Manglish, please!

Grafitti

2012-01-15T00:48:00.003+08:00

I live across Sunway Pyramid. The shopping mall is so close that sometimes, like this evening, I opted to walk there.

But to get there I need to first cross part of the NPE highway. I could either jaywalk or arrive in one anatomically correct piece by using one of the three footbridges nearby. A couple of years ago, early in the morning, a kindergarten teacher was murdered on top of the one nearest to my house and so, I chose to use the middle one today.

It was a sturdy bridge made up of steel and stomped with each steps. And as soon as I reached the top, I saw red markings on the floor. The first one said, "Fuck U." Then several steps later, "Sam was here." And just before I descended, "PUKI MXX."

As I left the bridge, I realized I no longer felt what I had felt about grafitti before. In the past, I would feel so ashamed of these obscene scribbles. I would even be more ashamed of being a Malaysian. How could there be such uncivilised creatures among us? I'd ask.

But having seen the world a little, I realize grafitti is ubiquitous. I'd seen similar scribblings on the back of houses on a train from the Hearthrow airport to the London city, . I had also seen it in Japan, Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand...In short, grafitti is just human nature, especially the less artistic kind and I should never have been too judgmental about it in the first place.

Grafitti is just another way, we as human being, express ourselves. Cavemen left behind drawings in their ancient dwellings. And because they still had not developed a proper language center in their brain, they drew. They drew to communicate, to tell a story, some even said, these were religious markings.

Hence, grafitti is a part of our human evolution. It is what makes us human. And if so, why should we be so quick to condemn these people of vandalising public properties? Maybe like our ancestors, they are just evolving. They are becoming increasingly civilised each day by communicating with us, by telling us their stories, by expressing how they feel inside. Especially Sam, who, in my opinion, is seriously in need of a crash course in anger management.

It's a shame we never know who were the masters who left behind those elegant cave paintings, but if this footbrigde stands for many many years later, at least our future generation knows, once a upon a time, Sam lived here.

Lord of the fly hitchhiking a ride

2012-01-06T08:35:00.002+08:00

There was a fly sitting comfortably on my windscreen this morning. With all the opening and closing of the door and start of the engine, you thought it would've left. But after a good five minutes' drive, it was still there. Right in front of me. Like a king on its throne, scrutinizing its empire and its subjects below early in the morning. And I, was the chauffeur.

How long was it gonna stay there? Slightly annoyed, I perfunctorily swiped it off its feet. And just like that it was gone with the wind. No sooner than it got blown away behind the window that I gasped.

What if the fly had been my deceased grandfather coming back, in the form of an insect as widely believed by the Chinese especially my mum, on this particular morning to escort me to work? Perhaps something bad was going to happen that he hanged on to his dear life against the wind blowing at, at least, 80km an hour to protect me? Would I now get into troubles??

I wish I had never activated those wipers. But most of all, I wish that fly wasn't hurt.

I drove on and as I slowly emerged from my slightly sentimental and superstitious self, I couldn't help but wonder if all this was not an indication that my car (if you see it) is in a desperate need of a good thorough wash already.

Medical check up

2011-12-28T16:18:00.003+08:00

In May last year, I went for a medical check up. The doctor who examined me took my blood and several hours later, its result came back. It was found that my triglycerides - a sort of fat the body uses as energy - was ALARMINGLY high. It was not an exaggeration. It was biblical. The healthy level should range from 30-150; but my reading, as the doctor highlighted it on the computer screen in front of us, was 1101. In addition, she also pointed out that my cholesterol was too high. She looked concerned. I was, however, unfazed because a) I already knew that for many years and b) I approached the problem with a "why fix it when it's not broken?" gait. The doctor, before disposing me from her office, prescribed me with some pills which, after a couple of weeks when I returned to see her again, effectively cut the triglycerides level by a whooping fifty percent. She said,

"Watch your diet. Exercise, and continue taking the pills"

All of which I passed off as white noises, discarding the remaining pills along with other combustible rubbishes before moving back, until after lunch today.

My maternal grandfather had, literally, dropped dead before I was even borned. I heard that he was out running errands one day, fell from his bicycle and died. Many years later when I was 13, my maternal uncle had gone out dancing one night, fell and died on the dance floor. Just a few months ago, my maternal aunt fell to her death in the bathroom from a ruptured brain aneurysm; and my mother is hypertensive. But unlike me, she is -- when describing how well one follows prescribed treatment regimens in the medical profession -- compliance, which means she diligently takes her pills every morning. Connecting the dots of my relatives' past, I couldn't help but see the silhouette of my own future.

And therefore, I'd decided to modify the aforementioned (b), listened to the doctor and tried to save myself before it's too late by living more healthily.

On the way to work this morning, a clinical psychologist advised on air that we should all look into the rear mirror of our lives every now and then, remember our pasts in order to keep on the tracks of where we are going. I didn't get to the end of the session but I think it's supposed to make us happy, or something like that. And so, in order to make us healthy, perhaps we should all look into the family's past medical histories once in a while.

On the Go

2011-09-28T12:44:00.001+08:00

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Malaysians behind the wheels must be in the possession of some evil nature. A couple of nights ago my friend and I witnessed such devil at work.

On our way back from dinner on the Kajang Highway, a car overtook ours and dogged another on the extreme right lane which was meant for cars driven below 110km/hr. But most Malaysians thought the speed limit was the minimum requirement to be on that lane. And so they usually drive at light-speed.

The Proton Kancil, which was being followed, was recalcitrant and refused to change lane. This made the driver behind it furious -- flashing frantically and tailgating ever so closely that even the air between both the cars felt suffocated. Other people would probably be worrying about the safety of everyone in both vehicles. But as Malaysians, we were expecting a scene which came out from Final Destination.

I looked over and found that I couldn't say anything about the driver since all the windows were heavily tinted. What sort of a person would do that? I wondered. And so, true to our Malaysian nature, my friend and I began to speculate things about the angry driver, judging only from the type of car.

He (most likely to be) must be someone who was

A) Successful; and important. Who, we imagined, to have endless high-profiled meetings to attend to and critical decisions to be made. Who tirelessly lamented how useless everyone else was in the company and how stressful his life was now that the entire team and/or company had to be dependent on him. And tonight was no different from the others; there was yet another highly significant deal to be closed somewhere. Which explained the manner in which he'd driven. We imagined.

B) Or, in short, a self-important S.O.T.B. who couldn't care less about the life of other people.

As we approached the toll station with our preconception about the driver, we'd expected important people like him to zoom through the SMART tag lane with the least time to be wasted. Less important people like my friend and I would wind down the window and pay with "Touch and Go". Even less important people queue up and pay cash.

I looked around for the car as my friend wound down the window and stopped to pay. And guess where it was?

Stuck behind three cars in the CASH-ONLY lane!

Coming home

2011-09-02T09:58:00.001+08:00

It's amazing how the writing muscle can deteriorate rapidly from rather-sinewy to complete-atrophy in just a few months of not exercising it diligently. It's as if I had verbal constipation just now trying to put down the first sentence for today's entry.

Yesterday, while it was raining cats and dogs outside, my professor stormed into the room and said, "They'd decided that you passed. Now go thank the other professors."

Huzzah! I'd passed. This chapter of my life is coming to an end soon. In less than a month, I'll be coming home, with a luggage and a doctorate degree, to a brand new life and career.

Instead of amalgam fillings, I'll be teaching. I'll be a lecturer. I'll be imparting my experiences/knowledge to future dentist-wannabes. Students will look up to me. People will think that I am smart. My family will be proud of me. It's invigorating. Joyous. Exciting. I was floating graciously in the air, ascending to the top of the world, until I realized, later in the evening, that, except for cancer biology, I'd lost touch with most of the more complicated oral diseases and fell, head first, out of my reverie. I panicked and immediately downloaded an oral pathology textbook from my Vietnamese colleague, P. The responsibility can be intimidating.

For the last several days, I've been telling my sister what I wanna do when I get home. And there are so many. I wanna have the best nasi lemak in town. The bakuteh. Curry mee. Chicken rice. Wanton mee. Cendol. Roti telur. Toasts with kaya and butter. Half-boiled eggs sprinkled generously with white pepper powder and a tad of soya sauce. KFC. Redecorate the storeroom at home. Attend a writing course. Learn a musical instrument. Preferably guitar. Karaoke-ing. Meet up with my secondary school friends. Travel. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

The list is endless. But, it'll have to start with the first chapter of the pathology textbook for now.

Reading retreats

2011-07-21T10:07:00.003+08:00

After reading an article about reading retreats yesterday, I turned green. It is the sort of things I've always imagined myself doing: going away to somewhere recluse, bringing with me absolutely nothing -- not even the thoughts of family or work -- but books. In my reverie, I'd stay in a little hut, small but furnished with everything I need to live - food, drinks, and air-conditioning preferably -- nearby a beach. And I'd spend nights and days doing nothing but read, until my eyes shoot out of their sockets.

At the end of the article, I felt a tsunami of jealousy sweeping across me. Why can't the person going on the retreat be ME?! My inner voice was beginning to whine like a petulant 5 year-old denied of his favorite ice-cream or the latest 3D Nintendo gamer when I suddenly realized, I'd been on my own retreats for the last three years. Even though it is not as exclusive as Bill Gates's week-long reading retreat, I've been spending most of the my weekends reading, and being transported into different worlds -- with an assortment of sandwiches, rice dumpling and rice crackers for breakfast, lunch, and dinner provided by a 7-11 nearby, for the last few months.

Just a couple of days ago, I finished reading Bossypants by Tina Fey and The Bells: A novel by Richard Harvell.

The Bells was a serendipitous find. I was reading the NYTimes one day when my eyes caught sight of the animated banner. As soon as I clicked on it, 45 pages of the first section of the book was there for free. At the end of the free trial, I was captivated, hooked and intrigued. The rest was history. The way R.H told of the story read a lot like any C.Dickens' books, which is probably why I am riveted because, to me, C.Dickens is the best storyteller among all of the classical writers. Everything in the story was laid out vividly in details throughout the book. It felt as if I'd just came out of a theater as I turned the last page.

Bossypants, on the other hand, was funny. Tina Fey is a funny woman. But only in the beginning from the time when she was a kid with a slashed wound across her face right up to before she started working at Saturday Night Life. (Work is never fun, is it?) After that, I was lost. To love Bossypants is to have watched SNL or 30 Rock, none of which I had. Reading that section of the book felt a lot like listening to an old secondary school friend, you've not met in ages, chronicling her life -- it is interesting, fun and exciting, but to the narrator only. For the most part of it, you just pretend to be interested. You cannot relate to any of the joyous moments because you have since lived a separate life and were not there to witness/share those moments.

After these two books, I was looking for something light to read. Something which will really tickle my funny bones. I was agonizing between Sophie Kinsella's "Can you keep a secret?" and the "Twenties Girls" when I found "Matilda". It said on the Amazon website -- under Product Details -- Reading Level: Ages 9-12. Hmmm...The beginning of the book was rather bitchy, really. Which made me very very happy. Anyway, children's book or not, I shall now march into the world of little Matilda and when I come out of it, I hope my is a different one.

BERSIH 2.0

2011-07-13T13:40:00.005+08:00

When it comes to politics, I am apathic. But when you are several thousands of miles away from home, and the only life support system you have is the Facebook, it is inevitable I too -- no matter how politically apathic -- get caught of the recent "yellow fever" bug spreading epidemically in and outside of Malaysia.

After watching the many video-clips posted on Facebook, the uber-massive, history-making, chaotic demonstration last Saturday looked so reminiscent of what had taken place in Thailand not too long ago. One of them even reminded me of the Tiananmen Square incidence, when a Muslim guy, face covered in Jihad-style, stood amid the thick cloud of tear gas and began performing his prayer alone while a troop of FRU trucks with its water cannons came down the same street head-on. But that old chinese lady, drenched in chemically tainted rain, with a stalk of flower in her hand, she reminded me of no one.

A national heroine after July 09, she refused to back away from the chemical insults. When people asked her to run, she said, "If I leave now, how are we gonna go on in the future?" and stood firm in her path and what she believed in. Frankly, I am not sure what she believes in. In fact, I am not sure if she, or the million of my countrymen in that gargantuan mess, truly knew what they were fighting for. (Because....they love their country?)

No doubt many things in the country need to be corrected. Electoral system reformed. Justice uprighted. Corruption nipped. Special privileges scrapped. Public transport bettered. A meeker weather. But correct me if I am wrong, in their long march, in bright yellow T-shirts, on the black tarred road, has the opposition offered clear directions of how to get to a better Kuala Lumpur city of the future? Yes? No? Or are they just a group of people who only criticizes incessantly but never contributes constructively like that irritating, trouble-making colleague in a meeting? As a political renegade, I don't know.

But what I know is that I grew up disliking Dr.M. Not the way he looks but his administration. Personal preferences aside, despite all its shortcomings, his long tenure proved to all that he was the I-Did-It-My-Way Frank Sinatra of Prime Ministers. He turned the country into part of the "East Asia Miracle" with his original remedies concocted especially for Malaysia. It was all glorious until, of course, the financial crisis in 1998. Many might not be able to, even up to today, accept the way he had treated his then heir apparent ,but every physician knows best, when handled carefully, sometimes a little poison is the best cure. And hasn't the country got out of trouble relatively unscathed as compared to the other SEA countries? Even though I still don't like him championing for special privileges so vehemently, I am learning to swallow the bitter pill prescribed in The Constitution. It's very much like loving someone unconditionally -- you accept them, warts and all. And with all his originalities, no one could have loved the country more than Dr.M. The tumultuous demonstration last weekend was a totally unnecessary way of displaying one's love for the country. It's so not our style.

Anyway, deep inside, I know the country will be fine, with or without demonstrations. After all, we are Malaysia Boleh, aren't we?

subarachnoid hemorrhage

2011-06-24T09:29:00.001+08:00

Last night, I took out the pouch, my dad had prepared before I left for Japan, containing a rosary and a mantra booklet, sat cross-legged facing east, and began to chant.

Earlier, I was on YM with my sister discussing how to best help my aunt who is now in ICU, intubated in every possible way to help her stay alive. Last week, she was admitted to the hospital for subarachnoid hemorrhage due to a ruptured cerebral aneurysm. It snapped while she was in the bathroom. Subarachnoid hemorrhage is a grisly condition with high mortality. Some died before arriving at the hospital. Looking back, that was perhaps how her dad and brother died many, many years ago, a time when most of us were still ignorant about medical conditions.

After three emergency operations to relieve the pressure ratcheting up inside her head from the pooled blood, she lapsed into a coma. Her pupils were no longer responding. She had infection. She had fever. And her vital signs roller-coastered. Yesterday afternoon, the doctor gathered everyone and mentally prepped the family for the worst -- even if she'd made it through, it is very likely that she would be vegetative for the rest of her life.

My sister asked me if the doctors were going to remove all the tubes when they said they were "giving up". I have no idea. I only knew, at that moment, that my sister and I weren't ready to give up. And so, we decided to pray.

Five minutes into my monotonous recital last night, however, I couldn't help but wondered: What was is it that I was praying for? Was I praying for a medical miracle? For her to wake up and recovered as if the aneurysm had not touched her at all? Or was I praying for her soul? For a smooth transition from one phase of life that we all know into one which is obscure to all? Or was it my own unwillingness to face up to the reality that I was really praying for, my own clinging? A couple of nights ago, I dreamed of her and she was radiant, calm and smiling in it. They told me, like her bleak prognosis, it was a bad sign.

My sister said she is praying so that my aunt would regain her consciousness again, even if ephemerally, to say her last words. A concept I couldn't quite know how to apply to my aunt who perhaps belongs to a generation of oriental women living through life behind an invisible niqab.

Science and Praying

2011-05-10T15:21:00.000+08:00

A fornight ago, and again yesterday, I found myself saying a little prayer before beginning my experiments.

It was unusual for a self-proclaimed atheist like me.

For more than half a year, I have been trying -- struggling -- to reproduce some data a previous graduate student had reported in his study. It was important because my work is a continuation of what he had discovered -- briefly, something about cancer stem cells and its markers. However, despite following the protocol and carrying it out meticulously the way I was shown when I first arrived, I only managed to reproduce the result once.

At the same time, another student who was recapitulating the work had the same spirit-defeating results as I did. None of us could consistently reproduce the aforementioned data. Adding to our frustration, self-doubt, and to a certain extent -- amazement -- was that particular, now graduated student could get the result every time he did the experiment. We asked, every time we saw each other, "Why?" and shook our heads.

I couldn't help but asked The Master to show me his moves and did it again exactly how he had demonstrated to me, even the way he breathed in every step in the protocol.

Alas! Still to no avail.

I was totally lost. Where'd I gone wrong? Then, I began to doubt. Doubting about my own capabilities and doubting the validity of the result. It was just beyond beffuddling. I didn't argue. I couldn't argue, not in an environment where communication is difficult and where the professor, after looking at my presentation, delivered his coup de grace and said, "Dr XX will help you with this work. Your skill is no good. Do you agree?" I could only nod and say nothing.

It is only a month away from my final presentation. And so, it is in times of hopelessness, desperation, completely crushed and nowhere to turn like this, that man turn to the Omnipresent. Asking for divine intervention is a sign of losing control, of helplessness; it is also a sign that, somewhere deep inside the heart, there's the hope of turning around.

It is an irony really. Centuries ago, great scientists revolted against religion in the name of science. Some even sacrificed their lives. But decades later, surrounded by expensive, sophisticated scientific experimental instruments, someone is on his knees praying.

Random story

2011-04-03T16:10:00.001+08:00

My gay friend recently traveled overseas to meet up with an acquaintance he made on Facebook a couple of months ago.

The acquaintance my friend was meeting up with was gorgeous, I was told, and...kind. It was not that my friend had known him inside out. In fact, they barely knew each other at all. But because of his good look, my friend was willing to risk his decade-long relationship to find out if there was a possible future with this hunk.

It turned out not only was the future unimaginable, but the present left my friend dumbfounded for several days to come. The awkward situation took place one night in a county where the luxurious hotel they were staying in was surrounded by breathtaking mountains made up of marbles.

While tidying up stuffs that night, my friend found a box of pastry kept inside his friend's knapsack. It was undeniable that they were delicious and that particular box was the only one left. His friend apparently loved the pastry and when asked, "Why are you keeping this box of pastry inside your bag?", he answered, "I was afraid that you are gonna eat them all up." Before that, out of the three pieces of pastry in a box, one was left for my friend. And so, my friend said nothing and put that box of pastry back into the bag. Later that night, they ate them all up with the same division: two for him and one for my friend.

The point, when my friend related his story to me, wasn't whether he felt vouchsafed or bitter because he didn't have enough of that delicious pastry but, What sort of a person his friend is who still hoards food at 41 years old and unabashedly made statement like "I was afraid you are gonna eat them all up"? Isn't that what a 7 year-old will do? Just like he was stunned by the marvelous view outside their hotel room, my friend was thunderstruck.

Even in the state of confusion (my friend was contemplating if he should let go of his 10-year relationship with or without the presence of a third party), my friend knew deep down that the guy he had just met was a kind and generous soul. But like everyone else, there is a lot of growing up to do. And my friend told me being in love with someone is a lot like being in a therapy -- there is a constant psychological tug-of-war and a good lover will help you grow and blossom while a bad one will sometimes turn your mildly neurotic disorder into a full-blown clinical crisis.

PS: Thank you Ai-Shiang, TZ and the rest for your concern, I am doing well in Hiroshima which hasn't been affected by the earthquake, tsunami or nuclear crisis.

Provoking Conversation

2011-02-15T11:46:00.000+08:00

I had a rather interesting conversation with a friend last night.

Friend: There are two kinds of people I hate.

Me: What?

Friend: People who are racists.

Me: And?

Friend: Black.

Happy Valentine's Day

2011-02-14T17:25:00.000+08:00

Hiroshima has been sleeting since morning.

One morning on the tail end of autumn, I walked past heaps of crispy, yellow maple leaves on the way to work. As I kept walking and staring at these fallen leaves, I had only one thought: Garbage, and how dirty they were. There was nothing particularly schmaltzy about it.

Three weeks ago, after some brief work at the university, I ran into my Vietnamese friend on the way back. It was beginning to snow heavily. She was wearing a pair of ear warmers in the shape of Mickey Mouse, something she bought a couple of years ago when we went to Disneyland, Tokyo, and she said to me, "I don't feel romantic at all."

Me either.

"My Memory" from Winter Sonata was definitely not playing in the air or in our heads that day. Neither me nor my Vietnamese friend were embracing the snow with open arms and with the sort of maudlin smile you often see in Korean dramas. All we wanted to do then was waved goodbye and got the F outta there. Isn't it funny how different the whole experience had felt watching it on television and when you were actually shivering in one?

Though Shakespeare once compared the world to a stage and life in it to a play, there is an appropriate time for all the mawkish, soppy, dramatic display of emotions -- like today, without the risk of hypothermia.

Happy Valentine's Day, everybody.

Memoirs

2011-02-08T17:13:00.003+08:00

This blog is so mildewed.

You probably still remember that it was only three months ago I announced unabashedly I was going to write a memoir of my own. And then, a couple of weeks and several thousand of words later (the evidence of which is still staring right back at me every time Google Chrome finishes loading this page), I gave up.

Frankly, who would be nuts enough to read about my insipid, vapid, humdrum life, huh?

I haven't accomplished anything of historical significance. I haven't found a cure for cancer. I have not lost a limb saving humanity. And so, seriously, what is there, in my life, that is so remarkable that warrants its documentation in any forms? In short, as Neil Genzlinger (a staff editor at The Times) put it, I have not earned my right to draft a memoir. Read his article here.

Coming to Japan has, no doubt, become the zenith (which I humbly hope for more in the future) of my life. An experience which I possess a burning narcissitic desire to tell. But until I am capable of crafting my stories in a more riveting fashion, the world is better off with me reading and not felling trees unnecessarily.

PS: still reading As Always, Julia.

Okonomiyaki

2011-01-29T21:57:00.004+08:00

Lest you think that I had utterly neglected this blog, I am not.

Hiroshima is getting preposterously cold. It snows again tonight!

There wasn't as much snow two years ago. Now I completely believe what the scientists had predicted about the coldest winter was true. It is so irritatingly cold that you just wanna stay indoor, curl up in bed with a book, some good music and, as a friend suggested, some good wine to keep warm.

But not this weekend. This weekend, like it or not, I have to brace through the nut-shrinking weather to attend a workshop organized every year by the university. The Biodentist Workshop aims at providing graduate students from the university with an opportunity to present their studies in English.

You only need to sit through one to know why, in addition to the lack of sleep and interests, I was cockeyed, literally, for most of the presentations in that optimally heated room. If any of you have had any experience, you'll know how I feel. And so today, I absconded the later half of the session after lunch.

The pictures above depicts my lunch (to say it in the way scientists do all the time) . It is called the Okonomiyaki or Japanese pancakes. It is very much like pizza with its flour base and assorted toppings like bacons, seafoods or some other more exotic ones like rice cakes, cheese and mayonnaise. But what separates it from the regular pizza is the special sweet and slightly tangy sauce that makes it delicious if you (or me) only eat Okonomiyaki twice a year. What you see here is also unique and can only be found in Hiroshima because, unlike the one in Osaka, you can add either soba or udon in it. Hiroshima Okonomiyaki is something that you must have if you visit. But I will leave the rest of the review of it to you if you have had it before.

LiteFM has begun to roll out many Chinese New Year tunes these few days. Just in case I am not in the right mood to write (so much for wanting to be a writer, huh?!), I wish you a very Happy Chinese New Year. Have a great time shopping for it. Go to Petaling Street and rub your shoulders with the crowd. Immerse yourself totally in the festive ambiance -- something I miss most terribly this year in this harsh cold winter.

