The Euro Fun Fair behind the 1 Utama Shopping Complex is a blast and brings me back to a time when I was at school in England, crunching on toffee apples and sneaking puffs from cigarettes.
It has the same tacky feel of a small fair - you know, the type where you wonder whether you will make it out alive but you still go anyway. As the Cranberries' 'Linger' blasted us up into what felt like space and caught us as we fell, I wondered why I was doing this to myself. Apart from the obvious exhilaration, the feeling also made me sick to the bone. At this age, one cannot afford to be knocked around like before.
Nevertheless, I still found myself venturing from one ridiculously scary ride to the next. Egged on by Edwin and our combined sense of kiasuness, we surrendered our bodies to the machines. Like rag dolls, we were swung us around at crazy speeds as centrifugal forces flung us into the sky and centripetal ones sat down hard on our chests, making breathing sorta out of the question. Not to forget also the strobe lighting placed at strategic spots to distort whatever sense of sky and earth we had left.
I can still taste the bile on the back of my tongue.
Still - I highly recommend it. There are plenty of kiddy rides too and on an earlier family visit, I proudly witnessed my son's first ever bumper car ride that ended appropriately beneath a stack of blockades. He also went on his first roller coaster with my father crammed into the front seat with him and I had the privelige of his muffling his bawls on the top of the Ferris Wheel - that came not from fear but anger from being deceived by this large wheel that did nothing but go round and round at a snails' pace.
It was a time to bump into friends in family mode - hungrily eyeing the bigger rides but having to settle for the kiddies carousel instead.
It comes by once a year I am told and I find it pretty reasonable. RM3 to get in of you are an adult, less for kids, and each ride, depending on fear factor ranges from RM4 to RM8. For great photos, click on to Edwin's Photoblog.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Friday, October 27, 2006
The Layan
Like in the brochure, The Layan sits gaily on a hillside, terracotta and green against the stark blue sky of occasional clotted cloud. It strides the ridge it lives on, smiling prettily back at the lifeless, damp stretch of sand that is Layan Beach, a lesser-known, lesser-appeal cousin of postcard-exploited Surin and Bangtao further down current.
The two staff and the one grey-looking manager who greeted us at the reception did so with such zeal – as if they had not welcomed guests in an age. Smiles as large as calzones; eyes focusing just beyond our heads, as if we are shorter than meant to be.
“We welcome you vely much to Layan. We hope you stay vely long and enjoy.”
Gentle, melodious voices of hollow seduction.
In a triangle, the three lead us on an undulating garden path that seemed to take us nowhere, fringed with the sweet scent of jasmine, ash and fallen tropical fruit. I marvelled at how silent it was despite being so close to the sea. No squealing kids, no beach tunes, no wish-wash of waves in the distance. What a secluded hideaway!
The swaying gait of the three brought us finally to our room, at the far end of the resort, just before it hinges off the cliff. I blinked twice at the familiar sight of blackened trees in the sea. In a flashback they were green. The equatorial sun again, distorting colour and form.
Still, it was sunny, though the room had not been aired and smelled like well-aged dust.
We tipped the smiling porter, his shirt sleeve receiving the gratuity.
The three departed.
That night, tanked with too much local brew, the tuk tuk driver hurtled through the inky blackness, seemingly lost. He had looked a little perturbed when we asked to be taken back, glancing often at his rear view mirror at our pale, untanned faces. The salty sea air raked through our hair, breathing life into split ends.
After dead turns that met at the sea, we stopped for directions at a small, fluorescent-lit hut in the shadown of a hill. We gazed back at its ware of dead cockroaches.
We watched the Thai exchange and the wide-eyed look of disbelief register on cabbie’s pock-marked face.
He turned back at us, eyes in slits.
“You say Layan?”, he asked, voice suddenly gruff.
We nodded drunken yeses.
He paused. Right hand inched closer to his back.
“Cannot be…fire. Burn down 9 years aledi.”
"Evelybody die. All the staff. All the guests...", his voice trailed off as we smiled.
The two staff and the one grey-looking manager who greeted us at the reception did so with such zeal – as if they had not welcomed guests in an age. Smiles as large as calzones; eyes focusing just beyond our heads, as if we are shorter than meant to be.
“We welcome you vely much to Layan. We hope you stay vely long and enjoy.”
Gentle, melodious voices of hollow seduction.
In a triangle, the three lead us on an undulating garden path that seemed to take us nowhere, fringed with the sweet scent of jasmine, ash and fallen tropical fruit. I marvelled at how silent it was despite being so close to the sea. No squealing kids, no beach tunes, no wish-wash of waves in the distance. What a secluded hideaway!
The swaying gait of the three brought us finally to our room, at the far end of the resort, just before it hinges off the cliff. I blinked twice at the familiar sight of blackened trees in the sea. In a flashback they were green. The equatorial sun again, distorting colour and form.
Still, it was sunny, though the room had not been aired and smelled like well-aged dust.
We tipped the smiling porter, his shirt sleeve receiving the gratuity.
The three departed.
That night, tanked with too much local brew, the tuk tuk driver hurtled through the inky blackness, seemingly lost. He had looked a little perturbed when we asked to be taken back, glancing often at his rear view mirror at our pale, untanned faces. The salty sea air raked through our hair, breathing life into split ends.
After dead turns that met at the sea, we stopped for directions at a small, fluorescent-lit hut in the shadown of a hill. We gazed back at its ware of dead cockroaches.
We watched the Thai exchange and the wide-eyed look of disbelief register on cabbie’s pock-marked face.
He turned back at us, eyes in slits.
“You say Layan?”, he asked, voice suddenly gruff.
We nodded drunken yeses.
He paused. Right hand inched closer to his back.
“Cannot be…fire. Burn down 9 years aledi.”
"Evelybody die. All the staff. All the guests...", his voice trailed off as we smiled.
Monday, October 16, 2006
The Weekend
The Banquet - Whodunnit?!
Spent the weekend glued to the TV - The Devil Wears Prada (You go Meryl!), Basic Instinct 2 (the only things looking up were Sharon Stone's fake boobies), Crash (wow!), The Banquet (the ending is killing me!)
Why is rock climbing such an expensive sport?
(RM330 for the most beautiful pair of Evolv shoes, RMXXX for sending my shoes back to Saltic to be re-soled, RM300 to join CFas so that I can climb outdoors once a month, RMXXX for discovering I now have sweaty hands and am in need of chalk)
Does anyone die from OD-ing on eggs?
(Been on Atkins about a week now and it's been pretty OK except for the tub - yes tub, of pork floss I inhaled yesterday. Been eating truck loads of eggs...has anyone on Atkins ever died from high cholesterol?)
Why do men never call when they say they will??
(A universal mystery - enough said)
Spent the weekend glued to the TV - The Devil Wears Prada (You go Meryl!), Basic Instinct 2 (the only things looking up were Sharon Stone's fake boobies), Crash (wow!), The Banquet (the ending is killing me!)
Why is rock climbing such an expensive sport?
(RM330 for the most beautiful pair of Evolv shoes, RMXXX for sending my shoes back to Saltic to be re-soled, RM300 to join CFas so that I can climb outdoors once a month, RMXXX for discovering I now have sweaty hands and am in need of chalk)
Does anyone die from OD-ing on eggs?
(Been on Atkins about a week now and it's been pretty OK except for the tub - yes tub, of pork floss I inhaled yesterday. Been eating truck loads of eggs...has anyone on Atkins ever died from high cholesterol?)
Why do men never call when they say they will??
(A universal mystery - enough said)
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Shopping Binge Disorder (SBD)
People totally underestimate a woman's vanity. It often defies all logic and any measure of reasonableness. Take me, a prime example. Yesterday, like most days, I felt horribly horribly pudgy. I put on my 'slim' clothes and nearly fell over at how much weight I've put on from my vegetarian service to the environment. I stuck my tongue out at the Monster Fat Girl who stared back at me, defiantly waved my middle finger at the resolution to stop shopping, and drove like a maniac to Cats Whiskers - the shopperholics supermarket - and proceeded to shop, Shop, SHOP away the fat.
In this fat month, I daresay I have spent a shameful RM2k on attempting to beautify myself and make myself...well, less fat. I admit, it's a disgusting amount to spend when on a tight budget. I already shopped myself to near death on my trips to Bangkok and with ongoing house maintenence, two holidays coming up, road tax, car insurance, and other year-end expenditure, shopping is simply too expensive and frivolous a therapy to be engaged in. Yet I just can't help myself. I am stupidly convinced that eye lash extensions, ball gowns, baggy black tops, yet another black dress, shoes, shoes, shoes, and enough lipgloss to make a whole cookbook shine gloriously will make me beautiful and attractive to all.
Oh state the obvious why not. That beauty comes fron within...blah, blah, blah. Try telling a fat girl that! Beauty comes from within alright - ie. there's a thin girl inside me just dying to get out!
The point I'm trying to make is that vanity has everything to do with what's ticking upstairs. To others you may look alright but to the mind's eye, alright means hideous. Stomach rings, thighs, butt cheeks, face cheeks, arms, calves are magnified ten-fold. Oh, someone call the plastic surgeon please!
