Disjointed Notes

The bus stops to let passengers board and alight, and you can almost feel - not to mention smell - the air currents around the female passengers who is each cocooned in their own miasma of perfume.

20^th February 2006

:::

She wore sparkly pink sneakers, blue jeans, and a pink T-shirt; she carried a satchel, and a separate handcarrier that had an A3 sketch block in it (among other art materials).

Somehow, she reminded me of myself in another life time: a self that lived in black tank tops, scruffy blue jeans, black Doc Martens, and approximately three dozens of metal bangles (I tended to break glass ones and cut myself); a self who fought, almost daily, for space in the congested tin can of a bus, brandishing an A2 or A3 portfolio carrier.

21^st February 2006

:::

As with a flash storm at the end of a February in equatorial Singapore, as with the flash rays of your love: I am left in the sticky damp discomfort of the aftermath - wishing, perhaps, that it had never happened at all, however delightful it had been while it lasted ...

23^rd February 2006

:::

I played 'Song for a Jolly Gathering' from the Chinese Box soundtrack, and I was not only reminded of Cute Chinese Chap, I was also reminded of the fact that I used to think of Cute Chinese Chap whenever I heard that song.

I don't know why, but when I thought of Cute Chinese Chap, I regretted the things I didn't do, and wondered about the things that would, could, and might, have been.

I'd thought he was good-looking the very first time I'd laid eyes on him, which made me nervous; so I always tried to avoid getting served by him.

Maybe he was just trying to be friendly; after all, he couldn't have found me attractive, not since he usually saw me at my early-morning worst: bad hair, speccies, dry skin, pimples, and oversized sweater and all.

Hell, why am I even thinking about all these at all?

It's ancient history, sister.

25^th February 2006

:::

Now that I know she's living in another continent, in another time-zone - and what with it being a permanent position - I miss her so much.

Finland - that's ... so very far away; a land completely foreign to me.

I prolly won't be swamped by the tidal wave of missing her if she'd said she'd only be there for training - or even for two or three years.

But a permanent position - that's, like, forever, and that's why I suddenly miss her so much; that's why I suddenly remember I haven't seen her in over two years.

Why do I only miss the people who may be out of my life forever?

:::

I'm supposed to write a nonfiction short story of a sex crime; I'm supposed to make it sensational (my word, not his).

I'm excited about this gig, but the more logical and analytical side of me snorts: "This. Is. Shit."

It prolly is, but I'm still excited.

What sorta girl am I to get excited over shit?

:::

I'd loved Last Life in the Universe; hence, I can't wait for Invisible Waves.

Ditto Transamerica.

I prolly should make it a point to catch Capote (which I'm only interested in only because I did In Cold Blood for my Journalism & Lit. course; it better be better than Sylvia, which I'd watched for a similar reason and subsequently rued the NZD 12.50 I'd paid for the ticket), Munich, and Mrs. Henderson Presents, too.

:::

On Friday night, I'd asked the boys to find me a guy.

I hope I'd been joking.

But, then, I don't meet attractive, single, and gay local girls very often ...

If at all.