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.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
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?
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?
Sunday, May 15, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, May 02, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
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
Anne Lamott
Monday, April 25, 2011
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?
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?
Sunday, April 17, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, April 15, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, April 07, 2011
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.
I don't feel like being here, I don't feel like working here.
Saturday, April 02, 2011
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.
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
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Robert Pirsig
Friday, April 01, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Hydrocortisone Coming In Useful Now
One of my favourite ways to get awakened (after a bad night and a mysterious rash on my shoulder that effectively put paid to sleep, kinda like Macbeth) is by an editor telling me that my story, the one I constipated through and worried about yesterday, is "delightful". Kinda makes it seem worth it.
After a bad night, I'm moving slowly, fighting my way through all this amniotic fluid, or humidity if you prefer. I need to go out and buy some food for lunch. And maybe after that, take off for Harvinder's to see if I can complete the last project I bought from her, which I still have on hand. I've done the big stuff, now have to fill in the little details.
I'm still working my way through Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, trying to get the difference between the romantic and classical viewpoints (I realise my complete incompetence with anything mechanical brands me as romantic while my mum who can dig under the hood of a car and do the basic checks at least, is classical). And yet there are things that I figure out how to do, technical though it is, which makes me sorta classical.
Somewhere in between, I guess, unlike Meredith Brooks (who's nothing in between).
Picture perfect memories scattered all around the floor
Reaching for the phone cos I can't take it anymore....
I've a to-do list, but waking up just a little before noon kind of throws it all off. Maybe if I sit down, list out the things I can still do today, it'll all work out.
Yes, I'd rather hurt than feel nothing at all...
Addendum: I can see it's going to be another one of those days. Where I just keep incessantly updating this. The only way to stop is to go out. And I will. Just as soon as I feed Arnold (who's food is now heating up nicely on the stove) and shower. I just gave my scruffy little doggie a scrubbing and he's gleaming black.
OK I've just switched off his food. Will leave it to cool for a while before heaping it into his bowl. He knows, and he's come by to say hello. I pat him and marvel at how soft his fur is, newly bathed.
I got this in the mail today from a company whose service was so execrable that I will not be giving them one red cent more. It figures that after taking all that money and being horrifyingly expensive and ineffective, they cannot invest in a proper editor for the mailers...so what you get is what appears to be Freudian slips except that they're not smart enough to understand the concept of Freudian slips and so, this is nothing more than sheer ignorance, i.e. they don't know any better.
We will do our best to make you feel homely.
Really? You will? Imagine that. But no thanks. I do a pretty good job of making myself feel homely all by my lonesome.
After a bad night, I'm moving slowly, fighting my way through all this amniotic fluid, or humidity if you prefer. I need to go out and buy some food for lunch. And maybe after that, take off for Harvinder's to see if I can complete the last project I bought from her, which I still have on hand. I've done the big stuff, now have to fill in the little details.
I'm still working my way through Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, trying to get the difference between the romantic and classical viewpoints (I realise my complete incompetence with anything mechanical brands me as romantic while my mum who can dig under the hood of a car and do the basic checks at least, is classical). And yet there are things that I figure out how to do, technical though it is, which makes me sorta classical.
Somewhere in between, I guess, unlike Meredith Brooks (who's nothing in between).
Picture perfect memories scattered all around the floor
Reaching for the phone cos I can't take it anymore....
I've a to-do list, but waking up just a little before noon kind of throws it all off. Maybe if I sit down, list out the things I can still do today, it'll all work out.
Yes, I'd rather hurt than feel nothing at all...
Addendum: I can see it's going to be another one of those days. Where I just keep incessantly updating this. The only way to stop is to go out. And I will. Just as soon as I feed Arnold (who's food is now heating up nicely on the stove) and shower. I just gave my scruffy little doggie a scrubbing and he's gleaming black.
OK I've just switched off his food. Will leave it to cool for a while before heaping it into his bowl. He knows, and he's come by to say hello. I pat him and marvel at how soft his fur is, newly bathed.
