Realm of the Senses

Not again!

2006-08-08T07:35:00.000+08:00

Oh no, not again! I woke up from what can be considered another nightmare with my pulse skyrocketing but this time, I have a piece of evidence linking both experiences to each other - the almonds.

Both dreams were similar in construct, in that the story, while nothing dramatic, was incredibly vivid and it plodded along like a well-made TV soap and right before the commercial break, the plot took a wrong turn into hell!

This time, no more documentaries. Instead, it was some trivial drama focused on a few key characters. Like I said, nothing substantial but the dream was unusually consistent. There was actually a progression of the story, with teen drama themes like avoiding people we disliked, calling up friends to meet up, and so on.

Then, I remember, as I was walking home along a street at night, out of thin air, the plot decided to go mental! A squad car violently swerved in front of me, with two uniformed cops jumping out and pushing me to the ground. I felt one of them frisking my legs and puling out a gun! They handcuffed me roughly and dragged my sorry ass back to their car. It was terrifying! One of them began telling me the huge fine imposed on carrying unlicensed firearms and then I knew it was a setup.

I began pleading with them, waxing lyrical in the national language. At one point, I began appealing to their sense of righteousness, lamenting the sad state of public image of the local law enforcement. At this point, they got mad, or pretended to be! They made like they were going to call up reinforcements and both of them jumped into the car and took off. So did I. Then I woke up.

I lay there for some time, my body in full physiological reaction of a panic attack. But with understanding of what I was going through, I savoured, actually savoured the experience instead. My head spinning, my chest tight, my breathing laboured, but I managed to convince my brain there was no immediate danger. I talked down my limbic region from shooting more crazy signals.

And I frantically tried to replay every scene and image before they permanently evaporated from my short-term memory banks.

Okay, to be fair, there were other similarities between last night's nightmare and today's episode. For one, I slept really late, on account of not being sleepy. And I was hungry. So I decided to chew on a box of almonds (the almonds, not the box) and watch a movie. All of a sudden I'd suddenly get sleepy and drop off to bed. That's it. As close to original laboratory conditions as I could make it. Hmm...no stress. No repressed negativity. The funny thing is, I mentioned the almonds as sort of a joke, but now, it's the most conspicuous element of an investigative lead. Do almonds trigger nightmares? Care to find out?

Dreams 2

2006-08-06T03:57:00.000+08:00

Oh, I just woke up with my heart racing! Could it be, in any way, due to the fact that not one minute ago, on the other side of existence, I was running my lungs out for dear life from three men trying to kill me?

My God, what did it mean? They were trying to catch me because I found their secret factory making prosthetics out of real human beings.

Okay, it started off like this. I was watching a Discovery channel feature about tigers that captured different sorts of animals and dragging them away. Next thing I knew, I was following these kidnapper (?) tigers back to a house in the woods! Oh, they be no cute furry 3-Bears-and-Goldilocks type of animals. They were real tigers. Up to the point where they shooed me away and locked the front door of their cottage!

So I started an investigation. Oh yeah, they were making prosthetic parts out of these poor creatures. I could not imagine what a tiger would want with a prosthetic monkey limb. I mean, in my dream, that was the dilemma!

And then, neatly enough, next door was a house with humans doing the same business, but kidnapping other humans. So I strolled around their office. Creeping and crawling, you know, doing my investigating bit.

At one point, I was caught in the open under the stairs with nowhere to run as a group of them descended. So I pretended to be a worker there, scrubbing the floor beneath the stairs. They walked on right by! How clever of me. I raced upstairs to a security-coded door. Just then it opened and this typical office guy walked out. I pretended I was just about to go inside. I said "Hold it, thanks". Well this schmuck closed the door and told me I can't go in without a code.

Well, I walked away and suddenly, he called me. I turned around saw the schmuck with one mean looking no-nonsense type and another scrawny guy, walking towards me with accusatory looks.

Well, what of it? I bolted. Out the yard, onto the tree-lined road. I ran and ran. I looked back and saw the schmuck and scrawny guy right behind me while the mean one was falling behind. So I ran some more. And then I woke up.

It surely wasn't those almonds I chewed just before I slept. Was it?

My dreams...

2006-08-02T12:11:00.000+08:00

Being in love is like...

... a motorbike ride on a tropical island, along meandering roads through the countryside.
...the sun filtering through coconut tree fronds dotting the landscape, the salty sea breeze tousling our hair.
...her outstretched hands like a Spitfire, laughing; a happy smile plastered on my face.
...the feeling of exhilaration, our hearts soaring, our spirits free.
...my arms wrapped around her at the top of the hill, looking to the horizon.

How long ago did you last glimpse the horizon? Although, literally, as long as land meets sky gives you one, there's nothing quite like the majesty of the vast heavens stretching to infinity until it meets the sea.

