Two! No More Than Two!

I'm making my way up the five flights of stairs (panting and wheezing which makes it difficult to be furtive) and then I get to the DOOR. I give the secret knock. It is answered by a secret knock within. I knock again. This goes on indefinitely.

I am getting tired of this. What was the use sneaking all the way up if I'm gonna be playing knock knock with some gully dwarf who says (secret knock, two knocks - and I say, but that was two knocks - and she says, I count five knocks - and I say, two, no more than two). It would help if the gully dwarfs could count past two.

Finally, as I start pounding the door and threatening to break it down (a threat I could not carry out any more than if I was a fly, the door being solid meranti, and me being only vapours and blood), she opens the door a crack and peers out. I smile winningly. At least, I think it's winning. At the sight of my gleaming teeth, she screeches and tries to shut the door. I insert my foot. She shrugs and sighs and gives in to the inevitable.

Really! The things I have to go through to pay a visit.

Anyway, once I'm in, I try not to wrinkle my nose. The scent of unwashed gully dwarf assails my nostrils with all the strength of an FF (a former colleague who used to give the rest of us headaches and sinus attacks if he sat anywhere close by, he was that pungent).

"So, is she here?"

"Who?" asks Merowene, in a sullen tone. I interrupted her Solitaire and she is not happy about it.

"You know who. I mean, like, how many people live here anyway?"

She takes me literally and puts up four fingers: "Two, no more than two."

"Is that you Lullabelle?" a thin, tired voice calls from the other room. The bedroom.

"No, no miss, it's just Merowene talking to herself. Go back to sleep."

"Lullabelle?"

"Yes auntie, it's me. Merowene let me in," I turn back to the gully dwarf regarding me with suspicious eyes. Can't blame her, I guess. After all I hardly come to visit and I should. I really should. Poor Aunt Sissy (short for Sisyphus). "Go back to your Freecell. I can show myself in."

But Merowene, being the contrary creature that she is, decides to dog my footsteps. She is not letting me anywhere near her mistress without supervision. I sigh and follow.

I enter the room and recoil at the air which is as thick as Merowene's matted hair. I move to open one of the windows and they both cry out. No, no, don't let the nasty air in.

I sigh again. The stench of Merowene is hard enough to take with open windows. And here, there is another smell subtly interwoven with angry gully dwarf - that of a frail, lonely, neglected human. I seat myself gingerly at the edge of the bed and smile into my Aunt's face.

She smiles back. "So you're here. How long has it been?"

I cringe. "Too long Aunt. I'm sorry. I've been busy."

"No matter," she says generously. "It's always nice to see you."

Merowene squats down and Aunt cries out in alarm. "No Mero, no! The bathroom, do that in the bathroom." I recoil in horror. Oh God! What is it to be an invalid? Maybe we should get rid of the gully dwarf and I should move in. Or move her to my place. Palliative care. A full time nurse. That sort of thing.

Merowene stalks off in high dudgeon.

"Aunt, why don't you come back with me? My apartment isn't big, but it's comfy and I would take care of you. And we could get rid of that gully dwarf."

Aunt shakes her head with a smile. "No, I couldn't do that. Besides, I've grown fond of the creature. She isn't very clean, but she's affectionate. And she does take care of me."

I listen to the sound of Merowene going potty loudly in the bathroom. Surely Aunt deserves better than this.

We talk for a while and as I am about to get up and leave, Merowene brings in two cups of tea. I look to see tea leaves and other brown unidentified stuff swimming around in the murky liquid. No, I cannot bring myself to take the cup. But Aunt is nodding in a pleased fashion (Merowene is coming along nicely, don't you think? Just look at that), so I am forced to take it. Aunt takes the other.

The gully dwarf steps back and watches me with a strange look. What's with the sly furtive grin?

The tea smells, to be delicate about it, like puke. I cannot bring myself to raise the cup to my lips. So I purposely joggle my own elbow and spill it all over my lap. Boiling hot. Ouch!

I see the disappointment in her eyes and smile kindly at her. Yum, I say. Yum yum. Rubbing my belly. That was good.

Aunt Sissy is looking at me strangely too. "Lullabele?"

"Yes?"

"I think it would be a good idea if you don't come around here anymore. You upset Merowene and she sulks for days."

"But Aunt Sissy..."

"Stop calling me that! You know I'm not your aunt."

"OK then, but you told me not to call you Mom."

She flinches and falls back on the bed clutching her heart. Merowene screams and pushes me aside. She buries her face in Aunt's lap and they both screech until I leave.

It was getting a little crowded anyway. The apartment was not meant for more than two.

No more than two.

A Wolf's Point of View (not original)

OK, so I got killed in the end and you all said yippee. I'm not complaining about that. I wasn't as clever as I thought I was, so I'll take defeat like a wolf. But now that I'm a was-wolf (that is, a dead wolf), and I'm up here in Valhowla (paradise for wolves), I'll rest a lot easier if the record is set straight.

The official accounts of what happened that day are all lies, and I hate lies -- especially lies about me. So here's the story of what really happened.

The first lie that annoys me is all this big-bad-wolf business. Big? I may have been average size once, but by the time I was killed, I was more ribs than muscle. I hadn't had a decent meal in weeks. Skinny, yes -- big, no. And why bad? What was ever bad about me? I reckon I'm one of the nicest wolves I know. So instead of, "In the forest there lived a big bad wolf", now read, "In the forest there lived a skinny nice wolf."

Next we come to the question of motive. The history books say I wanted to eat Little Red Riding Hood. I didn't, and I can prove it. But even if I had wanted to eat her, what's so terrible about that? When she had eggs and bacon for breakfast, did anyone complain that big bad Red Riding hood took the eggs from the chicken as well as two slices off Porky Pig?

When she had roast turkey for Christmas, did it bother her what might have happened to Mrs Turkey and all the little Turks? When she sank her teeth into a juicy rump of steak, did she spare a thought for some poor cow walking round the field with half its bottom missing? What's the difference between a little girl eating me and my mates, and me eating a little girl?

Anyway, as I said, I didn't want to eat her. Here's the proof. You remember she and I had a little chat in the woods? I asked her where she was going, what she had in the basket, and where her sick granny lived. Well, if I was close enough to talk to her, you'll have to agree that I was close enough to eat her. Why didn't I? Some of the accounts suggest it was because there were some woodcutters nearby. Rubbish. If there'd been a single woodcutter nearby, I'd have been off faster than you can say, "The wonderful wolf went away from the wood."

The fact is I was after Red Riding Hood's basket with all the goodies in it. With my blunt old teeth I couldn't even bite a chicken, let alone a little girl. It was the basket I wanted. I thought of stealing it from her there and then, but for three reasons I didn't.

First, I didn't want to upset her. Second, she might have started screaming, and I don't like screams, or people who hear screams. And third, she might not have let go, and I was in no condition for a fight.

My plan was very simple. I intended to pop along Granny's cottage, give her a little scare so she'd run away for a few minutes, pretend I was Granny, and relieve Red Riding Hood of the basket. Then she would have gone home thinking she'd done her good deed, Granny would have come back feeling pleased that she'd escaped from the wolf, and I'd have got the basket. We'd all have lived happily ever after.

Only things didn't quite work out that way. First of all, in spite of what the official reports might say, Granny wasn't there. I pushed open the door, all set to say "boo" and get out of the way as she rushed out, but there was nobody to say "boo" to. Actually, I was rather glad, because some grannies don't scare easily. I've seen grannies that scare me a good deal more than I scare them.

Anyway, the room was empty, so I reckoned it was my lucky day. I crawled into bed, pulling the covers over me. In a few minutes, Little Red Riding Hood came along, and again the history books have got it all wrong. Unless she was as short-sighted as a one-eyed rhinoceros, do you honestly think that she would have taken me for her grandmother? All those lies about "what big teeth you have", and so on. I'll tell you exactly what we said to each other.

When she knocked on the door, I stayed under the covers and called out: "Who is it?" (That was rather clever of me. I knew who it was, but Granny wouldn't have known, would she?)

"It's me Grandma!" said Red Riding Hood.

"Who's me?" I asked.

"You's you!" she replied.

"Well, who's you?" I asked.

"Little Red Riding Hood!" she said. "I've brought you a basket full of lovely food."

"Oh, surprise, surprise!" I said. "Come in, my dear, come in." And in she came.

Naturally I stayed under the covers.

"How are you Grandma?" she asked.

"I'm not well at all, dear," I said. "I've caught a catching illness, and as I don't want you to catch it too, I'll stay under the covers will you've gone. Just leave the basket there, dear, and run along home. Run quickly, 'cos I've heard there's a big bad wolf in the forest."

It was brilliant. I felt like jumping out of bed and giving myself a round of applause.

"Yes, Grandma," said Red Riding Hood, and she put down the basket, turned around to leave, and ... just my luck! Who should walk in the room at that moment but Granny herself! I knew I was in trouble as soon as I heard the footsteps. I'd made a run for it if I hadn't been paralysed with terror.

"Hullo, Red Riding Hood," said Granny.

"Hullo, Grandma," said Red Riding Hood.

"Hullo, trouble," said I to myself.

"Grandma," said Red Riding Hood, "if you're here, who could that be in your bed?"

I wished I could just curl up and disappear down the side of the mattress.

"Whoever you are," said Granny, "I've got you covered. Come out with your hands up."

I poked my nose out from under the blanket.

"Look," I said, "it's all been a terrible mistake..."

"It's the big bad wolf!" said Red Riding Hood.

"No, no," I said, "I'm just a skinny nice wolf..."

BANG, BANG, BANG!

Oh, the injustice! All I wanted was something to eat, but before I even had a chance to impress them with my charm and good intentions, Granny had put three bullets to where I should have had the fruit cake and chocolate biscuits. I collapsed like a chopped tree.

