It's one of those lazy, hazy, crazy days of su-u-u-mmer. Except that it is always summer here. Sometimes, it rains. But that's about it.
I get up late, stretch and look out the window at swaying coconut trees. Ahhh, a slight breeze. I listen carefully and there they are, the tinkle of Mom's chimes.
"Jenneeeeee...come down, have your breakfast," Mom hollers.
"Yeah, yeah," I mumble as I make my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Was up late last night watching M*A*S*H. Second season. Have I told you I simply love M*A*S*H? Wish Hawkeye Pierce was real. I would so love to have a roll in the hay with him. But of course, they never show him doing anything but kissing:
"Was she good?"
"My lips may never walk again."
Then it's breakfast, after which I get onto the Net and play a few rounds of Spider Solitaire. (Bath? Who needs a bath?) Then I check my mail - some replies, some motivational stuff...I skim through it all.
Nothing demands my undivided attention. Not even my book-du-jour. Or rather, my several books-du-jour. I dip in and out. Slippery as an eel. Lazy as a trout. That's me.
Mom decides to lose her temper sometime during noon. I have been at the computer for two hours, while she has been rushing about, cleaning house, cooking the dogs' good, then cooking our food, and she starts yelping at me.
My eyes still glued to the computer, I brush her off. The bullets turn to dew. Nothing can rile me up today. Nothing. I bask in the glow of my inertia...
A body at rest tends to stay at rest
A body in motion tends to stay in motion
Reebok...the physics behind the physiques
Of course, I eventually get off my keister. We go to collect the dogs' licences. Do Mom's passport. She is coming with me to Australia for graduation. But we do everything in slow motion.
It's Malaysia. It's hot. It's just one of those days...
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Saturday, February 25, 2006
In the midst of this darkness
Take comfort. It is not as bad as you may think. This too shall pass. And you will emerge from this stronger. As you have always done though you don't see it. Your life has not been a waste.
The love that you think doesn't exist is there. It is real. All that effort you put in, which you think disappeared into some proverbial black hole is accumulating and something, something is hurtling towards you.
Sometimes things look black and dreary. Sometimes you see the shadow cast by the candle.
But the shadow isn't real.
The candle is.
The love that you think doesn't exist is there. It is real. All that effort you put in, which you think disappeared into some proverbial black hole is accumulating and something, something is hurtling towards you.
Sometimes things look black and dreary. Sometimes you see the shadow cast by the candle.
But the shadow isn't real.
The candle is.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Paris, in the moonlight
"Would you like to have a coffee mademoiselle?" he asked in French, this tiny, dried-up old man, a friendly satyr, leering at her.
She stepped around him and continued walking, taking in the bubble of voices, the fairy lights, the cafe chairs facing outwards as the Parisians people-watched thoughtfully. He followed her and repeated the question. This time, she turned, shrugged and said slowly:
"I'm sorry, I don't speak French."
"Oh English," he seemed even happier. "Would you like to have a coffee?"
He looked repellent - small and huddled and so old. There was a wise, cunning air about him - someone it was better not to mess with. Is this what happened to you in Paris? Did old men come up to you when you're walking along the Champs Elysee and offer to buy you coffee? Maybe. Maybe this was part of the French experience she had been promising herself. Anyway, what could she lose - having coffee in one of these excruciating cafes, the smell of the beans, the taste of pink on her tongue.
She smiled and nodded. "Where shall we go?"
"Oh wonderful madam. Are you new to Paris? Then we should go to St Germain du Pres. The Champs Elysee is for tourists."
Well, if you're going in for new experiences...his tiny car was parked nearby. They got in, belted up and he kept up a lively chatter. It was almost like the jitterbug, except that he did not need answers - he was content to dance alone.
"There, that cafe, that's where Sartre and De Beauvoir used to go. You see that restaurant? That was where Picasso dined when he was a poor artist. He paid for his meals in art. Can you imagine?"
Stories, stories, rolled off his tongue like caramel. She felt herself relaxing. He was so very genteel, well-informed, courteous - that was the difference between the French and the rest of the world, this old world charm. He was at home here on the cobbled pavements and he smelled of Paris - that elusive scent she had been trying to capture - like a rose-scented wine.
They settled on a 14th century cafe. He told her that this is where Napoleon used to come. He led her in and they had a Chardonnay while waiting for a table.
He glints, this fascinating man, winking in and out of the picture. He seems to grow - but maybe that's just the wine. They are seated. They order fish. His voice continues to trickle - like champagne - light, effervescent, bubbly - and still he seems to be growing, elongating. His skin, so smooth, so shiny. His tongue flickering in that red, red mouth.
He reaches over the table and touches her hand. She inhales. His skin is so cold, so bright, so smooth. His scales are so beautiful. He slithers across the table and covers her mouth. She finds him coiled around her body and still that voice trickles on as his tongue flickers in her ear. She is starting to fall. She lets go and keeps on falling. The cobra dances in circles on the black marble floor, waiting to catch her - its bright unblinking eyes, devouring her honey-coloured flesh. She smiles lazily. This feels so good.
I can't wait to get that snake inside me.
She stepped around him and continued walking, taking in the bubble of voices, the fairy lights, the cafe chairs facing outwards as the Parisians people-watched thoughtfully. He followed her and repeated the question. This time, she turned, shrugged and said slowly:
"I'm sorry, I don't speak French."
"Oh English," he seemed even happier. "Would you like to have a coffee?"
He looked repellent - small and huddled and so old. There was a wise, cunning air about him - someone it was better not to mess with. Is this what happened to you in Paris? Did old men come up to you when you're walking along the Champs Elysee and offer to buy you coffee? Maybe. Maybe this was part of the French experience she had been promising herself. Anyway, what could she lose - having coffee in one of these excruciating cafes, the smell of the beans, the taste of pink on her tongue.
She smiled and nodded. "Where shall we go?"
"Oh wonderful madam. Are you new to Paris? Then we should go to St Germain du Pres. The Champs Elysee is for tourists."
Well, if you're going in for new experiences...his tiny car was parked nearby. They got in, belted up and he kept up a lively chatter. It was almost like the jitterbug, except that he did not need answers - he was content to dance alone.
"There, that cafe, that's where Sartre and De Beauvoir used to go. You see that restaurant? That was where Picasso dined when he was a poor artist. He paid for his meals in art. Can you imagine?"
Stories, stories, rolled off his tongue like caramel. She felt herself relaxing. He was so very genteel, well-informed, courteous - that was the difference between the French and the rest of the world, this old world charm. He was at home here on the cobbled pavements and he smelled of Paris - that elusive scent she had been trying to capture - like a rose-scented wine.
They settled on a 14th century cafe. He told her that this is where Napoleon used to come. He led her in and they had a Chardonnay while waiting for a table.
He glints, this fascinating man, winking in and out of the picture. He seems to grow - but maybe that's just the wine. They are seated. They order fish. His voice continues to trickle - like champagne - light, effervescent, bubbly - and still he seems to be growing, elongating. His skin, so smooth, so shiny. His tongue flickering in that red, red mouth.
He reaches over the table and touches her hand. She inhales. His skin is so cold, so bright, so smooth. His scales are so beautiful. He slithers across the table and covers her mouth. She finds him coiled around her body and still that voice trickles on as his tongue flickers in her ear. She is starting to fall. She lets go and keeps on falling. The cobra dances in circles on the black marble floor, waiting to catch her - its bright unblinking eyes, devouring her honey-coloured flesh. She smiles lazily. This feels so good.
I can't wait to get that snake inside me.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Broken
You know you're broken. You know that. You didn't come with a warranty. They can't send you back. But somehow it's as if God slipped up and left out some parts. Or put in parts that weren't supposed to be there. Parts that make you feel too much.
And sometimes the misery slams you against a wall and you know you're gonna crack right open. But your skin holds together. That is the miracle of skin. It doesn't crack under pressure unless you help it to.
To be broken is to know that nothing is right and nothing will ever be right again. You know what I'm talking about. You know that you can look at a Van Gogh and just want to curl up into a ball on the floor and scream silently. You know that however much you cut yourself, you can't bleed it away. Or dull it with wine. Or sky-coloured pills.
And nobody understands. Nobody will EVER understand. Remember that. And just keep on shattering. When God finally arrives to sweep up the pieces, maybe you can ask why.
And sometimes the misery slams you against a wall and you know you're gonna crack right open. But your skin holds together. That is the miracle of skin. It doesn't crack under pressure unless you help it to.
To be broken is to know that nothing is right and nothing will ever be right again. You know what I'm talking about. You know that you can look at a Van Gogh and just want to curl up into a ball on the floor and scream silently. You know that however much you cut yourself, you can't bleed it away. Or dull it with wine. Or sky-coloured pills.
And nobody understands. Nobody will EVER understand. Remember that. And just keep on shattering. When God finally arrives to sweep up the pieces, maybe you can ask why.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
The Slithery Way
I first met Nick at one of those networking events - you know, the kind where the 10-year old dotcommers swirl around clinking champagne glasses and telling each other how they'll be the Next Big Thing. I danced around them, picking up cards and story ideas as I'd just started a dotcom page in my staid old economy newspaper and I needed some fodder for stories.
Nick was older, much older than the wide-eyed, 'I'll change the world tomorrow' whippersnappers and spoke in that particularly grating tone of voice that implied age and experience. Frankly, I preferred the boys, with their starry-eyed idealism. He was ugly and old in comparison but he seemed to have a good story. All about how he had come up with THE alternative to franchises.
So I called him up the next day, made an appointment and wrote the article. And that was that. Or so I thought.
Nick called me later and thought I should interview one of his clients, the first to buy into his particularly unique brand of franchising. Fine. We newspapers. We like new stuff.
