Obsession

I wonder what it is with all of us. Gone are the days without mobile phones, laptops, PCs and the internet. We are all so connected that the world has indeed become smaller and there is nowhere in the world now to hide.

Worse now that we have Twitter, Facebook and whathaveyous. Every minute of the day, every second is traceable. I admit that I have fallen victim to the modern ways. I no longer can live without the convenience of a mobile phone and the internet. I can put my hands up and say, "Yes, I am addicted to being connected." In fact, so connected that certain phones can't be simply switched off - like the Blackberry and the IPhone for example.

So much so that on my retreat to Samui, I had to force myself to switch my Iphone to the plane mode so I cannot get calls. I was very happy having landed, picked up at the airport, checked in and was given the welcome drink. It was a welcome most refreshing. The resort was silent, not many guests and the stretch where I was - cricket quiet. I could hear myself think and with every turn, the crick of my neck. I was smiling happily away, thinking, bliss....till I got shown my room. Door swings open and greeting me was a bloody PC - sitting docile and obedient. The porter showed me the room, even proudly announced the PC with the internet and proceeded to switch it on. He, of course, didn't know that that was the very thing I was trying to avoid - to avoid being in touch and connected! But I was proud to say that I only connected to Facebook and my email accounts once a day whilst I was there. It was a hard push, not feeding my addiction. I survived but not quite rehabilitated as 5 days is much too short to lapse into inconnectivity.

Why do we have this urge to proclaim every single insignificant move we make on our Facebook or Twitter accounts? Why do we have blogs and autobiographies?

I have a Facebook account; at times, I want to let certain people know how I feel, without really letting on that the status update was targeted at a particular person. Sometimes, I play off someone else's status updates or just want a one-up to beat one of my friends' status updates. It's childish and mindless but hey, it is something that we all do.

I write a blog because I want to record what I think/see/do. I unleash my anger and disappointment here; I liken it to throwing glass or splashing paint at the wall. It is also a creative outlet for me as it is easier than painting where you don't have to set up the easel, paints, etc, etc. My tools would just be the internet, the computer and my inspiration (yes, I am lazy) AND I can be anywhere in the world. No, I don't get anxiety attacks if I don't log into my Facebook accounts or read my email. Neither do I feel like there's something missing in the day if I don't blog (though I must write, so a pad and pencil is the substitute).

Truth is, I think, people blog/write autobiographies/update status on Facebook or Twitter because they are narcisstic. That's the simplest of explanations. Do you really think that your friends are bothered to be kept updated with your every thought or what you are doing? In a(n) (ab)normal world without the internet, a Facebook/Twitter/autobiography would be just someone standing in the middle of the room and telling others in the room know what they are thinking/doing. If your voice is louder, then, I suppose the people in the next few rooms can hear you. Even if its photographs that you put up, it is still a way of telling or bragging.

Hmmm....I don't have exact figures as to how many subscribers there are for Facebook/Twitter, but imagine that number of people, standing side by side, just telling, telling, telling, every single second. Do you realise how much noise we are making, just Facebooking/Twittering - even if we sit in silence in our lonely room? And how silent we have become in real as Facebook / Twitter/internet/mobile phones take over the real talking? Why talk when we can sms, email or Facebook/Twitter? Hmmph...such a twist...

Petal P. Rose

"A little narcissim exists in all of us since birth"

There are times when I feel that you are so far away. There exists a chasm that I can’t leap to, no matter how hard I try to fill it. I can feel it when you withdraw. I know then that you are thinking of her – the one before me. You won’t admit it, I just wish you would. The words you say to me, at times, it feels that you are saying it to convince yourself. I don’t know how much of it is something you truly feel and mean.

You drift away into your melancholy solitude leaving me in the shadow. Perhaps you still feel a certain betrayal to her in being with me and feeling happy. You wonder if she’s happy or if she’s alright. You want a good person for her; you want her to be taken care, like she should. You need to let it go, let it go, darling, before it destroys the good we have.

Petal P. Rose

Time goes by...not quite that slowly...tick..tock..schtick...schmock

"I've always been a drifter. I like to see the world. I have no ties, no commitments, no permanent base. I go wherever the wind blows me."

I can't even begin to imagine what that must feel like. My life is a layer-upon-layer of commitment, confinement, duty. I live by timetables, schedules, appointments, mortgage payments.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Those are words lifted from a short story by Carole Matthews. I pondered on it. The book was meant to be a light-hearted read...yet it struck a chord within me.


I wonder what we would do without the timetables, schedules, appointments. Alot of things will fall apart - train/plane/buses are already not on time (blame it on the weather, the accidents, the crowd, etc) - everything will be totally out of whack. Chain reaction....so you don't get to work on time, you won't be prepared for that 9a.m. meeting, won't be in time to answer the email queries, will work through your lunch hour and wonder why it is your stomach's grumbling, missing deadlines, missing the bus/train because you stayed late at work, missing the kids as they were tucked into bed....missing missing missing all the time....it's the clock that ticks keeping you and everyone in line...but...the clock also dictates that you should reflect on life the past year and declare a new way of doing things (New Year's Day and resolutions), it tells you that you should appreciate the person you care about and to let them know (birthdays), to send your special ones gifts of chocolates, flowers, diamonds and take them out for an expensive dinner and so on so forth - you know the deal by now.