Udon

2011-01-21T17:13:00.001+08:00

Today is Friday, Twenty-First, January, Two Thousand and Eleven.

Hiroshima City is cold. Not teeth-clattering cold, but cold. Actually it is seven degree Celcius outside and what can be more soothing than slurping a bowl of hot beef Udon on an afternoon like this, huh?

I've been tied up -- ladies and gentlemen -- with work, books (one of which is As Always, Julia) and other epicurean distractions.

Did I mention I have less than a year to wrap up the course and head home for good?

Yes. Just slightly more than eight months away. And I have to churn out more results so that I can graduate on time and LIFE has never felt this fulfilling for quite a while now.

I am not sure if it is because of aging or New Year or because the earth's alignment has changed, but I seem to have come to terms with this world and myself. A lot, and rapidly. For example, I wouldn't have said, "Life has never felt this fulfilling" in the past.(Are you nuts?!) Instead, I'd have whined endlessly. I'd have complained bitterly how my lunch was late because of the long experiment protocol, and then I'd have said I detested my work because I had had late lunch, and then I'd just go rambling on, and on, and on.

[Don't believe it? Go read my previous posts! (Smart eh?! To trick people into reading what I've written so far.)]

There has been a lot changes in me of late. I feel them in me. I am aware of them. I observe them. I hear them. I talk to them. In short, I've understood myself better. And this self-understanding, or insight, could have been a breakthrough moment, had I been in a therapy. Psychologists believe it is the surefire ticket to happiness. Here is an interesting article about it.

However, word of caution from the author: insight alone can backfire sometimes. It can, instead of bringing on the happiness, add on to the misery. Makes you feel more depressed. And the only way to get out of its way and on to that yellow brick road of happiness is to work at it -- at happiness and perhaps, as the author wrote, self-esteem. And that is where I am today -- at work. Slogging hard at work, on my self-esteem and more importantly, like one of the author's patients, enjoying harder what I like best -- EAT!

Happy New Year

2011-01-05T09:11:00.000+08:00

Day five of 2011 and Hiroshima is freezing, grey and utterly uninspiring!

Happy New Year, Everybody. Am I late?

At 430pm on new year's eve, I received a message from Tammy (not her real name obviously), my Vietnamese colleague, inviting me to dinner with her and Sally (need I say more?) our Indonesian friend. The three of us had met slightly more than two years ago and, because of the circumstances, quickly became a sort of triumvirate -- the Three Musketeers who are "tous pour un, un pour tous."

The message came just as I plonked myself in bed after being out for what I had felt like an eternity wandering alone and aimlessly in a nearby shopping mall. My ears were still scorched from the chilling breeze. I was tired. I was reluctant. I just wanted to take a hot shower and spent the rest of the day alone. But, in that little rectangular box, I typed in, "OK."

Tammy lost her mother a couple of weeks ago to leukemia. She lost her father even earlier. She doesn't have any brothers or sisters. And now that her mother was gone, she is orphaned. Can you imagine how heart wrenching that is? To turn around in this world and see all the unfamiliar faces, especially on a new year's eve. I knew I just gotta have the dinner with her even if it meant chilling my nuts off. So, I put on my jacket and braved through that caustic weather.

After dinner, we decided to watch Tron Legacy. Do you know, in Japan, you can own a pair of 3D glasses for 100 yen and you bring it the next time you view other movies in 3D? I know we get it free in Malaysia but think about it, would you rather have a stranger's sebum, dead skin cells and foundation smeared all over your face? It was a delightful impromptu decision but the movie was a major disappointment. Just as I had predicted it. In a nutshell, it was too much. I still prefer Tron circa 1982 even with its primitive visual effects.

On the way back, Hiroshima got preposterously colder and quiet. This is not an exaggeration. But at one point, there were only the two of us on the absurdly abandoned street. Sally went the other way home. I reached home just in time to wish Ross who was 2 hours earlier in Melbourne happy new year on skype. I then took a shower and ensconced myself in bed with a book. And as the clock turned 12, I faintly heard fireworks outside my room. It's New Year and I hope that it will be great for you and your loved ones.

Christmas Eve

2010-12-24T19:02:00.003+08:00

Hello. Is there anybody still reading this blog?

It's Christmas eve and here I am, alone in a chilling room, facing three bare, white walls and a curtain-less window, teetering on the edge of an emotional black hole, hoping I won't miss my footing and free fall. This blog has been neglected like someone who's undesirable in life. Someone like me.

It is very easy for me to slump into another rant of loneliness and self-imposed seclusion. It is what I am absolutely very capable of doing -- play victim. But I am not going to do it this time. It's Christmas eve. I'd better not cry. And I'd better not pout. I have been in a psychological ennui for too long that this year, surprisingly, for the first time in my life, I make a resolution: to slowly steer my inner chatter away from negativity and towards positivity. To have a bit more self confidence.

Yup! That's what I think. And that's what my best friend, Josephine, thinks so too.

In fact, she is so convinced that the change will help me enormously that she sent me a book, "Self-Confidence -- The Remarkable Truth of Why a Small Change Can Make a Big Difference" by Paul McGee, the author of S.U.M.O. all the way from Auckland, New Zealand.

Until recently, I have been pretty much the kind of guy who, either propelled by overblown male ego or stupidity, never quite asks for help. I thought I've got everything on a tight rein. But one afternoon a couple of weeks ago, the strap snapped and I double-clicked on Josephine's avatar on my YM. The first thing I wrote on the chat window was: HELP, with multiple exclamation points.

Paul McGee said in his book some people consider asking for help as a sign of weakness. But I am not "some people." I've always thought of asking for help more as an unnecessary intrusion into someone else's life with a problem to which my inner voice will inevitably say, "You can handle this!" However, after every episode, I realize, instead of confronting the matter and remedying it, I evade the issues and engage myself in a pattern of behaviors not sound for my psychical well-being.

I wonder since when I've forgotten I have friends. Real friends who really, really care for me and Josephine is one of them. Real friends who will embrace you for who you truly are. Jo listened to me without even a smidgen of judgment. She was fully engaged in the rapid fire exchange of conversation. And she didn't leave me in lurch salving for myself after the conversation, she stood by me like a mother until I was all well. I have known Jo for 20 years now and it is touching to know that even oceans apart, she is just a message away.

Well, it is Christmas eve and I shall not be long-winded. Merry Christmas to you and your loved ones and remember: always walk with your "Chest Out, Chin up." That's what Josephine taught me to do not so long ago.

Jeremy's night

2010-12-08T09:08:00.005+08:00

Jeremy finished the entire box of almond chocolate and a chapter of Larsson's "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo" before getting up to brush his teeth. He then turned off the lights and yawned. "That's good." He thought. "I should be able to sleep now."

He turned to his side. The air was chilling. The surrounding was in dead silence. "Argghh..So painful. It's so painful..." Jeremy curled himself up and mumbled under the blanket. Tears began to slightly wet both eyelids. He rubbed them off and let go of a long and loud breath.

Jeremy wasn't hurt or anything. He wasn't even sure what it was. He might be lying still but his mind was racing in light speed. He could feel the energy agitating across his body. A thousand thoughts were flashing by every second, disturbing his quiet night. A couple of people came distinguishably into his mind. And then they were gone.

"Let me gooo..." he said. Then he stopped and thought.

"Let me off...Let me off..." Jeremy begged with his eyes closed. But he wasn't sure to whom or what he was pleading.

He then turned to the other side trying to fall asleep. He watched his breath. He was searching for something to focus on, hoping it would help ease himself down. He had read that it worked. He opened his eyes. It was already 1AM. The thought of getting up in 5 hours made him more anxious. He turned again, forgetting about his breath.

"It's ok maybe I will call in sick tomorrow." Jeremy thought.

But another voice appeared, "That's not right Jeremy. It's not as if you are doing anything at all already."

"What are your colleagues gonna say about you?" The voice said. "How are they gonna look at you?" it continued.

Jeremy ignored it, feeling bitter but gave in. He aborted the thought of taking a sick leave. He would wake up and go to work.

"How long did this last the last time?" Jeremy asked. "I don't know," he answered.

"How did you get out of it the last time?" Jeremy asked again. "I can't remember," he answered.

Maybe I should write to Jeniffer and tell her I was still not well actually. Jeremy thought.

"But why do you want to bother her again?!" The voice said.

Jeremy felt irritated by the voice. But like always, he gave in to it.

"Oh I need that book: Learned optimism."

"I need it. I need it. I need it." Jeremy said with his eyes closed.

Then he laid still on his side and thought, "Maybe I should Google tomorrow morning about anxiety. Maybe I am just anxious."

Jeremy wasn't certain of his feeling but he remembered Jeniffer telling him the day before that he was anxious. He would now solve it by himself like he had done many times in the past. He went on thinking what had made him anxious. Work? Him?

No. Not him. Jeremy said in his heart. He was just a scapegoat. "This goes deeper than that," Jeremy said.

But what? -- like the riddle of the Sphinx -- it was something Jeremy had been struggling for most of his adult life trying to find out.

Love affairs? Low self-esteem? Jeremy tried to come up with every possible explanation for the troubled night.

"If it is because of love affair, then you are a good for nothing!" The voice said again. That made Jeremy feel bad about himself.

"You should be thinking about more important stuffs!" The voice continued talking.

"Your work! Your future! Not love stuffs!" But Jeremy couldn't help thinking about his ambiguous relationships. And he felt ashamed of putting so much thoughts, energy, time and money into it. Maybe he was indeed a good-for-nothing. But then he remembered witnessing, when he was eight years old, how sick his uncle was when his love was rejected by a girl. He couldn't do anything; he couldn't eat; he couldn't get up to go to work. He slept all day. His body laid in the bed like a dead carcass. And Jeremy's grandma believed that he was indeed very sick and called in a relative, a svelte lady, to heal him the traditional way. The relative rubbed a boiled egg with an ancient Chinese copper coin with a hole in the middle in it all over his body. Then she halved the egg in the middle, took out the now darkened coin and examined the egg.

"See those hairs on the egg," the lady pointed at the tiny projections on the yolk and its white to grandma.

"He is heaty," she explained and then both the ladies would leave to prepare a big pot of herbal drink with medicinal cooling effects to cure Jeremy's sick uncle. It was probably good in dousing his flame of passion. Or lust. When the drink was ready, grandma would always cajole his heartbroken son to take it like he was a small kid. And a few days later, his uncle would be all well again. Until the next break up. Every time Jeremy's aunt would snort and say, "A really good for nothing."

Maybe it runs in the family, Jeremy thought. He was still trying to find the cause for his behavior. Like it had happened many people before, Jeremy tried to blame everything on something -- his parents, childhood friends, his genes. He was afraid to accept that it was his own doing because it would validate his good-for-nothingness. But was he really? Was this the reality?

He turned again but now he had stopped talking to himself and just let the many thoughts run by in his head. Suddenly, he could feel a drain in the energy. He recognized this feeling. It meant he would at last sleep.

Maybe it is the chemical imbalances -- Jeremy's last thought before he slept at an unknown hour.

Psychological Disorder

2010-12-07T13:31:00.001+08:00

It is a concept universally acknowledged that psychiatric problems are multifactorial (I am not citing any literature or textbook, just recalling it from what I've read in the past, so correct me if I am wrong) which means there is no single reason why someone is mad.

And the overt manifestation of these somewhat inorganic diseases is usually the outcome of an interaction between the predisposition/genetic makeup of its sufferers and its environment; very much like Buddha's proverbial seed which will only sprout in conditions optimal for growth -- the right amount of rain, sunshine, air -- or in short, when the conditions are right, you become insane.

Yesterday, we were asked to fill out a survey form for a research in supporting the living and learning of international students at Hiroshima University . One of the questions I was required to answer was to check, among the seven available counselling groups, ones that I know of. I knew none. And before that question, they wanted to know to whom, among our colleagues and friends, we spoke whenever troubles arose. That was left blank as well.

I come to Japan with my predisposition, my very own Pandora Box whose contents -- low self-esteem, inferiority, hypersensitive to criticism, mistrust, emotional distancing, lonely self-perception and all, save agoraphobia -- were unleashed in full force by a new environment, the potential disastrous effects of that unfamiliarized harshness is clearly evinced above.

To safeguard my sanity, I self-helped. I was convinced that self-imposed social isolation was the best way and that it would help tide me over the predicament. I retreated deep inside my cave with a hell lot of reading materials and it seemed to work on the surface. But oblivious to me was the deeply seated, gradual conflagration of the neurotic flame of immaturity which flared up and engulfed the best of my behaviours at the so called right condition/time -- a little past 1130 a couple of nights ago. I then sat burnt-out, smoldering in regrets and asked "what'd happened to me?" I'd become dissociated, paranoid, passively aggressive, making excuses, severely jealous, and most of all, anxious or in Vaillant's term, my somatization mode had been switched on for too long a time.

Japan turned out to be all wrong. It was wrong because of my predisposition and my engaging in the wrong method of psychical sanitation. I thought I was smart; I was gaining control of the whole situation. But, quite on the contrary, every layer of my sanity was flying in the face of itself. Luckily, left in the box is my awareness -- the ability to see that this is steering into a hazardous territory, the ability to know that I need help, the only force that'll save me from reserving a bed in the psychiatric ward and hopefully help put me on the right path again.

Brutally Battered & Badly Bruised

2010-12-06T08:13:00.004+08:00

IF there is an index for self worth, mine has just nosedived beyond the chart.

Something happened last night. Things which I could not share here. But suffice it to say that it kept me awake all night, reassessing myself. Just how, well, attractive I am.

I am someone who is always conscious of my own look. I know I am not Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise or Gerald Butler. I am, at best, average. Even then, I'd like to believe that, with my flat nose and round face, I can't be as bad as to turn from being mildly appealing into apparition. But apparently I can, in about a month accelerated, possibly, by a bad haircut. I am never someone who is brimming with self confidence but whatever smidgen amount that I have had before was totally wiped out last night.

It's nobody's faults. I was willing to be misled. I gave in to the make-believe. And I put myself out there like a doormat. And now I am stepped on, trampled about and my ego is brutally battered and badly bruised. I feel exhausted and as undesirable as I can ever be. The lightning speed with which the mind changes itself is shocking. I am still discombobulated.

As I leaned back this morning, staring blankly into the laptop and trying to figure out what I could have done to make it different, I realized there was nothing to do except to take it in stride. All that I can do now is to pick up the pieces of my now broken self image and scotch-tape them together hoping I know better how to handle the situation, with more care, the next time.

Mount Fuji

2010-11-30T13:50:00.001+08:00

The journey to Tokyo from Hiroshima takes approximately 4 hours and 8 major stops at Fukuyama, Okayama, Shin-Kobe, Shin-Osaka, Kobe, Nagoya, Shin-Yokohama and Shinagawa. And somewhere between Shin-Yokohama and Shinagawa, you'll see the famous Mount Fuji standing tall and magnificently outside the train window, if you are lucky, on a clear day.

I was almost lucky. The weather was beautiful on the morning I went to Tokyo. I nearly caught the perfect view of the Mount Fuji when I looked out my window, if that annoying piece of cloud had decided not to linger and kept the mountain's peak away from us. The clear view of Mount Fuji caused quite a stir among the passengers. I took out my camera and began snapping this view that made everyone turned their heads and murmured. The lady next to me joined in the fun of photographing with her mobile phone. She was, I guess, about 50 years old. And as the train brought us further and further away from the beautiful mountain, the lady, looking at the picture in her handphone, said "This is the first time I see it so clearly." I looked at her and thought: if that was true, then I must indeed be very lucky to have seen it at 37 years old.

I have never climbed Mount Fuji before but I imagine it to be a wall of rocks with tussocks of exotic plants up close -- not very appealing to me as compared to the amazing sight of its perpetually snow-capped summit when viewed from afar. And as I played back the pictures I had taken, wishing that the cloud had not blocked The View, I had a thought: life is like these pictures of Mount Fuji on a clear day -- spectacular, big and though not quite perfect, its beauty you can always admire from a distance. Like Nozomi Superexpress No.45, which sent me to Tokyo, passing by all stations, big and small, we travel in life through all its experiences, some sweet, some bitter, all of which we have captured with our mind's third eye and now become a memory whose beauty we'll come to appreciate in a not so distant future.

Eat, Play, Labels (II)

2010-11-30T10:58:00.005+08:00

The next morning I overslept, woke up at 10AM and missed my breakfast. But it didn't matter. I was on a holiday. I was determined to not let anything, or anyone, disturb the much needed rest. To some, it might have seemed like a complete waste of time snoozing in a hotel room when I should be out and about. But to me, that was so flying in the face of having a vacation which I defined as doing as little as one possibly could.

It was a beautiful day as I stepped outside my hotel room. A little cloudy but still beautiful. That day was also the day which embodied all of the reasons why I had come to Tokyo -- to attend the mini concert organized by the Hikarigaoka Orchestra in (obviously) Hikarigaoka which is at the end of the Toei Oedo Line of Tokyo's extensive underground railway system.

After a quick meal at KFC (do not, I repeat, roll your eyes!), we sauntered into the IMA Hall. My Kiwi friend, Ross, told me the entire group was made up of amateur musicians who were housewives, teachers, bankers, who also happened to love classical musics. During that cloudy afternoon, three pieces of classical scores were belted out, the highlight of which was a solo flute performance by flutist, Masahide Kurita.

It was an amazing show. There was absolutely nothing amateurish about the performance and Kurita's just mesmerizing. And as they always said, a picture, or in this case, a video, is worth a thousand words, which actually means I am either handicapped when it comes to describing the whole event (not a good sign for someone who wants to be a writer) or the performance that day was just fabulous beyond words (again not a good sign.)

Anyway, click here to catch a snippet of Kurita's performance.

Later that night, Ross treated me to a homemade Thai dinner to go with the bottle of champagne I brought. It was an event more amazing than the concert to witness a white guy going through the recipes and making Thai dishes which tasted as good as, if not better, the native.

My vacation finally wrapped up the following day in a 28-courset dimsum brunch at the Chinaroom, Grand Hyatt in Ropponggi Hill. Again it was a treat from my dear friend, Ross. Before sending me off to catch my train back to Hiroshima, he bought me a piece of bread we both like from L'Atelier nearby.

This trip had been, by far, the most high brow living I have experienced after two years in Japan. And Ross, my friend from the Antipodes, if you are reading this, I can never thank you enough for being such a peach.

Eat, Play, Labels (I)

2010-11-24T09:19:00.002+08:00

Last Saturday, at 6AM, I boarded a train bound for the capital of Japan. 4 hours and 8 major stops later, I arrived at my destination. After two years of rustic Hiroshima, the rube (yours truly) needed to go somewhere vibrant, somewhere where the food's good, the people beautiful and the air, liberating. Getting off of the shinkansen at exactly 1003, I felt at home finally. I always know I belong to Tokyo. And not Hiroshima!

Ambling through the maze-like Tokyo station looking for my friend, Ross, who had several weeks prior, invited me to attend a small concert in the city, I was getting the contact high from being in close proximity with even just a fraction of Tokyo's 8 million, mostly suit-cladding, population.

Knowing how starved I was for civilization and good food, we went right away to Dean & Deluca, an upscale grocery store first established in New York City's SoHo district, at Marunouchi. After a cup of latte and a couple of pastries, we walked down the busy streets of Tokyo and ended up, a few minutes later, in the high brow shopping district of Ginza. Also known to me as the Mecca of Fashion.

All the major clothing flagship stores, known or unbeknown to me, are here -- Louis Vuitton, Dior, Gucci and of all labels, we went into Abercrombie and Fitch, a must-see for anyone coming to Tokyo. For me it was not so much about the clothes but for its cool mural, amazing interior design and beautiful, beautiful promoters. Every single one of them looked as if a page of the fashion magazine had just come alive. Lucky for me that I managed to snap two photos of the inside of the store before being told sternly by a beautiful lady promoter, "No pictures allowed." while going down the brightly lit staircase.

Later that night, we visited Shinjuku, another densely populated commercial area in Japan which is all neon lights and more people, both old (me) and older (my friend). My first night in Tokyo closed with a scrumptious meal at Hard Rock Cafe with its signature BBQ combo, a margarita (all a courtesy from my friend Ross), and a couple of gin and tonics later in a bar, the name of which I shall not divulge here.

The Muse

2010-11-18T08:52:00.000+08:00

Okay. It's official: The Muse has left the building.

I know it is totally unacceptable for a writer wannabe to be saying something like that. Because if you read enough "How To Be A Writer" manuals, then you'll know that there is nothing like The Muse. Best-seller writers like Stephen King, John Grisham and Ken Follet don't wait for the sudden visitation of creative inspirations -- they write. Consistently. They are passionate. They are disciplined. They persevere. And they write. And that's also what I have done for my book: at exactly 10437 words -- 39563 less than the required word count set by NaNoWriMo to be qualified as a winner.

It is easy to launch into a litany of excuses (for example, I have other obligations such as my research and experiments. Did I just hear you snort?) of why I have not been contributing to the total collective word count, (which stands at 1,521,127,984 as I write) at the NaNoWriMo community. But I won't. Instead, the only one valid reason of why I have not been able to continue is this: I have not read enough.

One of the Prime Rules laid out in his book -- Stephen King's On Writing -- is to write A LOT and read A LOT. To me, I have written a lot this year as far as NaNoWriMo/my book is concerned. It's 10,000 more, than my last attempt. (Did you just snort again?) And if you read this article by Laura Miller, a senior editor at Salon.com, then you'll know how important it is for a writer, or anyone for that matter, to absolutely pick up and read every possible print, good or bad, there is.

We, Malaysians, just simply do not read enough. (Or maybe it is just this one particular Malaysian -- ME!)

So, last night, after deciding to heed Laura and Stephen's advice, and not worrying so much about writing, I turned on my reading mode, Kindle and bought Randy Schmidt's "Little Girl Blue: The Life of Karen Carpenter."

Did I mention that I love every, well most of, her songs? The Carpenters is the only group that I'll always go back to when I'm feeling particularly...schmaltzy. And lately, I just can't get her rendition of "A Song For You" out of my head. If you listen to that song and appreciate its lyric, it is like Karen's last words to her fans.

Go pick up that song on Youtube if you have never heard of it before. Oh, and if you haven't read a book recently, please pick one up as well.

Yakisoba

2010-11-14T18:18:00.000+08:00

What I like about living in Japan is how you can, under 20 minutes, whip up a simple yet wonderful meal for yourself.

All you need is a little [insert here the poultry of your choice], some cabbages, some noodles, a touch of the magical sauce and Viola! there you have it -- your delightful afternoon nosh -- Yakisoba, also known as the Mee Goreng in Malaysia.

Today, I have chosen to use the bacons. First, I brown them in 3 tablespoons of oil. Then, I throw in the cabbages and saute them until they are soft. After that, I add in the noodles and fry them for a while before spurting in a generous amount of the magical Yakisoba sauce; with this special concoction, you need no other flavoring ingredients anymore -- no salt, no peppers, no monosodium glutamate. Once the sauce has thoroughly blended in, it's time to totally pig out.

The look and texture of Yakisoba is very much like the Mee Goreng, only sweeter once you dig in, and without all the other spices -- garlics, shallots, chili padi -- less pyrotechnic on the taste buds. However, it is still a pleasant and uncomplicated menu when served hot right off the wok on a cold, bright Sunday afternoon. Now, that's my version of "Afternoon Delight."

My Loft-y Dwelling

2010-11-06T17:21:00.000+08:00

Words! Words! Words!

That is perhaps the general perception of this blog -- nothing but words.

