There's some drama going on with the alleged victim of domestic violence and for now, I'm trying to avoid knowing what it is. She sent me a text saying she was very very sorry, but her new company only pays out commissions on a quarterly basis, so as much as she would have liked to pay me back instantly, well, no can do. Could I wait till June?
Sigh.
And in case that wasn't appealing enough, she said her present salary was just enough to cover her baby's needs.
Look, not like I'm bugging her or anything. I have refrained from harassing her, and I know that if left to just the two of us, she would conveniently forget she has a debt (she's a user and that's what users do. Honour forsooth! And I'm too lazy to come down heavy on users when I'm just so grateful that they're not in my life anymore and I don't have to deal with them again) but two of my other friends are involved and one of them at least, is hounding the life out of the poor martyr. She lent the martyr money as well (in her case, the woman asked, nay, begged) and after getting daily doses of just how awful martyr's life was, was prevailed on to say:
"Never you mind about what you owe me. Put it on the backburner. You concentrate on sorting your life out."
Humph.
When it clicked that martyr was:
(a) as hard as nails, really, and a survivor; and
(b) simply making use of us.
my friend was baying for blood.
But the whole thing seems to have gotten out of hand. I don't know what transpired yesterday because the cough mixture knocked me out and I was sleeping like, the WHOLE day, only waking up late at night for dinner and after that unable to go to sleep again. But when I checked my phone close to midnight there were two missed calls and no less than seven messages. SEVEN!
Most of them hinting at some big thing that had happened while I was snoring away peacefully. A fight? A showdown? Was blood drawn? Unforgivable words thrown at each other?
All, mind you, via the weird and wonderful SMS system.
Am glad I missed out on the drama but not too keen to find out what's been happening because you can be sure it will be sordid and ugly and the way I'm feeling now, I don't have the energy to deal with sordid and ugly.
Oh well, I'll keep you posted.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
I Just Finished Walden
After hemming and hawing and trying (in vain) to read Maine Woods, on and off for the past 20 years at least (OK it may be less but it feels like the full 20) I have finally tackled Walden, the book that has been much quoted...the fantasy of leaving everything to live in the woods, to live deliberately off the land, to live in some more innocent, morning of life sort of way.
As expected most of the book was not so much about Walden Pond or the changing of the seasons or the wildlife as it was Thoreau's treatise on man, wicked man, and the life to which he had dwindled, a life led foremost by artificialities, a life that was less real and becoming steadily more unreal.
Do I have a woods to go to? And if I did, could I survive? I'm afraid of the jungles around here, the jungles peopled with the old gods of the place who retreated there when the new religions came, cleared out large swaths of land and forced people to forget the old ways. The old gods, now hostile.
So if I were to disappear into the woods, it would not be the Malaysian jungles.
I needed to write this post because I have just turned the last page of Walden and I need something to mark the occasion. Now I'm wondering whether to move on to Emerson's essays (oh you transcendentalists, you!) or Whitman's poems.
(I know what I do want to read now...I want to re-read Naomi Wolf's Treehouse, because there is a philosophy quite in keeping with what I believe in. Thoreau at times struck me as too austere and priestlike).
Decisions, decisions.
As expected most of the book was not so much about Walden Pond or the changing of the seasons or the wildlife as it was Thoreau's treatise on man, wicked man, and the life to which he had dwindled, a life led foremost by artificialities, a life that was less real and becoming steadily more unreal.
Do I have a woods to go to? And if I did, could I survive? I'm afraid of the jungles around here, the jungles peopled with the old gods of the place who retreated there when the new religions came, cleared out large swaths of land and forced people to forget the old ways. The old gods, now hostile.
So if I were to disappear into the woods, it would not be the Malaysian jungles.
I needed to write this post because I have just turned the last page of Walden and I need something to mark the occasion. Now I'm wondering whether to move on to Emerson's essays (oh you transcendentalists, you!) or Whitman's poems.
(I know what I do want to read now...I want to re-read Naomi Wolf's Treehouse, because there is a philosophy quite in keeping with what I believe in. Thoreau at times struck me as too austere and priestlike).
Decisions, decisions.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
The Lies I Tell
I've been pretty sick recently. The usual story - a slight irritation in the throat which was ignored, and which grew to an overall bone-deep tiredness and then the racking cough, and then the long bouts of unrefreshing sleep that felt more like drowning.
And then as I was not getting any better despite the sleep and dosing myself on cough mixture and Panadol, a trip to my favourite doctor provided the needed meds (another cough mixture and something to dry up a runny nose and fever pills as needed) and today a day later, I can actually say I feel better.
The interesting thing I've found lately is that whenever I fall sick, boundaries start to dissolve, dishonesties in my life surface and I see more clearly.
And this time the subject was me. In sharp relief. And I'm so ashamed. As honest as I think I am, I'm a coward. I run away. I avoid confrontation. I escape. I never tell people what I actually think of them. Or stand up for what I think I'm worth. Even saying no has to be done roundabout. Never directly.
I'm ashamed of how I walked out of my previous job without a letter of resignation. I'm ashamed I let my boss underpay me, never acknowledge my work and then yell at me like it was OK to do so. (Of course, he made a slight misjudgement here, thinking I would take it lying down like I had taken everything else)
I'm ashamed of how I never told someone who lied to me, jerked me around and then boasted to others about it, what I actually thought about him (true, I did it indirectly, by writing two very stinging posts and making sure he read them, but it wasn't the same thing as sending him an email). I'm ashamed that I didn't stick around to face him and show him that he was less than nothing, when I knew he was coming to the bar where I was. No, I left. And I left him and his little troupe of whores to slap their thighs and cackle wildly. One of the prostitutes being no less than the cancer patient I had wasted nights and sacrificed sleep over because she was in pain and had: "no one else to talk to."
