Just making a note of the year past.
The year of grit.
The year of fire.
The year of ‘nothing I cant do’.
Just making a note of the year past.
The year of grit.
The year of fire.
The year of ‘nothing I cant do’.
Did I miss the memo about an end to a blogging era?
Where is Scrumpy? And Dee? Whats with all this ‘protected blogs’ and ‘sign in to read’ stuff?
And no more Lady Divine? The mother of all blogrolls. Sigh.
I only blinked for like a year and so many people have disappeared.
Just dropping by so that I dont permanently forget my wordpress password.
It feels like I’ve been spun in a washing machine these past few months.
In a good way though, with soap bubbles and all.
Most of the craziness I would attribute to work and related drama but still loving it all the same.
Why I havent been writing though is probably due to ’digital fatigue’ as previously explained by Cerno.
These days I even prefer to leave my laptop in the car if I dont bring actual work home with me.
And unlike my old insomniac self who dawdled on the internets till the wee hours, this new Delilah is in bed by 10.30pm. Even on most weekends, much to the disgust of many a friend who try to understand what happened to the girl who kept everyone else awake all night.
See the thing is, I work out of Colombo and have to wake up at the crack of dawn to drive two hours to office in a sea of traffic. Then put in a full day off work and drive back for 2-3 hours. After spending nearly 5 hours on the road every single day I’m really too pooped for much else.
So the writing and socialising have both suffered obviously. Here’s apologizing for unreplied messages.
But I’ve been reading almost as much as usual and even have the audacity to occasionally be peeved when there arent enough new posts by other people on my favorite blogrolls.
Maybe I’ll stop whining and start writing again, soonish.
So its my fourth October of blogging here.
But I’ve only managed to put up a measly 175 posts so far. Didnt realize that my posting had been so random. Feels like I write more somehow.
I did some archive searching and had a laugh over stuff that I had forgotten ever happened.
This is my first ever post and in a sad stroke of irony, the guy I refer to in this post was asked for a divorce by his wife last week.
This was apparently my most commented on post. Clearly my embarrassment is entertaining to a lot of people.
This is my favorite category because they come from a different place in me.
And this was the best tag I’ve ever written for.
This is one of my personal favorites.
And this is the weirdest thing I’ve ever written.
I’m grateful for this place where I can come to when I need an outlet and for the friends I’ve made online and in real life.
Ten years ago today, my ex and I broke up.
It was a big deal because we had been together a really long time – since we were kids actually. Families were involved and we had mapped our entire future together. But now in retrospect I wonder, how big a deal it could have been because even after all that time we were still kids really.
Problem with falling in love when that young was neither of us bargained for how much the other would change as we grew up. And as it turned out over time we drove each other nuts. Didnt help that the last 3 years of it was a long distance relationship.
He moved, I refused to go with him. He wanted to have sex, I said I’d rather wait. He wanted to get married, I said not yet please. So he punished me and I froze him out. End of that summer we decided to cool it till we met in december.
Then one september morning, while it rained so hard that I could barely hear him on the phone, he said
‘ I slept with someone but I was so drunk’.
I said nothing
He said ‘what happens now?’
I said ‘maybe I’ll go sleep with someone too’
He got angry. Said he loved me and he was sorry.
I said ‘its over’.
We were just two kids in college trying to make sense of why love just wasnt enough to make a relationship work. But, love each other, we did and of that I have no doubt.
I couldnt be mad at him so we stayed friends and I moved on pretty quickly, never looking back. He didnt do so well, but I think he’s okay now.
It was the hardest thing I ever had to do. Our lives had been intertwined for almost half of our existence and I didnt know a world beyond him. It was also as hard to extricate myself from his family who had adopted me as one of their own and I them. Letting go of his mother was especially tough.
June this year, I saw the girl. The one he slept with. I knew her from way back then but hadnt seen her in the last ten years. Not since she slept with him.
I used to swear that if ever I see her I would probably slap her, but that night looking at her all I felt was the urge to walk over and say ‘thank you’. Thank you for saving me from the worst mistake I could have made.
I dont regret the years I spent with him because it was an eternal summer for most part and he was always so good to me but had we ever got married it would have been catastrophic.
They say ’love’ at that age is only infatuation, but I disagree because it couldnt have been anything else for so many years. In the end though, I couldnt love him enough. I couldnt love him in the right ways or give him what he wanted. I was too much my own person to give up my dreams for his cookie cutter American life. I think even he eventually got that.
Now, ten years down the line we barely talk, which I’d say is a testimony to how life goes on and I think we have done good, he and I.
So this ones for you C. I hope you are happy.
*Title from Lucky Love – Ace of Base
I first read about Thomas Kinkade in some American magazine. I think it was 1998. Was fascinated by the samples of his work they featured on the article because never before had I seen light so perfectly infused into a painting. From a distance some of them could be mistaken for photographs.
