A Girl and Her Camera

Love you... Just kidding

2011-03-14T13:57:00.000-07:00

"I miss you," I told him. He gave me a grin and said, "me too". I know he's kidding but he thinks I am too. And how do I say that I'm not?

How do you tell someone you've been fun-flirting with that you're no longer joking? That every day that I see his empty chair is a sliver of ache in my chest? How do I let him know that his smile plays on my mind before I go to bed every night, and his laugh echoes in my thoughts when I'm lying there restless and unable to sleep? How do I make it clear that when I say "I can't live without you", I'm expressing what's in my heart?

But more importantly, should I? Or should I carry on tossing out "Love you, darling!" with a cheeky grin that says, I'm just kidding...

This Time Last Year: My Baby

2010-07-30T07:41:00.000-07:00

I took possession of an Electric Blue Mini Cooper S. Sweet, and still is.

This time last year

2010-05-05T13:16:00.000-07:00

Spring in Ole Blighty, and a spring in my step, during the "epic" roadtrip with Carl in his Aston.

A Roaring Year

2010-02-08T00:54:00.000-08:00

No matter that the stars may say
The year is not too great for me
Luck and love are too far away
And fortune I will never see

The tiger is the king of earth
The yin to dragon in the sky
It is not known for joy and mirth
Instead for letting tempers fly

The tiger roars, the tiger fights
And in its year it finds no ease
Yet I believe in setting sights
On happiness and loving peace

I tempt fate for a tiger's tale
Far from the one laid out for me
Buffet me hard with wind or gale
I'll not be swayed from destiny...

A Tiger roars from the centre of its being, yet chuffs from the heart.
Also in memory of Tiger the cat, which probably looked a bit like this one.

Lost in Happiness

2009-11-18T03:24:00.000-08:00

I hide my sorrow with a laugh,
A smile belies a truthful frown,
You seem happy, the people say,
Yet, deep inside I'm feeling down

I can't negate this dark despair,
Nor easily cast this mood away,
And more, the sadness doubles when,
You say "you should not feel this way".

I can't erase the things I feel,
As words deleted on the page,
How can I ask birds not to fly,
Or tell the storm to stop its rage.

The only thing that I can do,
It works quite well, I can attest,
Is just to smile and let them think,
The sad is lost in happiness.

The Boot's on the Back Foot

2009-11-04T19:57:00.000-08:00

The moon is still up as I arrive at Padang Astaka on a cool Tuesday morning. Haven't seen the moon in a while, certainly not at this time after I wake - it's usually been while I haven't slept yet.

The moonlight barely lights up the crowd gathered for the first session of Original Bootcamp this November day. Some are seniors from previous months and some, like me, are the new recruits. Remember that word - recruits - as this is a distillation of military training and we're bound by certain disciplinary rules akin to that field.

Okay, so I thought I wanted to be in the army at one time, but being undersized saved me from that. No size restrictions here, though. Discipline aside, the programme (so says the website) takes the best of military training for civilian use in its exercises and drills.

How shall I fare, then, being super unfit, small and suffering from a bum knee? Well, there's only one way to find out.

Warmups jogs, and I'm already out of breath. Then comes the assessment. We have to run a 400m loop and then do 10 push-ups, 10 grunts (pushup position into a jump and back) and 15 sit-ups. Three times.

I'm okay with the body work, but slow right down in the run with a stitch. Finish in the slow-poke section.

Then it's a 1.6km (1 mile) run, eight laps of the marked course. By lap two my knee is hurting, so I walk it. I end up in the bottom quartile, but I'm not too bummed, as I am seriously unfit.

After the session, I head to A&W for a heavy breakfast... yummm.

Day 2, Thursday. Body aches haven't been too severe, so I'm all set. Little did I know...

In groups of three, we attack five activities in one loop, 40 seconds for each manoeuvre and 20 seconds to move to the next station:
1. Deep squats with bags of sand at chest height
2. Squat and jump
3. Squat and lift (bag of sand)
4. Push-ups
5. Jackknife with heavy pipes in lieu of "rifles".
When we finish one loop, we just go on and start another. It's almost never-ending, and I'm seriously out of breath after a short while. Time is added on for everyone owing to recruits' dawdling, not running fast enough or chucking the bags of sand and pipes.

We cheer as a break is called, but we're not done yet. Back to the stations for more loops, this time of 30-second manoeuvres, with the last 10 supposed to be of higher intensity, and 15 seconds to get to the next station. People are wheezing and decidedly whiffy, but we soldier on.

When time is called, we can't just fall about on the ground, though. A jog to cool down, and some stretches, and then we're let off the hook... until Saturday.
Day 3, it's the weekend! And I'm here at the field at 5.30am! I'm starting to think this isn't such a good idea, as I only finished work about four hours ago. I thought it would be easier not to sleep after work, attend the 5.45am session and be done by 7am, rather than try to sleep and trying even worse to get up for a 7am start. Will have to see how this pans out in the weeks ahead.

Today we do more loops. Several cones mark the stops, where we drop down to do push-ups, lie down to do sit-ups and try our best not to cheat in lunges. And run between the stops! I'm panting in a few short minutes, pretending to jog after a while and just wondering when the pain will stop...

Then it's over to the next loop for more running, jumping squats, running ladders and holding the plank position (braced on elbows and lower arm and toes, with abs off the ground).

Funny thing is, when the sessions are over, we are not completely shattered. We can walk around laughing, or skip about (me, usually), and even go off for breakfast and chat. So, obviously, the sessions do not tax us beyond our abilities. It's just that our ability to do the manoeuvres, at a certain pace and of a certain number, is being pushed (sometimes seeming mercilessly). The muscle pain is a testament to that, sure, but I'm surprised that I'm even considering continuing with a jog right after the session.

Well, thankfully that only lasted until I got near the car, as then some of us recruits got to talking, and decided to go have breakfast.

As I reach home replete with the third breakfast in a week, more than I ever get in two months, I consider the past three sessions. It's been okay, I guess. Not too great on my shoes, though, the pair that I've decided to sacrifice for the benefit of Ezanor-kind looking decidedly shabby, and just look at the state of the T-shirt! But, this is good for me, I tell myself. I vow to carry on... and we'll see how the coming weeks treat us.

I'm A Lamborghini Murcielago

2009-08-19T04:37:00.001-07:00

Cute test says:
"You're not subtle, but you don't want to be. Fast, loud, and dramatic, you want people to notice you, and then get out of the way. In a world full of sheep, you're a raging bull."

Quite apt. And I certainly like the yellow Murc.

Which Sports Car Are You? Take the quiz and find out.

This Little Stiggy Went to Market

2009-06-22T04:26:00.000-07:00

So the Internet and newspaper world is abuzz that Michael Schumacher was unveiled as the Stig on the opening episode of Top Gear's Season 13.
He's not the Stig. For various reasons, and as qualified by certain news reports -- especially if the writer actually watched the whole episode, not just heard about it from someone who had seen a snippet of the show.

This is part of my current disgust with the world of citizen journalism -- exactly this: quoting without context. This is a long diatribe, so in short: Where impressionable people read someone's self-aggrandizement "column" -- which has for starters been written without regard to basic rules of reporting (my rules are: get it right, get both sides of the story, be unbiased) -- believe what they read and then, to make things worse, perpetuate the repetition of certain bits over the Net. Bits that probably have no base.
A misquote.

Despite politicians' overuse of the word, misquoting people is one of the things completely detrimental to the faith of journalism, but is the easiest for a reporter to do, either deliberately or otherwise. And we make as if it's not a big deal anymore. It's just like using scripture only for your purposes, quote one line and leave the context out -- it validates your point but could be completely off base from your religion. Ah well, I guess I see where the nonchalance is coming from, else The Bard wouldn't have written "The devil can quote scripture for his purpose". I really despair at how people will believe the first thing they hear. How stupid can humanity get?

Okay, I'll save the diatribe for later. Anyway, here's cutie-pie Schumi Bear. Wish I had a Stiggy Bear! A note to Top Gear, then -- moneymaker!! Stiggy Bear, white racing suit and all.

Here are some good reports on the Stig/Schumi issue, from The Telegraph, The Times (coincidentally also the papers James May and Jeremy Clarkson write for, respectively). And just go and watch the show, especially that last bit. I have.

As for my own conclusions: It's a Top Gear stunt, maybe because Stig's identity was already revealed earlier and they didn't want to kill him off, like they did Black Stig. Hey, come on, white Stig is really smart-looking and is mayhaps even more telegenic than his predecessor. Besides, if they kill him off, they can't really bring back Black Stig, and then, what? Pink Stig? Red Stig? Chartreuse? He'll be harder to match with the cars they're testing.
Besides, Schumi's body language was nothing like the Stig's. And, even I was silly enough to earlier believe that it's all one man inside the suit. I mean, where is it easiest to hide? Behind a mask.

Evey: Who are you?

V: Who? Who is but the form following the function of what, and what I am is a man in a mask.

Evey: Well, I can see that.

V: Of course you can. I'm not questioning your powers of observation, I'm merely remarking upon the paradox of asking a masked man who he is.

V for Vendetta

So, live on Stiggy.

Channelling French Chic

2009-06-17T03:11:00.000-07:00

From black cat to a feline of a different nature, I'm trying to channel the classy dame that is Carla Bruni. Well, not the pose-naked-and-show-the-world side of her, but the one with what people say is a Parisian's natural flair for flinging on some "simple old thing" and still looking tres chic.

Aside from the megabucks brands the French First Lady wears, it also takes a good sense of style to pass as a successful first lady, something I'm not convinced Michelle Obama has much of. The US First Lady is more hit-or-miss, plus look at the way she's sitting, at an official function, at that! Even I know that ladies and princesses don't cross their legs while sitting in public. (This is something I'm trying to channel too, but urggh it's so hard not to fidget.)

I have to get a fashion consultant! Anyone up for the job? Shopping is easy, but creating a style that looks good while also being suitable for your figure is very hard.
Also, in Paulo Coelho's book of short stories, his discourse on elegance elevates it beyond a mere affectation to something that enriches the soul. I agree, but we don't happen to come across examples of elegance too easily. (Although, there are some women in my office who are extremely well-put-together on an everyday basis and whom I try to surreptitiously eye.)
When I was in London, I tried to keep a lookout for those fabled fashionable London girls, but it was so cold that everyone was wearing huge coats. However, I did fall in love with this one girl's bright red trench coat in Edinburgh. Can I get away with wearing a trench in Kuala Lumpur, I wonder?

What Kitty Did

2009-06-12T04:41:00.000-07:00

When is a cat not just a cat? No, this is not a Sphinx-like riddle. The answer is pretty common nowadays, with the proliferation of Internet-based social networking sites. Cat websites? Pah, old news and litter box liner. Doggy blogs? Been there, sniffed that.
But a cat is not just a cat when it tweets on twitter with a stream of consciousness that is humorous. Not the boring "meow, meow, feed me" but comments that go to the root of a cat's character.

Having been described as a 21st century Garfield, Sockington's owner is a really funny dude, because he can take what we accept as normal cat behaviour and make it seem like the cat's consciously doing them.

Some stories about Sockington are here, a video here, and a radio interview here.

Cool. And I think those people who diss him are just jealous. It's humour, people! If it doesn't hurt anyone, people should let others be. It also lets people like me live vicariously through another cat owner without needing to have cat hair all over the place.

Of course, I haven't actually looked at tweets by other animals, but I might if they are as funny as Sockington's.

Goosebumps: Final Destination revisited?

2009-06-11T23:34:00.001-07:00

Look at this news item and tell me that you're not a little bit spooked: "Woman who missed Flight 447 is killed in car crash", relating to the Air France flight that disappeared over the Atlantic. The woman, who was a tourist to Brazil, had missed the flight out of Rio de Janeiro on May 31 and got a later one. She was killed in a car crash in Austria. Read the story here.
Coincidence, for sure, but also spooky, as most coincidences are.

Oh yeah NOTE: Her husband was with her both times, and he survived the car crash, though injured. That was not played up by the report. I guess he's super duper lucky... or...

Life in Shades of Brown

2009-06-04T07:44:00.000-07:00

The sky is more azure, the sea a deeper hue of blues. The pink bougainvillae shines a bright fuchsia. The sun sets in vibrant reds and oranges.
You don't need rose-tinted glasses; brown will do for a vibrant focus of God's colour palette.
The new shades I bought myself for my birthday were great, and the wraparound offered uninterrupted vistas of Tioman Island, where I went to celebrate. It was all good for five seconds, until I dropped them on the floor. And then twice more. I now have "slightly interrupted" vistas due to the scratches. Sigh.

What I Did On My Holidays

2009-05-25T02:45:00.000-07:00

Since it takes me forever to update my blog with funny, insouciant takes on life, including such things as my recent UK holiday, here's a quick recap of how things went.

