Green is a colour

The recent torrent of promises; agreement on togetherness, unremitting affections, dedication and sacrifices — is a phase. If he doesn’t break it, I will.

I did. Because I am intrinsically programmed to stumble. And however forgiving he is, his method of catharsis will always hurt me. But who wouldn’t say I brought it on myself?

I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry.

Watch 2 Days in Paris because they have the exact description that I am incapable of composing.

Faithless misstep

But to absorb the Malay culture is one thing; to be absorbed into the Malay world is another. As a young man, my father fell in love with a Malay girl but because he refused to become a Muslim, had to give her up and leave his kampong forever, thus cutting himself off from the “mainland” of his childhood. Hearing the story when I was a child, I learned that religion is an ocean that divides the world into islands.

- Chuah Guat Eng, author of Echoes of Silence

Sometimes it is hard to explain my being agnostic. One misstep, and I would forever be a cynic.

Public display of affection

On Monday I was just crying and crying and crying. It started in the morning when I reported back to him with answers to a Malay proverb task he gave me.

Me being me, I assumed the worst definition.

And then he laughed, and laughed. And called me an idiot. And assured me no matter what his brother had meant when he dished out proverb advice — I am the one he wants to be with. So I cried. Later in the afternoon, he confided in me about how regretful he is of that week when grandpa went, so much that he can’t forgive himself even though I have. So I cried.

And then today, talking about education, he reminded me again about our future. And so I nearly cried. I don’t know how to say this, but our relationship is changing. Maybe it is just a phase, maybe it is transitioning to the next phase — I don’t know, I can’t put my finger on it.

But here’s what. I’m going to stop blogging about him, or us. Because I’ve set up a tumblr to dedicated to just that purpose. Thank you for putting up with all those lovesome and lovelorn moments.

Toast, coffee and budu

I am trying to jumpstart productivity and complete my Critical Appreciation assignment, weeks before its deadline — but every fifteen minutes or so, I find myself ending up staring at my own legs. Goddamn vain.

There’s this inane worry of my tan fading. And an inaner worry that my worry represents more than the superficial. What if in the long term, I can never change, nor can others embrace change? What if reverting back to our roots is so intrinsic to us that change is simply a vulgar aggravation?

I wonder if I am reading too much between the pigments. Literature can’t be healthy if it makes the imagination madder.

Fishing boat

Last night, I saw An Education and I saw myself. No, I didn’t start a romantic affair with an older man (quite the contrary) nor have Oxford on my to do list.

But what I saw was the distraction, the stalling, the fact that my academic year felt like it hasn’t even begun. I have always been a last minute sprinter, but whether I’ll make the race this time worries me. And worry is all the effort I can muster at the moment.

Then there’s me away from family, away from college. Things are so difficult to understand, and feelings are so easily bruised. It’s like a culture shock one can’t overcome.

He piggybacks me when my crab fear kicks in and I refuse to step on ground where hermit crabs roam; he washes my clothes; he lets me take control of the wheels; and he gives in because he refuses to argue. But how does one know that a few years down the road, the same patience remains, and he would still listen to my erratic babble with interest?

Coffee Aroma

This is probably a weird thing to say.

But I was in Coffee Bean’s today, where I once worked a week. Not too long ago.

One quick scan at the people manning the bar, I saw the ex’s brother, this cute guy on my fb friend’s list that I’ve only ever spoken to once, one very very nosy ex-manager and so many good looking boys.

And then all of a sudden, I wondered where all my guy friends went.

This current state of progesterone OD can’t be healthy. We all need that balance of male and female friends. And I know very well that the boyfriend is close to the heart, but not central to my life.

“Where is your boyfriend? I don’t know if you have a boyfriend. So do you have a boyfriend?”

I’m no more concerned about the intention of the questions thrown at me over the bustle of ice blenders and coffee grinder, than I am about how all these while, I’ve been missing the whole point (and benefits) of a long distance relationship.

Deep breaths. Will be back.

Chinese Eyes

Confession. My first attempt at watching Yasmin Ahmad’s Sepet, couldn’t have lasted more than thirty minutes. I remember finding it droning. Possibly because the English irked me. There is no Manglish as an identity bullshit. Manglish is English mangled, spat on, stepped on and then worn as a badge of pride. And then there were so many languages thrown in in one movie. What is this movie trying to be?

That was what I believed. That’s who I was in 2004. And then I walked out of high school compound, away from the comfort of urban Chinese and shared cultural knowledge  — everything changed.

Yesterday I finally saw Sepet.

There was one scene in the hospital I vaguely remembered. Jason was telling his recuperating friend Ah Keong, about how his mother is Peranakan, and so she wouldn’t object him dating a Malay. Keong interrupts his history lesson on the diverse background of Peranakans, and because of that you think your mother won’t mind lah?

And then I couldn’t stop crying.

Mom was in a good mood that afternoon, so I sat her down and made her watch it. When it was over, I quietly thanked Yasmin Ahmad. And change is the word of the year. Change is also a goddamn process, but it’s alright.

Red velvet cupcakes

I’ve been wondering when that urge to prepare food out of affection was going to hit me.

In high school, I made sushi for my crush. But hunting for fresh salmon was not the worst, because the love bug later made me look up cookbooks, bought puff pastry sheets, made vanilla custard and apple jam, chilled the damn thing and had me hopefully clutching the chilled lunchbox full of effort on an entire bus ride to school at 6am.

It was good pastry but he just wasn’t interested. Partly because I was fugly in high school and incredibly squat.

But with you, that fever never came. Until last night, I asked you what would you have engraved on a ring for me. Not only were your suggestions a surprise, but the fact that you were semi-enthusiastic about the whole task of fixing your grammar for the engravings, and measuring your fat finger — really threw me off my guard. You were just so compliant.

Somehow, at the end of the evening I found myself equipped with the knowledge to make red velvet cupcakes, and marshmallow fondant for cupcake deco — having compulsively gone through a dozen albums and countless how-to videos.

I am baking even if it is weeks after February 14th.

Vigil

We rarely miss someone until they’re gone.

Riding through Sri Petaling with some friends last night, we passed by this signboard that literally translates as Chicken Nest Pao. A combination of lo mai kai and pao — two of grandpa’s favourite foods. Automatically I made a mental note to mention this to dad.

And then I remembered that grandpa was gone. His last day was a week ago, and his last meal was at least a month ago.

And to think of the ridiculous things I do with my food.

I am occasionally, though very very rarely ED. How is this related to grandpa’s death I’m not sure, but I am going to stop making myself sick, completely.

Grandpa, you will be missed. And please don’t break dad’s heart while you take leave.