However, that's so gonna change from now on, because after two long years, I finally owned a camera.The first in my entire life (if the one I bought a decade ago which operated on floppy disks didn't count) -- a Panasonic Lumix FX70 with 1.4Megapixels and 5x Digital zoom.

And first off, this is where I live. The loft with a celestial amount of natural light. Don't you just love the way the sun makes its grand entrance through that tall glass and into my room? Does it make you feel exuberant like I do?

Remember that space I was talking about in the middle of the room? Tonnes of activities are gonna take place there, if only I can garner enough zest for it. All I could think of doing now, in such a comfortable room, with such soporific temperature, is to cuddle up in bed with Dickens' "The Old Curiosity Shop" and a cup of hot cocoa on the side. That will be just heavenly.

NaNoWriMo

2010-11-03T16:24:00.000+08:00

The gloves are OFF!

30 days.
50,000 words.
1 apparently insane contestant.

Will my creative juice run dry before the end of the month? Or will I be strong enough to sustain the verbal diarrhea?

Stay tuned.

New Apartment

2010-11-02T09:14:00.000+08:00

Last night I began writing the first draft of my book in the new apartment.

It took me 4 consecutive weekends and 12,000 Yen worth of cab fares to move into this apartment. I fell in love with it the moment the lady agent opened its door. It has a bed, a small table, a chair, some bookshelves on the wall, a kitchen, a bathroom and a closet, all painted in white, my favorite color. On one side of the room, there are three panels of tall, floor-to-ceiling glasses and without the curtains, the room is perpetually basked in a great amount of natural light, something that I adore very much. It makes the room seem more energetic from all the photon collisions. Also, there is ample of space in the middle of the room where I imagine myself entertaining future guests, sipping green tea and having intelligent, funny conversations.

Though small, it is a very comfortable apartment. And while writing last night, I realized it was the moment I had always dreamed about as I was growing up -- me in a little cozy attic, drowning myself in self-induced melancholy about life and putting down my great thoughts about it in writing; only the reality has now replaced the attic with a studio apartment and the imaginary notepad and its pen with more sophisticated device like an Acer's netbook with its keyboard. Plus, minus the great philosophical thoughts from me.

I took 60 minutes to write 1227 words about how I'd come to this part/moment of my life. I know how extensively I'd complained about it in the last two years but last night, as the air temperature continued to drop and the maple leaves went on picking up its hues, I couldn't help but to fall in love with this particular time in my life. I didn't know what had triggered the change in the way I feel. Maybe it is brought on by the transition of the season? Or maybe it is because of the fact that this will be my last winter in Hiroshima? Or maybe this is just what life is all about -- like a box of Forrest Gump's chocolate (the black kind, I imagine) -- you have to take in its bitterness before you can finally taste the traces of the sweetness in the end?

I don't know. I am not a great philosopher. But I know I'll always appreciate a great box of chocolates.

Books I have read on my Kindle

2010-10-27T08:35:00.000+08:00

1. The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin

2. Stretch: The Unlikely Making of a Yoga Dude by Neal Pollack

3. Sh*t My Dad Says by Justin Halpern

4. City Boy: My Life in New York During the 1960s and 70s by Edmund White

5. Your Inner Fish: A Journey into the 3.5-billion-year history of the Human Body

Currently reading:
6. What Do You Care What Other People Think? by Richard Feynman

What are you reading?

Mountain Climbing in Japan

2010-10-16T22:17:00.005+08:00

People who know me know I spend most of my Saturdays being horizontal in bed either reading or jerking off. But today, I broke the pattern. I went hiking and mountain-climbing with a girl. This was perhaps the most remarkable event in my entire life up to this point -- for a guy who never even stepped out onto his balcony. In fact, this was not only remarkable, it was a breakthrough!

After a quick lunch, we began our ascend to the highest peak of the Miyajima Island -- The Misen Mountain. The journey was particularly challenging, especially in autumn when night fell early, and earlier when you were in the woods. And so, we climbed quickly, hovering over thick roots and stony steps all the time. Despite a seasoned mountain climber herself, she was schlepping, heaving and huffing like a pregnant Yuan Yuan behind me while I stopped at frequent intermissions to inspect on her and extending my chivalrous hand from time to time when the path became torturous.

She was, with her heavy knapsack, skirt and open-toe flats, clearly not appropriately attired for the trudge. Nonetheless, we went ahead anyway. Midway, I offered to exchange my much lighter knapsack, which contained only a small bottle of water, with hers. On our entire trip up, we saw young, trendy Japanese girls zooming past us in their high heels, Shu Uemura false eyelashes and waterproof mascara. These very amazing, almost-natural athletes impressed us a lot, not only because they were skipping and hopping over rocks and dried leaves in their 3-inch tall heels, but none of their foundations (possibly from Kanebo) actually melted.

An hour, 2.2km and 430m above sea level later, we reached the summit. The view was spectacular and I was schvitzing even more magnificently. Sweat was pouring down my forehead like a deluge. While she continued ambling up and down uber-huge rocks, searching for the best angle to take pictures of the spectacular sceneries of mountain ranges, sea and strange cloud formation, I sat down on a bench, unloaded from my shoulder her knapsack which was now soaked with my bodily fluid and tried to dry myself up. Half an hour later, we descended. But this time we took the cable car. In that poorly ventilated and confined box, I caught a whiff of my unpleasant self.

After that, we sat down at a cafe sipping flavored soya drinks, talking and laughing over some pizzas and waffles topped with cream made out of chestnuts, ice cream and two pieces of Japanese peach. It was by far the most memorable day for me after two years in Japan. She would be leaving Hiroshima tomorrow to explore the rest of Japan. And although we'd only spent a short time together, I was certain that she would constantly be reminded of me because, now, her knapsack smelled exactly like my armpits.

Cynicism

2010-10-15T11:38:00.000+08:00

When do you discover you'd become the worst version of yourself? For me, it was the day before yesterday.

After spending exactly 41 minutes on the phone in the morning two days ago, NTT Information finally informed me that the internet service at the new place would be remotely set up on Oct 25 after 9AM, and the current one would be terminated one day after, fulfilling my request for a "smooth telecommunication transition." The whole process was very transparent. The Japanese lady on the phone acted like she was the communication switch that sandwiched between me and the technician, relaying and translating my needs in English into Japanese to the technician on the other end. I was, for the whole time, listening to them as the discussion went on. It felt a tad like eavesdropping on your husband's or wife's conversation with the lover, only I didn't understand most of it.

I should be feeling grateful for this commendable way of handling a customer. Instead, later in the evening, when I was relating the whole incidence on the phone, I said something like "for all you know, they might just be bitching all the while about me and eyes-rolling at my demands." This came after I left an equally mean comment in a friend's blog. My friend had earlier posted some gruesome pictures of a Mat Rempit involved in a motor-vehicle accident. The first picture showed the deceased face-down with a fastened helmet missing the lower half of his body, his intestines and other internal organs frayed out like a worn out toothbrush at the waist. Then, the second picture found the other half of the body and lastly, one of his severed limbs -- thigh and all. Had it not been the shoe which was still dangling at the feet, I would have thought that it was a drumstick, or something. At the end of the post, my friend wrote: RIP, and under such shattered circumstances, I just had to go for it and wrote in his comment box: I think you mean Rest In Pieces, and then listened as my own laughter echoed thunderously across the cyberspace.

Yes, these Mat Rempits might have been turnpike nuisances and threats to many other innocent road users, but there is absolutely no need for such an insensitive, compassion-less comment from me, is there? And also the sardonic remark for the excellent customer service, which is really a rare commodity in Malaysia, that I'd been given? Shouldn't my tongue be trolling instead of being viciously sarcastic? That night after putting down the phone, I couldn't help but wonder: what had happened to that someone who, just a few years ago, was still reading Buddha's Four Noble Truths and practicing Vippasana meditation? That someone who had always looked at the world with a dork-like weltschmerz? How could I have become so cynical so fast? Is it an inevitable part of growing older, alone? Or is cynicism a byproduct of years and years of miring deeply in the selfishness of human nature? Or is it just a sign of me temporarily losing sight of the good side of life? And if I realize it now, will I spontaneously undergo a total attitude make-over? Or will the negative energy just gain momentum and snowball? And I wondered: will there, ever, be a chance for me to change from being Deeply Cynical to being Deepak Chopra?

NTT & OCN

2010-10-12T16:01:00.000+08:00

Last Saturday morning I called up OCN, my internet service provider in Japan to inform them that I'd be moving out soon, so that they can transfer and set up the service in the new apartment. It is not an exaggeration to say that without the internet, I'll just curl up on the floor and die. The ethernet cord which is constantly plugged into my netbook is akin to the central venous line supplying whatever that it is carrying to keep me alive.

But, unfortunately, it is not in the jurisdiction of OCN to make the necessary changes, I was told. NTT, or the telecommunication equivalent of Telekom Malaysia, is responsible for it. At the end of the call, Ms Karasawa gave me a number so that I could contact NTT and convey my intention. Ms Karasawa said, "They speak in English too." But, "You can only call on Tuesday because Monday is a holiday", she continued. Not a problem at all. I thought.

And so today, I dialed the given number at about 1245pm. As soon as the call was connected, I heard a sweet lady's voice saying,

"Thank you for calling. This is NTT Information. Please select the vanuage you desire. First one, English. Para Portugese...(incomprehensible)....Para Spanyol..(incomprehensible)...中文，请按4.。。"

I removed the phone from my ear, pressed "1" and heard a ring tone. After the ring tone came the tune of "Mary Had a Little Lamb" which I thought was cute. Then,

"We are ..(incomprehensible)...all the lines are busy at the moment. Please call again later."

I hanged up and dialed again. Still busy. And again. Still busy. I looked at the clock. It was lunch hour. Fine. They were all busy eating out of their plastic bento boxes which in Malaysia were called the "economical rice" in pale white polystyrene boxes. The core idea and ingredients were the same, only theirs were more resplendent, cuter and absurdly overpriced. I should politely wait. I thought. After all, nothing was bigger a deal than having a meal. I totally understood that notion as a Malaysian. And so I waited until 230PM and started calling again. The same woman was still on the phone with the same answer. And I tried again. And again.

17 calls (ranked number 10 on my mobile's Dialed Frequency List) and two hours later, instead of getting someone to address my need, I finally understood everything the woman had to say,

"Thank you for calling. This is NTT Information. Please select the LANGUAGE you desire. First one, English....."

"We are afraid all the lines are busy at the moment. Please call again later."

From past experience, I know they might just as well be busy forever. And you think shits like this only happens in Malaysia? Perhaps I should have opted to speak in my broken Japanese instead.

Anyway, the last time I checked, they were still busy, doing whatever it was that kept them away from answering my call. Nonetheless, I shall try again, and in Japanese, they call it "Gambaru" or "trying one's best." Even if I fail to get a response, I shall also endeavor to find, like the Japanese, much comfort in the act of trying and wasting the Yen.

Taking Out Your Garbages In Japan

2010-10-11T19:47:00.002+08:00

I'll be moving into a new apartment soon. The one that I am living in right now only allows singles like me to stay up to 2 years. And for the last couple of days, I'd been packing, sending off stuffs to the new place in cabs and sorting out mountains of garbages I'd accumulated for the last 2 years.

Unlike in Malaysia, when it comes to disposing your wastes, the Japanese are fastidious. And solemn, because it's written, in the Garbage Disposal Handbook given to me on the day I moved in, in bold, red font: "DO NOT dump garbage illegally! Illegal dumping is a crime. The police petrol Hiroshima City at night to prevent illegal dumping." As a law-abiding citizen of Malaysia and temporary resident of Japan, I read that handbook from cover to cover that night. For the first time in my entire adult life, I began to care more about rubbish than my mother.

On the front cover of the handbook, it said, "The environmentally-friendly City of Hiroshima sorting garbage into 8 disposal groups" and here they are, in no particular order:

1) Combustible garbage -- which includes "kitchen garbage" such as food waste, eggs shells, crab shells, animal bones; "non-recyclable paper" and "woods,etc" like medicine, sticks. Kitchen garbage should be carefully drained off all water and then wrapped in news or similar paper while cooking oil should be soaked up with cloth or newspaper. Or you can, like me, spend approximately 8RM for 5 sachets of who-knows-what to solidify the oil into something the consistency of a cracker and then throw it away. And you throw them out only on Monday and Thursday of the week. No negotiations, even if you have fat, healthy-looking maggots, which has been feeding on your half-eaten bananas, crawling out of your garbage bags.

2) PET bottles -- from which you enjoy your green tea, juices or soya sauce. This is the trickier one. You'd have thought you could dispose them like how we do it in Malaysia, caps and all. NO. Apparently, the caps and the plastic labels that said, "100% Natural" don't belong to this bottles-only category. You are required, by the law, to remove the caps and the labels, rinse the bottles thoroughly with water, crush them, and then place them, in a strong, transparent or semi-transparent bags so that whoever is watching over you in the dark, can clearly see that you have carried out the process properly, before discarding. Otherwise -- like the caps -- you are screwed. Oh, and you can only take them out on every Friday.

3) Other stuffs that you can also throw away on a Friday include containers used for cooking oils, sauces, noodle cups, mouthwash, eye medicines, dividing trays for confectionaries, bags for rice, bread, candies, wrappers for fresh food products, the aforementioned plastic lids and caps, nets for vegetables and fruits which sometimes double as masks worn during a bank robbery, and supermarket, clothing, gardening bags, all of which the Japanese classifies as "Recyclable plastics".

4) Twice a month, on the 1st and 3rd Wednesdays, you can throw away other plastics like ball pens, records, toothbrushes, plastic hangers, plastic rulers, plastic flowerpots, cassette tapes and your old collection of pornography either in the form of VCR or CDs.

5) On the 2nd and 4th Tuesdays of every month, you bring out the "Incombustible garbage", paragon of which is anything made of ceramics, specifically, cracked rice bowls, plates. earthenware pots, heat-resistant glass, naked light bulbs (naked?), cameras, small electrical appliances whose length should not exceed 30cm and the examples give are: calculators, irons, hair driers-- and the list goes on and on. Officially asterisked at the bottom are, in verbatim, A) items that are plastic on the outside but contain metal inside should be grouped with incombustible garbage, and B) fold plastic sheets and tie them with strings before throwing them out.

6) Recyclable garbage. Like newspapers, magazines, cardboxes, confectionary boxes from which your friends removed your 35th birthday cake, empty beer cans, any cans, last year's Guess tank tops, champagne bottles, broken glasses and make sure, again, that caps and lids are removed and disposed accordingly -- plastics to plastics. Metals to metals. Take out as in #4 but not before removing all the content, washing them thoroughly and labeling in red bold font "Hazardous" for items like knives.

7) Toxic garbage -- fluorescent lamps, batteries, thermometers, ex, obnoxious boyfriends. Throw them all out on the same day you take out your recyclable garbages, but don't ever recycle out-of-order, dysfunctional boyfriends. And remember to mark them as "Toxic" as instructed.

8) Large garbage (A fee will be charged for the collection of large garbage) and (reservations required). Items included are: chests of drawers, futons, microwave ovens, or anything with a maximum length or diameter of 30cm or greater such as bicycles, baby carriages, suitcases. The Household Appliances Recycling Law requires manufacturers to recycle air conditioners, TVs, refrigerators, washing machines and each requires a recycling fee. You can either transport these items yourself to the drop-off locations or pay 3000 Yen if you are A) physically disabled, B) mentally disabled or C) persons recognized as Support Required or Nursing Required with nursing care insurance, to have someone pick up and transport the items on your behalf. And then pay 4830 Yen if it is a refrigerator for recycling. All in all, approximately 300RM just to throw away your old Sharp or Mitsubishi, or whatever brand non-performing, probably single-door refrigerators.

And you are still kvetching about Malaysia?

Fear

2010-10-08T16:21:00.001+08:00

"Fear is an inevitable part of being a writer." -- Caitlin Kelly.

A few days ago, my heart stopped while going through the comments for my last post.

One of the comments came from David W. Berner, the author of the book, "Accidental
Lessons - A Memoir of a Rookie Teacher and a Life Renewed."

Immediately after reading his comment, I wrote an email to Dolly, telling her how excited I was to have a published writer reading and leaving a comment on my blog. In fact, I was ecstatic, bordering on delirious. The rapture is akin to Tash Aw scribbling in my comment box.

Many years ago, while in my second year in the dental school, I went home one day to find my aunt, who is a dermatologist, asked me, "Do you like what you are doing?" I gritted my teeth for a few seconds and announced, "Yeah. Especially when I see someone wearing my denture." Instead of what I really wanted to tell her, "Fuck those acrylic teeth!"

Fixing up people's teeth doesn't feel right for me. And I thought maybe I'll feel better doing research. And so, I made a decision, most people -- Malaysians especially -- would consider as stupid, to not set up my own clinic, and went away to study cancer, hoping in earnest that it was the right thing to do.

Sadly, five years, a Master degree in dental sciences and losing the opportunity of ever becoming a millionaire later, it still doesn't...until writing comes along. And like Gretchen who wrote The Happiness Project, it'd finally felt right.

But I've been feeling very guilty ever since I decide to become a writer. A couple of nights ago, while everyone else in the laboratory was reading cancer-related literature, I was reading Caitlin's blog on how to write better. And it made me feel even guiltier -- I hadn't signed up for an MFA in creative writing, I'd come here to study cancer. It feels like very much like a career suicide.

In addition, I am fearful. Do I have what it takes to really be a writer? I know I am not talented. But strangely, I now have the determination, something I never possessed while practicing how to do a Class 1 cavity preparation on a phantom head as a dental student, to improve my writing each time I write. One day in August, while I was completely immersed in writing a post at home, someone asked, with a frown on the forehead, "What do you get out of blogging???"

This is where I practice my writing.

It was sad to not have the kind of support from someone important to you. The path of becoming a writer is a lonely and terrifying one. Along the way aspiring writers like me need kind words, supports and understanding from people we love to help us survive. Those question marks earlier were very lethal. And I almost died.

Anyway, at the end of his comment, Dave wrote, "Write on!" And just like that, the exclamation mark resuscitated me like a jab of adrenaline piercing through the skin, muscle and bones, going right into my heart.

Memoir Writing

2010-10-04T12:54:00.006+08:00

I've been thinking, lately, of chronicling my life here in Hiroshima in the form of a book. But writing a memoir sounds so...self-indulgent, doesn't it?. And who, on earth, will be interested in reading what you do with your life anyway?

Nonetheless, after reading a few recently (by Meghan Daum, Gretchen Rubin and now, Neal Pollack), I realize memoirs are written exactly for people like me -- the "kaypoh" kind who wants to know and vicariously experience a life that is not, and never will be, my own.

It becomes clearer this morning after reading an article in the NYTimes. Here is what Michael Cunningham, the author of the article has to say, "...that writing is not only an exercise in self-expression it is also, more important, a gift we as a writers are trying to give to readers."

And because of that, after discarding my fear, self-doubts and procrastination out of the window, I've made up my mind to write a 50,000 words of memoir starting November 1, 2010. But why on such a specific date? You may ask. Nothing in particular. Just so that it coincides with the commencement of National Novel Writing Month which runs for, quite obviously, a month. And I think I work better under pressure. Who doesn't?

I had briefly attempted to write once two years ago, but stopped after 450 words. I wasn't ready. I was worried and I clearly was too critical with myself. This time, I am gonna sit down and just write. To reach the target, about 1600 words a day. No editing. No criticizing. No self-reprimanding. This is, after all, only a draft. The goal: to puke 50,000 words in a month.

I have even gotten a title for it: "My Days In Hiroshima. Ptooie. Ptooie. Ptoooie." from a friend. And if I am lucky and my book gets published eventually, it will be the gift from me dedicated, officially as a writer, to all you "kaypohchees", who love a memoir as much as I do, out there.

ps: "kaypohchees" - busybodies.

The Happiness Book

2010-10-01T08:34:00.001+08:00

If you are wondering what Manglish's doing right now, well, he's currently reading The Happiness Project -- his first ebook on..ahem..Kindle. And according to Kindle, he has done about 81% of the book. Also, he had, in the past few days, downloaded more than 100 classics from Project Gutenberg. The most exciting part about the download is they are all FREE!!!! And Kindle-friendly.

And so, I am sorry if I haven't been paying attention to your blogs. I'll be back! Meanwhile, have fun and be happy!

Oh. Reading is sooo... my bag.

A MOS Experience

2010-09-28T22:24:00.004+08:00

Half an hour ago I left the laboratory in search for dinner. I'd decided I'd have MOS burger tonight since the outlet was behind the hospital and I'd return just in time for the next step in my experiment. It's already 8pm and my stomach was growling aloud.

I walked quickly and upon reaching, I skimmed through the menu board displayed outside and then, with a quicker pace -- BANG! -- I ran into the immaculate glass sliding door. My glasses fell. Luckily my hands reflexed and caught them. I put them back on and, in a flash, knew I'd only one option. That was: to step in bravely and face the ridicule. And so I did. But this time, I waited until I was sure that the door was wide open. I then walked in with a burn on my forehead.

An old couple asked if I was alright in Japanese. The girl behind the counter asked if I was alright. The head-butt miraculously cured my inability to speak Japanese. I apologized sheepishly and placed my order: a cheesy beef burger, fries and a drink. I paid for them and the girl told me my food would be served.

I sat down at one of the round tables meant for four near the counter just as the old couple rose and left. I glanced around the inside and saw a young couple sat waiting for their order on the other side of the counter, and a girl sitting at one of the corners, far from me, occupied by her mobile phone. I sat with my nose facing the outside. I saw through the glass door. I lifted my head slight to look at the clock above it and to the left. I turned and observed the staffs behind me. Everyone was busy. Nobody was ridiculing. In fact, nobody seemed to remember what'd happened only 10 mins ago. But here I was, apprehensively seething silently in my embarrassment and alone with no single person armors: no books, no Ipod and no sms from anybody to fumble with -- just me, my sore forehead and a massively bruised ego.

My food arrived a while later. I choked on the drink and perspired even more. I picked up the hot fries one after another,chewed quickly and swallowed, nearly burning my esophagus. I gulped down the burger and the melted cheese dripped all over the table. I then finished my drink and left. And now I am sorry they have to clean up the mess on my table and the smudge my forehead and glasses left behind on the glass door.

Diamonds Are Forever

2010-09-23T09:52:00.001+08:00

What do Marilyn Monroe, Shirley Bassey and Naomi Campbell have in common? Diamonds.

Formed gradually in earth for billions of years, these gemstones give off a luster that's blinding. When cut into fancy shapes, with a tad of its natural coloring impurities, they can be transformed into exotic heart red diamonds that capture the hearts of millions. And for a man to put such a bling-bling on the finger of any women is to, with full confidence, seal a marriage proposal with an affirmative "YES!" every time. Sometimes these crystal clear, unbreakable rocks, as the ancient Greek called them, could last longer than the flashiest proposal, wedding reception, or even love, as Dame Shirley Bassey told us so.

Ever since Monroe's rendition in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, diamonds have become every women's best friends. Well, almost. Beautiful things are usually fraught with controversies, and beautiful women like Naomi Campbell, was recently implicated in a lawsuit concerning blood diamonds. She is, I believe, the only woman who'd not regard those diamonds as one of the best friends from now on. These "tainted" diamonds are usually mined and sold to fund revolutionary groups' operations which involve human right abuse, child labors and sometimes, murder. But with synthetic, environment friendly diamonds these days, non celebrities like us, can still own a piece of these precious stones and be guilt-free.