Note to self: The moment any relationship seems more effort than it's worth, ditch it.
Abandon anyone anytime.
That's a more honest motto to live by than help anyone who needs it. Or who you think needs it. People don't need it. And if they go out of their way to secure your sympathy, there's something wrong, very wrong, in fact, right down rotten (in the state of Denmark, you might say).
I helped someone recently who called me up late at night, accused her husband of violence, led me to a merry dance of driving her all over creation for the police report, the medical report, and all the accoutrements, only to reunite with him that very day. Oh yeah, and I lent her money I couldn't spare. Not that she asked. No, she just let me know she had RM17 to her name, no place to go, no one to turn to...and then silence. She left it open. And like the fool that I always am, I dove right in.
The only good thing that came out of that is that we're no longer friends and even if he half kills her the next time, mine is not a number she can call. Well, she can call. But mine is not a number that will answer. As I said, people who go out of their way to secure your sympathy are suspect. Let her be somebody else's burden.
Because now I look at it, I realise I don't really care.
No really, I don't.
All my goodwill is just about used up.
And then as I was not getting any better despite the sleep and dosing myself on cough mixture and Panadol, a trip to my favourite doctor provided the needed meds (another cough mixture and something to dry up a runny nose and fever pills as needed) and today a day later, I can actually say I feel better.
The interesting thing I've found lately is that whenever I fall sick, boundaries start to dissolve, dishonesties in my life surface and I see more clearly.
And this time the subject was me. In sharp relief. And I'm so ashamed. As honest as I think I am, I'm a coward. I run away. I avoid confrontation. I escape. I never tell people what I actually think of them. Or stand up for what I think I'm worth. Even saying no has to be done roundabout. Never directly.
I'm ashamed of how I walked out of my previous job without a letter of resignation. I'm ashamed I let my boss underpay me, never acknowledge my work and then yell at me like it was OK to do so. (Of course, he made a slight misjudgement here, thinking I would take it lying down like I had taken everything else)
I'm ashamed of how I never told someone who lied to me, jerked me around and then boasted to others about it, what I actually thought about him (true, I did it indirectly, by writing two very stinging posts and making sure he read them, but it wasn't the same thing as sending him an email). I'm ashamed that I didn't stick around to face him and show him that he was less than nothing, when I knew he was coming to the bar where I was. No, I left. And I left him and his little troupe of whores to slap their thighs and cackle wildly. One of the prostitutes being no less than the cancer patient I had wasted nights and sacrificed sleep over because she was in pain and had: "no one else to talk to."
Note to self: The moment any relationship seems more effort than it's worth, ditch it.
Abandon anyone anytime.
That's a more honest motto to live by than help anyone who needs it. Or who you think needs it. People don't need it. And if they go out of their way to secure your sympathy, there's something wrong, very wrong, in fact, right down rotten (in the state of Denmark, you might say).
I helped someone recently who called me up late at night, accused her husband of violence, led me to a merry dance of driving her all over creation for the police report, the medical report, and all the accoutrements, only to reunite with him that very day. Oh yeah, and I lent her money I couldn't spare. Not that she asked. No, she just let me know she had RM17 to her name, no place to go, no one to turn to...and then silence. She left it open. And like the fool that I always am, I dove right in.
The only good thing that came out of that is that we're no longer friends and even if he half kills her the next time, mine is not a number she can call. Well, she can call. But mine is not a number that will answer. As I said, people who go out of their way to secure your sympathy are suspect. Let her be somebody else's burden.
Because now I look at it, I realise I don't really care.
No really, I don't.
All my goodwill is just about used up.
Monday, March 01, 2010
Conjoined
Days stretch into weeks,
stretch into months,
stretch into years,
And you're here,
you're always here.
You frighten me
with your inability
to just disappear
and resolve yourself
into the dust
of old Memory.
No, you just live on and on
tough as a scar
buried under layers
of fragile new skin.
I want to rip these scabs
and the scabs under the scabs
and every individual scar
that shields your memory.
But it's an endless onion
and every layer gives way to
fresh bleeding, new pain
And somehow,
I don't have the art
to get to the heart
of it.
However much I want to be free
I cannot.
I think I am
and then...
Days stretch into weeks
stretch into months
stretch into years
And you're still here.
And somehow I know
that as the days stretch into years
stretch into decades
stretch into centuries
that you always will be.
stretch into months,
stretch into years,
And you're here,
you're always here.
You frighten me
with your inability
to just disappear
and resolve yourself
into the dust
of old Memory.
No, you just live on and on
tough as a scar
buried under layers
of fragile new skin.
I want to rip these scabs
and the scabs under the scabs
and every individual scar
that shields your memory.
But it's an endless onion
and every layer gives way to
fresh bleeding, new pain
And somehow,
I don't have the art
to get to the heart
of it.
However much I want to be free
I cannot.
I think I am
and then...
Days stretch into weeks
stretch into months
stretch into years
And you're still here.
And somehow I know
that as the days stretch into years
stretch into decades
stretch into centuries
that you always will be.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Injured Muffin
I'm sitting on the white marble of the hall floor with Maggot who has his forelegs on a towel and his back legs and a large portion of his tummy on the floor. He is quiet for the moment. I have to sit with him to watch him. Elliot, the other dog, has torn up his nose and it seems to be getting worse.
I wasn't here in JB on Wednesday, or we could have taken him to the vet to get it sutured at once. When we arrived in JB and went to the vet yesterday, she exclaimed in horror at the nose, which had deteriorated (it is torn in half right down the middle and in other places too...his habit of sneezing, licking it, and scratching it with his front paw has made matters worse - much worse) and said infection had set in. She couldn't suture it. She gave us pills to bring down the infection, other pills for his sinuses and instructions to come back in a week when hopefully, the infection would have dried up and they can do reconstructive surgery.
