Moved, Again!

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Ho Chi Minh

Have you ever been to a place and felt like you had travelled back in time?

It felt like that somewhat, about two weeks back when I visited Ho Chi Minh for a weekend of offsite training.

It could have been the really old colonial buildings; the lacquered wooden phone booths in a fully operational post office set in mosaic tiles.

Or the millions and millions of scooters. Whole families of five on scooters. And the seeming lack of rules. Traffic rules at least. Nobody goes in the same direction on a roundabout. Its just about who spots the first clear road through and manages to make it that way first.

But I think, what really made time stand still, was when we were taking a walk from our hotel to the war museum. With the cathedral and the post office, the main attractions behind us, we were pretty much done with marveling at the main sights of the city, and were about to retire our cameras into our bags, when we entered the cool soft light of the central park.

It was a Sunday. The Vietnamese were out in their central park with their friends, having ice-cream, chatting. There was a balloon man amusing the crowd with his balloon animals. Couples sat in the shade of the trees, their scooters, speaking in hushed tones. It was a hot day but every one was at the park to sit around and enjoy each other’s company.  Nobody had any agenda. No movies to catch. No girly shopping expedition with glittering distractions. No fancy schmancy dining with fine wine and food to ooah and aaah about amidst tired conversations. It was as if they had chosen to forget time, the idea of activity, and were just reveling in pure company.

And as I walked through central park, taking in this Sunday scene, I felt as if time stood still for a bit, or at least the Vietnamese wanted it to right there. And then a colleague reminded us that the war museum was about to close in an hour and we hurried along with our day’s travel agenda.

 

 

 

 

 

Dr Zhivago should come to Singapore

A friend in Melbourne sent me the link to this video last weekend. And I think I must have replayed this video 100 times over since then.

I really want Dr. Zhivago to travel to Singapore. A love story set against the Russian revolution sounds just about the perfect recipe for an exaggerated romantic musical/ opera.

Plus, Andrew Lloyd Webber had a hand in the music for this musical. And that’s about all the reason I need for wanting to catch this.

P.S. Love Never Dies is also set to open in Melbourne next month. Super jealous!

What Weekends Should Be Made Of

I haven’t had a long stay-home, work-free weekend for a while. And so, have almost forgotten the simple quiet pleasure that staying home with hours of reading brings.

And the amusement of being in the company of Austen’s characters, with her sharp, lively observations of character. And especially how her gentlemen always manage to draw out my hidden fangirl – first, Mr. Darcy, and now, Mr. Knightley <3 *swoon”

Emma also marks the first entry in my Moleskine book journal. Pretty cool idea; to sit down and have a think of what I should pick up from each reading experience: sheer reading amusement, technique or some life shattering quotes?

Maybe next time, when I get round to yet another one of my Murakami books. I have so many of them, I think I can start creating a shrine.

The Lion King, Alive

Last Saturday, we caught The Lion King at the Marina Bay Sands.

And I’ve been hooked on the movie soundtrack ever since; at work, at home – I’ve been slamming my old CD-player about just to get it to read my old Disney movie soundtrack album.

It goes without saying then, that I had a really good time. I think I knew I was going to, the moment that life-sized paper mache elephant walked into the theatre, with a baby elephant skipping gaily in its tracks. And when I saw the giraffes against the backdrop of the rising sun, it kinda dawned on me that this was not just another trip to the theatre (felt like that when we caught Closer) – these guys were serious about recreating Africa in our very own backyard. Even better, an African safari of sorts with talking animals

At least, they got me really serious about recreating the experience. I’ve been having The Lion King soundtrack earworms ever since. And it seems like listening to the Circle of Life over and over only makes it worse; I just want to imagine again and again how it felt like to be sitting in the middle of a safari… how, for a moment when I thought they were real, I was reminded again of a certain majesty in all other existence, the existences that you tend to forget while in a concrete jungle, and all my self-occupied concerns naturally fell away, humbly aware of their being mere trifle.

Sunday

should be spent walking on water to the 60s. And gazing out at the eagles swirling in the sky, occasionally grazing the sea in one grand swoop – strong, powerful and free.

