And just like that, March is upon us.

It's late and I'm tired. I've gone through one pullout (with a fine-tooth comb) and now I have to do the same for another. My eyes are scratchy and I just want to go home curl up in bed and watch an inane movie over iTunes or YouTube or whatever. Either that or read Love, Nina and then fall asleep.

Funnily enough, although it's just Tuesday, it feels like it's been a hard week.

Yesterday, I lost my phone and my morning pages diary.

Today, I found it again.

I guess I'll just keep that old nose to the grindstone until I'm done with what I have to do.

(Enthusiasm, where are you? Passion, likewise? Did you creep out the backdoor as I was editing pages and pages, with no clear idea where or when or how?)

If Mum was alive, I would call her now to chat. I'd say, yeah, been busy Mum, but will be done by today. Then maybe make plans to go back to JB to hang out with her.

If Mum were alive...

Somehow I think I am going to sleepwalk through the following days, stuck on autopilot, not seeing and not really caring. Not really there, if you know what I mean.

What I need to do is make lists and start doing practical things towards planning my trip because...well, it's creeping closer.

Without any warning, March is upon us. The ides of March. The time for take-off. Such things, such things.

And although it is March and speaks of tempests and tsunamis, floods and conflagrations, I would prefer to be calm, serene, mindful, untroubled.

Maybe I'll re-read Seeds from a Birch Tree again.

Or the Long Quiet Highway.

Later.

Meanwhile, back at the farm...

My kryptonite.

Pristine

Today I finally finished my obstreperous novel. When I finally got down to writing again, the story poured out of me and I didn't quit until I was done. And that was when I realised. It was not about completing the novel. It was about hammering it into shape. Now I shall have to copy what I wrote into a word document. And commence: editing!

The working title is Pristine and I'm making fun of a lot of things but it turns out sort of tragic, anyway.

Now let's see if I can whip it into shape.

How long before my soul catches up?

Every so often a word, a phrase, a name
splashes across my life
like a bloodstain
Like blood
like a stain
And I remember
And I am filled with remorse
At all the things I did
and all the ones
I did them too

And I wonder what I can do
or be or feel or say
to stop staining it anew
to wipe clean the slate

To be, in peace, in calm
in serenity

And I wonder
how long before
my actions catch up
my thoughts catch up
my feelings catch up
with my soul?

Would that I had more go

So, day three of operation, show him some attention, feed him some food. Today, as planned, I made the dry mutton curry, asparagus belachan and cocoa cake. The asparagus (because I didn't remove the tough gristly bottom part) and the cake (I left out ingredients and here is one cake where I shouldn't have used less sugar) left something to desired. But the mutton curry was sheer poetry in the mouth.

Dadda attacked it with gusto. So did I. He's at the table now having a late dinner (because we had a late tea). I and trying to psyche myself up to do some exercise or something because I've been gorging steadily all day.

OK, not all day. I started the day with a visit to the dentist for the last part of my root canal - the fitting of the crown. Then I got home, fully intending to start cooking but instead, feeling tired, I had some breakfast and fell asleep. And then I woke up and started...well, you know, the dry mutton curry requires 25 shallots - that is peeling and cutting them...among other things - so, well, by the time lunch was ready, it was pretty late. (Luckily tomorrow, everything can be heated up - there is loads of leftovers)

Among the usual things I try to do every day, the boxes I want to tick...well I haven't done much of them. Other than cooking, I have been pretty lazy. I am doing precisely what I make up such elaborate to-do lists to guard against. Wasting my weekend, allowing myself to drift aimlessly.

Would that I had more get up and go.

There's something wrong with Elliott

So I made another boiled egg this morning (this time I timed it to see that it was properly half boiled and not three quarters boiled) and Dadda ate it with gusto. OK, well, he didn't grimace at it.

I spent a productive morning doing various things and then I got to work and went out for lunch at Beyond Veggie where I had a full plate of petai fried rice (which I would have never touched in pre-diet days) and it tasted so good. And it may be past six o'clock now but I'm still full. That's what happens when you go on GM. Your stomach sort of shrinks.

I notice that it also has an effect on my mood. I tend to fly off the handle a lot more easily now. Am I feeling deprived without knowing it? But then, I do feast on weekends. Yesterday I bought all the ingredients and today, when I get home (after this Skype interview that I have to do), I will be chopping up the various bits and bobs that I have to do.

Then tomorrow, after my visit to the dentist for the crowning, I will throw everything into the pot and start cooking. I am thinking that I probably should bake the cake tonight rather than wait for tomorrow. But hmmmm....don't really want it to be stale.

So yeah, maybe I will wait and then make it after lunch. Much better idea.

It's 6.20pm now. My 6pm interview was rescheduled to 6.30pm because my interviewee was having trouble connecting to Skype.

Let met check in again.

Later for you.

Three quarter boiled eggs and fish curry

So here's the way to deal with a hypochondriac when you're not sure if he's actually ill. My father said he was feeling weak...possibly because of his reduced food intake. So, this morning, I boiled him an egg. I had meant to half boil it but I felt it too long and it was three quarters boiled instead. No matter, he ate it with pepper, salt and not a little gusto.

Then for lunch I packed a good deal of fish curry and mixed vegetable and rice from Pakeeza. Enough for lunch and dinner for two days. This too, he enjoyed and seemed to be stepping more briskly.

And to top it all off, I finally got a maid service to come clean the house which was reeking with dust and filth...and well, that makes everybody feel a lot better doesn't it?

So now the house is clean, the father is feeling less neglected and more like himself and the dog (who really is a finicky dog and does not like dirty) is reclining happily in his doggie bed.

I bought all the ingredients for the dishes I hope to make over the weekend - which means I can start cutting them up tomorrow - ready to be mixed and made into something wonderful when I get back from the dentist on Saturday morning.

I'm wondering if the prolonged diet (although I do break it two days a week) is having an effect on my mood. If it is, I should stop because it's not fair for me to be moody and lash out because I'm lacking some chemical or other in my bloodstream or I feel deprived.

The funny thing is, if I'm feeling deprived, I really have no idea of it. I guess it is something subconscious.

Although I'm supposed to be finishing the fifth chapter of Leap of Perception, I have taken up Tempest Tost instead. I don't think I did it justice in my first reading of it. Now I am enjoying it so very much more.

I didn't drink coffee last night. Maybe, after I've finished the various bits and bobs I have scheduled for the night, I will fall asleep properly.

Later for you.

Christmas holiday

I have just booked myself a holiday for Christmas. Inspired by a former lecturer, I will be going to a place I've wanted to go for a long time but just never got around to, or maybe, never had the guts to. I asked two people to go with me. The first said yes and then had a minor meltdown. The second said Christmas is so far away and she would think about it. In the meantime, I just went ahead and booked myself a bed.

Why not?

I hated Christmas last year. I spent most of the day cooking for people who were ultimately ungrateful and I thought, hang on, this is not how I want to spend Christmas in 2015. I want to pick my own party. Even if it's a party of one. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife.

I've become really good at being by myself. I prefer doing things along. Why not, after all, why ever not?

Alone, I can read. Alone, I can write. Alone, I can think my own thoughts without the screaming of another soul beside me.

So, alone it is. Alone it is.

My father, I think, sensing my growing distance and not happy with the diet I happen to be on which makes him not cook for himself...has started making his funeral plans. He feels ill now. So ill that today he started talking about death again. He told he that he has a fixed deposit at Maybank and to be sure to make a claim on it should anything happen to him.

So, tomorrow, with the new cleaner's coming in the morning, I will go pack some food for him to have both for lunch and dinner. Maybe if he eats, he will feel better.

The thing is, when I cook enough for it to last the whole week, he wastes the food. He finds fault with it. And then it has to be thrown away. And now he acts neglected. Dying. Sad. Abandoned.

So I will do the best I can.

But I will also be getting on with my life.

And I will people it with those I really want to be around.

Three in the morning

At three in the morning I'm stripped naked and I can't pretend. Whatever is, is. Whoever I love, I love. The screaming of outside noise recedes and I hear my heart. And this grief that I have been labouring under for the past year or so, I feel it. The sheer weight of it. And I can't pretend. No I can't. Not at three in the morning. Which is why I prefer to be asleep by this time.

