Got plan?

Me: So do you have a plan?
John: Yes, but I can’t tell you. If I tell you, I’ll have to kiiiiilllll youuuuuu…
Me: Haa ha… So, really got or not?
John: Oh no… this is the result of watching too much Oprah.
Me: Oi, I only watch snippets of Oprah at your place!
John: Yeah, must not let you watch too much Oprah here…
Me: I don’t even watch Oprah at my place.
John: Too much Oprah is not good…
Me: The guy on Oprah say every guy has a plan.
John: Too. Much. Oprah.
Me: …

mai tai magic

in his hands

We sat at a quaint little bar at the edge of the sprawling market. A much loved music collection line the shelves behind the counter, framed by a wallpaper of intriguing faces… sips of cultural anthropology in an indolent afternoon. Thought bubbles wreathed with grins and smiles filled the air as reggae and classic rock songs weaved the afternoon light into the deepest vaults of our memories.

mesopotamia

A very determined little bug does kamikaze dives around my room and tries its very best to make a dent in the ceiling lamp cover. It has the cutest furry antennae and a grip so strong that getting it out of one’s hair proved to be a challenging task indeed. Egads…
……….

“What is a free-ranging egg?”
“Telur yang bebas merayau-rayau.“
……….

There’s a rattling and whirring sound coming from the hall every now and again. Nothing suspicious revealed itself upon inspection. Coming back into my room, I’m greeted by a little hamster scurrying across the floor in its transparent blue plastic ball, rattling along and bumping into corners every now and again. I’m comforted by the thought that the little creature would not be able to get itself stuck behind some cupboard or in some awkward corner, only to be discovered at some advanced stage of rigor mortis several days later. Hurray for plastic balls!
……….

“Ong, what kind of man are you looking for?”
“A man with ambition, values family and friends, and loves tenderly and valiantly.”
“Wah…. power.”
……….

Light is the heart that sets sight on the stars but with feet firmly on the ground.

into hyperspace and back again

Tempo rubato. That’s Italian for stolen time. In the plane back from Jeju, Korea, among many Korean and Japanese movies that had me either embarassingly guffawing with laughter or crying my heart out, I learnt that magical musical term. I was watching a masterclass feature in which a piano maestro teaches a musical prodigy how to play and appreciate one of Beethoven’s famous pieces. I can’t seem to remember the names for the maestro, the prodigy and that Beethoven piece but I can vividly recall how the maestro explained tempo rubato.

It is one of those weird poignant moments that you somehow know that something you’ve just watched, read or heard or someone you’ve just met has permanently and lovingly etched itself into your memory and your heart. Thus, you can’t help but glow with this indescribable warmth of knowing that that moment will stay with you for life.

I’ve been on warp drive for the past few months; life’s been a blast, really! Everyday’s been one full day after another, and by full, I meant that every day felt like I’ve accomplished something new and meaningful. Work’s been awesome and challenging while my calendar’s overflowing with family, friends, travel plans, weddings, farewells, celebrations and all things wonderful.

It’s just amazingly scary. Bewitched is how it feels like, along with much joy and incomparable gratefulness.

Yet, another birthday that passes reminds me that I’d need to somewhat slow down and catch my breath, sometime soon. Stolen time needs some ways to be returned, to preserve the magic you created when you changed the rules. There’s only so much you can stretch before the arrangement falls into disarray and the spell gets broken. I guess it’s not worth travelling faster than light if it means I’m missing the little things in the glare along the way.

Oh but for now and just a little while longer, I’m basking in the enchantment of it all!

seeking for good ripples

I don’t know if his family still lives there but I think of Tony every time I drive pass his house. I remember asking why nobody knew and how could he have been so alone with whatever he was facing, that he had to take his own life. I remember feeling awful that we lived a few rows apart and that I’ve neglected the “friendship forever” and “keep in touch” phrases scribbled into each other’s autograph books during those last days of innocence. I remember being overwhelmed by a stifling sadness when I saw the faces of my old classmates eleven years later at his funeral and getting a déjà vu of all those feelings when I met long-lost cousins that gathered for Amah’s wake. I know you don’t accept refunds of gifts but there is mercy, right? I hope he is no longer alone. Everytime I think of him, I am reminded that I need to listen more or pay a little bit more attention to those around me. Maybe that is his legacy to me, or perhaps my tribute to him…
……..

