A book was singing. Which book, I didn't know. I got up and stumbled out of bed, waving my hand vaguely at my side table, willing the noise to stop. It didn't.
I glared sternly at the higgledy piggledy pile on the table. Or at least as sternly as I could in my dazed, three-hours-of-sleep-is-just-not-enough state. Still that annoying tune. I opened and closed the books, figuring it was as good a way as any to silence the offending item. To no avail.
Finally I started flinging the books to the ground (something my mother always told me never to do) in an attempt to get the offending tome to shut the fuck up! My sister unclosed one eye and looked at me. She had also been awakened by the racket and hoped I would put a stop to it, whatever it was.
I decided that this was an exercise in futility. The problem was too large for me to handle in the dark. I stumbled over to the switch at the other end of the room and shed some light on the matter. Ah, illumination!
It was not a book singing. It was the phone ringing, singing, jinging...my blasted alarm!
I switched it off, shot my sister a goofy, apologetic grin, gazed at the books on the floor and climbed back into bed.
I could clear up the mess later.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Monday, April 17, 2006
A lost love
"I'll never see you again. We'll write a few notes as a graceful gesture of futility but I'll never see you again."
Hawkeye Pierce.
Hawkeye Pierce.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
New Life, Old Death
She loved colour – her walls were a deep shade of rusty red. Being Catholic, she had a number of Sacred Hearts on the walls and other pictures of Jesus gazing down mournfully, scattered throughout the apartment. They gave her comfort, but her husband found the stare unnerving. In fact, he took down the one in their bedroom and placed it on the floor, face turned towards the wall. It did not endear him to her as the red walls had not endeared her to him. He had wanted green.
Everything in the apartment was either floral – like the curtains or the sofa - or lacy – like the tablecloth. It was all too feminine and claustrophobic for him and he longed to escape to the cool green spaces of his native New Zealand. KL irritated and unnerved because there were too many things and people crowding him out.
In the hall, was an impressive hi-fi system – her first Christmas present to him; it had taken her nearly a year to pay off. He left it behind when he took off, claiming rather cuttingly that it was not good enough. Cheap stuff. He could get something better at home. He'd never allowed her to touch it and now the intricate tracery of knobs and controls overwhelmed. It sat in her living room, covered with a crocheted doily, large, impressive and useless. Kinda like their marriage.
She loved angels – there were angels throughout the apartment either tiny Christmas decorations, hanging from the door of her bedroom, Raphaelean prints smirking from the walls or sparkling crystal statuettes on the occasional tables around the apartment.
On one wall, proudly displayed, a house blessing crewel-stitched by a friend she no longer talked to. It read:
May this house be a place of peace, rest and love.
Her dressing room had a console table (also a present) with the pictures of her nieces and nephew and her collection of quartz crystals, from her brief fling with the New Age.
The bookshelf in her bedroom overflowed with cheap romance novels, a little strange for one with a bachelor's in English and a master's in linguistics, but she lived in those stories, always dreaming of some dark, brooding, mysterious stranger who would appear one day, see her for who she really was and sweep her off her feet.She went back to those novels very quickly after her marriage, disappearing into dreams to better handle her growing disillusionment with the real thing. Similarly, her collection of VCDs seemed to run to gaudy Bollywood effusions – colour and drama and emotions spilling out all over the place. Nothing for quiet reflection; that would have been too painful.
She had a cordless phone, as her size made it difficult for her to run to the phone every time it rang. Her husband never answered the phone, unless she was not there as it was seldom, very seldom, for him. He had no friends. She had plenty. One of them, observing the drama at her apartment one day, gave her the cordless phone for her birthday. She clung to it like an umbilical cord, her only connection to the outside world in her increasingly solitary existence. Her husband did not like her family or friends coming over and made it pretty obvious. They stopped coming.
Her apartment was spotless, vacuumed at least twice a day. She had asthma and dust always bothered her. The constant drone of the vacuum cleaner got on his nerves and soon she had to cut down on it to prevent the armed neutrality from erupting into a full scale war.
“I feel like a stranger in my own home, I can’t even clean it when I want."
Everything was arranged with an eye to comfort and taste – the effect was warm, motherly and embracing. But there was no bassinet in the corner and now there never would be. Her husband gone, her uterus shot to pieces under an avalanche of medication and any sex these days, only virtual. The apartment was full of things and empty of all that mattered.
The warm, red, pulsating walls closed in as she curled up on the sofa, weeping at the latest Shah Rukh Khan blockbuster. She wept that he was dying of heart disease and would not be able to marry the girl he loved. She wept at the unfairness of life and how alone she was. How alone she would always be. She wept for the absent child who would have given her increasingly solitary existence some purpose and meaning. She wept for her lonely womb.
April, the cruellest month.
A month for new life, old death.
Everything in the apartment was either floral – like the curtains or the sofa - or lacy – like the tablecloth. It was all too feminine and claustrophobic for him and he longed to escape to the cool green spaces of his native New Zealand. KL irritated and unnerved because there were too many things and people crowding him out.
In the hall, was an impressive hi-fi system – her first Christmas present to him; it had taken her nearly a year to pay off. He left it behind when he took off, claiming rather cuttingly that it was not good enough. Cheap stuff. He could get something better at home. He'd never allowed her to touch it and now the intricate tracery of knobs and controls overwhelmed. It sat in her living room, covered with a crocheted doily, large, impressive and useless. Kinda like their marriage.
She loved angels – there were angels throughout the apartment either tiny Christmas decorations, hanging from the door of her bedroom, Raphaelean prints smirking from the walls or sparkling crystal statuettes on the occasional tables around the apartment.
On one wall, proudly displayed, a house blessing crewel-stitched by a friend she no longer talked to. It read:
May this house be a place of peace, rest and love.
Her dressing room had a console table (also a present) with the pictures of her nieces and nephew and her collection of quartz crystals, from her brief fling with the New Age.
The bookshelf in her bedroom overflowed with cheap romance novels, a little strange for one with a bachelor's in English and a master's in linguistics, but she lived in those stories, always dreaming of some dark, brooding, mysterious stranger who would appear one day, see her for who she really was and sweep her off her feet.She went back to those novels very quickly after her marriage, disappearing into dreams to better handle her growing disillusionment with the real thing. Similarly, her collection of VCDs seemed to run to gaudy Bollywood effusions – colour and drama and emotions spilling out all over the place. Nothing for quiet reflection; that would have been too painful.
She had a cordless phone, as her size made it difficult for her to run to the phone every time it rang. Her husband never answered the phone, unless she was not there as it was seldom, very seldom, for him. He had no friends. She had plenty. One of them, observing the drama at her apartment one day, gave her the cordless phone for her birthday. She clung to it like an umbilical cord, her only connection to the outside world in her increasingly solitary existence. Her husband did not like her family or friends coming over and made it pretty obvious. They stopped coming.
Her apartment was spotless, vacuumed at least twice a day. She had asthma and dust always bothered her. The constant drone of the vacuum cleaner got on his nerves and soon she had to cut down on it to prevent the armed neutrality from erupting into a full scale war.
“I feel like a stranger in my own home, I can’t even clean it when I want."
Everything was arranged with an eye to comfort and taste – the effect was warm, motherly and embracing. But there was no bassinet in the corner and now there never would be. Her husband gone, her uterus shot to pieces under an avalanche of medication and any sex these days, only virtual. The apartment was full of things and empty of all that mattered.
The warm, red, pulsating walls closed in as she curled up on the sofa, weeping at the latest Shah Rukh Khan blockbuster. She wept that he was dying of heart disease and would not be able to marry the girl he loved. She wept at the unfairness of life and how alone she was. How alone she would always be. She wept for the absent child who would have given her increasingly solitary existence some purpose and meaning. She wept for her lonely womb.
April, the cruellest month.
A month for new life, old death.
Friday, April 14, 2006
I was robbed. Actually my cousin was. The Jennifer J. story.
I guess we forgot to be scared when walking along the side of the street. I guess we forgot that this is the land of the snatch thieves and it does not matter where you are or how safe you feel or if it's broad daylight, you had to remember that the snatch thieves were ubiquitous (the three things you could depend on were death, taxes and snatch thieves) circling for victims, keeping an eye out for the less-than-vigilant, with a hope of making a killing.
Eve was walking a little ahead of us, chatting away on her cool new mobile. Her handbag (with its very short strap) hung merrily on the side of right side (facing the road). I heard the motorbike come close and instinctively flinched. I have been robbed before. I saw it slow down beside her, and this expressionless guy with a moustache grab her bag and hold on while his partner took off, zig-zagging across the length of the road to throw her off.
People always say, when your bag is snatched, just let go, it's not worth getting killed to save a few dollars, a compact, a lipstick and all your personal documentation. All I have to say to these people is, "YOU TRY IT!". Most times, you are unaware of what has happened when you find yourself being dragged on the street, aware of people screaming all around, and the bag is stuck to you. There is no way you can simply "let it go".
Anyways, there she was, almost vertical, being dragged across the length of the road. She looked like she was taking a real beating (in fact, the whole thing was so shocking it actually looked ridiculous, something out of America's Funniest Home Videos). Then the strap snapped and the bastards took off, leaving her poor, battered, bruised body to us. We had been chasing her (of course, to no avail) screaming (which alerted the neighbourhood but did little else) and when she was finally released, we rushed up to her. My friend Mary, half carried her to the sidewalk. Eve's face was grey and she was shaking.
"Mary, my skirt?" she asked. Eve, an extremely modest young lady, was aware that the whole street was converging upon us at this time and her skirt had ridden up. She didn't want all these open-mouthed bystanders to have an eyeful of her underwear. Mary, pale with shock, pulled down the skirt and sat with her arm around Eve. I sat on the other side and between us, we held her trembling body, trying to come to terms with what had just happened.
"Are you OK?" Stupid question, I know. But it's one of those you have to ask. Eve is a tough cookie. She never shows emotions in public and there she sat between us, trying to pull herself together. The people crowded all around. Three guys who had been standing close by and witnessed the whole thing, (one of them had a walking stick which he tried to poke into the wheel of the criminals' bike) came up to us and started to call the police. They had made note of the number (it was a fake licence plate). Another old bhai auntie came up to us and made sympathetic clucking noises.
A Chinese lady who lived nearby got her maid to run in and get some plaster and antiseptic, which she then applied to my cousin's feet (the skin on her toes had been ripped off) and put plasters (you would call them band-aids) on the affected areas. Another brought back her shoes that had flown off during the skirmish. The lady looked at the shoes and shook her head.
"It would be better if you didn't wear those now. They will just increase the pain." She then instructed her maid to go to her house and get a new pair of slippers, which she then presented to my cousin. The black leather shoes were put neatly into an MNG bag presented to us by a young Punjabi girl, who took out her own stuff first. Cars slowed down and stopped, offering us rides to the police station. Another lady shot off and brought back a glass of water for Eve.
In the course of a few minutes, we were subjected to such a great outpouring of love and concern that it took my breath away. This was the Malaysia that I had so cynically dismissed?
While this was happening, I asked my cousin what was in her bag to decide on our next course of action. Thankfully, there hadn't been much cash (although when she went to replace the documentation, like her identity card, driver's licence and bankcards, she would have to fork out a lot more). I called up Information to get the number for her banks to cancel her credit and ATM cards. It was all done in a matter of minutes. Whatever those bastards had got from her, they wouldn't be able to use her credit cards. And all that drama for RM40? The only really valuable thing that would have been in her bag was the new funky Motorola. That had remained in her hand through the whole ordeal.
I walked back to Mary's house (we had just taken a stroll down the road to go to a nearby restaurant) to get the car and as I drove up I was conscious of a traffic jam, as one driver after another stopped to offer help. When they got into the car (Mary sat at the back still holding Eve) everyone waved us off, having helped as much as they could. Frankly we were quite overwhelmed.
As the shock receded, Eve turned to Mary: "Did you know all those people?"
Mary shook her head.
"Boy, you have some pretty fantastic neighbours."
A little later we were in Mary's house and she had just made a cup of hot sweet tea for Eve. Eve doesn't drink anything with sugar but I told her rather bossily to gulp it all down as it would be good for the shock. Suddenly we were aware of some young boys (they had been playing football across the street when the snatch theft occurred and had made their way over to see what they could do). We overhead one of them saying that if he ever saw that snatch thief again he would "belasah" him good. (Roughly translated: beat the crap out of him). The young boys had led the police car that had finally shown up, to Mary's house. Eve remained inside while Mary went outside to make a statement. She was not alone. It seemed that the whole neighbourhood came to help tell the story, as well as share some of their own anecdotes about crimes that had taken place there not too long ago. A taxi driver who had driven up to us (thinking we wanted a ride) and witnessed what had taken place, had chased the thieves but lost them at a petrol station. He came to make his statement too. A police officer came to the house to speak to Eve. He told her we would have to go to the Brickfields' police station to make a report.
The rest of the night passed like a dream. We repaired to the station in question, went through the interrogation. The officer who took down my cousin's statement was both sympathetic and hopeful. A few years ago when I had my own bag snatched, it was standard operating procedure to harrass the victims. A stupid officer who had no business being there when I made my report, read it over his colleague's shoulder and started scolding me for "carelessness". I stared at him in disbelief and my sister, who was with me at the time and very much shaken up by everything started to cry. What I should have said (hindsight makes us all wise) was that the reason people like me got mugged was that creeps like him were not doing their jobs. But I was young then. And in shock.
In Eve's case, the nice police officer told her not to worry. These guys would be caught (although maybe not at once) and they would have to pay for what they had done. As we were not allowed to be with her (only victims are allowed inside to make statements) I started to get upset. There she was, hungry, in pain and all shaken up, and why was this taking so long? Finally, I stood at the window and started to glare at him. A little while later, he beckoned me in. "Do you have anything to add?"