Why do you need those special days to tell you how to behave? That's like having the law to stop you from looting and shooting. I appreciate that you need timetables, schedules, blackberries, Palms to keep time for you. But outside of work, why do you need it? Do you need something to tell you that you should spend time with your loved ones? To let them know that you appreciate them only on special occasions/days? Buy chocolates, flowers and all that commercial shite to proclaim your love? That is utter rubbish. How about letting them know each and everyday that they are special and that they matter? Imagine, waiting a full year to say "I love you and you mean alot to me" only to have the person die on you before the year is up. As for reflection - you can always do it anytime, anywhere and decide to be better at any point in time - you don't need a New Year's Day for it. Fuck that.


The moments that count are those impromptu ones. Those are the more precious moments - when you least expect it. I reckon you always get a better camera shot when people are caught unawares and I think it's sometimes like that in life. *Beep beep beep* Sorry, folks, according to my iPhone calendar, times' up with blogging – gotta go.


Love,

Petal P. Rose

What better way to commemorate the Great Singapore Sale by going shopping?

So I got paid and I went shopping. Shopping for me is never planned and I am not a girlie shopper. Translated, that means that I don't take hours mulling over a pair of shoes or that pretty red number sitting on the shelf. I go in there, see something I like, take it off the rack/shelf, try it on if I have to (which by the way, I hate), if it flatters, buy it, otherwise, dump it. I don't think, "Oh, if I just lose a bit here and another bit there....I can fit it................someday in the near future..." Girls, don't waste your brain space thinking that. By the time that "someday" happens, you are outdated.

Cut the long short, I got myself: 1 dress, 1 skirt, 1 cardi-ish top, 1 pair of shoes, 4 lacey numbers and some toiletries. Grand total: S$293.43. That is not cheap - not when you are supposedly buying sale items!!!

I was looking for bras. Now, whereas I'm not double D big, neither am I a minus A but I am happy with my buddies. I went 'round to the bras section and EVERY SINGLE bra was a padded one! I was going around poking all the bras with my forefinger - "oh, this one's got a nice bounce to it." "nice...feels like the real thing.." - pity about the colours. Why would you lie about size? I mean, you have to take it off in the normal ritual of sex. How would you hide then? Shadow trickery? Okay, even if you blindfold the guy, he's gonna grab you - do you give him cushions to grab on to in place of your breasts? Obviously, this is a national obsession.

This is not the first time where I walk in to look for bras and most of what they have are gel/foam/jello/cushion/water-filled bras. There are normal, well-adjusted and confident ladies out there who are happy with their buddies and normal, lacey sexy UNPADDED/UNSTUFFED would suffice. I don't want to wear a pair of stuffed toys on my chest, thank you very much, I prefer my own breasts.

I do wonder, though, how it would be brought out in public display. A national obsession with the declining birth rate has manisfested itself in Clarke Quay with major dick installations. When a girl stubbles out drunk and falls on her back, she opens her eyes, sees the giant dicks, she must be thinking, "I want cock right now." I think we must be fair to the blokes. Are we going to add breasts to that? When a bloke stubbles out drunk and falls on his back, he opens his eyes, sees the giant breasts, he thinks, "I want breasts right now."

They turn their heads, over glazed, bleary eyes, across the cobbled stones of Clarke Quay, their eyes meet. They got onto their feet (not an easy feat) and stumbled unsteadily towards each other. Their mouths, open greedily like chicks to a mother, hers smudged dark lavender, his stinking of the chicken rice dinner. She wanted cock and he wanted breasts. He saw that hers was ample. He grabs her. PPPPpppffffffffffftttttttttttt.....

Truly yours,

Petal P. Rose

I am awake in my sleep. Through my closed lids, I see tiny, tiny, hot dots. They throb white and red, at times in unison but mostly random.

My mind is in smithereens of a crashed crytal flower. Clear, absorbing the colours around and reflecting for all to see and admire.

I am lucid but fervently wish for insanity. I want to ramble and mumble incoherently. Act and react innocently as I please. At least the reactions and actions of my person will not be analysed and taken seriously. They can put it all down to madness or genius?

I describe things in abstraction, draw parallels that only my eyes and heart see. My humour, dark at times and my wit dry. Twisted, that's a fact.

I have been called an enigma. I am not a riddle for you to figure out. I am someone you can't box in. I refuse. I have come this far and I never look back. I never want to go back there. Don't take me back there.

Petal P. Rose

Slow waltzing.

..suddenly feels too tight. I can feel the restrain that is fighting to be free. Like a fish out of water, I thrash about within myself, trying hard not to fall prey to her. Her hot breath stayed on, singeing my ear, right where she had planted her precious bud of lips.

"Rudi....I...." she paused..now bringing the feather down from my neck and trailing it along the mountainous of ridges of my shoulders. "I've always liked you, you know?" She coyly smiles.

I walked under a bus....I got hit by a train...

Is there such a thing as privacy these days? The answer, in my opinion - NO. Even my own space at home is invaded by my mother. The only house phone is in my room. Yay! Yippeee!! I can yak till the cows jump over the moon and pigs fly - but given the type of hours I keep - it's not exactly a joy. Not over the weekend. I am not thrilled to bits hearing the phone ring at an insane hour with the voice of my aunty, "Ohh...sorry, sorry, did I wake you? Where's your mother?" Really - are you sorry? I don't think soooooo....