But sometimes I'm not and something cuts me right open and everything pours out like sludge, like fuel, like the oil that leaks into pristine oceans killing all that beautiful marine life. But when I keep it inside for too long, it kills me, slows me down, when I keep it inside too long, it's like I'm moving slow, so slow, as if through amniotic acid. When I keep inside too long, I feel nothing, I forget how to feel.

And this is the hour, the moment of truth, always the moment of truth, when everything slips into something else...in sleep, we go deep. Awake, well, the mask slips and there we are, scars and all, ugly, horrifying, but real. So real.

I am weary of all these masks. No I'm not that tough, in fact not tough at all.

Can I stop pretending now?

Billy Joel - And so It Goes

And every time I've held a rose
It seems I only felt the thorns
And so it goes, and so it goes
And so will you soon I suppose.

But if my silence made you leave
Then that would be my worst mistake
So I will share this room with you
And you can have this heart to break.

Dear Diary, Please Tell Me What To Do

Dear Diary, please tell me what to do. I thought it was my mind that deserted me, but it wasn't. It was my heart. I didn't care anymore. And I still don't.

I can go through the motions. In fact I make a good approximation of going through the motions. And even on slumberous nights such as these when my heart used to fill with emotion so potent, so overwhelming that I was forced to write, even then...well, those nights are gone. And I feel nothing.

And what I'm struggling against is this emptiness. It feels like, well, nothing. Like reheated soup. Salt not included. Like a sky enveloped in that murky haze, bled of colour. No rainbows, no cerulean blue. Just me. Here. Lying on my bed. Eyes wide shut. Drifting through days that make no sense, have no meaning.

You always come up against death. There is no explanation or comfort there. Just the great bourne from which there is no return. You can't look past the wall. The way is closed. And the dead, they keep their own counsel. They keep it closed.

But I'm not dead yet.

So why do I feel like I am?

Does this ever end?

Does it ever stop aching and become peaceful, sweet, serene, all right?

I'm just asking for all right.

I'm writing a letter out into the ether for my heart, if it hears me, to stop wandering around, orphaned and untethered and to come on home.

Someday You'll Forgive Me

Someday you'll forgive me
And I'll wake up
lighter
brighter
and won't know why.

Someday you'll forgive me
And just like that
I'll stop weeping at sad intervals
for the things I did
for the things I didn't do.

Someday you'll forgive me
and the fissures in my heart
will smooth over
and I'll sigh, exhale
and finally fall asleep

Someday you'll forgive me
and when you do
I'll know.

Post Holiday Blues

The holiday was supposed to calm me down, be an oasis in this desert of busy-ness and lots of niggling little things that nibble away at me like mosquitoes. But it wasn't. The holiday itself was well enough. But the coming back to this chaos filled me with some vague nameless rage where I find it difficult to be civil, even a little civil and I've taken to avoiding people because they (without meaning to, of course) drain me.

There is so much work to do and the work is not going to let up until New Year's Adam. And possibly after that. And I don't feel equal to it. And I don't care about it.

And all I want to do is snuggle under the covers and sleep for longer. Or read trashy novels about bakeries (I am craving freshly-baked focaccia for no discernible reason) or cafes or wrap presents (actually I'm avoiding this because my room has degenerated into a scary tip and I find it safer to be outside of it).

I sent out a whole bunch of cards while I was in Australia. Not nearly enough cards because I have lost my major address book which has disappeared somewhere in that slush pile which I need to sort through carefully, patiently to make some headway.

No headway so far.

Elliott has come out into the hall to curl up on his green bed so he can be close to me. He has difficulty figuring out where I'm going to sleep and until I switch off the light, he has one eye open to regard me quizzically every time I move. I need to move though.

I need to shower.

And tomorrow we're taking off to Klang for a brainstorming session. I need to get directions as I don't know how to get there.

All I know is I'm tired and grumpy and I would rather sleep in. Late.

I can't believe that after two weeks off I'm back to feeling this way, even worse than when I left.

I just can't believe it!

Christmas

Today I bid on my first eBay Christmas present: a set of vintage watchmaker tools. For the first time in my life I entered a high maximum bid and now I have to wait two days to see if I get it. It feels thrilling. I am not sure about Christmas this year and what I want to do about it or where I want to go.

Have to start creating new traditions around it.

Still Running On Empty

I think it's exhaustion. That's the only explanation I can come with at a pinch. My mind has deserted me and it's been awhile. Every time I have to finish something, every time there is a deadline, I go to pieces. I cannot write, I cannot think, the words get away from me, until I force them, force them, force them...

I don't know what it is. I can't tell. Part of me is in mourning and I don't think it will ever get out of mourning. There are so many that I miss so much. They're not here anymore. They will never be here again. And I can't even hear their echoes or see their shadows, no, not even in my dreams.

If I try to read something fairly complicated, my mind shuts down and refuses to comprehend the words - they're just words, strung together in some sort of pattern that really, doesn't penetrate my thick skull.

I am tired most of the time, all I want to do is sleep or hide out or run away.

These waves, they frighten me.

At which point did I lose control over my life; at which point did I take the wrong path?

I can't tell. I survive now but barely. If I go on like this, they'll ask me to leave. And who could blame them? I'm of no use to anyone, especially myself, and I'm so tired and so sad...does this sadness ever go away, can this grief recede?

When it comes down to it now, I love nobody. No, not anyone now that Mummy and Arnold are dead. They died and took whatever tender feelings I had left with me. Not that I wish them alive...not in the condition they were. It is right that they are dead. But it doesn't feel right that I am alive when I really have no desire to live.

But I will.

I will put one foot in front of the other and force myself to go on because the alternative is just too much shit for those around me who don't deserve it.

Endings

I'll never see you again. You have disappeared into that big somewhere and sometimes I try to find you but you're not there. I cannot feel you, wrap my arms around you and if I tell you I love you who knows if you hear?

I'll never see you again.

And maybe in time I will disappear myself and it will no longer matter.

Please Let Her Live

Dear God,

Please don't take my friend.

Please let her wake up after the operation.

Better.

Please let her live.

Please.

I love her.

These Be Strange Times

There I am tapping away at my computer transcribing yet another interview and it's the still watches of the night but I don't feel so forlorn because there Emily is, tapping away beside me and Li Ming, who was clearing stories, has just gone home. Misery lurves company, in fact, so much that when it has company, you're no longer miserable. Maybe that's what Robin Williams needed. Company.

Anyway, I suddenly remember that Jeff is supposed to introduce me to this professor at a local university and I forgot to remind him. And although it's past 11 I send him an email. He replies with an email introducing me to said professor. Yeah, at that time.

And I say: Thanks for the introduction Jeff. These be strange times to send emails.

And he answers: These be only times emails get sent.

I love my job. And the people I meet in the course of my job. And the ones who stick around to become friends.

Cranking it Up

Every once so often I feel like writing here. I have been short on sleep for a while now. Last night, it was my fault. I got home late after transcribing an interview and then, although I was dead tired, instead of sleeping I messed around with a template on Lulu.com, uploading short stories I had worked on over so many years, I don't remember how many. I want to make a book. I want to make a book for Christmas. Maybe I actually will. You know how fickle I get.

But right now, I type as fast as I can because there are so many stories to finish, so many interviews to do. I'm not the only one stretched to the limit. I look around and see the rest of them. Sarah has three interviews at the same time next Tuesday. That is going to take some managing. Emily was in late last night (she went back after 9 at night and when I got in early for a change this morning because I had a super early breakfast meeting) she was already here. Tapping away. Forehead scrunched up in deep concentration.

People send me emails and text messages at ungodly hours. People overseas. People here. Nobody seems to be sleeping. It is a situation I expect will continue until September. Which is when so many of these things are due. And then, we will all take a collective pause, sigh deeply, kick back our heels and maybe go to the beach to veg out. Let the brain which is cranking along at a godawful pace, take a breather.

The only good thing about having too much to do is I don't have time to drama. There is no time to wonder how I feel about things because I'm too busy doing to feel.

And maybe that's a good thing?

Letters delayed. Maybe I'll write some tonight if I'm not too tired.

Wired on strong coffee at the moment and due to go out for another interview. I think I need new batteries on my recorder. I think I need petrol; my tank is almost empty. I think I need to top up my Touch&Go.

I think I should start transcribing yet another interview.

Waking Up

I have spent the past week or so trying to sort through and clean up my mess. And there is a lot of it. I let things slide when Arnold was so sick and everything heaped up in corners and started to emanate smells. Bad smells. So bad that I was driven from my bed from a regrettable necessity of breathing once in a while. I wore out the sofa with my sweaty body all curled up, trying to get comfortable.