"Good shooting, Grandma!" said Red Riding Hood -- though what was good about it I shall never know.

"Quick, fetch the vet!" I gasped.

But the last thing those two had in their mind was to help poor dying Wolfie. "We ought to get the newspapers here," said Granny. "This could be quite a story."

"Oh, yes," said Red Riding Hood. "They might publish our pictures and we'd be famous!"

And while I lay there, half in and half out of the world, they calmly discussed the tale they would tell the reporters. Granny was worried that she might get into trouble because she didn't have a licence for the gun. (I wished she'd thought of that earlier.) Red Riding Hood also wondered why Granny hadn't been in her bed, because she was supposed to be sick. It turned out that Granny had been on the lavatory, but she certainly wasn't going to tell that to the reporters.

"And what," said Granny, "are they going to think when they find the wolf in my bed?" After all, I've got my reputation to think of."

"Blow your reputation," I groaned. "What about me? I've been shot!"

"You keep out of this, Wolfie," said Granny. "You've caused enough trouble as it is."

I'd caused trouble! Was it my fault that she'd been on the lavatory? And who fired the gun? And who didn't have a licence? But it as no use arguing they'd made up their mind that I was the villain and they were the heroes.

"Perhaps," said Red Riding Hood, "we can pretend someone else shot him a hunter, or woodcutter."

"But that wouldn't explain how he got into my bed." said Granny.

"I know what," cried Red Riding Hood. "We could say you were in bed, and Wolfie came in and ate you."

"You must be joking," I moaned. "With my teeth, I couldn't even eat a chicken, let along a tough old bird like Granny."

"Keep quiet, Wolfie!" said Granny. "No, the problem there, my dear, is that if he'd eaten me, I'd be dead. And I'm not."

"Well," said Red Riding Hood, "we could say he ate you whole, and then the woodcutter cut him open and you came out alive."

"Now that's an idea!" said Granny.

"Oh yeah!" I gasped. "A newborn fifteen-stone sixty-year-old baby! Who's going to believe that?"

"Then," continued the Little Red Liar, "we'll say he disguised himself as you, I came in, and the woodcutter rescued me in the nick of time."

"Oh, well," I groaned, "why don't I eat a whole Red Riding Hood for dessert -- make a proper meal of it?"

"Why not?" asked Granny.

"You're both crazy!" I panted. "Nobody in this whole wide world could be stupid enough to swallow a story like that!"

Those were my last words. With one more bullet from Granny, I huffed my last puff. But I died happy in the knowledge that nobody in the whole wide world could be stupid enough to swallow a story like that.

Ugh, how wrong can a wolf be?

The Way of the Coyote

Of course you feel sorry for him. It's easy to feel sorry for him. Especially when he talks, tears in his voice, about how his wife left him, moved to another state, how he never gets to see his daughter.

He drinks because he misses his daughter. He drinks because he still loves his wife. He drinks because there is nobody in the world who loves him. He drinks because he is so fundamentally unlovable.

What he does not tell you is that his (ex) wife has a restraining order. And although she has moved state and changed her name, she still looks over her shoulder when she goes out. And underneath her clothes there are scars that will not heal. No, he left that part out. You don't really need to know about that. Not until you get to know him. Not until you understand the circumstances, how it was, how she really left him no choice...

Your friends say watch out. They say there is something not quite right about this one. They say you don't need more drama in your life.

You say, come on. You say, have a heart. You stopper your ears because you know they are right. But you are already caught up in the unfolding. Cannot let go now.

He draws you in. Young, naive and frankly, too dumb to know better, you think you're Emily Dickinson:

If I could stop one heart from breaking
I shall not live in vain
If I can ease one life the aching
or cool one pain.

Arrogant really. What makes you think you can save the world? Or a single soul? You're a raw, wet-behind-the-ears kid from the right side of the tracks and you've never dealt with anything like this before. The lies, the prevarication, the cunning, the sudden violence, the heartbreaking apologies, the desperation:

"Please, please don't leave me, if you leave me, I'll die, I have nobody, I have nothing, and you know I love you, only you, I need you, please don't abandon me like she did."

So you stay. You tell yourself, one last chance, I'll give you one last chance, the next time you do this, that's it. But one last chance blooms into another and another. You stay. Because you cannot take the tears. And the suicide threats.

He controls you. You chafe at the chains. But you stay.

There is a breaking point of course. After which, you leave. And stop answering his calls. Block his email addresses. Take out your own restraining order.

It takes a while but eventually, he lets go. You'll become one of his stories. Like his ex-wife. To be told over a glass of Jack. To the next bleeding heart, save-the-world sucker.

The girl I loved who abandoned me.

And once you're out (oh, the blessed freedom) you wonder why you stayed. Why you put up with the fights and the jealousy and the control and the shattered glass when really, there was so much of life out there for you? If he was determined to die, the kindest thing you could have done was to let him get on with it. Even offer a few suggestions. (Herbicide, surefire way - just have to make sure you take enough, or you could linger for days)

Of course you look at men differently now. If they cry, you get up and walk away. If they cling, you get up and walk away. If they threaten suicide, you get up and walk away.

Deal with your own shit. I don't have time for this.

A Guide to Looking Younger Than Your Age (if you're into that kind of thing which you may not be in which case disregard this post)

"How old are you?" he asked, casually, like it's a polite question and not one of the 10 big no-nos and likely to get you bitch slapped.

"34 years and what month is it now, August? Well 34 years and 9 months exactly," I answer because one of my affectations is that I always answer this question without hesitation. (My other is that I insist on using a fountain pen, which makes many people look at me askance, but let us be eccentric or die)

"Wow. You don't look your age at all. In fact, if you hadn't told me, I would have not pegged you at over 33 years and 11 months," he breaks into an artless guffaw.

I am stunned. 10 whole months younger! I must be doing something right. Trouble is, I don't know what. So here, in an effort to share the blessing, I give you all the ways I know of to look at least 10 months younger.

1. Be a bum: Now, this may be obvious, but you'd be surprised how many people are addicted to having jobs they hate.

2. Go through periodic bouts of intense depression: I dunno, it's probably cathartic or something, but it certainly works for me.

3. Eat more chocolate: See it's all about being happy and more chocolate makes everyone happier.

4. Have brief forays into alcoholism during which you write suicidal poetry: Happened, in Australia where the wine was cheaper and more accessible. Again, donno why but it seemed to work.

5. Toss off phrases like "I don't suffer assholes gladly" and then don't. They'll give you a wide berth. It may be a little lonely at first, especially if you're surrounded by them, but heck, it probably shaves like a couple of months off your biological age.

6. Go for long walks at the Bukit Kiara arboretum: During which time you take note of how all the geriatrics are much fitter than you. Then come back and eat a whole tub of ice cream to comfort yourself.

7. Hang about with people a lot older than you: Like at least 50 years older. You're bound to look younger then.

8. Lose your temper often: Again, catharsis.

9. Cuddle your Mummy and climb on her lap if you can: She may scream get off you baby elephant, but still, it's nice.

10. If all else fails, learn to make really good desserts: You can bribe your friends into saying you look 10 months younger.

The Beautiful Washing Machine

It's probably not what you think.

The beautiful washing machine is a woman. A sprite perchance? An alien? A ghost in the machine? Anyway, she is beautiful, silent and unquestioningly obedient. What more could you want? Who wants conversation when they can have acquiescence?

She appears mysteriously one day in the house of a bachelor who has just been dumped by his girlfriend, and meekly accepts the role he assigns to her as maid. No maid ever worked so hard. You see her vacuuming and mopping floors, handwashing his clothes, cooking the meals, standing at attention while he eats, always silent. He decides she needs a change of costume and buys her a sexy yellow sun dress and a pair of low heels, after which she does all of the above attired thus. Always silent, she obeys unquestioning as he asks her to sit on the washing machine (OK there is a washing machine in this and it is second hand and temperamental and the girl is supposed to have emerged from the machine although this bit is left fuzzy) and he runs his hand up her thigh. All set for the seduction scene. Instead, he thrusts a lit cigarette into her mouth, causing her to cough and choke and blows smoke into her face, a sadistic smile twisting his banal features. His ex-girlfriend refused to let him smoke. His ex left and took the washing machine with her.

This girl has appeared in reply to the cosmic question - but who will wash my clothes now?

She is not a person but a commodity and he decides that pretty as she is, he does not want her. Instead, he will pimp her out and make some money on that sexy body. He secures a short squat ugly customer, who has bargained the price down from RM150 to RM120 and takes her to some cheap, sleazy motel for a slap and a tickle. OK, what he actually does, is bounce up and down the bed, trying to talk to her. As she remains silent, he tells her to go take a shower first. And a dump (you draw the appropriate inference, it was immediately clear to my friends what he meant)

Meanwhile, he jumps on the bed with boyish exuberance, falls down and hits his head on the bedpost. The girl, who is obediently going potty, hears the noise, comes out to find the guy passed out and runs away. Later, when the bachelor is trying to pimp her off to someone else, the original customer reappears with a band of gangsters, accuses the girl of hitting him on the head and robbing him, and they set on the bachelor. We don't get to see the effects of what they do, except that it must be bad as the gangsters run away and said bachelor doesn't get up to look for the girl.

The prospective customer, cheated of his fun, runs after the girl, chasing her through a carpark and she escapes. Through all this, her face, is as ever, expressionless. She remains silent in a true 'what can't be cured must be endured' fashion.

Another bachelor (this time an old one, a widower with grown up children in fact) is in his car, procuring porn from one of those VCD touts so common in KL. She enters his car. He looks at her, doesn't say anything, and takes her home.

Here, she resumes her drudgery, cooking, cleaning, washing (his washing machine does not work either). But the old guy has children who are not happy with the situation. The son hits on the girl (the father stops him, sending him off to do some chores), the daughter is angry and jealous (who is this girl? we don't know anything about her) and the daughter's boyfriend forces himself on her. Except that, although she resists initially, she ends up embracing her attacker, a blissful look stealing over her face as he orgasms. Apparently she likes sex. Probably this was her first time (we move deeper and deeper into male fantasy territory here).

