CART @ TTSH

 Not too long ago Miss Brown went to see a doctor at the Clinic.

Her caregivers don't know whether she remembers what clinic it is.

 

Presumably, she remembers the place, and she remembers the seats. Presumably, she remembers walking in and waiting at the seats whilst they registered her at the counter. Presumably, she also remembers her therapy sessions... and her therapists.

 

With any patient who goes for therapy, it is the therapist that one feels the deepest connection to. She might not have ever realized that her therapy sessions were held at a place officially known as CART, or Centre for Advanced Rehabilitation, but she would have known that this Clinic 5B was the place where Mr. Lee taught her how to walk, a Mr. Can't-Pronounce-His-Surname played with her a game and a Mr. Ke trained her how to grip things properly and be conscious whether her palm was facing up or down.

 

TTSH

Some Fountain in TTSH

 

There is a theory about rehabilitation, and it is that the longer one delays after the event, the harder and longer it takes for one to resume regular, normal, balanced functionality, which is that it is harder and longer for one to resume normalcy, as per pre-stroke.

And this is what her caregivers believed too.

So they brought her to CART not too long after being discharged from another hospital. On the first day, she was wheeled in. A week or so later, she was slowly walking in.

They didn't go through prolonged assessments here. She saw the doctor, and by afternoon, her first session was scheduled. The physiotherapist had her assessed and right away, she was plunged straight into walking lesson.

Very practical lessons too. He focused on her walking. He focused on what she ought to observe and how she could prevent falls. He focused on stair-climbing, step by step, up and down on the practice step. Not a friggin' brick placed here and there on the floor, but a very mini single-step staircase complete with handle so it was a full dress rehearsal more than technique practice. And Singapore being a place of malls and more malls, escalator training was essential, and once the therapist figured out that she had figured out how to move her strong and weak leg in sync, out she went to the escalator.

The same practicality extended to the occupational therapy. They had her on an arm robotic computer game. Very closed door, very data centric, very analytical- as all games are meant to be- but to Miss Brown, she was merely lowering her arm, opening her fingers to pick up apples with her weak hand, moving her arm across and then lowering her arm to place them in the basket. She found it quite delightful, and distracting enough such that she actually felt like she was doing something with her weak arm.

There were other activities too in her occupational therapy sessions. She didn't want to buy new clothes, neither did she want the recommended velcro sort, so within the first month or so, the occupational therapist taught her how to wear her T-shirts and her blouses. She learnt new ways to wear her T-shirt, slipping it first around her weak arm, then pulling it over her head. She learnt new ways of wearing blouses and jackets and she learnt how to button it one-handed. She learnt how to wear her trousers, which she decided that elastic was easier and faster, and she learnt how to wear her shoes.

She learnt how to carry a backpack, and though the first few days she wanted to resume the normalcy as she used to and carry an unstructured tote bag and bring many, many things along with her each time she went out, her therapists advised her that she might feel lighter and more comfortable with a better bag, and carrying only the essentials.  

Miss Brown paid heed to their words.

And so, twice a week, morning and afternoon, for a couple of months, she switched to a light blue sport backpack specially bought for her. Inside she stuffed her water bottle, her purse, her comb, a biscuit, lots and lots of tissue paper, her hat, her mobile phone and other little essentials.

Ater a month, she started taking the bus. All on her own. At first she walked a longer distance to the bus stop for the direct bus. Later she found out that she could actually change buses, which was more convenient, so on days that she had therapy, she woke up, ate her breakfast of three egg whites, olive oil and a couple of biscuits with coffee, took her backpack and walked out to the nearby bus stop.

By then her caregivers didn't need to hang around full time at CART- she was independent enough- and so, after her therapy finished, if she didn't have an afternoon session, she took more buses to wherever she wished to go before heading back home in the evening.

Circumstances have changed a little now... after all, it has been three years, and a lot can happen in three years, but there's a part of Miss Brown that knows- for sure- that CART helped her a great deal. It was like going to school, or a tuition class. And whilst she didn't make any friends there, nor did she like to talk about her problems very much to the therapists, they just being there, and she just being there, helped.

View from CART, TTSH

She knows that they were her friends when she felt upset and worried and went there one morning so stressed out she started crying. She knows that they called her doctor- who was making her morning rounds- to come and calm her down and speak to her. She knows that they were her regularity during the early, confusing days, and they were the place that was at least there, even when other matters in her life started to unravel. She knows that they remember her, and that she knows that she remembers them.

Somewhere in her memory about those messy times, she still recognizes their faces, she feels their presence. She recognizes the chairs in the waiting area. She remembers the counter, and the counter staff. She remembers the noise in the gym area. She remembers the toilet. She remembers the therapists coming out and talking to her and accompanying her as she walked in, bag, hat, tissue paper and all. 

