Jenny Goes Postal

"Why are you screaming?" she asks.

"Because if you create a bloody world, even if it's a skewed Escher-type universe where up is down is up is down, you still need a few rules. And then you follow the bloody rules. Things have to make sense. On celluloid if not in real life.

"This," I point my finger accusingly at the screen. "This is utter Chaos. The deaths - its gratuitous - there's no coherence, nothing makes sense."

"Oh come on, it's a soap opera, when does that ever have rules - they just have to figure out ways to keep the story going..."

I feel the muscles in neck clench, I want to throw a chair at the TV, I want to smash something, how can I communicate to these blindly trusting people that something is wrong here, something is very wrong here and they should vote with their remote controls and click off?

She continues to gaze at me with mild concern. A little more and she'll take my temperature. And I won't be answerable. No, not bloody answerable. I'm close to busting a blood vessel, and if I go down, I'm taking all the dewy-eyed cows with me.

You. Cannot. Just. Kill. Characters. Because. You're. Too. Dumb. To. Think. Of. Any. Further. Complications.

If a show is done, it's done.

Cue the happy ending and let everyone get to bed.

Not good, Benny...not good at all!

The Glib Apocalypse

Since Apocalypse is where every "supernatural" dramedy seems to tend, why not jump on the bandwagon and write your own? A few guidelines, if you want to cash in on this trend which should go up all the way, dunno, 2012, when Mayan prophecy has it we're all gonna croak?

1. You must have a tortured hero/ine. Maybe hero/ines.

2. Tortured hero will have to choose between saving the world. And eating an ice-cream.

3. You can gauge the level of torture by hero's glib remarks and slick repartee. Throw in one-liners and cultural references (and by cultural, I mean B-grade TV shows) and your ratings go through the roof.

4. Build up to Apocalypse with Signs. Crib from the Book of Revelation, if you can't think of any yourself. It's always good for a few episodes.

5. Turn everything upside down. Angels are perfectly perfect in every way. Meaning emotionless automatons who follow orders without question. Demons are a little like the heroes - tortured.

6. A theme song for evil would be good. Not House of the Rising Sun. That's so "been there, done that". Something a little unexpected. Like Fire and Rain. I can definitely see the possibilities there. You know Fire? And Rain? See where I'm going with that?

7. Go heavy on the tomato sauce. And mutilated bodies. But would help if heroes are impervious. And if they trade joke over corpses.

8. No matter what you do and how you play it the Apocalypse will fall flat. Like any production of King Lear. So don't worry about it. Oh yeah, and in TV-land, everything is reversible. Sold your soul? Buy it back. Fallen into hell? Climb right out. (After all, if Dante did it, why can't your hero/ine?

9. Long shots of hero gazing into distance at scenes of destruction, flashbacks of sacrifices along the way, brimming eyes, heavy sighs, counting the cost, giving up all thought of ice cream.

10. End with burgeoning music, a few stale platitudes mouthed off earnestly, or as earnestly as the B-list actor/actress of the "cheerleader or James Dean will save the world" ilk can manage.

And voila, you have a hit, a maker of nightmares, something that can go into seven seasons at a pinch.

Keep it churning....

The Banality of Turning Points

When I read Hugo, Tolstoi or Dickens I am often struck by the moments of truth, when all of life seems to hang in the balance, when these characters have to decide between the right path and the wrong one.

These moments are large, enormous, enough for a frantic:

What have I done
sweet Jesus what have I done
become a thief in the night
become a dog on the run
have I fallen so far
or is the hour so late
that nothing remains but the cry of my hate
the cries in the dark that nobody hears
here where I stand at the turning of the years...

The turning point is always glaring, emblazoned with with fluorescent red poster paint. You can see the turning point. It's there. It's fair.

But maybe for the lesser characters like us, the ones without those Masters of the Third Person Omniscient to write our dialogue (and certainly no one to edit it) the moments of truth, the turning points, are less vivid, banal even, and they pass unnoticed until you're remembering them after the fact.

Even though they carry with them the crushing weight of Consequences, of Remorse into an indifferent pillow each night, of hopelessness, of another little piece of you breaking off and falling into the swirling wind (or is it mud?) to be lost forever, you get no warning beforehand.

It could be as simple as approving the "friend request" of someone you don't really like on Facebook. OK, so the person is an irritant. Bad vibes first time around. Bad bad vibes. Clash and burn.

No reason to be rude, right? Accept the friend request. And so it begins.

It could be as simple as reading the status updates of these so-called irritants, finding yourself amused, and gradually coming to like the once-irritant. It could be replying to comments on your posts and your notes, by this now-not-so-irritating-in-fact-even-positively-witty irritant.

It could be as simple as agreeing to meet for a drink. In a quiet place. To talk.

And after the fact, after the "banshee wailing for her demon lover" misery, the lies, the fabrications, the anxious planning and politicking and arranging of events and consorting with other banshees, when the dust has settled, when the grime has been wept away, when the heart has resumed its monotonous ticking...you look back to see at what point you fell.

And you can't believe how banal, in fact boring, the moment. And how improbable all the lies you swallowed unwittingly.

The idle mind.

The devil's playground.

For sure.

That Thin Veil

What amazes me is that no matter how smart you think you are, you're bound to think well of friends, or people you consider as such. Even though they may be anything but.

You view their actions through this veil and seek to find reasons, explanations, justifications (no matter how flimsy) for their behaviour.

But your belly is churning and you can't sleep at night and you have imbibe ever more copious amounts of alcohol to persist in this self delusion. Because facing the truth would mean falling...

And you would rather not fall.

But then a feather lights on your head. And you start to plunge.

And once you've got your lens adjusted you start to view things as they are. You start to see how laying the worst possible interpretation on every minuscule piece of behaviour is no more than just.

You understand that you're dealing with the undead, not a spark of light or goodness anywhere. Evil being merely privative, a dark hole, an absence.

And you understand why the undead fill the rest of humanity with dread, and wise people steer clear.

You can't save the undead.

Their souls have already been damned to hell.

All you can hope is that their bodies follow.

Swiftly.

The Great High Tea Chase

Mum is supposed to meet a bunch of her old friends for high tea. Why high tea rather than lunch or dinner? Lunch is too short to catch up. And none of these old ladies actually feel safe being out for dinner. Besides, Mum doesn't like the night air. She nearly always falls sick after.

So today Mum was perched on the piano seat lamenting the fact that one of the chief organisers was so lazy and passive that she hadn't even found out about how much it costs to have high tea at Mutiara Hotel.

I said it was as easy as anything to find out, went onto the net and started googling the hotels in JB and ringing out to find out if they provided high tea and how much it would be.

Thing is, all of them provide high tea.

On Saturdays and Sundays!

And all charge some bloody extravagant price per head ++!

Yipes! It is so much easier to plan one of these things in KL. The sheer magnitude of choice!

Anyways, I decided to call Chubs and rope him in, with Mum twittering in the background about how he's working and would be in a meeting etc etc. Chubs gave me the name of the newest hotel in JB and said he would ask around about high tea but not just yet as he was on his way out.

OK.

I tried googling "high tea in JB" and came up with a big fat zilch!

Mum decided to call her friend Halimah who came up with a few recommendations.

I honestly think that there is a business idea here for some enterprising person has a large dining room and a flair for baking. Offer to organise get togethers in JB and provide a nice selection of cakes and endless pots of tea in nice china - maybe limit the customers to old ladies - and charge not as much as the hotels and make a killing.

So Mum calls her lazy friend, having done all the spadework and guess what?

Lazy friend is still sleeping.

I guess not all 65-year-olds are built alike.

That Looks On Tempests

I watch King of California on Astro and decide for a split second that lunatics are charming. It must be exhilarating to live with a person who is unbounded by accepted logic.

That is, until I remember what it was actually like being around a lunatic who asked me to put my fingers between the blades of a table fan that was running, and my hand into a wall (because mass was largely imaginary and we could walk through walls if the spirit moved us).

Most of the time, I was scared out of my wits.

Most of the time, he was drunk.

So I'm thinking, nah, maybe not lunatics exactly. Maybe quirky...quirky's good.

And I wait for Mum to come home from her appointment at the hairdresser's. Her hairdresser operates from a little room at the back of the house, what used to be an airwell. You call, make an appointment and go over. She charges next to nothing. Mum's all excited, a reunion is in the works, and she has spent the past few days on the phone to various friends, she hasn't seen or spoken to in decades.

You can see it is important as she is out at this time...when her shows are on. This means she will be missing Marina. Actually, no, Marina only starts at half past three, so maybe she'll be able to make it.

So this is what was missing in her life - friends her own age, from school no less, back when she used to be popular - getting together catching up on each other's lives...friends who haven't heard each other's stories 100 times, who haven't moved into the same familiar grooves where you talk without saying anything and don't listen cos you've heard it all before.

Remembrance of things past.

Most of them have creaky knees. I know this because when Mum comes up for her afternoon nap during which time I haven't even woken up for the day she tells me about who she spoke to and what ailment they have and adds that maybe they should have had a reunion at 60 rather than 65.

Younger = less ailments = healthier.

However, Mum is definitely spryer these days - when she has something to look forward to. A reunion. Old friends. Nice stuff.

Yesterday she told me she was attacked by a swarm of bees that suddenly appeared out of nowhere and were instantly attracted to her bright orange caftan.

"Bladi hell...when I wore the green caftan, the butterflies used to light on me."

I don't know about you, but I'd prefer butterflies to bees.

Maybe animals just love her. After all our famous squirrel, Botak (who eats all the fruits on our fruit trees) always comes out when Mum is in the garden but disappears at the sight or sound of me. The only animal I seem to be popular with over here is Maggotty. (That's Maggot the dog, not the actual maggots, though come to think of it, I seem to be pretty popular with the ants and mosquitoes as well).

I have chopped onions annd garlic for vindaloo.