The old man watches from the door and then proceeds to have a heart attack. Not all at once of course. No, he puts on his manga mask (he usually wears it to watch his gay porn) and the presents himself to her in the mask and in a pair of shorts (obviously, although he has told his family that she is his girlfriend, they have never had sex). Then he has his heart attack and lands up in hospital.

The mute washing machine comforts the son. She pushes her body against him and kisses him. This is probably the first and only time she has shown any volition and initiated a contact on her own.

The daughter, angry at being supplanted in her father's affections, thrusts a knife at the silent girl, hurling accusations, and the girl turns, impales herself on the knife and crumples on the floor, a bloodstain blooming in her centre. The daughter rushes out in horror, blood on her hands only to discover as she reaches the hall that her hands are clean. The kitchen is empty. The girl is gone.

Later, she dons the girl's costume (an old outfit of her mother's - a grey blouse and black skirt) and assumes the girl's place - mopping the floor for her father who has become even more silent and withdrawn.

The father goes to the supermarket (I forgot to mention but there are many scenes, where the different characters wander through the colourless antiseptic supermarket aisles shopping for sterility in nice packaging) and buys a heck of a lot of beer (maybe he has decided to make a lateral move to alcoholism to end his meaningless existence now that the girl is gone). The checkout girl tells him that that will be RM600. He looks up and it is his washing machine. He is flabbergasted. He asks her what her name is. She replies, rather shortly, that her her name hasn't got anything to do with anything, UNCLE!

They call it insubstantiation.

Have you ever considered
that Tahiti is merely
a Gauguin construct.

The beautiful girls
who fuck when you feel like it
and weep when you leave
but know they cannot stop you
and never try.

Feminism? What feminism?
These are the children of the gods.
They know what's what.

Walking in this world

So I was out for a walk today when it struck me. Runners have nice legs. Bikers have nice butts. You could call it an epiphany. As I was meditating on said revelation, a piece of eye candy ran past. He was so seriously good looking that I had to look away. I took care to look away because I think I've seen this particular eye candy before. At that time, I gaped (I didn't know I was gaping until he started to laugh). So it was imperative I look away. Otherwise he would think I found him good looking. Which I did. But you know how it is. Or maybe you don't. Anyway, a frank acknowledgement of male beauty is untenable.

(They say so and I take what they say as gospel truth though I have yet to meet them, you know what I'm saying?)

Walking in the evening is nice. Walking in the early morning is even nicer. The air is lambent, the day hasn't begun, the minds of the few but faithful out on the hilly paths, are quiet.

I like walking alone. I like walking with kindred spirits. I like walking with my iPod. Or without. I like the sound of my own thoughts. I like the sound of a friend's chatter. I love the spectacle of the baby monkeys frolicking on the trees. The sound of serious runners puffing away uphill. The smell of the trees closing in on me.

Just don't ask me to run...

The writer is an instrument of transformation

It seems to me that the intersection between the writer's life and a writer's work is irrelevant to the reader. The reader is not being offered a chunk of the writer or a direct insight into the writer's mind, the reader is being offered a separate reality.

Jeanette Winterson.

Justin may not agree.

In sooth I know not...

In sooth I know not why I am so sad...

I rush headlong into a relationship with a comparative stranger, thinking I know him, I really, really do, and that he is my soulmate. OK I don't like this and this and this but heck, I'm in full moon madness now, so don't bother me with such inanities.

And then of course, the dream comes undone and I am left thinking, who is this person I am with, anyway? And who am I with this person? What on earth are we doing together?

After the first few times you kinda catch on. (Well you would but I never do)

So, I watched The Break-up because it was marketed as a comedy and I'm in the market for inane comedies, the dumber the better. But it was not. Not really. It was actually painful and some things came too close to home. I found myself weeping silently towards the end and when it was time to leave, that familiar lost feeling welled up.

I walked the length of "The Street" trying to find a cafe where I could drown my sorrows a cup of hot chocolate and pour out my feelings into a journal. Thing is, it was 11.30 and all the cafes were closing.

I really didn't feel like a bar.

So I made my way back to the parking lot and eased the car out of there. Sadness welling up again. Funny thing, I was back to about February last year, and my own breakup. Why was I feeling this way? He didn't deserve my sadness when it was happening and he certainly didn't now.

Of course, at this time of the night, my favourite radio station went for soft, slow and melancholic songs. And I, who am not overly fond of driving, wished the ride wouldn't end. I wished there was someone I could call and say, meet me for a drink. At the same time, I wanted to be alone.

Alone on the deserted roads with songs of desolation. And my thoughts.

In sooth I know not why I am so sad...

Yellow Flowers

No, it was not the Lake District,
and God knows, I’m no Wordsworth
But there they were
on the fringes
of a manicured lawn
waving their gaudy heads.

Yellow flowers, I called them,
Until Christa told me they’re daffodils
her favourite flower and she
leaned down to smell one.

Daffodils? They curl their scented lips,
Daffodils? They sing like mynahs.

truly love it was the nightingale and not the lark!

I huddled on a bench
under a sky of blue concentrate
and the wispy heat of an
almost summer day
and smelled my memories.

And thought
why be sad?
There is hope yet,
There are yellow flowers,
There are daffodils.

Another meme because I have nothing to say and besides, I've been tagged and is this a long title or what!

Pink tagged me so I will do the gentlemanly thing and oblige. Life would be futile without memes. Blogs would remain empty, grass would wither and there would be something rotten in the state of Denmark (what state is that, you ask? Ask Aragorn, I answer, he's from there. Or at least, Viggo is) I love Viggo. Well, OK, I love Legolas more. Julie loves Viggo. So I wake up to Viggo every morning cos Julie has plastered a poster of him on my wall, which she has yet to move to her own room. I can live with that. Besides, I left my Legolas poster on my door in Australia.

You can say, I left my heart in Perth.

Talk you of killing?

The lady doth protest too much, methinks...

Brevity is the soul of wit. And discretion, the better part of valour.

Shut up Jenn! Get on with it!

OK, OK, keep your shirt on.

I am thinking about whether I should take a shower. Mary covered my chest in glitter. It spilled out of the glitter box she got for Gorgeous. So she simply swept it up from the table and liberally adorned me with it. In a restaurant. Gorgeous was sitting too far away to be similarly adorned. And Gorgeous was wearing her blouse all buttoned up to there. I was less conservatively dressed. And I have the glitter to show for it.

I said the quality of glitter is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. Mary said all that glisters is not gold. And I said, sometimes it is. And we giggled at how profound I could be. And Gorgeous smiled at us in a superior fashion. Silly kids, she did not say. Can't take them anywhere, she did not add.

I wish that this glitter was actually fairy dust and I could fly away - second star from the right and straight on till morning. Or some such direction. Maybe I could disappear down a rabbit hole. Run to stand still. Sing, oh frabjuos day, calloo callay! Slay the Jabberwock.

I hear that plump is the new thin. And dumb is the new smart. And prevarication is the new truth.

I wonder if the world has gone mad and what I can do to fit in. Or out. I want to fit out. How do I fit out?

I regret I didn't say goodbye to Boomer when I had the chance.

I am all textures of nothingness. I am the void into which it all disappears. I see copies before me, copies of copies of copies. I feel no colour. I feel no song. I feel nothing.

I dance when I'm pleasantly buzzed. Wine now. JD before. It all adds up to music.

I sing pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile smile smile...slightly discordant, but life is a soundtrack by the Teenage Fan Club. N'am sayin'?

I cry when my existential despair surfaces. And the protective layers are stripped off. And the pointlessness comes home to me. And nothing means anything.

I am not always chipper.

I make with my hands things for people I love. Like muffins. Or cookies. Vindaloo. Or tapestries. Christmas angels. Sometimes stories. Silly poems. You know, stuff...

I write nonsense, mostly. And that too, when I am in a good mood. Otherwise, different versions of my suicide note. I want to perfect it by the time I actually decide to shuffle off. This mortal coil and all.

I confuse Oscar Wilde with George Michael. Madonna with Princess Diana. Guildenstern with Rosencrantz.

I need to disappear.

He thought he saw a Rattlesnake
That questioned him in Greek:
He looked again, and found it was
The Middle of Next Week.
'The one thing I regret,' he said,
'Is that it cannot speak!'

There's the beep...

My voice (particularly sprightly and fake): Hiya!

My cousin's voice (doing his Yoda impression): (Giggle). Here I am not. Message will you leave. Do not be angry, as anger leads to the Dark Side. Teach you I will.

This was my favourite. I had to change it cos nobody was leaving messages. They wanted to know who the guy was. They thought they got the wrong number. "Hey I called you, and it seemed like you said hi, and then there was some guy's voice, so I didn't leave a message."

Back to the drawing board.

Me (in ridiculous chirpy voice that I would slap another person for using): Hidely ho! Now I'm not here right now, so you be sure to leave a message y'hear? (slight pause and then in my normal voice) Julie, what are you doing with that knife... get away from me, get away, GET AWAY! (Three piercing shrieks) Julie does her Gargamel laugh (you have to have watched the Smurfs to know what I'm talking about, it's really diabolical and she's been practising since she was 2). I die.

Julie only agreed to do this for me cos it was my birthday. Of course, the first person to call and hear it was my extremely bossy godmother. She listened, then called my mother:

"Dot, her work people call this number, what are they gonna think?"

Two seconds later: "Jenny are you crazy? What will people think? Erase that at once!"

Me (defiant): Huh! It's my phone, it's my life, and my contacts are cool. You mind your own business!

