Bunny on Crack

bonne nuit

2009-02-16T03:19:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-29T12:22:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-15T23:09:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-01-15T10:03:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-14T09:32:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-13T23:48:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-12T23:41:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-10T11:20:00.000-08:00

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*

I got a little more than presents this Christmas

2009-01-09T07:02:00.000-08:00

"The world we live in is in a constant state of flux," his hands came together, fingers intertwined, forming some sort of wave-like gesture as he uttered his words.

"It's all about who screws who first."

How aptly said, I thought. I smiled, said nothing and nodded at the man sitting on the floor with his back against the sofa. The only source of light emanated from the Christmas tree in the corner, casting a romanticized glow onto the living room. Like a frivolous crowd beguiled by a magician's trick, we listened intently to this eccentric young man with his shoulder-length hair and an energy that seemed to be eternally restless. There was no sub-conversations or strains of random chatter that have the habit of finding their way into one's ears acting as a source of distraction from one's current conversation. It was just his voice.

Over glasses of carbonated drinks and rice wine, I listened to his tales from New York to Mexico, his musings on work ethics, his ruminations on the lack of ownership which he believes attributes to the dearth of responsibility among fellow country men and a little bit about his work. In retrospect, I must admit the man is a little self-indulgent. He dominated most of the conversations. But at that point of time, when one is a stranger to another, one likes to think the best of the other. So, there I was sitting comfortably in my chair, silently amused and deeply fascinated by the wisdom that accompanied his youthfulness.

As we left the party slightly after one in the morning of Boxing Day, I thought I felt a little wiser than when I arrived for the party on Christmas night.

Rewind to the eve of the eve of Christmas.

(...to be continued. I'm feeling too bloated to write.)

The dearth of presents this Christmas has definitely been made up by the words of wisdom and the little pockets of thoughts that were passed on from the men I've met during the festive period, they were the wise, the experienced, the ones of a spent era of reckless adulthood who lived to tell the tale. Most of these conversations have left me a little wiser, a little more cautious and a little more prepared for life and I'm most grateful for such serendipity, the exact collision of time and circumstances that gave birth to such precious little moments, of the words exchanged and of the sentiments shared.

P for pretty bizarre

2008-12-28T09:50:00.000-08:00

They were men in their thirties with an air of having tasted all the best of this world's goods.

The level of conviviality went up a notch at the clinking of every champagne glass.

I looked up from my drink, and met the eyes of another member sitting in that little alcove of ours, I smiled, wondering if it was visible under such dimly lit lighting. I'm sure it was because he reciprocated with a grin, decadent and pixilated, and it reminded me of the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland.

Bizarre. Bizarre.

Then the dance floor, the peculiar laugh, the pouting of lips, the clinking of more glasses and the music. And in that brief period of time, hand resting on waist, proximity newly defined among strangers, the cleaving of bodies, fabric against fabric, we danced. All of us, swaying, just swaying.

I heard him laughed, "I am in heaven." and in our squiffy, besotted state, we joined his laughter.

look what you've done to me Mark Antony

2008-12-25T12:00:00.000-08:00

I lied about going to bed.

I have traded sleep, the most paramount ritual of my day for the past 4 months, for additional time just to watch James Purefoy and his insolent, philandering ways in Rome.

Mark Antony absolutely turns me on.

what i heard in the kitchen

2008-12-19T08:34:00.000-08:00

All I wanted from the kitchen was a glass of water to wash down the nagging scent of garlic in my mouth, a vestige of the night's supper. I ventured into the dark furtively, as to not wake the parents, entered through the bathroom and exited into the kitchen, carrying a mug in one hand and groping the space ahead of me, like how a blind man would if he were to lose his cane.

Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I moved around swiftly around the kitchen.

While in the process of drinking my second glass of water, I heard the tapping of heels (Our kitchen is located next to the main entrance, the door is open virtually all the time for what my parents believe to be better air circulation within the house. With a good pair of ears, you are able to catch the tiniest strain of melody that drifts across the corridor. Oh, we live in a condo by the way.) Now, if you've noticed, there are two kinds tappings. The first is the tapping of heels on solid ground, like how a type A career women would sound when she walks on the pavement when she rushes to lunch or to a meeting - consistent, accute. It exerts exigency and conveys some sort of authority that some proportion of the opposite sex find to be very sexy. The second is The Teeter, the tapping oocurs without a rythm, sometimes it lands gracefully and other times, with a thud, as if it was carrying the a lot of weight. It gives an impression of the wearer, swaying back and forth, trying to find a balance between the soft graceful landing and the clumsy loud thud, but failing over and over again. The Teeter, I believe, is a result of noxious amount of alcohol.

I heard the latter.