Seeing the horizon stirs up emotions in me. No wonder people once thought the earth was flat and that a ship would sail right off into space. In school I learnt that on the horizon, you can see the mast of a ship rising above the horizon as it sailed towards you.

What lies yonder? What wonders to behold? You can almost see the passage of time as it flows towards the great beyond.

Time ... what a bewildering concept. How it stands still in moments like these. How it continues and exists, as surely as the clouds drifting by.

Standing there, holding her, feeling my heart beat against hers, seeing the endless sea and the sky...this is what being in love is like.

Ah, what I'd give to be in love again.

Updated

2006-07-28T20:53:00.000+08:00

I should blog more, I think. Practise focussing my thoughts, excercise my literary inclinations, but most of all, to purge all rotten nonsense from my mind in a harmless outlet. Because I think, for me, blogging is an outlet.

I'm not much of a diarist, as you can see. I turn to blogging in low moments of my life, lashing out wildly, or expressing my deep despair in poetry and such. Thus, if I lapse in blogging, it's really a good thing. Really. If there's no "in" there's no "out"let, eh?

Okay, so I am trying to proffer an explanation. I owe Alynna a meme. I'm glad these things don't come with expiry dates. I owe..lessee....who else what? Hmm...nothing more.

My life now is pretty much ...what's that difficult word again...oh yes, .."blah". But "blah" is good. "Blah" means things have settled back into the routine pre-breakup, pre-breakdown days. Life is happening again.

Why, just that day, I met a sexy tight little package. Hooo. Okay, I probably shouldn't refer to women that way, but I never meant it in a derogatory manner. Just that day I was watching a movie and it made me think about my attitude towards women, especially when I'm in a relationship with them. It's not what you may think, I love women. But right now, I can't remember that movie. Damn!

I also had a wonderful dream the other day. I seem to be having a lot of such dreams of late. I don't mean wonderful as in awesome, but as in "full of wonder". I felt like Adam in Wonderland. I mean, dreams are surreal anyway but you never realize it at the time of dreaming, right, only when you recall it. But in my dreams, I was somewhat conscious that the universe I was in was very surreal and defies explanation. I was going about with childlike awe and curiosity. My dreams are a chunk of symbology and Freudian material, I tell ya.

Hmm...so many stories to tell. What shall one do?

In need of healing...

2006-07-20T04:09:00.000+08:00

Lamb of God,
You take away the sins of the world,
Have mercy on me

Lamb of God,
You take away the sins of the world,
Grant me peace.

About nothing

2006-07-19T18:55:00.000+08:00

We like to romanticize the past, filtering out the bad memories and keeping close to our hearts only the good times. Things somehow always seemed better before.

This is detrimental when you're trying to move on from a broken heart. Just when I thought I was over her, certain things trigger the memories - walking hand in hand to the shops, eating dinner in hotel rooms, being close to each other on holiday. I was happy - neurotically happy.

But I force myself to also remember the bad memories. Because that is the only way I can move on. You know, the many little things that irked me, but it was too insignificant at that time so I just let them slide. How she'd stare at others. The things she'll say. Her vulgarity. How easy she is.

"What did you mean by that?" "Why did you do that?" "Why did you say that?" "What are you trying to prove?"

Nothing. It's nothing. So I left it at that. Time to pull out all those "nothings" filed away in some dusty corner of my brain. And think objectively. Would it have worked out?

Maybe. Would I have been happy? Honestly, I think it'd have been a long shot. Too many "nothings" can't simply disappear. There will be an accounting one day.

To be fair, I have an equal, if not more, share of faults, but now's not the time to review them. They're more for me to learn and grow so I don't screw up next time.

You would think dredging up sour memories would make me bitter, but it's more to counterbalance the romanticized memories, so I end up feeling...neutral. And this helps me think without the interference of emotions.

I don't want to be neurotically happy. I don't want to need someone else. But is there such a thing as pure unselfish love? Or am I just putting love on a pedestal?

New Robin

2006-07-19T01:02:00.000+08:00

Ahh..me lads, t'is the hour arriveth at last. I lie before thee, slain, and with naught but a moment to breathe my last words.

Grant me this, my final wish, that wherever I point my cursor, there shall you bury me. And throw in the mouse too so that none shall ever point again.

The Waiting Game

2006-07-18T20:48:00.000+08:00

Have you ever tried using Bit Torrent to download some obscure movie?

...like...watching...paint...dry...

Measuring adhesiveness

2006-07-16T23:28:00.000+08:00

I used a glue with purportedly high-tensile-strength on my running shoes but the sole still came off, so I enquired at the shop about a fourteensile or possibly fifteensile-strength glue, to which the sales clerk stared at me as if I was an idiot for not knowing what sile-strength glue to use for running shoe soles!

Baking quandrary

2006-07-16T15:58:00.000+08:00

If "piece" means "gun" as in "that's a nice piece you're packing", "some" means "sex" as in "I had some last night", and "cake" means "cocaine" as in "He got busted for dealing cake", then the phrase "some piece of cake" makes totally no sense at all!