I step out onto the streets and what do I get? Young punks blasting music from their handphones. It's fine to appreciate music but to play it out loud is not on, fuckers. I used to have a (relatively) peaceful bus ride home. Forget that now. As soon as I step on the bus, not only am I assaulted by the chatter and laughter of people, which is alright, I guess, but also by the "mobile TV". A particular bus company for some reason, decided that it is a fantastic idea to install a TV unit on each bus. Yes, it keeps us entertained for that long bus ride 'round wee Singapore, but sometimes, it's just nice to sit in the silence of the chatter of the public and at times, if you are REALLY lucky, your own company.

A train ride on the MRT is not a pleasure at all. On normal work days, it's crammed to the hilt with bodies. Yes, I do wish they were all dead at least I can't complain much but no, they are all stinking alive - literally. I did write about this some blogs ago - so, not only are you invaded in terms of noise, but also I wish at times my sense of smell wasn't so keen. On the streets, advertisements are yelling their heads off at you, discounts, new products, buy 1-get-1-free - just about everywhere. Even the shade of my sunglasses do not offer me respite. It's just bloody rude. I am not allowed the process of decision making anymore. I am stunted in my growth into adulthood!

But I do have to confess that I'm not so innocent myself. I do have a tracker here on this blog. It's not hidden - it's on the right hand side of the blog if you would just scroll down.....yeah, that's it. No, I'm not trying to be big brother but I'm curious to see who reads the stuff I have on here. Of course, it doesn't tell me names but from the IP addresses, one can deduce that Person A from Malaysia comes by pretty often. Those who do visit on a regular basis whom I know personally are not likely going to tell me that they check every now and then. It also communicates to me that these regulars do think of me enough to see what Petal is up to or what she's going to say next.

I also want to see how far my blog "travels". It's harmless, really, I don't do anything with the information the tracker provides me. It's just for my own knowledge. I mean, this blog is not that popular as to attract sponsors with advertisement banners.

The blog is just a little peek into my world, how I think and what goes on. It is just a tool I use to express myself, a memory recorder, if you can call it that. I do read past entries and there are moments when I think "Oh my God! Did I write THAT?!" but I'm not going to delete it to save face. I was a pretty private person and of course, there are things that stay private but there are things that I choose to disclose because it helps me to offload. I choose the stuff I write here. There are many edited versions before these nuggets get posted up. To top it off, I enjoy writing, to me, it doesn't matter if I suck at it or get into trouble because of it. I enjoy it.

See it as you will as an invasion of privacy or space - but just remember that there are worst ways that the information one gets from tracking are being used. So knowing this, some may not come back and read my posts and I respect that decision but I do hope that you will keep reading - you are more than welcome to send me comments via email or here too.

So, personal space and privacy are gone. Up next, dignity?

"...And it felt so good, I want to do it again..."
Petal P. Rose

I hate being cold. Well, especially when it's meant to be hot. I don't mind if it's meant to be cold. Singapore has been raining for 2-3 days now and I absolutely HATE it. I suffer from allergies that swing with the weather so I am very much affected when the weather here swings from one extreme to the other. Of course, my bosses don't believe me when I tell them that. They look at me with incredulous eyes, "Really?!" YES, REALLY. It's also become worst as the years go by what with level of stress going up.

So now I'm home, doing nothing much but reading very voraciously as if my life depended on what happens to Ugwu next. I'm bored to bits but would not admit it or to go take a walk. I turned my phone off as it only brings me news from the outside world that frankly, I don't give a fuck about at this moment. I turn it on though, about twice, to check my messages. I only respond to the ones I deem are important. The rest can wait. I'm contemplating flying without wings and I need the quiet to rationalise within myself my decision.

Have you eaten, felt full yet empty? Because that's what I'm feeling now. I can feel that my stomach is full yet I feel that it's empty - that I should eat more. I'm not sure what it is. I am listless and tired. There are things to get excited about, things to do but I feel catatonic, staring into the distance, seeing yet not, alive yet dead. Is this what stress does to one?

I need time away. I'm contemplating taking the whole month of June to regroup. I'm already going to the Philippines for about a week so why not take the whole month off too? I'm contemplating Australia but I think I'll most likely end up in different parts of Indonesia. Indonesia, anybody??

Petal P. Rose

Slow waltzing.

I breathed out slowly, there, on the right side of his neck. I could feel his breath quicken, his pulse, pounding through to my chest. My heart, the mortar to his pestle, ringing with each strike.

I withdrew my hand from his vibrant hair, holding between my tapered fine fingers, a white feather. How significant.

I held the feather between my finger and thumb, maintaining eye contact with him as I smiled flirtatiously and showed it to him.

“Here - it is a sign. What do you think this means?”

I did not move away from the closeness of his chest. I tickled him with the feather. The ears, travelling to his lids, that closed in expectation of ecstasy down to his lips and there it stayed…lingering…as I bring my other hand to his….

It really puzzles me.

How women can allow themselves to be abused - in whichever way, be it verbal, emotional, mental or physical. The sad thing is that I can't say that these women are stupid. They are intelligent and they are living their seemingly normal lives amongst you and me.

Before you tell me to get off my high horse – fuck off because I have been through some of it. It may not an extreme case as some but enough. And it stopped only because I said so.

As far back as I can remember, I’ve always been terrified of father’s anger. When I was a child, they used to fight all the time. I was too young to understand what it was about and even though he never hit mother, he used to storm out of the house, bags packed. I remember being afraid that he would go but not sure if I cried. Maybe I was in two minds – peace and no more terror but that I would miss him because he’s father.

He reared birds and kept them in cages. My joy as a child was when he would close all the windows and let them fly free around the house. In a fit of anger during one of these temper tantrums, he let all the birds free – I remember I was heartbroken.