And then, in a girlish voice, I heard the owner of those heels say, "I'm not drunk" in a tone of reprobation I was all too familiar with.

I snickered in the dark. I just heard myself on one of those sozzled nights.

Wasted love notes

2008-12-04T06:22:00.000-08:00

It never occurred to them to look inside the wrappers.

When I finally pointed out that each confection is wrapped in a love note, there was only one piece of chocolate left in the box.

Where do I begin?

2008-11-28T09:16:00.000-08:00

Where do I begin?

Beginnings, I believe, are arbitrary. They are merely a point of reference, somewhere to start so that there will be somewhere to end. Everything before the kickoff point becomes the past, and everything after it, simply becomes the future.

Ah, but then there are always the anomalies. Where does a circle begin and where does it end? If where it begins is where it ends, it is still a beginning? Just like a point, the beginning is also the end. In physics, it would mean you have zero displacement. But, in actuality, how would you measure it?

I digress.

I shall begin from where my memory permits me to remember. I believe it was in the evening when we sat under the huge tree on the bench, with a mild wind blowing now and then that made the moment feel ever so refreshing.

“How do you say sky?” I looked up at the clouds, like ravelled skein of cotton wools against a bluish, grey background.

“Hemmel,” he said. (Or something that sounded like that.)

I remember trying to pronounce it twice and being corrected twice, in the end I said, "The thing about your language is that it makes people sound like they are spitting instead of talking."

He laughed and the sides of his eyes crinkled up. They always do when he laughs, which, until now, I still find amusing.

Seeing that I'll never pronounce sky accurately, I thought I might as well learn how to say something else. "How about 'tree'?" I pointed upwards.

"Baum."

I can say that, I thought.

"Ah, but you see, it's different for plural," he added as if he just read my mind, sounding like one of those over enthusiastic language teacher when they try to point out the exception in a language.

"Can you speak your language well?" I asked, only to realise that it was a very stupid question after it came out from my mouth. It was his native tongue, of course he can speak it well.

"I can speak it very well. I can say a sentence perfectly, but I sometimes don't know what it means. But I will not learn [his language] if given the choice. It's too complicated."

I smiled and for the first time, I noticed that his iris were brown, not grey as I always assumed they were.

We continued to sit under that tree under the overcast skies for a little longer before going for dinner, we would talk and we would laugh, and sometimes we would stare at the lake and listen to the silent whir of the wind.

I lied when I said I'll begin where my memory permits me to begin. It's not that I don't remember how it all began. We met a week before this, but all events prior to this never quite seem like a proper beginning. And it was only that day, on that bench and under that tree that I began to learn about him properly and thus, I would like to take it as a point of reference and as a beginning.

Life is almost perfect

2008-11-07T01:03:00.001-08:00

"..was precious, perfect, like looking at a vintage photograph, or a small child playing near a lake, or a cupcake with intricate frosted details."
- Mon Dieu, Ennui and Decadence

To add to the list of things, a random book picked up from a clearance sale which eventually turned out to be one of the best read.

The days have been fulfilling. I bath in the overflowing joy and love of the ones who care most about me and life is almost perfect.

Dear xxxx

2008-10-19T08:08:00.000-07:00

(I hope you never read this.)

I'm writing this because I want more than anything to let go of you and move on. I'm tired of sending infatuated messages and even though you are courteous enough to always reply to them, I know that in reality, this will never be, for many a reason. However, in my head, you'll always be the ideal man, the boy I would want to fall in love with.

You see, my dear, I'm in love with an idea, a notion. I'm charmed by your eloquence, intrigued by your amorous messages, fond of your background and your seniority. I am captivated by your voice, deep and calm, your slightly accented English, with the precise diction and your choice of words. And sadly, this is the only way I know you, ethereally, insubstantially.

From our snippets of conversation, your polish mannerism gave your background away, even though I know you had no intention to - well spoken, well educated, well traveled, you take on different perspective to life. You never had to worry like how most of us do, and will never have to, such is your world, opulence and revelry are in your blood. I opened up to you, maybe because I recognized some sort of familiarity in your tone and seek comfort in it, which in fact, was something you managed to provide in our short period of acquaintance.

I am, after all, caught in my own passion.

I watched your number graced my mobile in the ungodly hour of Friday morning and as much as I wanted to hear your voice again, I couldn't find the courage to pick up my phone. So I allowed it to ring and ring and ring, keeping me company in the silence of that lonely hour. You will, no doubt, ask for a meeting, like how you always do through your sporadic texts, which were sometimes a result of your inebriation and sometimes a sober plea for company on a Friday night. And to be honest with you, I have concocted too many excuses to avoid seeing you again. My dearth of logical excuses would mean that to pick up the phone this time I would have to say yes to our little rendezvous.