Wrote that story. The client in particular, Syed, who ran a halal pizza business, decided that we were now best friends. Over the next few weeks Syed pestered me on a daily basis, about editing his press kit. Pro bono. But of course. He wanted to launch his product, and he wasn't so certain about the quality of his press release:
"Hey babe, can you look it over, tell me if there are any mistakes. Thanks, I owe you one." Babe?
Normally, I am happy to do a little editing for friends. But I was very very busy at the time. What with setting up the page and trying to find interesting news to fill it with every day (you try servicing a full broadsheet page every day), setting up the interviews, writing the stories, planning the pictures, graphics, looking in on the page layout, trying to create a new readership, I hardly slept during those months. I averaged two interviews a day, before rushing back to write a (hopefully) thought-provoking article, and then hang around and bug the sub-editors, until the page was laid out to my satisfaction. I didn't have the time.
But Syed kept calling. Maybe he had done one of those motivational courses for life insurance salesmen. I should have said no. This was harrassment. Instead, I took the path of least resistance. He sent me the press release in question and I couldn't download it. The file was infected. So that was that. I took to not answering my phone (we didn't have caller ID back then, but I used my answering service as a secretary, screening my calls). The press launch came and went. That was the end of that. Or so I thought.
A year later, both Nick and Syed started harrassing me. Again. This time they had a big launch they wanted me to cover. Which was all fine and dandy, except that it was on a Friday and we didn't publish a paper on Saturday. Which meant that by the time it came out in our paper, it would be old news. I told them so and politely declined. They called. Again. And again. And again. This time I stood firm. After all, they had coverage from all the other major papers. We were not going to carry old news.
Finally Nick said he would be setting up a signing ceremony just for me. There would be stuff there that had not been mentioned in the press conference. Please would I come? Please??????
Sighing, I capitulated. Once more. Why did I not suspect it then?
Anyway we did the story - you buy pizza, you get free broadband. They claimed to be building a "4G" network around the country. This was at a time when there wasn't even 3G in Malaysia.
We even carried it on our front page, it seemed so quirky.
A few months later, I learned that the company had folded and both Nick and Syed had run away with plenty of money from small businessmen who had forked out between RM5,000 to RM30,000 for so-called franchises. The gruesome twosome had used the articles that had appeared in all the newspapers to give them a veneer of respectability while they picked the pockets of these poor sods.
It came to light when the Employees Provident Fund (EPF) came a-calling. Now, all companies in Malaysia are required to make EPF contributions for their employees. They deduct their employees salaries, and the company contributes a percentage as well. It goes towards a form of old age pension. One employee of this progressive company had decided to buy a computer. Under one of EPF's schemes, you can pay for your computer with the money saved in your EPF fund. Shock, horror! He found that although his salary had been deducted faithfully every month, he had no EPF account.
So when EPF came a-calling, the edifice of a bona fide business collapsed. Syed and Nick escaped through the backdoor and were, in the words of numerous fairy tales, "never heard of again."
So why do I bring this up now, you ask? I should have said, never heard of again. Until now.
I just received an email forwarded to me, from the boss of my former newspaper. Nick, now in Australia, is anxious to get in touch with me. In his email, he told the editor that I had done several "funding" stories for him way back when, and he was anxious to get me to write for him again.
I blanched at the email. The gall, the gall, the Promethean gall! Since there has been a spate of stories about foreign businessmen coming over and conning the pants of our local gullibles, I called the police headquarters to see if I could pass on Nick's name to someone in authority. I thought, if he had gulled all those businessmen before, there would surely be a file on him.
Here of course, I came face to face with Malaysian bureaucracy and incompetence. After explaining in detail what I wanted to a frankly bored, and barely literate receptionist/phone operator, I was transferred to an extension. The phone in question rang interminably. Then I hung up.
I want the wheels of justice to grind him "exceeding small". I want this guy to pay for what's he's done.
But it seems that the way of the conman is smooth and slippery. When things get hot he manages to slither away. And then he slithers right back.
Nick was older, much older than the wide-eyed, 'I'll change the world tomorrow' whippersnappers and spoke in that particularly grating tone of voice that implied age and experience. Frankly, I preferred the boys, with their starry-eyed idealism. He was ugly and old in comparison but he seemed to have a good story. All about how he had come up with THE alternative to franchises.
So I called him up the next day, made an appointment and wrote the article. And that was that. Or so I thought.
Nick called me later and thought I should interview one of his clients, the first to buy into his particularly unique brand of franchising. Fine. We newspapers. We like new stuff.
Wrote that story. The client in particular, Syed, who ran a halal pizza business, decided that we were now best friends. Over the next few weeks Syed pestered me on a daily basis, about editing his press kit. Pro bono. But of course. He wanted to launch his product, and he wasn't so certain about the quality of his press release:
"Hey babe, can you look it over, tell me if there are any mistakes. Thanks, I owe you one." Babe?
Normally, I am happy to do a little editing for friends. But I was very very busy at the time. What with setting up the page and trying to find interesting news to fill it with every day (you try servicing a full broadsheet page every day), setting up the interviews, writing the stories, planning the pictures, graphics, looking in on the page layout, trying to create a new readership, I hardly slept during those months. I averaged two interviews a day, before rushing back to write a (hopefully) thought-provoking article, and then hang around and bug the sub-editors, until the page was laid out to my satisfaction. I didn't have the time.
But Syed kept calling. Maybe he had done one of those motivational courses for life insurance salesmen. I should have said no. This was harrassment. Instead, I took the path of least resistance. He sent me the press release in question and I couldn't download it. The file was infected. So that was that. I took to not answering my phone (we didn't have caller ID back then, but I used my answering service as a secretary, screening my calls). The press launch came and went. That was the end of that. Or so I thought.
A year later, both Nick and Syed started harrassing me. Again. This time they had a big launch they wanted me to cover. Which was all fine and dandy, except that it was on a Friday and we didn't publish a paper on Saturday. Which meant that by the time it came out in our paper, it would be old news. I told them so and politely declined. They called. Again. And again. And again. This time I stood firm. After all, they had coverage from all the other major papers. We were not going to carry old news.
Finally Nick said he would be setting up a signing ceremony just for me. There would be stuff there that had not been mentioned in the press conference. Please would I come? Please??????
Sighing, I capitulated. Once more. Why did I not suspect it then?
Anyway we did the story - you buy pizza, you get free broadband. They claimed to be building a "4G" network around the country. This was at a time when there wasn't even 3G in Malaysia.
We even carried it on our front page, it seemed so quirky.
A few months later, I learned that the company had folded and both Nick and Syed had run away with plenty of money from small businessmen who had forked out between RM5,000 to RM30,000 for so-called franchises. The gruesome twosome had used the articles that had appeared in all the newspapers to give them a veneer of respectability while they picked the pockets of these poor sods.
It came to light when the Employees Provident Fund (EPF) came a-calling. Now, all companies in Malaysia are required to make EPF contributions for their employees. They deduct their employees salaries, and the company contributes a percentage as well. It goes towards a form of old age pension. One employee of this progressive company had decided to buy a computer. Under one of EPF's schemes, you can pay for your computer with the money saved in your EPF fund. Shock, horror! He found that although his salary had been deducted faithfully every month, he had no EPF account.
So when EPF came a-calling, the edifice of a bona fide business collapsed. Syed and Nick escaped through the backdoor and were, in the words of numerous fairy tales, "never heard of again."
So why do I bring this up now, you ask? I should have said, never heard of again. Until now.
I just received an email forwarded to me, from the boss of my former newspaper. Nick, now in Australia, is anxious to get in touch with me. In his email, he told the editor that I had done several "funding" stories for him way back when, and he was anxious to get me to write for him again.
I blanched at the email. The gall, the gall, the Promethean gall! Since there has been a spate of stories about foreign businessmen coming over and conning the pants of our local gullibles, I called the police headquarters to see if I could pass on Nick's name to someone in authority. I thought, if he had gulled all those businessmen before, there would surely be a file on him.
Here of course, I came face to face with Malaysian bureaucracy and incompetence. After explaining in detail what I wanted to a frankly bored, and barely literate receptionist/phone operator, I was transferred to an extension. The phone in question rang interminably. Then I hung up.
I want the wheels of justice to grind him "exceeding small". I want this guy to pay for what's he's done.
But it seems that the way of the conman is smooth and slippery. When things get hot he manages to slither away. And then he slithers right back.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
A little something on the side
I wrote to Sheldon out of the blue, asking if he would like to come have a cup of coffee with me. He had taken the semester off, and from my own experience during the inter-semester breaks where I would get progressively more depressed, self medicating with red wine...
Days I sleep off nights of red wine
Nights I go out of my mind...
...I figured he could use some companionship right about now. He wrote back joyfully accepting.
"How did you know?"
"Oh I go pretty crazy when I have all this time on my hands. I figured you'd be going crazy too..."
"Yes. I was incredibly depressed. Took all that time off to write and then there were a hundred niggling little things that came up so I couldn't work. And then, I was not in the mood, frankly."
"You know what Julia Cameron says...writing is like any other job. It's not about being in the mood. It's about sitting down and doing it." (Fine advice from someone who always needs to be in the mood to put pen to paper or finger to keyboard!)
"Ye-e-e-s," he said doubtfully, his eyes shadowed. The coffee (or rather the non-fat milk he opted for) loosened his tongue. Things were not going well with his wife. They had drifted so far apart. Living separate lives. Nothing in common anymore. And the worst of it, she didn't know there was anything wrong.
"You ever thought of telling her?"
He smiled ruefully. Sheldon is English. Very much so. "No. That's not how it is with us. When I do choose to say something, there will be no going back. Then I'll pack up and leave."