And then, at the start of the Raya holidays, I tried to shake off my apathy (no easy task, it's been there for so long it's grown roots and held me firmly in place, unmoving, unable to move) and I started. On Saturday, I called the plumber to come in and fix the leaky tap in the bathroom. Huh! I think times must be really bad because he came (with his little crew of two) almost immediately, so quickly, in fact, that I barely had time go to the nearest ATM and withdraw some money to pay him, and found himself a lot more work to do. OK, about the taps, I was not here when they arrived, so Dadda, taking advantage of the splendid opportunity of having a real plumber at hand, pointed out two other pipes that needed work. He quoted the earth, swearing, all the while, that it was the lowest he could go and he was getting only a small, tiny, minuscule, you'd need a microscope to see it, profit.

When I suggested that it was too much, and I only wanted that one pipe fixed, he paled. And said, no, no, do it all at once, since we are here already. Dadda shuffled his feet and looked embarrassed for having shown him the other pipes. It was unlikely that he was going to let go of that. So we knocked off about RM20 from his original quote (still way, way more than I was willing to pay) and then one of his crew, who had been walking around the house noting things that need to be fixed pointed out that the roof was leaking.

Here's the thing. It was. In fact, some of the wood had rotted clear through and we always knew we would have to get around to tackling it but it seemed like such a gargantuan task (not to mention expensive) task, that we had hemmed and hawed and promised to do something about it vaguely at some point in time, in the future. So while the boss of the outfit went out to get supplies, the dried up little fellow who specialised in fixing roof, got a ladder and shinned up. He took pictures with his nifty little phone to show how many places the roof was actually leaking. A lot. And then he quoted a price to repair...and I sighed because more and more of my pay check was being eaten up. And it was barely the beginning of the month.

But this really, was something that HAD to be done. So I gave them a downpayment on the job, and the guy went out to get more supplies...and while they were at it, I started to tackle some of the tasks I had neglected. Everything was in a fearsome mess.

Firstly, there were the dog beds. They needed to be scrubbed down with chlorox because they had attained a level of murkiness that had to be seen to be believed. And there was Elliott who was sleeping on one of these beds, and who had been scratching so violently that he had worn holes into his body. He needed to be bathed. And then there was the bathroom that I thought I would wash. And then there were the groceries that needed to be bought.

So the workmen worked and I worked and Dadda either watched them or played on his computer.

At the end of the day, I was so exhausted that I curled up and fell fast asleep on the sofa.

And so, day one. A lot accomplished. Oh, I forgot to say. When they started fixing the roof, they came across white ants eating through the beams. Yes, they could address that as well. But it was going to cost us. I watched fascinated as their bill got longer and longer. Gulp.

Day Two of the holidays I was pretty exhausted, but thought it would be a good time to tackle the hall. I would finally clean the fan, clean the windows, wash the curtains, dust the altar and everything else that needed dusting, swap the picture of the Sacred Heart for the one from JB. If I had tackled all of this in an organised way, I could probably have finished it in a day. But I was tired. And not organised.

So I cleaned a little, read a little from two of Mummy's old Mills and Boons novels that I had brought from JB because they made me nostalgic. Then cleaned some more. There was a point where everything was covered in dirt (shaken loose from the fan and various things across the hall)...and my hands were so black with dirt that I made marks on everything that I touched.

End of the day....hall still at sixes and sevens. I finished it the next day. Hung up the newly washed curtains, spread the newly washed cloth over the coffee table, put out the papers I had set aside for recycling (the recycling man came along and bought them for all of RM4). Then it was time to tackle my own room. The motherlode. The floor was so covered in stuff that I had been hopping over things to get to my bed. Not that I got to my bed much. I didn't like sleeping in it anymore. Here, the two days of holiday I had left was not sufficient. So the place was still in chaos when I had to go back to work.

And I've only just finished it today. Finally sweep and mop. And ah, isn't that better?

I bought nails and hung up some pictures. Ah, that feels better.

I feel now the room is organised I can start doing stuff. You know, stuff I want to do.

Like write my letters at my actual desk, instead of on the bed or on the sofa or at work or in restaurants or cafes.

Like, look at the projects I have neglected and come up with some ideas about what to do about them.

Like watch Youtube at my desk while I tackle my needlework project-du-jour.

Maybe now I've freed up some of the energy here, I can get moving again.

Fingers crossed.

And After The Storm, The Calm...

I feel so much better this week. I feel like Arnold's spirit has really moved on, and yes, to a better place, which I was not so sure about last week when I sensed his restless presence, like he was unwilling to move on without me, like he still wanted to say goodbye.

And now, I'm slowly gathering all my energies because, well, there's so much to do as far as work is concerned. Maybe if I can transcribe fast enough and decide who I'm going to interview fast enough and sort of juggle a million little niggling things, as well as read whatever I am supposed to read, whatever I want to read, I'll be OK.

Not there yet, but getting there.

I feel blessed to have the friends I have...I could feel their prayers holding me up or letting me ride on waves.

Elliott waits for me to come home and then he's eager for his walk. No time to sit and chat or rest or read a book. Just change my shoes (if I need to) get his lead and pooper scooper and a plastic bag (in case he needs to poop, which he rarely does because he would have gone out on a walk earlier with Dadda) and we go the long way, which he enjoys so much more...his walks having been seriously abbreviated versions recently.

Then I shower (or not), put on jammies and crash on the sofa...trying to read a book, write a letter and watch a silly movie (or box set) at the same time. It doesn't work, naturally. I end up having my attention pulled by whatever's going on on the screen, no matter how silly. (So today the TV is silent as I read Twyla Tharp's The Creative Habit. It's either that or The Nature of Investing.

Hey Arnold, I Love You So

I cleaned the hall and mopped the floor late last night. And I dusted the top of the TV cabinet which had been caked in dust for weeks. I would see it, and want to do something about it and then not. Sometimes I would trail my finger along the dust and leave an indentation. And then, not do anything else...so dust, upon dust, upon dust. And fingermarks.

And I sort of hung Mum's picture up so she could smile at me more clearly from over the TV set.

Today's been a sad and strange day. I know I have to get back to work. So I sort of did. And I can do that with no emotion, nothing else to pull at me.

And maybe tomorrow, I can write the letters I have neglected to write because my dog was busy dying and I didn't have the heart to. I didn't have the heart to do a lot of things.

Both Elliott and I know he is definitely gone. He's left no shadow behind. That is a good thing, I suppose. I wish I knew he was happy now, running free in some fragrant field somewhere, wagging his tail, being loved by angels...everyone strokes Arnold's fur, it's just so soft.

It was soft when he died. I cut some off before that. As a keepsake. And I have his collar. His bowl, Elliott can take for his indoor bowl....so now Elliott has an indoor bowl and an outdoor bowl.

And except for certain weeping jags, I feel OK. I feel sort of hard and flinty and emotionless. I'm wondering about that. Arnold came into my life and opened up my heart. Is it set to close up again?

Hey Arnold, it was time to go,
Hey Arnold, I loved you so,
Hey Arnold, I love you so.

He Was Not Mine

I had Arnold put down. How horrid that sounds. And yet I tried to make his last day as peaceful and memorable as possible. Well, more peaceful than memorable. Wheeled him through the park. Tried to express his bladder (yes some pee shot out but I don't think I nailed it). And then I wheeled him around the circuit, the full circuit, instead of cutting it short like I do most days, and he lay on the trolley and watched the world go by.

His breathing so laboured. His eyes so weary.

He could no longer walk, his back legs were paralysed and atrophying. He could barely crawl, pushing his way forward to his bowl or off his bed if he wanted to pee or poo. But with the paralysis, he lost control over his bladder and his bowels - he simply could not move them.

And yet I hesitated. I didn't want to put him down until I was sure he was ready to go.

Maybe he's been ready to go a long time and I was the one holding on?

I didn't know, I couldn't know...every step along the way I kept second guessing myself, as my friends and loved ones gently tried to suggest, provide support and guidance...and I, I was not sure.

I called Gasing Vet Hospital yesterday. Dr Melissa called me back in the evening. She made an appointment to come over this afternoon. I could hear the hesitation in her voice. I know she knew how much I loved him. Love him.