I got this in the mail today from a company whose service was so execrable that I will not be giving them one red cent more. It figures that after taking all that money and being horrifyingly expensive and ineffective, they cannot invest in a proper editor for the mailers...so what you get is what appears to be Freudian slips except that they're not smart enough to understand the concept of Freudian slips and so, this is nothing more than sheer ignorance, i.e. they don't know any better.
We will do our best to make you feel homely.
Really? You will? Imagine that. But no thanks. I do a pretty good job of making myself feel homely all by my lonesome.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Writer's Bloc
Here's the thing: I've taken Arnold for two walks today. He's now lying on the floor next to me, tongue hanging out, looking fairly content. I realise with this one I cannot skate by. I have to figure out what he needs, what makes him happy, and go along, even if I have other things to do.
Also, I've nearly finished my story.
Constipated through it the whole day.
When I don't feel like writing, I don't feel like writing.
Num saying?
Also, I've nearly finished my story.
Constipated through it the whole day.
When I don't feel like writing, I don't feel like writing.
Num saying?
In The Mail Today
Hi Jennifer,
Here's an astonishing fact you may never have considered: Your level of personal happiness throughout your life will depend upon your ability to completely forgive those who have hurt or offended you.
In point of fact, the emotional-spiritual skill of forgiveness is critical to becoming a resilient person, to acting effectively and to your physical and emotional health. And it is indeed a skill that can be learned by anyone, though it may seem terribly difficult to do at times.
Here's an astonishing fact you may never have considered: Your level of personal happiness throughout your life will depend upon your ability to completely forgive those who have hurt or offended you.
In point of fact, the emotional-spiritual skill of forgiveness is critical to becoming a resilient person, to acting effectively and to your physical and emotional health. And it is indeed a skill that can be learned by anyone, though it may seem terribly difficult to do at times.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Make Them Ignite The Light And Let It Shine
Do you ever feel like a plastic bag
Drifting through the wind, wanting to start again?
Do you ever feel, feel so paper thin
Like a house of cards, one blow from caving in?
Do you ever feel already buried deep?
Six feet under screams but no one seems to hear a thing
Do you know that there's still a chance for you
'Cause there's a spark in you?
You just gotta ignite the light and let it shine
Just own the night like the 4th of July
'Cause baby, you're a firework
Come on, show 'em what you're worth
Make 'em go, oh
As you shoot across the sky
Baby, you're a firework
Come on, let your colors burst
Make 'em go, oh
You're gonna leave 'em falling down
You don't have to feel like a waste of space
You're original, cannot be replaced
If you only knew what the future holds
After a hurricane comes a rainbow
Maybe the reason why all the doors are closed
So you could open one that leads you to the perfect road
Like a lightning bolt, your heart will blow
And when it's time, you'll know
You just gotta ignite the light and let it shine
Just own the night like the 4th of July
'Cause baby you're a firework
Come on, show 'em what you're worth
Make 'em go, oh
As you shoot across the sky
Baby, you're a firework
Come on, let your colors burst
Make 'em go, oh
You're gonna leave 'em falling down
Boom, boom, boom
Even brighter than the moon, moon, moon
It's always been inside of you, you, you
And now it's time to let it through
'Cause baby you're a firework
Come on, show 'em what you're worth
Make 'em go, oh
As you shoot across the sky
Baby, you're a firework
Come on, let your colors burst
Make 'em go, oh
You're gonna leave 'em falling down
Boom, boom, boom
Even brighter than the moon, moon, moon
Boom, boom, boom
Even brighter than the moon, moon, moon
In The Backseat
Jackie sent me the following and I had to share it with all two of you:
Isn't he the cutest pupchen ever?
Have just come back from walk with the pupchen. I think he missed his walkies (I didn't go yesterday) and was refusing all food. Dadda called "Arnold, come and eat" and cajoled him and I yelled, dragged him to his food and even smacked him.
To no avail.
He looked at me sadly out of his big brown eyes and settled himself out of reach underneath the table. Finally I figured it out. After a phone conversation with Jackie, I took that shower, put on my "going for walkies" togs and affixed the lead to his collar.