Don't get me wrong, it would be exhilarating to see you again. But to face you after all these time would be a daunting task. I am consumed in a fantasy of you. What happens then when my little chimera materializes into mortality? Will you live up to it?

We shared a moment of luxuriousness once on that sultry night, and like how "there are all kinds of love in this world, but never the same love twice", I'm afraid our moment is gone forever.

I am a fool to look out windows of a moving vehicle thinking that maybe I'll spot you in your Mini cruising down the city, to walk down streets hoping to catch a glimpse of you under the racy, adventurous nights of debauchery. I am naive to build on such expectation.

Understand, that I want you to want me when we finally meet. And if you believe that there is hope, maybe fate will permit the exact collision of time and circumstance again. As for a cynic like me, I believe it's high time I bid you adieu, my lovely stranger, my mysterious man.

but just let live

2008-10-14T03:16:00.000-07:00

As obligation took a back seat to curiosity, I lost my moral compass. And that journey in the absence of my nagging conscience has been, by far, one of the most indulgent times in my life. However, even with the kicks that I got out of those vibrant moments, life never felt enough. There was that sheer realization that words will never be adequate to describe that very feeling, nonetheless it existed. For most part of it, there was the waiting. The anticipation for something big to happen, to explode right in front of my face and change the course of my life and to substitute that ever-growing void. So, I waited, because it was the only sensible thing I could do.

And just like that, it happened. The offer to study Economics in Sydney, followed by a full scholarship and then an on-the-spot offer to St. John's (It's a Catholic residential college that boasts a number of famous alumnis and Rhode Scholars, but I'll still need an extra scholarship to afford to reside there. The fee is ludicrous.), not to mention the added allowance. I couldn't help but scoffed at life. It was taking the mick out of me. It dragged me on this long, dusty trail of prosaicness and then, all of sudden decides to reward me with all these. I felt like a joke. Life is a joke as Wilde once resolved that "Life is too important to be taken seriously." I have to learn how to loosen up.

"Sometimes I dont think there is anything to live for to be honest but just let live," was a message I received over Facebook. I thought it sounded poignant, but more importantly, it felt true.

For now, life feels full. There's contentment and there's stability. I am trying my best to relish this carefree moments because I know that with every crest of the wave comes the break, and I'll be back in calm waters paddling and anticipating the next wave. So, just let live.

Polygamy, yes? no?

2008-10-09T19:47:00.000-07:00

Mo and I talked about polygamy once, and after that conversation, he sent me an email. I know everyone is entitled to their own opinion, but he argues from Muslim prospective, which I find quite interesting. However, what's more interesting is that he has decided to argue FOR polygamy, which is rare in our society where monogamy is the norm. So, I've decided to copy and paste his email here.

You just got me thinking about marriage a little bit and this is where I stand.

The only 2 qualities that i want in my wife is piety and good character. I don't care if she's much older than me, a widow, a divorcee, disabled or is a single mother. Inner beauty far outshines outer beauty.

And if I decide to have another wife, it would NOT be out of my own desire, but only for the sake of God to help women who need the support of a husband that they just ain't getting. And I'd probably only do it if my wife urges me to do so (which isn't as uncommon as you think in the Muslim societies). By the way, Islam doesn't say its good or bad to have another wife, it just gives permission to do so.

Some alarming statistics I copied and pasted:
The US Census Bureau published that there are more than 10 million single mothers, and further more 80% of them had children below the age of 18.
Nearly 700,000 women lose their husbands each year and will be widows for an average of 14 years
16% of all Women are disabled.
Disabled girls are twenty times less likely to be married.

Without polygamy, there wouldn't be a way to properly support these women. You probably see polygamy as an opportunity for a guy to follow his desires, but havent really considered it possible to be a solution to social problems.

And it is no secret that polygamy of a sort is widely carried on in Europe and America. The difference is that while the Western man has no legal obligations to his second, third or fourth mistresses and their children, the Muslim husband has complete legal obligations towards his second, third or fourth wife and their children. So why is it so wrong to take responsibility as opposed to indulging in illicit acts behind a wife's back? So monogamy loses its meaning, it's polygamy without responsibilities.

Don't you think its better that a religion says that a man must get permission from his first wife before taking another wife and without that permission, its not going to happen. But the rules and circumstances are so strict on this that not many males actually end up doing this. It is hard to treat 2 women exactly equally and justly. When you hear bad stories about polygamy, I think that these people would not be following Islam as it should be followed. But to be fair, I hear bad stories of pedophiliac priests, am I to start thinking they're all like that? You agree these guys aren't following the religion properly.