May 3, Sunday: Take off at 5pm in Malaysia, arrive at 11.55pm local time, Stansted Airport. Having not been to many really busy airports in the past oh, seven years, I'd forgotten how crap waiting can be. Rush out of the plane, only to have to wait for the rail shuttle to the main terminal. A small two-carriage shuttle means a long wait for the packed commuters on our AirAsia X flight not to mention other planes arriving at around the same time. Another wait to clear Immigration – look at the lines for UK passengers! And a snaking queue for non-UK and non-Euro visitors, luckily I was a ways way up front. Hi there, I'm here for a holiday, not to overstay, yes here's my ticket home, thank you! Bag's waiting for me on the carousel, cool, and I exit to find Carl (right) waiting for me. Easy enough to spot him, he's not changed at all in 11 years, and he says neither have I.
Exit airport into the cold – 7 degrees Celsius it says: a warm welcome by the British weather – and Carl faffs about a bit looking for his car. I guess he could do with a pedestrian satnav. We find his Aston, get in and the car satnav says getting to his house will take one and a half hours, which doesn't take into account some diverted roads, a few U-turns and a stop at a kebab shop because the little one is a bit peckish. We get to his house on Abbey Road near 3am, he gives me a little tour of the place, we polish off the kebabs, decide who gets which bed (I take the guest bed in the second-bedroom-cum-dining room) and go to sleep.

May 4, Bank Holiday Monday: Despite not sleeping on the plane in the 13-hour flight, I'm up by 6am. Go back to sleep, up again at 7, then again at 8ish and 9ish. Go bug Carl by jumping on his bed, but he wants to sleep some more, so I make myself some breakfast by toasting crumpets in the oven and smoking out his kitchen. Tea and telly, then a shower and some Internet surfing until Carl feels ready enough to face me and the world. Luckily he doesn't have to work, so we go out walking in London, even though it’s a bit cold and rainy.
Tube to Bond Street, then hours and hours of walking, stopping for pictures, food, coffee and hot chocolate (and ice cream) in a meandering route – past the shopping areas, Carnaby Street, Soho, Chinatown, Piccadilly Circus, (he points out Trafalgar Square but we give it a miss as I’ve been there, and there are no more pigeons to feed) the Mall, St James’s Park, Buckingham Palace (above), Westminster Abbey and South Bank. Take pictures of the London Eye but don’t bother to go up, cuz it takes forever, walk along South Bank where there are many unemployed people playing at being statues and artists trying to make a living, have a cotton candy, end up at the Tate Modern, where we had tea but no cultural revelations as the place was closing.
Cross the river and walk aimlessly some more, decide not to try to go back to his place before the start of the evening’s Jack the Ripper Walk, so sit in a coffee shop (more hot chocolate for me and a choc au pain) and then walk to Tower of London, which is closed, for the start of the London Walking tour outside the nearby Tube station at 7.30pm. Walk hosted by Donald Rumbelow takes us from the original City of London to the East End, ending at Spitalfields (formerly a hospital, then a market, now a high-end market-y place). Little Devil sees a Routemaster, has to clamber onto Routemaster (of course) then we go home, discover I’ve had my pocket picked (crummy!), Carl goes out for a bit and brings home fish and chips for supper.

May 5, Tuesday: Carl has to go out of London for work, so I have to entertain myself. Meet up with my friend Az’s youngest sister Azyan Syahira, who’s studying at LSE. Meet at Baker Street Station, she’s worried that she won’t recognise me, but it’s okay, I recognise her as she’s also friends with my youngest brother Emirin and I had seen a picture of them with some other friends on holiday in Austria. Deliver her goods (Maggi mee and three-in-one Milo) and have brunch. She has revision class as she’s taking her final exams, so I’m off after a chat.
End up on the shopping street again – Selfridge’s! My calling! – but I’m too skint to buy anything. Wipe up drool and head out again, go to cheap store Primark but don’t find anything I fancy, end up with a hot chocolate and decide to go to Notting Hill to look for the house with the blue door in the movie or the famed Portobello Road Market.
Wander around – I’m not lost, the market is that way, or is it this way? – until my feet ache and find the road nonetheless. Not that many sellers on a week day, but it’s okay. Look in the window of some shops, then end up at a shop selling Malaysian food – samosa and karipap, but the teh tarik is a bit sweet. End up buying shoes.
Then it’s back to Piccadilly Circus to have a bit of cultural adventure… what shall I watch in my first theatre experience? Too many to choose from, gah! So I go for the safe Phantom of the Opera at Her Majesty’s Theatre. Such a cool performance, from the stage-set point of view. I’ve only been to one theatre performance in Malaysia, at the Istana Budaya, and I’m afraid we still have a long way to go. It ends near 10pm and walking out of the theatre, into the crowd of other theatre-goers, gives me a weird feeling of culturalness. Tsk tsk. Cheap thrills. Back to Carl’s place to pack for my journey to Bristol to see cousin Rozi.

Going to X-tremes

2009-05-24T09:32:00.000-07:00

The Little Devil is going to the XTerra off-road triathlon in Kuantan this June. To watch, of course. But, who knows, I might be next in line to join up!

A Passing: "Apai Star"

2009-05-21T03:34:00.000-07:00

Just to remark on the death of Star newsman Rapaee Kawi, known to the world press as Apai Star. Known to me as Apai, too, though we had only met twice – at the Kapit rafting assignment in April of 2008 and the Miri Jazz Festival a month later. Here is a picture of Apai (rightmost) in Kapit with me and Johnson Yong, a reporter based in Sibu.
No details so far on what exactly happened, just one posting found here.
Sad day. Sad day indeed.

UPDATE: Read some more words about this very nice man: Goodbye to The Star's Veteran adventurer and in the Samosaurus Chronicles here which also has a nice picture of Apai as a young paratrooper.
Apparently, Apai died while having his blood pressure checked, after complaining about feeling unwell.

More notes on a good man found on the Internet, and hopefully they offer a balm to Apai's grieving family.

I did not know him too well, having only met Apai twice. But, honestly, I thought he was nice. Yes, he talked a lot, as mentioned on the Net by one his friends, and as mentioned by a few people after I first met him in Kapit. In the picture above, Sarawak Tourism Board's Gustino has an early story-telling session with Apai at the hotel before we set out.
And Apai had the tendency to tell the same story over and over no matter how many times he had told it... to the same person. But I never got the impression – and this was important to me – that he was ever mean-spirited. And you know what, never had he mentioned what would have been the crowning glory of his career – the Everest assignment – unlike some people who would have sneaked that fact into a conversation five minutes into meeting someone new.

And, above all, what struck me about Apai was that he seemed to love his job. Yes, he was complaining a bit about doing two jobs while being paid for one, as he was doing both still photography (and writing) and videography for his employers. Nevertheless, he was still toting both still and video cameras around, and wanting to do a good job. The Kapit assignment where we met was not his first raft race (I was a captive audience for stories about his past assignments in the six-hour boat ride to the longhouse), but he still did it when others without that drive for news would have passed. And for a jaded newsman going on the same assignment he had been on before? "Been there, done that, wake me if something interesting happens" would most likely be the mantra – certainly not as seen in the above picture of a hatted Apai in probably his most usual pose: With a camera to his face.

I suspect he loved news gathering, and would have loved being defined by his dedication to it and being remembered fondly for it. It's something we can all aspire to.

Sinusitis in Spring: We Need Plasticine Flowers

2009-05-19T06:16:00.000-07:00

As hay fever or allergic rhinitis is associated with runny noses, sneezing and itchy nose or eyes, I think I was suffering from sinusitis, though I have no idea what prompted the flareup (could be a virus). The swelling (it's the swelling of the sinus membranes, apparently) later moved to the bridge of my nose and the pain sort of ebbed and flowed. It was worse on the plane back to Malaysia, maybe because the air was dry or the infection was getting worse. As soon as I got off the plane, the pain lessened, and after taking one antihistamine pill, the swelling is all gone. Yes, there is much to be said about going to a proper doctor for antibiotics, but from my last experience and some Internet reading, doctors can't really tell what causes such infections anyway. Might as well self-medicate.

Apparently sinusitis can be caused by other things and not stuff floating around in the Spring air, but hay fever is definitely caused by Spring. Anyway, this brings us neatly to the plasticine garden mooted and created by Top Gear's James May (helped by many, many others) which opened at the Chelsea Flower Show today. It didn't win any gold medals (apart from a gold one made of plasticine, which I'm not sure was ironic or a thumb to the nose to his idea). Nonetheless, it's pretty cute (it's part of another TV show on toys), and obviously the Royal Horticultural Society thought their gardens needed a bit of stirring when they approved his idea. Of course, that hasn't stopped people sniffing in disdain (and not due to hay fever) as the garden has no live plants. You can see his interview with The Guardian below.

Anyway, I wish I were still in the UK, as then I could go and see him (refer to past infatuated post James May, the lovey). I had intended to be in London and stalk him for a bit (or even Fusker, for that matter), but I ended up going shopping instead. The closest I got to stalking him was taking the tube on the Hammersmith line. Ah well, maybe next time.

Read some of the stories on the plasticine garden here:
Award; Gaining interest; Picture gallery; and of course, the links to car matters: his appeal for help using plasticine and the resulting plasticine Porsches (some are so cute, too).

It's Spring in the UK: My Nose Says So

2009-05-14T12:04:00.000-07:00

There have been some lovely sunshiny days here in the UK and flowers are in bloom. Aside from the obvious spectacle of colourful darling buds of May in well-designed flower beds and even sprouting from cracks in walls, I think the other hint that Spring is in the air is the fact that my sinuses are acting up.
I didn't realise this was happening earlier in the holiday as I gingerly touched the bridge of my nose and wondered what sized pimple could be causing this amount of pain. I didn't immediately think of sinuses or hay fever as I had no symptoms of sniffles, blocked nostrils or throbbing pain in any of the sinus regions. Just a slightly swollen nose, which was not even that obvious.
After a few days and no sign of a mega volcano pimple, I remembered that I had suffered a sinus blowup once before. That incident was – I think – accompanied by some other pain, which took me to the doctor. Thing is, I don't remember when this incident happened or what the weather conditions were like at the time (part of the adventures of a nomadic lifestyle, but that's another story), so I can't say with any authority that I am allergic to pollen. Just a bit funny that my sinuses are acting up at this time, unless I am allergic to the cold weather.
My family has intimate knowledge of hay fever, with the silence of the day punctuated by the (really) loud sneeze of a nose irritated by dust or changes in temperature. However, I had never noticed sensitivity to flowers on my part. Malaysia has no particular Spring season during which ad houses work overtime to attract allergy sufferers to their clients' products. In areas with four seasons, the time of frenetic bee activity and technicolour landscapes can be a complete misery to some.

I suppose the problem is so big that a kiddie story book on fairies my cousin Rozi bought for her daughter Aiesya even mentions one fairy school student who wants to be a flower fairy but can't because she suffers hay fever. (Happy ending though as the book's main character gives her fairy friend a hanky with a magic powder that clears up the hayfever. I wasn't reading the book... really. I was just looking at the pictures.)
Though there is no cure for hay fever, there are many suggested ways to reduce the symptoms, and I guess any kind of help is a godsend to people who dread the coming of Spring. Anyway, I didn't really give my nose much thought as the holiday proceeded as it wasn't bothering me that much, apart from hurting if I accidentally touched it. It wasn't even bad enough to seek medical treatment so I just enjoyed the wonderful colours of the English and Scottish countryside we drove through and sometimes stopped at to take pictures.

The pictures are: London's St James's Park (first four shots) where Carl and I walked through from The Mall to Buckingham Palace on our foot tour. Quite a nice park, though we did not really linger due it being a wet-ish, cold day and the fact that the little river/pond thing is being dredged or cleaned so there was not a lot of water for the ducks and other fowl to play in. Cute squirrels, though, one of which was just about friendly enough to come looking for food from an outstretched hand.

The two pictures below that are from the Pavilion Garden in Buxton, which is part of the Peak District (mostly of hills and caves, and where the Exeter Climbing Club went for a weekend of merriment and rock climbing all those years ago).

These last pictures are of the grounds at Haddon Hall, a manor house in Derbyshire dating back to the 12th century (with additions over the years). Cool place to go and have a look at what life could have been like in those and Tudor times (with a documentary shown inside). The award-winning garden features tulips in various (and unexpected) colours and a romantic rose plant growing up to a window which reminded me of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet (it just does, even though the story has no mention of roses). There are also many wildflower meadows (left alone aside from some needing to be furrowed to loosen up the earth), which gave Carl the idea that he needn't bother to tend to the garden at his house in Portsmouth, and just label it a wildflower meadow.

Cool, I'd do that too, in Malaysia, and call it a lalang (weed) meadow.

And though I have no pictures of daffodils, I'll include here Wordsworth's poem, I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud, because of the cheerful imagery of a fieldful of yellow flowers.

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed–and gazed–but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

Little Devil in good ole Blighty

2009-04-30T10:25:00.000-07:00

I'm flying to the UK on Sunday. Hopefully I'll be motivated enough to update my blog as interesting things happen, else the pictures I take will die the same death as the thousands I downloaded to my PC and forgot about.

Can't wait!