Arnold came alive. He cavorted (which is what he does when he wants to show he's excited about the walk) and we took a round - the park, down the "secret passage" of old, round to the back of the house. Then I got my book, and settled down on one of the benches and released him. Instead of running around wildly, he jumped on the park bench and cuddled up close.
So I had one hand round him patting him absently, singing along to James Taylor on the iPod, reading my Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Arnold stayed quiet for a while and then he decided it was time to head for the hills. Or rather, the rest of the park. One false start as he rushed forward only to see a large troupe of Nepali workers ambling along the road on their way to work. He made a U-turn and came rushing back to me, scrambling up on the park bench. We sat there watching the workers passing, me still singing to him and trying to read my book.
When he was sure that every single last one of 'em was gone, he ventured forth again, and this time, he made it. That was the last I saw of him for a while. Then the yappy little dogs three houses away started barking. (Arnold loves to stand outside their back gate and provoke them) I looked up and there he was running back and forth on the road. And then he'd had enough. He stood on our back doorstep and turned to wait patiently for me to come home.
I said, no, you come to me. Held up his lead. He started to make his way but was distracted by cat hovering temptingly in his vicinity. Turned and chased said cat and I screamed. There is a certain quality in my voice when provoked that means "somebody's gonna get it good". Arnold recognises this. He gave up pursuit of said cat and ears and tail down, pattered back to the backdoor.
I let him in and thought maybe I'd go back to the park bench to finish the chapter. He turned inquiringly as I let him and locked the gate without getting in as well.
"You going somewhere?"
I sighed. OK, there were way too many mosquitoes outside. I unlocked the gate, let myself in and saw my little doggie heading straight for his bowl. A little water and then he attacked his food.
Came to visit me in my room after, give me his customary "I've just eaten" lick and settle himself down on my now-clean floor.
Maybe I'll take him for another walk later.
For now, I promise I won't write again until I've done some work.
Some real work.
Isn't he the cutest pupchen ever?
Have just come back from walk with the pupchen. I think he missed his walkies (I didn't go yesterday) and was refusing all food. Dadda called "Arnold, come and eat" and cajoled him and I yelled, dragged him to his food and even smacked him.
To no avail.
He looked at me sadly out of his big brown eyes and settled himself out of reach underneath the table. Finally I figured it out. After a phone conversation with Jackie, I took that shower, put on my "going for walkies" togs and affixed the lead to his collar.
Arnold came alive. He cavorted (which is what he does when he wants to show he's excited about the walk) and we took a round - the park, down the "secret passage" of old, round to the back of the house. Then I got my book, and settled down on one of the benches and released him. Instead of running around wildly, he jumped on the park bench and cuddled up close.
So I had one hand round him patting him absently, singing along to James Taylor on the iPod, reading my Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Arnold stayed quiet for a while and then he decided it was time to head for the hills. Or rather, the rest of the park. One false start as he rushed forward only to see a large troupe of Nepali workers ambling along the road on their way to work. He made a U-turn and came rushing back to me, scrambling up on the park bench. We sat there watching the workers passing, me still singing to him and trying to read my book.
When he was sure that every single last one of 'em was gone, he ventured forth again, and this time, he made it. That was the last I saw of him for a while. Then the yappy little dogs three houses away started barking. (Arnold loves to stand outside their back gate and provoke them) I looked up and there he was running back and forth on the road. And then he'd had enough. He stood on our back doorstep and turned to wait patiently for me to come home.
I said, no, you come to me. Held up his lead. He started to make his way but was distracted by cat hovering temptingly in his vicinity. Turned and chased said cat and I screamed. There is a certain quality in my voice when provoked that means "somebody's gonna get it good". Arnold recognises this. He gave up pursuit of said cat and ears and tail down, pattered back to the backdoor.
I let him in and thought maybe I'd go back to the park bench to finish the chapter. He turned inquiringly as I let him and locked the gate without getting in as well.
"You going somewhere?"
