A Fairytale by A L Dyer

The air was not really for breathing any more. It was for indexes and inhalers. Factories and idling engines filled the air with Victorian smog. Old and young wheezed along the pathways of Hong Kong covering their faces with masks or cloth or clothes. Many began to live inside. In virtual bubbles. The fortunate could afford oxygen chambers while playing outside was banned. Lovers skyped and texted but rarely met. Sex was usually carried out online wearing electronic stimulators. Those cocooned from the air and growing rich from sales of air substitutes still experienced the pleasure of touch, as masseuses and stylists scuttled through the service walkways to tend to their charges.

One family at this time seemed to profit while others lost. The matriarch had suffered from breathing problems during her first pregnancy and due to her reputation as an aficionado of all things hedge and fund found funding for her new business to be no barrier to entry. The business was named Crystal Clear and produced all things to protect you from the dissolving world outside. Masks and gloves and wipes and oxygen tanks and eventually their most desirable item: The Crystal Clear Residence.

The Crystal Clear Residence was on the Southside of Hong Kong Island near many other prestigious properties but on its own piece of uncontaminated reclaimed land. The air was distilled from the waters of Faxaflói, a Fjord in Iceland most famous for it’s proximity to the country capital of Reykjavík. This water was said to combat pollutants so was at a very high premium. Few tasted it. A select few had ever breathed it. Those at the Crystal Clear Residence sipped and inhaled at length. The Nautilus inspired structure would sparkle in the humid sunshine casting rainbows across the island. Top ecologists had been called in to ensure the residence could exist with as little outside input as possible so workers such as gardeners, plumbers and cleaners need only enter rooms when the residents were elsewhere. Those who would enter the residence to carry out manual tasks were known as the ‘air breathers’ and viewed with disdainful pity from the inhabitants of the residence.

It was in the Crystal Clear Residence that baby Kenza Leila was born. A small child with giant eyes. Her mother named her after the Arabic words for treasure and dark beauty as she was her heart’s delight. ‘Kenza’ she would whisper to her daughter, ‘you are my heart which now walks around outside of my body.’ And every morning as the sun rose up over the compound, Kenza Leila would be shown the plants and the flowers that grew within. As the sun set, Kenza Leila was shown the stars in their magical patterns and told stories of the gods and goddesses who had blessed her heart, her treasure with such deep ochre eyes and calm countenance. Sometimes, late at night, Kenza’s mother would wake to check on the child that never cried and find her staring through the glass ceilings at those stars, or at the changing clouds during the day. She never cried. But nor did she laugh. And as the years passed by and Kenza’s hair grew into dark curls, her rosebud lips learnt to smile when required.

Residents would speculate that she was a wise old soul and would visit her with gifts of expensive perfumes and fine clothes to see if they could learn what she knew. Kenza so rarely spoke that visitors would place huge meaning on her utterances. Her refrain, ’Ew!‘ at a clucking chicken in the sanitised petting zoo led to their removal from the Residence and a ban on all poultry. The following year a strange Avian flu purged the rest of Hong Kong, while the Residence remained pure. While leaving for their Autumn break, Kenza wrinkled her nose when the first class tickets for Bali peeked from the travel case. The trip was cancelled while the bombs decimated the Balinese tourist strip.

Kenza Leila was no longer one mother’s treasure of dark beauty. She was the Oracle, the Sibyl. The foreseer of good and bad. The most precious of the Residence. She was revered within the Crystal Clear Residence but her premonitions came at a price. Residents began to complain that she was unnatural. A freak. Inhuman. These terms would undulate through the manicured gardens and glass lifts. A chatter of Chinese whispers dispersed from the highest echelons of society to the lowliest air breathers.

‘She knows so much. She could guide us through the markets.’

‘She knows so much. I shall find out the name of my sweetheart.’

‘She knows too much. She will destroy the markets.’

‘She knows too much. She will bewitch my sweetheart.’

Fortunately for Kenza, her detached demeanour insulated her from such idle gossip and her beauty ensured that people could not help but be kind to her face. Besides which, she was an inhabitant of the Crystal Clear Residence, the most expensive real estate in the land, her parents were influential people. Kenza would spend her days taking long swims in the large indoor heated pool following the Nautilus shell tiled pattern beneath her body to swim in endless spirals, in and out. She carried herself with a regal bearing and whether swimming or strolling or attending ballet classes, her long limbs behaved more like those of a gazelle than a normal child.

Years passed and her 16th birthday approached on the 24th February.

