All About Love
By the Law of Attraction
One of the many podcasts I subscribe to recently revealed a surprising update. By the Law of Attraction, the podcaster had attracted a woman into his life, fallen in love with her, married her, had a child together, all archived in the last two years of podcasting. And now they're going through a divorce. Does that invalidate the law of attraction itself? Was my faith in the law shaken at the core? Not at all, and with more pontificating, it has reaffirmed my belief even further.
How we experience whatever it is that we have attracted into our lives is solely dependent on ourselves: once we've ordered the soup of the day, it's up to us to enjoy it, or not. The Law does not guarantee ever-lasting love, not even promise anything more than what we actively wish for. I learnt it the fun way.
One stormy evening stuck in a hotel in Taipei with typhoon number 17 (even typhoon signals are inflated and exaggerated over there), I had already exhausted options at the tiny hotel spa, and tried to find amusement online. Crouched in the corner surfing generously unsecured wireless signal, I started chatting to an Austrian based in Shanghai. He was charming enough, albeit laden with spelling mistakes, and we flirted pleasantly for some time. He grew ardent and impatient with the fact that I was not due back in Shanghai for another few weeks, and so proposed coming to Hong Kong to meet me the following weekend. He had begun with a flimsy idea of hitching the next flight out to Taipei from Shanghai, but even if I welcomed him with open arms, it was quite evident from the forecast that Taipei airport would not.
So we toyed with the idea of his impending visit. Where would he stay? Oh, the W just opened recently. Yes, and their spa should be ready soon too, said the spa junkie in me.
There's something about the awkward timing of treatments for couples at the spa that is so delicious and tantalising. Lying bare-skinned on massage tables, aware that your partner is relaxing to the therapist's warm, assuring touch, skin tingling, because you're experiencing the same yourself; sharing a vanilla bath in a design-savvy jacuzzi intended exactly for 1.5 which allows only room enough for one body on top of the other, for that (in)delicate duration of just thirty minutes, which they announce upon exit as if to challenge any aspirations of lewd conduct; leaving you alone again to rinse off with enough nozzles and shower heads for all kinds of dirty, but once again while the clock is ticking. Some rooms even have peekaboo panels on the unlockable doors.
I didn't relate quite as much wanton detail to Mr. Vienna, but in putting the possibility of a spa tryst to him, I began casting my desires for licentious aquatic fun to the Universe. Images of the W interior and other lascivious thoughts lolled in my head for the rest of the week, even after I had swiftly forgotten about the cyber conversation and the man himself.
Instead of romancing an Austrian the following Friday night back in Hong Kong, I was heading home with an inkling of a long night out ahead of me. A girlfriend got online to see whether I was out and about, a tad tired of the thus far inane evening she herself was having. Was I up for drinks? Sure, not usually my thing to come home after dinner and head out again, but tonight, I'm game. Where should we go? The cocktails at W are potent, shall we meet there? Bingo.
I felt charged by the 'coincidence' — a fallacy in my book — and put on a dress that I had not dared to wear since its purchase, along with new Blahniks. New shoes somehow always bring me luck, maybe that's why I can't stop buying them.
We had a fantastic girl-time at the bar at W. After four rounds of serious mixology and witnessing two individual guests consorting intimately then ascend together in the same elevator (I ran after them to check, like some giddy schoolgirl), we were inspired to continue our own Friday night.
By the time we were queuing for entry at the club, we were so giggly we didn't care about waiting, and were offered more shots besides. Once inside, it was evident that the Universe as well was having fun that night. The club was packed with men, dripping with testosterone. We were still picking our jaws off the floor when my girlfriend was promptly cornered by a somewhat acrobatic dancer. I strayed from her and meandered through the throng. I was appreciating the plethora of candy around me when I felt a gentle hand resting at my hip. It lingered, and before I had time to react, came the delectable brushing of the upper arm with the back of his index finger, followed by the confident stubble nuzzle at the nape of my neck. Brazen, sensuous and typically French: touch first, talk later.
Waz yawr name, sexee? I'm Jean-Charles. Of course you are, darling. More salacious moves and lychee martinis served with prurient banter in French later, JC went for the kill: I really want to take a bath with you. Jackpot.
A bouncer gave me two thumbs up as Frenchie led me out of the club, the same one that ushered me in just twenty minutes earlier. I couldn't help winking at the sky before snuggling into a cab with the boy. I had projected the W and some scrub-tub fun, and that was exactly what fell on my plate that evening. Immaterial that the players were unexpected, irrelevant that the screenplay was spontaneous and subtitled. I attracted, then I engaged. I could've stayed in. I could've declined to meet his bath tub.
But I didn't. And what an amazing tub it was.
How has the Law of Attraction worked for you?
How we experience whatever it is that we have attracted into our lives is solely dependent on ourselves: once we've ordered the soup of the day, it's up to us to enjoy it, or not. The Law does not guarantee ever-lasting love, not even promise anything more than what we actively wish for. I learnt it the fun way.