What happens in the society where polygamy isn't allowed? Does that mean that men stay faithful to that 1 woman their whole marriage? I hear a statistic that says that that 50% of marriages that end in divorce are because of infidelity, mainly on the male's part.

Polygamy is like a safety net in society. What's more humiliating than being a loyal wife to a husband who had a mistress, and the wife only found out about it 15 or 20 years later?

So every society has 1 form of polygamy or another. Islam recognizes this and regulates it.

Women naturally outnumber men. So why should so many women be deprived of the opportunity of becoming a mother or to have a husband? I feel very sad when I hear about women who are quite old and still can't get married. One Christian woman said "Won't mind being a second wife of a man. Life becomes hopeless when a woman doesn't have a man's protection. It's better than remaining unmarried."

"Christianity cannot but compromise on the question of polygamy. If present day Christianity cannot do so, it is to its own detriment. Islam has permitted polygamy as a solution to social ills, and has allowed a certain degree of latitude to human nature but only within the strictly defined framework of law. Christian countries make a great show of Monogamy, but actually they practice polygamy. No one is unaware of the part mistresses' play in Western society. In this respect Islam is a fundamentally honest religion, and permits a Muslim to marry a second wife if he must be strictly forbidden all clandestine amatory associations in order to safeguard the moral policy of the community." (Dr. Billy Graham)

Just to finish off with a couple of case studies:

1. A man who discovers that his wife is barren, and who at the same time instinctively aspires to have children and heirs.
In a situation as this, the man would either have to:
-Suffer the deprivation of fatherhood for life.
-Divorce his barren wife and get married to another woman who is not barren.
In many cases, neither solution can be considered as the best alternative. Polygamy would have the advantage of preserving the martial relationship without depriving the man of fathering children of his own.

2. A man whose wife becomes chronically ill would have one of possible alternatives:
-He may suppress his instinctive sexual needs for the rest of his life.
-He may divorce his sick wife at the time when she needs his compassion most, and get married to another woman, thus legally satisfying his instinctive needs.
-Or he could compromise by keeping his sick wife, and secretly take for himself one or more illicit sex partners.

How I spent the days leading up to Raya

2008-10-07T10:42:00.000-07:00

As everyone watched the global economic crisis worsened, I watched red spots multiplied on my face and body faster than the fall of the FTEX. While the financially prudent were plagued with rising anxiety, I was overwhelmed with irrational fear. As they mulled over what should be done in order to save their bank accounts, I pondered over how I should ever be able to step out of the house and into the public eye in such a hideous form.

My quota for good karma must have ran out when the universe finally decided to delegate a little of the world’s suffering to me. I spent two weeks incarcerated at home, living on strict vegetarian (still am by the way) and having a throbbing headache whenever I was awake.

Most people I know contracted chickenpox years ago, so much so they don’t even remember what it was like apart from the fact that throughout the illness there was always the uncontrollable need to scratch that itch and put it to ease. As Carol aptly puts it, “I don’t know what kind of chickenpox you have, must be some mutant chickenpox la.” The only similarity my “mutant” chickenpox had with the normal chickenpox was the way it looked – lesions that started off as red spots that turned into transparent vesicles known as papule and finally evolving into a dark brown crust that eventually peels off leaving crater-looking scara.

My “mutant” chickenpox lacked the most significant characteristic – it simply didn’t itch. At the appearance of the first transparent vesicle on my arm, Dad was adamant that it was “some sort of skin disease” because firstly, it didn’t itch and secondly, I didn’t have a fever, a common symptom among most victims of this illness.

By the second day of my chickenpox, virtually all of Mum’s friends knew of my little ordeal. Always caring by nature, her matronly friends started dispensing a good deal of advice. Mrs. Dawson whose daughter caught chickenpox at my age reiterated that it was vital to check if there were any red bumps on the genitalia because that was how her daughter first found out she had chickenpox. She then went on to elaborate how difficult it was for her daughter to sit down because of the pain it was causing her. By then I was petrified, but to cup ones ears with both hands just to block out her voice would be utterly rude and I’m sure Mum wouldn’t have approved of that behaviour. So, instead, I smiled ingratiatingly at her.

There was another elderly Indian lady, I assume to be Mrs. Dawson’s friend, who told me not to look into mirrors. Her logic behind this was that the more I look into mirrors, the more papule would appear. ( “Oh really? Like how? It’ll spread by pantulan is it?” Carol joked.)

