Eyes Wide Shut

It's the first time in months that I've got a free moment at work where there's nothing pressing to do. Just waiting around till 6pm to do a stereoscopic review. It's really nice. I may even get to go home at a reasonable hour. Sure there's still some documentation to do but that can wait.

Phew... (taking a breather)

It's an amazing feeling to let your brain go blank for a bit. It's a bit like going to sleep with your eyes open.

zzzzzz........................

Sad Existence

It's getting ridiculous. The inhumane hours, the grueling schedule, the lack of resources and the combined, crushing weight of everything is about to smash me to pieces. I've had enough! I don't know how to describe the excruciating frustration and fatigue that accumulates from days and months of working to the point of insanity. There has be to a better way. And there is, but right now I'm sitting in a deep, dark trough. The air is thin. It's hard to breath. It's an empty place and feels a like thick mud. I've dipped so slowly into it I've not realised I've sunk right in to my neck. And as I try to draw a breath to scream my torso is squeezed so tight I can only gasp short breaths. The tiny pinhole speck of light above seems to be closing. I want to put my head down and cry. What is the point of this sad existence?

It's quite incredible that two days of working after a great birthday long weekend could turn me back to being a morbid depressive.

Better re-read this funny email to cheer myself up:

Sent: Tuesday, September 08, 2009 11:12 AM
Subject: FW: I LOVE MY JOB.............................

Next time you have a bad day at work think of this guy:

Rob is a commercial saturation diver for Global Divers in Louisiana. He performs underwater repairs on offshore drilling rigs. Below is an E-mail he sent to his sister. She then sent it to radio station 103.2 FM in Ft,. Wayne, Indiana , who was sponsoring a worst job experience contest. Needless to say, she won.

Hi Sue,

Just another note from your bottom-dwelling brother.

Last week I had a bad day at the office. I know you've been feeling down lately at work, so I thought I would share my dilemma with you to make you realize it's not so bad after all.

Before I can tell you what happened to me, I first must bore you with a few technicalities of my job. As you know, my office lies at the bottom of the sea. I wear a suit to the office. It's a wet suit. This time of year the water is quite cool. So what we do to keep warm is this: We have a diesel powered industrial water heater. This $20,000 piece of equipment sucks the water out of the sea. It heats it to a delightful temperature. It then pumps it down to the diver through a garden hose, which is taped to the air hose. Now this sounds like a darn good plan, and I've used it several times with no complaints.

What I do, when I get to the bottom and start working, is take the hose and stuff it down the back of my wet suit.. This floods my whole suit with warm water. It's like working in a Jacuzzi. Everything was going well until all of a sudden, my butt started to itch. So, of course, I scratched it. This only made things worse... With in a few seconds my butt started to burn. I pulled the hose out from my back, but the damage was done. In agony I realized what had happened.

The hot water machine had sucked up a jellyfish and pumped it into my suit. Now, since I don't have any hair on my back, the jellyfish couldn't stick to it. However, the crack of my butt was not as fortunate. When I scratched what I thought was an itch, I was actually grinding the jellyfish into the crack of my butt.

I informed the dive supervisor of my dilemma over the communicator.... His instructions were unclear due to the fact that he, along with five other divers, were all laughing hysterically.

Needless to say I aborted the dive. I was instructed to make three agonizing in-water decompression stops totaling thirty-five minutes before I could reach the surface to begin my chamber dry decompression.

When I arrived at the surface, I was wearing nothing but my brass helmet. As I climbed out of the water, the medic, with tears of laughter running down his face, handed me a tube of cream and told me to rub it on my butt as soon as I got in the chamber.. The cream put the fire out, but I couldn't poop for two days because my butt was swollen shut.

So, next time you're having a bad day at work, think about how much worse it would be if you had a jellyfish shoved up your butt. Now repeat to yourself, "I love my job, I love my job, I love my job."

......

I FARKING LOVE MY JOB!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A Trip to the Hairdressers

I am so busy that I work overtime late into the night. I work so hard that I am even in on Saturdays and Sundays. I have spiralled into a life of monotony, and the only social outlet I have is when I take a smoke break with a colleague during the day.