One stormy evening stuck in a hotel in Taipei with typhoon number 17 (even typhoon signals are inflated and exaggerated over there), I had already exhausted options at the tiny hotel spa, and tried to find amusement online. Crouched in the corner surfing generously unsecured wireless signal, I started chatting to an Austrian based in Shanghai. He was charming enough, albeit laden with spelling mistakes, and we flirted pleasantly for some time. He grew ardent and impatient with the fact that I was not due back in Shanghai for another few weeks, and so proposed coming to Hong Kong to meet me the following weekend. He had begun with a flimsy idea of hitching the next flight out to Taipei from Shanghai, but even if I welcomed him with open arms, it was quite evident from the forecast that Taipei airport would not.
So we toyed with the idea of his impending visit. Where would he stay? Oh, the W just opened recently. Yes, and their spa should be ready soon too, said the spa junkie in me.
There's something about the awkward timing of treatments for couples at the spa that is so delicious and tantalising. Lying bare-skinned on massage tables, aware that your partner is relaxing to the therapist's warm, assuring touch, skin tingling, because you're experiencing the same yourself; sharing a vanilla bath in a design-savvy jacuzzi intended exactly for 1.5 which allows only room enough for one body on top of the other, for that (in)delicate duration of just thirty minutes, which they announce upon exit as if to challenge any aspirations of lewd conduct; leaving you alone again to rinse off with enough nozzles and shower heads for all kinds of dirty, but once again while the clock is ticking. Some rooms even have peekaboo panels on the unlockable doors.
I didn't relate quite as much wanton detail to Mr. Vienna, but in putting the possibility of a spa tryst to him, I began casting my desires for licentious aquatic fun to the Universe. Images of the W interior and other lascivious thoughts lolled in my head for the rest of the week, even after I had swiftly forgotten about the cyber conversation and the man himself.
Instead of romancing an Austrian the following Friday night back in Hong Kong, I was heading home with an inkling of a long night out ahead of me. A girlfriend got online to see whether I was out and about, a tad tired of the thus far inane evening she herself was having. Was I up for drinks? Sure, not usually my thing to come home after dinner and head out again, but tonight, I'm game. Where should we go? The cocktails at W are potent, shall we meet there? Bingo.
I felt charged by the 'coincidence' — a fallacy in my book — and put on a dress that I had not dared to wear since its purchase, along with new Blahniks. New shoes somehow always bring me luck, maybe that's why I can't stop buying them.
We had a fantastic girl-time at the bar at W. After four rounds of serious mixology and witnessing two individual guests consorting intimately then ascend together in the same elevator (I ran after them to check, like some giddy schoolgirl), we were inspired to continue our own Friday night.
By the time we were queuing for entry at the club, we were so giggly we didn't care about waiting, and were offered more shots besides. Once inside, it was evident that the Universe as well was having fun that night. The club was packed with men, dripping with testosterone. We were still picking our jaws off the floor when my girlfriend was promptly cornered by a somewhat acrobatic dancer. I strayed from her and meandered through the throng. I was appreciating the plethora of candy around me when I felt a gentle hand resting at my hip. It lingered, and before I had time to react, came the delectable brushing of the upper arm with the back of his index finger, followed by the confident stubble nuzzle at the nape of my neck. Brazen, sensuous and typically French: touch first, talk later.
Waz yawr name, sexee? I'm Jean-Charles. Of course you are, darling. More salacious moves and lychee martinis served with prurient banter in French later, JC went for the kill: I really want to take a bath with you. Jackpot.
A bouncer gave me two thumbs up as Frenchie led me out of the club, the same one that ushered me in just twenty minutes earlier. I couldn't help winking at the sky before snuggling into a cab with the boy. I had projected the W and some scrub-tub fun, and that was exactly what fell on my plate that evening. Immaterial that the players were unexpected, irrelevant that the screenplay was spontaneous and subtitled. I attracted, then I engaged. I could've stayed in. I could've declined to meet his bath tub.
But I didn't. And what an amazing tub it was.
How has the Law of Attraction worked for you?
The (Written) Word
After the discovery of two tumours in the left hemisphere of my brain — frontal lobe: 0.7 cm and temporal lobe: 1.3 cm — and a sprinkling (6) of teeny weeny ones on the right this past week, I've been contemplating dysphasia.
Defect in the expression and comprehension of words, caused by damage to the frontal and temporal lobes of the brain. It can result from head trauma, tumour, stroke, or infection. Symptoms vary with the brain area involved, and the ability to put words in a meaningful order may be lost. Speech therapy may be useful. In some cases, improvement may be due to assumption of some language functions by other areas of the brain.
Despite my brother 'consoling' me that dysphasia would be the least of my concerns should these tumours be allowed to develop, stroke and paralysis being undoubtedly the more devastating scenarios, I just cannot help wondering how can life be, how can it possibly exist, if the ability to communicate, to express myself were stripped from me. What are the readers of this blog going to do? What a waste of my voice? How will I convey sarcasm?