Why I Rock

… girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.

You Should Date an Illiterate Girl, Charles Warnke

Because I can tell a promise from a lie. Because I can tell a rut from an end. Because I can tell a hiccup from an irreconcilable difference. Because I am always plotting, plotting, plotting towards the climax of my self(and yours)-loving expectation. Because I can break pressure, emotion, incompatibilities into words instead of bottled up grievances and lifetime grudges. Because I have self-respecting discernment against boys like you who only whine about my ideals and are never brave to look deep inside of yourself, and what we have become.

But most of all, most of all, unlike what you generalise me to be, I know that it is pointless to dream of someone who is everything that you or tom, dick or harry aren’t. Because I know that in the end I can’t choose. It’s just something that happens.  And when it does I will be brave enough to look it in the eye and give myself to it and at least live once like the heroines in Keats, Donne and Lawrence. And if need be, recognise a denouement and walk away painfully but knowingly, acknowledging my hurts alongside those I’ve read about,  like they were just another step in a greater love story.

Birthday Story

This evening, as I sat on the train home reading Murakami (who else?), I made up my mind to come home, drink a glass of cold milk and think and write about all the awesome ideas I’ve been picking up from Sputnik Sweetheart.

But I’ll save that for tomorrow, or sometime over the weekend.

Because as I opened the door to my house, and walked purposefully to the kitchen, I glanced across this on my dining table.

And naturally wanted to stop and pick it up. And so I did. And I haven’t been able to stop smiling since

Because…

• it is actually a postcard from London
• it is postmarked on my birthday (this means I get to celebrate my birthday for more than a week)
• P somehow managed to figure that my favourite place in London is the national gallery (or maybe it was just a lucky coincidence – but who cares!)
• Like me, P writes that the national gallery opened his eyes for fine art – at this point, just two sentences into the postcard, fond memories of my eye-opening virgin experience in the national gallery jumped into my mind, and then of that painting in the sistine chapel, and then of the awesome art history book my colleague recently bought for me from the national gallery (I think I relived 3 points of time in my life in that nanosecond)
• Plus that bit about Chinese ceramics, and I couldn’t help reminiscing about the national museum in taipei
• P talks about collecting Netsuke, like how I am obsessively tracking down publication dates of Murakami’s latest novels
• And P ends off with a reminder to drink more tea

I can’t think of a present more perfect than this P More than anything else, I am amazed at how despite the distance and the infrequent rate at which we update each other, our interests seem to be running into each other. For a moment, on the short walk home today, I thought I was getting too lost in Murakami’s other side, until you shared all this (and more) with me. Sometimes, I can’t decide which side to get a grip on.

I also always wondered about the charm in receiving a postcard. But I think I know now. Canaletto put your words right in context. And the fact that it is handwritten somehow lets the words come more naturally, like in a conversation, unlike in a typewritten email – no backspace, no delete, just an easy relaxed stream of consciousness.

25

This birthday, I give thanks for my little brother being able to reach Singapore safely in time to join in the celebrations with my family; for 10-year friendships; for gifts that are mindful of my plans for 2011; for flowers that made me smile; for the good food (lots of good food) made awesome by the company that came with it; for the easy re-connections made with people overseas whom I’ve met at some point in my 25 years –  and the memories that they bring along with their hellos (doesn’t facebook give you the perfect excuse and platform to just say hi?); and especially for those who have lent me their ears repeatedly over the past year, even if they didn’t understand why most of the time –

This birthday, I give thanks for you.

Lund

Three years ago today, we set foot in Copenhagen, ready to take over Europe and live out what we made out  to be the prime of our lives.

Three years later, S and I are still reminiscing about the relentlessly careless complacency of those days. And the easy yet steadfast friendships that they have brought us.

Sometimes its hard to think about the full 20s, about growing up and the suited practicalities it brings. But when you still have people by your side who have been through your virgin alien experience with you and helped you come out well; who are generous to go back in time and revisit that one baby part of growing up with you, even though it is only in memory, its so much easier to look forward and think of your future as just another big adventure.