The Lady Next Door

There's something going on with the lady next door. Only I don't know what. She has been there for years, and I notice her without noticing her. I notice the children she babysits (kind of like background music because they spend a good deal of the time bawling their heads off), I notice the friends she has over (and old lady), I notice her getting thinner and thinner, I notice her going out with a girl, for lunch.

I notice without noticing.

And recently her "husband" who left her and went to China came back, all smiley and pleased with himself. He had his new wife and little baby in tow. Proudly showed them off. Here, right under his wife's nose. His first wife, that is. He showed up just after the disaster in Japan, when the radiation could have spread to China. He showed up and just expected to be put up. I don't know what happened but he was there a few days and suddenly wasn't there anymore.

I couldn't believe he could do that to her. To not only leave her like that, but to show up and rub her neighbours' faces into his new life. This was a nice guy, a smiley guy, it didn't seem like the kind of thing that he would do.

But then, he didn't seem like the kind of guy who would ditch his wife and take off with some nubile young thing.

And he did.

And she grew thinner and thinner. She took in these spoiled, annoying kids to make ends meet. Kids who would start screaming their heads off the moment their parents tried to drop them off.

It couldn't have been fun.

And she rented out rooms.

Except that recently, it doesn't seem like she has any more tenants. No one parks inside. The tenants always used to park inside.

And I never thought about how lonely she must be. And how miserable. I never thought that maybe, one day, when I made muffins or red velvet cake, I could have offered it to her over the fence.

Some gesture. Some friendly gesture.

Yes, I know there were friends and she was rarely alone.

But I never allowed myself to think about how miserable, sad and lonely she must be.

And today, one of her friends was banging on the door. I was outside and I looked. Her friend smiled sheepishly and continued to bang and call her.

No answer.

And just now, I heard someone calling again. And this time it penetrated the thick fog of white noise that envelops me, making me oblivious to my surroundings.

Where was she? If she had gone off on holiday, why didn't her friends know?

Could she have...would she have...?

And for the first time, I thought of the slow rotting inside...the sense of betrayal, the anger, the having to survive somehow, while he was smiling and happy and showing off his new wife, his new kid.

What must it have been like for her when he came.

What must it have been like for her when he spoke to us and said, lookie here, my wife, my kid...lookie here.

And that look on her face, the look I saw without seeing.

How could I have been so oblivious?

I will watch out for her tomorrow. I will watch and see and update these pages, some record at least of a person, a sad, lonely person, who is here near me.

I once sat next to a woman on a park bench and she spoke to me about her life and all I could see was her loneliness. That's all I registered.

But she wasn't just her loneliness. She prayed for everyone around her. In fact, she managed to get me to follow her home and put me on her hard as board sofa and I heard the Rosary beads clicking as she prayed for me that night, glad I was there, glad that for one night at least, she didn't have to be alone.

And I fell into a deep, sweet sleep, one of the deepest and sweetest sleeps I have ever had.

She was a powerful prayer.

We were on the train and a young man, the long-haired dodgy-looking type came up to her and said, do you remember me? And she looked down, afraid, because she tends to attract violent types.

But he said...I was one of those youth in that church...and you prayed for me. Thank you.

He said that to her.

She was a powerful prayer.

And I think about her now because I'm thinking...all this time, I couldn't spare one prayer for the poor, lonely lady next door. Couldn't say, God, please lift her spirits, strengthen her, raise her up, give her back her joy in life.

I say it now.

Now, when it may be too late.

And For The Record I Was Lost

Thursday I got lost.I drove for two hours circling around, paying about a hundred dollars in tolls, running out of petrol, and guess what? Forgot to charge my phone so it kept beeping to tell me, hey, I'm running out of battery. I prayed, I screamed, I begged, I implored, and still I circled.

In all the wrong places.

No petrol station.

No more petrol.

Yet another toll booth. I asked the guy. Hey? Petrol station? Anywhere? Anywhere?

He smiled. Nodded. Said...just follow the signs for KL.

I asked Hulu Langat? How do I get to that exit?

The serene smiling Buddha said...just follow the signs...the signs for KL.

OK, so I was getting somewhere. The first good thing was finding a proper petrol station. And getting some food into my baby that had been shuddering frighteningly in the middle of nowhere. That would have been the icing on the cake.

And the next was finding that fricking exit. Yes. 9th Mile. Only I went straight along the road, ended up on the outside, turned back and went straight to the...police station.

A cheerful officer came out to show me the way. He gesticulated...go straight along this road, you'll see a sign. A big sign. You cannot miss it.

Problem is...go straight along this road could have been in two directions. He didn't think of that. And of course, I didn't see the sign. Because the road I chose, there was no sign. Double back in heavy, heavy traffic. A traffic light that doesn't change for hours.

The PA has managed to make one more call to my dying phone. She estimated that close as I was, I'd be there in 10 minutes tops.

Stuck at that traffic light it had already been 20.

I was so so late, it was not funny. I could feel my stomach heaving and churning. I felt my throat close up, a recent symptom of stress. My forehead burning. Roiling is a good word. I was a roiling cauldron of emotion. Only the bad ones.

The PA seemed more amused than anything. And sarcastic. She said, go ahead, take your time, we have nothing better to do but wait for you. And when finally, finally, I was on the right road, and saw the bleeping sign and made my way up the bleeping right road, and found the place (oh glory, glory) and got out the car and ran for it...she came smiling sweetly and said...people have gotten lost before, they've been late before, but never two hours.

Smirk, smirk.

I don't know why she hated me so much.

You know how some people smile and you feel like they're chewing ground glass?

You know how some people are perfectly civil to you, and you feel like they're spewing vitriol?

That was her.

But perhaps I'm being unfair. I mean she had only blocked the interview by pretending her CEO was not interested and had postponed it indefinitely and telling him I had found someone else to interview.

She laughed on the phone, speaking to me, in one of my numerous phone calls and said...yes, yes, I'll see him today, I'll ask him again. It doesn't look good though, I have to tell you.

Yeah, I have to tell you.
Couldn't lie to you
Wouldn't want to do that
No, we both wouldn't want that.

Operator the line is dead.

And finally, I said, fuck this, and sent him an email directly. And he said...surprise, surprise, I thought you were no longer interested. And proceeded to give me a time instantly.

A time, mind you, that I had already missed.

And being an important CEO of a listed company, he was chock a block with other meetings.

And my photographer had already come and gone.

So...

I arrived. Was treated to her unctuous smiles and "you just sit there and cool off, calm down, my, my, but you're late, really late, no one has ever been this late before."

And her boss turned and glanced at my disheveled self and said...take your time, don't worry. And then although there were two merchant bankers and one VIP already there, waiting on meetings, and let's face it, much higher up the food chain than some stray reporter, he proceeded to give me a one-and-a-half hour interview.

She stuck her head in halfway, grinning like a banshee...I'm so sorry, but they've been waiting too long...what do I tell them? It's time.

Hurry up please, it's time.

Hurry up please, it's time.

Hurry up please, it's time.

Hurry up please, it's time.

And he nodded calmly, waited for her to close the door again, and went on talking.

I said, I'm sorry this is all my fault.

He said, don't worry about it, they can wait.

And so they waited.

And I staggered out of there one and a half hours later.

Found my way home with no trouble at all.

And promptly fell ill from all the stress on Friday. When I had to file the story.

But I did. Oh Sigmund. I did.

Am I Crazy Or Falling In Love

I've just finished transcribing an interview. I want to go home now. I was a cool interview and I found myself smiling incessantly. So Joyce, who's sitting across from me thinks I have yet another crush (she thought I was crushing on her contact she introduced me to...I liked him...he was charming...but considering crush? I don't think so).

I put pictures of my friends and my dog around me. Also two poems. And it was a very very good idea. Sometimes when I'm smiling it's because of what the interviewee was talking about. Sometimes, it's because Mark is standing there with his guitar and smiling at me in that blurred reproduction taken with my phone. Or because Mary and Prabs and struggling with their umbrellas pulling in different directions, laughing. Or because Arnold has perched his forelegs on my bed and is looking at me intently. Or because I have my arms around Nits and we're both smiling in close-up. Or because Jackie is laughing with the setting sun in Cagnes sur Mer in the background. Or because I'm in my Santa hat with my arms around Yong and Addy on either side.

And sometimes I read Lao Tzu:

In the pursuit of knowledge,
everyday something is added.
In the practice of the Way,
everyday something is dropped.
Less and less do you need to force things,
until finally you arrive at non-action.
When nothing is done,
nothing is left undone.

And I breathe and take it in. Something to remind myself of from time to time. And there is my Edge Financial Daily mug stained with lipstick. Sort of dark red. Can't remember what I used today. And there is some red fabric draped around one side of my cubicle, courtesy of Anna, whose desk I am up against.

And there is my crushed napkin with the scribbled words - I was going to throw it away - but my colleague Zaquan, who dropped in on my sandwich and book for lunch and told me his favourite author of all time is David Foster Wallace...told me to save it. He said..hang it up, as is.

Zaquan's an artist. In fact, they seem to be crawling out of the woodwork here. They look so corporate and professional on the surface. And underneath...oh Sigmund, underneath.

Decorating my desk was a declaration of sorts. After keeping my head down and just doing my work for the three weeks I've been here.

I raise my head. I sniff a little.

Now I can go home now. I can email my transcription to myself and work on it at home.

Or else I can go music shopping. I recently discovered a local artist I want to hear more of.

If it's the mind that causes suffering, then if you learn to control your mind, you alleviate said suffering. So when I'm stuck in a funk unable to figure out how I'm going to get a story, I take a deep breath, say a prayer and relax. Doodle on my notepad. Write crazy Facebook updates. Comment on my own updates. Chat. Listen to Rainbow Connection. Crush (that seems to be a theme in my life right now). And send out good thoughts. Good vibes. Uncomplicated by the static of hopelessness and helplessness and sheer panic.