Amazon Kindle My Indulgence

2010-09-18T15:55:00.006+08:00

Well, it is not an indulgence, really. A friend asked last night, "Why Kindle when you can Ipad?" And so, quickly, here are just some justifications to make my purchase seem less whimsical for a 30-something who is single with a slightly disposable income.

1) When I pick up my Kindle, all I want to do is READ. Just READ. That's why I prefer Kindle over Ipad. I might want to think of myself as someone possessing single-pointed concentration of a Tibetan monk and discipline, but let's be honest and not pretend to be who I really am not. If you hand me an Ipad, I am more likely to be doing every other things it has to offer, except reading.

2) The latest model of Kindle is svelte. It's small. It's light. It's, as advertised on Amazon website, only 8.7 ounces! And hence, it's very portable. Ipad,on the other hand, is,well, frankly, bulky and heavy. It's going to be a burden on my shoulder. That's what I thought when I held an Ipad a few months ago.

3) Right now, I have in my netbook hundred of academic articles to be studied, however, I am not because A) I am lazy, B) I've lost interest and C) It's difficult to read on my netbook, not because of the size of the screen (which I've initially planned to put the blame on) but, as I've mentioned early, whenever I click open one, I'll be doing all the other things -- reading NYT, blogs, checking emails, Facebooking -- while the article doubles as a wallpaper behind. With Kindle and its enhanced PDF reader, I sincerely hope that I'll be picking up my enthusiasm and those articles again very soon, if not immediately.

4) Amazon claims that they have doubled the storage capacity of the latest model. Now, you can store up to 3,500 books in this gizmo which is "barely 1/3 of an inch" in their own words. How cool is that! I'll be moving out soon from the current apartment and realize, over the past two years, I've accumulated a few more books than when I first arrived here, and it's a chore to transfer these volumes to the new apartment without a car. With Kindle, I can buy as many books as I want and space and mobility will never be an issue again. And I've intensely wanted to own every book Charles Dickens had ever written and looks like it won't be a problem anymore now.

5) Lest this becomes a dissection of my own soul, suffice it to say that I'm very impatient, especially when it comes to reading the book that I like. It's a bit childish really, because, isn't delay gratification the definition of maturity? Last night, I downloaded my first official (by which I mean I paid for it) e-book in, approximately, less than 10 secs. If you are not a book junkie, I don't expect you to vicariously go through the kind of obscene shudder that accompanied the completion of the download. And, I did this all in the comfort of my own room. There is no need to dress up and walk a few miles down the road to the bookstore. The only downside is my disposable income is not as disposable as I've imagined it to be.

6) Like other electronic gadgets, Amazon offers a suite of leather and designer covers for your Kindle. They come in various colors and mosaics. To my mind, they are cool. Imagine, instead of holding your Kindle bare, you can wrap in up in beautifully crafted cover, or elegantly manufactured (in China, without a doubt) leather cover and bring them with you everywhere you go and pick up your reading at anytime.

7) The pretty self-explanatory built-in dictionary.

So, now you know why I bought a Kindle. Oh, and en passant, I style up my Kindle, as recommended, with a Moleskin Kindle Cover with reporter-style notebook. Really, this is not an indulgence either. Just showing off, probably.

Will you leave?

2010-09-17T09:08:00.000+08:00

Something that I saw this morning on Facebook made me wonder: given the opportunity, how many of us, who are still living in Malaysia, will choose to leave the country?

A Malay colleague who lives in Kelantan wrote, in verbatim, "yeay! yeay! dapat Raja baru..." Somehow, he strikes a chord in me that is very...je ne sais quoi. I know I've been rather patriotic since two years ago. Publicly announcing in the cyberspace how much I've loved my country. But this morning, I am again being reminded of how ethnically rooted we still are. Or at least I am, despite the fact that I once said I'd introduce myself, from now on, as a Malaysian without the perennial "Chinese" dogging at the end of my sentence. What my colleague said also reminded me of why I had once contemplated leaving the country many years ago.

Like I said, I don't know why my colleague should trigger the response in this post and I don't intend to be long-winded. But I would like to know: Will you leave if you are given the chance? And why?

A Dream Haircut

2010-09-11T18:44:00.001+08:00

I had a strange dream last night. I dreamed that my mother was giving me a haircut again like she did more than 20 years ago when she still owned a hair saloon. I was forced to go back to the shop in my dream for a badly done hair cut. My mum confronted the hairstylist, a faceless young girl in my dream, who's obsessed with her beautifully crafted finger nails. After pointing out the mistake, my mum picked up the scissors right away and began trimming my hair with full concentration and devotion like she did when I was young, checking in the mirror for balance, trying hard to reconcile the tufts of hair that stood up distinctively on top of my head like a broom.

I remember feeling outraged all the time, and overtly uncomfortable not only because of the intrusion but also because I was completely naked in the dream, except for a towel across my crotch. Even though everyone in the shop were indifferent of my nakedness and what my mum was doing, I remember resenting her for causing the embarrassment. Somehow, I kept mum of my feeling as usual, sat in the chair, holding tight to that piece of drape while she continued working on my hair.

She then splashed a thick load of conditioner on my hair which was made up of egg whites and orange (don't ask how I know the ingredients, it was a dream!) and was ready to do the final touch with some hairstyling mousse, to which I said indignantly , "I don't want that." Sadness flashed across her face as I looked at her in the mirror, but she went ahead anyway. When she was done, I realized I looked good even though it wasn't the style I'd preferred it to be. I left the chair without looking back in search for my clothes and found them, and the girl, behind the counter.

"Can I dress up here?" I asked.

"S..u..uu..re," she drawled insouciantly and left me alone to put my clothes on.

Just then, someone was delivering some armchairs into the shop. I decided to help as an apology for the inconveniences we'd caused and carried three of them into the back of the shop. As I put them down, I saw my mum came in with two more. I turned to her and she said, "So heavy..." and left. My mum has a prolapsed disc on her back that's constantly pressing on the nerve and causing her to lose all sensations in both her legs if she walks too much.

I remember in the dream that she knew I was feeling awkward and sorry for the faceless girl (which explained why she carried those chairs) and also she knew that I knew she knew of my earlier unwholesome emotions. My mother is amazingly empathic and can put herself through the emotions of anyone vicariously, especially mine. It's a gift. Until several years ago, we were unable to separate from each other in this web of psychological entanglements. It was fine as I was growing up but damaging, to my mind, as I grew older, to her relationship with my dad and perhaps everyone in the family. And so, I decided to disengage myself, move away to KL and left her alone unsupported emotionally. Though I am not as good as her in putting myself in others' shoes, I can tell she is disappointed and because of that I'm always, to today, guilty about it.

As I reemerged from the back room, I found my mum standing next to the counter, quiet, and the girl was admiring her finger nails and lashing out a litany of muted dissatisfactions at my mum. Though my mum never spoke a word, I could tell she was sad, unable to understand why her intention of wanting her son to look good went unappreciated and was treated like a shame on him. As a way of saying "I'm sorry", I took her hands and put them around my waist as I offered ways to make it up to the girl. As she squeezed her hands tightly, I knew I was coming out of the dream as I was beginning to interpret its meaning. I woke up suddenly at 830am and still confused of all its contents and their significant representations.

I have, in the past, contemplated changing the way my hair looks many times, but never have the guts to take the plunge, not knowing how it will turn out on me, even when my friend told me once it looked postiche. If my hairstyle is, by any means, an indication of how much I love my mother, then it has remained more or less the same since 1978.

A Last Autumn's Raya

2010-09-10T10:23:00.003+08:00

My aircondition stayed off the entire time last night. It's a sign. A sign that autumn is coming, and very soon, the maple leaves will morph into a mixture of reddish orange and set the town as if ablaze. As the sultry summer gradually wraps up, it also gently unfolds what is going to be my last autumn here.

Several days ago, a friend wrote and told me, "I tell you, you'll scream wanna go back Japan once you're back in Bolehland". I thought for a while what she said and replied, "seriously, I don't think I'll miss Japan, I may think about it sometimes, but certainly won't miss it."

This morning, on my way to work, I saw two Japanese boys, dressed in white shirts and short navy blue pants with a banana yellow school bags on their shoulders, instantly, I pictured a couple of Malay kids draped in white Baju Melayu with a piece of apple green cloth wrapped around their waists going to Madrasah. This, I realize, I actually miss.

My relationship with Malaysia is as if dictated by an ancient religious practice, or some mysterious cosmic forces. It is like a lover you were born into and with whom you grow up, and one that you may be destined for life. It may not be the one I've chosen for myself in the name of free love, but this is the one that I come to know better as time goes by. Even amid what people in the news industry calls the "raising racial tension", Malaysia may likely be the lover, with all its strength and weaknesses, who I'll fall genuinely in love with for a long time.

Japan, on the other hand, is like the secret lover I'm having an affair with. It's exciting. It's passionate. It's fast moving. It's also ephemeral. Some affairs may end up like "An Affair To Remember". But this, I am sure, will not become one of those. This one is going to end up with me recalling, in bursts, of all the good, and not-so-good, times I've spent here.

No relationships can sustain solely on love and tolerance. It needs communication, an exchange of opinions, a telling of each other's likes and dislikes to grow. And I'd like to believe, even if it makes me sound loutish and naive, that is what "racial tension" is all about, a good pillow talk between lovers to move forward in a relationship. As with all other aspects of life, there is no guarantees in anything, but there's always the hope that this will, eventually, turn out to be the holy grail of everyone in love -- a harmonious, mature long term relationship. There are just too many good stuffs, in my 37-year long relationship with Malaysia, to be missed: families, friends and most important of all -- festivities, and today being the first day of Hari Raya, let all of us work out our differences and really have a good time. Selamat Hari Raya Aidilfitri.

Inner Peace

2010-09-06T16:13:00.003+08:00

Every morning, I see a particularly tall Japanese guy of an undetermined age while on my way to work. He looks boyish and slightly overweight. From afar, he looks like everyone else. However, as we approach each other, I instantly recognize the gait of someone medically labeled as special on him. And no matter at which point our path may cross -- on the bridge or along the sidewalk -- he never ceases talking to himself. Except for the height, from other physical descriptions alone, we are almost alike: fully grown men with obstinate baby fat that won't go away.

But what distinctively tells us apart is that while he chooses to openly verbalize his inner voices alarming the rest of the pedestrians, I struggle to muffle mine with cerebrospinal fluid from the subarachnoid spaces within my brain. Like him, I too talk to myself a lot. But unlike him, I do most of the talking inside my head. These invisible turd-like chatters have been expanding inside my skull like an aggressive brain tumor for many, many years and building up such tremendous intracranial pressure that, I once feared, may one day force its way out and sluice right through my eardrum while I stand deadpan around a corner and start telling people, "I hear voices."

It hasn't followed that course of action though. Instead of discharging through my auditory canal, these imaginary conversations take a turn and end up...here.

For years, I don't know what to do with these white noises that've been going on between my ears. Growing up, I've countless of people offering me advices on how to live my life: go be a doctor, never fall in love while studying, earn more money, buy a big car, get married, have children to hedge against old age and live happily ever-after. These are, I believe, century-old sound advices which have stood the test of time, but, unfortunately, none of them comes in handy when my neurones decide to randomly go on a firing spree like a madman gone berserk. There have been times when the electrical impulses generated are so powerful that my mind is temporarily short-circuited and goes blank. Suddenly you are alone and helpless.

Isn't it funny how certain themes keep repeating themselves like a song played on a broken 12-inch, 45rpm vinyl record from the Seventies? Some people may find it irresistible to want to tell me, "Okay, it's enough already. We know what you've been going through. Move on." But aren't all of us constantly grappling with some central conflicts in our own lives: money, sex...love, that turn us into narcissitic narrators to our friends? My obsession is the inner peace, in the form of something which I can do, that I've longed for since graduating from dental school.

Before last night, the silhouette of which had been rather sketchy. But I finally saw it clearly while going through Meghan's essays again. Writing offers me the bliss that I've been seeking for many years. And by writing in here, in the confine of a bottomless white box, I continue to talk to myself without so much as intruding into anyone's life.

Dysthymia and Me

2010-09-02T14:05:00.003+08:00

Last night while chatting with my sister, I told her, "Well, look at me. I didn't feel homesick at all this time" laughed and congratulated myself.

This morning, the walls of the fortress that safeguard my psychical well-being collapsed suddenly for no fathomable reasons while I was mid-shower. In the past, my soul would've been so deeply buried under the rubble that it was impossible to even finish scrubbing my crotch. But that's before I truly grasp the nature of what's inside of me since ten years ago -- dysthymia. The psychiatrist who informed me said it as if the disease were a friend. Now, I heard the rumble, ignored it, finished the shower and got out of the bathroom.

In the world of madnesses, dysthymia is one that's less crazy. It is a low grade kind of depression. It is also chronic and long-lasting. There is a list of symptoms that the specialists must check before he can look you in the eye and pronounce solemnly, "I'm sorry... but you have dysthymia." It is a tough call to make. You must have at least two of these: 1) feeling of hopelessness, 2) poor concentration or difficult in making decision, 3) low self-esteem, 4) low energy, 5) insomnia, 6) poor appetite or binging and 7) irritability, or in short, to be alive and kicking, for at least two years or more, to fall within this spectrum of insanities. Albeit a mental illness that is clinically deemed as "sub-mad", with all the social stigmata, it is difficult to assume the status of a mental patient without even the slightest protest, and so the reaction at the end of the session is usually, "Why me?" Again, it is hard to explain or pinpoint the root of mental illnesses. It is widely believed now that it runs in the family: my schizophrenic great uncle once tried to butcher my grandmother in the kitchen, who, in turn, many years later, threw a knife at his daughter, in combat style, I imagined, from the same spot.

In ancient Greek, the word dysthymia means "bad state of mind" or "ill humor". In my modern life, it is a nuisance like an unwelcome guest. It comes and goes without so much as a knock. Sometimes, it feels like a stranger barging into the toilet while you are at it with a magazine. "Excuse me....." you cringe and shrill. But it just stands at the door and looks at you like nothing's the matter. Sometimes, it feels like a petulant newborn who cries all night and there is nothing you can do but to wait it out, hopefully very soon. The worst is when it decides to lodge for a few days, and if you entertain it long enough, you develop a skill to kvetch so soul-draining that all your friends are already half-dead before it's over. In a nutshell, dysthymia is complex and vexing. You want to tell your friends, "It's not me. It's dysthymia!" but they think you are crazy and contemplate staying away gradually.

The psychiatrist I saw wanted to fix my fortress, and possibly fortifying its walls, with the wonder pill, Prozac. I was 28, single and in fear of losing my hard-on eventually. Like other modern men and women, I self-medicate and have come a long way since. I realize if you slowly exert authority in the relationship, you can pretty much act like a superior and boss the unwanted guest around. You can coax it into working with you, from pottery to philosophy. When dysthymia visits these days, I usually sit it down to write with me, for hours on end, until it gets tired and leaves me alone and with a piece of short essay. It is a win-win situation but, like all other interactions of forces, it takes years to gently build up the relationship and work at what's best for each other. When you finally understand dysthymia, it is so going to be your next best friend.

Happy Merdeka Day

2010-08-31T19:17:00.004+08:00

I am back in hell, and I ain't kidding.

I arrived late in Osaka on Sunday evening and had to spend a night there. The next day, while waiting for a bus bound for Hiroshima, Osaka reached an infernal daytime temperature of 36 degree Celsius. 36 degrees!!! I could literally feel my soul being incinerated. If this is not hell, my friends, I don't know what is!

Oh, before it completely slips off my mind, HAPPY MERDEKA DAY, Malaysians.

Several hours ago, a colleague and a fellow student here, Intan, wrote to me about how much she was already missing Malaysia even though it was only a week ago that she'd returned to Hiroshima after the summer vacation. She said she was beginning to think of all kinds of Malaysian food -- nasi lemak, rendang, serunding, cendol; just to name a few. I know she isn't saying that because she is fasting. When it comes to our foods, who, in their right Malaysian's mind, wouldn't?

But it wasn't always like this before.

Pre-Japan, you'd probably hear me say, when it came to meal times, "har? chicken rice again ar?" or ask "haizzz...what to eat for lunch har?" or grunt with the unappreciative "sienzzz...". Post-Japan, I almost dropped to my knees and kissed the floor of Carrefour, Subang Jaya, one afternoon when I was there during my three-week holiday, overwhelmed by the enormous spread of edible stuffs. There were so much food that it hurt to see leftovers everywhere. We've gotta start practicing some restraints before we finally run out of food one day! Perhaps the removal of subsidies for sugar and fuel is a good move to curb our ever-expanding extravagant lifestyles afterall?

While Intan's diet is religiously confined to only halal stuffs, this holiday, I deliberately decided to limit mine and ate, with no exaggeration, mostly ABC, where and when I could find them. I am a dentist with a sweet tooth and several amalgam fillings. My love for the flavored ice shaving developed two years after I entered university. And it began in SS2. It was the only place I'd go back often for ABC. However, I'd discovered, recently, a more comfortable outlet to slake my craving for it -- Pappa Rich -- at a somewhat escalated price but no less satisfying. And if you are a chowhound like me, I'm sure you wouldn't mind paying a few extra Ringgit for its worth and the airconditioning.

It was a marvelous three-week I'd spent in K.L. With our great foods and still-tolerable weather, it is easy to say, "I love you, Malaysia". But it is not so easy to say, "I love you, Malaysians." It is painful to hear, after 53 years of Independence, of tunnel-visioned educators still discharging irresponsible racist remarks or hormone-raging teenagers paint-splashing surau. Could it be a sign of a fucked-up education system? Or is it possible that Malaysia is just experiencing midlife crisis triggered by our pursue of becoming a high-income nation? And that the country will be fine, even great, after this period of dramatic national self-doubt? I have no idea.

All I know now is that on a still undetermined date somewhere in September next year, I will scream, with the risk of bursting my own arteries, "MERDEKA! MERDEKA! MERDEKA!" when my study is over.

My dream

2010-08-25T16:32:00.002+08:00

If you haven't seen so much of me in the blogosphere lately, that's because I've been cheating on blogging with feasting and reading.

My vacation is coming to an end soon. This Sunday, to be exact. And even with only one year left, the mere thought of returning to Hiroshima ALMOST reduced me to a puddle of tears last evening.

It is ironic, really.

When my childhood friend, Derrick, sent me pictures of himself seemingly enjoying his American life twenty years ago, somewhere inside my head, he implanted the itch of wanting to be like him. It was one of those very expensive itches that, my father said, couldn't be scratched even if he sold his ass off . But still, I wanted to have my pictures taken while strawberry-picking and had, what I imagined to be a gentle breeze to ruffle my hair like it did to Derrick's. I also wanted to get all wrapped up, from head to toe, in bright yellow trench coat in front of Niagara Falls. In fact, any overseas waterfalls would greatly fit the bill then. Not necessarily The Niagara because when you are poor, you are generally not entitled for any negotiations.

And so, all I could do was to fantasize, scratching the phantom itch with an imaginary wooden stick bearing a Monkey-like paw at the end. Over the next few years, the fantasy was fed with so much mental energy that it grew and became a delusion. It was no longer a little fantasy which I withdrew from my compartmentalized mind for solace everytime an exam was approaching, it'd become a mission. Unlike Derrick who was, by our local examination syndicate's standard, a mediocre student at best, I, on the other hand, had, so far, passed all major exams with almost all the flying colors you could find in a box of crayons. The only and final examination left to be taken now was the STPM before I finally landed myself in a foreign university. I continued to dream and was already practicing the speech I imagined myself giving to reporters interviewing me for being one of the top students in the country and winning the much coveted Public Service Department's scholarship.

As with all self-congratulatory that was done too soon, I ended up, like Derrick, being an average student in the end. With a result that put my parents to shame, the speech I'd been drafting inside my head was no longer needed since there was no way I could be securing the scholarship, let alone attending a press conference. My dream was shattered. I left the pieces where they were but kept the offer letter from the Royal College of Surgeons in Ireland intact in a folder and got on with life. Even though broken, I didn't not give up my dream. After graduating from dental school, I tried scotch-taping the remnants. But since I was mediocre now and born without a silver spoon, neither was I a bumiputra, none of the scholarships I applied to, for a overseas Master degree, was successful and so, I'd to live up to a much-believed Malaysian truth: local universities were reserved for mediocre students, and returned to my alma mater.

It should become clear now, the irony, shouldn't it?

I should be glad to be returning to Hiroshima and living a dream which I'd harbored for almost two decades. It has finally come true for me. But I am not, because Derrick didn't tell me when I looked at his pictures, it was only the facade of a dream I was seeing and no one warned me, a dream could, sometimes, turn out to be a nightmare too.

ps: thanks for still reading my blog and I'll be returning to yours, very soon. (Sob, sob.)

Walking canes

2010-08-15T18:47:00.002+08:00

Several months before I went to Japan, my grandpa fell very sick suddenly. He went through a battery of medical tests but none of the specialists he saw could come up with a definitive diagnosis. His weight nosedived. His muscles withered so rapidly that he could hardly walk without some sort of assistance.

Even then, he'd pester my parents to drive him to my uncle's shop which he'd helped out for the last two decades. My grandpa left China and came to Malaya when he was nine. He was strong and independent, and because of that, even with his infirmities, he refused the use of a wheelchair.

My aunt suggested a walking cane for him. In the little hometown of ours, there weren't many choices we could find that matched his lifetime accomplishments: despite having almost no education at all himself, he was considered, by our small town standard, a fortunate old man who'd raised successful children and grandchildren. The walking sticks that were available were mainly made of rattan with simple designs. Online shopping was not as rampant too.

It was only recently that I realized there was a whole suite of walking sticks anyone could choose from the Walking Canes.Not only does it offer a range of fashionable metal walking canes, there is also a section on the history on the walking stick: do you know that walking sticks were a fashion statement back in the 17th and 18th century for the Europeans? And that, unlike most the the third world's mindset, its use is not restricted to the old and fragile? And so, for those of you who are looking for a walking cane for any purposes, why not take a look?

Almost Lolita

2010-08-15T17:13:00.001+08:00

The journey home felt like an eternity. It took me two train rides, an onigiri and 16 hours before lifting off from the tarmac of Kansai airport. And then, it was not until after a three hour's wait in Hong Kong that I was finally on my way home on a flight en route to Penang.

The aircraft was full of passengers: businessmen, the group of students from Penang who I assumed had just participated in some choir competition in Hong Kong judging from the exact same T shirt everyone in the flock was wearing, tourists and a couple who sat besides me. With this many people in a tiny compartment, the warm air inside the cabin made me feel drowsier from the lack of sleep and irritable when the girl, of the couple next to me, nudged me consistently for a good 15 minutes with her elbow while playing tennis on her lover's iPad.

The irritation at last stopped when she was forced by air travel regulation to switch off all electronic devices before taking off and I dozed off almost immediately. I didn't know for how long I'd slept, but as soon as I woke up, I found myself something more exciting to watch than the in-flight entertainment provided by Cathay Pacific: the couple was all over each other.

Somewhere between Hong Kong and Kuala Lumpur, several thousand feet above the South China Sea, his right hand slithered its way up and down her mid section, her back and her hip as she leaned on his shoulder as if she'd been born without a full set of vertebrates with her hand gently kneading her lover's right inner thigh like it was a piece of dough. It was from their amorous exchange of words in Cantonese and Mandarin that I realized they were not Malaysians.

Knowing that they didn't share the same nationality as me didn't shock me quite as much as what I was going to find out next before touching down. It was during the time when the guy was busy filling out what the air stewardess from the previous flight to Hong Kong from Osaka acknowledged as a "landing card" that I discovered the guy was born in Hong Kong in 1968, Hong Kong and the girl in Guang Dong in 1994, which would make her 16 this year and almost a nymphet!