The battle against delusion is a much harden one to win than than the battle against the bulge. The physical can be modified with diets and exercise but upstairs, the wiring is complicated. Years of conditioning, brain washing and image haunting from let's-not-name-the-sources can take decades to undo and is an ongoing, tiresome, boring boring issue to have to overcome.
Mind you, some days are good, when the hormones are stable, the jeans button up and the boy you fancy makes eye contact. But most days, the oestrogen ODs and your face shines worse than the Exxon Valdez slick, the fat has nowhere to go and spills into your jeans pockets and the boy you fancy gets chatted up by the hot chick with the long legs and shiny hair.
I know, they say if you feel good, you look good. But seriously girls...how true is that?
While you try to come up with a convincing answer, excuse me, I have some shopping to do.
In this fat month, I daresay I have spent a shameful RM2k on attempting to beautify myself and make myself...well, less fat. I admit, it's a disgusting amount to spend when on a tight budget. I already shopped myself to near death on my trips to Bangkok and with ongoing house maintenence, two holidays coming up, road tax, car insurance, and other year-end expenditure, shopping is simply too expensive and frivolous a therapy to be engaged in. Yet I just can't help myself. I am stupidly convinced that eye lash extensions, ball gowns, baggy black tops, yet another black dress, shoes, shoes, shoes, and enough lipgloss to make a whole cookbook shine gloriously will make me beautiful and attractive to all.
Oh state the obvious why not. That beauty comes fron within...blah, blah, blah. Try telling a fat girl that! Beauty comes from within alright - ie. there's a thin girl inside me just dying to get out!
The point I'm trying to make is that vanity has everything to do with what's ticking upstairs. To others you may look alright but to the mind's eye, alright means hideous. Stomach rings, thighs, butt cheeks, face cheeks, arms, calves are magnified ten-fold. Oh, someone call the plastic surgeon please!
The battle against delusion is a much harden one to win than than the battle against the bulge. The physical can be modified with diets and exercise but upstairs, the wiring is complicated. Years of conditioning, brain washing and image haunting from let's-not-name-the-sources can take decades to undo and is an ongoing, tiresome, boring boring issue to have to overcome.
Mind you, some days are good, when the hormones are stable, the jeans button up and the boy you fancy makes eye contact. But most days, the oestrogen ODs and your face shines worse than the Exxon Valdez slick, the fat has nowhere to go and spills into your jeans pockets and the boy you fancy gets chatted up by the hot chick with the long legs and shiny hair.
I know, they say if you feel good, you look good. But seriously girls...how true is that?
While you try to come up with a convincing answer, excuse me, I have some shopping to do.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Remembering Your Dreams
Before the flakes of daily life landed on your shoulders and snowed you down. Before your last thoughts as you dozed off at night were about the scheduler on your Outlook. Before weekdays became chock-a-block and weekends were spent recuperating, what did you think of? What carried you off to cloudless sleep, what sprung you out of bed in the morning, what kept you going - forward on the treadmill, up the ladder, or down that garden path called life?
I spent so much of my teenage years in a permanent dream state. Sitting by my bedroom window gazing out at the twinkling lights of a city asleep, as Casey Kasem droned on for 40 songs. I dreamt of being Madonna, of being swept up on stage at a Duranduran concert like Courtney Cox was by Bruce Springsteen, of being a millionaire by 30, of the name to paint on my fleet of private jets, of my Oscar acceptance speech, of being on the cover of Cosmo, of being thin in pink legwarmers.....the dreams were many, and manyfold, with every detail imagined, enacted and relived day in, day out.
My twenties were spent inside a bottle of Absolut where I only came up for air every few months. Time imploded a little because I believed I was invincible and that everything would remain as it was forever. And the dreams, they slowly whittled away because who needs dreams when there are so many drinking games to play?
Sobering up now and smarting from mistakes of the past, I wonder why I walk listlessly, am constantly overwhelmed yet haunted by sleepness nights and a blank mind. I realised that, like many, I had forgotten my dreams, the intangible food that nourishes my soul.
We have become so robotic in acting out of instinct that we have lost the skill to analyse why is it we feel what we do (or don't). Why we crave. Why we urge. Why anything?
In order to live rather than exist, I've tried to recall my dreams. Do or die, there are things I need to get done or I will forever haunt this earth in a state of unrest. Oh, they range from the monumental (winning an Oscar for adapting something amazing for film or climbing Mount Everest [serious!]), to achievable if I got my arse together (publishing damn good written work), to the frivolous (finding the poppy field in Ismail Merchant's A Room With A View and once there, be passionately kissed as in the film). Possible or not, is not the issue.
Cleo-Jean reminded me of one thing. That it is now or never. While dreams may float about until you breathe life into them, our bodies sadly don't have that kind of shelf life. They wither away. What could be worse than having the will but not the capability? Why waste all the capability we have now on lack of will? Wake up! Get moving! It's now or never! You can't rely on your next life, what if you came back as a Freesian cow?
I spent so much of my teenage years in a permanent dream state. Sitting by my bedroom window gazing out at the twinkling lights of a city asleep, as Casey Kasem droned on for 40 songs. I dreamt of being Madonna, of being swept up on stage at a Duranduran concert like Courtney Cox was by Bruce Springsteen, of being a millionaire by 30, of the name to paint on my fleet of private jets, of my Oscar acceptance speech, of being on the cover of Cosmo, of being thin in pink legwarmers.....the dreams were many, and manyfold, with every detail imagined, enacted and relived day in, day out.
My twenties were spent inside a bottle of Absolut where I only came up for air every few months. Time imploded a little because I believed I was invincible and that everything would remain as it was forever. And the dreams, they slowly whittled away because who needs dreams when there are so many drinking games to play?
Sobering up now and smarting from mistakes of the past, I wonder why I walk listlessly, am constantly overwhelmed yet haunted by sleepness nights and a blank mind. I realised that, like many, I had forgotten my dreams, the intangible food that nourishes my soul.
We have become so robotic in acting out of instinct that we have lost the skill to analyse why is it we feel what we do (or don't). Why we crave. Why we urge. Why anything?
In order to live rather than exist, I've tried to recall my dreams. Do or die, there are things I need to get done or I will forever haunt this earth in a state of unrest. Oh, they range from the monumental (winning an Oscar for adapting something amazing for film or climbing Mount Everest [serious!]), to achievable if I got my arse together (publishing damn good written work), to the frivolous (finding the poppy field in Ismail Merchant's A Room With A View and once there, be passionately kissed as in the film). Possible or not, is not the issue.
Cleo-Jean reminded me of one thing. That it is now or never. While dreams may float about until you breathe life into them, our bodies sadly don't have that kind of shelf life. They wither away. What could be worse than having the will but not the capability? Why waste all the capability we have now on lack of will? Wake up! Get moving! It's now or never! You can't rely on your next life, what if you came back as a Freesian cow?
Monday, October 09, 2006
Breath Of Fresh Air
Hack, hack, hack...the haze is killing us all! What does sky look like again?
I pulled away the curtain of smog two weekends ago and played under the loving gaze of blue skies and sunshine. In yet another pursuit of nature and spirit, I gathered a bunch of friends up to Gopeng, Perak where we abseiled down a waterfall and flew over the rapids and white water of Sungai Kampar. Neither activity was particularly difficult, and perhaps a little disappointing in the fear factor department, but I still had buckets of fun in Mother Nature's playground. There's nothing like mandi sungai, swinging of tree branches, being carted around like cattle in a lorry and eating damn good sambal al fresco.
Thumbs up to Nomad Adventure who do a great job of hosting adventure trips where you can customise activities of choice - combining the fun of white water rafting or kayaking, caving, high traversing over chasms, firefox, waterfall abseiling, jungle trekking and so on.
Whilst out in the middle of nowhere, we chanced upon a quaint little resthouse with rolling grounds and cute 'lil huts, called Rumah Rehat Adeline. If you close the eye that rests on the humungous waterpipe that runs alongside it, it is actually located smack in the middle of the most beautiful surroundings. There is the smell of nature, the lull of chirping crickets and babbling brook, and the invaluable feeling that lots and lots of wild, wild life out there, outnumbers us humans.
The experience is what I would akin to posing for a nude photograph (not that I have, I can only imagine). A heady sense of fear but complete freedom as you are stripped of fluff and reminded again, in your birthday suit, of whom you are and where you stand in the grander scheme of things. A mere human being in the face of far greater picture of life and art in motion. I reckon the jungle is a fantastic place to get off your face, run around naked and syiok your nerves nicely.
I wonder if it is age that's getting to me, or the city. But the need to get out of KL is getting stronger. Out of its shopping centres and night clubs and away from the 'fringe' people (people that don't actually feature in your life - but who are just there to periodically irritate you by asking probing questions like 'still no boyfriend yet?' or 'when's your next baby coming?' or the best one yet - 'do you know you have put on weight?').
My inbox these days are a reflection of my inner urge - newsletters from nature from organisations like Wild Asia and The Malaysian Nature Society.