And today, after lunch, while waiting for her call, I put his head on my lap and he went to sleep for a while, a few minutes of blessed oblivion...his sleep is mostly disturbed these days. I would wake to find him staring, either straight ahead or at me. Have been sleeping in the hall. Allowing everything in my life to unravel as I grappled with what was too big for me to grapple with.

This huge heaving mass of pain.

And I loved him. How could I kill what I loved? How could I not wait for him to go naturally, in his own time?

But when would that be?

And in the meantime, he grew weaker and weaker and suffered so much.

Mike told me that there would be no pain at the end. That he would just fall asleep. That helped.

And so the Dr Melissa called to say she was on her way. I could hear the hesitation in her voice. Perchance I had changed my mind.

But I hadn't.

We discussed cremation options. I wanted him cremated by himself, not one of those mass jobs which they offer.

And then she came.

After the call, Arnold who had been sleeping peacefully on my lap was agitated. Did he know? Or had he picked up something from my energy?

I tried to calm him down. I called whatever Gods may be, whatever angels may be, to calm him down, to let him go, in peace.

And when she came...with an assistant....in that van...I opened the gate and they came in and I was unsure of where to arrange him so she could get on with it...finally we opted for the green bed which is open, the lawn bed. I held on to the back portion of his body because the veins in his back legs had collapsed...and she would need to find a vein to push in the anaesthetic.

She pushed in the needle and looked at me: "Are you ready?"

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I was already weeping freely.

And she depressed the syringe....slowly he ceased to breathe. She waited awhile and checked his heartbeat, his pulse.

And she said, "He's gone."

I collapsed sobbing and could feel Dadda's hand on my back trying to comfort me.

Arnold's eyes were wide open.

Finally at peace, finally free of pain.

He had fallen asleep.

He brought us joy...we loved him well. He was not ours. He was not mine.

And then, there's the inevitable

Arnold can no longer hold it in. He peed in the on the floor, on the trolley as I wheeled him to the park and wheeled him back, in the park, back home of the floor again, and later on my car seat. Right now, I'm covered in his pee.

He had an acupuncture appointment today and she looked grave when I told her he had rejected his favourite food yesterday - the chicken rice chicken. Right now after his acupuncture, he's sleeping. I feel reluctant to wake him up but I do need to get him to the vet.

I have finished two stories and I just need to finish one more for the pullout.

I will have some tea, take a shower (or maybe take a shower first) and then haul him into the car for another visit.

Dr Suzy advised me not to get it done at the vet (if I have to get it done) but to ask if someone could come over to the house. There, in the quiet, surrounded by those who love him (mainly me), he can go peacefully. And not filled with trauma with people watching, at the vet's.

She said, be strong, be a man, do what you have to do.

I have to write stories. Make appointments. Figure out story trajectories. And put my dog to sleep.

The unravelling has begun
and the heart resounds
with the gentle sounds
of someone weeping
you go creeping into night
I watch you leave
and know I can't follow.

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

There's convenience, and then, there's love

It seems that nothing and no one I love is ever convenient. Arnold just peed on me. He didn't mean to. He was struggling to get away from me as I lifted him and held him tight and kissed his forehead. I think I may have to consider diapers or a pee pad. He can no longer control his bladder...that was the one thing he had left. And now he doesn't even have that.

I was going to put him to sleep yesterday. I had convinced myself that it was for his own good. Though there was still life left in him. Life left as he looks wearily at me, eyes full of love. Life, as he leans his chin on my feet, my ankles, whatever he can get his little head on. Life, as I wake up to find him wide awake, staring at me.

I will have to take off these clothes and jump in the shower. Again.

But no matter. I am not going to have him put down, put to sleep. Whatever the argument for it.

Yesterday when I decided to do it, I got a text. Saying the doctor could see him at 8.30 at night. After which all the vets would be closed except for emergencies. Putting a dog to sleep is not an emergency. It would buy him another day.

I stared at the message on my phone. I was at the post office, paying for some stamps before I went to buy Arnold's final meal, chicken rice. He loves the chicken, he loves the barbecue pork, the roast pork. But the message came through and I texted back.

"OK."

And that bought him a day.

Except that it bought him more than that. The acupuncturist was horrified that I had even considered it. She said, Arnold was not in pain, in distress. Yes, if I put him in a corner and ignored him, that was a different case. But I didn't do that.

I wheeled him out to the park and sat with him. I stroked him and talked to him. He enjoyed some food. Yes, he was not recovering, he was not doing as well as he could be. But that was no reason to kill him. Would I kill my grandmother because I thought the quality of her life was not worth it? Would I kill my grandfather? My father? My mother? Anyone who couldn't do all the things other people could?

Who's to decide?

I was sobbing when I talked to her.

And after I decided, I stopped crying. I, who had been crying all day because of the thing I was contemplating...he was so precious and I loved him so much and this thing, this awful thing...this thing I had come to see as my duty, but how could it be my duty to hurt him, to put him away?

Of course it would have been convenient. I had taken the day off to do it.

But I couldn't.

And I didn't.

There's convenience (although it would have been convenient, not nearly, not even close).

And then, there's love.

And love will just have to do for now.

Oh my! It's July!

Arnold is lying on the floor, his back feet pressed up against mine. I think he's asleep but when I check, his eyes are wide open. He hardly sleeps now, and even then, not for very long. His eyes remain open and he breathes and he breathes.

He grows weaker by the day. About a week ago (maybe longer, I don't remember, all days blur into each other) I bought him a trolley to take him to the park with because he's too heavy for me to carry for long distances. Not that it's a long distance to the park, but I find myself staggering if I have to carry him more than a few feet.

I'm not that strong and my knees are beginning to give way. So I load him on the trolley and push it carefully over the rutted road, trundling along, trying not to jolt him too much. People look out of their houses and see me going past, a now familiar figure? Cars drive past and stare. And Arnold, who resisted the trolley at first, has grown quite used to it. He knows it will take him to the park. Where he can pee in peace. He does not like to do it in the house. His bladder, he can still control. His bowels are beyond him.

But luckily he makes firm turds, and I scoop them up with old serviettes and toss them into the toilet. And flush. I used to toss them into the dustbin until Dadda stopped me. "They smell, Jenny, don't you have any common sense?"

Apparently not. Which is why I would have to end up living alone. I would drive anyone else, anyone who hasn't known me since I was born, or more importantly, anyone who hasn't loved me since I was born, crazy.

When we get to the park (once in the morning and once after I come home from work), I lift him off the trolley and set him on the grass. If he cannot keep it in, he starts peeing then and there. If he can, he gets up and stumbles awkwardly for a few steps. And then he squats down to pee, balancing on his now useless feet...and then he falls.

Some days he can barely lift his head.

One day, I slept in Dadda's bed while Dadda slept outside cos he wanted to watch football. And Arnold slept outside too, but I heard a heavy thunk and woke up and came out. I lifted him up and he stared at me. His paws were cold. So I went back, gathered my duvet and cuddled with him on the two-seater, under my duvet. He fell asleep like that. Deeply asleep. And I stayed there, my legs curled in, with Arnold against my tummy, waiting. Until he woke up. Except that he didn't. He just slept and slept. Eventually I lifted him to the green bed and went back into the room. But I couldn't sleep.

These days, I am tired, my eyes hurt, my thoughts are fragmented and I can't sleep. Not really. Not deeply. Most days, I stay on the sofa, with Arnold (and Elliot) somewhere close by. But Arnold senses that he does not have much time left. He stays awake. He stares at me. He likes to lay his head on my feet or my hands when he knows I am going to leave.

"Stay," he seems to say. "Stay, I want to remember you. Please stay."

And I leave but I don't really. I am uneasy elsewhere, longing to be back home, if only so I can share his air, as I flit about, restless soul trying to do this, wanting to do that, writing a letter, leaning back to think, putting the letter away unfinished because I can't concentrate. Reading a book, and then deciding to stop because I don't really like the book, it's as fragmented as my thoughts and what I need is coherence, coherence, and I've finished Sir Arthur Quiller Couch and maybe I can read the rest of his stuff on Gutenberg or perhaps, Newman's Idea of a University or one of the other books he quotes so much or one of the books that Helene Hanff bought from 84 Charing Cross Road which obsesses me at the moment when little else does.

Arnold, little plaintive dog I found dying on my neighbour's doorstep with the hole in the head full of maggots, the fur all wet from a thunderstorm...lying there, weary, hungry...Arnold who crawled into my heart like a Maggot and never quite left it.