Wouldn't that also make her a minor? An underage by most societal standards with the exception of maybe Queensland, Australia? If so, then how would the rest of the passengers, you, me and the cabin crews interpret her lover's gestures -- an avuncular touch?

Being a kaypohchee, I couldn't help but question further: what was it that drove middle-aged guys into the embrace of a much younger woman, or even man? Could it be that, in today's youth obsessed culture, being in close proximity with people younger than ourselves would, somehow, magically restore vitality lost to aging? Or were middle-aged guys just latently Humbert Humberts?

Pre Japan, I would've been disgusted by the almost-Lolita, public amorous display of affection and couldn't, with a more than 30 years gap in age and life experiences, imagine a future for them. But post Japan, it didn't matter -- they looked in love and happy, and who am I to judge anyway?

Wuthering Heights

2010-08-01T09:43:00.002+08:00

Wuthering Heights turned out to be a page-turner. So riveting that I have to tell myself "ok, that's enough" and remind myself to go to bed.

After my initial "traumatic" experience with classics like David Copperfield, I dreaded reading W.H because I foresaw myself having to refer to the dictionary constantly. However, it was different this time; the time spent on checking the dictionary was greatly cut down and I was completely rapt. Guess I am at last reaping the fruits of my previous efforts, eh?

Anyway, this is a fiction of the Gothic genre: a combination of horror and romance. The first spooky moment appeared in chapter three where one of the narrators of the story, Mr Lockwood came face to face with the ghost of W.H. There, I tell ya, every hair on my body stood on its end like spears ready to attack the imaginary apparition.

Then came the wrenched love that would twist every soul who read it. Again, it is not my style to go into the details (because I am hoping to entice you into reading it if you haven't) but suffice it to say that some characters in the story were so infernally (a favourite word in the book) obnoxious that I almost puke blood reading. Nonetheless, I still couldn't comprehend certain parts of the story, like: how could the villain die so quickly all of a sudden in the end? And also one of the cruel characters, as was pointed out at the end of the book, spoke in very strong Yorkshire accent which probably compounded on my perplexities of the story.

I must say that I marvel, as usual, at the way the story was crafted and wonder perhaps I should just wake myself up now from my own reverie of becoming a writer. I admire Emily's talents in writing. Well, if you have read it and know what I am talking about, feel free to untangle me from my befuddlements of the story in your comments. But if you have not, read it. I know you'll like it.

Of Masks and Music Boxes

2010-07-31T22:02:00.004+08:00

If you were to choose a mask that embodies your personality, which one of these would it be? Would you be the majestic bauta Jolly Curlie Gold Music Face? Or the elegant golden Colorosa Columbina? Or would you be the mysterious feline Columbine Medallion?

I'd, of course, go for the red Zanni Batocchio with a striking long beak. Because that was what, according to Wikipedia, French doctor Charles de Lorme wore while treating plague patients. But for me, I just adore its elongated horn, if you know what I mean.

According to Venetian Masks, Venetians were said to, be it noblemen or servants, don masks, in the past, so that they could roam freely in the city during the day and keep their identities and activities -- either fiscal or amorous -- clandestine. However, by the end of 18th century (according to Wikipedia again), its quotidian use was enormously restricted and reduced to three months only. In addition, all these mask talk must have roused in us, inevitably, of the ghostly, off-white mask of The Phantom of The Opera, didn't it?

Now, while I may never have owned a mask (if those plastic Ultraman ones didn't count), I used to partially own a music box. It was my mother's. And it used to have a ballerina dancing when its cover was lifted. That was until one day, like any other boys, out of curiosity, I stealthily plucked the ballerina off and dismantled her stage. All that was left now was a hideous metallic brail plucking the rotating comb which still produced the tune but on an undecorated, bare bedplate with its ratchet lever.

It was more than 30 years ago. Come to think of it, perhaps, I should replace it, huh? And if you had been a naughty boy too like me, here -- choose one from these Music Boxes and give your mama on the next Mother's Day.

A Poem

2010-07-28T15:23:00.000+08:00

I was born today,
On July Twenty-Eighth,
I know gone are the days,
Where my young heart sang.

I am getting old,
For all of you told me so,
But age is never a foe,
And I would like to thank you all.

Eat, Pray, Love

2010-07-27T08:29:00.003+08:00

Three and a half dog-ears (out of a maximum of five.)

That is what I am going to give to "Eat, Pray, Love" by Elizabeth Gilbert -- according to the latest Manglish's Dog-ears Book Rating System.

This book is funny, dramatically emotional and extensively researched, if not punctiliously.

As some of you may have known, the book is divided into three parts -- Italy, India, and Indonesia -- detailing the journey of a soul-shattered, antidepressants-dependent Liz (as she was fondly addressed by friends) in her search for pleasure/eating (pizza in particular) in Rome, then pray in an ashram and finally the balance between hedonistic pursuits and spirituality in Bali. Turned out she also found the love of her life in Bali.

Certain parts of the book, however, felt like a drag especially the parts she was going through the emotional turmoil of a rickety marriage and an emotionally unavailable lover -- the catalyst that actually and eventually dissolved her marriage. The way she described those tumultuous moments was, to my mind, a tad too dramatic. But, hey, that is exactly why it is now a movie, isn't it? Nonetheless, for someone who had also gone through the same dark moments, I could empathize.

Anyway, overall, I enjoyed the book thoroughly. And time seemed to drift by slowly when you were in the hands of a good book like this -- what with its vivid description of the places, stimulating conversations, self-depreciating thoughts; it felt as if you had lived a million lives in the span of twenty minutes. There were some really laugh-out-loud moments too.

Oh, and en passant, if you want to know, Kuala Lumpur was very briefly mentioned in the book and my next book (right after Wuthering Heights) will be The Italian -- a must read I think for those of you who are like me, troubled by the question why Malaysia's FDI for 2009 nosedived 81%, far below even the Philippines.

But why "The Italian"?

Go read "Eat, Pray, Love".

Earthquake

2010-07-23T14:32:00.004+08:00

I swear I just felt the earth moved for ONE second.

I was all alone in the lab reading Neal Pollack's blog when, suddenly, I heard a faint thud. My chair jerked a tad and halted almost as abruptly as it'd started. I then peeled my eyes away from the screen and saw that the Venetian blind was, albeit in an iota of amplitude, visibly moving from left to right.

I sat stock-still and watched the blind gently swing for a while, anticipating anxiously for it to get wilder. But few minutes later, the pendulum-like dance and the ephemeral drama ended.

For some unfathomable masochist reason, I'd secretly wished that there were an earthquake just now. Not the kind that'd burn houses and kill millions, but those that probably felt like a roller coaster ride or a walk when you were stoned.

When nothing happened in the end, I thought: if there were going to be an earthquake, I'd better emptied my bladder now. For someone (me) who regards one's dignity as more important than one's life, it would really be a tragedy to die, in an earthquake, with a bladder full of pee.

What would they say when they eventually unearthed my body from under the rubbles?

"Ohh...Look at this poor thing. He didn't even have a chance to pee first."

Or what if, on my way to heaven, I just lost all sphincter controls and urinated? Is that why we have what they call the "Golden Shower"?

And I wondered how long the picket line would be, when I finally arrived in heaven, outside the lavatories, if there was ever one. Would God excuse me for taking a leak?

When my wild imagination slowly abated, I turned and looked at the blind again, beyond which I caught sight of the construction that had been going on for weeks now. You may think that explained everything, huh?! But let me tell you this: there is no heavy pounding, or whatsoever, on the ground.

BJ

2010-07-19T16:56:00.000+08:00

No. Not blowjob. Tsk!

If any of you should ever see me moseying in any major bookstores from now on, I want you to, by all means, shoot me!

It being a national holiday today and in my obstinate attempt to prove to some friends that I DO HAVE A LIFE albeit being single, I decided to get out of my little haven for some fresher air.

In fact, I needed a new bottle of body shampoo. And I didn't want to repeat the mistake, had I shopped in a hurry, of grabbing the wrong one like I did mistaking hair conditioner for shampoo. That was, I told myself, the ONLY item on my shopping list..

Two hours later, I was home with, indeed, a new bottle of body shampoo and to my own dismay -- "Eat, Pray, Love" and "Wuthering Heights".

There is, actually, absolutely nothing wrong with buying book, provided that you also read them. And I've read all the books that I purchased this year. Parts of them twice. It is just that I think I've probably overspent and exceeded the 500RM tax rebate for books.

But I just couldn't help myself just now ambling up and down the aisles with rows after rows of glossy, well illustrated book covers beckoning me. And the whole reason why I even wanted to buy "Eat, Pray, Love" by Elizabeth Gilbert, the author whom I've heard of but whose books I've not read before, was plainly because Julia Roberts was on the cover.

And I love Julia Roberts. I think she is the most beautiful woman on earth, right after Audrey Hepburn in "Breakfast At Tiffany's". And she (Julia Roberts) looked so "Awww....." sitting on a bench nibbling on a cup of ice cream on the cover. That was simply irresistible..err...I mean Julia Roberts, not the ice cream.

Moreover, they are having a promotion for PUFFIN CLASSICS; "Wuthering Heights" was only 900 yen, after tax, for 480-odd pages. It was a bargain. And should I find it a tad too boring, I could still burn it down and then get high from snuffing its ashes.

So, I am serious about the shooting because I've just officially become a BJ -- Book Junkie.

A Day In My Life

2010-07-18T21:04:00.002+08:00

It was a perfect day.

After three consecutive rainy days earlier this week, Hiroshima was finally dry and shiny today.

Except for the one hour taken up by work in the morning, the rest of it was all mine. A completely obligation-free day that felt like a piece of empty canvas onto which I'd color as I liked. There was no need to force myself into doing stuffs that I didn't feel like to: going out with lovers, spending time with family or friends.

Just some me-time and me-thoughts.

And so I cooked myself a pot of bakuteh with fried tofus, mushrooms, chicken breasts and lettuces.

In the afternoon, I played " The Private Lives of Pippa Lee" on the laptop and watched it with two parts Kahlua, one part vodka, some ice and peanuts. It was a good story, if you want to know. It was about a girl, Pippa Sarkissian who ran away from her neurotic mother and a pastor father and ended up in world caught up with promiscuous sex and drugs. She then married Herb Lee, a prominent publisher who sort of saved her from her decadent life, and developed a sleep disorder in which she somnambulated. To cut to the chase, one day, she caught her husband, because of whom she was no longer wild, having an affair with a good friend. The husband died of a heart attack in the end and she fell in love expectedly with Chris, played by Keanu Reeves.

After the movie, I dozed off while reading "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again". When I woke up eventually, the sun had set in the west. Half of my room was now lit in a golden hue with my rice cooker basking in the gentle evening sunbeams. The whole picture was a tad too schmaltzy, I thought. And so I stepped outside to the veranda after turning on the tap and let the water fill the bathtub. A little girl was skipping rope below in the gentle breeze. A while later, I went back into my room and soaked myself in the lavender-scented bath, for a good 45 minutes, reading "Life Would Be Perfect If I lived In That House" again from the beginning with a glass of chilled mango juice on the side and Samantha Sang singing "Emotion".

If this is not LIFE, ladies and gentlemen, I don't know what is.

Excuse me, are you a Malaysian?

2010-07-16T12:41:00.005+08:00

Every year, my professor invites all graduate students to his apartment for a little get together. The purpose is so that his new students can, over some wines, home-made sushis and Govinda's ice-creams, introduce themselves to his wife, a dentist who now turned a full-time house wife reading Haruki Murakami and preparing meals for her husband's students.

Last Sunday, seven of us turned up at his door at exactly 6pm.

Beers and wines were swiftly taken out from the refrigerators and were served with sashimis, harumakis, salads and et cetera, et cetera, et cetera -- a five-hour feast that could, as I estimate now, have taken her a couple of days, at least, to get ready. It was in the middle of dipping a piece of sushis in the wasabi-tainted soya sauce that my professor asked me if the next student, a malay girl from Malaysia, was strictly forbidden from pork, alcohol and men (okay, I made up this last part), and then went on to point out that my way of holding the chopsticks was funny.

I used to be very proud of my Chinese root especially when the professor had introduced me once to his distinguished guest from the US and said "I heard the Malaysian Chinese are very smart". This is the sort of vanity that blinds. It was like he was introducing Einstein or someone whose status could rival that of Brad Pitt. It made you feel like an instant super star. And I also used to, when requested to introduce myself for the first time, mention "Malaysia" so quick that my acquaintances had to ask again, and then proceeded to tell them "I am a Chinese" slowly, stressing the emphatic "Chinese".

But later that night at home, I saw things differently. The sense of my national identity became clearer as if illuminated by a gradually brightening incandescent light bulb: I had, for all my life, held the chopsticks in a wrong way. I ate with my hands sometimes and totally reveled in it even though it took one day before my fingers smelt like themselves again. I used at least three languages (Malay, Chinese, English) in a single sentence and a litany of dialects (Hokkien, Cantonese, Teochew) to get my points and feelings across. My grade for Bahasa Malaysia was better than my Bahasa Cina.

Lying in bed, it began to dawn on me that I am a Malaysian who speaks several languages and one of which happens to include mandarin. I am a Malaysian whose ancestor might have come from another country, but I now hold a maroon cover Malaysian passport and call "Tanahair Ku" my home. And no one, other than myself, could tell or made me fee less a Malaysian than those who don a kopiah and perform religious duty five times a day or those who have a browner skin tone from whom I order my roti canai. And when the clock struck twelve that night, I dramatically turned myself from being a Malaysian Chinese into being a Malaysian, period.

G'Day, Mate!

2010-07-12T10:06:00.008+08:00

”梅雨" (pronounced as "tze-you") or raining season in Japan is dank and sultry. Unlike in Malaysia where the air temporarily cools after a storm, I feel like a bak-bao cooking gradually in a bamboo steamer every time it rains and I am not very pleased.

In fact, while Hiroshima experiences its own dog days, my mood has been going through its period of stagnation. Ever since the wheels of the returning flight from Sapporo hit the tarmac, I've been feeling kind of grouchy. It was worst for the first few days after I'd landed. It then precipitously slipped to a point I couldn't even bring myself up to jerk off. It was as if men had only a certain number of times they could masturbate and I'd squandered mine off.

I'LL NEVER BE ABLE TO HIT THE AEROPLANE* EVER AGAIN!

It is time like this that a little gesture makes a whole lot of difference and restores libido.

This little mood elevator reached my mailbox yesterday from Wenn.

I sincerely thank her for bringing in the little kangaroo that kicked me out of my ennui and for telling me, "You have a good life. Enough whining already!"

Indeed. Everyone in my life, virtual or not, has made the past academic year marvelous. My colleagues are kinder and more responsive this year. They begin to speak more in English and pay my cab fares whenever we go out together. In addition, through blogging, I have also made some good friends whom I hope to meet up in about three weeks from now.

I don't mean to be grumpy. But I am a homely person. I cried at night when I was 9 years old in my cousin's bedroom and my uncle was forced to bring me home. Five minutes later, I was sound asleep in my own bed. And as much as this has been a joyous year, my tarry here is beginning to feel like an overextended vacation. I'd overstayed a little and it is time to go home.

ps: Just in case you are reading from outside Malaysia, *hit the aeroplane means masturbation, wanking, jerking off, she-bop in Mandarin and has nothing, whatsoever, to do with Jihadists who shoot down airplanes.

status: unknown

2010-07-10T11:22:00.001+08:00

One of the several things that I was quickly made aware of when I came to Japan about a couple of years ago was my status in the hierarchical topography of the department. One fine autumn day, a colleague drew a near equilateral triangle in my notebook and divided it into three or four compartments with a few horizontal lines. She then continued to shade the apex, made an arrow from inside this tiny triangle out and wrote near the emphatically huge arrowhead "Professor". After that, she pointed precisely to the lowest column of the triangle, turned to me and said solemnly, "you, me..." followed by the names of a few other students.

Human beings seem to be the only species in the animal kingdom to possess an odd proclivity for precisely defining statuses. And in the post Facebook, post Twitter and post instant messengers age, this natural propensity has, in time, intensified and become a full blown obsession. We now feel compelled to perpetually divulge our status: available, offline, busy, single, divorced; some even go beyond these default statuses and customize their owns according to the temporal requirements and moods.

With such a hard-wired predilection, it is, hence, easy to understand why my friend is distressed trying to figure out the statuses in a relationship: Is he a friend? Or a boyfriend? Or is he, a lover whom I go swimming and have occasional dinner with? Who am I then if I just like being with him but not love him? I always thought ambiguity is what defines the fun -- the joy of waking up to early morning messages that raise the temperature of your cold and lonely heart, or receiving the simple and unexpected "I just wanna say Hi" message in the afternoon when you are knee deep in shit at work. It may also explain why certain people consistently yearn for falling in love -- the addiction to the adrenalin rush that quickens the heartbeats every time they are in a state of uncertainty, just like the time after placing the bet and before the result is revealed. And on top of all these, the joy of being told that "until the status is publicly declared, you are legally entitled to go on dating until the right one comes along" in a tete-a-tete with friends.

If so, isn't it, then, a tad preposterous to place such a premium on the status in a relationship which can be as flimsy and ephemeral as the online one? Isn't it, then, a complete waste of time to be so obsessively preoccupied with wanting to quickly define the statuses that you miss out on the ecstatic pain of "figuring out" and the know unknown? After all, statuses lie, sometimes: you may appear to be offline but are actually online and invisible just as some people can be married/partnered and still double as a secret lover exchanging messages with someone else at the same time.

3 books and 4 weeks

2010-07-07T11:21:00.010+08:00

At the moment of this writing, I am three books and slightly less than four weeks away from being in Kuala Lumpur.

Since four-weeks is pretty self-explanatory, the three books are:

1) My Misspent Youth. By Ms Meghan Daum. Yes. In case you are vaguely wondering, this is her second book that I purchased from Amazon.com. Before this, it was "Life Would Be Perfect If I Lived in That House". Remember? One more book and I'll own the full collection of every book she has ever written. Except for her writing in the L.A.Times which I don't ring-bind but follow closely each week. Right now, she is one of my most favourite writers. The others are David Sedaris and Charles Dickens. Pssssttt..I think I might have fallen in love with Ms Daum. I mean with her narrative voice and her style of writing. Reading her work makes me realize that liking certain writers and their genres is akin to liking a particular kind of cuisine -- Chinese, French or Japanese, and Ms Daum is like a can of Pringles to me -- "Once you pop, you can't stop". Or less metaphorically, once I open her books, I'm hooked . They are addictive and irresistible.

2) A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again: Essays and Arguments.
By David Foster Wallace. A shame on me to only hear of his writings after he's dead. But since I am no literati, and because of the fact that some writers achieved the status of a celebrity when they died, the ignorance is totally pardonable. This is my first DFW's book and skimming through last night after putting down MMY, I had an inkling that a good dictionary and a strong arm are in order because I predict I'd need to constantly shift from my favourite horizontal position of laying down to another horizontal, less favorable, position of lying on my side, supporting all the 76 kgs of my body weight on my left arm and checking all the fresh vocabularies on an online dictionary. Nonetheless, I still foresee an enjoyable start tonight.

And lastly, something for you to laugh at me for being uber-vain and adolescent,
3) Tell It Slant: Writing and Shaping Creative Nonfiction. Well, I still dream of becoming a writer. The published kind. And right now, I am contemplating how to come up, creatively, with a book documenting all my experiences here in Japan. But until then, I'll need a lot of guidance, help and severe criticisms which came in an email yesterday saying that I was not funny at all. And so from now on, I'll have to keep reminding myself to start working on my funny bones and stop being a tight-ass. Maybe in addition to Tell It Slant, some KY will come in handy too?

Lest you thought that I am here for a phd in English Literature, I am not. I am still performing experiments daily. But my interest for research has come down to a point where instead of asking cancer related questions, the only persistent thought I have now is to agonizingly decide if "persistent" or "constant" would make the sentence sound better, which sadly, in the end, turned out to be that it actually did not matter at all. And also, since yesterday, "Write funnily!"

So, by the time I turn the final page on the last couple of books, I'll have achieved the target of reading 8 books for my fictathon (which in the light of today's entry should have been called a bookathon), and it's also time to finish packing and go back to Roti Canai, Curry Mee and whatnot for a month.

Complacency, Corruption or Incompetency?

2010-07-02T21:18:00.001+08:00

An interesting article posted by a friend today reminded me of a conversation I had with an Indonesian colleague during lunch not too long ago.

I couldn't remember how it'd all begun. But I clearly recalled that it'd started with a discourse on "Things You Experience While Living In Japan For The First Time" followed by several questions which left us looking away from each other by the time we finished our lunch.

One of the questions we'd asked each other -- though not in the exact same words, it'd the same sort of sentimentality -- was what the author of that article had put forth, in verbatim, "WHERE HAS OUR ENORMOUS WEALTH AND RESOURCES GONE?". In fact, we'd wondered: why, with all our enormously rich and varied natural resources and fertile lands, is it that our countries continue to struggle (insert your own definition here) while Japan, with its hostile and barren land, can emerge and remain, for who-knows-until-when, as one of the world's economic powerhouses ?

Was it because we'd become a complacent lot knowing that "the chili seeds that you perfunctorily drop on the ground will anyhow grow" as my colleague said? Or are we just a bunch of incompetent people with poor management skill?

It is, however, funny that, during the time it took to finish my crispy chicken katsu and her homemade bento, "corruption" never did come up in our conversation. I have no idea why. But as we looked around and saw the dwellers of this harsh Land of the Rising Sun, I supposed we'd probably thought, while a country may buckle under the pressure of corruption, the attitude of its citizenry may be a more impelling factor in deciding its own rise or fall. And with the escalating number of Mat Rempits, "lepaking" culture and moral decay in today's youth, I am helplessly compelled to believe that the latter may be more relevant. After all, corruption is ubiquitous and cliched.

I know I shouldn't be saying this now and as someone who has never once voted before, perhaps it is time we cut the present government more slack than we ever had and asked if we'd done to our hilt to truly express our love for this country and really make the "Bolehland" work. Or should we just turn away again next time not willing to admit that we'd indeed become complacent? Or maybe it's just me.

Onsen Meal

2010-07-02T10:12:00.000+08:00

I know after looking at the gigantic scallops from Sapporo, the ones you saw here were like something made out of Play-Doh. But still, they looked resplendent in their orange and purplish skin tones, didn't they? And so, I shouldn't discriminate and deny their entry.

The photos you see here were taken during dinner at my recent yearly onsen escapade.

And what were my thoughts after? Three words: Style, Quality and Very expensive! Okay, I'd just decided I should add the emphatic "very" and made it four.

Frankly, besides all the dramas I might have posted all these whiles, I consider myself a damned lucky bloke. Of the three students (the other two were from Indonesia and Vietnam) who came here, at the same time, under the same program, I think I am the only one who'd had the opportunity to enjoy this sort of high brow, annual outing (if by high brow it meant how little the food and how shiny the porcelain culinary utensils were).

And so, once a year, everyone gets to, without any inhibitions, undress in front of each other, wolf down raw fishes, tank up on the Kirins and have a good time. This is probably the way the head of department doubles as Santa Claus and rewards everyone for enduring a year long adversities and thereby, correcting the serotonin imbalances before anyone commits suicide or mass murder.

Hokkaido Photos

2010-07-01T11:58:00.002+08:00

Here are some of the scenes and foods that I saw and ate, respectively, while in Hokkaido.

As you can tell from these photos, I wasn't lying when I said "gargantuan scallops" and seafood dons brimming with fish roes, crab meat and sea urchins if you like. The first two mollusks were BBQ-ed on the last night. As for the seafood don, I ordered the upper right dish on the third picture and the crab meat on my don came from picture number four.