UPDATE May 4. Arrived at about 11.25pm last night local time, 5.25am in Malaysia.
Slightly groggy and lightheaded cuz I did not sleep throughout the 13-hour+ flight. Usually can't sleep on planes, trains or buses anyway, and decided to stay up so that I'd be tired on arrival and be able to sleep, thus reducing this jet lag business.
Flight was alright. Pre-booked meals means I got one nasi briyani just after take-off and a nasi lemak about 3 hours before landing, and two small bottles of water. Ended up ordering another bottle of water and a hot milo (it's a looong flight), and as it was dehydrating.
Also bought the entertainment package for another RM30, where you get a portable player with 6 movies, about 8 comedy/drama serials, music and games. Ended up watching four movies - Shopaholic, Bride Wars, Ice Age 2 (umpteenth time) and The Reader (OMG sooooo sad, I bawled my eyes out, and I didn't even cry for Titanic), some two hours of light TV and played some games, though the only thing I liked was Sudoku.
Not bad for RM30, but if you're stuck on the same flight plan in the same month, you might not be too keen to be entertained on the return flight. Titles on the player change every month, so if you're lucky you'd get something interesting. Too bad about the TV series plan, cuz you'll get random episodes of random shows - there was one Season Nine show of CSI, one Fawlty Towers, How I Met Your Mother, The Office (UK) and The Simpsons, among others.

To be continued. Going out to walk around London.

UPDATE May 6. Going to Bristol to visit my cousin Rozi. Just a short note on where I've been staying these past three nights. The flat belongs to my friend Carl, and it's absolutely darling. I especially adore the French door out into the garden only available to the two ground floor flats. Love it love it. Here are the pictures.

Channelling My Inner Cat

2009-04-02T05:20:00.000-07:00

Meow. Or rather, wrooaaaarrrrr, with the accompanying swipe of the paws, as the little devil took time out to wiggle her butt (and tail) at the office dinner. The jungle-themed do was held at The Courtyard, a detached house turned business along Jalan Dungun (Damansara Heights), quite a nice place, though the food wasn't spectacular. What was spectacular was the effort some of the staff made to come in costume.
Look at the picture, don't I look like a real panther? Ok, maybe not that picture. This one, then, with the boss's driver who rented a gorilla costume (and won 1st prize).
First I thought I couldn't be bothered, then I thought I couldn't afford to buy anything to make a costume, and in the end, the night before the dinner, in the downtime at work while waiting for pages to be cleared, I printed a cat mask and stuck it on stiff paper. Purloined black ribbons threaded to make a tail, and Voila! with a black top, black tights and black boots: Panther Girl. Won third prize, too. Purr.

Beat Me, Leave Me

2009-03-13T09:17:00.001-07:00

Would you, a guy, beat a girl? And would you, a girl, stay if you were beaten?
Following Rihanna's beating [allegedly] at the hands of her boyfriend Chris Brown - he was said to have slammed her head against the window of his car, beat her with his fists and locked her in a choke hold – and their subsequent reunion, a survey of 200 youngsters in Boston found that nearly half of them said she was responsible for the beating. Most of them said arguing was normal in a relationship and fighting was also acceptable. See here for the report.

Unbelievable? Truly.
I have always said that I would be strong enough to leave an abusive partner. I did dump a guy after he left bruises on my arm (long story made short: he was trying to stop me from exiting the car), but that could just have been the final straw that broke the camel's back in an otherwise dying relationship. And I hate liars, as that is another form of abuse - of my trust and of the relationship. But I have never been faced with a really abusive partner, either physically or mentally abusive, and I don't really know whether I would be as strong as I think I should be.

Hearing stories of friends and acquaintances facing some kind of abuse or other, also begs the question: Do I just see it differently? One girl was dragged (on her face) from a moving car, and she did not immediately leave, not to mention lodge a police report for causing hurt or attempted murder! And another's husband belittles her about her (non-existent) excess weight and so-called barely there boobs (she does so have boobs).
So is it not abuse, then? Are my perceptions so skewered that I'm mistaking love and caring for trying to kill someone - or their spirit?
Can we even call it kitty love - just like how a cat can cuddle you one second and scratch you the next - and say it's okay if people do the same? [Although this is the premise of Marley & Me, that no matter how terrible the dog was, he was loved anyway.]

So is it all about love and forgiveness?

Explore Me

2009-03-04T22:59:00.000-08:00

Renowned anthropologist Helen Fisher, PhD, author of the new book Why Him? Why Her?, says people fall into four broad personality types — each influenced by a different brain chemical — the Explorer, Builder, Director and Negotiator.
Her traits on the Explorer sound exactly like me!

The Explorer:
You know the type: Explorers crave adventure and are willing to take risks. Highly curious, creative, energetic, spontaneous, they have many interests — from hiking and spelunking to theater and reading.
Famous examples: John F. Kennedy, Princess Diana, Angelina Jolie.
Under the influence: The Explorer's behavior is largely affected by the brain chemical dopamine, which is a key player in our experience of pleasure and novelty.
Longs for: A playmate.
Bonds well with: Other Explorers.
If you are an Explorer: My advice is to go slowly. Because you're so impulsive, you can get romantically involved too fast. And because you hate confrontation, you risk bolting from a relationship that could prove fantastic. If you find someone you are genuinely interested in, check your inclination to go out with others, and focus your energy on him or her.
If you're dating one: Be prepared to live this romance one day at a time. Remain flexible, and know that for your partner, "dullness is a misdemeanor," as novelist Ethel Wilson astutely put it.

Other personality types are The Builder: Typically conventional, these women and men are honorable and loyal; cautious without being afraid; calm; social; popular; and good at managing people, networking, and building family and community. Drawn to schedules and rules, they are also detail oriented, thorough, conscientious, and dependable. Longs for a helpmate. The Director: Analytical and logical, straightforward, decisive, tough minded, focused, and good at rule-based and spatial skills like mechanics, math, and music. They also tend to be ambitious and competitive, as well as emotionally contained, even aloof. Yet these are the men and women who rush into a burning building to save a stranger. Longs for a mind mate. The Negotiator: Imaginative, intuitive, empathetic, and emotionally expressive, and have good verbal and social skills. Most strikingly, these people see the big picture with all the options. Longs for a soul mate.

So now that I know what personality type I am, I'm going exploring for my explorer mate!

As seen on Oprah at www.oprah.com/article/omagazine/200902_omag_love_match

Kata hatiku

2009-01-15T06:46:00.000-08:00

Kadang terasa pelik... apa yang nak disampaikan tak terkeluar dengan kata-kata... lantas perantara digunakan untuk menyampaikan hasrat dihati... agaknya lebih selesa berbicara menggunakan perantara atau pengganti bicara.
Itulah yang diluahkan oleh seseorang pencipta lagu... disertakan dengan melodi indah dan merdu bagi menguatkan lagi erti lagu berkenaan... menjadikan lebih bermakna bila diluahkan atau dinyanyikan.

Kata-kata seorang pujangga. Benar firasatnya itu. Andainya aku tidak mampu merangkai kata yang lebih indah dari puisi di dalam lagu, harus ku utuskan sahaja lagu itu sebagai bicara hati.

Give The Lab Rat Some Cheese

2008-12-11T06:12:00.000-08:00

I’m pretty much a straightforward kind of gal. I don’t like to lie, and I don’t take well to people lying to me. I often tell people what I think, or if I don’t want to do that, I’ll say nothing. Yes, I’m guilty of small white lies, like telling a boss "I’m sick, oh poor me" when I’m just slightly under the weather. That’s more exaggeration with a touch of self pity.
Yes, I do get in trouble for shooting my mouth off, and I may not get everything I want because I don’t know my diplomatic speak (I’ve read Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People, but have not learnt from it), but I’ll most likely tell you the truth, even if it hurts.
I mean what I say, and I say what I mean – a principle I generally live by. Of course, I reserve the right to change my mind – that’s a woman’s prerogative – but at the moment I promise something, or say that I would do something, I mean it.
And I get so annoyed with people who say things like, yeah I’ll call you when I’m next going climbing or playing badminton without having any intention to do so. Why lie? Just tell me straight that you can’t be bothered. I probably won’t be your friend for long, but isn’t that what you’re after anyway, since you don’t want my company?

At least this is not as bad as a guy I once knew who lived in a parallel universe. That would be the only explanation of how he could tell others that he had seen things which no one else did. Case in point, he told his friends that while we were out, on a pedestrian bridge in Brickfields, I had argued with him and in a fit of pique, had thrown my umbrella over the side and into the river.
That so did not happen. Yes, we argued, but I did not fling my brolly over. That was among other things that he told his friends happened. So I was really curious. Was he, really, in a different universe, where in truth I did chuck my brolly – with him truly seeing it flip end over end in the air, and then with a splash hit the water to be swallowed up whole by Sungai Gombak, never to be seen again?
That would merit scientific experimentation, but I didn’t bother, and just dumped the Loser. Because it would be bad enough if he were lying to me, but worse that he was lying to others about me.

However, that’s all just straighforward lying (or being insane).
The more complicated part of life, I’ve just found, is when people practise lying to suss out who you are.

Recently, a friend related to me a conversation he had had with his wife about me. At the time, I said nothing as it didn’t strike me as particularly noteworthy. Later, though, after ruminating on it, I felt that his conversation with his wife had ended on a nasty note, with one party being judgemental, and wholly unjustified about it.
When I told him that, he admitted that no such conversation had taken place, and he had made up the whole thing to see how I would react. He said it was done in the spirit of conducting an experiment, of sorts, him being a bit of an amateur psychologist and all.

What am I, a lab rat?
More importantly, now that I know he likes to fabricate things, how can I ever believe whatever else he has said before and what he will say in the future? Is it all a test?
And worse, now that I know that he can, and probably will, in future, lie to me, should I be overthinking everything I say and do? If I know that any given input would or could be fabricated, would that cause me to alter my reactions? Would I have to mull over what a particular comment, say, could mean, and then weigh up my answer to fit? Or not to fit, whichever I thought would suit my purposes better?

That would be tiring. Imagine, if you will, that he said my hair looked lovely today.
I’d have to think – is he sincerely complimenting me or is he trying to push my buttons to see how I would react? And then, if I chose one over the other, would I just say "thank you, I had my hair done at the salon" and cause him to think I am frivolous both in vanity and financials? Or to say "oh this old thing, it’s just get up and go" and have him, if he were not sincerely praising my hair in the first place, to think that I am completely lazy and go out with a whole rat’s nest on my head?
You’d never really win, and anyway, it would be completely exhausting.
This is also why I’m crap at chess, or checkers, or card games where you have to weigh other people’s (possible) hands before making a move. Or gambling.
Even in the world of conversations and making judgements about people, there are several million permutations on the "why did he say what he did" and "what should I respond" scenario.

This would also cause havoc in the world of empirical studies: If lab rats had mental consciousness (like humans), and they found out that scientists were manipulating their world in order to get results, would they, too, be driven to overthink their instinctive actions?
Just to make it easier to understand what I’m on about, let me give you this example of lab rats and a maze:

Straightforward lab rat (Me):
Day 1: Yumm, cheese!
Day 2: Yumm, cheese!
Day 3: Cheese? [Run around a couple of corners] Yumm, cheese!
Day 4: Run around the same corners. Yumm, cheese!

Mind-game lab rat:
Day 1: Yumm, cheese!
Day 2: Yumm, cheese!
Day 3: Cheese? [Run around a couple of corners] Yumm, cheese!
Day 4: Wait a minute. The scientist could be messing with my mind by putting the cheese around several corners. His action can be constituted as X, therefore, expecting my reaction to be Y, thus achieving result Z.
However, if Y[complex mathematical equation] = I am, therefore I eat cheese / X[more complex mathematical theorum], then I therefore should react by just sitting here and pretending I don't know Who Moved My Cheese, and give the scientist a skewered result. Yes!

I guess I’m not a rat and I have the consciousness to weigh what I say and do, but to have to overthink everything in case people are lying, or being diplomatic, is just such a waste of time. I take people at face value and give them the benefit of the doubt that they are good people and sincere in everything they do. And I want them to see me in that way too.

And as for the liars, I take everything they say from then on with a pinch of salt. And when push comes to shove, I’d rather they shove off from my life. Because, truthfully, I don’t want to play that game.

How Interesting. Tell Me More.

2008-12-07T23:15:00.000-08:00

Silence is golden, as they say. And in a conversation, silence can create a vacuum which you feel necessary to fill – sometimes with inane facts and sometimes with snippets of your life, or even all of it.

I’ve been noticing this fact with several men I’ve met recently. I wasn’t deliberately baiting them with being mysterious and cryptic, although this is a pretty good game in itself, but rather that was how events played out – they were more than willing to talk all about themselves, and I let them.

In Brunei, I went out with a guy who picked me up in his SLK200. Good start, if he were trying to impress me. Better if he were rich and still humble. But, over one course of dinner (no starters or dessert), I found out practically everything about him. His days of glory as a national footballer who helped his team win the Malaysia Cup in the late 1990s, his marriage and subsequent divorce (blamed on his wife’s supposed infidelity), the family business he’s running (and how successful it is) and the contracts they got, his education, his (various) cars, his (expensive) hobbies, his family… Seriously, practically everything. Since I got a meal out of it and a ride in a convertible, which he drove round a bit top-down, it was not such a hardship to plant an interested look on my face and urge him on and on.
After that I mocked him mercilessly to some of my friends, of course. But for him, it was a great date! Why wouldn’t it be? Here was a girl hanging on to his every word. Oh joy.