I asked myself when I was in Gopeng, ducking my head in the face of oncoming tree branches as we hurled our way through the wilderness. Could I live out here? Forever? Could I practice what I preach? Live in a hut and feed chickens? Thing is I really don't know. But what I do know is that lately, I see through my life as it has been. I see its utter frivolity, its unnecessary frills, its man-made adventures. It doesn't mean I wish to pack up and head for the jungle but it sure has me rethinking about what really matters.
I know I rant on about this but I can't say it enough. That life is so much more than material wealth, climbing the corporate ladder, than being smarter than the next person or leading a more 'successful' life. I want my son to grow up feeling wet grass on his feet, knowing the scent of rain, experiencing the icy cold of river water, being awed by the complex hues of the sky and feeling in his bones the true greatness of the earth. Not from the flip of an Astro decoder, the pages of a travel magazine or even worse, from a lame re-enaction in a video game - but by him, first-hand, standing on top of a mountain, or looking down from a rock face or from inside the vastness of an cave in the hollow of the earth.
This is what I believe life should be.
Note: Save the rainforest! The 300,000 hectare Belum-Temengor virgin rainforest is partially located in Perak and stretches North, is 130 million years old (older than the Amazon - wow!). It's right here at our doorstep! As with every other natural or historical thing in this developing country, it's under threat, in this case by logging and deforestation. Just thought you might want to know...
I pulled away the curtain of smog two weekends ago and played under the loving gaze of blue skies and sunshine. In yet another pursuit of nature and spirit, I gathered a bunch of friends up to Gopeng, Perak where we abseiled down a waterfall and flew over the rapids and white water of Sungai Kampar. Neither activity was particularly difficult, and perhaps a little disappointing in the fear factor department, but I still had buckets of fun in Mother Nature's playground. There's nothing like mandi sungai, swinging of tree branches, being carted around like cattle in a lorry and eating damn good sambal al fresco.
Thumbs up to Nomad Adventure who do a great job of hosting adventure trips where you can customise activities of choice - combining the fun of white water rafting or kayaking, caving, high traversing over chasms, firefox, waterfall abseiling, jungle trekking and so on.
Whilst out in the middle of nowhere, we chanced upon a quaint little resthouse with rolling grounds and cute 'lil huts, called Rumah Rehat Adeline. If you close the eye that rests on the humungous waterpipe that runs alongside it, it is actually located smack in the middle of the most beautiful surroundings. There is the smell of nature, the lull of chirping crickets and babbling brook, and the invaluable feeling that lots and lots of wild, wild life out there, outnumbers us humans.
The experience is what I would akin to posing for a nude photograph (not that I have, I can only imagine). A heady sense of fear but complete freedom as you are stripped of fluff and reminded again, in your birthday suit, of whom you are and where you stand in the grander scheme of things. A mere human being in the face of far greater picture of life and art in motion. I reckon the jungle is a fantastic place to get off your face, run around naked and syiok your nerves nicely.
I wonder if it is age that's getting to me, or the city. But the need to get out of KL is getting stronger. Out of its shopping centres and night clubs and away from the 'fringe' people (people that don't actually feature in your life - but who are just there to periodically irritate you by asking probing questions like 'still no boyfriend yet?' or 'when's your next baby coming?' or the best one yet - 'do you know you have put on weight?').
My inbox these days are a reflection of my inner urge - newsletters from nature from organisations like Wild Asia and The Malaysian Nature Society.
I asked myself when I was in Gopeng, ducking my head in the face of oncoming tree branches as we hurled our way through the wilderness. Could I live out here? Forever? Could I practice what I preach? Live in a hut and feed chickens? Thing is I really don't know. But what I do know is that lately, I see through my life as it has been. I see its utter frivolity, its unnecessary frills, its man-made adventures. It doesn't mean I wish to pack up and head for the jungle but it sure has me rethinking about what really matters.
I know I rant on about this but I can't say it enough. That life is so much more than material wealth, climbing the corporate ladder, than being smarter than the next person or leading a more 'successful' life. I want my son to grow up feeling wet grass on his feet, knowing the scent of rain, experiencing the icy cold of river water, being awed by the complex hues of the sky and feeling in his bones the true greatness of the earth. Not from the flip of an Astro decoder, the pages of a travel magazine or even worse, from a lame re-enaction in a video game - but by him, first-hand, standing on top of a mountain, or looking down from a rock face or from inside the vastness of an cave in the hollow of the earth.
This is what I believe life should be.
Note: Save the rainforest! The 300,000 hectare Belum-Temengor virgin rainforest is partially located in Perak and stretches North, is 130 million years old (older than the Amazon - wow!). It's right here at our doorstep! As with every other natural or historical thing in this developing country, it's under threat, in this case by logging and deforestation. Just thought you might want to know...
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Life Or Something Like It
Yesterday, I attended a wedding of an old friend. When he walked down the aisle, so handsome in his tux with lovely wife on arm, my heart lurched with pride. So this is what it feels like to see someone close get married. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’ve been to a million weddings- after all, it’s a KL past time – only that this isn’t a shot gun one (!), and it was the wedding of a friend who was close during a very happy part of my life. The event filled me with wonderful memories and glad tidings for the future.
The wedding was a reunion of old friends too. People I partied with, cried with, laughed with, could have slept with, worked with, fought with, holidayed with, dined with, drank with, ended up in the police station with.
When you attend a funeral and a wedding back to back, it does things to you. I guess I am reminded of what life is. No matter where you are – in India or in Ireland, in hiding or not, you cannot escape the cycle of people being born, people uniting, and then eventual death. From the coolest person you know, to the saddest, the prettiest to the not so, everyone follows the same old cycle. Life is just that – a book with many chapters. The same for everyone.
With childhood friends, we all grow up together, lead our separate yet inextricably parallel lives – whether some marry or not, divorce or not, have kids or not, live abroad or not, make money or not – we all age, we all get our fair share of wrinkles and handles and we all meet perfunctorily at each other's life's milestones – at weddings, funerals, full moons, etc.
It’s strangely comforting to see other people go through what you are going through – albeit with a small degree of variation. There is comfort in numbers. We are all finding ourselves, dealing with ourselves, adapting as we journey together on this giant bandwagon community along the road called life.
The wedding was a reunion of old friends too. People I partied with, cried with, laughed with, could have slept with, worked with, fought with, holidayed with, dined with, drank with, ended up in the police station with.
When you attend a funeral and a wedding back to back, it does things to you. I guess I am reminded of what life is. No matter where you are – in India or in Ireland, in hiding or not, you cannot escape the cycle of people being born, people uniting, and then eventual death. From the coolest person you know, to the saddest, the prettiest to the not so, everyone follows the same old cycle. Life is just that – a book with many chapters. The same for everyone.
With childhood friends, we all grow up together, lead our separate yet inextricably parallel lives – whether some marry or not, divorce or not, have kids or not, live abroad or not, make money or not – we all age, we all get our fair share of wrinkles and handles and we all meet perfunctorily at each other's life's milestones – at weddings, funerals, full moons, etc.
It’s strangely comforting to see other people go through what you are going through – albeit with a small degree of variation. There is comfort in numbers. We are all finding ourselves, dealing with ourselves, adapting as we journey together on this giant bandwagon community along the road called life.
Goodbye Saw Eng
On Friday, my stepmother’s mother passed away, with her three children and host of grandchildren around her. They say she was at peace, despite her laboured breathing, a result of an impossibly blocked heart.
Her funeral, on the same day, filled me with so much regret, a feeling that by rule, I try not to entertain. I am a believer that you act to the best of your ability given the information you have and state you are in at the time. But death always has a way of eating into that, leaving me with nothing much but a bunch of half baked excuses.
Auntie Por Por, as I called her, for want of a better name, was a woman whom you could never think anything ill of. She was one of the most generous people I've ever known and she always looked out for everyone around her. And I mean, always.
If my son were to cough once out of the blue, she would dispense advice on what herbs to buy to improve his respiration. If you were to step in to the house, her first concern was whether you had eaten. And if you hadn’t or replied with a moment’s hesitation, she’d already be in the kitchen whipping up a storm. Indeed, when she was lying in ICU for the last 2 weeks, hooked up to a gazillion tubes and high or morphine and discomfort, her only concern was to send her children away so they could be more comfortable at home. The day they discharged her out before she relapsed and had to return, she cooked up a storm for 40 people at the mosque and managed to feed the whole family for buka puasa.
My regret is that I never tried to get to know her better. She was a woman of no barriers. And I am one with many. I approached her as somebody else’s grandmother (whom she is), but I have no doubt that she would have embraced me warmly if I had let her in. I am a critic ultimately, and I don’t give many people the honour, but Auntie Por Por was a role model. Yes, she puffed, gambled and danced her way to death, but in her treatment and respect of others lies her ultimate salvation.
Did I mention that she died on a Friday? Of Ramadan month? And for a joss stick-wielding Muslim that she was, it was also the 15th of the month – the night of the Moon Festival.
I know she is in a good place because bad places don’t take people like her in.
After the funeral, I picked up the phone and called my grandmother.
Her funeral, on the same day, filled me with so much regret, a feeling that by rule, I try not to entertain. I am a believer that you act to the best of your ability given the information you have and state you are in at the time. But death always has a way of eating into that, leaving me with nothing much but a bunch of half baked excuses.