I sighed. OK, there were way too many mosquitoes outside. I unlocked the gate, let myself in and saw my little doggie heading straight for his bowl. A little water and then he attacked his food.
Came to visit me in my room after, give me his customary "I've just eaten" lick and settle himself down on my now-clean floor.
Maybe I'll take him for another walk later.
For now, I promise I won't write again until I've done some work.
Some real work.
Zen and the Art of...
I am sitting amidst a swirling mass of entropy. It happened when I wasn't looking. And now, I look around at the chaos and realise that I have to do something about it before I tackle the story I'm supposed to write for Theresa. I can't get down to it with this all around me.
Of course, when you've got a busy day planned it doesn't help when you only wake up at noon. But I didn't sleep the night before (heat, mosquitoes) and then I had an early assignment (went for it zombiefied, although the woman I ended up interviewing was beautiful, vital, articulate and pretty damn amazing so I kind of woke up).
Called Theresa to brief her over the phone and then it was off to Bangsar Village to see Harvinder. I hung out with her, watched her students make quilts, sari blouses and check out the different stitches they could do over the funky new Brother sewing machine, and read the last bit of my Global Soul. Finished now. I was progressively colder and more tired so I repaired upstairs to have a hot chocolate (with whipped cream) and a doughnut and kept dropping off at the table. Wondered how I would drive back through rush hour traffic like this.
I did.
Happy to say I only crashed in my bed. With young Arnold sleeping nearby. I needed to wake up to go to Backyard but there I was, still in work clothes, crumpled up on the bed, utterly exhausted. I couldn't think a few minutes ahead, let alone a few hours. I was meeting Addy tonight or (and Mark, please forgive me for this) I would have given it a miss.
It was a lovely night and Addy gave me a fabulous Christmas present (I love elastic Christmasses almost as much as I love elastic birthdays) and now I'm awake and the headache that plagued me most of yesterday is gone. Because I SLEPT.
All better now.
Now I will lie here, read some of my Robert Pirsig and procrastinate some more until I figure out what I want to do first.
OK I just realised I cannot lie here and procrastinate because I have to make some fish curry, herbed broccoli and rice.
Sigh.
I want to sleep again.
Addendum: The lunch is cooked. It's 3.13pm now. Late late lunch. Poor Dadda. He was so looking forward to that fish curry. Dunno how it turned out. As is typical, cooking the food and feeding off the smell, I lost my appetite. That and having two peanut butter sandwiches at noon. Instead I'm having the tomato juice that Mary gave me. It's delicious and so satisfying. Now I'm surveying the chaos around my room and trying to psyche myself up to tackle it. What to do first?
Further addendum: I've started a desultory arranging of books. I love books. Now I just got too many. Another bookshelf is called for. Urgently.
Note from the Universe: Take it, make it, bake it, go.
Note from James Taylor:
It's like a honey to the bee, babe
sugar to the sugarcane, jelly to the doughnut
it's like a walk to a lonely man
over and over
to be loved
to be loved
to be truly truly loved
to be loved
to be loved
to be truly truly loved
I've finished my tomato juice. Need to get some more because it was delicious and satisfying.
My room is still a mess. Less of a mess. But still a mess. Swirling vortex of entropy. Dear old Sheldon. Need to attack corners with a broom. But arrange stuff first. Yes. Organise.
I do not like organising to begin with.
Sigh.
Note from Thanissaro Bhikku's Hang On To Your Ego:
But ego functions don't just say No. They also have a mediator's sense of when to say Yes. If they're skillful, they negotiate among your desires and your super-ego so that you can gain the pleasure you want in a way that causes no harm and can actually do a great deal of good.
And lastly, let's hear from good ole Henley:
I'm learning to live without you now
But I miss you sometimes
The more I know
the less I understand
all the things I thought I'd figured out
I have to learn again
I've been trying to get down
to the heart of the matter
but everything changes
and my friends seem to scatter
and I think it's about
forgiveness, forgiveness
even if you don't love me anymore.
