I’ve always craved, in part, for that. Now in my interaction with friends from so long ago, it’s hard to share with them gay things: we move in totally different spheres. They have Zouk, I have St James on Sunday. They have Quiksilver, I have Instant Karma. They have Byford, I have Calvin Klein. It’s just like there’s this insuperable wall between us, a wall of fashion magazines, airy pop music and branded clothes.

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply;
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands a lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet know its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

That feeling of utter dejection – remembering lost loves, even the briefest encounters, illuminating them with my imagination (the lives we could have shared, the loves we could have assured) – leaves me breathless and for a moment it feels as if I’m going to die: that air steward who lives in Edinburgh, what’s his name? who wanted to fuck, but I couldn’t because I was afraid of pain then. That filmmaker, the first one who fucked me (what was his name? Daniel? Dan? Danny?), what’s happened to him? And the countless Jewish guys I’ve dated – once, twice, three time’s an alarming record – whatever happened to them? So many questions, so many alternate existences, only one life I have. Sometimes I wish I could retrack my steps, like deliberately not saving when you’re playing Pokemon so you can go back to that crucial moment before killing the Mewtwo. (I mix my metaphors liberally.)

I blame Z for doing this to me. Had his lusty roving eye not fallen upon the G’s AC-ruggerness and tophood, I would not have met them at Taboo and G would not have known me when he bumped into me the following day at St James. Now I wake up and think fondly of him. But, you know, as with all things with me (the O, random other guys, chicken pox) this will pass soon. Grrrr. Brrrr.

This should not be happening. I’m tough as nails. I haven’t allowed myself to feel any affection for anyone in a long time – almost four months now. Hence the numerous encounters. It’s much easier (and more fun) to drown your loneliness in sexual predation. Not to mention, of course, extremely validating. The past three months have shown me that I’m not that ugly after all, that I can land myself good-looking guys with a modicum of intelligence, not just those mingers in toilets with hair in all the wrong places. Which is a step forward.

SO. The G hasn’t called yet, and I’m starting to feel a bit anxious. Damn these tops of all shapes and sizes, they’ll use you and they’ll lose you. But don’t you ever for a second get to thinking, you’re irreplaceable.

But now life is so fresh and so new and so various. I’ve met and fallen in love with the best people. (I didn’t think I’d find any more friends who could be loyal and true to me – difficult, obstinate, taciturn me – but I did. And now my perfect world – so static, so true – has fallen apart, and new, fresh, feeling has rushed in, and I’ve never felt so much more exhilaratingly alive. Alive. And now when September comes I will have to pack everything into a bag and bid everyone goodbye. And now – now – how will this be possible? How will this be easy? What could I even do?

This is getting very emo and boring.

Three years after that, I feel bad. Growing up can do these things to you. Hm.

Today he revealed something that has been weighing heavily on his mind – that he wouldn’t be able to find a hot eligible Brahmin girl. Ok all you Brahminahs out there – you want him, you got him. Tell me and I’ll get back to you. Heh. My advice was to marry a Chinese, so he’d have hot Chindian children. But he would have none of it, for fear of parental retribution. Alas, the woes of the caste system! And I thought being gay and Chinese was bad.

Word of the day? Olivier. Olive wood. Or an olive tree. Adorable.

Friday was a crazy day. I was busy recovering from Thursday night’s preview or Little Children, which was a tough cookie to chew on. It reminded me a lot of Babel, but better. Though both films touched on how convergent lives can affect each other through coincidence – a light brush here, a slight crush there – Babel‘s problematic pacing paled in comparison to Little Children‘s dry ironic wit. I’m probably going to do a comparative review to kill two birds with one stone. Oh and btw – Patrick Wilson is. So. Hawt.

Friday evening I interviewed Addie, owner of Taboo. A real dear if there ever was one. I wish I had his zen-buddhist life-philosophy. Then I rushed down to the Pump Room (at Clarke Quay) for a party in aid of AfA. There I got into a bit of a kerfuffle with the staff. I tried to bring Jinesh in, and she was so incrediby uppity and snooty about it: “How many people you wanna bring in? This is 40 bucks a head you know? And you get to drink wine and have food.” I gave her a piece of my mind. It was not pretty. But I was. Then we rushed down to Cafe del Mar’s opening, and I was shocked at how many white people there are in Asian Singapore. Yum.

Well I’m exhausted from the weekend’s proceedings. I leave you with a picture of the adorable Tim. Who is as usual eating. We went to Max Brenner’s. I had a rather delish crepes suzette.Perhaps he is grimacing because of the loss of his beloved Zul. Perhaps he is grimacing because the chocolate has given him a heart attack. We shall never know. Here is Tim, with Belgian waffle:

Hm.