Of course, I got all my friends to call and listen. They thought it was hilarious although they held their phones away from their ears.(My piercing shrieks can bust your ear drums). An analyst called and told me: "You're madlar!" Omar called and said: "Who was that laughing? Your sister? She sounds cool." A Datin* (the only Datin who ever called me, she would have to call now, right?) called and left this message: "Oh. Oh dear."

After a day or so I had to change my message. I found that a lot of uncool people call me, after all.

Hi, I'm not available right now, but leave your name and number and I might just get back to you.

Slightly cheeky, but kinda boring, huh?

"There's the beep, you know what to do."

Briefer and briefer as I lost interest in coming up with innovative messages to amuse my callers.

Thank you for not leaving a message. You know how I hate returning calls. You've just made my life a whole lot easier.

Am toying with this one as I reinstall my voice mail facility.

*Datin: If your husband is a Datuk, then you're a Datin. It implies Manolo Blahniks, Prada bags and maybe Chanel suits. Also, a degree in Art History.

And God Answered

Ninette is a fragile creature. She never stands up for herself. When the gas company overcharged her, she shut up and kept on paying the bills until they sent one so horrendous she could not afford it.

A friend said, don't worry dear, sleep on it this weekend and on Monday, you give them a call and tell them. When she finally did, they checked up on her old bills and realised they had been overcharging her for a long time.

She did not receive another bill for six months.

She would like a garden of flowers. But the lady next door objected, saying that she has asthma and would not be able to bear the pollen. The lady next door is very frightening. When angered she bangs on Ninette's door, screaming imprecations. It takes very little to set her off.

Ninette tries to steer clear of her and not do anything to offend her. For instance, although she would like to get a dog or cat as companion, she is afraid. What would the loud lady say? Would she bang on her door and scream? Better not to risk it.

Ninette is 60 but strangely childlike. She has been violently assaulted by her father, husband, brother and even casual male acquaintances who happen to turn up for a coffee. She never reports them.

She never does anything but pray. She is afraid. Maybe if she reports them or takes out a restraining order they will come over and kill her. She is all alone. There is no one to protect her. She doesn't even have a phone.

She spends her life on her knees. Hands clasped fervently. Pushing away despair. Forcing words into the emptiness. She prays about everything and for everyone. She prays and prays and prays but God is not tangible and she wants someone there who will talk back. She would like a companion but she is afraid of men - their appetites, their anger.

She is so lonely.

Sometimes when the darkness takes her, she wants to kill herself. But she is afraid. Self-destruction is a sin. Mortal. Unforgivable.

So she sits in her darkened apartment listening to the silence as her mind darts into dark corners searching...

Why is she all alone? Why was her life so blighted? Why could nobody love her?

Maybe there are no answers. Maybe the sky is empty and there is no God and the world is truly bad and she is damned for Eternity which should only be a few years more.

If she's lucky.

The moving finger blogs

Assert: Infinite Jest is a good book.

Prove: Justin thinks so. He said: "I really like it."

Explain: It's about addiction and like really arty movies that make no sense or make sense in an obscure sort of way. You need a dictionary (preferably OED) for like, every page, and you need to read the footnotes as you go along. Everything is extremely ironic, which means you cannot take it seriously or IDENTIFY. The writer forces a distance between the reader and text. (I would tell you what Justin thinks, but he didn't tell me, other than that he really, really liked the book)

What do you think? First paragraph in a really scintillating essay?

Anyway, that's not what I came here to talk about. I don't exist when I'm drunk so just ignore whatever doesn't make sense and I'll make it up to you someday with muffins or rendang or vindaloo (take your pick).

I'm actually not drunk because it would be stupid to drink when I feel like crap cos that would hinder my get welling. Also I have important meeting with grey-haired VIP whom I have to brief on how to respond to the press when they get snarky. (Nod, smile, prevaricate. Don't antagonise or be antagonised)

I had another meeting this morning, in which I intended to blow the guy off (you want to pay peanuts, get monkeys, freelance doesn't mean free) but he was desperate and I felt sort of sorry for him.

Also, he was open to negotiation.

He talked about "building relationships".

Can someone tell me what that means? I am too superficial and short term to understand.

Before meeting with "building relationships" guy, I received a very important business phone call.

Important caller: Um hi Jenn, this is Sharon, you called yesterday?

Me: Yes.

Sharon (who doesn't really know me from Eve, I met her for a short time at a bar and got her card. Long story.): Right. How can I help you?

Me: Are you free on Wednesday?

Sharon (doubtfully): Yes, why?

Me: I have arranged a meeting for you with a contact. Possible financier. Told him about your value proposition (sic). He agreed to meet you.

Sharon (after short silence): Who did you say you were again?

Me (with flourish that can't be seen over phone): They call me the hook-up girl! Pleased to be of service ma'am.

I then rode off into the sunset. (Except that it was 10 in the morning and other than haze which makes the sun look sunsetty at all times of day, there was no sunset)

So as you can see, I am on the mend. Thank you to all those who wrote expressing concern. Big hug and sloppy kisses. Of course I read everything like every day, because I couldn't stay away from the blogs, not even when I felt like death warmed up.

Quilly, is this addiction? Do I qualify for Blogaholics Anon?

Do we 12-step our way to mental health?

PS: I watched Seinfeld yesterday and Elaine mentioned Malaysia twice. It was apparently an exotic destination where she bought this really cool pair of frames (as in spectacle frames). To piss of an ex-boyfriend who thought he was the only one with said frames. I was so chuffed. (Yes, PTB, I'm taking the piss)

Down for the count

My body has spoken, enough is enough, I am down for the count.

Posting will resume when I am halfway human again.

Just because

Prabs, this one's for you.

The long slow mourning has begun
and the air resounds
with the gentle sounds
of someone weeping.

You go creeping
into night
I watch you leave
and know I can't follow.

You were never mine
But I don't know
how to let you go.

Are You There?

She calls friends. She wants to see them. This solitary existence was never for her. They make a date.

Great then, see ya Saturday. Look forward to it. Bye for now!

Carbonated affection goes a long way.

But then, bitterness kicks in. Why was it she who had to call? Why didn't they bother to pick up the phone? Something inevitably comes up. Work, most times. She is after all a very important cog in a very important wheel. And she cancels.

OK then, no problem, maybe some other time.

She strains to catch the tones, but cannot detect any regret. No, they don't care. They never did. If they had, they would have called first.

Once she had to fight them off. All the friends, always calling, always wanting to see her, always willing to come over, always, always wanting to hang out with her. She gave off a certain warmth, people liked being around her.

Grief stains backwards; colours memories. Was it ever really like that? Can she hone in on one memory, one image, one feeling that would say she was once loved, once wanted?

No.

Once there was the solace of brandy. A half bottle and then she would take to the highway, watching the speedometer rise steadily, 110, 120, 130, 140, 150... She wanted to crash out of this non-existence.

She crashed. But didn't die. Didn't even lose her licence.

And now she is medicated, doped up to the gills. No more brandy. Not even wine. Sometimes your body hates you back.

So she is in St Anthony's twisting rosary beads between swollen fingers, praying, ...Lord, help me out of this existence, I don't want to live, I don't want to feel this way anymore, Lord, please, I am so unhappy, help me out, I need you, Lord, I need you, please help me, please help me, please help me, I've fallen so far, I've fallen so far, I don't know what normal feels like anymore, please help me, please help me, I don't believe in you anymore, but please help me anyway, I hate you, but please help me anyway, you did this to me, you never ever gave me anything I wanted, but please help me anyway, I hate you, I hate everyone, look what they've done to me, what did I ever do to deserve this?

Lord, are you there?

Can you hear me?

Nella Fantasia

I meet Foost today. He plays the oboe. I really liked him. We talked a lot about a whole bunch of stuff.

Julie was there. She knew Foost. She introduced me.

We had just come from the KL Sing Song at KL-Pac. It was kinda nice. Indie musicians playing their own songs. Some were really interesting. Most were fun. They all had a patter and great rapport with the audience. Some of them spoke in Malay.

One of them was stoned. He said he hadn't slept in 48 hours. I couldn't understand most of what he sang, except for the bit about not having credit on his phone to call his Mamma. I so related. So I laughed at that bit.

One of them played the keyboard and sang Broadway-type tunes he had composed. One of the songs, about inter-religious relationships, was seriously good. The other, sung by a Chinese hooker to this Malay married man who impregnated her, was sort of funny because, well we had to imagine him as a Chinese hooker. And the third was about a planet for romantic failures.

Princess Leia's got donuts instead of hair
and yet she found a man who cares,
the bitch!

One girl was so pretty that I let it distract me from her songs. (Grey, I think you would like her but since she's like a minor star she may already have a boyfriend. Or girlfriend. You know how artists are!)

One of the guys was pretty hot. Apparently he knows it and he sings to get girls. He grunts at the end of every line. Supposed to be sexual or something. I just thought he was cute. And that he played the guitar very well. I could relate to his song, Smoky City, about KL, and how difficult it is to readjust after being away. Everyone else was busy being unimpressed.

And then we had teh tarek with Foost at this stall outside of KL-Pac which is a very good place if you want to have teh tarek at 11 after a show at the KL-Pac. Which is, like, in Sentul (think Indians, lots of 'em).

We got into a discussion about farmers and development and I came off the Luddite. I ALWAYS come off the Luddite. But I don't care. (OK seriously, do you NEED to attach computers to cows to monitor the nutrient content of their milk and automatically adjust their feed accordingly? What are we, like, machines?)

Foost said he liked Kinokuniya the best and I said, yes, that was my favourite bookshop, although Borders at the Curve was pretty good. And the MPH in Megamall was kinda catching up as well.

I bought Infinite Jest at MPH Megamall and am still reading it.

I am up to page 691, but suspect I will breach the 700-page mark soon.

I may make a chocolate raspberry streusel bar tomorrow.

It is something I have wanted to do for a long time.

