Everything Hangs In Imbalance

They Looted My Time on this One

2007-05-30T02:15:00.000+12:00

I watched Pirates of the Caribbean 3 with my father-in-law and husband last Sunday.
It gave me a numb butt. And it also confused the hell out of my simple brain.

I could not make sense of Chow Yun Fatt's few, precious lines. I felt as if the scriptwriters struggled to give him something meaningful to say. And he struggled to make sense of what he was saying.

All I remember is "Welcome to SinGAHpor".

The double- and triple-crossing had me shifting in my seat.Because frankly it was going on and on and on without doing anything to enhance my viewing experience. It wasn't revelatory or funny so I felt like I was trapped in a neither-here-nor-there situation which of course made me feel like jumping off a plank.

Captain Jack Sparrow was interesting to watch as usual but he was half as funny as he was in Pirates 1 and twice as contrived in Pirates 2. Every time he appeared in a scene, I got ready for a cracking good laugh - but I only managed to force a few limp hur-hurs out of my disappointed diaphram.

Then there was the whole new concept of Calypso. Whossa?

Then there was also the other new concept of Davey Jones' heart and how if you stabbed it, you would have to replace him as the undead captain of his ship. Whassa?

I was sufficiently preoccupied with the raging whirlpool for about 15 minutes. But when the two ships never seemed to get sucked into it after going round and round forever, I gave up on any kind of hope that something significant would happen. And I had to bear with the fact that it was just some sfx wank.

In fact after some drama about Davey Jones' heart occurs on board one of the ships, the whirpool disappears suddenly and everything is calm as a clam in the Bahamas.

Eating popcorn almost became the most exciting thing about the entire movie experience.(I usually look for the caramelly ones and leave the pale ones to my husband.)Especially since Keira Knightley's acting could easily be summed up as one long continuous pout.

Bah.

Bali Violence

2007-05-10T18:29:00.000+12:00

I normally don't like company trips because the Shopping Aunties scare me. These women are usually from the Finance department. But occasionally, there will be one or two members of the Account Management and Creative departments in their midst.
Gifted with unadulterated perseverance and the gene to "succeed" (plus spontaneous acting skills), they can make the merchants feel guilty for even asking for your money.

Recently the company I work for decided to take its staff to Bali. You know, the country that got bombed twice? The tour operator told us that the number of tourists had dropped from 5 000 to 1450 per day. But did this stop the Shopping Aunties from bargaining their teeth off? No. RM20 for sequinned sandals? Let's make it RM6 shall we? Handcrafted glass-chipped wooden bowl for RM40? Shucks, that's a REAL bomb ain't it?

What you don't see from this blog is the drama surrounding the whole act of bargaining. There's plenty of push and pull involved. They push the old, craggy artisans and if they don't like what they hear, they literally pull away from the shop, which is usually preceded by a threat or a snort of disbelief.

Needless to say, they got into some heated arguments with these locals who are probably still casting long-distance spells on us.

These Aunties also have a penchant for visiting as many tourist spots as possible in a day. "But we paid RM35 for a whole day!!" And so they invade the Monkey Forest Parks, Tanah Lot, the temple in the lake, some paddy fields, some silver and gold factories while cramming marathon shopping sprees in between.

You can't miss them. Their voices are larger than life and the original

Sensing the latent explosives in these Aunties, I decided from day one to hang out with a small bunch of guys from the Creative department, which included an Account Director. Sure the stations took Beavis and Butthead off the air but they were well and alive in our company.

At the first company dinner, they saw fit to stack up some wooden chairs into some gigantic Jenga game to the amusement of the waiters. The latter's smiles ceased when they left the chairs in their Frank Gehry state. At the airport, they decided it was much more fun to ram a trolley into a stacked pile of luggage, than to wait patiently for the boarding passes to be issued. All this interspersed with crude jokes about every person who walked past.

Aside from frequent urges to slap them with monkeys from the Forest Parks, I managed to be civil and controlled. Found a great bottle green beaded lamp with a 40kg glass base for RM130. And a huge painting for RM80. Ignored their snide remarks about my handicapped bargaining skills which I do admit are pretty non-existent.

I also managed to enjoy my simple lunch of a chicken wrap amidst their cackling over the word "Sop Buntot" on the menu. For 3 hours.

There are plenty of cute cafes and restaurants spread around Seminyak, Kuta and Ubud. All serve a mixture of authentic Indonesian food and western. None, willing to cook Beavis nor Butthead, unfortunately.

Couch Potatoes

2007-04-27T22:29:00.000+12:00

I'm hooked on Grey's Anatomy.

It's medicine mixed with soap opera.

I used to follow the Bold and the Beautiful. But the story is so stretched out that you could miss 10 episodes and still catch up. E.g "Ridge is contemplating getting Brooke back" and 10 episodes later, "Ridge is about to do something about it"

But Grey's Anatomy. Everything happens really fast. There are severed legs. Subdural haematoma cases. Complicated births. Surgeons getting shot and about to lose the dexterity of their hands. And great, great lines in between that provoke and touch your gut.

Colin is 7 episodes behind. That's because when there's football, he sticks to football. Me - I steamroll through 3 episodes in one sitting. I told him that to be an honorary Couch Potato, you gotta have stamina and focus. You can't watch Grey's Anatomy and then stop the DVD and switch to Astro 81. That's not Couch Potato. That's Easily Distracted Footie Freak.

Footie Freaks don't count as Couch Potatoes. If you're stuck to your sofa because of a football match, it's out of necessity. Coz the game is about 2 hours, including match highlights.

Couch Potatoes cannot leave the couch because out of the couch their world is empty. Blank. The couch gives comfort to the Potato while the TV provides meaning to the Potato's life.

If you're a Couch Potato, you are fully engaged in the characters' lives, too. You don't say "The actress who plays Meredith Grey is pretty...", you say "Meredith is pretty". Couch Potatoes are so engaged in the characters' lives they BECOME the characters. When Izzie cries about her dying patient who is also her dying fiance, you cry. When Dr. Shepherd is being an ass to Meredith, and if you're siding Meredith, you don't watch the scene like it's a scene. You curse Dr. Shepherd and say "You're such an ass, Derek!"

This might explain why Colin is worried I may fall in love with Dr. Burke. Because I don't say "Isaiah Washington is so good in his role." I say " Dr. Preston Xavier Burke is such a honourable man. I just love him." More than that, I relive the good lines he delivers in my life.Like:

"I...am Preston Burke. I'm this hospital's best Cardio Thoraxic Surgeon. But most of all I am a kind person. I...am Preston Burke. And you! You are the world's biggest slob. You're competitive. You're stubborn. And you're difficult to understand. And...and I LOVE you. Now what is so wrong with you that you won't let me?"

It goes without saying that I am a Couch Potato for Grey's Anatomy.

Being Normal in Abnormal Times

2007-03-12T19:47:00.000+12:00

"Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal."

To the many readers of books, the mention of modern "Classics" usually evoke large yawns or at least the typical "Oh I don't read Classics" response. I never started out reading "Classics". My voracious hunger for books was sparked by Nancy Drew, the very pleasant-looking Hardy Boys and the band of cool, highly imaginative punks called the Secret Seven (in other variations - Famous Five and Trixie Belden and her friends). When puberty struck and my hormones were released like torrents of bits and bytes down millions of cellular drainpipes, Estrogen made me reach out for Mills and Boon and Sweet Dreams.

Yes, these books about high school romance and nosy teenagers in cultish clubs inspired my love for writing. But they did not teach me about life.

Classics did.

They are Classics because they resonate with people at a deeper level, at the very source of their Humanity. (If you're Human, it is abnormal to be disinterested in your own Humanity.)

They document the author's confessions. And though clad in a plot and in some kind of narrative style, these confessions explain their struggle and their failures at meeting some invisible expectation that has been set and refined (though unchanged) since the dawn of Time.

Authors like Albert Camus (who came up with the quote up there), Ayn Rand and the like, expose Life without its blinking fairy lights and rose gardens, because that sort of Life is a confection - pink and creamy and soft and sweet. And since they are living Life truly, with its ugliness and gaps, inconsistencies and vulgarities, pretense and packaging, they tell of the friction between the soul's needs and Society's demands of it - e.g being "normal" according to Society's definition is hard work especially if it means one should socialise for future benefits.

Because these authors are Highly Self-Aware creatures, astute and articulate, they speak in a manner which labels them as complicated beings, drowning in their microcosm of sorrow and superreality.

Yet their only objective is to share and enlighten those willing to be enlightened.

The ideology is simple.When you're born with or when you have have attained a keen sense of Self-Awareness, you never quite achieve full harmony with your life. Your mind watches itself even as it thinks. Your senses are acute, sharpened to receive and respond to every stimuli with judgement. You feel so much of every moment of time and you perceive the diabolic machinery behind each seemingly 'accepted' notion of life.

For instance, you see through Society's frameworks and props - the ruthlessness of becoming popular, the quiet manipulation in corporate networking, the irrational pursuit of prestige, the crass approach to success, the slavery behind the concept of "Service". Having coffee and shooting shit with friends becomes a whole Spielberg production of emotions-at-play where guilt, obligation, need, delight and irritation all collide.

Is it a wonder that living becomes such an exercise?

Of course you don't go phenomenally psychotic after you learn about such realities. You accept them because whether or not you like it, you are IN this gigantic game. And you are grateful because now you have a choice of what to do about it, given your God-given talents, skills, values and, yes, Keen Sense of Self-Awareness.(Plus you are closer to the Truth, what's there to be sad about?)

Given too that Man is a creature who feels fulfilled only when he contributes, receive only when he gives, there is no easy way about it: We need to be around people (especially those who make Life easier to live). But the only way for outcasts and misfits to live out their true potential for the purpose they have been placed on Earth is to be "in the world", not "of the world".

To act for only what is required.

Everything else, is excess and a bondage.

My Animal Kingdom

2007-02-08T22:32:00.000+12:00

Pandas are so adorable,
They look like workaholics.
Polar bears are huggable.
Too bad they don't do tricks.

Penguins - I heard they are birds,
But how come they don't fly?
Wolves are supposed to be scary,
Yet it's sad to see them die.

Rabbits seem so jittery,
Whiskers shivering when they dine.
Mice are labelled pests,
Is loving cheese a crime?

Lions don't scare me,
Even though they bite,
They are big, silly cats.
But yes, I respect their might.

These are my favourite animals,
I confess there are many more.
Nothing beats the Dog, however.
They laugh even when they're sore.

Just a Moment

2007-01-19T16:56:00.000+12:00

It's a beautiful day. The sun has come out after being absent for a while. And Colin and I are outside a building called Key Point at Beach Street, Singapore. Waiting for my brother, Khin, to take us to lunch.

"I can't wait any longer," I say.
"Why?" he asks.
"I have weak calves..." comes my reply.
"Then the milk won't be very good."

There is not time for a retort because a man turns up with all the attributes of a yuppie. Well-combed and lightly gelled hair. Beige, fitting slacks. And a baby-blue, checkered long-sleeved shirt.

It's the corporate consultant look. It's Country Road. It's my brother.

"Arrrrggggh." I squeal much to Colin's chagrin and crush my brother in a tight hug.
"Hey guys, how are you?" he asks in a sort of English that's lightly stained with London air.
"Okay-la...work sucks but...okay-la." I offer in a sort of English that proudly gives away my Cheras background.

Colin is a class of his own, of course. So he breaks out the South Sentul "Yo Khin...whassup, man? Whassup?" Very LA but also very Kerala.

After the salutations, we decide to do Morocco. We cross the road and enter a world of 5-foot walkways with little eateries and boutiques and knick-knack shops. As we are quite close to Arab street, the facade of the shops suggest Malay influence but without the extremism of KL's old Karyaneka (defunct since year 2000). The Singapore government's influence is apparent in the cleanliness of everything. The walkway floors, the walls, the paint, the old-style wooden shutters - they are all immaculate.

Anti-Singaporean Malaysians would term this "character assassination". Anti-Singaporean Malaysians who love gritty, paint-shedding buildings and the occasional rat or cockroach that scampers across the line of sight during a greasy meal. The stuff that gives a place character, mainly.

The Moroccan restaurant is located in the corner of a 5-foot walkway block. We sit outside along the sheltered pathway to enjoy a little sun and order ourselves hummus, lamb and chicken koftes as well as some vadai-looking mince patties. Can't for the life of me remember the name. Pakoras? No, that's Indian.

We attack the general topic of Quality of Living between mouthfuls of grub. And suddenly the idea of living in Singapore becomes closer to reality. Well, in the sense that even Thomas - a Malaysian friend recently posted to Singapore who is providing us accommodation during the trip - has been painting a positive picture of the republic ever since we arrived.

It's a notion I'm more enthusiastic about compared to Colin. My husband loves his mamak stalls open 24 hours a day, you see. But this is coming from a man who falls asleep in the midst of switching TV channels with the remote control in his hand - at 12:30am. But he recognises the wisdom of setting up Fuse in Singapore. So I guess this notion is not entirely anchored on whimsical emotion.