I am supposed to make lemon curd cake as well, but maybe I'll wait until Thursday, when we've chucked all the cake that's about a month old in the fridge, as well as the remainder of my failure of an angel pie which continues to occupy much space in all its creamy glory and is much avoided by both mother and brother.

Although it hasn't rained in days, maybe weeks...it is windy outside and the chimes are all tinkling together, a choir, a cacophony and orchestra....you decide...

Still aimless...

Blame

When the stormy winds cease and the water settles, the sediment sinks to the bottom. And I can see clearly, all the shit that I keep inside. All the vitriol I carry in my belly.

I hear myself say things, sound off, excoriate, and wonder...did I really say all that? Did I think it was OK to say all that? Did I think it was forgivable?

Usually the waters are turbulent, cloudy and I can't see past the air in front of me. I walk around in a daze. Words running on that same old treadmill in my mind. I do the wrong kind of recycling.

But when I get away from it all for a prolonged period, I start to see, I start to be aware...

I'm so sorry for so many things. Anything I condemmed in anyone else, was a matter of logs and specks. And I feel the guilt twist my insides until I can't breathe.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

I'm not ready to re-emerge

Theme Song

Kau datang dan pergi
Oh begitu saja
Semua ku terima
Apa adanya.



Ku pegang erat
Dan ku halangi waktu
tak urung jua
ku lihatnya pergi

Power Root, Anyone?

I love my title. That whole double entendre thingy really floats my boat.

So anyway, it was early morning (right, two in the afternoon actually, but who's keeping tabs?) and as I emerged from the mists of sleep, I saw two SMS-es on my phone awaiting inspection. One was an MMS, a review of Bedtime Stories, which was kinda cool.

The other was purportedly from a company called Power Root (I had never heard of this company) telling me I had won RM10,000. Now that is huge shock to spring on you in the early morning, afternoon, evening, whatever. I mean, it is a huge shock to spring on you. It gave me a number to call to go collect my prize.

The SMS came from the following number - +60178954279 - and this is what it said:

TAHNIAH! simCard Anda t'lah berjaya Cabutan BERTUAH Wang RM10,000.00 from "POWER ROOT" SDN BHD. Sila Hub Office Ditalian 012-815-9897 Terima Kasih.

Now elsewhere in these annals, I have documented my extreme naivety when it comes to people telling me I won something. I mean I actually parted with RM3,000 of hard-earned cash, which left me practically penniless for the rest of the month, because some red-faced 15-year old appeared at my gate, did the scratch and win thingy and told me I might have won a car. (Now I know that the proper response to these scratch and win fellows if you're unlucky enough to be outside when they're around is to hand them the RM1 they say they get for every scratchy and then go into the house and bolt the door)

So when I stumbled down to make the ginger orange butter broccoli (I liked it, but it was a tad sweet, maybe I should have used blood orange rather than sweet orange marmalade) and vindaloo (cos Mum was not feeling so good and I promised to make lunch) I went on the net to check out this company. Yes, it existed. Yes, there was a contest on.

But didn't you at least have to participate? The SMS told me that my phone number had been "picked". From a hat? I mean what was up with that? Anyway, I noted a number to call for "enquiries". It being Sunday (smart move that - those too impatient to wait one day to check would call the number given which would lead them to some path to destruction, or at least, some path in which they and their money are soon parted) I couldn't call.

This morning, I tried calling the contest number. I called at 8.30am. No answer. 9am. No answer. 9.30am. No answer. 9.45am. Still no answer. I wanted to abandon the quest, but decided to try their Johor office number.

A girl answered. I told her I received an SMS telling me I had won money from Power Root.

And she said: "Actually miss, that SMS is not true."

Recipe for a Disaster That Never Happened or Have You Heard From Jackie?

Ingredients:

Time on your hands
An active imagination
Indian (Malayalee preferred) blood
A healthy diet of soap operas, Brazilian or Indonesian for choice
Tears of sorrow and regret. (optional)

Method:

1. Have a slight deviation from the ordinary. (i.e. Jackie fails to make her customary weekend call to the folks).

2. Then hear from equally drama queen husband who insists something must have happened to her.

3. Read news about how people are freezing to death in England. Add a little active imagination.

4. Disturb youngest daughter's ahimsa state by constant calls (Have you heard from Jackie? Has she replied your email? Did you SMS her?)

5. Worry.

6. Worry some more.

7. Just a little more worry and you're nearly done.

8. Mix all ingredients together in a copper bowl until light and frothy.

9. Here is where you can add the tears, if you want. Throw in memories of Jackie as a chubby toddler with unruly curls and a gap-toothed smile for added effect. Cue sad music from your soap of choice.

10. Work yourself up to a STATE.

11. Stir in panic.

Serve hot.

Lemon Cream Pie

I guess I shouldn't have watched Waitress. Because the actual story slipped past me, and all I noticed, were the pies and how she made them. This seeming miracle of crust and filling. I wondered about it. Why didn't I make pies? I mean, I made cakes, I made puddings, but no pies. Maybe pies were essentially an American thing. Twin Peaks. That pie song in the movie Michael. And of course, Waitress with the famous chocolate strawberry pie.

That's when I decided I would google a lemon pie recipe and make it. Just like that. Naive as I was, I thought it'd be a piece of cake.

Well there were recipes in abundance of course. That's what the Internet is for. So I picked one (lemon angel pie with a meringue crust) and trotted off to the stores to get supplies, the first essential supply being, a pie plate. We didn't make pies so we had nothing suitable.

Well I gathered all the ingredients (it called for heavy cream,and there was not heavy cream, so I got double cream instead) and came back home all set to begin.

Hmmm...

Did I already say I was naive?

The first reverse was the pie plate. Intent on getting exactly what the recipe asked for, I forgot that our oven was a teeny tiny one. The pie plate wouldn't fit. So I transferred the fixings for the meringue pie crust to one of Mum's corning ware containers. Cos, as she pointed out, Corning Ware is microwaveable.

The recipe called for 250 Celsius. It probably meant 250 Farenheit. Anyway, I followed the recipe and burned the crust.

Luckily, since the there was so much crust I had enough for another try. This time, I would be using the pie plate. Who cared if the oven door wouldn't close all through? Maybe I could stand there for an hour or so and force it shut.

Anyway, I plunked in the pie plate with the raw meringue and waited for it to heat. No, too much heat must be escaping for the temperature refused to go beyond tepid. In the midst of trying to make the filling, there I was, leaning up against the oven, trying to warm up the pie crust.

This went on for about half an hour and then I noticed that I had failed to switch on the oven.

Right.

I amended that, wondering what else could go wrong....and placed the glass bowl on this iron thing above the boiling water in the pan (no, we didn't have a double boiler and I had to improvise). Well, wouldn't you know, I heard a crack. And then another crack. The beautiful glass bowl was all but shattered and the filling seeped into the water underneath.

I called to Mum who was playing Spider Solitaire to tell her I had cracked her bowl. Mum, being Mum, took it philosophically. She told me, it had been a free gift for something or other anyway. As the family baker though, that had been my favourite bowl. This pie was getting more and more expensive. Why oh why did I have to embark on this freak?

A quick check in the oven and I noticed that the crust was actually beginning to brown, the slight aperture at the top of the oven notwithstanding. OK, I would need to make some more filling. Thank goodness we had one lemon left. (Here I thought briefly of that house in Perth with the lemon tree - all it would take, would be to step out into the garden to get an apronful of lemons...if I wore aprons, that is).

So I set to zesting and squeezing the second lemon (a small one, but hopefully it would give me what I wanted) and making some more filling. This time I was careful to place the filling in a saucepan which I placed over that iron thingy over the boiling water. OK, I would have to stir it from time to time (the recipe said constantly I said bollocks to that).

Now it was time to beat up the cream. Now the recipe didn't call for whipping cream. It should have. Or I should have used my common sense to remember that whipped cream only comes from whipping cream.

So I whipped the double cream and it turned to butter. Yeah, just like that. And it being a lemon cream pie, I would have to coat the crust with my whipped cream, and the add the filling, and top it off with cream.

Tired by now of all the foul-ups, bleeps and blunders, that's exactly what I did. Who cared if my cream was buttery. I removed the pie crust from the oven, placed some aluminium foil over the top and weighed it down with sherry glasses full of water. (We didn't have anything that could do for pie weights).

In the meantime, Mum had moved from the computer to the TV. It was time for the penultimate episode of Intan. Actually I think it's the penultimate episode cos the grandmother died, which I think signals an ending, and all those holding out against her marriage to Rado, had come around. No more loose ends, so to speak. Mum gave me a disgusted look and asked me when I had become an expert on Intan. I just gave her a superior smile and turned back to my disaster of a lemon cream (or rather butter) pie.

Once I figured it had sufficiently cooled and been weighed down, I coated it with cream, added the filling and coated it with cream some more. It looked OK but the family eyed it askance and declined a piece when I offered.

Maybe I'll stick to cakes.

And Then Some

I read what I wrote last year - remember the hotel room and the half bottle of wine, and the dark streets and the fog. It was cold but I was too drunk to feel it. And my volume of Anne Sexton which I clutched to my chest like a talisman. The poems I read over and over again. The feeling that this night would go on forever.

And I was lost.

And I was miserable.

And I just wanted to be left alone.

And I just wanted to not wake up so I wouldn't have to go back.

To face that.

And what was that? Nothing really. Simply a stupid management meeting, with a company I no longer cared for, with nothing to say, no updates to give, because I was tired, tired, tired of it all, and maybe death was an easy way out.

Death? So I wouldn't have to attend a management meeting? Laughable. But there it was. True.

And this year, I see the year out on my old bed, which is laden with books (I'm reading two poetry books at the same time, neither of them Sexton), no wine (well, Mum is downstairs watching Intan, she may want to break out a bottle but then again, she may not) and I hear my phone beeping away with the group messages wishing everyone Happy New Year - cheerful things, really. And maybe I will go check to see who SMS-ed.

But this year, I feel peaceful, almost cheerful really, and there is no great blight in my soul.

