Reading the newspaper

‘That abominable and sensual act called reading the newspaper,’ wrote Proust, ‘thanks to which all the misfortunes and cataclysms in the universe over the last twenty-four hours, the battles which cost the lives of fifty thousand men, the murders, the strikes, the bankruptcies, the fires, the poisonings, the suicides, the divorces, the cruel emotions of statesmen and actors, are transformed for us, who don’t even care, into a morning treat, blending in wonderfully, in a particularly exciting and tonic way, with the recommended ingestion of a few sips of cafe au lait.’

- extract from How Proust Can Change Your Life, by Alain de Botton

Now if only everything he wrote was as succinctly insightful and humorous as this little blurb, I might muster up enough courage to dip my toes into In Search of Lost Time. Sylvia Townsend blames Proust’s translator on the lengthy tome but I’m not so sure myself.

Masochism

I see myself now, coolly imagined, a cat coiled in a corner with waving tail and wary eyes- all ready to spring at the mailman when he comes round- WHERE IS MY EX LIBRIS!!!! I wants it. My precious!

Oooh sorry about the mixed metaphors one can’t help it in such a state of anxiety.

I am both excited and afraid to read it. Excited because I know I will love it, afraid because once I do, it will be over all too soon and my life, so elevated in that breathless time, will sink again into the quotidian.

Which is worse- to know you are going to love a book and turn its pages, faint with reverence and delight, then nearly sick with the knowledge that each page is one page closer to the end; or to not have known and read with amazement and then the guilt at the illicitness of finding something so intensely pleasurable.

I think I shoot myself in the foot really. But how can I prevent the pain from marring the pleasure? How can I not read and at the back of my head, worry- it is almost masochistic. Then when it is over, after the acknowledgements (which I read as well, every word), after I reluctantly close the cover and hold it, swimming with regret, how I envy all those whose souls are still oblivious to the pleasure that may be theirs for the taking! To have drunk from the cup of ecstasy and then be denied it- torture- yet we do it time and again without end.

Pruning

Back in my pinafored days, my primary school teachers decided that allowing each class a small gardening trough outside our classrooms might cultivate in us, through the tending of plants, nurturing natures of our own. Shy, curious and rather prone to obsessions and personal projects even back then, I took to caring for the small trough with considerable elan. It suited me perfectly- I could carry out my mild agricultural experiments without any protest from my obliging subjects. These were mostly done during recess period after the clamour of students had subsided down the stairwells; in companionable silence, my fledgling lady’s finger plants watched as I mixed this and that into an old plastic container- crushed eggshells were a particular favourite due to the delightful crunchiness they lent to the mulch whilst their membraneous interiors looked appropriately nutritious.

Soon, those moments of calm would become one of the highlights of my young student life. Sometimes, one of my classmates would join me and we would pick happily at pestilent weeds, strip off dead leaves and bandage broken limbs with ice-cream sticks and raffia. Under the unrelenting tide of our attentions, what could our poor plants do but dutifully bear fruit and flower? These we steamed and ate with light soya sauce- I don’t believe I’d ever felt so ecstatic about slimy vegetables- and thus, my love affair with the plant was finally consummated.

Those nascent green longings have recently surfaced again- I find myself dragging mother and forbearing boyfriend on a crazy tree-hunting expedition in Singapore’s rural country; I find myself staring forlornly at pictures of beautiful golden raintrees on the web, abject in the knowledge that I may not tame nor contain their majesty in my modest garden. I now know, through the kind and learned instruction of online tutorials, how to prune trees with gentleness and minimal invasiveness- remove waterspouts, cross-branching and competing leads, cut after the branch collar or small potential side branches, angling away from the bud- always ensure that the natural shape of the tree is preserved, taking care that the tree has sufficient photosynthetic cover to produce food to support its growth.

This morning, in a burst of self-realisation, it dawned on me (on the MRT to work- inspiring place!) that my housekeeping style might be likened to that of gardening, or more accurately, pruning. My attitude towards mess can be quite adequately depicted as indulgent. However, when the mess starts assuming a life of its own (by this I don’t mean literally crawling with things- untidyness is not the same as dirtiness, may I caveat, and I cannot tolerate the latter), something within me unsheaths a gleaming pair of pruning shears and in a fevered spate of hyperproductivity and flashing metal, the hedges are renewed.