I sought the opinion of the most articulate person I know, Chris, a good friend in New York, one of my favourite writers ever, and a fellow lover of language, irony and absurdity.
The written word is a powerful outlet for me indeed. It has certainly served its purpose of keeping me sane in the last few months. If I may borrow and share some inspiring ones from friends and readers of this blog, comments, quotations and words from which I have particularly drawn strength:
'Rage, rage against the dying of the light.' - Dylan Thomas
'Today the present.
This very day right here and now.
Today is yesterday returned.
The day before tomorrow.
Nowadays.
This day a day that is here.
Between the past and the future.
The rising and the setting of the sun.' - Fiona Banner, Today, Portrait of a Word
Fall in love with someone who deserves your heart, and not someone who plays with it.
Buddha's widchualldeway!
You have got to do well and keep writing and broadcast this stuff to people around the net.
I'm hoping to develop a super power from undergoing CyberKnife. If not turning invisible, or transforming energy fields by manipulating excessive radiation, then maybe a bit of supertronic linguistica would be handy, enhance the spoken word, while we're at it. Russian could be hot while I'm zapping traffic lights. Would life stop being ironic with super powers?
What super powers would you want?
PS. fuck those fuckers.
Defect in the expression and comprehension of words, caused by damage to the frontal and temporal lobes of the brain. It can result from head trauma, tumour, stroke, or infection. Symptoms vary with the brain area involved, and the ability to put words in a meaningful order may be lost. Speech therapy may be useful. In some cases, improvement may be due to assumption of some language functions by other areas of the brain.
Despite my brother 'consoling' me that dysphasia would be the least of my concerns should these tumours be allowed to develop, stroke and paralysis being undoubtedly the more devastating scenarios, I just cannot help wondering how can life be, how can it possibly exist, if the ability to communicate, to express myself were stripped from me. What are the readers of this blog going to do? What a waste of my voice? How will I convey sarcasm?
I sought the opinion of the most articulate person I know, Chris, a good friend in New York, one of my favourite writers ever, and a fellow lover of language, irony and absurdity.
| Me: | Have you ever thought what you would do if you weren't able to write? As in cerebrally? |
| Chris: | Does that mean you're having trouble? Like cerebrally? |
| Me: | I have about 8 tumours in my brain, Chris. |
| Chris: | Oh... Rae, it's hard to imagine: you're one of the most articulate people I've met. |
| Me: | This is the procedure I'm starting tomorrow. |
| Chris: | 'CyberKnife'?? |
| Me: | Yeah, B-grade thriller fiction name, I concur. |
| Chris: | And it looks like Wall-E. You're being saved by Wall-E. |
| Me: | Wall-E has no language/speech cognisance. |
The written word is a powerful outlet for me indeed. It has certainly served its purpose of keeping me sane in the last few months. If I may borrow and share some inspiring ones from friends and readers of this blog, comments, quotations and words from which I have particularly drawn strength:
'Rage, rage against the dying of the light.' - Dylan Thomas
'Today the present.
This very day right here and now.
Today is yesterday returned.
The day before tomorrow.
Nowadays.
This day a day that is here.
Between the past and the future.
The rising and the setting of the sun.' - Fiona Banner, Today, Portrait of a Word
Fall in love with someone who deserves your heart, and not someone who plays with it.
Buddha's widchualldeway!
You have got to do well and keep writing and broadcast this stuff to people around the net.
I'm hoping to develop a super power from undergoing CyberKnife. If not turning invisible, or transforming energy fields by manipulating excessive radiation, then maybe a bit of supertronic linguistica would be handy, enhance the spoken word, while we're at it. Russian could be hot while I'm zapping traffic lights. Would life stop being ironic with super powers?
What super powers would you want?
PS. fuck those fuckers.
The Power of Snail Mail
Just as I was marveling at the power of personal (postal) mail and pondering how to express my awe and wonder, I receive a parcel in the mail. I so dig it when the Universe listens to me!
In this modern age of electronic communication, of 3G, 3D, digital telephony, when legal papers may be arranged via Facebook, when a man is able to divorce his wife via SMS, when phone texting is already considered more personal than email, nothing quite beats the good old-fashioned, handwritten correspondence and packages by post.
Today, I received a thoughtful package from Delaware, USA, containing a 2-page hand-printed note that was caring and attentive, accompanied by a customised DVD of favourite films and personal playlists. Last week, it was Darrell Lea rocky road, and caramel fudge from a highschool friend in Sydney (a most well-intended surprise before I could post scribe to my previous entry that I now limit my sugar intake ) which I eagerly shared with friends. Just when I arrived in HK, this odd-eyed striped frog from Buones Aires showed up in a 'tough bag' courtesy of the Australia post. All penned notes enclosed, dispatched with love.
Over the last 1.5 years, I have received packages from afar, large and small, music compilations (direct from Warner Music HQ no less), books, lingerie (whether that works for other cancer patients, I can't say), more frogs and just enough greeting cards and letters that still leave me ecstatic with joy — literally clapping hands — every time I am the happy recipient of snail mail. The sheer surprise, the pure exhilaration from just knowing the time, effort and thought committed to the process of making it all a reality never ceases to elate me.
