when Life disrupts

Life is such: Have a semi-closed bottle of water in your bag, and within a matter of seconds, find yourself with a slightly soaked backpack, a semi-soaked wallet, a water splattered makeup case, and a bunch of waterlogged papers.

For the last couple of days I've had my papers arranged on the large table airdrying themselves out. Some sheets have developed grooves and furrows, others- important documents included- have furrows and are making crackly sounds. It's funny seeing some (very serious) papers washed in hues of pink and yellow from the colored ink runs.

Not so funny, though, is my poor little notebook that has a good part of nearly all its pages washed out in various hues of blue and a bunch of blurry words of which I can no longer see.

Consider the fact that this is a notebook of handwritten notes about work which has been done all through spring and summer, and it becomes quite a bummer.

But hey, that's life.

It is true that small little insignificant things can make life more disruptive than we expect, and oft begets the adage of "If Only...." There is always the element of regret, and sometimes, resentment towards the decision made. There is always the wish that you had not done what you did. Then there are the consistent thoughts that you wish you had done this, or not done that, or that you had been more careful, or that you had done things properly, and you find yourself wondering how diverse the outcomes would have been had you handled them differently.

Maybe that's why life in itself calls for a steady pace, a controlled, easy frame of mind that lives best being free from distractions, worries and dangerous outbursts.

Because one small distraction can lead to a much deeper consequence, a more prolonged impact, and can totally create disruption and chaos in one's whole life.

Thankfully my little accident resulted in just several inconveniences and awakened my sense of humor, but still...

What if I had not been so focused on my phone and checked to see if the bottle had been closed properly?

What if I had a proper plastic document case to protect my documents from such watery accidents?

What if I had closed my canvas document case properly instead of being lazy and leaving a slight gap open?

What if I had placed my backpack properly upright instead of placing it flat on my lap?

And what if I had a completely different design of water bottle that would close properly?

One watery accident, so many questions, with the answers still drying out there in the sun.

a New routine

For someone who had always planned her day as she saw fit, and who had always organized her schedule however she preferred, having to adjust to a brand-new post-stroke routine was, really, one of the hardest things for Miss Brown to do.

No more was she able to wake up at will, prepare breakfast for her adopted daughter and boyfriend, watch them head out to work, and then decide whether to do the laundry, or go back to sleep.

No more, too, was she able to sit down on the sofa, switch on the TV for the morning program and have her leisurely breakfast of whatever food in the house she felt like having with the newspaper open by her side.

Now her diet was regimented.

So was her time.

Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays she was due at the hospital for therapy at 8am. Thursdays she was to wait downstairs at 9am for the transport that would send her to the senior activity center where she would be there for half a day.

It was now all properly planned out.

Like a child with a timetable.

At first it was annoying, because to get to the hospital at 8am, she had to leave the house by 630am, and so because she had to have her bath, change, and her breakfast of four soft-boiled eggs- whites only- with a spoonful of extra virgin olive oil, she had to wake at 530am in order to do everything and be on time. 

Notwithstanding the fact that she had the fully functional use of only one arm.

Waking up early wasn't the problem- she was used to rising in the pre-dawn hours.  But it was the fact that she had to wake up early, it was the fact that she had to go for her therapy, and that there was no alternative about it.

It wasn't like she could wake up and decide that today she didn't feel like going and so didn't go. There would be phone calls from the clinic to her caregivers and then there would be a flurry of questions to which she didn't wish to answer.

In the same way she didn't mind going to the center on Thursdays, but she wondered how it would be if she woke up one Thursday and decided that she didn't wish to go. Very likely the staff at the center would ring up her caregivers, tell their side of the story and she'd have to face the same barrage of questions from them to which she also didn't want to give any answers.

It was a routine that she had to adjust to, no question about it, and really, it felt like she was going to school, with afternoon enrichment classes thrown in, because her caregivers were very determined that she focus her energies on post-stroke recovery, and so in the afternoons she would have to either meet them at a mall for hand exercises, or come back home for more exercise.

Ridiculous, really, considering how lax she had been with her own studies and her children's studies when they were growing up!

But she got used to the routine.

She got used to taking the public bus to the hospital, another public bus to wherever she was meeting her caregivers, and then in the evenings, another public bus home.

She got used to the robotic arm and the picking apple game they had in the clinic, and the games that her caregivers involved with plastic colored balls and Chinese checkers.

