Ramblings...

Nothing better than camp cable. To watch the morning light paint the trees through the windows of a tent.

One year on

Exactly one year ago, on this date, I ground flesh into tar on some lonely mountain road north of Thailand. One year ago, tomorrow, I would wake up in my RM20 backpacker’s room in sleepy Chiang Rai writhing in pain. By the afternoon of tomorrow one year ago, I would have developed a fierce craving for painkillers. In the next few days, one year ago, I would experience the slow and excruciating pain of infection coupled with epidermis healing. Then, two weeks from now, one year ago, I would be hobbling along Thailand, boosting my new thai tattoos, jumping into seas and tanning them dark.

Now, one year on, so much has changed. The wounds have turned to shadowy reminders. The pain is vague yet unforgettable. And now, whenever anyone asks, I brush off my scars like a passing statement because today, they are a part of me. They are a part of who I am and what I have been through. They are an imprint of one point in my life like memory in ink. Today they are constant reminders that while I can hurt I can also heal.

One year ago, I would never think that. But life does heal. Life does move on. Even through the most painful of experiences, it moves on. Someone I knew liked to use one profound phase, "This too will pass." Indeed.

Exactly one year ago, on this date, I was having one of the worse days of my life. Today, I can look back and say “I’ve got stories to tell!”

DOUBLE A

I am an alcoholic. And I make no excuses for it. I like my drinks. I like my wine. I like my liquor naked, unadulterated, on the rocks. I like the taste of the percentage. I like the burn, the breath, the buzz.

They say there are amateur alcoholics and pro alcoholics. Through the many years, I have learned a lot and even then, there is still more to learn. Now, my drinks run through a very stringent process of branding. I do not mix what I do not know, this applies for the drinks and the people I drink with. I watch out for anything that bubbles. Water is taken when water is due. I hardly ever test my limits (hardly). And as long as I can still see straight, anything goes.

There is nothing wrong with drinking unless one drinks excessively. But what is the limit? I guess you’ll never know till you put it to test. I’ve put mine to the test, and there were many times that I failed miserably but hey! I’m still standing! (And there is nothing wrong with drink driving just as long as no one dies in the process because a lot of drinkers drive better than when they are sober).

Most of us drink for very different reasons. Nothing like chilled beer to nurse a hard day’s work. Or a shot of something nasty to numb the senses. Or a few jugs to prepare the mind for sleep. Nothing like sinking into bliss instead of depression. Or dealing with emotions on fizzy guzzling. And there is nothing like trying to mend a broken heart with booze; it never really cleanses the heart but it still feels darn good.

But I don’t drink to be emotionally stunted. That was the past - a sort of rite of passage. I drink because I like the taste of it. I like the buzz of it. And I like the conversations that come with it. I like it when inhibitions strip themselves with each mouthful and people swim into a genuine state. You can never pretend on booze. Everything that is true to self exposes itself. You can never pose on booze; you may fool the other drunks but not the clear-headed ones.

Drinking is also the best of icebreakers. It helps discard the cloaks of fear and low esteem. It flushes away self-pity and rationality. And in its place, it breeds guts, sheer bravado, and sometimes stupidity – whatever that is true to self. The shy become flirts. The posers become outright losers. The gorgeous become demigods or its exact opposite. The timid become bold and the bold become reckless. The plain become dashing. A lot of people do lots of things they would never ever imagine they would in ordinary circumstances; they strut, they strip, they straddle, they propose, they break-up, they throw a punch. Jumping off a building is another such extreme.

And there are many things to discover in a state of intoxication. The tipsy world can be a pretty alien place. How the toilet bowl is not as big as it seems and the road not as wide as it looks. The creation of a new language that can only be pronounced in slurs. The fact that things that look fast are actually slow and things that look slow, fast. And then the discovery that bad days are not as bad as the next day’s hangover. And things that look good don’t look half as right in a more proper state of mind.

But there is nothing wrong being in an improper state of mind, well, at least in my books. There is nothing wrong escaping into some other more floaty realm. We all have our poison. We all have our antidotes. Of course there are other ways to escape. Some people run a marathon. Some look for a fight. Some succumb to drugs. Some binge on food. Some sink into their shell. This world has its burdens and we all shoulder a part of that burden so there is nothing wrong finding our own respite, even if it is a temporary paradise in a bottle.

I say life is short. Drink up.

Ramblings...

It’s 1 a.m. at the club and she stands right outside the little girl’s room.
It’s a Wednesday night. It’s ladies night.
And she is the oldest gal in that dark smoky club - sardine-packed with hot young girls strutting their stuff to the beat of the DJ and the pulse of alcohol.
She stands in the corner with a mop in her hand.
When the little girl’s room packs up, she is in there with them, making sure the rolls are filled, the loos unclogged and the ladies leave no make-up stains on the mirrors.
Then, occasionally, when the DJ spins a good number, the ladies empty the toilets for the dance floor, and she follows them out to watch.
There is a weary kind of scrutiny on her face as I watch her staring at two girls rubbing up against each other and another at the far end grinding with the pillar.
She looks tired even as she watches a lap dance on a couch or a threesome hotdog dance.
I wonder what she feels night after dutiful night. Envious? Matronly? Ached?
She must feel aged in a place packed with youth - or the illusion of it at least.
Aged and tired, she would still be one of the last to leave - long after the crowd stumbles out; long after the lights come on; long after the last cubicle flushes empty - mopping up party stains for the next night.
I wonder what her salad days were like.