About three months ago I went to a new hair stylist for the first time, under the recommendation of a colleague's wife. It was one of those trendy places that I'd normally not go to for I am too busy to care about looks these days. I was a bit nervous when I saw the establishment, all austere in black and white, its sleek waif-like staff in their stylish charcoal greys and hair of asymmetric coolness, standing around with not much too do except appraise each customer as they walk in, then according to their wealth vs hip scale treat you with as little respect as they can spare. I think I wore an granny smith green cardigan that day (oh but I thankfully wore BLACK jeans that day, phew).

They gave me a form to fill out.

I think they give forms out to the plebs while the celebs breeze straight up to the mezzanine level for that VIP treatment. High above the plebs.

For the life of me I couldn't help but feel a sense of hopelessness as I filled that form out. Why was I bothering to get a haircut in a place like this? Was I hoping a new hair do would hide all my other physical faults? Perhaps if they gave me a Rapunzel do. Then I could use all that hair to wrap myself up like it were a hijab. So I get a trendy haircut, it wasn't going to hide that fact that I'm a fashion disaster. I sat there and sweated away my self confidence to the point of fretting over getting the answers wrong on that stupid form. Which asked for my name, contact number and address. An imbicile in disguise, that's what I am and they'll soon they'll all discover it. Somehow the last reserves of my liquidfying mind tells me to play it cool... Bah I say to your forms! I shan't fill it in, I defy your authority!

So there.

I hand back their piece of paper with childish scrawls in Chinese, a language I can barely speak let alone script nicely. Was there a slight disapproving look as they take a glance at my form? Ha! Probably beyond their faux dyed hair folicles why anyone didn't want to comply to their standards of conformity. I was then lead to the mezzanine level.

The hair washing was nice I must admit. It was a well executed routine with a very good neck and head massage included. I've been to lesser hairdressers and hate it when they get water in your ear or press too hard on your scalp or just can't get the water temperature right the second time they turn the water on when they ask at the beginning what your preference is. This was a good treatment.

I am lead back to my perch on the mezzanine level. They offer me tea and coffee and lay a thick slab of CURRENT magazines on the bench for me to read. I pick one up and non chalantly flip through the pages of couture and dead eyed models in their canary yellow mowharks, indigo eyes and glamourous lifestyles. I stop at the serious articles on the meaning of post modernism architecture and why terrorism is on the rise. I am studious and worldly and unaffected by material luxury such as this haircut I'm getting. Though I am a little annoyed that I've had to pretend to read these articles whilst waiting for my stylist to show. Time is money people!

He arrives and in my head I forgive his tardiness. There's nothing to say really about what caught my eye. There was nothing overt, and nothing hinted. There was just something about him I found attractive. A casual sense of dress, a quiet spoken voice, an attempt at being funny that didn't really pull off. Perhaps within all the artificiality and pretense of coolness was a man who was simply himself, cool. Upon realising this fact I turn into ice maiden. Two can play that game right? At the end of the session he tells me my new short do probably won't last for more than 2 months and that I'll need to get a refresher sooner. That was three months ago and I finally went back for that refresher today.

The waif staff were there still, but somehow less scary today. Just young. The imposing black, white and charcoal intereior seemed dull too. There was no form to fill in today, just straight to a seat on the first floor near the front door. The tea was consistent and so was the massage. He showed up moments later and remembered me from our previous cut. I still find him attractive, but I do not turn into an ice maiden. The cut was great, spunky like me. I decide to go back for my next refresher within two months.