"You can't hint if you want Colin to do things." I say as the topic changes to "Annoying Spousal Behaviour".
"I think Swee will agree when it comes to me, too, haha." my brother replies in reference to his wife.
"Well, that's why I now say 'I want you to cut your bonding session with your full Biotherm skincare range
from 45 minutes to 30 minutes,'" I continue.
"Or I want you to move to Singapore."

Colin wrinkles his nose, "I want you to stop talking the first moment your eyes open in the morning."

It's not funny but both my brother and Colin laugh their heads off so I allow them this fleeting pleasure and glee.
(Hey what is Kindness between relatives?)

We exchange more stories about thieves in the night, stealing blankets. And bedhogging. And when all is done and it's in that somewhat pregnant moment before we part ways that we sit still, allow the many more things we want to say to flow back into our bloodstream, and enjoy the silence.

This Earth, This Life, This Day

2007-01-16T14:58:00.000+12:00

There is Life in every seed.

God in every person.

Hope in every heart.

Battle in every soul.

Beauty in every imperfection.

Sorrow in every injustice.

Compromise in every corporation.

We only need to balance the good with the bad to sustain a liveable world.

It is in chaos today because we have left our moral sense to the persuasion of "The Flow" with which people around us invite us to go.

The new balance we continually try to strike by exerting moral will against what we instinctively believe is questionable, is dreadfully off.

Most of what is Right and Wrong have essentially merged to produce a very large, grey muck.

We have not one single question, but a few.

Will the human being ever learn to say these things again - "No", "Enough", "Stop"?
Will Man be able to reverse the damage he has inflicted upon the Gift of Earth?
Will Life ever get to be the Eden God promised us?

Earth is the new Israel.

We can redeem ourselves and save her if only we find the God inside us.

And believe we can change.

Better Than Before

2007-01-15T21:13:00.000+12:00

This year I want to be a better person.

This is what I said the last, too.

My theory is that if every year I am better than I am the previous year, I can be a saint by 2020.

Last year I was stern with account management.
So this year I should be screaming like a banshee at them.

Last year I smiled when fellow project members messed up some deadlines.
This year I should whack them on the head.

Last year I ate too much chocolate.
This year I should switch to cake.

Last year I did not manage to sign up for swimming lessons.
This year I should at least call up the instructors and get some rates.

Last year I spent too much time at work.
This year I shall make this someone else's problem.

Last year I did not save the amount of $ I promised to save.
This year I shall use Colin's credit card to shop.

I think I should be able to achieve all these objectives if I focus a little.
Aiming for sainthood - it just isn't as easy as people make it out to be.

December Went Into Hiding

2007-01-15T20:45:00.000+12:00

I don't remember December.
But I'm sure December remembers me:
One big ball of frustration with a fuse so short, Iran would have been frightened.
Fortunately I did not explode.
No, make that unfortunately.
Because I feel constipated at the moment.
My innards congested with the backlog of work and injustice caused by the incompetence of human beings.
My mantra for 2006 was "Cut the Nonsense" but obviously no one was listening.
What's worse is I did not even feel Christmas zoom by on his Kawasaki Ninja.
There goes the turkey.
There goes Ray Coniff and his choir.
There go the holidays.
Now that the new year has forced himself through and it's officially 2007, I have nothing to say except: Hello. Try not to be a nuisance will you?

Sanity Check #1

2006-11-06T15:49:00.000+12:00

Am I really making a difference in the place where I work?
How big a difference can I make if I'm not afraid of losing my job?
What if someone above me is?
Do I continue pushing against the brick wall?
After having told him countless times that he needs to free himself from fear in order to do the right thing?
Is this God telling me that I can't always have my way even if the intention is good and right?
Is this God saying "Look, they have eyes but do not see; they have ears but do not hear?"
If I end up killing myself over this job to help all and sundry, would I be considered a matyr or an idiot?
Of course an idiot.

Wonder and Awe

2006-10-20T23:08:00.000+12:00

In the Primary Four Sunday School Syllabus, there is a chapter on the Gifts of the Holy Spirit. One of them is vaguely termed as Wonder and Awe which basically refers to the utter respect one has for the Lord (otherwise known as obedience). The expression in the photo above - appropriately worn given the slab of concrete that stood behind me - is the same one I used to explain the gift to my class when they once asked me what it meant.

The God of Poor People

2006-10-18T22:12:00.000+12:00

Colombo, 2 days before the Tsunami disaster, 2004: I visited a humble church not far away from the little hotel where my butt and bags were parked. (Berjaya Hotel Colombo, Mount Lavinia, if I recall.)

It was Christmas eve and I was surrounded by a sea of worshippers, the hot night air clinging to my skin like Gladwrap™

Chairs spilt like plastic tombstones out of the tiny chapel, whose fairy lights blinded us to the peeling, mildewed walls of the church. But surprisingly, all were filled with many more people lined the walls like vertical panels of dark wood. Petite little ladies in simple dresses held on to their babies or otherwise their little ones’ hands, while men in well-worn shirts shuffled their feet as they waited for the service to start. (Only the children seem to be adorned in pretty clothes, as if the best things the families could afford were rightly reserved for them.)

My in-laws along with my fiancé, his brother, his brother's girlfriend and I had arrived early. So there we were inside the weather-beaten church. Crammed into the little benches passing off as pews and reading the song sheets in Ceylonese text.

The pastor conducted the service in Ceylonese, too. (What else would be more suitable in this part of the world?) But as Catholicism is a universal language, we somehow recognised the different parts of the Mass on cue and managed to worship the Lord appropriately.

Admittedly, I expected the service to be somewhat raucous and enthusiastic. What we experienced was a solemn event. No ripples of giggles as the angelic children sang in their untrained voices. No clapping when the hymns were delivered. No ambient sounds of chattering and chuckles in between liturgies. Not because the worshippers were bored and uninspired but because they were respectful of the substance of the event.

In fact, when it was time to pay homage to the Nativity of Jesus at the conclusion of the service, the mood changed dramatically like the tide.

As the pastor carried the Baby Jesus doll out of the church to the makeshift stable nearby, the crowd surged like a school of fish in hungry pursuit, their hands puncturing the darkness in frantic efforts to touch the doll. (A furtive glance I threw at this juncture found my in-laws standing by the exit; they had cleverly evaded the stampede.) My fiancé and I were caught in the current. But we realised we were entangled in something much deeper when hundreds of bodies closed in on the doll as it was laid down in the manger and prayers were uttered as fingers made contact with plastic - something dense and rich in emotion. I couldn’t find the word to describe it at the time but later it returned to me – Faith.

In a country filled with strife like Sri Lanka, there are few ways to explain the smiles that come easy to their people. They smile because the trappings of a sophisticated lifestyle don’t trap them. They smile because they are not burdened with office politics. They smile because their minds have not been twisted by cynicism.

Their whole being is free to embrace a higher and purer level of happiness, the kind that comes directly from God and flows out of their every pore.

So when I visited the Westminster Cathedral in London during our honeymoon, I was surprised to find myself in a different ambience altogether. The church herself was a magnificent architectural paean to the Almighty with its sky-high ceilings, intricate century-old markings, paintings and well-adorned interiors. But the contents that really mattered – the lay faithful – were stiff and staid and few in numbers.

I took this picture above to capture the spirit of a place so generous with light yet so heavy with yearning for warmth. And every time I look at it, remember lighting a candle with my husband and reading the little note below the metal tiers. It said: “Lighting a candle is a prayer too. It expresses hope and love for those you light it for.” (Something to that effect.)

The Cellophane Story

2006-10-18T20:57:00.000+12:00

On the left is a shot I took with my Nokia on my wedding day.

It was about 5 minutes to our service and the Church of the Assumption was maybe 7 minutes away (read: we were running late).

Our driver, Special Agent Sri Hari, decided to stop at a petrol station nearby - I remember it was a Caltex - to strap the flower dome on the nose of the car.

What - like, now?

Backtrack: It is 9.30am at our sleepy little corner house in Cheras. Special Agent Sri Hari has arrived to put on the finishing touches to the bridal car - the flower dome. However after sweating at it for a good 45 minutes, he decides that the adhesive is too weak to anchor down the huge bunch of flowers. At 10.25 as we pile into the bridal car, he declares that he'll be making a stop near the church to make a second attempt. That way, he says, there would be less chance of it falling off before we arrived at the church.

What you're witnessing here therefore is a clear case of grace under pressure. Sri Hari struggling to hold down the dome with the clock ticking in his head like a time bomb, and my Dad appearing helpful but realistically very helpless.

What you do not see however is Sri Hari giving up on status quo and rushing into the petrol outlet to borrow a whole roll of cellophane tape. Which is what he holds in his hand up there.

What you do not see too, is Sri Hari upon completion of the mission, continuing the last leg of the journey at 20 km per hour.

WH Not Smith

2006-10-15T04:28:00.002+12:00

I met a writer on Friday.

It wasn't an interview - more like a chat. But for some inexplicable reason, I was very inspired from this little session.

The boy loved music. Stayed in Brazil for 2-3 months to learn Capovera(?) - the South American martial arts form that contains elements of dance. And once had a bust-up with another writer over a word while playing Scrabble.

There are people with soul I suppose, and there are, well, people.

I don't even think age has to do with it.

Maybe it's about exposure. Being in touch with oneself - acutely and intuitively so, too. Maybe it's about living out an idealism everyone thinks is outdated for today's "fast-paced, super-realistic world". Or maybe it's ultimately to do with rising above the bullshit that floats about at low altitudes. And despite trends and talk of space travel and the haze, we stay true to who we are.

I don't believe we hire writers or designers or art directors. I don't even believe in the segregation. (The perceived difference is limiting for our already limited minds.)

I believe we employ creativity in all shapes, sizes, colour and ideology. And we love and nurture them so they can fly.

Oh and forget it's work they're doing.

Dumb is Good

2006-10-15T04:10:00.000+12:00

I like dogs because they help me perfect the art of forgiving and forgetting.

Cat lovers call them dumb.

If being dumb means being generous, humble, approachable and compassionate, then I say it's not a bad thing being dumb at all.

Not many people will agree with me.

It always seems to be cooler to be aloof and "elegant". Like cats maybe. But loving ourselves has no impact on the world because it's self-directed. It's when we love others that the difference everyone talks about making, can be made.

Then again, how does one love Osama Bin Laden?

Perhaps that's why God and only God deserves to be God.

Dresscode Dilemma: Truth Comes As It Is

2006-09-18T23:33:00.000+12:00

The Truth, when summoned to vilify or vindicate a person or persons, or to clarify a situation, makes an appearance in the only way it knows how - naked, sharp, and bright.

The recipient of Truth more often than not finds this distasteful. And usually makes attempts to twist it, layer it, or indeed suffocate it with political innuendo, personal agenda or even exhortations about the greater good he or she deems Truth threatens.

And Truth does threaten.

It forces decisions-makers to make tough decisions for which they are paid to make (read: Tough = Do The Right Thing) but yet are terrified to make. Truth causes knees to quake and palms to sweat, induces excuses to overflow like the Yang Tse and produces spontaneous bursts of fingerpointing games in its wake.

But if the recipient is an advocate of justice and fairness, he or she will embrace Truth and suffer the cuts it makes in its revelation. Recipients in leadership positions of course are expected to pursue such principles in the first place. Because Truth makes for effective problem solving.

Yet we wonder with the likes of George W. Shrub across the pond. Or the heads of corporations in our own backyards.

Truth becomes a victim of insecurity in insecure hands. An example lies in the statement, "You are out of place to comment on person X's incompetence, even though you are right". Which you should know is a piece of nonsense that is formally referred to as political correctness and euphemistically termed as "objectivity".

It does not matter whether Truth is delivered by someone equivalent in status/rank/departmental membership to the accused in question here (read: people with long prefixes and suffixes attached to their names on business cards); or a "sub-ordinate" or plebeian (read: people with less to lose). Truth is truth. And if the accused is wrong, then the accused is wrong. The messenger of Truth has the right to cross boundaries - real or imagined or fabricated - to deliver it in the name of justice. What more, if the accused's failure is backed by witnesses and examples.

Truth comes as it is.

Naked. Sharp. Bright. Merciless even.

Its light is able to reveal the finest hairline cracks in your personality, your sincerity.

Talking to the Dead

2006-09-16T00:16:00.000+12:00

I miss you, Bumper.

I didn't think that after all this time, your loss would still come between me and my Sleep.

And you of all creatures know how easily I sleep.

You who shared my bed since you were 3 months old.

You who constantly had to lick my face for minutes before I came to.

You who loved to chase rabbits in dreams yourself.

But matured grownups like me are supposed to be able to let go of the past. And all things gone to dust.

Well this is what I have discovered.

I can let go of my mahogany piano.

(I sold it after 20 years so my mum can have space for her new cabinet.)

I can let go of my job.

(I lost my cool at the CEO at my office two weeks ago.)

I can let go of my laptop and mobile phone.

(I was upset for two minutes when my car got stolen and one of my hobbies is misplacing my mobile.)

But I can't seem to let go of you.

God says that if we hold on to material things we would be enslaved to them and not experience the freedom He promises us.