Arnold, who grows weaker every day, no longer responding to the acupuncture or the Chinese herbal medicine or the raw food diet or the attention.

If he wants to say goodbye, if he wants me to hold his little hand as he moves off into brighter fields, running, barking happily, chasing butterflies, reuniting with the mistress who left him (or died), I'll be here. I'll hold his hand. I don't do death well. I don't know how to.

I lack the patience and grace that I read about with other people. I stumble forward jerkily, say the wrong thing, in the wrong tone of voice.

Lead kindly light, amidst the encircling gloom. And lead my little doggie forward. Gently like falling into a dream. Sweetly, like a kiss from someone you love.

Lead thou him on.

Vexed To Nightmare

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

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

She Calls

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

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

Breathing to go on breathing makes no sense.

And she calls.

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

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

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

The Shreds Of My Life

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

I stopped knowing who I was a long time ago.

And I stopped caring.

So how does a life like this end?

How long till I stop pretending to care?

In the midst of a crowd

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

Later for you.

Maybe tomorrow

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

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

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

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

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

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

Death, and the variants thereof

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

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

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

      

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

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

And I'm so tired.

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

Please,  no more.

The trick is to meander

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Later for you.

Plascent

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Hua Hin

I'm in Hua Hin now. Sitting in front of a computer that keeps translating every page I look up to Swedish. Those frigging Swedes seem to have put an override command on everything and it makes me see red. The tourists over here are not that friendly. I have only managed to talk to one - this Canadian lady who is volunteering with her husband on the Thai-Burma border. She's really nice and different in a good way.

As for the others, they look fat, Germanic and self-satisfied. Sometimes they are accompanied with a young Thai/Cambodian/Burmese girl, in which case, the self satisfaction deepens.

For the most part, I like this place. I guess what I expected was artist villages and hipster cafes - but the artist village only opens on Friday (so no, haven't been there yet) and the night market, well, I've made a few bad choices there. I have sent out a bunch of postcards today and will be sending out two more. Was waiting on an address...and the lack of wi-fi here is amazing. But I like the people - they're mostly gentle and polite and if I have to make connections, I guess it's better to make it with the locals, than the self-satisfied, oil running down their bodies, barbecued tourists. Ugh.

I haven't spent as much time as I would like by the beach. Which is where I'm heading right now. Or should I go scrounge up a sandwich somewhere? Decisions, decisions. I was thinking of watching Thor in Thai. Problem is inertia. Once I am seated, I find it very hard to get up. I don't run here and there. Instead, I amble.

Yesterday I went crazy at the night market and finished half the money I brought with me. Which makes it a lot. So today, I am banned from that place. I shall sit quietly in the hotel, take my meals here, post my postcards at reception, eat at the hotel (at least that can be added to my room bill which I can pay by card as they don't seem to accept cards anywhere else)...and just chill.

Tomorrow, I don't intend to get out of here until about 5 in the evening. For a massage and then...the Cicada Market. Finally, Sarah, I'll be going there and I want to see what all the big deal is about.

Later for you.

A State of Constant Upheaval

It's my birthday today and I feel a little sad. My first birthday without Mum. Spent the last three days at Fraser's Hill which deserves a post in itself but the details have melded together and I don't think I want to write it anymore. Suffice to say I went with Anna, we walked a lot (ok not enough for her but quite enough for me), I acquired a fondness for Harvey's Bristol Cream, the place was mellow with old wood and pretty flowers (and a black cat that I named Uncanny), we had some delightful encounters with wonderful people (none of whom were members of the BMW sports club who tried and failed to book out the hotel for the weekend).

I finished reading The Little Friend and it left me vaguely unsatisfied, ending the way it did with nothing resolved. Sort of on a jarring discordant note. The book had 555 pages but it would have been more honest to make it twice that length. The font was small and crammed and it took so long to get through even one page. Nevertheless it's done. And I came home and picked up All Manner of Monks and finished it in one sitting. It was a delightful book, gently humorous and tragic by turns. But it also ended sort of discordantly and I need to look and see if Mike sent me any sequels to it.

I've decided to take four books with me to Hua Hin. Three of which are poetry books and one journal. And this doesn't include the two fat tomes I have downloaded on this iPad. I leave for Hua Hin on Tuesday. God bless my soul. It sort of feels like I'm stepping off a precipice but never mind. I can only fall so far.

So I'll be by myself for 6 days. Reading, maybe writing, and basically just contemplating life as it stands.

My room has degenerated into a tip. I probably need to do something about it before I go. At the moment, every inch of floor is covered with stuff. And I itch as I toss and turn in bed. Not good. Not nice. I feel like taking another shower. And it's 2 in the morning. I should just sleep.

The plumber came but didn't finish the work because some of it were deep seated problems which required more drastic measures. I am wondering how it all turned out. And there are other things that need to be done. Should make a list to give to Chubs who will be going back earlier in preparation for his wedding.

I didn't achieve all I wanted. But I did my best. And that is all you can ask of me.

What with everything I only ended up driving back on Friday morning. And then it was off to Fraser's. I left my charger at home and my change off tee shirts at the car wash which made for some interesting situations. But it all worked out ok.

I miss my Mommy. Hers would have been the first call at midnight to wish me. I wish I had spent my last birthday with her.

On and on

So the new heater has been installed and I'm tripping over dead lizards wherever I go. Courtesy of James the exterminator. Because apparently not only did we have an ant and rat problem but a lizard one as well.

Here's how insidious it is. Last night I shoved some leftover pizza in the oven toaster. I had had half of it for lunch and had saved the other half for dinner. Well what with buying groceries and visiting my old music teacher and Chubby's old teacher to hand out wedding invitations, it was way past 9 by the time I got back. So I shoved the leftover pizza in the oven toaster without bothering to look at it and when I went to retrieve it I found one slice neatly adorned with lizard toast.  Ugh.

I was too hungry to throw it all away so I merely fed the lizard-infested one to Arnold who was waiting at the sidelines tongue hanging out,  and ate the other two myself.  While reading The Little Friend. At a particularly reptilian scene. It seemed oddly appropriate.

The plumber who was supposed to come today hasn't been here. He said one of the things I require is by special order and only arriving tomorrow. Problem is, I have to leave tomorrow. Looks like I'll be leaving late. Must be sure to get lots of sleep today.

Also I want to visit Mummy's grave. Try to make it a point to do that when I come to JB. Don't foresee coming back very often from now on. Pity. This house is comfortable and very much a sanctuary

I could fall asleep here right now.

Posted a letter to Nessa. Paid a bill. Made a duplicate key. Swept and mopped the downstairs. Took Arnold on two walks. Will rest now and take him for his third.

Then I'll be off to Singapore to hang out with Nits.

Repairs

I'm in JB at the moment. Alone, or rather with Arnold. I arrived yesterday although I was supposed to arrive on Friday night. Instead, I got drunk in the office and had an excellent burger courtesy of Anna, went on to Backyard 2 to talk to Mark about Ivan's wedding (Mark and Alvin are playing) and had a vodka orange and from there on to Omar's. He cooked the most excellent pasta ever. More wine. So Friday was out. I got home tired and reeling and all but passed out.

Saturday is a blur. I know there was a lot of shopping involved: stationery, books,  groceries. I wanted to buy a handbag I could use - something sturdy which would actually hold everything I want and have enough compartments so I could be organised. I saw it, loved it and decided to wait until I could afford it. Right now I am seriously digging into my savings.

So Sunday.  Woke up late, started packing desultorily and then Chubs asked me to follow him to give out wedding cards. So yeah didn't make it to JB on Sunday either.

Was supposed to leave early Monday but staying up late to read The Little Friend put paid to that idea.

So I walked Arnold, posted a card for Dadda (he in turned vacuumed Arnold's little doggie bed) and took off at about half 10. By the time I hit the highway it was 10 to 11. By the time I got here (by dint of driving at 140 whenever I could) it wad half one. Well half one when I exited the highway. By the time I reached the house it was closer on 2. Bad jam.

And then it was time to feed Arnold, call for a pizza and try to find workmen who could deal with the various things wrong in the house. One of which is that Mummy's room wouldn't open. The calls yielded an electrician, a plumber and a pest control person. This morning I went off in search of a locksmith and found a good old fashioned one who doesn't charge the earth and who succeeded in unsticking our problematic front door.

The pest control guy knew and liked Mum. He's coming again tomorrow because the house is really overrun with ants. And rats. The electrician fixed two plugs. The plumber came to suss out the job, give me an estimate and take a deposit. He's coming back tomorrow to do the job.

