Like a ton of bricks

When I saw a truck with the cheery words “Bimbo Bakeries” emblazoned on it, the realization hit me – I’m in America. Like, really.

I’m known to be prone to delayed reactions. But even I would admit that one month is too long for a reaction to register. Nevertheless, the past 37 days have been so full of new discoveries to be made, new people to meet and new roads to get lost in, that I have neglected to hyperventilate. Sure, there was the brief moment of elation when I first landed, but the ZOMG moment is ruined by yet another airport security check.

It’s hard being a fan girl in a paranoid country.

But today, while sitting next to my host dad, who was driving the whole family to the San Diego Wild Animals’ Park, I was swollen with sudden pride that I made it to the States – this is my dream since I was 17.

Okay, so my dream didn’t include three tantrum-prone boys who, when the right mood graces them, say and do the funniest things. But hey, I was never a specific dreamer – wishing upon a star while pointing in the general direction of the States works too. Ask me, I should know.

I’m kidding. I was wishing upon a star and pointing in the general direction of the States frantically, while my other hand tried to shovel an airway out of the humongous pile of Au Pair paperwork.

It was not easy. But that, according to rumours, is the mark of things worth doing.

So far, the rumour is right.

Within a month, I have met people so interesting that they are probably only found half way across the globe. I have seen crazy sights and breath-taking landscapes, did embarrassing touristy things and living like a local. I taught foreign friends the charming usage of “lah”, learnt their ways and challenged them to spice-eating contests (I pwn-ed them, of course). Heck, I’m driving on the right side of the road.

I also haven’t had Nasi Lemak and Teh Tarik for a month. Them pastas are starting to get to me.

I have to remember to not end my sentences with “lah”, because I’d get weird stares. I mean, I’m used to weird stares, but I’d rather not have to explain myself, because I don’t even understand myself, ya know what I mean? Lah?

(What? I can’t have verbal diarrhoea after dealing with three boys all day?)

Right now, I’m sitting in a room with huge windows overlooking the pacific lagoon. I’m on vacation with my host family in San Diego, though when I say vacation, it just generally mean the same amount of childish screams and drama, taking place in a home that does not belong to us. When I’m not busy stopping the kids from killing themselves by leaning too far out of the window, I always marvelled at the beauty of the lagoon, its tide sloshing up the shore below the blue green California sky.

As the sun sets every evening, its orange glow spills over the rippling lagoon waters against the purplish pink horizon, I always feel so blessed, yet so insignificant.

Who am I to set eyes upon a beauty such as this?

I am a dreamer.

In a perfect world, dreams come true.

In this not-too-shabby world, dreams come true, too – you just gotta make it work.

Die die also must make it work.

Written amidst childish screams

“So, what did you do before you came to the States?”

I always tell people that I’m a writer. But judging by the situation of late, I may be lying.

I’m no writer. I’m Having Written.

The distinction between the two? The former is haunted by deadlines, while the latter is just haunted – by the past and all its glories.

Not that I wrote anything particularly glorious. But like all haunted beings we cling on to whatever sliver of the bygones we can find.

I have no time to write. I tell myself that, in the hope that a full schedule can occupy the emptiness of my pages. Who has time to write when you’re so busy living? I didn’t travel all the way to the States to hole in my room and slouch in front of the computer.

Or so I told myself, while the hollowness within my heart spreads and spreads.

The truth is, I have no time to think. I jam-packed my life, not willing to slow down for the fear that every moment unlived is a moment wasted. I have done, see, feel and do so many new things for the past few weeks, but I did not take my time to chew at them and savour their succulence.

I’m a gobbler. I did not digest. Perhaps that is why I don’t feel fulfilled, just stuffed – like a toy with cotton for brains.

I read a line somewhere – Never give up on something that you can't go a day without thinking about (yeah it took me a while to figure out this triple-negative sentence, but it’s just as well because now it is ingrained in my head).

I need to keep writing. Chapter 23 needs meaningful prose, not unintelligible scribbles.