Tuesday, February 25, 2014

Vexed To Nightmare

Every night a different nightmare. But each featuring the same person. My mother. Last night I dreamt she was not really dead, that we had buried her alive. Dadda figured it out and we had to dig her up again. And she spent her Renaissance preparing for Julie's wedding which had already happened. Before she died.

I have no idea what it means. I just know that when I wake up I have less and less desire to live.

She Calls

I've been dreaming of her every night; troubled dreams...and now my body is wracked with fever and coughs and keeps expelling food almost before I've finished eating. Now objects lose their fixity and meaning and there is an absence of desire.

Many many times I have felt like I'd like to cast off this garment and slip away but each time there was something holding me back. But now faces grow dim and voices muffled. I don't remember why I am here and delaying the inevitable because I have not really lived or left my mark on the surface of this earth (any different from drawing pictures in the sand) seems futile. And illogical.

Breathing to go on breathing makes no sense.

And she calls.

Every night, in fact every sleep is spiced with troubled nightmares, and I toss and turn and writhe in agony. And whimper.

Because she calls. She talks rubbish, tells me untruths that I can pick apart even in my sleep-drugged state and I wake up and curl under blankets unwilling to expose my face to the harsh light of day, unwilling to stagger out of bed to meet people who imagine they are fixed forms doing God's own work and not jellies, not transparencies...

What am I to do? She calls. And I feel nothing. And I don't care if I answer or if I don't. Except that I'm weary. Except that I wish I could rest.

Friday, February 21, 2014

The Shreds Of My Life

These are the shreds of my life. I can't make them reconcile, cohere. There is no Grand Narrative. Only side stories that veer off into little drains off the corners. Until everyone forgets what they were supposed to be about. No central theme. Only fragments of this thing. And that. I can't connect the threads. It's like I've had too much whisky, my love. Or too much wine.

I stopped knowing who I was a long time ago.

And I stopped caring.

So how does a life like this end?

How long till I stop pretending to care?

Wednesday, January 01, 2014

In the midst of a crowd

Happy New Year. There are plenty of things I want to say. But I'm writing this in a crowded restaurant. So it's probably not the best time.

Later for you.

Tuesday, December 24, 2013

Maybe tomorrow

It's a dismal Christmas I'm seeing in this year by myself. Funny but today, of all days of the year, I feel truly alone. All that frenzied running around,  'doing Christmas' with various people, all for nothing.

Doesn't change the fact that I'm truly alone.

Doesn't change the fact that I choose to be here by myself rather than in a house full of people.

I put Arnold in my lap and stroked him for a while but he seemed uneasy and eventually he pulled away.

I have only enough energy to scan the acres of nothingness that is my life. The life I chose. The life characterised by negation.

Maybe tomorrow. Things will be different. In spite of it all.

Wednesday, December 18, 2013

Death, and the variants thereof

Mark texted to tell me that his uncle Eddie just died. He didn't say how. He just told me he was due to get on stage in about a half second. Eddie was young. I'd met him before. Lived in Perth. And he wanted so much to come home. Over there he worked and slept. Not much of a life outside the two.

And he was so lonely. He accumulated his leave for the year and came back to Malaysia. He would follow Mark around the musician's circuit. Or they would go fishing.

Mark sounded sad and in shock. But when with the help of my sometimes not so  trusty GPS I found this place there he was,  playing with Alvin, as nonchalant as s Christmas decoration. About the only slight indication I had that something was out of the ordinary was a song he chose to sing to end the first set: Swing low sweet chariot. ..looking to carry me home.      

And just like that another person extinguished,  falling into that deep abyss from whence no more stories emerge.

This year has been full death and I just can't seem to find the people who fell in. I'm sure there must be some pattern in all this randomness. I just don't know what it is.

And I'm so tired.

Please,  there's only a few more days in the year.

Please,  no more.

Monday, December 09, 2013

The trick is to meander

I've finished the cover story. Of course, it's not finished, not really. It's just that I've tied up the first draft with a bow, and sent it on to Anna. To read, perchance to scream...ay, there's the rub. For in that scream of death, what nightmares may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal, cornbread, ah, there's the respect, that makes the tragedy of an overly long story that probably needs to be longer. No matter. Can always add. And I'm supposed to call this Datuk guy tomorrow to step up and spew quotes.

