My Affair with Mr Scissors-Hands

I love my new hair.

Each time I look in the mirror, each time my fingers grazed the styling clay, I thought of his teasing fingers shaping my bangs, and the image freezes there.

If the word “affair” is loosely termed, my affair with Mr Scissors-Hands begun last year. Like every relationship, I bolted away crying from my previous hairstylist, convinced that the love of my life has ruined the future ahead for me. Till I met Mr Scissors-Hands when I wandered through the corridors of dodgy Katong Shopping Centre – I entered haltingly, he beckoned gently. I stiffened a sigh, and plonked myself to an experience I could only hope for the best.

The first encounter. Like a first date, we did not know what to make of each other. I wondered how good his fingers were, while he wondered what baggage and scars I carried with me. Like a dance of lovers, we begun slowly, hesitant, a brief touch, his hand guiding the way. I tip-toed along those pages of flowing curls, I made my decision, and closed my eyes for his magic…

Why did I choose to leave the man who had toyed with my hair for the past six years? I confided in him, I wanted him to make me the prettiest girl in school, I begged for him to try new things on me. He was the dominant one in the relationship, he held the reins. He gave me what he liked, and I loved it because he liked it too. Eager to please, I modelled his dreams and he painted his desires on me. I cried my sorrows and life’s worries while he smoothed my hair, and somehow his words – though not many – managed to make me feel better. It might not have been his words but the magical tough he had on my hair, because I remember leaving his salon happy and feeling more beautiful than an hour earlier. Like a relationship facing the inevitable stagnant phase, where nothing exciting happens anymore, he was harsh with his words. “No matter what you want me to do with your hair, face it – you’ll still look the same blah girl.”

I did not need a man who saw no hope in making magic with me anymore.

Mr Scissors-Hands was a renewed hope, a refreshed vigour and a whiff of adventure. I felt assured and safe with him as we explored textures and colours, sharing an anticipation as the hair-dryer reveals the final product bit by bit. I was always stunned to awe by his skill with the scissors while he took pride in my adventurous nature. Curls, bob, the asymmetrical cut…it was like having snapshots of our memories, with stories woven behind them. The curls allowed us to discover our mutual friends, and each other’s likes and dislikes. The bob revealed a more intimate side of him – he had a daughter, but he is alone now. I hummed along a similar tune – single child, single mum – and we silently understood each other, the pain, the loneliness…and our courage to march through life. The asymmetrical was a fun excursion, him teasing, I was laughing. I am hooked to him, like another lover in my life.

——————————————

In reality, chosing a hairstylist is almost like chosing a boyfriend. Women flock to men who seem to exist for the sole purpose of making them beautiful, and it is in our nature to find the perfect match who understands our hair, our roots, and our nature. I belong to the statistics – they do not call the hair a crowning glory without a reason. Hair changes our complex, our impression on others, and at times releases our alter-ego within us.

Three hours with a hairstylist is almost like going out on a date. Such close proximity, do we simply sit in silence? Conversations, laughter, the need to find similar interests to generate topics to chat…hairstylists have moved from a mere hair-transforming agent into a professional friend. Women seek that professional friend for a quick confidential outburst, for a confidence booster, and at times, a convenient coffee date when she is around the area.

In cases where some will take this friendship level to the next one that of lovers, a relationship that blossomed out from such stylist-customer origins are few and scattered wide. My told-story of “My Affair with Mr Scissors-Hands” will stay a purely fictional one, because the professional friendship is worth the next few good years (or more, I hope) of lovely hair.

Grief.

Grief is a subject rarely explored because I was raised to pretend not to know the bad news that befell those closest to me. An answer I often get as a kid was, “It’s alright, there is nothing you have to know.” I grew up getting over upsetting news by jumping onto the next racing train of thoughts and to-dos that passed me by…never letting the heart grieve nor feel the true deepest cuts through it.

Grief, ironically as it sounds, heals.

A best friend told me to slow down, and properly understand the root of the unhappiness within me. Tracing the root of unhappiness was like stepping back along time – not into time – as I tread back the chronological order of events that occured months, years back..those conversations ring fresh in my ears, like they have just been uttered yesterday.