Chubs wants me to deliver wedding cards. And I have some groceries to buy. To support life here over the next few days.

I am trying to get as much done as I can in the short time I'm here. And then my real holiday. Fraser's, Hua Hin and Happy Birthday Jenn.

I'm so tired.

Listing slightly but keeping on, nonetheless

To survive these amorphous days, I make lists. Lots of lists. I have a notebook for lists. But then I lose it and I use other notebooks. There are books everywhere. With different lists. What to do today. What to do at work. What to do after I come back. What to prepare for tomorrow. What stories I need to write. What I need to follow up on. Who to send questions to. For the dogs, their food, their walks, their weekly bath.

List upon list upon list. I cling to them and attempt to tick off the items, one by one. Done.

An easing of tension?

A clearing of pain?

And the lists are there to help me survive today. Because when I don't have a list to cling to, when I don't have a list to refer to, I just sit there, staring into space, allowing time to burgeon into this great big nothing, this great big cloud, I can't see in it, I can't see through it...and nothing gets done. Time, it is a-wasting. And then the guilt pours in. And I think, maybe tomorrow, maybe tomorrow...and tomorrow comes and I still haven't done a damn thing.

So enough. No more unstructured time, no more, not knowing how many minutes it takes to walk to the dogs, how many minutes it takes me to write morning pages, how many minutes it takes me to drive to work (with traffic jam and without), how many minutes it takes me if I park downstairs or if I park outside, how many minutes it takes me if I don't defrost the dogs' food the day before, how many minutes it takes me, if I start reading Gift of Rain in the morning and get carried away.

I actually record the time now.

I actually record it in a little book so I know.

I actually go back and check it and see if there is some way I can cut down on time doing this or that.

I actually try to figure out what the fastest way is to write a story.

I actually write out charts for the stories - what do I want to say, what are people supposed to get from reading this.

I move and I move and I move and I move.

Because if I stop, well, I stop indefinitely.

And I sit down and stare into space and time gathers itself in and spreads out on my shoulders and my lap and around me like a hug that never comes. And I breathe or forget to and thoughts dart in and out, gathering no moss, hurting sometimes, leaving no trace other times, like footprints in water.

And so I make lists.

And tomorrow, I won't be here because I'm going to catch a plane first thing in the morning. Part of me is looking forward to it. It will be so nice to see TK again.

And part of me feels that it is all one. Nothing to look forward to. Because if you look forward to something, you will be disappointed. And everything tastes as bland as reheated soup.

Every heart that is breaking tonight
is the heart of a child...

I Still Miss You

I still miss you. I can't help it. You appear in my head at the funniest times. And I wonder where you are. And I wonder what you do. And I wonder if you're finally at peace.

Various scenes replay in my head and I remember that in the last year of your life, there was so much tension, that I never spared your feelings, that I was so mean to you.

And I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm more sorry than you'll ever know.

I hope that wherever you are, you can sense that.

Perhaps I hope that you don't remember us at all, that you've moved on to whatever it is you're supposed to move on to.

And that you're finally happy.

And you're finally at peace.

I miss you so much.

A Date With The Ex

So I text the Ex today and we make a date to catch up. After work. Which is like after 9. And we meet in front of Ronnie Q's and I have some dinner in this tiny, noisy little burger joint which seems to be trendy (well,it's full anyway) which is not a patch on MyBurgerLab, and then we repair to The Talk for a drink. Kind of ironic because the first time we met was at The Talk. He was an analyst. I was a journalist. And I was taking him out for a drink. Because we used to fete analysts. He came in and saw me and instead of saying hi, walked right past me, sat inside, ordered a beer, and sweated profusely. Because he's an introverted (not shy, but introverted, there's a difference, as he takes pains to explain to me today, having stumbled upon some research on introverts).

"I was looking up how to turn an introvert into an extrovert and came across this research and...I feel so explained...like someone finally understood me!"

But that's not what he wants to talk about. Well, not all of what he wants to talk about. Basically he wants to catch me up on the past eight months. So he does. As I masticate my way through a not untasty (though not crash out either) burger, he catches me up. First, the living situation. When he went back, he was effectively homeless...house sat for a month, and then lived with a church member for six weeks and then was offered a room in the Rectory until the new Rector was appointed. And what happened there. A manipulator, a wrongdoing, him putting his foot down, she forming a team (a la Survivor) and managing to get him kicked out.

He quit the church.

The Ex doesn't understand people who allow wrongdoing to take place under their nose and don't say anything. He's starts to splutter incoherently as I gaze at him, sad, but stony-eyed.

"What did you expect? You went against her. Of course she was going to do something about it? Did you think she would just sit there and take it?"

People's bad behaviour never surprises me. It's like, of course, that was exactly what she was going to do. She's evil and that's what evil people do. If you want to go to war with an evil person, well, you'll either have to be very Zen about it, or out-Evil them. Otherwise...

He nods and goes on talking. Now it's the work situation. Again, here, no matter how hard he tries, no matter how perfect he is for the position, something always happens at the eleventh hour to pull the rug from under his feet. I sigh and feel even sadder. He deserves a break. Some break. The only thing I can hang on to now, is that maybe all this is happening for a reason, maybe something much much better is in store.

And I sip my sweet white wine and I feel something inside me relax. I don't realise how tense I am and how much I hold it in. It's automatic. I can't afford to...

And then the Ex asks me how I've been.

And I tell him. About the Mum. About the death. About the one and a half months in JB. About everything and I am alarmed to find myself tearing up. I, who didn't cry (well, not much) when it was right in front of me, happening.

He looks alarmed. And so I go for the bare bones of the story...and he nods, understanding.

"She was your anchor."

"Yeah, I guess she was. Nothing seems real now."

He continues to look stricken and stops telling me anything more about the shenanigans in Australia. Now he's focussed on...and I wish he wasn't because all I want to do is break down. I want to cry for her. And for all that I've lost. But I can't. Not here. Not in front of him.

My heart has been heavy all day.

And now, it's just about ready to burst.

Well, it's time to go. We pay up. Actually, he does. Even without a job, and not much money, he insists.

I tell him I need to find some place to live. He asks about the dogs. I say, they'll probably still live with my father. Or we would put them to sleep. But I need to start my life. Which has been in a holding pattern for so long now.

And he says: "Do you know what you want to do with the rest of your life?"

"Find a place to live. Start from there."

And he nods again.

And follows me to my car. I drop him off at his.

There's something different about the Ex. The last time I met him, he was so lost. Now he seems to have found himself, remembered who he is. He seems more assured and positive.

All good things.

I hope things work out for him. We'll probably stay in touch.

Once a year, twice a year, it's still "in touch".

The Rest Of My Life

The remaining parent looks at me and sighs: "I can't keep holding this space for you. I have to die sometime. Probably sometime soon. Don't feel like I have much life left in me."

It's true, I know. But it makes me feel scared and pressured. Get on with the rest of your life, he's saying. I've been hiding out here. I don't suppose I can hide out much longer.

I think I'm probably one of those people who end up in little hovels surrounded by a heap of cats. They're with me for the food but I pretend they're with me for company. Or love. Except that cats don't love. They just feel contempt. But I'm used to contempt by now. So I can keep company with contempt. It's OK.

I know I need to make a start to figuring out the rest of my life. I've been huddled in this corner, dry retching and the people who pass by, they stop and pat my head kindly and tell me everything is going to be OK.

I shoot them a look sometimes.

Don't they realise that nothing has ever been all right and nothing ever will?

I love my job. That's about the one good thing I have going.

I love my friends. Some of them.

I love my dog. One of them.

But I hate the rest of my life.

Maybe I'll wake up early and figure it out tomorrow.

Surving the 3ams

I feel so sad. It's 3am, my darkest time, maybe not just me. So I need you to light a candle and watch while I sleep. Because when I have no strength left, I lean on yours.

And I have no strength left right now.

And the world will be a better place

It's past eight and I'm still at the office. It's been a while since I stayed late. Not so bad, really. I managed to toss off an interlude, which I had intended to write anyway, but which was largely a reaction to an article I read today. An article written, I think, to be deliberately provocative. And like lemmings, we shared it, we commented on it, we flamed the writer.

So what if she deserved it?

We spent a good chunk of the very precious time allotted to us, dumping on someone too dumb to know any better. I mean, if that was the attitude we had taken, that would have been OK. Instead, we got personal. At least, I did.