Who knew that gardening was such an instinctive trait? The hunt for a perfect tree continues. But in the meantime, it looks like the only pruning I’ll be doing will be inside my bedroom.

The Element of Lavishness

I’m afraid that the words here of late have not been my own. However, eager victims of the sweet, sharp blade of perfect syntax rejoice! For more perfect prose has been discovered! This time in the form of a compilation of letters, from Sylvia Townsend Warner to William Maxwell, a volume called “The Element of Lavishness”. They write beautifully, eloquently and admiringly to each other, their letters often interlaced with sly wit and the most wonderfully expressed humour. Here, an exerpt from the Brit to the American on politics:

Personally, I cannot endure Eisenhower; the man is perpetually in tears; even for a military man, he cries too easily. Whichever way the election goes, I suppose he will cry on Stevenson’s bosom, and that must be a disagreeable thought for Stevenson. I think I am giving way to national prejudice, though. Public characters in this country are not supposed to weep in public, except about cricket.

On reading in the bath:

The other day I said to a clergyman I met that though I always read in my bath, as all sensible people do, I disliked the moment when one has to decide whether to wash one’s hands or go on reading and respecting the binding. He said that if I were to content myself with the burial and baptismal service, this problem would be overcome, as both of them are issued by some Church of England publishing house with waterproof bindings. Did you know this?

Lately, I think I read less for plot than for observations and sentence structure and these two styles of prose: letters and essays – hitherto untraversed – have yielded such a rich literary harvest that I am rather overcome with the discovery of it. But in this gluttony there is plenty glee.

Lepidoptery

Who would not wish to take such a creature home? To glimpse something so gaudily tropical, more like a quetzal than a sparrow, on your own home ground; to pursue it across the lawn, down the stone steps, around the two topiary peacocks that stood guard over the wading pool, and along the flower border until it lit on a phlox or a zinnia; to swoop your net through the air and see something fluttering inside; to snatch that bit of life from the rich chaos of nature into your own comparatively lackluster world, which it instantly brightened and enlarged; to look it up in Klots and name it and know it- well, after you did that a few times, it was hard to muster much enthusiasm for Parcheesi.

from At Large and At Small, by Anne Fadiman

Sigh. Am blissfully content. Reading her essays are a delightful afternoon’s ramble from a well-manicured garden into the unruly beyond, and back again.

Go Local!

The design scene in Singapore is really heating up and it’s so heartening to me. Banish the uglies and bring on the pretties! We have a long way to go but if there’s a minor design revolution going on here, why not be part of it?

So I think we should all shop local and support all these up and coming designers and retailers.

My favourites:

Soon Lee

Wonderfully curated and located on the second floor of a Haji Lane shophouse. My wallet suffers a major blow each time I walk up the staircase (and down again) but it’s worth it coz I cart home a bagful of loot and a gleeful grin.

Casual Poet

On the floor of a New Bridge Road shophouse. Hmmm. Loving this shophouse thing…malls are so sterile. Paper goods and books and knick knacks! I’ve never been there yet but it’s way up there on my to-visit list.

Little Red Dots

These guys are design geniuses. Yep. They make me look at things you never noticed before (food covers and bamboo poles used for hanging clothes as furniture?)

And I love these little enclaves that are springing up all over the place. =)

The Nutcracker

Retail is TRULY therapy. I figure this is why I slog the hours at work…so I can waltz into shops and buy whatever I want. Tim had to play the long suffering boyfriend role and follow me from shop to shop…Nicholas to Felt to Baylene to Hide & Seek to Soon Lee to Harry Halim at M.

Instead of feeling guilty, I honestly feel that everything I bought was worth every single cent. Especially since there were sales at Felt & Soon Lee!

My favourite things that I bought today are probably a floaty white silk Harry Halim skirt, cool Sass & Bide pencil skirt, black & jade beaded necklace from WoonHung and Frederick!!!! My knave and protector. By way of explanation, Frederick hails from Soon Lee and is a nutcracker soldier in a lime green military coat with the fiercest wooden sword at his hip. He will protect me from the terrors of the night (and evil rats of course) as he keeps watch by my computer in the office. He’s my friend and guardian.

=) I’m terribly happy. He said to please call him Fred!