And she knows that this Clinic 5B has become part of her life journey, that they're still doing what they do.  

UnAided Eating

 Miss Brown didn't have much appetite after she was discharged from the hospital, she says. Not that she didn't get hungry. She did. 

But first of all, there were all these rules and she didn't know what she could eat and what she couldn't and she didn't want to know why she couldn't eat this and why she had to eat other kinds of stuff.

 

And she didn't feel like eating puree or anything soft and mushy even though she had problems swallowing even plain water. Neither was she going to settle for that nasty tube down her nose again, no way.

 

So it was a dilemma.

 

A dilemma that she had to solve with herself and with her caregivers because they'd decided that she'd come home instead of going to the assigned community hospital. She didn't mind. She preferred being at home anyway. Later she would wonder how things would have been had she gone there instead, but those thoughts would only come much, much later. Back then she was certain she preferred being at home, surrounded by her own things, with her own bed and her own furniture and everything that she was familiar with.

 

They gave this thing to her when she was still the hospital. It was supposed to thicken everything she put in her mouth and so she would be able to eat her food and drink liquids and all.

 

 

It was okay, she says... just that it made water look funny. As if someone had dumped a cupful of starch into the water. Soups got thicker. Milk got thicker. Everything she ate looked thicker. Even porridge. (But she can't quite remember what she ate in the first few days.)

What she does remember is trying to make her way around her cluttered kitchen because she suddenly wished to make a pot of soup. Why exactly, and what soup she wanted to make, she doesn't know. 

Of course the pot of soup never materialized that day. She tired out just trying to open the fridge and pull out the ingredients. 

 

No one seemed to know precisely what suited her. Sure, there was the advice from the dietician and the nutritionist but somehow the paper had gotten lost. There was a big packet of 3-in-1 sweetened cereal and she took a few packets of that and it was sweet but rough on her throat. Her caregiver got her cups of organic cinnamon oatmeal porridge which was supposedly filling, and she tried, but the oatmeal was... oatmeal. Miss Brown didn't fancy it very much.

Her caregiver got her this too.. this plastic jar that had such a pretty wrapper round it.

 

Supposedly meant for her to consume in case she didn't want to eat solid food or porridge or soup or whatever, Miss Brown maintains that this free-this-free-that thing was not one of her favorites and if she had a choice, she was not going to eat it again. Ever. 

The Solitary Traveler

She tells me that she knows this place relatively well. It hasn't changed, she says, since the days she hopped on and off the train that would take her to and from out of the country to upcountry.

These were the days before Independence, she reminds me, and there was just one country and so it was easier to just get on the train and go to wherever you needed to go.

 

She came from the east coast of Malaya.

 

Well, technically, she was born in the old country and then her parents migrated down to the Malayan east coast and so she and her brother followed them and they stayed there in a village which was also where she got registered as an 'alien'.

 

How long the family stayed there Miss Brown doesn't know. It is all very blurred to her. The family made a return trip to the old country, then after some time had passed, back down they came again- to the same village- but with one member less in the party.

 

Her father had passed on in the old country.

 

She was probably around six or seven then.

 

From then on, it was her mother, her brother and her. Miss Brown tells me that her mother was a tough cookie. Widowed with two children in a country not her own, she did the best that she could,

 

The elder child was sent to stay with relatives 600km away whilst the younger stayed with her. Eventually, when the younger reached school going age, she was also sent to stay with the same relative 600km away. She hardly saw her mother except on occasions, and few those occasions were.

 

Miss Brown doesn't know whether she was happier arriving at the platform, or when leaving it. Neither can she remember whether anyone picked her up from the platform up north, or down south. Maybe she made her own way to the shop house where she lived. Maybe she had a relative who picked her up. Whether there were anyone waiting outside these gates ready to welcome her, she doesn't say. Neither does she say how she felt after she stepped through those gates and left the city behind. There were people sometimes, she says, but most of the train trips she took by herself.

 

Six Hundred Kilometers. A girl of nine, ten, eleven. By Herself.

 

Not so commonplace it was those days for children to travel without chaperones but because *they had to*, even less commonplace it is these days. No young girl can take a train ride of 600km without feeling something throughout the journey. No young girl can be separated from the presence of her parent without feeling all alone and insecure- even if she were going to relatives. No young girl can feel nothing when living with relatives who treat your sibling slightly differently from you. 

 

Is it no wonder then that Miss Brown still retains the streak of independence that was formulated during her early days?

Is it no wonder too that her ability to cope with events- whatever they may- remains one of her strong suits, so much so that age has developed it into stubbornness?

Is it no wonder that she chose mentors to emulate and learn from and defined a set of values and beliefs that she called her own, thereby leaving the room to disregard others' opinions?