"Such as?"
"It's strange. There were three of you there and you couldn't even get the number?"
This time around I was not gonna stand for any bullying. "When something like this happens, you are in shock. We were looking at her not at the bike!" I snapped. My cousin toned my words down and tried to explain this calmly.
Finally, he let us go, giving us his number for any further developments.
Mary and I linked our arms on either side of Eve and marched out. There was a vague Indian dude walking behind us (this was still in the police station but we were that jittery) so we turned around and glared at him, till he walked past us. Suspicious of everybody now.
We went across the road for a meal. The restaurant was dark, only illuminated by candlelight, which would have been kind of romantic, except that it was as a result of a power failure, rather than to add to the ambiance. Some food in her, the colour started coming back to my cousin's face. We started to chat about other things, work, Mary's parents (lovingly referred to as the old boy and the old girl). Mary told us that the old girl (who is all of 87) insists on listening to the entire BBC news everyday, even the economic portion. One day, the old boy happened to switch it off before the business news was over and she got upset.
"Why did you do that for? Now I don't know what the price of crude oil was today."
Mary was stunned. None of us (business reporters though we were) gave two hoots about the price of crude oil. Eve and I screamed with laughter. The next day, Mary read that the price of crude oil was US$65 a barrel for that day and told her mother, half jokingly. The old girl listened seriously, head cocked to one side, nodded in a satisfied manner and went on cooking.
"Heh. Your mom is smart. She knows that the price of crude oil affects the price of her vegetables," Eve offered.
"I tell you, if I ever ran a tv news show, I would hire the two of them like a shot. They really are very good and uptodate about everything," Mary said. We all nodded, having had the same experience with our own parents. They actually read the papers, while all we did was just work in them.
We traded stories about possible job opportunities, discussed Eve's upcoming wedding, my new job, and frankly except for Eve's slightly battered appearance, it seemed like just another meeting of the 3K Production. (We named ourselves 3K, short for Tiga Keling or Three Keralites). Part of me was amazed by how quickly things had sort of gone back to normal (or were we all pretending?)
She didn't want to go to the hospital for a check-up (I feel fine, really you guys, just tired, I'll go tomorrow) so Mary and I drove her home and prepared ourselves to face her Mom (my aunt) whom we hadn't called to tell, only because she would be climbing off the walls if we had.
We woke her up (we had to, Eve's housekeys were in her bag) and as she staggered downstairs, drugged with sleep, she came awake as she realised that it was not only her daughter standing there waiting.
"Auntie, I think you'd better sit down."
"Why? What is all this Jenny?"
"Mom, I was mugged. They dragged me along the road."
Her eyes widened in disbelief and it was only then that she took in her daughter's bedraggled appearance. "Oh my God, are you alright?"
She sank into her seat and as is usual when one is mugged (the experience is so common over here that there almost seems to be a procedure to it), she discussed her own experiences and that of her friends. This friend. That friend. How this one was injured so badly. Eve listened, nodding tiredly. The kid was just about done in. Her eyes were red and it was obvious that she badly needed a hot shower and to crawl into bed.
"Have you been to the doctor?" her mother demanded sharply.
"No. I'll go tomorrow."
"We wanted to take her auntie, but she wanted to come home."
Her mom rose to make us all hot drinks. She then gave her daughter a couple of Panadols and some water. Mary and I took our leave soon after, after charging Eve to go sleep and call us tomorrow if she needed anything. I left instructions about how to get to the JPJ to do her driver's licence, telling her to come over to my house and I would drive her, if she needed to.
Then I drove Mary back and when I finally fell into my own bed, it was nearly two in the morning and I was just about done in. Before I fell asleep, I remembered the kind faces of all those people we didn't know, people we would probably never see again, who had come forward to help.
This was Malaysia? I felt curiously warm as I snuggled down under my duvet.
Eve was walking a little ahead of us, chatting away on her cool new mobile. Her handbag (with its very short strap) hung merrily on the side of right side (facing the road). I heard the motorbike come close and instinctively flinched. I have been robbed before. I saw it slow down beside her, and this expressionless guy with a moustache grab her bag and hold on while his partner took off, zig-zagging across the length of the road to throw her off.
People always say, when your bag is snatched, just let go, it's not worth getting killed to save a few dollars, a compact, a lipstick and all your personal documentation. All I have to say to these people is, "YOU TRY IT!". Most times, you are unaware of what has happened when you find yourself being dragged on the street, aware of people screaming all around, and the bag is stuck to you. There is no way you can simply "let it go".
Anyways, there she was, almost vertical, being dragged across the length of the road. She looked like she was taking a real beating (in fact, the whole thing was so shocking it actually looked ridiculous, something out of America's Funniest Home Videos). Then the strap snapped and the bastards took off, leaving her poor, battered, bruised body to us. We had been chasing her (of course, to no avail) screaming (which alerted the neighbourhood but did little else) and when she was finally released, we rushed up to her. My friend Mary, half carried her to the sidewalk. Eve's face was grey and she was shaking.
"Mary, my skirt?" she asked. Eve, an extremely modest young lady, was aware that the whole street was converging upon us at this time and her skirt had ridden up. She didn't want all these open-mouthed bystanders to have an eyeful of her underwear. Mary, pale with shock, pulled down the skirt and sat with her arm around Eve. I sat on the other side and between us, we held her trembling body, trying to come to terms with what had just happened.
"Are you OK?" Stupid question, I know. But it's one of those you have to ask. Eve is a tough cookie. She never shows emotions in public and there she sat between us, trying to pull herself together. The people crowded all around. Three guys who had been standing close by and witnessed the whole thing, (one of them had a walking stick which he tried to poke into the wheel of the criminals' bike) came up to us and started to call the police. They had made note of the number (it was a fake licence plate). Another old bhai auntie came up to us and made sympathetic clucking noises.
A Chinese lady who lived nearby got her maid to run in and get some plaster and antiseptic, which she then applied to my cousin's feet (the skin on her toes had been ripped off) and put plasters (you would call them band-aids) on the affected areas. Another brought back her shoes that had flown off during the skirmish. The lady looked at the shoes and shook her head.
"It would be better if you didn't wear those now. They will just increase the pain." She then instructed her maid to go to her house and get a new pair of slippers, which she then presented to my cousin. The black leather shoes were put neatly into an MNG bag presented to us by a young Punjabi girl, who took out her own stuff first. Cars slowed down and stopped, offering us rides to the police station. Another lady shot off and brought back a glass of water for Eve.
In the course of a few minutes, we were subjected to such a great outpouring of love and concern that it took my breath away. This was the Malaysia that I had so cynically dismissed?
While this was happening, I asked my cousin what was in her bag to decide on our next course of action. Thankfully, there hadn't been much cash (although when she went to replace the documentation, like her identity card, driver's licence and bankcards, she would have to fork out a lot more). I called up Information to get the number for her banks to cancel her credit and ATM cards. It was all done in a matter of minutes. Whatever those bastards had got from her, they wouldn't be able to use her credit cards. And all that drama for RM40? The only really valuable thing that would have been in her bag was the new funky Motorola. That had remained in her hand through the whole ordeal.
I walked back to Mary's house (we had just taken a stroll down the road to go to a nearby restaurant) to get the car and as I drove up I was conscious of a traffic jam, as one driver after another stopped to offer help. When they got into the car (Mary sat at the back still holding Eve) everyone waved us off, having helped as much as they could. Frankly we were quite overwhelmed.
As the shock receded, Eve turned to Mary: "Did you know all those people?"
Mary shook her head.
"Boy, you have some pretty fantastic neighbours."
A little later we were in Mary's house and she had just made a cup of hot sweet tea for Eve. Eve doesn't drink anything with sugar but I told her rather bossily to gulp it all down as it would be good for the shock. Suddenly we were aware of some young boys (they had been playing football across the street when the snatch theft occurred and had made their way over to see what they could do). We overhead one of them saying that if he ever saw that snatch thief again he would "belasah" him good. (Roughly translated: beat the crap out of him). The young boys had led the police car that had finally shown up, to Mary's house. Eve remained inside while Mary went outside to make a statement. She was not alone. It seemed that the whole neighbourhood came to help tell the story, as well as share some of their own anecdotes about crimes that had taken place there not too long ago. A taxi driver who had driven up to us (thinking we wanted a ride) and witnessed what had taken place, had chased the thieves but lost them at a petrol station. He came to make his statement too. A police officer came to the house to speak to Eve. He told her we would have to go to the Brickfields' police station to make a report.
The rest of the night passed like a dream. We repaired to the station in question, went through the interrogation. The officer who took down my cousin's statement was both sympathetic and hopeful. A few years ago when I had my own bag snatched, it was standard operating procedure to harrass the victims. A stupid officer who had no business being there when I made my report, read it over his colleague's shoulder and started scolding me for "carelessness". I stared at him in disbelief and my sister, who was with me at the time and very much shaken up by everything started to cry. What I should have said (hindsight makes us all wise) was that the reason people like me got mugged was that creeps like him were not doing their jobs. But I was young then. And in shock.
In Eve's case, the nice police officer told her not to worry. These guys would be caught (although maybe not at once) and they would have to pay for what they had done. As we were not allowed to be with her (only victims are allowed inside to make statements) I started to get upset. There she was, hungry, in pain and all shaken up, and why was this taking so long? Finally, I stood at the window and started to glare at him. A little while later, he beckoned me in. "Do you have anything to add?"
"Such as?"
"It's strange. There were three of you there and you couldn't even get the number?"
This time around I was not gonna stand for any bullying. "When something like this happens, you are in shock. We were looking at her not at the bike!" I snapped. My cousin toned my words down and tried to explain this calmly.
Finally, he let us go, giving us his number for any further developments.
Mary and I linked our arms on either side of Eve and marched out. There was a vague Indian dude walking behind us (this was still in the police station but we were that jittery) so we turned around and glared at him, till he walked past us. Suspicious of everybody now.
We went across the road for a meal. The restaurant was dark, only illuminated by candlelight, which would have been kind of romantic, except that it was as a result of a power failure, rather than to add to the ambiance. Some food in her, the colour started coming back to my cousin's face. We started to chat about other things, work, Mary's parents (lovingly referred to as the old boy and the old girl). Mary told us that the old girl (who is all of 87) insists on listening to the entire BBC news everyday, even the economic portion. One day, the old boy happened to switch it off before the business news was over and she got upset.
"Why did you do that for? Now I don't know what the price of crude oil was today."
Mary was stunned. None of us (business reporters though we were) gave two hoots about the price of crude oil. Eve and I screamed with laughter. The next day, Mary read that the price of crude oil was US$65 a barrel for that day and told her mother, half jokingly. The old girl listened seriously, head cocked to one side, nodded in a satisfied manner and went on cooking.
"Heh. Your mom is smart. She knows that the price of crude oil affects the price of her vegetables," Eve offered.
"I tell you, if I ever ran a tv news show, I would hire the two of them like a shot. They really are very good and uptodate about everything," Mary said. We all nodded, having had the same experience with our own parents. They actually read the papers, while all we did was just work in them.
We traded stories about possible job opportunities, discussed Eve's upcoming wedding, my new job, and frankly except for Eve's slightly battered appearance, it seemed like just another meeting of the 3K Production. (We named ourselves 3K, short for Tiga Keling or Three Keralites). Part of me was amazed by how quickly things had sort of gone back to normal (or were we all pretending?)
She didn't want to go to the hospital for a check-up (I feel fine, really you guys, just tired, I'll go tomorrow) so Mary and I drove her home and prepared ourselves to face her Mom (my aunt) whom we hadn't called to tell, only because she would be climbing off the walls if we had.
We woke her up (we had to, Eve's housekeys were in her bag) and as she staggered downstairs, drugged with sleep, she came awake as she realised that it was not only her daughter standing there waiting.
"Auntie, I think you'd better sit down."
"Why? What is all this Jenny?"
"Mom, I was mugged. They dragged me along the road."
Her eyes widened in disbelief and it was only then that she took in her daughter's bedraggled appearance. "Oh my God, are you alright?"
She sank into her seat and as is usual when one is mugged (the experience is so common over here that there almost seems to be a procedure to it), she discussed her own experiences and that of her friends. This friend. That friend. How this one was injured so badly. Eve listened, nodding tiredly. The kid was just about done in. Her eyes were red and it was obvious that she badly needed a hot shower and to crawl into bed.
"Have you been to the doctor?" her mother demanded sharply.
"No. I'll go tomorrow."
"We wanted to take her auntie, but she wanted to come home."
Her mom rose to make us all hot drinks. She then gave her daughter a couple of Panadols and some water. Mary and I took our leave soon after, after charging Eve to go sleep and call us tomorrow if she needed anything. I left instructions about how to get to the JPJ to do her driver's licence, telling her to come over to my house and I would drive her, if she needed to.
Then I drove Mary back and when I finally fell into my own bed, it was nearly two in the morning and I was just about done in. Before I fell asleep, I remembered the kind faces of all those people we didn't know, people we would probably never see again, who had come forward to help.
This was Malaysia? I felt curiously warm as I snuggled down under my duvet.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
At Your Own Valuation
People tend to take you at your own valuation. If you think you're worth nothing, they'll think so too, and pay you accordingly (whatever the coin). I have known this for a long time but I have just come face to face with it again in a rather startling manner.
I have a friend, let's call her Simonetta. Now Simonetta has years and years of experience in both broadcast and print journalism, is really good at her work and I don't think I have ever met anyone as conscientious or diligent. All good.
