/ Saturday, September 16, 2017 /

The last time we talked, he called me Miss Plain Jane. He might as well have told me that I was boring. I would have taken offense at the thought five years ago, but I have learned recently to simply let things go. It made my heart and head hurt a little though.

It was the same day that he told me about his plans.

Finally, he had plans.

He wants to marry his new girl, have kids with her, and leave the country. Almost everyone I know is thinking of leaving and you might want to consider it too, he said.

I haven’t heard from him since then.

I can’t remember the last words we told each other after that late-night conversation over cheap beer. However, I can still recall how the lines and wrinkles around his eyes are getting more pronounced. Perhaps it’s a sign that he spent much of his twenties laughing and smiling with his eyes. I guess it was just another proof of a life spent in building wonderful memories.

I wonder if one of those memories, a sliver at least, has to do with days spent with me.

Because there are times when you wish that you were once someone’s happy thought.


The last time we talked, he commented about my indecisiveness.  He might as well have told me that I was a dawdler and living the starving artist stereotype.  I would have taken offense but I knew too well that there's no use arguing with him.

It was the same day that he told me that he’s starting to learn beekeeping.

Finally, he had plans.

I will retire early to have my own bee farm, he said.  He intends to patch things up with his ex and propose to her next year.  Maybe they’ll have kids. Maybe they won’t. Yet he was fairly certain about the bees and the decision to get back with her.

I can’t remember how we ended up talking the whole day that windy Wednesday over ramen. I recall, however,  about how he spoke about his plans. There was a hint of calm assuredness in it.

I wish I would have been more confident and calm and decisive as him. But the forks in the path now are harder to define and gotten more complicated. It won’t be the same.

I’ve thought about his last few words in an email to me for a long time, trying to gauge the certainty in between the lines, and now I know —he was confused as I was.

His words stung a bit.

I haven’t heard from him since then.

Because there are times when you wish that you were once someone’s confident decision.


The last time we talked, he was there with me in the flesh but his mind was off somewhere else. He was thinking of her and their plans together.

Finally, they had a plan.

I haven't heard from him since then.
Because there are times when you wish that you were once someone’s daydream.

*This blog is back from the dead (for now).

Neverwhere is now somewhere only we know. ..

/ Monday, September 19, 2016 /

You know that bit where Alice was roused from sleep by her sister in the final chapter of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland ? 

This final blog post is what this is about. 

“The price we paid for the volumes of ourselves that we suffocated in the dark.” 
― Nicole KraussGreat House

- Kai

Because the rain will wash away everything..

/ Thursday, September 1, 2016 /

Hey girl there is always something indescribable about the rain, don't you think? 

It may be over-romanticized but admit it, it still calms the most troubled of us.

So forget about your boyfriend, mom, or boss throwing a fit. As Sarah Kay puts it, the rain will wash away everything if you let it. 

Now, I've made you a mix tape to listen and drift into forgetting. Also, I'm throwing in something that I wrote ages ago.

In times like these, just stick to your guns and remember that there's always the rain to scrub, rinse, and wash away everything — if you simply let it do so

Down the drain the sound of soapy water 
from the rusty dishwasher reigns,
yet barely audible.
There were silent spaces to fill and empty corners to drown.
Up into the chimney, the tasteless smoke seeks,
 but barely visible.
It dreams of red colored roofs; 
seeks of warmer nights when the stars hang so low,
when shirts and skirts meet to tango,
and of foggy mornings sitting in tables for two. 
And came the heaviest of the tempest; 
night and day it reign.
But dearest, 
the sheets of rain neither went down the drain 
nor up the chimney.
Still, it wanted  the same silent space to fill,
 empty corner to drown, and table for two. 
All three were nowhere to be found.

How Not to Give a Damn by Making Squash Soup

/ Monday, April 20, 2015 /

The human body has always fascinated me. It can heal on its own through an intricately-designed series of immune responses. This thought somewhat brought me comfort when I had the most terrible of stomach cramps which was closely followed by a trip to the washroom last night.  And the story didn't just end there because I had to repeat the washroom trips three times for the entire stretch of the evening. I took note of the times that I rose from bed - midnight, 2:30ish am and 4 am. Whatever it is that my body is trying to get rid itself off is doing an excellent job in making me feel sluggish and non-functional. Hey stomach bug, here’s your Badge of Excellence for successfully destroying Hiroshima!
A mental pep talk was in order when the alarm rang at five. You committed to coming in to work today for a shift swap when you snorkeled your way to some island last Saturday, you might as well have the decency to stick to what you’ve committed to. So I grudgingly rose from bed, took a bath and got dressed. Except that when I was about to go out, the cramps began, a sign of protest against the plan to suck up the discomfort and be Miss Illustrious at work. It seems like the most honorable thing to do is stay at home and wait until the immunity cops recite the Miranda rights to the offending stomach bugs. You have the right to remain silent, stomach flu bug.

While waiting and contemplating if I will still have a job to look forward to when I get back to work tomorrow (I have no medical certificate to hand in because I stubbornly believe that simple stomach flu bugs can be single-handedly taken cared of by our wonderful immune system, except in cases when there are signs of dehydration and infection), a warm, restorative soup seems like a good idea.

A large wedge of squash that has been sitting in the chiller for two weeks now is the only produce that screamed soup to me. But coconut milk is nowhere to be found so I quickly thought about letting go of the idea of warm, filling and rich soup. Besides, it’s summer, who would pine for something warm in the middle of the day?

Yet here’s to not giving a damn about soups on a summer noon, the non-existence of coconut milk that squash soup is supposed to have, and the possibility that I may be in between jobs by tomorrow.

So here we go.

Melt a generous amount of butter into the pan. Saute onions and garlic until translucent. Throw in a teaspoon of curry powder and a pinch of salt. Add thinly-sliced squash and pour about two cups of water. Simmer in low heat while you stir it every now and then. Once the squash has broken into bits, adjust taste with salt. Add freshly-grated ginger and thin slices of spring onions. It’s not something that Mark Bittman will gush about in The New York Times. But then again, this soup is about not giving a damn right?

Sometimes, there are things that we can't control like coconut milk being nowhere in sight. Or let’s just say that some people we hold dear in our lives do not give the same weight and intensity of caring as we do. But then there's squash soup. Now go make yourself a bowl of your favorite soup because anything that is warm, rich, and with lots of butter will somehow make things okay for the time being.
I usually say, in the end, okay, it’s love and it’s work — what else could there possibly be? -- Maira Kalman


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