Sheldon sighed as his eyes took on a faraway look. He was gazing out at the undulating landscape of more than 30 years of marriage. Craters lately, but there had once been lush rolling hills, green and verdant. There had been shy spring flowers, gaudy summer blossoms. There had been love.
"Every day, I think of leaving her. Every day. I stay for what was, rather than what is."
I knew he just needed to talk. Loosen some of that congealed feelings. Then he smiled, thanked me for caring enough to ask him out for coffee, and listening. We parted with promises of keeping in touch. I felt sorry for him. Endings were always sad.
A few weeks before I left Australia, Sheldon called me. He wanted to catch up. We met for a drink at uni and adjourned to a alfresco pub. I glanced furtively at this guy over my rather robust Cabernet Sauvignon. I had always thought he was rather attractive, but never had the fact been driven home to me so forcibly as it was now.
Gone was the cloud of depression. He exuded vitality, almost glowing.
"So what's new with you?" I ventured with a smile.
"The writing's coming along fine. I do about 1,000 words a day."
We talked about his writing for a while. Sheldon is one of the most talented writers I met at university. A cross between Peter Mayle, Laurie Lee and Gerald Durrell. He had the power to make me laugh and cry with a few well chosen words on paper. But somehow, whatever had brought about this change, it was not his writing. It seemed as if we were talking around things.
I asked about his wife and he told me the situation was about the same. They lived in separate houses because he told her he needed the peace and quiet to write. He went back on weekends to fix broken stuff. That had been the extent of their communication for a while. Yet surprisingly, he didn't seem to be very down about it. Curious. He asked me about how I got by between boyfriends. I laughed, saying there was much to occupy my time with. Work, friends and Cabernet Merlot.
"I've turned into quite a lush."
"I'll believe that when I see it."
"OK, but I have to say, I'm totally aware of what I do when I'm under the influence." I winked at him. "And I do it anyway."
"I'll bear that in mind."
Oh dear, it was getting hot in here. The wine, the lazy afternoon, the absence, temporarily, of all inhibitions. What the hell, I was leaving next week anyway.
As he dropped me off at uni, I leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek.
"You're looking good Shel. Really good. So much better than when I saw you last. What gives?"
He grinned. "Things are going well with my writing. That... and I've been having an affair with a younger woman. No. I'm not going to tell you who it is. You know her. Now scoot. I have to get home."
Days I sleep off nights of red wine
Nights I go out of my mind...
...I figured he could use some companionship right about now. He wrote back joyfully accepting.
"How did you know?"
"Oh I go pretty crazy when I have all this time on my hands. I figured you'd be going crazy too..."
"Yes. I was incredibly depressed. Took all that time off to write and then there were a hundred niggling little things that came up so I couldn't work. And then, I was not in the mood, frankly."
"You know what Julia Cameron says...writing is like any other job. It's not about being in the mood. It's about sitting down and doing it." (Fine advice from someone who always needs to be in the mood to put pen to paper or finger to keyboard!)
"Ye-e-e-s," he said doubtfully, his eyes shadowed. The coffee (or rather the non-fat milk he opted for) loosened his tongue. Things were not going well with his wife. They had drifted so far apart. Living separate lives. Nothing in common anymore. And the worst of it, she didn't know there was anything wrong.
"You ever thought of telling her?"
He smiled ruefully. Sheldon is English. Very much so. "No. That's not how it is with us. When I do choose to say something, there will be no going back. Then I'll pack up and leave."
Sheldon sighed as his eyes took on a faraway look. He was gazing out at the undulating landscape of more than 30 years of marriage. Craters lately, but there had once been lush rolling hills, green and verdant. There had been shy spring flowers, gaudy summer blossoms. There had been love.
"Every day, I think of leaving her. Every day. I stay for what was, rather than what is."
I knew he just needed to talk. Loosen some of that congealed feelings. Then he smiled, thanked me for caring enough to ask him out for coffee, and listening. We parted with promises of keeping in touch. I felt sorry for him. Endings were always sad.
A few weeks before I left Australia, Sheldon called me. He wanted to catch up. We met for a drink at uni and adjourned to a alfresco pub. I glanced furtively at this guy over my rather robust Cabernet Sauvignon. I had always thought he was rather attractive, but never had the fact been driven home to me so forcibly as it was now.
Gone was the cloud of depression. He exuded vitality, almost glowing.
"So what's new with you?" I ventured with a smile.
"The writing's coming along fine. I do about 1,000 words a day."
We talked about his writing for a while. Sheldon is one of the most talented writers I met at university. A cross between Peter Mayle, Laurie Lee and Gerald Durrell. He had the power to make me laugh and cry with a few well chosen words on paper. But somehow, whatever had brought about this change, it was not his writing. It seemed as if we were talking around things.
I asked about his wife and he told me the situation was about the same. They lived in separate houses because he told her he needed the peace and quiet to write. He went back on weekends to fix broken stuff. That had been the extent of their communication for a while. Yet surprisingly, he didn't seem to be very down about it. Curious. He asked me about how I got by between boyfriends. I laughed, saying there was much to occupy my time with. Work, friends and Cabernet Merlot.
"I've turned into quite a lush."
"I'll believe that when I see it."
"OK, but I have to say, I'm totally aware of what I do when I'm under the influence." I winked at him. "And I do it anyway."
"I'll bear that in mind."
Oh dear, it was getting hot in here. The wine, the lazy afternoon, the absence, temporarily, of all inhibitions. What the hell, I was leaving next week anyway.
As he dropped me off at uni, I leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek.
"You're looking good Shel. Really good. So much better than when I saw you last. What gives?"
He grinned. "Things are going well with my writing. That... and I've been having an affair with a younger woman. No. I'm not going to tell you who it is. You know her. Now scoot. I have to get home."
Friday, February 10, 2006
To die for Ireland
Art does not imitate life. Art anticipates life. (Jeanette Winterson)
We talked about the financial crisis way back in 1998 and how the world, well, my world at least, went to hell. There was no art in that. It was an intense sort of remembering.
We talked about how the currency speculators tore down the ringgit, so much so, it had to be taken out of circulation. And how we became economic pariahs forthwith, at least for six months, until Steve Taran wrote that article saying, well done. When you're Salomon Smith Barney, people tend to listen. Maybe there is a little art there...
We talked about the centreless world, and the headless chickens staring helplessly at weeping statues. We have killed God. So we make money, we consume, we fill ourselves up and feel empty anyway? I'm not talking cheesecake here. Or maybe I am. Cheesecake is art, no?
We talked about the couple who gave their daughter an envelope with RM100,000 when she came back from Australia and how she went shopping to buy an RM8,000 Chanel outfit and a RM49,000 watch for a man she wanted who said: "Take it back, I can't accept that. And by the way, your dress looks terrible." Artifice. But it didn't work.
We talked about Neil Postman's Amusing Ourselves to Death and how people can't read anymore. Where are the bards? I told him I hated Socrates for saying poets should be banned from the nation state and he said, don't dismiss him completely, he did come up with some good stuff. As if.
Then he dusted the blueberry muffin crumbs from his hands and said, we have to go, I have vespers. And I said, thanks for the coffee. And he said, it's been a pleasure. And he told me about Patrick Cavanagh and lent me a book.
Then an old Irish monk wandered on by and we talked conspiracy theories for half a hour under the biting wind that felt more winter than spring. He spoke into his beard and I had to lean closer to hear him. We said, the tsunami was not a natural disaster, they were nuclear testing in our waters. We said, the killer application for cloning is to create armies.
And he said, everyone is willing to die for Ireland until they are actually asked to.
We talked about the financial crisis way back in 1998 and how the world, well, my world at least, went to hell. There was no art in that. It was an intense sort of remembering.
We talked about how the currency speculators tore down the ringgit, so much so, it had to be taken out of circulation. And how we became economic pariahs forthwith, at least for six months, until Steve Taran wrote that article saying, well done. When you're Salomon Smith Barney, people tend to listen. Maybe there is a little art there...
We talked about the centreless world, and the headless chickens staring helplessly at weeping statues. We have killed God. So we make money, we consume, we fill ourselves up and feel empty anyway? I'm not talking cheesecake here. Or maybe I am. Cheesecake is art, no?
We talked about the couple who gave their daughter an envelope with RM100,000 when she came back from Australia and how she went shopping to buy an RM8,000 Chanel outfit and a RM49,000 watch for a man she wanted who said: "Take it back, I can't accept that. And by the way, your dress looks terrible." Artifice. But it didn't work.
We talked about Neil Postman's Amusing Ourselves to Death and how people can't read anymore. Where are the bards? I told him I hated Socrates for saying poets should be banned from the nation state and he said, don't dismiss him completely, he did come up with some good stuff. As if.
Then he dusted the blueberry muffin crumbs from his hands and said, we have to go, I have vespers. And I said, thanks for the coffee. And he said, it's been a pleasure. And he told me about Patrick Cavanagh and lent me a book.
Then an old Irish monk wandered on by and we talked conspiracy theories for half a hour under the biting wind that felt more winter than spring. He spoke into his beard and I had to lean closer to hear him. We said, the tsunami was not a natural disaster, they were nuclear testing in our waters. We said, the killer application for cloning is to create armies.
And he said, everyone is willing to die for Ireland until they are actually asked to.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Shower, interrupted.
The thing is, some people actually like snakes. They keep them as pets. They take them out and play with them. They even kiss them. To all these people, I take my hat off to you, I blow a thousand kisses your way and say with all possible love and respect, stay the hell away from me! No, I don't think they're cute. No I don't want to touch them. And which part of "if you don't take that thing out of here, I'll brain you with this hairbrush" don't you understand?
