. declining metabolism.
At every age you always think it's all too much to bear. That sometimes it'd be nice to share the load with someone else (if not for the horse pride).
*
I'm going to try and sleep properly tonight.
Wish me luck.
*

I want paisley like motifs all over this page.
I also want whimsical vines and interesting typefaces.
I like the pink, so the lot of you who protest, well, TOUGH.
---
I feel a little shrunken of late.
I don't know,
Maybe I'm hunching more,lost a little weight, the eye bags are more pronounced and have gone up another shade of grey. Maybe it's what I wear.
---
Muzak in the air.
I tap, he clicks, paper torn.
Legs cold, I go home.

Today the breeze that's causing the branches outside to bob gently up and down
Is causing the harrassing headache to gain rigour.
It's as if I can feel the rocking -
And every movement is magnified inside my head.
*
I've got a fire burning inside.
For nights now I've been tossing and hissing
Throwing the quilt off then pulling it back up again,
Hair clinging against my damp neck.
*
I've got a fire burning inside.
Chronic apathy punctuated with extremities of inflated emotion.
Like when Mt Pinatubo came to life after six centuries of inner harmony.
Like when an ice cube set deep in the freezer is thrown into boiling water.
*
Body in hot tub
Crying, breathing, crying, hard.
Soon it will be fine.

I like where I sit at work.
It's how you'd imagine an advertising agency will be like.
A shophouse somewhere, white-washed, big windows, creaky floorboards.
It's very pretty, with fan-shaped transoms and cream lourvers.
I sit facing the window. And outside that window there's plenty of green and a Bauhinia blakeana tree(it was hell trying to find the name of this thing. Thanks to nparks).
I remember collecting the leaf for my scrapbook when I was young,
The heart-shaped leaf and pink flowers always remind me of kindergartens and Singapore.
There is something romantic about gazing out of the window. Rain or shine.
Because on mornings when the sun makes a full effort to indulge us
The leaves outside seem to revel and bask in it, radiating a happy glow through the glass.
And when it rains, the streams of water always fall at different angles.
And sometimes if I walk to the window I can see the Duxton Hill street cat lying on the pavement, asleep and oblivious to the world around.
*
I'm battling yet another flu. The dry winters and fickle springs didn't seem to inflict as much hurt to my health.
Last night I turned down antibiotics. My body is sick of it, and so am I. The doctor tells me I look run-down. Whatever.
*
Comparison.
How can it ever be fair?
Apples to apples, they say.
But how, I ask.
Like a Pink Lady to Fuji.
Like love to passion?
*
Like trust is to commitment.
Like tryst is to ill-fated lovers.
Risk.
*
I'm reading again. On nights when the eyes are too tired to thread needles.
The book of choice is Jeanette Winterson's Lighthousekeeping. It took me months to find it. I kept looking in Borders, but it was always in Kinokuniya. And I didn't think to look there.
*

This morning I woke up feeling really good.
Not health-wise, no. I coughed out yellow phlegm this morning and the doc has asked that I keep a teetotalling lifestyle for a month.
But as I dressed for work, finished my coffee and went out to choose my shoes, I was happy.
I thought about sending an sms to people to tell them the great news. You know, that I'm loving the sun and the morning, and my spirits are sufficiently above ground level again. But I didn't. And only because I remembered very good advice that was once given to me - nobody likes a bragger. Heh.
For weeks now I've been obsessed with all things crafty. Beads, felt, ribbons, buttons, laces, trims. Strewn all over the bed. Every night, even when I'm watching TV. It's a nice little hobby. I'm up to my 11th brooch. It's a great business idea. Except I don't really want to sell them anymore.