And then there was Mum’s colleague, Swaran, modern Singh teacher with three kids of her own. “Tell your daughter don’t shower for the first week. No good. If wind gets into her bones, she’ll get arthritis.” Who would have taught that as our world took that stride into the 21^st century, there were still many who were left behind. Needless to say, I was appalled with that piece of advice. To me, the concept of not taking showers only existed on Duke of Edinburgh expeditions, not in real life, and especially not when I have chickenpox. In fact, if I’ve not mistaken more showers should be taken in order to ease the itch. Since my chickenpox didn’t itch at all, I couldn’t quite make a case out that point. However, I do believe that any walking, talking, breathing human being with at least some common sense in them will agree with me that not showering for seven days is just downright ridiculous. Even after recovering from chickenpox, there is a high chance you will get infected by some other illness as a result of germs breeding under your greasy, sweaty, foul smelling body. Such Neanderthal thinking just goes to show how far we have progressed as human beings.

By the third day, with transparent sacs protruding out of my face, I could have easily been mistaken for a victim of severe skin disease. The sight was repulsive. Every time I looked myself in the mirror, I whined, sobbed and complaint. The universe was really taking the mick out of me. So in the end, I avoided looking into mirrors altogether. Maybe Mrs. Dawson’s friend was right, maybe I shouldn’t have looked into mirrors from the start.

I sauntered around the house in PJs for 14 days, watching TV, reading, talking to Bunny and yes, taking showers. Most the time, it felt timeless and dreary. The curtains were drawn, the air conditioner was functioning 24/7 just to make sure I was always kept in the right temperature so that the heat will not get to me. I felt like a piece of meat in a refrigerator.

As of now, the lesions have finally crusted and are peeling. It’ll take awhile before the scars disappear. I am happy to say that there is not much damage on my face apart from a few spots here and there. I look like I have an acne problem, which I suppose is much better than looking like a skin disease patient. My incarceration period is over, but I only step out of the house wearing long sleeves shirts. That aside, I still maintain a chicken-less diet, which takes a mother lode of self restraint for a meat-eater like me. I’m also restricted from taking soy sauce. Also, it really was a shame to not be able to savour raya delicacies this year.

Well, I suppose it’s the universe giving me my share of comeuppance, or at least I like to think of it that way.

this is an ever growing list (will add on)

2008-09-30T06:01:00.000-07:00

You see, the thing about most human beings is that they like to make lists - things to do, things to buy, things they like, things they don't like, people they've dated etc etc. So as await my recovery, I've decided to conform to the ways of the mass majority, here's my list of things that make me grin:

1. warm showers
2. getting my hair blown by somebody other than myself
3. coming back into the room to find Bunny perched in a funny position i fail to notice before leaving the room
4. intricately decorated cupcakes
5. waking up in the morning to find a text on my mobile
6. cooking (attempting to cook?) with my chaletmates (now ex-chaletmates)
7. finding a really good blog and stalking it
8. opening my closets to neatly stacked clothes (rarity)
9. the period of anticipation and enthusiasm before going for a beach holiday
10. good quality toilet paper
11. new mail
12. finding a bin when i need one
13. recollecting how i manage to stuff cornflakes down my cousin's ear when i was 4
14. waiters/waitresses who make sure you get what you want
15. Mo and his stories
16. Niles and his barbed and witty comments
17. Eggless cakes
18. Fresh bras
19. people who share the same birthdays as me
20. going to new places and making new friends
21. pretty pretty pictures other people or I have taken
22. cute men in scrubs
23. reading Fitzgerald
24. watching The Painted Veil over and over and over again (it doesn't quite fit onto this list, as it doesn't make me happy, it makes me cry EVERY single time I watch it, no matter how many times. oh well.)
25. getting my hands on The Painted Veil and The Curious Case of Benjamin Button OST
26. planning my winter holiday in Tokyo

(for now, they are scattered all over my head and since much of my brain energy has been used to power a hairdryer, i will add to the list soon.)

Boo!

2008-09-30T02:56:00.000-07:00

The waiting! The unmitigated slowness of the healing process - I have no words to express my exasperation. I spend the bulk of my time lying indolently in bed, book in one hand, Bunny in the other, reading, dreaming, talking, arguing with my cloudy head. All the time Bunny stares intently at me, innocently waiting for time to pass.
- Don't look at me like that.
- You look kurap.
- You can talk, you hairless piece of thing.

harbinger of hell

2008-09-24T05:27:00.000-07:00

Friday night - 10.45pm on the way to Ampang

"Can you fucking get the traffic to fucking move? My body fucking hurts. I think I'm gonna fucking die." The pain struck impetuously at the back of my left shoulder, too sudden and too agonizing, my body jeered forward in one awkward motion in shock and as a result of reflex.

The back of my shoulders racked in pain for a whole 10 minutes during which I yelled obscenities at my helpless driver of the night who could only pray for KL's choc-a-block traffic to miraculously clear up before his ears drop off under the assault of my vulgarism.

That night the pain struck TWICE.