Then there was the guy I met up with in KL who expounded on the theory of a winning form in bowling, and his own expertise, naturally.
And another who confessed part of his past, about which he had never even told his wife.

And just yesterday, I met a guy, who sat down at my table because we had shared a chuckle over the fact that his Harley had set off a car alarm. In just an hour or so, I had learned all this about him, without much prompting necessary, just some silence: Where he’s from, where he’s working now, why he is working where he is working now, what he does in his job, how much he gets paid as this product manager of a hypermarket, how much he gets paid extra because his boss wanted to uproot him from JB to KL, where he is staying, how he gets to work, his special-edition Harley and how much people are offering for it, where he went on his Harley rallies, his Harley ring, T-shirt, jacket etc, his other car, his biking history (Kawasaki Ninja to the high-handlebar Harley to this one), his ex-wife, his daughter and how his daughter often complains that Mum doesn’t take her out “jalan-jalan” because she’s so busy going out with Uncle S. That is a lot to take in, from a perfect stranger, no less!

I let them talk, sometimes because I’m not in the mood to share everything about my life. But most times, it’s because they don’t ask.

The guy I met yesterday only asked where I’m staying and what I do, in general. He wasn’t even interested in the answer. And the bowling expert? He didn’t even ask if I had ever bowled before, so I pretended to know nothing about curve balls or wrist flicks, and let him wow me with his knowledge.

This is a bit of a double-edged artform. On one hand, I played the game with this one person I wanted to get to know. Sitting back and listening to him talk with someone else, I noticed how this woman jumped in to cut him off mid-story with her own anecdotes, and he’d patiently wait till she’s done, then continue with his story, which had not reached its conclusion and point by the interruption. So when I had the chance, I asked him questions, and let him tell his story to its conclusion, without butting in. But that’s because I sincerely wanted to know. And I wanted to impress him with my listening skills.

As for the others, letting them talk negated the need for me to share my life story. And, at the same time, suss them out for who they really are. Men who are very proud of themselves, and want you, the little woman, to know all about it.

And by the time they are finished, there is no point, really, in telling them anything about yourself. They don’t really want to know. They might not be able to handle the fact that you're more successful or more interesting than they are.

They just want you to be impressed. And fall all over them. Not a chance.

James May, the lovey

2008-11-20T07:40:00.000-08:00

Yup, I'm officially in love with James May of Top Gear, who lives in London with his black-and-white cat Fusker (a bit like Postman Pat's) and his long-term girlfriend down the road whom he refers to as Woman in his columns.
I used to like Richard Hammond because he's so cute, with an expressive face, though I think he has practised his facial gestures for maximum impact. He can lift one eyebrow, turn his gaze to the camera slightly or give a little smile to convey all that he wants to say but can't. Pretty cool.
But May takes the cake. He's gruff, scruffy, slightly bad-tempered and a bit obsessive, but it's all so adorable.
An interviewer at the Sunday Star Times writes: "From his stripey jumpers, long hair and carefully dishevelled paisley shirts right on down to his battered old Jag, May is the epitome of a certain kind of cultured English bohemian. He has a music degree, plays the harpsichord, loves cats and model trains, flies his own plane, smokes a pipe, and at some stage of life has acquired a toff accent, though he's from working class stock the son of a Bristol steel worker and went to a very ordinary comprehensive school in Yorkshire."
He was fired from an auto magazine for inserting a secret message in the drop-cap of the articles, which read: "So you think it's really good, yeah? You should try making the bloody thing up. It's a real pain in the arse." Very funny and classic James May.
I love Top Gear. I wish they were coming here to Malaysia for the live programme!

OK, So I don’t have OCD

2008-11-19T05:32:00.000-08:00

OCD, the short form for obsessive compulsive disorder, is getting to be as well known as autism or dyslexia for diagnosing people once just thought to be weird, who refuse to communicate and too lazy to focus in school (in that order). Now, those who can’t develop social links to people, and thus the social mores that we need to relate to the people around us – for example the concept of sharing, of looking people in the eye and making conversation, in simplified terms – are most likely autistic. And those who can never grasp reading, or lessons in books, may be dyslexic, where words look jumbled up, among others.

These are mental health issues, and not only were they diagnosed later than other physical health problems, the stigma of suffering from these conditions also led to denial. Previously, if a child cannot smile at his mom or dad, and beat his head against the wall repeatedly, he was “mentally disabled”. And these “mentally disabled” children ended up in a care facility, at home and treated like a dunce for the rest of their lives, or in extreme cases, chained up in a cage “for their own protection”. And yes, it’s still happening now. With the diagnosis of autism, there are now methods in which to “communicate” with autistic children, in the hopes that they become, not totally “cured”, but functioning people who are able to take care of themselves.

Same goes with dyslexia, where for years, slow learners get sent to “special classes” with the most disinterested teachers in the school. The teachers feel like they are being punished by having to teach the backward students, and the children – who are generally bright – feel like they’re being cast out of normal society just because the words dance around on the page. Now, dyslexic people may take oral, instead of written, tests, and learn to read in different ways.
Of course, there is a (very wide) spectrum for the severity of autism, dyslexia, and mental disability, in general, and unknowledgeable people (like me) can’t say if a person is one or the other. That’s where you need experts.

So these experts are now also beginning to realise the severity of OCD as a disease and not just a quirk put down as “eccentricity”. For an example, see Tony Shalhoub’s character in TV series Monk. Thing is, Monk’s OCD becomes funny, even as he is still functional.

What it doesn’t delve into is the impetus that causes OCD – the voices that tell one person to wash his hands over and over, not stopping even when the skin is raw, or to check that the door is locked, 30 times over.

It’s the anxiety, according to an article I read in Men’s Health magazine. An anxious feeling that if a person doesn’t do this one thing, something bad will happen. We all have some level of anxiety, but it is quelled by other voices – yes, I checked the iron before I left, I remember switching it off. Sometimes, it’s not really off (we forget), but we are not going to think about it any more than a few anxious moments. We are not going to go back into the house, check the iron. If it is off, switch it back on, then off ( to make sure it’s really off). You want to go, but can’t, because the voice is saying ‘is it really off? If it’s not really off, the iron will short circuit, the house will burn, taking the block with it, and people will die.’ Then switch it back on, then off. Voice. On, off. Voice. On, off. Lights, on or off? Stove, on or off? Shoes in perfect alignment with each other, no knick-knack out of place, clothes hangers must be no more or less than four inches apart from one another. Any other way, and the person is so anxious that he cannot function – not at school, at work, or anywhere.

Seems these voices can also be about feelings, as the writer of the article claims. The writer gave an example of the voices which told him that each and every girlfriend he had was cheating on him, every night, so he demanded explanations and proof of their whereabouts. (Though I’m not convinced that it wasn’t just voices plus insecurity, although he claims to have been cured via pills.)

Anyway, the basis of it all is anxiety, going into full-panic mode if everything “isn’t just right”. And that is what is absent in people just saying they have OCD if they like their clothes hung in a certain way, their knick-knacks on the table in a symmetrical arrangement and if they have all their books arranged in alphabetical order. Yes, if things are out of place, they will bitch and moan (who moved my Zidane figurine?! It should be to Raul’s right, not left!), move it back and carry on. If there is a dirty plate in the sink left by their husband, they will wash it and put it away, even though it’s late, and then, job done, they go to bed.

They are obsessive, yes, but not compulsive, and not to the extent that it affects their life. And too many people use the excuse of having OCD, if they like their things just so.

I said so myself, just last week, and now I’m recanting. I do not have OCD. I like my hangers to be same colour and make, and for them to face in the same direction, but I’m not anxious if they want to move around. Sometimes they want to mix in other hanger stratas. I would love to have all my clothes hung in colour-coordinated groups, as this makes it easier to dress. But when my white shirt goes galivanting with the black skirt, it doesn’t bother me that much, I just separate them and promise through the tears that they’ll get to see each other again the next time I want a black-and-white ensemble.

And maybe I have a bit of a perfectionist attitude, which comes and goes with the moods. Or I just say that because I’m a lazy bugger and can’t be bothered to alphabeticise my CD collection, or when I say I can’t get C done because I don’t have A and B in place, I just can’t be bothered to get C done.

Case in point: I signed up for guitar lessons today. Normal thinking would be: I need to get a guitar, I need a place set up in my house to put the guitar so that it won’t fall over and get damaged but it has to be within easy reach for whenever I want to practise, and I need to set up a proper place to practise, with a stand for the guitar book and a comfortable chair, and thick curtains so that I won’t bother the neighbours when I play, and only then can I start lessons.
And today was: no guitar, no nothing, but signed up for lessons. Whether I’ll stick with it is another issue, of course, probably relating to my (possible) fear of commitment, and fodder for another post some other time.

I’m learning that these are excuses, maybe based on other reasons, like fear of failure. I’m planning to write a book, but I can’t get started because I don’t have a car to take me to see the people I need to see for the interviews. I don’t have a tape recorder to record the interviews. Maybe I’m just scared that no one will be interested to read my book? But I’m not really anxious up to the point that I can’t function, and that is why I don’t have OCD.

For now, there is a CD case on my desk that is not completely aligned with the edges of my laptop… but I’m OK with it. Alright, I actually moved it, making it square with the edge of the table, but I wasn’t anxious about it. Not really. Now I’ll get on with my day… after I rearrange my closet.

Hot, Hot Night

2008-09-29T00:33:00.000-07:00

Wooee. A hot night and a hot race was the SingTel Singapore Grand Prix over the weekend. Me and gal-pal Debby hit the F1 party scene thanks to tickets (pictured) courtesy of Adam, who had won them at a media event. Thanks a whole bunch, Adam, we had ourselves a whale of a time.

Stay tuned for more stories, including on the Red Twins, Bear-Bear and beached yachts.

30 Years of Lego People

2008-09-21T23:45:00.000-07:00

I can't remember if I ever had Lego's Mini-men, myself, as the toy was a luxury. But I'm sure my cousins did, and I do remember building houses for these little people oh, some 20-odd years ago.

Back then the mini-men were just that - mini men. Now they're mini people with jobs, lives, communities and history. The first was a policeman, and see how they're getting on now, with a high-tech station, as pictured.

There's four million of them, and they're 30 years old. To celebrate, there's a website showing a 60-second stop-action clip of mini-men in history, as well as other titbits for Lego fans.

So as New York Entertainment magazine puts it, Happy 30th birthday to the Lego Miniman, who enters a fourth decade of being accidentally swallowed, lost in the back seat and stepped on by an irate, barefoot adult. (I'm sure we've all been there...)

Winds of Change Overhead

2008-09-21T22:08:00.000-07:00

The winds of change have caused the first reported casualty: A China Airlines flight to Bali hit turbulence while flying over Malaysia, injuring 30 people, two seriously. One of the passengers is said to have suffered a spinal fracture.
According to an AFP report, the Boeing 747, flying at an altitude of 11,280 metres, dropped 60 metres in 10 seconds in the incident on Saturday. It said the airline reported being in Malaysian airspace at the time.

Hmm, I guess the politicking and ISAing have create ripples in the world.

The Little Devil wants to run a marathon

2008-08-27T06:26:00.000-07:00

The Little Devil is really little, if you don't know by now. I'm "five feet in heels", something I say when people ask my height, and petite. In that sense (I'm making the excuse beforehand), I've always thought I wasn't built for long-distance running. Just look at marathon runners, and triathlon athletes - they're tall, big and bulky, with huge reserves of fat to draw from when they're "running on empty", plus huge lung capacities (my lungs are small, thus I always have extra air when scuba diving).

In school, I've only competed in sprints - the 100m dash, 200m at the most. Get me to run 400m and I'm dead halfway round the track. Running 5km would take me more than an hour.

But as old age creeps, or rather, gallops up on me, and I can't sprint in record-breaking times anymore, I thought I'd try to develop some long-distance stamina to get fit and toned. Thus the (day)dream of completing a marathon, and even a triathlon.

Tell you the truth, the dream has been ongoing for years now. And nothing much has happened towards its fulfilment. In early 2000s I ran (or walked) the charity Terry Fox Run, still taking about an hour to complete 4.5km (those hills around Lake Garden are murder!) and last week I took about 45 minutes to saunter the streets of KL for the charity Rat Race organised by my company (it felt a little less than 4km). Oh, now that I think of it, I actually registered for the Penang Bridge marathon in 1999 but didn't go (sheepish grin).

And those charity runs were only 4km. A marathon is 10 times the distance. Seems like an undoable task. The Greek soldier Pheidippides, who had been credited (in some accounts) with running from Marathon to Athens to announce that the Persians had been defeated in the Battle of Marathon, managed to run into the assembly, announced "we have won" and promptly keeled over and died. Not very inspiring, huh?

Inspiring, though, are people who have succeeded, if not in elite 2-hour and a bit times, within the set time limit for certain marathons to get a medal (pictured), or if there are no limits, before they open the streets back to traffic, at a pace of 13 minutes (or 14) per mile (1.6km).