But Simonetta also has a very low opinion of herself. When I first came to know her, she used to look out at me with large desperate eyes, begging for help on this, that or the other. In the rodeo that was our office, this was not acceptable behaviour. If one had a weakness, one strove to hide it and brazen things out. It was OK to know nothing. It was not OK to know nothing and show that you knew nothing.
Anyway, we did not hit it off. She found me hard and angry (everyone found me angry at that time) and I found her a wimp. Then, towards the end of her stay in my newspaper, I actually got to know her. There was so much more there than originally met the eye. I started to like her just as she was about to leave. And when she left, I found myself missing her. Calling to catch up.
Anyone, as unlikely a pairing as the two of us were (one militant, the other self-deprecating) we became the best of friends. Part of each other's support group. When I was first in Australia, going through landlord crisis after landlord crisis (I stayed in three different houses in my first semester alone), she was the one I would call and howl to. She would listen, make me feel better, at least well enough to fight another day.
So there she was at the other end of the table looking tired and slightly out of sorts. She was treating me to lunch (for my graduation) and there was some quality of joy missing from her. Slowly, it came out. How a friend had contracted her to do research, underpaid her for the work and was npw refusing to pay expenses. There was a lot of resentment on her part (this friend is a millionairess in her own right, while Sim is a struggling freelancer) and it was easy to see she was feeling ill-used. She wanted to forget about it, chalk it up to experience but it was obviously a difficult situation to swallow.
We went through it from every possible angle and I finally asked her if she had a clear idea of how much she wanted to earn a month, freelancing. She hemmed and hawed and told me how little she needed to actually survive (her life being so very basic and close to the bone).
"I didn't ask how much you needed to survive. I asked how much you wanted to be comfortable, how much you think you're worth. Come on, name a figure and let's decide what you can do to earn that a month," I said.
"OK, I can get by on X amount of dollars. I don't want to kill myself working for twice as much."
I was staggered. This was a woman with 25 years of experience and she had named a figure that was close to what my little sister, a new graduate, was pulling in. "You don't have to kill yourself to earn that much, or twice or three times that much. Come on, let's work out an acceptable goal for you and write it down."
She was obviously uncomfortable. Finally I took the notebook from her and started scribbling a rough draft of a possible goal. When I named a figure in there I saw her flinch, as if from a blow and I could actually feel her stomach clench. She told me later than when she saw the figure I named (which was not extravagant by any means) a voice popped in her head, remarking sardonically: "Who do you think you are? You think you're worth that much?"
Anyway, I handed over the notebook to her and said: "OK, come on, you edit what I just wrote, to your liking. All I ask is that you do not change the figure (unless you want to increase it) or the time frame."
Simonetta looked at me, her eyes troubled. There was no way of getting out of this (you have no idea what a martinet I can be) and she had no choice but to put pen to paper and work out something acceptable. The thing she most wanted to change (the figure) was, according to me, sacrosanct.
To ease the process I told her a few stories I had picked up along the way. About how people only value something when they have had to fork out a hell of a lot for it. Exorbitant equalling quality, whichever way you looked at it.
For instance: I have a friend who runs a hobby store. She wanted to clear some spools of thread, so she had them marked down by 50 per cent and placed in front of the store. For a week, customers came, hovered nearby, picked up a spool, looked it over, glanced at the price, noticed it was cheaper than other embroidery thread, and moved right along without bothering to make a purchase. Fed up, she doubled the price from what it had originally been. In a few days the thread was sold out. In relating this story to me, my friend the shop-owner had said: "Typical Malaysian mentality. Unless you pay a lot for something, it ain't worth nothing."
Then there was a plastic surgeon that I met on the streets of the Champs Elysee. He took me out for a delightful dinner and told me the story of his life. There was a time when this man, who was relatively wealthy, had lost all his money because of some bad investments in real estate. He said many of his "friends" had gloated over his downfall, but he was unfazed, having decided to become the best plastic surgeon in all of Canada, and many times as wealthy as he had been, before he lost all his money.
"How do you become the best plastic surgeon in all of Canada?" I wondered aloud.
"You charge about five times as much as everybody else. I upped my fees tremendously and lost all my old customers. But I made a deal with this plastic surgeon in the US. Whenever he had a patient who wanted to do a particular type of surgery, he would say, yes, I can do this for you, but the best in the world at this, is in Canada. Only I have to warn you, he's very expensive. And I would do the same for him. We found that at least 50 per cent of our patients opted for the other man, the supposedly "best in the world"."
"Wow!"
And what do you think? In a very short time, he was all wealthy again.
Simonetta softened up, listening to these stories. (Have you ever found that people generally do? Maybe that's why the Chicken Soup series is so popular). She started writing. And an amazing thing happened. When she actually started focussing on the words, she came up with possible jobs she could do, based on her experience, which she could charge premium rates for. Smiling at her, I leaned over and crossed out the figure I had written, and wrote down another one. Almost double. "Sorry Sim, but if you're gonna be doing that kind of work, you're gonna have to up the income. If you don't want the rest of the money, you can give it to me, no problem."
She played around with it until she came up with something she was comfortable with.
"Right then, can you copy this out about 10 times after you wake up?"
She was already buying into the idea now and so agreed willingly. The second day, after performing her little morning ritual, Simonetta felt something burgeoning inside. She was not going to let her friend get away with taking advantage of her. If nothing else, she would place her displeasure on the record.
Sim called her friend and in a calm voice, explained her reservations about having to take the expenses for the job out of her own pocket. Her friend, as expected, started to object: "But you agreed..."
"Yes, I know I agreed. Sometimes I'm stupid. Sometimes things don't hit me till later. But it was not fair for you to suggest I take the expenses, which are no little sum, by the way, out of my own pocket. You said you thought the use of the library in question would be free. It was far from it. You don't have to do anything about it, because as you said, I agreed, but I just wanted to let you know how I feel."
There was silence at the other end of the line. Then her friend came through: "Look, I don't want to jeopardise this friendship. I'll pay you the expenses. No problem. Would you prefer a cheque or cash?"
And that's not all. About 20 minutes later, her friend called again: "Look, you said just now you were undercharging for your services. Just for the record, I'd like to know what you think is a fair price?"
Sim named her price and her friend agreed. "Fine, that's what I'll pay you. I may want to use your services in future and it would be better if we started out on a good note."
And 20 minutes after that, another call: "I budgeted for 20 hours, and although you did it in 18 hours, I think I'll pay you for 20 hours, OK?"
So, after two days of writing down her financial goals, she made an extra RM900 in the course of an hour, just from one conversation. Sim called me after that of course, totally jubilant.
"You see, you see what happens when you change your mind about your value? When you open up your mind to the possibility that you may actually be worth a hell of a lot?"
"Yes, yes, thank you, I feel so happy now. And now I look back on it, I actually find I enjoy such work. Haha."
"Yeah, there's nothing like proper compensation to motivate you."
I have a friend, let's call her Simonetta. Now Simonetta has years and years of experience in both broadcast and print journalism, is really good at her work and I don't think I have ever met anyone as conscientious or diligent. All good.
But Simonetta also has a very low opinion of herself. When I first came to know her, she used to look out at me with large desperate eyes, begging for help on this, that or the other. In the rodeo that was our office, this was not acceptable behaviour. If one had a weakness, one strove to hide it and brazen things out. It was OK to know nothing. It was not OK to know nothing and show that you knew nothing.
Anyway, we did not hit it off. She found me hard and angry (everyone found me angry at that time) and I found her a wimp. Then, towards the end of her stay in my newspaper, I actually got to know her. There was so much more there than originally met the eye. I started to like her just as she was about to leave. And when she left, I found myself missing her. Calling to catch up.
Anyone, as unlikely a pairing as the two of us were (one militant, the other self-deprecating) we became the best of friends. Part of each other's support group. When I was first in Australia, going through landlord crisis after landlord crisis (I stayed in three different houses in my first semester alone), she was the one I would call and howl to. She would listen, make me feel better, at least well enough to fight another day.
So there she was at the other end of the table looking tired and slightly out of sorts. She was treating me to lunch (for my graduation) and there was some quality of joy missing from her. Slowly, it came out. How a friend had contracted her to do research, underpaid her for the work and was npw refusing to pay expenses. There was a lot of resentment on her part (this friend is a millionairess in her own right, while Sim is a struggling freelancer) and it was easy to see she was feeling ill-used. She wanted to forget about it, chalk it up to experience but it was obviously a difficult situation to swallow.
We went through it from every possible angle and I finally asked her if she had a clear idea of how much she wanted to earn a month, freelancing. She hemmed and hawed and told me how little she needed to actually survive (her life being so very basic and close to the bone).
"I didn't ask how much you needed to survive. I asked how much you wanted to be comfortable, how much you think you're worth. Come on, name a figure and let's decide what you can do to earn that a month," I said.
"OK, I can get by on X amount of dollars. I don't want to kill myself working for twice as much."
I was staggered. This was a woman with 25 years of experience and she had named a figure that was close to what my little sister, a new graduate, was pulling in. "You don't have to kill yourself to earn that much, or twice or three times that much. Come on, let's work out an acceptable goal for you and write it down."
She was obviously uncomfortable. Finally I took the notebook from her and started scribbling a rough draft of a possible goal. When I named a figure in there I saw her flinch, as if from a blow and I could actually feel her stomach clench. She told me later than when she saw the figure I named (which was not extravagant by any means) a voice popped in her head, remarking sardonically: "Who do you think you are? You think you're worth that much?"
Anyway, I handed over the notebook to her and said: "OK, come on, you edit what I just wrote, to your liking. All I ask is that you do not change the figure (unless you want to increase it) or the time frame."
Simonetta looked at me, her eyes troubled. There was no way of getting out of this (you have no idea what a martinet I can be) and she had no choice but to put pen to paper and work out something acceptable. The thing she most wanted to change (the figure) was, according to me, sacrosanct.
To ease the process I told her a few stories I had picked up along the way. About how people only value something when they have had to fork out a hell of a lot for it. Exorbitant equalling quality, whichever way you looked at it.
For instance: I have a friend who runs a hobby store. She wanted to clear some spools of thread, so she had them marked down by 50 per cent and placed in front of the store. For a week, customers came, hovered nearby, picked up a spool, looked it over, glanced at the price, noticed it was cheaper than other embroidery thread, and moved right along without bothering to make a purchase. Fed up, she doubled the price from what it had originally been. In a few days the thread was sold out. In relating this story to me, my friend the shop-owner had said: "Typical Malaysian mentality. Unless you pay a lot for something, it ain't worth nothing."
Then there was a plastic surgeon that I met on the streets of the Champs Elysee. He took me out for a delightful dinner and told me the story of his life. There was a time when this man, who was relatively wealthy, had lost all his money because of some bad investments in real estate. He said many of his "friends" had gloated over his downfall, but he was unfazed, having decided to become the best plastic surgeon in all of Canada, and many times as wealthy as he had been, before he lost all his money.
"How do you become the best plastic surgeon in all of Canada?" I wondered aloud.
"You charge about five times as much as everybody else. I upped my fees tremendously and lost all my old customers. But I made a deal with this plastic surgeon in the US. Whenever he had a patient who wanted to do a particular type of surgery, he would say, yes, I can do this for you, but the best in the world at this, is in Canada. Only I have to warn you, he's very expensive. And I would do the same for him. We found that at least 50 per cent of our patients opted for the other man, the supposedly "best in the world"."
"Wow!"
And what do you think? In a very short time, he was all wealthy again.
Simonetta softened up, listening to these stories. (Have you ever found that people generally do? Maybe that's why the Chicken Soup series is so popular). She started writing. And an amazing thing happened. When she actually started focussing on the words, she came up with possible jobs she could do, based on her experience, which she could charge premium rates for. Smiling at her, I leaned over and crossed out the figure I had written, and wrote down another one. Almost double. "Sorry Sim, but if you're gonna be doing that kind of work, you're gonna have to up the income. If you don't want the rest of the money, you can give it to me, no problem."
She played around with it until she came up with something she was comfortable with.
"Right then, can you copy this out about 10 times after you wake up?"
She was already buying into the idea now and so agreed willingly. The second day, after performing her little morning ritual, Simonetta felt something burgeoning inside. She was not going to let her friend get away with taking advantage of her. If nothing else, she would place her displeasure on the record.
Sim called her friend and in a calm voice, explained her reservations about having to take the expenses for the job out of her own pocket. Her friend, as expected, started to object: "But you agreed..."
"Yes, I know I agreed. Sometimes I'm stupid. Sometimes things don't hit me till later. But it was not fair for you to suggest I take the expenses, which are no little sum, by the way, out of my own pocket. You said you thought the use of the library in question would be free. It was far from it. You don't have to do anything about it, because as you said, I agreed, but I just wanted to let you know how I feel."
There was silence at the other end of the line. Then her friend came through: "Look, I don't want to jeopardise this friendship. I'll pay you the expenses. No problem. Would you prefer a cheque or cash?"
And that's not all. About 20 minutes later, her friend called again: "Look, you said just now you were undercharging for your services. Just for the record, I'd like to know what you think is a fair price?"
Sim named her price and her friend agreed. "Fine, that's what I'll pay you. I may want to use your services in future and it would be better if we started out on a good note."
And 20 minutes after that, another call: "I budgeted for 20 hours, and although you did it in 18 hours, I think I'll pay you for 20 hours, OK?"
So, after two days of writing down her financial goals, she made an extra RM900 in the course of an hour, just from one conversation. Sim called me after that of course, totally jubilant.
"You see, you see what happens when you change your mind about your value? When you open up your mind to the possibility that you may actually be worth a hell of a lot?"