And is it no wonder that emotional anchors still remain as important to her as they have always been?

 

When you're by yourself, when you've no one to turn to, when you have no support whatsoever, it is to yourself that you look to. When you have no one else about you and everyone near is either uncaring, nonchalant, or far away, you seek solace and solutions in what you already know or own. Meaning it is to your own heart (or head) that you listen to... and if your heart and head tells you that it's right, you can afford to let nothing else matter.

 

Miss Brown remembers the countryside with fondness. She remembers the river. She remembers playing in the wet fields. She remembers following the other children in the village to catch frogs (or some sort of small animal). She remembers the monsoons. Place her in a space surrounded by trees and a heavy rainstorm and she's back in the countryside again.

 

The solitary train rides didn't take that away from her.

Half A Compass

 

 

 

You'd think this is a star.

 

And it does look a little like one.

 

Except that it can be a compass as much as it can be a star- if you would look at it in its entirety.

 

What we see is a compass half its size, and we know not which direction it is guiding us towards. We know not whether we're facing the north or south or northeast or southwest. We know not where we should be standing that we would face the right direction, or at least, the direction that we want to go in.

In fact, it can feel like we've already arrived at the destination... and yet, we have not. Or, it can feel like we haven't even started and we're merely at the beginning point.

So if we're not at the beginning nor at the end nor in the center of the whole compass, then WHERE EXACTLY ARE WE?

 

This is the very question that Miss Brown is still likely asking of herself.

Sometimes we can measure events by the Cause and Effect, We can tell ourselves that because we did this and this and that, so this and this and that happened. And though we may not fancy whatever has taken place, it is actually very reassuring when we can place logic to the game.

That assurance was denied for Miss Brown.

For her, incidents that seemingly were Cause and Effect were eventually revealed to be not. She did not even have the assurance of the Domino Effect. With the Domino Effect, you can at least tell yourself that this led to this, and then this led to this, and so on.

Miss Brown doesn't know what it was that was dumped upon her.

One day she was living her life like any other senior citizen would. The next day, everything- her health, her living, her life, her history, her evidence of living- was in shambles.

One day she thought she had some sort of security. The next day, that security- her world as she knew it- was destroyed. Little by little, bit by bit, and if we were to ask today whether she feels that world still exists, Miss Brown probably wouldn't know how to give you a direct answer anymore.

No, there was no compass for her. There was no direction that she should, or could have followed so that the Effect would not have happened. There were no steps that she can tell herself that she should have undertaken.

Instead, she found herself imprisoned in the center of a ferocious, murky, stinky whirlpool that overwhelmed her and choked her and threatened to drown her and debilitate her and destroy her. A whirlpool that wrapped itself around her and refused to dissipate but instead gained strength even as she struggled and fought to get out of the mire.



Miss Brown

There is this person I know.

 

A person whom I shall call Miss Brown.

 

Now I've known Miss Brown for quite some time, just about a decade, I should say, and though I can't quite say that I know her innately well, nor can I say that I know her as well as her loved ones should, I can say that I've heard enough, experienced enough and also, felt enough.

 

Enough to the degree where, with permission from those in direct contact with her, I'm compelled to speak, as best as we know it, as best as we understand it, the story that exclusively belongs to her.

 

Now, this is not an autobiography.

 

Miss Brown is simply, Miss Brown. She is an ordinary lady in her late seventies who has lived her life in the way she has lived it. She is an ordinary lady who grew up, got married, had kids, had a home, had a second home, and a third home.

 

If we were to go by international standards of achievements or celebrity-hood, Miss Brown would classify as a nobody. She hasn't made any significant contribution to society of her own accord. She hasn't made any extraordinary discovery that has changed the lives of people around her or millions around the world. She hasn't defined any theory nor has she disrupted any. She doesn't run any enterprise that the world would want to sit up and take notice of. And neither is she any sort of influencer with thousands of followers.

 

Miss Brown is, in short, an ordinary person.

 

 Of what purpose then, some will ask, is the telling of her life then? What goal does it serve? And even if it serves a goal, who will want to learn? Who will want to know? Who will want to care?

 

Miss Brown doesn't know. And neither does she care.

 

Because there's no intention for her to encourage or motivate or influence anyone. She's just climbing one step at a time until she reaches the top where knows she's happy. She just knows that she's lived her life as best as she can, and all the bends that life has thrown her are just that- bends.

Not everyone can be extraordinary. No doubt many of us yearn and work hard at becoming extraordinary, no doubt many of us celebrate the successful, the special, the talented, the wise, the capable, the powerful, the extraordinary, yet the truth of the matter is that most of us are far from being those that society celebrates.

And it is in this very place that Miss Brown wishes to speak in.