Auntie Por Por, as I called her, for want of a better name, was a woman whom you could never think anything ill of. She was one of the most generous people I've ever known and she always looked out for everyone around her. And I mean, always.
If my son were to cough once out of the blue, she would dispense advice on what herbs to buy to improve his respiration. If you were to step in to the house, her first concern was whether you had eaten. And if you hadn’t or replied with a moment’s hesitation, she’d already be in the kitchen whipping up a storm. Indeed, when she was lying in ICU for the last 2 weeks, hooked up to a gazillion tubes and high or morphine and discomfort, her only concern was to send her children away so they could be more comfortable at home. The day they discharged her out before she relapsed and had to return, she cooked up a storm for 40 people at the mosque and managed to feed the whole family for buka puasa.
My regret is that I never tried to get to know her better. She was a woman of no barriers. And I am one with many. I approached her as somebody else’s grandmother (whom she is), but I have no doubt that she would have embraced me warmly if I had let her in. I am a critic ultimately, and I don’t give many people the honour, but Auntie Por Por was a role model. Yes, she puffed, gambled and danced her way to death, but in her treatment and respect of others lies her ultimate salvation.
Did I mention that she died on a Friday? Of Ramadan month? And for a joss stick-wielding Muslim that she was, it was also the 15th of the month – the night of the Moon Festival.
I know she is in a good place because bad places don’t take people like her in.
After the funeral, I picked up the phone and called my grandmother.
It’s All Gone!
Five days ago, I fell victim to the phenomenon that many Malaysian women are already too familiar with. No, not the Grand Nationwide Sale.
Snatch thieving.
See, I have this theory that if I were a snatch thief, I would never pick on someone like me. Simply because of my build. I mean, I look like the type who is likely to drag you off your bike instead, that I wouldn’t go without a fight. I also seem like the type who could really scream and draw enough attention to myself.
But I naively assumed that the modus operandi of snatch thieves are confined to grabbing bags when on foot or on a motorbike. Well, these days, they hunt in packs of three, on board red, shiny Kenaris. And they get you in quiet leafy neigbourhoods, outside hospitals that you would otherwise have no reason to go to unless visiting a sick friend or relative. They get you when you choose to walk on the road because the sidewalk has been turned into a flower box sprouting thorny bougainvillea every five paces. And they get you when festival time is approaching, when they need the money to celebrate.
It was of course, a terrifying experience. And shocking, no doubt. And something else I can’t put my finger on. I looked into my attacker’s eyes as we played tug on my poor bag. Maybe it is my imagination, for it is easier to feel hate rather than sympathise with a man who is so desperate for an easy way out – but I thought I saw ruthlessness in him. That he had crossed many points of no return and would stop at nothing for he could not. And I felt defeated for they won. Out of sheer strength and advantage, they won. It was not an equal fight. I go mad in the face of injustice.
I let go because of vanity. Because I did not want to see the road scrape the skin off my face. And the best I could do was a feeble “bloody shit you!”
So, ladies, and gentlemen too, beware on the road outside Damansara Specialist Centre – apparently snatches occur there twice a week, right outside the guardhouse. I know it seems like you hit a gold mine when you find a plethora of lovely available spots - all in the shade right outside the hospital. Free and legal too! And you don’t wonder why they are empty? Park inside and pay your RM2!
Snatch thieving.
See, I have this theory that if I were a snatch thief, I would never pick on someone like me. Simply because of my build. I mean, I look like the type who is likely to drag you off your bike instead, that I wouldn’t go without a fight. I also seem like the type who could really scream and draw enough attention to myself.
But I naively assumed that the modus operandi of snatch thieves are confined to grabbing bags when on foot or on a motorbike. Well, these days, they hunt in packs of three, on board red, shiny Kenaris. And they get you in quiet leafy neigbourhoods, outside hospitals that you would otherwise have no reason to go to unless visiting a sick friend or relative. They get you when you choose to walk on the road because the sidewalk has been turned into a flower box sprouting thorny bougainvillea every five paces. And they get you when festival time is approaching, when they need the money to celebrate.
It was of course, a terrifying experience. And shocking, no doubt. And something else I can’t put my finger on. I looked into my attacker’s eyes as we played tug on my poor bag. Maybe it is my imagination, for it is easier to feel hate rather than sympathise with a man who is so desperate for an easy way out – but I thought I saw ruthlessness in him. That he had crossed many points of no return and would stop at nothing for he could not. And I felt defeated for they won. Out of sheer strength and advantage, they won. It was not an equal fight. I go mad in the face of injustice.
I let go because of vanity. Because I did not want to see the road scrape the skin off my face. And the best I could do was a feeble “bloody shit you!”
So, ladies, and gentlemen too, beware on the road outside Damansara Specialist Centre – apparently snatches occur there twice a week, right outside the guardhouse. I know it seems like you hit a gold mine when you find a plethora of lovely available spots - all in the shade right outside the hospital. Free and legal too! And you don’t wonder why they are empty? Park inside and pay your RM2!
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Beauty
Noticed this on a friend's blog. Sent goose bumps up my right arm. I often wonder if lyrics are lost in songs and melody - they seem so much cleaner on paper or read out loud to yourself. Anyway, this one is beautiful and surmises the uncompromising creatures of the world that we all are today.
To have every man but to love only one
To wake with the moon and sleep with the sun
To be a sinner and saint, a lover and friend
To know a beginning but never an end
To fly in the ocean and swim in the skies
Believer in truth, defendant of lies
To know the purest love, the deepest pain
To be lost and found, again and again and again
To know the power of wealth and poverty
To taste every moment and try everything
To be hailed as a hero and branded a fool
Believe in the sacred and break every rule
To give into pleasure with no boundaries
Living in chaos and harmony
To feel the touch of a man, a woman's caress
To know the limits of torture and tenderness
These are the dreams of an impossible princess
by K.Minogue/S.Anderson/D.Seaman
To have every man but to love only one
To wake with the moon and sleep with the sun
To be a sinner and saint, a lover and friend
To know a beginning but never an end
To fly in the ocean and swim in the skies
Believer in truth, defendant of lies
To know the purest love, the deepest pain
To be lost and found, again and again and again
To know the power of wealth and poverty
To taste every moment and try everything
To be hailed as a hero and branded a fool
Believe in the sacred and break every rule
To give into pleasure with no boundaries
Living in chaos and harmony
To feel the touch of a man, a woman's caress
To know the limits of torture and tenderness
These are the dreams of an impossible princess
by K.Minogue/S.Anderson/D.Seaman
Monday, September 25, 2006
Foo-Liauuu!!
I finally took my climbing shoes outdoors to smear some limestone on Sunday.
I knew it would be good.
I didn't think it would be fantastic.
But, it was fantabulous!!!!!!!!!! If only there was such a word...
A bunch of hard core climbers took pity on the top rope climber that I am and permitted me to to tag along and use their equipment. Would you believe I actually went outdoor climbing without a belay device?! Time I get one methinks...
I was treated to a 5 minutre trek through hard core jungle (well, hard core for me urban person) and I say 'treat' beacuse I have been longing to get into some green for the longest time. My only comment is that I could still hear the sound of traffic from the Kuantan highway up on the wall - but I guess that's the small price you pay for fab walls within the vicinity of KL.
Nyamuk in Batu Cabes is aptly named because the mosquitos are the size of horses and come charging at you as you step off the grass of the kampung behind you and the enter the beckoning lushness. We practically smoked the place to death with mini fires, mosquito coils, insect repellant and insect spray and managed to stave them off for a while. The climbing was really really fulfilling. I started off with Orange Juice before nearly getting stuck up on In Guns We Trust (forgot to come out of a crack and realised that I had overshot the skinny exit - so had to retrace a few steps). Then the rain came down and we were forced to trek back on slippery mud.
Over fried chicken and chapati in downtown Bolton Industrial Park, the sun came out again and we decided 2 hours wasn't enough. We made it to Damai for the rest of the afternoon and I had the best fun up on AciAci Buka Pintu and another with a boulder start that I can't remember the name of.
I'm still suffering from a major high and its hardto focus on work when your mind is still outdoors. I'm so proud - I managed a 6b rating without red pointing but then again I did that top rope so its more like a 5c - 6a. I am so proud of myself for not freaking out at all - not even for a second despite the 30m high walls and very disconcerting red ants and bird shit on my hands.
Fabulous, fabulous, fabulous.
Can't wait to climb on Wednesday, even if it is indoors.
I knew it would be good.
I didn't think it would be fantastic.
But, it was fantabulous!!!!!!!!!! If only there was such a word...
A bunch of hard core climbers took pity on the top rope climber that I am and permitted me to to tag along and use their equipment. Would you believe I actually went outdoor climbing without a belay device?! Time I get one methinks...
I was treated to a 5 minutre trek through hard core jungle (well, hard core for me urban person) and I say 'treat' beacuse I have been longing to get into some green for the longest time. My only comment is that I could still hear the sound of traffic from the Kuantan highway up on the wall - but I guess that's the small price you pay for fab walls within the vicinity of KL.
