there they Were there they Are now

Is it just me or do we not feel as much as we used to anymore?

Is it such that even when a tragedy unfolds close to us, we don't feel as much as we are meant to? Have we placed our hearts far from what we deem as humanity?

It's like we don't care. Maybe we feel that for whatever reason there is, we don't need to care. it's like we tell ourselves that 'they aren't the first and they won't be the last', so never mind. Maybe there's that inevitable feeling of guilt that we're trying to deny. 

Maybe we feel that we don't need to care- for there are tragedies of a more personal nature on a day by day basis and that they are more important than anything else in the world.

That's not exactly wrong a thought.

Yet, as much as we wish for empathy and understanding in some of our situations, as much as we could extend our own hands of empathy and understanding. Guilt or no guilt, it does not matter what we speak or do not speak. There are facts that do not change, and sweeping them beneath the cloak of rational factorship changes them not one bit at all.

For there they are, right here, right now, in our streets, in our malls, in our food courts, in our restaurants. There they are, trying on clothes, buying presents, spritzing on perfumes, rummaging through their purses and their wallets, eating the foods that gladden them the most.

There they are, in our various tourism spots, at the zoo, gazing at the tigers, the pandas, the giraffes. There they are, at Universal Studios Singapore, munching on popcorn, going the rides, snapping pictures with their cameras and taking selfies with their mobiles.
 

And not only there are they.

There they are, too, in our hospitals, in our clinics, seeing our doctors, our nurses, our clinical staff, our prescriptions, our expertise- for the medical hope they need for years of living and of life.

You know what, beyond the maybe, we really ought to feel- for we've seen them. Whether we welcome them or not, whether we wonder why they are here or not, the fact is that we've seen them, we've connected with them and for that instant, we've interacted with them.

 

And this is why we really ought to feel.

 

because it was a choice. 

it was a choice to come here. 

it was a choice to make this place for fun, for help, for hope, 

for shopping, for school, for work, for business, for a time...

and it was a choice 

to make this last day of the year here in this place. 

it was a choice 

to pass the last day of this year happily here 

with fireworks and song and champagne and party hats and fun.

 

They could have chosen anywhere else. They could have decided that they'd spend a quiet one at home with their loved ones. They could have chosen any other destination. They didn't have to choose here. They didn't need to. 

 

But they did, and because they did, something happened, and they are now no more. There will be goodbyes said. There will be farewells wept. But stop coming they will not, I sincerely hope. 

Because we are all earthlings, and we are all humanity. 

cranky cranky Coconut

i was getting worried that day. coz the crank's kind of gone cranky and I've had to take the easy-peasy rides for the moment.

Because it's not too safe for a bummy rider like me who can't make sharp U-turns, who can't turn circles without panicking too much and who can't control her balance if she goes uphill and the crank acts up on her.

Yes, the crank has been in a sort of mood, and since I've no wish to tumble down any steep slopes, we decided to go to the beach instead. East Coast Park, or any park, for that matter, are great places when you just want to get some exercise, breathe in the air, gaze upon your surroundings and space out all at the same time. And whenever we want to have a nice, easy, comfortable ride, often it is to the park by the beach we go.

Now, lest you think that something significant happened there- which could, I suppose- well, nothing did. 

Nothing but wind mussing about my hair, doggies out for afternoon walks, birds singing in the trees, joggers pumping their feet and ships dotting the curved horizon.

We went eastwards towards Changi Village but decided not to go that far. Instead we rode till the Food Center where we had a coconut each whilst watching a couple of girls try to figure out how to fit their plastic cup of blue-colored soft drink into the bottle holder of their rented bike. And after that we dodged groups of children who somehow decided to brake right there in the middle of the path and look around them, not caring that they blocked everyone else going to and fro. And there was one time where we also sidestepped biking couples who decided to be lovey-dovey on the bicycles and ride side by side in the middle of the lane. Lots of things can happen on the bike lanes at a Park as busy as this, I tell you.

Finally we stopped at Bedok Jetty and spent a pleasant, relaxing time basking in the sunshine, savoring the winds, watching the waves crash against the pillars as the tide came in, peering into the plastic bags and boxes of the anglers to admire their catch and sniffling in the fishy smells that a place like Bedok Jetty will have.  

satisfy the Fruity Hunger






dragonfruit & pineapple

I love fruits.

Like lots of people do.

Fruits give you the natural sugars. They've got natural colors. They make great snacks when you're restless. They make great meals when you're hungry and they make fantastic dining companions when you mix them to get the sweet and savory and juicy all together.