To be continued...

An Urban Fairytale

Before you read this, know it is not from my fevered wishful imagination. This just unfolded - infront of my own very jaded eyes - and they are burning bright once more with the knowledge that love is alive and well and all around...

I'm sitting at the Bookworm. Doing my homework. Pondering Great Compassion and concluding that without a solid foundation of self esteem and worth its difficult to get a foothold and then the magic occured.

I'd been aware of a very handsome, young couple sitting at the booth beside mine. She had huge blue eyes, soft brown hair, freckles and a European accent. He was a modern day Indian prince, with heavenly wavy hair tapered into his regal neck. They were not having a fun conversation.

They were reliving their last few months or so. She accusing him of not caring. He saying that he was too hurt to behave well. He was in too much pain. My homework focus began to drift as I tuned into this real life occurence of love found and love lost. Their tones were angry, then pleading, then nervously laughing. They recounted tales of being at the same restaurant near Lan Kwai Fong, you know, the one near Bulldogs? How she arrived and he blanked her. So she thought he didn't care. But he did. But he ignored her. Can you understand how I feel? Can you?

After some time, I tuned out, this record was looping. You did this. But I hurt. Imagine how I felt. I'm sorry. Why didn't you say anything. Why did you. Why did you. Why did you?

But then the scene changed.

The Indian prince stood up and asked the waitress if he could play some Sinatra.

The music began to play and he walked back to the table and took Blue Eyes by the hand. There in the restaurant they stopped talking. They slow danced between the tables. He gently turned her watching her sway through the room at twilight. Their eyes never once left each other. The air pulsing with a need to be understood. For it all to be OK.

The song ends and he asks her to stay. They sit down once more. There is another song lined up. It's main lyric is 'One More Try' but he serenades all the lyrics to her, with such a beautiful voice and her big blue eyes begin to spill.

The only actions are his voice and her tears.

'I wish you the best. I guess.'

The music was over. They listened to each other through the silence. Eyes locked.

He gets up. Walks to the counter, 'Can I get the check?'

Another song begins to play. Instrumental guitar.

'This is in my favourite movie,' she says.

'Yeah, I remember that,' he says.

She laughs at how his plate has barely been touched and offers to share the bill. He says she can pay next time. She says there won't be one.

'There'll be no tomorrow' says she.

'There will be. I promise,' says he, 'Are you OK?'

'Errrm, yeah, no, I, I'm just surprised.'

'Let's go and take a long walk together.'

And as he collects his music, she wipes her tears away. He helps her with her coat. They leave the restaurant.

And it's my turn to mist up. I'm so touched by this display of human interaction.

The usual music switches back on. It's Burt. 'Just like me, they long to be, close to you.'

Thank you Blue Eyes and Indian Prince. I wish you love. Thank you for showing some to me.

xxx

Short Story Sunday - Banana Pancakes

I wake up smiling, with kisses on my lips. Many kisses, along the path, in the garden, on the roof, lying, sitting, walking, melting. Alone. The roof top reveals a treasure map of pillows and sheets but strangely empty. As is my bed.

Your friend said I was rather hot and he had certainly never met me before, although we had also engaged in dog down on many occasions. Interesting what make up and scent will do for a lady. Your friend continued that I should give you 'a go' as you are just so flexible. This had certainly been part of the package but not the winning deal. You just seemed so kind and Scorpio mysterious, as they are want to be. The mating dance continued. You fetched drinks. We talked. The world dissolved around us. The kiss.

Hershey Melty Kisses. Unfolding, Unraveling. Melty. Gravity.

We stagger from the party as if shot. As if injured from a hunt. Leaving pieces of us behind.
A moonlit graveyard with views of the ocean beckons. We roll to our positions and kiss and kiss and kiss. Finding. Losing. Escaping. Dreaming.

The magic is interspersed with the practicalities. 'So tomorrow begins with banana pancakes' say I. 'I think we can accommodate that' says he. 'I hope we can enjoy the scenery' say I. I've made certain allowances for that' says he. The Lantau escapade stretches out in front of us. A beautiful unravelling thread into the future.

We stumble to my house. Blind with kisses. Grabbing pillows from the bedroom. Flinging ourselves to the roof. Discarded ragdolls. There is no moon tonight. Enveloped in the night. Wrapped up tightly in the nights heavy sheets and our own arms.

And as I bend and dissolve and become and disappear, you utter the words. 'I'm sorry. I can't do this.'

A if in a play, I amuse myself with a new script. “I suppose banana pancakes are out of the question?'