At least I hope I do.

Later for you.

Humpty Dumpty

You know how it is, when you pack your laptop and tape recorder to go to Backyard, listen to Mark and transcribe your interview in between sets...and then suddenly people turn up and invite you to join them and the whole thing turns into an impromptu party and suddenly you think, to hell with it...life isn't about trying to transcribe interview in pubs. Rather it is loving the people who love you, hanging out with the people who actually want to hang out with you...getting famously inebriated and singing at the top of your voice, dancing like there's no one watching.

I hope you dance, hey?

And then...when everyone leaves and Mark has one set to go and I'll wait it out until he finishes...by which time I'm too drunk to get out my computer and it's so much unnecessary baggage anyway, so instead, I pluck a napkin from the centre and start to scribble (because being drunk usually means that feelings bottled up rise to the top like cream...and have to, have to, have to be expressed)

And today, I uncrumple the napkin hastily stuffed into my little red bag and here's what I find:

So much of life is waiting around for permission
Holding our breath till someone says it's OK...

It's OK, it really is
and until we hear those words
we tie ourselves up in knots
don't sleep at night
cry into our pillows
because we're never good enough
never, never, never, never, never
And it's alright
it really is.

Just fall apart
and keep shattering
and when you're done
pick yourself up
piece by piece
piece by piece
until you're all picked up
and put yourself together again.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.

I Informed You Thusly; I So Informed You Thusly!

My car is looking respectable. Arnold threw up in my backseat last night (I didn't notice) and when I was taking Dadda out for his Father's Day lunch, Arnold scrambled into the backseat and I noticed it for the first time...and then, with all the windows down, I noticed it even more. So hacking and gagging, I drove Dadda to Rumahku. Luckily Chubs showed up so Dadda could go back with him and I could drive straight to my car wash guy. He listened patiently to my tale of woe and figured out how to clean my car for RM20 less than it would normally cost.

(I think my car wash guy likes me, which is good, because the car came out of the experience, sparkling and minty fresh).

Then I got home to see Chubs sprawled on the sofa watching my Big Bang Theory (season 4) and giggling to himself. And Arnold hurled himself on me, with those eyes, telling me that it was time to go out.

So after tea, and writing this...I am going out...lots of errands I should have done earlier which I will have to do now. With Arnold in car. Maybe now he has thrown up the entire contents of his stomach (those darn antibiotics just don't agree with him) he won't throw up again.

OK he has just done his noise that sounds like he's trying to tell me something. Like hey girl who feeds me, it's time to go OUT!

So here I go.

Jumping now.

Dive.

The Waiting Game

OK the editor just called me up to discuss my story for the week, my first major story in this magazine/newspaper. The ones I've done so far have been frivolous (an advertorial, a light-hearted look at the new kids on the corporate block).

But today, it was different. I was put on the weekly this week and by reading the papers every day and taking copious notes (mostly questions, because I've been out of it so long, I don't know nothing about nothing) I was able to come up with a story idea for the meeting. (Yes, PH, the meeting went well).

And I plugged away all this week, being such a pest that if I had been them, I would have switched off my phone and refused to answer. (OK one or two of them did do this, but all it meant was that I kept calling). At one point I nearly sent out a text to a contact saying:

"Sad. Nobody loves me. Nobody called me back or answered my questions."

But just as I was about to press "send" somebody called me back. And then someone called me on top of the first person calling me and got call waiting. And then a third person called. So, well, I suddenly felt very loved and aborted said message.

So anyway, my editor (who doesn't know me or my work and as such cannot be biased in my favour like my dear Anna who worked with me in BT can) said he hardly had to do anything to my story. "It was good. You write well." And he sort of looked surprised.

I felt this rush, you know, like the top of your head spinning when you read good poetry. Dial it back two weeks when I was busy getting daily migraines (while writing close-one-eye advertorials, for crying out loud) because of performance anxiety. The only good thing is that I recognised it for performance anxiety and was able to address it.

Mostly by having my weekends off and not thinking or talking about work and hanging out with Arnold and making red velvet cake (yeah OK there was a purpose for that last week) and walking aimlessly around Bangsar and sitting at the vet for hours and talking to other dog lovers who called my baby a handsome boy, and, and, and...you get the picture.

Tomorrow, however, I have promised to help someone with something corporate. Also somebody else will be sending me "talking points" and I am supposed to write a speech. So if any of this goes through then I think I'll have less of a relaxing weekend.

And Monday is so far away (doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore, it would be so fine to see your face at my door, doesn't help to know that you're just time away...) OK I just found the song on my iPod and am listening to it. I love Carole King.

Maybe I can go home early after all. And take my doggie out. He needs a bath.

I am not drunk but I feel like drunk texting somebody. And saying "so far away" or maybe "one town's very like another when your head's down over your pieces, brother."

Anyone out there?

Anyone?

Addendum:

OK I thought I was done except for checking pages to see that everything was hunky dory but apparently I wasn't. The editor swung and saw me goofing around on Facebook and asked very politely if I had finished market. Which had me scrambling. Because I thought he had given market to someone else, seeing as I was busy trying to finish my story.

So I undid all the good work of my story by giving in what was probably the world's worst market round-up. Bad news, oh lookie here, more bad news, and even more bad news. In fact, a fricking Greek tragedy (and I'm not talking about the debt crisis here).

What is Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, that he would weep for her?

Yet I,
A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak
Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause,
And can say nothing

And it was too late to call analysts so I decided to call my good friend Omar who, I had lately been chatting with about really important things like fat men and Abbotsbury and chocolate cake and twee tea places. And Omar, who has having a beer, came through. He sent me to look up comparative PE ratios (a little bit of a challenge as I'm spastic around the Bloomberg machine - CP? Really? Equity? Where? And what's the pneumonic for Maybank again? And what's the largest company on the index? It's been years...years since I've done market. And guess what? Even when I did it before, I never liked it. Never, never, never, never, never) He gave me a lot of funny quotes, sent me to look up Dr Doom's article about the Greek crisis, told me about this being down and that being down and in fact, everything being down - haha China..inflation up, IPO market soft (like a teddy bear) and cuddly too...

And so I managed to write....

the world's worst

market

report.

My bad.

My fricking bad.

Oh boy.

I wish I could leave now and go out for a drink with Nitsy Poo.

But the copy editors have gone for their dinner...so my copies are stuck somewhere in the process of being processed like candy floss or the rubber on your soles....or spiderman costumes.

You can see I'm losing it.

Losing, losing, losing...

Nothing in Particular

Wow, the last time I updated was first thing Monday morning? And lookit here, it's Wednesday night. Monday sort of morphed into two interviews, me running around like a headless chicken, asking questions, taping answers and then Tuesday...well Tuesday...I don't remember what I did Tuesday, because I only managed to transcribe said interviews today...and am wondering how I'm going to write stories. I had intended to write the stories when I got home. In fact, I even emailed myself the transcription in a fit of optimism.

Instead, I ate lots of brie cheese on crackers, watched eight episodes of Big Bang Theory back to back, goofed around with my little Arnold boy who's pleased as punch to spend time, except for the brief instances where he insists on being let out to misbehave (and by misbehave, I mean, start barking and then chasing people on the road...so I have to go out and roar for him in stentorian tones, cos that's what I do when Arnold misbehaves, and he knows I'm the only one who'll smack him on the tookus, so his ears and tail go down and he slinks back in, then wags his tail and comes to play, and I think what the heck and roll around the floor with him because he's my chumby wumby puppy doggie).

Obviously I'm not going to work tonight. I need to take a shower though. And I'm hot, hot, hot (and not in a good way) and wondering...geez, shower? I'm sleepy, and then there's work....and basically my thoughts are as scattered as a shattered window...looking out at the dark, looking in at...somebody sitting at a desk, writing away, writing away, doing what they're supposed to do, because that's what good girls do, what they're supposed to do...and bad girls...watch eight episodes of TBBT back to back and eat lots of cheese (and maybe a few grapes) and nothing much besides.

Maybe I'm on overload.

You think?

Maybe.

Just another washed out Wednesday.

People keep telling me stories and making me cry.

First Thing Monday Morning

So I'm in early, sort of early (I mean there were people in here earlier than me, because this is Malaysia and there is always someone more kiasu than you around), and had time to clear my email (three - please make the necessary amendments and one, no you can't have the interview we tentatively promised you).

Then there is the going through the paper...well, I've done nothing but the lead so far, though I fully expect to finish reading the paper before lunch. OK the most attractive girl in the office (in my opinion, anyway) has just walked in with her hair done up in a chignon, sort of elegant, regal even. By the way she is dressed, I know she has an interview today. (You can always tell by the way a reporter is dressed if they're going out or not for the day). I'm in comfy non-corporate clothes, so you know I am so staying in today, except that...well, there may be drinks at Backyard later...maybe with contacts....but considering how the week has started off with people flaking on me, I'm not so sure.

The thing, my dear Jennifer, is not to take any of this personally.

What happened to your thick skin?

I know, I know. But you know, first thing Monday morning, it's nice to have an interview secured so there's at least one story you can bank on.

Instead of this big fat nothing staring me in the face.

We come from nothing, we go to nothing...nothing is what we're all about.

OK then, thanks for reminding me. I'll try to bear that in mind when I'm sitting there, mind blank, humming Nella Fantasia, or So Far Away (doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore, it would be so fine to see your face at my door, doesn't help to know...)

OK lalalalalalala you gotta song stuck in my head. Darn you! Now I'll have to go on singing it...yeah, you're just time away, long ago I reached for you and there you stood, holding you again could only do me good...Darn you Alternate Self!

The Many Lives of...

OK it's 7.43pm now and I am still in the office. The first time I've stayed this late. Why? Cos it's Friday. You stay late on Friday to close pages. But I'm all done. My stories have been cleared and my pages (such as they are) are closed.

