September 09.
I sat outside the clinic waiting for my turn to see the doctor.
Number 13 was written on the card that was presented to me by the clinic secretary; she asked me if I had fever and cough and I said yes. While seated along the walkway, I stared blankly at the evening crowd that was passing along the walkway of the Family Clinic. Some glanced at me, a uniformed stranger with a surgical mask, hidden in camoflage with an equally hidden face. I was greeted with stares and glances and people passed the common thouroughfare of the shops.
Some took longer than the casual glance to look at me while I scribbled down on a leaflet from the Asthma Association - without my notepad, I was bereft of a surface to write upon. A middle aged lady came and sat on the periphery of seats inside the clinic, as if to make hereself visible to common walkway. Her posture closed, she appeared to suggest that she did not fancy being stared at. It then dawned on me that I was looking directly at her. I shifted my seat.
And as I continued to sit there, I wondered if I could get any sicker. Just then, a man appeared and approached the middle aged lady. The husband.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Everything tastes clearer with a pinch of salt....
I wondered why she would avoid me.
That was the thought that I woke up to a 6 o'clock on a Sunday morning, lying in bed. The smell of incense lingered in the air as if a medicinal balm for the spiritual soul. I closed my eyes, drank a glass of water and shifted in my bed to try to get back to sleep, but the only thing I could do was to think about her and why she was being elusive.
I suppose the story has to be re-told again. The writer, (or blogger rather) types his thoughts, puts them up, half expecting the whole rest of the world to read them on the internet, and then despairs over the lack of interest. Dejected and half fearing that she would also read the rabble, the writer would delete all the blogs to purge the blog and be reborn again, unhindered by the incoherance affecting him. He moves on, only to repeat the same process as a therapeautic outlet, because it is the only aveneue of expression he has, hiding behind the veil of anonymity that protects his ego.
It is altogether possible that the only reason why I would ever be concerned about this is because I do not know where I stand in her heart. The man, eager to prove his worth and devotion, launches head-first into the relationship, and gets his heart kicked in. The woman, unwilling to appear equally eager, decides to appear appreciative but not fully accepting. She delays, play games, and misinforms to redirect the attention of the man. She has other agendas to fulfil, or she may simply be unwilling to say no, uncomfortable with the idea that she should be the rejector because to do so would be to tarnish her image, make her come out as a the 'bad' person (if ever there was such thing), or invoke the wrath and fury of the rejected individual. She compensates by reasoning and logic, a brand known to her and select friends that she keep in her inner circle. And she goes about her business as usual - her life, her rules, her own choices.
***
Everything seems to taste clearer with a pinch of salt. Not necessarily better, but clearer.
I chanced upon this rhetoric while in the Wala as I noticed grains of sea salt lining the rim of the bottle top of my beer where the squat twist of lime sat. The lime seemed to give the beer a refreshing tingling taste, but it was the salt that made the flavour of the brew come out, which may not necessarily be what might be desired (after all, why the extras for the drink?) It turns out that most mexican brews served outside mexico is usually served with a twist of lime and a dash of salt.
I have recently rediscovered the weekend drinking culture as an anti-thesis to my stay at home mad-writing nights. It is a new and interesting dimension, reinvigorating the explorer that has been reneged to the inner depths of my mind, in place of the peon that occupies the personality on a more regular basis.
A dating guru once told me, "I never liked bars. Women are always on guard, and there are too many happily married men to compete with". I couldn't have said it better myself, but then again, I was no guru.
While sitting in the Wala just the other day, I noticed two rather attractive working-class ladies binging and talking to each other. They would talk for a stretch, then pause, lose interest, then continue again as the drinks came on by. An empty chair seemed to invite the curious mind who would chance his eyes upon the two when they were done with their meals, and slumped over once their drinks were done. There was nothing wrong with their presentation - both has short shoulder length hair that was the in-thing at the point of time. They were seated in a perpendicular manner, suggesting a closeness and ease in the relationship. The first one (whom I shall call the brunette, as this was the colour of the highlights in her hair) had a fuller face, large eyes and dressed in a violet floral top with a pair of rather flattering white slacks. Her companion had black hair, fair and wore a black sun dress. Her pixie like features made her look younger than she possibly was, and there was a momentary pause in their discussion where she pulled out her organiser, flipped through the pages and commented on something as if to plan for their next meeting. She was not a smiler - despite her elegant complexion and girlish features, she projected a sense of aggression, a business face. This was not so with the burnette, who chanced a glance at me, while I sat between my friends, overlooking their table. As I sat there observing, I pointed out my observations to Rude and asked if he could ever appreciate why two women would sit there and while away the hours, expecting something to happen.
