9 April 08:A dates cake we bought from a cute vendor at the Warrandyte market when I was with my aunts in Melbourne.
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I felt ecstatic. Longer than a moment but shorter than infinity. The unbounded freedom I felt as the soft evening sun kisses my face. The air; it was mildly cool. As cool as this ecstatic state of being. Adrenalin urging my body to move faster. I pushed, faster and faster. Forward and forward. My heart was racing. My legs ached from those impacts. My faced flushed. Parts of my body warmed up. I was heading to the peak of the hill, almost. I can taste the air; fresh, clean and crisp. Yet, my breathless lungs were bursting. Gasping for another breathe of air, I stopped. My chest heaved and heaved and heaved. It felt good. A surge of momentous feeling overcame me. I took in as much air as my lungs could took. My beating heart was happy. I smirked.
I shouldn’t. It was a terribly naughty thing to do. My muscles were not properly stretch, ankles not subjected to a rotation or two. But I went and did it anyway.
I’m in the process of mending my body. The last ten years of unhealthly lifestyle including the careless consumption of alcohol and food, irregular eating hours, binge snacking, sporadic exercises and whatever crap I’ve subjected my body through had done some damages. I don’t really want to be admitted to hospital again because I cannot breathe. I’m tired of the eczema problems that had never really go away since I was a child. I hate the feeling of bloated like I’m permanently 5 months pregnant. Some time next week, I’ll put myself through a three-week holistic detox programme to rid my body of the unhealthy. Heck, I’ve even started myself on multivitamins, organic food, rice milk and lots of herbal tea. Peppermint tea. They are beautiful. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to give up loving the smell of coffee first thing in the morning, but I’ve stopped taking any for a week now. Maybe one day when I’m wussy enough, I’ll try decafs.
Happiness is overrated. And seriousness should make a comeback.
Physically, I’m busted. Emotionally, I’m drained. Mentally, I’m screwed. There ought to be a point of time in life when you shouldn’t even need to, want to or bother to explain. Yet, you still do. But what hurts deeper is when your silence opens up a flood of unwarranted judgement. You are being assumed differently, merely on a few words you’ve written or said. But the more you say, the more you are wronged. Misunderstood. Taken out of context. Used. And then misused.
People become unforgiving. You are asked to quicken your pace to catch up with the world, their feelings and their state of being. What is wrong with my pace? After all, I’m just starting to unlearn the past. Why must I always be the one to catch up? Why can’t you follow my steps or walk with me?
When I get better, I need to run again. Even if it bust my knees and ankles. I need to mete it all out.
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Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m at a better state of mind these days, in a state just where I want to be. But I’m also a little annoyed. Unfortunately, it’s something more than words can say.
I just arrived home after three days in Melbourne helping S & S move, inhaling the wonderful fumes of the city and having some restless sleeps. My mind is not at its clearest. But then, it has always been foggy.
Located on a central location in the city, the apartment where S & S moved into has a lovely night view of the city though mostly are of well-lit buildings. I’ve forgotten how beautiful a city can look at night (despite the light pollution). The house-moving was rather smooth which only took less than half a day. The following days involved unpacking, fixing and tidying stuff, we even managed a trip to Ikea, four hours of shopping at the DFO, dinner at a Korean BBQ restaurant and brunch with my aunts. I even took a quick trip to the Borders bookstore.
Walking back alone from the bookstore to the apartment, I noticed how I still love the city’s rhythm. Being the anonymous face in the crowd (because Asian faces are not rare in the city), moving from traffic lights to traffic lights, glancing at stranger faces without fear of being glared back.
One thing about the city though is that if and when you blend in too well with the crowd, you became indistinguishable. You started wearing the same clothes as your fellow office warriors. The colours of the city are by the unofficial uniform of black, white and gray. You might even find your identical twin blouse on the street. Even your suits greet each other in familiarity.
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Differing slightly, I taunted a poor soul on the Connex train today when I went onboard sniffing and sneezing. Sat facing two rows away from me, she expressed her displeasure of my condition by wrapping her scarf around her nose and mouth. Noticing her not-so-subtle reaction, I pretended to look outside the train’s window and leaned my body slightly forward. She reacted in paranoia with a sudden shifting of her body towards the side away from me, stood up and walked to the next carriage. The most ironic of all is, it wasn’t even a cold. It was a combined allergic reaction from the city’s dust, fumes and cigarette smokes. I’ve been using the inhaler more than I needed to. But I don’t mind playing evil on people who assume too much. Having said that, I cannot believe how the city air can make me sick, considering I was born into a city reeked with car fumes and construction dust. Perhaps it’s a sign that I’m not longer a city dweller. Or that the sign of age is showing through the well-being of my body.
PS: Will update this post with photos tomorrow.
PPS: I’m using an on-loan monitor so all is well at the moment.
Ladies & gentlemen, babies and elephants, lovers and enemies,
When I said that I’m not available, the computer decided to do it for me. I’m currently sitting in front of the house’s TV, hook up to the CPU to type this entry and return messages because the monitor died. Dieded. Just as well. Sigh.
But behold, I will not be beaten. This undying spirit will return. Hah.