I don't. Just the thought of one occupying the same square mile as me gives me goosebumps. Which is why when snakey showed up...I was a tad disturbed. There I was in the shower scrubbing away at the encrusted dust. If I broke into an untuneful rendering of My Humps, it was only to show how secure and safe I felt in this strange bathroom on the top of a rarely visited (by tourists, anyway) hill in Perak.
Suddenly there it was. On the wall beside the heater box. This long black thing undulating wildly. I was wet. And naked. It was inches from me. In that small trapped space.
I let out a series of staccato shrieks. My friends Katherine and David, who were on holiday with me, came pounding from the hall, where they had been watching TV and banged on the bathroom door.
"Jenn, Jenn are you alright? Open the door? Are you decent? Can I come in?" This was David.
Katherine, who is very, very bright, had ascertained, without asking, simply from the quality of my blood-curdling shriek that it was a snake in here with me. She knows about me and snakes. She ran to get the men in charge of this bungalow to deal with it.
So there I was. Wet. And barely covered with the standard white towel. "Use our bathroom," Dave said.
I stumbled out of there shaking. As I completed my interrupted shower I found myself laughing hysterically. I was still shivering, but I couldn't stop. I gasped and howled.
Katherine came over and gave me a hug.
"You poor, poor thing, the men have dealt with it."
"They put it outside?"
"No, they chopped off its head."
"Oh."
"Well they didn't want it to come back. And apparently this one was poisonous."
"Oh."
Weird. I hate snakes. But I hadn't wanted them to kill it. Just to remove it, so it could slither away to some inoffensive corner of the hill where it wouldn't bother me anymore.
Last night I dreamt of three snakes in water. The middle one was my old buddy. I was snakesitting for a friend, but was too afraid to feed them. So I let someone fry them to death, hoping it didn't hurt.
OK now for the tag. I was tagged by Lemontree and apparently I am meant to describe my perfect lover. Eight points. Hmmm...how do I do this when perfection annoys the intestines out of me?
Well here are the rules....
Begin Quote "Rules of the Game.
1. The tagged victim has to come up with 8 different points of their perfect lover.
2. You have to mention the sex of the target.
3. Tag 8 victims to join this game & leave a comment on their comments saying they've been tagged.
4. If tagged the 2nd time, there's no need to post again." End Quote
And here goes.
Perfect Lover.
He/She/Indeterminate (preferably an alien from an interesting planet)
1. Intelligent enough to hold your own end of the conversation, without being arrogant and overbearing.
2. A free spirit. (Some people like commitments. I don't)
3. When I want to be left alone, you leave me the hell alone, whether it's for a day, a week, a month, a year. I'll call you sometime. Really.
4. Generous.
5. If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends...
6. A lyrical soul.
7. A good cook.
8. No babies, no babies, no babies, no babies. Not now. Not ever. So if lover is male, it would be preferable if he comes with a nice vasectomy.
I don't wanna tag anyone. Or if I did, I would say, OK now send this to eight people and tell them to kiss the next person who says, snufflelubugus under their right ear.
And so it goes, and so it goes.
I don't. Just the thought of one occupying the same square mile as me gives me goosebumps. Which is why when snakey showed up...I was a tad disturbed. There I was in the shower scrubbing away at the encrusted dust. If I broke into an untuneful rendering of My Humps, it was only to show how secure and safe I felt in this strange bathroom on the top of a rarely visited (by tourists, anyway) hill in Perak.
Suddenly there it was. On the wall beside the heater box. This long black thing undulating wildly. I was wet. And naked. It was inches from me. In that small trapped space.
I let out a series of staccato shrieks. My friends Katherine and David, who were on holiday with me, came pounding from the hall, where they had been watching TV and banged on the bathroom door.
"Jenn, Jenn are you alright? Open the door? Are you decent? Can I come in?" This was David.
Katherine, who is very, very bright, had ascertained, without asking, simply from the quality of my blood-curdling shriek that it was a snake in here with me. She knows about me and snakes. She ran to get the men in charge of this bungalow to deal with it.
So there I was. Wet. And barely covered with the standard white towel. "Use our bathroom," Dave said.
I stumbled out of there shaking. As I completed my interrupted shower I found myself laughing hysterically. I was still shivering, but I couldn't stop. I gasped and howled.
Katherine came over and gave me a hug.
"You poor, poor thing, the men have dealt with it."
"They put it outside?"
"No, they chopped off its head."
"Oh."
"Well they didn't want it to come back. And apparently this one was poisonous."
"Oh."
Weird. I hate snakes. But I hadn't wanted them to kill it. Just to remove it, so it could slither away to some inoffensive corner of the hill where it wouldn't bother me anymore.
Last night I dreamt of three snakes in water. The middle one was my old buddy. I was snakesitting for a friend, but was too afraid to feed them. So I let someone fry them to death, hoping it didn't hurt.
OK now for the tag. I was tagged by Lemontree and apparently I am meant to describe my perfect lover. Eight points. Hmmm...how do I do this when perfection annoys the intestines out of me?
Well here are the rules....
Begin Quote "Rules of the Game.
1. The tagged victim has to come up with 8 different points of their perfect lover.
2. You have to mention the sex of the target.
3. Tag 8 victims to join this game & leave a comment on their comments saying they've been tagged.
4. If tagged the 2nd time, there's no need to post again." End Quote
And here goes.
Perfect Lover.
He/She/Indeterminate (preferably an alien from an interesting planet)
1. Intelligent enough to hold your own end of the conversation, without being arrogant and overbearing.
2. A free spirit. (Some people like commitments. I don't)
3. When I want to be left alone, you leave me the hell alone, whether it's for a day, a week, a month, a year. I'll call you sometime. Really.
4. Generous.
5. If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends...
6. A lyrical soul.
7. A good cook.
8. No babies, no babies, no babies, no babies. Not now. Not ever. So if lover is male, it would be preferable if he comes with a nice vasectomy.
I don't wanna tag anyone. Or if I did, I would say, OK now send this to eight people and tell them to kiss the next person who says, snufflelubugus under their right ear.
And so it goes, and so it goes.
Friday, February 03, 2006
Puppy Grief
It hasn't been Elliot's day. It was bad enough that he woke up to the sight of bags in the hallway this morning. Elliot hates bags. Bags mean that people are leaving. And he is never sure who. Just that, whoever it is, he is sure to miss them.
Forehead creased in anxiety, he watches as Julie, Jackie, Simon and Mom clamber into the car and take off. He circles the driveway in anxiety, waiting for it to return. Maybe it's a false alarm. Maybe this time the car will come back and disgorge its precious cargo.
But an hour later as he rushes up madly to welcome it home, he sees only three. He circles the car thrice just to make sure. Julie is gone. Elliot has pride enough not to howl but looking at him, you can feel his silent whimper.
At least Jackie and Simon are still here, though. To cheer him up, they close the large gate outside to let him run free. He does, but his forehead is still creased in anxiety. Today feels ominous. More unpleasantness in store.
Sure enough, Mummy and Jenn come out and herd him unceremoniously into the car. He sits on Simon's lap and gazes out the window, worried. He does not like car rides. Car rides mean a visit to the vet. He starts to shed in sheer nervousness.
At the vet, it takes three family members to load him on the weighing scale. Shivering, he scrambles off everytime he is put on. He hates the smells in this place. He just wants to go home. But his ordeal isn't over yet. Mummy, Jenn and Jackie force him into the vet's office. He refuses to be put on the examination table. Finally, Dr Koh listens to his racing heart on the floor. It takes all three to hold him still, while the vet places the cold end of the stethoscope on his flank.
"Oh my goodness, this dog is terrified," he says accusingly. They look suitably chastened. "And he is all bones. What do you feed him?"
"Dog biscuits for breakfast. Rice and meat for lunch. Despite appearances, this dog is far from starving," Jackie flashes, indignant.
"Hmmm....what did he weigh in at?" the doc wants to know, unconvinced.
"About 20.5 kilos," Jenn replies. Dr Koh shakes his head unbelieving. No, it can't be. "Malaysian dogs are usually between 15 and 20 kilos. You're telling me this one is over 20?"
"Yeah, he eats a hell of a lot. He has a voracious appetite. We don't know why he looks the way he does."
"OK then, we will have to deworm him. Crush these two pills and give it to him in his food."
Dr Koh injects his side and Elliot, who has been struggling wildly to get outside in the meantime, hardly notices. He's good to go.
He scrambles out of the vet happily and is perfectly well behaved on the way home. If he does try to lick Mom in the face while she's driving, it's only because he's relieved.
Jackie and Simon take him for a walk, and he's actually smiling. Maybe things are not so bad after all. But....
It's evening and he sees the suitcases lying open in the hall as Jackie packs. He does not like this. He doesn't like this at all. He watches her mournfully, tail between his legs. He sees Simon packing too. How many people are going to desert him today?
They pat him goodbye and he knows...he jumps up to give them a hug each, pushing Jackie down. She laughs, as Jenn pulls Elliot off her, and struggles up. But the laugh is hollow.
The car leaves again. This time it comes back without Jackie and Simon. Elliot circles the car to make sure. He stands on his hind legs to peer in. Then he creeps off to hide under Mom's car.
His tears are silent.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Our National Pastime
"Gosh, I'd forgotten that eating is the national pastime over here," my sister Jackie remarked, glancing at the crowded stalls. It was 3.30 pm (not peak hour by anyone's standards) but we could not find a parking place. We went round and round, said a few prayers to St Jude (and some to St Antony for good measure) that someone would decide to leave, so I could park.