Yet you were beyond material.

You were the nicest creature in my life.

You were my friend and companion, loyal and unconditional in your love.

You are unforgettable.

For Him

2006-08-09T22:52:00.000+12:00

All the clouds hail him.
All the mighty winds whisper.
Praises for his tender mercy.
He has loved us so completely.

All the trees bend forth.
All the leaves - they dance.
To the tune of angel choirs.
Sweetly sing the golden lyres.

Sound...the skies to wake.
He struggles with the weight...
the weight of sorrow...
Tell...the world not to sleep
No time to lose - the Devil
may claim Tomorrow.

All the children dream.
All their Teachers wish.
For the wisdom of the past.
Now everything breaks, nothing lasts.

All the saints are dead.
All the believers, lost.
In a world that is growing dim.
Where I stand it's looking grim.

Sound...the calvary.
Death is necessary.
We were born to die.
Call...his name and believe.
His grace will let us live
Lord, we glorify.

It's That Kind Of Friday

2006-07-29T01:28:00.000+12:00

I had a major presentation today.

The client walked into the 2:30pm half inebriated and rather jolly.

We are real close to the deadline for our next quarterly campaign - 16 advertisements, 20 billboards and a dozen more radio commercials. So we've been at a mad rush churning out visuals for him.

On top of this, we have 2 direct mail packages that need to be printed by 2 August.
Well, the second round of ideas got shot down today. Which is like saying Amber Chia is in some advertisement again.

The meeting which lasted 3.5 hours saw the client changing things we (thought we) had finalised a week ago. It ended with the client sitting on the floor of the conference room giving his blue-moon ra-ra speech about the need to think of more compelling creative ideas for the DM pack. Nevermind that he can only afford RM1 per pack. (A Kilometrico pen costs more than RM1!!)

My underwear is in a bind because I don't think my guys deserve to be given short deadlines and crappy promotions to create magic on. Plus clients who squeeze agencies for a super low fee and ask for the mountain (the sort that require us to pump up resources we can't justify thanks to the ridiculous negotiated fee) just don't titillate my tits.

The bean counter that negotiated the damn fee doesn't produce the work anyway.How does he or she know that we slog and bleed over the account at cheap labour costs. "Advertising professionals"? Please. Drop the professionals and replace with sluts.

Anyway, I'm sober and pissed off but I'm drunk on pissed-offness. That's not really the point of this entry, though.

The real point is this - I drove to my husband's office wanting to smash a large Idaho potato in someone's face (no one in particular really, it just feels nice saying it). When I arrived however I bumped into one of his engineers' girlfriend -the one whose tertiary education in industrial design we are funding. (Her father is not only retired but ill and her mother is a homemaker.) When I saw her and hugged her I realised how wonderful God is and i didn't really want to smash anyone with any kind of vegetable or fruit. Because I cheered up instantly knowing that here was someone in need that I was helping, whose life I was making a difference in - my problems looked like cosmic dust next to hers, I mean, imagine not ebing able to study because of $.

I know God gave me this little surprise after a long, tough week.

(I remember being initially enthusiastic about the both of us offering financial help to her but I also remember the doubts that have since occasionally flashed in my mind; they weren't about second thoughts over helping a stranger as much as they were about my worries over our own financial state - I mean, WE AREN'T THE TRUMP FAMILY. Plus we ourselves are just beginning to build our lives as a married couple. What with the new house soon to be ready and my new car (thanks to the thief who stole my Satria), it didn't seem to make sense to give money to someone just like that.

Yet, I know for sure at this moment that we made the right decision to offer our help.

Food Poisoning: It's a Real Mess

2006-06-20T21:24:00.000+12:00

It began at 5:02pm.

The swirling discomfort right above my spare tire.

Something told me it was Mum's curried fish I ate for lunch. I thought the tofu puffs in there smelled funny.

In 20 minutes, the pain came more certainly and in great, big, slap-your-face waves.

I shot for the loo and must have heaved-ho half my intestines into the white pot because I felt quite good after that. You know, kind of light.

But the relief was shortlived. You see, we may have mini Cornettos and Drumsticks, mini Haagen Daz's and mini pies but Nature likes the havoc she creates to be full on MAXI. Just like the pads I used to wear when I was younger and no sanitary napkin company had yet thought of Thins.

I had to go again 15 minutes right after the first Hiroshima. And this time, things were looking pretty shapeless.

By 6pm, someone was definitely treating my stomach like a punching bag. I made a beeline for home, which is a 1-hour traffic-congested journey to Cheras.

I called Dad to open the gates 10 minutes before I got to the gates. And when I finally made it into the garage, I was freezing like a bunny in Antartica (yup, the fever had come), and my ass could light up the whole Amazon jungle.

I related my experience to Dad and Mum but Mum didn't want to believe her curry could be the devil spawn of all curries. In fact, when I stepped into the house, she had just heated up some leftovers for their dinner. The aroma made me want to puke out the rest of my organs.

I held my nose and dived into my room. But since my room is literally a box next to the kitchen, it was reeking of the curry Mum had just heated up in the wok.

HELL.

While I lay in bed under my comforter, praying for the pain to subside and the shivers to go, absolutely nothing happened to my parents. So maybe it wasn't the curry but at this point in time, I wasn't really giving two hoots about what the source of my misery was - I only wanted it all to go away.

Dad dragged my booty off to the clinic after checking up on me and discovering nothing had changed from two hours before (read: I was still shivering under the covers and looking like roadkill.)

As it happened, my family doctor was on leave and in his place was a young just-graduated-from-university chap. First of all, just-graduated-from-university chap forgot to take my temperature. Secondly, he gave my tummy a few knocks but couldn't really say what he heard, felt, thought, or was confused about. Thirdly, he asked me how my stools were so I started worrying about whether I should taccept medication from him. ("They don't look like anything at the moment" was my reply as if I needed to reply even.)

The good news is (good news for him, that is) whatever it was that he gave me, worked. Some minty drink, some spasm-ceasing red pill and some white tabs for "the hazy state of my stools".

I suspect that Colin's prayer for me made them work, too. He said it when his attempts to make me smile only got him the roadkill look.

Now that I am well again and Mr. Stomach is not doing the hillbilly jiggle, I can tell you this: I am not eating my Mum's curried fish again. And in case I forget and you're at my home and my Mum has made some curried fish and I decide to offer you some, please say No.

A Reminder to Myself

2006-06-19T15:59:00.000+12:00

I recently renewed my passport.

Prior to getting off my butt to do it, I found myself trying to dig my memory for the how-tos of getting it done. Like, what was I supposed to take with me again? Photo...form...IC...er...

You see, we only get to renew this thing every 5 years. And I hate to turn up at any government office only to be told I haven't got the "complete documents".

I gather since I'm going to have to repeat this routine in 2011, I should document the experience I went through in space. So I can conveniently jog my memory again when I'm 38 years old and even more forgetful than I already am.

Of course, I am doing this at a risk - who knows if the Immigration Department will even be where it is today in 5 years' time. Or hey, maybe I'll be able to update my passport online by then. No, wait - but this is Malaysia...

Much better to be safe than sorry.

Step 1: I can download the renewal form from the website at www.imi.gov.my/
The application form IS the renewal form.

Step 2: I must bring a passport-size photo. 2 copies to be exact. I can get these at any photo shop like FUJIFILM and KODAK. If they get rejected by the scrawny fellow at the TICKETING and INFORMATION counter of the Immigration office, I can take instant ones outside the office which is sponsored by the government. And there are possibilities they may turn out worse than the ones from the photo shops. Especially if the officials make you wear a standard-size suit to "jazz up" your presentation.

Step 3: I should bring a photocopy of my ID and the Front and Back should be on one page because this helps the Immigration people save time from flipping the page to obtain all the information.

Step 4: I should also not forget to bring along my old passport.

Step 5: At the ticketing counter, I am to hand in these documents so the scrawny fellow can give me a queue number; he will chop my queue number which means that everything "seems complete" but of course this is not guaranteed because he might be having a bad day.

Step 6: I will sit down and wait until my number is called. At which point I will have both my left and right thumb prints recorded by a scanner. I will also be asked to have my right thumb ink-printed perhaps for extra security reasons (or perhaps in case the computerised thumb-readers fail to function at airports in future which is likely). I will also give the lady behind the window my ID and not see it again until later.

Step 6: I will then be asked to sit down again and wait for my name to be called again for payment.

Step 7: The same queue number will be called andI will proceed to the payment window. (8, 14, or 19 on the day I was there anyway.) I will hand over RM300 for 32 pages worth of choppable visits to countries outside Malaysia. I should get my ID back unless the lady has decided to skip off with it or mix it up with someone else's.

Step 8: The lady will then give me a receipt which will also tell me the date on which I'm to collect my new passport (it should be one working day after). She may or may not smile.

Step 9: I am to bring this receipt with me when I collect my new passport. (In my case this time round, I was to go to Window 35 to hand over the receipt.) I should receive a new queue number and wait to be called. This entire process of collecting the new passport should take no more than 15 minutes if I'm lucky.

Step 10: When I collect my passport, I should tuck both old and new passports deep inside my bag and be wary of motorcyclists on the streets because Mum says that passports are very popular among snatch thiefs (since when have they not?)

Who's Right For Anyone Anyway?

2006-06-11T00:30:00.000+12:00

You know, I had 6 relationships before I finally settled down with Colin. The shortest lasted 4 months. But looking back I wondered what the hell I was doing with him.

Or the other 5.

My mum said I fell in love too easily.

Now I know I THOUGHT it was love. Now I know I was desperately looking for someone special, robbed myself of good judgement as a result, and ended up dating the wrong people.

You see, bad hunches and naivette aside, I believe compatibility plays a huge and important role in determining a successful relationship. That and hard work.

"Opposites Attract"? Sure, but 33 years old and a little wiser now, I think two people of different personalities can have a lovely future together BUT only as long as their fundamental value systems are similar.

I have a friend who is highly organized and structured in her ways. And she was dating a guy who operated very organically. She had a very difficult childhood so she also had an incredible will to strive and achieve milestones by certain deadlines. Meanwhile, he was laidback, had never really fought too hard to get anything, loved to go with the flow, and found her ways too claustrophobic.

They loved each other but arguments were a common experience because they would interpret each other's words and actions differently. To the detriment of their relationship usually.

For them "Opposites Did Not Attract For Long". While for me (Miss Dark, Save the World Missionary, Professional Brooder) and Colin (Mr. Smiley, Switched-On-24/7, Positive Pereira), it was a risk I took that paid off.

I know it sounds clinical and cold but what I mean by risk is this: my past 5-6 boyfriends were generally tall, deep thinkers, and reclusive - slightly dark in nature. Colin is short (sorry, Hun), extremely sociable and hates negative attitudes (or what I call super-realism). So when we were about to plunge into a relationship, I really wasn't sure it would work out.

I made a choice figuring that since I had had 6 Aborted Missions in the past, there really wasn't much to lose by "zagging." Today I can safely say that while there are obvious differences in character traits, I actually enjoy these superficial differences because Colin inspires me to be more sociable and positive about things. Meanwhile, what comforts me and continues to fuel the relationship is how we place similar emphasis on God, have similar goals in terms of starting a family, share similar beliefs about money and styles of managing our Finances.

Cold, hard values!

On this one successful experience alone (because I married the guy, of course), I have a theory that my friend needs to date someone structured like herself. Someone who has similar values so that she won't need to take charge all the time, "chase" him to discuss important issues, or disagree so much on life.

Colin is ENFJ (Extrovert-Intuitive-Feeling-Judging) while I am an INFP (Introvert-Intuitive-Feeling-Perceiving).What the-? These are personality types according to the Myers-Briggs Personality Test. If you are interested in discovering who you are deep down inside, check out the test at www.humanmetrics.com/cgi-win/JTypes1.htm

Compatibility. Don't underestimate it :)

Joga Bonita? Sayonara Colinho

2006-06-10T23:35:00.000+12:00

It's world cup season.

I AM DOOMED.

My father-in-law, brother-in-law and husband are complete soccer fanatics.

And our current living arrangement is a week at my in-laws and a week at my parents'.

This means I can forget about CSI during in-laws week. No, come to think of it, I'll be persuaded to skip Gil Grissom when we're in Cheras, too. That's how wrong it's going to go.

It's time to slip into Major-Sacrifice-For-Husband Mode. Let's look at the trouble to expect.

The Death of Valuable Conversations

Me: Honey, I had a horrible day.
Colin: Really? By the way, England is playing tonight.

Irrational Behaviour

Astro: K-kkkkkk-ickk-ick-ick-kkk...
Colin: Argggghhh, don't...don't...don't act up on me now!!! It's only bleddy drizzling.

Priority Shift

Colin: Honey, how about a quickie tonight instead?
Me: Sure!
Colni: Whoaaaa - you going to dinner naked?

Crankiness from Lack of Sleep

Me: Why are you so cranky today?
Colin: WHO'S CRANKY!!?

Renewed Interest in Beer

Me: That's your 6th mug, Honey...
Colin: Sho Whash? I'm shtill shokay...shokay?