Born to be wild

2006-07-16T00:49:00.000+08:00

Every once in a while, I like to experience an adrenaline rush by living dangerously, so today, I showered with the bathroom door... UNLOCKED!

Spring cleaning my Brain

2006-07-11T03:07:00.000+08:00

After putting it off for months, I finally quit my job and am now your Basic Unemployed Man, but somehow I get an uneasy feeling there's a more sinister meaning to that.

What does a man who's used to 50-hour work weeks do with all the time in the world now? He observes the most inane details and attempts to unravel life's mysteries. Or, at least, I do.

Okay, here's one. Do the guys who draw up those word verification codes try to input hidden clues in them? For example, if you get ucSpmf, does it just mean ucSpmf, or does it mean "you crazy spamming motherfuckers"? I take a sip of hot coffee and ponder on that with a quizzical frown.

Suppose also, just suppose that, were I to collect all codes and crunch them in the anagrammator, I wonder, would I or would I not regret the time wasted on such an idiotic endeavour?

Thankfully, I abandoned the side quest and stuck to my original mission. And the mission is? Well, if my mind were a house, the mission is to renovate the kitchen, redecorate all the rooms, and give the whole thing a new coat of paint.

And start working again by August. Now, if I weren't particularly prone to obsessing over details, such as why didn't the bathroom tiles last as advertised, this would've been a less painful excercise.

Speaking of excercise, that other night, past 12, I took a walk to the 24-hour stalls instead of customarily driving there. I wanted to walk because I was dangerously close to losing my mind to utter despair, which you may have noticed from my recent posts, and I needed some air.

As I was walking beneath this overbearing tree cast in shadows along a darkened street, I thought I heard twigs snapping, and a few leaves fell around me. Under normal circumstances, I would have made like lightning and bolted. Because I am reminded of a story my friend recounted many years ago, about the same tree, when he saw two red glowing eyes staring at him.

But in my current state of mind, I don't believe life could've thrown anything more at me to make me feel worse than I did. So I stopped and looked up into the darkness of the tree silhouetted against the night sky, raised up my hands and whispered fiercely, "Come on! That all you got, pazza? Come on then!"

But, of course, nothing came. Story of my undramatic life. I think about what I did and feel slightly worried, not about the chance that some evil being might've leaped out, but about the fact that I was actually inviting that. Says a lot about my condition.

So I hope you'll forgive my mercurial moods and fickle feelings, but house cleaning is a stressful time. Still, as messy as it is, I know it's built on solid ground.

What has Zenedine (Zi)dane??

2006-07-10T05:24:00.000+08:00

Earlier today I had a stark vision of France's living legend holding aloft the coveted trophy, but what happened at extra time is God's way of telling me what he thinks of my clairvoyance.

I'm 60 days clean!

2006-07-09T21:03:00.000+08:00

No, I'm not referring to alcohol or cigarettes, but a similarly potent form of addiction. Almost everyday I struggle with the urge to call her, and it is kind of depressing that the attacks, although decreasingly frequent, are no less intense even now. I'd get the familiar hollow feeling starting at my heart and pretty much sapping the energy from my whole body. I'd pick up the phone, and lose myself in space for a while. It's no joke, but I won't hold it against you if you laugh. Ah...the curse of modern technology, putting temptation right at my fingertips.

It used to be worse, in the earlier stages. I'd come home from work some nights, tired and aching all over, open my room door and half-expect but fully hoping to find her there waiting for me. She does visit me, though, in my dreams. I did call her and email her then but I would've got a warmer reception if I'd asked my loanshark for a deadline extension.

Now, why do I want to call her so badly? I'm not even sure what I'll say. Maybe just to find out how she's doing. But I know, if she tells me she's busy with her new boyfriend, it'll crush me. I don't dare chance it. And it's not like I'm going to beg her to come back. I know it's over, yet somehow, I do miss her.

She was someone I could talk to. I mean, really tell her all my embarassing fears. She was someone I could joke with and tease, you know, the kind of teasing between close friends that can only work if there is mutual trust that it is done wholly without malice and all for fun.

I secretly loathe having to observe proper decorum and political correctness in social settings, knowing my incorrigible sense of wacky humour and would like nothing better than to start laughing and joking with complete strangers. Or maybe I'm just getting tired of the old song and dance routine, much to my disadvantage, perhaps. But with her, she was so easy to talk to that the first time we met, we were already poking fun at each other as if we were old friends. I knew something special was brewing. Have you ever met someone that you just instantly clicked with?

I found a rare kind of intimacy with her, and yet, we failed to communicate to save what we had. I guess we rushed into things, disillusioned with how very compatible we were in the beginning.

Looking back, I needed her more than she needed me, but she appreciated me more. About a week before we broke up, I distinctly remember one evening at my office when I vowed to myself to treat her better, to be more patient and try to listen more. I guess it was already too late. It's memories such as these that haunt me forever.