Then on picture number five was the Clock Tower which turned out to be a "big disappointment", my colleague said as she'd imagined it to be bigger as it always did on tourist brochures. Lastly, the "Red Brick Building", which was actually the first place we visited, was the municipal administration office in the past and you can find a few more buildings with similar architecture there because Sapporo, developed during the Meiji Era, is a relatively newer city whose town planning was more organized as compared to Hiroshima and its streets' names clearly indicate where you are. Which also translates into hassle-free navigation in the city even for someone like me who was a first timer and speaks only a severely smattering of Japanese.

Well, these are the only fews that I'd taken and it obviously reminded me again that I direly need a camera. Any camera!

Tagged

2010-06-30T15:31:00.000+08:00

I've been tagged. Twice!! By Tekkaus and Foongpc. Personally, I reckon it bad manners to not play along especially when you've been tagged twice. And therefore, without further ado, the 7 random things about me (and some of which you may still remember from my older entries) , in random order, are:

#1: I don't own a camera of any kind except for the one that comes along with the mobile which brings me to...

#2: I have not posted any Hokkaido trip's photos because it is expensive to transfer those pictures from the mobile to my email which leads to...

#3: Now you know I am quite a scrooge, minus the mean-spirit, which means...

#4: I don't know when I'll post those pictures, but do allow me to first consult the balance in my banking account and see what the general consensus is.

#5: Like the other time, I've run out of random things to tell about myself

#6: Ohh..did I mention I am coming home in August?

#7: Because I am missing mee siam in a way you could never have imagined and I am serious!

Pheww...and now, the next victims are:

1. Wendy
2. Wenn
3. TZ
4. Kevin
5. Cleffairy
6. SmallKuching
7. SiaozOnion
8. Donna, my xiaomei
9. PeteFormation, dont think you can get away from this...LOL
10. My Little Sprouts!
11.Claire, Claire, Claire...
12. MyLongkang
13. KenWooi
14. Pikey Ex-roomie

and last but not least
15. The Owner of Times of Refreshing...

Why you? Sorry, because all of you happened to appear in this chronological order in my blogroll except that I've excluded BoldTalk because I am sure he is currently engaged in nursing his injured wife. And for those of you who were lucky not to be chosen this time, don't fret! It might be YOU!! the next time.

Ciao, everybody!

Post Hokkaido

2010-06-29T12:05:00.001+08:00

You'd have thought that after all the gargantuan scallops and seafood dons with heaps of ruby-like ikura and Taraba crabs whose legs' meat were thicker than my dick (hard), I'd return and, immediately if not sooner, upload pictures of it, following a braggadocio?

Yes, I would. But not today.

Today, I get to rant.

Lest you wag a finger and tell me, "Be thankful, Manglish!", I'd say it was, at best, an A-minus trip. The weather was comparatively cooler than Hiroshima when we arrived and turned hotter gradually for the next few days we were there. My presentation went by hiccup-free. And since touching down, I'd been stuffing myself nothing but those ever-fresh, ever-scrumptious and larger-than-life mollusks and fishes. In short, my cholesterol level'd just gone up a notch when it was time to leave.

But the fun ended the moment the two-day conference was over. Two of my colleagues, who'd invited me to join them on their little Sapporo Exploration on the first day, hopped two flights down the escalator upon seeing me emerging from the hall so fast as if death was approaching and were without-a-trace gone by the time I stepped on that 4th floor escalator. Outside the venue, another colleague, who couldn't tell me in which direction I should go, made it clear that he had other 'matters' to attend to and I should really find my own way back to the hotel while the other had absconded the entire afternoon session since our lunch together.

It was like everyone was relieved that they could at last stop babysitting me. And how I wished I could tell them, "Honey, the feeling is mutual." I was already outside the hotel ready for my own exploration when the couple telephoned. And I was prepared to soak myself in a long relaxing bath after drenching in sweat walking all the long-and-hot way back to the hotel on my own when the colleague cut it short by asking me to join them for dinner in half an hour. I could've stayed on soaking but in the spirit of "team work" and courtesy, I gave up what I'd wanted to do and let them continue to think that I needed to be babysat.

And I could've saved myself from being tirelessly reminded, like I was the kind of people who's capable of taking advantage of another kind soul, by the absconder to pay him the toll fare if I'd insisted to take an express bus to and back from the airport instead of what I thought was a friendly lift in his BMW. And I could also have avoided him disdainfully labeling me as "rich" if I'd stayed in the bathtub and not out expressing, like anyone else, that 2700 yen (approximately 100RM) for ten pieces of sushis was expensive. Did he say that because, even after almost two years, I was still wearing the same clothes to work as I did on the first day I was here?

And so, yes, ladies and gentlemen, it might not have been an A-star sort of northern exploration for me, but still, everyone should visit Hokkaido, at least once in a lifetime so that you can experience the rich essence of fat, chewy fish roes literally explodes inside your mouth with each mastication or spews it on the shirt of the person sitting in front of you if you are not careful.

I know I'll definitely visit Hokkaido again. But the next time, I'll be there as a true vacationer with my loved ones.

Hokkaido

2010-06-23T06:44:00.000+08:00

[The Owner of This Blog Is On The Way To Hokkaido Today]

Office Diagnostic Tests

2010-06-21T15:13:00.000+08:00

Over the weekend, I joined the rest of my department and went to Osaki Island for the annual onsen pilgrimage. An hour and a ferry ride later, the journey was handsomely paid off by a magnificent outdoor onsen overlooking a bright turquoise sea, vast and seemingly endless, interrupted only occasionally by a few small scattered islands. On the way back, one of my colleagues asked, "What kind of girls do you like?" while the car he was driving waited in line to board the ferry. I perfunctorily gave him the expected generic answer most men would: Pretty. But frankly, after being rejected twice and rejecting the third, I have no idea.

This morning, my perennial dysthymia almost slipped into a full blown depression. The powerpoint slides I was editing since last Thursday, whose data I'd been working my fat and fabulous ass off for in weeks, kept crashing on me, to the point that, after the millionth time, Microsoft Office felt the need to take matters into its own hand and prompted me to "Run Office Diagnostics" so as to detect the overt troubles I was facing. After more than 5 minutes of self-examination, Microsoft Office returned a friendly note which said, "No cause found. We are sorry the diagnostic test were not able to diagnose why office is crashing." and proceeded to display the summary of the results and gave me two choices: "Continue" or "Cancel".

When powerpoint and my emotion finally resumed its normal functionality, I had a thought: perhaps we should all be provided, automatically, with a sort of diagnostic manual to help us check better what'd gone wrong, after a certain number of rejections. Like the kind of assistance I had this morning without even asking for one. A guide which, after x number of crush-turned-crashes or failed relationships, would operate on its own the next time your heart began to stir when confronted with the kind of persons you liked. A program which would, after running a list of compatibility tests quickly, constructively suggest the kind of actions to take, like donning a completely different hair style or having a total personality makeover, before the-kind-of-persons-we-liked pondered over which tabs, "continue" or "cancel", they should click in a relationship.

It'd be wonderful, wouldn't it? To save all of us from unnecessary heartbreaks and bumpy relationships. However, as much as we want to be rational and systematic, even with our intelligently designed brain, when it comes to the matter of the heart, sometimes we just have to accept a rejection or failed relationship with the message, "No cause found. We are sorry the diagnostic test were not able to diagnose why your relationship is failing." and simply move on as the persons we are.

childish

2010-06-15T19:41:00.002+08:00

When confronted with such a harsh accusation as being childish, most people will either lash out, with an equal amount of vehemence at the accusers, defending themselves, or retreat silently into denial. But since I am not most people, I'll admit it. Yes. I am childish. At times. And at times being depending on the crowd I was addressing and the subject matters we were talking about.

I'm pretty darn sure I'd be dead serious and flare out my maturity, like it were the proud plumage of a male peafowl, if we were to discuss and devise ways to abolish nuclear weapons so as to make this world a more reassuring place to live in, or debating all eye about who, among existing politicians, made the best candidate as our next PM, should BN crash in the next general election.

But I consider it a waste of such pompous display of maturity, and a little too luxuriously, when nattering about topics like, what made a good househusband/wife, or why a husband of a friend walked out of a one-year old marriage was because the wife'd betrayed her own vow and refused to participate in simple housekeeping like making the bed.

Perhaps it was because of my rollicking character or a crippling lack of commitment to major life decisions that I tend to eventually exude my carefree self to new acquaintances who, after a certain period of time, came to view me as childish, if not funny and gay. And repeatedly told me so without so much as a little reservation. It was like they were trying to reaffirm my own long-standing doubt: am I really childish at nearly 37? Or am I just being young at heart?

And I admit too that I could, at times, go overboard, lose my grip and slip my harmless teasing into a sea of unintentional and, sometimes untimely, hurtful remarks. For that, I am sorry. Perhaps to descry the invisible line before crossing over from being adorably hilarious to being an annoying amateur stand-up comedian of life is what separates childishness and maturity. Perhaps that is what I should be working on -- to make out where that fine line is. But before that, I shall schedule an emergency session with my optometrist first.

Uniforms

2010-06-12T00:07:00.005+08:00

Slightly about a year ago I got to thinking about having my own clinic.

But, the task of starting a clinic is enormous, daunting and potentially hazardous to its operators. One of the dentists, whom I'd had the pleasure of working with, had a head full of grey hairs even before he turned 40. And having worked for several private dental clinics before, I realized one of the most vexing tasks, which plagued many dentists, in handling a clinic concerned the nurses. And more importantly, their uniforms.

When it came to their uniforms, the nurses were fastidious. These uniforms were usually designed by the dentists/their bosses who secretly fantasized themselves as one of the glamorous fashion designers. Hence, more often than not, the nurses either hated the colors or its un-D&G cuts which made them look fatter than they actually were.

And so, I was gladly surprised when Claire alerted me to Nursing Uniforms which caters to resolve the aforementioned conflict with its commitment. The entire suite of attires offered at Nursing Uniforms are, after browsing through, pleasantly cut especially their off-white Scrub Sets.

I can already picture all my nurses looking neat, clean and professional in these apparels instead of those flowery, draggy baju kurung, were I to start my own clinic today. I don't know what it is, but nurses in whites seem, almost always, to give off an aura of Herculean capabilities. But I am sure most nurses will insist on a Kara Top. More than that, they even have a section on Lab Coats which makes me, someone who'd not donned any since graduation, feel like owning one.

Well, anyway, hop over to Nursing Uniforms and take a good look yourself. Who knows, perchance, you'll be able to find something that satisfies your uniform fetish, even if you are not a Dr attempting to dress your nurses.

Happiness

2010-06-08T14:10:00.022+08:00

I woke up this morning to the finale of "Life Would Be Perfect If I Lived In That House", Johnny Hates Jazz and an epiphany: This was happiness. Life could never have gotten any far better than this, I thought. However, several hours and a lunch later, as viewed from the stance of a single twenty-something guy, the sudden spike in my serotonin level, which I occasionally experienced as a bliss, couldn't be translated into happiness as yet.

Not until, according to him, you were married, bought a house and had a handful of (possibly the screaming until they nearly burst their own jugular veins when they don't get their favourite toys, in an overly crowded Jaya Jusco or Toys'R'Us, kind) children to be fed, then could "happiness" be thoroughly defined, if not a little narrowly. As a single, middle-aged (if I were to live only up to seventy years old) guy, oftentimes, people serve me questions like "when are you getting married?" or "why aren't you married yet?" or the ultimate -- "are you ever going to get married?", more than they offer you, if your name is on the AA list, a few double vodka on the rocks. And an equally frequent occurrence after the inquiries was the beginning of the tug-of-war debate of the beneficial healthy effects of marriages between those-who-(in manglish) die-die-oso-wanna-get-married and those-who-don't.

After a few years of deep contemplation, I still have no definite answer to the last question. Like defending my thesis, I presented to my single, twenty-something friend all the logical, and sometimes depressing, reasons why I'd not thought of moving into the holy state of matrimony. One of them was I probably was still not ready to trade in my carefree, bachelor days for a lifetime of worrying perpetually if my family would live a comfortable life as measured by my own standard, if my sons would turn out to be promising, handsome men or, with the ever escalating crime rate, if my daughters would be raped right in front of me should there be a break-in despite all the necessary preventive measurements. Or worse, my 10 year-old son's head got smashed under a reversing yellow Bas Sekolah like a watermelon dropped from the 18th floor of a pristine condo because I'd to wake up early to go to work so as to be able to provide the kind of comfortable life I think they should lead and hence couldn't send him to school personally and waved him goodbye from inside the latest Honda SUV.

Besides all these proactively and lousily scripted mini dramas in my head, which were probably just lame excuses I concocted for not getting married, I also felt more secure knowing that I'd the absolute power of tendering in my 24-hour resignation letter, should I wake up one morning and the loathing for my profession just so happened to reach its pinnacle. I'd also have no other concerns like my immediate family dying of hunger were I to be laid off (which is still extremely unlikely, at this moment, when the Ministry of Higher Education is your boss) because of some badly performing economy. And I was also not afraid of the ominous prospect of dying or living alone, which my friend had, over and again, earnestly warned me of. In good faith.

Let's face it. Everyone will die alone and live lonelily eventually, whether or not you are married. Or remain single. How could anyone possibly guarantee a couple will die on the same day? Or a day apart like Romeo and Juliet. And when he or she is gone, there is also no guarantee that your now all grown up children, whom you'd tolled your whole life to bring up, will be there. Getting married and having children to hedge against a lonely old age may not be the best investment decision. But you can hope for a little return if you are not an aggressive investor. And so, why should I risk losing the occasional high I get from the occasional increased serotonin level to a lifetime of an almost constantly depressed one ?

Happiness is a choice. Life is a series of choices. Go ahead, get married, buy a house and have a couple of kids (not necessarily in this order) if you think all these will confer upon you a lifetime of happiness or make you feel "complete" as my friend, and my unmarried aunt, put it. But once you make that decision, I hope you stay there, no matter how hard life, or your spouse, is trashing you around, for I think no one should bring another human being into this world if you cannot guarantee them a decently comfortable life and a good amount of love because that is what they deserve, minimally by any standard.

The Ark

2010-06-03T07:35:00.002+08:00

Last week, on friday night, a small bundle of joy arrived through the front door and into my mailbox. The three books which I'd, on the previous week, ordered from Amazon.com came and they were: (in no particular order, lest I unwittingly showed favoritism)

1. The Ark by Boyd Morrison

2. Life Will Be Perfect If I Lived In That House by Meghan Daum, and

3. Naked by David Sedaris

But frankly, it was in that order did I plan to read these books. And over the last weekend, I finished reading The Ark and was duly exulted in the end.

The Ark is a story about the discovery of the Noah's Ark and the relic found inside of it which was responsible for the killer Flood. The story began with the gruesome murder of the archeologist who'd discovered the Ark's actual location, which if you read, would've you going "ohhh...." like me. That's if you've not heard of the alternative theory about its exact location, well, like me. Three years after his death (the archeologist), Diana Kellner, his daughter, who was also an archeologist would have 5 days to find the mysterious Ark and save the world from mass destruction by the villain, a biochemist who'd arduously developed the weapon from the relic to destroy the world save for those who were followers of the Church of Holy Waters which he founded , in the story.

Would Diana save the world and human race in such a short time? You know what to do, don't you?

The Ark was the second novel that "will have you holding your breath until the last page is turned" as "James Rollins, NY Times bestselling author of The Last Oracle and The Judas Strain" put it. The other novel which had a similar effect on me was The Pelican Brief which I read when I was in Form 5. This was a novel with many facts and many provocative translations of The Flood. It was a good read if you love fast-paced thriller. In fact, I was hoping that it'd be turned into a movie because with all the advanced visual effects these days, I am sure the sight of how those people in the story died after coming into contact with the deadly weapon will be spectacular.

And so, my verdict after reading The Ark: it is as good as watching it on the big screen, if not better.

Counting the dots

2010-06-01T16:04:00.015+08:00

Experiments inevitably involve performing some form of calculations. Sometimes it can be an intimidating, tortuous formula physicists so ever fond of scribbling across a blackboard to, say, predict the arrival of doomsday. At other times, it can be as simple as just counting the number of dots on a photograph (see above). Which was what I did for the last couple of days.

To avoid going into the tedious technicality of my experiment, enough to say that I need to know the total number of red dots in the aforementioned photograph. Sounds easy? Absolutely. But after the hundred-and-thirty-fifth dots, and 108 photographs more to be loaded and counted, diving headlong out of the laboratory window began to feel like it was the only right thing to do.

Yesterday, I started counting when there was light outside my window and was still not done counting when the light went out. The simple-looking task was deceitful and numbing to the mind if not insane-inducing. The more I sat there and counted, the more I felt my pathetic soul getting sucked out of my finger, wafted through the multi-gesture touchpad and ended up being trapped among those benign-looking malignant cells. The longer I sat staring at those dots, the more I felt they were making a mockery out of me. I kept asking myself WHAT THE HELL WAS I DOING? like it was the first song that got stuck inside your brain the moment you woke up and which you couldn't seem to get out of for the rest of the day.

I used to look up to PhD holders with great admiration and awe. I like to think of them as the intelligent people. People who knew stuffs. In details. It was as if, under those loose white robes, they withheld the essential secrets of life in test tubes. But last night, I certainly didn't feel I was getting any more intelligent or cleverer, with each count. Instead there were only feeling of absurdity and tiredness and a whole lot of questions. Did I really earnestly want to understand how cancer arose? Or did I just want people to also look at me in a certain way -- the smart one preferably? Or both?

I was on the verge of breaking down and giving up. Nevertheless, I finally finished counting the last dot today. Yes. Life choices that we made earlier on could, at a later time, be very perplexing even to ourselves. And especially so when there were too many dots staring right back at you and more sitting comfortably, and possibly smirking, in the thumbdrive, waiting in turn to be counted. But to wag a little white flag too soon and give up too easily may not be the best way to deal with life's dubious moments. With a little gritted teeth and a lot of self-belief, we can all go through hard times like this and who knows, at the end of it, the happiness we spend our whole life searching for will eventually manifest right on the dot.

A Moldy Situation

2010-05-27T18:02:00.003+08:00

I was blatantly confronted with a moldy situation on Facebook today.

A while ago, a young, single female colleague wrote, "ABC has been moldy for a few days now." I read with enormous dismay.

Living in the technological era where shorthands like "gr8", "brb" and others of that ilk reign, we strive to be as concise and as terse as we possibly can. Somehow, I secretly wish that my colleague could've been a dollop more elaborate on her situation, because, seriously, since when has it become a trend to tell the world about your vaginal infection?

Is that what young Malaysians these days are doing? Casually announcing their vaginitis as if they were saying, "hey, I have pimples. What you've got"? When I was growing up, everything was a taboo. And the worst thing was her friend actually sympathetically suggested she should go out and get under the sun as a remedy. Ouchhh...The generation gulf has never felt so wide.

Anyway, I hope she goes see a doctor and gets some uber-strong fungicides or get married soon. Otherwise I'm pretty sure she's going to write, "ABC's swatting flies there" next.

The Joy of...

2010-05-26T19:56:00.004+08:00

The joy of blogging. Besides publicly humiliating yourself, accepting sympathies for unfortunate life events and making fabulous friends along the way to gossip with, one of the greatest joys of blogging was to come home and discover, surprisingly, a little note from the janitor which said, "You've got a parcel" cellophane-taped outside your mailbox.

30 minutes ago I came home to that joy. And I couldn't wait for the elevator to open its door before ripping the envelope and reached for the bigger surprises inside. The envelope that I upended spat out a golden key chain from Thailand and a scenic post card from Turkey. My heart was rejoicing in the way lovers did whenever they received little tokens of love from their beloveds.

At the bottom right corner of the postcard wrote "Manglish, Happy Blogging." Indeed, I'd enjoyed blogging a great deal and I am happy to have known friends whom I've never met before. Now I am grateful to this particular friend who'd taken the trouble to seal the key chain and postcard in an envelope, licked the stamps and braced the hot weather, and the even hotter KL traffic, to post it.

And so, my friend, until I return in August, thank you very much from the bottom of my heart. See you soon.

My mum

2010-05-25T14:19:00.007+08:00

She slipped, fell and hurt her knee last night. She is 60 years old, hypertensive and severely osteoporotic. A few years ago, the orthopedic who saw her almost fell off his chair while examining x-rays of her bones. Her condition was so calamitous that the bones had turned up, like Toyota's airbags, which instead of life saving, was killing her, on the films. They are empty and ghostly on the black and white pictures. He then prescribed the maximum, tolerable doses of Forsamax, on the spot and advised accordingly and sternly.

And so you can imagine how dead worried I was when my sister broke the news yesterday. I'd remembered hearing stories of old, fragile ladies, like my mum, who were falling left, right and straight to hell. The thought prodded me to immediately ask my sister to pad the house with anti-slip mats at strategic spots, where death traps could probably be found lurking, in order to prevent future, absolutely-avoidable tragedy.

I love my mum. She'd suffered a lot in the past which is obviously taking a giant toll on her health now. Her condition is gradually deteriorating, the calciums are escaping quickly from her system like a convict on the run, and the bones are beginning to compress on the nerves and causing her pain, around the clock, which can only be temporarily relieved by super-potent painkillers because, as the surgeon solemnly pointed out, a surgery to correct the out-of-the-alignment cervical vertebrates carries a higher risk of chipping away her little-remaining health than relieving her constant pain.

I have always pondered about the unforeseeable portions of the future, with excitement, wondering how my future will turn out to be. But last night, I found myself not wanting to think about it too much because I already know how it's going to unfold in one, or the next two decades, if I am lucky -- living without my parents is a predictable future I am still struggling to learn to handle.

I tried to write

2010-05-24T15:28:00.003+08:00

Writing is not for the fainthearted.

I'd recently been reading a lot of "Stray Questions" on The New York Times which led to my conclusion to not give up my profession too quickly, and too easily, and plunged headlong into writing. From what I'd concluded after many days of scrutinizing the lives of published writers, apparently, one still needs a decent, full time job to fuel the allure of writing. Passion alone is not enough. You need cold, harsh cash to write before you can generate some out of it, like everything else in life, if you are lucky. Fair enough, I thought.

And so last night, after a whole, rainy morning of experimenting with the cancer cells, I sat down and began to emulate these writers with a sort of unwavering conviction. But after 5 minutes of squooshing my brain for some creative juices, the blinking prompt on the blank page turned irreversibly nasty, tapped its way slowly, through my eyes, into my heart, and before long, my pulse quickened, cold sweats started to condense on my forehead, then, a minute later, I passed out on the desk. Head first.

Okay. I made up the last part. I didn't faint. Instead, I gave up and read two chapters of Jonathan Fenby's "The History of Modern China: The Fall and Rise of a Great Power." I haven't given up on writing, though, and probably never will. But I've come to realize that writing can be hostile when there is an impatiently waiting prompt and a story that just stubbornly refuses to turn themselves into words and fill the clean, empty page on the screen. It was a torture which made me wonder if writers were generally a group of martyrs damned to sadistically inflict eternal pain on their pathetic souls so as to write sensational epic stories.

Anyway, writers usually took years before they came up with a publishable piece. And so, perhaps, if I start now, work hard consistently and try not to give up too fast, I may have one myself in a few years?

1 Year Old

2010-05-21T07:20:00.004+08:00

It's been one year.

And here we are, me and my blog, still surviving.

