::belgium shells::

There isn't a hypothesis more flawed than that of marriage. We have all been conditioned - to varying extents - about the idea and the ideal of marriage. The mass media, the religious paragons, the cultural make-up of our society: they have all preached the significance, if not the necessity, of marriage.

Weaned on fairy tales and binged on marriage fad diets courtesy of Hollywood, we believe that we will eventually be swept off our feet by the fabled Prince Charming or Princess Aurora. Injected with socialism and cultural pressures, we become willing lab rats in experiments that would cost us our ideals at best, and a lifetime of disillusionment at worst. Hauled onto the pulpit of sancity and holy matrimony, we strap ourselves to a cross of religious conditioning - procreation, the family unit vis-a-vis religion, ecetra, ecetra.

As the society - and the world at large - modernise, the old halycon of marriage has been dilluted by individualism, instant gratification and internalisation of general mass media attitudes. While Hollywood still dramatises love and marriage on the silver screen, it also goes out of its way to glamourise the breakdown thereof; while societal norms still dictate the exigency of marriage, modern governments have been increasingly forthcoming in policies which support singlehood and/or one-parent households. And religions, while mostly sticking to doctrinal preachings, have little choice but to accpet that dogged conditions cannot overpower the modernisation and, perhaps, mutation, of individual rights.

And so marriage, an aged-old practice strangled between old myths and new truths, has become little more than a flawed theory, a basic societal arrangement bound by legal means. In practice it thrives: few of us can escape the consideration of marriage, whether motivated by notions of romanticism, practicality or familial obligations. But one needs no microscopic view to see that affairs, divorces and subjective interpretation of committment et al are reducing marriage into nothing more than a package deal of convenience encapsulated by a piece of paper.


***

I am not a hard-core skeptic - not yet - and I have no outright malice against marriage. I see its importance and its benefits, and my innate Asianess would not allow the serious consideration of long-term cohabitation, children born out of wedlock, 'free and easy' arrangements -you get my drift. But outside the Hollywood-reality mad clash, I have little patience for stardust and glamour and fireworks till death do us part; beyond the old wisedom of forever-wth-one I see cheating partners and dying promises.

And so who am I to dare the rest of my life with one man? Who am I to think that I would be so lucky that ten, twenty years into my marriage I would not be relegated to a mere 'spouse', someone who was part of a deal gone sour and wrong, someone whom my husband can ignore while he screws some eager young thing from the office?

"Don't get me wrong. She is a good woman, and she has done all her spousal duties. But there are no more sparks. It's all routine."

"Marriage is a tool of convience. She's the wrong one at the right time."

"Don't marry for love; it's stupid. Marriage is a financial arrangement. It's a business plan and a strategy. You should only go in with a specific and practical object. Love? Rent a DVD."

"What about the wife, darling? What about her?"

What makes you think it wouldn't be you?

::chocolate wafer::

I stink at small talk. I like to think that I have a natural vivacity; that it's easy for me to draw people into conversations as it is easy for me to be drawn into one. But stick me into a roomful of strangers gathered for business purposes and I turn into a marble statue stained with murky PR grim.

***

Attended the media launch of our flagship this morning; the event started with the usual hob-nobbing cocktails - a drink at 11.30 in the morning!? - with the journalists at the Ritz. Was told to 'go mingle', and armed with my business cards and a reasonably good glass of Shiraz, I broke into the little cliques of media people, trying my darnest to be the professional I'm not quite ready to be. And five minutes into every conversation, I became uncomfortably conscious that journos don't small talk; their favourite tactic remains the oh-look-I'm-asking-about-your-cat-and-then-I-shoot-a-question-in-hopes-of-getting-a-juicy-soundbite. Sample:

Journo A: Hello there! How's it going?
Me: (falsely bright) It's going great! A little busy but that's how the business is! What about you? Read your article the other day - great exclusive!
Journo A: Oh, that was a last minute thing and anyway my editor slashed more than half of it. So, are you going anywhere for Christmas?
Me: I wish! You?
Journo A: I'm not sure, you know the rush we have at the end of the year, I'm not even sure if I can take leave - by the way how do you think the new A8 will fare in Singapore given that only a few units were sold for the last model?

I almost broke into cold sweat when I was cornered by three motoring journos asking whether there are any pre-orders for the new car. My muddled mind tells me that I'm not at liberty to disclose anything, but I had to fumble for a politically sensible response. "Oh c'mon I'm not going to quote you! Don't worry!" said One. "We're just really curious." Said The Other. I shimmied my way out of that situation by calling out more drinks orders for everyone and promising that such answers would probably be more accurate if dug out of the local sales manager. Oh poo.

***

I have been successfully incorporated, I think; I may not be any damn good at small talking but I'm becoming brilliant in pretending that I am. I have mastered the art of fumbling for my name card while shaking someone's hand, and I've learnt that when in doubt, make the person talk about him or herself. There is no better platform than small talking for drawing out the narcissist in all of us. That, or you talk about wines. "I find a woman who likes red wine very sexy," said one.

I stink at small talk, I abhor its evil necessity, I despise the paper-thin sincerity encapsulated in it: but I have no doubt that it's an art in itself, it's a tool and a weapon, a shield and a spear waiting to be used when you're a warrior, knighted by your contract to fight for the corporate kingdom.

::chocolate-covered nuts::

I love research. I must have been the only demented soul in a class of 84 struggling students who was actually excited about the prospect of turning in a research paper and a three-thousand word thesis in three weeks' time. And while half the class couldn't grasp what the Chinese lecturer was saying and the other half couldn't be bothered as they were too busy giggling over his badly receding hair, I was too busy being awed by his academic credentials.