Because the stories of people like herself are plentiful.
Because the stories of people like herself who have lived their lives and gone through milestones and trials and lemons and bends are the most powerful, the most influential, the most relevant- for you and I.

the bushra Nasi Lemak

They've moved, the cafe.

 

Either they've moved, or they've closed down. It's either one or the other. You can't see it, but right now I'm letting out a big, big sigh. Cos' whilst one can get really good nasi lemak at hawker centers over at Changi Village or Adam Road Food Center or Geylang Serai or the coffee shop at your house downstairs, once in a while, a place like Bushra surprises you.

 

the cafe herself

I don't really know what particular cuisine it was they specialized in. Funny, right? In the middle of Kampong Glam, in the midst of all these Lebanese, Turkish, Iranian, Arab, Moroccan and a couple more cuisines, including the famous nasi padang hangout, I've no idea what cuisine it was that Bushra served.

 

Maybe because I didn't really take a good look at the menu. See, what happened was that I was hungry, and so I'd stopped there to study the offerings, and there right in front of everything else was this nasi lemak picture with the most mouth-watering descriptions by the side. Descriptions really do work the imagination sometimes, you know, and Bushra's nasi lemak didn't vary far from what they'd written.

 

nasi lemak

 

A little round hillock of soft, fluffy steamed rice infused together with rich coconut milk, one huge piece of fried chicken marinated with some sort of sweet and salty spice, a fistful of crispy fried ikan bilis, a comfortable piece of egg, a thick slice of cucumber and a generous spoonful of sambal chili.

 

It was good, I'm telling you. Super, super good. The rice was fragrant. The chicken was huge, man. Not just one fried chicken wing or one fried chicken drumstick. It was a piece as large as those you get when you order nasi padang. The meat was tender, the skin was crisp, and it wasn't very spicy either. And they served a good omelet- one that wasn't bland or cold or tasteless or so skinny a slice like an egg crepe.

 

the EGGS

I pretty much liked the sambal. Even though I'm not a fantastic fan of sambal and chili in general. There was this distinct sweetness, that distinct flavor of spice and just the right amount of chili heat that really built up the special burst of flavors in the whole dish.

 

Now I only wish I'd patronized the cafe more. Or that I knew at least where they'd moved to. I'm totally missing their nasi lemak, which was a very big plate, by the way, that was really, really so good. -_-



their Body, their Style

There's something my mind tends to drift to whenever I see a Person with Special Needs in public.

 

And it's this.

 

How, and why is it, that in this age of inclusivity and all-embracing society, have we never considered designing beautiful clothes specifically for this niche of the market?

 

Now, I'm not jumping ahead of myself and saying that it's never been done, or has never been considered. Maybe it has, and that it's not commercially viable. Maybe a renowned designer has in fact designed a beautiful dress for someone with Down's Syndrome, but has never brought it to runway or to market. Maybe there are dedicated stores in dedicated places that offer dedicated clothes for these individuals in our society who, with what they have or who they are, possess bodies that are of distinctive shape and size. 

 

I don't know.

 

So maybe I could be just yammering away without doing my due diligence.

 

But I'm not here to say that it's never been done.

 

I'm only saying that I've never seen it in the market. I've never seen it in the luxury brands, I've never seen it in the trendy streetwear brands, I've never seen it in the fast fashion stores and most certainly I've never seen it worn on the bodies of any Person with Special Needs.

 

Mind, this is not a label. With so many people championing causes these days, I have to clarify that I'm not labeling them. I'm collectively describing them the same way we'd describe someone as curvy or plus-sized or waif-skinny or amputee.

 

I wonder, always, why it is that these Persons are most frequently clad in tee shirts, tee shirts and more tee shirts, or if not, in polo tees, pull up pants with elastic waistbands, and skirts that emphasize nothing beautiful of their distinctive bodies.

 

The problem is not with their bodies.

 

The problem is that the clothes that clad their bodies aren't designed to fit them. The problem is that the clothes that they wear aren't cut to show off the best of their bodies. Sure, some will argue that they don't really have model-esque bodies. But hey, we're not talking V.S . Angels here.

 

Which means that if us non-models have outfits and styles that bring out the best in us, so do they.

 

The outfits might be cut entirely differently though. V-necks and boat-shapes and flouncy frills and tunics and peplum might make a world of difference for us between the feminine versus boyish shapes, but for the Persons, it could be an entirely different outfit altogether that combines various elements to bring out their strengths and conceal their weaknesses and just make them look good. And perhaps, it would be possible that what might look good on them might look terrible on someone else.

 

Still, fashion celebrates individualism and quirkiness and flamboyancy, does it not? So who knows if an influencer with millions of followers decides to don this outfit for Persons on the streets of New York or France or Milan or London during the Big Four and get snapped and get onto fashion blogs and Instagram?