Twelve months ago, I started Manglish, Please!. In the beginning, I wrote in a desperate attempt to stay sane because I'd mercilessly uprooted the life I knew with my own bare hands and the life I'd imagined turned out to be a nightmare like the one on Elm's Street. My dregs of sanity was perching precariously on the suicidal cliff, saved only by a thin, fragile thread of self-consciousness and it was more than ready to plunge into the abyss of an emotional whirlpool at anytime should that thread snap.

Luckily, the thread did not fray and broke. Instead, it grew stronger. Blogging miraculously blew away the dark, ominous billow of smokes which had persistently clouded my vision and obscured my path for many years. It was here that I finally exhumed the passion for writing long buried in a remote corner of my subconscious. It felt as if I'd voluntarily checked myself into a mental institution, went through several sessions of therapy and emerged with a revamped soul. If blogging were cathartic, then you bloggers were the most incredible therapists. I'll always be thankful to you who had responded to my ineffable cry for help by reading my babbles and especially by returning the preennially encouraging, well-intended comments. Without which, Manglish, Please! would probably have remained as another isolated, stranded island nobody knew in the World Wide sea of Web, a long time ago.

From agitated and blurred, the sediments in my mind is beginning to settle leaving me with a clearer silhouette of the future. I'd lived long enough without knowing what I truly wanted to do and found it, at last, here in the blogosphere. The self-discovery journey had been exuberantly liberating. It was like I'd eventually got hold of a ballast which anchored my hitherto wandering soul. I may still be cynical but am, hopefully, no longer bitter. And since now that I am resuscitated, I will continue to scribble in this blog which serves as the little cave where I retreat into and be soothed in its warm fuzziness and your unrelenting supports whenever life gets a trifle too obnoxious to handle.

And so, yes, Manglish, Please! is officially one year old. Today.

Yu Hua's Brothers

2010-05-20T11:00:00.006+08:00

Could you recall the last time something -- a book, a movie, or the "Or Jian" with fat, succulent oysters -- shook your egoistic self to its core like a Richter 7 earthquake? And after when it'd taken place, you just felt like running to the roof top and shared the experience with the world by shouting at the top of your lungs, which almost tragically punctured itself by its own raptures?

That was exactly what I nearly did after reading Yu Hua's "Brothers". In Chinese. But of course I did not. In lieu, I'd a good lunch.

For the first time in more than a decade, I actually read a novel in Chinese yesterday and today, and was immediately immensely shaken. And I am still pretty agitated at this very moment as I write. If you are an avid Chinese novels reader, or a fan of Zhang Yi Mou, then you should probably know who Yu Hua is by now. But I did not, until yesterday. One of his books, "To Live" had actually been adapted and turned into a movie of the same name starring Gong Li.

As for "Brothers", it was shortlisted at the 2008 Man Asia Literary Prize. The novel started with one of its main characters, Baldy Li who sat on his gold-plated toilet seat and contemplated buying his way into a trip to the outer space. And then the story almost instantaneously narrated how his father had accidentally fell and drowned himself in a pool of human feces while trying to peek at women's buttocks passing motion next door. And how Baldy Li had, later on, perhaps because of inheriting his father's horny genes, repeated the act, apprehended and brought shame to his mother who'd suffered the same fate when her husband was found dead in that puddle of shit. However, this little shameful drama, instead of causing humiliation to himself, had filled Baldy Li's stomach and fattened him up in many days to come.

Why? Maybe you want to read it for yourself.

The novel was set in the time when China was undergoing tumultuous ideological changes brought on by the Cultural Revolution, which, according to Yu Hua's own words in an interview, "brought out the full potential of Chinese imaginative powers." I bet you'd be invariably moved and enraged to read about what the Revolution could do to the lives of innocent, ordinary people. This might have been only a fiction but I believe fictions are stories of ordinary, but real, life momentarily captured and enlarged by the magnifying capability of its observers.

Anyway, the novel very simply delivered the whole spectrum of human emotions. It also offered a glimpse of the sort of life all of us are lucky enough to have avoided. If you can read Chinese, I would strongly recommend to read in that language. Otherwise, you will just have to make do with the translated version. Which, in my very humble opinion, may not convey as accurately the feeling as the original.

ps: there are 2 volumes to this novel.

Fictathon - another update

2010-05-19T09:37:00.003+08:00

Lest you forget I am still reading, let's do a little tally up together today, shall we?

Books checked thus far:

#1. Charles Dickens -- David Copperfield

#2. Charles Dickens -- Great Expectation

#3. Herman Melville -- Moby Dick

#4. Eleanor H. Porter -- Pollyanna

#5. J. D. Salinger-- The Catcher in the Rye

#6. Paulo Coelho -- The Alchemist

and last night -- F. Scott Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby"; all in one month, two weeks and four notebooks full of countless vocabularies. Looks like I am moving ahead of my own schedule. And I am fee...linggg good!

Okay, David Copperfield doesn't count. I cheated. A little. Because I'd only decided to begin the fictathon after D.C. But, still, from now until I return to Malaysia, my home sweet home, in August, I am pretty sure I can outrun myself by completing more than 8 books.

So, The Great Gatsby...hmm...mind if I suggest you to pick it up if you are suffering from insomnia?

It was a story maybe the Datuks and the Datins could relate to because all that those characters did was hobnobbing with the riches, sipped wine, gossiped and had affairs in a high-society-glitzy-party soft of way. Not the kind of lifestyle I am familiar with or could experience vicariously while reading. However, the unwavering love of Jay Gatsby, the main character in the story, for Daisy Buchanan, a married woman whom he'd gone after unsuccessfully once, was captivating enough for me to finish the story. Did Daisy divorce her husband, Tom Buchanan, an arrogant millionaire, who was having an affair with Myrtle Wilson, the wife of Tom's mechanic and owner of a garage, and live happily ever after with Gatsby in the end?

Find out for yourself while I try to finish Pride and Prejudice. My third attempt. Sigh!

Manglish's chap cai curry

2010-05-17T12:52:00.010+08:00

Manglish is currently going through the ennui spell of life.

Life, at the moment, is as plain and uncomplicated as the glass of water he drinks straight from the tap every morning. And so he thought a little colorful, assorted vegetables curry with silky smooth, condensed coconut milk might do the trick, spice life up and help ameliorate the malady.

The aforementioned dish was prepared on last Saturday's afternoon. After a whole morning of making dish of a different kind: extracting RNA and protein from the cancer cells, Manglish rode to Saty - the Japanese equivalent of Jaya Jusco, and bought A) one whole cabbage, B) one pack of orange, healthy looking carrots, C) three medium-sized onions, one prodigiously long aubergine (longer than his arm), two packets of semi-precious bhindi, and D) headed home.

At home, he finely chopped up two of the onions, three cloves of garlic, blender-minced half a cup of dried shrimps and sauteed them slowly with a generous splash of Baba's curry powder, over medium heat, in a roughly-guessed amount of oil; all, in a brass-looking pot big enough to feed a party of...five. Meanwhile, he rinsed the rest of the ingredients, peeled and diced -- in big chunks -- the carrots and six leftover potatoes, quartered the aubergine, halved the lady fingers, haphazardly cut up half of the cabbage, and then mixed everything with the redolent curry paste now soaking in crimson oil, sprinkled a handful of salt and poured in some water just enough to cover the mixture, stirred, increased the heat and his electricity bill, covered up and waited.

Twenty minutes and a freshly cleaned room later, he microwaved 200ml of water, the amount as instructed to make thick coconut cream, for 5 minutes (and again ran up his bill), dissolved the instant, fined-texture coconut cream powder and then, stirred it in the now gorgeously bubbling curry soup. Turned down the heat, covered the lid up for 5 more minutes and he was all done.

The final product was good. It was just as he'd expected --spicy and creamy. However, as it turned out, it was even more tantalizing to the palate the next day. That's the thing about curry -- and life -- it always tasted better the day after. And so the longueur will pass eventually; life tomorrow will never taste the same as it is today. All you have to do is to believe that it will. Like curry.

Susan, Smallkucing and Manglish

2010-05-13T09:52:00.012+08:00

If life were a fictitious creation, then what happened a couple of days ago definitely fitted the 'purely coincidental' bill.

It was two days ago that I discovered, to my surprise, that each one of us, Susan, Small Kucing and I'd read a book by Paulo Coelho. Susan finished 'Brida' at two in the morning. Small Kucing read 'The Winner Stands Alone' on a cold, rainy night, and I spent one and a half day last week, after my kind-of grand holiday, completing "The Alchemist" at four in the afternoon. What is the odds of finding three sort-of strangers, oceans part, reading books from the same author at almost the same time?

The feeling was so surreal. It was akin to sitting down together in one of the upcoming, trendy restaurants in New York and shooting the bulls about each other's life over a Cosmopolitan and suddenly went, "Oh my god, you did too" because we had just found out that the universe had mysteriously synced us up and now we were all menstruating on the same day. But of course, this is a real and naked life that we are talking about. In addition, none of us was a cast from the "Sex and The City" fame and so, regrettably, I was not, and will not be, ovulating in this lifetime.

Compared to the rest of the books that I'd read so far, The Alchemist was relatively easy to read but with a deep and profound message. The story was about Santiago, the hero and a Spanish shepherd and his adventure in finding his treasure in the pyramids of Egypt. As usual, I won't go into the details of the story but suffice to say that Paulo asked us to think of our own "Personal Legend" -- something "you have always wanted to accomplish" but "as time passes, a mysterious force begins to convince them that it will be impossible to realize their Personal Legend."

And people always tell us the world's greatest lie: that at a certain point in our lives, we lost control of what's happening to us and our lives become controlled by FATE.

Contemplating my own predicament, there is no better time than now to have someone said to me, "Listen to your heart. It knows all thing..." and then to tread on with conviction in pursuing my own Personal Legend because "when a person really desires something, all the universe conspires to help that person to realize his dream."

What else can I say?

Turn off the television and start turning pages by Paulo Coelho.

A Simple Life

2010-05-12T09:33:00.005+08:00

Apparently my life is a tad too simple. As I was told by a twenty-something today.

Just how complicated can the life of a twenty-something be? I wondered. What can be more complicated than him waking up everyday and go to work, then eat, then sleep with occasional luxurious spa, karaoke, swimming, and masturbation sessions on a weekend or a week night?

A life like this sounded pretty simple and almost ideal to those who sold you your Special Ramly Burger by the roadside, I'd say. But no. Obviously I hadn't completely grasped his definition of a complicated life. According to my twenty-something friend, life was more than just a series of hedonistic pursuits. There were people that he needed to take care of and concerned about in life. In addition, he still had dreams to achieve and a motivation to earn more money to fulfill. Which was exactly all the reasons why his life was made complicated and hectic, and in comparison, my life, in his opinion, was way too simple.

It was as if to say that I, and the rest of my generation tree, had sprouted into our beings out of thin air and we had no dream and, not to mention, motivation to make our lives more complex than the mechanism of breathing. Nonetheless, with all his concerns and love for the people and the money in his life, I still was not, even remotely, inspired to feel that he was indeed leading a complicated life.

It was easy to understand why he felt that his life was as complicated, if not more, as solving a 9x9 Sudoku game. But frankly, this was not a case of complicated life. This was a case of going through life without true appreciation and also, with a possible overdose of "Rich Dad, Poor Dad". It was about not recognizing facts of life -- a mistake commonly committed by many twenty-somethings and me, a decade ago. I could understand what he was going through because, hey, hadn't we all been a twenty-something before at some point in life? But seriously, did what he mentioned as complicating factors in life sound all that complex to you? It was not, for me. Because without them, can we still define what we do on a quotidian basis as life?

And so I believe life is not complicated. It can only begin to get too complicated when you listen to Robert Kiyosaki or anyone else but yourself, too much.

A little reading

2010-05-11T18:11:00.005+08:00

There are days you stumble across excellent writings that leave you feeling more soul-satisfying than an orgasm and keep you going back for more.

Today is one of those days.

If you adore reading good articles the way you love all things that count in your life, then you'll love Megham Daum, or at least her writing, especially her brief account, in My Misspent Youth, as a young writer struggling to make ends meet and her teenage New York Fantasy come true in the Big Apple.

I shall not be long winded today. Read it. Read it. I know you'll love it.

The History of God

2010-05-10T12:59:00.003+08:00

Call me Blasphemous. But I still couldn't help but chortle while reading Karen Armstrong's "The History of God: A 4000-year Quest of Judaism, Christianity and Islam" last night right after Ip Man 2 which, en passant, if you haven't watched, go catch it soon at a cinema near you. It was good. However, I prefer the 1st episode which made my blood seethe more.

Anyway, I bought Karen's book about 10 years ago when I was profoundly troubled by the existential question. It was one of those difficult moments in life where you found yourself asking a lot of questions and no one had come forth and offered any satisfying answers. You searched desperately for your role to fit into the world in which nothing seemed to make any sense. Not even what your mum'd been telling you all along, which you exalted like holy scriptures in the past, seemed to work. In short, everything just felt exasperatingly wrong. It was so painful that I couldn't finish the 1st chapter, not even half of it. But last night, I finished reading the chapter. Twice.

"In the beginning..." or chapter 1, Karen begun tracing the origin of god and how it would come to affect the development of the existence of The One as worshiped by the Jews, Christians and Muslims. It started with the Sky God who had created this world but was later discarded by its people because he was too high and mighty, and replaced by more humanized, approachable gods. After that came a series of stories about divine creatures fighting each other to create orders from chaos, and how they were thought to be responsible for worldly phenomenons. But some of them too were soon outdated and new gods were generated. In a nutshell, god was all about practicality -- when one stopped to fulfill the needs of its people, others more supposedly more rational ones would come and take its place.

Reading it the 1st time seemed confusing for someone who had a scarce knowledge of god and had forgotten most of his history lessons like me. However, the fun begun approximately on page 17, the second time, when Karen wrote that god promised to protect Moses and its people if they were willing to acknowledge him as the only one god they'd worship. Now, this was when I was reminded of a scene in Ip Man 2 where Sam Hong told Donnie Yuan, "Pay up 100 dollars every month and I shall protect and guarantee no trouble for you." Only here in Karen's book, god didn't want money. He was rich and had a lot lands to exchange for his much desired lofty status because later in the chapter, it was said that Jacob made a pact with god after much consideration and calculation of the offer god made: that god promised him a land if he and his people would give up paganism and make him the sole divinity in their lives. What sort of god was this? I asked myself; going around making deal with people. And what was it with god and the real estate? Was god really a real estate agent disguised in expensive Calvin Klein suits without the halo? I couldn't help but wonder.

I don't mean to be disrespectful but this troubled me a lot because my idea of an ideal god would be an all encompassing, compassionate divinity who would love and protect me totally unconditionally like a mother, no matter what. There would be no need for bargaining. And so I was deeply puzzled, now or a decade ago, when I saw people killing each other in the name of god whose origin was obscure, inscrutable and folklore-like. And most importantly, no one actually knew the true origin of god. Something we made up since becoming bipedal to help make sense of an erratic and freaky world had turned against us. Instead of creating orderliness as it was supposed to be since time immemorial, it had caused wars, bloodshed and chaos. Can we get any more imbecile than this?

To some, I may be regarded as highly sacrilegious and would probably have been stoned to death (wait, that was a punishment for adultery, wasn't it?) in the past, and my soul'd definitely be burnt in hell when I die. Nonetheless, I still hold on to what I believe: that there is no god and that all the seem-like-for-fucking-ever conflicts and bickering stem from our ignorant selfishness and our lack of kindness towards each other. We are all made of the same blueprint and the same flesh and blood filled with the exactly same kind of DNA and needs. The difference is only skin deep. If only we can put ourselves more in another's shoes, then all the purposeless waste of precious human lives can and will be prevented. Yes, sometimes other people's shoes may not fit us so well, but with a few extra paddings of compassion and empathy, this walk of life may gradually grow to be more meaningful and comfortable as time moves us along. There is an old chinese saying that goes, "If I don't go to Hell, who will?" which means to say that there are times when we may have to sacrifice ourselves for a righteous, worthy cause and the welfare of others, and so maybe we should all search within our souls for the god that we want to believe in and practice a little self-sacrifice, instead of a scapegoat, once in a while and let our ignorant self as well as our arrogant, egoistic souls be incinerated in hell with the hope of freeing the rest from earthbound sufferings.

ps: I might have gotten god promises to Moses and Jacob wrong.

Golden Week in Matsuyama (松山)

2010-05-07T08:14:00.004+08:00

On the second day in Imabari, Manglish took a train and went to Matsuyama, the capital of Ehime Prefecture of the Shikoku island.

The view was spectacular on the way there. Stretched outside the train was the deep blue Seto Inland Sea glittering off sun shine scattered with islands of all sizes. An hour 10 minutes and an oodles of sea breeze later, he arrived at the Matsuyama Station. Immediately, he crossed the street and took a densha to go to the main castle, the Matsuyama Castle.
To get up to the Castle, you can choose to go alone like this.
Or in a group like this.
And finally, this is the Matsuyama Castle. Well, a better picture is here.
This gargantuan pine tree amazed Manglish very much.
So was this.
After the Castle, he took this Botchan train to get to the Dogo Onsen. If you ever come to Matsuyama, you have to take this train which has been serving the people of Matsuyama since the Meiji era.
There are only two left in the service now.
It was crampy and hot during summer.
And a Botchan train ride later, he reached the famous Dogo Onsen of Matsuyama. This little onsen was packed with people that day.
And outside the Onsen, you'll find this Botchan Karakuri Clock which spews little figurines from a famous novel Botchan every hour.
You'll also find this little foot bath here to dip your tired feet, and this has also been here since the Meiji era.

After the little dip, you can choose to walk further or take one of these expensive trishaws and go....
SHOPPING!!!! What else!

Golden Week in Imabari (今治)

2010-05-06T08:31:00.009+08:00

Hello. Hello. Anyone misses me yet? No? Anyway, let's look at some pictures today, shall we?

This is Imabari. From a hilltop.

This is also Imabari. Outside a window.Imabari is the Japanese equivalent of....Alor Setar. Or at least that was the impression I had when I saw paddy fields after paddy fields looking out from where I was staying. And in between the sea and the paddy fields, you'd find rows and rows of old shop houses.Imabari is the place to visit if you want to buy yourself some towels or Titanics because these are the two main industries here. I didn't buy any. In fact I was given some. The towels, I mean.

* * *

I was fortunate enough to witness a small traditional ritual on the third day. It was held at a temple built during the Meiji era.
The villagers thronged that little temple on top of a small hill.
A variety of food were offered like fishes, rice and wine. But I saw no roast pigs. You know how healthy their diets are. They probably didn't want their guarding angels to suffer from heart diseases too, I reckon. Otherwise, who'll guarantee good returns from the fields next year?! These little girls?
Or these devotees?
Or these healthy young men who'd probably fleet the town once they once finish high school?
And so the ritual'd been going on like forever.
So that we feel a little more secured living in a world suffused with fear and uncertainties.

Up next -- Golden Week in Matsuyama (松山). Stay tuned.

The Catcher in the Rye

2010-04-30T09:32:00.008+08:00

Tell me, what could possibly beat a box of almond chocolate and a room so cool you could forget about turning on the aircond and just tuck yourself snugly in bed reading J.D Salinger?

Right now, I am half way through the life of Holden Caulfield, the protagonist in Salinger's "The Catcher in the Rye". As usual, I will not go into the details of the book because I'd very much prefer you to find it out for yourself. What you choose to feed your mind is a lot like what you choose to feed your body. And what I find exquisitely mind stirring may turn out to be awfully tasteless for you. Or vice versa.

Catcher knocked my socks off. The English is amazingly simple. There are no words too difficult to understand. Yet, in all its glorious simplicity, there is an awful lot of gorgeous use of words, slangs and all. I manage to pick up some idioms from there. For example, chew the fat. And no kidding, I haven't got many opportunities to chew the fat ever since coming to Japan. Nonetheless, I don't really fancy that, if you really want to know. I'd rather spend time alone reading. It's healthier this way, I think.

I enjoy reading Salinger. It is easy but lively. I don't have to refer to the dictionary as often as I did reading Dick or Dickens. He made me think a lot too. I realize my life at the moment is neither hither nor thither. And I am confused. I mean , how can midlife crisis already begin at 37? Is it not supposed to hit you until you are like, what, at least 45? And strictly speaking, I am not even a full-blown 37 yet. I am 36 going on 37.

Sometimes I wonder about my ability. I wonder if there is anything that I can do and excel in. My most recent experiment is not going well, I think. I haven't really scrutinized it yet. Not until this evening. But briefly screening through just now, I have a hunch the result is going to be slightly deviated from the last one. And if it really does, it'll only mean one thing -- repeat; and a possible critical, unofficial appraisal regarding my ability behind my back. Which'll make me very unhappy, the talking behind my back lot, I mean.

And so you see, I can't consistently produce the same kind of results for my experiments. I can't write like Salinger. I don't speak Japanese well. In a nutshell, my life is totally screwed right now. I am so fucking lost. Sigh! But, nevertheless, my spirit is not defeated -- I am going on a holiday. To Imabari for 3 days; and hopefully come back with some beautiful pictures to share. So, until then, you take care and have a nice weekend.

My Sister's Keeper

2010-04-29T13:52:00.006+08:00

Have you watched it?

It was good. I wasn't actually planning on watching it at first but turned out, it was, really, really good. The movie was roughly 110 minutes long and for a good three quarter of it, I was in tears. The movie didn't suddenly send me into a series of abrupt sobs which after a while the emotional turmoil just sort of cooled down on its own quickly and then you sat and waited for the next one. No, it wasn't like that. But it slowly sliced your heart and squeezed every last drop of tears you had and let it run the whole time like water from a loose, leaky tap.

Jesus. Could Jodi Picoult make it any more depressing than that? No. It was not depressing, it was T-O-U-C-H-I-N-G. Touching, people. God-damned tear-jerking touching!

If you haven't read its book or watched the movie, I am not going to spoil it for you. Enough to just say that this was a sad story about Kate who was leukemic and how her younger sister, Anna, was genetically manipulated, conceived and given birth to, so that her body matched Kate's and she could help save Kate's life. But did Kate survive in the end?

Go watch, people.

Well, looks like I had discovered some good movies recently, First it was Julie and Julia, then Marley and Me, and now this. Frankly, I had no idea what sort of movie it was when I decided to play it after my netbook refused to let me run J & J again. Guess my netbook knows better, eh? When I first saw it in print in the bookstore, I thought the story would be about undying friendship between two women. You know, like Beaches. Wing beneath my wings. Bette Midler and Barbara Hershey. Remember? But turned out I was totally wrong. Completely misled by the novel's cover, I must say. Sigh!

Anyway, how about you guys? Watch any good movies lately? Wanna share? While I go grab a drink to replenish the liquid I'd lost.

Oh..by the way, Cameron Diaz is hot -yesterday, today and tomorrow. Damn!

What I read.

2010-04-28T11:19:00.012+08:00

Some of you commented that my last post read like a soft porn. Well, I didn't actually mean it that way. Or even remotely suggesting it. Any resemblance to horniness, living or dead is purely coincidental. But if there were anything to which my finger should be pointing at for the unintended sexual connotation, it would be my subconscious and Sidney Sheldon.

You see, I started reading in English very late. I didn't grow up with Peter & Jane. My childhood playmates were a guy named Ah Mong and his two elder brothers and they smelled like a puddle of pee. I read my first Enid Blyton when I was 16 on a train to Butterworth.

However, like any other testosterone-fueled young men, I quickly experienced a quantum leap in my intellect, growth and knowledge of sex. In less than two years, I'd grown from 4" to 5"5' and from reading the Famous Five to A Stranger in the Mirror, skipping over Treasure Island and major coming-of-age novels. Reading Sidney Sheldon was very much like reading Aladdin and Jasmine. But with lotsa sex.