And even though she felt like a kindergarten kid, she must have gotten used to the transport from the center turning up outside the condo gate on Thursdays at 9- because when one day they accidentally forgot her on their route (?!), she wondered enough to ring up her caregivers up and have them ask the center why.

lilies at the Lobby

You know just when it is when there are stargazer lilies around.

 

They are a bloom that just will not stand at the sidelines and be subtle, they will not let you walk past and forget their presence, and they will literally, literally, reveal themselves to you through their petals, their overwhelming presence, and their distinctive scent.

 

I've never managed to walk past a stargazer lily without attempting to sniff at one. :D

 

Attention seekers, they are, maybe, but here they were, one big vase of them, in the middle of the Intercon Lobby... and yeah, they got me good.

 

 

 

 

short Stories and Mysteries

This is a late post.

 

This is a post that is so very late that I, for the life of me, cannot remember when exactly it was that I borrowed these books from the library, I cannot remember from which library they were borrowed from, and, I cannot remember what the plot of Agatha Christie's book was as well.

 

 

It is not a good thing when a reader cannot recall what the plot of the book is, or was. This is a case whereby I know the title- "The Clocks", but the characters, the setting, and even the plot, they have all unfortunately slipped from memory.

 

So it is thereby fortunate thing that there usually are just three groups of detective characters in Agatha Christie's works, and in this book, it would have to be either one of the three.

 

It would not be Miss Marple- I adore her as a detective too much to forget her small town sleuthing style. Neither would it be the cute couple Tommy and Tuppence- they have so much pleasant banter in their sleuthing investigations for me to forget their interactions. And so, by process of elimination, that would leave only the French detective Hercule Poirot.

I confess I haven't read many stories where Poirot solves crimes and mysteries. Most of Agatha Christie's books I've read lean towards Miss Marple. She, I remember pretty well. Often situations happen when she is visiting someone, and through a wee bit of investigation and penetrative questioning, she solves the mystery. Sometimes she gets to act her age, and in her act of dropping of stuff or finding herself lost, she gathers clues. Maybe that is what appeals to me.

Perhaps I haven't read enough of Poirot yet.

 

And then here's another funny thing. 

 

If I read enough of Poirot as the lead detective, would the plot then stay in my mind? I'm not sure. In the few stories I've read, Poirot seems to be an armchair detective- albeit a very good one- the mark of his abilities- but could it be that it is precisely because of such, that I seem to forget what it is that takes place in the story? And could it be that I keep comparing him to another detective, also male, from the British side, and whose stories leave an impression on me much deeper? 

 

It sounds incredibly rude to say this, but even though I have read Agatha Christie's works a couple of times, and I have read and re-read some of her stories several times, I've never been able to recollect the titles of the books I've read, much less the plots and characters.... and I honestly do not know why.

It is like I recollect the quirks and investigative abilities of Miss Marple, but I forget the case that she is investigating, and the people involved. And it is like I enjoy the banter between Tommy and Tuppence, but I've no idea what case it is that they are checking upon.

Maybe the complexity of the plot is what makes the reader read, re-read, and re-re-read, again and again.

That's what I've been doing.
 

There's always a wide collection available at the library. Her works make light, casual reading that guide me through a scenario without any preamble, and they are perfect for the times when I feel like having a good, well-timed mystery read.

 

Having light, casual reading material is also perhaps the reason why short stories and flash fiction have always been a favorite choice of mine. Not just now, in the digital age where our attention span has been supposedly conditioned to be super short, but a long time ago.

There was a time in my life when I would borrow five collections of short stories, finish them in one afternoon over a long, leisurely fast-food lunch, then return all five books afterward.

Those times, I'm afraid, are no more.

These days a singular book can span a week or two, never mind the length, but whether they be from local authors like Catherine Lim or Philip Jeyeratnam, short story collections from Singapore and Malaysia, or short story collections by American, British or Irish authors, their "lengthy anecdotes" and "glimpse of characters" are a great fit for a restless, quirky spirit like mine.

 

And few are the short stories that I will not read. :)

 

Sarong Secrets was a new book to me.

And I liked it.

 

Because whilst many a local book there is about the Peranakans and their culture, reading Sarong Secrets made me feel like I were right there sitting with a group of lovely ladies clad in sarongs and kebayas, listening to them share their stories of past and present, in between lovely bites of colourful nyonya kueh and sips of Earl Grey Tea.



the Row of Chairs

There are some views of Tan Tock Seng Hospital that Miss Brown doesn't like to see.