Freakishly Awake

It is 3am Sunday night, or Monday morning depending on how technically correct you want to be. I am not looking forward to going to work in the morning. I am so tired of the sh*t that's going on. I feel like quitting even though I know I won't. I set myself a task and that is to stay on till the end of the project and that is what I'll do. But it still doesn't change the fact that I dread the idea of going back in a few hours. This is bad. This is what happens when you work too many hours and working weekends and suddenly one weekend you decide you have to take off and you get too much time to think why it's better to have a job that doesn't require you to be there seven days a week and you begin to resent it even though you didn't resent it before and was actually keeping a cheery disposition because well, you could. At 3am my mind is racing. Past events keep repeating that are of no consequence on today, or any other day in the future for that matter. I wonder if it's a reaction to the coffee I had at 7pm. No, it must something more. And no, it's not to do with what happened on Friday night. I know it isn't, because these things are not beyond my EQ. But I did freak out a little at the time, because I was completely drained from the stress I was under at work and it was the last thing I'd wanted to deal with and I had no idea it was coming. Seriously, even after 5 minutes into the conversation I had no idea what the other person was trying to say. I was blind-sighted. Exhausted and blind. But it clicked when he said he and his girlfriend are on a trial separation. Dear god. Once I heard that I knew what the rest of the speech was without hearing it. It's happening again. Why me? Why do I give people this wonderful sense of trust that they feel they can talk to me about anything and everything, and that I am this caring, thoughtful person that gives a sh*t? I hate that I do care. Because I'm drained right now. And the only person I can think about right now is me. I know that's selfish, I know that's not nice but I've been alone for years now, I'm used to thinking about me, and the last "relationship" I had was utterly soul-destroying because I cared and he didn't. Why doesn't someone rescue me for a change? He actually said he would, bless his cotton socks. Yes, bless them all! But still does me no good. He wasn't riding a white horse and he had no armour. I'm cursed to be a romantic forever. Every girl wants a fairytale, even though every modern girl knows it's practically impossible. And in practice, almost impossible. I am the poor sucker for the "just might be a tiny bit possible" part. Reality check please. Strange as I am completely and utterly rational. Freaky and awake. But I don't think it's the reason why I'm being insomniac tonight. It's work that I don't want to face tomorrow. Trying to delay its existence, for I know once I fall asleep, the next thing that happens is I open my eyes and the truth will be upon me. Sigh. Admitting denial is for the poor man who can't afford to not face the truth. Being in it is for the rich man who can. If you know what I mean. One happy thing about the weekend has been the rain. The lovely rain beating down a happy, strong rhythm. It was like a veil that cut me off from my troubles. I was hidden and untouchable. But the rains are clearing now and I hear the chirps of the early birds. Sirens that alarm me to the approaching day, marching marching marching towards me, ready to sieze me and haul me off to the firey incinerators. Curse the day!

No Smoking (but only if you don't want to)

When the ban on smoking in public indoor areas became effective on January 11, 2009 in Taiwan, little notice was made of it. People at work continued to smoke in the fire stairs for at least three weeks. Every pub or bar I've been to since the ban still allows its patrons to smoke. Once early in the ban I'd forgotten and asked the barman for an ashtray. The barman apologetically reminded me that smoking indoors is now illegal while handing me a cup filled with a small amount of water as an improvised ashtray. Other patrons were less mindful, ashing directly into the candle holders. I've never heard of a non-smoking patron complain at any one of these establishments.

It is now 5 months after the ban and indoor smoking has not yet diminished. It's been disregarded by the smoking community and entertainment establishments without much consequence. I am not advocating for a reversal on the law, but I do believe in enforcing the law. Especially when this law was established to protect the health of the community.

What could be even more disturbing is whether this kind of disregard for the rules is indication of greater disrespect for the law. If, adherence to the simplest of rules is ignored, where then does the it end? I don't want sound hysterical, but there are some things that should be monitored and a society taught to be responsible.

Night Thoughts

Nights are mysterious. So are night creatures. We need light to flourish but night creatures flourish against nature's intent. Wondrous night creatures.

Lover's Quarrel

Being single and living alone has its benefits. It means a clean house that no one can mess up. The fridge is never full of someone else’s half eaten and forgotten take away. There’s never a queue to do the washing machine (I once shared a house with 12 people, so I know!), and for that matter, the bathroom. I have the luxury of walking around the house in as much or as…well, you get picture. It also means I can spend over 12 hrs a day at the office, knowing I have nothing to go home to. No pets, no plants except the hardier ones, no loved one. I am thankful that I have great people to work with. But similar to any relationship, when anyone stresses out far too much it affects everyone. They’re pissed off, so you’re pissed off. You get short with one another an get on each other’s nerves. But what’s worse is that you can’t scream and yell at them then slam the door as you walk out. That satisfying act of violence. All you can do is sit and brood, and wait for the tide to turn.