Sorry for all the phone calls and messages I did not return.
Sorry for not being there enough lately.
Sorry for not keeping up with our appointments.
Sorry for my erratic state of mind.
I’ve been absolutely swamped. I’ll make it up.
Meggity Meg told me about this song.
Now it becomes my favourite too. At least right now.
Enjoy the rest of the week.
—–
And to you.
Who has very little to worry about.
And I know. I know I can never want. What am I to you?
I know a lot of things are said of and about me. I know a lot things about me are assumed. I know of all the sarcasm directed to me, directly or indirectly.
I’ve been trying to be happy. I really did and I really am. Circumstances are, unfortunately, not always on the optimistic side of the footpath. I know we tried. I know I’ve tried. Perhaps not trying is the ultimate solution. It’s too late to change the indifference now. Perhaps I must quit something in order to gain another thing. Tonight, I tore up parts of a diary I kept. Just bits of pieces from 2000 onwards. There’s this feeling of relief burying the past. Closing a chapter and opening another.
With a whisky and coke in hand, I wanted some assurance. A divine assurance of some sort. Some sort of intervention I’ve not sought for a while now. With a whisky and coke in hand, I drew a couple of one answer cards. Then, I did what I usually do; past, present and future. No questions this time. Come what may. Que sera sera.
The present and future cards look optimistically bright. I hope I will finally know what to do. I want to be the maverick that I’ve always wanted to be.
ps: Sorting out bits & pieces, I found my astrological cut-out I kept at the beginning of the year. In the piece, a motto of Benjamin Disraeli was quoted: If you wait long enougn, everything comes.. I certainly hope so.
Borrowing some inspirations from the recent stay at my aunt’s, I decided to introduce the house with a little touch of feminity. Nothing can say it louder than having some lovely flowers around.
I have plenty of empty jars in the kitchen and decided it’s time to put one to good use. Taking an old coffee jar, I filled it in with some water before dropping in some tiny daises from an earlier bouquet of flowers given to me. Taking two magnolia leaves and a rose from the garden, I arranged it to however I feel right before tying the mouth of the jar with a pink ribbon. I love how it turns out.
There is no denying that I love desserts of all kind, particularly cake. When I was in Melbourne, my aunts took me to a Chinese bakery that brings me immediately back to the time when I was young. My mother is not a big fan of cakes and all things sweet. Fortunately, my father was. He made it a point to always celebrate a birthday with a cake. Even a belated one. I still remember the few bakeries we went to get our cakes. Since we don’t do surprises, my father often brought me to the shop to select a cake that we all would like. I love going to the cake shop, not minding having to wait for my father to make his purchase. I simply wandered around drooling over the variety of cakes on display. The most common, vivid and general favourite you can find in a Chinese bakery is the fruit cake (not the candied one) or creamed cake topped with slices of fruits like strawberries, kiwis, cherries and grapes - very similar to glazed fruit tarts, only with sponge base instead of pastry. I always picked the one with those plumpy-looking cherries. Occasionally, I succumbed to all things cute and picked a normal cake with icing cream.
Now that I’m older and know how to bake a cake, I conciously choose not to make a fruit cake. Have you ever attempt to make something you remembered from your childhood, only to be dissappointed because it doesn’t taste like what you remember? That why I’ve choose instead to preserve the love of those fruit cakes in my mind.
Fortunately, this entry isn’t about fruit cake. This is about a disgustingly rich chocolate and whisky mud cake I baked last Saturday.
Rich Chocolate and Whisky Mud Cake extracted from Tempted:150 very wicked desserts (Murdoch Books)
serves 16-20
90g (3 1/4 oz / scant 2/3 cup) chopped dark chocolate
Preheat the oven to 160ºC (315ºF/Gas 2-3). Grease a 20cm (8 inch) square tin and line the base and sides with baking paper.
Put the butter, chocolate, sugar and whisky in a saucepan. Dissolve the coffee granules in 125 ml (4 fl oz / 1 /2 cup) hot water and add to the mixture. Stir over low heat until melted and smooth.
Stir the plain flour, self-raising flour and cocoa into a large bowl. Pour the butter mixture onto the flour mixture and whisk until just combined. Whisk in the eggs. Pour into the prepared tin.
Bake for about 1 hour 15 minutes, or until a skewer comes out clean when inserted in the centre of the cake. Pour the extra whisky over the hot cooked cake. Leave in the tin for 20 minutes, then turn out onto a wire rack placed over a baking tray to cool completely.
For the chocolate glaze, put the cream in a small saucepan and bring just to the boil. Remove from the heat and add the chocolate. Stir until combined and smooth. Set aside to cool and thicken a little. Spread the glaze over the cake, allowing it to drizzle over the sides. Leave to set.
Motif
Some white chocolate, to melt
Melt the white chocolate in a bowl over a pot of boiling water or use a double boiler. Fill a piping bag with the melted chocolate. Here’s a quick way to make a disposable piping bag if you don’t have one available. Make the shapes you want on a baking paper. Let it set (if you are pressing for time, put the baking paper on a tray and put into the freezer for 15 minutes or so to set.)