Saturday night - 10.30pm at The Apartment

I was mindlessly sipping my Sex on The Beach, laughing prodigally as we exchanged banter when I noticed an odd little bump on the inner side of my right arm. It was a translucent vesicle with liquid in it protruding out from my evenly smooth arm. Something about that blister-looking sac didn't seem right and its presence was definitely not welcomed. Yet, I ignored the little nagging at the back of my head and continued sipping out the glass that seemed too big for my little hands.

The waiter took my glass away and asked if I wanted one more, everyone on the table threw disparaging looks at me and I timidly said no, which in retrospect was a good thing.

Sunday morning - 8.25am in the shower

I was drying myself up with a towel when, to my horror, I noticed an unusual roughness on my back, it felt illegal (I can't seem to find any other word).

"MUUUUUUUUUUMMMMMMEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

That penetrating scream I believe will forever ring in the ears of my beloved parents.

And that, my friends, was how it all began - the harbinger of hell.

untitled

2008-09-17T04:33:00.000-07:00

"All good things come to an end," Mum said on the drive back from the airport. She said it like how she always did for the past 19 years of my life, smooth without inflection, impervious to the situation. Given her petite frame and soft-spoken manner, Mum is stronger than she looks. It is my misfortune to have neither her sweet demeanour nor her ability to be unaffected by anything. Her philosophy is simple: to not ever be too sad about the inevitability of the end.

"Sometimes, you have to learn how to let go..."

I watched the summer sizzle away. The days becoming slightly cooler with the extra rain, and although fall is not a season in this part of the world, it certainly felt like it, like somebody took the warmth out of me.

In the last months of college, I found myself settling comfortably into a clique whose company I genuinely enjoyed. There was no need for ostentation, no need for ingratiating smiles, no need for "kiasu-ness". Around them, I was just me, naked and raw, blunt and random, and they embraced me together with my imperfections. Friendships like this, I assume, can only be built through time. What is most cruel is that what took so long to build, could be taken away so rapidly that it gives you little time savour it. Had I known better I would have not missed out on the opportunity of every "chill-out" session they had, the trips to TheCurve, the holiday to Sabah and Tioman.

We drove back in sweet melancholy, all that's left are a bunch of memories, billions of pixels worth of digital images and a tinge of bitter regret.

Sometimes, you have to learn how to let go because what else can you do?

So what happened to the vortex?

2008-09-08T04:01:00.000-07:00

August stole away and September crept in surreptitiously.

"So, what happened to the vortex?" Cat asked winsomely as her fingers toyed the hose of the hookah.

"I'm not too sure what happened. I think it's starting to slowdown."

We sat comfortably under the city night.

I felt battered, burnt and broken. Hovering on the brink of adulthood, I watch my teenage years flailing in the assault of sozzled nights, luckless romances and stultifying conversations. Is this all? I find myself asking.

She looked at Josh and they exchanged looks of amusement and they laughed thinking of the crapulent mess I got myself into the last time we were out with alcohol.

"I assume you'll stop peeing in dark alleyways now?" Josh put on a cheeky smile.

I smiled one of my hahaha-very-funny, sarcastic smiles.

The night was pleasant but uneventful. We spent hours in that little Moroccan place, well hidden away in the city. Then we went in search of a cinema that was open at this ungodly hour, failed and decided to go hunting for ice-cream. We ended up sitting in McD's at 2am, with nuggets and fries, chowing them down with one big cup of Coke we shared amongst ourselves.

Throughout the night, Meer sent little texts sporadically, first asking for my whereabouts, and then inviting me to join him. In the end he went "over the top" and the texts just stopped. Men, odd species they are.

That night, I layed in bed, my mind continuously repeating the same question until finally I gave in and slept.

So what happened to the vortex?

I hate men, well not all, just one in particular.

2008-09-07T14:10:00.000-07:00

I was ready to let him go, let Meer disappear and be nothing more but romantic stranger from the vortex of August...

...until I received a text saying, "So when do I see you next?"

Men. I hate them.

Rach

2008-09-07T13:07:00.000-07:00

I'm preparing for her departure.

I feel like a lover who is contemplating a break-up and finding the most effective way to deliver it in order to cushion the blow.

Last night I saw her weep in my dream, she told me she didn't want to leave. Instinctively, I weeped with her. Her pain was familiar to me, but unlike her, I was fortunate enough to be unshackled after six months of austerity and fatalities.

Today, I tried calling her multiple times, only to be directed to her voice mail every time. It worked me up. I missed her and I was worried for her. I haven't heard from her in a week.

When she finally returned my call, it was passed midnight.

"I don't feel too well." It was her way of saying that she was in an emotional turmoil. She is always so subtle. I asked her why even when I already knew the answer.