I feel ashamed now. I really have to get over this whole "subhumanising" people.

Anna told me the writer was eccentric. Like me. At one wedding dinner she apparently told this inoffensive guy who was quietly eating his dinner that the mole on his face was in an unfortunate position and it meant that he wouldn't live to see his grandchildren. Or possibly, his children. In short, that he would die. Soon.

Out of nowhere to a stranger.

Oh dear. Was I like that?

Just Saturday, I told Mark that he would make someone a good wife. Make that, a good trophy wife.

So uncalled for. I will apologise today. Although it was said in fun, and there was a good deal of alcohol thrown into the picture that led to a boisterousness above the usual alcohol-induced boisterousness, that was still...unkind.

And my living quarters have deteriorated into scary proportions. Most times I just run away somewhere, anywhere, so I don't have to face it. And then I return, and slump on the sofa so I can avoid what I have to avoid.

Avoidance is my middle name. That and Denial (which is not a river in Egypt).

Maybe I'm just tired.

Maybe it's because I have no idea what's in store.

Maybe because where I stand right now, the road ahead seems dark and forbidding and I am not sure what tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow will bring.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Are you there?

Do you hear me?

Are you seeing what I'm saying?

I think you're seeing what I'm saying.

Easy As Sunday Morning

I finally finished Cheryl Strayed's Torch. I decided that to heck with it,  I'm a gonna at least finish one book. So I did. And while at first I kept consciously comparing the story to what she had revealed in Wild it gradually took on a life of its own.

I didn't love it the way I'd loved Wild (or else I shouldn't have taken so long to read it) but it was good. It didn't kill me to finish it.

Have done almost nothing the entire weekend other than hang on the phone and sleep at odd hours so I think maybe today I'll sleep at a decent time.

The dogs remain unbathed, although that should have been a priority since I found ticks on Arnold (he's here with me resting dreamily on the meditation mat that I never use for its stated purpose) while Elliott is outside,  tied up as a punishment for running away and not coming back when called.

Chubs is here with us as some piping problem dislodged his floor tiles so suddenly that it almost seemed like poltergeist activity and if that were not bad enough,  some guy in a four wheel drive hit his car from behind. Twice.

So he's camping out here for the moment. Uncle Solomon who descended on us unannounced for the weekend left this morning. Yesterday we all had a trip to the bookstore and despite the fact that I still have a ton of unread books, I bought a bunch more. Ivan bought two. The Unkley, one.

We also picked up some pants Chubs had tailored at a suit tailor here. Only half a year late. He was supposed to have picked them up in January. But then life intervened and he forgot all about them. When he tried them on they fitted perfectly and were, if anything,  on the loose side. His recent bout of dengue shaving off a cool 6 kilos.

We looked at possible wedding suits. The style now seems to be more fitted. Chubs thought that September's a good time to start the process. He liked a bright blue silk shirt but not much else.

I was supposed to catch up with some people over the weekend but I didn't. I have spent it completely vegged out.

I am useless without a proper to-do list.

So maybe I'll sit down and write one out now.

Morning meeting tomorrow.

And loads of questions to send out, an interview to finish transcribing and two more stories to write.

And there's the Maybank buka puasa in the heart of the city at rush hour. And maybe Marking after if I feel up to it.

Alone?  Yeah no plans to meet anyone tomorrow and no gang.

Sometimes we must go alone if we are to write letters.

The natural tears seem to be working. Dry eyes are less dry. Which is a very good thing.

Later for you.

Losing Time

Nothing is like I thought it would be. When your mother dies, the pain should be sharp and clear and focussed. It should be ever-present. It should be filled with regret, at the things you did not do, at what she had to suffer, at how long she was alone, in that condition, at the fact that she drove herself to hospital when she was having a heart attack, at the fact that you didn't just move in with her way way before, so you could have done something, helped her...

Instead, it's like my mind has split into a million shards; each separate and distinct from the other. I pick up a book, I put it down. I pile books next to my broken bookshelf, the one she broke, the one I yelled at her for breaking, the one I will never forgive myself for yelling at her for breaking. I wrote this in the letter I put in her coffin.

And then, there was nothing. Her body removed from the house, buried in that plot, piled with stones and flowers.

Her spirit absent in a way that beggars description.

I always thought I would feel her here around me somehow. Someone who was so present could never be this absent.

But was she?

Hadn't she spent all those years dying? Trying desperately to hold on, as she grew weaker and weaker, everything hurting and yet worrying about us, not letting go, praying her "Prayers of Power" for all the things that could go wrong, did go wrong.

And after it all, it was like she had been dead for years.

All those years she spent dying; all those years she had been alive; all those years.

And I just wanted to get away. Selfish, self-contained, not wanting to be around anyone who reminded me of this great big nothingness that had grown up inside me. This great big emptiness that has always been at the centre of me. Except now I touch its edges, I dive into the hollow black.

And I'm dead.

But like her, I pretend to be alive.

Except that I'm not doing such a great job. I keep forgetting stuff. Like to request a photographer for an important interview until it's too late. Like calling a friend to tell her, I made the appointment she was so insistent I make...that I couldn't come with her, but please, this is the address, if you really need to, go yourself, and deal with whatever you have to deal with and tell me afterwards. After I have painfully strung together words, racing against deadline, except that I race like a snail, a tortoise, a worm...thoughts scattered as the spawn of Satan, without agency, without urgency, without interest.

I keep losing time.

I look around and it's an hour later.

And then two hours.

And then three.

I shrug helplessly and go on contemplating the dust stacked in corners, the absurd mess I live in the midst off.

I need to gather, to arrange, to focus. And I will. Tomorrow. Maybe. Write a to-do list. Forget what I was going to say midway. Let the notebook fall from my hand. Send out the questions I was supposed to send out last week, or the week before. Maybe. To whom? I've forgotten.

Pick up that darn book again. Maybe today I'll finish it instead of picking up another one and another and another because my mind floats outside my body and my eyes, my dry eyes refuse to focus on anything.

And God, the sky is empty and my mother is gone and you?

And God, I wish I could come home to me again. I can't go home to home again because when she left, my home blew up, shattered, and most days I don't remember this, and most days I don't cry, and most days I'm not even sad.

And most days I feel nothing...and maybe that's preferable to the dark that hasn't penetrated any of the layers I've sewn up around me.

People are kind. They love me. I try to love them. But when you're a shadow, you can't love. There is nothing in you to hook a feeling and make it real. Do you know what I'm saying? Do you? Do you?

Do you understand?

Sometimes I Forget to Smile

Look, I've got everything in place
My feelings safely locked away
in the heart of a glacier
I gaze stony-eyed ahead

So...

Please don't chip away
at the ice
and don't look at me
with those eyes

Don't try to look
into my soul
Stop excavating this crater,
this hole

Let me function
pretend you believe
I'm really all right

Because sometimes
the façade crumbles
the mask slips
And I forget to smile.

Because You Matter

The goodbye we never said
bleeds into the cadaverous silence
There are no echoes...

When I was done fighting
with the voices in my head
I looked around for you
but you were gone.

You disappeared silently
and I didn't see
Where are you now?
I don't know.

So I look for you
but the road is dark
I listen for you
but the phone is silent
I reach for you
but my arms are empty.

So I'm writing this
because you matter
you've always mattered
because I care
I've always cared.

And I'm sorry
So sorry
I let you go
And I'm sorry
So sorry
I didn't say...

Goodbye.

Not Normal

If you ask me for something right now, it's possible I won't be able to give it to you. Truth is, I'm tired. Truth is, I'm so weary of pretending that I'm OK, that everything is OK, and this is how it should be and I couldn't care less. Maggot hasn't returned. And how is life supposed to continue as normal, when you don't know, when you can't see, when you didn't say goodbye?

Conspiracy theories

Are we the conspiracy theory generation? Is the stuff that appears to be happening all around us just as it is, or are there dark, hidden undercurrents to everything? I feel like I've been cursed with a lens that can only see drama and bad intentions and real, real evil.

I was once innocent. If you told me something, no matter how ridiculous or improbable, I would take it at face value, never sifting it to see if it actually could have happen, never noting timelines (well, actually I did note timelines, but if the timelines clashed, if your story didn't seem to work out, it didn't matter, I ignored the discrepancies).