 

They deserve it. These Persons.

 

They deserve it as much as we do.

colors make small plates lively

It's good that we're getting them to be models so that mannequins in their figure-shapes can be manufactured for the display of clothes at the store window.

 

It's good that we're getting them to be models and even to design their own clothes. I've seen her at MBFW, and she totally deserves that applause that she got from the audience cos' she worked d*** hard to achieve the dream she had.

 

But I think it would be better still if they'd get to have cocktail dresses and power pants and lovely blouses or styles that bring out the best of their figures, whether they be the chubby sort, the curvy sort, the big-breasted sort, the small-breasted sort, the stocky sort, whichever it might be. I think it would be so wonderful if they had an outfit or two under the Special Occasions category which they could call their own, wear it with pride and confidence and know with certainty that this style is theirs, and theirs to own.

 

Is it excluding them from society? Will it be an attempt to not normalize them? Will they get cruel comments like, "hey, you're wearing clothes that are meant for 'stoopid people'," or "hey, your dress is a D.S. dress!" Will the clothes themselves be ostracized as the individuals themselves are ostracized? 

 

If you ask me, the Persons themselves are already experiencing it. There's very little difference between one and the other. If a person wishes to label another as such, there's bloody nothing anyone can do about it, whether or not they're wearing a pair of slippers or holding a Barbie doll. If someone decides to be an a**hole and go around calling Persons all kinds of names because of who and what they are, then wearing a specially-tailored outfit, or wearing a specially-designed range of style is not going to change the cruelty of the a**hole.

 

I'd love to see the possibilities that fashion can do.

There's so, so much, I'm saying.

 

And I'd love to extend this possibility to the arena of make-up as well. Don't tell me that just because they've got unusual features means that there's not a single make-up technique in the whole world that can do anything to enhance their features. At least... I don't think the techniques are limited. I don't think that anyone- anyone- can not look pretty in this day and age where there's so experimentation and so much inclusion and so much friendship and sharing going on. We just have to redraw the  manual on the drawing board, maybe.

 

It will take time.

 

Oh sure, it will.

 

But as things go, better to have the time than to give it up and leave it to the wind altogether.

 

Because I hope, and I sincerely, sincerely hope, that the day will no longer be where I see a Person with Special Needs go for an excursion in a brassiere one size too small, straining against a buttoned-up faded white polo tee shirt hastily stuffed into a pair of cheap, flimsy checked brown elastic waistband bermudas.

And I hope that the day will no longer be where a Person with Special Needs be made a fool of on stage with the wrong cut of dress, the anyhow-put-together costume and garishly painted, poorly conceptualized make-up style.

It is not fair to them who have a chance to live.

And it is not fair to us as fellow human beings on this earth with our very special set of skills. :) 

before Rochor said her Goodbye

What you'll see below are pictures that we'll never see again.

 

Simply because, like what life sometimes brings us, there are farewells that need be said. There are farewells that we have to speak ourselves. Of people, of belongings, of beloved creatures, and of homes.

 

It is when it is such that they enter into the realm of Memory.

 

And there they stay.

 

These pictures, few that they are, represent a cross-section of one of Singapore's housing estates that we've had to say goodbye to in recent years. More than 5 years ago, it was announced that this estate, standing on the fringe of Downtown, would have to make way for an expressway. Everyone questioned it, to some degree, but hey, in this country, when it happens, it happens.

 

I didn't dwell in this neighborhood. I'm not one of the families who have had to say goodbye to their times here and move to the new apartments elsewhere.

 

But 90% of Singaporeans are dwellers in housing estates. 

 

And at differing degrees, we all understand.

 

So I was a visitor here for a mere afternoon. A tourist to Rochor housing estate, if you would like, and such are the scenes that we shall never see again.

 

Because the last person in Rochor housing estate has said his or her goodbye. The people are gone. The shop shutters are down. The lifts no longer operate. The stairs are boarded up. flats have fallen silent. The flats have gone dark. And so have the corridors.

 

between the shops

did they bring the plants?

what i saw from the corridor

i see your kitchen you see mine

the playground

where little trikes play



flowers, flowers, Flowers!

I need to take more pictures of flowers.

 

I need to stop and smell the roses a bit more.

 

With all that's going on these days, it's so easy to forget to stop, look at a flower and take a picture.

 

Which was why I was really, really happy when a friend nominated me for a Nature Photography Challenge on Facebook where I had to post a picture of Nature, past and present, every day for a week. It made me stop and go rummage through my old albums and repost pictures, and when I wanted some more, I dug out the camera, whipped out the phone and snapped off a couple of shots.

 

The last time I really went to purposely go and take picture of a flower was during Lunar New Year. That's way too long ago. Way too long.

