Late December back in ‘63.
What a very special time for me,
‘Cause I remember what a night.

This night was definitely a keeper. I’m sure there’ll be a repeat soon enough. :)

It’s been ages since I last baked. I had a brief affair about a year and a half ago with bread and buns made from scratch, filled with various stuffings, (hint: Bratwurst + a touch of parma ham + buffalo mozzarella + rosemary + rocket, wrapped in a bundle of love, makes a kickass bun) but since then I’ve kept mostly to the stovetop, simmering soups, tossing pasta, boiling porridge, searing meats and stir-frying veggies. Apparently, I’ve rehearsed long and hard for the house-tai role I’m auditioning for, and it seems to be paying off now.

Anyway, the girlfriend’s sick and took a day off to sleep her cold off, so while she was napping I slipped out to whip a batch of these together hoping they might cheer her up/make her feel better. Though the recipe was for 12 muffins, I got lazy to make 2 batches (I have a small oven and only one 6-cup muffin tray) so I just piled the batter in waaaaay past the 2/3-full guideline and ended up with these floppy-hat looking oversized muffins.

Whatever the case, they taste good - there are 5 left, and 3 have been choped by the ‘cons and one’s for tomorrow’s breakfast with bunny before we hop off to coca for lunch with stephy (who’s finally back yayyyy) and dinner at colbar (again) with the ‘cons (also again), so place your bids, people! One remaining muffin has never been known to last long on it’s own.

The insomnia might be back. Apparently I’ve gotten “tame” on the dubdew front and it’s probably ‘cos there’s nothing that I want to say that I can say.

Mellow list is on loop + shuffle so whoopdeedoo. Too many cigarettes, not enough beer.

they don’t love you like i love you

A friend of mine wrote this a few days ago, and I’ve reproduced it here with her permission. Unfortunately, I’m not allowed to name the writer of this very heartfelt piece which moves me each time I read it - not least because the raw feeling associated with uncertainty of this sort is something that hits home. Dead centre. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

I say this thing has been moving way too fast because in just one day, I have seen her as much as I have seen some friends in the past two weeks. Because my tummy has been churning and I haven’t been able to eat well in the past two days - and I’m not usually one of those girls who can’t eat. Because I verbally clam up like one of those bad mussels you get in the pot that just refuses to open. I get quiet. I get shy. I don’t know what to say sometimes. And I’m deathly afraid that I become boring. Because we gently tiptoe around the issue, but still imply that we’re not just seeing each other as friends. Because she is so different in so many ways, but that is probably what makes her so interesting. Because difference is scary, and I don’t know if differences like these can be bridged. Because she has just emerged from a long-term relationship.

Because her good looks are clouding my already-cloudy judgement.

Because I am afraid that she wants something more out of this. But if she wants nothing, would I whine and wish for more? Whereas if she did want more, would I then react accordingly and run away as fast as I can? Because maybe I’m completely out of my league here, and haven’t dated anyone who meant enough in an extremely long time.

Because I’m leaving in a day, and I gave up relying on the phone - let alone long-distance phone calls - as a primary method of communication way back in JC.

Because I am awful at relationships. See this is moving way too fast why am I even talking about the R word ARGHHHHH. But I also know that I want to take this slow. This is one thing I don’t want to mess up.

Don’t get me wrong, ‘cos when I attempt to stop thinking, this gives me an awesome buzz. It feels good. In a way that’s free of guilt or pain, for once. And that’s something very new to me.

So right now I hate London for taking you back into its evil clutches, but I really shouldn’t make this any harder than it must already be.

When you go away the wind clicks around to the north
The painters work all day but at sundown the paint falls
Showing the black walls
The clock goes back to striking the same hour
That has no place in the years

And at night wrapped in the bed of ashes
In one breath I wake
It is the time when the beards of the dead get their growth
I remember that I am falling
That I am the reason
And that my words are the garment of what I shall never be
Like the tucked sleeve of a one-armed boy.

                               - When You Go Away by w.s. merwin

Hurry back. (Please.)

Yesterday, a friend of mine didn’t pay any attention to anything I was saying, and finally she muttered, “Don’t talk to me unless your name is K.”

Stupid Photo Brightener. Bunny and I have concluded that you are very shallow. And I’m still heartbroken that you don’t love me anymore just because my name doesn’t start with a K, and ‘cos I’m not cute enough to appear in ads. -sniff.

Finger-footie (if there’s such a thing). To be kept away from partners of all World Cup Widows. (Yes, I’m one of the widows, so please call me if anybody is free whenever there’s a match on ch5.)

If you listen carefully, you can hear the sadistic clicking of the Apple Remote.

In case anyone was wondering, I have an ulcer on my tongue that’s causing me an inordinate amount of discomfort pain and it’s keeping me quite silent (apart from the occasional pent up outburst of muppet which my girlfriend is slowly schooling herself in) so for now just hop over to the flickr page and give me (constructive) criticism on my photos. I’m desperately trying to get better.

In other fronts (not really), I just bought a Canon 50mm f/1.8 and I’m lovin’ it (ba da ba ba baaaaaa, I’m lovin’ it!), not least because of how it makes my dSLR feel like a chunky point-and-shoot. But my 28-135mm is feeling left out so tonight I bring both the boys out for a ride, ‘cos it’s off to Colbar for dinner I go. In a while.

And yes I’ll get ’round to editing the photo of the flower soon, vicki. ;p

Apparently, 19 year old Serene’s idea of a dream date is “sitting along the beach with [her] partner, and grazing at the stars”. Agnes, 26, believes that being left kissless is something to strive for, and Pearlyn’s idol is a porn star. I’m worried.