Although, I have no job (nor any prospect of one, since all the leads seem to have dried up). I'm trying to care, but can't bring myself to. I know I'll find work to get by. But there are more important things, Iago, like starting on that elusive novel, what I want to write.

Like a honey cake. I cut off little pieces and chew them meditatively at intervals, savouring the nectar. Ambrosia. You know what I'm talking about.

My face lovely with dreaming
Facing my fantasy
Facing the question
When does beauty die?

Happy New Year.

Plum Tuckered Out

I'm home again. I've just finished making our quota of cakes for Christmas, to whit -Spiced Apple Cider Cake, Grandmother Whitehead's Texas Fudge Cake, Chocolate Raspberry Streusel Bar, Greek Orange Almond cake, Lemon Curd Cake and Sticky Toffee Date Pudding.

The fridge is bursting at its seams.

As I have some flour, some butter, some eggs and some chocolate chips left (to say nothing of cocoa) I'm thinking of rounding it off with chocolate chip cookies. And since I brought the cookie cutters Jackie gave me a couple of years ago, to Johor, maybe I can make Christmas-shaped chocolate chip cookies. Now, there's a notion.

I'm just plum tuckered out.

Butter Fudge

I love, love, luuuuuuurve home-made butter fudge. I ate nearly a whole packet of it and have decided that what I want for Christmas is home-made butter fudge to sweeten the palate as I watch numerous episodes of the Waltons.

My book-du-jour, Julie and Julia is splayed open. It's such a truly hedonistic, sybaritic romp, what with the recipes and the butter and the disasters and the crustacean murder and the sucking out of marrows and Julia Childs, and pounds of flesh and David Straithairn and loons on the subway - that I laugh to myself at La Bodega where I wait for Zafrul who is already 30 minutes late and will possibly be more as he is stuck in traffic somewhere in Mahameru.

So I read and chuckle and look up to see Kamal grinning at me. Shirene is upstairs with her Mum having her hair done and little Aki is at the playhouse so he joins me for a latte.

I'm wearing my Santa hat and Kamal wants to know if I'm doing it cos I lost a bet. No, I'm wearing the Santa hat cos I want to rustle me up some Christmas spirit. BSC is bedazzling but that doesn't somehow do the trick. Now I attract furtive smiles and cheeky grins and it is always nice to have strangers flash their teeth at me for no reason, well no reason I can think of until I remember my unconventional headgear.

So Uncle Cody is being courted by Cordelia Hunnicutt. And I have finished one cup of tea. And there are brownies and muffins in the fridge.

And I will be making chocolate chip cookies by the bushel tonight. Truckloads of flour and chocolate chips reposing on the table. And can you believe that all these choc chip cookies are for Julie. Well not for her exactly. For her to give her gym aunties and her gym instructors.

So maybe I'll lie on the sofa and finish my book. And watch another episode of the Waltons.

How does one step through life, jaunty, unafraid, neither timid, nor tentative nor apologising for one's existence?

What Happens When This Too Passes

It doesn't feel like time is passing. It feels like I am behind plate glass watching it pass for other people, as I withdraw from this life, as I cease to be a participant, as I diminish into an observer.

I read voraciously now, maybe because reading is passive, it does not require a response to another person. Yes, other people. I don't want to deal with other people.

This is not normal behaviour, Jennifer...

I am aware of that. I could ask what normal is, and who defines the parameters, but I will spare you the cliches. (Haha, spare you the cliches, when every thought is no more than a cliche, hahahaha indeed!)

So maybe I have been losing my mind, my spirit, my centre of joy, my ability to interact with other humans and be part of the swirling, heaving masses, life in all its pathetic and heartbreaking guises. So maybe...

I no longer recognise the person in the mirror.

I have taken leave of my senses.

They wished me luck as they waved me goodbye.

I can't think of anything more dreary than eternal life.

Miscellany

I am starting to miss my friends. I am starting to miss the shopping centres in KL which must be all festooned for Christmas by now. I am starting to miss waking up at a decent hour in which to live.

I am reading the Emily of New Moon series.

Before this I was reading Anne of Green Gables.

Oh what is to be done?

I tired of Virginia Woolf and reading books that I had to chew and digest and understand only partly.

I realise now how difficult it is to write "paragons" and not end up hating them yourself. Paragons don't exist. They are barely human.

This Wall Between Us

I didn't mean to withdraw from the world, it just happened. I lie snug, wrapped in blankets in JB awake all night, falling asleep at sunrise with Mum standing at the foot of the stairs and hollering at me to come and have my breakfast or lunch or any food so I don't get gastric.

Her voice filters through as I turn over and burrow deeper into the bed, and settle myself to drop off again. No, I'm not ready to wake up yet.

She calls me in between her important phone calls to Aunty Baby, Aunty Shirley, Halimah Hassan - with whom (depending on the person) she discusses politics, the soap operas, the latest round of funerals, illnesses, me....

Mum: Jenny cannot sleep at nightlar.

Aunty Baby: Why don't you give her fruity yoghurt at night? Then she will drop off...

Mum: Poor Intan. That mother-in-law of her's is too much.

Aunty Shirley: Yalar. How can she take away the child? I mean, Intan is the mother after all.

(It has come to this - I actually know the plot of Intan. Could be worse. I could know the plot of Marina)

Usually she gives up when the soaps begin. And then I stumble down and have a cup of tepid coffee and maybe a nutella sandwich or maybe lunch if it smells tempting enough.

And I don't really mean to be a stranger, I don't. It's just that when the phone rings, I'm usually asleep. Or else I stare at it, this strange creature, singing to me and I feel a repulsion. I cringe. I move away.

You see, there is a wall of water between me and the rest of the world. It is a few miles thick and I'm quite comfortable sitting at this end and not braving the flood.

Tonight, for the first time since I got here, I went out. Drove. To the petrol station down the road. And then to Pelangi Plaza. Parked the car. Forced myself out. Walked up the two stories from the parking to the shopping centre. It was empty and ghostly.

I couldn't even understand the large poster ads.

I mean come on, Let them eat wake!?

And my footsteps dragged all five floors up to Popular bookstore to get some stationery. I figured, if I was going to be cut off from the world, I may as well do something useful, like Morning Pages.

Instead I recoiled at the legal pads I had intended to buy. I picked one or two up idly to look at them but couldn't bring myself to go any further. There was nothing wrong with them. I just couldn't bring myself to buy them.

So I made my way out of there...and arrived home to find Mums had made ayam masak merah and her (very tasty) version of a salad. I ate enough to want more. Chubs (who had gone for the first session of the kids' carolling practice) came back at about 10and had his fill, going for seconds and enjoying each mouthful with a peculiar relish.

We watched Monk in accompaniment.

And then, it was time for Intan.

And then, Mums went up to sleep.

And here I am, still awake, but maybe tonight I'll sleep early cos I promised Mum I'd make a cake tomorrow.

Chubs says we are so bad for him.

Looks like I'm spending my birthday here.

Heartsore

Either I am a hypocondhriac or there is something really wrong with me. My heart hurts. I mean, like literally. Every once so often it pulls. Hard. Today I woke up with a blinding headache that lasted the whole day (until Chubs came back with some Panadol). All the sleep in the world didn't make a dent in the pain.

I can't even think about the next step.

I don't know what to do.

Renaissance

See thing is, I'm velcro.

And I've always been velcro.

It can be such a little thing, a trifle, a mere nothing. But it twinges. And then I start to make associations.

And so it goes.

And so it grows.

Until my belly is churning so badly if it were milk it would turn to butter.

And then war breaks out - there is screaming and insults and words so full of anger and hurt they burn right through my scalp.

If uttered in real life, they could kill.

If uttered in real life, everyone would know exactly how hateful I actually am.

And sometimes, I vomit them out before I can stop myself - whisky-flavoured bile, green pus, brimstone, crushed glass, rotten vegetables, rusty nails - it keeps pouring. And pouring.

How much vitriol can one body contain?

And then I turn it off. Freeze up. Absolute zero. (That's O degrees Kelvin, not Celsius, not Farenheit).

Now you have received the full measure of my hate you no longer exist. I command you to die. Never mind, even if you don't, I will act as if you did.

It's funny to think that I spent nearly four decades, perfecting the technique. And that I thought this was normal. That to hate was normal. That to be interminably angry and cut people off, one by one, for the rest of my life, was somehow good.

Honourable even. Strong. Impenetrable. Fortress-like.

Har fucking har!

I don't know what happened to me when I fell sick this time around. I was comatose for most of the week. I relinquished among other things, my handphone, my will to live, my food, my friends, my stupid crushes, my need for something to happen to change all this around so I would be happy. I felt someone kicking me in the belly over and over again and I curled into a foetus and tried not to breathe.

It was dauntless.

It was unrelenting.

I wished I were dead.

I guess I had been digging myself deeper into the prison all this while and expecting a miracle - someone somewhere somehow would come along and rescue me. From me. Though how they were supposed to do that, God only knows.

Before I left Geneva, my friend Beatrix asked me to pick five cards. The first would denote the major problem in my life. The fourth would indicate the solution. The fifth, the way to the solution.

My problem? Living in the moment. I was too caught up in the past and the future to be in the present. Big deal. I'd heard that before. And frankly, I didn't know what to do about it. How do you change your hardwiring?

The solution? Rebirth.

Oh wow - that's great, that's really clear, that is. Rebirth. Die and be born again. Yeah, that would be a synch.

The way to the solution? Meditation. I didn't meditate. Instead, I fell sick. Much quicker and more effective.

So I died.

But I came back to life.

And things had changed. I couldn't find it in me to stay angry. Maybe there was no fight left in me. Something was missing, but whatever it was, I didn't want it back.

I wrote to tell Beatrix about it.

She said, illness as initiation, how interesting. And then she signed off to go on a five-day surprise birthday holiday with her husband.

And I thought, illness as initiation? Well why ever not? Nothing else had worked. For those like me, a mass of infected wounds under layers and layers of scab, nothing would, I guess.

I was velcro.

But I think I'm turning into teflon.