A year later someone randomly sent me a holiday card with the painting below and the love affair continued.
Over the years I read about how this man who called himslef the ‘Painter of Light’ was criticized for commercializing his art too much. Which is probably true considering how an estimated 1 in 20 American homes own a Thomas Kinkade painting, not to mention other types of merchandise and the movie.
I wonder why thats such a bad thing though. Some people choose to stash away their art in a stuffy gallery, some are not even discovered while alive. This guy chooses to make a good buck out of it. So what?
As mercenary as it may be, it also allows more people to experience the beauty of his work.
I dont know the first thing about art really and neither do I draw any religious inferences from them, but these paintings to me are serenely beautiful. And while I enjoy the sight of them, it really doesnt matter to me if the same picture has already been reproduced on a million coffee mugs and greeting cards.
After all, chocolate box art is still art isnt it?
As with most nights, I was on the garden swing teasing the neighbour’s cat and chatting with my mom.
My father who was traveling somewhere called to say there were multiple terrorist attacks happening in the US. His voice was strained and laced with fear. “Where?” I whispered. Different locations he said, all up north.
“Turn the TV on and stay calm. I’ll call you back” he said.
With panic stricken eyes I watched CNN while my mother quietly sobbed.
My brother had just moved to New York that week.
I remember shivering uncontrollably even though it was a warm night.
What my mother didnt know was that my boyfriend was in NY city that day too.
Unfortunately his mother knew and within minutes she called, terrified and inconsolable.
I had to put my own fears on hold that night as I desperately called people - most calls not even going through – trying to track down my brother, my boyfriend and other family living in and around NY.
Eventually we managed to count all our chickens safe and the attacks seemed to stop but the tragedy had only just begun to unfold for all the people who were not as lucky as we were.
Last year I visited the Ground Zero Memorial and was intrigued by this little room where you could go in an make a voice recording of where you were when the 9/11 attacks happened and how you felt.
When you really think about it, most of us have a memory of that night. The terror and magnitude of loss seemed to reverberate through the world regardless of your location, personal involvement and whatever your political views on America.
*Title from the Alan Jackson song for 9/11
Its that time of the year when the travel bug bites.
September last year I took time off work to travel. 3 countries in 2 months.
The best part of it being New York, where it was early fall and I spent endless hours traipsing through museums, drinking great coffee (yeah T, the pumpkin spice lattes were out of this world) and absorbing city life in general.
This year though, I dont see a single trip happening and thats slightly depressing. So being the dreamer that I am, I find myself indulging in an old habit of mine which is to browse through NatGeo Travel and Lonely Planet , planning future holidays right down to a daily budget.
So far I’ve narrowed it down to Egypt or Halong Bay next year, both of which are quite cheap really. Followed by a euro trip the year after – by which time I will hopefully be fabulously rich and footloose.
But seriously, my head spins with all that I want to see. Mostly places of historical, cultural or architectural relevance like Jerusalem, St.Petersburg, Istanbul etc. And it drives me crazy not knowing if or when I’ll ever get to travel to even half of these places.
Someone said the other day how rare it is to have time, money and energy simultaneously and thats so true. When you are younger you have the time and energy but hardly any money to travel. When you are older and employed, you have the money and energy but no time to travel. Then you retire with time and money both, but have no energy left.
Sometimes it really doesnt pay to be a dreamer. Sigh.
Not to be confused with sadness.
There is something different about being melancholy. Almost like a voluntary moroseness. A more becoming shade of blue if you may.
I dont like being sad but I can live with melancholy. Embrace it, on some days.
Given the right music I could even revel in it.
Billy Joel and I have already played some piano this morning and The Wallflowers have taken me Into the Mystic and rocked my gypsy soul. Rufus Wainwright depressed me with his ironically titled Hallelujah and Shawn Mullins went and made a Beautiful Wreck of my day.
Now all I need is some Tom Petty.
Yeah, I’m not a morning person.
Have you ever had an ant in your drink?
Y’know those pesky black ones who infiltrate the sugar and end up floating unexpectedly in your tea or coffee. But sometimes you are too lazy to fetch a spoon and fish it out. Neither do you want to dip your finger in the drink. So you tilt your cup in all directions to avoid the ant from sliding in with every sip.
Then you get distracted for just one moment and the next thing you know the dead ant is halfway down your throat.
At first you gag a little and then you think ‘oh well, its not gonna kill me’. So you finish your coffee anyway and in ten minutes you’ve forgotten the ant.
Sometimes, I cant change things. So I keep tilting my life hoping to avoid what I dont want happening. But sooner or later I have to swallow the ant. I will falter but hopefully it wont kill me.
And it doesnt mean I stop loving my coffee.