US First Class Mail International for postcards: US $0.94
Care package of handwritten note and/or chocolates/CD/DVD/hand lotion/book: under US $20
Intention, love, energy investment from initial idea to eventual delivery: P.R.I.C.E.L.E.S.S.
And I give as good as I get.
Some of you know I've always LOVED writing letters, even 'aerogrammes' way back when. From pen-pals in France to cousins in UK boarding schools as a teenager, and now addressing discrete PO boxes to entrusting Her Majesty's diplomatic bag to Sri Lanka, I've just never stopped writing. More to the point, I adore the sight of my own hand-writing: If I look good in print, I'm the bomb in long hand, especially love letters. Yes, the long distance kind, you know what I mean.
Through Chemo Angels, I also write at least once a week to a patient undergoing chemotherapy. Despite my increasing abhorrence for the treatment, I have only respect and empathy for those who are experiencing the effects of this toxic therapy, on top of the challenges brought on by cancer itself. With these, and once in a while, these (attitude attached), I write to my brave patients not with the expectation of a response, only the hope that my supportive messages bring a smile. Or a few.
While in Shanghai, I've especially enjoyed sending Chinese New Year greeting cards, partly because Christmas cards were never available until quite recently, but also because any one of the twelve animals for the year, in sheet metal stencil or paper cut renditions rank much higher in curio factor over the stocking, snow or Santa.
From the literal love I received today:
Be peace, be health, be the Rae of Light.
So, want to exchange mailing addresses?
In this modern age of electronic communication, of 3G, 3D, digital telephony, when legal papers may be arranged via Facebook, when a man is able to divorce his wife via SMS, when phone texting is already considered more personal than email, nothing quite beats the good old-fashioned, handwritten correspondence and packages by post.
Today, I received a thoughtful package from Delaware, USA, containing a 2-page hand-printed note that was caring and attentive, accompanied by a customised DVD of favourite films and personal playlists. Last week, it was Darrell Lea rocky road, and caramel fudge from a highschool friend in Sydney (a most well-intended surprise before I could post scribe to my previous entry that I now limit my sugar intake ) which I eagerly shared with friends. Just when I arrived in HK, this odd-eyed striped frog from Buones Aires showed up in a 'tough bag' courtesy of the Australia post. All penned notes enclosed, dispatched with love.
US First Class Mail International for postcards: US $0.94
Care package of handwritten note and/or chocolates/CD/DVD/hand lotion/book: under US $20
Intention, love, energy investment from initial idea to eventual delivery: P.R.I.C.E.L.E.S.S.
And I give as good as I get.
Some of you know I've always LOVED writing letters, even 'aerogrammes' way back when. From pen-pals in France to cousins in UK boarding schools as a teenager, and now addressing discrete PO boxes to entrusting Her Majesty's diplomatic bag to Sri Lanka, I've just never stopped writing. More to the point, I adore the sight of my own hand-writing: If I look good in print, I'm the bomb in long hand, especially love letters. Yes, the long distance kind, you know what I mean.
Through Chemo Angels, I also write at least once a week to a patient undergoing chemotherapy. Despite my increasing abhorrence for the treatment, I have only respect and empathy for those who are experiencing the effects of this toxic therapy, on top of the challenges brought on by cancer itself. With these, and once in a while, these (attitude attached), I write to my brave patients not with the expectation of a response, only the hope that my supportive messages bring a smile. Or a few.
While in Shanghai, I've especially enjoyed sending Chinese New Year greeting cards, partly because Christmas cards were never available until quite recently, but also because any one of the twelve animals for the year, in sheet metal stencil or paper cut renditions rank much higher in curio factor over the stocking, snow or Santa.
From the literal love I received today:
Be peace, be health, be the Rae of Light.
So, want to exchange mailing addresses?
All About LOVE
February 15, 2009
All About Love
All About Love
This Valentine's Day, I shared my love, and nearly all my worldly belongings with friends. Sugar-coated, maximum calorie sweetness. L.O.V.E.S. I.T.