It doesn't matter what time of the day it is, if our eating places are open, they are full. If you have lived here for a while, you acquire the art of waiting for a table. You hang around, watch to see who has finished their food, test to see if you can make them uncomfortable by giving them bitch glares (my sister Julie is particularly good at these) and pounce on the tables as soon as they are free. Even before the desultory waiter has sauntered up to clear up the dirty dishes.
Jackie lives in England. She actually has to work for a living. She is on her feet the whole day, with a short lunch break and maybe another 15 minutes sometime during the day. She is forced to smile as nasty wankers unload their bile and vitriol over her head. Sometimes she sneaks off quietly to burst into tears. No, she doesn't work in a sweatshop. She's a pharmacist.
When she comes for a visit, she wants to eat. A lot. She makes up an elaborate list and gets on the phone with my sister Julie to discuss it. Just to see if there's anything she missed out.
As we circled around the shops hopelessly, she turned to my mother. "Hey Mom, you didn't make goreng pisang for me this time. What's the matter? I also want the pal appam, the Lucky Gardens one, and the curry puffs at Raju's and if we can fit it in Muthu's teh halia (ginger tea). Also the butter prawns at Kam Ying and the honey spare ribs at the Herbal Soup House."
I felt obliged to prick her balloon here. "It's no longer Kam Ying, they sold the place and the new cook can't make the creamy prawns to save his life. Sorrylar monkey. Oso I donno if Herbal Soup House is still open. Last time I went, the honey spare ribs were so tough I nearly broke my teeth."
Jackie sighed sadly. "Changes, changes, why can't everything stay the same?"
"I know. What to do. But anyway, Mom's rendang is the same. Still the best I've ever tasted anywhere. Even if she doesn't bother to use the asam gelugor. Haha. And I'll make my prawns, howzzat?"
Jackie nodded, happy.
I feel a little sad today as she goes back tomorrow. The feast is over. Back to real life.
We did manage a hell of a lot of food while she was here, though. There was satay. Char kueh teow. Nasi lemak. Roti canai. Lots of chicken rice. Rendang, rendang, rendang. Butter prawns. Black pepper prawns. Chicken vindaloo. Palak paneer. Beef pasandha. Tandoori chicken. Goreng pisang. Malay kuehs, such as seri muka. Indian sweets (jelebis, gulab jamuns, barfis, halwa). Hot plate noodles. Pandan chicken.
I guess we don't bother much with drink over here because we eat. And eat. And eat.
If eating is indeed our national pastime, it's because there's food in so much abundance and variety. We eat out all the time, we favour stall food (specially flavoured with body salt) because it's cheap. But bottom line, our food is just pretty damn good.
I was on the phone with Jackie while still in Australia.
"Excited about going back?" she wanted to know.
"No, not really. I don't fit in. And having to deal with Malaysian drivers again....oh God!"
"Think about the food....," she said.
So I did.
And I have the 10 extra kilos to show for it.
It doesn't matter what time of the day it is, if our eating places are open, they are full. If you have lived here for a while, you acquire the art of waiting for a table. You hang around, watch to see who has finished their food, test to see if you can make them uncomfortable by giving them bitch glares (my sister Julie is particularly good at these) and pounce on the tables as soon as they are free. Even before the desultory waiter has sauntered up to clear up the dirty dishes.
Jackie lives in England. She actually has to work for a living. She is on her feet the whole day, with a short lunch break and maybe another 15 minutes sometime during the day. She is forced to smile as nasty wankers unload their bile and vitriol over her head. Sometimes she sneaks off quietly to burst into tears. No, she doesn't work in a sweatshop. She's a pharmacist.
When she comes for a visit, she wants to eat. A lot. She makes up an elaborate list and gets on the phone with my sister Julie to discuss it. Just to see if there's anything she missed out.
As we circled around the shops hopelessly, she turned to my mother. "Hey Mom, you didn't make goreng pisang for me this time. What's the matter? I also want the pal appam, the Lucky Gardens one, and the curry puffs at Raju's and if we can fit it in Muthu's teh halia (ginger tea). Also the butter prawns at Kam Ying and the honey spare ribs at the Herbal Soup House."
I felt obliged to prick her balloon here. "It's no longer Kam Ying, they sold the place and the new cook can't make the creamy prawns to save his life. Sorrylar monkey. Oso I donno if Herbal Soup House is still open. Last time I went, the honey spare ribs were so tough I nearly broke my teeth."
Jackie sighed sadly. "Changes, changes, why can't everything stay the same?"
"I know. What to do. But anyway, Mom's rendang is the same. Still the best I've ever tasted anywhere. Even if she doesn't bother to use the asam gelugor. Haha. And I'll make my prawns, howzzat?"
Jackie nodded, happy.
I feel a little sad today as she goes back tomorrow. The feast is over. Back to real life.
We did manage a hell of a lot of food while she was here, though. There was satay. Char kueh teow. Nasi lemak. Roti canai. Lots of chicken rice. Rendang, rendang, rendang. Butter prawns. Black pepper prawns. Chicken vindaloo. Palak paneer. Beef pasandha. Tandoori chicken. Goreng pisang. Malay kuehs, such as seri muka. Indian sweets (jelebis, gulab jamuns, barfis, halwa). Hot plate noodles. Pandan chicken.
I guess we don't bother much with drink over here because we eat. And eat. And eat.
If eating is indeed our national pastime, it's because there's food in so much abundance and variety. We eat out all the time, we favour stall food (specially flavoured with body salt) because it's cheap. But bottom line, our food is just pretty damn good.
I was on the phone with Jackie while still in Australia.
"Excited about going back?" she wanted to know.
"No, not really. I don't fit in. And having to deal with Malaysian drivers again....oh God!"
"Think about the food....," she said.
So I did.
And I have the 10 extra kilos to show for it.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Polygamous bisexual
I hate weddings. Especially family weddings. I either don't deign to grace them with my presence, or when I do, I show up looking like thunder.
As I take my seat, I brace myself for the inevitable fingernails on the blackboard. To whit, so, when are you thinking of getting married?
As if marriage is an inevitability, rather than a choice.
Sometimes I attempt to be polite: "I haven't met anyone I want to marry."
"We can introduce you, I know a nice boy..."
"No thanks, I don't believe in arranged marriages. In fact, I don't even attend them."
"That's what you say, all it takes is an introduction, the rest is up to you." (Actually that last line is from a Singaporean public service ad, encouraging it's stubbornly single citizens to take the plunge and have three kids, but I digress)
Sometimes (very often, actually, I lose my temper)
"How dare you ask me such a question! Frankly I don't hate any man enough to marry him."
Sometimes I smile lazily and go for the jugular:
"Why? I would only be divorced in a year. I don't believe in marriage but I do believe in divorce. You want an invite to my break-up party?"
Or,
"Oh uncle, didn't they tell you I was gay? I thought it was all over the family grapevine. Now if you want to find me a nice girl, this is what I am looking for..."
Not that it ever stopped them. There is a tenacity to these people that would confound mountain climbers. They take it for granted that I'm thorny and have to be handled with care, but they always find a way to keep coming back to it.
Then I actually got engaged. I remember the looks on their faces as they took a good long look at the seemingly mentally incapacitated, oh hell, retard, I brought home. There were shocked looks, feverish whispering and desperate phone calls to each other to discuss the situation.
My Aunt Liz (who, impervious to repeated snubs and downright rudeness) bugged me about getting married every single time she saw me, called her daughter in England to discuss the situation, whereupon she burst into stormy tears.
"I think there is something wrong with him. We must save Jenny, oh, oh, oh, what can we do???"
My cousin, being made of sterner stuff, told her mother to dry up. "If Jennifer likes this fler, there's nothing we can do but accept it. So don't interfere Mom, I'm warning you..."
When it filtered through the family grapevine that we had finally broken up, there was a collective sigh of relief. I think the family realised that they preferred to have me single. And cantankerous. And happy.
I've since added to my repertoire of answers to that question. I will tell them that I'm a polygamous bisexual. Marriage, as you know, being only for the monogamous monosexuals.
But I seem to have expended all that brilliance for nothing. The family has remained tactfully silent on the subject and it looks like this silence will be of some duration.
So, if for nothing else, thank you Ex. You managed in a few weeks to do what I couldn't in years.
As I take my seat, I brace myself for the inevitable fingernails on the blackboard. To whit, so, when are you thinking of getting married?
As if marriage is an inevitability, rather than a choice.
Sometimes I attempt to be polite: "I haven't met anyone I want to marry."
"We can introduce you, I know a nice boy..."
"No thanks, I don't believe in arranged marriages. In fact, I don't even attend them."
"That's what you say, all it takes is an introduction, the rest is up to you." (Actually that last line is from a Singaporean public service ad, encouraging it's stubbornly single citizens to take the plunge and have three kids, but I digress)
Sometimes (very often, actually, I lose my temper)
"How dare you ask me such a question! Frankly I don't hate any man enough to marry him."
Sometimes I smile lazily and go for the jugular:
"Why? I would only be divorced in a year. I don't believe in marriage but I do believe in divorce. You want an invite to my break-up party?"
Or,
"Oh uncle, didn't they tell you I was gay? I thought it was all over the family grapevine. Now if you want to find me a nice girl, this is what I am looking for..."
Not that it ever stopped them. There is a tenacity to these people that would confound mountain climbers. They take it for granted that I'm thorny and have to be handled with care, but they always find a way to keep coming back to it.
Then I actually got engaged. I remember the looks on their faces as they took a good long look at the seemingly mentally incapacitated, oh hell, retard, I brought home. There were shocked looks, feverish whispering and desperate phone calls to each other to discuss the situation.
My Aunt Liz (who, impervious to repeated snubs and downright rudeness) bugged me about getting married every single time she saw me, called her daughter in England to discuss the situation, whereupon she burst into stormy tears.
