bonne nuit

A certain incoherentness has befallen me in the past weeks prior to my departure. My days were precious to every last second. The minutes were filled with soulful conversations with the parents, delectable company of friends and of course, amourous rendezvous with the boy I love. So much has happened in such a short period of time, it feels almost like I'm sitting in a high speed train, tearing through the tracks, bolting through alluring sceneries, which are nothing more than dancing colours and distorted shapes, going by too fast to be appreciated. Given the number of events and the lighning pace they are going at, I'm overwhelmed.

Thus, the failure to do any proper writing.

For the uninitiated, I have finally set foot on the land down under more than a day ago. The elements has shown no clemency since my arrival. It was like being back in the UK, only this time it is much warmer.

The small, unexcercised organ of mine has once again proved itself not to be that stone cold slab of marble I always thought it was. It aches for the ones I love. You see, the thing about departures, is that almost everyone treats it like a funeral. But, like how my love once resolved, there are two ways of looking at it. So even in the midst of tears and aching hearts and the recalcitrance to just let go, I found that my departure bringing together the ones I love, and it's a lovely feeling - the farewell dinner over long table of 15, the coversations flying off in every direction resonating the voices of the ones whose company I enjoy, oh and the laughter and finally as it ends, the hugs and the kisses, hoping to leave their vestiges till the next meeting.

I have moved into a vermin infested studio apartment and will reside here for a week before my permanent residence opens up. It is in times of solitude that I find myself realizing how much has been done for me and how much I have taken it for granted, which comes as no surprise, given that Daddy has predicted this too many times. That aside, Sydney uni is beautiful. It really is. Sigh.

Also, today I thought of Azlan, my dispenser for daily dose of nonsene and how he has become almost like my diary. I will have to write to my dear old friend soon.

My day ends soon, so I sit with 3 layers of fabric over my body, typing and contemplating which bed will be more hygenic to sleep on (there are 3 beds you see, including the pathetic couch I reckon is most hygenic), I bid you goodnight, and I reassure you that I think of all of you and request that you keep me in your prayers, that I will make the best of this new chapter of life (and that I'll live through this pathetic mess of a studio apartment).

Bonne nuit.

Revelation

Every time I catch myself on the brink of uttering those words, I stop, swallow them back and resume control of my unruly tongue.

The heart flutters at the flicker of recognition and more than anything it wants to be able to say, "This is the one."

Unfortunately, it cannot.

Thus, the frustration.

Back to basics

Someone
There are no worries for
Someone
Life's in no hurry for
Someone
There are no worries for
Nothing major or too complicated
Just a friendly wager that we orchestrated
For someone
Someone

I find myself twirling in circles to the reposeful rhythm with just a towel on, stretching both my hands as if to touch the sky.

Back and forth. Back and forth. As if someone shot a huge dose of tranquilizer into the World and she was rotating 10 times slower than she normally would. I imagine this is what it would be like to be on a psychedelic drug, pacified and ambiguously happy, without a concept of time, except on this particular occasion it lacked the hallucinatory drunk elephants who are constantly evolving in different loud colours.

My feet tracing lacy patterns on my bedroom floor with my wet footprints. I'm dripping wet but my body can air dry itself.

Life's in no hurry for
Someone

My chapped lips parting and the next thing I know, they are mouthing the song I barely know the lyrics to, singing for a happy heart.

I'm radiating a glow of contentment I'll probably never know again.

oooo. poetry.

It is most unfortunate that I cannot write poetry. I seem, as a friend pointed out, to be missing out on one of the best things in life - the expression of intense emotions compressed into compact words.

Here's something I came across awhile back, prose poetry they call it by a Malaysian and I really, really like it.

Now, why can't I write like that?

C'est si bon

Both my parents were evicted from their room just so I can watch Something's Gotta Give in the comfort of their absurdly huge bed and their TV. *Grins sheepishly*

And what a beautiful movie it was. I can watch it a million times.

Now, even though I know I shouldn't be eating at such an ungodly hour, I'm chowing on cold noodles , leftover from tonight's supper (and shame on you if you haven't attempted eating cold leftovers, it's heavenly) while listening to Cynthia M. sing French Jazz.

Ah, bliss.