So I get my first byline tomorrow. Which is always a yay moment for any reporter. And I have a tentative date at Backyard on Monday. With contacts (takes me back to NST days, oh death in life, the days that are no more).

I can go home, take Arnold out for his walkies and then chill. Maybe watch a little Big Bang. Maybe ask Chubs if he wants to go out for a movie.

I have a little notebook with story ideas for Monday's meeting. Yay! I was worried about story ideas...but it seems that sitting down and reading the paper gives them to me.

Also calling contacts and chatting with them over the phone and having a little gossip. They now say, oh dear, you're a reporter again now, I have to be careful what I say. And then they proceeded to not be. Which is great. Spill those beans, baby, spill 'em, spill 'em.

I had a really awful drink (nice company, awful bar, godawful drink, more so for Addy who asked for rum and got bacardi instead - that tasted like cough mixture). We went to Rainforest because Mark was singing. He had a lump in his throat - so short sets. Also, he couldn't sing his usual numbers because the Rainforest crowd favours loud loud music (the kind that makes you cover your ears and run).

Never mind. Backyard on Monday. And since it will be a semi-work thing, schmoozing with contacts, I don't have to feel guilty about it.

Thing about work. It tends to take over your life. But I don't mind it when I'm in the press. I only mind if I'm anything else.

Nam sayin?

Rainy Days and Thursdays

I have finished what I was supposed to do, so I am lolling at my desk, updating this, listening to subdued conversations take place all around me (today is Thursday, it is quite a buzzing day here) and trying to read the paper all at once. Talk about multi-tasking. Now, if I stop up my ears with earphones and listen to Nella Fantasia et al. I will be able to concentrate on reading the paper. Except that I am not reading the paper. I am updating this.

The past few days have been weird. I get so tense that I end everyday with a blinding migraine. So blinding that I can barely drive home. Now I know that these guys are going way easy on me and have only given me easy stuff to begin with. So that means I am stressing myself out for nothing.

Yesterday, first thing in the morning, I asked a colleague if he had Panadol. No, but he had Vitamin C tablets, the kind you dissolve in water, which he said always gave him the requisite pick-me-up. So I took two. Then, he asked around and found some aspirin for me (can anyone be nicer?).

After lunch I stopped by at Borders and picked out a volume of Edna St Vincent Millay. I read the famed Renascence and then turned to my favourite (maybe because we did this poem in university):

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.

I don't know if you've noticed but the last stanza so to speak about her boughs being more silent than before is sort of a mirror of a Shakespeare sonnet which begins thus (or should I say thusly?):

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

Anyway, because I'm weird I stroll along on my solitary way repeating phrases to myself like "where late the sweet birds sang" or "what lips my lips have kissed" or "in sooth, I know not why I am so sad."

Is it any wonder that nobody wants to hang out with me and I get weirder and more isolated by the minute?

Anyway, so yesterday I finished the stories that have been weighing me down and causing me all this stress and I left the office for the first time without a migraine. Which was kind of good because it had been raining intermittently and there was a massive jam outside.

Which meant I couldn't take Arnold for his evening walk (he was not happy about that) and ended up sprawled on the sofa watching numerous episodes of Big Bang Theory instead.

Oh the humanities!

Classic Sheldon!

So I interviewed someone I thought was nice but I am revising my opinion in the face of his not answering my email to clarify something or to comment on what I sent him. I have to really learn to detach from these people and understand that PR personalities are just that. PR. Puff of smoke. Nothing underneath.

Sigh.

I could use a drink tonight.

Fireflies and Dog Bites

Here I am again, post-lunch, falling asleep as I do some research on the computer. So I decided to update this, my much neglected blog. I didn't have a heavy lunch. Just a Subway sandwich. But apparently that's enough. I'm listening to Owl City's Fireflies. It is strangely soothing. Maybe that's it.

It's hard to say that I'd rather stay awake when I'm asleep
Because my dreams are bursting at the seams...

So anyway, there was the weekend. It came and went. Sunday was particularly busy. I had a to-do list. I did some of it.Missed out on some others. I'll forgive myself anyway. Nobody's perfect.

Cos I get a thousand hugs
from 10,000 lightning bugs
as they try to teach me
how to dance

Fireflies has a special place in my heart. Mark bluetoothed it to my ex-phone. The one I lost in the boondocks of a toll operator's office (it was the back of beyond, the middle of nowhere and my phone, my phone, my precious phone was lost forevah!)

Some good things happened today. I've landed an interview I really wanted to land. And I did it for the most part by being cheeky and unsober. I posted a card I was supposed to post last week. When I asked a few colleagues the way to the post office they looked at me funny. Apparently no one goes to the post office anymore. At least, not to post cards. To pay bills maybe.

What can I say, I write with a fountain pen, I send actual honest-to-God cards.

An anachronism and proud of it.

Arnold bit a guy today. Dadda called to tell me. He bit him hard. The guy who had come to change our gas cylinder. Dadda had relaxed his vigilance for a bit and suddenly the poor man was screaming, uncle, uncle, your dog bit me!

(Is it bad that when Dadda told me the story, instead of reacting with the horror I should have, I started to laugh? Maybe it's because Arnold's got broken teeth. Still, his bites hurt. Ask Auntie Ann. She got bitten. She had to sit down. And the guy who came to buy our old newspapers. He got bitten. He had to sit down)

All in all, just with us, he's bitten three people. At the shelter, he attacked another dog. Silly dog didn't realise that he is old and at a disadvantage. The younger dog came back strongly (Arnold had pinned him down at first, taking him by surprise) and took off a chunk of skin under his ear. The bad ear. Sabrina treated it with medicine and it healed nicely.

I can't understand it.

He used to have the sweetest personality. Castration affects different dogs differently, I guess. You'd have thought that there would be an easing of aggression. But this dog was not aggressive to begin with. And now he's become a bit of a nightmare.

Not to me. Because if he misbehaves in front of me, I wallop the heck out of him. (You haven't seen scary until you've seen me in a towering rage) And I'll do it if I have to crawl under a lorry to retrieve him. (He attacked the cute schnauzer that hangs out near our house and ran to hide under the lorry as I chased him bellowing wildly...there was hell to pay...I made sure of it).

OK this blog has served its purpose.

I'm awake now.

May help that the song has switched to Walking on Air.

There's so many ways to say you love her
It's so easy when you make the first move
then you're walking on air
walking on air
walking on air
love won't let you come down.

Angel Unawares

Next time you pass a source of light, pause and look at it carefully. There are angels hovering around it like moths. And you'll know there are angels because there will be a pause in the ever deepening darkness around you, like someone cut in, distracted you, and suddenly, just like magic you're focused on something else.

Something totally different.

Sometimes, the angels even come when you forget to call.

And the light sources are never what you think. No, not that fluorescent hovering above you. Not the yellow lamp pulsating benignly. Not the candle in all its mellifluous effluence.

None of that.

Sometimes it's a dog.

Sometimes a person. The kind of person you don't notice because they are not insecure enough to be conspicuous. The kind of person who has a walk-on role in your life, and in the space of that minute, you pass them, you feel better, you're indebted, but you don't know who you owe.

And that's the way it's supposed to be.

Just Another Frantic Friday

OK I can't help it. I'm updating this in the office. When I get back home at night after the work, Arnold tries to scramble into the car. He wants to go for a ride, then a walk. Of course I have to change out of my office clothes first. And therein lies the problem. Because the moment I see my bed, I flop on it. And pass out for a while.

It's not that I'm stressed or that I've been given anything major to do. I guess it's just the stress of being in a new place, among strange people. When you put an animal in a new environment, the first thing it exhibits is stress. No matter how friendly the environment.

Everyone has been nice. My desk head Kevin started the ball rolling by taking me and a bunch of others out to lunch to welcome me. It was incredibly sweet. My first day, there was a briefing with HR, a setting up of the computer and then to work. I'd met the editor in chief a few days before (coming in to the office for the meeting before I was due to start work) to be given assignments, projects to handle. She said they were short-staffed, and needed to mobilize all resources.

What this means is that I don't go for daily assignments or do the day-to-day stuff as yet. Not that I'm complaining. No, I don't complain. I just nod off at my computer.

I have a very sweet kid sitting next to me. But today, I received an email to say, I'm being moved. So all the roots I've put out in these past two days (all two of them) I have to pull up.

Oh well, when I went to Seattle way back when (I think it was 1998, during the heights of our financial crisis just after we announced capital controls and all hell broke loose) I visited Microsoft. (I didn't choose to, it was part of the itinerary). The thing I'll always take away from that experience is seeing this guy standing at the reception in shorts and nothing else while the rest of us shivered in our overcoats, it being Seattle and rainy, basically shivery weather. We turned to each other and nodded solemnly. "Must be a programmer." I stared and continued to stare because that's what I do. If Nits had been there, she would have asked me to be more discreet. As it was, I stared to my heart's content and the programmer didn't seem to mind as he was either performing or oblivious. But that's not what I wanted to tell you. When these two from Microsoft gave us a presentation about the company one of the things they said was that people change offices every six months. There were, like, 22 or 23 buildings sprawled all over this plot and because people kept changing offices, no one ever knew which office Bill happened to be in. Which was both a security thing as well as the way he liked it. Apparently, one of the Microsoft values was the ability to "turn on a dime". No roots, no habits, no getting comfortable anywhere. (Although if you were a programmer, you did have free tomato juice, a sleeping bag under your desk, and a shower so you never had to leave the office. LIKE EVER)

Everyone is polite and professional here (as I've been told over and over again). They're quiet and basically just do their work. Yesterday, there was a husky fellow wandering around and speaking loudly and when I sneaked a peek I saw that he was from some corporate. He walked around and disturbed everyone. And didn't seem to get that he was disturbing everyone, because of course, they were polite about it.

OK I need to get back to work.

I just wanted some token update and am too tired to do it at night.