Imposition of Soccer Mania on Others

Did I mention that their little rat of a dog (Caesar) is now wearing a tight but familiar gold and green jersey?

If he could talk, I know he'd say "I'm reporting you to the SPCA you bastards."

World Cup season.

I'm so, so, so doomed.

VIBGYOR

2006-06-10T23:05:00.000+12:00

When I caught this rainbow on my phone, I had forgotten how long it had been since there appeared one.

So when I looked out the window of the car, I was quite amazed to see this arc of light reflections sitting comfortably in the sky as if it belonged nowhere else.

It reminded me of the many wonders I must have missed since I started working. Because since I started working, I haven't been home before the sun set.

"That's God's covenant to Noah...a promise to never destroy the earth again as He had with the Great Flood," Colin said.

I thought about the way Wars have continued, how kids have begun to hurt their friends in school - even teachers, how the environment has been abused, and I wished that this was then a sign of hope.

A sign that God was still not yet discouraged by Man.

But then I couldn't help noticing however how dirty the rainbow looked against the muggy, smog-filled sky.

Hallelujah

2006-06-04T04:43:00.000+12:00

I thought about The End today. No, I wasn’t a morbid stew of suicide ideas.
Just a tight bunch of knots of contemplation where I simply thought that, if people used their life on earth to achieve certain milestones and ambitions, what of those who don’t have any particular ambition or concern about milestones and their deadlines?

I mean, it has been 5 years since I discovered that I don’t really feel like climbing any ladder – corporate or social; 3 years and 1 month since realizing that having a baby isn’t as easy as pressing for a cup of latte on a Lavazza machine because a million micro-conditions have to be in place in order for conception to occur in the first place (husband for starters would help); 15 months since I proved myself wrong about not finding someone worth living with forever; and 3 since I found out how afraid I actually was of missing the point about living.

I know that if I defined happiness a little more laterally, I could be happy - despite being a little off in the Socio-Economic Radar of Successful-By-35-People - because it appears I have a head and a complete set of everything else contained inside and outside of it. Oh and legs and hands and digits, too. But how come I’m not really laughing? (Or if I am, why does it sound like it’s laid over like a soundtrack?)

Why is the “Hallelujah” feeling after a good meeting with a difficult client so short-lived? Because once you come down to Planet Earth again, you know you have 10 more jobs to finish and present to this same fellow two short days from now.

Why does the Hallelujah feeling of Friday’s arrival sink so eagerly with the sun on Sunday evening? Because the distance is shorter between Friday and Sunday than the hemline on today’s mini-skirts.

Why did the chicken cross the road anyway? Because it wanted the short and sweet Hallelujah feeling of an adrenalin rush at the expense of its own life.

Happiness seems to me an illusion on Earth and more of a Grand Prize one only really gets in Heaven, no matter how positive you are, really. It is something the soul achieves when its host abandons ego and all human desires and feelings it sparks. And the soul has no way of achieving it wholeheartedly on such a noisy, carrion-filled wasteland of temptation like Earth.

If that were really the case and I were right, then I’m screwed. What the hell am I suppose to do until the Lord calls me Home? I couldn’t resort solely to church work even if I wanted to because of my 9-to-technically-5-job. I could try and buy myself a Louis Vuitton bag I suppose. Or the latest i-Pod variant. Maybe go on a whale-hunting trip in Alaska.

Then again, this is all a little expensive for a really short Hallelujah.

Here are the lyrics to the song by Jeff Buckley who saw happiness as an elusive shadow, broken in places, stolen not bought, and more often than not, accompanied by pain.

“Hallelujah” by Jeff Buckley

Well I heard there was a secret chord,
That David played and it pleased the Lord.
But you don't really care for music, do you?
Well it goes like this:
The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift,
The baffled king composing Hallelujah.

Hallelujah,
Hallelujah,
Hallelujah,
Hallelujah.

Well your faith was strong but you needed proof.
You saw her bathing on the roof.
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you.
She tied you to her kitchen chair,
She broke your throne and she cut your hair,
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah.

Hallelujah,
Hallelujah,
Hallelujah,
Hallelujah.

Well Baby I've been here before.
I've seen this room and I've walked this floor.
I used to live alone before I knew you.
And I've seen your flag on the marble arch,
But love is not a victory march,
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah.

Hallelujah,
Hallelujah,
Hallelujah,
Hallelujah.

Well there was a time when you let me know,
What's really going on below,
But now you never show that to me do you?
But remember when I moved in you,
And the holy dove was moving too,
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah.

Hallelujah,
Hallelujah,
Hallelujah,
Hallelujah.

Maybe there is a God above.
But all I've ever learned from love.
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you.
And it's not a cry that you hear at night,
It's not somebody who's seen the light,
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah…

Hallelujah,
Hallelujah,
Hallelujah,
Hallelujah.

Hallelujah,
Hallelujah,
Hallelujah,
Hallelujah.

The day Bumper died

2006-05-11T00:20:00.000+12:00

Just out of the blue, he lost his appetite.We thought he was being choosy as usual.

When we took him for a walk on the second day, he stopped abruptly in mid-stride from time to time and stared ahead into nothingness.We thought he was unusually tired.

After he refused food on the fourth day, we hauled in the vet.I don't know why we relied so much on this chap. Maybe it's because at a time when Bumper had a terrible skin affliction for a whole year, he was the one vet (out of the 4 we checked out) who offered a new approach. It was a 9-month course of jabs that supposedly would desensitize Bumper from the 18 items he was found to be allergic towards. After 5 months on this medication, he began to show progress. He stopped scratching and licking and chewing his own skin, so the lesions and bleeding stopped and his hair started growing beautifully again.

When the vet saw Bumper this time around, he was sceptical that dog was ill until he took a blood sample and did an x-ray. Dark patches suggesting gas showed up in his stomach. Anaemia was also detected and pointed to kidney complications. A second blood sample was taken the next day and the results were confirmed: Bumper was possibly suffering from acute kidney failure. The vet gave us some decongestants for his stomach and some antibiotics. As I later learnt, he should have just advised us to put Bumper on a drip because that would have saved my dog's life.Well, he wasn't in the condition to even digest the tablets in the first place. But of course we didn't know all this. We were told to play by ear and see how he responded to the tablets. And so we did.

Two days later, Bumper started to pass bloody stools,and I got worried. But I had to go to work so I thought I would bug the vet again in the evening about this development.(I hate myself for not thinking of seeing another vet!)At about 8.30pm, my mum called and hinted that I should go home quick because Bumper was looking bad.Colin and I debated over whether we should rush home immediately or hit the gym first as work had stopped us from our gym sessions for a week now. But my instinct told me to "do the right thing". (I hate myself for even allowing that debate to happen.)

When we got home, Bumper was on the floor and Dad, stroking him with a face that spelt a thousand funerals. "Bumper has had two seizures." I was already a mess so the word really dug deep. You know how it is, a million regrets decided to pop up just then. And I wondered if I spent enough time with him, if I had misfed him, if I had taken him on enough walks, etc. What made it worse was Bumper made the effort to stand up to greet us, shaky legs and all. His lovely tail wagged vigorously so you wouldn't even know he was in bad shape if you saw it.

As Bumper soon hobbled into a corner and began to lie down, we thought we were going to lose him. Dad hid in his bedroom - possible to cry. Mum tried singing songs to him over her tears. Collin then had an idea we should call his friend's wife, Christine, who was a vet from Kristy's Ark at Damansara Uptown. It was already 9.30pm but we gave it a shot. (It turned out that Dad had tried calling our "reliable vet" but they were closing and "couldn't come".)

Kristy's was closed and Christine was on her way home with her husband but she - bless the angel - was eager to come and help. I spoke to her on the phone to describe Bumper's condition so she confirmed my worst fears - that we would have to put him to sleep as he was surely suffering.

While we waited for her to arrive, we stayed close to Bumper. I was still doing a good job working out my tear ducts, dreadfully aware of the possibility that I would not be able to bear subsequent days without his companionship. (It's still hard until today.)

When she did turn up 30 minutes later, she found out Bumper was only 3.5 years old and realized Bumper's mental state was unaffected by the seizures so she wanted to give him a chance and try the drip. So we carted him back to her clinic in Damansara Uptown and spent the next few hours with him. Colin's brother brought their little shitzu along to cheer Bumper up and that really got the tail working again.

At the end of 1 and a half bags of drip, Bumper's tongue was a healthy pink again and he seemed in less pain. I think that gave me a lot of hope but it was a terrible place to be in because it was hope that stood on a precipiece.

That was to be the feeling I carried with me for the next three days.

On Tuesday, Bumper was chewing the toys I had brought him. And he was rather eager to leave his pen. This meant he was active and less weak in the legs. His cheeky grin was back on, too. And he had begun to eat a little though only vitamin and mineral food paste.

I had until then barred my parents from seeing him as I didn't want them to until he was better (if he was going to be better). So I decided to bring them over on Thursday but by then, Bumper had deteriorated again. He still hadn't been eating as his stomach was full of toxins unprocessed by his kidneys. At the same time, he had continued to pass blood. When the family arrived at the clinic, we were all tears again. Bumper couldn't even lift his head to greet us.

He simply looked resigned to death.

I put the thought of this "dark space" behind me as at that moment, I was more concerned about his suffering. So I told the vet to take a blood sample the next morning and if the signs were bad, to put him to rest. It's not something very easy to do especially if you're Catholic like me. Even if this is - at the end of the day - an animal and not a human being.

That night, I felt God say I should prepare myself to let Bumper go. It was just a quiet voice - a simple "let go" and "start praying for his peace". But it was enough to get me going again. Well, I couldn't stop crying even if I wanted to because there were far too many memories linked to the dog. But with an extremely heavy and bashed-up heart, I did manage to do the right thing, and asked for strength to hold myself together (especially at the office over the next few days or weeks).

On Friday morning the next day, at about 8.30am, Christine called in the middle of breakfast. I didn't need to know the conversation between her and Colin because I knew Bumper had gone. As it turned out, he had had another seizure from which he did not recover. So Christine gave him the decisive jab and that was that.

I know it's rather silly to mourn a pet like it were a human being. But you have to know a dog like Bumper to know he's not just a dog. He has demonstrated what FORGIVENESS really is, what FORGETTING really is, what PATIENCE really is, what TOLERANCE really is, what OBEDIENCE really is, and therefore what UNCONDITIONAL LOVE really is.

Basically, Bumper reminds me of Jesus' teachings everyday and every moment of everyday. That's why he is one dog I have owned that deserves to be referred to as a "who" and not a "which" or "that" or "it".

Then of course, there are all the funny, endearing, and humorous antics Bumper has shown in his few short years with us. Maybe, when I'm ready, I will share those with you.

Confession Part 4

2006-04-11T01:47:00.000+12:00

"Bless me Father for I have sinned.
My last confession was on the 18th or 19th of December 2005.
And since then these are my sins..."

It's 6 days to Easter and my soul is due for a bout of springcleaning.

Catholics are obligated to go for at least one confession a year, usually at the close of the Advent season just before Christmas. However we are also encouraged to "purge" during Lent - a period marked by sacrifices and the reflection of our sinfulness - and prepare for "new life" in synchronicity with the resurrection of Jesus during Easter. Essentially this means Confession is on the cards because it frees us from our bad needs, leaving anew our "interior self".

I'm always nervous about Confession. Not so much because of what I have to confess. I'm just not good at remembering the proper steps involved. Maybe because I am always self conscious about not being able to hear the priest's advice or the penance I'm supposed to do.

My last confession was done 3 minutes before the weekday 6pm Mass. I remember Father Andrew Volle sitting under the wall behind the altar, on which Christ on the Cross was hung. At that time, still weak from his hip replacement surgery (Father Volle is a very old priest, you see), his heavily French-accented voice was still soft. So if I'm not mistaken, penance was 2 Hail Mary's and 1 Our Father. If I was mistaken...oh dear.

I always forget the Act of Contrition. too. Yet it is the important prayer we say after confession, when the Priest prays over us to absolve our sins. It is not very long but the traditional language in which it is couched does make it tougher on the Small Sponge to retain.

The Act of Contrition is meant to be a sincere admission to the Lord of our sins - one that acknowledgesof how they hurt Him - plus a cry for His powerful grace to help us avoid sin. Even the near-occasion of it. Oh and it's also a promise to not sin again (i.e which means effort on our part is required.)

Anyway, to avoid having to keep checking About.com for the words to the Act, I'm going to plaster it here instead.

"Oh my God, I am deeply sorry for my sins. I detest my sins because of your just punishments. But most of all because they offend Thee, who art all-good and deserving of my love. I firmly resolve with Your Grace that I will sin no more and avoid the near occasion of sin."

From Tokyo with Hope

2006-04-05T04:13:00.000+12:00

Driftwood

2006-04-04T03:41:00.000+12:00

Hi there.

How are you?

Do you need company?
You look like you’re lonely.

Sure I’ll walk a while with you.

I sometimes feel a little lonely, too.
Like I am from the World.
But not of the World.
You too?

I have neighbors and friends and family and acquaintances and colleagues in this World.
But what I really have are…people.
People who talk to me and whom I talk back to.