Some Part Of Me Has Died

I'm in another time-out from the world. Things are really ugly out there and I figure if I bury my face under the pillow for long enough the rest of the world will eventually fade away. Especially the ugly bits, the bits I don't want to see, hear, feel, touch, taste, smell.

When I was in the throes of illness, I felt someone kicking me in the solar plexus over and over again. I felt my insides contract and I couldn't breathe. And I gave up fighting the feeling.

It coursed through me.

It kept coursing.

I let it course.

Spent, I lay on the unwelcoming pillow and allowed my thoughts to erase themselves. Someone had taken a blowtorch to all those memories. I felt each one die under the blaze, the concentrated fury. Of what, I don't know.

I was at Shalom on Friday. I saw Carl. I have hated Carl for more than a decade. I avoided him like the plague. Slipped out of the reach of his hands.

He bit a friend. She stepped in between when he was coming for me. After that I stopped talking to him. Taking his calls:

Jennifer doesn't work here anymore. Please don't call this number.

And Friday, I just chatted with him, like the intervening 15 years hadn't happened. We talked about the bite. Or rather we mentioned it in passing. He told me what had happened with him. I told him I was freelancing. And it was all so... devoid of drama.

I felt nothing. No animosity. No hatred. No judgement. No... get away from me, you bastard!

And I wondered, has there really been a shift? Are all those grudges finally petering out? Will I really live in the moment?

Some part of me is letting go.

Some part of me is dying.

Some part of me has died.

The Only Refuge

I wonder what is real anymore. Everything has the effect of a mirage. I find out things every day that harrow my soul. Is anyone who they say they are? Lies, lies and more damn lies.

And now I find that another carefully constructed edifice has all but tumbled. Part of me feels horrified. Another part, relieved. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. And now, it is all out in the open, grinning entrails and all.

A friend called to give me a heads-up. She said the problem with everything today - the company, the country, the world - is a lack of integrity and accountability. I agreed. No one is responsible for anything more than covering their own asses.

If karma is supposed to operate unflinchingly, why do I keep seeing these villains thriving, growing fat on their vampire feasts?

No justice.

I'm glad I left because things were unravelling at a frightening pace. Unravelling, unravelling, unravelling.

But now I feel orphaned out here in the cold.

And silence is my only refuge.

Dancing With The Dead

Because they were stolen little by little, I didn't see them go. And I didn't know till I was walking in strange and wonderful places, beauty all around me.

My words.

So I borrowed from others. Stole what used to be mine. It didn't matter from whom.

Eagles:

In a New York minute,
...everything can change...

Tony Curtis:

There is a winter inside me, a place so cold, so covered in snow, I seldom go there...

Goethe:

And so long as you have not known
This: to die and so to grow,
You are only a troubled guest
On the dark earth.

I cannot hide and feelings bubble up and I cannot hide and sadness engulfs and I cannot hide and I re-read Sexton and I cannot hide and I lie down to be covered in shells and bones and silence.

But there is no silence.

So for the moment I'm lost.

So, for the moment, I'm few and far between.

But you have no voice for singing
and you sleep too unsettled for dreams.
Your needs and your thoughts imprison you.
You have the cold embrace of a stranger.
Even your God has banished you naked.
I pity you and you think you pity me.

Music, When Soft Voices Die

I'm twirling by myself in the centre of a large white room. Once in a while someone comes into focus. Then it's all a blur. Dancing. Strobe lights. A strange and beautiful music.

Everyone twirls.

Then Tristan is beside me. I am stunned by his radiance. Was he always this beautiful? He smiles into my face. "Everyone is beautiful at the ballet. And hearts take wing..."

He looks deep into my eyes: "You're OK now sweetie. You always were."

I raise my glass and toast to cheap wine and prawn cocktails and cold winds and waves thundering on the shore at midnight and shared confidences and the warm arms of a friend.

And love. Always love.

He dances away and I watch him go without longing, without regret, without the need to hold him back. After all, the ones you love remain with you.

Always.

And the Lady comes into view. "Darling, there are poems in the folds of my skirts, stories in my hair." I reach out to touch her and butterflies rise from her skin and settle on my heart. Sweetly like a smile. Gently, like sleep.

"Even as the eyes are closing," she croons. "Do it with a heart wide open." I know I will write. The words are coursing through my veins. I let them course...

And she twirls away, stars gleaming in her backwash.

The light has turned pink. The air is perfumed. I take great gulps of it. It tastes like butter pecan with hot fudge. It tastes like midnight in Paris when Maya sat beside me under the cold sky and we shared a Coke, chicken sandwich and some fries.

And there he is. Maya. He takes my hand and twirls me around. Angels don't need to talk. He smiles. An imprint of warmth. Then he is gone. I take a deep breath and wave.

The joy expands. The love deepens.

The light has turned golden. It spills on the floor, turns everyone luminous. My heart is going to jump out of my chest. But this time, I will not turn back. Or turn away. I am no longer afraid of this beauty. I open my arms to embrace it, bring it closer, hug it to my chest.

And then I see Kat. "The beauty is there if you look hard enough. We got fooled by the disguise."

She smiles at me and I notice that her hair is shining. Then I realise it isn't her hair. It's her. She's glowing. The words curl softly in her tresses. She has been kissed by the Lady. And we're both awash in butterflies.

She winks: "It's our little secret". Hugs me and dances away.

The music changes. It's Beethoven's Ode to Joy. I think of Immortal Beloved and bless Nessa. And there she is in front of me. She looks like someone I've known for centuries. She feels like family. And she says:

My love is warmer than the warmest sunshine
softer than a sigh
My love is deeper than the deepest ocean
wider than the sky...

And then she's gone but there is a peculiar warmth in the air. Her warmth. And more butterflies.

I'm in a garden. The grass makes spring's freshest tints look like shadows. And there are flowers. More perfume. Sweetness. Light spilling from leaves. Bliss creeps in. And I wonder....

The trees here are old friends. I hug them and feel the sap rise in their steady hearts.

Thank you.

Thank you.

I love you.

Thank you.

Then I notice Mark sitting on the grass, strumming his guitar. I sit beside him and listen. I don't recognise the song but it sounds like he pulled it from one of my deepest and most joyful memories. I don't know it but I've loved it all my life. He takes his time imbuing every note with his own peculiar magic. Then he looks over to me, smiles and nods. I clap and bow my head in appreciation.

Thank you.

I love you.

And I walk away.

And my feet trip gaily of their own accord. I know not where they're going to take me, but the journey has been joyful, the people beautiful and I am filled with wonder.

There is beauty in transience.

When we demand Eternity from Love, all we get is Disappointment. But maybe if we take the moment for what it has to offer and demand nothing else besides, we get Eternity.

I got Eternity.

Travel Stories

I am reading a collection of travel stories by women and what strikes me the most is that each story doesn't tell me more about the place...but about the women themselves, what they're going through, etc. The countries they were in simply served to underscore all that.

And I thought about Christope Graizon who insisted he was a traveller rather than a tourist (he made a very clear distinction between the two) and pointed out that we go neither to see nor to do, but to find different levels of our personal dementia. That resonated with me although at the time I was only a fresh-faced 22-year old.

And now I've chucked my job and am busy sloughing off identities my feet have become itchy and I want to take to the road. Again. I want to travel and discover new lands and see with new eyes. I want to go where I am not part of the context and simply observe and write. Or not write. Maybe interact. Trip gaily through market squares where my feet leave no imprint on the cobbled stones.

One of the best presents I ever gave my cousin Praby was a travel journal of our time together in Bali. I wrote it out painstakingly day by day, taking note of the little happenings that meant something to us, and wouldn't mean anything to anyone else. I called it Sunset in Bali because my dear cousin never got to see one. There we were on the beach, and there was the sun setting, and she had one woman braiding her hair, another painting her fingernails and another harrassing her to buy mats. One look at my face and nobody bothered me much. In fact one American dude we met in Bali, in comparing us said Praby was a kitten and I was the next best thing to wrestling with an alligator.

Anyways, coming back to travel stories, I am dusting off the old wanderlust and heading off for parts unknown. Finally. I put it on hold and did what I thought was the sensible thing but now I know that sensible doesn't involve me being utterly miserable.

I cannot force myself to fit in. I can play at other identities for a while but then I need to cast them off.

And there are no solutions at the bottom of a brandy glass. Although I do intend to get pleasantly smashed in each and every country I visit. Preferably in the company of strangers.

Bingo on a Saturday Night

My oldest boyfriend, George, is in town. He's pushing 90 but still sounds robust on the phone. He called to tell me he landed in KL amidst a flurry of tragedies. A stroke, cancer, bipolar disorder. I listen sympathetically. KL ain't what it used to be, huh? Unhealthy place now. He laughs. He left in the 60s. A war hero. He's back for a World War Two Memorial celebration in Singapore.

George is a man of few words. I interviewed him for a project, getting his story for my collection. He doesn't take to many people but he took to me. Which was a mercy. And always called up to invite me for Dutch Burgher get-togethers at the Anglican church hall after that. Was fun, despite the fact that nearly everyone was twice my age.

Of course, they were curious, seeing as I wasn't the daughter or niece. They couldn't figure out the connection. And with a certain generation, connections are important. You need to be placed on the grid, so-and-so's daughter, so-and-so's granddaughter, so-and-so's niece. I was utterly, utterly unrelated to anyone. I was off the grid.

And I wrote the following after one such night out.

A Saturday Night

Bingo on a Saturday night
Old faces, eager young eyes
People I don't know.
Look at me in surprise.

Who is she, they ask Hyacinth
who walked in with me
George's new girlfriend,
she replies.

George is her husband.
George is 82.

She's very young,
Of course, says Hyacinth
What would he want
with another old woman?

Don't you mind?
Hell no.

What's your name dear?
Where are you from?
Are you related to so-and-so?
Their voices flutter,
Butterflies in my hair.

