What is your Chinese name?
"Now, let me see. Her name is Germaine....Yes, why is it that all you Chinese have English names?"
"I have an English name. I mean, well you know our country was a colonial state. So it changed everything." Flan chuckled.
The driver continued, "Yes yes. And this other girl, she is from South Korea, so I told her, tell me your Korean name. They are hard to get but I said, I will get my tongue around it, eventually."
For the rest of the trip, Flan and the kindly, plump-faced Englishman, made friendly small talk. It was cold outside and the roads were dusty and quite deserted as they turned into the lane leading into the USW. The campuses were huge and the driver, spoke with pride about the history of the school as he drove Flan to her destination.
"All these land...Oh my!" Yes it was a sight to behold. In front of her was acres and acres of lush green pastures. And in the far distance one can see the magnificent Blue Mountains. It was odd to come to a University with hardly any students in sight; even her own current University is constantly thriving with people all year round. It was a good break to come out to the outskirts and enjoy the silence and fresh air once in a while. The driver dropped her off with instructions how to get to the library and told her that he would be back at 5. Flan thanked him, scrambled down the steps and checked her watch for the time. 3 o'clock! This left her just about 2 hours to get that document and if with luck, she can get through it by speed reading. As it turned out, the affair was a fairly quick one; the librarian directed her to a working link where she could access the thesis. Having travelled 1.5 hours by train and bus, she was glad nonetheless that the matter was resolved even if she had to stand in front of the counter and smile prettily to the librarian to please please please find someone who could get the document for her - soft or hard copy she didn't care.
15 minutes she was back on the bus, chatting happily to the driver and enjoying a private tour round the campus. Was it worth it to come all the way just for this? Definitely!
A new moon
"Reach out to life with both hands, dear Cancer. It's birthday month, and a really positive new moon in Cancer will appear to help you make your wishes come true. The new moon will occur on July 2 and will help you materialize your greatest dreams. June was a month of fits and starts, but July will be strong and powerful for you. If you feel seized by a determination to launch anew idea, venture, job, or relationship - you name it - you will have the weight of the universe on your side."Each time she quotes the horoscope for some well-intentioned prediction, her dad would not fail to add, "I don't believe in 'Horror-scopes'..." But Flan is a firm believer and a die-hard fan of Susan Miller. She visits her website without fail on the first of each month, and this month is no different. "Oh my gawd! You won't believe this," her parents were getting ready to leave the apartment, stopped in mid-action and gazed up. "You won't believe it man, I changed my air ticket to the 22nd July and guess what, it says here I am flying on the 22nd of July! And that this month I will be travelling a lot and that's going to be so true, I will be moving here, and then zipping there and then shuttling between houses...HOW can you not believe this?"So there are some predictions that Flan can predict would come true, and there are some she can only wish that they would. It did say that 14 July was going to be a truly amazing day for Cancerians and if that is true she has every intention of making the review with PJC on that day; she is going to need all the cosmic help she can get to help her pull through this one. 7 blanks squares to the square marked 'Deadline', so says the Calendar, the current master of her world. "I'm pretty dead..." she moaned, covering her face with her cold fingers and willing for her mojo to return. But deep inside her, she felt the stirrings of hope, that all is not lost. Because Susan Miller says so. Flan takes a deep breath and begins to type...
Walking(alone)
It was drizzling lightly when Flan stepped out of the lift. The cameramen, all poised for action, were still there, she noticed. The receptionist was right, someone really ought to tell them that their target had long taken off. She wasn't going to be that 'someone' as she figured they probably wouldn't mind standing in the shelter for a moment longer.
The cold raindrops falling on her bare cheeks and forehead did nothing to soothe her throbbing head. It was another grueling session with interviewers whom she felt only obligation and not pleasure in entertaining. She had been charming and honest - and now she was exhausted. The editor had seemed nice enough - nodding her head and smiling that 'knowing' smile of hers, every time Flan gave a satisfying answer. Next to her, the HR manager was a lot less encouraging, but she supposed it to be her job - someone's got to be the devil's advocate.
It was only a 5-minute walk to the train station, but it felt a lot longer; so lost in thoughts were she that she hasn't realized her phone vibrating in her thick pockets. "Whether I get it or not, at least this would be the last," she mumbled aloud as she willed herself to stay positive about her decisions. The train was taking a long time to arrive and Flan felt impatient even though she was in no real rush. The apartment was empty, as always; nothing and nobody was waiting for her to return. Old habits, she supposed; there was always Mr Brown awaiting her return when D wasn't. Walking alone, she decided, was a lot harder than she thought.
the message is quite clear
There are about ten people listening intently to a petite woman who is at least a head shorter than her audience. Her white curls are well-primed and kindly wrinkles will reveal themselves frequently as she speaks. "And now we shall take a look at this piece. It's by an artist called Nicola Costantino. Any idea what does the material remind you of?"
Flan moves to the side so that she can have a better look. There are four items encased in a big display glass - a full-length evening gown, a pair of high stilettos, a designer's bag and a football. The latter does not quite fit in with the rest of the items, she frowns as she tries to think of a rationale behind it. All four pieces of sculpture are made of the same brown, suede-like material, a little rough and leathery.
The pause drags on for another second or so, before the Art guide leading the tour that afternoon decides to reveal the obvious - "Human skin!"
