Day 2 - Your Crush

Dear Crush,

Thank you for letting me "love" you then, at the tenderest age of ten, when everything I thought I knew about that word and life in general were things I had only read and seen in books and movies I had devoured in secret.

Kind of like how I "loved" you then. I devoured you and everything about you -- secretly, feverishly, obsessively -- while you went on with your days as usual, not knowing, not caring, not mine while I yearned and longed and "loved" as much as I knew how to then.

When I turned thirteen, with wants and desires violently churning on my insides, I gave in to courage and timidly laid my chapped, bleeding lips on yours.

The saddest part were your eyes once I opened mine, feeling myself returning to reality; your eyes told me everything I already knew but didn't want to know.

Years later, when I returned to the city, I learned of rumors about you and who and how and what you had become. The girlish fantasies were no longer there, but I still felt a certain kind of fondness for you -- an appreciation for your kindness, for the boy who I remembered you as, and not the man everyone told me you were now.

As I sit here, forced to remember you, writing this letter to you now, I sincerely hope you are doing well today, wherever and with whoever you are. Most of all, I hope you never forget who you were then, a boy deserving of a young girl's love when she was merely ten.

He proposed.

And lucky, lucky me.  I get to hold on to those amazing million little moments, again and again and again.

Memory Lane Mondays: Reliving prom.

As we finalize decisions and game plan for our Asia trip (17 days!), I find myself in slight panic mode, as I am still without a formal gown for the "Bollywood-themed" gala we will be attending while in Singapore. I think I hit the jackpot when I stumbled on http://www.promgirl.com/ last night, as there are many affordable, gorgeous styles in beautiful, vibrant colors. (Whether or not I will need to get the dress tailored is another story altogether.)

Which got me thinking: my highschool prom was sort of a disaster. Several people got stuck in traffic that day, including myself and the bestie, so we all ended up missing our dinner reservations. My then-boyfriend and I had also gotten into a huge argument at the beginning of the evening, which soured the rest of the night's festivities. But, worst of all, the dress I had oh so carefully designed and saved up money to get personally made -- the dress whose details I had several discussions with the seamstress months beforehand -- was ill-fitting, too short, and looked nothing like I had envisioned it to be.   

But there were definitely some bright moments. My aunt, who has been my hairstylist for years, did my gorgeous updo for free. We all had a good time ordering in pizza, relaxing and hanging out at my girlfriend's house beforehand. M and I were also thankful for the extra two hours we suddenly had on our hands to continue primping and getting ready.

And although prom itself and the after-party was a little lame, I am all in all very glad that I got to experience a staple American tradition, with funny stories and memories to share for years to come.

I Wrote This For You.

Know someone as much as you can. Hold onto the moments that define them. Then when their body leaves, they won’t.

...

You could get on my motorbike and we could drive to a lake. We could talk about what it means to be you, what it means to be me, what it means to love and what it means to be us. And in 20 years' time, we could look back on this day and know that we meant what we said.

...

You remember and dwell on all the things you've lost and ignore all the things you haven't. Because your scars are like stars. Yet the night stays perfectly black.

...

Prose from an old favorite, I Wrote This For You, that I was all too happy to rediscover recently, thanks to my friend V.

Oh, snow.

Trudging through inches upon inches of snow always reminds me of my childhood. Those Canadian winters were harsh and in all of my 14 years growing up there, I can only recall schools closing down once, when I was in the eight grade. Some white powder and ice never stopped anyone. We celebrated it, with winter festivals like Carnaval in Quebec and Winterlude in Ottawa.

We didn't have a car back then, and my mother and I took three different buses and walked miles upon miles once a week to get to my piano teacher's home, located in a far more affluent part of town. The one-hour lesson never seemed worth the amount of time we spent on the road to me. I hated the way I felt inside, watching all those big and beautiful houses silently go by as I blankly stared out the windows. I resented my mother for putting me through it. I slumped down to my knees once, simply because I no longer wanted to go on, and sat like that in the icy cold snow like a statue, refusing to move or even try. I cried and cried and was utterly miserable and repeatedly demanded she flag down a cab to take us home. But she said nothing. She waited and waited and waited until I was too numb to be stubborn and proud anymore and finally got up to quietly follow her. We got home so late I didn't even eat dinner that night.

Tough love. Snow reminds me of tough love.

Zombies have feelings too, you know.

There's been a nasty flu virus going around at work lately, with people remaining out of the office for days. My immune system is a terribly weak one as it is, but Nyquil and a variety of soups (soondubu, homemade lamb stew, and pho) have been my best friends these last few days.

Nevertheless, no matter how relatively successful my body has been fighting off these germs, I still felt like a walking zombie today and probably looked like one, too. If only we lived in Tim Burton's world, where Death was Life itself and creepy is the new cool. Pale skin, sunken cheekbones, and dark undereye circles would attract people instead of having them avoid me like the plague. Kind of inconvenient when you're trying to get some work out the door asap (ahem, coworker) or trying to kiss someone goodnight (ahem, Manfriend).

In any case, I have a feeling I'll be dreaming of shooting up zombies, Call of Duty: Black Ops-style tonight. Thanks, D & D!

"The Now Smash of Style" featuring models Magdalena Frackowiak, Eniko Mihalik, Jourdan Dunn, Evelina Mambetova and Suzie Bird

Vogue Italia, May '09

Photography by Craig McDean

The power of words.