We exchange words, sure.
But yeah, we are really trading symbols, not substance.

Fashion is not going to stop the war,
let me put it this way.

Yet you shake their parafin-waxed hands to spread the warmth.
Kiss their moisturized cheeks to show tenderness.
Hug them in their haute couture to share the music of heartbeats.
But strangers in warm coats are different from friends wearing warm souls.
The former feels as cold as a wall.

Oh you have a nice smile.
I must have smiled maybe 263897 smiles in 33 years.
But only 1200 of them warmed my heart.
So I know only 1200 came from there.

Maybe I need a change of heart.

You don’t think so?
Oh is this where you’re getting your cab?

Okay. Well, it was nice walking with you.

By the way, here’s a smile for you.
And just so you know, that makes it 1201.

The Adventures of Kate and Jordan

2006-04-03T17:15:00.000+12:00

This morning the alarm rang and I held on to my blanket - and my dream - for as long as I could.

My friend Hsian tells me she dreams of holidays all the time. At work, in her bed, in between toilet breaks. I do, too when I'm at work but at home? At home, I dream in stories.

I place my mind in some kind of nether space and imagine a story with a couple of characters. There's a plot of course - usually detective in nature. Then there's also always a romantic subplot involving the two lead characters.

Clause: VC Andrews and other romance writers of the Mills and Boons variety will insist the right term for this sort of pseudo-voyeurism phenomenon is "Fantasy". But really, I'm never in the picture so I don't think this counts as the same.

I've done this sort of projection since I was 5 years old. Minus the sophisticated romantic allusions of course. And yes I CAN remember. I remember being given this storybook about Cinderella published by Ladybird. There was this ang moh girl on the cover with a lovely golden braid and rosy cheeks. God, she was beautiful.

I also remember wishing I could be like her but because I couldn't, I had to assume her image and character sans impractical period-clothing, and experience adventures in her (for convenience sake) plastic jelly sneakers.

At that time too, I had already diagnosed myself as a kid with an over-active mind. Meaning that I usually took 20-30 minutes to fall asleep.So expectedly, I ended up using these projections to help tire my brain into shutting down. And what better actress to cast in them than good old Cinderella.

Consistent with my ideas of women, "Cinders" has always been a tough girl - none of that damsel in distress crap - and she has been and will always be...well, a cop.

I don't know why I have a fascination with cops but I suspect it has to do with:
1.Over-exposure to the "Cop Show Era. Late 70's and early 80's TV was defined by series like CHiPs, Heart to Heart, Rockford Files, Magnum PI, Charlie's Angels, Cagney and Lacey, TJ Hooker, etc. I remember getting cranky if I missed NYPD Blue when it began its run in the early 90's, so copshow addiction is probably a very common ailment in general.

2. Fixation with the whole "Justice Will Prevail" philosophy. Well, it could not have been a fixation with the heroes in the shows - they were mostly hairy and/or ugly, or my Dad's age, if not the same sex as I am. BTW, just as a sidebar, I also love comic heroes like Wolverine, Batman and The Guardian from the old Alpha Flight books. Justice prevails...yeah.

Anyway, Cinders(usually called Kate West)is always embroiled in a nasty homicidal case. Sometimes it's a serial murderer she goes after. Other times it's a Chicano gangland drug deal bust wrong in which she risks taking matters into her own hands.

Two plots over 28 years, how exciting can things get? But then here are the complications: I can never do technocrime plots for example because I don't know enough of the genre to go there. If I made an attempt, I'd have a thin plot with Kate not doing much in between blurry arrest or gunfire scenes. Aside from making eyes with the male central character - usually a tall, lean yet muscular man with bullet scars who goes by the name of Jordan Tyler - and mind you, I don't do straight-up Romance stuff.

Secondly, I can never stay awake long enough to dream up an entire "episode" complete with opening crime scene, investigation, and conclusion. Plus, being a perfectionist, I have the constant urge to get the imaginary dialogue right in terms of logistics, plot and technicalities even as I spontaneously take the story along its open-ended course in my mind. LET ME TELL YOU, THIS TAKES TIME.

Over the years, I've been finding it harder and harder to stretch my mind beyond 3 minutes. You know how it is. Work really drains the life out of you so by the time you climb into bed you're halfway into R.E.M. Anyway, the repercussions of adulthood and the stress that comes along with it play out like this in relation to my projectional activities:

Monday: "Ok, maybe it's a serial murderer that doesn't leave a calling card. Which means he's not in it for sick glory. But wait - I've done this before...what else? What else? Snoreeeee..."
Tuesday: "Right. Where was I last night? Serial murderer. Ok, is Kate part of the murderer's kidnap-and-torture plan? Maybe she should be a single mother with a precocious son like whatshisname from Sixth Sense. Snorreee..."
Wednesday: "I can do this...I can do this...Kate's kid from Sixth Sense is where I'm at. So what happened to his father? Ex-cop that went dirty and got betrayed by equally dirty partner? Pole Dancer from dingy Club? What should the club's name be? Snorrrre..."
Thursday: "Damn it. Let's at least get to see the suspect tonight shall we? Snorreeee..."
Friday: "Shit. Is it a serial murderer or a gangland drug bust this time?"

You get the drift.

Well, I did my best this morning when I woke up and gave myself 5 minutes to spare (because I really didn't want to get out of bed). I got to the part where Kate slammed the door on her Boss for bringing an outsider into the murder case as her partner got slugged in a hit-and-run. (No prizes for guessing who this person is.)

Then it was time to prep for work.

Sigh.

Morning After Sunday

2006-04-03T04:56:00.000+12:00

Hey, you lousy orange ball.
Creeping fire, big fat liar!
Dawn has come 2 minutes too early.
Now Mundy’s here and I’m not ready.

The hill of coffee silent, still.
Coldly bitter, like the batter.
Yet not batter for the flour’s not mixed.
The yeast still yeast at half past six!

Hello, lazy, languid shadows.
Stretched like legs, round empty kegs.
Bid good morning to the wispy light.
Though by your watch it’s clearly Night.

Wake up Eyes, wake up Soul.
Dreamy mess of restlessness.
Leave Utopia on the plains of memory.
Maybe I’ll forget if I’m so lucky.

Mr. Jacket asleep in the cupboard.
Yawning creases, dusty sneezes,
He wraps around me like early Spring.
A little beaten, little stiff in the wings.

Hey, you hasty morning train.
Speeding metal, whistling kettle.
Whisk me to the corporate ladder.
Tick by tock I grow a little sadder.

N.A.P

2006-04-03T04:00:00.000+12:00

Nobody Actually Profits.

Do I really want to know why?
Yes, because it affects my life on the road.

First of all, the people who manufacture these things called the automobile will find their profits compromised.

No benefit there.

Secondly, a flock of Malaysians will rush to the nearest showroom and book a car. (Two if they have mistresses, or a kid who will be turning 17. In a year’s time.)

Do I really need more cars on the road?
No, because it just means I will run into more idiots.

Because there is only so many times they can widen a “highway”.

Because if humans were meant to breathe carbon monoxide, it would have been in my Biology book, 16 years ago.

And yes, because it’s silly to miss CSI because of a jam because CSI is a 10pm Wednesday show.

What the hell am I doing in a jam at 10pm?

Not very much.

Hate. Hate. Hate.

Sometimes It's Good

2006-01-01T10:10:00.000+12:00

I have always found newspapers to be positively gloomy.

They make me like people less than animals, which is currently the case. All that cold-blooded violence towards one another, and in the name of justice too (as it were), or God (as it were), or someone's mother (only in the movies).

Why would a bunch of kids stab their schoolmate just because he hasn't got a cigarette to spare?
Why would they have a knife on them to begin with?
And what are they doing smoking?

I think people should stop having children if they don't have the time (or the money) to provide a proper foundation for their growth. They think it's their business, but their business affects others much more than they would care to think. Especially when they aren't doing much for the children's moral development.

Today's Star, it must be said, gave me a sliver of hope again. As did the issue which helped bring Nicky's (the tiger cub) plight to the spotlight or the one on the mistreated Alsation which motivated the public to protest against lax laws against animal cruelty.

Today's Star featured a short story about a mother in China whose 13-year-old son had also been diagnosed with leukaemia. This lady's family earns about USD$500 a year so together with some funds collected from her community, she had just enough to afford treatment in Beijing for her older son, who was diagnosed with cancer earlier.

With her younger son now also stricken, she was at a loss. The touching part of the story is when the two boys drew lots to decide who would receive the opportunity to go to Beijing; the younger boy cheated by writing "treatment" on both straws so when he offered his brother to pick a straw, the latter was guaranteed to "win" the possible new lease of life.

True stories of courage and goodness like this are like antacid cynicism - something I'm trying to reduce in my system. While I don't make it a habit to froth at the mouth over every example of nasty human behaviour, people being "themselves" do disrupt an otherwise happy day - especially when their antics make it to the news. So this little tale of the Hu brothers brought back a little of the sun.

(It also reminds me that we always have a choice to bring out our worst selves or our very best and that I - being a human myself - need to watch out about my own weaknesses.)

Anyway, I can almost smile at this moment.

Almost.

:) Ta dah!

And the Missus Happened

2005-12-12T19:02:00.000+12:00

Enter the dog
Originally uploaded by porkitis.

I never thought I'd get hitched after the big "Three Oh" came and went.

I was (or thought I was) ready when I turned 29. But the guy I had been seeing for 2 years didn't look like he was ready to give up his bachelorhood. Or his 12" DIY figurines.

He was nice though.

I felt I had to move along and find someone who was nice AND willing to put up with me for the rest of his life.

Then in 2003, when I WAS 30, life took a turn for the worse. I met a sweet fellow who gushed to everyone about how I was "the one" after about 2 weeks of dating. Only to hit an emotional roller coaster ride with him over the next 8 months.

He was trapped in a cycle of depression-joy-depression. And he was jealous, egoistical and well, hard to manage.

He was just a person carrying a lot of hurts. But I didn't want to be the person who fixes him because everyone needs to fix him/herself first before even considering entering something as complex as a relationship.

Plus, I probably needed fixing myself.

Well, last Saturday (the 10th to be exact), I made it to the registration office. I made it to Missushood.

Usually a skank when it comes to dressing ("hippy" and 'freestyle" are just euphemisms), I meticulously put together a Jackie Bouvier-style dress that was wheat in shade, some shiny brown and champagne pearls, latte heels and a olive green rose brooch.

(Okay, the bag was skanky.)

Colin came in a suit of black corduroy, looking doe-eyed and sheepish. He brought me a posy of champagne roses. I was surprised. Did people carry posies for civil registration? Who cares?

There were about 15 of us in the tiny room so we made a racket. It was a nice racket. Nobody understands this until they go through it. We got out of there after 15 minutes with a certificate each and a strange feeling in our stomachs.

So we proceeded to Lotus Restaurant for a superb meal of chapatis, roti, and mutton curry.

Hunger after this sort of event is always a a good sign.

The Struggle

2005-11-23T20:29:00.000+12:00

Yesterday, I was in a dilemma. You know the sort where instinctively, you REALLY want to choose the easy way out? So you won't trouble yourself in the end? All this despite your good intentions to help someone or some people?

Well, here's what happened.

An email arrived in my office mailbox. It had a red envelope next to "Sender" which usually means that it's urgent. So I opened it and found out it was a plea for all employees to visit the Pantai Hospital in Bangsar and donate a bag of blood. A colleague's dad was in critical condition as a result of advanced dengue fever.

It was 12.30pm. Apparently the Blood Donation Office would close in 4 hours.

I decided to help, nervous as I was. (After all, my last gift was some time in 1995 and I couldn't therefore remember how big the needle was.)

But here were the real problems:
a) I had just gotten into work not long ago - I didn't want to look like I wasn't working by going out again
b) Julie, the "parentless" girl from Sibu, was arriving in KL today and we'd promised to meet up with her at some point in time; as it turned out, she would only be in KL for a day
c) Colin and I had already agreed to a de-briefing dinner with some friends who were helping us with our wedding preparations and the dinner had been set last night at 8pm

With these facts whirlpooling inside the cavity of my skull, I could not function productively for a good 2 hours. I kept thinking about what to do even while performing the nth revision of my client's latest website project. I found myself considering choosing one out of two good deeds to do.

Here, I present the permutations, to demonstrate the amazing filing capabilities of the human brains:
Choice 1: Go see Julie before heading off 40km away for the dinner and donate blood the next day
Choice 2: Donate blood today and go for dinner - give Julie a big fat apology accompanied with "Maybe next time?"
Choice 3: Cancel dinner and donate blood AND see Julie
Choice 4: Cancel dinner and see Julie, donate blood tomorrow
Choice 5: Cancel dinner and donate blood - a life is at stake here - and apologise to Julie and dinner party friends
Choice 6: Donate blood tomorrow, go for dinner and then see Julie after that.

At 3pm, another email with the little red envelope came in to inform us that Mr. Liew, the dengue patient, had not improved. And that we really should make that trip. A quick call to Colin revealed that he wasn't free to see Julie, not at least until after our dinner. And even then, it was a maybe for him.

