epiphanies on the MRT.
dated 5th June 2009
On the train at 6:10pm, Friday -- auntie, please be careful how you hold the paperbag, it's going up and down my groin and giving me sensations better left unsaid.
dated 3rd July 2009
I believe a book is imminent. Epiphanies on the train -- seeing a teenage girl laying her woeful face upon the shoulder of another newly-pubescent boy made me feel slightly tickled, disgusted and rolly-eyed in general. Not to mention the gastric ache that so timely arrives. Oh, what do these 'benglians' know about pain, about scars, about truly comforting others, or maybe even the eventual impossibility to do so? come off it, kids, and start growing up -- make an effort in the cranial department and stop cuddling publicly like you represent love in all its innocence.
okay, do i really need to explain my seemingly unfounded angst?
dated 4th July 2009, morning
Third. I'm feeling content on the train, partly because i found myself a seat, and am guiltless and thankful there isn't anyone around who needs it more than i do. Enter Indian family, stumpy-looking parents carrying a jovial, inquisitive princess, aptly dressed in a kiddy sundress. what really caught all our eyes had to be her heart-shaped sunnies, its frame a bright fire-engine red, adorned with white hearts, set perfectly upon her promising nose. with her i-hope-are-natural curls shorn just below the chin, she looked like a 70s' icon, or at least, someone you'd really want to build sandcastles with.
dated 4th July 2009, evening
Pardon the effulgence of epiphanies upon this startlingly inspiring transport vehicle. as the evening crowd forces its way into my cabin full of reluctantly gracious passengers, feet get on top of one another, while shoulders transform into the most discreet weapon of assault -- score! -- asshole behind me, part of the reason i managed to be shoved into the train, loses his balance and falls perfectly into my sweat-wet back!
In a way no more subtle, faces come into play. Dirty, dirty faces, spilling animated words unheard at their counterparts now guilty of a lack of graciousness. Yet these words, however fluent, remain bottled inside The Singaporean, and once in a while an angmoh comes along to provide catharsis the way an Artaud play does. Maybe it's residual colonial etiquette, "speak you not, and let the white man do the talking."
Or cowardice.