This afternoon, I heard Ivan bellowing for me. The nose had started to bleed. That was the point that I decided to take Maggot into the house so I could watch him until we take him to the vet again, tomorrow. This state of affairs cannot go on. My doggie, who is a mass of dried wounds, legacy of another recent vicious fight, sits quietly beside me. He doesn't whine or complain about the pain. I know he doesn't like being inside the house (has tried to escape twice) but he is glad of the company.
My father is sleeping. Because of his recent illness, he is on powerful medication which makes him dizzy. So two sick puppies to take care of. Although I have to admit, since I've come to Johor, I have done precious little taking care of either.
I wasn't here in JB on Wednesday, or we could have taken him to the vet to get it sutured at once. When we arrived in JB and went to the vet yesterday, she exclaimed in horror at the nose, which had deteriorated (it is torn in half right down the middle and in other places too...his habit of sneezing, licking it, and scratching it with his front paw has made matters worse - much worse) and said infection had set in. She couldn't suture it. She gave us pills to bring down the infection, other pills for his sinuses and instructions to come back in a week when hopefully, the infection would have dried up and they can do reconstructive surgery.
This afternoon, I heard Ivan bellowing for me. The nose had started to bleed. That was the point that I decided to take Maggot into the house so I could watch him until we take him to the vet again, tomorrow. This state of affairs cannot go on. My doggie, who is a mass of dried wounds, legacy of another recent vicious fight, sits quietly beside me. He doesn't whine or complain about the pain. I know he doesn't like being inside the house (has tried to escape twice) but he is glad of the company.
My father is sleeping. Because of his recent illness, he is on powerful medication which makes him dizzy. So two sick puppies to take care of. Although I have to admit, since I've come to Johor, I have done precious little taking care of either.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Valentine's Day
I didn't end up watching Percy Jackson. I watched Valentine's Day instead, which I loved, although it still surprises me how big of a deal it is in the US. Speaking of which this year, I wrote out Valentine's Day cards and sent them to a bunch of people. Some, I even gave presents. I guess I was never made to be the Valentine grinch. When I get going I really love it.
And I'm not talking romance.
I remember reading What Katy Did when I was 14 and totally loving that whole Valentine's Day bit and resolving to do something similar. So, I wrote out anonymous rhymes for a bunch of friends signing off "St. Valentine". They knew it was me, of course, but it was still a whole lot of fun. I wrote an awful lot of rhymes when I was 14. Not that many at 15 and still less at 16, but there you go.
This year, the day itself came and went without any hubbub. I think I was asleep for most of it. But the cards and presents, now that was fun. And I met a friend for lunch today that I gave a whole lot of presents to, and when she asked me why, I said...um, Valentine's Day I think. She was tickled pink.
And I've bought Julia Cameron's latest book, Finding Water: The Art of Perseverance which means I'll be doing Morning Pages, Artist Dates and Weekly Walks (Solvitur ambulando) for a bit. Maybe that will crank up and kickstart the old creativity machine.
Chug. A chug. A chug. A chug.
And I'm not talking romance.
I remember reading What Katy Did when I was 14 and totally loving that whole Valentine's Day bit and resolving to do something similar. So, I wrote out anonymous rhymes for a bunch of friends signing off "St. Valentine". They knew it was me, of course, but it was still a whole lot of fun. I wrote an awful lot of rhymes when I was 14. Not that many at 15 and still less at 16, but there you go.
This year, the day itself came and went without any hubbub. I think I was asleep for most of it. But the cards and presents, now that was fun. And I met a friend for lunch today that I gave a whole lot of presents to, and when she asked me why, I said...um, Valentine's Day I think. She was tickled pink.
And I've bought Julia Cameron's latest book, Finding Water: The Art of Perseverance which means I'll be doing Morning Pages, Artist Dates and Weekly Walks (Solvitur ambulando) for a bit. Maybe that will crank up and kickstart the old creativity machine.
Chug. A chug. A chug. A chug.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Lightning
Usually I wake up at 4 in the afternoon. Today, I woke up at 4. So no change there. The city goes quiet for Chinese New Year. Except when the pesky neighbours decide to drum up the decibels with a dragon dance or illegal firecrackers. (Thank God Maggot and Elliot are not here, they would go crazy).
I can only say I have done nothing in this time.
Today, in a bid to do something, anything, I am going to Tropicana to watch Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief.
So, whatever.
Later for you.
I can only say I have done nothing in this time.
Today, in a bid to do something, anything, I am going to Tropicana to watch Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief.
So, whatever.
Later for you.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Burning
This heat beats on us in waves - it is everpresent, stifling, dizzying. The air is thirsty, barren and everywhere, people shrink into their air conditioned cars or deep into the hearts of their air conditioned buildings, in a bid to escape it all.
I, on the other hand, haven't left the house in three days. I wake up in the evening (I was watching the first season of Weeds until half past six this morning), have a bite to eat then wander around sleepy and dazed. I feel my face swelling and my body baking. I feel like all the heat is bleeding out of the cold cold North to burn us to a crisp.
I need to go out.
I need to shift this energy somehow.
This overpowering energy.
Burning.
I, on the other hand, haven't left the house in three days. I wake up in the evening (I was watching the first season of Weeds until half past six this morning), have a bite to eat then wander around sleepy and dazed. I feel my face swelling and my body baking. I feel like all the heat is bleeding out of the cold cold North to burn us to a crisp.
I need to go out.
I need to shift this energy somehow.
This overpowering energy.
Burning.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Freefall
At some point, I guess, this pain will get old and dusty and I'll hardly remember the names and faces of the sad occasion (but that's no consolation, here and now).