You say sorry to yourself more than to me. We have changed stories and are no longer performing on the same stage.

I wake up with a bed strewn with pillows, curling like a cat, at the memories of what did and the thoughts of what could.

To be continued...

Apple wisdoms

“life will break you.
nobody can protect you from that,
and living alone won’t either,
for solitude will also break you with its yearnings.
you have to love.
you have to feel.
it is the reason you are here on earth.
you are here to risk your heart.
you are here to be swallowed up.
and when it happens that you are broken,
or betrayed,
or left,
or hurt,
or death brushes near,
let yourself sit by an apple tree
and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps,
wasting their sweetness.
tell yourself that you tasted as many as you could.”

- louise erdrich, the painted drum, p. 247

Sharing the Love

Just wanted to introduce you to my two favourite artistic muses at the moment (damn those superior Eurasian genetics at play!).

Ms Holly Suan Gray - http://www.facebook.com/home.php?ref=home#/album.php?aid=101010&id=608370118

Mr Jeff Hahn - http://jeffhahn.blogspot.com/

Browse and marvel at the gorgeousnesses of their visions.

They make me sigh and believe in fairytales.

Enjoy.

x

We are the champions - Queen

"I've paid my dues
Time after time
I've done my sentence
But committed no crime
And bad mistakes
I've made a few
I've had my share of sand kicked in my face
But I've come through"

Sorry Dominique, I know quotes at the beginning of anything are a slack way to explain what you're thinking without using any literary skill - but I feel a little song lyric sets up a wibble rather nicely :)

So it is eight weeks on and I completed my mofo bootcamp!!!! Wooohooo.

It has gone fast and there have been many glaring changes to my life and several that will ripple onwards for some time. Here are the few that catapult to mind immediately:

1. I get a hangover after two glasses of wine - proving that sobriety. does indeed. bite. Hypothesis proven :)
2. I've gone down a dress size.
3. Normal pants fall down.
4. My arms, shoulders and legs are showing muscle definition.
5. When I'm looking in my fridge for tasty nibbles I approach in a dogdown fashion with beautiful bendiness.
6. I cut all my hair off and got lots of nice compliments.
7. I haven't been out on a Saturday night for two months.
8. I run a lap of the footie pitch in 1 minute.
9. I plank without putting my back out.
10. I finally went to see a physio who is helping me with my back problems.

Looking back at notes I scribbled down in my blog, I was freaking terrified that first Saturday night before the whole terror of Bootcamp began. It was just something I had never envisioned myself doing. I'm just not that alpha-winner type. I like to mooch about smelling the flowers rather than whizzing about getting there faster. The fact my body is built for comfort and not speed (where does that come from, I have been hearing it for as long as I can remember?!) meant that bootcamp was not for me. Bootcamp was for people with chiselled abs who received a strange perverted joy whenever someone screamed at them. My abs have been sculpted, using cake icing, no chisels required and if someone shouts at me I become strangely quiet and plot their downfall. Anyhew, I was doing it.

I imagined everyone else would be mega fit and that I would vomit. This is what I blogged of my new comrades of Boot:

"And then I saw them, the first few boot types entering the court and walking towards me (I clearly resembled a 'booter' due to my trainers and apprehension). One larger man, one slender man, and a woman who looked like she already ran ultra-marathons.... A cheerleader type replete with ponytail came next, then another fellow fashioning an Ed Hardy T-shirt. Then the Boot Camp Leader herself... Dora, the yoga teacher..."

This was the reason I was able to complete the course and do so happily and bouncily - Dora.

For some reason, I had imagined Bootcamp to be recreations of the exercise scenes from Officer and a Gentleman, with Richard Gere. I guess this was the first time I saw someone be forced to perform the indignity of a push up while being shouted at. Yoga teachers tend not to be too much into abusing their students, as they have the concepts of mind, body and spirit which need to work in unity for any success at all. So long as I tried my best, I was applauded. So long as I sweated and grimaced then smiled, all was well.