This is one of them.

It isn't because the building reminds her of the physiotherapy or the occupational therapy sessions that she had to go through thrice weekly. They were okay. They were beneficial, and at one time, she was really proud of having gone through them.

It isn't also because it reminds her of the acupuncture sessions that she had to go through even though she was terrified and tense throughout it all. Bad experience it might have been, but no, that's not why either.

It is a view she tries to avoid, because the sight of the building, and the sight of the trees remind her of the row of chairs beneath that she and her adopted daughter used to sit on as they waited for her primary caregiver to arrive before going up for therapy.

Now, that memory, by all accounts, should have been a pleasant one, what else can it be if it is of mother and daughter sitting companionably side by side, except that it did not last long, and when it did end, it was abrupt, cold,  and distant.

 

To this day, as and when Miss Brown thinks of it, she cannot comprehend why it is that her daughter upped and left the house as she did when she thought they were all happily living in. What was it, Miss Brown still wonders, did she do, or not do?

 

It wasn't because her girl had no claim to the place. She had a small stake in the house. It wasn't because her girl missed her lover and hence wanted to go live together. She had allowed her daughter so much leeway that she and her boyfriend had  already been sleeping comfortably on the thick mattress in the medium sized room for one and a half years. And it wasn't because the three of them weren't happy living together. They had gone shopping for groceries and household needs together. They had gone on walking trips to MacRitchie Reservoir and Hort Park together. They had enjoyed many meals at restaurants and coffee shops together.

 

There was no way her adopted daughter and boyfriend could have been unhappy living together in the same house as her. Why then, after one and a half years, did she really move out, and less than three months after her stroke, to boot!

 

Thinking back on the row of chairs, Miss Brown cannot figure out what it was that made her adopted daughter quit the routine that they had so carefully created together.

 

 

Was it because it was too troublesome making a detour to the hospital instead of driving straight to the office? Did her daughter not like taking the train to work from the hospital even though it was a mere three stops away? Or was it because, as someone surreptitiously told her, her daughter wanted to go upstairs and create trouble with the therapist in charge but she was not permitted to...?

 

And even if it might have been a bit more effort, Miss Brown was sure that the fetching couldn't be as troublesome as she assumed it might e, because even after they moved out, the boyfriend still swung by on the designated days to drive her to the hospital.

 

So if it wasn't this, or that, then what exactly was it?

 

What was it that made them decide to move out from the home that they had been happily staying together for so long? It was a terrible blow to her when her daughter told her she would be shifting out. There was no convincing. The girl just would not stay. There was so much she wanted to tell her. Like the fact that she had yearned for years for her daughter to come stay with her in the home as they had once did in their maisonette family home. Like the fact that her harsh words were really ones out of love.

 

But the girl left.

 

She and her man.

 

Miss Brown thought her daughter would still come back on the scheduled days and accompany her to the hospital. What was it that made her decide that her presence was not needed and that her boyfriend would drive her  there alone?

 

And wat was it that made them decide to stop driving her to the hospital altogether?

 

They've never really explained it all to her.

 

So she doesn't understand.

 

And neither does she really know.

my Red Basket Bag

 

Rummaging through my picture archive a few days ago, I happened to come across this picture, and I smiled at the flood of memories coming back to me.

The A4 sized basket bag that I bought from a stall in Chinatown and whose red dye would go running whenever it rained, the Nokia silver alphanumeric phone that I used extensively during this season of time and which I had fond memories of, the scarf that I tied on the basket bag because I thought it would make it look classier, and the bracelets that the hippie-loving me had encircled around my wrist.

You know, it has been 12 years since this picture was taken on the upper level of a double decker bus with what I believe was a HP camera... and how the years have gone by.

We've all changed, in one way or another. We've gone through the ups and downs of the years past, and it is all we can do right now to look at the memories we hold in our hands and smile.

It's funny, I didn't know that Hewlett Packard had a camera division then, and I don't know whether they still have it now.

Whichever it might be, I'm glad they had a division, and I'm glad my friend had the HP camera. Otherwise this picture would never have been captured, I wouldn't own this memory, and I'd never have a reminder of who I was 12 years ago versus who I am now.

I don't speak of it often, but 12 years ago I was an events executive in a sports events company. For someone who wasn't very sporty, who was afraid of basketballs, volleyballs, soccer balls, Captain's Balls and the like, and who favoured leisure sports over competitive ones aka a pick-the-shuttlecock game of badminton, a bit of scenic bike riding and a lazy round of swimming in the public pool, it was a bit of a mismatch.