If you don't reach a certain cut-off point, runners have to take to the sidewalks, or in cases like the Marine Corp Marathon, hop aboard the strugglers' bus. (That would definitely be me. In high school in Kuantan, when we were doing the 11km Teluk Chempedak to Balok run, my roommate and I took the strugglers' boat!).

And that's the marathon. What more the triathlon, with 3.8km of swimming, 180km cycling and a full marathon to boot in the long-distance or Ironman event. Gal-pal Debby (she of the Miz Cool moniker) says she wants to do this, too, but needs a serious kick up the nether regions to even start training.

Well, I'm afraid I've got sad news... or let's call it another excuse. I've got a bum knee. A bum knee is something which can be used in any or all instances as a reason for not doing something. Just ask some men.

This bum knee developed in 1996 when I was on holiday from uni (let's call it skipping a week before Winter holidays) and touring London with cousin Rozi, her future hubby Meri, Meri's sis Leen, cousin Ziad and Meri's friend Azreezal. I didn't know how it developed, but maybe the cold didn't help. Walking down a flight of steps, there was a sudden ache in my left knee which meant I could not bend it without grimacing.

It has come and gone since then, usually when I've exerted myself. Coming down Mount Kinabalu in 1999 was complete agony, even when favouring the knee meant crab-walking (going sideways) all the way down. In the AXN Challenge in 2005, it started hurting about an hour into the race, thus I was walking/limping/hopping for the next seven hours.

Colleague Pat (whose own knee was ruined by squash) suspects I've got cartillage damage. Thinking about it, I thought it could be from years of school sports and doing the dash, especially without stretching. Or maybe, he says, some people are more susceptible to osteo-arthritis than others.

Anyhoo, seeing as Malaysians do not have easy, or cheap, access to physiotherapists, I doubt the problem will go away, and pushing through the pain might make the problem worse. Sigh. So in the end, will the dream remain a day dream? For the time being I can only sit here, with my knee elevated to relieve the ache, and wonder.

I Turned Around and You Weren't There

2008-08-06T01:15:00.000-07:00

I just learnt that I can't work alone. Unsupervised, yes, but not alone, especially when the work regards writing. An essay, article or headline, I work better if there are other people around.
When I was a reporter at The Sun, there was always a hubbub of people talking, asking for advice, in some cases yelling, that this was never a problem. Not so much that I noticed, as I seldom did my writing at home. Then it was on to subbing, still with many people around me.

Most recently at the Brunei Times, when I got back into writing feature stories, there was colleague Arfa, and then Juli, off of whom I bounced ideas. Sometimes they didn't even need to say anything - all that was necessary was a pretence of being heard and the answer was there, whether it was the most perfect word for a headline or a sentence structure which would not make me sound like a moron.

It's like those proverbial "at the tip of my tongue" things - what you're looking for is there, you just need an impetus to bring it to the fore, and usually this involves sounding out a query. But maybe I just like the sound of my own voice... hmmm...

Well, anyway, I'm on my own now. And I'm struggling. I've been trying for weeks to work on the article for my high school reunion this weekend, and I have come up with nothing. Nada. Zilch. Satu kejadah pun takde apa-apa. And I despair at the idea of freelance writing, thoughts of which I'm entertaining for some extra dosh.

But I can't write by myself. I sit at the desk I've put up by the window in my room (pictured) and stare at the blinking cursor on a blank page, then stare out at the bit of swimming pool and garden down below. In front of me are my clothes on the rod hanger, and they're not really into having conversations. To my left is my bed, with not even a teddy bear to feign concern. And when I turn around, there's nothing but an empty wall. And no one behind me.

I guess I'll just have to heed my own words, usually said in a hoarse whisper to Juli when she goes home late a night: "Jangan Pandang Belakang."

There's a Butt Naked Male in My Room

2008-07-14T01:36:00.001-07:00

And here he is. The troll with the rainbow coloured hair.

I can't remember when I got it, or who gave it to me, or even whether I bought it myself. Dates me though, doesn't it (I'm that old - LOL)

I'm sure it had a name. Probably Rainbow Troll, knowing unimaginative little me.

Well, it's been in a box these past two years, and somewhere among my belongings the years before that - just part of some stuff which survived the multiple culls in my transient life.

It was a bit manky, so I gave it a bath. I even washed its hair and put in some conditioner. Now it has silky, flowing locks - wait a minute...

When Love is Gone

2008-07-14T00:17:00.000-07:00

When love is gone, why does it have to hurt so much?
There’s a gaping hole where the heart used to strongly beat
A punch to the solar plexus that makes it hard to breathe

When love is gone, why is there such a feeling of loss?
There are no more calls to ask about your day
No smile, or touch, or kiss that used to wipe those blues away

When love is gone, why does life feel so empty?
There is no longer the one you used to end the day with
No hopes, nor dreams, nor happy-ever-after to live

When love is gone
The sunshine flees and the skies can only weep
And when he said, the love is gone
I cried myself to sleep.

This is a great breakup song, by Malaysian rock queen Ella and her bro Korie.
It's entitled "Pergilah Sayang", which, for want of a better translation, means:

"Fuck off, love, and leave me alone". LOL.

Meaning of the lyrics (roughly translated):

It felt wonderful when love was found
Falling in love and making promises
saying how much we loved each other
together we laughed and cried

But now all that's just a memory
You left without a word

Where are those promises you made
that we would live our lives together

I'm letting you go, even though it hurts
let me be alone
tears are my only solace
I'll keep everything as a memory

Fuck off, love, leave me alone
Let go of the memories between you and me

Cat's gonna get you

2008-07-13T23:27:00.001-07:00

Isn't this cute? Looks like the cat is going to pounce on your head any time now. I've got it as my PC wallpaper.

I got this pic here, a collection of cat pictures from the internet. See also here for more kitty kat poses. Though I like the natural photos rather than the doctored ones.

Nation in Panic After Cat Terror Incident

2008-07-11T08:41:00.000-07:00

WISCONSIN: Terror struck home in the small town of Millwood, Wisconsin as a cat ruthlessly attacked a bird yesterday. Sheriff Doug Bungy said, "It was carnage, that's what it was. A more monstrous crime has never been committed here in all the three hundred years our fine town has stood."
Media outlets were quick to jump on the terror bandwagon, with claims ranging from Dan Rather's story stating that the cat acted alone to Fox News's report that it was trained by Osama Bin Laden to attack small birds in Afghanistan.
Debbie Lynch was witness to the carnage. "I saw the cat, it looked like one of them normal cats, you know, and it stalked the bird. I thought it was looking at the bird like a person looks at a painting in a fancy museum, then there was the blood and the screaming and the gore. Only now do I truly know the horror of war", she said.
Investigators on the scene have taken forensic swabs and called in specialist counselors to deal with local trauma. George Mellors, who runs the local hardware store said, "We have had nothing like this here, ever. This used to be a quiet town. Now it is the very epicenter of hell. Its like something out of a Stephen King book, apparently. I dont read but my daughter do."
The cat was believed to have fled the area by jumping over a fence and hiding in some shrubs. Anyone with further information should contact the FBI.
The following information has been posted in all local post offices, police stations, and pet shops:
Description ; Cat. About a foot long. Walks on all fours. Sometimes uses the name Tiddles. Has tail. Black and white. Approach with extreme caution or bowl of milk.
This is not the first time feline related terror has stalked the local streets. In November of last year, a small kitten was seen ruthlessly attacking a small woolen ball. According to an eyewitness, "the ball was just sitting there, and this kitten or whatever it was pounced". The ensuing chaos caused many innocent members of the public to step over the wool. Gordon Blacksmith commented, "I heard on the radio that there was an incident, and I went to see. The kitten seemed to be planning the attack, hiding in some shrubs, and then it leapt on the wool. There but for the grace of God go I", he said.
Also last November, a cat was seen lurking in a tree, and worried residents thought it could be a sniper. In December the town turned into a triple terror hot spot with the disclosure that a goldfish had been under surveillance from a small group of fur ball extremists for over half an hour. "This town isn't safe anymore" said one resident, who wished not to reveal his identity, "You can't walk down the street without some cat looking at you. You don't know if they're going to come up to you, expecting a pat on the head, a stroke or something altogether more sinister, like abuse. Who knows what "meow" means? It could be a signal for a terror outrage or a request for more tuna. Or, God forbid, a mixture of the two." -- The Fake News

Cute, innit? News satire, also called fake news, is a type of parody presented in a format typical of mainstream journalism. According to an entry in Wikipedia, the goal of news satire is to make social commentary in a form that provides entertainment. Samuel Clemens, aka Mark Twain, was even made (in)famous because of his believable fake news.

For more examples of fake news, eg Atkins Diet Fanatics Assault Cookie Monster and School Bans Paper From Area Schools, go to The Fake News or The Spoof. The entries are generally humorous but can be offensive. Be warned that out-loud laughter may be a consequence.

Play It Again, Sam

2008-06-08T13:25:00.000-07:00

There are songs that you like for a short time.
There are songs you never wish to hear again.
There are songs that make you cry and those that make you sigh,
Songs that make you smile, if only for a while.

There are songs that transport you to a time in your life that was bright and beautiful, where most things were weird and wonderful, and where you found yourself blissfully happy and carefree.

That time for me was in lower secondary school.
The song was Man Bai’s “Kau Ilhamku”.

It goes like this:
Beribu bintang di langit kini menghilang
meraba aku dalam kelam
rembulan mengambang kini makin suram
pudar ilhamku tanpa arah

Sedetik wajahmu muncul dalam diam
ada kerdipan ada sinar
itukah bintang ataupun rembulan
terima kasih ku ucapkan

Izinkan ku mencuri bayangan wajahmu
Izinkan ku mencuri khayalan dengan mu
Maafkanlah oh..
andai lagu ini mengganggu ruangan hidupmu
kau senyumlah oh.. sekadar memori kita di arena ini
Kau ilhamku

This song always made me happy though I wasn’t quite sure why. Then the other day while I was having supper, I heard another melody. Though it was not "Kau Ilhamku", there was an echo of it.
Suddenly, I stopped flipping through my magazine and just stared off into space. The other song was still playing, but what resonated in my soul and through my head were the bars of Kau Ilhamku and a feeling I had not experienced in over 15 years.

It was there in front of me as clear as the peanut butter sandwich I was eating.

A school field. Sitting in the grass. A blue sky above. Me and my best friend Az. And the memories and feelings came rushing back.

She was in a sense my inspiration, as we used to trade ideas. We were then quite prolific little writers, although our work would never stand up to literary review. There was always something to write about, some idea we were teasing into being. She had her imaginary friend Emma (I never knew her personally, of course), supposedly a green-eyed, raven-haired beauty who was the protagonist in her stories.
I had my main character Ana (Raja Putri Syarhana Farhani) with her blue eyes, strawberry blond locks and a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, (I guess we had our own ideals about beauty), slated to be the girl who won over the boy everyone wanted. (Well, maybe not everyone, in Form Two it was just me and Az drooling over our class monitor Fuad who was tall, fair and quite cute).
Ana was the heroine who was supposed to grace the pages of my first novel. Ana with the elder brother whose name I still use when signing my sketches. Ana with the loving Caucasian mother from whom she gets her beauty and colouring, and slightly authoritarian Malay father. Ana with the wonderful house and mixed upbringing and poor Bahasa Melayu, which is the reason she gets tuition from the boy, who later finds himself enthralled. And on it goes.

And there were other stories. Some which came from songs we listened to, some based on the people we knew (and had a crush on), some from homework and some just pulled out of our fertile imaginations.

Those times are long since past, but the memory of them never really go away. It’s something that lies dormant until resurrected – by a melody, by a phrase, by a face in the crowd.

It is there, just below the surface. The memory of a friendship. A memory of a song.

Sometimes you just have to play that song again.

Mz Cool and Gang at the Big Lake

2008-06-08T10:58:00.000-07:00

Stay tuned for the story.

My car is in Europe

2008-03-29T02:56:00.000-07:00

Well, Si Merah (for the colour red) seems to think it is, as it gave up spewing cold air through the air-cond vents and instead decided that the driver in equatorial Brunei needed a heater.

It was truly a horrendous experience, as the windows don't really open (old cars have windows which fall out sideways) and we were building up steam inside the car. At 1pm, local time, just after the sun was at its zenith, the inside of the car was hotter than the weather outside.

Not too hot to be funny though. Passing a sign for the Giant hypermarket, the first to open in Brunei (on March 22), my passenger Juli said Giant must be the hottest thing in Brunei right now, before adding: "But not as hot as Si Merah!"

I wilted.

Can I borrow your mother?

2008-03-28T03:45:00.000-07:00

My mother has been gone now for 18 years, three more than the 15 during which she was in my life. And yet, why are the memories still there?

Why do I still dream of her, and during these dreams sometimes totally forget that she has passed away? Sometimes in these dreams I rationalise the years that she's been gone - in one dream she had to "disappear" (like in those movies where people go into protective custody) for several years, in another she lost her memory, and in the others she was just there. No real explanation. I had my mother - the one who died when I was 15 - and we did the normal mother and daughter stuff.

Is it me? Is it a subconscious calling out into the darkness of the mind for my mother?