I haven't settled in yet.

The Day Before The Day

There is a shocking pink doggie bed on the floor of my room. A recent acquisition. Today, actually. After I finished the slew of errands that I had to get through before D-hour, I went out there and bought my Arnold what in doggie-world should be the heights of luxury. A doggie bed. I didn't think he'd mind the colour. After all, it's roomy and comfortable.

But Arnold, being Arnold, and rapidly turning back into his spoilt self (the emotional effects of the shelter apparently wearing off, though not the cough or the cold) sniffed disdainfully at it. I coaxed him on by sitting on it and gathering him into my lap. Then slowly removing myself and allowing him to test it out. He rolled
over once or twice, caught up my hand and pretended to bite it (a favourite game) and after a bit, he'd had enough and picked himself and trotted off the more attractive floor. Where he's seated himself out of reach, but where he has direct sight of said hideous bed and whatever else I might be up to. Have to give him his second dose of cough mixture today and am not looking forward to it. Mostly cos he hates it and fights pretty hard. I don't seem to have the knack of giving this dog his medicine. At best, he spits it out. At worst, he throws up.

It was a busy day. After Arnold woke me up with his usual hacking cough (I thought I'd taken care of that, somewhat, but apparently it's more persistent that I thought) and I forced his antibiotic and then his cough mixture down his throat, I fell back into bed for a short nap (pretty short, I had a full day and couldn't afford to sleep as much as I wanted) and then took myself off.

First to immigration to go see about my wrecked passport which they were giving me a break on and not filing a case. When I'd told my friend Harvinder about the broken bottle of port in my bag and the drenched passport, she leaned back coolly and asked me to "be prepared" for a whole heap of shit.

Apparently when you mess with your passport in anyway, immigration comes down heavy on you. Hers had disappeared into the washing machine, courtesy of a husband who didn't like clothes strewn on the floor, post-trip, gathered them all into his not-so-scrawny arms and dumped them higgledy piggledy into the machine.

Apparently when your passport goes through the wash, it looks worse than when it is baptised by a bottle of port.

Who knew?

Anyway, an immigration officer who identified herself as Subashini called me: "Miss Jennifer, I'm the officer assigned to look into your case. Actually the damage is not too bad. You can come do the passport the normal way."

Which is why when I finally made it there at 10 in the morning (which is very late by immigration standards) and finally managed to locate her, she greeted me with a smile and said, "next time don't be so careless with your passport or we'll have to open a case." I hung my head, dug my toe into the ground, and "aw shucksed" like any errant teenager. Then she handed me over to a smiling fellow who processed everything quicksmart and asked me to stick around to pay for my passport.

"How long?"

"Not long. Maybe 15 minutes."

"Oh good. I have time to get to an ATM."

And I was out and back in the appointed time. And the cashier dudette said, "OK come back at 11.45 to collect your new passport." It was 10.45 then. I went out for an ill-conceived wander around Section 17 which is large and sprawling and where the road numbers make no sense at all. I traversed the length and breadth without finding the road I wanted. But when it got close to 11.45 and I had to head back to immigration, I saw roads that looked close to what I wanted.

So I went back (getting very familiar with this carpark now - thankfully today, no creepy dudes tailgating me) sprinted upstairs, just in time for my number to be called. Who'd have thunk?

So there I was, fresh with new passport, a good start to the day. Then it was off for my medical (starting a new job after all, and it's apparently par for the course, though I've had two jobs in between this and my first real job with no medical at all, none!).

This time, I found the road straight away. A little more difficult trying to park but eventually I did. And then I was in and out in about 20 minutes. Urine sample. Chest X-ray. Tired-looking doc taking my blood pressure, pulse, listening to my heartbeat. Aced the eye test. Simply aced it. Which was about the only thing I could know for sure.

While sitting in the doctor's office I called my credit card company and asked them why they hadn't sent me a cheque for the amount they owed me. Instead, they had credited it into a non-existent credit card. The girl goes, oh we didn't know you wanted to cancel the card. It's only blocked not cancelled.

Hmmm. My understanding is that when someone steals your card, it's cancelled.

Neways, she said, don't worry. I've just done it. The money will be credited into your savings account by Friday. Anything else?

I hung up feeling lighthearted. More and more stuff being gotten out of the way. Amazingly I'd be able to cross everything off my to-do list today. And this with practically no sleep at all.

While I was in the throes of the medical a friend texted me. "Lunch?" Well, actually she'd texted me much earlier. I only saw it when I retrieved my phone to call the bank.

I answered: "Medical now. After?"

Which she was cool with. So after reading B and P off the charts, I took myself off to the shopping centre she was in. Only, not being familiar with the roads, I found myself heading in the wrong direction.

No problem. Internal GPS recalculating. Make a U-turn here. So I did. Light traffic which made it easy. (I love easy. It sure beats hard). Got there. Found the last bit of Supernatural Season 6 (Yay!). And the full Season 4 of Big Bang Theory (Double Yay). We had a lovely quick lunch at Subway - mmmmmm....sandwiches...it amounts to an obsession, but if I were not obsessive I would not be anything. Just shadow and vapour and clothes walking around without a person inside.

Then we found a hairdresser. Yay! Hairwash. Seated next to each other, chatting away over the din of the hair dryers, there was a minor adventure. The wires caught fire. Really! One minute it was a hot afternoon in nearly June and the next minute...it was a potential disaster. My guy stamped it out, removed wires that had been burned through (extension cords, what else) and fitted his hair dryer directly to the power point. And tried to act nonchalant. It sort of worked in that we calmed down. At the same time it didn't work in that we won't be going there again anytime soon.

And then it was time to grocery shop and I bumped into a famous senior journalist who'd heard from his girlfriend that I would be joining them (his girlfriend that is, not him). He said congratulations and I didn't know you lived around here and you must come by for a drink sometime. And he gave me his address. He was looking for corn chips and pineapples and he was making dinner. Salsa, or so he told me. Yum.

And then I decided to head over the other side of the road, to see if I could get Arnold a bed. I could. Ugly colour, but it was comfortable right? Isn't that what counts? Apparently not.

Anyways, I got home, unloaded the car, shooting off instructions to my father (you see, I bought fish. I'm putting it in the fridge. Don't forget to cook it. Fish. Tenggiri. I repeated a few times in case he hadn't caught it the first few hundred times) And then I climbed onto my bed, sorted out the DVDs trying to figure out which one to watch first.

Supernatural. Definitely Supernatural.

And so saying, fell fast fast asleep, so much so that I shot out of bed, heart pounding hours later thinking, oh shit, my first day of work and I'm late.

I wasn't.

It was still the night before.

Time for bed.

Good night sweet princes/ses.

The Flaneur That Was

I wish I was writing this when I was wide awake and halfway sober. OK I am sober. The one brandy warm water didn't do much and I didn't feel like a second or third drink although Louis and then Mark urged most pressingly.

Sometimes you just don't feel like drinking. So what can you do?

I went to Backyard for the first time in weeks. So much so that Mark greeted me with:

"You haven't been here for two years? Where have you been? Down South?"

And I replied: "Two years? Now I know you're Indian. If I had doubts before."

(For those not in the know, Indians tend to exaggerate. Everything)

Mark has come up with a new song. His own. Music and lyrics. It was really catchy and he said, "This one's for Jennifer."

I listened and couldn't identify it but liked it anyway and later when he came around he told me. His own song.

All I can say is wow.

So I went there alone because none of my peeps were available and because when no one is available and I want to go, I go anyway. But the Monday night crowd is as familiar as an old blanket that kind of smells of you, you know one part perfume, two parts sweat...

Anyway, I seated myself at one of the "good command of the stage" seats and then saw Louis who was sitting in what was my favourite place in the whole of Backyard. He beckoned for me to come join him so as I said, Backyard on a Monday night. Full of familiar people. Of course some are the familiar people you don't want to see, like the skinny model who has the hots for Mark and shoots me this contemptuous look as she sails off to play pool, her hair falling in perfect waves around her perfect little skinny face.

Mark catches me glancing her way and says: "Yes, she irritates me too."

Although I'm not sure he means it. Probably trying to be nice. After all, I haven't been here for two years, so must be nice to me. Not many people scream, stomp and cheer like I do.

Fans. Can't put a value on them.

So I say, hey, guess what? My days of bumming are over.

And Mark says, really? where?

And I say, The Edge. I start Wednesday.

And he says, OK. Well congratulations. Where is it again?

And I say, opposite the Curve.

And Louis (who is drunk by now, polishing off half a bottle of Chivas Regal) tells me about various people in the bar. He asks about one. Tells me about another. Gets really agitated when some young girls and old men start dancing.

I watch the cliche playing out on Jerry's newly installed wooden dance floor and will myself to just be. Not have any judgements about it. After all, everyone is here to have fun. And people are probably having the same reaction to me sitting with Louis and chatting with him. Married man. I'm chums with his wife. I ask why he didn't bring her. He says she has to wake up early for work. That sort of thing. So we just chat. But someone from the outside looking in could have judgements about it.

And it's been a hectic week. I've had NST chasing me for two stories which sort of divided like amoeba into four. The thing was, two was impossible. Four was simple. And manageable. You know how paradoxical some of these paradoxes are.

Arnold is back with me. I took him back. He had settled in at the shelter (except for a fight which he instigated with one of the younger newcomer dogs, in which he came off worse, much worse) and kennel cough. He was mad at me at first. After all, I had abandoned him. He stayed by the gate for two days and howled. Sabrina ignored him. And then, hungry, tired and heartsick, he went up to her. And she fed him. And little Arnold transferred his affection. When I came, he saw me, jumped up to lick me once, and then went back and stuck close to her.

What did I expect?

I bundled him into the car and he climbed all over me trying to look out of the window. He hadn't wanted to leave the shelter. He didn't trust me anymore.