And then the bingo.
Pat calls out the numbers
22 is double chooks
and 11, legs.
(They always whistle when she says that)
8 the fat lady or gentleman.
Sweet 16 and never been kissed.
She chokes at 69, then accuses an old guy
of being obscene when he sniggers.

Bingo on a Saturday night,
Old faces, eager young eyes.

A Bellyful of Maggots

You see it's the extent of the treachery that gets to me. It's like the Dutch boy has removed his finger from the hole in the dyke. The trickle becomes a flow, the water gushes forth, the hole expands, the dyke collapses.

There is a flood. We are overwhelmed. We drown.

I'm drowning now. In all the lies you told me. I can't even seem to get my head around them.

Was there even the slightest semblance of truth in all this mendacity?

Each lie, like a maggot in my belly, eating away at me. And truth, like methylated spirit, to kill each maggot. But oh, does it sting. Each maggot killed feels like a tearing, a severance. I was cuddling my maggots, they took refuge inside me, my bastard children.

Lies, like tumours.

Lies, like festering sores.

Lies, like that look in your eyes.

I just don't understand why you would make all this effort. I'm not worth it. Really. And now, you're on the phone harrassing me. Constantly. Now that I don't want to speak to you.

You don't know, do you? You don't know just how much I know. And who told me. And how you now appear, a dimunitive figure, just sad and ridiculous.

Evil is, as it ever was, privative.

A lack of something.

A hole in the air.

An absence.

You shrink in front of my eyes. You become less and less. You turn to shadow.

While I keep vomitting maggots.

The Sith Lord

He comes into the room and rubs his hands together. Affecting evil. Except that it is no affectation. He actually IS evil.

"You want a woman, you fuck her mind first. Then the body comes to you for free. Believe me, she will be begging for it. Look at me, I can't even seem to get rid of them. Which is a bummer. A guy gets bored. He likes some variety."

I nod fixated, wondering why he is deigning to share this information with me. Of course, I'm not in the running so I don't matter. But does he think I wouldn't share the information?

Then I glance across at the table. He's screwing four of the five women there. I watch their eyes as they look at him. Clearly, it doesn't matter what I say. He's got them wrapped around his pinky. He shares just a little with each. Just a little, just enough to let them know that the others are the enemy. Make sure everyone is civil. But always ensure there is an appropriate level of mistrust. We cannot have midnight bonding sessions. You know how women get when they're friends.

He catches each eye in turn with a significant look. As if to say, "See what I'm dealing with? See how she is all over me like spaghetti sauce? This woman doesn't know what's what. She just can't let go. When you know, you're all I want."

He surreptitiously sends each one a text message in turn, assuring her of her utter importance in this bevy of beauties. He calls each when they leave and get home. To make sure they got the right impressions. It is so important, keeping all this square. Maybe he'll invest in the latest relationship management software - to square the stories, the birthdays, the anniversaries, the significant events. Yes, who would have thought that it could be used for this? To hell with customers, who cares about customers?

It's getting late. One by one the girlfriends have faded out, too tired to out-wait the other. They know he will call anyway. Maybe they wont get together tonight. Maybe it will be tomorrow.

He lights a cigarette and contemplates just how easy it is. Women are like dogs. You train them and they respond. Gets into his car and makes the five-minute drive back home.

Where he fucks his (ex?)-wife who just happens to live with him.

Onion and Garlic Tales

I realise that both Julie and I usually turn up in JB looking ragged and weary for Mum to minister to. (Mum's usual comment is aiyo, I wanted to cry when I saw her!)

And despite the fact that having one of us (OK having me, not Julie so much) around means double or triple work for her, she is usually quite cheerful about it.

Last night I crawled into Mummy's bed cos I was pretty cold. It had been raining incessantly. Now if you're going to crawl into somebody's bed at four in the morning, one would think you would do it discreetly, or rather silently.

Not me. She doesn't call me baby elephant for nothing. So it's pound, step on, oops, every step of the way. Mummy wakes up and asks what the matter is. I say I'm cold. So she cuddles me. And I warm up real fast. (I know, I know, disgraceful 36-year-old, but what to do? some of us never grow up)

Then I proceed to sleep till afternoon. I am aware of some vague ineffectual attempts to get me up, but I'm not budging.

So I come downstairs past noon to listen to tales of Elliot's latest misadventures. Apparently he stretched from where he was tied up to get Mum's slippers and chew them. She is livid.

"He's not a puppy anymore."

Then she ponders on it and decides he was demonstrating his displeasure not at her, but at me. For not taking him out for a walk yesterday. I was busy sleeping, remember?

"Ivan let them go the whole night and only tied them up when he was going up and he still does this!"

I am intrigued. Our two doggies are mortal enemies and cannot be freed together as fur and blood tend to fly. "He let them go together? And they didn't fight?"

"Not with Ivan around. He holds a broom and warns them first. They know what they'll get."

Now Mum is making chicken rice. And the kitchen smells very yummy. Chubs asked if I could make the lemon curd cake but I forgot to bring my recipe book. At least, I think I forgot. Must go look. Or ask Jackie if she has the recipe.

I like baking.

JB Saturdays

It doesn't help that I only dropped off at five in the morning. Mum staggers to my door barely four hours later and starts her early morning chatter:

"Jenny, you wanna go Pasar Tani? Or you wanna go for breakfast? OK come, let's go for breakfast. Hurry up girl!"

So I wake up and shake sleep from my hair and throw on some crumpled clothes. Mum eyes me askance. "You didn't iron that." Then she shrugs philosophically. At least I'm up and that's saying something.

Chubs, who has been shaken out of sleep is also grumpy. I come down to greet the two doggies. I don't understand why Elliot is looking so worried (I realise later that he thinks I'm leaving already - poor Elliot, his life is so full of uncertainty, we come, we go, and he remains tied up).

Anyway we arrive at Kerala Restaurant too late for the appam. Uncle Joe is sitting at his accustomed place at the cash register looking placid. He smiles and nods. We order roti canai instead. And mutton curry. The mutton curry arrives sans mutton. Apparently they don't have the ones that have been chopped up small small. Bru Coffees all round. Mum glances at her watch and mentally calculates what time we can call Jackie to wish her. It's her birthday. I'm hoping that she has received all the cards by now.

Then it's off to Pasar Tani. Chubs stops near the rickety stairs. He's gonna stay in the car and read his PG Wodehouse. I am going to follow Mum and be the pack horse. I look around trying to take note of this pageant around me. Two people quote higher prices than what is written on the cards and Mum bristles up in conscious reproof. The vegetable ladies are grumpy. The fruit guys are jovial. One old fruit guy offers me a slice of jackfruit. It is very very sweet and soon my fingers are sticky with juice.

"Alamak, mak mertua lalu belakang tak nampak." (roughly translated: your mother-in-law has just passed behind you, you didn't see her)

I stare at the man in surprise. "Sorry?"

Apparently it is a pepatah Melayu (Malay saying). I'm not sure if the saying has to do with eating jackfruit, or sweet fruit, or sticky fruit and forebear to ask. I am allergic to mothers-in-law, imaginary or otherwise.

Being a lazy child, not interested in lugging around a lot of heavy plastic bags I make frequent trips to the car where Chubs is relaxing, seat back, reading his Wodehouse and listening to the radio (some things never change).

Finally, all the marketing is done and Mums has arrived at her plants stall. This signals the end of or Pasar Tani trip. Her mouth opens slightly and her eyes zone out into her junkie look. (some things really never change)

Then I think, OK we're off home. But it is not to be. Mum doesn't get a chance to run her errands often, what with Chubs busy with peak period at the office and all (altho I did tell her I'd be back for a week this time, which means we could spread them out), so she wants to go to the Post Office to pay a bill. And stop along the way to buy bread. Lack of sleep is starting to get to me and I feel myself getting grumpy.

But Mums says - go get your refund (the car petrol hike refund thingy) and I say, aiya dowanlar...and Chubs says, you'd better, after all, they reduced petrol prices today, so they may take this off. So I go, pay the bill and get my refund (it takes all of five minutes, for which I am pleasantly surprised) and then finally, finally we make our way home.

Time to shower and sleep. Except that I need to get on the net to check my Facebook and email. Mum looks at me and shakes her head: "You are addicted, aren't you?"

I nod, eyes riveted on the screen.

For sure.

Say What You Need To Say

Even if your hands are shaking
And your faith is broken
Even as the eyes are closing
Do it with a heart wide open

Say what you need to say...

I'm back home in JB. Took a slow drive and calmed down. I am a child of highways, the road soothes me, it lulls me into a meditative peace. I need to drive alone. I need to switch off the phone and just be alone with my thoughts for a while.

From that calm sometimes leviathans emerge, but oftentimes I just watch the procession of thoughts tread by in my head as my fingers search out the best radio station. Sometimes I hit a song I like. Sometimes it all goes distorted. Sometimes, there is only silence.

And I talk to people in my head and tell them what I have to tell them. I compose beautiful letters and messages and blogposts (pity I forget what I think as soon as I sit down to write them)

And what I need to say is:

No cause. No cause.

It explains everything. And nothing.

So you go figure it out.

Going Home

The morning after a binge, the world seems tinged with ashes and dust. The light is rusty, the air unclean. And the music comes to me distorted, like a soundtrack by Teenage Fan Club.

Let everything that is to fall, fall, beginning with tired love.

I'm glad I'm leaving. If only temporarily. There are places to visit, people to see. Nothing to tie me here. There was little before and now there is even less.

We met Rejane yesterday. And that was interesting. We met Richard (not the yoga nazi) yesterday. And that was interesting. We ate the best prawn sambal in the world, at Backyard and that was interesting. We shared some very honest moments fuelled by the alcholic haze. (OK Richard and Mary weren't drinking, Rejane and I were, but everyone seemed sober and real. Very real)

I had four whiskies (four!) all told, and still drove back sober (I am seriously going to have to do something about my increasing tolerance level).

Mary and I are out to Mid Valley today to eat the incomparable chicken rice. And get a refund for my lost parking ticket. And then I'll be off with Nits and Adek to WIP. Maybe call Rejane to see what she is doing later as both my amigas are going to ditch me early. Prior engagements.

