With all due suspicion on zodiac predictions, apparently 2009 is a bad year for us Rabbits.
Case in point – my almost-trampled plan to go US for one year. I’ve dreamt about landing in the US for as long as I can remember. There is just something in that country which draws me. I want to work and travel there, and maybe do my Masters programme. Malaysia’s cool (not literally, of course), but there is this burning desire to see a world so different from the life I had known. And now, I finally, finally, earned enough money for me to join the au pair programme, and also got my parent’s support.
And wham – recession rolled over my dream; resulting in my now-paper-thin chances of being hired as an au pair.
Oh well, to quote the cliché: OMGWTFBBQ (actually as cliché goes I actually think this one is pretty cool. The “bbq” is ingenious to add that extremely frustrated feeling that no coherent speech can express, and implies that in tulan-ness, stuff coherence. But of course as usual me over-analysing stuff just kills all fun. Hrmph, wtf. And bbq, of course.)
I don’t know if the slim chance of going US is an indication of a bad year ahead. All I know if that I’m not going to let some Feng Shui spoil my spirits.
I think I’m laughing a lot more these days, anyway, considering sueh year and all.
I just had a heck lot of laughter over dinner with my ex-boss and ex-colleagues. Technically, they’re still my boss and colleagues because I’m freelancing for them as well. I can’t remember what on earth we laughed about, but my chest got this residue of giggles left. No wonder they say laughter is the best work out. You just sit down and talk crap – I can do that all day.
Speaking of work out, I took a walk in KL for a while just now, and boy, it feels good.
I love KL. If I have the money I would buy the t-shirt. But alas, it’s the thought (not the t-shirt) that counts. I love looking at this city caught between modern architecture and nostalgic stubbornness. I love the shops and houses that aged on their own pace. I love the people that just carelessly spill into every street without putting on manners, charm or even, matching clothes. I love roadside pisang goreng stalls that smell of heavenly grease and dust since morning.
I saw so many things while walking, waiting for the bus, taking the bus, waiting again for the bus, and finally, walking to the office. I took zero pictures, because somehow, it seems like I had no right to freeze any of these scene.
Or rather, taking a picture would spoil the moment. Some things are meant to be immersed in.
I saw a lone, tiny house sandwiched between rows of factories. Chickens were crossing the road. I didn’t ask why.
I saw a postman, in his full uniform, riding a motorcycle with his girlfriend clinging on to his back. I never associated postmen with anything other than mails. Half-covered face bringing us the daily bills. For some reason, the postman-and-girlfriend-on-motorbike scene perked me up.
Followed closely behind, another motorcycle. A middle aged man with his pillion rider - wrinkly, frail, but beaming toothlessly. And without a helmet. Dangerous bugger, I smiled to myself.
I saw a taxi-driver laughing while his passenger gestured animatedly.
I saw many more taxis. The drivers glanced at us at the bus-stops, all hopeful and possibly, tweaked meters.
I saw an ice-cream seller whizzed pass, followed closely by a putu mayam seller.
I made small talks with an auntie at the bus stop, complaining about the buses that take forever to come, the baffling traffic jam at 4 p.m., the hot sun, and the busses that take forever to come.
I watched an old man watched me from the rubbish pile he was sitting on. No one won because I crossed the road. No chicken asked why.
The bus I was on followed an old truck carrying recyclable materials.
An old lady was bending by the roadside, under the searing sun, picking up worthy trash from the smelly pile. Global warming laughed at her.
A well-dressed executive was reading a newspaper, teapot and cup laid out in front of him on a mahjong table. The fan whirred above him. In the not-so-distant afternoon heat, his car was being examined by a lone mechanic.
Graffiti was scrawled hurriedly on a wall. To paraphrase, the author used mere two words to describe his thrusting excellence in areas where productivity and pleasure meets – but, in his humbleness, chose to leave out his signature.
Walk on, babeh.