"Yes, yes, thank you, I feel so happy now. And now I look back on it, I actually find I enjoy such work. Haha."
"Yeah, there's nothing like proper compensation to motivate you."
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Hello Bonzo
Hi Bonzo,
It's me again. I was thinking today about violence. And how we're supposed to control our feelings, and remain calm. Even when we're seething inside. At least, that's the message that has been transmitted to me through various sources, supposedly authoritative.
You know what, Bonzo? I think it's a load of bollocks. I think when you get angry, you should let fly. Ya know why? Cos if you don't you get cancer. Either that, or you store it up and when you finally release, one of you ends up in hospital.
Take my friend Sam for instance. For years, he tolerated his mixed-up, spoilt, good-for-nothing little brother. He kept reminding himself to be patient, as his brother pissed away (or snorted) about a thousand dollars a week and then lived off their mom. He held himself in when his brother went out with him, a student not earning barely anything, taking it for granted that big brother would pay. He talked to him, tried to help, but inside, Bonzo, inside, there was all this resentment built up.
"You really shouldn't treat Mom like that."
"Who do you think you are, big bro? Piss off."
Well, you get the picture. Anyway, it all came to a head one day when they'd both been drinking. Dick, the little brother, convinced big brother to go to the corner bottle shop for another bottle of whisky. Then Mom showed up, because Dick had called her to pick him up, on the sly.
Sam: "Oh hello Mom, whatchoo doing here?"
Mom: "Dick called me. Said he wanted to be picked up."
Sam: "Oh, OK then. Bye."
Dick: "Nah. We just got a new bottle. You can wait until we finish it. Go rest in Sam's bedroom or something."
Sam (turning red): "You can't talk to Mom like that."
Dick (retreating behind Mom): Aw piss off you big fucking idiot. I'll talk to her however I please."
Sam reached out over his tiny mother, who barely came up to Dick's chest and took a swing. And once he started, he pounded the scrawny drug-addicted alcoholic loser (if you think I'm biased Bonzo, I am) into pulp. He also practically pulled Dick's arm out of its socket. An hour later, their Mom (who had called the police) drove Dick to hospital.
He was stitched up and is now obliged to go for physiotherapy once a week. For his arm.
Sam was telling me this story over a wine. His eyes lowered, he expected me to be shocked. But you know what Bonzo? I wasn't. And as far as I was concerned, Dick had it coming.
"So did it feel good?"
Sam looked up, his sombre expression lightening considerably: "You know what? It actually did."
"You and me, Sam, we're one of a kind. We store things up until it has to explode and it's always ugly, isn't it?"
"Yeah," he shook his head ruefully.
I know I am supposed to muse on the nature of violence or something, but tell you what, you do that for me, OK Bonzo. Only I have to warn you, if you get too preachy, I will delete what you say.
And if you should happen to fling a few Bible verses at me, I will forgive you, for you know not what you do.
Love
Me
It's me again. I was thinking today about violence. And how we're supposed to control our feelings, and remain calm. Even when we're seething inside. At least, that's the message that has been transmitted to me through various sources, supposedly authoritative.
You know what, Bonzo? I think it's a load of bollocks. I think when you get angry, you should let fly. Ya know why? Cos if you don't you get cancer. Either that, or you store it up and when you finally release, one of you ends up in hospital.
Take my friend Sam for instance. For years, he tolerated his mixed-up, spoilt, good-for-nothing little brother. He kept reminding himself to be patient, as his brother pissed away (or snorted) about a thousand dollars a week and then lived off their mom. He held himself in when his brother went out with him, a student not earning barely anything, taking it for granted that big brother would pay. He talked to him, tried to help, but inside, Bonzo, inside, there was all this resentment built up.
"You really shouldn't treat Mom like that."
"Who do you think you are, big bro? Piss off."
Well, you get the picture. Anyway, it all came to a head one day when they'd both been drinking. Dick, the little brother, convinced big brother to go to the corner bottle shop for another bottle of whisky. Then Mom showed up, because Dick had called her to pick him up, on the sly.
Sam: "Oh hello Mom, whatchoo doing here?"
Mom: "Dick called me. Said he wanted to be picked up."
Sam: "Oh, OK then. Bye."
Dick: "Nah. We just got a new bottle. You can wait until we finish it. Go rest in Sam's bedroom or something."
Sam (turning red): "You can't talk to Mom like that."
Dick (retreating behind Mom): Aw piss off you big fucking idiot. I'll talk to her however I please."
Sam reached out over his tiny mother, who barely came up to Dick's chest and took a swing. And once he started, he pounded the scrawny drug-addicted alcoholic loser (if you think I'm biased Bonzo, I am) into pulp. He also practically pulled Dick's arm out of its socket. An hour later, their Mom (who had called the police) drove Dick to hospital.
He was stitched up and is now obliged to go for physiotherapy once a week. For his arm.
Sam was telling me this story over a wine. His eyes lowered, he expected me to be shocked. But you know what Bonzo? I wasn't. And as far as I was concerned, Dick had it coming.
"So did it feel good?"
Sam looked up, his sombre expression lightening considerably: "You know what? It actually did."
"You and me, Sam, we're one of a kind. We store things up until it has to explode and it's always ugly, isn't it?"
"Yeah," he shook his head ruefully.
I know I am supposed to muse on the nature of violence or something, but tell you what, you do that for me, OK Bonzo. Only I have to warn you, if you get too preachy, I will delete what you say.
And if you should happen to fling a few Bible verses at me, I will forgive you, for you know not what you do.
Love
Me
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Be it ever so intricate
I spend a lot of the time with my head in the clouds. The rest with my heart in poison. Sigh. There must be a middle ground. I was thinking about charity today. Charity, as in love. Charity, as in do-gooding. Charity, as in something sustainable that really makes a difference in the life of another person (rather than the hit-and-runs to make oneself feel good for the moment).
My little sister is fantastic at it. She saves her money every month, and when she has collected a whole heap (once a year) she gives it to a friend who has a mission in Kenya. He runs a small school in a little village. He also collects clothes, shoes, etc. which he gives to the women of the village to sell, the women, being the providers in the family. Before this (when I was in Australia and she had my car) she used to also visit the doggie shelter once a week and clear out the cages and take the dogs for a walk. There are Myanmarese refugees nearby who help out at the shelter and she became friends with them. For Christmas she made up two baskets of goodies for them (food, wine, cigarettes) and they were so touched. Nobody does anything nice for them. I only get these stories out of her by persistent questioning. She is very, very quiet about what she does.
I, on the other hand, throw myself into projects and then I run out of money, or my enthusiasm peters out. I stopped going to the doggie shelter because it broke my heart. I was supporting a kid in Mongolia for about a year, then had to stop, as I went back to school, which meant, no income. Sometimes I see a person on the street who looks hungry and I go buy some food for them. Unlike my sister though, my efforts are sporadic. There is no follow through. And most of the time, instead of counting my blessings, I am churning with fury, it grows and grows until I can't breathe.
Yesterday, in the shower, it struck me that charity, true charity, is the function of maturity. It is something you made a commitment to and followed through on, regardless of emotion. A very wise friend, Alexandra, once told me that the problem with most people (here she gave me a penetrating look) was that they based their decisions on emotion rather than logic. But hang on, aren't we supposed to follow our hearts?
"Following your heart and submitting to your emotions are two very different things. Sometimes you know in your heart that something is wrong, but your feelings get the better of you. Emotional blackmail wouldn't work if you didn't go by emotions," she pointed out.
True. And now that my "real life" is starting again, I have to figure out what causes I want to support and follow through. I have to figure out what I, rather than the ubiquitous they think of as worthy causes.
Animals. The environment. Education. Marginalised women. Creativity. Hope to those on the cusp of despair.
There, that wasn't so hard, was it?
Life, be it ever so intricate, is really very simple after all.
My little sister is fantastic at it. She saves her money every month, and when she has collected a whole heap (once a year) she gives it to a friend who has a mission in Kenya. He runs a small school in a little village. He also collects clothes, shoes, etc. which he gives to the women of the village to sell, the women, being the providers in the family. Before this (when I was in Australia and she had my car) she used to also visit the doggie shelter once a week and clear out the cages and take the dogs for a walk. There are Myanmarese refugees nearby who help out at the shelter and she became friends with them. For Christmas she made up two baskets of goodies for them (food, wine, cigarettes) and they were so touched. Nobody does anything nice for them. I only get these stories out of her by persistent questioning. She is very, very quiet about what she does.
I, on the other hand, throw myself into projects and then I run out of money, or my enthusiasm peters out. I stopped going to the doggie shelter because it broke my heart. I was supporting a kid in Mongolia for about a year, then had to stop, as I went back to school, which meant, no income. Sometimes I see a person on the street who looks hungry and I go buy some food for them. Unlike my sister though, my efforts are sporadic. There is no follow through. And most of the time, instead of counting my blessings, I am churning with fury, it grows and grows until I can't breathe.
Yesterday, in the shower, it struck me that charity, true charity, is the function of maturity. It is something you made a commitment to and followed through on, regardless of emotion. A very wise friend, Alexandra, once told me that the problem with most people (here she gave me a penetrating look) was that they based their decisions on emotion rather than logic. But hang on, aren't we supposed to follow our hearts?
"Following your heart and submitting to your emotions are two very different things. Sometimes you know in your heart that something is wrong, but your feelings get the better of you. Emotional blackmail wouldn't work if you didn't go by emotions," she pointed out.
True. And now that my "real life" is starting again, I have to figure out what causes I want to support and follow through. I have to figure out what I, rather than the ubiquitous they think of as worthy causes.
Animals. The environment. Education. Marginalised women. Creativity. Hope to those on the cusp of despair.
There, that wasn't so hard, was it?
Life, be it ever so intricate, is really very simple after all.
Friday, March 31, 2006
A Little Soup
Last night I was pacing up and down my room, my mind churning vitriol, the worst of the worst thoughts swirling around, making myself furious with imaginary conversations, when I paused at the bookshelf.
What should I read now to ease my mind and put me to sleep? Agatha Christie? No, I read all these at least 40 times each. Jennings? No. Not interested. A little too banal. Charles Dickens? Not really. Jane Austen? Not in the mood. Salman Rushdie...er, I'll read that when I get back and real life begins.
Then my eyes flickered over my Chicken Soup for the Soul collection. Several times. You see, there was a time when these were a mainstay with me. I would read and re-read the stories about people being nice to each other, overcoming obstacles, expressing love, and I would feel comforted. I remember when I was living alone and having a horrible time of it. So lonely that I would scream silently into pillows to relieve my feelings. I didn't have any money at the time (it was all being poured into rent, and as this was during the financial crisis, the company had frozen all our overtime, with which I had planned to pay the rent in the first place), but when I saw a new Chicken Soup book out, I would scrape together my coins, sally forth and buy it.
Then I would spend the next night going through each story, weeping copiously (but it was good tears, tears of release) and somehow feeling better after it. It was like talking to a non-existent friend. It was like someone stroking my hair. The reminder that love was out there, even if I was not personally experiencing it in my life at the time. But somehow, it was almost as if I was. It leapt from the page and comforted my sore and battered heart.
It was around this time that I actually met one of the co-writers, Mark Victor Hansen. He was speaking in Kuala Lumpur, and being a reporter, I managed to wrangle an interview with him. What can I say, he was as lovely as his books suggested. The anxious PRs hovered around, telling me sternly to keep it short as Mr Hansen needed to have his lunch, but he said, no problem, ask as many questions as you want. And he kept saying, one more story, one more story...
Like how there was this guy in jail (let's call him Jake) who spent all his time trying to plan the murder of the one who put him in there. Jake's sister sent him a copy of one of the Chicken Soup books and he read it six times. Then he wrote to the authors saying he was no longer planning that murder: "I bet that guy's relieved," Mark laughed.
He could see that there was something wrong with me at the time, so he gave me an extra special hug and told me to write to him when I had come through to the other side and had my own obstacle overcoming, coming-out-of-the-dark story to tell. I promised I would (and I will, once I have that story).
So I picked up a 2nd Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul and started reading. Pretty soon, I was blubbering, but like before, they were tears of release. I felt the ice walls inside dissolve and I went to sleep peacefully, without those destructive tapes playing havoc in my head.
A little soup goes a long way.
What should I read now to ease my mind and put me to sleep? Agatha Christie? No, I read all these at least 40 times each. Jennings? No. Not interested. A little too banal. Charles Dickens? Not really. Jane Austen? Not in the mood. Salman Rushdie...er, I'll read that when I get back and real life begins.
Then my eyes flickered over my Chicken Soup for the Soul collection. Several times. You see, there was a time when these were a mainstay with me. I would read and re-read the stories about people being nice to each other, overcoming obstacles, expressing love, and I would feel comforted. I remember when I was living alone and having a horrible time of it. So lonely that I would scream silently into pillows to relieve my feelings. I didn't have any money at the time (it was all being poured into rent, and as this was during the financial crisis, the company had frozen all our overtime, with which I had planned to pay the rent in the first place), but when I saw a new Chicken Soup book out, I would scrape together my coins, sally forth and buy it.
Then I would spend the next night going through each story, weeping copiously (but it was good tears, tears of release) and somehow feeling better after it. It was like talking to a non-existent friend. It was like someone stroking my hair. The reminder that love was out there, even if I was not personally experiencing it in my life at the time. But somehow, it was almost as if I was. It leapt from the page and comforted my sore and battered heart.