It's nice to have a purpose in life.

Razor Sadness

She has that razor sadness that only gets worse
With the clang and the thunder of the Southern Pacific going by
And the clock ticks out like a dripping faucet
till you're full of rag water and bitters and blue ruin
And you spill out over the side to anyone who will listen...

9th and Hennepin (Tom Waits)

So I started out with bad directions, driving everywhere at once. I put through one call and she couldn't tell me where to go. She said, you're too far away, I don't know how to direct you.

She spoke in Malay. Her voice, a gentle tragedy. But I didn't know then. I hadn't seen.

So with rising irritation, I pushed on, eyeing the petrol gauge with slight consternation...great, it had to be today I be given bad directions, when there was less than a quarter tank left. Anyway, I went round PJ which is made up of roads that go everywhere, edge back on themselves, spread out, full of drivers who swear and swing into your lane, full of people needing to get somewhere, people who know where they're going.

And there was I, tentative, hesitant, inching my way forward, peering at the signs, praying for a miracle. A second phone call and I figured it out.

I was half an hour late. By Malaysian standards this was still OK. But I had spent three years in Australia. By Aussie standards it was unacceptable. How rude, how rude, how unaccountably rude. She would think I was taking this lightly. She would think...I didn't know what she would think. You see, I didn't know what to expect.

I parked across the road and made my way to the gate where an elderly looking Indian woman with a kind face let me in. I thought she was the one I had come to meet so I apologised profusely in Malay (or rather as profusely as I could in a language that after a lifetime of learning, I still speak badly). She smiled and gently steered me towards an office.

Some of the kids came up and smiled at me. Severely handicapped. But they looked happy. They wanted to shake my hand. They wanted to touch me. And the lady steered me away.

There she was in that little office. Little more than a girl. In reality, a year older than me, but still, so young, so lost, so tragic.

Her face pale and shadowed, she tried to smile. But her eyes kept tearing over. It had only been two months, you see. Two months since her much beloved husband had been snatched away in a freak car accident. All this was his. His dream. A home for handicapped children run with love.

They had been together since she was 14. He had a video shop, she used to go over to borrow tapes. They fell in love. She got married at 17. She was now 36. And he had only been 44.

"We were never apart, never, not until now. When he first started this, I was afraid of the children, and he said, if they were ours, you would love them anyway. They are ours. Love them."

It took her all of a week to adjust.

I asked how she coped. What with her grief, and the sudden burden of running the whole show herself. Again that smile: "You do what you have to do. You find the strength somehow. These kids, they have no one else."

The centre had been running for 15 years. He had big plans; physiotherapy, massage therapy, voice therapy, a bigger premise (he insisted that the kids should have a pleasant place to live, rather than be heaped together like sardines, as in most government-funded welfare homes); he had wanted it all.

Love, he said, it's always the love that is missing. That is what they need. That is what we can give them.

When they first started out he bathed the kids himself, fed them, looked after them. Slowly word got out and volunteers appeared to help out. He was a tireless fund raiser, a good speaker and he believed so deeply in what he was doing.

She worked alongside, a helpmeet who loved him and looked up to him and would have done anything because he asked her to. She just hadn't known he would ask her to do it alone.

"My husband was educated. Right up to college. I didn't even finish Standard Six which is why I can't really speak English. It never seemed to matter before. Now, I suppose I will have to learn. I can run this place. I know how to handle the children or manage the staff...but raising funds, talking to these big people..." she trails off.

Tears again. She reaches out to touch the leg brace in the chair next to hers.

His chair.

His leg brace.

His presence.

How could someone like me possibly hope to understand?

The Drama Queen

I don't know if you've noticed, but I tend to be a bit of a drama queen. They say that recognising one's weakness is the first step.

But I never seem to get past the first step.

I fly off the handle for featherweight offences, grind my teeth over imagined slights and lose sleep over what would not amount to a hill of beans to anyone else.

So, if I take off screaming down the road, collapse in hysterical sobs, twist the corners of my sari in exasperation (I don't wear saris), fly off the handle for nothing in particular, please bear with me.

I don't mean to be like this, it's in the blood.

Things will be better tomorrow.

And despite how I've behaved, I still really really like all of you.

ALL of you.

I'm sorry.

The More You Ignore Me

The more you ignore me
The closer I get
You're wasting your time
The more you ignore me
The closer I get
You're wasting your time

I will be
In the bar
With my head
On the bar
I am now
A central part
Of your mind's landscape
Whether you care
Or do not
Yeah, I've made up your mind

The more you ignore me
The closer I get
You're wasting your time
The more you ignore me
The closer I get
You're wasting your time

Beware!
I bear more grudges
Than lonely high court judges
When you sleep
I will creep
Into your thoughts
Like a bad debt
That you can't pay
Take the easy way
And give in
Yeah, and let me in
Oh, let me in
Oh let me ...
Oh, let me in
It's war
It's war
It's war
It's war
It's war
War
War
War
War
Oh, let me in
Ah, the closer I get
Ah, you're asking for it
Ah, the closer I get
Ooh, the closer I ...

Morrissey said it better than I ever could.

Get the picture?

Good!

Reunions

Sometimes they are not a good idea.

You think, heck, it's been 10 years, it couldn't hurt. And then you meet and have nothing to say to each other, and you plough through the painful minutes, trying to not glance at your watch surreptitiously, and wonder when it would be OK to say you have to go.

And so there you are, stuck in a room with all those people you lost contact with, because there was nothing to keep you together, wishing you had just said no.

Nameless: So how long have you been back?

Me: Um, a while now. Like half a year.

Nameless: So what are you up to now?

Me: Up to?

Nameless: Yeah, you planning to return to (old newspaper)? Go into PR? Write a book?

Me: Dunno.

Nameless: Do you have a card?

Me: No.

Nameless: Why not?

Me: Um, I know, I really really should have a card. I was planning to have some made. But I have no idea what to put on it. Freelance writer is so boring. They're like a dime a dozen. I was thinking of Zen Mistress, but that sounds vaguely sexual. And when I tossed around Void Artist, a friend of mine pointed out that void could also stand for emptying your intestines. Then I thought, Specialist in Nothing, but heck, don't think that would drum up a lot of business.

Nameless: So that means you are a freelance writer now?

Me: Yeah, basically.

Nameless: Any jobs?

Me: A few.

Nameless: What?

Me: This and that.

Nameless: Wah so evasive ah?

Me: Wah so nosey ah?

Nameless: Fuck off.

Me: Gladly.

Getting a Life

My oven is fixed. To all those who don't know the import of this momentous news - it is merely this; when my oven is working I can bake muffins. And Texas Fudge cake. And chocolate raspberry streusel bars. And...oh you get the picture.

If you lot were around, you could come over for tea. Or coffee if you would prefer. (That's for you Justin, the self-declared non-tea drinker!)

Prabs and Addy were over for dinner yesterday. We had wine. All of us. I had the most. In fact, I finished the bottle. Was rip roaring tipsy after and scared nice friend who wondered if I would go through with threat of dancing naked in the streets (I didn't).

And I had Shantini over for tea today. We had muffins and texas fudge cake. And tea of course. Also some ginger beer (I had to convince her that the Bundaberg variety was the real stuff, brewed, not carbonated). She left with some muffins and some cakes. I love doing tea with people. It's my favourite meal of the day.

Also I may have a tea date for tomorrow.

Suddenly the social calendar is sort of filling up. Like I have a life rather than a pale approximation of one.

And I think I will make rendang this week because it's very very hard and I just feel like it. (Have made vindaloo three times in one week and frankly am getting a little sick of it).

The transformation is nearly complete...I have morphed into a Malayalee auntie!

Addendum: On a whim, I went out with a friend to check out the pub scene at The Curve (Oh man, this place is totally happening!) and we stumbled upon a pub (The Mystery Bar) that was gonna have live music. Alleycats, no less. They were pretty good, and Esther and I bopped along to the music and congratulated each other on our perspicacity choosing this place. I said hi to Loga (I think he's cute) and of course he didn't remember me from that brief encounter, swapping conspiracy theories outside the Hyatt with Anita. like 10 years ago, but he was nice all the same. Kept coming back to our corner to see how we were doing. Called me Stephanie (because naturally, Jennifer is a little too much for anyone to remember) We went to Laundry Bar after, to check it out, but there was not much happening. I mean, it was crowded, and there were these fucking huge screens with some music videos going on, but still, what is that compared to live music?

If any of you guys are in the mood to buaya, there is a seriously cute (and I mean CUTE) waitress at Mystery Bar.

Later.

Some Hallucinations

I don't think I made a very good journalist. I mean, journos are these hard bitten newshounds, you throw them into any situation and there they are, cool as lemonade that's been in the fridge for a month, notebooks out, pens poised, hair unturned.

Try throwing me out of my context and I flail around, gaping awkwardly, looking for someone to come save me. Huh! Like real oni. No one ever did, of course.

Case in point: I used to cover power, you know, as in electricity and the fuel that goes into creating it? Well, I had just met Dr Amory Lovins, was terribly impressed and decided to adopt energy efficiency as my cause. Yes. I was fighting the good fight. Anyway, I did a series of stories on it, for my dinky little newspaper, and then a friend from the mainstream one said she would like to do one too. I gave her some phone numbers, she made a few calls and voila, her story was out in a few days, to a much wider audience (but who cares, I was fighting the good fight).

She received a phone call from a nuclear physicist the next day, saying...geez, this is what I have been telling these bozos over here for a long time. If you want the real dirt on energy efficiency in Malaysia and the four-fuel policy, come see me. So she called me (it was my story to begin with, after all) and asked me to meet her at this guy's house at 11 in the morning (any warning bells going off yet?).