At some point, it will finally be over and I will not be recycling tired emotions, walking in circles in this thick dark maze, no flicker of light, no way out.
My life has shrunk to nothing.
A teaspoon of leaves.
A grain of pepper.
Nothing.
The road is dark and the ground beneath my feet is no longer simply the shifting sands. It has disappeared.
I stand on nothing.
I am becoming nothing.
At some point, it will finally be over and I will not be recycling tired emotions, walking in circles in this thick dark maze, no flicker of light, no way out.
My life has shrunk to nothing.
A teaspoon of leaves.
A grain of pepper.
Nothing.
The road is dark and the ground beneath my feet is no longer simply the shifting sands. It has disappeared.
I stand on nothing.
I am becoming nothing.
Friday, January 15, 2010
This Inferno Inside
You'd think of course, that having nothing to do, nothing to stress me out, no idiots to deal with (idiot being a relative term for anyone who annoys me in any capacity at all, whether they're aware of it and doing it deliberately, or not) I would be all Zen.
Instead, it seems like the rage is stepping up, coming to the surface. For the most part, I'm not aware of it, and then suddenly, someone says something. It may be innocuous or it may not. However, it's like they've tripped a light switch and the anger rises up and blazes forth.
This inferno inside me. And I go from 0 to 1,000,000 in a second. A microsecond. And part of me stands aside, aghast at the ugly thoughts and the ugly words that rise up in the throat and choke me, spill out, engulf, excoriate.
And I try to rein them in and they continue to blaze. I work at my pretty little exercise in futility (I'm told that anger can be channelled into creativity), my journal, read books, listen to relaxing MP3s, but still it surges. And surges.
And I'm hoping that this light switch is a sign that all this stuff is moving through me and getting done with.
But it makes me unfit company for normal people.
I think I'll hang out here and deal, a little while longer.
Instead, it seems like the rage is stepping up, coming to the surface. For the most part, I'm not aware of it, and then suddenly, someone says something. It may be innocuous or it may not. However, it's like they've tripped a light switch and the anger rises up and blazes forth.
This inferno inside me. And I go from 0 to 1,000,000 in a second. A microsecond. And part of me stands aside, aghast at the ugly thoughts and the ugly words that rise up in the throat and choke me, spill out, engulf, excoriate.
And I try to rein them in and they continue to blaze. I work at my pretty little exercise in futility (I'm told that anger can be channelled into creativity), my journal, read books, listen to relaxing MP3s, but still it surges. And surges.
And I'm hoping that this light switch is a sign that all this stuff is moving through me and getting done with.
But it makes me unfit company for normal people.
I think I'll hang out here and deal, a little while longer.
Friday, January 08, 2010
Resolutions
I started the year pretty disappointed that seemingly nothing had changed. My life was still in the same old rut, and I felt less and less like being upbeat and perky, even for a few minutes everyday, as I read through a list of goals for the upcoming year. I worked on one or another of my exercises in futility (OK, that needlework project may be something I end up giving nobody but it is sure starting to look attractive now). And I decided that I would persist despite the lack of results.
If you're waiting for a breakthrough story right about now, don't hold your breath. There are none. But if I had to zero in on one fault (among, like, a billion) I would say it is a lack of follow through. If I don't get what I want instantly, I stamp my foot, I give up.
Maybe it's the fact that I keep watching for results, rather like one watches a kettle hoping for it to boil sooner, that derails me.
So for now I say, OK, to hell with it. I will keep meditating, reading my goals, visualizing, doing all that kooky stuff.
Maybe things will change inside me. And then outside me. Maybe they won't.
But this sure feels better than wallowing in misery.
I just gave my mother a foot massage. Ever since her stroke, more than 20 years ago, her feet have become more and more non-functional. She stumbles about on them slowly and they hurt more and more. Today, she woke up and they were really hurting.
Until now, because of my habit of awaking only in the evening, I have done thing to ease my mother's pain. So today, I took the muscle and joint cream, asked her to lie on the bed and did a rough lymphatic drainage massage on her feet and legs. (The complete lymphatic drainage massage is a whole body thing and I think I may be introducing that for before she goes to bed every night and watch for results). The last time I did that for someone everyday, (a severely obese friend who had everything and their fourth cousins, wrong with her) for a month straight, there were wonderful results. Her feet, which were permanently swollen, unswelled themselves, her skin was glowing, she could walk rather than stagger and I think she actually lost some weight. Of course, doing the massage every day took its toll on my energy levels and I started to resent it. So I stopped. (see what I mean about becoming derailed?) And all my good work reversed itself.
So maybe there are some good things about this new year. If I look hard enough.
If you're waiting for a breakthrough story right about now, don't hold your breath. There are none. But if I had to zero in on one fault (among, like, a billion) I would say it is a lack of follow through. If I don't get what I want instantly, I stamp my foot, I give up.
Maybe it's the fact that I keep watching for results, rather like one watches a kettle hoping for it to boil sooner, that derails me.
So for now I say, OK, to hell with it. I will keep meditating, reading my goals, visualizing, doing all that kooky stuff.
Maybe things will change inside me. And then outside me. Maybe they won't.
But this sure feels better than wallowing in misery.
I just gave my mother a foot massage. Ever since her stroke, more than 20 years ago, her feet have become more and more non-functional. She stumbles about on them slowly and they hurt more and more. Today, she woke up and they were really hurting.
Until now, because of my habit of awaking only in the evening, I have done thing to ease my mother's pain. So today, I took the muscle and joint cream, asked her to lie on the bed and did a rough lymphatic drainage massage on her feet and legs. (The complete lymphatic drainage massage is a whole body thing and I think I may be introducing that for before she goes to bed every night and watch for results). The last time I did that for someone everyday, (a severely obese friend who had everything and their fourth cousins, wrong with her) for a month straight, there were wonderful results. Her feet, which were permanently swollen, unswelled themselves, her skin was glowing, she could walk rather than stagger and I think she actually lost some weight. Of course, doing the massage every day took its toll on my energy levels and I started to resent it. So I stopped. (see what I mean about becoming derailed?) And all my good work reversed itself.