It was around this time that I actually met one of the co-writers, Mark Victor Hansen. He was speaking in Kuala Lumpur, and being a reporter, I managed to wrangle an interview with him. What can I say, he was as lovely as his books suggested. The anxious PRs hovered around, telling me sternly to keep it short as Mr Hansen needed to have his lunch, but he said, no problem, ask as many questions as you want. And he kept saying, one more story, one more story...
Like how there was this guy in jail (let's call him Jake) who spent all his time trying to plan the murder of the one who put him in there. Jake's sister sent him a copy of one of the Chicken Soup books and he read it six times. Then he wrote to the authors saying he was no longer planning that murder: "I bet that guy's relieved," Mark laughed.
He could see that there was something wrong with me at the time, so he gave me an extra special hug and told me to write to him when I had come through to the other side and had my own obstacle overcoming, coming-out-of-the-dark story to tell. I promised I would (and I will, once I have that story).
So I picked up a 2nd Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul and started reading. Pretty soon, I was blubbering, but like before, they were tears of release. I felt the ice walls inside dissolve and I went to sleep peacefully, without those destructive tapes playing havoc in my head.
A little soup goes a long way.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
The Implied Audience
I wonder how many of us skew our writing to please an implied audience. When I started this blog, it was because too many people I knew read my other one, and I was constantly having to edit out the stuff I didn't want them to know.
So fine. I started another one, completely anonymous, so I could bitch, rant, say whatever the hell it was I wanted to say.
And then something weird happened. I became a part of a small community. Other people read this (certainly more other people than there were reading my other blog). I found myself editing, editing, editing:
"No, I can't say that, no, that's not nice, no, let me try to put it another way."
Honesty seeped away, the way it always does, when there is an implied audience. An implied audience of really nice people you don't want to offend. I don't know if you've noticed, but I've been trying to recapture myself, leave in those nasty bits, so what you have is not a bowlderized version but the real me. Warts and all.
So fine. I started another one, completely anonymous, so I could bitch, rant, say whatever the hell it was I wanted to say.
And then something weird happened. I became a part of a small community. Other people read this (certainly more other people than there were reading my other blog). I found myself editing, editing, editing:
"No, I can't say that, no, that's not nice, no, let me try to put it another way."
Honesty seeped away, the way it always does, when there is an implied audience. An implied audience of really nice people you don't want to offend. I don't know if you've noticed, but I've been trying to recapture myself, leave in those nasty bits, so what you have is not a bowlderized version but the real me. Warts and all.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Tagged and Weirded
Nancy tagged me and it seems I have to list out six weird things about myself. As before, I will do the tag without passing it on...I had to give it a lot of thought. Of course, to us, the crazy things we do don't seem weird at all; it's the rest of the world that is out of step. After much thought, I have come up with a sort of list. Oh well.
1. I am so indecisive I sometimes trip over my feet which are vainly attempting to walk in two different directions at once.
2. For the most part, I prefer to be alone. I like going for movies by myself, having tea by myself (with a book and a notebook, who can be lonely), walking around shopping centres by myself. I don't need a constantly chattering companion by my side as there is incessant chattering going on in my head.
3. I remember stuff from when I was a baby. Like the time I woke up crying, because I wanted my supper, and my mother sat up in the bed, tired and angry, and scolded me. I didn't know what she was saying (I didn't understand language at the time) but it was the first time anyone had spoken an angry word to me. My father got up, calmed her down, carried me off to the kitchen to make my milk. He broke my bottle. The thing is, I shouldn't have remembered this because I was only a few months old, but it was corroborated later by my mother who told me the story.
4. I don't like the pale beige of ordinary life. I prefer the violent reds or purples. Which is why I move from obsession to obsession. And I get obsessed about really strange things (or people). Salman Khan. Darren Hayes. My Shakespeare lecturer. M*A*S*H. The Waltons. Essays by Jeanette Winterson. Brown suede jackets. The doughnuts at Starbucks. The Lord of the Rings (extended versions, which I have watched at least 20 times each). Baking triple chocolate muffins. Anne Sexton.
5. I frequently like to smell my face. I do this by bringing my upper lip up to my nose and sniffing.
6. When I was a kid, I loved to let the air out of my mother's tires. I liked the whooshing sound.
7. I have to add another one. I am remarkably good at cancelling people out. Meaning that, once I reach a certain point, they have no existence for me. When I was 12, I had a nasty fight with my brother about nothing in particular. I didn't speak to him again for 17 years.
1. I am so indecisive I sometimes trip over my feet which are vainly attempting to walk in two different directions at once.
2. For the most part, I prefer to be alone. I like going for movies by myself, having tea by myself (with a book and a notebook, who can be lonely), walking around shopping centres by myself. I don't need a constantly chattering companion by my side as there is incessant chattering going on in my head.
3. I remember stuff from when I was a baby. Like the time I woke up crying, because I wanted my supper, and my mother sat up in the bed, tired and angry, and scolded me. I didn't know what she was saying (I didn't understand language at the time) but it was the first time anyone had spoken an angry word to me. My father got up, calmed her down, carried me off to the kitchen to make my milk. He broke my bottle. The thing is, I shouldn't have remembered this because I was only a few months old, but it was corroborated later by my mother who told me the story.
4. I don't like the pale beige of ordinary life. I prefer the violent reds or purples. Which is why I move from obsession to obsession. And I get obsessed about really strange things (or people). Salman Khan. Darren Hayes. My Shakespeare lecturer. M*A*S*H. The Waltons. Essays by Jeanette Winterson. Brown suede jackets. The doughnuts at Starbucks. The Lord of the Rings (extended versions, which I have watched at least 20 times each). Baking triple chocolate muffins. Anne Sexton.
5. I frequently like to smell my face. I do this by bringing my upper lip up to my nose and sniffing.
6. When I was a kid, I loved to let the air out of my mother's tires. I liked the whooshing sound.
7. I have to add another one. I am remarkably good at cancelling people out. Meaning that, once I reach a certain point, they have no existence for me. When I was 12, I had a nasty fight with my brother about nothing in particular. I didn't speak to him again for 17 years.
Freefall
They found three pairs of clean underwear in his suitcase. Three pairs. I mean, when someone has three pairs of clean underwear left, surely they were planning on sticking around, at least for three more days. But sometimes there is an open window on a high floor and the call of a chilly night. Sometimes there is too much champagne and carbonated good cheer and a wedding when all feelings come to a head. Sometimes you step off and wish you hadn't but it's too late to reach out and there's no ledge to break your fall.
We were at Perth for my graduation. Staying at a relatively pleasant hotel in the heart of the city. I was doing my headless chicken impression, rushing around trying to catch up with half a dozen people, ploughing through Cabernet Merlot (with the occassional Shiraz), breaking a lot of promises I made when I left (I am coming back in March for graduation and when I'm here, I swear I'll call and catch up with you) and telling myself I didn't feel nervous about the whole graduation she-bang.
OK, so there I am, it's an ordinary night and the friends I am out with are giving me a lift home. It is one in the morning and the streets are deserted. But when we approach the hotel, we found the place cordoned off with crime tape. The police are there, looking grim, and I feel my heart leap into my mouth. My Mom is in the hotel, and if anything has happened to her, while I have been out gallivanting...
The police officer allows me behind the tape, when he discovers I am staying at the hotel and escorts me to the lift. There is a large woman in an inappropriately tiny white boob tube wailing on a sofa at the reception and another guy, on another sofa, who simply looks stunned. Bad vibes, bad vibes all around, I feel myself start to shake.
"What happened here?"
"You don't want to know."
"No, really, my mother was here and I do want to know."
"You don't want to know."
And that was that. I am convinced that a rape or a murder had taken place downstairs and my voice quavers as I call out to my mother to come open the door for me.
"Oh my goodness Jenny, do you know what time it is? Don't you realise you have your graduation tomorrow?"
"Um Mom, what happened here? Did you hear anything?"
"What do you mean? I was so worried and I tried to find your number to call you and look at the time..."
"OK, OK, I couldn't get a cab back and finally they had to send me home, but...the place is crawling with police and there is a woman bawling her eyes out at reception. Something happened here...didn't you hear anything?"
"No. Now go to sleep. You have to wake up early tomorrow. Try not to think about it."
Yeah, right. Like that is even possible. I toss and turn all night, squinting at the little digital clock near the bed which tells me it was all of 5 in the morning at one point. After that I refuse to look. My heart is tripping as I imagine all the nightmare scenarios that could have taken place downstairs. Or maybe even upstairs where I am. Suddenly I don't feel so safe anymore.
The next morning, I flew around half stoned trying to get ready for graduation. I was too nervous to be sleepy and I slapped on tons of make-up and squeezed into a floor-length ballgown, over which I threw the graduation robes. Not the scarf because I didn't know how to put it on, or the mortarboard, as that could come on, once I had reached the venue.
I met a guy in the lift with a clipboard. He looked like he belonged there. I was feeling a little diffident after the brush-off by the unsmiling policeman, but still...
"Are you with the hotel?"
Smile. "Yes. Why?"
"What happened last night?"
"A wedding guest jumped out of his bedroom window. He died. Naturally the rest of the wedding guests, to say nothing of the bride and groom, were really upset about it."
"Oh my God!"
"Yes, it was pretty awful."
"I don't know what to say..."
It was not what I had imagined, but horrendous nonetheless. I mean, this couple's wedding would be always tainted with the memory of this suicide. A jilted lover? Too much champagne? A depressed friend who didn't think he could go on?
What thoughts passed through his head as he climbed on his bed, opened the window and looked out into the chilly night? That life had become too unbearable, and here in the hotel room with the large unbarred windows, he was just a step away from oblivion?
Those three pairs of clean underwear, would seem to suggest different. That he hadn't planned on ending it all. That he had enough optimism to go on. If only for three more days...and then three more. And three more again.
Surviving the minutes until they turned into years and then, decades.
We were at Perth for my graduation. Staying at a relatively pleasant hotel in the heart of the city. I was doing my headless chicken impression, rushing around trying to catch up with half a dozen people, ploughing through Cabernet Merlot (with the occassional Shiraz), breaking a lot of promises I made when I left (I am coming back in March for graduation and when I'm here, I swear I'll call and catch up with you) and telling myself I didn't feel nervous about the whole graduation she-bang.
OK, so there I am, it's an ordinary night and the friends I am out with are giving me a lift home. It is one in the morning and the streets are deserted. But when we approach the hotel, we found the place cordoned off with crime tape. The police are there, looking grim, and I feel my heart leap into my mouth. My Mom is in the hotel, and if anything has happened to her, while I have been out gallivanting...
The police officer allows me behind the tape, when he discovers I am staying at the hotel and escorts me to the lift. There is a large woman in an inappropriately tiny white boob tube wailing on a sofa at the reception and another guy, on another sofa, who simply looks stunned. Bad vibes, bad vibes all around, I feel myself start to shake.
"What happened here?"
"You don't want to know."
"No, really, my mother was here and I do want to know."
"You don't want to know."
And that was that. I am convinced that a rape or a murder had taken place downstairs and my voice quavers as I call out to my mother to come open the door for me.
"Oh my goodness Jenny, do you know what time it is? Don't you realise you have your graduation tomorrow?"
"Um Mom, what happened here? Did you hear anything?"
"What do you mean? I was so worried and I tried to find your number to call you and look at the time..."
"OK, OK, I couldn't get a cab back and finally they had to send me home, but...the place is crawling with police and there is a woman bawling her eyes out at reception. Something happened here...didn't you hear anything?"
"No. Now go to sleep. You have to wake up early tomorrow. Try not to think about it."
Yeah, right. Like that is even possible. I toss and turn all night, squinting at the little digital clock near the bed which tells me it was all of 5 in the morning at one point. After that I refuse to look. My heart is tripping as I imagine all the nightmare scenarios that could have taken place downstairs. Or maybe even upstairs where I am. Suddenly I don't feel so safe anymore.
The next morning, I flew around half stoned trying to get ready for graduation. I was too nervous to be sleepy and I slapped on tons of make-up and squeezed into a floor-length ballgown, over which I threw the graduation robes. Not the scarf because I didn't know how to put it on, or the mortarboard, as that could come on, once I had reached the venue.
I met a guy in the lift with a clipboard. He looked like he belonged there. I was feeling a little diffident after the brush-off by the unsmiling policeman, but still...
"Are you with the hotel?"
Smile. "Yes. Why?"
"What happened last night?"
"A wedding guest jumped out of his bedroom window. He died. Naturally the rest of the wedding guests, to say nothing of the bride and groom, were really upset about it."
"Oh my God!"
"Yes, it was pretty awful."
"I don't know what to say..."
It was not what I had imagined, but horrendous nonetheless. I mean, this couple's wedding would be always tainted with the memory of this suicide. A jilted lover? Too much champagne? A depressed friend who didn't think he could go on?
What thoughts passed through his head as he climbed on his bed, opened the window and looked out into the chilly night? That life had become too unbearable, and here in the hotel room with the large unbarred windows, he was just a step away from oblivion?
Those three pairs of clean underwear, would seem to suggest different. That he hadn't planned on ending it all. That he had enough optimism to go on. If only for three more days...and then three more. And three more again.
Surviving the minutes until they turned into years and then, decades.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Knee Jerk
I have noticed that my knee-jerk reaction to anything is always wrong. It comes from years of negative conditioning and wrong-thinking. When something happens (or even when I imagine something happening) my chest tautens, my body tenses. I hold my breath for a while and fire starts rushing through my solar plexus. All ready, for the build-up, the eruption.
Then wham! The fire streaks out from me at any target within sight. I fight to kill. Nothing in-between. It's the way I've thought myself to think. As if nothing in-between is a good way to go. You don't have to tell me, I know. It sucks.