Nyamuk in Batu Cabes is aptly named because the mosquitos are the size of horses and come charging at you as you step off the grass of the kampung behind you and the enter the beckoning lushness. We practically smoked the place to death with mini fires, mosquito coils, insect repellant and insect spray and managed to stave them off for a while. The climbing was really really fulfilling. I started off with Orange Juice before nearly getting stuck up on In Guns We Trust (forgot to come out of a crack and realised that I had overshot the skinny exit - so had to retrace a few steps). Then the rain came down and we were forced to trek back on slippery mud.
Over fried chicken and chapati in downtown Bolton Industrial Park, the sun came out again and we decided 2 hours wasn't enough. We made it to Damai for the rest of the afternoon and I had the best fun up on AciAci Buka Pintu and another with a boulder start that I can't remember the name of.
I'm still suffering from a major high and its hardto focus on work when your mind is still outdoors. I'm so proud - I managed a 6b rating without red pointing but then again I did that top rope so its more like a 5c - 6a. I am so proud of myself for not freaking out at all - not even for a second despite the 30m high walls and very disconcerting red ants and bird shit on my hands.
Fabulous, fabulous, fabulous.
Can't wait to climb on Wednesday, even if it is indoors.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Justice Prevails
To be sung to the tune of Nirvana’s Lithium:
“I’m so happy
‘Cos today my man’s in th’house
Lookin’ good
‘N kicking Dilana in the mouth
Friday morning
What Evs down and Ice Man fried
To head the band
‘Till forever comes and goe-sssss……
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeaaaaaaaaaah
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah!”
“I’m so happy
‘Cos today my man’s in th’house
Lookin’ good
‘N kicking Dilana in the mouth
Friday morning
What Evs down and Ice Man fried
To head the band
‘Till forever comes and goe-sssss……
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeaaaaaaaaaah
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah!”
Thursday, September 14, 2006
A First
Hahah! Inspired by TLee and his gang of rockers every Weds and Thurs (and after today no more for a year - boohoo), I've written my first poem/verse of sorts - ever! It's fun!
My One Regret
I’ve traveled beyond the endless seas
Flown with a dozen airlines
Shaved ice off brand new skis
With a ton of air miles they call mine
I’ve sunk into caves under the waves
Found holes to hide in the skies
Stood up for myself eyes ablaze
And cried for a million good byes
Life has been kind
Life has been wise
But I still cannot forget
The smile you left behind
The key to my acquittal
You dared me to find
I’ve walked on moonlit nights
Feathered pages of volumes old
Giggled with Google and other sites
Apologized for the lies told
I’ve sung Canto and popped
Flushed toxins from inside out
But the memories they do not stop
Of a time when we loved out loud
Life has been kind
Life has been wise
But I still cannot forget
The smile you left behind
The key to my acquittal
You dared me to find
Time ticks its usual reminder
Memories fade and turn sepia
But each day the truth grows stronger
I await redemption but for how much longer?
Life has been kind
Life has been wise
But I still cannot forget
The smile you left behind
The key to my acquittal
You dared me to find
My One Regret
I’ve traveled beyond the endless seas
Flown with a dozen airlines
Shaved ice off brand new skis
With a ton of air miles they call mine
I’ve sunk into caves under the waves
Found holes to hide in the skies
Stood up for myself eyes ablaze
And cried for a million good byes
Life has been kind
Life has been wise
But I still cannot forget
The smile you left behind
The key to my acquittal
You dared me to find
I’ve walked on moonlit nights
Feathered pages of volumes old
Giggled with Google and other sites
Apologized for the lies told
I’ve sung Canto and popped
Flushed toxins from inside out
But the memories they do not stop
Of a time when we loved out loud
Life has been kind
Life has been wise
But I still cannot forget
The smile you left behind
The key to my acquittal
You dared me to find
Time ticks its usual reminder
Memories fade and turn sepia
But each day the truth grows stronger
I await redemption but for how much longer?
Life has been kind
Life has been wise
But I still cannot forget
The smile you left behind
The key to my acquittal
You dared me to find
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Eye of the Storm
You know, there is so much to be said about breaks. I say breaks and not holidays because often, holidays aren't - I have been on holidays and returned even more stressed out than when I left - and breaks are. A respite from everyday, that is, a reminder of life and its meaning. Because as I mentioned before, we are all born knowing deep down.
In the last few weeks, I have travelled quite a bit - twice to Bangkok and Hua Hin. And though they have been for work, one was more like an awakening and the other, the absolute in retail therapy.
Hi, my name is Candice and I am a shopper. I admit I never fully realised the benefits of shopping until now. Snigger and pigeon-hole me all you want. There is something about raking a city's malls with a fine-tooth comb that at once exhausts the physical self but nourishes the soul. Indeed, snigger and piegon-hole me all you want.
The deep meaningful conversations I had with myself as I combed Chatuchak market were a classic. The noise and din of salesmen yelling, the burn of the sun on my freshly-tattooed shoulder, the suffocating heat underneath the makeshift plastic roofing were like the necessary conduits to hear my inner voice. Meditative peace amid the chaos?
"Oooh, love that top, let's take a closer look."
"Are you kidding me? You'd look like a housewife. Not being seen with you in that!"
"You know housewives are a misunderstood species - given alot of bad press."
"You don't say. If only people truly felt what it was like".
"The repressed few. Well, not few. A good slice of the population these days. Who fights for their rights?'
"God I expect. In salvation. Housewives go to heaven where they become men and screw women around."
"Ha...so they come back to earth then..."
Conversations like that....either the beginning of my descent into madness or elevation to enlightenment. Same thing, in essence, no?
Anyway, there is a book that I am writing as a Work In Progress. It's called Caffe Conversations. I once showed bits of it to an ex who brushed it off as cockswallop. It smarted at the time, but I giggle now at the memory. Ah well, not everyone can be a fan.
You see, I am a lover of conversations. When I chance upon a good one (with or without myself), my heart races, my eyes dilate and I am yours truly 100%. Conversations are like nights out on the town in KL. You keep having them, but none are memorable until suddenly when you least plan it or least expect it, a mother of one hits you. Like having the best fun in a really uncool bar or pulling when wearing stone-washed jeans for example.
And strangely enough, I've had the best conversations mostly in cafes or places of drink (ie. pubs). Some under the influence of alcohol; inevitably, one's throat gets dry from all that talking, but mostly sober.
So this little book is a compilation of conversations - the ones that blew my mind. The ones that I can still recall, word for word, to this day. The ones that are a bit like the little vinyasas in life, that bridge one chapter to another. Perhaps the faded manuscript shall be discovered when I die by mourning grandchildren, at the bottom of my underwear drawer, moth-balled amid tents of granny knickers. A bit like the ribboned love letters in the attic but not as romantic.
It's always good to dream. 'Cos without realising it, we make them happen. Every inch of our actions, every lift of an arm, every step in the direction, every decision made is sub consciously an effort to steer ourselves towards the heavens. Make concrete that cloud in the sky.
I know you may question my sobriety at this point. For goodness, sake, it's 10am on a Wednesday morning. I have a 4-year old to pick up from school in 2 hours. Sometimes I too forget I am a mother. I haven't consumed a drop of alcohol in 2 months, not inhaled a puff in one and not taken a bite of meat in 2 weeks. Things have never been clearer.
In the last few weeks, I have travelled quite a bit - twice to Bangkok and Hua Hin. And though they have been for work, one was more like an awakening and the other, the absolute in retail therapy.
Hi, my name is Candice and I am a shopper. I admit I never fully realised the benefits of shopping until now. Snigger and pigeon-hole me all you want. There is something about raking a city's malls with a fine-tooth comb that at once exhausts the physical self but nourishes the soul. Indeed, snigger and piegon-hole me all you want.
The deep meaningful conversations I had with myself as I combed Chatuchak market were a classic. The noise and din of salesmen yelling, the burn of the sun on my freshly-tattooed shoulder, the suffocating heat underneath the makeshift plastic roofing were like the necessary conduits to hear my inner voice. Meditative peace amid the chaos?
"Oooh, love that top, let's take a closer look."
"Are you kidding me? You'd look like a housewife. Not being seen with you in that!"
"You know housewives are a misunderstood species - given alot of bad press."
"You don't say. If only people truly felt what it was like".
"The repressed few. Well, not few. A good slice of the population these days. Who fights for their rights?'
"God I expect. In salvation. Housewives go to heaven where they become men and screw women around."
"Ha...so they come back to earth then..."
Conversations like that....either the beginning of my descent into madness or elevation to enlightenment. Same thing, in essence, no?
Anyway, there is a book that I am writing as a Work In Progress. It's called Caffe Conversations. I once showed bits of it to an ex who brushed it off as cockswallop. It smarted at the time, but I giggle now at the memory. Ah well, not everyone can be a fan.
You see, I am a lover of conversations. When I chance upon a good one (with or without myself), my heart races, my eyes dilate and I am yours truly 100%. Conversations are like nights out on the town in KL. You keep having them, but none are memorable until suddenly when you least plan it or least expect it, a mother of one hits you. Like having the best fun in a really uncool bar or pulling when wearing stone-washed jeans for example.