Reaction

Ooooooooooooh I'm impressed!  The ability to potentially email your posts from your work email, and not be caught blogging from the website itself.  What a marvellous invention.

I like.

How bout a subject line

Let's see if this works better...

I'm trying out the new fandangle function of emailing my blog posts.  Let's see it in action.

Fundamentals

The alarms sounds at 7:55am. I turn it off, knowing a second will ring in 10 mins. My eyes fly open when that happens, disturbed by its frequency having already fallen back to sleep. I switch that off and fall back to sleep but this time, only semi-consciously. The alarm calls for the third and final time and I am awake. The light is faint in my room and I can tell it's grey outside. Another grey and cool morning. My bed is warm and comforting, and I toy with the idea of playing hooky. It's the most deviant and exciting thing I will consider doing for the rest of the day as a force stronger than me pulls me out of bed. I sigh at the burden of having a sense of responsibility. I decide to take my time getting ready, believing it's time I've earned for working till 11pm the night before and probably will again tonight as I've done often enough these days.

Home is a small apartment. The upper floor is the "budoir", consisting of a double bed, wardrobe, shelves, portable charlie horse*, dressing table, night stand and a reading lamp. I go downstairs to the tiny living room/dining room/games room/study with kitchenette, taking care on the narrow steps. Only about two weeks ago I took a tumble, on route to the bathroom in the middle of a dark night, in a drunken daze, bringing down my forearm directly onto the blunt edge of a step. It resulted in an over-turned pot plant, spilt soil and a cricket ball sized bruise, deliciously swollen black and purple. I was brave and did not cry, just gritted the pain that shot through my arm and into the pit of my stomach.

Getting ready in the mornings is a bore. It's simply routine. I think I am literally do it in my sleep. Wash and dress and I'm out of the door of my 6th floor apartment. My lift is an all mirrored affair. Useful reminder that the dark circles under my eyes will not go away. Out onto the street I walk briskly. Down to the main intersection where my bus stop is. There are two breakfast vendors that are unfailingly stationed at the two ends of the block. One is a middle-aged lady selling noodles and "oil rice" from a push cart, the other further down is a husband and wife team serving fresh shallot pancakes and soy milk from the back of their small truck. Whilst I am tempted most days, I am usually more deficient in caffeine and breeze past both options to catch the next bus that booms down. My day in the real world begins.

Shark Attack in Sydney

Just saw on the news that there was a shark attack in Sydney Harbour. There's even a link to an excel spreadsheet of shark attacks in this article. The guy didn't die, but he was rushed to hospital with a hand nearly severed and chucks taken from his leg and backside. Poor guy.

But this incident also highlights an interesting fact. The fact that the waters of Sydney Harbour are getting cleaner. Cleaner water means more fish, and more fish means more attraction for the sharks to come in for a good feed. When was the last time you heard good news about the environment?

So come on tourists! Come to the clear clear waters of Sydney and enjoy nature at its best. Right in the heart of Australia's most dazzling city.

Awww. I miss Sydney. It's the sunshine. Get a little sun on you and you just feel gay! Ahem. No pun intended.

Chapter Two

She puts the phone down. She never had any intention of calling him in the first place. Perhaps it's her age, something more primal, more hormonal that caused her to have a momentary weakness. Some need to partner up and nest. There would be no point calling and feigning nicety. She didn't want false pretenses where he mistakes politeness for interest. And to have to tell someone you're not interested would only just create unnecessary inconvenience for both parties. There was no desire to tempt friendship either, not when she was about to leave in a few short months for good. What kind of friendship would develop anyway? She certainly didn't want him to think she would oblige to a "mutually beneficial" friendship. She had had plenty of those in her youth, but now she had moved onto other goals in life. It is now time for emotional fulfillment.