Everyone gasps!
"Oh not real human skin of course but a material fashioned to resemble human skin, as you can see, erm, the patterns here resemble certain, human...er anatomy, don't you think?"
Everyone moves forward for a clearer look. Yes, on closer scrutiny, the leathery dress is made up of squares of anuses and the stilettos made up of nipples. It's all done in a manner that is tasteful and aesthetically pleasing.
That, is the problem, Flan can't help thinking, as she chews her lips and frowns harder.
"....as you can see, the artist is trying to comment on the way at which humans have used all kinds of animal skins to create commercially viable products. We think nothing of it if it's snake skin or crocodile skin but what if it's skin of our kind? We feel the horror of wearing such skin but not of those taken from animals. Yet at the same time, it does not seem absolutely impossible that designers of today may well push the boundary of what is 'acceptable'," she continues on with a soft chuckle, tucking a loose hair behind her ear, "...you just never know these days anything seems possible!"
No one, at least, no one till now, has dared imagine human skin to be suitable skirt or bag material. And now that someone has, for all her noble intention - to make us re-think the commercialization of animal skin, a seed is now planted and yes indeed, you just never know.
Saying Goodbye (again)
"I hope we make it..." Flan gasped as she half-ran to catch up with D's long effortless strides. She checked her watch for the tenth time and hoped fervently that they had not missed the hourly train. The tunnel leading to the Central station seemed never-ending. People were rushing alongside the anxious couple, hurrying them along. A Chinese man was squatting by the side, a piece of cloth spread out in front of him. Flan cast a quick glance over his products and saw that they were hand-painted cards with illegible Chinese characters; unfortunately, she really could not stop. No one else did either.
Further up, an Aboriginal man was blowing into a musical instrument - it wasn't shiny and polished like those sold in souvenir shops; this one was old and dusty and the prints were faded. His prodigy, a young Japanese youth, was holding a similar instrument and they were having a blast - swept away into a world of their own. Flan didn't want to dampen their high spirits but it was hardly any wonder that no one showed appreciation towards their art - it sounded like elephants growling, if elephants growl at all.
Almost there. Without a word, almost as if they could read each other's minds, Flan joined the queue for the tickets while D headed straight to the monitors to check the train schedules. From a distance, Flan saw him stick two fingers into the air. She sighed with relief - it was five to 2. They could still make it. "Two tickets to the International Airport please....One return and one single," she paid for the tickets just as D reached her side - "1 more minute!" Flan's heart skipped a beat - What! He meant two minutes, not 2pm! They sped to the gates, ran up the stairs to platform 23 and jumped into the cabin just before the doors slid shut.
Their hearts still thumping from their sprint, they collapsed onto the navy blue seats on the upper deck, giggling. D held her hand tightly as the train rumbled along; his large warm hand engulfed her small cold ones. Swallowing the familiar lump in her throat, she turned her face away from him, hoping that he had not seen the tears glistening in her eyes. He too turned his face away and hoped that she had not seen his eyes. At least, they had another 2 hours together - it was better than nothing.
Fat Seagulls
Flan and D stood in the middle of a crowded pavement just off Circular Quay. D was busy adjusting the lens, so focused was he at his subject that he forgot to reply Flan's seemingly angry retort - what do you mean by museums are not meant for tourists? What a feeble excuse!
Flan couldn't sulk for long - she was distracted, momentarily by the row of identical birds standing on the fence, just along the harbour front. Identical because they are all so chubby. It was funny, at least to them. "Quick! Before they fly off!" D took several snapshots in rapid succession, zooming in and out, twisting the angle up and down, before he was finally satisfied with the outcome.
Soon, they left the birds alone to admire the view and headed to the Opera House. A man with a green beanie was busily chewing his burger, a bag of crumpled McDonald's paper bag by his foot. He caught the attention of many because he was literally surrounded by at least a dozen seagulls, all cackling with excitement. Then, all of a sudden, the man threw up a piece torn from his burger into the air and a sharp-eyed seagull swooped down and caught it in its beak - all in mid-air!
D and Flan burst into laughter. It was funny somehow. "Oh, that is so wrong! What about the other seagulls!" The birds continued staring at the man, waiting for their opportunity..."Don't worry, they are all so fat," D replied, pulling Flan closer to him. That was just the reply she needed, as she grinned up at him while they walked away from the man and his devoted audience.
Starting Over
Flan stepped back and admired her work - the pictures were arranged haphazardly. There were pictures of D and herself, oh plenty of those - all smiling and happy, and then there were those of her and Mr Brown, those of her family and friends and her adorable students... snapshots of her life, a happy life.
What have I done? She asked herself again, for the hundredth time, since she had embarked on a journey that she had waited so long for. Seeds of doubt were planted as weeks passed; at times, there were moments when she felt exhilarated - the seed of doubt and fear killed, just for an instant, before it crept back...
Flan bit the end of her pen, frowned and concentrated hard on the task in front of her. She was writing postcards to her students and friends. It was her first time. She used to be too busy to even reply emails, let alone take the initiative to choose postcards, buy stamps and sit down to construct a letter. It's so odd to have all these 'free' time on your hands all of a sudden. She was beginning to like it.
Ooah, so many plans and ideas, how should she start? It's only a matter of time before the ideas push the last seed of doubt away, she consoled herself.