So maybe there are some good things about this new year. If I look hard enough.
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
Cut Off
It's 8 in the morning and I haven't been to bed yet. Although I had plans to do something useful tonight, I watched eight episodes of Supernatural (First Season) and worked on my useless piece of needlework that I can't give to anybody instead.
It's easy to shut your mind off and get caught in the world of Sam and Dean (and this season, Dad too) and not ponder on the things that upset me.
I think I'll make a pot of coffee now and have my breakfast. After which I can toddle along to bed.
Nothing is moving, or at least I can't see it if it is and I feel very very cut off from everyone.
It's easy to shut your mind off and get caught in the world of Sam and Dean (and this season, Dad too) and not ponder on the things that upset me.
I think I'll make a pot of coffee now and have my breakfast. After which I can toddle along to bed.
Nothing is moving, or at least I can't see it if it is and I feel very very cut off from everyone.
Monday, January 04, 2010
Emerging from Oblivion
It's been four very very quiet days. May have something to do with the fact that I only wake up long after the sun goes down and fall asleep in the throes of noontime. I feel very conflicted about a lot of things and basically out of it.
So far the only things that abound are mosquitoes. Mum is irritated at my nocturnal habits but she bears it with her mixture of Bollywood and the trashy novels that Uncle Solomon gave her for Christmas that she can't seem to put down.
Speaking of novels, I have just finished the Lucia ones, and think that EF Benson is frigging genius. They are light, airy (kind of like PG Wodehouse) but here each sting tells. Maybe because all the principle characters are women. And men, such men as there happen to be, are only incidental, and don't really care about the outcomes of all these breathless intrigues. (The main man, the most vivid one there is, does petit point embroidery and polishes his bibelots, rejoices in the name Georgie and acts as Lucia's lieutenant).
I've started a project in New Year's which was supposed to have been completed in time for the Millennium. As you can imagine, it's seriously out of date, but I figured, as I want to finish all the projects I bought from Harvinder, oh all those years ago (the oldest are about 15 years old), I would work on it. I have finished the top border which is pretty good for four days. And it's pretty. And I have nobody to give it to and even if I did, they would think it pretty strange but I try not to think of that. Sometimes we must do senseless thing, to fill the empty hours.
My life is scattered pieces of sunshine and many drops of rain. Really, it's pretty much oblivion and my attempts to emerge from it.
So far the only things that abound are mosquitoes. Mum is irritated at my nocturnal habits but she bears it with her mixture of Bollywood and the trashy novels that Uncle Solomon gave her for Christmas that she can't seem to put down.
Speaking of novels, I have just finished the Lucia ones, and think that EF Benson is frigging genius. They are light, airy (kind of like PG Wodehouse) but here each sting tells. Maybe because all the principle characters are women. And men, such men as there happen to be, are only incidental, and don't really care about the outcomes of all these breathless intrigues. (The main man, the most vivid one there is, does petit point embroidery and polishes his bibelots, rejoices in the name Georgie and acts as Lucia's lieutenant).
I've started a project in New Year's which was supposed to have been completed in time for the Millennium. As you can imagine, it's seriously out of date, but I figured, as I want to finish all the projects I bought from Harvinder, oh all those years ago (the oldest are about 15 years old), I would work on it. I have finished the top border which is pretty good for four days. And it's pretty. And I have nobody to give it to and even if I did, they would think it pretty strange but I try not to think of that. Sometimes we must do senseless thing, to fill the empty hours.
My life is scattered pieces of sunshine and many drops of rain. Really, it's pretty much oblivion and my attempts to emerge from it.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
The Old Year is Dying, Let Him Die
I wish to sum up the year, but that requires reflection and its 11am in the morning - and I am in my nocturnal phase, which means I should be fast asleep now. But because Mum insisted I get up and have some breakfast, well the coffee is singing in my brain and I am up, up, up!
This year, I lived by default. I fell into a job because there was nothing better on offer - not that I regret everything about the job - I did meet some pretty amazing and interesting people and I did get to produce two issues of a magazine my way - I fell into flings, I ate my heart out over someone who didn't care and never would care.
Frankly, it all seems like a frantic lack of planning.
Well, I'm starting the next year with a plan. It's slowly solidifying and I'm feeling quite happy about it.
Life can simply happen to you like a traffic accident. Or you can take the wheel.
I'm taking the wheel.
Later for you.
This year, I lived by default. I fell into a job because there was nothing better on offer - not that I regret everything about the job - I did meet some pretty amazing and interesting people and I did get to produce two issues of a magazine my way - I fell into flings, I ate my heart out over someone who didn't care and never would care.
Frankly, it all seems like a frantic lack of planning.
Well, I'm starting the next year with a plan. It's slowly solidifying and I'm feeling quite happy about it.
Life can simply happen to you like a traffic accident. Or you can take the wheel.
I'm taking the wheel.
Later for you.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Merry Christmas
What a weird day. I saw it in, puking my guts out and crawling into bed beside my mother. "Ma, I'm sick," I whispered as she moved back to make place for me. And then I shot out of bed again to puke some more. Dry heaves as my stomach had been effectively emptied by first episode a few minutes before.
I tossed and turned, my head in a vice, unbelievable pressure behind my eyes. Pain blotted out everything else. These things happen, sometimes.
And then suddenly, unaccountably, I fell fast asleep.
