Over

In a move that many would consider ill-advised, I took a day’s leave and spent all of it at my ex-girlfriend’s place. She was on leave too, and we were the only ones in the house. But I wasn’t there to see or talk to her; I was there to use her computer because it can do a number of things that mine can’t. And for the longest time, I’ve been meaning to finish something I started working on while we were still attached.

Sounds incredible? But it’s true, and in many ways it characterises our relationship (whether as a couple or as platonic friends): one of fuss-free practicality. We never stood in each other’s way; we never hesistated to change our plans if there were more pressing matters to attend to, and we never questioned or made up for them. We felt it was no point arguing over things that needed to be done anyway.

So it was unsurprising that she was completely comfortable with me spending a whole day using her computer as she went about cleaning the house and clearing old clothes. Where such a move in the past would have seen us heaving against each other in various states of undress, this time around I went about my business with ruthless efficiency, finishing what I set out to do before her mum got home.

And for the first time since our breakup, I detected no shadow of longing or regret in her countenance. In that quiet, spartan flat of hers, she felt more like a sister than a former lover. And I realised that all the vestiges of our romance had dislodged themselves from my heart. I paused for a moment, trying to remember what it was like to kiss her, and it felt exceedingly weird.

When we parted ways at the bus-stop near her flat, she headed for mass and I to town, it was with such matter-of-factness that I knew that chapter of our lives was truly and well closed. And I felt an immense sense of liberation.

I Could've Walked All Night

After having some very nice photographs taken together, she asked if I wanted to call a cab, since the party was very far in. I declined, and went off on my own after breaking our parting gaze. There’s a certain beauty in walking along dimly lit stretches of road, beneath a thick canopy of black foliage, passing by unusual houses and buildings with unseen occupants and untold stories. There’s a kind of wonder in throwing one’s head back to look at the sky and being stunned by the sight of the immense halo around the moon that you normally can’t see for the streetlights. And there’s a kind of escapism in wandering out to an unfamiliar main road, feeling the emptiness of passing cars, imagining the sterile comfort of the homes in the distance, and breathing in the stinging freshness of the air on a night so clear that you can see for miles.

And there is an unexpected joy in not caring if the wait for a cab lasted another hour; then getting into one and being surprised by how quickly the landscape became swallowed by familiarity, because home was just around the corner.

Japan Goes Down

I honestly can’t remember the last time I went to a cinema alone. But with a name dripping in B-Grade chic, you can be sure I’d go out of my way to watch The Sinking of Japan, it even if it means travelling an hour to Yishun 10 after work to catch its very last screening in Singapore.

Far from being home-release bargain bin fodder, Sinking is a surprisingly well-paced, well-thought out movie--one almost imagines that the producers went through a table-top crisis simulation exercise to envision the entire catastrophe developing from rumour to mass hysteria; and its political consequences locally and abroad. Its special effects, coming from the makers of the Godzilla franchise, were nothing short of spectacular. But more than the effects and suspense, what struck me most about the movie was the screenwriters’ willingness to allow Japan to be almost completely destroyed before being saved from submergence at the movie’s end. Is the paranoia of annihilation still in the Japanese psyche after 60 years? Interestingly enough, in a move too loaded with symbolism to be mere coincidence, the country’s final salvation is effected through a nuclear device.

Of course, there’s an added kick for me in watching Sinking since I’m currently learning the language and can now pick out expressions like sumimasen (“excuse me / sorry”), wakarimasu (“understand”), and nan de kore (“WTF!?”), not to mention all the -eru, -imasu and -shita verb endings (even if I don’t know the verbs themselves).

What I can’t understand, though, is a scene where the protagonist’s love interest says “make love to me now”, causing him to break into heavy sobs. He tearfully replies that he can’t “at the moment”, because only saving her family would make him truly happy. This has to be the first time in recent cinematic history that a male protagonist turns down an opportunity for casual sex with his love interest. What the f***, indeed! Maybe I do have a lot to learn about the Japanese psyche...

Evening Bliss

It was one of those unexpected, perfect little evenings: getting off duty early, heading out on a whim, attending a free film screening cum faux-intellectual discussion, and proceeding (again, on a whim) with the organisers for drinks. The hours were touched with lightness: the air was sedate; the dressing casual, the company somewhere in that feel-good zone between acquaintances and friends. Many fond memories were evoked, and the night ended just before inertia set in. It’s been a while since I’ve felt this relaxed and happy...and a while since I had a beer, too. It’s a nice place to be.

Going Places

For years, I had a major hangup about not being as well-travelled as my peers—a hangup which I unscrewed shortly before my graduation by making a mother of a trip to New York City. Since then, I’ve scraped the remains of that hangup with trips of various natures to China, Thailand, Hong Kong and Indonesia, all in the space of a year.