 

bright pink

 

pink? fuchsia?

 

But I didn't use to only take pictures at the flower festivals.

 

I used to take pictures of them everywhere and anywhere. Like when walking in a park. Like when they were part of a floral arrangement in a building. Like when they were well-wishes at a store opening.

 

the hibiscus

hydrangeas

some really bright flower



some store's opening

Yeah. I really should.

I really should stop and look at the ixoras and the bougainvilleas all over again. I'm missing out, man. I'm missing out on admiring one of God's loveliest beauties ever created on the face of this Earth. :)

the Shang by the South China Sea

for me to snooze

I miss this place, man. I miss it to the high heavens.

There was a time when I'd get to hang out here quite a bit. It's been a while since I've frequented here. The last time I came, the benches had been replaced by these huge round rattan basking chairs resembling big pies with a single huge cushion and which two people could easily lie comfortably side by side and gaze at the skies.

But this marks one of my favorites. Ever.

It is to here that I come, whenever possible, to become lost, truly lost, in the surroundings for an hour or two. It is to here that I come when I want to escape from the banging and traffic and crowds and everything else. Here I can forget that I'm in a city. Here I can erase- even if temporarily- the presence of the City and let my mind drift away with the waves that roll just below the little cliff beneath my feet.

And yet, even as Nature immerses you and embraces you here, you're, in fact, not far away from urbanity and humanity. You're not far from people at all. They're just behind, actually. And they can get noisy. Behind you is the swimming pool of Shangri-La's Rasa Sentosa Resort, after all, and trust me, they have got a most lovely pool. :)

Still, for real peace and quiet, come in the late evenings when the sun has set and the skies have faded from bright daylight to dusky twilight. Come when the children have headed back to the rooms to bathe and change for dinner. Come when the lights of the resort twinkle on and invite you to enter their atmosphere.

Because it is most romantic then.

And it is most mystical and most mysterious then.

When you gaze out over the dark waters of the South China Sea, the blackness of the nearby cliffs (there is a tunnel somewhere!) balanced with the blinking lights of the tankers anchored so near you.

I love the sound of the waves that crash against the rocks, and the rustling music of leaves above my head whenever the wind blows. It is then that I close my eyes and let myself drift away to somewhere, and by the time I open my eyes again, I'm just thankful to have fallen deep into that one very moment.

I'm thankful to be alive. To be at peace. To be here.
 

心中的花园 ~ 贺军翔

心中的花园 ~ 贺军翔

喜欢看你傻傻的表情
好像全世界都很平静
或许是老天爷特别的疼你
果然爱情悄悄地降临

这种快乐并不必怀疑
或许你只需要睁大眼睛
用心地体会这种美好的滋味
有一天你会真的了解

多么希望幸福在你身边
看你的爱情有个完美句点
再给我一点时间
要绘出一个画面
是你转身微笑的涩脸

多么希望祝福围绕你身边
像许多白鸽飞舞的蓝天
让你追逐的世界
变得那么确切
慢慢画着心中的花园

多么希望幸福在你身边
看你的爱情有个完美句点
再给我一点时间
要绘出一个画面
是你转身微笑的涩脸

多么希望祝福围绕你身边
像许多白鸽飞舞的蓝天
让你追逐的世界
变得那么确切
慢慢画着心中的花园

 

I actually found this in one of my old, old blogs. Heol.... :D

 

This was like, 2011... That's, what, ummm... SIX years ago?! Has it already been six years since I first watched idol drama "Love Keeps Going" on viki.com? Has viki.com been that long? Whew! Well.. .it must have been. Digital dates technically don't lie. Once it's up there, it's up there like forever. But still... six years isn't too long, neither is it too short. I've had a most wonderful journey thus far in the world of Asian dramas, moving seamlessly from Japanese to Taiwanese to Korean and Mainland China and back and forth again.

 

It's been a long time since I've seen these lyrics.

 

But I can still remember the scene in the show where this song was first performed. I can still sing the song. And I still think the actor who sang this song is cute. Amidst Vanness and Jay and Jiro and Wu Chun and everyone else whom everyone says is cute, it was Mike He whom I thought was pretty cute. *_*

 

That was 2011.

 

It's still the same in 2017 too. *_*

for the gravy @ Ichiban

beef fillet and the GRAVY

 

Can you see it?

 

Can you see the gravy in all its thick, shimmery, shiny, delicious glory?

Can you see how beautiful it is laden over the meat?

And can you imagine just how rich and flavorful it must be in its little clay dish, surrounding a thick, yet tender fillet of beef?

 

Yessss...

 

This is precisely what I go for whenever I'm at Ichiban. It could be Ichiban Boshi, or Ichiban Sushi. At either one, if they have this on the menu, this is what I order.