My daylight soul would dismiss this in the first instant. I'm a grown adult. I don't need my mother. I barely knew her, and when she was around, I only knew her as a mom who worked odd hours for the Malaysian News Agency (Bernama). She was a bit tough with us kids (she had a bit of a temper - probably where I got mine?) and hardly seemed to be at home. We were brought up mostly by the maids.

But I do remember once she ran over our kitten and bought us toys to soften the blow when she broke the news. And she and my dad often took us on holidays, when I suppose it would be easier to travel without kids along.

And when I went to work at Bernama, I found out more about this woman my mother. Well-liked, friendly, a good sense of humour - all the things a daughter would never really know, even if she were still alive.

Do I regret not having a mother? Maybe up to a point. In a Malay (or Asian) society, mothers are not the "best-friend" confidantes they are made out to be in Western books or movies. Do we really talk freely about our boyfriends, our periods, our expectations of the first night of marriage, for instance? Can we discuss our bodies, our confidence in our looks or talents, our dream of meeting this great good-looking guy who can make the earth move? Can we ask how Mom and Dad met, how they fell in love and how will I ever get over this jerk who dumped me?

And yet ... I find myself daydreaming of finding a man with a mother who will love me like mothers should.

Today, March 28, is my mother's birth date. Just after midnight, I was going through some of my jewellery, and picked up the jade bracelet that once belonged to her. I don't know if she ever wore it or it had been bought for investment. I've never worn it (it's too big) and it's been sitting wrapped in red paper, in a blue velvet case, for the past 18 years. It's one of several things that I have of hers, picked up after Dad remarried.

So I have my mother in snatches of memory. In items left behind. In the eyes of friends who knew her better than a daughter ever could.

But really, I don't have a mother at all.

What, no cup holders?

2008-03-28T01:00:00.000-07:00

It's so common to have cup holders in cars nowadays that it's probably not even mentioned in the bumf for a new vehicle just hitting the auto market.

I think it's quite a new phenomenon (relative to the more than 100 years that cars have been tootling around on Earth), as the car I'm driving, a Toyota Corolla hatchback from 1984 (pictured), doesn't have this little, but very useful, gadget.

I forgot all about this though, when I dropped by the Thye Foodcourt in Gadong after work for a takeaway cup of teh tarik. Having just recently been on a roadtrip in a Toyota Hilux (a pickup truck, of all things, has cup holders - I bet those come with adjustable supports in case the vehicle goes head over arse) and noticing that my pilot had his teh tarik at the ready by his side while driving, I cheerfully carried my plastic cup of tea into the car - and then realised I had no place to put it.

So it went between my legs for the drive home. Not such a great idea when you're driving a manual and have to change gears. Not much better that short me has to sit far forward to reach the pedals and the steering wheel keeps bumping into the cup.

I ended up with a teh tarik-flavoured crotch. Not remotely as kinky as it sounds. Thank goodness I had a layer of my new cotton-rayon dress and another of Levi's to keep me from getting scalded.

Sigh, the trials and tribulations of a girl in search of a great cup of teh tarik...

And the award for most comments goes to...

2007-11-11T22:36:00.000-08:00

OK, so Blueberry keeps complaining that I don't publish her comments. Yeah, I have to agree with her. I hardly get comments, so I don't make the effort to publish them. And then her first comments were from weird "anonymous" so I didn't bother.

And I thought, who reads those comments anyway? I don't. Blueberry, if you want to get in touch with me, you'd be better off sending an email. Those I reply to.. well, some day. Or just SMS me. I promise, when I have credit for my phone, or when I don't think texting is a pain on my stupid arthritic fingers, I'll send you a reply.

Anyway, here for the pleasure of Blueberry and all those people who read my blog (that's you, Ghoul), here are Blueberry's latest comments:

On the tag called Josephine:
Oi perempuan! Aku ni dah lama tak tinggalkan komen kat blog ngkau nie sebab aku benci bila komen aku tak keluar (not published) dan tak dijawab oleh engkau. So adakah sekarang ni ngkau dah tech-savvy sikit atau still blur kacang macam dulu jugak?...Syoknye Mek Jo duduk Kelantan! Makey budu tiap harilah camtu!!! Healthy dia nanti, awet muda you! Budu kan ada banyak anti-oksidan.

Answer: Heh heh, I'm still as tech unsavvy as ever. See, I have not even figured out how to link your blog to mine, and I've read the step-by-step instructions a zillion times. I don't even know how you managed to put some music on your blog! Anyone who has the slightest sympathy for this tech-forsaken being, please offer to upgrade my blog for me.

And I don't know how Jo is doing as I haven't heard news for a while. But I bet she likes budu (a fermented sauce made of anchovies).

On the marathon tag, Blueberry wrote:
Wah!!! Hebatnya!!! Eh bukan dulu masa kat KL ko pernah lari marathon gak ke? Ni marathon mana plak nie? Dahsyat ko ye, sungguh berstamina!

Answer: Nah, I never did a full marathon. That one I did in KL was the Terry Fox Run, which was only 4.5km but took me an hour of huffing and puffing to complete. I'm supposed to be training for a proper run, of which I'll write about, I swear, once I finish this pizza and get off the couch.

On I'm A Summer Girl:
Wey Fashionista! Amboi amboiiii semenjak kawan baik dengan orang-orang kaya kat BSB tu bukan main fashion-conscious lagi kau yea... When are you coming back? Are you not coming back? Aku rindu kat kau lah... Nak pegi makan-makan dan story-story dan bolehlah aku amik gambar potret kau di dalam frivolous outfit kau tu!

Answer: The "fashionista" unfortunately isn't sure about getting back to KL even though I am in SERIOUS need of retail therapy. Just been reading through Trinny and Susannah's "What you wear can change your life" and realised I'm a two-colour girl, and they are always boring colours. Cream and maroon, or cream and green, or red and black. There is a whole universe of colours out there and I don't know how to match them. Sigh.

And Blueberry, your pictures are amazing.

And since I still can't link Blueberry's blog to mine, anyone who wants to read about the "Cheerful person, harassed employee, stubborn daughter, eccentric sister, stingy aunt, devoted wife and broody mother" who has some really funny things to say, visit her at blueberrymusings.blogspot.com.

Was it a car or a cat I saw

2007-11-08T10:28:00.000-08:00

Darling Jo (Josephine), who is now living with a new family in Kelantan. She's now called Mek Jo (read with a Kelantan slang, if you please) and has more room to roam and make friends.
This was taken during the actual eight-hour road trip from Kuala Lumpur to Kota Baru to send her off. Mostly she sat quietly in the back, but would start to miao if I made eye contact. She's not really a car cat.

Hook, Line and Sinker

2007-09-04T10:50:00.000-07:00

I used a great line on a guy just yesterday. Well, I'd like to think it was a good line.

After an initial "feeling things out" phase, and on a third kinda-date (we're friends), I asked him: "What magic are you using? I couldn't stop thinking of you yesterday".

He was a bit speechless at first, and I thought there was an awkward moment (as I had said I only wanted to be friends). Then after the conversation had meandered through other topics, he suddenly asked "So what were you thinking about, when you were thinking about me?"

Hah! Caught him.

Schumi and the purple teddy

2007-08-14T05:49:00.000-07:00

Haha. Dirty minded people! These are my cute teddy bears, a Russ one from Shashi and Little Schumi from Nik.

I Am A Summer Girl

2007-07-26T04:59:00.000-07:00

Reading through the August edition of InStyle magazine was an eye-opener. In Summer girls V Winter women, it says being a summer or a winter isn’t just about the colour of one’s hair or skin. It’s more about personality (laid-back vs prim) and being comfortable with the kind of clothes you wear (T-shirts vs silk blouses).

And instead of being boxed in by what some may call a stereotype, I think it’s liberating to understand the kind of person you are and the clothes that suit your attitude.

Aside from being a late bloomer in fashion anyway, having bought my first pair of Levi’s at age 32, I had always been unsure of how I wanted to style myself and the look that I wanted to portray.
Yes I am a journalist, but unlike Kate Adie and her flak jackets while on the frontline, I’ve never been close to a warzone – not even a hint – that I can safely say combat boots and cargo pants are a required uniform. The only time I was about to be sent to the nearly-jungles of Perak, when the rebels stole M16s and ammo from the Army outpost and hid in the jungle, the crisis was over and the baddies caught (and shot), before I had even started to pack.
The only justification I had for being uber-casual, as some journos are portrayed, was when I started out at The Sun newspaper and I was covering crime and spot news – police stations, mortuaries, floods (not once), fires (but we were outside, far away and unheroic), murder scenes (nothing as dramatic as CSI) and a landslide. Even then, being uber-unchic, I wore boys’-cut shirts, unflattering trousers and unsexy hiking boots, as I didn’t have a car and walked everywhere. Though it felt like an unnecessary evil – other reporters in the line still managed coiffed hair and heels! – I found myself, twice when I wore baju kurung and proper court shoes, clambering over a mountain of confiscated game machines and trying to skirt puddles and huge patches of sopping red earth of a construction site to view a body encased in cement.
So then I graduated to normal reporting, but I still didn’t have style. I wanted the polished, million-dollar businesswoman look so that people would take me seriously, but with a petite “nearly five-foot” frame and a youthful face – I’m in my 30s but appear 20, if you squint a bit – I think I look like I’m playing dress up with Mom’s clothes.

And being flighty, sometimes I wanted the girlie look, or the gypsy, or the bohemian, or the French chic, or the British classy… well, you get my drift.
Being almost five-foot tall is not that great, either, when it comes to buying clothes off the rack. My proportion is off – shorter body, longer legs, flat front and back – so shirts would ride up at the waist, sleeves go down to my knees, waistbands look like Erkel’s and hems trail in the dust. I fit into European sizes for children, but most outfits in Asia’s a la European boutiques (like Somerset Bay) didn’t fit into the career-girl mould.

And don’t let me go back that far into college days – long flowy skirts and blouses with huge ruffles should have a sign that says “not for you, shrimp!”.

So I meandered along, gaining a bit of fashion insight along the way, enough to buy low waisted Levi’s – which still don’t fit that perfectly in the bum, by the way – and narrower shirts, cutting a long dress to make a shift, a number of high heeled shoes, almost figure hugging kebaya dresses and watching The Devil Wears Prada several times to get more clues. But I still had a thing for blazers and suits, the evils of “power dressing” getting ahold of me.

Then the lightbulb moment from the pages of InStyle.

I am a Summer! Though not blond, I love the sun, preferring to burn (I tan after only 5 minutes) rather than be cooped up in perpetual winter (as I was when studying in the UK). I carry itty-bitty handbags which only fit my cellphone, pack of cigs and cash – I don’t have a wallet – I don’t have a pouch for makeup and I’m not too bothered if my hair curls at the ends and doesn’t look like it did after an expensive salon wash and dry. Of course, I’d never look as good in slouchy trousers and sloppy T-shirts as Jennifer Aniston, and I’d never wear short skirts, but I am kinda like what is written in the magazine about Summer girls, that they “own 70 dresses and a handful of flimsy jackets, none of which match their shoes, and they never wear tights”.

Ok, so it’s not spot-on, but I do understand why my crisply ironed shirts tend to turn out rumpled as soon as I take them off the ironing board, unlike Gwen Stefani’s look, why I can’t quite pull off a cream silk blouse and tight skirt which are oh-so Katie Holmes and that I’d never end up on the red carpet as glamorously as Gwyneth Paltrow.
It’s just not me!

So what do I do now? Embrace the Summer girl-ness of me, of course, especially with this part of Southeast Asia being a perpetual summer (apart from Brunei’s current unpredictable foul, stormy weather).
Maybe a good cut of jeans, as really, not everyone is a Levi’s girl, empire line top, some loose gypsy-esque (but not too frilly) blouses, baby doll dresses (worn a bit conservatively over jeans, of course, never mind that it’s supposedly out of fashion), and a sunny attitude (now, that last one is a bit of a stretch).
But I’m thinking I can’t give up the power-dressing altogether, so maybe a blazer over a frivolous outfit – staid over fun, but with panache.

What do you think? Can this newborn Summer girl find some fun in the sun to beat the chill winds of a fashion winter? I definitely think so.
Watch out, world – the Summer girl cometh!

A Girl and Someone Else's Camera

2007-07-20T09:03:00.000-07:00

Just a short entry because people have been complaining that I haven't updated my blog in yonks.

Well, anyway, this is me when I was covering the Miri International Jazz Festival in May.

The pix was taken by Sarawak Tourism's Gustino, who is obviously a wonderful photographer as he made me out to look quite good. Ha! Can I get him to do all my pictures, I wonder?

Ode To The Guitar Player

2007-04-20T07:46:00.000-07:00

‘Twas such a sight that greeted me
You with a guitar on your knee
A single pluck, a simple strum
My heart was beating like a drum
And then when you began to sing
The music went afloat on wings
It touched my heart and gripped me tight
I felt like I was lost in flight

Those days, those nights came rushing past
The friendship that had held us fast
Your presence filled my lonely soul
And kept at bay the crippling cold
The laughter sweet and joy aflame
Which never left me quite the same
All the mem’ries had close I kept
And in these thoughts I basked, except:

The song, the verse, the rhythm played
The melody that had me slayed
Was not for me, not part, not all
Though it had held me in a thrall
Without a word goodbye of leave
You did my heart asunder cleave
And as the song died with a trill
I realise … I miss you still

When the phone rings in the night

2007-01-28T04:54:00.000-08:00

It’s in all the TV shows, it’s in all the novels: when the phone rings in the middle of the night, we know it’s not good news. A death in the family, a car crash, a fire which burnt someone’s house down to the ground.