The Kübler-Ross model depicted five stages of grief – denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. There are times in life I wonder if I ever passed the stage of denial, for anger was never really in the equation at any one time. Anger might have taken on a disguise, where I sulk within at the fact that I was not given an opportunity to learn from a man whom the world respected. I often wondered how different life would have turned out to be if I went under the influence of my dad, who was an engineer by day, businessman by heart. Would I still have been in the arts? Will I be one of those power-suit clad women striding down the polished marbles of Shenton Way? Or will Singapore cease to exist in my mind at all if I were to take my education overseas?

So many questions, unanswered. Each source rolled on to the other, until they became a network of potential problems, or life – however I saw it. Each fragment of my life brings about a certain joy, and an immense pain that seems never to go away. Depression was long and tough, yet I was certain that there was light at the end of the tunnel, because the sunshine I saw was worth the exploration of grief.

Nothing seems to account for the pain that returns. Each memory I’ve filed in the cupboards of my mind seems to release a certain pang in my heart each time I retrieve it. Nobody mentioned of the potential tears that could well up in your eyes even though you have accepted the subject of grief. I could laugh about a break-up and know it was the a blessing in disguise, but how does one deal with the rolling emotions that come tumbling out each time a stone is shifted?

Going through phases of grief – grows.

Lessons of pain, regret and sadness hopefully steers humans away from making the same mistakes. We emphatise, we feel, we comfort when we know how it is like to go through the process. I once met a man who did not know the pain of losing someone he loved. Maybe he did, but it was all forgotten. I have seen countless forums made up of individuals who dedicate their hearts and digital words to strangers who seek solace. Forums with individuals bound by a common emotion that draws them near in times of weariness. We become more selective with our words for fear of hurting the other party, becoming less critical, simply because the hurt is so familiar, so fresh within us.

Yet our fragile selves continue to pick ourselves up, and live a life ahead. Grief is only but one part of our lives, that serves to intensify the way events in our days pan out, to add a deeper dimension into the multi-complex nature of ours.

These whispers of temptation

They said there was a road you turn off past Holland Village, through the white metal sheets of a construction in progress – and you transcend into the mystical world of The Beautiful Land.

They said that The Beautiful Land is a strange place, where you see local bakeries with the usual bread aunties, speaking with that Singaporean tongue – juxtaposed with an army of charming men, and fairy-like ladies. Men of the smoothest complexion, of lean gaits, tall and dashingly well-dressed. Men of your dreams – the metrosexual, the pretty boy, the scruffy one, the boyish imp, and they mingle with the ladies of your desires. Those ladies, the men swear by their luscious locks, floating footsteps like they are dancing on water, soft lips and a voice of the wind.

Not many discovered that hidden passage way, and returned to their lives for more than a day. Strange vanishing incidences spoke of a day’s return, and never to be seen again. Those who have ventured through The Beautiful Land and came back alive, stared away with a dreamy look in their eyes…yet behind that misty haze you see a glimmer of impending fear and a hidden tale they refuse to speak of.

We crashed past those metal sheets – Jay, Chlo and I. They might very well call it A Moment of Flawed Temptation.

Jay found a fairy, so he called her. Green eyes she had, with fire in her hair, because it was so so red. She took his hand, led him away..laughing, dancing. I could not stop looking, there were just too many of them. We munched on sesame buns we purchased from the local bakery – just two dollars for six – like those you see on the ground floors of our HDB apartments. The aunty conversed with nobody in particular:

Jia lat lah, these people. So young, so tempted. Then they always disappear. Ah Girl! The bread okay already! They always leave something in those humans’ pockets, so that they are never fully returned to their land. No..they aren’t humans, too beautiful already. Those who play, must know the rules. If not, they disappear…then how to play? Ah, what you want? Kaya waffle ah? There you go, thank you xiao mei. Then you want to find them, almost impossible lah. Then how? Stuck loh. That’s it, just disappear..nobody knows.