I thought of God and wondered what He wanted me to do. I even voiced out to Colin, "I'm sure God brought us and Julie together in Sibu for a reason."

These questions then surfaced in my mind:
1. If I donated blood tomorrow and Mr Liew lost his life, would it be my fault?
No, I was only replenishing with my blood, what he had already consumed for his transfusion.

2. If I didn't visit Julie, would she lose hope in us and faith in our promises?
Maybe. She has no reason to believe in us but she has a right to some kindness and thoughtfulness!

3. If I skipped the dinner with friends, would they be right to be angry?
Yup, they asked us last week if we were ok with Tuesday and we said "yes".

At 3.30pm, I made a decision. No, it wasn't a solid, well-formed decision, clear as a picture in my head.
It was hazy at best but it was a decision.

So I soon found myself in Bangsar Shopping Centre buying gifts for Julie, her dad, step-mum and step-sis. I then left for dinner in Sri Hartamas where the company was enjoyable, and the food - equally good. At 10pm, Colin and I managed to excuse ourselves and take leave.

We zoomed back to town (to Jalan Alor - bustling hawker-strewn red light district - specifically). Met up with Julie and her family. And had an interesting 2.5 hour chat with her father, Michael Tiong, a self-confessed sinner with a divorce and de facto relationship hanging over his head. (Not to mention, a checkered past as an angry young lad disillusioned by the church who, among other things, labelled his band-based choir music as being "satanic in nature". )

Besides the relief of seeing the little girl again, I was also very comforted to see how close she was to her step-mum and her 6-year-old step-sis. It was, like, "Yay the step-mum is nice!" and "Phew! His dad is not a Sibu gangster!"

When I got home, it was already 1.15am. I was dead beat. But I was really glad about having decided to meet up with Julie and her family. God must have a reason for us to, frst of all, meet her, and now, her father.

God's mysterious ways continued today.

For one, Mr. Liew, our colleague's dad, passed away this morning. I was tempted to feel guilty and depressed. But the hospital still needed replacements for what he had used up. And moping wasn't going to fulfill that requirement. So together with three other colleagues, I went to donate my blood.

I don't feel good that Mr. Liew passed away. But I'm glad I didn't bow down to my human tendencies which are, at best, self-centred. If it means victory to God, then I am happy. If it refreshes Jesus's spirit, then I am ecstatic.

Julie

2005-11-22T19:02:00.000+12:00

My fiance and I met Julie in Sibu during our Spiritual retreat early this November. Her aunt, one of the nuns in the Seminary at the retreat centre, had invited her to stay there since the school holidays had begun.

You see, Julie is a 13-year-old girl who lives with her 74-year-old grandmother. Her parents are divorced and since having remarried, have new spouses and new children.

Her dad is based in Johor Bahru now. Her mum...I have no clue. I don't think either one of them wants Julie to be with them on a permanent basis. But I hear they take turns calling her once in a while.

That's something, isn't it, God?
And if it's not enough, have we been chosen to help her in some way?

Julie isn't familiar with the comfort of a hug. The first time we tried to give her one, she was stiff as a tree and quite stunned.
She's a very curious girl, but lack the social skills to ask people she has only just met, the questions bubbling in her mind.

Like, "Why is that boy's hair so curly? Is it a wig?"
"Why is his nose so long?"
"Who is that girl with him? Are they married?"
"Do they sleep in the same room if they're engaged?"

She asks through a mediator - usually it's Sister Marian.

Her first line of defense in a conversation she's either not keen to be engaged in or unsure of is "Tak tahu."

By the way, Julie only knows two languages: Bahasa Malaysia and Mandarin. She makes me feel inadequate; she reminds me how rusty I am in my B.M.

She doesn't like drawing or painting, or reading. (Oh dear.)
She likes animals and cartoons.
And if she's comfortable with you, she'll do things for you. Say, carry your travel bag, even if you deem it a little heavy for a girl like her.
(If you say "No, it's ok", she will make a funny sound in protest. And it will be a seirous protest.)

Unfortunately, that's all I know about Julie.

Aside from the fact that she's in KL for the day with her dad.
That they will be visiting Genting Highlands tomorrow before heading back to Johor.
And I am not sure I have time to see her.

I don't have gifts for her even if I do.

Why do I feel bad, God?

The Leaky Faucet Syndrome

2005-11-14T23:09:00.000+12:00

Ever since I got back from the Sibu Retreat, worship has never been the same again.

When I kneel before the altar in my bedroom, the image of Jesus dying for me brings tears to my eyes. And I feel His immense love for me.

At Mass last Saturday, the damn broke while Father Simon sang over the Eucharist. More flood waters during the Agnus Dei. There went the lamb in my mind, to a bloody slaughter. No bleating, no complaint.

It really was painful to feel the sacrifice.

Yesterday, I dropped by my Godfather (and ex Art Director)'s parish upon his invitation. And joined in the Family Life Ministry founded by his parents. At the foot of the projector at the the front of the hall near where I sat, a framed poster of the Divine Mercy stood with Jesus staring at me, hand raised in blessing.

I didn't want to engage in it - not out of rudeness, but I was afraid I might cry. So I managed quite well to avoid complete contact with it. But when came time to thank the Lord with a hymn, I couldn't help myself...the salt water droplets careened down my cheeks again as the words on the screen scrolled down and hit my heart.

While it's totally embarrassing to not have control of my tear ducts, I secretly hope this won't stop. In some strange sublime way, these tears are saving me.

2005-11-12T19:52:00.000+12:00

"Better a good Muslim person than a dead Catholic."

I guess that pretty much sums up the challenge Father Vincent has issued to us.

Father Vincent, by the way, is a priest originally stationed in the Seminary at the Catholic Spirituality Centre in Singapore. He is famed for holding the "Sabah Retreat' which is also known as the "Perth" or "Hong Kong Retreat", depending on where he goes, of course.

A year and a half ago, he opted to start a Mission in Kenya. To build schools, centres and churches there and to train the priests there, too. He chose an uncomfortable place so he could help make a difference where it was much required.

Recently, my Godfather and ex-Art Director, Alvin Teoh, his wife Julie, my fiancee and I attended Father Vincent's Sibu Retreat. For 5 days, we pried our attention away from advertising, children, pet dogs, shopping, etc and focused on hearing the famously radical priest chastise us on the importance of being a LIVING CATHOLIC.

It is interesting how the Father's statement (at the beginning of this email), got me realising how lukewarm some of us generally are. Half of us don't respond during the Responsorial Psalm (go figure :)). The same half probably do not partake of the hymns. And most of us (including myself of course) think we are doing fine as it is. When in actual fact, we take the Eucharist and walk out of church to do further damage. To ourselves and to others, most times without being conscious of it, too.

The bible tells us that God's laws are written in the hearts of men (Jeremiah 31:33) which must explain why from young, my free-thinking-sometimes-taoist-like parents have instinctively been teaching me stuff like "Do not steal", "Do not kill","Respect your parents" and "It is not good to have pride." It also tells us that God speaks to us therefore from the inner depths of our heart - what we know as the Conscience. But to be conscious and confident about the "maturity" of our Conscience, it has to be formed and trained, lest this same Conscience misinforms us.

No wonder half of us think we are doing okay.

For the days he spoke, Father Vincent went deep into the hearts of men and women and implored us to examine our motivations for being Children of God.

Part 1:
Do we love God enough? How can we love others if we don't love God? For to love God is to follow His commands. And to follow His commands is to know what these comands are. And to know such commands is therefore to return to His Word (i.e Bible), the very place where He speaks to us and rouses the laws we already feel inside us.

Best part is, to be able to experience all this, we need the grace of God. For it is this free gift that enables us to encounter spiritual growth.

No Mass I have attended has ever gone so deep. And RCIA, while an amazing journey to Christ which first deepened my love for God, isn't "active conversion". More of a gentle exploration so as not to scare off the little lost or curious lambs :)

I remember how I used to carry the Bible to work everyday while being a student of the RCIA. How I did my own version of "Lectio Divina" (sacred reading) with a book of questions that facilitates meditation and contemplation on selected passages. How praying the Rosary became a weekly affair for me.

After I got baptised during Easter this year, I practically DIVED into Sunday School, too.

It was as if I had to justify myself as a practising, living Catholic. But you know how it is, you gather head knowledge, join ministries, work out a structure for worship, attend obligatory Masses and celebrate the Sabbath...but you are still not WHOLLY involved with God. The growth is minimal because the heart is blocked (possibly numbed by stress at work, too :)). It is like being in love with the idea of living the faith as opposed to living it.

So it is not surprising how as recent as September, my drive started to wane. Ok, ok, wedding planning with in-law pressure and politics thrown in doesn't help :) However I could consciously feel myself postponing Rosary till the end of the week, contemplating doing one decade instead of five, praying while falling asleep at night, dropping from Scripture reading to Scripture referencing (I went with the Word Among Us as a short cut), etc.

In between wedding planning, attending Evenings for the Engaged sessions, serving at Sunday School as well as taking my fiancee's grandma to church over the weekends, I became more compromising with the Truth. I began to justify a cigarette (I quit several months back only to pick it up again) by telling myself that I deserve it since I was so stressed. I became edgy. So when one day, my Mum accused me of something I had not done, I did not have the grace to keep silent and allow her to be wrong, but fought back to correct her. The two times my fiancee and I argued, it was about who got in the last word and who was wrong or right.

Pride is invisible but its presence is easily felt in arguments. The devil makes us trip when we're weak. If I am still vulnerable to pride, not vigilant about it, not trying to hard to excorcise it, then I probably do not love God enough.

It is funny how Father Vincent thinks a good analogy for being a good Catholic couple is the SIA girl (air steward/stewardess) haha. "TELL ME, ALL YOU WOMEN HERE...ARE YOU LIKE AN SIA STEWARDESS TO YOUR HUSBANDS?" he boomed. "ISN'T IT NICE IF WE COULD ALL BE LIKE THAT ALL THE TIME..."EXCUSE ME, WOULD YOU LIKE SOME MORE COFFEE OR TEA?", "SIR, ARE YOU COMFORTABLE?"

You have to be there at the retreat to find it charming, of course.

Part 2:
Father Vincent also beseeches us to examine ourselves and the general spirit of our personality.This is in order to understand certain bad habits that may have now grown to be part of our Nature. E.g Are we hot tempered? Are we sleazy? Are we lazy? Are we control freaks who need attention all the time? Are we cynical? Do we like complaining? Do we practise double standards? Do we hate socialising and prefer to be loners? Are we the sort that says "Look after ourselves first"?

To succumb to our own Nature (example of attittude being "Sorry, this is me so don't try to change me.") is to admit defeat to what we COULD be: better people. Galations 5:17 says that what our human nature wants is opposed to what the spirit wants. And our human nature always tells us to take the path of least resistance i.e the easy way, the short cut, the "smart way". This explains why some of us do not want to change ourselves for the better, why we cannot accept constructive criticism or advice in the first place.

Instead, we become defensive and rob ourselves the chance to improve.

John the Baptist was truly wise when he said (about Jesus) in John 3:30, "He must increase and I must decrease." When one day we hold a mirror in front of us and see Jesus more clearly, we will know that we have grown and become better people.

The good priest also drew clear pictures about how our natural human habits can trap us into sin. Which can then affect a whole community - not just ourselves - beginning with the people we commit the sin against.

Say for example, if we are jealous of a colleague (emotion of envy/jealousy), we might one day grow to resent this colleague (emotion of hatred) and in a streak of intense hatred, twist the truth about this person during "harmless" gossiping. If this colleague as a result loses his promotion or job, our initial "harmless" emotion of envy will have become a sin.

To take this example further, if the colleague who loses his/her job has a lot of supporters, the Boss who fired him/her will be "seen" as being unfair and there might be ill feelings towards the Boss.

Suddenly a whole group of people is negatively affected by one person's natural tendency for envy!

Given how easy it is to sin, we are asked to be vigilant against our largely untamed nature. Especially since we live in an age where excessive pleasure is encouraged, and everything is a "need". Our "real world" continues to justify evil and promote grey areas as white, wrong as right. Look at Bush and his WMD or the persecution of Christians in Acheh. Look at the amount of plastic that's clogging our landfills. Look at how low advertisers stoop for profit. (Aiyo...this last part especially makes me a hypocrite since I earn my salary from them!)

In addressing our world that is in love with ownership of wealth and luxury, Father Vincent was also very insightful when he pointed out how a baby enters the world with its little fingers clutching the air - a sign of early ambition to covet, covet, covet; but how we will all exit the world with palms open, relaxed and empty.

Bishop Dominic Soo who presided at the Masses, even told us that at his funeral, he would like to be in a glass coffin with two holes at the side so he may stick his hands out and show the world that he is returning home, emoty handed.

Over all, this entire retreat was a loud call for us to act on the love that God has given us through Jesus and the Holy Spirit, as love is the foundation of the Kingdom of God. Our sacrifices, our time, our love, friendship, kindness, patience, peace and forgiveness...whatever we give of ourselves helps build the Kingdom and testifies our faith because they're the fruits of our faith.