Maybe in today’s 24/7 lifestyle, the fear of the past-midnight call has been diluted. Much so that it’s not as taboo to be calling your friends late in the night to talk about a date that went bad or to invite him out for a drinking session at the kedai mamak. In fact at 2am you might not even be asleep yet, and a ringing phone does not instil in you the heart-thumping fear and does not make your mind conjure up 20 different scenarios of tragedy in that three minutes it takes you to pick up the receiver and say a breathless and worried “hello”.

But it is the post-midnight call of bad news that compels families, and friends, to immediately come together in a way that nothing else will. Drop everything else, sleep be set aside, forget an early morning meeting that you have to be up for – when the call comes, you are there.

My mother died in the afternoon all those years ago, so the round of phone calls was performed in the light of day – not as urgent, with people coming staggered throughout the rest of the day at their convenience.

But I remember staying at my aunt’s house when once the phone rang past the witching hour. I picked it up and another uncle, sombre in voice, asked to speak to my aunt. There was muted conversation, an exclamation of surprise, a slow click as the receiver was put back in place. My younger cousin had died.

And the family came together at once, bundling all the sleepy children, protesting or not, into cars for the drive to my uncle’s house. Some still in pyjamas, some hastily dressed in ill-matching clothes – it was no time to preen and look pretty, as people tend to do during day visits.

This was the very soul of ziarah, visiting the ill or paying respects to the dead. It is not for the dead that we come, but for the living. It is not for what we can bring them – the nicely packaged basket of fruits or box of chocolates locked away in closed stores – it is us, and we are there. The family grouped from all over, some a mere hour’s drive away, some taking more than four hours to get there. But they came, wasting no more than an hour from receiving the call to setting out.

Funny how death should be the reunion-maker. Have you ever tried getting your family to a get-together for a celebration? Hours of phone calls to pick a good day, adjust schedules, set a time convenient for all. And try it with friends, that’s even harder. Choosing a good place to meet, juggling dates and times, getting the usual last-minute cancellations because of other pressing matters.

But death just comes without warning. No appointments, no asking if everyone’s free on that date, no RSVPs and no reminder calls not to be late. And not even considerate enough to do it before midnight.

Living mantra

2006-11-10T10:12:00.000-08:00

Keep calm
Control temper
Be nice
Appreciate others
Maintain friendships
Remember God
Cherish self (pictured right)
Eat right
Stand tall
Enjoy life

Sustainable pledges?
We'll see

Forgot two:
Go shopping
Buy shoes
Can do?
Most definitely!

New bf for old

2006-10-21T00:27:00.000-07:00

Dear BD,

I just wanted to tell you that I’ve got a new bf now. I know I really shouldn’t slag you off, seeing as you were faithful as my bf at one point, but really, my new bf is so much more satisfying than you ever were.

In the past of course I revered you, as I thought that you were the one and all that and hoped you’d be my bf forever. I mean yes, you picked up after me, you cleaned up my messes, you put up with all that cat hair uncomplainingly and were there when I needed you.

However, I have to say that with time, you were giving me more stress than pleasure.

I mean really, though I could take you almost everywhere with me, especially in those narrow, tight places, you could only perform for about 10 minutes before being spent, and then it took you more than eight hours to recharge your batteries. Your suction capability was good but I could never get you to apply yourself in those hard-to-reach crevices which needed so much attention.

And towards the end, you even refused to recharge your powers without me having to fiddle with your bits, which I really didn’t have the time or patience to do.

Now you’re with my sister, and though I’ve warned her about your failings, she insisted that she would be happy with you, so I hope you’re serving her well.

It took a while, of course, for me to decide on getting a new bf, and though I thought of getting one just like you, I figured I needed a better model. My new bf is bigger than you and although is at times ungainly, makes me happier. When plugged in, my new bf can go on and on all day, giving me utmost satisfaction.

You might think I’m settling for less because my new bf doesn’t have as illustrous a name as yours, and I agree up to a point, but I guess that’s just how it goes.

An Aifa vacuum cleaner can never compare to a cordless Black & Decker Dustbuster, but that’s life.
I’ll never forget you, of course, but I think I’m going to be happy with my new best friend.

Sincerely, the little devil.

Eyes on Stalks

2006-09-25T05:53:00.000-07:00

I have a stalker. An honest-to-God stalker. No, really. I’m not being paranoid, well maybe not much.
I was a bit paranoid when I got home late the other night and opened all doors and looked into all corners of my apartment in case he was lying in wait for me. This is a bit irrational as he couldn’t really get into my third-floor unit unless he jimmied the lock on the grilled door (this would have made too much noise), stolen my keys, turned into Spiderman and scaled the wall or abseiled from the roof (not probable in his case but what I would definitely do).

However, I have not been imagining that he has been standing for minutes at a time in the compound of the Shell station in front of my apartment building looking up at my unit. I’ve caught him at it a few times, and he was there again the other night, pretending to play with a cat. I saw him as I was out on the balcony chatting with my next-door-neighbour Dave, whose balcony overlooks mine. And he was watching unabashedly all the way as I went down the three flights of stairs to my colleague’s waiting car for a late night meal, which resulted in the apartment sweep when I got back.

I know I wrote lovingly about Rangga standing outside Cinta’s house in the movie Ada Apa Dengan Cinta in my entry That Melting Feeling, but this does NOT in the least strike a sentimental chord in me. Not even close to the romanticism of Romeo and Juliet’s balcony scene, either. And I know I was lamenting the lack of single men here in Brunei, but this is not my idea of an eligible male.

The thing is, he is a security guard attached to my office and the area in which my apartment is located, and some people might say he’s just “doing his rounds”. But I seriously think standing in the same place time and time again and gazing straight up at my apartment is not in his job description. It’s bordering on psychotic and an invasion of my privacy.

It started out pretty normal. I say hello to the guards once in a while as I enter or exit the office building. Then one night, going home late, it started to rain, so he offered to walk me home with an umbrella. At the stairs to my place, I tell him it’s ok, I can make it up by myself, but he insists on accompanying me “to check if everything’s all right”.
Outside my door I again had to politely but firmly thank him, saying that I was quite confident of being safe and went in. I heard him loiter for a bit outside my door, then he left.

However, he came back up and rang my doorbell! This was nearly 1am – he claimed to be bored and since my lights were still on, he thought it would be just peachy to come and hang out. I said no.

Pretty creepy, I thought, and only later, when I caught him staring from that favourite spot at the Shell station, that his earlier remark as he was sending me home made sense. He had asked me what I was doing up so late some night before that, as he saw that my lights were on. And that fit, as the only way he could ascertain if my lights were on was if he were loitering at that very spot at the petrol station.

Vain me would just shrug it off and revel in the thought that I have a stalker, but private me is very upset. I don’t like the idea of this man keeping tabs on whether I’m home, awake or asleep. And what is he standing around for anyway – waiting to get a glimpse of me if I went out on the balcony or as I walk about in my apartment if the curtains are not closed? Creepsville Central!

I’m really unsure what I should do. Some colleagues think I should take it up with his supervisor or my boss, as security guards are supposed to make me feel more secure, not less. But some think it could just make matters worse (as I said, some may just say it’s his job and dismiss my fears) and if I ignore him, he might just tire of the game and stop.

Right now, I’m keeping an eye out for him as I want to get a picture of him in his stalker dude mode. Further ideas are welcome, but what I really want to do is keep a video log of the frequency, timing and duration of his little “on duty” night watch sojourns.

Now if I can only get my hands on a good video camera...

Me a cow?

2006-09-17T04:59:00.000-07:00

Colleague Ash was trying to introduce me to his friend the other day via instant messaging, and in the process told him about this blog.
Know what? His first comment was "Holy Cow!"
So I had Ash ask him if he was calling me a cow.

Now, I've been likened to many animals before. Bitch, pussycat (definitely a misguided person who thought this), chameleon, ox (as in stubborn as an) and ass, while I consider myself a tiger - but no one's ever called me a cow. Well, not to my face, anyway.

However, I might not mind being a cow in Europe or Japan, as, according to Jessica Williams in her book 50 Facts That Should Change The World, them heifers have it good.

The fact of the matter is that: "Every cow in the European Union is subsidised by US$2.50 a day. That's more than what 75 per cent of Africans have to live on."

She goes on to say that European cows come under the Common Agricultural Policy (CAP) and "the Catholic aid agency CAFOD calculated that for the money the EU spends protecting its farmers, each of the EU's 21 million cows could go on a round-the-world trip once a year. The cows could touch down in London, Shanghai, Hong Kong, Singapore, Hanoi, Siem Reap, Brisbane, Rarotonga, Los Angeles and San Francisco - with $400 spending money to help them along. What makes this even more remarkable is that the EU's cows aren't the most heavily subsidised in the world. According to the World Bank, that prize goes to Japanese cows, which receive $7.50 every day. Presumably, when the Japanese cows join their European friends on their round-the-world trip, they fly business class."

Isn't that amazing? Now you can call me a cow all you want. I'm going on holiday - business class.

Escapism, and not by Houdini

2006-08-23T07:56:00.001-07:00

Do you ever wonder about the one that got away?
Whether it was a 60-pound fish, a little black dress on sale, a pair of knee-length tan suede boots in a shop in Doha.. or the man that you let slip through your fingers.

I’ve been thinking about it recently. And been a tad wistful about the Ryans and the Daniels and the Sorshas that I knew.

Of course after time, most of the memories I have of them are good.

One bus trip, a scintillating conversation, innocent walks, a bicycle ride and chatting at the playground.

Making a new friend in an unfamiliar town, walking through the galleries of a museum differentiating between Astrology and Astronomy, chatting via the internet.

A friend’s wedding, a movie date and witty repartee, having nasi lemak in Pantai Dalam, exchanging notes via SMS.

These are the things I remember, and things I smile about. The connection, the ability to converse, understanding the same kind of jokes, the laughter.

It’s a form of escapism, of course. Somewhere you run to if you’re feeling a little bored or upset or lonely. It’s a lovely place where you can hide for a bit from the real world. A little place where you can ignore the whys and wherefores that the relationship didn’t work out.

I’ve forgotten all the arguments, the fights, the sulks. All best left behind for the sweet memories of the good times that we had.
Because don’t stories about “the one that got away” often get embellished with each retelling? – “the fish was huge, surely more than a metre long”; “that shirt would have fit me perfectly”; “he was the nicest, handsomest, most perfect guy I had ever met”.

But I don’t dwell on it too much, because I know, things that are meant to be would have been, and things that didn’t wasn’t meant to.

If it were meant to be, the Ryans of the world would not have gone to France to study and there meet the woman of his dreams. If it were meant to be, the Daniels of the world wouldn’t have migrated to Australia to set up a business and there meet the woman he recently married. And if it were meant to be, the Sorshas of the world would not have met a girl just after we called it quits, and within a year was married with a child on the way.

It was not meant to be. But that doesn’t mean we can’t think a little about the ones that got away, and smile.

Di Dalam Kegelapan Ku Mencari

2006-08-21T02:10:00.000-07:00

Telah lama aku berada di dalam kegelapan.
Kelam dan kedinginan telah menjadi lumrah hidupku.

Lalu di kala aku berselubung mencari jawapan, muncul seseorang yang menerangi kegelapan dan membawa kehangatan.

“Pasanglah lampu,” katanya. “Dah tu, kalau sejuk, tutup air-cond tu, membazir duit je.”

Aku akur. Dan hilanglah kegelapan dan kedinginan itu.

Ten Years On

2006-08-16T21:01:00.001-07:00

Ten years ago, I left Malaysia for a two-year stint in the UK to further my studies.
Ten years on, I am again starting a two-year stint in a foreign country, this time for work.
But funnily enough, 10 years on, my baby brother is about to undertake his own adventure in the UK, having earned his stripes to complete the second and third year of his undergraduate degree at Nottingham University.

Earlier this year, when I applied for this overseas job, I wondered if things weren’t happening in a 10-year cycle for a reason. I felt confident that I would get the job and that it was time again for me to leave the country as I did in 1996.

Was it a coincidence that although I had switched jobs four times since I got back and started working, the opportunity to work abroad never came up, only to fall into my lap at this particular time? I was barely a year into my new job then - a good one where I was making enough for a comfortable lifestyle; I had a car, a rental condo in Pantai Hillpark, enough money to go diving or holiday every few months. It was a good job, but it was just time to move on and up. I felt it in my bones.

And now, as the 10-year cycle goes, baby bro is all grown up, and moving into a world where he will stand on his own two feet, rise or fall on his own account, learn more about the world and his place in the whole scheme of things. No Dad to call to pick him up during college holidays, no (step) Mum to cook him dinner and call him down from his hours in front of the computer downloading “stuff” (it’s alright, I know he loves his Manga and all that Japanese cartoon stuff, as does my elder sis).