Of course, when you've got a busy day planned it doesn't help when you only wake up at noon. But I didn't sleep the night before (heat, mosquitoes) and then I had an early assignment (went for it zombiefied, although the woman I ended up interviewing was beautiful, vital, articulate and pretty damn amazing so I kind of woke up).
Called Theresa to brief her over the phone and then it was off to Bangsar Village to see Harvinder. I hung out with her, watched her students make quilts, sari blouses and check out the different stitches they could do over the funky new Brother sewing machine, and read the last bit of my Global Soul. Finished now. I was progressively colder and more tired so I repaired upstairs to have a hot chocolate (with whipped cream) and a doughnut and kept dropping off at the table. Wondered how I would drive back through rush hour traffic like this.
I did.
Happy to say I only crashed in my bed. With young Arnold sleeping nearby. I needed to wake up to go to Backyard but there I was, still in work clothes, crumpled up on the bed, utterly exhausted. I couldn't think a few minutes ahead, let alone a few hours. I was meeting Addy tonight or (and Mark, please forgive me for this) I would have given it a miss.
It was a lovely night and Addy gave me a fabulous Christmas present (I love elastic Christmasses almost as much as I love elastic birthdays) and now I'm awake and the headache that plagued me most of yesterday is gone. Because I SLEPT.
All better now.
Now I will lie here, read some of my Robert Pirsig and procrastinate some more until I figure out what I want to do first.
OK I just realised I cannot lie here and procrastinate because I have to make some fish curry, herbed broccoli and rice.
Sigh.
I want to sleep again.
Addendum: The lunch is cooked. It's 3.13pm now. Late late lunch. Poor Dadda. He was so looking forward to that fish curry. Dunno how it turned out. As is typical, cooking the food and feeding off the smell, I lost my appetite. That and having two peanut butter sandwiches at noon. Instead I'm having the tomato juice that Mary gave me. It's delicious and so satisfying. Now I'm surveying the chaos around my room and trying to psyche myself up to tackle it. What to do first?
Further addendum: I've started a desultory arranging of books. I love books. Now I just got too many. Another bookshelf is called for. Urgently.
Note from the Universe: Take it, make it, bake it, go.
Note from James Taylor:
It's like a honey to the bee, babe
sugar to the sugarcane, jelly to the doughnut
it's like a walk to a lonely man
over and over
to be loved
to be loved
to be truly truly loved
to be loved
to be loved
to be truly truly loved
I've finished my tomato juice. Need to get some more because it was delicious and satisfying.
My room is still a mess. Less of a mess. But still a mess. Swirling vortex of entropy. Dear old Sheldon. Need to attack corners with a broom. But arrange stuff first. Yes. Organise.
I do not like organising to begin with.
Sigh.
Note from Thanissaro Bhikku's Hang On To Your Ego:
But ego functions don't just say No. They also have a mediator's sense of when to say Yes. If they're skillful, they negotiate among your desires and your super-ego so that you can gain the pleasure you want in a way that causes no harm and can actually do a great deal of good.
And lastly, let's hear from good ole Henley:
I'm learning to live without you now
But I miss you sometimes
The more I know
the less I understand
all the things I thought I'd figured out
I have to learn again
I've been trying to get down
to the heart of the matter
but everything changes
and my friends seem to scatter
and I think it's about
forgiveness, forgiveness
even if you don't love me anymore.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
The Global Soul
It's the price of rootlessness; motion sickness. The only cure: keep moving. Mr Lies, Angels in America, Millennium Approaches
I'm halfway through Pico Iyer's Global Soul and funnily enough, his description of these rootless, displaced, anywhere-and-nowhere-is-home human beings makes me long for home. Not a place, per se, but a feeling. And as I don't really like flying, hovering in the air, in the middle of nowhere, always on the way to someplace else, worrying about immigration wherever I go to (unless I'm on my way here, in which case, my passport allows me to bypass the human factor, stick it in a slot and verify that I'm me) that feeling will only come when my feet are on some earth somewhere; when there is some/any ground beneath my feet.