And today, well today, I wandered through the day, watching Christmas movie after Christmas movie, reading one of my Lucia novels (EF Benson is a fricking genius), working on yet another needlework project (I think this one will be for Helen, Simon's mother).
The day I was due to leave for JB I had dinner with my good friend A. We met at what has become our usual place in Taman Tun, and exchanged gifts. Surprisingly, or maybe not surprisingly considering the fact that we have known each other for 18 years and tend to communicate telepathically, both gifts were handmade. I cross stitched an eagle. She framed one of the few pictures of us together, complete with poem, meaningful words and scrapbook stick-ons. As she doesn't tend to make gifts (that's my weakness) it was more than meaningful. We chewed on our lamb shanks, emptied our glasses of Malbec and the conversation flowed like the wine.
After which I drove back through the relatively quiet highway and Mum had a fit cos I hadn't told her what time I was leaving and all she knew for sure was that I was definitely in KL at 6pm.
I arrived at one in the morning and she staggered out to open the gate as the dogs went crazy. I couldn't let them go, as they were still growly with each other and jealous (they have become significantly more well-behaved since then).
And now, it's the wee hours and I'm awake because there is something, something, something...on the edge of my consciousness and I don't know how to reach out and grab it, or if I should let it light softly, like a feather, on my shoulder.
Perhaps, the latter.
Mark's only present to me ever was his song that he bluetoothed to my phone, which I have subsequently transferred to my Ipod. And when I listen to it, that umbilical cord I thought was cut, twinges.
If music be the food of love, play on...
Never mind.
It is Christmas after all.
Or at least, Boxing Day.
And lemon cakes and moist chocolate cakes and chocolate chip cookies and puddings and mince pies abound.
I tossed and turned, my head in a vice, unbelievable pressure behind my eyes. Pain blotted out everything else. These things happen, sometimes.
And then suddenly, unaccountably, I fell fast asleep.
And today, well today, I wandered through the day, watching Christmas movie after Christmas movie, reading one of my Lucia novels (EF Benson is a fricking genius), working on yet another needlework project (I think this one will be for Helen, Simon's mother).
The day I was due to leave for JB I had dinner with my good friend A. We met at what has become our usual place in Taman Tun, and exchanged gifts. Surprisingly, or maybe not surprisingly considering the fact that we have known each other for 18 years and tend to communicate telepathically, both gifts were handmade. I cross stitched an eagle. She framed one of the few pictures of us together, complete with poem, meaningful words and scrapbook stick-ons. As she doesn't tend to make gifts (that's my weakness) it was more than meaningful. We chewed on our lamb shanks, emptied our glasses of Malbec and the conversation flowed like the wine.
After which I drove back through the relatively quiet highway and Mum had a fit cos I hadn't told her what time I was leaving and all she knew for sure was that I was definitely in KL at 6pm.
I arrived at one in the morning and she staggered out to open the gate as the dogs went crazy. I couldn't let them go, as they were still growly with each other and jealous (they have become significantly more well-behaved since then).
And now, it's the wee hours and I'm awake because there is something, something, something...on the edge of my consciousness and I don't know how to reach out and grab it, or if I should let it light softly, like a feather, on my shoulder.
Perhaps, the latter.
Mark's only present to me ever was his song that he bluetoothed to my phone, which I have subsequently transferred to my Ipod. And when I listen to it, that umbilical cord I thought was cut, twinges.
If music be the food of love, play on...
Never mind.
It is Christmas after all.
Or at least, Boxing Day.
And lemon cakes and moist chocolate cakes and chocolate chip cookies and puddings and mince pies abound.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Sometimes a good friend is all you need
Mary is packing up to leave and I'm transcribing furiously. Furiously. This guy is chattering on about strategic active hedges, and I grit my teeth and type. Did I mention furiously? I pause the recording and look up longingly for a while.
"You leaving?"
"Not unless you want me to stay."
I grin.
"Stay. Please. Then we can have dinner and I can send you home."
She seats herself right down, and decides to go through her voluminous google alerts.
I resume typing. Bad English and all. I don't bother to edit. Too tired. Too fucking tired.
Mel leaves. Then Gerry. And we're alone by the skin of a second. Mary removes her fancy sequinned red purse which contains the all-important keys. We will be LOCKING UP. For the first time. I cram my water cup and coffee mug into an overflowing sink. Lady will be coming tomorrow to wash. Mary moves things around at her desk.
We switch off the lights. Zap ourselves out. And then I rush into the bathroom outside leaving her to get on with it. I come out and she's on her knees trying to jam the keys into their supposed sockets.
"Child, I think she gave me the wrong keys. I've never tried these but they don't seem to fit."
"Give it here."
I try. And try. And try. Maybe there's a knack to this. Maybe not. We look at each other in consternation. "Mel? She only just left. Maybe she hasn't gotten far."
Mary calls her. Mel is already in her car driving away. She will call the boys to see if anyone is in Marketplace. If not she'll come back herself to effect rescue. By now, Mary and I are sitting cross legged on the welcome carpet outside. Except there's no welcome carpet. So we're basically sitting on the floor. Laughing at each other.
"Do you think Dana did this on purpose? Gave me the wrong keys cos I bugged her for them so much. Shoved this unlikely pair in my hands while thinking, he he he I got you, just wait till you try these?"
Now Dana is this inoffensive nice Indian girl. The mousy kind who hides behind her dupatta. You know what I'm talking about. I say, yes, yes, typical Indian drama queen. Maybe she will come here singing then run to one corner and then the other, shade her eyes, and sing...aaaaaaaaaaaaah (you must imagine the wobbliness of the aaaaahs)
Mary and I are rolling on the floor. Charles calls. He's the one coming to our rescue. He's a bit tipsy (they have been at it at Marketplace since 6. It's half 8 now) But he's coming up anyways. He does. Greets us sitting on the floor and shakes his head. Tries our keys just to make sure that the two ditzy females didn't get it wrong. We didn't.