And strangely enough, I've had the best conversations mostly in cafes or places of drink (ie. pubs). Some under the influence of alcohol; inevitably, one's throat gets dry from all that talking, but mostly sober.
So this little book is a compilation of conversations - the ones that blew my mind. The ones that I can still recall, word for word, to this day. The ones that are a bit like the little vinyasas in life, that bridge one chapter to another. Perhaps the faded manuscript shall be discovered when I die by mourning grandchildren, at the bottom of my underwear drawer, moth-balled amid tents of granny knickers. A bit like the ribboned love letters in the attic but not as romantic.
It's always good to dream. 'Cos without realising it, we make them happen. Every inch of our actions, every lift of an arm, every step in the direction, every decision made is sub consciously an effort to steer ourselves towards the heavens. Make concrete that cloud in the sky.
I know you may question my sobriety at this point. For goodness, sake, it's 10am on a Wednesday morning. I have a 4-year old to pick up from school in 2 hours. Sometimes I too forget I am a mother. I haven't consumed a drop of alcohol in 2 months, not inhaled a puff in one and not taken a bite of meat in 2 weeks. Things have never been clearer.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Switched On
My friend Edwin and I have lately fallen into a mode of mutual respect. I admire his amazing sense of composition and technical know-how in the photographs he displays on KLDP - which pampers his ego; and he talks of my writing as if my sentences were constructed of gems strung together - which pampers mine. So for the moment, our Tiger stripes are in sync and there is harmony between us.
With childhood friends, familiarity tends to breed a blind spot over appreciation. There is much beauty and talent I see in each one of my inner circle friends but I cannot remember the last time I told them so. It's as time-enduring friendship is a tacit approval of who you are and everything you will ever do - which in a way, I guess it is. Well, this time, I throw a spanner into the works. I simply must give Edwin kudos for travelling down a less trodden career path. In this town of assembly line lawyers, doctors and investment bankers, try telling people you are an actor and not receive a gushed "Why on earth?!"
Without an actor friend, I doubt if I would be so exposed to the little known shoplot otherwise known as Malaysian Theatre, in this shoppping mall-infatuated city.
Excuse me while I go off on a tangent and vent - KL, the city I live in, is sucked into the powerful vortex of Consumerism - an apparently inescapable fate of this modern age. It is a town where children are brought believing they are allergic to the sun like their snowy-skinned, SK-2-brandishing mothers and prefer to live from one weekend to the next from home to car to shopping mall to car to home. They can name you the latest Dreamworks movies faster than they can islands in the sun. Life may have become more global but certainly less about getting out. It's all Smart this and IT that and less about touch, feel, sense, taste and smell of what's real and yet intangible.
Of course, I once happily surfed the waves of this deluge of designer brands, hot hot trends and the art of being seen in the right outfit. Ahh, yes, I do still gets shivers at the mere mention of a sale, but these days, I also realise that shivers are possible inside a local theatre.
I have almost always gone to the theatre merely in suport of a friend, never for the love of the art. You see, I was (maybe still am) a bit of a blockbuster buff - art house movies, little indie productions and two-bit, low-budget theatre with minimal props have never staved my appetite for big=beautiful.
But to answer your question Edwin, "Yes, The Second Link did indeed restore some faith in Malaysian theatre". But more importantly, it created a new chapter in my book of beliefs - a faith in Malaysian writers. My, do we have a talented pool. I am awed, sincerely amazed and very, very humbled.
After listening to what we pass of as advertisements on TV and God-have-mercy, the ones on the radio, and reading the used-to-death phrase "loved ones" - so much so that it sounds cornier than a corn field, I had closed the door on anything English, Made in Malaysia.
The Second Link reminded me of a sepia-toned era when people were henteel in thought and manner, when Prime Ministers confessed to having soft spots for whiskey and tiger hunting. Back to an age of innocence and face value, before the flag of surpression was waved in the name of national good.
I thank the writers who captured the spirit of Malaysians then, which without their scribbling pens jotting down every innate detail, those who had once tasted it would never be reminded in such technicolour and for those of us who never lived it, never been given the gift of imagining.
I thank the writers who expressed with such honesty the Chinese passion for pork; and for capturing in such heart-wrenching beauty, the grief of a mother who lost a son in the racial riots of 1969 - a story with such clear parallels in my family, that although I was not born then, caused me to feel the pain that was so real to my grandmother. I thank the writers who like magicians who effortlessly pulled out an endless stream of literal gags from their luggage of letters.
I can only ever aspire to be in the same league.
For someone like me who envisioned myself as a bit of a literary artist, The Second Link fed me a bite of humble pie. I apologise for ever lumping Malaysian writers together under the same spool as human waste, for I learn that there are writers and then there are writers. And not all are of the same make.
With childhood friends, familiarity tends to breed a blind spot over appreciation. There is much beauty and talent I see in each one of my inner circle friends but I cannot remember the last time I told them so. It's as time-enduring friendship is a tacit approval of who you are and everything you will ever do - which in a way, I guess it is. Well, this time, I throw a spanner into the works. I simply must give Edwin kudos for travelling down a less trodden career path. In this town of assembly line lawyers, doctors and investment bankers, try telling people you are an actor and not receive a gushed "Why on earth?!"
Without an actor friend, I doubt if I would be so exposed to the little known shoplot otherwise known as Malaysian Theatre, in this shoppping mall-infatuated city.
Excuse me while I go off on a tangent and vent - KL, the city I live in, is sucked into the powerful vortex of Consumerism - an apparently inescapable fate of this modern age. It is a town where children are brought believing they are allergic to the sun like their snowy-skinned, SK-2-brandishing mothers and prefer to live from one weekend to the next from home to car to shopping mall to car to home. They can name you the latest Dreamworks movies faster than they can islands in the sun. Life may have become more global but certainly less about getting out. It's all Smart this and IT that and less about touch, feel, sense, taste and smell of what's real and yet intangible.
Of course, I once happily surfed the waves of this deluge of designer brands, hot hot trends and the art of being seen in the right outfit. Ahh, yes, I do still gets shivers at the mere mention of a sale, but these days, I also realise that shivers are possible inside a local theatre.
I have almost always gone to the theatre merely in suport of a friend, never for the love of the art. You see, I was (maybe still am) a bit of a blockbuster buff - art house movies, little indie productions and two-bit, low-budget theatre with minimal props have never staved my appetite for big=beautiful.
But to answer your question Edwin, "Yes, The Second Link did indeed restore some faith in Malaysian theatre". But more importantly, it created a new chapter in my book of beliefs - a faith in Malaysian writers. My, do we have a talented pool. I am awed, sincerely amazed and very, very humbled.
After listening to what we pass of as advertisements on TV and God-have-mercy, the ones on the radio, and reading the used-to-death phrase "loved ones" - so much so that it sounds cornier than a corn field, I had closed the door on anything English, Made in Malaysia.
The Second Link reminded me of a sepia-toned era when people were henteel in thought and manner, when Prime Ministers confessed to having soft spots for whiskey and tiger hunting. Back to an age of innocence and face value, before the flag of surpression was waved in the name of national good.
I thank the writers who captured the spirit of Malaysians then, which without their scribbling pens jotting down every innate detail, those who had once tasted it would never be reminded in such technicolour and for those of us who never lived it, never been given the gift of imagining.
I thank the writers who expressed with such honesty the Chinese passion for pork; and for capturing in such heart-wrenching beauty, the grief of a mother who lost a son in the racial riots of 1969 - a story with such clear parallels in my family, that although I was not born then, caused me to feel the pain that was so real to my grandmother. I thank the writers who like magicians who effortlessly pulled out an endless stream of literal gags from their luggage of letters.
I can only ever aspire to be in the same league.
For someone like me who envisioned myself as a bit of a literary artist, The Second Link fed me a bite of humble pie. I apologise for ever lumping Malaysian writers together under the same spool as human waste, for I learn that there are writers and then there are writers. And not all are of the same make.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Elightenment Anyone?
Zen hotch-potch. Candle-flickering, hippie-chanting, lotus-seated daydreaming. The concept of enlightenment was to me, a Buddhist buzzword that had long left its influence under the Banyan tree and slid off my thick urban dwelling, corporate/social ladder climbing, numb neuron skin that proudly bore the word 'Indifference' tatooed over my third eye.
Like many aspects in my life, I stumbled on my journey to the door, that marks the road, that leads to the gates, that opens to the path to Enlightenment. In short, I arrived at this twinkling of awareness outside my teeny weeny world of existence by taking a 'wrong' turn somewhere upstream. And secondly, my awareness is only just the top of the iceberg. There are such depths to discover before reaching the tip of consciousness.
The funny thing is that epiphanies, for want of a better word, always seem to lurk up on you. It's like falling in love. There is always talk of the earth moving but more than likely, it's a dawning or slow realisation.
For me, being aware of my role in the universe has always been a bit vague. Like many I sat through half awake in science class as the teacher droned on about the earth and the planets and all in between. And the times when there's been nothing on Star World and the voice over in the Discovery Channel narrated about energy matters. All that may have filtered sub- counsciously into my brain but there was never any Realisation on my part. I never once sat up and said "Really? Wow!"