You would think I’m content, but there’s been a nagging itch. Beyond merely travelling, I’ve longed for the quintessential travel buddy experience—the kind of travel experience which is amplified because of the presence of a friend to take all those shameless photos you want of yourself, to watch your back, to collectively savour everything the destination has to offer and recount the adventure with fondness many years on. All my post-New York travels were made in large, organised groups, and the one in which I tried to force a travel buddy situation turned out to be a disaster.

Which is why this morning, as I punched in the last digits of my credit card number into airasia.com, sealing an impulsive deal I made with two close friends just a week before, I felt an inexorable sense of personal triumph.

The Earth Has Swallowed Me

People have a nice expression for situations of imminent trouble: “sinking feeling”. In a single breath, it apprehends the nature of the situation and captures the accompanying physiological sensation—an ominous slowing and heightening of the senses, especially the heart. We’ve all felt it before.

But beyond a certain point, one’s heart no longer sinks. Beyond a certain point, a trap door flings open between your feet and your heart just drops straight into it and disappears. It’s a feeling that passes through you before you can feel it, a sensation faster that thought, but with such terrifying force that it strips you of your emotional capacity to react.

I really wish I could tell you today about how I spent—or intended to spend my 26th birthday, looking out at the world from my secret place on a 26th floor, ruminating over the lessons of life I’ve gleaned from the past year.

But all I can tell you about today is the new sensation I experienced when the phone call came two nights ago, informing my family that cousin died suddenly.

Stand Up For Singapore

Some things they won't tell you about the experience of watching the National Day Parade at the stadium:

1. There's a buzz from taking a train to the venue, and watching it fill slowly with people decked in red;
   
   
2. It's more exciting watching the proceedings without the sedate, formal commentary that accompanies the telecast;
   
   
3. The F16 fly-past is a blink-and-you'll-miss-it affair, while the paratroopers are a delight to watch (you can see them from the moment they appear as tiny red specks in the sky till their dramatic landing minutes later);
   
   
4. During the feu de joie, you can hear the movement of the fire as it runs from one end of the Guard-of-Honour formation to the other and back again;
   
   
5. The sight of a stadium full of people with their torches switched on in the dark is surreal and almost romantic (or maybe it’s just me);
   
   
6. The mass display segment is electrifying because it fills your entire field of vision, and never cuts away;
   
   
7. After the fireworks subside, you can smell the thick stench of gunpowder;
   
   
8. You learn the true meaning of 60,000 when you wait an hour for the crowd to disperse, and it still takes forever to walk back to Kallang MRT.

As something that began in 1976, NDPs held at the National Stadium are very much a thing of my generation, and I'm glad I finally had the chance to watch one in the flesh. Not a year too soon, either, as the stadium will be demolished in 2007. Well, if it's not one for the photo books, then it's certainly one for the children to hear about many years from now.

Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

The Young Musician’s Society Auditorium. It began four years ago at this very spot, where we were rehearsing for a school theatrical production.

Countless days, conversations, kisses, gifts and special moments later, it was only appropriate that our final discussion on our relationship began here. (It was my idea to stop by this place—I am, after all, a stickler for beginnings and endings.)

It wasn’t easy to begin doing this: as the first serious relationship for both of us, it was precious and wonderful. And as if to hold on to this wonder for just a while longer, we spent a long time reminiscing. Only in the final hour did my thoughts gain lucidity and gather momentum, and I mustered the courage and conviction to tell her why it had to end.

In many ways, we had the perfect relationship, and it had the perfect ending. She took it very well, and I am very proud of her for that. In fact, when she broke down at the very end, it was not because of the pain of separation, but because of my parting gift for her. Though only 20 cents, I got it to fulfil a small promise I made many months ago. I gave it to her as a kind of closure, and to assure her that there was no animosity in our breakup.

Then, there was a surreal moment of catharsis. Freed from the burden of planning our finances for a home and a wedding; freed from the difficulty of raising children with our differing value systems; freed from the awkwardness of salvaging our fraying relationship so we could do all this; freed from the weariness of always talking and messaging each other in our bedroom voices; we felt a great burden lift from our shoulders. After all, it was not as if she didn’t want to separate at all. She only wanted to stay together more.

Suddenly, it made so much more sense just to be friends. And we had a nice, big steamboat dinner together.

My last moments with her were spent along a bustling sidewalk as she looked out for a bus that she could take home. It arrived sooner than a final hug or gaze. Up its steps she disappeared, like a memory.

As the dust settles, I begin to think of the things we always talked about doing but somehow never did. Watching the DVDs and VCDs we bought to watch together. Taking a holiday in a distant country. Experiencing snow for the first time. Going to this restaurant, or that one. Feeding each other an entire meal. Making love. I wonder if I will wake up some mornings and reach for the phone, forgetting that it’s over.

Yet, there is a lot of good in this. As the first serious relationship for both of us, it was sweet and naïve in its own way. And perhaps, it is therefore better remembered with fondness, than lived out to the point of farce.

Thank you for four beautiful years.