Jay returned, triumphant. We went home…and I never saw him again.

Curiousity always kills the cat, they say. But I am a cat with nine lives, what’s one to me?

Through the white sheen I went again. This time I found my temptation, encased in a lean torso, clothed with a linen shirt…slacks..side swept hair that hid half his chestnut eyes…he spoke:

Come here. I took his hand and tried to stay alert, mentally marking my tracks so that I could trace him again, if I had to. He led me through the bustling stalls, through a series of twists and turns (3 lefts, 1 right and another left) and he pulled me through a wall.

And I fell, but he held me – through meadows of gold we flew, to a place he called home. Three other pixie-like creatures stared at me, their eyes the  colour of the deep blue sea, their cheeks…almost procelain-coated. I struggled to remember every moment. It was beautiful.

If we are not returned as a whole when the sun sets the next day, our owner from the previous night turns into dust. If the human does not return to his land when the sun sets, the same fate awaits him. Temptation lasts a night here – never more, never less.

Those three sisters. Their whispers blended into the wind.

He returned me home, not before a kiss of farewell. And I realised, with shock…the exchange of such fluids, meant that a part of him remains in me.

Look for me, you know where to find me. Renew this exchange, and you will not disappear. Let temptation be your addiction.

“No Money, No Honey” – Behind the Brothel Doors in the 1900s

adapted from “Ah Ku and Karayuki-San: Prostitution in Singapore, 1870-1940″ by James Francis Warren

It was the year 1897. The surge of brothels springing up along Smith Street and Malay Street marked the area where ah kus and karayuki-sans gathered, where there were whispers by men of the beautiful ladies that sat in those rows of houses, staring at them with a hint of an invite to enter, beckoning them to temptation, to a temporary house of wonder.

“My name is Lee Mei Nyan, and I am 19 years old this year. I reside in a brothel along Hong Kong Street – 37 Hong Kong Street, to be exact. My mamasan (mother, I call her), whose name was Teng Ah Hee, is a 59-year old Cantonese woman who owned the brothel and took care of my sisters and I. Our clients and suppliers address her as kwai po, which translates into ‘keeper’. “

Kwai pos, known affectionately among prostitutes as mamasans, were often brothel-owners. Older women, often married to traffickers or local gang leaders, will have the brothel legally registered under her name, while her husband ran a day-business which can be of any form – tailor, restaurant, trading, supplies – but mainly supported by the brothel’s earnings once dusk has settled.

“I barely remembered the life that existed before I stepped into 37 Hong Kong Street. I recalled being hungry, lost, and being in a huge debt. I owed $327 to a man who smuggled me on board his ship which sailed from Hunan to Singapore, but there was no job awaiting me at the shores of the island. Desperate to be rid of this burden, I approached Teng Ah Hee, who promptly settled my debt with him, fed me, clothed me and sent me up to bed. Work began the moment I woke up, till I tell my story today.”

Treatment of ah-kus and karayuki-sans by the keepers did not appear to be as harsh, although it was in their interest to extract the maximum profit from their “daughter” during her working lease. In the lower-class brothels, stories of long hours, bad food, inadequate health-facilities, and the punishment suffered drove some ladies to suicide, death from tuberculosis, extended depression and mauled memories of their youth. It was often the case of ah-kus, who were bound to their brothel house and limited to interaction with men of similar race (in this case, the Chinese). The karayuki-sans, often the Japanese prostitutes, were allowed to go out freely, and solicit their own clients if they receive an invitation. Karayuki-sans were in men’s eyes, the exotic beauties, the upper-class, and an expensive getaway they could ill afford.

“I was fortunate to be blessed with a slim figure, porcelain-like skin and large doe eyes, rendering myself a favourite among certain clients. Freedom did not exist in my life. I spent the day in the brothel, keeping the rooms and stairwells spick and span, proceeding to prepare myself for the evening at about three in the afternoon. My mother’s traditional recipe of using powder ground from raw rice to cleanse myself gave me a youthful glow. Mamasan has picked my dress for the evening – it is this sheer blouse embroided with intricate flowers, billowing around my waist. My hair is up in a coiffure. The dinner bell rings and I drink a bowl of soup, determined to keep my waist trim for the rest of the evening. And I sit, like a doll, staring out through the open door, smiling at men who eyed me greedily, lustfully, while they mentally calculate whether they could afford me.”

