Subconscious Wisdom

Heya! How's life treating you? How's the job? Love life? Kids?
Wouldn't it be nice to meet up once in a while, have a cup of coffee and just connect with each other? But if you plan to sell me insurance, you might as well forget it.

I'm kidding. You know, one of the things I love best about having this blog is how comfortable I am sharing my life stories with a small group of readers. It creates an illusion of intimacy. Each time I blog I imagine talking to a specific person, but I can't picture the face. It's not necessarily anyone real.

But the problem with intimacy is I also feel like a self-absorbed ass talking about myself all the time. Yes I know that's what a blog is for, it's just that I wish there was more interaction apart from a comments page.

I appreciate all of you who ever left a comment. I would not claim to know the answers, but if you can learn something, especially all the mistakes I've made, and little things I discover in my journey to make sense of my life, then please, share with me coz I sure as hell never seem to learn.

Well, what else is there but to continue talking about myself. It's the last day of my sabbatical and I'll be back to work again. I'm not quite gay as a bird yet, but getting there gradually. The trick is fooling my subconscious. Have you ever tried rationalizing with your subconscious mind? I tell you, you might as well command the seas to part.

Okay, here's an experiment, those of you terrified of ghosts. I once tried walking alone into the jungle during a camping trip. My mind was sharp as a tack, I don't believe in ghosts, but no matter how much I made sense to myself, I just couldn't lower my rapid heartbeat and quaking knees.

After several minutes I just had to run back to my friends in a panic. And all the while I was thinking bewilderedly, "What the hell is wrong with me? What am I so scared of?"

So it is with love. I tell myself I'm over her, and by all accounts, I cannot think of a logical reason why I should still be sad. But I am. From my dreams I know, my subconscious is not about done just yet with letting me off the heartbreak ride.

It's funny how the subconscious works huh? Funny as in downright intriguing. There are workshops, courses, books and shit all teaching us how to train (fool) our subconscious mind, to be more successful, more punctual, more disciplined.

And the passage of time is not always the answer to convince your subconscious that you're over someone.

I had a girlfriend once, let's call her DT, who ran away for a week after a quarrel. What were we quarreling about? Well, I was enraged she was always close to this married older man who had business dealings with her office. But let's not call him married older man, instead, let's name him Adultering Asshole.

Anyway, after our quarrel, we did not speak or see each other for 2 days. Then I called her on the third day, already somewhat calm. No answer. Called her office, they said she took a week's leave. Called her home, they said she went overseas. I was frantic with worry and anger, as you may well imagine. By the fourth day, I was driving myself nuts picturing all the sins she was commiting with Adultering Asshole.

When she finally came to see me after a week, acting as if nothing happened, I knew we were finished. She admitted she was with Adultering Asshole to see his overseas operations, coz she was considering a job offer from him. Now, that might sound like pure horseshit to you, but the thing is, it was a plausible excuse to me.

So we did manage to move on, but still broke up shortly after.

Fast forward a year and a half later. I was with a friend who knew both Adultering Asshole and DT. Somehow we came to talk about DT and how I used to date her. And then he told me what Adultering Asshole shared with him before - that he took DT on a week's vacation to a local island resort.

That instant, I almost had what is known as a brain aneurysm, partly from gripping my balls so tightly but mostly I think, from triggering the suppressed hurt and anxieties dormant in my subconscious.

I pressed my friend for details (I think he became a little alarmed at how upset I was). I pieced together the information and got the truth I've always suspected. I was shaken for the whole night.

But the next day I was surprisingly feeling alright, like suddenly finding out I didn't have cancer after months of tests. (just a metaphor) I'm thankful I had space of over a year to discover the truth, because if I had know then when I was still with her, who knows what I would've done. My subconscious finally let go. I guess it couldn't earlier, always holding on to a suspicion that I was right.

And you know what? I reckon that's what letting go really means. Letting go of all your grudges, unresolved suspicions, hurts, and guilt. You need to come to terms with your painful past, because just shutting it out of your conscious thoughts doesn't erase it from your mind. The more you store it in your subconscious, the more screwed-up you get to the point you don't even know what's wrong.