I have never had a light switch on in my heart, the seat of my soul. To truly awaken? No. Not me. That was stuff for others - for the spiritually attuned. Me? I don't even feel hunger - I just eat when the clock tells me to.
So it was a little bit of a surprise when I sat through a presentation by a professor from RMIT last week and everything that he told me and showed me on his powerpoint just made so much sense. I discovered myself nodding as he spoke and excitement grow in my chest as if I had just discovered a new scientific theory that would be named after me. The piece fit in the puzzle, the coin dropped, I heard the click. It all seemed so logical, so simple that I was amazed that I had never made the connections before.
Of course, he went in to so much more. But the crux is this: We are all part of the universe as energy matters floating about. What comes through our body - water, food, thoughts, emotions - come out as energy also - albeit in different forms - whether its waste, neagtive emotion, happy emotion, whatever. When we die, we transform into energy of another sort but we still maintain as part of the universe. Our actions create a cause and effect on our universe - meaning what we do will end up affecting us in turn.
In turn, this leads to a responsibility. A responsibility that what we do, how we feel, and how we live our lives will ultimately affect the balance of the universe. Whether we lead loving lives filled with positivity, or whether we eat meat and fuel the engine of battery farms, whether we meditate and walk around balanced - all aspects of our existence, from the very micro functions of our bodies to the very macro of how we want to live, is a reponsibility. Its a responsibility to our Creator (if you believe in one), to Mother Earth (if you believe in her), to the energies that share this universe with us. Also a responsibility to our Ego, our sense of self.
Just realising that alone blew my mind away. As I said before, it's nothing new- I'm not declaring anything that we all haven't heard at some point or another. But I guess, when you are ready to accept something, the answers will come. So life will continue to take you on its merry go round of ups and downs, and you may live several chapters of your life before things mean something eventually. Whether you're 18 or 80.
And that was when I realised that I had always asked myself these questions, that I had always known certain things. That I am not spiritually inept after all. The blockage lay in the fact that I never listened. Or if I had, I never acknowledged that I knew.
Isn't there some theory that all babies are born knowing? Just that over time, we forget and numb ourselves. Fade out what we know and depend on modernities to do the thinking ad answering for us.
And in a slow dawning, I realised that my spiritutal self, my soul, has always been around and not fast asleep or numbed by alcohol as I had always thought it was.
Like many aspects in my life, I stumbled on my journey to the door, that marks the road, that leads to the gates, that opens to the path to Enlightenment. In short, I arrived at this twinkling of awareness outside my teeny weeny world of existence by taking a 'wrong' turn somewhere upstream. And secondly, my awareness is only just the top of the iceberg. There are such depths to discover before reaching the tip of consciousness.
The funny thing is that epiphanies, for want of a better word, always seem to lurk up on you. It's like falling in love. There is always talk of the earth moving but more than likely, it's a dawning or slow realisation.
For me, being aware of my role in the universe has always been a bit vague. Like many I sat through half awake in science class as the teacher droned on about the earth and the planets and all in between. And the times when there's been nothing on Star World and the voice over in the Discovery Channel narrated about energy matters. All that may have filtered sub- counsciously into my brain but there was never any Realisation on my part. I never once sat up and said "Really? Wow!"
I have never had a light switch on in my heart, the seat of my soul. To truly awaken? No. Not me. That was stuff for others - for the spiritually attuned. Me? I don't even feel hunger - I just eat when the clock tells me to.
So it was a little bit of a surprise when I sat through a presentation by a professor from RMIT last week and everything that he told me and showed me on his powerpoint just made so much sense. I discovered myself nodding as he spoke and excitement grow in my chest as if I had just discovered a new scientific theory that would be named after me. The piece fit in the puzzle, the coin dropped, I heard the click. It all seemed so logical, so simple that I was amazed that I had never made the connections before.
Of course, he went in to so much more. But the crux is this: We are all part of the universe as energy matters floating about. What comes through our body - water, food, thoughts, emotions - come out as energy also - albeit in different forms - whether its waste, neagtive emotion, happy emotion, whatever. When we die, we transform into energy of another sort but we still maintain as part of the universe. Our actions create a cause and effect on our universe - meaning what we do will end up affecting us in turn.
In turn, this leads to a responsibility. A responsibility that what we do, how we feel, and how we live our lives will ultimately affect the balance of the universe. Whether we lead loving lives filled with positivity, or whether we eat meat and fuel the engine of battery farms, whether we meditate and walk around balanced - all aspects of our existence, from the very micro functions of our bodies to the very macro of how we want to live, is a reponsibility. Its a responsibility to our Creator (if you believe in one), to Mother Earth (if you believe in her), to the energies that share this universe with us. Also a responsibility to our Ego, our sense of self.
Just realising that alone blew my mind away. As I said before, it's nothing new- I'm not declaring anything that we all haven't heard at some point or another. But I guess, when you are ready to accept something, the answers will come. So life will continue to take you on its merry go round of ups and downs, and you may live several chapters of your life before things mean something eventually. Whether you're 18 or 80.
And that was when I realised that I had always asked myself these questions, that I had always known certain things. That I am not spiritually inept after all. The blockage lay in the fact that I never listened. Or if I had, I never acknowledged that I knew.
Isn't there some theory that all babies are born knowing? Just that over time, we forget and numb ourselves. Fade out what we know and depend on modernities to do the thinking ad answering for us.
And in a slow dawning, I realised that my spiritutal self, my soul, has always been around and not fast asleep or numbed by alcohol as I had always thought it was.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Chiller
The short story - some loved it, some didn't get it. Someone said it was scary.
I repeat that I'm not a fan of horror but I think there is fun to be had in scaring others. Here's an attempt to do so. I think I was successful - I managed to scare myself with my own writing.
Mary Jane’s Shoes
Her red, red hair trailed behind her like the coloured streamers of a pom pom in mid celebration. She flew higher into the air. Up, up, up, the swing carried her.
Shrieks of laughter erupted as her white chubby thighs wobbled, her polka dotted skirt flapping up and down in sync with the motion of the swing. Shoes were kicked off gaily in upswing - red little jellies that sparkled like rubies in the sun landing at the edge of the garden where the mowed lawn ended and the great redwoods began.
She leaned her weight back so that her hair swept the ground like a broom. Knuckles white as she clutched the yellow painted metal chain that kept her head from scraping the bottom.
“Mommy! Mommy”, she laughed “Look at me!”
“Mary Jane!” Mommy answered from inside the candy-blue house. “Come in and wash your hands at once!”
Mary Jane, obedient to the very fibre of the silk ribbons in her hair waited slowly for the swing to slow its dance and before she herself danced into the house. Humming Pat A Cake as she went.
From beyond the trees, it watched silently with ragged breath. For that was what it had become. The soil underneath escaping with each rushed exhale.
It watched as the noises from the house receded, as Mary Jane washed her snowy white hands under the dripping tap in the bathroom at the front of the house. It reached out for the left sandal and slowly pulled it into the woods.
“Mary Jane! Where are your shoes?”
Mommy’s holler rang out loud and clear in the open as white fluffy slippers shuffled around the slabs that held the swing in place.
Mutterings and a big sigh and Mommy disappeared into the house again. Mission unaccomplished.
The house fell silent again. A cloven hoof closed over the right shoe and pulled it into the ominous blackness, its pink laces clutching desperately at each blade of grass as it trailed past in graceful finale.
I repeat that I'm not a fan of horror but I think there is fun to be had in scaring others. Here's an attempt to do so. I think I was successful - I managed to scare myself with my own writing.
Mary Jane’s Shoes
Her red, red hair trailed behind her like the coloured streamers of a pom pom in mid celebration. She flew higher into the air. Up, up, up, the swing carried her.
Shrieks of laughter erupted as her white chubby thighs wobbled, her polka dotted skirt flapping up and down in sync with the motion of the swing. Shoes were kicked off gaily in upswing - red little jellies that sparkled like rubies in the sun landing at the edge of the garden where the mowed lawn ended and the great redwoods began.
She leaned her weight back so that her hair swept the ground like a broom. Knuckles white as she clutched the yellow painted metal chain that kept her head from scraping the bottom.
“Mommy! Mommy”, she laughed “Look at me!”
“Mary Jane!” Mommy answered from inside the candy-blue house. “Come in and wash your hands at once!”
Mary Jane, obedient to the very fibre of the silk ribbons in her hair waited slowly for the swing to slow its dance and before she herself danced into the house. Humming Pat A Cake as she went.
From beyond the trees, it watched silently with ragged breath. For that was what it had become. The soil underneath escaping with each rushed exhale.
It watched as the noises from the house receded, as Mary Jane washed her snowy white hands under the dripping tap in the bathroom at the front of the house. It reached out for the left sandal and slowly pulled it into the woods.
“Mary Jane! Where are your shoes?”
Mommy’s holler rang out loud and clear in the open as white fluffy slippers shuffled around the slabs that held the swing in place.
Mutterings and a big sigh and Mommy disappeared into the house again. Mission unaccomplished.