A man who doesn't call a woman back is called a bastard. Are the issues at the forefront of a woman's consideration when she doesn't call a man back also rests so prominently in a man's mind when he does the same? I'd be very intrigued and pleasantly surprised if they were. But let's face it girls, men are bastards.

Piecing It Together

Any of my friends will tell you I have a useless memory. And it doesn't strike me how bad until I am jolted by a sudden return of a snippet of the past which brings on an involuntary Cheshire smile or a swell of uncontrolled embarrassment or even a flash of pure anger. Then the feeling disappears and I marvel at how strong that tiny piece of memory was, and feeling completely at a loss as to why I had misplaced that memory in the first place. It's like being half a person. I am never fully aware of myself and every day I feel like I am still premature, or delayed in my personal growth, when perhaps these feelings may be unfounded if I could just refer back to any minute detail of my past and find answers to my doubt.

Watched the end of A Streetcar Named Desire today, where Vivien Leigh's Blanche DuBois is having a conversation with Marlon Brando who plays Stanley. She talks about beauty fading, but that she has intelligence and culture and depth to offer, and being rich in that sense. Though she does lose her mind by the end of the film I do like this bit of self-confidence and don't feel it's at all part of the dementia she suffers towards her self-image. It was almost a glimmer of hope that she understands the reality of her situation but still holds a small flicker of hope for a better future...that is, until Stanley brutally demolishes her with his words.

Someone once did that to me, brutal to me with words. I was with him for a year and every day knew it was shit and literally counting down the days till I left. But the strangest, most unexplainable thing in that non-relationship relationship was that I'd wanted it to work so much that I kept defending him to myself. I still cannot explain to myself to this day why I felt like this about a man I didn't even want in the first place. Then I left. And I was a normal human being again. The hollows in my memory bank are serving me well.

Corner

Darkness. Music. Strobe lights. Smoke. He shows interest. You show interest. You grind together on the dance floor. Go home together. He asks for your number, then he never calls. You call him a bastard. Every girl has been there before.

Now reverse that role.

A girl takes a boy home on Saturday night. She had been out with a group of friends and had no particular intention except to enjoy a rare night out. As girls do, they giggle and talk about boys. Banded together they play that universal game of Spot, spotting for those they deemed good looking. He was one she had noticed early on, being a tall, muscular black man wading in a pool of Taiwanese people. A few glasses of liquid courage later, she approaches a white guy at the bar for a chat. The reception was cool, so she leaves him alone. Her friend, a married lady, helps by marching them both directly to the black man and asks if He is single. He is. He hits the ground running by asking them both to dance. A smooth move indeed on his part. Girls do believe in safety in numbers, though our girl has somewhat grown out of that need. A benefit of age she likes to think. Very quickly they take to each other. It is familiar territory for them both, that dancing is a kind of foreplay.

But did she really want what was presented to her or did she simply take what was being offered? He was an excellent lover, and sweet too. In the morning He asked for her number. She asks for his instead. In polite parlance it would have been gracious to call or text that day to say she had a great time. To play the game would have been to apply the Three Day Rule. To be a bastard was to do nothing at all. She effected option three.

Why did she choose to be a bastard? Why, if she herself had been through the disappointment of not receiving an expected phone call, would now do the same to another? There were many considerations. She wasn't interested in a fling. She was interested in a meaningful relationship. She wasn't interested in making a new friend. She was interested in learning through a lifetime of friendship. There was no time either; she plans to leave the country within six months. Though handsome and considerate, he also seemed young. There wasn't a trace of arrogance or bitterness. Just smooth lines of grace and positivity, of an unfettered life, of self-created adventures and explorations. It wouldn't have worked, she keeps telling herself. There is no point, her resolve weakening. She picks up the phone. She puts it down. She picks up the phone. And considers.

Sydney

Sydney is home. Its clear blue skies an allure that will never fade, the familiarity will never wane. Despite its constant face lifts. Sydney is my Sydney.