We were a young family starting out and my guess is that the pressure of themselves being young and having a child, of course, puts extra pressure on them to be and to give the best of themselves. Father used to also fly into a jealous rage if he caught other men speaking to mother. She is attractive. Fair skinned with white pearls. He took a parang to the coffeeshop and hunted down the guy who spoke to mother once. I must have only been about 4 or so.

I was sickly as a child. Every other week was a trip down to the doctor and/or specialist. I was draining them of their resources. Mother used to slap me whenever I threw up the medication or when I was being difficult. My lip would split from the force, trickling anger down my chin – to be soothed later with cold butter. I never saw when the next slap would come flying at me. I was a child. I was supposed to have been in trusted company.

I learnt to be mute around the house. No noise as far as it’s not necessary. He didn’t want to hear it. Even the sound of mother nagging is torture to him and I would bear the brunt of it. I was living in fear that he would either hit mother or me. I would rather him hit me – if it was mother he hit, what would I do?

I started hanging around “bad” company. Not that I was doing anything wrong. I was a teenager and wanted to be part of the inner circle. I literally only hung out with them – I didn’t get into fights or stole or even smoked (even though they did it all and more)!

I was reminiscing the other day when mother told me to buy a loaf of bread on the way home. The loaf was so nice and squishy, yielding to your grasp, making itself comfortable and moulding itself to suit the pressure. But given the force that the loaf was travelling at when it greeted my face one fateful day…I was the nail and the loaf, a hammer.

When my ex-boyfriend and I made a mutual decision to break up, it hurt for 2 years and I wasn’t even in an abusive relationship, just a difficult one. It has been…hmm…about 4/5 years now, I won’t be surprised if it’s more, and it still does hurt at times. I wanted to recreate the same, safe, known relationship that I had with him with different men after but I realised that there can never be another one quite like it. It wasn’t fair to the men who came after so I stopped doing it and just let things flow freely.

What more if you are breaking up with your spouse or your father – even though he’s been abusive, in your eyes, he’s been the “best” there is for you and no matter how you rationalise it and how someone else points it out to you, “he” will always be the best. In the case of a father, it will be an undoing of self. Your whole being is in jeopardy.

It will be (extremely) painful and picking up shreds’ easier said than done (yada yada yada…) but the pain goes away with each footstep forward or at least given a chance for the pain to go away. At times it is for love that you break up. Love for yourself and for the other person.

What will it take for a woman to stand up to a man? All she has to do is to decide that she’s had enough and walk away. Will it be at the cost of a life or worst, someone else’s (a child’s) life? Why does it have to escalate till too late? Why can’t these women love themselves? It is a joy to be alive, why choose to die?

I’ve been told that I will never understand but I understand this much: I love and respect myself. I would NEVER allow ANYONE to tear that down. Not even father.

What more do you want from me?

Is it not enough?

the fantastic sights you’ve been privileged to peek?

Would you like a magnifying glass

to bring you closer?

Or perhaps a microscope to bring you into the deep black

depths of the crevices

It never existed, those fantastic sights,

only fantastic sighs. We were never princesses,

always slaves – not quite the wonderful fairy tale

It only all exists in your head.

There never was a psychedelic rainbow splash, darling babe.

All there ever was -

icky wet earth and bits of charcoal lumped with ashen grey

Petal P. Rose

*cartoon courtesy of: http://onthepatio.typepad.com

I'm always a phonecall away (Part 1)

“Hello, who are you?”

“I am Petal – remember? From Migrant Voices? I went to the shelter last week?

“Who are you? What’s your name?”

“Petal? Remember? SBM, shelter…”

“Why you want meet me?”

“For the creative writing – remember?”

“Where we meet?”

“Lavender Street, the shelter.”

“Lavender shopping?”

“No no. Not Lavender shopping. Lavender Street SHELTER!”

“Huh? Lavender Shopping Centre?”

“ Nooo! We are NOT going shopping. I will see you at the Lavender Street SHELTER. Okay, I have to go now.”

“Where are you from?”

“Singapore lah.”

“No, no…I know you in Singapore but where you come from?”

“I come from Singapore, like SBM.”

“Ha…you tell me. You not Singapore. Indonesia? Philippines?”

“No – I’m Singaporean. Okay, I have to go. My boss calling me.”

“Where you working?”

“At the university.”

“Oh...teaching, ah?”

“Umm…no – but can. Okay, so I see you on Saturday, 8pm at the Lavender Street Shelter.”

“Ha you bluff me.”

“Okay, see you. Bye!”

CLICK

Petal P Rose

Their story, their words.....

“I’ve got something else for you,” she said and hands me a VCD. “It’s called “Freedom Writers. It’s related to what you are doing so I thought you should watch it.”

I’ve heard of the movie. I wasn’t in a hurry to watch it when the movie came out in the theatres here. “Pah, it’s the same as ‘Dangerous Minds’. Nothing new.” This was the thought that went through my mind when I read the synopsis of the movie.

But I felt obligated to watch it since it was handed to me on a silver platter. I watched it and drew parallel sights into the movie and my present. I also gleaned some lessons off it.

I am running a creative writing workshop with a men’s shelter with a few volunteers. It’s only been 2 runs so far – not counting the ice-breaker session I ran. The idea was for me to not be part of the workshops directly. The volunteers are to come in, rotating, week by week, and give updates, share experiences and observances via a blog. This, I suspect, may not be the case – not for at least a month or so, if I’m lucky.