Rivalries and jealousy were an inevitable part of an ah ku’s life. In general, if a male customer was seen to be rough with an ah ku, the ‘sisters’ will stand by one another. The kwai po had the authority to firmly usher the man out of the brothel. But if one were to stand up against her ‘sister’, she found that she was often alone.

“On good days, we went shopping – accompanied by our tai pang po (chaperone, guardian-servant) of course. Mamasan will never allow us out of her brothel house unaccompanied. We had beautiful in-house rickshaws to ferry us to a nearby opera should a client wish for our company, but even so…we were always under the watchful eye of tai tang po, in case we ever run away to become concubines.

Life was not a bed of roses, beautiful lingerie and social parties – like some people thought it would be. I watched Tan Lee Hua gave birth twice – she lost her curves, her breasts sagged, and she brought her daughter into prostitution as soon as the young girl turned 10. It was all for income, she said tearfully, I could almost see her heart breaking as she heard her daughter’s anguished screams on the night of her first customer.

And what was left for a woman when wrinkles, various bodily complaints and grey hair begin to take over? I dread the day I encounter these, for I have no skills to warrant me of a proper job out there, my family is too ashamed to take me back, and I do not know if I can control my spending after having gotten used to all these luxurious beauty items and silk fabrics. Will I waste away behind the alleys, or will I end up working as a servant in the brothel I used to hail glory in? Will I eventually become someone’s concubine, or will I succumb to poor nutrition once my value closes in to zero? Will I have chosen to end my life when men do not lay their eyes on me, or will I cast aside my pride and run the hawkers down these streets?”

Brothel districts major cities like Singapore were sanctioned by the colonial governments to cater to the sexual needs of migrant bachelor labourers. Prostitution in Singapore was directly linked to the economic and social problems faced by families in rural China and Japan, where patriarchy undervalued a female born into the family. A female child was seen to be of little value in over-populated regions, and they would often be forced to migrate or sold by their parents into prostitution. Females, or ah kus, found their worth in prostitution – mainly to assist in much-needed financial support for their parents or kin. Their stories continue in the depths of Singapore’s red-light district Geylang today, merely different people but in the same situation.

Written for yesterday.sg

Like a grounded bird, looking up at the sky (3)

I began this draft on 12 June not knowing what to write, only experiencing a feeling of helplessness and a level of stress that I have never encountered before. I entered a world of disaray, muttering sentences at bullet-train speed such that no one understands what I’m talking about, no sentences seem to string nicely when I write.

When I hopped onto the ellyptical machine and the exercise bike yesterday, I thought to myself: 6 more weeks before I return again. When I showered this evening, I thought again: Will my shower time still be 15 minutes flat, or will I take an hour now? Last weekend I went out to the sea, and I thought: 3 months of no gliding on water. 3 months of no sun and sea. This evening, as I swam, I kicked my legs, free like a dolphin. Each night before I drift off to slumber, every step I climbed to my apartment on the fourth storey, each stride I take to work…I thought: Goodbye mobility, till I wake you up again.

Dealing with a family member who is in denial and constantly wishes for me to do without operation makes it a more stressful journey for me. I was appalled at the work I submitted, I was plain stuck at writing where I usually had a stronger foothold in. I wondered at length how to give her the emotional support she needed all these while, when I needed every ounce of it for myself. I wondered many things – too many.

35 hours. So begins my 6-month marathon to my active self, to climb above those who have belittled me, to build a stronger character within me.

In the digital realm

In our digitalised world, time never stops, reality goes unchecked, and we evolve as each second ticks by.