So now, even as I tell myself I have no reason to be upset anymore, I know it's only because I don't remember. But my subconscious surely does.

Conversation with an Old Flame

I can't remember the last time I had a real conversation, you know, one with not only complete sentences but whole paragraphs, and real pauses not punctuated with taking sips of beer.

So when an old friend called me up and suggested dinner, I was quite eager to excercise the lesser-used regions of my brain, namely the areas governing speech and thought.

Now, about this old friend, probably a brief recount of our history would help put the following into proper context. In primary school, I fell in love with her, or whatever schoolboys go through that make them do cartwheels in the classroom. She was like some anime babe to me, in a time when anime was not even a word I knew.

We had a weird kind of love thing going on. She was in a Convent school and I was in an all-boys' school. She'd send me beautiful sketches of stuff like a princess kissing a knight, and I'd send her ..er.. absolutely nothing. But I'd call her. Oh yeah, I wasted months of my pocket money calling her from a phone booth.

One fine day when we were about 14, I popped the question, like it was a bottle of the finest champagne. I asked her to go steady (do kids still use that term?). She said she cared about me a lot, but we were too good friends to yadda yadda yadda. I felt all that fine champage draining out over the pavement where I stood.

One thing about her, she was always desperate to get married for some reason, even since highschool. Well, we grew up, I moved elsewhere, and she finally got her family while I was still me, that same schoolboy.

Until that day she called me up out of the blue. A minute into the conversation, I knew something wasn't right. She avoided all my innocent questions about her kids and her husband, like so:

Me: So, how's the baby?
She: So, er...say around 7?
Me: 7 is fine. How's your hubby?
She: Okay. I'll see u at 7.

That's strange, I thought, and called another mutual friend of ours. Well, short version, she recently divorced, her man fucked off abroad, and she's a single mum of two babies. Uh-oh. What am I getting into? Probably nothing, the angel on my right whispered. She's feeling down and wants to look up old friends.

We met up, I suggested a mamak. Mamaks are great for maintaining neutrality when we're unsure of the boundaries. They're also cheap.

I saw her for the first time in so many years. How to describe her? Well, let me try with the understatement of the year: She looks nothing like the anime babe I was once so crazy for.

I know it's cruel of me to say, but you have to understand the weird dynamics we shared throughout the years, eversince our puppy love days. I cannot put it into words.

Motherhood, and divorce, and stress really took its toll on her. Well, we talked. I listened to her but it was hard with the devil on my left who keeps chanting "You shoulda gone steady with meee".

But as we filled each other in on the past years, I couldn't help but feel a widening chasm between us. She's gone on and lived life, tasted bitterness, and trying to give herself a second chance at happiness. She told me about her divorce, about her kids. Here's the short version: husband, gambling addict, loan sharks, wiped out savings, attempted suicide, lies, deceit, police, hiding. Then she said, "Oh, enough about me, what about you?"

Me? Well..let's see. I just broke up. I'm changing jobs. And er...later on, I'll go home, play with my Transformers toys, and shoot bad guys on my PC.

Oh yes, I was still very much the schoolboy. But I admired her. How she managed to go through hell and back, lugging along two kids. And I told her that - I admired her. If it was me in her shoes, well, ..who knows.

I'm starting to count my blessings.

Asian women can't drink!

I'm on to my second shot of whisky and already I feel my brain waves downshift to theta mode.

So I'm on a week-long sabbatical. Told my boss I needed a week off. I also told him I wanted to resign, so he agreed to the week's holiday instead. I should feel flattered my employer needs me more than I need him, but considering my job scope and workload, trust you me, it's not flattering after all.

I need time alone to recuperate, especially after my breakup, and the alcohol really helps, too. Heh heh heh. My friends all ask, "where are you going"? Nowhere! I'm going to myself, for once. Let my thoughts unravel without any pressures. Figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life.