So, maybe, I just want a chance to say I'm sorry to her. Well, in fact, I did call her to tell her that. But unless "sure, anything else?" is the appropriate response to a heartfelt apology, I guess she was still bitter towards me.

Or maybe I just want to talk with her, like old times, about anything and everything under the sun. When we could let our guard down and just say whatever pops into our heads without fear of it being inappropriate or being judged.

I miss her friendship most of all. She was the best friend I had in a while. The sudden loss might help explain the deep emptiness I feel but that's of little consolation.

I venture though, more than anything, I want to call her to tell her how much I appreciated her, eventhough I know it's too late. Tell her I am grateful how she gave all she had to me. And how I wish we can end what we had with sweet memories, instead of bitterness.

Today, alone in the kitchen, I called out her name. You know, just to see how my heart would react. Well, there were no seizures. That's a sign of improvement, isn't it? I called out her name a few more times, remembering how it felt like rolling off my tongue. And I felt profoundly sad, her name echoing into oblivion, a chasm of good intentions too late, of all that could've been.

I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to call her. I'm inclined to blame this emotional recklessness on the rogue chemicals in my brain or perhaps it's coinciding with the end of World Cup season. I managed to put off thinking about her for a month, but to my dismay, the cloud of gloom still hangs over my head. There's no hiding from the reckoning of a broken heart.

Perhaps blogging about it helps. I'm not sure if she knows about my blog or reads it, but I can't imagine the difference it makes since I absolutely blog whatever's on my mind anyway. I don't exactly make it a point to protect my anonymity but I do like to fly at the edge of the radar.

I'm searching my feelings but I can't seem to identify the one that is causing me much pain. Is it guilt? Regret? Anger? Loneliness? Longing?

I know a time will come when I no longer think about her with any feeling, probably a year on. But I feel I owe her more than that, for the love she gave me.

I am at a midpoint of adulthood where I am sufficiently equipped to evaluate my failings and try to improve myself. And I am eager, almost desperate, to start a new relationship and prove to myself that I have now what it takes to make it work.

But I know, my unresolved feelings are the baggage I must not carry in my next journey to find love. I need to find peace somehow. And stop missing her so much.

Any suggestions?

Life's lessons

2006-07-09T18:53:00.000+08:00

When I was in Sunday school many years ago, I got to know a guy who irritated the hell out of me the first instant I laid eyes on him. Now, you may think it bizarre, quite an embellishment of facts, even. I mean, me? Sunday school? Haha. But it's true. If there's one thing I don't do, it's lie in my blog. Now, back to this guy.

He had a turnip for a head, his glasses were way oversized, and he spoke with a nasally tone that really just made me want to tear up my underwear in a rage. But for some reason I could not fathom, he was popular with the rest of the class, especially the girls. Okay, so maybe I was the new kid and the others had the advantage of a year's time for bonding. Sunday schools have a way of doing that to you. But still, how could the others stand him, I thought. Yes, especially the girls.

Well, how wrong I was, as this little anecdote turns out. He had a heart of gold, this guy. He found all your jokes, even the flat ones, genuinely funny. He always saw the good points in you, and somehow were blind to your flaws. If I make him sound like a really smart terrier, forgive me, it's not my intention to do so. But that's what he was - every man's best friend. And the traits that annoyed me earlier gradually became the very ones which endeared him to me - as neurotic as it sounds, his irritating habits actually rendered him more...harmless.

Life's dramas usually happen when there's an appreciative audience, but the lesson this guy taught me was quietly profound. It is simply this: with people, assume nothing.

A lesson that, I am quick to add, I have not dilligently observed.

But how wonderful it would be, for two complete strangers to meet, introductions exchanged, drinks ordered, and a mutual agreement sealed with a shake of hands - one that simply states: "I do not know you, but I am willing to. And I will assume nothing about you. Even if your face vaguely reminds me of someone else. Or if your voice hits the wrong note deep within my subconscious, I will not hold that up against you. Or if your mannerisms, your accent, or anything about you somehow conjures up a preconceived idea, good or bad, I owe you as much as a blank canvas on which to make a whole new impression."

Yes, a handshake says all that adequately. You don't actually have to recite the whole thing.

Impressions can go either way, but each equally misleading. Sometimes you can be so taken in with a person's charm, only to find out later he's a real asshole. That would be Hugh Grant in Bridget Jones' Diary. But mostly, it's the negative ones that rob us of opportunities to experience the inner beauty of people. I read somewhere that we make up our minds about people so quickly because of the way our brains work subconsciously - we create patterns, assign them to schema or categories, and thus, are able to function effectively with the storm of stimuli input every second of our waking lives. But this evolutionary function has its drawbacks under certain circumstances when we should manually process the incoming stimuli, and not leave assumptions to be made on autopilot.