The house fell silent again. A cloven hoof closed over the right shoe and pulled it into the ominous blackness, its pink laces clutching desperately at each blade of grass as it trailed past in graceful finale.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Literary Update
I know I blog alot about love affairs and relationships but in reality, my life cannot be further from those subjects. Most people think I am elusive (ie. away from the 'scene') because they think I'm caught up with some bloke. Honestly, it cannot be further from the truth.
My days lately are overflowing with so much that I often find myself muttering about the lack of hours in a day. When a friend asks you out for lunch and the earliest you can plan for is mid-September, the term 'bogged down' is an understatement.
Life is Zhiwei, work, climbing, work, Zhiwei, climbing. And as of last week - reading also. If you haven't been, GO. The sale is on at The Big Bookshop on the 1st floor of Wisma Atria in Damansara Utama. Rows and rows of fiction, management books, kids activity and story books, stationery, toys, cookbooks...blah blah blah. Put it this way, if you have been starved of input and wish to make more sense in your output, here's a good place to start.
I walked up to the counter to pay. The cashier picked a book from my mountain of books and appeared confused, his forehead furrowing with lines. "RM39.90? So expensive?", he muttered to himself. He went to check the price and came back with an smile. He punched the price into the register. RM8.00.
Enough said.
I spent precious work time on Saturday in bed, on the sofa, at the dining table reading feverishly. I consumed 2 books in one day, and am still left parched for more.
I discovered Tom Robbins and am reeling. How come I have never read his work before? My God this man writes the way The Doors plays music. It's provoking, mind-blowing and God, is it sexy! I love intelligent men and I love it when they show it off! When I grow up, this is how I want to write. Tom Robbins is my American Idol. Ducks Flying Backwards is a collection of short stories, interviews, reviews, snippets of stuff he has written over the years. I am keen to have a go at his novels - I wonder what his plots are like...
Lotus Growing From The Mud (or something like that) is Goldie Hawn's novel about herself. The novel is like her, with many layers. You start off thinking how simplistic her language is and why indeed you are reading it in the first place when you have recipes to vet. But the beauty of this book is not how she writes, but really her story. Amazing,inspirational stuff that Oprah-lovers would devour like a truffle.
Then I watched Lady In The Water over the weekend. I am no horror fan and was a bit sceptical and was sooooo glad when it turned out not to be a horror after all. Not even a thriller. It's a lovely story about humanity and all the feel good stuff. Loved it to bits. Would watch it again. M. Shyamalan movies always leave a tingle up the spine no? By the way, has anybody noticed how well built he is? Mmmmm...slurp...
I climbed a trad wall yesterday - for those who don't know - it's a wall that's fashioned like a real rock wall - ie. with cracks and lines etc rather than coloured holds. It was FABULOUS and I have large bruises to show for it. Left Camp 5 feeling like a hero.
You must think it sounds like I don't have that much work if I am off gallavanting about movies and rocks and blogs. The truth is, I have. I am postitvely snowed under. If I were to work non-stop I would have to keepo going for at least a week. The thing is, despite that, I make time for me. If not, I would explode as many others do on a constant basis. I make time to do things that allow me to breathe. Yes, it impinges on work time, but hey, priorities. I need to be alive and sane, no?
Having said that, back to work...to quote Green Day, "Wake Me Up When September Ends..."
My days lately are overflowing with so much that I often find myself muttering about the lack of hours in a day. When a friend asks you out for lunch and the earliest you can plan for is mid-September, the term 'bogged down' is an understatement.
Life is Zhiwei, work, climbing, work, Zhiwei, climbing. And as of last week - reading also. If you haven't been, GO. The sale is on at The Big Bookshop on the 1st floor of Wisma Atria in Damansara Utama. Rows and rows of fiction, management books, kids activity and story books, stationery, toys, cookbooks...blah blah blah. Put it this way, if you have been starved of input and wish to make more sense in your output, here's a good place to start.
I walked up to the counter to pay. The cashier picked a book from my mountain of books and appeared confused, his forehead furrowing with lines. "RM39.90? So expensive?", he muttered to himself. He went to check the price and came back with an smile. He punched the price into the register. RM8.00.
Enough said.
I spent precious work time on Saturday in bed, on the sofa, at the dining table reading feverishly. I consumed 2 books in one day, and am still left parched for more.
I discovered Tom Robbins and am reeling. How come I have never read his work before? My God this man writes the way The Doors plays music. It's provoking, mind-blowing and God, is it sexy! I love intelligent men and I love it when they show it off! When I grow up, this is how I want to write. Tom Robbins is my American Idol. Ducks Flying Backwards is a collection of short stories, interviews, reviews, snippets of stuff he has written over the years. I am keen to have a go at his novels - I wonder what his plots are like...
Lotus Growing From The Mud (or something like that) is Goldie Hawn's novel about herself. The novel is like her, with many layers. You start off thinking how simplistic her language is and why indeed you are reading it in the first place when you have recipes to vet. But the beauty of this book is not how she writes, but really her story. Amazing,inspirational stuff that Oprah-lovers would devour like a truffle.
Then I watched Lady In The Water over the weekend. I am no horror fan and was a bit sceptical and was sooooo glad when it turned out not to be a horror after all. Not even a thriller. It's a lovely story about humanity and all the feel good stuff. Loved it to bits. Would watch it again. M. Shyamalan movies always leave a tingle up the spine no? By the way, has anybody noticed how well built he is? Mmmmm...slurp...
I climbed a trad wall yesterday - for those who don't know - it's a wall that's fashioned like a real rock wall - ie. with cracks and lines etc rather than coloured holds. It was FABULOUS and I have large bruises to show for it. Left Camp 5 feeling like a hero.
You must think it sounds like I don't have that much work if I am off gallavanting about movies and rocks and blogs. The truth is, I have. I am postitvely snowed under. If I were to work non-stop I would have to keepo going for at least a week. The thing is, despite that, I make time for me. If not, I would explode as many others do on a constant basis. I make time to do things that allow me to breathe. Yes, it impinges on work time, but hey, priorities. I need to be alive and sane, no?
Having said that, back to work...to quote Green Day, "Wake Me Up When September Ends..."
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Short Order
Starlight has put out a challenge to aspiring writers to come up with a short story of 300 words. Not an easy thing to do, mind you. After days of contemplating and hours of exasperating over a topic, I have gone with Starlight's suggestion and written about my one true love.
On Top Of Old Snowy
Percy Perfect smiled back serenely.
Impossibly plump, his parsley-flecked skin as shiny as the Parmesan crown over his head. He sat like an angel atop a beautifully decorated Christmas tree, dry and untangled by the long fingers of durum wheat that enslaved us. We stared up in awe. Mutated, half-formed, broken and soggy in the red mess of passata.
With each passing second, my insecurity gripped the very being of my meat. Why had my maker, the hands that formed me, made me imperfect?
There was only a second to glance at Percy Perfect’s astonished face before he was pierced through his stomach, juice bursting from his very core. I was thrown face down, into a pool of red.
As the metallic army raked its way through, it ravaged and twirled in a disgusting dance of savage and farce. The boards of my shelter turned into soft, slippery planks that snaked in and out. Those deformed like me and those unlike me, perfect as Percy, flew into the air and disappeared. I caught the scent of a battle lost – of burnt meat - and then the slow but sudden onslaught of cold.
I was alone. Naked. Exposed on a flat white plain, with no one and nothing around me.
Except for the metal rake with its four menacing spikes that now lay motionless. Defunct. Spent from its frenzy of raking.
I fell into a pit of utter darkness. I hit bottom with a thud and heaved from the stank of rotten meat. Is this heaven? Or hell?
Or just space? Except that someone had turned off the lights in the stars. Hours passed as I wept, prayed, cursed, laughed, willing for redemption.
A whiff of hot air, panting. A rustle. My savior had come at last!
On Top Of Old Snowy
Percy Perfect smiled back serenely.
Impossibly plump, his parsley-flecked skin as shiny as the Parmesan crown over his head. He sat like an angel atop a beautifully decorated Christmas tree, dry and untangled by the long fingers of durum wheat that enslaved us. We stared up in awe. Mutated, half-formed, broken and soggy in the red mess of passata.
With each passing second, my insecurity gripped the very being of my meat. Why had my maker, the hands that formed me, made me imperfect?
There was only a second to glance at Percy Perfect’s astonished face before he was pierced through his stomach, juice bursting from his very core. I was thrown face down, into a pool of red.
As the metallic army raked its way through, it ravaged and twirled in a disgusting dance of savage and farce. The boards of my shelter turned into soft, slippery planks that snaked in and out. Those deformed like me and those unlike me, perfect as Percy, flew into the air and disappeared. I caught the scent of a battle lost – of burnt meat - and then the slow but sudden onslaught of cold.
I was alone. Naked. Exposed on a flat white plain, with no one and nothing around me.
Except for the metal rake with its four menacing spikes that now lay motionless. Defunct. Spent from its frenzy of raking.
I fell into a pit of utter darkness. I hit bottom with a thud and heaved from the stank of rotten meat. Is this heaven? Or hell?
Or just space? Except that someone had turned off the lights in the stars. Hours passed as I wept, prayed, cursed, laughed, willing for redemption.
A whiff of hot air, panting. A rustle. My savior had come at last!
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