 

Because I love the gravy.

 

I love it as much as I love the beef fillet that it is served together with. No, I'll be honest. I actually love the gravy more. Perhaps because, for me, this, with little chopped onions and chilies and ingredients of which I know not what, is what defines the meal set that's called the Ichiban Gyu.

 

Not that the other items are forgettable.

 

Oh heck no.... absolutely, absolutely not.

 

There's this kawaii piece of cold tofu appetizer with tiny pieces of chopped spring onions on top. There's salmon sashimi that is delightful. There's miso soup and chawanmushi, and there's a plate of three pieces of tempura.

 

I like the chawanmushi. They've got mushroom and Japanese fish cake steamed together with the egg. I like the tempura, normally I seem to get sweet potato, lady's finger and a prawn dipped in batter and lightly fried. And no one ever minds a steaming bowl of miso soup with seaweed and tiny tofu cubes swimming about inside, plus a second appetizer of marinated seaweed.

 

salmon sashimi

tempura

But the main star of this set is the beef fillet. Really, it is.

It is served to you popping and bubbling in its own clay dish placed over a tiny flame. The meat, apportioned out just right just so that each piece absorbs the gravy as it simmers over the flame, is warm to the palate and tender inside out. You pick it up with chopsticks and each piece fits perfectly to every bite that you take.

Is it because of the gravy? Maybe.

Would it have been any more ordinary had it not been for the gravy? Perhaps.

I'm not connoisseur enough to know. What I do know is that I'm magically drawn to it. I dip the meat, take a single bite, do it all over again, until I'm finished with that single portion, and then I start with the next piece, until I've finished the meat.

There's usually some left over in the dish after I'm finished with all my beef portions, so I dribble it onto my rice. And after I've finished my rice there's usually still some in the dish, so I spoon the rest up and sip it like a broth. At times I scrape it up with my spoon. I know, very aunty. But really lar, it's that satisfying. 

So, how else to describe the gravy- and the beef- I'm at a loss, but if you understand what the description of "foodgasm" means, yeah, well, that's it.  

Best part?

I don't even know what goes into it.

And I don't care. :)



Bus Ride Sights: Ang Mo Kio...?

It's a route that starts you from the heartlands of Central Singapore and leaves you somewhere in other heartlands that stand close to a river that, if you follow her banks, will lead you to the wide, open sea.

I didn't follow the banks of the river. I didn't come close to the wide, open sea either. Simply because I wasn't planning to go there.

Got up the bus from Ang Mo Kio interchange, turned out, turned right, down the road that juxtaposes apartments both mature and new ranging from fourteen floors to twenty-five, and then onto the road running parallel to Ang Mo Kio-Bishan Park where here the mature housing blocks look out directly to the scenic view of trees, grass, a cute little bridge, a cycling path, a little stream of sorts, and a family of otters that are said to be dwelling there.

We turned into Bishan directly afterward, going right past the ubiquitous mall right into the estate itself where I think we made a couple of rounds- I'm not sure, I was too busy yammering away to pay close attention, either that, or I was stoning- amongst the blocks, before making our way out on to Upper Serangoon Road. 

Which, I think, if I should say so, would be Braddell Road.

There isn't any other road that links Bishan-Toa Payoh to Upper Serangoon, is there...?

Anyway, once hitting Upper Serangoon, we went down all the way, past the upcoming full-sized estate of Bidadari that sits upon a former cemetery, and where the sight of construction cranes standing in near symmetry I thought quite charming, past Potong Pasir and part of Sennett, and finally, making the turn that leads straight to Bendeemer, Boon Keng, Jalan Besar and town.
 

by the overhead bridge

i love the shadows

 

it was a road going somewhere

flags for National Day

 

more flags for National Day

future homes in the Bidadari

some call this the longkang

 



the Jen above the Gateway

Let me just make one thing clear.

This is a non-Influencer post.

Meaning that these pictures are generally not the kind that you'll find on Instagram or Facebook or Twitter or any blog that also has pictures of beautiful, well-groomed people  wearing stylish cloths, sunglasses, hats, lovely shoes and trendy bags posing at outdoor carpark lots, gritty alleys, faded, rusty staircases together with cemented, concrete drains and colorful dustbins with hashtags that go like  #OOTD, And there won't be well-composited pictures of the Hotel that will make you "stop everything and book a stay here" with gorgeous, beautifully colored pictures hashtagged #asianholiday  #HotelJenOrchardGateway #staycation #livefortheday #livingthelife #Singaporeholiday #Somerset #Orchard etc etc etc.  

But they're pictures that every visitor, and every guest in this hipster hotel along the Somerset stretch will see. They're scenes and places where guests, and visitors will likely enter, go past and enjoy. Or they might be places where you've seen people hanging out but hey, no reason to be there or whatever, and so you don't go there.