In the world of bytes, we become a persona – duly written by our own keyboard strokes, envisioned through our idealised minds, and enacted by the puppet-master in us. We become our own authors, we dream the impossible that we can achieve, we pen a world that revolves around us. In this world of bytes, all is good, the drama swells to a emotional high, but ends on a happy note. Just like how the princess meets her Prince Charming. Perhaps not – we may choose to end it in death, in loneliness, in a empty desolate shell. We think we might have had ventured into that state of emptiness and loneliness, but in reality – we live in quiet assurance that the worst will not cross paths with us.

In this timeless realm where the unreal trespasses the real, we blur the lines between our true Selves and the Other we present. Behind a facade of HTML codes, scripts, data and visionary creation – the Jester emerges, the Frog hides behind its lotus leaf. The dancing Tinkerbell flitters next to the one she secretly yearns; she teases, she giggles, she chatters, she is his dream come true. Behind the velvet curtain the Temptress lounges in seductive red, her eyes burning into her Lover, he gazes, he buckles, he moves with an agility of a leopard and they two melt into one. In this timeless realm, imagination knows no boundaries, and we move into a dance of decadence fueled by our desires and wanderlusts.

Through the vines of cable wires, satellite transmissions and an invisible cloak I wear – I write my piece, and my invitation to you to enter my woven pieces still stands every night. Will you, do you – trade your Self for your Other, to lose yourself in the freedom of your imagintion, thoughts and recklessness – for a story, spun out from keyboard strokes, backspaces and unbridled exchanges? Will you sit on the Aladdin’s carpet of fantasy that only your mind can steer; the magic carpet is your carriage, your pumpkin as you deem fit; it falls when you snap back; it flies in rhythm to your pulse.

And I write fervently, catching up with your thoughts on fire, your winged shoes soaring higher. I lose mySelf and it is the price I willingly pay, provided you shed your Self and let the Other take my hand;

…In this digital realm we write; lost in the real world divide.

My Affair with the Rickshaw Man

…written for yesterday.sg

“Lee Jin Xiang was his name, and I liked to call him Jin-ge, for short. They say its an affectionate nickname, but it was really an easier name to shout amidst the roaring din of chatter and aggressive bargaining as we raced through the streets of Chinatown at night. We were young, and bold, and together Jin-ge and I will explore the streets of Singapore, sneak into open-air movies…all the while with me seated by his side, him pulling the rickshaw like I was a bird’s feather.

Jin-ge’s physique was a tell-tale sign of his reputation, his chiselled face, his lean torso, his drenched tee-shirt. He doesn’t really like hanging the towel around his neck – for vanity’s sake – but he knew it would serve its purpose.

I would often find Jin-ge at the Jinrikisha (the original name for “rickshaw”) Station, right at the junction of Neil Road and Tanjong Pagar Road. He pulled a rickshaw, and you could tell it was hard work. He works from 7 in the morning till 7 in the evening, seizing opportunities to ferry those towkays to work, getting beautiful ladies to the markets and back, and finally we would see each other for dinner in the evenings.

He told me once, over a bowl of bak kut teh, that he spent his entire 15 years’ savings on his rickshaw, which cost him $25. That sum of money was what he could earn in a year, I thought. Jin-ge was 23 years old when we started dating. We planned for marriage, three children, and I could hopefully open a dessert stall I could call my own.

Jin-ge’s father was one of the first opportunists to purchase a rickshaw, back in 1880. Jin-ge bought his own rickshaw when he turned 16, back in 1935. He said his rickshaw came from Japan, and he fondly recalled the days he ferried lovely-smelling cheongsam clad ladies my age, and how the regulars used to call him, “Xiang”. How could I not feel a tinge of jealousy when I heard that? I resolved to be the only one to call him Jin-ge, while everybody else knew him by Xiang.

The war came and went, and the rickshaws disappeared one by one. I remember that year in 1947, I turned 22. I remembered walking to the Jinrikisha Station, but for the first evening, Jin-ge wasn’t there. I recalled the days I went back to wait, with home-made desserts I had packed in a paperbag dangling from my hand, but Jin-ge still wasn’t there. He had disappeared along with the rickshaws, and that closed the chapter on my affair with a rickshaw man.”