I hate rushing about trying to catch up with myself. I prefer to saunter, my head in the clouds, dreaming, repeating bits of poetry, phrases from books, song lyrics, extemporaneously to myself, scribbling down thoughts into a minuscule notebook, maybe transferring them to a blog (or no), getting nowhere fast. Enjoying the journey, nonetheless.
As it is, I take root nowhere. Or rather, I grow like a weed on the fringes, waiting only for the painful, inevitable uprooting that happens to all who grow where they don't belong.
I bought two more Iyers (ordered another one), two more Chatwins (ordered another one) and one Mann. Books referencing other books as I chase the elusive signifier from one text to another, from one description to another, from one definition to another - a Derrida-en journey - the kind that is a journey for the sake of itself, leading nowhere....
The price of rootlessness is that you belong nowhere. The price of rootlessness is that you drink yourself to oblivion with other rootless people, all you hovering in the air, somewhere between jobs, somewhere between relationships, somewhere between homes, somewhere between cars...nothing to ground you (because if there were, you would abandon it, give it up, put it to sleep, resisting the anchor, because anchors are heavy and you want to breathe).
Your idea of noble sacrifice; my idea of needless suicide.
What happens when even the familiar faces become strange? When you no longer remember what you're doing here, or who these people are, and why, why, why you are filling your days with such banal inanities?
So yes, I'm looking for home. The smell of cookies baking for Christmas? (No. I tried that. And it doesn't work) Lace curtains fluttering in the breeze? (No, I tried that. Didn't work) Another F*R*I*E*N*D*S episode? (No, it served its purpose then. Doesn't work now. Not anymore) Getting drunk and writing some more of this? (No. At least I don't know. I'm not drinking at the moment)
And therein may lie the problem.
I'm halfway through Pico Iyer's Global Soul and funnily enough, his description of these rootless, displaced, anywhere-and-nowhere-is-home human beings makes me long for home. Not a place, per se, but a feeling. And as I don't really like flying, hovering in the air, in the middle of nowhere, always on the way to someplace else, worrying about immigration wherever I go to (unless I'm on my way here, in which case, my passport allows me to bypass the human factor, stick it in a slot and verify that I'm me) that feeling will only come when my feet are on some earth somewhere; when there is some/any ground beneath my feet.
I hate rushing about trying to catch up with myself. I prefer to saunter, my head in the clouds, dreaming, repeating bits of poetry, phrases from books, song lyrics, extemporaneously to myself, scribbling down thoughts into a minuscule notebook, maybe transferring them to a blog (or no), getting nowhere fast. Enjoying the journey, nonetheless.
As it is, I take root nowhere. Or rather, I grow like a weed on the fringes, waiting only for the painful, inevitable uprooting that happens to all who grow where they don't belong.
I bought two more Iyers (ordered another one), two more Chatwins (ordered another one) and one Mann. Books referencing other books as I chase the elusive signifier from one text to another, from one description to another, from one definition to another - a Derrida-en journey - the kind that is a journey for the sake of itself, leading nowhere....
The price of rootlessness is that you belong nowhere. The price of rootlessness is that you drink yourself to oblivion with other rootless people, all you hovering in the air, somewhere between jobs, somewhere between relationships, somewhere between homes, somewhere between cars...nothing to ground you (because if there were, you would abandon it, give it up, put it to sleep, resisting the anchor, because anchors are heavy and you want to breathe).
Your idea of noble sacrifice; my idea of needless suicide.
What happens when even the familiar faces become strange? When you no longer remember what you're doing here, or who these people are, and why, why, why you are filling your days with such banal inanities?
So yes, I'm looking for home. The smell of cookies baking for Christmas? (No. I tried that. And it doesn't work) Lace curtains fluttering in the breeze? (No, I tried that. Didn't work) Another F*R*I*E*N*D*S episode? (No, it served its purpose then. Doesn't work now. Not anymore) Getting drunk and writing some more of this? (No. At least I don't know. I'm not drinking at the moment)
And therein may lie the problem.
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