Back in secondary school, I used to cry out of frustration when I got interrogated with questions about you that I couldn’t answer. Those were definitely intense years and girls can get a bit brutal, especially overzealous missionary ones in an all girls’ school. I just got confirmed and I was all fired-up to do your will and share the good news. Yet, they tore me apart. I couldn’t defend you, I didn’t know all the right answers. I still don’t but nowadays, I am hardly fazed. I only bother to discuss when I know the intention behind the asking is worth our time. I can’t help it, I get mad when people ask questions to set me up for religious transplants. I am just not evangelist-material or evangelist-friendly. Speaking of which, I still don’t get why they don’t get it. Why is there a need to save people who have, technically, been saved or are not on any endangered list? What is the preoccupation with such a wanton exercise of futility? Is it so difficult to celebrate the good in common rather than fight over the differences? This is perhaps why family feuds are just about the nastiest ones around.
……….

I’ve always asked you questions, and though you’ve never really answered any of them, I keep asking. I apologise for the oft repeat of the same questions and ones that I already knew the answers to. Most of the time, my questions led to more questions and a lot of confusion. Why is that? Is this what it means to have faith and to build upon it? Can a monologue be a discussion? When I do find some semblance of an answer, they came about indirectly through the words a stranger uttered (sometimes not even to me), something the priest said in his homily, an episode of a popular tv drama series, a song I heard, a line in a book I am reading, heart-shaped bloodstains on C-fold paper or just some falling leaves. Were you trying to connect with me or was I desperately connecting subtext in my surroundings to you, and thus coming up with realisations as answers? Anyhow, I hope you know that I worry at times. My biggest worry is that my reception is flawed (or that maybe you got tired of listening to me) and therefore the answers I am coming up with are self-serving. That would be quite frankly, disastrous. So, can I have some reassurance from you sometimes, once in awhile, once in a blue moon, that I’m going about this the right way… please? Thanks and yeah, I’ll be coming in for some connection tuning soon… don’t give up on me, okie?

meet you there

“What? Carlsberg is for wusses!”
He held his right hand to his chest, grimaced, tottered and then steadied himself, “Aww, you hurt my feelings. I’m Danish and that’s one of my country’s pride.” Oops. Me and my big mouth. “But I prefer Heineken actually!” I heaved a sigh of relief at his funny grin and we both burst into laughter. When you have a dad that works in a brewery which you interned at and that brewery also happens to be the main competitor of Carlsberg in this region, you grow up learning to differentiate the greens and be suitably biased. Hee…

wet cats and rusty bicycles

“It’s coming! Shhhh… OK OK… go get ready at the other door. Hurry!”
The lazy feline sauntered along the longkang, oblivious to the little feet that scurried behind the walls and drops of water haphazardly dripping across the floor with mischief.

“One… two…. SPLASHHH!!”
Caught by surprise, the drenched cat jumped and sped off along the wall with a loud wailing Meowwwwwwww and just as expected, it turned a right corner at the end of the wall just before the rubber processing shed, towards door number two.

“One… two… SPLASHHH!!”
The meowing siren veered off at another right angle, this time darting across the backyard towards the rubber trees. Startled chickens, ducks and geese burst into a cacophony of noises that was joined in chorus by hoots and shouts as the two kids fell on the kitchen floor laughing, water scoop and pot clanging in victory.

“Ah Mekkkkkkk! Mai ak niao ahh! Kam khong ohhh… Tan jit ae lok ho, waipo sa buay ta ahhh!!! (Ah Mekkkkkkk, do not wet the cat! Goodness, Grandmother’s clothes will not get dry if it rains later!!!) “
Little feet hurriedly drag rag cloths across the floor, soaking up mini puddles of water before disappearing out of sight as a plump old lady came in through door number one with a basket of freshly plucked sweet potato leaves.
……….