Maybe it will be an early night as I intend to take off early tomorrow.

I just want to go home.

The Morning After

I wake with a pit of heaving magma in my centre. Doesn't this feeling go away in the morning? Isn't it a denizen of the night? Apparently not. Apparently it will stay with me until it is fully out of my system.

I sometimes wish I had a few more skins.

I like how it feels not to feel.

Think I'm gonna get drunk tonight as well.

Later for you.

Desperado

OK I'm drunk now. I'm writing this on two whiskies. Which is like way above my limit. Although I wish I could open a bottle of wine by myself and chug it down like mineral water. Maybe that would numb me.

Everything hurts. A mass or raw nerve endings.

I drove to Backyard with Mary Zack of the broken toe fame. She came because I told her I seriously needed to get drunk and there was so much shit going down that I could no longer handle it. Too much sadness and misery and despair and illness and hurt. All at once.

Too much!

More than I could handle. Not without a drink or a hundred.

I think my tolerance is rising. Two whiskies and I feel nothing. I mean everything is thrown into sharp relief, even the pain, even the sense of abandonment, but still...I discussed Jane Austen and Jane Eyre and drove home sober. Although I was drunk. And my heart felt like a lump of lead in my chest. Even then.

Look for the girl with the broken smile, ask her if she wants to stay a while and she will be loved.

But I'm not.

Changes

OK time for a good old update, the old-fashioned kind, the kind that tells you what's going on without me without resorting to poetry or metaphors or streams of consciousness. Or hints.

A lot in fact. I quit my job. My last day was 8/8/8 which is kinda cool. I still work for the company though. Sort of. I'm supposed to be on retainer. In fact I'm at D'lish Bangsar waiting for the ex-boss to come and practice his speech. Same old same old.

Having given up my job, I had to surrender my laptop (definitely the more painful sacrifice of the two). But it was a blessing in disguise. Having to surrender my laptop, I had to go see what was available in the shape of laptops. And I got my wonderful PollyAnna, a red Dell, which is not just functional, it's pretty. And having a laptop, I needed to get a laptop bag. Did you know that these are now fashion accessories? Go figure. Well anyway, I got a pretty red laptop bag from Mid Valley. I love it. Fits all my stuff. And PollyAnna. What more could I ask for? (I'm getting the 'my life is now perfect' feel to this).

I'm supposed to buy a digital camera, and the one I want, I'm attracted to because of aesthetics rather than functions. It's so pretty. When I asked the girl to remove it from the display window, I felt a thrill. It's red, see? BMW red. I love red. Or did you already guess that? However bossy boots little sister asked me not to get anything without checking with her as cameras may actually be cheaper in the UK. So I held off. With heroic restraint. Sometimes I actually make myself proud of me.

I lost my parking ticket. (Which is not a major change, but just the kind of pulling a Jennifer that I thought would amuse you). I found it again after I had paid the fine. It was on my windscreen where some kind soul, who found it on the ground, had put it. By that time it was too late to get a refund (apparently the refunds need to be approved by executives and the mere cashiers who took your money cannot give it back) so I'll have to go to Megamall once again. With Mary. Maybe not. She is still hobbling. Her toe remains broken.

I'm supposed to be a freelancer now but haven't actively started looking for work. Feel tired. A bone-deep weariness that comes from somewhere and goes to nowhere and there is nothing I seem to be able to do about it. Can't wait to get to Campion's sequestered vale, altho Jackie has threatened to drag me off to France instead (but since I love France and Paris is my favourite city in the world, I'm not objecting).

Last night I dreamt somebody loved me.

No hope.

No harm.

Just another false alarm.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Groundhog Day has decided to extend its run.

GroundHog Day

I did it again. One every year. Every 10 years. Who knows? I never seem to get out of today and into tomorrow.

Yeah, the body ages and weakens. The mind becomes more clouded. So we mark the passing years with decay rather than the onset of wisdom.

Round and round and round we go, where we get off nobody knows. Moving in circles, always pain, nobody to turn to, nobody.

I wish I was real.

I wish I was not a watercolour.

I wish I didn't wash off.

A Dream Within A Dream

The crow lands on my shoulder: "Give up Jenn. Move on..."

"Quoth the raven, nevermore?" I retort mockingly.

"Poe? I would have figured you for better...but if that's how you want to go...Take this kiss upon thy brow," he pecks me hard and flutters away.

I lift my hand to stem the trickle of blood from my forehead and continue where the denizen of doom left off:

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand --
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep -- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Why I Love Tristan

I am surveying the wreck of my latest almost-relationship. There is my heart lying battered on the ground, smoke rising from the crevices. It feels strangely peaceful to have my heart outside my body for a while. It doesn't hurt so much.

Tristan appears behind me and looks over my shoulder.

"Another one Jenn? Boy, you sure know how to pick 'em."

"Sometimes, they pick me," I say, hiccuping between a chuckle and a sob.

"Yeah sweetie, but you can always say no."

He examines the grooves on my heart and shakes his head: "Addiction."

"Not love?"

"Nope."

"I thought for sure it was love this time."

I lift the messy organ off the ground and hand it to him: "Why don't you stomp it some more while you're at it?"

Tristan smiles, dusts off my heart gently and places it back in my chest cavity. "A sting, and then peace..."

I start to cry of course. It's all I ever seem to do at this stage and he holds my hand and just allows me to wail. (This is why I love Tristan. This is why I will always love Tristan)

When the sobs subside, he swings my hand in the air: "Let's run away."

"OK, where?"

"The beach?"

"Cool."

So we pack into his rattletrap of a car, stopping along the way for supplies. At the beach we unpack our cask wine, served up in jelly glasses and prawn cocktail, which we eat with our fingers. Somewhere at the back of my mind I am aware of the consequences. I know I am going to feel plenty sick tomorrow. But who cares? Tomorrow is tomorrow. And it is still only today.

As we chug the cheap wine, we grow maudlin, sing songs, swap stories. I ask about boa constrictor girl, one of his girlfriends who insists on sleeping with her snake. And I don't mean that in a sexy way. Tristan shakes his head and sighs. She was interesting, but she is so over. I ask about the bliss-fairy and he perks up. Yes, they went out a couple of days ago. May be something there.

And he asks about Rumpelstiltskin, my latest disaster. And I tell him. Thus, we reduce our exes to some strange quirk or body part, draining them of humanity. They're easier to deal with like this. Not real people anymore. Just a collection of foibles and ANYONE can get over a collection of foibles.

Even me.

It's early and the sun is rising. Tristan gathers me close and I lay my head on his shoulder and shut my eyes. There is a hush in the air, and in that magical moment, the pain dissolves.

I open my eyes to find Tristan has vanished.

I feel sick from the cheap wine and cold prawns like I knew I would.

Tomorrow has come.

But I feel better all the same.

And this is why I love Tristan.

There Is A Crack In Everything God Made

Look at me.

Look closer.

Right deep into my eyes.

See the crack?

Yes, it's been there for so long now. Tired of trying to hold it together.

Everything crumbles. Everything fades. Everything tastes of ashes.

See the crack?

I don't remember when it got there. But I feel it at the centre of my being.

See the crack? I'm Humpty Dumpty and you can't put me together again. I'm Alice in a Wonderland falling through the hole. Slick walls. I cannot hold on.

You can't help me.

Nobody can.

I know you want to protect me, but you can't.

Nobody can.

There is a crack, a crack in evertyhing
That is how the light gets in
That is how the light gets in
That is how the light gets in...

Fray is Right; I'm Starting to Unravel

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

Maybe it's all the late nights. Maybe it is the unaccustomed alcohol. Maybe it's the new people seeping in at the corners of my life. But I feel like something's changed, something profound and I'm left helpless, staring, wondering what's down that road, what's around the corner.

Words bleed from my fingers...I can't stop them. And I re-read things I wrote before and think oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, I remember how I felt then, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, this blows my mind.

Lear: Be your tears wet? Yes, faith. I pray, weep not.
If you have poison for me, I will drink it.
I know you do not love me; for your sisters
Have, as I do remember, done me wrong.
You have some cause, they have not.

Cordelia: No cause, no cause.

Once More Into The Fray

I'm back from yoga and in a slightly surreal space. I wonder how Richard manages to trip so lightly through life. He is so disciplined with his practice but he doesn't seem to sweat the small stuff. Or any stuff. Heck, I've never seen that guy sweat. Like ever. Which is weird in a yoga context.

I, on the other hand, have all sorts of things lying heavy on my heart. Which I just can't seem to shake.

And sometimes, when I'm tossing and turning, in the furnace of the night, I wonder...

Things are changing very quickly and part of me wants to get swept up in the tides and part of me wants to get my bearings and part of me wants to step out to the sidelines and just watch.

Ever have I been the spectator.

The solitary dreamer.

The one who writes the story.

But is seldom a part of it.

And now?

The Squirrels Are Eating The Rambutans

It starts to rain before I've even left Selangor, and I'm very sleepy. Too many late nights. After nodding off (or nearly nodding off) at the wheel a few times, I pull up alongside a trailer at the next stop, push back my seat and take a nap.

Of course, Mums knows I'm coming back and she doesn't know what time I left which means my phone will be buzzing continuously. Not that I answer it. I've left the bluetooth device (which I never use, anyway) back in KL.

When I arise from the sleep of ages, the rain has stopped and I make my way through the traffic..which clears after Malacca. Heroes out on the road today. But I don't feel like speeding. I'm averaging 80 and the radio is set to light and easy and I'm just breathing through the journey.

Everytime I move into the overtaking lane to pass a truck that's going even slower than me, the impatient badawa rascals tailgate me, flash, flash, flash, until I get out of their way. Funny. At one time this would have agigated me. Today, I just go slower, to irritate them for being so rude.

Yeah, go on flashing, why don't you?