"I think there is something wrong with him. We must save Jenny, oh, oh, oh, what can we do???"
My cousin, being made of sterner stuff, told her mother to dry up. "If Jennifer likes this fler, there's nothing we can do but accept it. So don't interfere Mom, I'm warning you..."
When it filtered through the family grapevine that we had finally broken up, there was a collective sigh of relief. I think the family realised that they preferred to have me single. And cantankerous. And happy.
I've since added to my repertoire of answers to that question. I will tell them that I'm a polygamous bisexual. Marriage, as you know, being only for the monogamous monosexuals.
But I seem to have expended all that brilliance for nothing. The family has remained tactfully silent on the subject and it looks like this silence will be of some duration.
So, if for nothing else, thank you Ex. You managed in a few weeks to do what I couldn't in years.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Detritus
I am in a waiting place. Stuff is happening so I cannot move forward. No way to move back. I took three years off to figure things out and I come out of those three years with a brand new degree but not much else.
I find myself losing all the self possession I had whilst away. This was what I was afraid would happen. That I would shrink once more into the Malaysian me. Worrying about traffic jams, taking offence at perceived snubs, listening to mind destroying streams of negativity. Day in. Day out.
I guess after a certain age it is good to live away from family, seeing them only on special occassions. We tend to fall into habit. We tend to take each other for granted. We tend to listen without listening.
I want a life. A real life. Not this approximation. I don't want to wake up feeling this awful lostness. This gone feeling in the pit of my stomach. I want to move out from the space in between to the rest of my life. I want to step firmly, rather than tread carefully, tap dancing to avoid stepping on toes.
If tomorrow comes.
I find myself losing all the self possession I had whilst away. This was what I was afraid would happen. That I would shrink once more into the Malaysian me. Worrying about traffic jams, taking offence at perceived snubs, listening to mind destroying streams of negativity. Day in. Day out.
I guess after a certain age it is good to live away from family, seeing them only on special occassions. We tend to fall into habit. We tend to take each other for granted. We tend to listen without listening.
I want a life. A real life. Not this approximation. I don't want to wake up feeling this awful lostness. This gone feeling in the pit of my stomach. I want to move out from the space in between to the rest of my life. I want to step firmly, rather than tread carefully, tap dancing to avoid stepping on toes.
If tomorrow comes.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
If You Think I'm Dumb, Wait Till You Meet My Government
You gotta love living in a police state. Doesn't matter where you are in the world, it seems that once the government closes up, stops allowing a free discussion of (I'm sorry Nessa, I have to use the word) "issues", people's (read: the authorities') brains shrink to the size of mustard seeds.
No, they can't be that dumb.
Huh! Dumb, dumber, dumbest, I don't think they've truly plumbed the dumbness depths here.
Of course, in Malaysia, with more than two decades of "don't ask questions, we know what's best for you...I don't think, therefore I am (patriotic, that is)...we have come to regard these forays into crass stupidity with amusement. Laughter helps temper the inevitable irritation.
Here's the faithful transcription of an exchange between a reporter of a local tabloid and a musician who happened to be at a rock concert. The police raided the concert, on the pretext that it was "black metal" and the reporter in question was trying to find evidence of dark doings.
Reporter: Did you notice any indication of Satan Worship at Paul's Place?
Rafil: No
Reporter: Was there a goat present?
Rafil: Excuse me?
Reporter: A goat.
Rafil: Kambing? (Goat)
Reporter: Ya, kambing. (Yes, goat)
Rafil: Kambing hidup? (A live goat?)
Reporter: Ya, kambing hidup. (Yes, a live goat)
Rafil: Kambing hidup, lari-lari kat venue Paul's Place? (Just to make sure: a live goat running around at Paul's Place?)
Reporter: Ya. (Yes)
Rafil: Kat luar ada kedai mamak, ada kemungikinan besar diorang jual kari kambing. Tapi dalam venue tak nampak. (Outside at the mamak stall, there's a large possibility that they were selling goat curry. I didn't see any goats at Paul's Place though)
Reporter: OK, so takde kambing? (Just to be absolutely clear about this, so, no goat?)
Rafil: Yang lari-lari kat stage, takde. Kalau tapau kari, roti bawak masuk, saya tak pasti. (None running around on stage. But I can't say for sure that no one packed some goat curry from the mamak stall next door, with roti, and brought that in).
No, they can't be that dumb.
Huh! Dumb, dumber, dumbest, I don't think they've truly plumbed the dumbness depths here.
Of course, in Malaysia, with more than two decades of "don't ask questions, we know what's best for you...I don't think, therefore I am (patriotic, that is)...we have come to regard these forays into crass stupidity with amusement. Laughter helps temper the inevitable irritation.
Here's the faithful transcription of an exchange between a reporter of a local tabloid and a musician who happened to be at a rock concert. The police raided the concert, on the pretext that it was "black metal" and the reporter in question was trying to find evidence of dark doings.
Reporter: Did you notice any indication of Satan Worship at Paul's Place?
Rafil: No
Reporter: Was there a goat present?
Rafil: Excuse me?
Reporter: A goat.
Rafil: Kambing? (Goat)
Reporter: Ya, kambing. (Yes, goat)
Rafil: Kambing hidup? (A live goat?)
Reporter: Ya, kambing hidup. (Yes, a live goat)
Rafil: Kambing hidup, lari-lari kat venue Paul's Place? (Just to make sure: a live goat running around at Paul's Place?)
Reporter: Ya. (Yes)
Rafil: Kat luar ada kedai mamak, ada kemungikinan besar diorang jual kari kambing. Tapi dalam venue tak nampak. (Outside at the mamak stall, there's a large possibility that they were selling goat curry. I didn't see any goats at Paul's Place though)
Reporter: OK, so takde kambing? (Just to be absolutely clear about this, so, no goat?)
Rafil: Yang lari-lari kat stage, takde. Kalau tapau kari, roti bawak masuk, saya tak pasti. (None running around on stage. But I can't say for sure that no one packed some goat curry from the mamak stall next door, with roti, and brought that in).
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
For Mals, With Love
It's the strangest things that remind me of you. Driving up ramps. Shopping at Isetan, KLCC. The backview of a blue Proton hatchback.
You gave me love and laughter.
And then you went away.
I cannot cry for you. I cried when Addy told me you were sick. I cried when Sree told me there wasn't much time left. I cried when I heard your voice, thin and tired, saying, Jenn, you have to let me go.
But when I got that text: Mala passed away at 6.15 this morning... I didn't cry then. I couldn't.
You were getting better. You were home from the hospital after so many months.
When I got back to Malaysia, I asked, when?
You said wait. You said, not yet. You were not strong enough for visitors. You said you'd tell me when.
You didn't say I'd never see you again.
So I wait for the phone call telling me you want to meet up for coffee. At Delifrance. Or Coffee Bean. Maybe Starbucks. We will talk about things that matter. Like your new job. Or my new book. And then we can stroll through Kinokuniya and thumb through a few books. We could try on a few clothes at British India or Padini and snort derisively at the fact that they seem to only cater for anorexic teenagers. We'd comfort ourselves with cinnamon buns. Or chocolate eclairs. Then we'll catch a scary movie (I'll peek out behind half closed fingers and you can stopper up your ears and we'll compare notes after and try to figure out what it was all about).
And then when it's time to go, I'll hug you tightly and tell you I love you.
And I would say goodbye.
You gave me love and laughter.
And then you went away.
I cannot cry for you. I cried when Addy told me you were sick. I cried when Sree told me there wasn't much time left. I cried when I heard your voice, thin and tired, saying, Jenn, you have to let me go.
But when I got that text: Mala passed away at 6.15 this morning... I didn't cry then. I couldn't.
You were getting better. You were home from the hospital after so many months.
When I got back to Malaysia, I asked, when?
You said wait. You said, not yet. You were not strong enough for visitors. You said you'd tell me when.
You didn't say I'd never see you again.
So I wait for the phone call telling me you want to meet up for coffee. At Delifrance. Or Coffee Bean. Maybe Starbucks. We will talk about things that matter. Like your new job. Or my new book. And then we can stroll through Kinokuniya and thumb through a few books. We could try on a few clothes at British India or Padini and snort derisively at the fact that they seem to only cater for anorexic teenagers. We'd comfort ourselves with cinnamon buns. Or chocolate eclairs. Then we'll catch a scary movie (I'll peek out behind half closed fingers and you can stopper up your ears and we'll compare notes after and try to figure out what it was all about).
And then when it's time to go, I'll hug you tightly and tell you I love you.
And I would say goodbye.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Craven
The nights are steamy, turgid, restless. Memories dart like glowflies in the dark. You can set out to catch light, but it slips between your fingers. I no longer know who I am, have an identity. I no longer like what I remember of me.
I catch glimpses of a person, hear my voice say things, I cannot accept. This is me?This starved, grasping, wretched creature? How did this become me?
You can work at stoppering up your heart, you can become tough, so tough, bullets graze and knives glance off. So tough, that there is a scar where your heart used to be.
To what end? Really, to what end?
I thought I knew who I was, I worked at defining the misty, ambiguous edges of my being. But all boundaries can be diluted. All certainties are vulnerable. I felt proud of myself when I beat down a wretched auto rickshaw driver, forcing him to charge me the official rate.
"Let me see the card," I told him sternly. Unbending. To what end? A few dollars more one way or the other would not have made any difference to me. It's the principle of the thing, I intoned self righteously, looking at him with undisguised contempt. His lean, ugly face. A face like that is an abomination. Don't come near me. Here, take your money. And go.
To be human is to feel shame. To be human is to ask forgiveness. To be human is to learn, after all this time, who the real lean, hungry, craven creature is.