After A Stranger in the Mirror, I religiously read every novels by Sidney Sheldon, Jackie Collins and others where I could find sex. My criteria of choosing what I read then was not based on if the writer was a Pulitzer winner or a Booker nominee but according to how much sex there was. I'd randomly pick up a novel and instinctively turn to the page where I think sex was waiting for me. I always bought the one with the most sex. But sometimes, you'd find yourself in a predicament. Like what happened if there were two novels with an equal amount of sex in them? Ahh...that was when you moved on to the second criteria of what made a fantastic novel -- the description. Writers who wrote, "his lips gently touched her pink, pointed nipples and with a thrust his engorged, throbbing dick entered her" always won my young heart as compared to someone who wrote, "they kissed and he mounted her." That is just bad sex -- fictional or real.

And so when I began writing my last post, I supposed Sidney Sheldon had, without my permission, become a part of me. Didn't they always say, "when you read a book as a child, it becomes a part of your identity in a way that no other reading in your whole life does"? Oh, wait, I remember who said that -- Kathleen Kelly. But fear not, am I not already beginning to read healthier novels like The Catcher in the Rye, Pride and Prejudice and The Great Gatsby? And with these, I am sure my character, as well as my writing, will improve very soon.

Something something

2010-04-27T16:46:00.008+08:00

Would you read a novel? a short story? that goes like this, I wonder :

"His flaccid penis was exposed and positioned directly on the mouth of the green pot de chambre between the thighs. That was just about as undignified as any old men could ever get -- stripped down to nothing; paraded only in a white, cotton round-neck T-shirt and a bare dick. Was that why we racketed when being brought into this world in all our pure, pseudo-glorified nothingness? We were undignified in nakedness. Man had been put to shame of their bodies ever since the Fall. It is a disgrace to come into being; how ironic, when life is precious and all.

Lying stiffly in that indecorous state in bed and staring blankly into the air in front was Jeremy’s grandfather. His wife ensconced herself in a comfort chair next to the bed watching halfheartedly at a random show she’d picked, and idly pecking at the sun flower seeds from a paper bag like a parrot.

Jeremy called out to his grandparents and startled his grandmother. She sprang to her feet at the sudden presence of Jeremy and his mother at the door with a half-chewed seed between her right thumb and index finger.

His grandma turned facing the door and sort of shrieked, ‘Jeremyyy….Why hadn’t you telephoned before coming?’ she asked while raking nervously, with her feet, the scattered hulls on the floor as if they were fallen leaves after a violent storm.

What the fuck? Jeremy thought, and why? Who? Disgusted by the pathetic sight of his grandfather, he darted a sharp look, with a furrow between his brows, at his mother whose eyes met his. She then quickly looked down with an almost indiscernible, subtle head shake and touched her nose briefly at the same time with her right hand as if to cover the slightly lifted corners of her mouth. Oh. Jeremy knew that gesture just too well. He stopped himself at once from verbalizing his thoughts. He knew the answers would manifest themselves very soon; if not immediately. This was the first time Jeremy had seen his grandfather in this sad plight since he was bedridden three months ago."

Does it have the feel of a novel? A short story? A something something? Would you be eager to find out the answers like Jeremy did? Is there anything lacking in the above whatever you may want to call it? A draft?

Your critical opinions will be GREATLY appreciated. Oh, and en passant, I wrote that.

I won!

2010-04-26T20:51:00.004+08:00

Huzzah! I won.

If you are scratching your head and trying to figure out what I am talking about, click here.

This is probably the most disciplined and productive time of my life as far as any projects that I'd undertaken in the past is concerned.

100 pages of script in twenty six days!

Pheww....I can't believe it too.

But I beseech you not to think that the script I had just written would end up in some producers' desks any sooner. I promise you -- it won't. Let's just say that, this time, it is all about quantity. Quality? Another time, perhaps.

(Come on, don't be so harsh on me. It is my virgin attempt.)

However, it is still exultingly gratifying because for the first time in my life, I didn't quit half way. It is for the first time also, I knew exactly how to remove all the negative energy from whining and yapping, and channeled it into something boisterously positive and productive.

Scriptfrenzy is a challenge to me. But not in a writerly way. It is a test. An examination of faith. Do I believe in myself? How committed I am to writing? Will I give it up after three minutes into the game? Am I disciplined enough?

Today, I can at last proudly tell myself that, yes, I am committed, to writing. I haven't loved anything positive this much for a long time besides whining. And so you can guess how excited and elated I am when I hit the 100-page mark just now. Mission accomplished. I've passed the test.

Next challenge -- 50,000 words in a month at NaNoWriMo in November, and this time I am determined to write some good quality stuffs, instead of just jabbering, which, if I am good and lucky enough, may end up in a bookstore near you.

I know. I just love to day dream. Don't you?

Pollyanna

2010-04-23T08:23:00.006+08:00

I spent the whole afternoon reading Pollyanna yesterday.

Yes. Go ahead and have a good laugh, I know it is a children's book you say, but I wonder, what is the best age to read a children's book? 6? 12? 16? 26? or 36?

If you have no idea what I am talking about, let me tell you, Pollyanna is a book about a little girl, Pollyanna Whittier who had been playing the "Just Being Glad Game" with her father and everyone else since 1913. She was a bubbly, optimistic and strong girl with freckles whose father taught her to always try to find something to be glad about in hopeless situations, which is the essence of the Game. The classic example was when Pollyanna was profoundly disappointed to find a pair of crutches instead of the toy which she had eagerly hoped for in a missionary barrel, her father comforted her by saying, "well, Pollyanna, look, you should be glad about the crutches because we don't need them."

So, in a nutshell, be grateful. And then, you will find a lot of happiness in your life. Isn't that the perennial advice -- be thankful -- that got everybody talking about since, I don't know, human civilization? Count your blessing. Count your blessing. Everyone is telling me that. Yes, I know. But I won't know how until you show me the way. And that is when you realize that there aren't too many people who excel in counting the blessing or Advanced Calculus.

Until recently, I was still groping in the dark trying to master the art of counting my blessing. But I guess that won't be the case anymore after yesterday. Pollyanna, and Smallkuching who told me that I should be glad that I didn't live in Jakarta, had shown me how and now I know what to do when facing an extremely hopeless situation.

And so last night during shower, I tried to pollyanna myself and found my modern-day equivalent. "Well, look, Manglish, I know you are not very well-endowed, but, come on, man, you should be glad that it's there."

What's your version?

Traffic jam

2010-04-22T07:23:00.012+08:00

Reading Augustus's post at 645am I realized what a blessed life I am leading right now and it made me cherish it even more.

Tired of living in a town where the biggest shopping mall was a Parkson, I moved to KL in 2002. After one year, I learned that life in big city meant only one thing, or two -- perpetual traffic and perpetual traffic jam. Going to work everyday in a big city was like crossing the continents of traffic jam. First I was stuck on the Middle Ring Road from Pandan Perdana, where I lived, to reach the Connaught Highway. After which, I waited for my turn to make a U-turn in Taman Connaught to get to Petaling Jaya. Half an hour and 50 cents later, I drove for another 10 or 15 minutes on a school holiday or if it was a non-sense lucky morning before joining the rest of the drones on a massive crawl on the notorious Federal highway and finally reached the hospital in the nick of time.

Getting caught in the traffic jam day after day changed me. I was no longer angelical. I was a jihadist. Living in KL had turned me into a walking human time bomb ready to explode at anytime. I was agitated, short tempered and a monster on the road. I tailgated so closely even the air felt breathless let alone trying to squeeze a car in front of me. I also became impatient. I swore and glowered at drivers who crawled when they should be on their top gear on an all clear road or on the first day of Hari Raya. However, eventually I began to realize that it was not my real self. I decided that I was still a loving and fun loving guy and I changed my lifestyle. I went to bed earlier, woke up earlier, and left for work before I even saw the sun just to make sure that I won the race against time and traffic congestion to arrive at work on the dot. Life was good. Nevertheless, five years later, I was tired of staying in Pandan and I changed again. This time I moved to Sunway and life got better.

I no longer needed to leave home before sunrise when I was in Sunway. It was closer to work but still, it was not totally jam free. The only jams I had to put up with were the sourish apricot flavored one I spread on my bread on most mornings and the one at Jalan Templer roundabout sometimes. Otherwise, I was happy. I was glad that I made the right choice. I was a bugbear no more. And that was when I began to observe that most drivers who happened to be assholes to me on the road happened to have car license plates beginning with the letter "B" too. I am not saying that it is you. But you know who you are.

So, you see. If you are caught in a traffic jam day after day like I was, don't fret. Don't think that life is a hopeless, exasperating predicament. It is not. Change and your world changes with you. Don't say that you can't change. You can change. You can change your lifestyle. You can change your address. You can change and become less angry.

Nonetheless, if your life still doesn't improve after you have changed, seriously you can change the government already.

The Whale

2010-04-21T14:29:00.009+08:00

Ahoy!

At last, ladies and gentlemen, Manglish is done with The legendary Dick. Such a long one. Phewww....

Twenty one days, one hundred and thirty two chapters minus the etymology and epilogue, countless hours and new vocabularies, how did I feel?

I am god-damned relieved and god-damned blown away.

Relieved because I didn't waggle a little, white flag half way and give up on the novel. That, I must say, is quite an achievement for me. And I am, to the bone, overwhelmed. The novel is god-damned awesome. I mean, how in the world did Herman Melville do it? Okay, it might not have the high emotional drama of David Copperfield or Great Expectation, (or maybe it had and I didn't get it since I was drifting in and out of comprehension) but, other than that, if I may say, it'd got everything else -- cetology, maritime sciences, history, geography, religion, obsession....You get the picture.

It is a novel with profundities, to use one of Herman's own words. I am totally swept off my feet by the majesty of the book, seriously. Reading it I couldn't help but wonder how agonizing it must had been for him to painstakingly research and then write it. Think of the amount of sleep he must have lost writing and rewriting his proses. That alone deserved a few rounds of applause and standing ovations. No wonder it is one of The Great American Novels.

Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. Moby Dick...You are one hell of a dick and I am speechless.

If you haven't read it, do pick it up today. Even if you don't fancy whaling and think that it is a despicable vocation, I urge you to read it for Herman's conviction while I move on to the next book. Any suggestions?

ps: no one survived in the end except for Ishmael. Go read it.

Miss T

2010-04-19T11:04:00.008+08:00

Wow. Couldn't believe that I was so disciplined. I consistently wrote for five days in a row last week. You know. I haven't been this disciplined since the opening of Suria KLCC. So, it's a good sign. I'd say.

Anyway, I ran into a new Vietnamese student, Miss T, yesterday evening coming back from the laundry room with a basket full of a week's load. She arrived last autumn under the same twinning program. Though staying on the same floor, I hardly see her. I was fumbling to open the door when.....

"Mang....how are you?" greeted T.

"How are you? Haven't seen you in a long time." I replied.

"There is going to be a dinner for my department next Saturday. Do you think your department will join us too?" she asked.

"I don't think so. I haven't heard anything about it. But it is highly unlikely." I answered.

"Ohh...I am supposed to introduce myself then." she said.

"You'll get used to it soon. More to come. Get ready" I said. With a smile.

"I was kind of hoping that you would be there too. So that I'll have a company. And it would not be so lonely." she said ruefully with a sigh.

Miss T is tall and thin with a pairs of eyes more widely separated than average which makes her look like Neytiri and a dismally dun skin tone which makes me worry more about her general health than her mental affliction. That last statement of hers, my friends, is basically the definition of life as a foreign student in a nutshell. Especially so in Japan. Or should I say in Hiroshima? Speaking from experience, I hadn't spoken to any foreign students who didn't feel like they were some outcasts here. It is hard to blend into a society so homogeneous no matter how excellently proficient your Japanese is. I'd done my time and discovered more effective and productive methods of combating the disease of melancholy -- read and blog. I sincerely hope that, in time, she would find her own too.

And because of that, I was reminded of how I would surely be questioned about my experience here when I return. Let's face it. We, as human beings, are unfathomably fond of grading stuffs. We live for labels. Good. Bad. Gucci. Chanel. And so what should I tell my colleagues in approximately 16 months? I wondered. The Indonesian student with whom I used to lunch said, when our collective forlornness reached an all-time high 6 months after touching down, "I'd definitely show them how much I'd enjoyed my life here no matter how unbearable the situation had been." And such she did indeed. Loading pictures after pictures of herself having a marvel-licious great time with other Indonesian students with a plastered-on smile. Maybe she did thoroughly enjoy her life here. I wouldn't know.

As for me, pondering the riddle over a few sesame cookies, Moby Dick and Harry Connick Junior last night, I decided to tentatively label this as one of the happier times in my life. After all, there are not too many people lucky enough to come live in Japan with all expenses being taken care of, are there?

Loneliness? It's probably been way too overrated. Try, with a dash of thankfulness.

High Income Nation

2010-04-16T07:54:00.034+08:00

In 1989, while Berlinda Carlisle asked her darling earnestly to "Leave A Light On", I was 16 and on a train bound for Province Wellesley with my younger brother and cousin. Fifteen hours, several char siew baos and a tropical thunderstorm later, we landed in Butterworth. The whole journey was boring and uneventful. Except for the commotion during the heavy downpour where we frantically tried in vain to shut the window to prevent the rain from drenching my cousin to death. Other than that, there was no near "Murder on the Orient Express". The Three Musketeers were excited. But in a cheap coach that felt like it was going to be shattered into odds and ends at anytime, it certainly did not make us feel like Harry Potter & Co. on our way to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to learn magic.

We didn't carry any mobile devices with us. Except for an old Sony Walkman. And Berlinda, of course. Our parents, somehow, felt safe enough to let three no-way-to-be-contacted teenagers embark on the 15-hour journey all by themselves to visit an aunt. That was how relatively safe and sound Malaysia and Malaysians were back then. However, as Malaysia slowly progresses to achieve the status of a high-income nation, we also gradually evolve into a dangerous and unsound nation. We are now a nation in transition and a transit for human and drug trafficking. By and by we begin to live in abundance. Food, leftovers and children are everywhere. We throw away newborns indiscriminately like we dispose our garbages. As we cultivate the habit of recycling, shouldn't we have at least separated them first? Into perishable or non-perishable? We have become un-childproof. Death traps are everywhere especially at home. Innocent, helpless toddlers were beaten to their death. Child abuses and murders are on an exponential rise outperforming our KLCI. Whatever happened to "home sweet home"? I wonder.

It got lost in the transition.

Infidelity has become a way of life. We elect leaders with questionable moral integrity. And we publicly embrace these leaders like their wives. We choose to forgive them and continue to have faith in them. We'd like to believe that they can bring our nation forward. To greater height. We are willing to believe in everything they tell us to get rich; infidelity is human nature, homosexuality is god-forbidden, and morality remains a pure academic pursuit to be questioned only in the exam hall and graded by a bunch of god-forsaken lost souls. What could we have possibly done? Nothing. We are now in "The Year of Living Dangerously". It is a land mine out there. And if we are not careful, being a Secret Lover to the wrong man could blow us into pieces. And so, are we on the right course in becoming a high income society? Certainly. We are surely on our way singing Behemoth 's Christgrinding Avenue.

"I am on my way.

Destination hell."

Fictathon - an update

2010-04-15T13:05:00.015+08:00

Is it bad manners to not answer your comments? Because if it is, again, I am sorry. To sum up all the comments on my last post -- no, it is not a good sign that the cancer cells died in the petri dish because if they keep on doing this, I will have only dead cells and no Nobel-prize worth of data. Then it'll be time to start packing and kiss phd's ass goodbye. But, I had already plated new batch of cells fresh from the freezer yesterday, so pray hard that they don't do tricks on me again.

So, my fictathon. Fifteen days, 45 chapters and what do I think of Moby Dick? One word: tearjerking. Not that it is particularly moving or touching but because it proves to be a very tough read. For me. On one chilling night, I took more than an hour to crawl through 5 pages only. Agonizingly.

Why? Because....

#1: I don't read the Bible. Not yet. And so when I read, for example, this: "Poor Lazarus there, chattering his teeth against the curbstone for his pillow, and shaking off his tatters with his shiverings, he might plug up both ears with rags, and put a corn-cob into his mouth, and yet that would not keep out the tempestuous Euroclydon." Huh? Lazarus? Who the hell was Lazarus? And this: "it stood on a sharp bleak corner, where that tempestuous wind Euroclydon kept up a worst howling than ever it did about poor Paul's tossed craft" Paul? Paul who? And where was he voyaging to before the mishap?

#2: Too metaphorical. Chapter 42 where he wrote, "It was the whiteness of the whale that above all things appalled me. But how can I hope to explain myself here; and yet, in some dim, random way, explain myself I must, else all these chapters might be naught." And he did. He went on talking, at 14-page length, about a galloping white horse, the gay albatross and albinism. And everything white. Frankly, I have some very vague ideas of what he was trying to get at. I think he was like referring to the good and the evil. (Correct me if I am VERY wrong on this. But then you can't normally go wrong with generic statement like this, can you?) And for me to explain exactly what they were in my own words -- not so fast.

#3: Rich vocabulary. Too rich for me. My brain doesn't seem to be able to register the definition for words like consternation, apparition, despite repeated search. And I don't necessarily know how to use "solecism" or "appellative" in the future. Even though I know now what they mean.

Sigh! Well. Looks like I am going to be stuck swimming with the big, fat whale for a while. And it is frustrating. Last week (was it? Anyway....) I wrote on Facebook that I was "running out of time. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. Arrrghhhh...." because....there are just too many great, fantastic books to read and too little time.

Arrggghhhh........

Suicide Club

2010-04-14T07:48:00.007+08:00

It was a grievous day. Death took place in my life. They decided life in Japan was either too miserable or depressing and so they mass committed suicide. I pronounced hordes of my cancer cells dead yesterday. And time of death, 1330 hours. It was a puzzling phenomenon. I always thought suicide in large number could only be found in "Suicide Club", the movie. Apparently, it was not. For some obscure reasons, my cancer cells gave up and killed themselves too.

Cancer cells are immortal beings. They are so versatile and durable that they will probably still be around when we have been reduced to white bones and dust. And they are normally a contented lot outside the body. They are not as demanding or picky as us. They also don't need a lot of attention or love. Albeit their human origin. Outside our chemical powerhouses, they are usually happy to live in simple loft like a petri dish. A large one-room, transparent studio. They also eat simply. Serve them clear, pink liquid resembles rose sirap fortified with lots of minerals, vitamins and hormones; within hours, they will grip and hold on to their lives at the bottom of the dish, multiply vigorously and thrive ardently. 5 days are all I need to have a dish-ful of fat, happy and healthy cancer cells ready and comply to be put on an index of assorted tests. In short, they are the model citizens of simplicity living.

And therefore, it came as a shock when they chose to let go of their eternal life and drown in the nutritious soup yesterday. Desperate times like this called for desperate measures. But not me. I called in the experts. The specialist took a look and shook his head. He didn't understand why too. But we concluded that we must at least try to salvage the surviving ones who were still holding on to their dear lives at the bottom of the dish. Probably crying out for help. So, I sucked and drained the what looked like a watered down air bandung now, gave those survivors a shower and shifted them to their new loft bathed in fortified soup again. Then, I kept them in a refrigerator with a temperature like our bodies and said a prayer. Hoping that these survivors would eventually change their mind about dying.

Nonetheless, when I checked on them just now, all of them had completely given up on living. It was too late. The diabolical thinking had spread. I have done everything I possibly could to change their minds. But once they'd become petulant, they heed no advices. They either commit harakiri or murder you. And the ending is the same -- they end up in an incinerator and get burnt to their ashes. Amen.

(Photograph on top. Left: The Loft. Right: Happy cancer cells)

John Smith

2010-04-13T13:08:00.004+08:00

Sigh! Stumbled across yet another exquisitely well written blog while reading the New York Times today.

This time, it is not about some porn star with sex addiction, or frustrated secretary who did French cooking, but a cancer survivor. His name is John Smith. And if you are particularly interested, read his blog here.

(Right here, my cursor blinks frantically like it is telling me to hurry up while I blankly stare back at it thinking of what to write next.)

I actually attempted to make it sound funny. I was going to write: Do I need to be a recovering porn star or, at least, survive a cancer in order to write like that? But does it make me sound like an insensitive prick and disrespectful to J.S who is intrepidly putting up a tough fight against multiple myelome, a kind of blood cancer, in a little town in Oregon? Because if it does, I am sorry. I didn't mean it. I can be quite nonsensical at inappropriate time. Besides, that is not my point.

(5 minutes and an hourly news update on LiteFM later, I am still constructing and reconstructing the next sentence....in my head.)

My point is this: it seems that reading and writing alone are no longer sufficient to become a successful writer. Maybe I am wrong. But I am beginning to believe that in order to make any writings/stories more dainty and interesting than the rest, you'll probably need to go through some extraordinary, life-changing crisis. Or at least hate life. So that you can print the whole spectrum of human emotions -- anger, fear, anguish, gratitude, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera into a paperback. Hopefully it will touch the hearts of many people and become a bestseller. However, don't fret if you happen to be bland and lucky to be free from all worldly sufferings, and not going through the emotional roller-coaster, because a little creativity and imagination can still help turn your small, insignificant, tasteless, but especially valuable life into an epic, page-turning novel.

As for me, let's see....Reading, checked. Writing, checked. Hmm...Erased and left blank. Extraordinary life experiences, still hopelessly waiting for a miracle (I mean getting an offer from Vivid Video or the like and not cancer). And creativity? Gotta go work on this.

ps: I am practicing my writing.

Just another......rant?

2010-04-12T08:34:00.005+08:00

Good moaning, Blog-Ol'-Sphere!

How is everyone feeling today? I wonder.

Are you sad? Are you enthusiastic? Are you having one of the Monday blues again? Or are you sick? Homesick like Manglish. Call it whatever you like. An emo-post. A rant. A....I don't know what. But Manglish has been sort of missing home very much lately. Missing his mum. His dad. His sister. Nasi lemak. Curry Mee. And his 3-year-old nephew who is getting noisier each day learning new words. And therefore, Manglish did what he did best during melancholic times like this. He plunged into the M&Ms of his life -- Music and Moby Dick. And ignored the world last night.

If you haven't known this, Manglish's left ear is consistently plugged into LiteFM from the time he arrives in the office until he goes home. And the music doesn't stop there. It continues late into the night until it is time to turn off the light somewhere between 1130 and 1145pm. And last night, Manglish listened to "Swing Time" -- a weekly segment where the station belts out the best songs from the yesteryears. Songs like Moon River, The Way You Look Tonight, You Don't Know Me, Secret Love by singers like Barbara Streisand, Tony Bennett, Mandy Moore and many more. And if you adore oldies as much as Manglish does, "Swing Time" is aired on every Sunday between 9pm and midnight. Malaysian time.

Besides oldies, Manglish also enjoys more contemporary songs and recently he is hooked on "Hold On" by Michael Buble. Not too long ago, it was "Nothing But A Miracle" by Diane Birch. And songs like "If You Leave Me Now" by Chicago, "I'd Really Love To See You Tonight" by England Dan and John Ford Coley, and Bee Gee's "Love You Inside Out", just to name a few, never fail to send him into a trance. Sometimes, like everyone else, Manglish also likes to belt out hits by Lionel Ritchie, Whitney Houston and Michael Bolton's "How Am I Supposed To Live Without You" in the shower. But never Lady Gaga. Speaking of which, maybe Manglish should check her out on YouTube soon.

Anyway, Manglish is not sure how to finish this entry. And so, he will end by asking this: what is your favorite music genre?