WARNING: Xplicit
Any Given Shanghai Sunday
| 0821 | X texts Y | OMG. Just woke up. Fully dressed. Make up still on. |
| 0900 | Y texts X | haha. great night! where you went? |
| 0910 | X calls Y | Hey! You up already... What time did they leave? ... Oh OK. What happened to Z?... Oh she did?! ...Yeah, I thought about heading out with you guys, but I saw my booty on the dance floor. So I came home first instead, waiting for him. But I was so drunk I passed out in my dress, didn’t even wash my face! How lame was that? |
| Y: | Too funny! Did he show? | |
| X: | No! Thank god he didn't too! *laughs* | |
| 0927 | X rings off with Y. Rolls around in bed some more. | |
| 0957 | X texts Mr.Booty | Passed out waiting for you! |
| 1003 | X texts Z | Tripping down some hall of shame yet? |
| 1007 | Z calls X | OMG. I just left this guy's apartment. I swear, he was all over me! |
| X: | What?!? Are you OK? Are you high? What guy?! | |
| Z: | We were hanging out at the bar together, and he asked me back to his place. Then he had motor mouth for hours and wouldn't keep his hands off me. I just couldn't deal with the yakking and groping, so I slapped him and just ran out. | |
| X: | HA! Are you alright? Wanna come over? | |
| Z: | Oooh! Are we having slumber party? Sweet! I'll come by! | |
| 1052 | Z arrives at X's | Your neighbors were so checking me out! |
| X: | No shit, you're practically naked. I forgot that's what you were wearing last night. | |
| X&Z settles into X's bed | So tell me what happened. Who is this guy? | |
| Z: | Some pathetic ass. I just wanted to chill. He was high and harmless, but just wouldn't leave me alone. He went on and on about how much he liked me, and just wouldn't stop touching. He just got so annoying. So I whacked him one on his face. | |
| X: | laughs hard. You slapped him! That's hot. Did he dig it?? Was he salivating even more? | |
| Z: | Shut up, you freak! What happened to you last night? | |
| X: | So, I saw what's his name at the club and asked him what his options were. It was his friend's birthday, so he said he'd join me later, so I came home first. Then I fell asleep! In my dress! And makeup! Lame, right? | |
| Z: | So he didn't come? I mean, he wasn't here then? ...What happened at Y's? Are they up yet? | |
| 1126 | X texts Y: | Z unleashed her inner goddess on some dude. You guys eaten yet? |
| 1128 | Y calls X. X passes to Z. Y: | She got aggressive, didn't she? |
| Z: | What? Yeah, I'm in her bed... Oh I'm cool, he was annoying me. So I slapped and skipped. I'm starving, have you guys eaten yet? Can you send over some KFC, please? OMG X just poked my face with her big toe. Gross. Get off me! | |
| X grabs phone from Z: | You guys planning on eating later? Is anyone else awake? OOOWWW!!! She just gripped my thighs with her feet. Fuck, that hurt. Girl, is that part of your routine? | |
| X drops phone. Then starts waging war at Z's face and hair with her raised left foot. They try to foot wrestle, but give up in exhaustion from laughing and screaming. SMS alert on X's phone. | ||
| 1153 | X: | OMG! It's booty! |
| X&Z both gasp and stare at phone. Dramatically catatonic. | ||
| Mr. Booty texts X: | Sorry, b'day boy needed assistance. Didn't mean to keep you waiting. | |
| Z: | Tell him he's too late. But he can bring breakfast. I want a big bucket of KFC. With mash. | |
| X: | Do you ever say 'please'? What do I tell him? | |
| Z: | Like you don't know, you slut! Can't believe you're giving me up for cock! Again! Thought we were having a slumber party! | |
| Z swings round her right foot and smacks X on the head while X focuses on phone. X yelps without looking up. | ||
| 1212 | X texts Mr. Booty: | Still waiting. Naked in bed. How about we proceed from last night? |
| 1213 | Z: | Is he bringing food? I want scrambled eggs. |
| 1224 | Mr.Booty texts X: | Bit hungover, but how can I refuse? Have conf call at 2, mind if I take it at yours? |
| Z: | Wow, mixing business with pleasure. Just as long as he comes with breakfast. Is he coming now? | |
| 1237 | X texts Mr.Booty: | Sure thing. When will you get here? |
| 1240 | Z texts Y: | X kicking me out for return booty. You up for brunch now? |
| 1245 | Mr. Booty texts X: | Be there in 20. |
| Z: | So, no KFC and I gotta haul ass outta here already? I'm heading to Y's, go eat with her instead. | |
| X: | Please don't slap me! | |
| 1330 | Y texts X: | With Z at FCC terrace. Boys here too. Brunch. Wine. Come! |
| 1422 | X texts Y: | Oh that I did, sweetie! : ) You guys still there? |
| 1445 | X arrives at FCC. Y: | Check out that JBF hair! |
| X: | Sorry, I haven't showered. | |
| Straight Boy: | You've just been fucked? That's hot. | |
| Gay Boy: | You smell like cock. That's hot. | |
| Z: | You're all disgusting. Where the hell is my pad thai? |
Full Moon
Two people meet in New York in April, 2006.
There's instant chemistry, but she lives in Shanghai, China. He is a photographer from Brooklyn. They scarcely keep in touch after she leaves New York.
She goes about her life and develops a tumour in her lungs. One night after her first surgery, around November of 2007, he appears online out of the blue. They chat and she discovers that he, too, is fighting cancer - lymphoma - and has been undergoing treatment after surgery as well. Her heart goes out to him. He was the first person of her age group that has developed cancer in the time she has known him.
She wants very much to stay in touch, to be there for each other as they both deal with the mental as well as physical challenges that life has dealt them. But again, he disappears into cyber oblivion. He is not available, not even after her second surgery in January, 2008.