I love pineapples for the burst of tartness and I love grilled pineapples with meat.

I love bananas for the hungry moments and the ones that I eat with peanut butter and toast.
I love papayas for dessert at breakfast, lunch and dinner and they provide that rounded sweetness when you have them with scrambled eggs.
I love china pears that are huge and juicy and sweet and light on your tongue.
I love jackfruit for the distinctive taste that is at once slurpy, juicy, chewy and even nibbly.

There're apples for the crunch which we all want from time to time.
There're oranges and mandarin oranges for the citrus explosion and that spring of vitamin c in your mouth and which you can blend and have with milk or with yogurt.
There're lovely orange rock melons with their softness and lightness on the palate.
There're the families of berries that have strawberries. blueberries and raspberries that you drop into your oatmeal or cereal or granola and yogurt.

There're the water chestnuts that give you the crunch and make gorgeous, lovely, rich desserts when slow boiled but which you have to wash the dirt off first if you're buying from the market.
There're watermelons we all love for the refreshing, cooling juice. There're durians, which we love yet hate at the same time but there's no need to get into explanations about the king of fruits and/or the blue cheese of fruits.
There're the sidekick to the durians- the mangosteens- which go along well with the durians cos' they've got these cooling properties or something..
There're mangoes, fantastically sticky, sweet and tart anytime.
And there're grapes, seedless ones best, that can be eaten fresh off the shelf, eaten chilled, or frozen.

I don't have a particular favorite fruit, but there are fruits which hold special significance to me. There are fruits that wrap me up like a warm cuddly blankie on a cold, rainy day- and there are fruits that leave me happy thoughts of special occasions, familiar places and family moments.

I cannot gaze at a box of red cherries without thinking of the Christmas season, and of my Parent who loves them, and who continues to relate the story of eating an entire carton bought from Fremantle whilst holidaying in Perth.

I cannot look at a bunch of rambutans at the fruit stall without thinking of the rambutan tree that once stood in Grandfather's garden, the sight of the red, hairy fruits hanging from the branches and the excitement of seeing them in the colander.  

Soil-encrusted water chestnuts at the wet market make me think of the homemade eggy water chestnut hot dessert my Parent concocts in the slow cooker.

And a bag of crunchy Granny Smith apples bring me back to the driveway grounds of Pixar where on a chilly winter afternoon I sighted apples on apple trees for the very first time.
 

type type TYPE

I finally started.

Because I got tired of not getting into the flow.

Sometimes you just try and get your thoughts into some sort of organized flow, or at least try to begin with a single line, despite knowing how disjointed your thoughts are. It's a shot, anyway.

You could do paper scribblings or you could just work it directly into the computer. Technically, I love the good ol' habit of manuscript writing- yeah, I advocate pen and paper and notebooks of all kinds- but sad to say, my thoughts aren't flowing with ease on paper this time.

Is this how it is for authors and writers too? Do they get all their thoughts smoothly on paper? I'm talking authors like Agatha Christie and Judy Blume. I'm talking Somerset Maugham and Thomas Hardy. I'm talking Anton Chekhov and Clive Cussler and the Bronte sisters and the Austen sisters. Many of them apparently wrote during their travels, during train journeys and steamship journeys. Did they never want to crush their papers and throw them out the window into the sea? Did they never crush their scribbles and chuck them into the wastepaper basket? If they did, have any remnants never been found?

It is a curious thought.

How did they and how do they write so effortlessly, so efficiently, with their thoughts flowing so smoothly with ink and sheets? Did they not throw anything away? Did they not cancel their work? Did they not scribble out whole pages? Did they not get disgusted when everything felt so wrong with their story? Were there no tearing of papers?

 

Autobiographies tell you nothing of these. We get loose sheets of notepaper bound together into a journal. We get notebooks. We get snippets and scraps of handwriting. We get leather bound journals and papers scattered here and there. But no write-overs or scratched-out lines have I managed to see thus far... either they were remarkably confident with their thoughts, or that they considered carefully first before putting pen to paper (which is more likely the case, given that paper and ink was often a precious, sometimes expensive commodity).

I'm far off from their level of patience and depth of literary expression.

In my case, my shredder has been working overtime. .

I don't know how many copies I've thrown away. I don't know how many sheets I've crushed and dumped in bins. I don't know how I'm going to keep fluidity and tonality and plot outline going without a struggle.

What I do know is a combination of a chapter here, a chapter there, a person here, a person there. What I maybe know are the arrows shooting out from each face and where and how they exist and belong.

But... it's really just plot and character notes.

And I have a #%&@ deadline.