When we got home, he ran up and jumped on Dadda. I was surprised that the D-man got a much more enthusiastic reception than me. But, whatever. I had stopped along the way to buy him some food - rice and meat. One thing Sabrina said was that no matter what was wrong with him, his appetite was good. Very good. Arnold REALLY loved his food.

Funny how he was always so fussy with us and left half his food or turned up his nose at it, no matter how expensive. This has changed. I filled his bowl with rice and meat and Arnold went for it, with a vengeance. He left the bowl clean.

Spotless!

Sabrina also told me that Arnold was somewhat of a Houdini. He would jump and nudge open the bolts on the gates and let the other dogs out into an area they were not supposed to be. Then he would bark to alert her (she would be doing something inside and he wanted her to come out) and she would come out and herd the dogs back in, wondering how they got out. It happened a few times before she caught on as to who was the culprit. After which she tied him up. And the mysterious gate-openings promptly ceased.

Last night he slept in my room for the first time since he came back last Tuesday. And he coughed and hacked all night and threw up in the morning. So I took him to the vet. Who doled out cough mixture and antibiotics. I wrestled him to the ground and fed him both when we came back. He's stopped coughing so much. And the awful discharge in both his eyes (which has been there since I picked him up) seems to have lessened.

He's mad at me now as I forced some more cough mixture down his throat when I got back from Backyard. There he was tail a-wagging to greet me, and here I was, evil with the yucky syrup and the syringe. A dog's life is full of trial and tribulation.

Like cough mixture.

And horrid little pills.

And being spanked for chasing and pinning down the schnauzer and dragged home in ignominy.

And being abandoned at will.

First one. Then the other. Nothing is sacred anymore. And you can't trust anybody.

After I've clicked publish, I'm going to see if I can coax him back to my room and soothe his storm-tossed spirits.

So yeah. Arnold's back. New job. It's been a busy week.

UnZen

Sometimes I feel like someone has thrown up a wall between me and the rest of the world. None of my words get through and I seem to be existing in an alternate universe. I watch others through a glass, darkly, through a mirror, but I reach out and touch the hard surface, something impenetrable between me. And them. So many thems. All singing on the other side. They do not see me. It's like in a dream. They do not know I watch.

Being Zen is easy when you're in a spa, or in your room, sitting cross-legged on a meditation mat, chanting OM over and over again and observing your breathing. It's not as easy when you've a meeting to get to, and although you've arrived at the toll plaza two hours early, you've gone straight into a road that resembles a parking lot.

From the emergence of ambulances, you know there must be an accident up ahead. But the traffic continues to arrive and it's been 10 minutes and you have barely inched forward. 20 minutes. Half an hour.

Finally, you manage to get out of there, double back, try to find another way. To no avail. You arrive at the meeting you could not miss, 40 minutes late, to face a very pissed off client.

Try to remain Zen through it. Try to do it as every car on the road misbehaves, and you nearly get into a dozen accidents as the panic level rises. When your bones feel funny and creaky and injured as if there were hairline cracks on all, and you think, no, I cannot fall apart now, I have to make this, I cannot fall asleep now, I have to make this...

Funnily enough the first part of the journey, at the later part of four in the morning was as peaceful as the night. Some fog, a few car lights, quiet, quiet, sounds only of the MP3 plug-in, and the early early morning, caressing you with its knowing, its certainty. Yes, we were early. We would be on time. No problem.

So the traffic started to pick up around Seremban. So what? We were still early. Masses of time. So there were signs that said, traffic is slow after toll. So what? Traffic is always slow(er) after the toll. Masses of time.

But there's a difference between "slow" and "not moving at all".

And when we manage to turn back and go through Kajang, getting onto the LDP, the traffic is crawling. Another accident. And guess what? It's not only the police and ambulance that's out. There are people standing outside the IOI Mall.

"Fire drill," says Chubs, who is the one late for the meeting. I am the one trying to get him there on time and getting more frantic with each passing moment. I breathe in and out. Tell myself that this panic never got anyone anywhere. And panic a little more anyway.

Then he looks more closely. There is smoke billowing out of the mall. There are firefighters shooting jets of water into it.

"No, not a drill, there's a real fire."

And the traffic continues to crawl. A road I was following which said Petaling Jaya/Kuala Lumpur suddenly says, no, I'm heading towards Cheras. Which is not where I want to be heading. And as traffic on both sides is chock a block, I cannot inch my way into the right road. But which is the right road? The signs seem to be confused. After I change roads the signs ahead tell me that I was originally on the right road after all.

Anymore of this and I am going to hit someone real hard.

REAL HARD.

We arrive at Chubs's house and he rushes to iron a shirt and perform his ablutions. I help him with the shirt. We rush out of the house post-haste and he decides to drive because my jerky emergency braking is not helping matters any.

"Wow. This is such a strange day. We seem to be blocked every step of the way," I say.

But we take only 15 minutes to get to his office. I'm tired. Real tired. But I take over the wheel and head on home. To take a nap. Before my assignment. A few minutes at least as I'm feeling quite shattered.

I wake up to find all the veins in my eyes have popped. I have seriously red eyes. And I have to go interview these women about a national form of art. I arrive too early, so go off by myself and have a very very oily bowl of aglio olio that I don't finish. Make a mental note never to eat in this place again (OK I was giving it a chance, but apparently, it didn't deserve the chance, good to know) and then, cross the road in the midst of a thunderstorm to get to the house I have to conduct the interview in.

They're lively and engaged and nice...I'm struggling to keep awake (which sometimes happens) and after...I come home, this time to sleep. For real.

It's five hours later before I emerge from the mists of Morpheus. Chubs is supposed to call me to come pick him up as I have his car. I give him a call and he says, yeah, I'm still at the office, I'll call you when I get onto the LRT.

But it's two hours later and he hasn't called and he isn't answering his phone or texts. I feel a sliver of worry, mixed with the knowledge that Chubs regularly misplaces his phone, leaves in the car, the apartment, the office. But it's late. And he is likely very very tired. And unlike me, he had to hit the ground running. No five-hour nap.

I hope he's OK.

Still not feeling very Zen.

Sleep, Errands, Work, Maybe

It's 12.39 over here, noon, and surprisingly I'm up. And not only am I up, but I have managed to do a ton of stuff already. Perhaps a little unsurprising as I only came to JB this time around cos Mum was off for a reunion and she needed someone to babysit the dogs. Also, to wake up at the ungodly hour of 7 (7! I ask you!) and send her to the cathedral where she and her homegirls would be catching the bus to Malacca.

Of course my weird sleeping schedule has thrown everything a little out of whack. Yesterday at 11 when I was still deep in the throes of slumber (I had been up until about six in the morning, first, finishing Shawn Achor's The Happiness Advantage and secondly, inputting the Piper At The Gates of Dawn for my happiness blog) I got a call from Chubs. He wanted to know if I was going back. Sleepily, I murmured something like: Mmmmm, ahhh, yeah.

And he said, OK I'll follow you. I nodded into my pillow and agreed. And then fell fast asleep again after saying, OK in one hour, maybe two. I stumbled out of the room briefly to see my Dadda all dressed up. He said he needed to go get some money to pay the guys who fixed the air con. I forbade him to go walking anywhere (the moment he steps out of the house into the hot sun, he gets giddy and then laid up for like, a week) and emptied the contents of my wallet, which was just about enough to cover what he needed and went right back to bed.

To sleep, perchance to dream. And dream I did. Arnold was standing in our airwell. I stared and stared at him, rubbing my eyes. He looked younger and more well-cared for. Though how he could look so good when he must have run away from the shelter, which is far, far away, and made his way back home, I didn't know. I called my father out. "Dadda, come and see, is this really him?" and my father came out and said, yes, it is.

Deep deep sleep. The kind of sleep where you pinch yourself to see if the vision will go away and it doesn't.

So in the midst of all this sleep, I hear Ivan arriving. And he's asking Dadda, you mean she hasn't woken up yet?

And I stumble out of the room and say, no I was talking to Thomas on the phone and he was telling me his mother-in-law got robbed because they didn't have the dog at home.

And I get funny looks from both the father and the brother. Firstly, I do not speak to Thomas (a cousin). Secondly, he doesn't have a dog. Thirdly, his mother-in-law did not get robbed.

I say, I think I was dreaming.

And they say, yeah, most probably.

Dadda says, go eat, wash your face nicely and then go. So I do.

We take Chubs's car (which is, let's admit it, way more comfortable) and he drives the first half of the journey so I snuggle into my seat and fall fast fast asleep. Again.

Halfway through I notice that Chubs is popping the tic tac, a sure sign that he's falling asleep. The journey so far has been through torrential rains as Malaysia has decided it's had enough of a heatwave and the rains are making up for lost time. So I say, want me to take over?

And Chubs says, yes, we'll change at Ayer Keroh. Which is like, Malacca. So we stop at a service station over there, and make the switch.

Funnily enough, the moment I take over it's blue skies all the way. And we arrive in JB in very good time, as there is no jam past the toll (although there should be at this time, seeing as it's just after office hours) and we make it home with time to spare. The dogs go crazy and Mum stumbles out to open the gate smiling and saying, bloody fool lar, why couldn't you take a bit longer.

Because we're interrupting her Hindi soap marathon. (Chubs really interrupted it as he changed channels and watched the last part of The Last Samurai instead).I'm giddy from the drive as well as the lack of sleep and go upstairs and crash. Only to wake up and find Chubs is spritzing me with water. He wants to know what I want for dinner. And then to wake up to Mums bellowing out my name...come and eat, come and eat.

And then it's a packing extravaganza (she packs all of four outfits for one dinner because she can't decide between them) and then she switches off the light very determinedly (no Jenny, no reading, you go to sleep).

And I wake to find her puttering about until it's time to send her off. Chubs wakes up and drives. And her friends are so impressed by this minor feat of us sending my mother that they all stand around, smile and nod and tell her how lucky she is.