For instance, if you've read thus far, you'd be under the impression that this post would lead up to a point of sorts, or some key to help you discover a startling truth. Alas, you assumed something of me, and now you're dissappointed. Or not.

Oh, but wait. One last anecdote, if I may.

Imagine I was the perfect gentleman. I meet a girl, we became a couple, I had my fun, we broke up, and I move on, without a bitter bone in my body.
Or imagine I was a dysfunctional guy. I meet a girl, we became a couple, we had fun, we broke up, but I don't move on, bitter at the unfairness of it all.
You might assume I'd ask which one of the two I most identify with, and I'd assume you'd answer C: neither. Because you're too smart for this simple test. Or the smarter one might say D: both. The true genuius may even answer E: It depends.

But the truth is, the answer is F for "It's too Fucking complicated".

I did meet a girl. We did go out and broke up eventually. And I did want to be both. I wanted to be the gentleman who bows out graciously, earning respect for his dignified manner. I also wanted to be the scumbag calling her an easy fuck, earning disdain for his childish display of bitterness. But don't judge yet. Look closer.

The gentleman charmer who hops from one girl to the next, only to fulfill his sexual desires. He is liked by many, but he has no feelings for anyone.
The scumbag nobody respects, who is bitter over a love gone bad. He hits out at the world, simply because he's hurting.

Not so black, not so white, after all, eh? I don't quite know which shade fits the bill, I'm still trying to find my way. I only know that, in discovering myself, I must assume nothing.

This just in...

2006-07-07T00:27:00.000+08:00

July 7: Saddam Hussein has been found guilty and sentenced to be shot. His last request is to name his own firing squad. He chose Lampard, Gerrard and Carragher from 12 yards.

Maude...I lost the farm.

2006-06-28T04:58:00.000+08:00

Argghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Let's see some Flamenco!

2006-06-28T02:26:00.000+08:00

Maude? 'Ow's yer day, honey? Whot?....Of cuz I know whot time it is! I'm at tu'h joint, where'se would I be? ...In a while, in a while. Keep yer bloomin' voice down, you'll wake the kids.

Okay, list'n, now this may take yer by surpris'. Yer know how yer always goin' on 'bout takin' that cruise to Tobago? Okay, Tahiti, whotever. And how we disc'ssed 'bout gettin' one of em' tractor thingies...Let me finish, will ya?

Maude....I've wagered our farm. On the game tonight. ... Maude? Now, I know I'm not the luckiest...what? No, it...Yes, it ...NO, I am NOT joking. WILL you stop screamin'? Yes, the whole farm! Look, the corn fields 'aven't been doin' all too well, you know 'at. And li'l Jimmy's almost eight. He can pull'is weight if 'e 'av to! And Sarah's 14, she's a pretty one, she is. ...I am NOT suggestin' nothin'. Maude, for God'sake, I wasn't implyin' nuthin'!

Look, just boil yerself some tea, I'll be 'ome soon. Yer'll see. Yer all see. Spain'll win. Okay, I gotta go, honey. Game's 'bout ter start. Luv'ya!

Still

2006-06-17T23:35:00.001+08:00

Why do places carry the ghosts of lovers past
I see her in every person that goes by
I hear her in every voice, every laughter,
I feel her in the rustle of leaves as the wind blows.

How the stillness envelops you
How the darkness sets free my heart
Broken for you.

Empty

2006-06-17T22:36:00.000+08:00

I came back to an empty home, but at least they left the light on for me. There's always no place to park around my house on weekends, what with my socialite wannabe neighbours whose guests jam their cars on any semblance of a kerb along my road. And I'm not even invited to their parties.

A house still and dark is never a good thing to come home to. I switch on some lights, turn on the TV and check to see if there's any leftovers in the fridge. There isn't. Guess I'll go hungry. I wade groggily to my bed, stripped down to my shorts and settled down to sleep. It was 7.30pm.

The moment I closed my eyes, my mind spun like a broken video projector, flashing images in random sequence of my day just ended. I succumbed to a fitful slumber of the kind only fatigue can produce.

Some noise wakes me up. I check the time. Only 8.15pm. I wanted to get up but the heavy feeling in my chest makes even sitting up a feat. But I've gotten used to it by now. The days I stay home, I confront the demons. My very own. Which may explain my increase in drinking of late.

There's a match on at 9pm but I wasn't in the least interested right now. I walk to the kitchen to see if I was in the right frame of mind to whip up dinner for myself. I wasn't. I walked back to the living room and sat down staring mindlessly at the blaring TV. I wondered many things but never to any conclusion.

I switch off the TV and the deathly silence descends once more. I can feel my chest heaving. My arms feel like they're made of iron. My feet seem to be mired in mud. I stare blankly at nothing in particular for the longest time, quietly surrendering to the truth I tried to deny. I am grappling with depression.

If a lotus may bloom from the most defiled of soil, I prefer the exuberant wildflowers in the fields. If there is beauty to be found in the tormented soul, I would rather the corruption from that of the flesh.