And then she told me, he said, only Jenn would believe something ridiculous like that. She said it and I crumbled inside. First, at being so stupid. And second, at them laughing at me for being so stupid. And when I readjusted the lens, suddenly everything made sense. Looking at horrible people with the proper lens, you could see quite clearly, when they lied, why they lied, how everything was a performance, nothing was real.

It becomes difficult after a while, when you're surrounded by these liars, to know what to believe. The kindest you can be, is to to tell yourself that they don't mean to do it, they're simply lying to themselves. But the more sensible explanation would be, they're being manipulative because it is easy to manipulate you. Trusting shouldn't be blind. Not when you feel the contempt coming from the other side.

One of our dogs is missing. He ran away. Except that he doesn't run away. Not him. He pushed his way out just before a storm, another thing he doesn't do. And then he never came back. Him, who doesn't run very far. Who is too scared to go out when the sky lowers and starts to thunder.

Who did this to him? What call did he hear to force him out? Who is to blame?

We blame ourselves of course. We didn't love him enough. We didn't show him enough affection. He felt nobody wanted him. We all feel the guilt. And guilt does funny things. It makes you suspect things. It makes you create stories in your mind. It makes you look at people funny.

Under all that is the sheer heartbreak of thinking he may be somewhere, suffering, scared, lonely, in pain.

It's the uncertainty that kills you.

It's the uncertainty that always kills you.

I wish there were some way of knowing what happened.

I try to tell myself that I'm being ridiculous to suspect what I suspect.

But I still go on suspecting it.

In the meantime I won't waste my time or energy hating you. Every bit of intention is aimed at my dog. I'll go on praying for him and loving him.

Muslin Thoughts

It's been a long time, but I feel like updating this blog again. I guess it comes in waves, the blogs we update, especially when we've been polygamous blog-wise.

As my regular readers (all none of them) would note, from you I have been absent in the Spring. I don't know what that means, I just like saying it.

I am supposed to finish two stories now. I have transcribed both of them. Instead, I took off to Starbucks for a hot chocolate and muffin and a perusal of Woman In White by Wilkie Collins (I started, and you know when you start this, you cannot bear to put it down).

Among other things I have developed a taste for Pakeeza's fish curry. I stumbled upon it by accident as it's not one of the things I would normally get from there. Dadda asked me to bring him curry (sambar, yuck!) and there was a jam all the way to the Section 11 collection of Indian restaurants (OK, PJ Hills and Pandey's) and so I decided to go to Pakeeza instead. I got fish curry to go along with a dhal (the dhal was a bad idea) and when I came to eat my share of it with white rice, I was blown away. I mean it was so good, I could have gone on eating indefinitely. Instead, I left a portion for my father and finished my meal determining that this would not be the last time I went to Pakeeza to get fish curry. It wasn't. I bought the same thing, only a whole lot more of it, two days later.

I am still not recovered. My lungs feel like some ravelled sleave of care. Coughing interrupts my nights. I feel worn out in the mornings. And then I fall asleep and sleep soundly way past when. I'm at work now and I feel tired. It's like this illness has left its stamp on me, for better or worse.

Instead of finishing the two stories I am supposed to, I feel like going home, having some tea, having some rice and leftover fish curry, reading my book and going early to bed.

To sleep, perchance to cough.

Ay, there's the rub.

For in that cough of death, what dreams may come...

No Family

She's rocking her baby, crooning softly, bone tired but too wired to sleep. The cousin called again. Her mother is looking for her. Wants to see the baby. When he told her, she burst into imprecations.

No. Never! I told you. Never!

I think she wants to make up, Lynn, she just wants to know you're alright.

Yes, I'm sure she does. That's why she kicked me out when I was pregnant. What did she think? That I'd get rid of the baby? That I'd come crawling back? That I need her?

And she begins to cry.

Hush, says the cousin. Hush. I won't give her your number. Don't worry. I just thought you should know she was looking for you. She may show up at the hospital.

If she does, I'll know how to deal with her. And she hangs up.

She holds the precious bundle to her chest. This baby, hard won. This baby that she had alone. No father. He's married and he really didn't want to know. No grandmother. No grandfather (he's dead). No uncles and aunts. (They pulled away - sort out your own mess, we're so sick of this)

None of them thought she could do this. None of them.

You see baby, my mother never loved me. Not like she loved the other two. I was third. A spare. My father lost his money when I was born. In Indian families, they link one thing to another. So I was "bad luck". He was too proud to tell anyone, too proud to beg. So we starved. I was three and I still remember being hungry. Crying for food. My mother shutting me up. There was no food.

And then he died. I remember the house being full of people. I was excited. There was food. I ate. And suddenly everyone knew. Everyone knew just how poor we were. They came forward to help. The destitute widow and her three helpless children. They helped but they made us understand that we were supposed to be so grateful. I hated them. I hated her. If someone were to give me something she would stop them. She has enough, my mother would say. Don't spoil her, my mother would say.

My sister loved me. She tried to protect me. She would give me things, buy me food, clothes. But then she got married and disappeared into another family. And then I was alone again.

And baby, when I met your father, I thought he loved me. I was so empty inside. I didn't know what love was. You taught me that. You taught me what love is.

They wanted me to get rid of you. A married man, Lynn what were you thinking. You're a doctor, you don't know what happens when a man and a woman have sex without protection? Not even a condom?

But you see, it wasn't like that. It wasn't clinical. It was passionate and unplanned and I loved him and I thought he loved me. And you, I refused to let you go. I wanted you so much.

They thought you were dispensable.

And I could always have another.

And that's why baby, as far as you're concerned, in fact, as far as we're both concerned, I'm an orphan.

You'll never meet my family.

I have no family.

A Kind of Hush

It's late and I can't sleep. I stare at my body stretched out in front of me and think, strange, I don't fit this anymore. I clench my fists and feel my nails dig into my palms. It hurts but the pain doesn't make me real.

Nothing does.

I'm half in, half out.

I'm here and not here.

I breathe and don't breathe.

It's me.

Who's me?

And so I drop down, out of the bed, and stroke my little dog, curled up in his little pink bed. Arnold is asleep. He lifts his paw in supplication. Please let me sleep.Touching him doesn't make me real.

Tight curled ball. Asleep.

But I'm awake.

Wide awake.

Words swirl.

Like snow.

Everywhere.

Nowhere.

It's the silent watches of the night. (Hush) Heads on pillows.

 I've disappeared.

But I don't know where.

The body lies awake.

What body?

My Hand Closes Over Nothing

They say I've lost it, and I tell them, I know, I have. But we're talking about different things. I shuffle along the street, head bowed, as if in deep conversation, and people pass me on either side, stepping away because they think I look...my lips move, I'm forming words and I know you're walking beside me.

Sometimes the pain is quiet, and I just talk to you, tell you about my day and how it felt when they put the pickles in my sandwich, and what the floor feels like under my bare feet and why the dog looks at me and turns away.

I walk at night because there are less eyes. And I can talk to you without them staring, except that sometimes I forget, I'm too loud and they peep over their gates to listen.

I can't help it. I miss you. There is still so much I have to say to you.

Sometimes I feel you brush past and I reach out. But my hand closes over nothing.

It's these times that are the hardest. Just when I got used to not having you here, your shadow fell across my face and I reached out.

It's then, my darling, that my body screams. It pushes this broken voice through my throat, an animal pain, and it screams and screams until my throat is left in bloody tatters.

They come for me then. Closing in from all sides. I don't bother to run. I don't feel them shove me, hold me down, hold me to the ground.

The mad woman, they say. Can't we do something about her, they say.

And my body keeps screaming.

So I run away. I run. I keep on running. I reach out for you to hold my hand to pull me forward.

I reach out my hand but it closes over nothing.

You're still not there.

The other day, I saw something that reminded me of you. It was a puddle of water, floating over mud and I saw the moon's bright face reflected in it.

I couldn't help it. I knelt down and drank. I drank. I drank. Mud. Salt. Blood. I drank.

And they surrounded me again.

And a little child said, poor thing Mummy, the mad woman must be thirsty. Can we give her some water?

But then I didn't hear anything more, because my body started to scream.

Nobody can make out what I scream.

But it's your name, it's always your name.

It tears through my me like a siren and it keeps tearing through me until there's nothing left.

Death should not happen so slowly.

I keep waiting for you to take my hand. But you're still not there.

And so I keep walking, hoping that someday, I will reach out, my hand will close over something, and then I won't be there anymore.