Right, but before we go there, let me dish out some advice on how not to pick up girls.

I was at the same old pub the other night, when this beauty comes along, sings a song, and totally mesmerizes the entire male population in that joint.

I noticed she was with friends, but without a boyfriend. There's my chance, I thought. Look at the other losers trying to woo her with cat calls and immature displays of bravado. Oh no, I was going to be classier in my approach. So I said to the bartender, "Send her one of whatever she's drinking. On me."

Now, all my adult life, I've always wanted to use that line. Another one is, "Your place or mine". Still, one thing at a time.

She was drinking stout on tap. Ahhh...a girl after my own heart.

She's into her second song, the bartender goes over and hands her the stout. She politely declines before the bartender pointed at me. She looked my way, then smiled, and accepted my drink.

At this point, I was starting to feel like James Bond. I let her finish her song and down at least half of the drink I got her before I sauntered up real casual-like to say hi.

I was shocked! Her face was flushed, she was slurring, and she looked at some point near my earlobes as we talked. In short, she was wasted!

I just about managed to get her name (Hazel, I think) before she rejoined her friends, who proceeded to guide her out, and presumably, home.

My friend just laughed when I told him. The advice? Asian women in general can't drink, so don't try western wooing techniques on them.

So much for the Bond girl. I went home and cracked up over old episodes of Friends instead.

Primal Fears

Living with my two sisters, one elder, one younger, has its tradeoffs - usually gender-cliched, which is fine by me since I have somewhat cliched views about men and women's roles at home.

For example, they do the laundry, the washing-up, and the general groundwork for ensuring the maintenance of the home, while I, as the male, only perform "special operations"when required, such as unclogging the sink or other such manly duties.

In short, the gals are like beat cops and I'm the SWAT team.

Which is all fine and dandy, I'm contented with the status quo, except when it comes to the little matter of dealing with cockroaches.

Now, in the great book of sexism, of which I'm an ardent subscriber, the chore of dealing with pests clearly falls in the men's domain. It's normal, expected even, for girls to scream when they encounter those creepy critters, and shout for their brother to "come and kill'em". And it's duty-bound, expected even, for said brother to enter the scene with a bored "just another job for Superman" look and a rolled up newspaper.

Here's the scoop: I totally fake the routine. Right up to the bored Superman look. Even as I pretend to get in position to whack the fucker senseless, in fact, I'm positioning myself for a speedy getaway should that roach decide to go airborne.

Because if there's one thing that can make me lose all sensation in my legs, it's a cockroach flying towards me. I tell you, something primal in me awakens and all hell breaks loose when I hear that fluttering of wings.

While rats and lizards and worms I can stand, I just wonder where my innate fear of cockroaches originated.

Huh. *ponders*

On Purpose-driven life and logical faith

I browse the PPS everyday, well, almost. There really isn't a particular theme or type of post I look for; perhaps its the hodgepodge of thousands of thoughts from a thousand people living a thousand different lives that lend perspective to my own.

The internet has become the ultimate metropolis and you can't even find it on the map. Every second of every day, it's alive with input from people - food and politics, and art and rants, and business and money and sex and little funny anecdotes. I'm sorry, I feel my brain turning to mush in trying to describe the overwhelming flow of humanity that is the internet.

And then I reflect on my miniscule part of the whole, a teeeeny tiny bit that I contribute. I'm talking about my blog, alrite?

Heh. My blog. My self-indulgent rants. My "opinions". My "views". I feel like an imposter on stage in the great play of life, where everyone is reading from a script while I have to extemporize and not very well at that. Come to think of it, that is a pretty good analogy - throw in a few more terms like miscue, off-timing, not connecting with the audience, and er...rotten tomatoes, and voila! you'd have the musical about my life.

"What do I want?" Have you ever stopped for a moment to ponder this?

I started reading this Christian book called Purpose Driven Life by Rick Warren. Actually I'm reading three books simultaneously (doesn't say much for my social life, but now I'm spoilt for choice when I go take a crap).