It is an uphill task every time to start something new – we all know this. But imagine if this uphill task involved one other person. Then imagine having this uphill task involving hmm…I don’t know – just about between 10-15 men and just for fun, let’s mix it with language and cultural issues. Oh, and I forget, trust issues.

Every step is such a drag. I have to send a text message to each and every one of these men reminding them of the workshop. Then I have to ensure that they turn up as consistently as they can. We took to calling them last night when not a single one turned up. My volunteer took a taxi down to us and he was sick. A thousand and one excuses later, I made a decision. “If Mohammed won’t go to the mountain, the mountain will go to Mohammed.” We imposed on them and made our way to their hang out.

I am not being a martyr or do this to feel good about myself. I do it because I want to and I love doing it. It isn’t about being tired and yes, I feel like quitting at times but seeing the dedication from my volunteers and also the support I’m receiving, I can’t let them down. They keep me greased and push me forward. When I accompany my volunteers I see the delight on their faces when a simple exercise worked and got through to the men. I love the faces of the men when they reminisce about home, the lives they’ve left behind. Some were happy, some melancholy, some happy but mostly I see the longing in their eyes to be back home and be with their loved ones.

They take me to places I’ve never been and think of things I didn’t have to think about. They also never fail to make me laugh and teach me a new term or two. I learnt the slang ‘oil’ last night. To ‘oil’ is to tell lies. In a sentence, it can be used like this, “He’s oiling you. He always Ali-baba talking. Rana is Master oil.” ‘Ali-baba’ talking is also another term that I learnt recently.

It is more than creative writing. It is space for them to breathe and be themselves and be children if they so deign to and forget their troubles. It is where all walls come down and trust is built. In an ideal world, there’d be no sadness, no heartbreaks and no longing.

“Sister, why you take so many photos?” one of them asked. “You last week take, before also take. Where my photos?” Yes, I’ve been trigger happy. Unfortunately, these photos and stories will not be available for public viewing for now.

I can’t tell you how much I’ve taken back with me since these workshops started. Whatever effort I’ve put in seems pittance to what I’ve gained from all of them. All that I’ve heard, experienced and seen humbles me.

Hugs,

Petal P. Rose

Okay, here comes a(nother) rant.

One of my pet peeves’ – is someone deciding my time for me. I absolutely HATE it when someone decides to offload their “to do stuff” on me without asking. I hate it when my mother does it so for those who fall below her in terms of importance – well….

I am anal about time because I have so little of it. A huge chunk is spent at the office, like most people. I am not complaining about that. The time has been set aside for this purpose. I am, however, very particular when it comes to the time after office hours and time during the weekend. It is essential that people keep their appointments with me. If they can’t, they should let me know in advance, if they can help it. They don’t need to know the nitty-gritty details of what goes on in my head when I make a decision to meet them. I think it’s just bleddy good manners that you shouldn’t take another person’s time for granted. I get upset, of course, if they can’t let me know in advance – but if there’s a valid reason, fine. That time I set aside for that particular meeting could have been given to someone else or I could have met the next person on my schedule earlier or I could have a break – do I need to go into details??

My time is the worst on weekends. I try to not fill it up (so I can have a weekend too!) but at times, this can’t be helped. I then operate like a zombie, going for one meeting after another. I collect my thoughts whilst travelling or while waiting for the next appointment. Sometimes, there’s an overlap – one will overrun or the other will be early and I have to refocus quickly.

Every single minute counts during the weekend. I work far out into the boon docks and end officially only at 1815hrs (if I end on time, that is). By the time I wait for the bus to even get out of here, I take about an hour to reach whichever destination I’m supposed to be at -yes, even home. I can’t zip in and out of the office during my lunch hour to run errands, like I could previously when I was in the main shopping area. I have to wait for the weekend.

I particularly did not appreciate that I was given the task of buying a prezzie for someone who I don’t even care to think about. It wasn’t a choice – it was meted out to me. I won’t go into it here as to why I didn’t protest, blah blah blah – you want to know more, ask. When I did protest, this was the answer: “Aiyah…you’ll be in town anyway, so you can buy after that lahh…”

I had a very good mind to slap this person. My time is tied for 8a.m right till 6.30pm. I have another appointment at 8pm. In between, I scheduled a 7.30pm appointment. All this before I was meted out my “special assignment”. Then my fecking handphone conked out. I got it to the service centre and collection date is all on the same day as all these other things happening on top of it. He doesn't have to know all of this -but before assigning me the task, bloody well ASK! Hmm…so let’s prioritise as a responsible person:

1. 0800hrs – 1830hrs (work)
2. 1830hrs – 1930hrs (collect HP)
3. 1930hrs – 2000hrs (meeting)
4. 2000hrs – 2200hrs (meeting)

As you can see – there is absolutely no time to get a present for even myself, much less for someone whom I’m not bothered about!

What I would like to do ideally:
1. Collect HP – 1100hrs – 1200hrs
2. 1930hrs – 2000hrs (meeting) 1400hrs – 1500hrs
3. 1500hrs – 1600hrs – FREE TIME = any other errands that I need to run
4. 2000hrs – 2200hrs (meeting) – I have a personal interest in this, so I will make it a point to be there.
5. 0800hrs – 1830hrs - don't give a shit about
6. Present - don’t give a shit about

Ahhh…fuck it. It should be this way:

1. Collect HP – 1100HRS – 1200hrs
2. After testing out that it works, promptly switch it off, get on a plane and bugger off for a long weekend at some resort.

Love,
Petal P. Rose

An encounter with foreign talents.