We were never close. Mum died when he was just four (I was 15), which marked the beginning of a life apart for me. That year, the last family vacation was around my birthday, when we met up with Mum who had a working trip in Terengganu. They were staying at the Primula Hotel on Batu Buruk beach. I rode a horse on my own on the beach. Baby bro doesn’t remember this. And he doesn’t remember our mother.
There is a picture of the family taken in March of that year, probably the last we took before she died. It was her birthday, and she was opening her present with us sitting posed around her (as normal family pictures are composed). I’ll post the picture some day, I don’t have it now with me. There are also some pictures of me holding baby bro, but not many, as I was never really maternal and never really got on with him. If he notices a scar on his forehead at the edge of his hairline, it was probably when I was rough with him and he hit his head at the edge of the stairs (*grin* sorry, baby bro).

The last family celebration was probably my elder sister’s birthday in September. Then Mum died in October. The family took a vacation in December of that year. Dad, sis, bro and I went to Penang, then a bit later took a cousin and a young uncle to Cameron Highlands to use up Mum’s holiday time-share scheme. I don’t remember much, except for memory flashes when I look at the photos. The wind in my hair on the Penang ferry, walking on the grounds of Strawberry Park in Cameron Highlands, splashing about at the waterfall.

Some time in the first quarter of the next year, I went to boarding school. Dad remarried that August. Suffice to say, I never got on well with Step-mum, and never really went home. I didn’t get parental support, emotionally or financially, and I learnt to be independent.

And when I left for the UK 10 years ago, I didn’t feel like the parents were particularly proud that this stubborn obstinate spitfire rebel of a girl had managed to do particularly well for herself but were just basking in the bragging rights that “my daughter is going overseas to study”, something my elder sis had denied them. And when I returned without a degree (something to do with the rebel without a cause), their bragging rights were taken away for eight years until now. Of course, I doubt he sees it that way.

We hold different ideals.

Baby bro grew up with the only mother he remembers, and left behind the one he forgot. He grew up with the two sisters Dad and Step-mum later adopted, and hardly spoke to the two sisters who had left him behind. What was there to say, right? Our memories were different from his, our thoughts ran on separate tracks; ours where our father had failed us, his where Dad was a constant presence. Ours where our Mum had gone, his where mother was still around. Where was the middle ground? The rift was always there between us.

But as baby bro is about to spread his wings much farther afield than ever before, in a world where such differing memories matter none, I offer him my sisterly advice:

- Bring a good coat, the first chill of Autumn as you arrive at the airport can catch you unawares. It might be exciting to feel the cold wind, but being sick in the first week of your new life is no fun at all.

- Take the credit card they’re offering but don’t spend foolishly.

- A small rice cooker is a useful tool for cooking almost anything from plain rice to soup, broth, nasi ayam and nasi kandar (once you get the recipe).

- A whole chicken cuts up into about 14 medium-sized pieces and can feed you for a week (you don’t need a chopper either, a good pair of “kitchen” scissors can work wonders to cut up chicken bones).

- Buy in bulk if you are sure you can finish off the produce before it expires, especially fresh milk and bread. Vegetables and stuff are very cheap. Be smart when buying but don’t skimp on food just to save a few bob. Eat well.

- Study hard during term time, take a proper break when the holidays come. It was the other way round for me – I hated going to class and tried to crash-study before exams…it never works.

- Hang around other Malaysian students to alleviate missing home, but open your eyes and mind to other faces, other races. It’s so exciting to be in the middle of the melting pot that is university. I’ve maintained longer friendships with foreigners I was hanging with than with Malaysian uni mates.

- Enjoy your first snowfall - go out and make a snowman, even if the snow is the wrong kind. Lay on the ground and make snow angels. Find a bin liner, a small slope and go sledding, no matter what other people say. Throw snowballs.

- Travel - the farthest you can go, the most you can see. Join a club where you can go somewhere every weekend (for me it was rock climbing – absolutely marvellous!), save money for longer holidays. Visit friends at universities in other towns and cities. Go to London to see the Queen. Go to Europe. Backpack. Take a bus. Go slow, don’t rush. Take pictures, take it all in, take time to see the world. Student passes are the most wonderful thing since sliced bread. Buy me souvenirs *grin*. Would you believe that I bought you presents during my travels? I bought you an eraser in Paris (you were then aged 12, I think, and had a liking for erasers), but I never had the chance to give it to you. I kept it in the little paper bag it was wrapped in, in a box of keepsakes, until this year, when I finally gave it to charity.

- Get a job for the holidays if you can (but make it legal). Better still if you can mix work with pleasure. I worked at a hotel on Gurnsey Island, where we did the breakfast shift and housekeeping till noon, then had the afternoon off, to come back at 6pm for the dinner shift. Days were spent lounging about, going to town or at the beach. One of the guests at the hotel was an army officer once stationed in “Malaya”. He still remembered Malay words, and a snippet of an old song that I had hardly ever heard.

- And finally: study smart, get your degree but don’t stress. I came back without one and felt disadvantaged for a bit (lower pay in a certificate-oriented Malaysia), but it won’t necessarily get you that far. Your experiences, your skill and your strengths will get you further if you know how to use them. Make your own luck. Enjoy yourself.

So my baby bro is about to go and slay the world…I say let the world beware.

And I hope, 10 years from now, baby bro will look back at this time of his life and say:
“I didn’t miss a thing.”

Technologica gone amok

2006-07-31T06:37:00.000-07:00

Such is the advanced technological world we live in today, that I haven’t written a letter in probably a decade.
A “letter” here of course being in longhand, preferably using a fountain pen for class, with the meticulously dotted i’s and crossed t’s on proper “stationery”, which means paper, not just stuff we get from the office supply cupboard and take home.
A letter here does not mean email, nor memos, certainly not text messages or instant messages surrepstitiously answered while we do our “work”.

I have a letter to my best-friend-in-secondary-school that I started in late June still sitting on my desk to be finished, put in an envelop and stamped.

And why did I start this letter?

Was it to rekindle a bygone era where we bought cheap stationery printed with flowers or cute little kittens on which we sent little notes to each other even though we met each other every day in class?
Was it for practice so that I wouldn’t lose my ability to use my hand in case one day all the computers break down and I’m forced to *gasp* write something in longhand?
Or was it because I am attempting to swim against the current of modernity and bring back the ettiquette of the thoughtfully-considered written word?

Well, if you really must know, it’s because I lost her email address and telephone number and there’s no other way to contact her.

Such indeed, is the advanced technological world we live in today that this next scenario, in which I took part most recently, could ever take place.

I had been happily incommunicado since I lost my handphone about four months ago. But lately, being in a foreign land with lesser means of communication has taken a toll – I missed my friends, specifically the ability to just turn around at work and whisper gossipy things about the resident psycho; I missed late night conversations about how the day went and hearing soothing words that would wash away all the angst for a fresh new day tomorrow; I missed the instantaneous acknowledgement that you are hearing what I’m saying instead of wondering if the email went through and if I had not written something which did not quite “sound” as I had meant it.

So I got myself a handphone, and the rest of the story went like this:

This girlfriend had been bugging me to get a phone. So the next time she emailed me, I sent her a short reply by email, saying that I had a phone, but that I didn’t have enough credit to call out or to receive calls (as I’m on roaming, I’d have to pay for incoming calls).

Then she sends me an SMS on my new phone.

This is followed by an email that she had sent me the SMS.

I SMS her back.

Then I send her an email to say that I indeed received her SMS and had sent her a text reply.

She sends me an SMS to say that we should chat.

I email her and suggest we should meet up on messenger.

She sends me her messenger username by SMS.

I add her as a friend on my messenger.

Then I send her an email to tell her that I’ve added her on messenger. At the same time, I suggest she try to call me to see if the call-in deduction would kick in.

She calls me but we can’t chat long. The deduction kicks in and I run out credit.

She sends me an SMS to get back on messenger.

I send her an SMS reply with my messenger ID. She puts me on her list.

We start instant messaging.

She gets cut off several times.

She sends me an SMS that she was cut off.

She also sends me an email telling me that the messenger is not working too well. I send an email reply to try using another system.

In a little while, we try instant messaging again. It doesn’t work.

I send her an SMS to say that I never received any word through the messenger.

She sends me an email to say that she’s getting off work.

I email my goodbyes.

Convoluted process it was, with four types of communication technology – the call, the SMS, the email and instant messaging.

But you know what? Even with all that, or because of all that, we didn’t really have a chance to chat!

Do you think I should start writing her a letter?

That Melting Feeling

2006-07-11T03:05:00.000-07:00

Help! I'm so in love with an ideal. With a dream. With a celluloid creation of the cutest guy with a sensitive artistic soul and a heart just waiting for love. A good-looking bod doesn't hurt, either.

Help me. I can't keep watching the same CD, playing my favourite bits over and over again. But I can't sleep thinking how hard a heart must pound out of a love thought lost then was re-found.

Young love though it be, love is still the feeling that keeps us going, that makes us stand outside our beloved's house with a look of intense love, which makes us rush to the airport to apologise before he goes, to admit that we were wrong and to confess "I don't want to lose you".

And to experience the most wonderful feeling when we blurt out "Saya sayang bangat sama kamu" to see him take a deep breath and without hesitation reply "Saya juga sayang sama kamu. Sayang sekali."

And then the movie ends and I'm in tears.

Love.

Farewell To An Old Life

2006-06-21T08:56:00.000-07:00

I’ve left behind my life
I’ve left Malaysia of my birth
I’ve left my friends, my cat, my car, my house
And I’ve left behind my love

I actually know I’m being pathetic to grieve over a heart that’s been broken for a long time, but mourn I must for the “final” the-end to the two-year tragedy which I called my love life.
It’s the final the-end because I tried to bring the curtains to a close several times, but like Sly’s Rocky, there was always a sequel, and adhering to the rule of sequels, mine were always bad.

I was not for him. He was not for me. Yet, the emptiness of my soul cried out for any kind of salve. Soothing in the short term but detrimental in the long haul, I grabbed whatever crumbs of affection came my way and talked myself into love. When the blinders were taken away, I resisted the unencumbered view. When he went further away for work, it was the perfect opportunity to call it quits, but nevertheless, I struggled to hold on.

In my case, it was true that absence made the heart grow fonder. I missed him with every fibre of my being. My heart did not understand my head’s clamour for closure and to open my eyes to the truth. He was not that into me. Not in the least. And I blinded myself to the things I had started to dislike about him.

As much as I abhorred his penchant for lying and how he treated me, I retained a love for him beyond rhyme or reason. I loved his hands -- big, strong and rough-looking but gentle enough to deal with computers and their parts, around which he worked. I loved his hair, especially the floppy part which fell over his forehead just as it was drying. I loved his face, his lopsided smile, the light that fell and highlighted his hazel eyes. I loved the milk-chocolate smoothness of the skin on his back, I loved the way his jeans hugged his butt, I loved his athleticism and skill in games, his singing voice.
I wanted to be his saviour, helping him realise his dreams. I wanted to be part of his family, to have a closeness with his mother and siblings the way I couldn’t have with mine. I wanted to be everything to him that I had dreamed someone would be to me. Even knowing that he never wanted this in return.

And as I got ready to leave my home for work in a foreign country, I identified most with Keith Urban’s song But You’ll Think of Me, specifically the chorus, which goes:

Take your records, take your freedom
Take your memories I don't need 'em
Take your space and take your reasons
But you'll think of me
Take your cat and leave my sweater
'Cause we have nothing left to weather
In fact I'll feel a whole lot better
But you'll think of me, you'll think of me

The thing is, I can’t even console myself that it’s me singing those words. They are eminently in his domain. Aside from the first expression of surprise that I was going away, my leaving hardly affects his life.

Thus I took my records (CDs) and my freedom.
And I take the memories with me – memories for which he never had any use. Where I had committed to my grey cells and my heart almost each touch and word, he’d constantly turn in surprise if I’d quote what he had said a year previously.
All those memories are mine alone: the peck on my cheek as I was getting on an elevator that made me want to both cry and grin like an idiot; sitting with him on a deserted island jetty enjoying the breeze.

He never had an affinity for my cat, but I did love his shirts. A favourite was a jersey he wore while playing futsal, which I then took to wearing in bed. That I returned to him.

Now I've left all that behind, with a last longing glance as he walked away into the night on the last day we were together. He turned to look back, gave me a lopsided smile, then it was over.

It's liberating and definitely sad, because I know he'll feel a whole lot better, but some days, I know for sure I would still think of him.

2006-06-01T04:20:00.000-07:00

Gypsy Tales http://gai3.blogspot.com

Just A Bit Of Me

2006-05-30T05:59:00.000-07:00

Hello dear blog,

I like to start as if we were already dear friends, not two strangers who met in a chatroom... eh, wait a minute... that sounds suspiciously like what Kathleen Kelly wrote to Joe Fox in the opening to You've Got Mail.
So now I have a blog, my first online everyone-can-actually-read-it-not-just-my-nosy-elder-sister diary-like kind of writing.
Welcome to my world.