Ramblings

I feel like I have been robbed.

I just paid the highest income tax in my entire career and I am bleeding through my nose. I’m woozy in the head. My bank account just had a really bad diarrhoea. And I feel the pinch like a nine inch needle.

And even as good citizens try to do their taxes at the tax department, a policeman in charge of handling out numbers worked with touts so one could purchase quick numbers to get things done. Perfect scenario of how this country works.

Then, to add to the insult, MPPJ does a ticket spree right outside the tax office. We take the effort to pay out taxes and get a parking fine in the process. Is there no compassion in our government?

April for fools indeed. ...

Passing quotes

"The World Wide Cobweb"

A day to not remember

I buried my cat. Attacked by dogs in our own compound. Flung around like a rubber ball. Trapped in a corner under the shrubs where we found him.

I buried him under our rambutan tree. His brother too scared to come home.

Can I be angry at animal instincts? I wish I could. I wish I could beat the dogs that take the cats as game. But what good would that do?

We brushed the soil off. Life goes on, there is one more cat to protect.

Then, a call from University Hospital.

Another death within.

All in one day.

When it rains, it pours shit loads.

Killed with kindness

It may be just a millipede but it wasn’t meant to die. Not just yet and definitely not by a careless heavy foot; a foot that belonged to an tremendously remorseful owner who could not stop cursing at his carelessness.

It was a huge one, the millipede I mean – thumb thick, fat and oozing goo. Had, perhaps, a few good months or years left to live. Had an odd colour on – not the usual brown but beige in a rather pretty way – beige and semi-squashed. Half a body writhing above the dried leaves; the other half compressed into the jungle soil with the rest of its juices.

Perhaps it would survive we all thought. It did have maybe 50 legs left to take a walk. So we went on ahead to do the jungle thing. Dove into the waterfall. Did all the crazy things only crazy campers do. Then on the way back down, we took special care treading on the same spot.

It was still there. Sadly, 50 legs wasn’t good enough to carry it forward.

‘It’s going to be eaten alive.’ I told him as I watched his face contort in familiar remorse. A trail of excited army ants swarmed close by. We all knew what had to be done and who had to do it.

So our gang lingered away down the trail. And I waited somewhere behind the bush.

I think I saw him utter a prayer, perhaps. He looked so guilty even before the deed was done. It may be just a millipede, but to him, it was a life nonetheless – fragile and meek by nature. To have to trample the lights out of such a life is something even I cannot do. While we have the power and the choice to protect or destroy, the fragile ones don’t. I think of snails and I cringe.

Then there were two stomps on the ground. Two, just to be sure.

He made his way down the trail towards us. His face strained with guilt. I gave him a pat on the back. It was done.

Here was a pure nature lover through and through. The kind that wouldn’t pluck a leaf, leave a crumb or kill a leech unless he really had to. But the deed had to be done and he had to be the one to do it.

Fact of nature. Part of life. No one said it was easy being cruel in order to be kind.

Rambling...

4am after a Friday night in town. A BMW rides a little in front of us on the Federal Highway. It's been a wild night and the roads are almost empty.

Then suddenly, the BMW switches from the middle lane and right into a tree.

WHAM!

We avoid just in time.

The car windows shatter. The airbags balloon out. The car drifts 180 degrees around the highway.

The tree shakes its confetti of sullen leaves on the wreckage.

It's a BMW. The occupants will be fine.

And all I said out load at that time was 'Holy Shit! Poor tree!'

A gift from strangers

Dressed for the night out. All made up. Earrings, bling bling, sparkles, the works. Music blaring from my badly tuned car speakers.

The traffic light turns red ahead as I think about the day. I find myself checking my car mirrors a little too often, checking for signs of paranoia that tails me. Yes I am paranoid about the state we are in. I am paranoid about the crimes I hear everyday, crimes that are sometimes a little too close to home. Paranoid about the daily news with nothing good. Paranoid about the bleak political circus that is too disappointing to discuss yet too difficult to ignore.

By the way, I’ve stopped reading the papers; I’d rather risk seeming ignorant than being pissed off at the idiosyncrasies of our politics. But it seems that bad news does not need print to take flight – public anger spreads like wildfire.

So, besides a great day at work, there wasn’t much about Malaysia to be happy about on that particularly dark night.

And then my car stops right next to a family of three. A young tudung lady, beautiful in a way that only mothers can be. An adorable baby boy bouncing upon her knee. And a proud father behind the wheel.