To say I am totally uplifted by the retreat is a bit of an understatement. Yet I am worried about praising it too much. It is a challenge to commit myself to a Spirit-led life and stay committed to it so if I praise it, then it means I should take action and live the goodness that it preaches and that I am hoping to spread, by writing this email.

What to do?

Pray more, I gather, with my eyes closed and my heart wide open. For God can be found in Scirpture, Prayer and Communion, when we surrender ourselves totally.

Glory to God Whose Goodness is Infinite.

Am I In Trouble?

2005-09-08T23:03:00.000+12:00

Am I In Trouble?
Originally uploaded by Junkradar.

This is my golden retriever, waiting for the storm to pass.

So far, (last I checked), he's alive.

35 Years of Marriage Almost Destroyed by Dog

2005-09-08T22:07:00.000+12:00

My mum and dad had a huge argument this morning.

Apparently Bumper, my 2-year-old golden retriever, was the spark that created the catastrophe.

You see, my dad has a somewhat dementia-like syndrome when it comes to animals, such is his love for them.
He actually ends up treating them like humans.

This morning his idiosyncracy turned mum into a flamethrower.
(Pompeii Revisited, if you like.)

As it happened, mum took out the dog's sweet potato breakfast from the fridge and decided to warm it up with some boiled water. Now, she would usually dump the grub into the microwave, instead. But I suppose she was exhausted from having to look after three siblings who are not only older (she's 70 btw) but also not as robust or as sane as she is. Then there was also my dad's sister who is recovering from lymphoma for whom Mum sometimes cooks.

Dad strolled into the kitchen, caught her performing the short cut, and promptly chided her for it. But little did he realise, Mum was not in the mood to be corrected."What?! As it is I'm going the extra mile to look after you, my brother and your sister...now I have to treat the dog like a VIP as well??"

Just as innocently as dad had questioned her dog's-breakfast-preparation-method earlier, he proceeded to assume that she was being antsy simply because of the pressures she was currently facing, dealing with an alzheimer's-stricken brother. "Aiyah...see! Your brother is making you feel stressed again."

This of course was Mistake Number 2.

And so, I watched miscommunication skyrocket in an exponential rate.

"Please give me some credit - I can separate the dog from my brother." She could have stopped right there but in the real world, she would continue. Which is exactly what she does, "What makes you think that I wouldn't be stressed if it wasn't for my brother anyway? I'm fair you know. I cook for your sister also what!"

"But I never asked you to cook for my sister!" the ball flies back.

Before you know it, Dad makes the ultimate Caveman move by grunting and muttering, and later, vamoosing off to work. Leaving the sabre-toothed tigress foaming in the mouth.

"I tell you, for years and years, I've been cooking for your father...informing him of my whereabouts like a responsible good wife...pandering to his needs when his father was ill...I should stop so he won't take me for granted!"

While she spews, I quickly edge Bumper into the bedroom with one foot, heavy as he is. Better for him to be out of sight for the moment as Mum might just decide to take him to the butcher in the market.

As an observer, it is interesting to note that miscommunication takes place even long after you've married your lover. We accept each other's faults, yet this clearly does not mean we allow the flaws to go unchecked. So if your partner's imperfection is "jumping to conclusions" before the whole story is told, you are supposed to give him/her hell for it first, and then forgive him/her.

I read an article where it says that "To forgive" is not equivalent to saying "It's ok". In other words, the person who is being forgiven should not take mercy as permission to repeat the mistake. In fact, said person is supposed to make a conscious note of what he/she has done wrong and avoid it like the plague to the best of his human capacity. Forgiveness is a huge move on the part of the offended to pardon despite the hurt caused.

I called my mum in the evening to see if she had simmered down. Surprisingly, getting her to talk about the altercation was as good as replaying the offensive event in the morning. She almost took my head off over the phone until I reminded her that I was her daughter, not her husband.

I sure hope Dad gets dinner tonight.

And Bumper, too.

Unelss Bumper is the dinner.

On Dying and Being Reborn

2005-05-09T16:30:00.000+12:00

26th of March, 2005.

I didn't think the day would come but it did.

I wasn't supposed to die. I fought for 3 months and 2 weeks to make it happen. And when it did, I was happy.

Not many people will understand my quest for baptism, why I would want to give up my earthly self via a seemingly occultish ritual and bind myself to an unseen presence. Believing that this presence will save me from hell on Judgement Day. And I don't blame them.

Even the mention of Hell and Judgement Day causes a considerable amount of cringing among my closest friends and relatives.

But then, not many people know about Jesus the Man. Or the fact that he is not merely legend or myth but entrenched in the anals as the most influential person in the history of Mankind. If you're born, like me, into this world without a spiritual foundation, you grow rooted to Earth and her logical ways of existence. You grow to use your brain more than your heart because survival makes being practical very necessary. You learn to exist and make sense of your existence by following a simple rule - "Everything you see, is; everything you can't see, isn't." Which then renders absurd the idea of Jesus.

How much more difficult is it then to give reverence to a thick book called the Bible. A book which supposedly documents the the power of God as well as the importance of our surrendering our lives to Him because He sacrificed His only Son, Jesus, to save us from damnation. How relevant is it for us in this world of grey areas to obey His commandment to love everyone as we love ourselves? How do we say "I love you!" to a guy who cuts into your lane without warning and almost kills you with the move?

Like many of the newly baptised and those baptised before us, I do not think words adequately explain the motivations behind my decision to embrace Christianity.

I could tell you it has to do with what I believe are personal encounters with God. But the intelligentsia will counter me with the notion of "post-rationalisation". They will advise that it cannot be proven beyond reasonable doubt that my imagination isn't creating these desires. That perhaps, due to sufferings in the past, I have a subconscious need for some form of crutch.

I will say however that Faith completely annihilates every mental challenge anyone would care to throw my way. Faith says everything I need to say in return without having to get deep and analytic. And Scripture study, aside from the little miracles of life, fuels it.

By the way, I love the Bible. I feel it relates a lot to our present struggles in life, though written thousands of years ago. In these dark times, the Truth in it shines, confronts our Conscience and compels us to listen once more to it.

But God did not call me through Scripture first.

He led me to baptism by placing a number of Christians and life-changing incidents in my life from the time I was 10. Rebecca (bless her!) taught me how to pray the "Our Father" in 1983. Alvin, my Art Director in 1987 urged me to join the church. A bad car crash in 2000 told me God was calling once more. And during my dalliance with depression in 2003, my then-boyfriend, a Methodist by family coercion, asked me to accompany him to church.

Finally, as I began to mourn over my directionless and hollow life, as I began to consider taking God's outstetched hand, He placed my fiance in my path. So there I was last year, braving the Rites of Christian Initation for Adults course at the Church of Assumption. A course which would culminate into baptism during Easter on the 26th of March, 2005.

The 1 year's course was itself a challenge. And my joining 2 months late almost cost me my qualification to be baptised.
There were also many people whose trust I needed to gain - most of all, the nun in charge of the course who wasn't sure I was ready, given the classes I'd missed.

There was protocol to adhere to and conservatism to answer to. There were replacement classes to take which took up most of my weekdays. There were tough decisions to make between taking short cuts (going to another church for private baptsim) and sticking to the long, hard route (begging the nun for an interview and to believe in me).

In 1 John Chapter 5 of the Bible, God does say that if what we ask for is according to His will, He will hear us. I buy that today. In Chapter 3 of the book of Ecclesiastes, God says that He will provide in His own time. I buy that too. In Chapter 8 of the Gospel of Luke, God also gives us the story of the persistent widow who managed to get the Judge to hear her case after relentlessly "bugging" him. I but that completely.

I wanted to die to my old, earthly, envious, selfish, fearful self. And I guess God felt that was noble enough a wish to grant. So on the 26th of March, 2005, I was up there on stage with 32 others like myself, dressed in white from top to toe, praying for God to accept us, to heal us, and to help us be reborn in water and in His Spirit. To admit that "We will see when we believe."

Demons with My Name

2005-02-07T19:24:00.000+12:00

Dual Prescription
Originally uploaded by Junkradar.

In the Sunday Star last weekend, Houston, an up-and-coming R&B singer was found in bed, with his eyeball hanging out of its socket.

He was quoted as saying that the act of self-injury was to "keep the devil off his back."

See also:
a) Someone's placed a curse on me
b) I'm degenerating into a nutcase
c) I hate the way my eye looks

A theory is that we are simple creatures born with a generally good nature. But our exposure to the world around us confuses our sense of morality.

So as we grow older, we walk with two - not one - shadows behind us: The physical shadow and the philosophical one. And it is the former that hinders us from walking the straight path.

It is the former that indulges our curiosity and tempts us to make detours, some of which are created by the irresponsible usage of technology and then glorified by media. Together, we culminate into a grand world view and all is fine as long as "we don't kill or steal" because the rest are all grey areas.

See also:
a) Abortions are cool
b) Homeless, poverty-stricken person shoplifting soda is not
c) Bribing policemen is fine
d) Lip-synching at a concert is not

Yeah, we live in a fucked up world. And because we are biologically configured towards doing what is good, we don't sit well in a fucked up world. We can't handle the guilt when we commit dubious acts even if we don't know it yet.

At some point in our lives, however, we will confront it like an ant in a whirlpool. Find ourselves grappling with the meaning of life, squirming in our own skin.

At some point in our lives, we will be at full-scale battle with ourselves. And we will wonder why everyone else is laughing except us.

Are we mad or are we simply enlightened? The truth always hurts, I say. And hell is every moment we depart from our true nature.

Buildings that Give me Joy

2005-02-03T22:06:00.000+12:00

They Talk
Originally uploaded by Junkradar.

It was the 10th of December 2004. The air was a little chilly. And a bunch of Nigerians were singing Christmas hymns nearby.

(Ok, they could've been Kenyans or Zimbabweans, too.)

Ant, my Jennifer-Love-Hewitt-Worshipping friend who actually lives in the SAR, took over my digicam, and snapped this pretty shot from the harbourside.

Every time I look at this shot, I fall in love with Hong Kong. I fall in love with holidays, my boyfriend-now-fiance, and life. It's such a happy statement given the sad state of the country's economy.

It also reminds me of how Colin, who was there as well, kept looking at his watch that evening. Peculiarly eager to book this fancy restaurant we found in Lan Kwai Fong, for dinner.

Of course, I found out later why a guy who "eats because it kind of keeps me alive" got anxious about making it to a fancy meal on time.

We were back in our room in a delightful little hotel called Bishop Lei International (with a fantastic view of the skyline) dressing up for said dinner, when I was asked to "hang out" in the bathroom for longer than required.

Now, I'm the kind of girl who completes the bath ritual in 5 minutes flat. Which is 10 minutes faster than most guys. So hanging out in the bathroom for longer than required is always a second too long for me.

Anyway, after what seemed like a century, I was let out only to face a sheepish guy with a computer and a drumset from Toys 'R' Us - the kind that runs on batteries and comes with a DJ mixer.

The song - "Be My Life's Companion". And this is how it roughly goes:

"Be my life's companion and you'll never grow old. I'll love you so much that you'll never grow old."

Amazing proposal.

This photo also reminds me of how much I laughed as the song was being sung. Not at my boyfriend because that would've been cruel. But at the fact that I was seriously being proposed to. At the fact that it's true what people say about being proposed to - you won't be yourself when it happens. Suffice to say, I'm not usually "laugh-y".

According to history, I said yes. We played the song again sans Colin singing. And danced around before moseying off to the cosy Mediterranean restaurant.

According to history, I also threw up the foie gras we had after our walk back to the hotel. But that's another story. And another picture.

"They Fell in Love at a Gym." (Hey it Happens.)

2005-02-03T17:41:00.000+12:00

"I burn 50 cals smiling like a spastic chimp"
Originally uploaded by Junkradar.

It's possible that Love happens anywhere it feels like happening.But at the Gym? While you've got the ugliest shorts in the wardrobe clinging onto the biggest thighs in the country? (If you've got thighs, they are always the biggest in the country.)

But hey, it apparently happens.

I'm not sure about the chemistry involved. But I suppose if you buy the pheromones theory, then the gym would be where they're at their densest. And we would, in fact, be breathing in - not oxygen - but each other's chemical compounds.

"Hi, you don't know me but I smelt you three rows back, where the step machines are. Did you have Garlic bread today?"

It apparently happens.

People generally derive their self worth from the summary of other people's opinion of them. So I can understand gym bunnies assessing each other's physique when the clarity of judgment isn't likely to be compromised by clothes. I can understand the comparisons that have to be made.

"Whoa! Is that a stomach or is that a bowling ball?"
"I can't have that gluteus maximum but at least both my tits point to the same direction."

(Yeah, you can bet this happens).

But it's too depressing to assume that humans can't appreciate a good thing when they see (or smell) it. Because the truth is, there are chicks with great bodies just as there are chicks with body (as in volume). Similarly, there are hunks with great bodies just as there are...chunks.