Rude simply shrugged. "Maybe they're not expecting anything to happen."
That was the thought that I woke up to a 6 o'clock on a Sunday morning, lying in bed. The smell of incense lingered in the air as if a medicinal balm for the spiritual soul. I closed my eyes, drank a glass of water and shifted in my bed to try to get back to sleep, but the only thing I could do was to think about her and why she was being elusive.
I suppose the story has to be re-told again. The writer, (or blogger rather) types his thoughts, puts them up, half expecting the whole rest of the world to read them on the internet, and then despairs over the lack of interest. Dejected and half fearing that she would also read the rabble, the writer would delete all the blogs to purge the blog and be reborn again, unhindered by the incoherance affecting him. He moves on, only to repeat the same process as a therapeautic outlet, because it is the only aveneue of expression he has, hiding behind the veil of anonymity that protects his ego.
It is altogether possible that the only reason why I would ever be concerned about this is because I do not know where I stand in her heart. The man, eager to prove his worth and devotion, launches head-first into the relationship, and gets his heart kicked in. The woman, unwilling to appear equally eager, decides to appear appreciative but not fully accepting. She delays, play games, and misinforms to redirect the attention of the man. She has other agendas to fulfil, or she may simply be unwilling to say no, uncomfortable with the idea that she should be the rejector because to do so would be to tarnish her image, make her come out as a the 'bad' person (if ever there was such thing), or invoke the wrath and fury of the rejected individual. She compensates by reasoning and logic, a brand known to her and select friends that she keep in her inner circle. And she goes about her business as usual - her life, her rules, her own choices.
***
Everything seems to taste clearer with a pinch of salt. Not necessarily better, but clearer.
I chanced upon this rhetoric while in the Wala as I noticed grains of sea salt lining the rim of the bottle top of my beer where the squat twist of lime sat. The lime seemed to give the beer a refreshing tingling taste, but it was the salt that made the flavour of the brew come out, which may not necessarily be what might be desired (after all, why the extras for the drink?) It turns out that most mexican brews served outside mexico is usually served with a twist of lime and a dash of salt.
I have recently rediscovered the weekend drinking culture as an anti-thesis to my stay at home mad-writing nights. It is a new and interesting dimension, reinvigorating the explorer that has been reneged to the inner depths of my mind, in place of the peon that occupies the personality on a more regular basis.
A dating guru once told me, "I never liked bars. Women are always on guard, and there are too many happily married men to compete with". I couldn't have said it better myself, but then again, I was no guru.
While sitting in the Wala just the other day, I noticed two rather attractive working-class ladies binging and talking to each other. They would talk for a stretch, then pause, lose interest, then continue again as the drinks came on by. An empty chair seemed to invite the curious mind who would chance his eyes upon the two when they were done with their meals, and slumped over once their drinks were done. There was nothing wrong with their presentation - both has short shoulder length hair that was the in-thing at the point of time. They were seated in a perpendicular manner, suggesting a closeness and ease in the relationship. The first one (whom I shall call the brunette, as this was the colour of the highlights in her hair) had a fuller face, large eyes and dressed in a violet floral top with a pair of rather flattering white slacks. Her companion had black hair, fair and wore a black sun dress. Her pixie like features made her look younger than she possibly was, and there was a momentary pause in their discussion where she pulled out her organiser, flipped through the pages and commented on something as if to plan for their next meeting. She was not a smiler - despite her elegant complexion and girlish features, she projected a sense of aggression, a business face. This was not so with the burnette, who chanced a glance at me, while I sat between my friends, overlooking their table. As I sat there observing, I pointed out my observations to Rude and asked if he could ever appreciate why two women would sit there and while away the hours, expecting something to happen.
Rude simply shrugged. "Maybe they're not expecting anything to happen."
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