O, beautiful football

2006-06-17T02:12:00.000+08:00

Okay, I admit, it took money to get me interested in the game. But, apart from purists, you simply can't watch it alone. It's about fighting for a common cause (even if the cause is the RM100 you bet), it's about finding common ground with each other, united against a foe.

I don't really watch football but the World Cup is different. I was transfixed on the England vs. Trinidad & Tobago match. After 2 matches I've given up on England, but T&T were so frustrating with their purely defensive play. I mean, didn't they hear, the best defence is a strong offense. More importantly, didn't they ever play Warcraft 3? Dudes, you can't turtle up! The attacking side almost always wins.

Look at Netherlands vs. Ivory Coast. Now that was an edge of seat game, especially since the odds were a half goal for the Orange team, and CIV showed more flair for the game. Still, I'm up by 250 football money now. (which is equivalent to RM, unlike monopoly money).

My sister walked in halfway and said "Wow, Argentina scored 6 goals. I think they're gonna win the cup." That was seriously funny okay, but let's see who gets the last laugh.

Two days ago I went for some wine with college friends again. It was a pretty good joint, quiet and tasteful ambience, but shan't tell you where though. It's a dirty little secret ;)

None of us were any good at choosing wine, so we made pretend connoisseurs and chose the nicest-sounding labels, but more than that, it has to be under RM50.

When it was my turn, I selected an Australian blend of Cabernot Sauvignon and Merlot (totally lost on the pronunciation) Bin 888 and the girls were complaining it was too strong. Well, I told them I tried looking for Bin 444 but they thought I was pulling their legs. I am being totally serious. They have a whole series that goes like 444, 555, 777, 888, and 999. I'm not sure if they had a 666, but wouldn't that be really cool? Especially if your waiter was named Damien.

Now, not to be too presumptuous, but what has football and wine got to do with anything?
Answer: they're some of the all-time best distractions.

And after 3 bottles of wine, I tried to explain to my friends the wonders of blogging.

Me: You know, blogging is considered the best form of citizen journalism, simply bec..
Them: What?! How can it be journalism when people write about what they eat, who they slept with, what time they went to the toilet,
Me: Come on, not everyone writes like that!
Them: Oh really? Okay, what do you blog about?
Me: Me..er..well...it's complicated..it's more of my feel..
Them: You write about your sex life, don't you! Ahahaha
Me: I do NOTTT!!
Them: I was reading a friend's blog, and she was going on and on about how she was depressed because she just broke up. Seriously, you tell the world such things?! So..what do you blog about?
Me: ....yeah, like I'm gonna tell you now.

Conclusions: Don't bank on a team simply because it has the world's highest-paid player, and never try to argue with girls high on red wine.

thoughts

2006-06-12T23:26:00.000+08:00

I don't mean to pretend but it's easier than coming off pathetic. At this point, I suddenly feel like I have nothing much else to say.

That sure is a weird feeling, to reach a stage where I almost don't feel anything.

For the past month now I have sculpted a routine where everyday I'd point my mouse towards blogger.com and write out my heart. It was easy spilling out my guts that way, and it made me feel better.

But like when you tell a friend the entire story and you're all cried out, and said everything you wanted to say, there comes a silence. And then there's nothing else to do...but give it time.

Just a pat on my shoulder, a few words of encouragement, and my friend is gone, and I'm alone again, thankful to have had someone during the first few moments of hell, but not really looking forward to the lonely road ahead.

Breaking up is not hard to do. It's getting back on your feet again, that's the tricky part. And not being cynical, not being bitter, but still full of wonder and energy. Especially when it's the umpteenth time and everything seems so sickly familiar.

There are certain memories that I can never forget although it's painful to remember.

When I asked her, what is her favourite moment, when was she happiest with me. And she said at the airport, coming out of the gate, missing me so much her heart was bursting with joy when she saw me.

I remember another time when we quarreled and she cried uncontrollably. My anger dissipated in an instant and I hugged her body racked with sobs. "Don't you like my bookmark?" she asked tearfully. I retrived the crumpled bookmark she made for me that I crushed in a moment of anger. I hugged her closer and I loved her in that moment more than I ever did. And I'ver never managed to get over my guilt since then. I mean, she made something for me and I crushed it. And she was crying so terribly. :(

How do I ever walk away from that with my soul intact. I don't think I can.

I am ever so sorry. But I am bitter over what has happened, how she could just walk away. I am cynical about women and all they say they want in a guy.

She's gone forever. Just like the wind that blows today and disappears tomorrow.

It's true what they say about you being most vulnerable once your heart is broken. I think I could fall in love with the next girl I see. Am I desperate?

Maybe. But I just, you know, need to love. I just need to love. I miss her emails. My inbox is ...pretty bare now. heh. But it seems fitting.

Well, goodnight, wherever you are. I love you.