So he locks up for us like the nice boy he is.
And says he might see me at Backyard later. If I'm going. Tired as I am, I tend to drag my ass to Backyard on Mondays just for the sheer punishment of it.
Mary and I make our way to Devi's Corner. Hungry as I am, I tell her my ghost story through mouthfuls of roti canai and mutton curry. Suddenly she remembers:
"Our boy is getting married. He was hanging around the other when you were paying and I wondered what he wanted, and he told me he was going to be away for a few days...going back to India to get married."
We look at each other. If our boy is going to get married, we have to give him an ang pow. Thing is, we don't have any red packets. Or white packets. Or even brown packets. I suggest we nip across the road to see if they have any likely looking envelopes. Mary is all for coming back on another day. But I say, no, we must give him the ang pow before he leaves, not after he comes back.
(For those not in the know, our boy is the best waiter in Devi's Corner. The one comes charging along when he sees us, providing us with water, napkins, and all the attention he possibly can, while attending to 100 or so other customers at Devi's. He's the reason we're platinum card holders there).
Anyway, we are nothing if not subtle. After asking him when he is leaving, we hurtle across the street, look for envelopes, find only ugly brown ones, ask the nice Bangladeshi fler there to show us other envelopes, he shows us some shocking shocking pink ones, Mary blanches, but I think they look festive....so I buy the packet, RM1 for all 25...and we take our own envelopes, write touching notes on the cover, stuff our money into it....then go across the street from him and signal for him to cross the street, present him with the envelopes....ahhh furtive....ahhh drama queens, I hear the tablas and the veenas...
And then Mary slips into the DVD shop and I follow her. She's promised to buy one, just one...or two, no more than two...and the first one is there and the second is sorrylar miss, not arrived yet....and she starts leafing through a pile and I grab her and drag her out of there bodily (I have to, if Mary gets going, we could be here all night).
And I send her home and hoping that one of my other colleagues doesn't come to Backyard with Charlie boy. "Mark doesn't like him lar...but then, knowing Mark he'd have to recognise him before he remembers he doesn't like him..."
Mary: "Oh yeah?"
Jen: "Yeah. Remember how hard I had to work to get him to remember me? I mean, he'd come out to get the morning paper and stumble over me at this front doorstep....Jen, what are you doing here? Me (giggling sheepishly): Oh I just happened to be in the neighbourhood...and then he goes to his neighbourhood mamak to have a teh tarek and there I am behind giant shades and a broadsheet....and then he's driving and glances in his rearview and there I am...
"Child, you're a stalker."
I acknowledge the truth with a sigh: "Yeah."
And we collapse in our seats laughing.
And I don't care that tomorrow is going to be even more complicated than today.
And oh yeah, I decided to give Backyard a miss after all.
"You leaving?"
"Not unless you want me to stay."
I grin.
"Stay. Please. Then we can have dinner and I can send you home."
She seats herself right down, and decides to go through her voluminous google alerts.
I resume typing. Bad English and all. I don't bother to edit. Too tired. Too fucking tired.
Mel leaves. Then Gerry. And we're alone by the skin of a second. Mary removes her fancy sequinned red purse which contains the all-important keys. We will be LOCKING UP. For the first time. I cram my water cup and coffee mug into an overflowing sink. Lady will be coming tomorrow to wash. Mary moves things around at her desk.
We switch off the lights. Zap ourselves out. And then I rush into the bathroom outside leaving her to get on with it. I come out and she's on her knees trying to jam the keys into their supposed sockets.
"Child, I think she gave me the wrong keys. I've never tried these but they don't seem to fit."
"Give it here."
I try. And try. And try. Maybe there's a knack to this. Maybe not. We look at each other in consternation. "Mel? She only just left. Maybe she hasn't gotten far."
Mary calls her. Mel is already in her car driving away. She will call the boys to see if anyone is in Marketplace. If not she'll come back herself to effect rescue. By now, Mary and I are sitting cross legged on the welcome carpet outside. Except there's no welcome carpet. So we're basically sitting on the floor. Laughing at each other.
"Do you think Dana did this on purpose? Gave me the wrong keys cos I bugged her for them so much. Shoved this unlikely pair in my hands while thinking, he he he I got you, just wait till you try these?"
Now Dana is this inoffensive nice Indian girl. The mousy kind who hides behind her dupatta. You know what I'm talking about. I say, yes, yes, typical Indian drama queen. Maybe she will come here singing then run to one corner and then the other, shade her eyes, and sing...aaaaaaaaaaaaah (you must imagine the wobbliness of the aaaaahs)
Mary and I are rolling on the floor. Charles calls. He's the one coming to our rescue. He's a bit tipsy (they have been at it at Marketplace since 6. It's half 8 now) But he's coming up anyways. He does. Greets us sitting on the floor and shakes his head. Tries our keys just to make sure that the two ditzy females didn't get it wrong. We didn't.
So he locks up for us like the nice boy he is.
And says he might see me at Backyard later. If I'm going. Tired as I am, I tend to drag my ass to Backyard on Mondays just for the sheer punishment of it.
Mary and I make our way to Devi's Corner. Hungry as I am, I tell her my ghost story through mouthfuls of roti canai and mutton curry. Suddenly she remembers:
"Our boy is getting married. He was hanging around the other when you were paying and I wondered what he wanted, and he told me he was going to be away for a few days...going back to India to get married."
We look at each other. If our boy is going to get married, we have to give him an ang pow. Thing is, we don't have any red packets. Or white packets. Or even brown packets. I suggest we nip across the road to see if they have any likely looking envelopes. Mary is all for coming back on another day. But I say, no, we must give him the ang pow before he leaves, not after he comes back.