Resentful and resigned to him being not communicative, she chooses not to contact him when she once again travels to New York in May. She relishes in the city as usual, and even enjoys an intense, all-consuming week-long fling in Brooklyn, unknowingly, just ten blocks away from him. He is also a photographer.
Life continues with its usual and expected vicissitudes. After her U.S. trip in the Spring, she returns to Shanghai for two weeks only, before heading to Europe for a second attempt at the family reunion that got rerouted to the hospital the previous year. She feels refreshed and regenerated through her travels, the contact and exposure to new environments offer her a much needed change of scenery from the past months of cancer circus.
Long after she forgets about him completely, he surprises her online one mid-August afternoon when she is just returned to Hong Kong from the desert in Morocco. He announces that he is heading to Shanghai for work for two weeks and would love to see her. He has not been in touch sooner because he too has been traveling, partly for specialist treatment in Japan for his health. He wants her to know that he has been thinking about her often, knowing that she has been going through rough times with her health as well.
The Olympics in Beijing were coming to a close. She would have returned to Shanghai by now, well before his arrival, but she is bound by family affairs in Hong Kong after the sudden death of a dear uncle. From Shanghai, he tells her he misses her.
After more of life's circumstances, she finally returns to Shanghai by early October, eager to begin life again after so many months away. Once again, he magically appears, telling her that he shall return to Shanghai for work again soon and hopefully will get to see her this time round. The resentment she had felt is softened by his eagerness and persistence. She gracefully accepts to see him, but is also weary of disappointment. Knowing herself, she is careful not to invest too much energy on the matter.
She has always known they have no method of communication apart from instant messenging online. There may have been emails exchanged long ago, that did not endure computer viruses or laptop upgrades. She has also learnt to accept that their communication is very one-sided - he gets in touch at his whim and fancy, she never knows when that will be.
She leaves him her contact number online around the time he is supposed to have arrived in Shanghai, but does not hear from him until a week later, on Halloween. He also leaves her a number, one that has too many digits, which confuses her, but manages to reach him. They finally speak, after over two years. She has forgotten how comforting his voice can be. She caught him at a shoot, however, and he promises to call later, in about two hours. Half expectedly, she doesn't hear from him that day.
He apologises online two days later, from Singapore, for not returning her call, explaining that his schedule just got out of hand, and that he will be back in Shanghai in four days. He admits as well that he hasn't called before because he couldn't retrieve the number she left for him on messenger.
Four days came and went, and there is no word from him. On the sixth day, Sunday, he texts her on her mobile saying he just landed back in Shanghai, when can he see her. At first he thought they could meet in the evening after his shoot, then later he discovers he had client servicing duty over dinner and drinks. He sounds hopeful and engaged on the phone though, and she could tell he was indeed sincere about wanting to see her. They ring off, tentatively making plans for Wednesday. He is due to leave on Friday.
Tuesday evening came, and another round of schedule matching later, they decide Thursday lunch it was. Definitive. If something comes up then, that's it, he would be off on a flight the following day. By now, she cannot help but sense the underlying futility of the situation. She even mentions that she is prepared for the best laid plans to be ruined. He assures her that he is in charge of the plans for Thursday and there should be no surprises.
She considers whether she should call him by 2 in the afternoon on Thursday, since she has not heard from him at all that morning . She leaves him a message online. Annoyed, but determined not to be upset, she goes about her plans for the afternoon, and meets up with girlfriends at 5 for drinks that were scheduled the week before. Just as she is venting about the situation to the girls by 5:30PM, she receives a text from him.
'Morning sunshine. What time do you want to meet today?' Morning?
She calls him back immediately. He sent that text before noon, but she only receives it six hours later. He is now on his way to a fashion shoot at the Park Hyatt in Pudong. How unfair can this be? The only free time they have, and they miss it due to a telecommunication technical failure. They have been in the same city at the same time for almost two full weeks, and they still don't manage to see each other. She has never felt so cheated by time.
Staring out at the Scorpio full moon in Taurus from the Bund, she is certain by now that the forces are clearly against this, but why? What is the wrong in them meeting, or conversely, what is the good in them not seeing each other? How can two people meet, each go have cancer and not remain in each other's lives? How badly does she want to thwart the powers at be?
Why don't you call me after your shoot later? No, it won't be too late, I might still be out. It was as if the full moon that night cast a spell on her. Leaving the Bund on the highway, the injustice of the situation infuriated her, even in the cab she feels spiteful and restless. She joins her friends back in the Concession and pounds down tequila until she is sick at home by one in the morning and passes out promptly after. He texts at 2AM asking where she is.