The Smile on Her Face

The first thing I noticed was her hunch protruding from the back of her shoulders. Her wrinkled hands which have seen through the height of her youth reached forward to clear those plates left by the previous diners. Hands trembling, spilling sauces along the way, she cleared the messy leftovers they so hastily left behind. I watched each movement, slow but steady, her intention clear and decisive, following the motions she repeats table after table, day after day. I thanked her, again and again…and her wrinkled lips curled into an appreciative smile, her eyes lit up. My heart warmed towards this old woman who made Sunday dinner a better meal for me.

Her smile lingered as she settled into her routine at a table not far off, those hands that cleaned after us as we stream into the food court, and leave our plates uncleared. We no longer clean up after ourselves, we even forget to stack the plates to make things a little easier for the silent hardworking cleaners. Neither do some of us nod an appreciate thank-you in their direction.

It was only proper that the younger ones cleared the table while the older folks sit back and rest after a hard day’s worth of cooking. Tables have turned – why do the old ones clean up after us? Why do those people who have moulded our society as it is today have to stand hours at their jobs? Why is it that the seventy-somethings are the ones hobbling around while the seventeen-somethings laze around at cafes? Why is it that those hands that made our lives so comfortable today are not entitled to a pampering hand massage, but have to pick at our leftovers and throw them into a bin on our behalf?

We whiz by so quickly, so caught up in the race towards success, so intent on reaching the next million mark. We forget the hands that carried us from the cradle, we forget the smile on her face.

Love, Not Again.

I quote from my friend’s fiance, who departed this world at a tender age of 29. He was wise; he was patient to share. “A man must love his woman more than she loves him. Only this will the relationship between them achieve equilibrium.”

When a man loves, he does not question the rationality nor the other matters in the relationship. Love is a feeling, the rest are problems or cases that have solutions to them. Empathy and understanding of a woman’s character is generally lacking in the male species; it is not within their capacity to spend time understanding and deciphering a woman’s heart. Love that men feel, overwrites mistakes that their other halves commit – it takes an apology, a sincere make-up and an assurance that she will not repeat it within her conscience means.

When a woman loves, she seeks to understand and decipher her man’s character, temper and quirky habits. It is of women’s nature to be in touch with feelings and emotions, dwell upon them and seek to understand dissonance. Women share their thoughts and emotions with like-minded individuals, and gain further insight into their interpretation of their men’s behavior. When a woman understands, she forgives her partner’s mistakes more readily.

When a woman loves a man more than he loves her – this upsets the equilibrium. Women in love are the most complicated creatures – if I dare say. Women think, ponder, scuttle among different explanations in their minds, fly into panic, worry and pain ever so fleetingly yet leaving a trail of the aftermath of their eratic thoughts. Men – not having the capacity to understand – seek to redress the problem through their typical male “solve it now, heed not their feelings” method. The lack of enough love for their women requires constand need to redress problems and dissonance in his life – which he has no capacity to deal with, in a Mar’s society.

That being said, it is a generalised sentence, but it made sense after all. Just like how Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus (yes, a book advocates that), the biological and psychological construct between both genders are as alike as black and white. Hundreds of books have been written to help men understand women, and vice versa. Each book seeks to glorify the gender they are in support of, and seeks to have their readers understand their chosen topics. (ie. have male readers understand females etc)

I say – believe in yourselves, remember why you two got together in the first place. Make communication the first priority in your life. That’s your golden key to a relationship. And by that, I do not guarantee marriage as an end, but it made me feel the power of love, sacrifice, talking and listening.

Unspoken words

We speak a thousand words a week, but our bodies spell a million more a day.

A raised eyebrow, the slightest twitch of the lips, wrinkling of noses, fingers tapping, teeth grinding. A shift of my body – towards, away from – arch of my back, a wink. Too many.

.

A lack of smile. A peck on the lips. Your hands do not meet mine when I rest them on your knee.
My heart hurts, my smile remains frozen…you do not see.

.