For the first few weeks of Bootcamp, I eagerly checked my progress. Did I do an extra star jump? Leap higher up footie nets? Run further? Skip faster? But by the end that didn't feel so necessary. The fact is there were consistent warm weather warnings, so 30 minutes of any kind of movement in the still hot air outside left you feeling like Lawrence of Arabia staggering about seeing mirages of cool water. The simple fact that your body could now actually perform the feats that seemed impossible at the beginning was good enough. So we were effectively slowed down by the oppressive heat which led to us feeling more drained once inside. Luckily, a great ipod selection of music would always help us get up on our TRX systems and make sure everything hurt and we were in fact hobbling by 10am of the same day. Thank God the heat cancelled those wheelbarrows, as it turned out that I have a dysfunctional lumbar/pelvic thing going on (hehe) which explains why so many exercises have proved so painful in the past. Praise the Lord for Bootcamp, as without all this exercise, I would not have forced myself to seek out a physio in the first place.

Of course it wasn't just the two hour exercise on Sunday mornings that made so many changes in my appearance. The fact you KNOW the bootcamp is going to hurt you, means you feel most inclined to get fitter during the week. This meant yoga on Mondays and Wednesday, pilates on Tuesdays and TRX on Thursdays, all at Dora's Island Life Gym, and all under her watchful eye so she could help with any exercises you struggled with to ensure you were pushing yourself without hurting yourself. That's one of the joys of this little Lamma gym, classes often only have 3 or 4 people in, so you really do get a personal training service for an relatively tiny financial outlay.

As I noted in my blog - for the second bootcamp:

"In fact, there were only 5 of us. Mr Ed Hardy T-shirt was there, but had been out on the piss all week so had done zero exercise and felt rough. Little Miss Ultramarathon was there and whizzing around the activities in a sporty person type fashion. Herman the Incredible Shrinking Man was there doing his thing, as was the 19 year old uber-ripped Keira Knightley doppelganger. So we all got that little bit extra attention from Dora, our Trainer."

We ended our final bootcamp with 5.
Herman (our editor), Adrian (husband of Liz the ab slayer), Elissa (the physio professor), Lydia (ripped sleepy doctor chick) and me.
Five very different types of people. All very pleased with themselves.
I leave you with another lazy lyric that I think rather sums up who should get their arses to a bootcamp near them:
"Big ones, small ones, some a big as your head"
I hear the next one starts in a month, and will be by moonlight... leading us neatly up to the 10K run I've signed up for at Disney in November?
Strange, strange world
Exhausting just thinking about it!
x

Sweeter than heaven and hotter than hell

Is my new crush's lament.
Florence and the Machine. Her albums Lungs. All written around mythology and the fact she feels things rather more intensely than your average person. She's like Kate Bush in a cocaine haze and ketamine reverie.
I love her. I listen to her album when I wake up, when I go to sleep and as I walk about my Hong Kong life.
Tonight it was an unusually suitable soundtrack.
I outed my new chopped hair and teamed it with panda print mini dress. I went to the comedy club, with my dear friend and ass kicker, Dora Bootcamp and two Dora Devotees from Pure BodyPump.
Of course, as the four women entering the club late, we were swooped upon. Names and statuses were enquired. Maribee had both husband and boyfriend. Dora had husband and baby. Dada had husband. I was the single one. Which is no cause for lament, particularly when with panda dress, new hair and three new friends.
Jamie, the compere, elegantly pointed out that I was from England. White. Female. And therefore fucked. No white guys would go near me. And neither would the Chinese. I would be staying single for some time.
This could seem harsh. But as a stereotype it is amusing. The joke that all white guys go for Chinese girls. And all Chinese guys are not interested in troublesome gwai mui (lady white ghosts). Is not too many million miles away from the truth. But I have lived other lives. Where I spent time with Asian guys and/or White guys, depending upon my moods at the time. I recall turning down a particularly handsome fellow named George a few years ago, as I was only into Chinese men... We all have our phases and times when one route seems the only way.
Suffice to say. I was not insulted by these comments at all.
It did not make me blush. What did, was a white guy sitting behind me shouting out, 'She's hot!'
This has been my first night 'out' in a few months.
Certainly the first time since my sobriety experiment began.
I glowed back to the ferry. Where the 11.30pm was awaiting me. The passengers were suitably relaxed and I had the joys of comments about how fabulous my new look was and how well I looked.
This may sound like my crowning Narcissus moment, due to end in my falling desperately in love with my reflection where I shall surely perish. But this is not my tale, to disdain those who love me and be punished by the Gods with the same treatment.
In the words of Florence
"Here I am, a rabbit hearted girl
Frozen in the headlights...
I wish that I could just be brave
I must become a lion hearted girl"
All very Lewis Caroll I admit
But when my life is turning beautiful
I tend to make exceptionally erroneous choices with my heart
And am determined to be less rabbit and my lion on this occasion!
Rooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrr
*twitchy nose*
xx