C'est si bon
Ces petit's sensations
ça vaut mieux qu'un million.
C'est tell'ment, tell'ment bon.

I'll be sure to have the The Filmmaker teach me a little bit of French once he returns.

When in Miri

I watched the sun set in swirling colours of pink and orange and sometimes varying shades of blue and purple, tragically and languidly against the horizon.

Time, who was probably preoccupied with somebody else's misery, had showered upon me eight days of evenings in this place, but I've only managed to catch two sunsets. Well, one to be more accurate, because out of the two, it was only in one of them did I manage to physically watch the sun set from a complete circle to a semi and then poof! gone and the sky settled into darkness.

(I started this post with a meticulous draft on what I was going to write. And when I finally started writing, all of my thoughts just leaked out of my head. I swear there's a malfunctioning toilet bowl in my head that keeps flushing out the wrong stuff.)

On a whim

I would loll around in bed till noon, and into the early afternoon on days when I am feeling indolent. Sometimes I think I can probably pass off as an emanation of my bed. Maybe if you stared long enough at us, the doona, the bed and the little body sprawled over it, you'll see that we merge seamlessly into a single object.

And then after a few telepathic conversations with my horde of Bunny Rabbits, I would haul myself out of bed, wade through my room and to the dining room where the table is already set. I would skim the table, inspect the day's dishes and take a nibble out of it if it pleases me. Every so often I get caught in the act, dressed in my pajamas with my unkempt hair and my face unwashed. But if Daddy ever disapproved of it, he has never mentioned anything about it to me. After that, I would saunter back into the room, wash up and get ready for lunch.

Once lunch ends, my day is like a blank parchment waiting to unfurl.

Occasionally, I head down to the city to join the crowd and their casual indifference towards everyone around them. Sometimes, it's tea in a little cafe with a long lost childhood friend. Other times, it's an afternoon spent unearthing the latest teen fashion in malls. If I get lucky, I get invited to join a friend for his interviews with metrosexual editors whose faces seem to grace the pages of Hapers Bazaar on a monthly basis. And when I'm not so lucky, I spent my afternoons caught in the city's choc-o-bloc traffic. But rest assured that in the city, there is always somebody new to meet, a filmmaker, a writer, a yuppy, an actor, a photographer or an old gay friend, there is always an event to go to, a workshop to participate in, a party to attend. It never stops, not for a moment.

On Fridays, I'll have dinner with Cat and Josh, followed by a play, or a movie, or shisha in our favourite Morrocan place. On other nights when fortune smiles on me, I get an invitation to go out, to go dance a little and imbibe a little.

Once in a while, the week packs itself up with all kinds of events. By the time the exhilaration evaporates, I'm too jaded for anything else. I shut down, turn into an ascetic and lock myself in the room, gorging on Fitzgerald, Keret, Wilde, Coelho and lately Sedaris, over and over and over again. Thinking that by devouring them until I explode into flames, I'll resurrect like a phoenix, rejuvenated with a new will to live.

When fortune feels generous, I get to travel, meet a myriad of characters, learn about their lives and I love it. But the most tragic and poignant trait about traveling is that you live for that transient moment. Today I met a Thai lady who lives in Washington D.C who's here on a holiday and we've one of the most insightful conversations one can have with a stranger and I secretly wish to have it again, but I may not see her tomorrow, not the following day, not ever. So you learn live for the moment, because once it passes, it's gone and that's why it's so precious.

When all else loses its novelty, I just sit and mull over life.

I live life on a whim now. And it is luxurious.

I believe a decade or so from now, I'll look back and say that this was one of the best phases of my life, where I lived in the absence of obligation and enjoyed a blissful decline into indifference without any worry of the future, knowing deep down inside that when my time of decadence ends there will be uni life and a job waiting for me.

talk about awkard

I leaned in for a hug, a bye-it-was-nice-meeting-you-maybe-we'll-party-again hug, and I think I leaned in a little too far, and he tilt his head slightly to the right and kissed me, like it was automatic reflex. It was a peck that lingered a little too long.

And then it hit him, that it was supposed to be just a hug and nothing more. In that strange moment of awkwardness, even I couldn't help feeling embarrassed.

*malu*