When I arrive outside our gate, the two dogs go crazy. Elliot is barking loudly, sounding fierce and forbidding, in case it isn't Julie (it isn't). Maggotty recognises the car (I donno how) and starts yelping. Mummy staggers out with a big grin the gate.

"Be quiet!"

The dogs subside and Elliot wraps his chain around her. She swats him away. Anyway, after much drama the gate is opened and I glide in (haha, Chubs has gone out for a movie so I get to take his place).

So I'm home to kueh teow...

Mum: I made your brother come home before going out with his friends...told him to bring back some kueh teow

which is way nice....

and tea (Mum says, hot drink, you wanna hot drink?)

which is also way nice...

and Old Christine...which is only so-so. I was not into Julie Louis Dreyfuss on Seinfeld, and guess what? Still not into her. However as I'm too lazy to change the DVD, I still through the first half of the first season, wishing I could watch The Hot Chick instead, because that's one of my favourite JB movies. I've also brought my Joan of Arcadia to watch, but too lazy.

This morning, I go to say good morning (way after afternoon when I finally emerge from the mists of Morpheus) to the doggies and realise that they're filthy. My hands are black so I say Mum, I going to bathe the patis...and she says OK. And I do. And they behave really really well, which is a surprise but I think the lack of set up for bath may have had something to do with it...they stand there and shiver as I hose them with icy water and then rub the shampoo deep into their fur. The dog getting the bath is quiet. The other one howls in jealousy. But that's OK.

They're clean now and Mums is ladling out their food.

A little later we'll be going out to fix my car. That bloody Skoda (the drunk who backed into me at the traffic lights) did some damage without me being sengaja of it. I can't open the bonnet...

I tell you ah...

Time To Move On

I brace myself for the inevitable and still, when it comes, I feel sad.

Lost in the silence.

You look at me. You look through me.

It's as if I'm no longer there.

Perhaps I never was.

You need me like a fish needs a bicycle.

Yes, that was what I wanted. I wanted you to make it on your own. Without me. And still, it's hard to let you go.

There is so little left between us and soon, even that will pass.

Thank you for what you have given me. I forgive you for what you have done to me. And I know you will forgive me.

It's time to move on.

Perfect Time

Why is the measure of love loss?

Maybe if I breathe slowly, hold the image, relax into it, maybe then...

I am not ready. She's coming for me. I was stalling and she told me there would be a reckoning. She warned me.

No escape.

Child, stay awake.

Why is the measure of love loss?

It's time.

No, I'm not ready. Sometimes the wind is moist and the raindrops make me cry.

It's time.

Sometimes on a cloudy afternoon, I can hear music on the wind.

It's time.

Sometimes there is chocolate cake in the oven and a mother who smiles and lets me scrape the bowl.

It's time.

Sometimes there is a glint of warmth in the eyes of a stranger.

It's time.

Sometimes there's an afterglow.

No more words.

I'm not ready. I haven't learned it. Please...I'm not ready.

Why is the measure of love loss?

Because there is no love.

Only loss.

Love, Actually

I sometimes wonder what it is we're looking for.

Bliss? Peace? Love? Happiness?

All of the above?

And yet we move in these tortured circles. Same faces, same stories. Different faces, same stories. Reliving the same script over and over and over again.

When will I ever learn?

No, really.

When?

Peaceful Easy Feeling

As if the musical healing wasn't enough - I went for a Sekhem session yesterday. The healer said the energy was particularly blocked in my knees and shoulders. Apparently that is where we keep our beliefs and memories.

Words employed to describe me:

Rigid
Inflexible
Kinda hard on men.

Right, right, and oh boy, right again!

She said there may some "healing reaction" after the session. There was. I imploded, became depressed and felt like that guy who pushes a stone up a mountain only to see it roll down again. And again. And again. Hasn't anything helped? Haven't I made any progress at all this year? I thought I had. But there it is - rigid, inflexible, blah, blah, blah.

As for rigid, Richard, my Yoga Nazi could have told you that...when he tries to adjust me, he says, surrender, Jennifer, surrender...and the harder I try, the stiffer I become. Four months of yoga and I've barely moved forward. I sweat a lot, which is good. But everything is still a struggle.

Then today, I decide to get rid of stuff (an impulse bubbling up from my healing session?) Anyway I fill a black garbage bag with old handbags, old shoes, old trousers. While emptying my cupboard I came across a colourful bedsheet a friend gave me as an engagement present. Decided that since my present bedsheet is being laundered, I would use this thing of mirrors and bright colours to adorn my sleeping quarters. Also I will unearth the pillowcases given by another friend as a another, yeah, you got it, engagement present.

I found the beautiful album George gave me. I leafed through it and wondered what I would put in it. Something...it will be my dream book. The most special one. Oh yeah, another thing the healer said was that I could achieve anything I put my mind to. And I wondered - as present dreams centre around being a vagabond and wandering through the highways and byways of this old dusty world, sloughing off identities, picking up stories and generally moving forward with the rest of my life.

For so long now, I've simply felt stuck. Like I was not where I was/am supposed to be. I've been easing into a new identity (altho I find it's not so new and I'm still the same old me, with the same old issues) this year.

Which is a long way from that mouldy hotel room in Fraser's Hill drinking myself senseless and wondering how to end it.

I gotta peaceful easy feeling
I know you wont let me down
Cos I'm already standing
On the ground.

I Could Have Danced All Night

So there I was with a map in my lap, desperately trying to negotiate unfamiliar roads. In Setapak. Which is like, beyond the boondocks. Zafrul had a shoot at nine in the morning and I was already late. I got to the place indicated on the map. But it didn't look right. I mean, I was supposed to get to an old folk's home. And these were flats. Not a house. Surely, it would be a house.

So I get right out of there, turn tentatively into another road and find myself in a kampung. I mean, like literally. I drive as cautiously as I can trying not to run down baby chicks who were not smart enough to get out of my way.

Then I pull over on the verge and take out my map for another look. I read the address carefully and slap my forehead. Goddamn! It's a flat. I'm supposed to have gone to a flat. That first place was the right place after all. Now how to get out of this mess. I drive around a bit. U-turn. Nearly land up in a drain. And then, find my way out and get to the flats in question. Where's there's like a big sign saying...Nascom. The place I want to get to. Which I didn't notice the first time around.

I get out of the car and sprint towards the flat in question. Huh! Luckily I am dressed down in jeans and Birkies. I get there and see the contestants who smile a good morning...and the boss, well, he's not there to scold me cos he is driving around somewhere loster than me.

Anyways, after waiting a while, texting him to find out where he is and finally calling him, I, with the help of the human GPS, Kim, realise that he has missed a crucial turning and gone miles out of his way and needs to turn back. We take the car out to the traffic light he missed, wait for him to turn in and then lead him miles and miles into the interior, to this God-forsaken place...where we rush for the shoot. The sun is blazing and it's not long before his shirt is clinging to him like a second skin. Throw in an ear wax impaction, and you do not have a happy bunny.

What with all the offscreen drama, I don't get to have the meeting with him that I was supposed to, to clear some outstanding office business. Trying to get a meeting with this man is like trying to get an autograph off Juliet Cynthia Jacobs. Not exactly the easiest thing in the world. So I say...but, we need to go through such and such...and running, he says...OK, can you meet me at Carcosa at 2?

I nod and get there at one. After which I text the boss to tell him I'm there waiting for him (as if his life didn't have enough pressure) and he's forced to rush his business to be there as quickly as possible. (The good thing about all this is that we get to clear business at hand). He is there for some KLBC meeting or other and his friends start arriving and rock up to interrupt...he says, give me a minute, need to clear some work, please give me a minute, OK? And they clear off obligingly. That's the nice thing about accountants...they're so civilized, y'know.

And there's a lot more stuff...but it's 1.39 now and I'm tired and I just can't wait to be king. Oh no wait, it's I just can't wait to get to bed....

Bed, bed, I couldn't go to bed
My head's too light to try to set it down
Sleep, sleep, I couldn't sleep tonight
Not for all the jewels in the crown....

Surreal

I seem to have taken a vacation from reality...last night I was baking a brownie and I fell fast asleep and woke up to pull out the burnt crusty thing from the oven...and my hands were heavy with sleep and I nearly dropped everything. But don't worry, it was not burnt all through. Just the top part, which you could remove without anyone being the wiser.

I met Ambikah for lunch today and brought along a few pieces for her edification. She broke off a little for a taste. Then a little more. Then a little more...we were at Angel Cake House and they looked at us askance for eating cake not of their making...but she tipped them generously. I think she likes the brownies.

Dadda is talking in his sleep now....I don't know what he just said.

And I saw Addy later and she said she would love some dessert. Anything chocolatey. My kind of girl, I say.

There was yoga today and my Yoga Nazi was in a good mood. Splendid. He wasn't too tough on us and I barely broke a sweat. Although we did some heavy breathing on purpose. Kapalabathi or some such thing which involves forced exhalations.

I also got to hang out with Stephanie the artist today and I love her house because it is full of her paintings and I love her paintings because they are all the colours of happy.

I'm not making any dessert tonight. I need to take a shower and stretch out on the sofa and maybe watch a DVD or maybe fall asleep or maybe just lie there and drift.

Nothing is real.

I can't make it real.

Sweets for the Sweet

A fresh chocolate raspberry streusel bar reposes on the counter. I just made it. It will be our dessert for the next week. And if it should finish halfway, as I expect it to do, I will make another one. I got enough ingredients to do so....muahahahahaha!

Last week, it was chocolate chip cookies. The week before that, fresh lemon curd cake. You can say that I've been baking with zest. To say nothing of chocolate chips, raspberry jam, lemons, butter, sugar and flour. Lots of flour. I love the way my belly jiggles softly as I enter the room about 10 minutes after it. It's good to play drums on. Thwack, thwack, thwack. (Yeah, yoga notwithstanding)

But considering I only bake when I'm happy (sort of), I feel that everything is pleasant and nice and buttery and chocolatey and coated with honey.