(For those not in the know, our boy is the best waiter in Devi's Corner. The one comes charging along when he sees us, providing us with water, napkins, and all the attention he possibly can, while attending to 100 or so other customers at Devi's. He's the reason we're platinum card holders there).
Anyway, we are nothing if not subtle. After asking him when he is leaving, we hurtle across the street, look for envelopes, find only ugly brown ones, ask the nice Bangladeshi fler there to show us other envelopes, he shows us some shocking shocking pink ones, Mary blanches, but I think they look festive....so I buy the packet, RM1 for all 25...and we take our own envelopes, write touching notes on the cover, stuff our money into it....then go across the street from him and signal for him to cross the street, present him with the envelopes....ahhh furtive....ahhh drama queens, I hear the tablas and the veenas...
And then Mary slips into the DVD shop and I follow her. She's promised to buy one, just one...or two, no more than two...and the first one is there and the second is sorrylar miss, not arrived yet....and she starts leafing through a pile and I grab her and drag her out of there bodily (I have to, if Mary gets going, we could be here all night).
And I send her home and hoping that one of my other colleagues doesn't come to Backyard with Charlie boy. "Mark doesn't like him lar...but then, knowing Mark he'd have to recognise him before he remembers he doesn't like him..."
Mary: "Oh yeah?"
Jen: "Yeah. Remember how hard I had to work to get him to remember me? I mean, he'd come out to get the morning paper and stumble over me at this front doorstep....Jen, what are you doing here? Me (giggling sheepishly): Oh I just happened to be in the neighbourhood...and then he goes to his neighbourhood mamak to have a teh tarek and there I am behind giant shades and a broadsheet....and then he's driving and glances in his rearview and there I am...
"Child, you're a stalker."
I acknowledge the truth with a sigh: "Yeah."
And we collapse in our seats laughing.
And I don't care that tomorrow is going to be even more complicated than today.
And oh yeah, I decided to give Backyard a miss after all.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
No More
All my life it seems that I have been adjusting to one prison or another. Safe behind these golden bars, because I'm too afraid to venture out, alone, in the dark. Safe behind these golden bars, because I'm afraid of what will happen if I do.
I step out, step out into the dark and fall.
And I know now, having lost everything, having to start anew, it's time to be stupid. To let go.
I'm about to step out.
I'm prepared to fall.
I step out, step out into the dark and fall.
And I know now, having lost everything, having to start anew, it's time to be stupid. To let go.
I'm about to step out.
I'm prepared to fall.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
In sooth...
In sooth I know not why I am so sad.
I should have that stitched on a sampler and put by my desk. So I could gaze at it at leisure and just get lost in the interminable sadness that to me, seems to characterise this existence.
I fall.
I keep falling.
I haven't stopped falling.
I wish I knew where to go from here.
I should have that stitched on a sampler and put by my desk. So I could gaze at it at leisure and just get lost in the interminable sadness that to me, seems to characterise this existence.
I fall.
I keep falling.
I haven't stopped falling.
I wish I knew where to go from here.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Creaky Bones
It's about 11.04 in the morning now, which is pretty early for me up to be up, considering. I took knock out cough mixture last night but the effects were temporary. So I spent most of the night tossing (bed was full of bees, empty of sleep).
Before dropping off I attempted to make a start on Italo Calvino's If On A Winter's Night A Traveller. All I can say is he messes with your mind to such an extent that you begin to feel unstitched. Lovely.
In a few minutes I'll have to take a shower and head off for the mechanic to see why my car is leaking. On Saturday they said I could have blown a gasket. Oh well...once it's fixed it's fixed.
Presumably.
This is a car we're talking about.
Before dropping off I attempted to make a start on Italo Calvino's If On A Winter's Night A Traveller. All I can say is he messes with your mind to such an extent that you begin to feel unstitched. Lovely.
In a few minutes I'll have to take a shower and head off for the mechanic to see why my car is leaking. On Saturday they said I could have blown a gasket. Oh well...once it's fixed it's fixed.
Presumably.
This is a car we're talking about.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Counting the Minutes
I finished Baldwin's Giovanni's Room last night. Or rather, this morning at 7am. And then I went to sleep. And woke up at 3. With Mum hollering for me from downstairs from breakfast onwards. Poor thing. I should have taken the knock out cough mixture and gone to sleep.
I wonder which book I'll go for next. Probably Go Tell It On A Mountain as I have that book too. But alternatively I might go for the Italo Calvino book. Hmmm, decisions, decisions.
Giovanni's Room was unbearably tragic. The tragedy was foreshadowed on the first page, the fatal flaw, so to speak (although as a homosexual, I wonder why he considered it a fatal flaw, or maybe, it was the closets who pretended and tried to lead hetero lives despite their proclivities, lying to everyone around, lying to themselves and then destroying everyone around them, who were fatally flawed).
I wish I had a volume of Tony Curtis's poetry now to break the mood.
Let everything that is to fall, fall, beginning with tired love...
Oh well.
I've survived one day more.
I wonder which book I'll go for next. Probably Go Tell It On A Mountain as I have that book too. But alternatively I might go for the Italo Calvino book. Hmmm, decisions, decisions.
Giovanni's Room was unbearably tragic. The tragedy was foreshadowed on the first page, the fatal flaw, so to speak (although as a homosexual, I wonder why he considered it a fatal flaw, or maybe, it was the closets who pretended and tried to lead hetero lives despite their proclivities, lying to everyone around, lying to themselves and then destroying everyone around them, who were fatally flawed).
I wish I had a volume of Tony Curtis's poetry now to break the mood.
Let everything that is to fall, fall, beginning with tired love...
Oh well.
I've survived one day more.
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