A different kind of high

2006-06-09T00:27:00.000+08:00

Question:

If I chat up a girl at the bar, and she tells me she's a dancer, and I go all starry-eyed and impressed, and ask her "what type of dancer", and she replies "lion dance", do I still have to buy her a drink?

Now I hope I don't give the impression that I like to drink a lot. In fact, I hate getting high because it feels like a cactus is growing on my head, and, you know, I'm not all that fond of thorns.

But I suppose...drinking has its uses. Well, for one thing, it helps put a wet blanket over my amygdala. Aha! And you thought I thought amygdala was Queen Amidala's cousin. Tsk. Just so you know, let me state that I sometimes misspell names in Google and end up learning new words, so there.

But drinking isn't the only way to get high. I remember the first time I smoked a joint, it was during my era of self discovery marked by milestones such as getting a tattoo, a piercing, and losing my virginity. (no, not last week, smartass)

Being inexperienced, I finished the joint quickly and was somewhat disappointed when the physical effects I was expecting didn't show, while my buddies all looked like they were in Tahiti with their eyes half closed.

So I called up a girl I rather fancied. The last part of our conversation will forever remain etched in my memory as a tribute to the day milk spilt out of God's nose when he laughed so hard at me.

Girl: ....um...are you listening to me?
Me: Why, of course I am, of course, of course. I am listening to your voice, from the other end of the phone, through the wires and into my ear and then....er....wait....why am I talking about my ear?
Girl: .........what?
Me:...........what?

Well, suffice to say, my plane overshot Tahiti and crashed straight into Hell. I spent the next hour puking out everything but the kitchen sink. The fact that I was puking into the kitchen sink seemed like a cruel irony.

Yes, great story for the grandkids, but I actually did want to talk about my amygdala. But, come to think of it, it's too depressing a subject. My life is a tragic kingdom. Maybe next post.

I suck

2006-06-08T01:19:00.000+08:00

What am I doing now?

For all my powers of inventiveness, which, incidentally, is not just the offspring of necessity but of indolence, and my God-given talents of finding significance in the farthest reaches of my fantasy-addled rationalizations, I cannot, for the life of me, imagine anyone curious enough to want to know the answer.

But I'll tell you anyway, because I, the owner of this blog with nary a clue of a title to settle upon, have nothing else to do.

I'm listening to Billy Joel's New York State of Mind over and over on earphones dangling over my keyboard typing out a post that I have yet to anchor to a coherent topic, whilst methodically, if such a thing is possible considering the objective, getting myself drunk.

I am confident the vodka flowing through my veins is not only messing with the neurotic synapses of my brain that informs my "thinking" cortex of the emotions I'm supposed to be feeling, but it also affords me a rare yet momentous opportunity to use the word synapses and cortex in the same sentence.

Oh nevermind the fact that I'm out of my preffered drug of choice of whiskey and have to settle for the anti-larynx, Malaysian-idol-ambition killing poison that my sisters and the rest of the sane world call vodka.

Oh my friends, I am sorry I keep changing the title of my blog, and I realize this may or may not alter the universe in ways such as the likes of which have never been seen before, but as my online buddy technorati tells me, nine people who link to me couldn't possibly expect anything less. Oh yes, technorati tells me stuff like that.

Don't let my flawless grammer fools you. I'm as sober as a wino. I keep writing lines of poetry, most of which I never publish, and all for only one person in the entire world, who, if you must know, has evidently vowed never more to acknowledge my existence.

I look at the mirror
this is what i see

i totally suck.

Eight times a Lady

2006-06-04T22:36:00.000+08:00

I've been tagged by Chloe to list eight most desirable traits I seek in a lover. Truth is, I have never in my life went out looking for women with a checklist. I don't make comparisons, I try not to judge, and I especially do not benchmark. I'm a pragmatic person, I am. Oh yes, the only reliable thing I swear by when seeking a partner is my Chinese Zodiac-Western Horoscope-Feng Shui Love Match Almanac.

But it's so hard to find the perfect partner, isn't it, perfect according to your drawn up list.
"Are you a Saggitarian Fire Goat? You are?! What are the odds! Wait, there's more - were you also born facing East? No kidding! Um...you're also a lesbian? Damn! ...so close!"

Anyway, as long as we can dream, here's my perfect woman:

1. Smell. Her scent is intoxicating. When I'm close to her, nuzzling against her ears, her cheek, her neck, I am in a heaven of senses. The pleasant scent of her shampoo when she cuddles in my arms, or the lingering fragrance of her perfume on my shirt, or simply the mild fruity freshness of her newly-scrubbed skin when she comes out of the shower.

2. Touch. She loves to be touched, and loves touching me. Feeling the smooth texture of her skin sends shivers down my spine. Holding her soft hands make me lose myself in her. She always wants to hold hands everywhere we go, a hug every so often to remind me of her love, a cuddle at times to know I value her, and simply finding in touching each other a completeness to our lives.