I have strange dreams at night, but that must be because of the books I've been reading. Yeah, there was this one with a glass window and waves that slammed against said window and broke it threatening to overwhelm me as I stood watching in helpless fascination thinking - wow, how beautiful, strange and terrible and beautiful...

Anyway, back to desserts. My friends have taken to avoiding me. Or tying themselves up in knots trying to tell me politely (so as to not hurt my feelings, you know how sensitive I get) that no, please, they don't want anymore cake, and don't ask them again, like ever, have I noticed how nothing fits anymore and get away from me, you temptress, you devil incarnate...NOOOOOOOOOO!

So I laugh (because I'm so happy for no particular reason) and just leave my goodies at home, where we will have them with our tea every day...Dadda likes to have something for tea, and now there is always something. The chocolate chip cookies are not nearly finished (although I must say Julie did her best, polishing off half a tin, in one short day) and now there's a chocolate raspberry streusel bar. And the ingredients for another crsb in the fridge. As well as the fixin's for a hazelnut white dark chocolate brownie. Yum!

And my friends say, stay away from me you devil. So I smile, lick my fingers and say...OK whatever. And some point out delicately that dear, dear Jenn, you are moving towards embonpoint, not to say fat, well OK, fat....maybe you should cut down a little dear.

And I laugh and wave and cram my mouth full of cake and sing yummy yummy yummy I got love in my tummy....

So am I evil?

Or simply misguided?

I Saw My Life Flash Before My Eyes (But It Was Only A UFO)

I dragged Mary to Backyard last night. I was buzzing, buzzing, buzzing and she had an early bus to catch this morning for a wedding on Saturday, which meant early to bed - was there ever anything so inevitable?

Anyways, there we were, me digging into my mutton varuval and Mary chatting away when who should rock up but Mark's Victor...who joined us. We didn't mind him so much - he's very much the strong silent type (though not so silent with us) and we chatted about gigs and Chianti and bounced cheques and new rulings by Bank Negara and other subjects of similar potency. He was struggling with his first glass of stout. Then he struggled through his second glass of stout. Finally he struggled through his third glass, at which point, we left.

Although it was later and later, we stayed on - and then this real creep - large ugly Indian thuggy looking guy with a posh Brit accent, to say nothing of snobby demeanour - joined us. Now, we don't like this guy. The only time I had shared a table with him, he hit on my friend Michelle-Ann, and continued to hit on her through the night until we decided to leave. A noxious bastard with pretensions to grandeur.

However, he unseated my bag (which was parked on a chair) and sat down, purportedly on his way out. And didn't leave. So we had to. He was contemptuous about my coffee table book. Nuff said!

Anyways, on the way back, Mary and I are at the BSC traffic lights chatting, when the Skoda in front of me starts backing up...alarmed, I honk. He keeps backing up until he bangs into me.

I mean to say what?

This red-faced man (he was drunk, not embarrassed) gets out of the car, waves his hands around a bit and asks if we are all OK. I say...what was that? He says, sorry, I put the car into the wrong gear. I checked out my front bumper - there wasn't any visible damage.

So I got back into my car. Mary said, that guy was drunk. Did you see how red his face was? I said, really? She said yes.

So we thought about how surreal everything had suddenly become. There we were, on an ordinary night, at an ordinary traffic light, making ordinary small talk, when suddenly a Skoda backs into us.

At work this morning...early. There's a staff meeting. Mary is on the bus, sleeping.

My colleague Nik is next to me, checking his facebook.

My life is constructed of all these strangely disparate moments. (Hope Zafrul, who is already 18 minutes late for the staff meeting he called, keeps it short. N'am saying?)

Journeys of the Heart

I've picked up 12 copies of my coffee table book (OK I had to pay for them, but still...) I picked up five free copies (one for me and four for the people I interviewed) and have spent most of today (OK, after lunch, before lunch I was head down, bum up, working) delivering the copies and catching up with people. I can't even begin to describe how wonderful it feels to reconnect with these amazing people.

Halfway through I was hungry, so I headed off to Lucas's place for my bacon sandwich (that's real bacon and not that fake beef bacon) and orange juice and coffee. It was on my way cos I had just delivered Dominic's book at Plaza Damas. Lucas was very impressed with the book. He thought it was beautifully put together and he read all of one story (mine, of course, or I would have clunked him on the head). He thought I was leaving a copy for him, but I said, no can do...this book is spoken for. He said he would borrow my copy at some point to read. Mary wants to borrow my copy some time soon as well...little does she know...(evil laugh)

We went to this new restaurant Red at Medan Damansara, for dinner last night. The lamb stew was divine - but it was so very little - that I was still hungry after. So maybe I will have to dig up lamb stew recipes and make my own. At least I will make enough to go around, so you're not hungry after. And I will whip up a crazy dessert. (what is wrong with me? I keep wanting to make desserts!)

And now I'm bathed in the lambent glow of a productive day....it feels good.

And...there is something wrong with my eyes. Everyone seems to be drenched in luminosity. Glowing. Beautiful.

I am living. I remember you.

Criminy!

It's the boss's birthday today. I sent him an SMS at 1.37am and he replied at 4.51am...still the same old Tune Money and our SMS-ing at ungodly hours.

My review on the play Sybil is out on Kakiseni today. To say I am thrilled would be putting it mildly. I guess after being a PR for so long (OK, it's only been a year but time is relative), it feels good to see a byline.

And Ena from Ayesha Harben called to say that the coffee table book on Families (I contributed a chapter entitled Choices and Challenges way back when I was still an insomniac freelancer) is out now and I can go pick up my copy as well as copies for the families I interviewed. I can't wait.

And I made two fresh lemon curd cakes this week. The second one I am going to distribute among friends...I think something positive is happening as I feel like baking all over again. (I only cook or bake when I'm happy or when it's Christmas and I have no choice).

And now I am supposed to sit down quietly and write an article for the boss. But I'm buzzing, buzzing, buzzing...can't sit still...oh my!

Sapphic Delights

I'm watching Sappho - would not recommend it. The acting is kinda stiff and definitely B-grade...but if you want to ogle at pretty people - and watch two pretty women get it on - then be my guest:

Helene: If you are lucky enough to love somebody who cares if it's a boy or a girl?

Starbucks

I'm flickering. Like a firefly. Buzzing. Like a bee.

A picture forms. It's somewhere else and I'm wandering along, wearing my home on my back and I glide over pavements and the air smells of Lalique and the leaves drift lazily and settle in my hair until I'm something of a cross between a snail and a dryad.

That guy in the red kurta who's just rocked up, with the diamond drop in his left ear, he looks gay, and the girl with him looks suitably moneyed. Oooooh the joys of fag hagging. (I'm the only gay in this village, Myfanwy)

(Nothing's gonna change my world, nothing's gonna change my world)

The lady with fine long straight hair and a carefully tended fringe, bites neatly into her sandwich and regards the man in a pink shirt intently. She smiles in all the right places. Looks coy. Tilts her head to one side. Dabs her mouth with a napkin. Offers pithy observations. Laughs. Her hair is so perfect. Surely he sees that her hair is so perfect. Does he know how long it takes to get it this perfect?

(All you need is love, love, love is all you need)

The ballerina with her hair pulled into a bun and her symmetrical parting, bends over her book, latte in hand. She looks tranquil. She's classically beautiful - all lines and angles - smooth like white marble and just as unyielding. No softness anywhere. Sits cross legged in her armchair. Reaches out to sip her latte. Bites her fingernail. Stops. All intentness for the page.

(The yearning to be near you, I do what I have to do)

The guy in a bright blue shirt is fiddling with his earlobe. His ice latte in a clear plastic cup, balanced precariously on the wooden barrier. He gazes at his laptop. Scratches his head. Then caresses it. Bites a fingernail.

A man walks into the Travel Zone. He is old and Caucasian and he looks clumsy with contentment. He walks into Travel Zone because he can afford the luggage there and it does not faze him that this is Bangsar Village and everything is expensive. More expensive than most. He walks around surveying the pull bags.

Two strangers seated in separate circles are having a conversation. One a bald, bearded Indian man in a light brown shirt. The other a funky young Chinese guy with moussed hair and a cheeky smile. Older guy advises younger guy. He's shaking a finger. Young guy smiles, amused.

(I require plenty conversation with my sex)

Ballerina is feeling cold. She winds a scarf around her neck. Then it's back to the book. Guy at Travel Zone has just picked a bag. A medium sized pull bag. But then he gets attracted to another one. He comes back to original choice. Hmmmm...decisions, decisions...

(Baby, baby, baby I got so much love in me)

Family seated around a laptop. Dad tries to work. Son on his lap with arms draped around Dad's shoulder. Mom craning her head to see what the other two find so interesting. Dad smiles. He has gleaming white teeth. Mom limps. Uses a walking stick. Son, clearly adopted. Happy families being happy together.

(No one needs to know, where you may carry me, you can take me down your stream and show me what my wishes mean)

The baristas are smiling. Attending to two girls in short shorts. They're getting coffee to go. And maybe some pastries. No, we really shouldn't. Oh come on, I can resist everything but temptation. Oright then, just one. Just one. Creamy, puffy, sweet centre. Yum yum.

(You scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot, happy Christmas your arse, pray God it's our larst)

And the guy next to me is blog surfing. Leaving comments as he passes through. Kinda like how I wish you would....

Not Beyond Love

For some time now, all I have been good at, for those bothering to stop by, is to ladle out that daily dose of depression. So I decided to reach out to someone else to give you something more cheerful and uplifting. Nutritious. Like rice pudding. Good old David Whyte. And yes bro, wo/man was born free but everywhere, she is in chains...

When your eyes are tired the world is tired also
When your vision has gone no part of the world can find you
Time to go into the dark where the night has eyes to recognize its own
There you can be sure you are not beyond love
The dark will be your womb tonight
The night will give you a horizon further than you can see
You must learn one thing
The world was meant to be free in
Give up all the other worlds except the one to which you belong
Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet confinement of your aloneness to learn anything or anyone that does not bring you alive is too small for you.