I catch eyes with the baby while the mother smiles at me. I make faces at the kiddo and smiles break on all three. The child gets excited. They laugh in their bubble space. I cannot hear them but I can fill in the sound. The baby is lifted up to the window to say a better hello. And before the lights turn green, we sit exchanging silent baby language.

And between that space of one car to the next, something else exchanges through two panes of glass; two locked doors; and the barrier of traffic noise – it’s a wonderful thing to say hello to humanity once in awhile – and all it took was three crinkle-eyed strangers to lift my gloom over paranoia, pessimism and the Malaysian political farce on that night.

As I pull away from them, headed in totally different directions towards totally different lives, I am reminded that no matter where we come from or who we are, no matter how shitty things are or will soon be, we are all in this together.

Eyes wide shut

How do I put into words the experience of sightlessness? There is no way to explain how it feels like but to ask you to shut your eyes, and resist the urge of peeping through even when you have to cross a busy street, or climb a flight of stairs you thought you knew well, or put food from hand to mouth.

Until today, I have not seen a clear day of the new year, and even now, what I see on this screen is but half. I remembered when in utter blindness only a week back, how much I missed the shape of clouds. What does the new year look like, I would ask over the phone? How blue was the sky today? Were the stars out yesterday night? Can you study the surface of the moon for me and tell me what you see?

I remember sitting in my room for 6 lightless days, on self-quarantine; tip toeing around the surfaces of my dark world; doing away time in my mind’s eye; playing scenarios in my head. Hours and hours would go by and I would turn the pages of my many bedside books and wish I could read through my fingertips.

I remember on one of my routine hospital visits when two little girls started to laugh. It was a kind of laughter that bubbled from deep within, and it came out bursting with so much innocence and happiness. I don’t have a face for the girls but I can still remember their laughter and the pattering of their feet across the waiting room floor. In a funny way, it was my sightlessness that made the moment magical. It was my blindness that made me follow their every decibel, their every rise and fall of each bubbly burst and each happy note. And until today, I still think it is one of the most beautiful sounds I have ever heard.

I remember keeping my elbows in a lot, locked to my side, and sitting rigid as an upright log, afraid to swing around and knock things down. I remember how well each glass and bottle fits in my hands and how I preferred eating without utensils. How I would gauge the amount of juice I had left by the temperature change on the surface of my glass. How I wouldn’t know if the toothpaste was squeezed out enough or not at all. How cement, tar and tile were different textures to my feet.

I remember hearing voices but regretfully not the faces, especially the nurses that guided me so gently. I remember being neater with my room than I have been in a long time because everything had to be in place for me to be able to find them again. And how sensitive my friends were to every twitch of my fingers and turn of my head. And how one daft waiter said that I should just take off my sunnies when I commented that I could not see the menu, how I would have loved to bash his head if only I could see something to bash his head with.

I remember the pain of every blink. The unstoppable tears. The bleeding lids. The throbbing. The fear of light. The fear of darkness. The fear of waking up each morning not being able to open my eyes.

But the worse thing about the entire experience is how I would sit in darkness and know that some people do live their entire lives like this. And it frightens me, this feeling of sightlessness, even if it was only temporary for me - how much life can be so much less without sight.

One long year adios

I welcomed the new year with my one good eye. The other one was made useless by an infection which turned it bloodshot red and tearing like a woman on hormone pills.

So I spent my countdown behind shades. And in between champagne, wine and gourmet food, I also spent a lot of time in the toilets drowning that useless eye in medicated drips.

They say an infection on the right eye is good news. I’ve got a leftie which, no surprise, is a bad omen. Must be someone I came in really close contact to. Must be an allergy to that person’s eye contact.

The doc of course says it is contact lens infection. One minor problem - I don’t wear contacts so I switched doctors instead.

So I welcomed my new year with my one good eye as I was saying. And in a funny way I see much better. Things have become much clearer to me this past few trying months and I have learned a lot about myself and about the people around me and the people who are no longer around me.

I vote 2008 one of the worse years in my life. I think many can agree with that. Maybe it’s what the bad wind blew in. Maybe it was just plain luck. Or maybe it was fated. But I am glad it is over and I am glad I am still around. But bad year and all, there were few regrets. Okay…maybe more than a few… just tiny ones:

• I should have rolled over that snake
• I should have quit my job earlier
• I should have taken that plane ticket
• I should have said yes instead of no
• I should have said no instead of yes
• I should have played dumb
• And of course, I should have not rubbed my left eye

But I am banking on one very prominent lucky sign – a scruffy mongrel has entered my house compound on the new year and has refused to budge despite attempts to chase him out.

My grandma believes that when stray animals decide to make your home their home, it’s a sign of good luck. But she does not really say if it is good luck for us or for the dog. It doesn’t matter, I’m putting my last coin on the dog, after all, 2009 can't get any worse than last year....or can it?