3. Sound. We treasure an intimacy that needs to be sustained daily with communication. She needs me to tell her I love her every day, she tells me the depths of her heart's content, she knows when to play vixen, friend, soulmate or mother. And I can tell her anything, and she listens.

4. Sight. Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder, but she can make a few heads turn at least - and for the right reasons. She's not a self-obsessed vainpot but takes pride in being presentable, is happy with her reflection, and has a face I want to see first thing in the morning for the rest of my life. Not too pretty, more a girl-next-door look.

5. Taste. Her lips are sweeter than wine. She is the girl I'd give up smoking for. Her taste is wonderful all over. Also, her taste in fashion, although a pretty subjective area, isn't too extreme compared to mainstream tastes.

6. Heart. She is kind-hearted, not excessively, and not necessarily to any particular category of living things, but she doesn't possess a single malicious bone. Most of all, she has a gentle manner about her, slow to anger, not foul-mouthed, quick to forgive, and full of love.

7. Mind. She is comfortable with who she is, and thankful for who she is with. She appreciates intelligent jokes, has a sense of fun and adventure, relishes an exchange of views or ideas about any topic under the sun, and loves reading. She lives in the present, looks to the future and is romantic about the past.

8. Soul. She is faithful and loyal, always rising to my defense when threatened, always willing to trust my words first before others'. She is wise beyond her years, knows all my unspoken cues yet never fails to be surprised by me. She understands me, accepts me, and wants me. She is my soulmate.

Don't wake me up just yet. Zzzzzz....

I would tag 8 more people if I KNEW 8 more people, or rather, if they knew me. But you don't need to be tagged to draw up your own list. Go ahead, it's fun to fantasize. :)

Seek and ye shall find

2006-06-02T02:58:00.000+08:00

I awoke with a start a while ago, and judging from the ache in my chest, I surmised it was another row with my subconscious. Why can't we just get along, I bitched quietly.

I dragged my sorry ass to the shower. It was just past midnight. For three days now, I find myself stumbling home from work bone-weary and sleeping before prime time was done, always waking in the dead of night from a fitful slumber.

I felt the tension drain along with the water over my body and try to recall the dream I had. It was not a complete fanciful story, or maybe it was, I can't remember. But amid the twirls of images and rush of memories, there was one scene which stood out in great detail like an Impressionist work of art come to life.

I slipped off a silver ring from my finger, clutched it in my hand, and slipped it back on again. And just as dreams play out like scenes on the TV, this particular vision was a close-up of my hand, as if I had an out-of-body experience, seeing my own self through the eyes of another.

I suppose you may wonder why I should remember so vividly a random dream event. I might just as easily have dreamt all the curtains in my house were made of chocolate and all the walls coated in a glossy shade of lavender.

Except that my curtains are not made of chocolate and my walls are white. But I had a ring once that she gifted to me, and I lost it.

I may project a pragmatic lifestyle were you to survey my workdesk and neatly-categorised wardrobe, but the chink in my image of level-headedness is my foolish insistence on ascribing sentimental value to things.

Of course, it shouldn't matter now that the ring is lost. It was, after all, a symbol of a love that today has ceased to exist. So I wonder why I still feel guilty.

Hunkered down in front of my monitor I try to reflect and piece together all these psychic clues that would doubtlessly lead me a step closer to finding my Neverland. Inner peace. Peace of mind. Mind, body and soul. Brand's Essence of Chicken suddenly comes to mind. Dear God, I'm going crazy.

I took a few days off to find Heaven but instead I found Hell. How I suckered myself once more into believing I could just move on with a week's worth of sleeping late and doing jack.

But I did something stupid today at work. I reread all our old sappy love emails that I haven't yet had the heart to trash. And for a moment I was seized with a paralyzing heartache, that she was exchanging the same sappy love emails with someone new. Or something more than virtual.

I could not move an inch, gripped as I was with the stabbing pain of betrayal. The moment passes and my breathing returned to normal. I quickly glance around and am relieved nobody noticed my brief excursion into the netherworld. These sudden attacks come and go, but with decreasing frequency. Maybe I'm just getting better at denial.

Songs play in my head all day like a jukebox gone haywire. Most of the time I'm not even aware of the tune I'm humming. Right now, though, I find myself unable to ignore these lyrics, unrelated as they are to anything I'm feeling:

There's a saying old, says that love is blind
Still we're often told, seek and ye shall find...

Maybe it harks of a past romance where I was that someone who watched over her. I don't know. I just pray I never find that ring again.

Subconscious Wisdom

2006-05-29T23:52:00.000+08:00

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

2006-05-25T15:08:00.000+08:00

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!

2006-05-23T01:04:00.000+08:00

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

2006-05-23T00:26:00.000+08:00

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

2006-05-22T16:51:00.000+08:00

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?

2006-05-22T13:48:00.000+08:00

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

2006-05-17T22:43:00.000+08:00

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.