Lately, I've taken to pausing before each eruption. I allow myself to breathe. Then before I lacerate with words, something is tripped and I say, "knee jerk". As in "your knee-jerk" reaction is always wrong. Let's think about this before you open your big mouth and let everyone within the vicinity have it. Remember, knee-jerk!
Funny, but it seems to work. When people do something, say something or even look something that offends me, I find myself taking a second or two to react. That second or two is precious. Most time it cools me right down and allows me to gain some form of perspective.
Knee Jerk!
Then wham! The fire streaks out from me at any target within sight. I fight to kill. Nothing in-between. It's the way I've thought myself to think. As if nothing in-between is a good way to go. You don't have to tell me, I know. It sucks.
Lately, I've taken to pausing before each eruption. I allow myself to breathe. Then before I lacerate with words, something is tripped and I say, "knee jerk". As in "your knee-jerk" reaction is always wrong. Let's think about this before you open your big mouth and let everyone within the vicinity have it. Remember, knee-jerk!
Funny, but it seems to work. When people do something, say something or even look something that offends me, I find myself taking a second or two to react. That second or two is precious. Most time it cools me right down and allows me to gain some form of perspective.
Knee Jerk!
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
The Return of the Beast
"Oh God, the guy is nearly 100 and there he is, still raring for a fight. Why doesn't he just pop off gracefully instead of interfering and causing trouble this way?"
My friend shook his head over a cup of designer coffee. We had agreed to meet at one of these expensive cafes near his office, and as usual (you can't avoid it here) talk had steered round to our erstwhile Prime Minister and his shenanigans.
"Yeah, I guess he's mortified. He's been head honcho so long, I guess he bought into the lie that he would always continue to be in control. Even when he handed over the reins. Something like Lee Kuan Yew," I offered.
My friend was unimpressed. He went on to detail all the ways Mahathir was poking his nose into what was essentially not his business, causing trouble for the sake of it and just behaving like a belligerent old man reverting to second childhood. "If anyone else had done this while he was PM, they would have been slammed in jail before could you could say ISA."
I nodded thoughtfully. They would have. And even though the guy had been out of power now for a couple of years, I still looked around the cafe carefully to see if anyone was eavesdropping on our conversation. It was a legacy from my Mahathir years, where everyone watched everyone because it wasn't safe to express a negative opinion of the man and you never knew who might be listening.
I remember when I first joined the press as a trainee. I didn't know then that the man was God. A senior reporter told me that the Press Club (where my friends and I hung out nearly every Friday) used to be a Special Branch (that's our secret service) interrogation centre. She said the reporters knew where the hidden cameras were and would shake their fists at them saying, "Fuck Mahathir" in loud, ringing tones, over a glass of beer. Or whisky. I was filled with admiration. How could they be so brave?
I had only been in the newspaper for a short time, but I was beginning to be aware that nobody did this and lived to tell the tale. He was referred to as "The PM". Our "Our Beloved PM" (this in speeches during most official functions). Or Datuk Seri. Or "the old man" (affectionately, of course). He laid down the law, forced his opinions on everybody, micromanaged us to death (he once wanted a reporter in my newspaper fired for using two "inappropriate" words in a stock market report - nobody bloody reads these reports anyway), and gradually, people accepted this and saw this as right. And even felt his hugely paternalistic approach was for the good of the country. The newspapers were gelded, the judiciary, a bloody joke...but so what? I mean it was not democracy like they had in the West (but look what their form of democracy got them? Immorality and race riots and people blowing up buildings), it was a "controlled democracy", where everything was done for the "good of the people". Sometimes, people needed to be led. They didn't know what was best for them. He did. He knew everything. Omniscience is an awful burden. No wonder, it took only 21 years for the guy to finally break down and quit his job, sobbing, like a, like a, well, like a child.
They recently staged a Julius Caesar, where the Caesar came across as a loud, pushy, blustering old man. When he was killed, everyone heaved a collective sigh of relief...because it was only right for a man like that to be killed. I think the director misread the situation and the play, both. Ours was not a Julius Caesar-type situation, and he didn't need to sacrifice Caesar's character in that way to make his point. He should have staged King Lear instead for everyone to have gotten the parallel. Lear, handing over the reins, but expecting to remain King. Lear railing against his ungrateful children for not loving him after they pretended to. Sharper than a serpent's tooth...
I recently read an article from the "independent press" which said, because of the changes in the country now, fuel hikes, etc, the Mahathir years are starting to look good. To the writer, all I can say is...you must be suffering from a severe bout of amnesia.
Have you already forgotten what it was like?
My friend shook his head over a cup of designer coffee. We had agreed to meet at one of these expensive cafes near his office, and as usual (you can't avoid it here) talk had steered round to our erstwhile Prime Minister and his shenanigans.
"Yeah, I guess he's mortified. He's been head honcho so long, I guess he bought into the lie that he would always continue to be in control. Even when he handed over the reins. Something like Lee Kuan Yew," I offered.
My friend was unimpressed. He went on to detail all the ways Mahathir was poking his nose into what was essentially not his business, causing trouble for the sake of it and just behaving like a belligerent old man reverting to second childhood. "If anyone else had done this while he was PM, they would have been slammed in jail before could you could say ISA."
I nodded thoughtfully. They would have. And even though the guy had been out of power now for a couple of years, I still looked around the cafe carefully to see if anyone was eavesdropping on our conversation. It was a legacy from my Mahathir years, where everyone watched everyone because it wasn't safe to express a negative opinion of the man and you never knew who might be listening.
I remember when I first joined the press as a trainee. I didn't know then that the man was God. A senior reporter told me that the Press Club (where my friends and I hung out nearly every Friday) used to be a Special Branch (that's our secret service) interrogation centre. She said the reporters knew where the hidden cameras were and would shake their fists at them saying, "Fuck Mahathir" in loud, ringing tones, over a glass of beer. Or whisky. I was filled with admiration. How could they be so brave?
I had only been in the newspaper for a short time, but I was beginning to be aware that nobody did this and lived to tell the tale. He was referred to as "The PM". Our "Our Beloved PM" (this in speeches during most official functions). Or Datuk Seri. Or "the old man" (affectionately, of course). He laid down the law, forced his opinions on everybody, micromanaged us to death (he once wanted a reporter in my newspaper fired for using two "inappropriate" words in a stock market report - nobody bloody reads these reports anyway), and gradually, people accepted this and saw this as right. And even felt his hugely paternalistic approach was for the good of the country. The newspapers were gelded, the judiciary, a bloody joke...but so what? I mean it was not democracy like they had in the West (but look what their form of democracy got them? Immorality and race riots and people blowing up buildings), it was a "controlled democracy", where everything was done for the "good of the people". Sometimes, people needed to be led. They didn't know what was best for them. He did. He knew everything. Omniscience is an awful burden. No wonder, it took only 21 years for the guy to finally break down and quit his job, sobbing, like a, like a, well, like a child.
They recently staged a Julius Caesar, where the Caesar came across as a loud, pushy, blustering old man. When he was killed, everyone heaved a collective sigh of relief...because it was only right for a man like that to be killed. I think the director misread the situation and the play, both. Ours was not a Julius Caesar-type situation, and he didn't need to sacrifice Caesar's character in that way to make his point. He should have staged King Lear instead for everyone to have gotten the parallel. Lear, handing over the reins, but expecting to remain King. Lear railing against his ungrateful children for not loving him after they pretended to. Sharper than a serpent's tooth...
I recently read an article from the "independent press" which said, because of the changes in the country now, fuel hikes, etc, the Mahathir years are starting to look good. To the writer, all I can say is...you must be suffering from a severe bout of amnesia.
Have you already forgotten what it was like?
Monday, March 20, 2006
Oh life, where is thy sting?
The very last time I saw him, I ran away and kept running. I was terrified and he was drunk and it was a small place and I was in a strange country and there was really, nowhere to run.
I called everyone I knew and they turned up, pulling him away from me, as he staggered threateningly forward, telling him to lay off. Someone else, a friend of friend, sent a car, and got me the hell out of there.
Before I left, I glared at him, angry, disgusted at this wreck of humanity who had dared woo me over the Internet, pretending to be what he wasn't, even more disgusted at myself for ignoring the glaring signs along the way, that Denzil was no more than a broken-down alcoholic.
"Why don't you kill yourself?" I suggested.
"Wessy?" he named his daughter, his eyes whisky-moist.
"She doesn't need you. I think you would be more useful to her, dead."
He wept. Piteously. I turned away. Icy.
And that was the last time I saw him.
I blocked his email addresses, so he wrote to a friend of mine:
"I've been ill in hospital. Jaundice. If Jenn would just write to me as a friend, let me know she cared at least a little, I would feel so much better."
My friend told me and I lost my temper. "Jaundice, isn't that related to the liver? His illness has nothing to do with me. He's a fucking alkie. Besides, why the hell would I want to make him feel better? I want him dead! If there was anything I could do to speed that process now, I'd do it in a shot."
My friend sighed. "It's not for you to decide if he lives or dies, Jenn."
"No, I suppose it isn't. Just don't try to lay a guilt trip on me, OK? It won't work because I don't give a flying fuck!"
Oh you, whom I've hated so terribly...
I got an email this morning from someone I met in India. Someone Denzil had introduced me to. He told me that the man had a heart attack on March 12 and died in Thailand. His body was cremated by his wife's family and sent back to Bombay. The mutual friend went on to add:
"Denzu was a gentle and sweet tempered soul. We all will miss this kind and nice friend."
I called everyone I knew and they turned up, pulling him away from me, as he staggered threateningly forward, telling him to lay off. Someone else, a friend of friend, sent a car, and got me the hell out of there.
Before I left, I glared at him, angry, disgusted at this wreck of humanity who had dared woo me over the Internet, pretending to be what he wasn't, even more disgusted at myself for ignoring the glaring signs along the way, that Denzil was no more than a broken-down alcoholic.
"Why don't you kill yourself?" I suggested.
"Wessy?" he named his daughter, his eyes whisky-moist.
"She doesn't need you. I think you would be more useful to her, dead."
He wept. Piteously. I turned away. Icy.
And that was the last time I saw him.
I blocked his email addresses, so he wrote to a friend of mine:
"I've been ill in hospital. Jaundice. If Jenn would just write to me as a friend, let me know she cared at least a little, I would feel so much better."
My friend told me and I lost my temper. "Jaundice, isn't that related to the liver? His illness has nothing to do with me. He's a fucking alkie. Besides, why the hell would I want to make him feel better? I want him dead! If there was anything I could do to speed that process now, I'd do it in a shot."
My friend sighed. "It's not for you to decide if he lives or dies, Jenn."
"No, I suppose it isn't. Just don't try to lay a guilt trip on me, OK? It won't work because I don't give a flying fuck!"
Oh you, whom I've hated so terribly...
I got an email this morning from someone I met in India. Someone Denzil had introduced me to. He told me that the man had a heart attack on March 12 and died in Thailand. His body was cremated by his wife's family and sent back to Bombay. The mutual friend went on to add:
"Denzu was a gentle and sweet tempered soul. We all will miss this kind and nice friend."
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Versions
We tell stories of the events in our lives, stories that define us, and as we grow older and gain perspective, these stories change. Sometimes we stop seeing ourselves as victims and acknowledge the part we had to play in bringing about our sad and sorry outcomes. Here is one of my mine:
1. He was my first love and I adored him terribly. Such a bad boy which was half the attraction (although being a good Catholic Convent girl) I could never admit it. Naturally I tried to "reform" him. And he responded (or at least I thought he did). He started going to Church, I took him for Confession, we were all set for a life together, oh I don't know, maybe ten years down the road. He was a bad boy but now he was getting good. He loved me back. I know he did. Those other girls, they were not suitable. OK, so we always got bored talking to each other; those daily phone calls, I would look forward to them, but when he was actually on the phone, there were many pauses filled with the silence of two people who didn't really have anything in common, or anything to say to each other. So what? He became progressively crueller. Hurt my feelings. Then I found out he was fooling around on me and broke up with him. We got back together that same day because I forgave him. And besides, she didn't mean anything, she was in trouble and he was just trying to be nice. She was a friend and going through rough times and he was there to hold her hand. Hmmm. Hold her hand. I didn't like it, at 17, that seems a terrible betrayal, but still, I guess I could live with it. Especially since he said he wasn't gonna give her up. And then, we broke up anyway when he was leaving to study in KL. We broke up because my Mom insisted, but really, he didn't put up much of a fight. Just let it be. And less than a year later, he tried to get back together. But by then, I realised that he bored me. I had come to KL too, my horizons were expanding, I met many new people and I couldn't bear the thought of those interminable phone conversations, saying nothing, leading nowhere.
2. Well, he was sort of my first boyfriend, I was attracted to his bad boy reputation, but I should have known, he was bad through and through. And dumb. Really dumb. I think I can forgive a man anything except utter stupidity. He never had anything interesting to say. Didn't read so he couldn't discuss books. Or ideas. The mind of a three-year-old. Really dumb. And... he cheated on me. That bloody stupid good-for-nothing. With a stupid bimbo junior from school. He was cheating on me the whole time. They did everything but actual sex, (he told me later) and then of course, she dumps him and he comes running back. Can you believe it? He comes running back to me after he is left out in the cold. One of my colleagues in the newspaper went to college with him. She told me she used to talk to him because she felt sorry for him. He was so pathetic, no girl gave him a second look. That's why he came running back to me after he got dumped. He suddenly found himself girlfriendless and unwanted, a fucking reject. When I first saw him at a press conference and learned that his Dad had pulled strings to get him a job at a rival newspaper, I was contemptuous. He looked at me, expecting recognition, a greeting, some form of acknowledgement, but I turned away coldly and ignored him. As a newbie, wet-behind-the-ears reporter he was now less than nothing. Beneath me. Not good enough to associate with. And I would never forgive him for cheating on me all those years before. When I hate, I hate for life.