An ex-alumnus of the prestigious Fu Dan University in Shanghai, with further academic titles, including a doctorate, conferred in American and Australian universitites, the fumbling Chinese man was clearly an enthusiastic scholar, learned, brilliant, hardworking. I leafed through the reading guide we were given and saw a few of his own articles published in respected media journals, investigative pieces skirting issues like cultural erosion, contemporary journalism in China, analysis of media trends - all hard-nosed industry works, clear in structure and firm in logic. I was impressed.

Still, it must be a sick fancy to be thinking of a hypothesis the first hour into the lecture - You pseudo scholar, I chided myself. But my old love affair with words make modules as such come reasonably easy to me; I enjoy the draining task of seeking out topics, analysing informaton, sourcing quotes and theories, producing my own thesis, pefecting my biblio for the finished paper - as long as words and writing are natural parts of the equation, the rest of the details become a joyous labour of sorts.

Was suddenly reminded of how, growing up, I never had colourful ambitions of becoming a doctor or a lawyer - Maugham's Mildred in Of Human Bondage would call them 'professions in every sense of the word' - but had dreamt endlessly of becoming a writer, a researcher, a curator, or all of the above rolled into a peniless but fulfilling whole.

One day, maybe. Someday.

::the last bar in the fridge::

"Spectrum"

Uncurtain, the act;
I read in your eyes a strange red spell.
And then there is green, abstract;
You speak, I shake, we fell.
Imposing, the flesh;
You breathe the turquoise truth.
And then there is white, a gash:
we swim, and drown, aloof.
Asserting, the taste;
We hold the glimmer of gold.
And then there is black, unchaste;
I paint, you sculpt, I mould.

***

I'm alone in the office. The prize for being such a workaholic is the inexplicable satisfaction of ambling into the office on Monday knowing you've got extra control over those who didn't burn their weekends filing, clearing old emails and rushing out that blasted project that would be in your mind even if you choose not to come back on a weekend to do it.

I love it when the phone is not ringing, when the fax machine isn't noisily spitting out what seems like the 12,409th message; when I can play music without the headphones, when I can steal a smoke right at my desk - oh joy. It's odd how some days I wake up and think the whole world's fucked, and others I'm Mary bloody Sunshine, pleased by the smallest things.

Going back to filing now. I need to get all the old information organised, otherwise I'd be swimming in papers circa 1996 and that does zilch for my productivity. *hums*

::M&Ms::

I feel I sometimes live
Without consciousness,
As insipid as a fish
Sucking air out of a tank.
I feel lost amongst friends,
And I grapple
With the menance of strangers.
I know enough not to question too much,
But I remain unwise against the shadows of deeper desires.
I understand the need to anchor,
But crave the freedom of buyoncy.
If there is a melody to life I feel I must sing it, and
If there is a rhythm to reason I feel I must change it.
And this is my poetry.
I am a broken piece of art that needs
No interpretation;
I am my own reality.
You make me, and I make me,
We float and tumble and sting:
Joined by lithe hands and fraying strings.
Sometimes I am a child, wild
And unbridled,
Others I am ruled by ghosts and demon kings.
My poetry.

***

You are plastic.
You are a scratch of ink,
Drying on paper;
I am a blot, a smudge of red,
The remnants of a whiskey drink.

We don't know each other,
Beyond the cross-stitch knot of emotion;
You are plastic.

How do we measure
Each other,
How do we define, refine
The line:
You are plastic.

You are plastic.
You are a breath-kissed mist,
Disspating on a pane;
I am a crumble, a hiss of smoke,
A footfall in a dirt-swept lane.

We don't know each other,
Above the needle-prick pain of pleasure;
You are plastic.

::orange creme::

There will be new opportunities, we were told today. New opportunities to move around the region, new job structures once the national sales companies are in place, new challenges, new possibilities. Not immediately, The Powers That Be said, but with the earnestness of an insurance salesman we were assured of the tantilising future.

***

I felt the familiar tingle down my spine, the flighty voice of old: The chance to fly.

***

There is no logic behind my inane desire to run. There have been times, even at the height of my supposed contentment and happiness, when I was seized with the urge to disappear, to pack up, to go. It's selfish, it's unreasonable, it's trite, but it's there. But the residue of my adolescent angst to run away, to divorce myself from those I know and love, to leave and live, is the sun-scorched thirst for new experiences.

I can't reconcile this with those that are closest to me. I can barely reconcile this with myself. I wake up in the mornings and sometimes struggle with the overwhelming sense of self-doubt; how can someone as pragmatic and straight-headed as myself be brimming with flighty ideas and paper-light dreams? How can someone with all my responsibilities be tempted to drop them all for the impulsive uncertainty of something I can't even be my finger on?

***

But life has no care for my questions. Life's only cruelty - as I've long learnt - is its indifference. Our human struggles become waves on rocks and fists on walls; they will dissipate like smoke in the wind, and all we're left with is the hollow shell of regret.

I am afraid.

::hazelnut::

Youth blinds you. It blinds you and binds you into its ethereal promise of invincibility. All that is romantic, all that is plausible, all that is buttered with the immortal notions of beauty and of hope - all that goes into the immortal mixing bowl of youth.

I am young. I can afford to throw caution to the wind, to let it fly and tumble, to let it sail and fall; in my halcyon judgement I am shinning and golden and youth is my shield from the wayward winds of life.

Or am I?