Swirling boundaries. Sand in the air. Like little black insects.
I catch glimpses of a person, hear my voice say things, I cannot accept. This is me?This starved, grasping, wretched creature? How did this become me?
You can work at stoppering up your heart, you can become tough, so tough, bullets graze and knives glance off. So tough, that there is a scar where your heart used to be.
To what end? Really, to what end?
I thought I knew who I was, I worked at defining the misty, ambiguous edges of my being. But all boundaries can be diluted. All certainties are vulnerable. I felt proud of myself when I beat down a wretched auto rickshaw driver, forcing him to charge me the official rate.
"Let me see the card," I told him sternly. Unbending. To what end? A few dollars more one way or the other would not have made any difference to me. It's the principle of the thing, I intoned self righteously, looking at him with undisguised contempt. His lean, ugly face. A face like that is an abomination. Don't come near me. Here, take your money. And go.
To be human is to feel shame. To be human is to ask forgiveness. To be human is to learn, after all this time, who the real lean, hungry, craven creature is.
Swirling boundaries. Sand in the air. Like little black insects.
Monday, January 09, 2006
Letter to the editor
You know there was a time when, if someone wanted to express an opinion, they wrote to their local newspaper. Letters that were sometimes, well-informed, sometimes remarkably prejudiced, interesting, pithy, learned...people spent hours or days coming up with these letters. They needed to comment on articles in the papers. They needed to express their views of the issues du jour. They wanted to have their say.
Going through the archived copies of a newspaper in Australia as part of a research project, I would frequently stop to read the letters to the editor. That, if you like, was where the real news was. They seemed so interesting, so well thought out.
I remember my Dad (who is more Indian than he is Malaysian) spending days working on his letter-to-the-editor masterpieces. He asked me to type one out for him (this was before the advent of computers in our life - we were so retro that our typewriter was a 1920 model, I kid you not) and I was surprised at the whole Victorian feel of it. He used words like "rhodomontade" and "egalitarian". I used words like "huh?". His letters were meant for newspapers in India. When he got with the Internet age, he would click on the various websites to give his views. Except that now of course, he had to keep it simply and succint. Gone were the lingering over five syllable words, rejoicing over a particularly beautiful way of expressing something, breaking off into effusions of poetry.
Whatever happened to the letter to the editor? Yeah, I know it's still there, but have you taken a look at the crap there lately? I think it's been replaced by the blog. Now everyone is a mini-newspaper. Now everyone, from the Duke to the dustman, pontificates online. Only trouble is, for the majority of us, no one reads, no one cares. Voices crying in the wilderness...and the wilderness doesn't answer back.
Newspapers were once an organ of democracy. Issues were discussed, canvassed thoroughly, people were interested, they wanted to contribute. Now we have all this information being thrown at us, not much of which means anything, not much of which we can affect or impact, and we consider ourselves well-informed.
Trivial Pursuit. I hear you Neil.
Going through the archived copies of a newspaper in Australia as part of a research project, I would frequently stop to read the letters to the editor. That, if you like, was where the real news was. They seemed so interesting, so well thought out.
I remember my Dad (who is more Indian than he is Malaysian) spending days working on his letter-to-the-editor masterpieces. He asked me to type one out for him (this was before the advent of computers in our life - we were so retro that our typewriter was a 1920 model, I kid you not) and I was surprised at the whole Victorian feel of it. He used words like "rhodomontade" and "egalitarian". I used words like "huh?". His letters were meant for newspapers in India. When he got with the Internet age, he would click on the various websites to give his views. Except that now of course, he had to keep it simply and succint. Gone were the lingering over five syllable words, rejoicing over a particularly beautiful way of expressing something, breaking off into effusions of poetry.
Whatever happened to the letter to the editor? Yeah, I know it's still there, but have you taken a look at the crap there lately? I think it's been replaced by the blog. Now everyone is a mini-newspaper. Now everyone, from the Duke to the dustman, pontificates online. Only trouble is, for the majority of us, no one reads, no one cares. Voices crying in the wilderness...and the wilderness doesn't answer back.
Newspapers were once an organ of democracy. Issues were discussed, canvassed thoroughly, people were interested, they wanted to contribute. Now we have all this information being thrown at us, not much of which means anything, not much of which we can affect or impact, and we consider ourselves well-informed.
Trivial Pursuit. I hear you Neil.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Sweet harlot of the senses
I spend the whole day (and I do mean the whole day) sleeping (it's rainy and it feels good to curl up under voluminous blankets) so I snap awake at night. Then, I try every which way to drop off and of course, sleep, the sweet harlot of the senses, remains elusive. Right up till dawn by which time I pass out and stay passed out until midday. And then I walk around like a zombie, taking numerous naps, only to snap awake at midnight. Hmmm... there seems to be some sort of problem here, if only I could figure out what.
Since New Year, I have lived in my stinky pajamas, wrapped in cottonwool, shutting out the real world. Of course, my Mom insists on watching the eight o'clock news and regaling me with bits and pieces of disasters all over, but I have learned to shut her out. Listen, without listening.
It's 1.25pm and I feel sleepy. I know I have all this stuff I am supposed to do but I just feel like going to bed.
Good night.
Since New Year, I have lived in my stinky pajamas, wrapped in cottonwool, shutting out the real world. Of course, my Mom insists on watching the eight o'clock news and regaling me with bits and pieces of disasters all over, but I have learned to shut her out. Listen, without listening.
It's 1.25pm and I feel sleepy. I know I have all this stuff I am supposed to do but I just feel like going to bed.
Good night.
Friday, January 06, 2006
Weird that way
My youngest sister once wrote a creative piece based on us: "If you think I'm weird, wait till you meet my family." In it she detailed all our foibles and eccentricities, cramming a lifetime's worth in a single day. This piece earned her one of her few HDs and her friends' utter disbelief.
This must be fiction.
Your sister really said that?
Your brother really did that?
Gosh, but your father looks so normal.
When I read the piece, in which I may add, I was not portrayed too flatteringly, I laughed so hard, my belly ached. Then I begged her to let me show my friends. She agreed after much, um, persuasion (after all, if I am, as she so sweetly pointed out, self-appointed dictator-for-life, I do have to live up to my name don't I?)
Did you really do that? Jenn, you?
So I have to say, I am kinda weird. One of the weirdest things about me is my ability to remember stuff from when I was an itty bitty kid. I even remember not understanding language. I mean, I knew my name and I knew a few babytalk words (awa meant kiss) I knew my mother was Mummy and my father was Dadda, but not much beyond. And yet, I remember...
Being one (or less) and planning to climb into the bathtub. We used a dipper and scooped water out of the tub, and bathed that way. It was a great privilege to be allowed into the tub and I wanted to have a bath one day, without anyone bothering me.
I noted that everyday at about four, my grandmother, who was looking after me by herself while my parents were at work, was distracted. She would be making sweets for tea. I remember watching over a few days and deciding that was the best time to put my nefarious plans into operation.
So one day, at about four (I think it was four, all I know is it was evening and about an hour or so before my parents got home), I slipped into the bathroom, locked the door and climbed into the bathtub. Now these tubs are not long but high. They were not meant for bathing in, but for holding water to scoop out and pour over oneself. I splashed happily for a while and then grandma discovered I was missing. She wandered through the house looking for me and discovered the locked bathroom door. She pounded on it, screeching my name, terrified.
I, for my part, had finished playing and wanted to get out. I tried to lift myself out of the tub, but found that my arms were not strong enough. I was mildly irritated at my grandma screeching, but didn't trouble myself to answer her (I was a spoilt little only child at the time). Finally, convinced I had drowned, she got the neighbour to come and break down our very solid wooden bathroom door (it has never been the same since). She remembers the door flinging back and little me standing in the tub naked, regarding them with large eyes, a little frightened, a little pruney, but singularly unhurt. (I don't remember this part, the last I remember is trying to get out of the bathtub and not being able to and wondering if I would have to live there for the rest of my short, short life).
My mother told me later that when she got back from school, my grandma said: "Go and thank the man next door. He saved your daughter's life."
Surprisingly (or maybe, unsurprisingly, since I was then an only child, spoilt, precious and princess-like) I was not punished. I remember watching a man come to fix a new door and wondering what it was all about. Years later, I was reminded of myself when our naughty kitten who had made the corner of the hall her latrine, watched with interest, as I moved the furniture aside to scoop up her reeking doo doo and then wash the floor.
Ahh, the halcyon days of childhood. I wonder why I never lived up to my potential. I would have made a swell master criminal.
This must be fiction.
Your sister really said that?
Your brother really did that?
Gosh, but your father looks so normal.
When I read the piece, in which I may add, I was not portrayed too flatteringly, I laughed so hard, my belly ached. Then I begged her to let me show my friends. She agreed after much, um, persuasion (after all, if I am, as she so sweetly pointed out, self-appointed dictator-for-life, I do have to live up to my name don't I?)
Did you really do that? Jenn, you?
So I have to say, I am kinda weird. One of the weirdest things about me is my ability to remember stuff from when I was an itty bitty kid. I even remember not understanding language. I mean, I knew my name and I knew a few babytalk words (awa meant kiss) I knew my mother was Mummy and my father was Dadda, but not much beyond. And yet, I remember...
Being one (or less) and planning to climb into the bathtub. We used a dipper and scooped water out of the tub, and bathed that way. It was a great privilege to be allowed into the tub and I wanted to have a bath one day, without anyone bothering me.
I noted that everyday at about four, my grandmother, who was looking after me by herself while my parents were at work, was distracted. She would be making sweets for tea. I remember watching over a few days and deciding that was the best time to put my nefarious plans into operation.