3. I went into that relationship with my eyes open. We were not suitable for each other, me for him or him for me. Really. We had the misfortune of having best friends who were going out with each other who decided to play matchmaker. Although I knew who he was, even before that and had been terribly attracted to him. (Everyone knew who he was - he was famous, notorious in our small circle and I gained a certain notoriety going out with him) Let's face it, he was cute. And at 17, that counts for a lot. I now feel sorry for him. When you're a teenager you want to have a partner who is fun and flirty and wild like you. He wanted to talk about sex. I wanted to quote Scripture. I mean to say, what? She was the girlfriend he was supposed to have. And I, funny as it may have seemed at the time, was the intruder in their relationship. Of course we bored the hell out of each other. When you're not meant to be together, when you have nothing in common, that's what happens. And there is no way of papering it over. You either live miserably together, for the sake of appearances, or you cheat on each other. Better still, you break up and stay broken up. When he admitted years after we had broken up that he was fooling around on me, I was furious. My pride, more so than my heart, took a beating. I wanted to hurt him back so badly. So, when he called, practically in tears to tell me that his then-girlfriend was leaving for England, I laughed and said she would find some nice Englishman and dump him because he was worth so little. "You've changed," he said with a sob in his voice. "You're a bastard," I said evenly. And as you know, it doesn't matter what you say or do to bastards. They have no feelings we need care about. He never called again and we stopped speaking. Years later, I saw him and turned away. He was my my first mistake, the first in a long line of losers I dated and I would just pretend it never happened. That he didn't exist. You see, I always secretly felt I was too good for him. And when someone you're too good for cheats on you... As I said, it was more pride than feeling. Maybe if I see him now I will nod and smile. And maybe he will turn away. But at least, I'll feel a little better about it.
1. He was my first love and I adored him terribly. Such a bad boy which was half the attraction (although being a good Catholic Convent girl) I could never admit it. Naturally I tried to "reform" him. And he responded (or at least I thought he did). He started going to Church, I took him for Confession, we were all set for a life together, oh I don't know, maybe ten years down the road. He was a bad boy but now he was getting good. He loved me back. I know he did. Those other girls, they were not suitable. OK, so we always got bored talking to each other; those daily phone calls, I would look forward to them, but when he was actually on the phone, there were many pauses filled with the silence of two people who didn't really have anything in common, or anything to say to each other. So what? He became progressively crueller. Hurt my feelings. Then I found out he was fooling around on me and broke up with him. We got back together that same day because I forgave him. And besides, she didn't mean anything, she was in trouble and he was just trying to be nice. She was a friend and going through rough times and he was there to hold her hand. Hmmm. Hold her hand. I didn't like it, at 17, that seems a terrible betrayal, but still, I guess I could live with it. Especially since he said he wasn't gonna give her up. And then, we broke up anyway when he was leaving to study in KL. We broke up because my Mom insisted, but really, he didn't put up much of a fight. Just let it be. And less than a year later, he tried to get back together. But by then, I realised that he bored me. I had come to KL too, my horizons were expanding, I met many new people and I couldn't bear the thought of those interminable phone conversations, saying nothing, leading nowhere.
2. Well, he was sort of my first boyfriend, I was attracted to his bad boy reputation, but I should have known, he was bad through and through. And dumb. Really dumb. I think I can forgive a man anything except utter stupidity. He never had anything interesting to say. Didn't read so he couldn't discuss books. Or ideas. The mind of a three-year-old. Really dumb. And... he cheated on me. That bloody stupid good-for-nothing. With a stupid bimbo junior from school. He was cheating on me the whole time. They did everything but actual sex, (he told me later) and then of course, she dumps him and he comes running back. Can you believe it? He comes running back to me after he is left out in the cold. One of my colleagues in the newspaper went to college with him. She told me she used to talk to him because she felt sorry for him. He was so pathetic, no girl gave him a second look. That's why he came running back to me after he got dumped. He suddenly found himself girlfriendless and unwanted, a fucking reject. When I first saw him at a press conference and learned that his Dad had pulled strings to get him a job at a rival newspaper, I was contemptuous. He looked at me, expecting recognition, a greeting, some form of acknowledgement, but I turned away coldly and ignored him. As a newbie, wet-behind-the-ears reporter he was now less than nothing. Beneath me. Not good enough to associate with. And I would never forgive him for cheating on me all those years before. When I hate, I hate for life.
3. I went into that relationship with my eyes open. We were not suitable for each other, me for him or him for me. Really. We had the misfortune of having best friends who were going out with each other who decided to play matchmaker. Although I knew who he was, even before that and had been terribly attracted to him. (Everyone knew who he was - he was famous, notorious in our small circle and I gained a certain notoriety going out with him) Let's face it, he was cute. And at 17, that counts for a lot. I now feel sorry for him. When you're a teenager you want to have a partner who is fun and flirty and wild like you. He wanted to talk about sex. I wanted to quote Scripture. I mean to say, what? She was the girlfriend he was supposed to have. And I, funny as it may have seemed at the time, was the intruder in their relationship. Of course we bored the hell out of each other. When you're not meant to be together, when you have nothing in common, that's what happens. And there is no way of papering it over. You either live miserably together, for the sake of appearances, or you cheat on each other. Better still, you break up and stay broken up. When he admitted years after we had broken up that he was fooling around on me, I was furious. My pride, more so than my heart, took a beating. I wanted to hurt him back so badly. So, when he called, practically in tears to tell me that his then-girlfriend was leaving for England, I laughed and said she would find some nice Englishman and dump him because he was worth so little. "You've changed," he said with a sob in his voice. "You're a bastard," I said evenly. And as you know, it doesn't matter what you say or do to bastards. They have no feelings we need care about. He never called again and we stopped speaking. Years later, I saw him and turned away. He was my my first mistake, the first in a long line of losers I dated and I would just pretend it never happened. That he didn't exist. You see, I always secretly felt I was too good for him. And when someone you're too good for cheats on you... As I said, it was more pride than feeling. Maybe if I see him now I will nod and smile. And maybe he will turn away. But at least, I'll feel a little better about it.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
I like walking along the beach, barefoot, by myself. Watching the inexhaustible waves. Feeling them wash away these pieces of my broken heart. Sometimes, I think I can fool the world into believing I don't care. And I do. I fool them all. But then, you see, the thing is, I can't fool myself. And I do care. And that's what makes everything so fucking hard. I care, I care, I care, I care.
Imperturbability? HAH!
So I make hundreds of resolutions. I have filled maybe 20 goodly-sized journals with them. I resolve to endeavour to try to pull myself up by the bootstraps. Start afresh. Go somewhere. Achieve something.
But it's all flat, flat, flat. Tepid. A Coke left out in the rain. No more fizz. No more bubbles. No more life. No more champagne. What happened to effervescence? What about that little spark of joy that starts in the solar plexus and travels up to my throat?
Let's see. Let's do a he said, she said, shall we? Just for fun.
He said: I love you. Will you marry me?
Then he said: Oh, yeah, but it comes with provisos. I think we could both work on you, make a few improvements.
She said: I thought you said you loved me.
And he said: I do, I do, but what's love anyway. We live to evolve...we should make improvements. What you need is a loving hand to guide you.
Here's where she should have told him to go fuck himself.
Instead, she said: What did you have in mind?
And he said: I've lined up a personal trainer. He will be here on Saturday.
And he said: No, I think you've had enough. No dessert. Don't forget what we're trying to achieve.
And he said: Have you gone running today?
And she said: My soul is no longer my own.
And he said: Don't exaggerate.
And she said: Look, no offence, but I need my own space. I want to move out.
And he said: You want to move out? Really?
And she said: You betcha.
And he said: In that case, it would be better for us to break up.
And so they did. And they wrote each other out of their respective stories. And years later, she saw him across the street, walking with his wife, both chubby, middle-aged and happy...and she wrote the following:
I'm not there,
You know I'm not
You have cancelled me out
a hole in the air,
an absence
that was never
present.
That picture you took,
has started to fade,
It knows what you've done.
It knows.
Replaced me with flesh and bone
a bellyful of tubes,
pumping real blood.
She's vivid,
with reds and blues and purples.
Rubens, perhaps?
while I am sepia-tinted
unfocussed, blurred.
You can cancel history,
Rewrite the past
so I cease to exist,
if you say it often enough,
they will believe you,
they will believe.
I feel the wind,
blow through me now,
I feel the gazes slide off,
I'm a hole in the air,
I'm just not there.
Not there.
Imperturbability? HAH!
So I make hundreds of resolutions. I have filled maybe 20 goodly-sized journals with them. I resolve to endeavour to try to pull myself up by the bootstraps. Start afresh. Go somewhere. Achieve something.
But it's all flat, flat, flat. Tepid. A Coke left out in the rain. No more fizz. No more bubbles. No more life. No more champagne. What happened to effervescence? What about that little spark of joy that starts in the solar plexus and travels up to my throat?
Let's see. Let's do a he said, she said, shall we? Just for fun.
He said: I love you. Will you marry me?
Then he said: Oh, yeah, but it comes with provisos. I think we could both work on you, make a few improvements.
She said: I thought you said you loved me.
And he said: I do, I do, but what's love anyway. We live to evolve...we should make improvements. What you need is a loving hand to guide you.
Here's where she should have told him to go fuck himself.
Instead, she said: What did you have in mind?
And he said: I've lined up a personal trainer. He will be here on Saturday.
And he said: No, I think you've had enough. No dessert. Don't forget what we're trying to achieve.
And he said: Have you gone running today?
And she said: My soul is no longer my own.
And he said: Don't exaggerate.
And she said: Look, no offence, but I need my own space. I want to move out.
And he said: You want to move out? Really?
And she said: You betcha.
And he said: In that case, it would be better for us to break up.
And so they did. And they wrote each other out of their respective stories. And years later, she saw him across the street, walking with his wife, both chubby, middle-aged and happy...and she wrote the following:
I'm not there,
You know I'm not
You have cancelled me out
a hole in the air,
an absence
that was never
present.
That picture you took,
has started to fade,
It knows what you've done.
It knows.
Replaced me with flesh and bone
a bellyful of tubes,
pumping real blood.
She's vivid,
with reds and blues and purples.
Rubens, perhaps?
while I am sepia-tinted
unfocussed, blurred.
You can cancel history,
Rewrite the past
so I cease to exist,
if you say it often enough,
they will believe you,
they will believe.
I feel the wind,
blow through me now,
I feel the gazes slide off,
I'm a hole in the air,
I'm just not there.
Not there.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Old friends
I bumped into her at the bookshop (where else would you find me?) and that she was startled to see me, was evident. We gazed at each other for a while, sizing up the other's weaknesses. I'd been back three months and hadn't called her. Hadn't intended to. Although I knew in the close circumscribed circle in which I moved in KL, I was sure to bump into her some place or another.
I watched her regard me thoughtfully. She was looking for contrition, maybe a little apprehension. But I kept my face carefully devoid of expression.
"Hello Jenn, what are you doing here?"
"Looking for a card."
"I wrote to you about a month ago, how come you never replied?"
"Did you? That's funny, I never received any email."
"It was on the Yahoo Messenger."
"Oh I see, that doesn't count. I hardly log on and besides, everything gets erased the moment you lose your connection."
"What's wrong with you? Why are you acting like this?"
"Nothing. I'm just not interested in pretending to be friends with you. I don't like you very much and am not a good an actress as you are."
"How dare you? Where were you when I needed you? You knew my Dad was dying, my husband had left me, you knew things were not right with me..."
"And? I spent all this time trying to be your friend. You pushed me away. Turned cold without an explanation. No, I don't give a flying fuck that you were going through hell. You're always going through hell aren't you? Always some reason for everyone to feel sorry for you. You like the attention and the drama...sorry, not into that. Go find some other sucker whose willing to listen, pat you on the shoulder and tell you things are going to be alright."
The words shivered in the air between us. I was trembling. All these years, they were stuck in my throat and finally, finally, finally, I got to say them. I watched her flinch. Then close up. Self protect.
She held me with that nonchalant gaze and yawned. Deliberately. "I don't know what you're getting so upset about. The least you can do when you meet old friends is try to be civil. Dear old Jenn, always the drama queen."
And with that she turned and walked away.
I watched her regard me thoughtfully. She was looking for contrition, maybe a little apprehension. But I kept my face carefully devoid of expression.
"Hello Jenn, what are you doing here?"
"Looking for a card."
"I wrote to you about a month ago, how come you never replied?"
"Did you? That's funny, I never received any email."
"It was on the Yahoo Messenger."
"Oh I see, that doesn't count. I hardly log on and besides, everything gets erased the moment you lose your connection."
"What's wrong with you? Why are you acting like this?"
"Nothing. I'm just not interested in pretending to be friends with you. I don't like you very much and am not a good an actress as you are."
"How dare you? Where were you when I needed you? You knew my Dad was dying, my husband had left me, you knew things were not right with me..."
"And? I spent all this time trying to be your friend. You pushed me away. Turned cold without an explanation. No, I don't give a flying fuck that you were going through hell. You're always going through hell aren't you? Always some reason for everyone to feel sorry for you. You like the attention and the drama...sorry, not into that. Go find some other sucker whose willing to listen, pat you on the shoulder and tell you things are going to be alright."
The words shivered in the air between us. I was trembling. All these years, they were stuck in my throat and finally, finally, finally, I got to say them. I watched her flinch. Then close up. Self protect.