“How do you say ‘shut up’ in Mandarin?” he asks, eager to know. I wouldn’t tell him. “I know it’s ‘ba’ something….” I remained mum.

“Once I’ve learnt how to say ‘shut up’ in Mandarin, I’ll tell the Singaporeans to shut up and cross the road in anyway they want.**” This, over dried, red chilli frogs’ legs in claypot and rice.

**There’s another story linked to this.

He’s a newish “foreign talent” in Singapore so it’s right that he’s thirsting to know more about Singapore and Singaporeans in general.

Earlier in the day, we were heading out from his apartment. I pushed him aside as we walked, crossing across the entrance of his condominium, right onto the driveway. “Why did you push me?” I explained that it was the driveway and that cars are coming in. “Yes, but they should either slow down or give me space – they can’t knock me down. I’m a pedestrian.” I argued saying that sure, they can slow down but that’s a risk you are taking. He said that the pedestrian has a right of way as no drivers should knock a pedestrian down. It’s true what he said but I wouldn’t leave it to fate.

True enough, when we went back to take his Ezylink farecard (that he had forgotten), he had a close encounter. He crossed the driveway while 2 cars were turning in. One went very close to him, almost running into him. The driver turned in and got out of his car. He was German. He was very upset and accused my foreign talent of having hit the rooftop of his car. He further said that my foreign talent should not have crossed the driveway. “It’s for cars to turn in!”

“But you could have slowed down or given me some space. There was no need for you to come so close to me. There was plenty of space for your car to move.”

“It’s a driveway, cars turn in there. Driveways are for cars.”

“But there’s no other way to get out – except by crossing the driveway and cars should slow down.”

“Then you can go to the road and see if the cars slow down.”

“Ahh…but that’s the road and this is a driveway.”

Foreign talent argued and said that he hit the side of the car, not the rooftop.

As for me, I stood aside and watched the drama unfold. I couldn’t defend or take any sides as I didn’t see what really happened. All I knew was that my foreign talent did not hit the rooftop of the German guy. I would have seen it otherwise because he would have had to lift his hand above his shoulders to do that. They went back and forth.

I can’t even remember how it came about but this came out - “Where do you come from?” German said, Germany. My foreign talent then said that in Germany, he wouldn’t dare do such a thing because he would either have slowed down or given the pedestrian space to walk. German than asked “Where are you from?” “U.S.A” “No...cannot be. You are not from the U.S.”

So this is it. Does the U.S have different laws pertaining to the road? Is it alright to knock down a pedestrian in any country? Or is it because my friend didn’t sound American or is not the correct colour? Would it have been different if he looked or sounded American? From his reaction, one could tell that he had a preconceived idea of where my foreign talent came from. In his tone of disbelief, he's indirectly accusing of him of lying. As far as I could see – it was more than crossing the driveway. It didn’t have to be more but it came down to being a certain nationality and (the right) colour.

German was red in the face but backed down when he realised that foreign talent had a point. But he did say, “Next time, I will not give you a chance. I will hit you.”

Threatening someone in front of a witness…Ahhh…stupidity does transcend all nationalities, colours, etc etc.... In Mandarin, we call it “ben dan”. Kalau Bahasa Melayu, “bodoh” dan Bahasa Indonesia, “goblok”.

So, foreign talent – I do agree with you, up to a certain point. I will not bi zhui – I abhor being silent and staying oppressed. I have a voice but I choose my battles wisely. I will not cross the road willy-nilly, silly. I don’t want to leave it to fate. I have more to give than what I have given and I need to stay alive for this.

Hugs,
Petal P.Rose

"Stressed out people need luxuries!"

he proclaimed, at a corner of the Borders bookstore last night. He was chubby, with geeky glasses and dressed in a nondescript pair of bermudas and a polo t-shirt. I went past him and heard him. He was holding his handphone in hand and I thought he was on the phone though it wasn't put to his ear. Ah, you know how it is these days - bluetooth this and wired that and I didn't think too much about it - just that he was a bit loud. He repeated himself a couple more times and that was when I turned back and took a closer look.

He wasn't on the handphone. He was declaring it. He had alot of confused looks from the others who were walking past - I had to react. I went over to him, put 2 thumbs up and yelled back "I hear ya! Right on! I agree with ya!" Only then did I notice his bag. He was holding on to a "Dior" paperbag. I was tempted to carry on and ask "How about a spa package then? I'm stressed out. Or better yet - a whole 2 weeks, sequestered away in a nice villa in Thailand - without you.?"

I don't know if it was a social experiment he was doing or if he was part of a theatre group and he was researching a role - who knows? Or perhaps feeling guilty over his recent purchase, he was seeking redress and approval, but from the public? Hmm....He didn't even look like your typical loony. For one, he was Chinese, simply but well-dressed and well spoken. Some of you may say that now I am the one boxing someone in - but it's true. If you had seen him, you would think the same.

Or is it truly that with the level of stress he's burst the dam? How will he or people like him be dealt with? Will he be picked up and locked away somewhere - I mean, we don't want people like him to impede the progress of our gracious society, would we? Like the rest of Singapore, all is nice and green. People are smiley. Stepford Wives, Asian version 1.1...there was something pleasant about that place.....

Much love,

Petal P. Rose

Discoursed discord

I was reading an essay from Judith Ortiz Cofer, drawn from her collection, The Latin Deli” Prose and Poetry (1993). It is titled “The Myth of the Latin Woman”. This can be found in the third edition of “One World, Many Cultures”, a compilation of works by internationally recognised writers, exploring cultural difference and displacement in relation to race, class, gender, region and nation. This book, although first published in 1992, still is relevant and rings through to the present, unfortunately.