I have always been in love with words; the way they look like in different languages, the way they sound like when they roll off the tip of my tongue.

As a child, I would have a weekly favorite, using and re-using it as often as I could, and then immediately jumping ship once I discovered a new one I liked. That was, and still is, the beauty of words. There were so many, and perhaps sometimes, there were too many. Words were lovely, and words were fun. They gave shape and colors to my ideas and dreams, and they gave my heart and imagination a song and story.

Yes, we've always had a great, grand love affair, those words and me. They were always mine to do and play with as I pleased. And yet these days, I find myself resenting them. Resenting them quite profoundly, actually.

I resent them as I struggle to find the right words to express my interest in a particular position at a particular company, without sounding too eager or jaded or bitter. I resent them for the monotony and dryness they bring to my days while I sit at my desk, not wanting to draft yet another response to yet another request. I resent them for not allowing me to say what I really want to say, when and to whom and exactly how I want to say it. I resent them for not coming to me when I really need them to be there for me.

But I resented them the most when someone very dear to me used them to slice and cut through me like paper to skin recently; quickly, almost unnoticeably, but immensely painful and bothersome when the realization slowly sank in. And for the very first time, I did not hate that dear someone for recklessly and thoughtlessly throwing those words at me like spears and arrows.

For the very first time, I hated those very words for even existing, for allowing her to tell me what she told me. I hated those words for not being neutral; for taking sides, and for not being on mine.

Today I resent you. Tomorrow, I'll try to love you again.

I sometimes live in the clouds.

Part of my routine before bed, when time allows it, is to browse for beautiful images to gaze at, in the hopes that it will lead me to dream beautiful dreams that night.

Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't -- but it was during one of these nights, quite some time ago, that I discovered the magical, whimsical works of Amber Gray. Her images are always so exquisitely captivating, and I always catch myself slowly falling into a trance-like state when admiring her photographs.

Time stops. And then reality melts away. And before I know it, I am finding myself riding into the lavender sunset on a peony pink winged-pony, delivering a white tiger cub to the gods above, with flowers and the wind in my hair. Sweet, sweet dreams.

My favorite places in the world, are places filled with you.

It is not a new concept, saying goodbye. But it is always so hard to do, each and every time. The lover's farewell, especially, is one that has always moved me deeply, and tremendously.

Because a day away is still a day too much, and my heart aches for those who have loved ones serving or working abroad this holiday season.

May they come back safely to you, and may you get to hold them tightly, oh so tightly, in your warm, loving arms once again soon.

"A Journey of Inseparable Love"

Harper's Bazaar Wedding Indonesia, November '10
Photography by Nicoline Patricia Malina

Angela Carter; Oscar and the Lady in Pink.

My three new (used) books I recently bought off Amazon have finally arrived. One of my absolute new favorites, Oscar and the Lady in Pink, moved me tremendously.

It is the epistolary story of a 10 year-old boy named Oscar suffering from cancer, who writes little letters to God even though he does not believe in Him.


At the suggestion of his beloved Mamie-Rose, Oscar also turns a decade older with each remaining day of December, in order to not miss any important life stages, and to die normally, of old age.

(At the unfortunate expense of revealing to you what happens, in the end ... my heart cried, when he died.)

The two other titles are from one of my favorite modern female authors, Angela Carter. Her writing is beautiful, lyrical -- and hauntingly so. I was introduced to her during my sophomore year of college in my Literature of Fantasy class. I fell in love almost immediately, for too many reasons.

I remember everything.
Yes.
I remember everything perfectly.

And so begins The Infernal Desire Machines of Doctor Hoffman. I will be sure to remember to tell you how it goes. I have a feeling it will be insanely bizarre.

All good things are wild, and free.

{all photos taken at the best friend's beautiful home}

Thank you, thank you, thank you lovers, for lending me your beautiful faces and precious time! The both of you made this first weekend of October so fun and wonderful.

Sleepless princess.

4 a.m.

The lover is sleeping soundly in the next room, and I am sitting here, on his couch, wandering the world (wide web) on his Mac, not wearing much, thinking too much, yet once again.

...

As far as I can remember, I have always had trouble sleeping. As a child, I recall waking up in the middle of the night, wondering and worrying about many things -- too many things that a five year-old most certainly should not be wondering and worrying about.

We lived in a quiet part of a rather quiet city back then, but that didn't stop me from hearing and seeing and feeling things -- things that made me fervently believe that the Night was very much alive; that, unlike her scorned lover Day, she was mysterious, devious, thoroughly envious of his Light.

I remember those nights. On those nights, little demon childs were awaiting in the shadows, waiting for me to fall asleep so they could steal my baby brother from me. Many a times, I had to gather enough strength from my Blanket of Courage, and many a times, I had to tiptoe past the Creature in My Closet, the Dragons in my Drawers, the Dog of Death guarding the door, to get to my brother's crib. Once there, my hand then slowly, ever so slowly, reached out to him through the bars, and gently rested itself on his beating little baby heart.

And when I was absolutely sure that my little brother was safe -- that he was who he really is, and that he was still breathing evenly -- only then did I borrow a tiny piece of his peacefulness to take with me on my perilous journey back to my own little bed.

When I have a daughter of my own, I will make sure to paint Pegasus on her walls, along with an invisible but most invincible armor for my little warrior princess to protect herself. And she, too, will win the war against Night all on her own, without the help of any army or princely Knight.