"I don't want to go back," she replies in a sing-song voice, a notch softer than her already gentle tone. I wanted to cry at this point because I was afraid for her, because I don't know how many more penances she will have to do before the agony stops.

"I know, I know," was all I managed to utter. We continued talking about inconsequential matter, about her sister and hopefully her transfer to Australia in the near future, anything to keep her mind preoccupied so she wouldn't be burdened with thoughts of her departure.

My phone died in the end. We barely had enough time for a proper conversation. I sat idly outside the cafe under the dark night and the full moon, and watch the people pass me by, nocturnal just like me.

Two years have managed to slide by so quietly, but the scars never seem to heal properly. I don't think I can put her through the same ordeal.

Until now, I had no idea I can love her so much.

Freudian text, no?

2008-08-28T10:00:00.001-07:00

“Listening to trance, sitting with my legs out the window taking pictures. Skies awesome today. Not going.”

I meant to send it to D, instead I sent it to him. Freudian text, no?

To which he replied,

“Quiet chatter in the background. Sitting in my cubicle. With a small strain my neck. I can catch the glimpse of the golden sunset. Wanting to go.”

Very cute, I thought. Now, if I can only have his kids.

Wong, you Chinaman

2008-08-25T23:44:00.000-07:00

Five friends in a moving vehicle, the road is long, the conversation flowing. Adif – t-shirt, jeans and wearing a pair of grey Crocs – starts talking about Dota.

“Mo man tai. Lai lai lai lai lai. When we gonna Dota again?” He’s speaks good Cantonese for a non-native speaker, almost accurate for those few words.

Syuk’s behind wheels, Meor's enjoying the space in the passenger seat while Wong and I sandwich Adif in the back. There isn’t enough leg space for the towering guy, but he sits in statuesque repose. (“Are you okay?,” I say before the journey began. “I’ve been far worse conditions,” was Adif’s reply.) While Syuk drives, the conversation moves on to relationships (“You know, men who marry older women are generally happier?”) and Adif’s love life.

“So I hear you are dating Pam ar?” Wong says in his colloquial Chinaman expression.

“Um…Yes, we are dating,” Adif replies politely, very gentlemanly in my opinion, the very opposite of how I would normally respond to Wong.

“So how it started ar?”

The interrogation begins.

“Well,” he pauses and tries to put his thoughts into words, “it started during the exam period. We studied together and then one thing led to another. There was something there. We couldn’t deny it. There was an elephant in the room. It was a matter of time before somebody popped the question.”

And from the corner of my eye, I see the side of his lips curl slightly upwards and he smiles, coyly, you know, one of those contented, innocent, little smiles when reminiscing the past.

I stop looking out the window at the endless stretch of black, asphalt road and the passing scenery. I turn my head towards this young man on my left and I grin, a big moronic grin.

To hear a guy recount his love life like that is sweet.

Nobody says anything after that. I’m not too sure why.

And to break the silence, someone says, “Oh. Like that ah….”

That heartwarming moment is gone.

And we return to interrogating our victim.

Oh, but I only turn 19 once

2008-08-17T22:59:00.000-07:00

August is a vortex. Restless and unsuspecting, I plunged right into it.

The eighth month of the year, the auspicious number eight, I love August. Partly because it is my birth month, and partly because I share this month with many of my loved ones. In short, August gives me an excuse to ask for gifts that would leave purses hyperventilating and an explanation to waste my nights in dissipation.

All inappropriate behaviours will simply be obliterated with the saying, "Oh but I/he/she only turn/s ________(the age you celebrate) once."

So with that in mind and delirious from excess sugar intake, I snogged a boy by the road on the night of my 19th. I would like to think that I snogged him properly, lips touching and our tongues brushing a little. However, the party I came with would say otherwise. They firmly believe we were involved in some form of tongue pilates OUT of the mouth. What's worst is that the boy wasn't a friend, he was a random bloke who walked up to me, offered me a few flattering comments(oh the stupid girl I am!) and within the next second I had my lips cleaved to his. The fact that he wasn't a friend made it slightly more convenient, it meant that there was no need for any sort of apology or any feeling of embarrassment once liberated from this state of intoxication. On the other hand, who knows what sort of lips-borne disease I have contracted from the stranger after that little act of debauchery.

I had no idea I can be so shameless.

But hey, I only turn 19 once.

another Saturday in the hole

2008-08-16T23:42:00.000-07:00

I had tentative plans drawn out for the night, but unlike how the earth would move in an elliptical orbit around the sun 365 days harmoniously, regimentally and without a change in order, things had a tendency to go off track when in my hands. The initial plan was simple - get down to the City, immerse ourselves in her night lights, imbibe and join the random raucous crowd in their incessant partying, decadent lifestyle of saturday night debauchery.