Like if you're a non-smoker, chances are you won't go to the narrow area that's been designated smokers' area and so you won't catch views like these..

the rooms

orchard emerald opposite.. last time

dramatic cloud day

to rest the smoker's eyes

But whether you're a guest or a visitor, you'll definitely hang out at the lobby, which is wide, spacious, sun-filled, has a little casual cafe by the side if you want a light meal of sandwiches, coffee, pastries, muffins or fruit. There's a fun, casual, hipster, sit down and chat sort of atmosphere at this space located right in front of the lobby, and the hotel has an incredibly local vibe, so at the same cafe, you'll find sealed packets of biscuits and snacks familiar to locals. Like those cookies in the shape of a ear. Or those gem biscuits that we locals often take for granted but forget that this charming cute little biscuit is not found everywhere.

There're two sides to the lobby. One side looks like this...

the lobby

and grants you a view like this.

river valley up to tanjong pagar

The other, which is where the smokers' area is, faces Orchard Road and leads you to the drinks lounge- a very lovely place with cosy seats and is decorated in peacock colors and offers Happy Hours Wednesday through Saturday and Sunday, Makan @ Jen, which is where you go for breakfast, or lunch or dinner. and the lifts that will take you up to the rest of the building below, or to the rooms above.

It takes you to the 19th floor where there're the conference rooms, meeting rooms and the pool too.

The pool's one of the biggest highlights in this Hotel. The view, I think, is unrivaled. Completely unrivaled. Undeterred and unblocked on three sides, what you get is a panoramic view of Downtown Singapore from Somerset all the way to Marina Bay Sands, and on clear days, even the sea beyond. On the other side, right up to Pearl's Hill Bank on the Chinatown side. And on the third side, facing northwards, the condominiums of Cairnhill all the way up to somewhere in Balestier with just the hint of Toa Payoh's edge.  

That's the idyllic description, which isn't wrong, by the way.

the Downtown view

But closer to the property, closer to you, right in your face, right where you're lounging by the pool with her cushions, pillows and gorgeous sunset, is a view of Singapore's something-something telecommunications provider. I'm talking about SingTel, which long, long time ago used to be Singapore Telecom and which had an orange logo shaped like the handle of a phone that would be pretty retro today.  

singtel by the pool

 

the someone just snoozed here shot

 

drinks by the pool

 It takes creativity and sharp angles to take a picture of the comfortable cushions and round lounging poolside chairs without the opposite building peeking out of the corner of the shot. The SingTel building just looms in your face, man. You cannot avoid it. No matter where you sit, whether at this row of cushioned seats here with a book or a drink on the table, or at the high bar seats that is great if you're in heels and a sexy dress, or whether you're at this other side where you've got your own sheltered nook. You lie down on all those cushions and you've got your view bashed in by the sight of the telecommunications company.

But #Singapore.

Thank goodness there's only this one inevitable skyscraper and that you can actually squeeze other more relaxing, more scenic views as well. And it's not actually bleah for the mood. Set against dramatic cloud formations in the dusky evening sky, it can be quite uplifting.

the VIEW

the VIEW.. by the pool

And there're enough landscaped plants to distract your eyes away from the concrete and steel and glass, where you can choose to be beneath them, sort of a modern-day open-concept hut beneath a tree canopy, or to be surrounded by them on all three sides.

the balinese villa shot

the instagram shot

And if you can't seem to be distracted enough, there's always the beauty of the skies. Unaffected, nothing towering over you, that always, always will give one a sense of hope and fill the soul with an unparalleled quiet.

the VIEW one loves

the VIEW that one goes up to the pool for

I've been both visitor and guest here a couple of times. Enough to say that I've seen the view from one side to the other and back again. Enough to say that I'm familiar with their upstairs lounge and I wonder from time to time if they still serve pandan chiffon cake, salmon sashimi, sushi and tarts and pies for evening cocktails and I wonder what happened to that lady staff from Taiwan who was there one time and not there the next time I went.

The vibe of this place is one of the best draws for both families and couples and seniors alike. Basically, you'll feel younger once you step in here and stay in here. Hipster, youthful, millennial, xennial, Gen Z from inside out, Hotel Jen Orchard Gateway blends together elements of fun, liveliness, color and cheerfulness with systematic, global-standard professionalism and topped with just that touch of warmth, and 'zai-ness' that is distinctive in the soul of Singaporean-Malaysian hospitality. 

By the way, there aren't any pictures of the rooms. I told ya this was  a non-Influencer post. :) You'll find them on their website or their Facebook page. What I do have, though, is a picture of a popcorn tub that they kindly gave me at no charge because hey, vibe.

You get my point. :D

#ilurrrrrvepopcorn