She wakes at eleven the next day with her head hurting so badly that she just wished he was there cuddling her in bed. The frustration built up over the last two weeks has dissolved all reservation in seeing him. Hungover and feeling weak, all she wants now was to touch him and feel his skin against hers. She tells him as much, and he wants so much to comply, but is due to fly out to Hong Kong at 2 in the afternoon. Even on the day of his departure, they negotiate with fate. Just as she thinks the signs cannot be any clearer:
Why not change the flight anyway, spend the afternoon in bed with me? Because the flight can only be changed to the following day, part of a client expensed ticket that's restricted. Perfect! Then leave tomorrow instead. But his visa expires today.
He tries to text her after talking to the airline, but his phone dies. He has to rush to the airport.
She has an invitation for a restaurant opening at the Park Hyatt that same evening.
There's instant chemistry, but she lives in Shanghai, China. He is a photographer from Brooklyn. They scarcely keep in touch after she leaves New York.
She goes about her life and develops a tumour in her lungs. One night after her first surgery, around November of 2007, he appears online out of the blue. They chat and she discovers that he, too, is fighting cancer - lymphoma - and has been undergoing treatment after surgery as well. Her heart goes out to him. He was the first person of her age group that has developed cancer in the time she has known him.
She wants very much to stay in touch, to be there for each other as they both deal with the mental as well as physical challenges that life has dealt them. But again, he disappears into cyber oblivion. He is not available, not even after her second surgery in January, 2008.
Resentful and resigned to him being not communicative, she chooses not to contact him when she once again travels to New York in May. She relishes in the city as usual, and even enjoys an intense, all-consuming week-long fling in Brooklyn, unknowingly, just ten blocks away from him. He is also a photographer.
Life continues with its usual and expected vicissitudes. After her U.S. trip in the Spring, she returns to Shanghai for two weeks only, before heading to Europe for a second attempt at the family reunion that got rerouted to the hospital the previous year. She feels refreshed and regenerated through her travels, the contact and exposure to new environments offer her a much needed change of scenery from the past months of cancer circus.
Long after she forgets about him completely, he surprises her online one mid-August afternoon when she is just returned to Hong Kong from the desert in Morocco. He announces that he is heading to Shanghai for work for two weeks and would love to see her. He has not been in touch sooner because he too has been traveling, partly for specialist treatment in Japan for his health. He wants her to know that he has been thinking about her often, knowing that she has been going through rough times with her health as well.
The Olympics in Beijing were coming to a close. She would have returned to Shanghai by now, well before his arrival, but she is bound by family affairs in Hong Kong after the sudden death of a dear uncle. From Shanghai, he tells her he misses her.
After more of life's circumstances, she finally returns to Shanghai by early October, eager to begin life again after so many months away. Once again, he magically appears, telling her that he shall return to Shanghai for work again soon and hopefully will get to see her this time round. The resentment she had felt is softened by his eagerness and persistence. She gracefully accepts to see him, but is also weary of disappointment. Knowing herself, she is careful not to invest too much energy on the matter.
She has always known they have no method of communication apart from instant messenging online. There may have been emails exchanged long ago, that did not endure computer viruses or laptop upgrades. She has also learnt to accept that their communication is very one-sided - he gets in touch at his whim and fancy, she never knows when that will be.
She leaves him her contact number online around the time he is supposed to have arrived in Shanghai, but does not hear from him until a week later, on Halloween. He also leaves her a number, one that has too many digits, which confuses her, but manages to reach him. They finally speak, after over two years. She has forgotten how comforting his voice can be. She caught him at a shoot, however, and he promises to call later, in about two hours. Half expectedly, she doesn't hear from him that day.
He apologises online two days later, from Singapore, for not returning her call, explaining that his schedule just got out of hand, and that he will be back in Shanghai in four days. He admits as well that he hasn't called before because he couldn't retrieve the number she left for him on messenger.
Four days came and went, and there is no word from him. On the sixth day, Sunday, he texts her on her mobile saying he just landed back in Shanghai, when can he see her. At first he thought they could meet in the evening after his shoot, then later he discovers he had client servicing duty over dinner and drinks. He sounds hopeful and engaged on the phone though, and she could tell he was indeed sincere about wanting to see her. They ring off, tentatively making plans for Wednesday. He is due to leave on Friday.
Tuesday evening came, and another round of schedule matching later, they decide Thursday lunch it was. Definitive. If something comes up then, that's it, he would be off on a flight the following day. By now, she cannot help but sense the underlying futility of the situation. She even mentions that she is prepared for the best laid plans to be ruined. He assures her that he is in charge of the plans for Thursday and there should be no surprises.
She considers whether she should call him by 2 in the afternoon on Thursday, since she has not heard from him at all that morning . She leaves him a message online. Annoyed, but determined not to be upset, she goes about her plans for the afternoon, and meets up with girlfriends at 5 for drinks that were scheduled the week before. Just as she is venting about the situation to the girls by 5:30PM, she receives a text from him.
'Morning sunshine. What time do you want to meet today?' Morning?
She calls him back immediately. He sent that text before noon, but she only receives it six hours later. He is now on his way to a fashion shoot at the Park Hyatt in Pudong. How unfair can this be? The only free time they have, and they miss it due to a telecommunication technical failure. They have been in the same city at the same time for almost two full weeks, and they still don't manage to see each other. She has never felt so cheated by time.