I went home two weeks ago to play bridesmaid to Clare's bride. Ravi, Clare's husband-to-be, has been known to me for almost the same amount of time as Clare. Amazingly, our friendships were forged on the dance floor. Hours and hours in night clubs in Sydney, weekends whiled away with music, sweat and laughter. So when one is called to duty, one accepts. With honor. And a little smirk too, at having always known I was right. But of course every thing associated with Clare and Ravi involves a small degree of personal risk. As much as they like to make fools of each other, they also like to make fools of you and two days before the wedding I am told to make a speech at the reception.

It was no demand but it was wrung with guilt: "You don't have to make a speech, we'll just ask them to take you off the list of speakers. It's just that you have so many stories to tell of the times we've shared." That last sentence sent a chill down my back. The Luddite has never been known to have a good memory and though I know I have true and treasured friendships I am already foggy of all of their details (I hasten to assure this does not desaturate the love I have for all my Near and Dears, and even the Far Aways).

In the end duty again prevails and I am still pen to paper at 4am the morning of the wedding, still trying to reconstruct some misty time, a darken place and muffled ringing in my ear to see Clare and Ravi again on the dance floor of our youths...

The day of the wedding arrives and the house is abound with nervous ladies, faces half-done, hair over-done and in all states of dress. Then photographers came and we hasten to shoot. Then it was time to scoot.

The procession from house to car to National Maritime Museum all led to a marriage ceremony on the decks of the HMAS Vampire. Neither of them or any of their relatives belong to the Navy. Clare and Ravi simply know how to do things with flare, but apparently I too, without intention. It was when we began our walk down the aisle toward the expectant and smiling guests. I followed Ravi's parents. They were able to avoid a small metal protrusion on the deck floor, what looked like a small hoop that ropes could be thread through, though I was oblivious to the fact concentrating as hard as I was to effect elegance and grace. I tripped on the thing and cantered at double time like a show jumping pony. To regain my composure and dignity I turned with class and yelled back to the bride "You betta watch this thing 'ere!". The rest of the evening proceeds unhindered.

When Clare and Ravi left for their one week honeymoon, they also left me the use of their car, a luxury convenience I've missed having (let's just say I wouldn't be The Luddite if I could afford it). A car means freedom, music and wind in your hair. It means the right to gripe at other people's driving and marvel at one's own parking. I was able to visit friends and relatives, run errands and the simple enjoyment at having control over my own transportation destiny.

I became reacquainted with the streets of Sydney, feeling an old familiarity rising. Every turn of the wheel led to a once frequented street and I marveled at the speed of change in the city. There is no doubt Sydney is a champion beauty, but it remains so even at such a dynamic rate. There is an appreciation of the harbour that is motivating the government's plans to move loading docks and cargo ships further south to Botany Bay. There is a general love of the good life in its people and a healthy sense of well being just to bask in its sun.

My trip home was purposeful, but even more significantly, my trip home gave me more than I realised I'd needed: a rejuvenated spirit and a greater love for my city, Sydney.

Rock Star

The vice president of the country is visiting our company right now. He's in the screening room viewing some of our works and all staff had to don company t-shirts (yay team... that was sarcasm in case anyone missed it) to welcome him when he entered the foyer. Our boss lady was drooling.

Lots of national security men are standing around our office space. I feel sorry for these guys, especially ones posted at areas of lesser security risk. It's a lot of standing around, being bored but not allowed to show it. But it makes me feel uncomfortable as well. I'm obviously not doing work but updating my blog and the guy standing behind me is well aware of this fact.

I wonder if I should offer him some Kangaroo jerky I brought back from Sydney last week.

But they do look a lot better than the guys that were guarding prime minister who visited earlier this summer. Those guys wore what I assumed to be regulation issued short sleeve business shirts designed to make anyone look like they are wearing a moo-moo. With a collar. So they looked like scrawny guys in over-sized shirts. The prevalence of glasses wearing among the men also took away from the hard body guard image.

I guess the vice president is about to leave, there are lots of cheering and clapping in the foyer. Though mostly led by one person. And Elvis has left the building.

I Got It!