Anyway, the bold guarantee made on the cover of Purpose Driven Life had me hooked. It said, after reading this book, I will find meaning in my life.

Well, there's no better way of suckering an existential-angst-ridden man like myself, I have to say. But chapter one already threw me off.

The whole tone of that chapter was just too presumptuous. Basically, it said, without God, life is meaningless. Well, if I had already decided that God was the purpose of my life, why on earth would I need that book to tell me that?

Here's an interesting quote: Unless you assume a God, the question of life's purpose is meaningless. I say interesting because it has a sort of circular logic to it.

Because the author is being presumptuous in his conclusion. It's like saying, if you don't assume the number four, then two plus two is meaningless. But the question of God's existence is not mathematically precise because if it was, what use is there for faith?

I interpreted it this way: "If you don't assume the existence of extra-terrestrial life, then all those reports of UFOs and aliens are meaningless."

See, you need to believe in God, then it would all make sense. That's the catch. They should've put it on the cover as a disclaimer "Faith required to make use of this book".

Well, what if I don't have faith? What if don't believe in extra-terrestrial life? I'm still baffled by UFO phenomena but my curiousity is not so easily appeased by the explanation of aliens.

God is but one way to explain the meaning of life. If it works for you, then fine. If not, there isn't any explanation that will change your mind.

Because, like I said, faith is required. Faith is everything. I lack it. And no amount of books, or sermons, or anti-Da Vinci Code statements from the church will ever win in the battle of logic.

Don't people get it? Faith and logic are bi-polar. How can you use logic to build up faith?

Maybe I should write a Christian book. It'll start off like this:
"If you're looking for proof of the existence of God, you're wasting your time. If you want evidence that God created you, and that there is an afterlife, this book is not for you. But if you know that the way to God is solely through faith, then this book can help you. For what is faith but the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen? The way to God is not a matter of two plus two. It's not about using your head. It's not about making sense of it all. It's about believing. And for only RM19.95, I shall show you how to believe."

Okay, I was kidding on the last bit, but seriously, has anybody come across a book like that? That will appeal to me simply because it doesn't treat me like an idiot who'd be convinced by unprovable presumptions or flaky logic.

That being said....I love you all. Every one of you.
And I need a drink.

Too proud to work it out?

Over dinner, I told my father my plans to leave my well-paid but highly stressful job to go into a lower-paying one where I'd be much happier.

Being Dad, he saw right through my plans, straight to my intentions.

He said, "How are you and your ex?" (of course he didn't say ex, he said her name).

In keeping with the spirit of not mincing words, I replied, "It's gone Dad. She's gone."

I expected sympathy. I expected understanding. Shows how little I knew my Dad.

"What?! Both of you too proud to work it out? You too proud to make the first move?"

I felt flushed. What did he know? I did try to salvage it. I wanted to retort how I was being the grownup and she was just being silly. I felt angry. Outraged. But I kept my mouth shut. I did know my Dad a little, after all.

Then he went on, unbidden, about love, like a little tree, needs nurturing and care. And lots of time.

Well, I listened. Good advice is so hard to come by these days. And he should know what he's talking about. He's been married to my mom for 30 years now.

But how can I ever compare to my Dad?

See, he's from the working class background. Back then working class meant getting paid daily wages. He got married at 21, had his first kid at 22, bought his first low-cost home at 27, and has been working until now, a self-made man.

Me, well...I'm nothing like my father. I've got all the time in the world to dream. Dream of being a man like my Dad. Dream of actually making him proud of me.

The way my Dad would yell at the mechanic if he was being cheated. The way he stood for no nonsense, not even from the police. The way he always defended my mom. And took care of his family. My Dad always knew what to do. In an accident, the first person I'd call is him. And he'll be there, like a seasoned pro, dishing out instructions to all parties involved. He'd even talk to the other driver, "Are you hurt? Do you have somebody to call? Ignore those tow-trucks crooks." And on and on.