Staring out at the Scorpio full moon in Taurus from the Bund, she is certain by now that the forces are clearly against this, but why? What is the wrong in them meeting, or conversely, what is the good in them not seeing each other? How can two people meet, each go have cancer and not remain in each other's lives? How badly does she want to thwart the powers at be?
Why don't you call me after your shoot later? No, it won't be too late, I might still be out. It was as if the full moon that night cast a spell on her. Leaving the Bund on the highway, the injustice of the situation infuriated her, even in the cab she feels spiteful and restless. She joins her friends back in the Concession and pounds down tequila until she is sick at home by one in the morning and passes out promptly after. He texts at 2AM asking where she is.
She wakes at eleven the next day with her head hurting so badly that she just wished he was there cuddling her in bed. The frustration built up over the last two weeks has dissolved all reservation in seeing him. Hungover and feeling weak, all she wants now was to touch him and feel his skin against hers. She tells him as much, and he wants so much to comply, but is due to fly out to Hong Kong at 2 in the afternoon. Even on the day of his departure, they negotiate with fate. Just as she thinks the signs cannot be any clearer:
Why not change the flight anyway, spend the afternoon in bed with me? Because the flight can only be changed to the following day, part of a client expensed ticket that's restricted. Perfect! Then leave tomorrow instead. But his visa expires today.
He tries to text her after talking to the airline, but his phone dies. He has to rush to the airport.
She has an invitation for a restaurant opening at the Park Hyatt that same evening.
My Moroccan Hump
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The night in the desert was as I had always dreamt, spent sipping mint tea in a bivouac under awe-inspiring, sheltering skies. What was not so picturesque were the dozen odd other travelers also camping with us, two of which, armed with their own private stash of aromatic herbs, annoyingly giggled the night away under the stars. We woke at dawn with sand and grit in our hair and swiftly mounted the same dromadaires (single-humped camel) we arrived in the evening before. Mine had the biggest hump, strong and proud between my thighs, not so lovely, and definitely not lady(lump)like.
Angeline: I'm naming my camel Fluffy. What's yours?
Rae: I'm calling my camel, Toe, but it's doing much more than that.
As I led the caravan out of the sand dunes back to base camp in the morning, I could see Mohammed, our driver, from afar, hovering about the vehicle, waiting eagerly. Our four-wheel drive was parked at the plateau, its bonnet open, stretched at an angle against the waking African sun. I grinned wryly and despite myself savoured that moment of feeling precious. Oh, the sweet rush of knowing one is wanted, as the very object of anticipation, even if by a way off shot of one's target demograhic. Way off.
At the beginning of our three day excursion to Merzouga, the south-western part of the Sahara, Mohammed had explained that driving the same route across the desert for him was a different journey every time. With hours and days on the road, he listens to music, which he writes himself. The question of what the source of inspiration is opened Pandora's box, I swear, her very own.
Mohammed injected the concept of love into our discussion with such fervour and agony in his voice, such sweet torment in his eyes, especially when he described the pure idea of la femme. His sympathy for the unjust treatment of women in Arabic culture was endearing, yet his chauvinism so blatantly obvious. I was curious. Just as our first day on the road was winding to a close, he delighted us with an explanation of the Berber massage, which, unlike certain types of massages in China, are sexual favours offered by men without consideration.
There was a muddy creek alongside the hotel, where Mohammed wanted to take me swimming. He took me by the hand and led me through a mosquito-ridden trail. I was half expecting an ambush of muslim fundamentalists tearing me away by the hair, to be condemned and stoned for such lascivious behaviour. I refused to swim, but it was a sweet, meaningful exchange that late afternoon, perched on those rocks by the mossy creek, about life, the universe, woman and man, his soul, my spirit. He was flattering, claiming that he had never met a woman that was whole both inside and out.
"Je veux vous embrasser." He declared, as we made our way back along the rubble of a river bank at dusk. He had stopped me in my tracks to pose that question with his eyes brimming with intent. It was exactly the environment where I would've loved a bit of rumble in the dirt, and all the talk about love and sexual taboos had indeed been so titillating. But for the love of allah, how could I overlook his lack of oral hygiene? How could I allow myself to be engulfed by that mouth of black teeth? At what point do I break out of this comic cliché?
"There is a reason for every encounter on earth, especially ours," I responded to his hopeful desire. "But I don't think it's a physical one," declining in what I hope to be graceful enough French. He was persistent in asking me to reconsider, and even proposed a private tête a tête à la terrasse after dinner. I smiled and bade him goodnight.
After lunch the following day, Mohammed plugged in a new MP3 adapter he had just bought for the car that he didn't own, to play the Chinese songs he found just for me, by a pop icon (邓丽君) he didn't know. And off we went, my face out the window, the wind in my hair, riding through the sweeping vastness of nothing in Northern Africa, languid in the August heat, listening to the dulcet melody of 小城故事.