P.S: Fred has ruddy cheeks and a rosy tipped nose. Just thought you’d like to know. =P

Analyse this

My dreams over the past two days:

Yesterday – Saved a kangaroo rat from drowning (it WAS a kangaroo rat but looked more like a kitten with a kangaroo’s body)

Today - Learnt from an instructive demonstration that eating Staedtler 2B pencils cures nicotine breath

What is the universe trying to tell me?

Things that make me HAPPY

Decided to do a Domino here. =)

1) Best-Vongole-in-Singapore Hunting (so far Bathers in Sunset Way and Pepperoni Pizzeria top the list, but make sure to ask for the soupy white wine version in the latter coz the dry version is urgh)

2) Affogato (Sopra on Sydney’s Danks St makes a REALLYYYY good creamy vanilla bean (yes you can see the flecks!!) and just bitter-enough espresso shot version that woke up every nerve in my body and sent me grinning like a right dork onto the autumnal streets. Everything looked more beautiful.)

3) Favourite florist in the world. Sarah’s arrangements leave me all gaga and dreamy. I love how they look like they’ve just been plucked off a meadow somewhere though we can all guess how painstaking it is to achieve that wild, just tossed together look: Saipua

4) Antique shops on Queen St, Woollahra, Sydney. They are SOOOOO beautiful. I could have stared at the beautiful antiques all day. In my wildest dreams, I own one of those shops and sell stripped down european antique wing chairs which clients can upholster in bespoke fabrics. I would also sell those beautiful masculine leather armchairs you could hide in for a day reading books or just watching the world waltz by. One of the shops we sauntered into had the most amazing elaborate gilt framed smoky mirrors and beautiful lamps with intricate iron work and this gorgeous wooden ladder/side table (I believe it was originally meant to reach the upper shelves in floor to ceiling libraries) which was going for a cool 12K aussie.

5) Bourke St Bakery’s (Sydney) Strawberry Vanilla Bean Creme Brulee Tarts! Oh yum. You have no idea. These rank up there with Magnolia Bakery’s Mini Caramel Pecan Cheesecakes and the Creme Catalan at Taller de Tapas in Barcelona. I.e. food of the gods.

6) Breakfast at Simmone Logue in Double Bay, Sydney- Banana nut bread laden with ricotta cheese and drizzled with honey.

7) Buono on Lichfield Rd, Singapore. All Serangoon Gardens folk should take note! Lovely hidden gem of an italian restaurant in a sleepy suburban estate. It’s on one corner of a old shophouse row and the sort of place where teensy shorts and havs would not be out of place. Casual/cool. Go for the Buono pizza and the beef carpaccio and you will do no wrong. Vongole & mushroom risotto are not up to scratch. We will try more dishes and dish here. I love the authentic italian chef (Chef Buono) though! Reasonably priced- we had 2 mains and an antipasti and paid about 60-ish.

Why is almost everything here about food? I’m quite obsessed with Sydney now. Desperately want to go back. Bay views bay views bay views!!!! Totally understand Sydneysiders’ obsession with real estate.

Anyone Else But You

I LOVE JUNO!!!!!!!!!!!
And this song is the cutest ever! Love it love it love itttt.

Anyone Else But You- The Moldy Peaches

You’re a part time lover and a full time friend
The monkey on you’re back is the latest trend
I don’t see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

I kiss you on the brain in the shadow of a train
I kiss you all starry eyed, my body’s swinging from side to side
I don’t see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

Here is the church and here is the steeple
We sure are cute for two ugly people
I don’t see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

The pebbles forgive me, the trees forgive me
So why can’t, you forgive me?
I don’t see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

I will find my nitch in your car
With my mp3 DVD rumple-packed guitar
I don’t see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

Du du du du du du dudu
Du du du du du du dudu
Du du du du du du dudu du

Up up down down left right left right B A start
Just because we use cheats doesn’t mean we’re not smart
I don’t see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

You are always trying to keep it real
I’m in love with how you feel
I don’t see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

We both have shiny happy fits of rage
You want more fans, I want more stage
I don’t see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

Don Quixote was a steel driving man
My name is Adam I’m your biggest fan
I don’t see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

Squinched up your face and did a dance
You shook a little turd out of the bottom of your pants
I don’t see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you

Du du du du du du dudu
Du du du du du du dudu
Du du du du du du dudu du
But you