Was at The Wall tonight. Finally! Yo La Tengo ("I got it" in espanola) created a night of eclecticism, writhing in softly tingling tones, bursting to massive guitar rifts, percussion upon percussion to individual piano keys. The venue was great, small but perfectly suited to the seductiveness of the sound emanating from the stage, drawing circles in the air then rocking the dust out of it.

The Wall
台北市羅斯福路四段200號B1
近捷運公館站1號出口
Tel: 02-2930-0162
B1, No. 200, Roosevelt Road, Taipei City
Near Exit 1, Gongguang MRT

He Looked Like Colin Firth

Having been a little miserable lately what with work clamping down on us like a bloody vice, I thought back to happier times and laughed out loud today at the thought of having slept with a guy many years ago purely because he looked like Colin Firth. Colin Firth, or Mr Darcy of acclaimed BBC fame, that tall dark smouldering man any woman with brains would give up her intellect for. It was one of those nights out that had become regular, with some really close friends, out for a good night at a small club in Kings Cross that was partly owned by a friend's friend or some other equally close non-acquaintance. Drinks and dancing, but predominately E-laced euphoria sustained by the energy of speed, that was always a favourite mix of mine. We'd laugh all night, crowded into the small rooms of the converted terrace house, where you could go onto the first floor balcony to take a cool sip from your drink and cool breeze through the leaves before you overheat and dehydrate. Always remember to hydrate yourself in that situation. It's so easy to forget. But we didn't and we were happy, and danced and danced and danced. And when I looked across the room in my happy state, I saw happy reflected. If not more. We danced together and chatted about this and that. Nothing was amiss, just a feeling of invincibility and utter understanding. Towards the end of the night friends began to dwindle away. We bade our farewells, and left together, back to his place. The sky was beginning to lighten and I remember looking at him in the growing light and thinking, my god, he really looks like Mr Darcy. He really, really looks like Mr Darcy. There was no hiding my delight. Then he says, my girlfriend is away at her parents this week so we'll be alright.

What?, I said. Didn't I tell you?, he said. In our state who remembers who said what when, but I know that he didn't say anything before hand. I calculated. He approached me. He spoke to me first. He suggested we come here. I was single. I didn't want anything except the moment. The beautiful moment. Nothing could be sweeter. I am still euphoric, and I was with Mr Darcy. Driving home, I made my usual call to a close friend to tell my secret. He was a perfect gentleman! He was exquisite! We were connected in our minds and souls. I even remember telling her, almost pontificating as I insisted that ecstasy played no part in my judgement of his agreeable manner and I was on top of the world and everything had its perfect ending. Everything was sublime. And it was. And I laugh that I have this strange, far away, dream-like memory.

The Impossible Dream

There is melancholy in the air. I am listening to Radiohead, and it feels like it should be raining outside, drops forming on the window pane, gathering, trickling down in haphazard streaks, colliding then molding to the sill beyond my vision where it all collects, held for moment by its own tension before breaking free and diving into the wet, musky soil of the garden below.

But it is not raining. In fact, it is a gorgeously bright sun-filled day, brighter and clearer than any other day I've seen in the city of Taipei. The diamond brilliance of the day is also burning the air that we breath and for once, there is no humidity clinging to our bodies. But the effusive sadness still lingers, heavy.

Inside the gleaming concrete building there have been a constant stream of politics being played, prejudices thrown against closed doors, misunderstanding on professional and cultural levels that though subtle are nevertheless available to anyone willing to see the truth behind the thin veneer. I write these accusations with guilt, but can it be false if a close friend has decided to leave rather than further injure herself in this house of polite impudence?

So, I am sad. And like her, I am tired of seeing the faults. Our castle of sand will stand in the late afternoon sun, still surrounded by playful children and families that watch on with pride at their joys. When the source of day dips below the horizon, the crowds depart, the moon will rise and entice the foamy tides to shore. Where then will our sand castle be?

I'm now listening to Masters at Work's Pienso en Ti (Thinking of You). If nothing else, the experience will be learned and let modified. The breathless air forgotten, the piercing light of that single bulb shaded, and we hold onto all that was good.