Unidentified friend of Mum's: Are you coming with us?

Me: No, we came from KL to feed the dogs.

Unidentified friend of Mum's: Oh yes, the dogs.

Our dogs are famous. They are the source of many excuses whenever my mother doesn't want to do something. She says, there's no one to feed the dogs. And just a few days ago, the one person she could depend on to do it when she was not here, passed away. It was all very sad.

After we sent Mums, it was still early - so off to Kerala Restaurant for appam for breakfast, then to Pasar Tani for the dog's food (and some of our food as well) and then to the post office to renew the Big M's road tax, and then back home to watch Prince of Persia (OK that was not planned, more of a coincidence really, and is Jake Gylenhaal the cutest thing since bulldog puppies or what?) and make the doggie's lunch.

They've eaten, Chubs is now out for lunch with his girlfriend (I asked him to bring me back the Mask of Zorro so I get to see Don Diego training Alejandro, sort of like Yoda training Luke, nahmean?) and I am sleepy. Wondering whether to read some and knock off or be good and transcribe the interview I did on Thursday and write the story. Or I could just watch reruns of the Good Guys.

Decisions, decisions.

Sleep, it is.

Resolution

I'm curled up on my chair with a mug of hot tea in my newly cleaned room. The fact that I've finally tackled the cleaning aspect of it, is of course comforting, as it was gathering layer upon layer of dust and crap, the kind that put me straight into "cleaning avoidance". Yesterday evening I finally bit the bullet and went for it, mop and broom, Pledge and floor cleaning detergent.

The result of which, there is actually a space on my desk for my laptop and I'm sitting there writing this. If you know me well enough, you know this is rare. Usually I'm hunched over my laptop in bed, not very healthy and I'm told, not good for insomnia.

I had to be up and at 'em early today because of an early assignment, after a night of not sleeping at all, so that was interesting. I arrived early at Starbucks to wait for the guy I was going to interview and got myself a mug of hot chocolate with whipped cream and a doughnut (my very two favourite things in Starbucks) and watched the other patrons furtively to see if anyone could be the guy I was supposed to be interviewing.

At one table, there was a job interview taking place, where this guy in a shiny vest was interviewing this other guy who had been there earlier plugging away at his laptop. The vesty guy was saying: "We advertise a lot through Facebook...." and I thought wow. It took me back to the days I used to interview all these dotcommers who were young and hungry and eager to change the world.

Except that shiny vest guy looked a little too sleek and well-fed for that. He was like the cat who had been fed too much cream. Even though he was the one conducting the interview, he sat down casually and allowed the other guy to buy him a drink...just an Earl Grey old man, I've had my breakfast.

There was a very attractive girl in a sort of jumper suit (shorts, not trousers, not skirt) who set up her laptop across from me. She bought two drinks and looked like she was waiting for someone but all the time I was there, no one turned up, and at one point she came over and asked if I could watch her laptop as she needed to go to the bathroom.

But all of this is besides the fact. I glanced up once or twice to take in my surroundings but then buried myself in my new Shawn Achor book, the Happiness Advantage (which explains that you got to be happy first to be successful, and not the other way around) when I suddenly heard: "Hello Jennifer..." and looked up.

It was Ridwin, my first boyfriend, you know from back when I was a teenager? Anyway, there he was staring down at me, and then he pulled up a seat from another table sat carefully out of reach, trying not to intrude in my space, but wanting to have a conversation nevertheless.

The last time I had encountered him was on Facebook, where we ended up in a fight (but of course) and his parting words were: "You have hurt me enough." I had just quit my job and gone to England for a break, and on finding out I was there, he had asked me to bring him back a present. To which I replied in the only way possible:

"The only present you deserve is a good swift kick in the butt."

Bitter? Well, you have to remember that even if it was 20 years ago, this guy cheated on me for most of our relationship. He admitted as much later when we were both with other people and it should have mattered less. Instead there was a surge of rage and all I wanted to do was scratch his face to ribbons.

I did it with words instead.

At every available opportunity.

So it was weird seeing him today and having him sit down and talk. He is married, has been married for more than a decade and has a "pair". I said he made his kids sound like dogs. He edits academic journals for a local university and was out of the office that day because he needed to take his father in law to the national heart centre.

Anyway, he asked after me, seemed surprised that I wasn't married (I said, listen, if I were married by now, I'd be divorced by now, I just don't believe in marriage)...and he nodded seriously, not understanding but wanting to appear to anyway.

He seems to have settled into his routines. He chatted a while asking for my number:

Him: Is it the same?

Me: No, too many weirdos had that one, I changed it.

Him: Can I have the new one?

Me: (silence. gave him a look)

Him: I guess that means no, huh? I just think we should meet for a meal or something.

Me: Why?

Him: What about Facebook?

Me: I'm no longer on it. Or rather I am, but different name, everything.

Him: What's your new name? I guess you won't tell me.

Me: No. I keep it limited. Less than 10 friends. Too many Facebook fights before. You were one of them.

Him: I'm sorry.

Me: No worries. Water under the bridge.

Him: So you won't give me your number, you won't tell me what you go by on Facebook, so how do I contact you?

Me: (no answer because the whole point of this is that he doesn't contact me).

I had a discussion with Nits about whether I've become a recluse. She said no, I still have a social network. I feel I seem to have withdrawn from most of it. So who knows?

I feel like there are some big changes afoot. Like there is all this roiling going on underground. What I most felt, on meeting Ridwin was the lack of animosity. There was just a great indifference. Yes, I didn't volunteer my information, but I tend not to do that anymore. I find it easier not to give my number, than to give my number and then have to change it.

If he was my first boyfriend and some sort of resolution is possible, does it mean that it is possible with all the others as well? Is everything moving towards some sort of resolution?

If only.

A New Beginning

For a while now, things have been getting a little dark around here. It reflects my mood, but only my mood part of the time. It's like the only time I set pen to paper (metaphorically speaking, that is) is when I'm down and depressed.

So I've decided to start another blog, the kind that honours Pollyanna and Buddy the Elf and all the optimists of the world, the kind that deals only in light and happiness...

This will remain for the angst.

But as for the rest, if you ever need a little pick me up, check it out here:

http://thebrightside-jenn.blogspot.com/

What say you?

No One Will Ever Touch Me More

I wake up. I think of you. I start scheming and planning and trying to see how I can get you back. Throughout the day, you ping in my mind constantly. Stray moments. I'm walking through a supermarket. I'm reading my grocery list.

In my mind, I'm playing with you. You're there. Wagging your little tail. Eyes hopeful. Or sad. Your eyes were always sad.

It makes me want to cry.

And I haven't seen you in four weeks. I want to visit. Desperately. But I'm afraid. Because I know if I do, you'll want me to take you home.

And I can't.

Not now.

Not yet.

Do you think I've abandoned you?

Like they did?

Do you think I don't love you anymore?

I don't know baby, I hurt everyone I love.

I let them down. In the most profound of ways. It's like my love is worth nothing. It's just a feeling in my heart and moisture in my eyes but really, when you value it, nothing.

And as much as I feel for you, you're in that place, far far from me, and things move slowly before I get you back if I ever do.

Does it make a difference that I think of you every day?

Does it make a difference that I weep for you constantly?

Does it make a difference that despite it all, I still love you?

What's that to you, anyway?

This powerlessness I feel now...this anguish...this impotence.

This is real.

When Ronnie Went Home

His name is Ronnie. An eight-year old white (with streaks of golden) Irish terrier. He is afraid of storms. So, Friday, he ran away. His owners, Mark and Angela came back from work to find him gone. They searched frantically, going from house to house, talking to some of their neighbours for the first time trying to find any clue as to what had happened to their precious pooch.

To no avail. They managed to trace his path to the drug centre. And no further.

Saturday was dismal. There was no sign of the dog. None at all. They drove around going further and further afield. But not far enough. Angela was in tears. She prayed: "Lord, please save our little Ronnie. And bring him back safely."

They left word with their favourite petrol station. "See this picture? This is our dog. He's lost. Please tell us if you hear anything."

And then Angela broke down and wept. Because that's what you do when your baby is missing. When he's wet and cold and alone and hungry somewhere and you don't know where and you can't get to him and you can only imagine. When God seems so far away, a concept, a silence at the other end of the line, and all your prayers rise up and disappear into the ether.

Please, please, please, please, please.

No answer.

Sunday evening, a customer visits the petrol station to fill 'er up, a man. He lives around there and the nice lady asks him what she's has asked a hundred others. "Have you seen a white dog around? He's lost. His owners were here looking for him. They left a number."

And Gilbert said: "Yes, I saw one just yesterday. There is this woman who lives at the bottom of the hill. And she came over yesterday with this white dog and asked if it was mine. I told her no, but I would ask around."

And the lady was silent for a few seconds.

Gilbert wrote down the address. He wrote down directions. And then he drove to the house in question. The two large dogs outside greeted him with a perfect fussilade of barks. That was their way. Guard dogs. Good guard dogs. The tv was blaring. Supernatural. B-list pseudo horror.

And I came out, wondering what it was all about. When I saw him, I knew he could only be there about the dog. The one I had just surrendered to the owner of a shelter. The little dog looked at me, heartbreak in his eyes, as Joseph had coaxed him into the cage. I was to learn later that he had never been in a cage before.

"I trusted you. Are you abandoning me too?"

And I had curled up on the sofa after Mum had gone to church and started to cry. This was the second time in two weeks. Was there truly no hope left?

He landed on our doorstep late Friday. Thinking he had come from up the hill where there were people who kept fluffy white dogs, I slipped a collar over his head with much difficulty and headed up there. But the dogs were safely inside the homes to which they belonged. And this little fellow, he seemed uninterested. He did not pull towards any of the houses. If anything, he only started to get excited when we were heading back downhill. He pulled then. All the way back to our house.