I picked on Ms Cofer’s essay in particular because I could identify with it. In her essay, she talked about how she’s stereotyped as the help because she is a Latina in America. She related how she inspired men to bend their wretched knees and burst into “Maria” from West Side story, “La Bamba” and “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina”. Though I have not inspired men as such, I have had encounters similar to that – here, in Singapore. Not surprising to me as I view the people here as “technologically advanced, business savvy but culturally ignorant, not to mention tactless”.

I am brown-skinned. You can see that in my picture here. I have always attracted curious morons who do not think twice to ask the origins of my ethnicity – if I am asked, that is. But most often, it is assumed. This comes out in their body language and speech when they interact with me. Most assume that I am the help. I am divided on my reaction to this. I want to feel insulted – but there is nothing wrong with being “the help”. I mostly laugh it off but at the back of my mind, I am not happy with it yet I cannot go on a crusade and make it my battle to correct these idiots.

I had a western boyfriend. We, along with a friend of mine, who is of mixed parentage, went to Carrefour to get some groceries in preparation for a barbeque at his place later in the evening. As we stood at the checkout counter, waiting for the groceries to be tallied and totalled up, I instructed my boyfriend and my friend on how to pack the groceries and who should carry what. “Ding!” She, the checkout lady, rang up the total and I was taking out my purse to hand her the cash. “Tell sir, if he just add S$3 he can get 1 extra lucky draw coupon.” I was stunned. I asked her, “What do you mean?” and she repeated herself. I then put on my most Singlish accent and told her, “No need, we are not interested”. I thought that would put an end to it but noooooo…she insisted that I “ask sir if he wants to add S$3 – eh, why not, extra 1 coupon, extra 1 chance, you know.” Two of them were oblivious to this exchange as they were busy discussing the barbeque and packing the groceries. I practically shoved the cash into her hand, “No need, don’t want”. Never mind that I was instructing “sir” and “mam”. Never mind that I was dressed nicely.

Later in the evening, during the barbeque, I was also treated as “the help”. The crowd was a mix of locals and expats, but mostly expats. I had people talk down to me, ordering me about, thinking also that I was “the help”. I was treated like a bloody waitress, right there in my own home. Yes, I am the co-host and must be gracious, warm and all those things, I understand that. But there is a difference between asking and commanding. I have never been so out of place in my own home.

I was also at Daiso a couple of weeks back with the same friend of mixed parentage. It was our day off, so we dressed simply, t-shirt, shorts, flip flops. The same thing happened at the checkout counter (what is it with me and checkout ladies?!). “Ah, you can ask Mam to help you stick the sticker.” So aside from being “the help”, I am also stupid. Nice.

I am sick and tired of being stereotyped and honestly, also being asked “what are you?” I am human, just like you, with feelings. It does not matter where I come from. I have no problems, like I said, being asked about my ethnicity but a little tact would be nice.

The presumptuous attitude of Singaporeans at large is appalling. They consider themselves Lords and Kings because Singapore is very much advanced in many ways. It is a fact but we do not need to push the dirt into the faces of “the help”. “The help” who has helped and who are still helping, you to clean the house, bring up the children, build homes and offices. “The help” know that they are poor and their economic situation is not quite like Singapore – far from it. That is the reason why they are working here, neglecting their own families to care for yours. Ironic, isn’t it?

I sat in the back of the cab. He glanced in the rear view mirror. “Oh, from Indonesia. You just finish work is it? Wah...Orchard ah, this time….ya lah…nowadays must work very hard to get money.” He had picked me up from Orchard Hotel, near the infamous Orchard Towers. With that gleam in his eyes, I could see where this conversation was going – down south where I did not go. He continued as he carried me along the scared road towards home. I tuned out, gazing out of the window, hoping that he will just bloody shut up. He didn’t get the hint and continued on his monologue. As we neared my place, “Wahh…you in Singapore, so lucky. Live in a block. Indonesia all kampung kampung. Ah, S$23, miss. Good night, ah.” Need I say more?

So to end it (for now, at least) I am a second generation Indonesian, born and raised, here in Lion City. As I tick that box under “Race” in all my application forms, I nod in agreement of that coffin that is prepared for all inhabitants of this sunny island. I nod in agreement of the lid closing in and of the nails that are slowly knocked in, securing me, in my place, right here, sunny island, Lion City.

Petal P. Rose

Dream a little dream of me

I intended the last post to be the last post for the year but I had a dream - 2, to be exact but recording one here:

He was always the one behind the camera, trigger happy, freezing all in their glorious moments. We met at some sort of a park and he asked me to capture him. Odd, I thought, he never asked that I took him...still puzzled but not wanting to ask, I took the camera off him. As I focused, I realised that it wasn't just him that I was taking, I realised then that there were the others. I can't exactly remember now how they looked like, damnit, I should have written it soon as I was awake but...anyway, the first word that popped into my head was "schizophrenia". Not sure why...Of course, we all know that everyone is made up of parts. Just that most keep it together and remained glued with the toss and turns of life. Others, disintegrate.

I know he is a whole person but divided at times. More so now with the situation he is in. I saw the one who was the cad, the one who stepped in in times of crises and the gentle one with soothing words. I've met some of them, not all but I'm sure I'll meet them all soon enough. I didn't understand it at that point of time - I blinked back, making sure I wasn't just seeing things but they were there, waiting, to be captured in their glorious moment, an acknowledgement of existence.