Picture an Angelina Joliesque type in the Body-Pump Class, with nary a dollop of cellulite on the back of her aerodynamically designed thighs.
Picture a Daniel Day Lewis clone working on his 6-pack. Beads of sweat gathering on his thick eyebrows. Hearts would be racing, and it wouldn't be due to the level 10 speed, level 5 gradient setting on the threadmill either. Abductor machines would be wet, and admit it - it wouldn't likely be sweat.

And what if Cupid happens to be hovering above Angelina and Daniel? What if she-pheromones and he-pheromones collide? What if Angelina loves a pumped-up pectoralis and Daniel loses his grip over pumped-up lips?

"Hey, could I share the bench with you?"
"No problem, here let me wipe it down first."
"Thank you."
"No sweat."
"Ha ha, you're funny."
"And you're beautiful."

Yep. Happens.

Dark Day in April 2004

2005-02-02T17:01:00.000+12:00

Dark Day
Originally uploaded by Junkradar.

I don't know what those two buildings are. But this was definitely not taken in New York City.

From the glass windows on the 10th floor of Menara Milenium where I used to work, I saw the clouds grow heavy with wrath in a matter of seconds. They swept low like dark angels, like a true wet blanket, ready to spoil what could've been a sunny day.

A few of us stopped work to watch this phenomenon. As cars, one by one, switched on their lights, we felt glad that we weren't on the road, our imagination ripe with the moment when tons of water slammed steel roofs and turned windshields into a blurry sheet.

"Do depressed people feel like this scene when they feel down?" I wondered. Are their hearts flooded with dark waters and angry skies in a matter of seconds that they do not even notice they have fallen into depression?

I profess to be a part-time pessimist with occasional tendencies to wallow in cynicism and sadness. On my personal dark days, I am not the clouds but those two buildings in the photo. Vulnerable to the forces of society I am trying my best to fight, and yet aware of the impending failure of submitting to them.

And when the rain does bear down on me, I can only feel stained and hope the Sun will come soon. To dry away the evidence of my weakness.

I Like Them Chocolate Peanut Butter Mornings

2005-02-02T04:50:00.000+12:00

I like the days when I'm not working.
Or when it is not on my conscience to work.
Or when the government makes it easy for me to not work.
Like on public holidays.

They say the sun never stops shining the way it does.
And if it did, it's one overzealous poet's way of trying to be poetic.
I'm not so sure I can believe that because to me the sun does seem prettier on public holidays.
Maybe I'm an overzealous poet who doesn't know it.

Anyway.

Today was a public holiday.
And I really felt the sun.
It came sneaking into my room at oh-I-don't-know-when.
But when my eyes popped open, I saw it in elegant shafts of light.
I saw dust particles dancing in these pathways.
I saw a pretty sight which on normal days would not only go unnoticed, but unappreciated.
And it made me feel warm and gooey, like chocolate peanut butter melting into a shiny pool on hot toast.
(Which is my kind of public holiday breakfast.)

In the light, my problems and faults seem clear, not muddy and vague.
(It's kind of tough denying anything too when the sun's in your face.)
I can confront my weaknesses, or at least feel as if I could, because nothing is hidden in the light.
I can see them and make a choice about what to do with the lack.
And chances are I'll actually get off my lardy butt and do something for real.
Because this is just how infectiously positive the sun can be.

If you're reading this, you might think I'm romanticising nothingness.
Trying to put a diamond sparkle on a cubic zirconia.
Being trivial.
A Victim of Flaffer Syndrome due to overexposure to gamma rays.

But that's okay.
I don't usually have days like these.
So no matter what you think, I'm going to hold it in my heart.
And commit it to memory.
Maybe in the same region of the brain where the taste of chocolate peanut butter sandwiches resides.

United State of Lurve

2005-01-26T23:14:00.000+12:00

Lis,Col1
Originally uploaded by Junkradar.

Reshmonu got married in Seremban on the 21st of August 2003. He didn't sing at his wedding, though.

Colin and I were two ants in a sea of guests that night. It was hot, the stars were out (both the celestial and earthly sorts), and I was just hungry.

I've been accused, in fact, of having a constant love affair with food. When there's food around, Colin is a blur. However, when good music is playing, I'm unnecessary static to Colin.

There are many theories to what makes a couple work. I shouldn't like to think there's a formula or category in which one falls. If so, we'd fall into the one marked "Opposites Attract".

While there are distinct differences in our personalities, there are many values that we share. And when two people can laugh easily, the differences hardly become friction. They become simply part of an education that helps us become more well-rounded people.

Perhaps that's why I said YES when Colin popped the big ol' Q while we were holidaying in Hong Kong. Perhaps it was the song he sang "Be my life's companion, and you'll never grow old, I'll love you so much that you'll never grow old" that did it. Or just perhaps, this is all God's will and I can't feel differently even if I wanted to.

How Far Would You Go for a Slice of a Pie?

2004-11-11T22:00:00.000+12:00

There are too many people on this planet.

Kuala Lumpur has 96 000 more cars on the road since 2002. (Or something like that). Where I work is 160-pax strong. Breakfast, served from 8am onwards, sees leftovers of hashbrowns and French toasties going into the Coke fridge and yet people are hungry. Fighting for warmth and security, a permanent spot at the top of the ladder.

The Good Books Brigade, by the way, classifies a collective of people who do what they must to move up. They dip their heads in the Big Boss' room for a hello and how was your weekend. They offer their lunch. They sometimes even offer a lift home, especially in the case of expatriate Bosses.

It is likely to walk into a General Manager's or CEO's room only to see your colleague massaging the lymphatic nodes of your Boss' throat. Strange as the sight may seem, it's apparently accepted as a legitimate Good Books move.

I've never once shopped with my Boss. Or touched any part of his or her body, unless you count nose hair. The story, if you really must know, is that I was once asked to help my immediate superior trim the bush in his nostrils. Do not ask how I could've agreed; he supplied his own scissors and I was really quite new in the office.

Safe to say, I didn't get promoted for doing such an unusual and personal task for him.

There are worse examples of career manipulation, however. The ones which are not the least bit funny. I've seen General Managers frame smart subordinates for errors, in a streak of uncontrollable fear for their own position.

These anomalies of the business world are like cockroaches - you won't be able to get rid of them, not even if you have a nuclear bomb. They are survivors because they have an incredible ability to bend truth and twist reality.

The spoon-bending bald kid in Matrix is no match for contortionists like these.

Then there are those who love representing others. They're the first to explain a concept, even if they aren't the originators. They're also masterful at accepting praise on behalf of others. They thank you for a job well done only when they're alone with you. By which time you would already have 100 unflattering names reserved for them and the incredible urge to kill them.

It bugs my tits that people like these seem to get their way, their goals. And it brings to my mind questions of the appraiser's sense of judgement.

Have we become to hungry for attention that we have positive views of those who makes us feel good? Do we love ourselves so little that we pin badges on those who demonstrate a little love for us, even though we know full well what their motive is? Do we give more pie to people who slap more butter on us?

The hedonistic desire for a bigger share of this proverbial pie mixed with the indiscriminate remuneration by loved-starved leaders has shaved some dignity off this thing called a human being.

Perhaps the pie isn't shrinking but our minds and our hearts certainly are.

The Downfall of My Wall of Cheer

2004-10-30T17:52:00.000+12:00

It's a grey day.
I don't feel invincible on such days.
On such days, all of me struggles to believe I am not a blob. But a human being who's doing okay.

On such days, I could respond to fiction and cry, thinking it's all real.
I could tip over my perfectly balanced karma and come down low to a level more tragic and sad.

I don't think it's a voluntary action at all, even though I may write as if it were.
No one consciously sets out to be sad.
But neuronically?

Maybe.

Who's to say our mind's not secretly pining for a drastic event especially after a long spell of, say, cheerfulness? Who's to say that the mind doesn't get bored and rebel?

The mind, as it has been said, is so powerful it could probably will the entire body, with its nerves and such, to release all the wrong hormones for the occasion.
Like sad hormones when it makes perfect sense for you to be happy instead.

Or histamine when nothing is really threatening your health.

Speaking of histamine, it has been 8 days since the last reds attacked.
The anti-histamine given by the good doctor last week does okay in suppressing the itch but doesn't inhibit my white blood cells from producing histamine at the wrong times.
Which is why I had to go to another doctor.
Which is why I now have Simtec.

Paranoid leucocytes.
That's my disease.
Sounds great as a name for a band, looks bad on anyone's skin.

Something as random as histamine poisoning - a case of what I call the "Reds".
Which is a breakout of rashes as a response to anything from red wine to deodorant to air-conditioning, makes life a constant imbalance.

The unpredictability of occurences, the uncertainty of it all, is what makes a Happy Stress-free Plan so difficult to work out.

Just like this grey day.
What if I had a picnic basket all prepared before I knew such a day would happen?
Seems a shame to have to quickly take off the sun hat and replace with a raincoat.

"Love Me Unconditionally and I Shall Validate You"

2004-09-10T10:00:00.000+12:00

Meet Powa Trip.

She is slick.
Charismatic.
Intelligent.

And she has got you by the Mind.

At first you are enamored by her charm.
Her capabilities.
Her Open policy.
(Maybe even the way she makes you feel special.)

In fact, she is such an orator that you hang on to every word she says.
Try to make sense of every word she says.
Subconsciously use the words she uses. Like the art she likes. Listen to the music she listens to. And dines where she dines.

And you like her.
Respect her.
Put yourself in her presence as much as possible.
Because you feel smart and cool when you're in her company.

Then the Games begin.

You are suddenly General Tso (Powa-Trip-in-a-smart-uniform)'s right-hand man.
And the General wants your loyalty.
At whatever cost.

And mind you she has ambitious battle plans.
Possibly even costly ones.
Yet risky or otherwise, you will be obliged to share all with the troops.
Perhaps send them to their Glory (or Death; or maybe they are the same thing).

Because while you have, due to your appointment, every right to voice your opinions and advise accordingly, you are in essence her Puppet.

Your voice bears no sound.
Your opinion carries no weight.
Your advice is water between the cracks of fingers.

She may devise and shift her shape, posture and tonality accordingly. Twist words and manipulate the context of the discussion, as well.
So you may feel as though your thoughts are welcome.
And your counsel, appropriate.

Of course, they are not.

On the other hand, she may overreact in spontaneous combustion.
Question your faith.
And sully your good intentions with accusations of disrespect and arrogance.

(The Bully method has proven quite effective in many office situations across the Globe. Just refer to the article in The Star three weeks ago entitled "Is your Boss a Leader or a Psychopath?")

Whichever method Powa Trip chooses, it is so she may have her way.
And you.

You.
Have.
No.
Choice.
But.
To.
Comply.

Why, to rebel for Truth, which she may have mangled to suit her self-interest, would be akin to career suicide.

Try it one day.

Feel the "love" dissipate.
Watch the personal space between you widen. Or the opportunities, passed like baton after baton to other fellow Loyalists.

Experience the drop in temperature in salutations.

Not to mention the disappearance of the tick mark in the box that is your head.

Welcome to the unbearable feeling of lightness.

You’re now officially Nothing. Not to Powa Trip, anyway.

But fret not.
You are only as imprisoned as you let yourself be.
You still have a choice.

a) Play along in the Game. And place your principles, compassion, honesty and wisdom on the backburner in the name of Glory, Fame and Wealth.

(There's no wrong or right these days, right?)

b) Reframe the "predicament" you may find yourself in, should you choose to stand by your beliefs.

In short, remove yourself from the equation. Knowing that the other elements in the sum are wrong, not you. And walk away with your conscience, clear.

It will be a difficult step.
You will feel disjointed.
An umbilical cord neither attached to the mother nor the child.

You will die a little because you have lost the food that feeds your insecurities.

But once you make that first step, you will feel the Sun again.
You will know that you are alive.
And, indeed, very valid.

Velcome to All Things Porky

2004-09-08T20:17:00.000+12:00

There is no worse Hell than not be able to eat Pork.

But since we live in Malaysia, it's perfectly understandable if not everyone likes the idea of pig's trotters for dinner.

Probably the concept of deep fried pork lard sounds disgusting to some, too.

Nevermind.

If you're in here and you think Miss Piggy should be the next Malaysian Idol, you're porky. (Read: "Kewl").

Of course, this little microcosm called Planet Porkitis isn't purely place to discuss and debate on food.

You see, the khinzir in this case is also a symbol of the discrimination that still exists in all aspects of Life. At the same time it represents all reasons to reject discrimination of any kind, too.

Sounds contradictory? Um, Porkadox it's called, incase you were wondering.

Here's why I can only offer more Porkadoxism.

Beyond containing, preserving, stirring and spitting thoughts, rants, raves and lamentations on all badness that arises from good old fashioned human frailties, this planet is also a place to graze and chew on the little joys of being alive. Even if you're imprisoned to some extent, in your own sty.

Romanticism and realism in a hotpot.

Clarity and vagueness.

Love and hate.

Michael Jackson and Lisa Marie.

You get my drift.

If you read anything that makes your crispy skin crackle, do write me and complain. I'm more than willing to explain myself. And offer some sort of dissonance-reducing premium as an apology. Like maybe a char siew pao from Cheras.

*Everything Hangs In Imbalance*