And once I slipped off the collar and released him from the lead, he headed straight for our gate to our dogs who were going crazy. He was cold, wet and hungry. I thought I'd offer him some milk. But when I got out, there he was, heading uphill again.

Oh well. That was that.

I came in, locked the doors and headed upstairs to watch the rest of a Hercule Poirot movie on youtube.

But that night Maggot barked. And continued to bark. Short sharp ones like gunshots. He rarely paused. Elliot, on the other hand, went to sleep.

And early that morning, nerves shot to hell, we discovered why. The little dog from yesterday had found his way into our compound. Later we would see that he had climbed on a ledge on the verge, and vaulted over the gate, hurting himself in the process. There was one broken pot to show the path he had traveled.

There he lay, just out of Maggot's reach, curled up. Maggot was going insane. Elliot decided to wait quietly for developments. We towelled him down. Offered him some bread. Figured that he must have been abandoned as he had no collar or identification of any sort. And yet, there was evidence of some care. He was well-fed. His fur was only newly matted with leaves he had picked up from yesterday's storm.

I convinced Mum to let us take him inside, away from the snarling Maggot. I called a cousin (the only other serious doglover in the clan) to see if she wanted a dog. She didn't. I texted an aunt who said she wanted a dog. She was asleep. Said she would text me back when she woke up. She didn't. I called Chubs who has rich friends in JB. Asked if any of them would take in the little fellow. Chubs called me back to say one of them would come to the house later to check out the doggie. He never did.

I gave him a rough and ready shower, dried him and brought him inside. He lay at my feet and went to sleep. He was a loving little dog and liked to lie with his whole body pressed against me. He needed human touch. Lots of it.

Now who did that remind me of?

That day, we fed him along with the other two. He ate with good appetite. He was obviously used to rice and chicken legs. And then, he went to sleep again. In the evening I took him for another walk up the hill. This time, it being a less ungodly hour, there were people in the garden. And I showed the dog to them and said, is he yours? Do you have any idea where he came from?

Gilbert and his mother stared at him. "Who would throw that dog away? He's so cute. But no, he's not from around here. Don't worry, we'll ask around."

And that was that. Later that night when I tried to cut the mats out of his hair, I got a taste of teeth. He snarled a little and then bit. And as I, being obtuse, continued to cut out the mats, he bit me again. Hair, as I was to later learn, was a very sensitive subject. He didn't even let Mark and Angela near him with a scissors. Only Angie's mother.

Bites notwithstanding, he continued close. And when I went up to bed, he scrambled up the stairs after me. Since the walk his limp had become more pronounced. So I slept downstairs so he could sleep close to me, keeping an eye.

And in the morning, after two nights of bad sleep I was washed out. Convinced by now that someone had abandoned him (maybe because of his little biting problem) I didn't go looking any further for an owner. I prayed real hard but without any hope. I prayed that he had not been abandoned. I prayed that his owners would show up. Failing that, that he would get a really rich new one who would love him and send him for grooming twice a week. But no one returned my calls. And I was heading back to KL tomorrow. Time was running out.

So I made the call to Joseph at the animal shelter. Have you ever left a dog at an animal shelter? Have you ever left a plaintive dog with soulful heartbroken eyes at a dog shelter? Have you ever seen the look they gave you as you walk away?

If you haven't, this is one experience you probably don't want to have. Trust me on this.

Which is why, I was curled up on the sofa, bawling my eyes out, cursing God, with Supernatural flickering on the screen as background music when Gilbert showed up. And there was a space. And despair (coupled with a few wild plans to get the dog back) receded and hope opened up.

It takes an instant. But no matter how many times it happens you forget to trust the next time around.

I called Joseph to say we had found the owners and could he bring the dog back. He said, ask the owners to call me. (I think he had already found a buyer)

Jackie called. As I was on the phone to her, a van came hurtling into the compound. A hysterical woman fell out of the car: "My dog, my dog, do you have my dog?"

I told her I had given him up to the shelter and she fell back against the van. "Oh my God!" The word shelter had conjured up her worst fears. Of dogs being mistreated and then put to sleep. But I said, the shelter guy wants you to call him.

Yes, she said frantically, yes. Call him now. I told Jackie I'd call her back. Dialled Joseph and said hold on, the owners are here and they want to speak to you.

"Hi Joseph? That's our dog and we want him back. No, no we did't abandon him. We wouldn't do something like that. He ran away. And we've been out looking for him. Please, please bring him back. What time? 9 or 10? OK. Um, we live behind Jalan Yahya Awal. You know that road in front of the Convent?"

He didn't. So I chipped in. "Why don't you just all meet here? He knows my house."

So they did. And sometime after 10, Joseph showed up. Mark and Angela had been circling the area for more than an hour, coming in and sitting down for a while. They were on tenterhooks. As was I. Until I saw that little dog in their arms I wouldn't believe in the happy ending.

After all, anything could happen.

But he arrived. And headed for his boot to take out the cage. And there was little Ronnie. Both Mark and Angela were beside themselves.

"Say thank you to Auntie. Thank you to Auntie," said Mark, the hitherto silent one.

"Thank you for taking care of my baby. Thank you. Thank you."

And little Ronnie ran madly around the car, cavorting like a puppy. Gone was his gravity of the past few days. Angela hugged him, laying her head against his furry little body. Mark carried him to the car. Ronnie scrambled to the co-driver's seat.

"What's he doing there?" I asked, as Angela paid Joseph for his trouble.

"That's his place. He likes riding up front. Best view," Mark grinned.

"Where do you sit then?" I asked Angie who had just come up.

"I sit at the back," she replied, laughing.

Truly, this was a loved doggie.

Angie handed me a pretty little pink packet.

"That's not necessary. It's really OK."

"No, please take it. You'll make us happy if you do."

So I did. And she had written a little note on it:

Dear Jennifer,

We sincerely believe that God used you in answer to our prayers.

Thank you so much for looking after Ronnie and giving him 2 days of comfort, security & happiness.

This is just a token of our appreciation. Please accept it.

Best regards
Angela & Mark
1 May 2011

And Ronnie went home.

Betraying Blyton

I was reading about how people decide to become writers when they read really good writers. Writers who resonate. Names are tossed. Isabel Allende. Wendell Berry (?). Anne Beattie.

Me too. Except that the writer I read is not one we mentioned in circles of more than one. We pretend we never read her and loved her as a kid. It is not fashionable to say you simply LOVED Enid Blyton. But I did. Enid Blyton. Not CS Lewis. Not J.R.R. Tolkien. Not Kenneth Grahame.

The first "long" book I ever read was Hurrah for the Circus. I had picked it out at a secondhand bookstore after I followed Mum shopping. I think I was seven. I may have been six.

Anyway, we got home and I curled up in my bed and started reading. And reading. And reading some more. It was my first non-picture book. And I couldn't put it down. I read, read, read, read, fantasised about running away and joining a circus, practised the "low gentle voice" that Jimmy was famous for with animals. And after I finished reading it, why, I read it all over again.

And again.

And again.

I don't know if you've noticed but I can be kinda obsessive.

And as Hurrah for the Circus was the second book in the series, I managed to get Mum me the first, which was Mr Galliano's Circus. Same thing. Read until the end. Start over. And over.

I have memories of peanut butter and butter sandwiches and Mr Galliano's Circus propped up at the table.

Peanut butter is my petit madeleine.

And that's why I wanted to be a writer.

I used to regale the younger siblings or cousins with stories. And then I turned 12 and it was probably the most productive literary year of my life. I churned out story after story. Utter tripe, of course, but you don't think that when you're 12 and have an audience of one who simply loves your stories and asks you to tell them over and over again. My sister Jackie.

Only now do I appreciate the value of a captive audience who simply loves what you have to say, even when you don't really have to say anything at all.

Skip one year to Form 2 and this was a productive year for poems. Only two survive from that time, mere nursery rhymes, quests a la Jabberwocky, but funny quests. One had a ghost as a villain. The other, an angry purple Plum. One had a brave young man as a hero. The other, a big brave banana.

Mum used to say, where do you come up with all these things?

I used to reply: off the top of my head.

A few years ago, I unearthed the black diary from when I was in Standard Six that contained my stories from the year. And copied them, bad spelling, poor grammar and all into the computer. And I made Jackie a book. A compilation from way back when. Along with the two poems she loved to listen to every night at bedtime.

I said, to my sister Jackie, the one who believed in me all those years ago.

It makes me sad to write this as I haven't really made anything of myself. I stopped writing. Lost that sublime confidence that I had words to write that other people would like to read.

Betrayed Enid Blyton.

The thing about failing is that you can always pick yourself up, turn the corner, start again. Kinda like what this dude was talking about.

Above me, wind does its best
to blow leaves off
the aspen tree a month too soon.
No use wind. All you succeed
in doing is making music, the noise
of failure growing beautiful.

(Bill Holm)

That's all for now folks. See ya in the funny papers.

Dancing With A Limp

"You will lose someone you can’t live without,and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp."

Anne Lamott

Tangled

I'm 540 pages into Thomas Mann's The Magic Mountain. Sometimes the discussions go over my head. Especially when Settembrini (the Freemason) and Naphta (the Jew-turned-Jesuit) go at it. You've got to read the arguments slowly, only I never do. I skim. And I don't like either although I get the idea that we're supposed to like Settembrini.

Good Friday we get a call to say an uncle has died. He was just turned 60. Young, in fact. But he had a heart attack and his children kept him at home instead of taking him to hospital and he gradually expired. Kill or cure. We tried to call his sister but couldn't get through (she wasn't answering her phone) so I sent her a text and she responded to that. Said she didn't feel like talking to anyone just yet. This is her second sibling to die. And she's the oldest. She hasn't gotten over her sister. Wonder how long it will take for her to get over her brother.