But a random phone call was all it took for my plans to go haywire. J called with a last minute invite to his 21st that very night. I would like very much to think that he died on my 19th when he didn't bother to turn up a week ago which eventually led to us not talking for awhile, but the boy, this odd species with his reckless behaviour and foul mouth has somehow found a soft spot in this little organ of mine called the heart.

"Are you coming?" he asked for the second time over the mobile.

"I guess," attempting to sound as reluctant as possible.

So, the night unraveled with a mind of its own. My carriage came in the form of Josh's Vios with Carol in it. We spent half an hour going in circles, cutting illegally across roads, misinterpreting directions and yelling at each other. After a monumental waste of time and mother lode of exchange of curses later, we find ourselves in front of what looked more like a community hall than a club house, which sparked more bickering because nobody wanted to attend the party now since it wasn't what we expected it to be.

"Give it 15, if it sucks, we leave for KL."

"No. If it sucks, we are going to watch Wall-E."

"No. If it sucks, we are going to shisha."

Entering the ballroom was like entering the threshold of a very bad nightmare. J staggered lightly, embraced me and kissed me lightly on the head.

"You came."

I pulled myself away, he laughed and proceeded to disappear into the crowd with a drink in his hand. Like a drunk. The room was dark with a pinkish glow to it, like how you would imagine it to be in a cheap club with the fat, horny men snuggling up to skanky women half their age in dark corners. That was how it felt - dodgy. Half the people I knew were flying high as a kite, giving away to uncontrollable laughter at the tinniest provocation. There was more hugging, more touching than usual. And then there was the bar and its profusion of alcohol, the little spot at the left corner of the room where we found ourselves walking towards to.15 minutes eventually turned into half an hour, four drinks, multiple exchange of hugs, ingratiating smiles and pretentious air-kisses with sluts, jerks and Indians. Carol and Joshua sat around like wallflowers, unwilling to make conversation with the crowd whom we grew up with, who were now either too drunk or just too bored to carry a proper conversation. After much prompting from them both, we decided to leave on the flimsy pretext that I had another party to attend.

J made his way to our table and I got up to say goodbye, hugged him, stumbled a little, grappled for balance, stepped on somebody's foot (which must have been awfully painful after looking at her scrunched up face) and managed to regain stability with the help of his hand on my waist. So with that, we left.

I spent the remaining half of the night sitting next to a hookah, losing myself in the stentorian noises, the fragrance of Jamaican mix and a glass of orange-peach juice in the company of two of my oldest friends.

I took a long drag out of the hose, checked my mobile for the sixth time for a reply to my message. Nothing. I felt naive to expect. I looked up and I saw the twin towers, the city lights and the starless sky. I can't help but wonder if J would remember me being there tonight..

fleet

2008-07-28T07:17:00.000-07:00

I watch intently from the back. He doesn’t talk much, he just smokes. One after another.

His shoulders are broad like a swimmer’s, like the ones I imagine myself to be wrapped around in. Through his thin summer shirt, I can see his biceps. He walks sturdily, something I don’t find in a lot of male friends. Occasionally he turns around to look at the growing crowd, at times he catches my gaze and I turn away, so not to be caught staring.

Finally, this passing moment, I will never experience again.

He holds the car door open and waits for me to slip myself into the driver’s seat. He waits. I take no heed of him, or to put it more appropriately, I pretend to take no notice of the man I’ve been eyeing the whole morning. He waits a little too long to be polite. In the end, he is embarrassed. He whispers good luck as he brushed past me to enter the building. All this while, I never look up. Our eyes never meet. Not even once and all the words that hovered over my lips, words that could have been uttered, exchanged, are left untouched at the back my throat. I’ll treasure them up for the next time we meet, this unknown stranger whose name I do not even know.

i'll never know

2008-07-11T10:13:00.000-07:00

I let myself into the car, feeling rather satisfied with the fish platter I had for dinner and grateful for the time I had in the bookstore, even though it was only for short while. I looked out the window into the darkness, I felt indulgent and light.

We make our way out of the open air car park without exchanging a single word. He, behind the wheels and me in the passenger seat looking out the window. Comfortable silence is always rare. I watch the people go by as we drive pass the shops. I watch a man with a clean-shaven head load his groceries into his sports car. He has a delectable physique, strong arms, broad shoulders and a good height. He turns, looks up and he holds my gaze. I turn my head elsewhere out of embarrassment. He continues to pack his groceries into his nifty little car and I return to staring at him. I wonder what his life is like. Maybe he's a cook by day and a fitness trainer by night, maybe he has parents who don't quite understand him, maybe he has a sister who isn't straight. I don't know. And I guess I'll never know.