So there I traipse bright and early, to be greeted by said nuclear physicist. Except that he is wearing a sarong. And no top. And he has a white mop of uncombed hair. OK. I shall not be shallow and judge by appearances. Said friend hasn't arrived, so I am ushered to a seat in the garden where I park my fanny gingerly, feeling a little nervous.

Then, this guy starts talking. Oh boy. Does he start talking. He doesn't say much about power or energy efficiency, although he does thrust his badly spelled and yellowing PhD thesis into my hands. He talks instead about how he is the reincarnation of Jesus Christ. And how he was PERSECUTED and CRUCIFIED for seven days and seven nights when he wrote a letter to Mahathir (Dear Uncle Mahathir, we should import five million Chinese from China and five million Indians from India to even out the races here...) and got chucked in the loony bin as a result. He talks about how his wife is actually the Hindu Lord Shiva (they were both Malay) and how they would go to temples to gather cockroaches to let go at home. Apparently temple roaches leave behind a sort of medicine, if you let them run wild in your house having first dibs on all the food.

I was beginning to be a tad uncomfortable. I was no longer alone, because the photographer had shown up, but instead of making things better, the photo guy turned out to be as wacko, staring at mad guy intently, asking his opinion on stuff (should I divorce my wife and marry my girlfriend? I really really want to) and all but making obeisance at the cuckoo's feet.

Then my friend showed up and scary topless guy in sarong was obliging enough to repeat all he had told me for her benefit. When he came to the part about the roaches, she lifted both her feet onto the rung of her chair (she being a tad more afraid of the suckers than I was. Incidentally we were both glad that a third friend who has an out and out phobia was not among those present. She would have rushed into the street, screaming hysterically and maybe collapsed in front of a speeding car. We would have rushed out after her and thrown ourselves in front of car. Result: absolute carnage. So you see why we were glad). Friend kept throwing horrified glances my way, as she listened to creepozoid with dawning comprehension.

We managed to hustle out of there after he had repeated for maybe the tenth time what it was like to be crucified, and how all the Christian bishops and Hindu priests had met with him and his wife, and paid their respects, and how the old UMNO had collapsed because he spit on the side of the building.

Oh my.

During the drive back, friend shaking her head: "I'm sorry Jenn, I'm so sorry Jenn, he sounded so sane on the phone."

I sighed.

They always do.

My Sweet Harlot

I know things have come to a head when I call my friend Addy on a Tuesday morning and ask her what she is doing at work, cursing the company for being slave drivers.

Addy is a little surprised at my vehemence: "But it's a working day, Jenn."

"It's Saturday!" I choke indignantly.

"Oh my God, it's Tuesdaylar. This sleep thing is really getting out of hand. You better get some, even if it's during the day."

OK thing is, I did. I only woke up in the late afternoon. But I woke up with my sense of time all skewed. I didn't sleep the night, although this time I had an excuse. Julie was leaving for Bangkok...

One night in Bangkok and the world's your oyster
The bars are temples but the pearls ain't free
You'll find a god in every golden cloister
and if you're lucky then the god's a she
I can feel an angel sliding up to me...

and she was up all night, finishing her work, packing etc. Then at about four in the morning, we had to take off for the wild railed yonder, as in KL Sentral, where she would catch a bus to the airport.

On my way back, I felt myself zoning out, sleep creeping into the edges of my consciousness. This was not good. Not on our roads. I mean, it was now five in the morning and traffic was scarce, but there were still the heroes who thought they were trying out for the F1!

So got home in one piece, crept into bed, turned a few pages of Infinite Jest (you try reading this book quickly, go on, I dare you!) and fell fast asleep. Only to wake up at about two and perpetrate the following conversation on Addy, when I decided it will be fun to hang out like we did last Saturday.

Flashback: Last Saturday, Addy, who just got back from Italy, and was terribly jet-lagged, called at eleven, wide awake, and asked if I would like to go for a teh tarek. So we went, and ended up watching not one but two football matches, getting out of there at like five in the morning. In case, you're wondering, I'm not a sports fan. But I watched, and howled, and advanced amateur theories in the voice of a pseudo-pundit, nodded and shook my head seriously, irritated stupid men sitting around us, the serious fans, who wished we would just shut the fuck up...you get the picture.

So my nerves are as ragged as cheesecloth. I lash out at innocent bystanders. I take offence at imagined slights and feel like my life is going nowhere (actually, it is going nowhere). I relapse into my "nobody loves me" strain of thought (actually, plenty of people do). I start agreeing with Dylan (was it Dylan?) who said that life is one long process of getting tired.

Sleep. Ahhhh sleep.

Sweet harlot of the senses.

Delilah of the mind.

Good night.

Pill-less in Petaling Jaya

So I went to see a play by Beckett today. Makes me feel so highbrow just saying that. Especially since I fell asleep not once but three times during the first half alone.

Such is genius. And after the play, we discussed it, my cousin, sister and I, and I came to the conclusion that it took place in protagonist's mind. I mean in the first half, she was submerged waist down and in the second, neck down.

Doesn't it make sense? We grow older and become less flexible. At least, it made sense to me. Made sense to my two brilliant compatriots, also. They nodded seriously and we waggled our collective eyebrows and felt very English lit-majorish. Except that none of us did English lit. Well, I did some, for my writing degree, but I do remember avoiding Beckett like the plague.

I tried to read Waiting For Godot, and hated it so much I couldn't get past the first few pages. Threw down the book in a fit of pique and resolved not to have anything to do with this monster.

Then of course, Charles (on whom I had only like the world's biggest crush):

Me to my cousin: I love Charles, I love Charles, I love Charles.

My cousin to me: (with tired sigh) Oh Jenn, he's 60, he's married, can't you focus your attention on someone else?

Me to cousin: But I love Charles, I love Charles, I love Charles.

(I get as repetitive and tiresome as those characters in Beckett plays - same thing over and over and over - have you any idea how boring internal monologue actually IS?)

Anyway Charles was teaching the Beckett class. He strongly recommended it...had cerebral orgasms describing the fellow. I listened to him, forehead furrowed, torn in two directions. Still didn't take it. Offended him when I came once on a visit to the Beckett class and didn't stay.

Charles to friend I came on a visit with: Where's Jennifer? I thought she was staying for the class.

Friend to Charles: Um, she doesn't really like Beckett.

Charles to friend: She doesn't like Beckett or she doesn't like me?

(I mean to say, what?)

Anyway, towards the end of the second (and final scene) she describes this terrible incident in her childhood where a mouse runs up her thigh and she screamed and screamed and screamed. Discussing this bit, we all nodded sagely and agreed that it pointed to sexual interference. When she was only 5. I mean a mouse. And her thigh. And the enormous impact of the memory.

(OK I haven't read any of the critics on this so may be totally off base, but heck, it's absurdist, so doesn't that mean you can sort of take it to mean anything?)

Anyway, have been suffering from massive insomnia for the past few weeks.(I fall asleep at about five or six in the morning no matter how morgue fodder-like I feel) So yesterday I went in search of pills.

And you know what?

Nobody would sell me Valium over the counter!!!!

So my pharmacist sister Jackie called and when I told her this, she was a little worried.

"Why do you want Valium?"

"I need to sleep."

"Oh. OK try these antihistamines. They have a soporific effect and can be obtained over the counter. But only first two days OK? Don't get hooked."

I took down their names. And was supposed to go buy them today. But then I slept late into the afternoon and then there was the play (which sort of came up unexpectedly - one of those spontaneous things people do) and now here I am past midnight, antihistamineless in Petaling Jaya.

My kingdom for backrow seats to another Beckett play.

Afterglow

The mirror shimmers purple
And I gaze at myself
There he is lying stretched
across the ceiling.

It's so nice to hang out
We drink vodka
because lemon is tart
and I take in his gun metal eyes
his skin like industrial plastic.

Wonder why love is a fleeting moment
That intense almost
but not quite

I cannot hold on
and there is no tomorrow.

I have a tiny sliver
I make do with this tiny sliver
I comprehend me in this tiny sliver
and then I move on.

Ashes fall from his body
We are done.

With All Thy Faults

Sammy was nestled between two men – George Grenier and Law Joo Ghin – on the floor of the cell. This way, he got some sleep, while they fended off the rats. The rats in this dank basement were particularly bold. They fought you for your food and gnawed on your fingers or toes when you drifted off to sleep. Sammy knew it was just a matter of time before they would start on him. He shivered and forced his eyes shut.

His family were arrested on October 15, 1943, five days after the Double 10th Massacre in Singapore. Some Allied guerrillas had managed to penetrate the Japanese net of security and attach limpet mines on the ships in the Singapore Harbour. The Japanese went crazy for a while, arresting people on the slightest suspicion of complicity.

For unscrupulous Malayans, it was a time to settle old scores and gain brownie points. Nicol de Fonseka, a particularly noxious brand of collaborator, who prostituted his beautiful wife to the Japanese officers, informed the Kempeitai, that the Gunaratnes must have had something to do with Double 10. After all, their two eldest sons, Richard and John were in the Royal Airforce, fighting for the British.

James Gunaratne was a Sinhalese immigrant who had worked his way up from a prison guard at Pudu jail, to become one of the most prosperous businessmen in the country. By the time Dickie was born in 1930, his father lived in a huge mansion on Golf View Road with more than two acres of garden and some 15 servants. Theirs was also the first residence in Kuala Lumpur (other than the Governor General’s) to have flushing toilets. In Ceylon, he had been a poor boy of the dhoby caste, swimming to the British men-of-war, with newspapers on his head, to support his mother and sisters. His meteoric rise and subsequent importance were looked on askance by some members of the local Sinhalese community.

The day before the arrest, Sammy and his four remaining brothers – David, Eldred, Henry and Bob – had been playing a particularly raucous game of Monopoly. The room reverberated with screams of “go to jail” whenever anyone landed on that square. Later, the Japanese would want to know who had tipped off the family about the intended arrest.