My sisters and I would laugh at how unsophisticated he was sometimes. His choice of movies must star either Steven Seagal or Jet Li. He reads Tom Clancy and stuff like that. But then I think, his life is already full, he just doesn't have time for the artsy-fartsy stuff that I like.

My dad shows his love in gruff ways. He'll explode over how I'd neglected to fix my exhaust, but the next day he'll leave me his car while he took mine to his mechanic.

So, coming back to the present, I gave his words some thought. Was I too proud to work it out?

I called her. She didn't answer. I SMSed her. Said she was driving, what's up? I called her again.
We sounded like two strangers who turned up at a posh party wearing matching outfits.

I wondered how my Dad would handle this situation. So I didn't beat about the bush. I asked her, "If you say you're not angry at me anymore, why is it so hard to meet up?"

"I'm not ready yet".

"What do you have to be ready for? I'm not asking anything. Just resolve this, don't leave it hanging. At least say goodbye properly".

"I did say goodbye", she said. Huh? I asked her when.

"When you asked for a break, I said, 'Ok, goodbye' ".

Oh....then.

I felt like I was talking to a suspect in a murder case who knew she was gonna walk. Deny everything.

And I was feeling so exasperated. I just blurted out, "So don't I get at least a thanks?"

"A thanks?!" She sounded incredulous.

But I was already raging. Yes, a thanks. The thousands I spent on you. On us. All our trips. All the phonecalls. All the expensive gifts and clothes. I put my life on hold for you. I suffered this goddamn job for you. I made plans for you. And whatever shortcomings you told me, I accepted you.

"Oh yeah. Ok. Thanks". If she sounded anything other than sarcastic, I would've been surprised.

I did love her. But love can easily turn sour. But...not this time. So...she's still bitter. And being childish about it. And I did try. I'm hurt. In fact, I'm still hurting like hell. I don't know what big crime I committed against her.

No hard feelings, but I'm going to leave it as it is. And move on.
I'm sure that's what my Dad would've done.

A drunken soliloquy

I started writing this at a corner of the bar in a loud pub. I wanted to say dingy but I'm in no mood to romanticize anything seeing as how my own romance has shattered just as surely as my own heart.

I feel awful. Awfully sad. Awfully lonely in a crowd of strangers making an awful racket. They call it happy hours but I arrived too late in more ways than one. Someone's doing a pretty good rendition of a Mandarin love song but what did I know. I did mention it was a loud pub. It was dim, and it was smoky, but the hazy ambience might as well have been sunshine to my grief-clouded eyes.

I'm down three-quarters of my three-quarter pint of stout but the escape I sought proved more elusive than I gave credit for. Who am I trying to kid anyway. Everywhere I turn, I see her.

In the pool table at the back of the room, seeming to mock my promise of shooting a few rounds with her, now doomed to forever remain unfulfilled.

In the sashaying miniskirt on the sashaying hips of a woman by whom I made a futile attempt to be distracted, the same denim type I once slid slowly off her.

In the cigarettes littering the bartop, the couple cozying at the back, the laughter, the voices, the pencil I gripped, and the scraps of paper meant for song requests into which I'm now pouring out my soul.

Really, who am I kidding. I needed a stronger drink. I gestured to the bartender for a double shot on ice and took a swig full of Scotland's strongest and misguided hopes. And in a brief moment of clarity, I thought I knew how it felt like having jet fuel poured down my throat.

I looked over at my friend. He's playing a stupid drinking game of dice with the waitress. I almost fancied I saw God playing dice with my feelings. God don't play dice. I know.

My whisky-polluted blood began a preschoolers' percussion concert in my head but it wasn't enough to drown out the questions in my mind.

"What the hell happened?"
"What did I do to make you so pissed at me?"
"Why am I not trying to win you back?"

What do I do now. The world still spins, time runs, but I feel I'm standing still watching the seconds tick by, praying for I know not what. I just know I'll stop writing, pack up these scraps, join my friend for a game, go home, sleep it off, edit what I've written and post it.

This is my life. Words fail me.