She held me with that nonchalant gaze and yawned. Deliberately. "I don't know what you're getting so upset about. The least you can do when you meet old friends is try to be civil. Dear old Jenn, always the drama queen."
And with that she turned and walked away.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
No to Yuck?
Do you ever feel like you're resisting the world you're living in? Like you shut your ears to the news, refuse to read the papers, because if you don't know about it, it didn't happen? And doesn't the world have a way of creeping up on you and imposing itself on your notice anyways?
My sister had a "say no to yuck" policy, where if it was bad news (somebody died, somebody fought, something got blown up) she didn't want to know about it. It made her too angry or upset. But eventually, the news would filter through and there she would be experiencing all those emotions she had tried to avoid.
But why should I talk. I'm worse than she is. Much worse.
There's none so blind...
Even when I was working in a newspaper and expected to be up-to-date on all the inane happenings of the world, I resisted, keeping up only with the happenings in my beat (to see who scooped who) and blotting out the rest. I just didn't want to know. Nasty news upset me so much I couldn't sleep at night. So I stuck to my Chicken Soup for the Soul alternate view on life, people being nice to each other and overcoming obstacles.
A typical conversation with my Mom, who devoured the entire newspaper as well as the evening news would be...
"So what do you think of what happened in Chile, ah? Wasn't it terrible?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh come on, it was front page news..."
"You think I got nothing better to do than read my crummy newspaper?"
Mom is a simple soul. She could never understand the permutations of my twisted mind. She'd sigh at this point, giving up the idea of an interesting discussion on world events with her supposed journalist daughter, and ask about my health, my taxes, whether I had gone to church that week. If our conversations were monotonous, it wasn't her fault.
Lately I have been trying to let the world creep in. I try to quell the rising anxiety, the panic attacks. It has to even out someplace.
I go shopping and buy three pairs of shoes.
My sister had a "say no to yuck" policy, where if it was bad news (somebody died, somebody fought, something got blown up) she didn't want to know about it. It made her too angry or upset. But eventually, the news would filter through and there she would be experiencing all those emotions she had tried to avoid.
But why should I talk. I'm worse than she is. Much worse.
There's none so blind...
Even when I was working in a newspaper and expected to be up-to-date on all the inane happenings of the world, I resisted, keeping up only with the happenings in my beat (to see who scooped who) and blotting out the rest. I just didn't want to know. Nasty news upset me so much I couldn't sleep at night. So I stuck to my Chicken Soup for the Soul alternate view on life, people being nice to each other and overcoming obstacles.
A typical conversation with my Mom, who devoured the entire newspaper as well as the evening news would be...
"So what do you think of what happened in Chile, ah? Wasn't it terrible?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh come on, it was front page news..."
"You think I got nothing better to do than read my crummy newspaper?"
Mom is a simple soul. She could never understand the permutations of my twisted mind. She'd sigh at this point, giving up the idea of an interesting discussion on world events with her supposed journalist daughter, and ask about my health, my taxes, whether I had gone to church that week. If our conversations were monotonous, it wasn't her fault.
Lately I have been trying to let the world creep in. I try to quell the rising anxiety, the panic attacks. It has to even out someplace.
I go shopping and buy three pairs of shoes.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Back to the future!
So I pull up at the entrance of my old office. The security guard squints into my car, his eyebrows raised inquiringly. Recognising me, he gives a tired sort of smile and I grin right back.
"Yes?"
"I'm here to see one of the reporters. A meeting." Hah. I'm actually here for tea with her and can't be bothered to find a parking space outside. If you want to park inside, you have to have an official reason to be there. Them's the rules. I almost wish I dressed more conservatively. Light blue slacks and a brown velvet blouse don't actually suggest business meeting. But then, I don't fit my business suits anymore. I barely fit into the blue slacks. Jogging, yeah, I'll go jogging tomorrow.
This is the first time I am entering my old office since I've been back. Another guard looks at me, and with typical security guardlike charm tells me that I have become incredibly fat. He puffs out his chubby cheeks and says, fat, fat, fat, just in case he hasn't managed to get his point across the first time. He must be twice my size. It's incredible how nothing ever changes here.
Another one takes my driver's licence (I need a security tag here, important newspaper after all) and asks if I will be returning to the newspaper. I say no. He asks what I'm doing now. I say freelancing. Which is sort of my noncommital answer to this question. It's better than saying, um, just bumming you know. Which is what my sister said for eight whole months, before she got her job. It was time well spent though. She watched M*A*S*H reruns for eight hours a day and tuned out when the folks bugged her about it.
My friend comes down to join me. She says, let's go to the mamak place outside. And I say, but I've parked the car inside. Won't the guards kick up a row? And she says, not if you're with me. Sure enough, they nod smilingly at us as we ease ourselves out of the tiny aperture at the side gate, left open to allow human bodies (but not cars) through. She has a surprise. She has been transferred to another section and promoted to editor. Effectively immediately. I laugh and congratulate her and she fixes with that penetrating look of hers:
"So what are your plans?"
I shrug nonchalantly: "Dunno. Freelancing for the moment."
Her forehead creases: "Kuti*, that's not very stable. And you know, freelancers get paid pittance and like months and months late."
Many people have told me that. They say you need a real job. Come work for us. Either that or we'd love you to come work for us, but I think you'd be too expensive.
"Yeah, but that's the newspapers and magazines. I want to do projects for the corporate sector. They pay well and quickly," I smirk. Actually I have just come from two significant job-type meetings at Megamall. At least one is good to go, which means I'll have some cash, come next month.
She tells me about her new job: "My mandate is to turn my section around. I don't want anymore PR bullshit interviews with some stupid salesgirl selling cosmetics. And if they have to write about handbags, why not write something interesting, like what sort of handbag would suit someone with a big ass like me. Valid fashion question, what?"
I start to giggle. I can just imagine how her first staff meeting must have gone.
"So, you want to write for us?"
Oh oh. I didn't realise that this was quite the turn our conversation was taking. "Um...well, what kind of stories did you say you were looking for?"
"I told you. Real stories. About real people. In-depth stuff. Something people would actually like to read. Come on, prove to me that you actually deserve the degree they're giving you."
The thing is, I'm never good at proving anything to anyone. Especially someone like her, who is terrifyingly intelligent and tends to intimidate me with her black, beetling brows. Besides, I took the degree to have a three-year time-out from life. And learn something along the way, obviously. Here I am, three years later and...well, I can quote Shakespeare with the best of them, tell you that Julius Caesar was not politically relevant over here (they should have staged King Lear instead), explain why I hate the Futurists, consider the prospect of a Virginia Woolf novel without blanching, not gaze blankly at you when you mention Foucault or Bakhtin, but really, how do I prove I can write?
By writing, obviously. Ah, yes.
We finish our teh halia si kosong (ginger tea with milk, no sugar) and I saunter up to her office with her. I find I have committed to writing at least one article for her. It's one of those things that will require a doglike determination. The people in question don't want to talk, I am gonna have to turn into aggressive, ruthless journo to go after it, and frankly, I hate being aggressive ruthless journo, but she is all excited.
Her boss strolls over and looks at me curiously. "You look familiar, haven't I seen you someplace before?
Duh! Like I only worked here for 11 years!
"No," I smile limpidly at him. "I have a common face. You must be mistaking me for someone else."
My friend quips: "Yeah, you probably met her evil twin."
He continues to stare at me, so I help him out: "Jennifer."
"Oh yeah. I remember you. How are you? What're you doing now?"
"Oh nothing. Just bumming. Have to go now. Bye."
It's the end of the day now. I find I have committed myself to at least four different jobs, all with deadlines within a short space of each other. Maybe I was a little over-enthusiastic.
Oh well...it's been nice.
Just bumming.
* Child. In Malayalam. Our common language.
"Yes?"
"I'm here to see one of the reporters. A meeting." Hah. I'm actually here for tea with her and can't be bothered to find a parking space outside. If you want to park inside, you have to have an official reason to be there. Them's the rules. I almost wish I dressed more conservatively. Light blue slacks and a brown velvet blouse don't actually suggest business meeting. But then, I don't fit my business suits anymore. I barely fit into the blue slacks. Jogging, yeah, I'll go jogging tomorrow.
This is the first time I am entering my old office since I've been back. Another guard looks at me, and with typical security guardlike charm tells me that I have become incredibly fat. He puffs out his chubby cheeks and says, fat, fat, fat, just in case he hasn't managed to get his point across the first time. He must be twice my size. It's incredible how nothing ever changes here.
Another one takes my driver's licence (I need a security tag here, important newspaper after all) and asks if I will be returning to the newspaper. I say no. He asks what I'm doing now. I say freelancing. Which is sort of my noncommital answer to this question. It's better than saying, um, just bumming you know. Which is what my sister said for eight whole months, before she got her job. It was time well spent though. She watched M*A*S*H reruns for eight hours a day and tuned out when the folks bugged her about it.
My friend comes down to join me. She says, let's go to the mamak place outside. And I say, but I've parked the car inside. Won't the guards kick up a row? And she says, not if you're with me. Sure enough, they nod smilingly at us as we ease ourselves out of the tiny aperture at the side gate, left open to allow human bodies (but not cars) through. She has a surprise. She has been transferred to another section and promoted to editor. Effectively immediately. I laugh and congratulate her and she fixes with that penetrating look of hers:
"So what are your plans?"
I shrug nonchalantly: "Dunno. Freelancing for the moment."
Her forehead creases: "Kuti*, that's not very stable. And you know, freelancers get paid pittance and like months and months late."
Many people have told me that. They say you need a real job. Come work for us. Either that or we'd love you to come work for us, but I think you'd be too expensive.
"Yeah, but that's the newspapers and magazines. I want to do projects for the corporate sector. They pay well and quickly," I smirk. Actually I have just come from two significant job-type meetings at Megamall. At least one is good to go, which means I'll have some cash, come next month.
She tells me about her new job: "My mandate is to turn my section around. I don't want anymore PR bullshit interviews with some stupid salesgirl selling cosmetics. And if they have to write about handbags, why not write something interesting, like what sort of handbag would suit someone with a big ass like me. Valid fashion question, what?"
I start to giggle. I can just imagine how her first staff meeting must have gone.
"So, you want to write for us?"
Oh oh. I didn't realise that this was quite the turn our conversation was taking. "Um...well, what kind of stories did you say you were looking for?"
"I told you. Real stories. About real people. In-depth stuff. Something people would actually like to read. Come on, prove to me that you actually deserve the degree they're giving you."
The thing is, I'm never good at proving anything to anyone. Especially someone like her, who is terrifyingly intelligent and tends to intimidate me with her black, beetling brows. Besides, I took the degree to have a three-year time-out from life. And learn something along the way, obviously. Here I am, three years later and...well, I can quote Shakespeare with the best of them, tell you that Julius Caesar was not politically relevant over here (they should have staged King Lear instead), explain why I hate the Futurists, consider the prospect of a Virginia Woolf novel without blanching, not gaze blankly at you when you mention Foucault or Bakhtin, but really, how do I prove I can write?
By writing, obviously. Ah, yes.
We finish our teh halia si kosong (ginger tea with milk, no sugar) and I saunter up to her office with her. I find I have committed to writing at least one article for her. It's one of those things that will require a doglike determination. The people in question don't want to talk, I am gonna have to turn into aggressive, ruthless journo to go after it, and frankly, I hate being aggressive ruthless journo, but she is all excited.
Her boss strolls over and looks at me curiously. "You look familiar, haven't I seen you someplace before?
Duh! Like I only worked here for 11 years!
"No," I smile limpidly at him. "I have a common face. You must be mistaking me for someone else."
My friend quips: "Yeah, you probably met her evil twin."
He continues to stare at me, so I help him out: "Jennifer."
"Oh yeah. I remember you. How are you? What're you doing now?"
"Oh nothing. Just bumming. Have to go now. Bye."
It's the end of the day now. I find I have committed myself to at least four different jobs, all with deadlines within a short space of each other. Maybe I was a little over-enthusiastic.
Oh well...it's been nice.
Just bumming.
* Child. In Malayalam. Our common language.
Monday, March 06, 2006
I just watched an episode of Extreme Makeover, my first, and I have to admit, I was rather startled. It wasn't as superficial as I thought it would be. And yet it was.
Two months to change you physically. To change your life "forever". What about the stuff inside? How did that change? Were these people subjected to motivational seminars, good literature, loving company?
I mean, did they spend most of the two months in darkened rooms, recovering from the plastic surgery? Who talked to them? How did they pass those interminable minutes?
I can live through anything but the minutes.
"I could see his mouth move soundlessly and as I read lips, I knew he was saying, you're beautiful, you're exquisite, you're dazzling. Over and over again."
"You don't know what it feels like to look into the mirror and actually like what you see."
"And suddenly, there I was. Young again. I finally looked like me."
You'll see it when you believe it.
I don't.
I broke up with Ernest today. I thought it best. The weather continues charming.
Two months to change you physically. To change your life "forever". What about the stuff inside? How did that change? Were these people subjected to motivational seminars, good literature, loving company?
I mean, did they spend most of the two months in darkened rooms, recovering from the plastic surgery? Who talked to them? How did they pass those interminable minutes?
I can live through anything but the minutes.
"I could see his mouth move soundlessly and as I read lips, I knew he was saying, you're beautiful, you're exquisite, you're dazzling. Over and over again."
"You don't know what it feels like to look into the mirror and actually like what you see."
"And suddenly, there I was. Young again. I finally looked like me."
You'll see it when you believe it.
I don't.
I broke up with Ernest today. I thought it best. The weather continues charming.
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