They were awakened at 3.30am by a loud thudding on their backdoor. Someone was trying to axe it down. James, who thought it must be robbers, pushed 18-year-old David out of the upstairs window, telling him to slide down the drainpipe and run to the Japanese police for help. They were startled by a sharp voice that barked: “If you make one more move, I will shoot you.” David hastily scrambled inside and the whole family went downstairs.

“Open in the name of the Japanese Imperial Army,” the same voice shouted. It was Colonel Koda of the Kempeitai,. James, on hearing this, released the bolts and his son Eldred, who had a room above the garage, was pushed in first with his hands tied behind his back. Eldred was the wild child of the family and his mother, Martha, immediately leapt to the conclusion that he had managed to get himself into another mess.

“What have you done now, Eldred?” she exclaimed.

“Nothing, Mother. I was sleeping and they came in and tied me up,” he answered aggrieved.

The family were pushed into the front room and Henry, who was a year younger than 13-year old Sammy, opened a window. “Look Mom, there’s Jupiter,” he said, pointing out at the night sky.

“Why don’t you cooperate?” Colonel Koda shouted. He was referring to the fact that James who had organised the reinstatement of the power and water supply as well as the collection of sewage in Kuala Lumpur after the Japanese invasion, had retired after a month, leaving it to others to run the town.

“I am a sick man, sir, and cannot work anymore,” James answered.

“Pack some clothes. You are going to be away for a while,” Colonel Koda ordered. “Not more than three days.”

They were herded into a lorry and driven to the Pudu jail. When they got there, they saw that some 159 others, many of them, friends of the Gunaratnes, had been arrested. Many were soon released, including the two youngest Gunaratne boys, Henry and Bob. Martha and her three remaining sons were sent to the Kempeitai headquarters on High Street for interrogation. James escaped due to ill-health. He would not have survived a Kempeitai “interrogation”.

They were placed in separate cells, all of which were infested with rats and lice, at the basement of this building and each one was hauled up in turn for questioning. Sammy, being the youngest, was not tortured as brutally as his mother or elder brothers. They simply strung him upside down and beat him with a rubber hose demanding to know if his family were British spies. He was aware, even when they beat him, that they were not using their full force, meaning to frighten rather than hurt.

The fare was meagre, even by prison standards – some rice, rotten saltfish and a few strands of wilted spinach. The starving prisoners hated their fat Hainanese cook who fed them scraps and stole their food. Great was their merriment when the Kempeitai disovered he was selling the prisoners’ rice on the black market and pulled out his toenails with a pair of pliers.

Sammy was only at the Kempeitai headquarters for two weeks and every day, while he was there, he would see his mother being led out in the morning and limping back to her cell late at night. The Kempeitai reserved their cruellest torture for her. She was beaten until she passed out after they would apply cigarettes to her body to see if she was faking it.

David was soundly thrashed and the lice in his cell infested the wounds on his back so that he was in perpetual agony. Even when he was transferred back to the Pudu jail about two months later, he had to sleep on his stomach. Sixteen-year-old Eldred was not beaten as badly as David but he never got over the experience. Soon after the war, he quit school and took off for America, becoming the family’s ne’er-do-well.

Some would say the Gunaratnes got off easily. Although cruelly beaten, they did not have their fingernails pulled out and their hands dipped in saltwater. They did not have their stomachs pumped with water, after which a Japanese officer would stand on it to expel the water forcibly. And they were not subjected to electric shocks. The Kempeitai were extremely sadistic and, if physical pain did not do the trick, they never scrupled about resorting to emotional violence.

In a particularly telling incident in Ipoh, one Sergeant Ekio Yoshimura, tied a seven-year-old girl from a tree and started to lower her into a fire while her mother, who had been tied nearby, watched. These tortures were mostly reserved for the Chinese dissidents.

This is because the Communists, who lived in the hills and provided the greatest resistance to the Japanese, were mostly Chinese. Later, these same freedom fighters would terrorise the newly liberated Malayans, themselves, leading to 12 years of what became known as “The Emergency”. A particularly ruthless Indian Communist leader, Perumal, cut open his mother’s belly in front of his followers, to demonstrate what he was capable of when it came to turncoats.

By December, all the Gunaratnes were back in Pudu jail. Although it seemed like a company house in comparison to the basement cells, conditions were still deplorable. Prisoners were starving and there were 16 deaths a month, on average. The bodies would be stacked up in fours in a box and taken by handcart to be deposited at the nearest cemetery. The rest of the prisoners knew that the Japanese were still debating on whether or not to hang them. That month, 72 people were hanged in Pudu for suspected involvement in the Double 10th Massacre.

Some 16 months later, on the morning of March 11, 1945, the prisoners were summoned to line up outside the prison - a ragged, diseased, emaciated lot. They wondered if they were finally going to be executed.

“On the occasion of the birthday of his imperial majesty, Tenno-Heika,(they bowed) it is the pleasure of the Japanese Imperial government to release you from prison (they bowed again). But we have to warn you that, if you make a false step, you will be back here. You are not allowed to stir from your homes between six at night and six in the morning.”

These words were spoken by the officer in charge and translated by a Japanese civilian with a marked American accent. Two months later, the family watched in glee as the Allied forces bombed the Japanese.

After the country had been liberated in mid-August, 1945, Mrs Gunaratne gave an interview to the Ceylon Times, describing her ordeal in jail. This was the first time the rest of her family heard about what she had endured as she had remained silent about it before.

Her favourite son Richard was dead. His plane had gone down in France where he had been bombing German tankers. Her husband had lost all his money. She would limp for the rest of her life. Nothing would ever be the same again for her family. But this is how she chose to sum up the experience:

“England, with all thy faults, I love thee still.”

Once were warriors

David B. stands over me sternly: "I don't want to feel like I'm in the toilet with you Jennifer."

I cower obligingly. But I have decided to chronicle my madness. How do I do that without being personal? He likes Anne Sexton, so maybe. But I'm not her. I just have these feelings, this madness, which I can feel taking over again.

Sort of like someone just stripped off a skin and everything hurts. Again. I long for the escape of red wine. But this is Malaysia. And the wine is overpriced or awful. And if I opened a bottle, it couldn't rest on my desk while I went through it. No, the moment I opened it I would have to finish it. Or watch it turn sour. Like my stomach.

And then there is the churning. I feel my body curl up, foetal. And I throw a blanket over myself and tell the world, stay out, at least for today, I need to disappear.

But there is that gentle tug. Wake up, Jennifer, wake up. You cannot escape. Not this time. You are here. Plant your feet. Home.

Home? I choke indignantly. This is supposed to be home?

I lost the key, now they're all strangers, I tell the voice. And I strain to listen, to catch the tones. Male? Female? Kind? Austere? Who is it talking to me through these folds?

It sounds like, it sounds like, but it can't be. Not...

"Stop it Jennifer, get a grip. I told you, I don't want to feel like I'm in the toilet with you." David again, interrupting.

Shut the fuck up! I rant. You can bloody leave if you don't want to be here. You're no longer my tutor. You can't tell me what to do. Disappear!

He does.

And there are birds. With strident voices. A tormented cacophony. Phony. Yes.

Once there was sweetness. Once, we were warriors.

Once were warriors...

Somewhere in the night

It is weird and wonderful. Your brown eyes are now blue. I comment on it ...you tell me with a laugh that it's a factor of ageing. We look at each other and even though we knew it would be awkward after six years, there is a single startled moment. We cover it with words. Yong sits in the middle silent. He knows.

The tankachis have ended their cold war. Alleluia!

But have they?

And we trade memories because there is nothing current we will meet on. No point of commonality. Whatever happened to so and so?

Did you know his daughter died in a car accident? He's a broken man.

Yes, he would be.

Did you know Mals told me once that someone saw suicide in her hands?

Strange.

Yes, strange. And then she died the way she did.

Once so much to each other. Now polite strangers. Strained smiles. Pretending, just pretending. I loved you once. And then, we shattered. You stepped over the broken glass to better things.

And I chose my own way. Not your way, but I didn't have your priorities. Be true to yourself, I whispered. Don't be fake, don't be phony, you're better than this.

But was I?

Everything I have, I destroy. I build it up painstakingly and then I cast it from me. I don't seem to have the talent for continuity. Forever frightens me.

And now at three in the morning the pain hits and I am bent over double, choking. I can't believe these feelings, this intensity.

Love is strange.

Sexual Harrassment and the implications thereof

So I am called into Strang's office because a charge has been made, or rather, my name has been brought up in a charge of sexual harrassment. As the harrassee not the harrasser. (I thought I should clarify that).

Strang: "Um Jenny, take a seat"

Me (wide-eyed with wonder): What is it Strang?

Strang: Your name has been brought up in something and I want you to tell me...were you sexually harrassed by Prometheus? Is that why you stopped talking to him?

(Prometheus, a senior reporter, is now facing sexual harrassment charges from one of the young newly married female reporters. He was once a friend. We fell out, but it had nothing to do with sex)

Me (choking): What a dumb question! Of course not! He never did. In fact, I remember there was once when I was totally drunk and he totally could have and instead, he took me to this abandoned park and forced me to walk up and down till I got sober enough for him to send me home. I remember him threatening to kiss me on the lips (giggle) if I didn't keep my head up. I can tell you, drunk as I was, my head snapped up straight. He told me later he didn't know whether to be glad or slightly offended. So, no.

Strang (with a sigh): Yes, I thought not. You know how to take care of yourself, don't you?

Flashback: A few months before he got married, Strang, tall, good-looking and an all-round buaya (Malay for crocodile and it means predatory Romeo) starting hitting on a few girls in the office. He used to stare at us in turn from his computer, casually stroll up and run his hands down our backs while purportedly reading our stories over our shoulders. I took care not to react, show any awareness of what he was doing and then I chopped off all my hair, thus rendering me unattractive (impossible to believe, I know, but true). Problem solved.