And then on Easter Sunday, with Mum watching the previews leading up to the Arsenal match (Arsene Wenger was in fine form, caustic, spitting fire) there was a newsflash that Sai Baba had just passed. Good day to choose, I thought. So I sent a text to another friend, one whom I knew would probably be sobbing her eyes out, because to her it would be like losing a father and a spiritual guide. She didn't respond.

I drove Ivan back to KL early Saturday morning for his first check up since the operation. Doc said, all good, healing nicely, just lose the fat. We went shopping to stock his fridge with healthy alternatives. He said he's been slowly chowing down on said healthy alternatives.

Early Easter morning, Chubs drove me to the newly renovated Pudu bus station only to discover that the buses from there no longer go south. In fact, there was a new bus station for all south-bound passengers at Tasik Bandar Selatan. Now, neither of us know where that is, so I called a few friends, woke up a few friends early Easter, and got a general direction, but nothing specific. Then Chubs called a friend and we found the place, a beautiful building in the middle of nowhere. And I mean nowhere. We circled it for a while as he tried to figure out where to drop me. When we finally found the entrance...I got up it...and the building was splendid. It was clean and everything seemed to be above board. No touts trying to get you to board illegal buses, because, guess what? No illegal buses allowed here. And in fact, even the legal ones were subject to massive scrutiny - our bus driver had to go for an interview with the officials about the bus's state of repair and the presence of unsettled summonses.

When he finally took off, he drove carefully within the speed limit and made only one stop for people to debus and pee. I slept the first half of the journey and read my Magic Mountain for the second half. My phone was running out of battery but my Mum did manage to get through to me, to find out what time I was arriving so she could come pick me up. When I said I could just get a cab home, she bristled:

"Do you know how EXPENSIVE that would be?"

Yeah, the JB cabbies are all conmen who refuse to use the taxi meter and charge whatever they want to. Especially difficult if they can see you're from out of town. I spotted her as soon as the bus turned into the Larkin bus stand, so it was all easy peasy.

Back home for an Easter meal of kueh teow soup and a long, long nap (right until nine in the evening). In fact would have probably slept longer if an itinerant aunt (we call her the mad one) hadn't called (not once but twice) and woken us up. Now when the phone rings persistently, we usually think it's urgent (read: bad) news, meaning someone else has popped his or her clogs. Turned out to be mad aunt wanting to wish my Mum for Easter.

I want to finish Magic Mountain so I can concentrate on Lamott. Also, I want to finish story of educationist so I can get on with rest of my life without that hanging over me. (I promised and deadline is today). Only I don't even feel like calling up the file.

Dear me. I'm going to have to get over that because the editor did give me a deadline after all. Not in the mood just doesn't cut it.

After watching Tangled, which Disney claims is their 50th feature length cartoon, I took out a notebook and tried to list down all the Disney feature length cartoons I could remember and I only made it to 21.

How many can you remember?

Oh and the Zachary Levi character is going to be one of my favourite characters of all time. Right up there with Baloo the bear and Thumper, what did your father say?

Gone

These days I'm mostly tired. I fall asleep at odd places. The comfortable chair in Chubby's freezing hospital room. The comfortable chair at the Smokehouse cafe in Bangsar, while reading a book and sipping a watermelon juice. My eyes close of their own accord and I just black out for a while. At first I thought it was the juice fast. But that's over. And I'm still tired.

I'm trying to see clearly the road in front of me. I'm trying not to fall into old patterns and repeat the same mistakes. I do whatever I can to avoid them, but they're like a gaping wound in the ground right in front of me. Move but a little, and I'm plunging all over again.

Arnold is gone.

And when I left him there, I saw that it was only better than a pound in that the dogs were fed and not abused. I have to get him back. But when I think of how, I get tired all over again and fall deeply asleep.

He howled as I left.

And my body went numb. My heart went numb. It does that when faced with something I know is going to be overwhelming.

Don't cry, said Sabrina as I was leaving. It helps if you don't get emotional. Just leave him here. He'll adjust. But come back and get him as soon as you can.

As soon as I can.

From now on, that is the one motive in life. To get him back. And all other motives are submerged in that one.

I keep feeling that life has been deferred indefinitely. And I know that it's my fault. I deferred it.

And now I'm picking my way through the debris trying to figure out how to repair some of this damage.

Words After A Drought

So yeah, it's back to being password-protected. Go figure. At first I was OK with knowing that certain people were reading this blog. And then I was not. I let it simmer for a while, but decided that I could only continue to be open, if I could control who reads my words.

Chubs had an operation a couple of days ago. They removed his gall bladder. Seems to be doing better now. He's sleeping in my father's room. At seven in the morning I'll give him a lift to his apartment where his girlfriend is crashing at the moment. She'll drive him back to JB.

Then on Sunday I give Arnold up. He seems to know something's in the air as he hasn't eating a thing the whole day and keeps coming up to me for a reassuring pat. Poor baby. Now he's curled up in a corner next to me. Asleep. Or faking it. Whatever.

Yesterday I played host to the friends of friends, or the cousin of a friend and her daughter. She told me my friend (who is 88 in May) is poorly. Kidneys failing. Eyes failing. Age, that didn't really seem to figure in his life, finally catching up with him.

Dying.

There was a point when Chubs was still in the operating theatre and it had been three and a half hours and my mother and father were on the verge of a nervous breakdown convinced that there had been complications and they were going to lose their only son, when I wondered why I was not experiencing a similar drama. Somehow, I knew he was OK. Even if my father kept pushing me to go ask the nurse (and after the op, go talk to the doctor).

Life has become a little surreal. I'm reading the Second Journey. And I go back to JB on Monday.

Stuck

I watch the minutes creep forward and I haven't done any work. NOT ANY. I promised to make ayam masak merah for Chubs today (invited him over) and maybe I'd better get that over and done with, after which I can go work someplace else.

I don't feel like being here, I don't feel like working here.

Much of a Muchness

I've got a few minutes as I wait for the water to rise in the avial now boiling. I'm making it for tomorrow's lunch, going to store it in nice plastic containers so I can give it out...good avial, at least, I think it's good.

Today seems like it was a waste of space but when I look around, I actually managed to do quite a bit. I've made tomorrow's lunch (well one dish anyway, the Kerala fish curry) which Dadda can eat for both lunch and dinner (I won't be around, he can just heat it up), and the avial is boiling. That took a little grocery shopping.

I took Arnold to Sri Hartamas for a long walk. I didn't intend to, but as I was leaving, he testified such distress and scrambled into the car, that I went back for his lead, and took my doggie to a new place where we kept to a path hemmed in by foliage.

After my customary fruit juice at this new stall in Bangsar that I absolutely love, I returned to make his mutton chops...he ate the mutton but not the rice and now he's looking at me sadly, like he's still hungry, ignoring the food that's left.

My room has had a quick clean (for which I'm grateful, now looking around) and I've done various bits and bobs. So in spite of sleeping for hours in the afternoon when I couldn't take it anymore and just dropped off, I seem to have achieved quite a lot today. I think it has to do with making out a to-do list and sort of sticking to it.

Some things I couldn't do. Like apply for my road tax. I think MyEG sort of shuts down on the weekend. And even if it doesn't, the payment gateways seem to. Or at least Maybank did. I'll try again on Monday.

I set up an interview today for Tuesday (should be interesting but I need to make a visit to the National Art Gallery to see an exhibit before I do the interview which can also double as my Artist Date) and I have a couple of interviews on Monday.

Busy busy busy or so it seems.

Climbing Mountains

To the untrained eye ego-climbing and selfless climbing may appear identical. Both kinds of climbers place one foot in front of the other. Both breathe in and out at the same rate. Both stop when tired. Both go forward when rested. But what a difference! The ego-climber is like an instrument that's out of adjustment. He puts his foot down an instant too soon or too late. He's likely to miss a beautiful passage of sunlight through the trees. He goes on when the sloppiness of his step shows he's tired. He rests at odd times. He looks up at the trail trying to see what's ahead even when he knows what's ahead because he just looked a second before. He goes too fast or too slow for the conditions and when he talks his talk is forever about somewhere else, something else. He's here but he's not here. He rejects the here, is unhappy with it, wants to be further up the trail but when he gets there will be just as unhappy because then it will be "here". What he's looking for, what he wants, is all around him, but he doesn't want that because it is all around him. Every step's an effort, both physically and spiritually, because he imagines his goal to be external and distant.

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Robert Pirsig

Strange and Stranger

There's nothing more surreal than sitting in the middle of a crowded sports bar by myself, sipping on a glass of mineral water, listening to Mark belting out numbers, his smile pained because despite having been a musician for all these years, he hates unfamiliar environments and unfamiliar crowds. Well maybe there is something more surreal. And that's me, taking my eyes off the cute musician trying really hard up there (the crowd's responding - half of them are stomping on the dance floor, for crying out loud) to read some more Pirsig. Somehow, the environment seems to suit the book to a t.

The weird thing is that although I know how weird it is (a woman who looks familiar saunters in with a friend. I keep catching her eye wondering where I know her from until I realise that she's the living image of Stiffler's Mum, bee-stung lips and all) but what's even weirder is how comfortable I feel.

Like it's not out of place.

Must be the water talking.

After one set (he keeps his sets short here) Mark comes off stage and I go over to him to poke him in the back and say, hey, I'm leaving. And he says, OK, see ya. And when I ask the waiter for the bill, I find my mineral water was on Mark (he would rather I had something more interesting, like tea).

It's nice slow ride home, my iPod playing the mellow numbers I love as I relax into the night, my favourite time of the day.

Back home to my sad little doggie who's been waiting for me. Arnold jumps up and down, and I nod. Yes, yes, I know.

It's time for a walk.

Except for one incident where a tiny Spitz comes yapping forward to attack, we complete our circuit unmolested. Now he's lying on the floor next to me and I'm trying to figure out whether I want to have a shower first, or shift some of the laundry off my bed.

And then I'll read myself to sleep.

My days are strange.

My nights are stranger.