So one day, at about four (I think it was four, all I know is it was evening and about an hour or so before my parents got home), I slipped into the bathroom, locked the door and climbed into the bathtub. Now these tubs are not long but high. They were not meant for bathing in, but for holding water to scoop out and pour over oneself. I splashed happily for a while and then grandma discovered I was missing. She wandered through the house looking for me and discovered the locked bathroom door. She pounded on it, screeching my name, terrified.
I, for my part, had finished playing and wanted to get out. I tried to lift myself out of the tub, but found that my arms were not strong enough. I was mildly irritated at my grandma screeching, but didn't trouble myself to answer her (I was a spoilt little only child at the time). Finally, convinced I had drowned, she got the neighbour to come and break down our very solid wooden bathroom door (it has never been the same since). She remembers the door flinging back and little me standing in the tub naked, regarding them with large eyes, a little frightened, a little pruney, but singularly unhurt. (I don't remember this part, the last I remember is trying to get out of the bathtub and not being able to and wondering if I would have to live there for the rest of my short, short life).
My mother told me later that when she got back from school, my grandma said: "Go and thank the man next door. He saved your daughter's life."
Surprisingly (or maybe, unsurprisingly, since I was then an only child, spoilt, precious and princess-like) I was not punished. I remember watching a man come to fix a new door and wondering what it was all about. Years later, I was reminded of myself when our naughty kitten who had made the corner of the hall her latrine, watched with interest, as I moved the furniture aside to scoop up her reeking doo doo and then wash the floor.
Ahh, the halcyon days of childhood. I wonder why I never lived up to my potential. I would have made a swell master criminal.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Bigfoot in my Backyard
The day begins like any other in my now laidback life. Well, not like any other in that I am forced to wake up before noon.
"Jenn-IFER!" my Mom's sweet voice trills at the bottom of the stairs as I snuggle deeper under my blankets. If I don't answer maybe she'll stop.
"Jenn-IFER!" Slightly louder, some irritation creeping in.
"JENNIFEEEEEEER!" in stentorian tones. She was a teacher and she knows how to make her voice carry.
I gotta get up now or she'll be furious. Thing is I only fell asleep at four. Then I woke up for about one hour, listening to the bloody rat (we keep killing em, they keep coming back) scratching outside my door, and the lights of passing cars playing on my walls.
So I stagger down, looking like death warmed up, and there is Mom, with her cup of kopi susu (we LIKE Nescafe, deal with it). She has a newspaper propped up on the table and the moment I appear, starts reading out all the articles. For my edification. Or extreme otherwise.
Thank goodness, she starts with the curly news that Bigfoot has been sighted in our backyard: the forests of Endau Rompin. (Actually we don't have forests, we have jungles with snakes that kill you and leeches that suck out a pint if you don't detect and burn them off in time, but let's not split hairs) I spurt coffee back into my cup in derision.
"Which stupid idiot believes that? Now I've heard everything."
"Nolar Jenny, there must be something to it. BBC is coming to see."
"So BBC is oso stoopid, what's the big deal?"
"Aiya, you ah...the Orang Asli spotted the bigfoot. See, there's the drawing."
"Haha, you sure it's not Uncle Joe, hiding out in the jungle after pulling a con job?"
Her lips tighten. Conman Joe is her brother, after all.
Then she moves on to an article about a 11-year old dying mysteriously of "infection of the heart", investgations into brutal murders, a few fatal car wrecks (every festival season, people die trying to get back to their home towns. Our highways are way haunted). Bad news, bad news, bad news. I cringe as I attack my peanut butter sandwiches.
Then we go visit a sweet li'l old lady and I listen silently as she and my mother go through the contents of today's paper again with relish.
"You read about that little girl ah? What do you think she died off ah? Not denggi, they tested for denggi, so it must have been something else."
Aunt shakes head sadly. "Hospitals these days, useless you know. You read about that girl who was bitten by a cobra on her wedding day? The stupid clinics didn't have the anti-venom. So she died. So sad, so sad, what to do?"
And then they move on to snatch thieves who kill, and hired killers who walk up to your car when you're at the traffic lights, and liquidate you.
And I think, my sweet innocent Yeti, are you sure you wanna visit? It's a jungle out there, you're not safe. And now to top it all off, the tv stations are coming. You know what that means.
So seriously, go home Sasquatch. If you wait till next year (Visit Malaysia Year 2007), maybe you can get a good deal and stay at the six-star Datai in Langkawi. You'll have to settle for farmed caviar as the UN has banned trade in the wild variety, but times are bad, we must all make small sacrifices.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
More Life
Underneath the dusty silence there are tears. The world grows older and wearier and somehow there is less joyousness. A celebration is a celebration is a celebration. Or no. Tinsel and bright lights leave one with an indescribable emptiness. Bright red lipstick on a corpse.
There is no life, or less life or dwindling life. No joy or very little, so very, very little... We're tired. We need to rest.
Christmas limped by and now it's New Year and I think, another year, so what, another footstep on the road to my grave.
I saw my grave once - there was no one to put up a headstone, it was overgrown with ugly graveyard thorns. No candles, no flowers, forgotten. Worm food. (Didn't I tell them I wanted to be cremated? Didn't I say I didn't want any visible reminder of my utter insignificance?)
But no matter, no matter. I think when I'm done, I won't be coming back. The world has grown so terribly, terribly old. Aching ancient bones. Wheezing. A sour sadness spilling out of the stratosphere. There's nothing left for me here... everyone I ever really loved has been cancelled. Nobody even remembers that they ever existed. Not even me.
But I remember something, a feeling, a feeling of wholeness, a serene sort of joy, an unquestioning happiness. And I cudgel my brains - who gave me this happiness? Who am I trying to remember? And I get... nothing.
Happiness is not knowing you're happy. Smoothness, imperturbability. Misery, on the other hand, is a braggart. It announces itself, treads heavily in your face.
But where has the quietness gone? Once Christmas was joy. It was more than the presents. There was an indefinable magic about it. One Christmas, we walked home after midnight Mass and there was a hush in the air and the stars were large and uncanny and my father said... I don't remember what he said. Maybe he didn't say anything. Maybe he didn't have to speak, because we were chorussing The First Noel in our young, untuneful voices and there was no need for words.
I remember staring up into the sky in November one year, looking for the sleigh because my mother asked us to write a letter to Santa. I thought I could almost see it, there hidden behind the blue. I wanted to know how he stayed up there. She said, magic! And I believed her. She was perfect and she would never lie to me.
And all those New Years with new journals, writing down heaps of resolutions, goals, dreams. This year we saw in New Year watching the threadbare show on TV3 with the ministers standing awkwardly on stage to launch Visit Malaysia 2007. Some looked tired, others irresolute and unsure, one smiled evilly and I thought, I don't even have the energy to care about this anymore. I don't give a flying fuck. Mom, can we change the channel? Please?
And we caught the end of Fellowship of the Ring and it was so incredibly sad and I thought about how the world changed there was no going back. And Frodo had to leave and Aragorn had to die and Arwen languished underneath the fading trees until the long years of her life were utterly spent.
Sadder and sadder.
And I thought about how the world only spins forward.
Forward? You call this forward? When people fade, become less real, become less tangible? Forward?
And I wish you all more life. More life?
A blessing.
Maybe.
There is no life, or less life or dwindling life. No joy or very little, so very, very little... We're tired. We need to rest.
Christmas limped by and now it's New Year and I think, another year, so what, another footstep on the road to my grave.
I saw my grave once - there was no one to put up a headstone, it was overgrown with ugly graveyard thorns. No candles, no flowers, forgotten. Worm food. (Didn't I tell them I wanted to be cremated? Didn't I say I didn't want any visible reminder of my utter insignificance?)
But no matter, no matter. I think when I'm done, I won't be coming back. The world has grown so terribly, terribly old. Aching ancient bones. Wheezing. A sour sadness spilling out of the stratosphere. There's nothing left for me here... everyone I ever really loved has been cancelled. Nobody even remembers that they ever existed. Not even me.
But I remember something, a feeling, a feeling of wholeness, a serene sort of joy, an unquestioning happiness. And I cudgel my brains - who gave me this happiness? Who am I trying to remember? And I get... nothing.
Happiness is not knowing you're happy. Smoothness, imperturbability. Misery, on the other hand, is a braggart. It announces itself, treads heavily in your face.
But where has the quietness gone? Once Christmas was joy. It was more than the presents. There was an indefinable magic about it. One Christmas, we walked home after midnight Mass and there was a hush in the air and the stars were large and uncanny and my father said... I don't remember what he said. Maybe he didn't say anything. Maybe he didn't have to speak, because we were chorussing The First Noel in our young, untuneful voices and there was no need for words.
I remember staring up into the sky in November one year, looking for the sleigh because my mother asked us to write a letter to Santa. I thought I could almost see it, there hidden behind the blue. I wanted to know how he stayed up there. She said, magic! And I believed her. She was perfect and she would never lie to me.
And all those New Years with new journals, writing down heaps of resolutions, goals, dreams. This year we saw in New Year watching the threadbare show on TV3 with the ministers standing awkwardly on stage to launch Visit Malaysia 2007. Some looked tired, others irresolute and unsure, one smiled evilly and I thought, I don't even have the energy to care about this anymore. I don't give a flying fuck. Mom, can we change the channel? Please?
And we caught the end of Fellowship of the Ring and it was so incredibly sad and I thought about how the world changed there was no going back. And Frodo had to leave and Aragorn had to die and Arwen languished underneath the fading trees until the long years of her life were utterly spent.
Sadder and sadder.
And I thought about how the world only spins forward.
Forward? You call this forward? When people fade, become less real, become less tangible? Forward?
And I wish you all more life. More life?
A blessing.
Maybe.
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