Strang: In fact, if one of our youngsters like Sam wanted to go out with you, I'd tell them to think twice. Say they couldn't handle you.

Me (rolling my eyes): Yeah, thanks a lot. (Am not too offended because am not remotely interested in Sam or any of the guys in my office. The girls are babes and the men are just, well, like nothing on earth. Makes it easier to avoid occupational hazard of inter-office romances)

I bring this up because of present situation. Is it possible to be sexually harrassed when you are aware of what is happening and don't want to play ball? Shouldn't there be some measure of consent before it goes any further?

In other news...oh nothing...

What Happened After

An exchange of SMS-es and the consequences thereof:

Him: Hope you've recovered from your first visit to ... :-D If you ever feel the urge for a juicy chat we could arrange a more conducive venue, free of possessive spouses.

Hmmm. Sounds fishy. Frankly I don't like the signifier "juicy". How do I reply this?

A day and a half later...

Me: Careful. Groupies are not fair game.

Him: Our chat was interrupted by a jealous wife. The next day I was attacked by a jealous feline. Now a suspicious mind misreads my friendly signal! Many pardons, ho hum...with chips on the side.

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear... did I "misread a friendly signal"? Was I being overly presumptuous? Time for damage control...

Me: Priceless. Sorry. Came out of said chat with lacerations. Still unnerved.

Him: A's (his wife) defence system may be primitive but it works. So much shit springs from fear. I noticed your distress and my offer of a bonus tea'n'talk session was made in good faith with no creepy agenda.

Why don't I believe him? Maybe cos his reputation precedes...but then, I never like going by reputation...I mean if people judged me based on my reputation I'd have few if any friends...so, let's practice what we preach, eh?

Me: Forgive my presumption then. Are you coming to KL?

Cos I sure as hell am not going to drive halfway across the world again to be attacked!

Him: Will be doing city run during the week, don't know when. What's your schedule and whereabouts do you live? Anyway, no expiry dates on this!

Sigh. What does this sound like to you?

Me: So far only Tuesday is booked.

Him: Busy woman :-D Will SMS when possible window opens, and leave the logistics to serendipity (my old pal) x

Me: OK. Cool.

So there you have it folks, live bits from my so-called life.

I'll keep you updated (especially if it turns unprintable because I need to explore my exhibitionistic tendencies and pander to your voyeuristic ones)

You Make Me Feel Like Dancing

So the guy tells me I have attractive syntax and interesting eyebrows. A novel approach...and I laugh, amused. I am there to interview him for a coffee table book and he is charming.

His wife, however, is less than amused at my presence. She throws a tantrum when I arrive, deciding that I am a threat (what with my interesting eyebrows and all) flounces into the house (we are sitting on the veranda overlooking the beautiful mountains outside) and turns on the TV. Loud. Strains of Bollywood drown out all attempts at conversation. So there I am, with my notebook out, straining to hear his interesting answers to my questions about his family and living situation.

The guy is an august member of the Malaysian artistic community. Quite brilliant. He has opted to marry a simple Orang Asli (aboriginal) girl but sometimes there are problems. Like now, when she decides to be insecure.

Their little 10-year old son, on the other hand, naked, quaint and birdlike, takes a shine to me and indicates (he does not talk yet, nobody knows why) that he wants me to spoon his rice out for him. I fumble clumsily, trying to get the mixture into his tiny mouth and most of the rice ends up on his lap or the floor. His father sighs and suggests that I hold the bowl under his mouth to catch what falls out. Brilliant idea. Why didn't I think of that?

Maybe because I am there to interview the Dad rather than feed the son or deal with the wife's tantrums. She, sweet thing that she is, perches herself on the sofa, where she can keep an eye on me. Her face goes through a series of revolutions indicating pain, disgust, jealousy, anger and she turns up the volume.

"I want ATTENTION!"

Finally, the artist asks if I want to go by the river to continue this conversation. He has asked his wife to turn down the tv and she responds by screaming imprecations in some other language (she does not speak English and that was certainly not Malay).

"This is counter-survival! If she feels threatened by you shouldn't she make herself even more charming? Doesn't she realise that if I really wanted to carry on with you, I wouldn't have invited you to come down here, in front of her. That I could just meet you in KL some place? The woman can't reason things out!"

Well, naturally. She isn't sophisticated enough to figure out the mind games that women play when they feel their relationships are under threat. Most women, conceal their rage, under a smooth smile, a charming manner. You only get the fact that they are furious by one or two remarks, tossed off in a casual manner, barbed and vicious. But her very unsophistication, I suspect, is part of her attraction. What you see is what you get.

But we soon see that the river is out of the question as skies are as stormy as said wife, so we repair to the bamboo palace (a bungalow constructed of bamboo) at the back, with his little son. There, I ask him everything I want to (including how he deals with this sort of thing) and he answers willingly enough.

Constructing joy out of simplicity. All his life, he has lived in his head. All his girlfriends have been intellectuals. None of those relationships ever worked out. So who's to say what is ideal and what isn't? With these two (his wife and son), he can only deal with them emotionally. No pretensions, no intellectualising, no capacity for reasoning.

I know I couldn't live this way. As it is, I feel seriously uncomfortable and although the interview is going well and he is interesting and articulate, I feel the waves of anger emanating from the house in front.

His wife comes to the back and screams that he has a phone call. He replies that it is raining and he will call back later. She storms in, and proceeds to wreck the joint. Literally. Screaming with the impotent rage of a child, she attacks him, scratching and biting, throws things about, pulls the bamboo mat out from under me and throws herself into his lap and insists on being held as she bursts into stormy tears.

Her little son, who has fallen asleep curled up next to me, has awakened and is watching his mother's spectacular manifestations wide-eyed. I am wondering what to do. I feel physically threatened and not a little disgusted. Of course, I come from another more counterfeit world, and we don't show our feelings like this.

But what is happening is interesting, in a way. I mean, she is doing what I have, I think, on many occassions wanted to do. Being restrained by culture, I take refuge in biting words. But I would have liked to throw things about and tell whichever boyfriend I was with - say you love me, say I am the only one, show her that you only want me.

Show her!

She is dressed only in sarong pulled over her chest and it slips down in her struggles, exposing her attractive, still child-like body. I look away, of course. Other people's nudity always tends to embarrass me more than it does them.

Finally, she is in his lap, crying noisily, while he soothes her. Paralysed all this while, I think it is time to leave. I smile uncertainly, look at my watch, exclaim at the time and tell him I should be going.

He looks disappointed. But come on. I mean...you can't possibly expect to stay after this, can you? He says, don't leave yet, at least stay for a cup of tea. I sigh. I don't want to sweep out of here in high dudgeon. I am exhausted from driving for two hours along unknown roads to find this place, and even more so, at being subjected to this emotional outburst. I was not prepared for it, and don't deal very well with confrontation. (Typical Malaysian - I go out of my way to avoid them)

But I feel bad about leaving abruptly. We repair to the house again and he puts on the kettle. His wife, calmer now, follows. She even smiles a little (the first time she has smiled since I got here). She leans over to kiss him and he looks at me with a wry smile: "She is now trying to show me that I am lucky to be married to her."

Then he turns to her: "Didn't you promise to behave yourself when I said I have a friend coming?" He sighs and shakes his head. "Donnolar. Sometimes ah...anyway, you should be flattered. I've never seen her this bad before. She obviously perceives a threat...there must be some connection between us that she's picked up on that I was not aware of. She's really very sensitive."

I finish the tea, give him a hug, and leave.

At night, alone, I marry my bed

I would have a glass of Cabernet Merlot (Cape Mentelle for preference) and a volume of Anne Sexton. Soft music would weep through the speakers. Marianne Faithful. Era. Enigma. Steam rising in a shadowy bathroom. Warm water soothes tired limbs, a weary heart. I close a fist over the shards of shattered glass and feel a thrill, a shock of pain. Blood flows lazily into the bath. I take one and run it casually across my wrist. You have to do it vertically so you nick more veins. Those thick blue snakes rising under transparent skin. The incisions do not have to be deep. After all, death is an art and I do not want to shuffle off this mortal coil clumsy and graceless, the way I shuffled onto it.

A sip of wine, and I would pick up my Sexton. She would tell me that death is an old belonging. That's nice. I would like to belong somewhere. Finally. Here, in the august company of the people who fell off the edge of the world, having no place else to go, I belong.

But surely you know that everyone has a death,
his own death,
waiting for him.
So I will go now,
without old age or disease.

Sexton understood. She saw that it was not a matter for trumpets or tinsel. But rather, a sadness, a knowing, a sense of resignation. One is tired. One wants to choose one's own end. There is neither fear nor apprehension. Apprehension signals doubt and doubt leads to last-minute goodbyes that cause eleventh hour interventions.

I said goodbye a long time ago. You just weren't listening.

Waiting to Die is almost a meditative musing of someone who sees her suicide as an inevitability. She understands the arguments...but you see, they make no sense. Not anymore.

Even then I have nothing against life
I know well the grass blades you mention
the furniture under the sun.

She calls it, the death we both said we outgrew in Sylvia's Death. It was secretly obvious to both that despite the lip service they paid to normality or their laughter about suicide attempts, it lay at the bottom of their bellies with the inevitability of a sleepy drummer.

and I see now we store him up
year after year
old suicides.

It grows in our blood. We fight it because the world tells us we have to. Then truth overwhelms and we surrender. We lie down to be covered in shells and bones and silence.

I look out with scorching eyes to see you living - it's not real, you see? I am not real. I became a ghost because you looked and saw I was not there.

As for me, I am a watercolour.
I wash off.

Another sip of Cape Mentelle, the blood of grapes flowing down my throat as my wrist empties into the bath... my life into forgiving water.

They are eating each other
They are overfed.
At night alone I marry my bed.