Petal P. Rose

Happy, happy, joy, joy

" I didn't see it coming. I hoped for it but thought that there was no way that it is ever going to happen.

Then it did. I wasn't prepared for it. I mean, I am happy that it happened and happy that it happened the way it did. It came as a greater (welcome) surprise. I had the expected reaction....My heart raced fast, limited by my rib cage or I'm sure it would have strained to free itself from the flesh that holds it in. My fingers were cold as a dead carcass, head was swimming with a thousand and one questions.

But I lived for the moment and absolutely LOVED it. What's next, boy? I think I am ready for it so come on, make haste!!"

Petal P. Rose

A posting from a 30 year old.

So, I turn 3-0 in the next couple of minutes (and by the time I am done with this, I AM 3-0 [shit! shit! shit!!]). I look at myself in the mirror, looking hard for visible effects of the big uh oh. Nothing that I haven't seen, noticed or been pointed out to before.

But:
1. skin now becomes problematic - more oily and pimple prone.
2. it also lacks it's youthful glow
3. not so smooth anymore
4. I have panda eyes
5. eyes seem more discerning (but that could be just me squinting)
6. let's not talk about the other parts of the body.....

The change I most feel is inside. Like the blind who longed for sight, I now am the seeing who longs for the dark. I see so many things that just makes my heart bleed. How ungrateful humans are - I'm not talking just about the ones in general but those who are close to me. It's appalling at how selfish and uncaring these people whom I hold dear are. They are no different from the enemy.

More and more, I realise how like she I am. She, who would sacrifice her every single cent, give her clothes off her back and work her fingers to the bone for her love of those around her. She, who would bend double for her sons, going so far as shielding her daughter from the wretched knife. She has lead a hard life from the get-go. It's something I hear from her often to remind us of her humble beginnings. I've seen how she goes without. She. who is taken for granted by the chauvinistic pig, cast aside by the pig's pride. Even so, she chides me when I utter bad words after the pig. Her way is gentle and humble - I am unworthy standing beside her. Whenever I grouse about things, I stop short remembering her.

My heart bleeds for him when he struggles so hard to break the chains that bind him. I can feel the disappointment reflected in his eyes yet he is too big a boy to weep. 'Take it like a man', a phrase oft quoted but really, is anyone too grown up to weep in disappointment, despair and anger? I can almost hear the unspoken "why?" and the gut-wrenching sadness that sets in after. He didn't do anything wrong, as far as I can see. Yet he is treated like an outcast, callously forgotten in the display. Discarded for now - a liability.

I don't know how people who make others miserable pray or look at themselves in the mirror every single day or be able to sleep without fear of being killed. I know I'm not in the wrong but yet, I am ashamed to face the wrong-doer. I don't know how to be gentle and humble (yet) like her and look into those eyes and forgive. I don't think I ever can. Himself can go to the grave knowing that he was never forgiven.

I am not rich and I have given up the idea that I will ever be (but doesn't stop me from trying). I have accepted that I will be following in her footsteps - just a harder, no-nonsense and streetsmarter version of her. I would love to give her the big house, the money to throw but I don't know if I would be able to in her lifetime. But in her lifetime I know, I will try my earnest best to give the best that I can afford to be it materialistically or otherwise.

So when most would celebrate their 3-0 with a big party, my heart is heavy with sorrow for all these things and more unmentioned. Happy birthday, Petal.

'bagaikan padi yang tunduk
lagi berisi lagilah rendah
murnilah namanya
insan yang di gelar emak"

Petal P. Rose

An Affair

My love affair started as young as when I was about 3 or 4. Oh, love affair with words, that is. My parents used to read me all the time back then. Already the cracks appeared but I was too young to understand. Anyway.....

My parents are not highly educated but they somehow knew the power of words and doggedly read me every night till I was old enough to do it for myself. I had books from the likes Brothers Grimm and Hans. Simple stories like Puss In Boots and the Gingerbreadman. I remember being so annoyed with the pig in the Gingerbreadman. He was so greedy!! Also being a Muslim then, it was drilled into our heads that pigs are the worst things on earth. Armed with this bias, I got very annoyed at how the pig was chasing after the gingerbreadman and finally got a chunk of him (I think). I wanted the Gingerbreadman to be whole and uneaten, undefiled. The page that showed the pig - I crushed and even tore it out. I was that upset! I think I was a bit more than annoyed, you think? I wish now that I had kept the book but I threw it out along with my childhood.

It didn't matter to me that we didn't have money to buy me new books every now and then. The few I had, I read from cover to cover, over and over. I joined the public library service and they had mobile libraries that I used to go to. Yep, I am a mobile library kid. I fell in love with the princesses of 1001 Arabian Nights with its handsome princes and running along with Laura, Mary and Carrie, I lived in the Indian Territory, feeding and caring for Pet and Patty.

I fell in love with the voluptuous sounds of "o", and "teen" sounded mean; it was only much later that I know how it was like being a teen and why it sounded mean. The sound "tarp" makes, music to my ears, like raindrops falling on attap roofs.

These words swirl in my head, floating and greeting each other as they go past. That's how sentences are made. Sometimes it comes out garbled but it's all sorted by the time it hits the funnel that is the mouth. That is why I love to write - I think I'd go mad if I don't. All these words, in my head, filling it up and clogging it. Writing - a cathartic release. A quiet time for me and me alone.

Petal P. Rose