But see, I really wanted to try out an events job at least once in my career life.... and this was a company searching for a community events executive- which was precisely what I wanted to do.

Of course, in my naivety, it didn't occur to me that the community events executive would have to double up in the sport events arena as well, but within three days of being hired, in between all the various tasks and community event coordination, I was tasked to go around primary schools winding up wires, carrying plastic cones, listening to some old dude share about his non-smoking story in school assemblies and arranging sandbags- all in the hot afternoon sun. 

Let's just say that my stamina wasn't as hearty as it is now, and I went home in tears...

Let's also say that the fish out of water exercised her mental, emotional and physical capabilities as much as she could during the entire time she was there.

It was, how shall I put it, an experience with a big E. 

I learnt how to use a stapler gun (!!!). I learnt how to tie the strings on street soccer goalposts. I also learnt how to draw a street soccer score chart. I got introduced to people who found midnight jogs relaxing and I discovered that you could save a substantial amount of money by cutting out stickers with a scissors instead of getting it printed die-cut.

There were other lessons on the by and by. Like the fact that coffee shop talk had to be done in (only) a certain dialect- and not anything else. Or the fact that you could be tasked to solve a problem that your own boss couldn't solve and then be made to feel guilty about it.  

I can't say that I did well- it is subjective- but I can say that I did the best my personality allowed me to.  

We were a poor fit, end of story, and for a long while after I couldn't return to the area where the office was based, and I couldn't bear to listen to the accent that the boss owned because of all the many instructions that she used to give to me. -_-
 
But here's the thing.

I'm still not very sporty, nor have I grown a sudden competitive streak, but with the personality that I have become, I think I would make a better fit to the events company now than I used to be.

At least I'd be more comfortable with the nuances, the habits, the patterns, the quirks and I would be more at ease with sport talk and Decathlon and trainers and tops and backpacks and diets.

To the very least the backpack has replaced the basket bag, I have track pants in black, blue, baby blue and pink, I own three pairs of sports shoes, I wear a sports watch, and after having Quincy and Rose, I'm now going happily week on week with Daffy.

the Rain's song

I wish I could say that I wrote this on a romantic whim whilst seated at the foot of a wide, open window all wrapped up in a throw and with a cuppa by my side even as the thunderstorm raged outside.

And I also wish that I could say that I wrote this even as the windows blow raindrops onto my face and it was so magical and fleeting that I had to write it all down.
 

But I can't. 

Because  although I was near an open window and I had my laptop open, and there were the tiniest of raindrops falling on my face, such romanticism didn't happen.

No matter how hard I tried, the music of the rains overwhelmed me to such a degree that, despite my best efforts to concentrate, I got caught in a writer's block where no words would form, and where no sentences would flow.

 

I must have been more restless than I thought.

 

Either that, or the energy of the late evening tropical flash thunderstorm was more forceful than I thought it to be.

 

People who know me know that I have a special affinity for rain.

They know I'm not one to carry umbrellas. They know I'm not one to shy away from a drizzle. And they know I'm not one to go out without a scarf, hoodie or parka. :)

That's just me.

 

I love being all wrapped up in my hoodie when I happen to be outdoors in the rain.

 

I love being by a wide open window when I'm indoors from the rain.

 

Part of it, I suppose, has to do with the fact that I'm a hygge sort of person and it is very calming to wrap myself up in a thin fleece throw, sit by the open window hugging my knees, and watch the raindrops as they land onto the glass, clatter onto the plastic blinds, and splatter onto my happily upturned face.

 

It doesn't matter to me that the cushions I'm leaning on are getting wet. They'll air themselves out.

 

Neither does it matter to me that the floor is becoming wet from the relentless onslaught of rain. We have a mop.

 

What matters to me is that right here, right now, my eyes are closed, my ears are open, and I hear the clatter of rain as she falls onto the wet asphalt road, I hear the heavy thud of water as she gushes from the rooftop gutter onto the cemented floor below, I hear the rumble of thunder from somewhere far in the skies above, and I hear the squish of rubber tires as the cars drive by on the shimmering, shiny, wet road.

 

It is a sensory experience being here by the open window listening to the music of the rain.

 

Nothing could be more pleasant.

 

Nothing could be more assuring.

 

Nothing would I want more.