I've taken to buying stuff. I'm Christmas shopping at the moment (bought lotsa stuff today) and I still haven't even covered everyone I'm supposed to be buying for. Ah me, there's the rub. I bought another ring for me though. So now I have one red, one blue, one green and one silver. Yummers. I love my silver ring. I am constantly stopping to admire and adjust it on my small small fingers.

I thought this weekend I would concentrate on the dogs. They needed to be bathed (ugh ticks galore. Me not being around has been bad for the mutts). Their beds needed to be bathed as well (the ticks got onto the beds and the dogs were heartily avoiding them). Elliot has developed various wounds all over his body from excessive scratching and biting. I keep dabbing antibiotic cream on said wounds. Poor boy. Every time I think I got them all, he's opened up a new one and they bloom on his skin like a lot of pink roses.

So, anyway. I don't know where I will spend Christmas. Probably alone and after I will take a drive down to JB to be in time for Chubs's tea ceremony. Maybe I will find something congenial to occupy me. Maybe I won't. I still haven't moseyed on upstairs to get my leave form and apply for leave. Which I need to do, pretty soon.

What I've learned about holidays is don't have any obligatory to-do list and don't sign your money off somewhere to something that obliges you to go there every day. Instead, meander through the holiday, read your books and meander. That's good advice, no?

I came back with a cold but I think it's all done now.

I may go to Backyard tonight. But then again, I might not.

Later for you.

Friday, November 29, 2013


So I planned a day at the beach, in fact cleared my whole day so I wouldn't have to make tracks till about 4.30. And what should happen? The wind should blow up a gale making it close to impossible to sit out on the beach without getting blown away. But I persisted. I sat at the wooden seats that was in the hotel restaurant, facing the beach and determinedly finished my Dorothy Wordsworth. I even wrote a letter to Katherine. But then, I slunk back to my room to do some other things on my to-do list. I even ordered room service (see how low I've sunk?).

But then I decided to spend whatever time I had left on the beach. And I made tracks for it with my needlework and book. I read a poem and did my needlework. The wind, while still high, had died down somewhat. There were other people on the beach, rearranging the deck chairs to get whatever sliver of sun they could manage. They got more than a sliver. Most of them seemed nice and toasted. Speaking of which I find myself delicately roasted around the edges. Despite glopping on loads of sunscreen. Oh well. Now you'll know I went for a holiday.

This evening I searched out the famous Cicada artisans market. Because everybody insists that is the one place in Hua Hin you HAVE to go. But I was sadly disappointed. Not only was the stuff overpriced, it wasn't very artisanal to begin with. It seemed that by virtue of being Cicada, they could charge twice or three times what they charged at the night market. And Sarah warned me that artisans don't like to haggle. After taking a gander at the prices, I sighed and walked around feeling lost. Part of me said, the reason I'm not seeing anything worth buying is because I have already written everything off. But this feeling persisted, nonetheless.

At last, I decided that, if nothing else, I could at least eat here. Here too, Cicada had to make things difficult. You can't just go buy what you want from the stalls. Oh no. You have to get 200 baht worth of coupons and then walk around to see if there is anything that catches your fancy. And if nothing, you can always cash in your coupons. Provided you do so on the same day.

I did have a nice mango and sticky rice there. But that was about it.

Oh I forgot to tell you, this nice Canadian lady told me that Cicada was walking distance, only about a kilometre away, no problem. Well, I walked and walked and then walked some more. Came to a pub called Lost, which was how I felt so I smiled at the irony. And then I found it....I guess part of my judgement was clouded by the fact that I was so footsore.

But here's the thing. I had already decided that if I didn't like anything at Cicada (actually the possibility never entered my mind, I thought I would like at least one or two things there) what I would be getting from the night market.

So...I guess it's back to the nightmarket (for the 3rd time, no less) tomorrow. Oh well, having been to Cicada, I now appreciate the unpretentiousness of the night market.

I have planned my day (again) so I can maximise my time on the beach. Hopefully, tomorrow, the weather will be plascent. I know, that's not a word but that's the word I feel like using.