A genuine grin. Smile lines crinkle. Your eyes followed my smile to you. We part our ways.
My lips remain curled..upwards. I pause, mid-step..and continued my gait, knowing we’ll meet again.

.

Words from a poet are like the dance of my fingers on your back.
Peace flows through me to you, connected by arms enveloping your fragile soul.
We lie side by side, not touching, just breathing. Yet you sleep deep tonight.
Much unspoken, but felt through the silence of the night.

When the doors close, the lights turn off…

The evil (short-tongued) Pharoh

…Life begins after dusk in the museums.

Not in our dear museums, although I wish I will see our trishaw and samsui women come to live, but at Night at the Museum 2, starring Ben Stiller and a whole lot of other characters this round.

Tonight’s premiere was a good one. The sequel to the first movie, Night at the Museum, takes on greater heights with more characters, more artefacts, more history icons, and producers have jacked the humour a level higher. Ben Stiller returns as Larry Daley, successful businessman in suit and all…only to rejoin the excitement of a former museum night-guard in an attempt to bring his exhibit friends back to their original homes when they were shipped off to thelabyrinthine subbasements of the Smithsonian in Washington DC.

More funny are new characters like Hank Azaria as a evil lisping Pharoh (complete with a cheesy accent!) and spunky Amy Adams playing as Amelia Earhart who’s ready for a whiff of adventure. It is a superb play of humour in conversations between the evil Pharoh and Larry; comic duo miniature cowboy Jedediah and miniature Roman General Octavius…and other brief but memorable scenes of Al Capone, Ivan the Terrible (he insisted on being called Ivan the Awesome), Abe Lincoln, Napoleon and a giant octopus deprived of water.

Gotta love the mock battle scenes and exaggerated dramatic flair, combined with a touch of cheesiness with Cupid angels groovin’ to pop music of today.

This movie isn’t about Ben Stiller anymore – I think it takes on a new level with a proper scene for every character/artefact/exhibit within the museum – everybody plays an equal (although albeit quirky) role.

Recommended: Watch it for a gooooood laugh.

Like a grounded bird, looking up at the sky (2)

I am always thankful for the people who have supported my decision to go through surgery, grateful to those who offered their company, their valet services, their words of encouragement and their personal experiences. I recall how convenient it was for someone to shed all responsibilities through this supposed difficult time of my life, but I look at the dear ones around me and I thank God for all of you.

This week marked my first consultation with the surgeon and my last physio session (before operation) with the therapist. My diagnosis looked a little more positive than the last time – I have achieved nearly full range of knee movement and am ready for surgery anytime – it is up to me now. What will be done on me will be a straightforward single/double ACL graft from my hamstring…it seemed pretty simple enough as the surgeon sat me through a technical breakdown of what will happen during surgery.

Funny how they give you assuring results, they tell you the more optimistic outcome of what you’ll expect of post-surgery. Funny how they do not mention the excruciating pain that hits you when the morphine wears off, funny how they never told you how frustrating it would be to be to depend on crutches. But of course, that’s a doctor’s job – to answer and banish away these fears of mine so that I go in without a single worry.

I’m finally allowed to run on the treadmill today.

Putting in work at the gym almost everyday became a habit, and a mentally desperate race to lose as much as possible (to allow room to grow during my stagnant days), to build up as much leg muscles as possible (because I’m gonna lose them all again). They are right when they say, “Focus on improving – you’ll feel better this way.” The wakeboarders who have shared their personal experience with me reminded me that rehab is gonna be a tough one, and I mentally prepare myself everyday for the uphill road ahead.

It is a bittersweet feeling when the physiotherapist pronounced me ready for quads strengthening, running…everything that doesn’t require me to pivot. That little step suddenly seemed like an achievement, a sign that all the gym work is paying off.

Time has broken down into weeks for me. Week 1 to the big O. Week 2 to the big O…week 1 after O, 3 months after O, 6 months and I see the sea again.

Of course, there’s the damn diet – I’m admitting in the open that I am concerned about losing shape, not fitting into my skinnies and growing flabby. Oh the scares! But well – if you do visit, just prepare salads…they’ll be greatly appreciated