Seven, etc.

You’re gonna get a peace of me.

The ironic thing is not the dissonance between her actions and her agenda.
The ironic thing is that she was trying to punch an octopus tree.

Unreasonable. Unsolicited, and most likely, unrequited. Unfair. Unnecessary.

Some people’s actions are.

They sit atop their Moral Mountains and pass judgment. And sometimes, for good measure perhaps, they found it necessary to smite you with their Rod of Righteousness, lest you forget that their Opinions matter.

Even though sometimes they aren’t even sure what the heck they are attacking. It’s got eight legs, and it’s covered with green bits of stuff, and it’s rooted to the spot minding its own business … but damn, let’s just show it who’s boss anyway. For good measure, and wossname.

Back off, will ya?

Because seriously, in all sincerity and with all due respect (which amount, to be honest, is dipping by the dozen every passing moment), you don’t know shit.

I know better than anyone that I deserve Judgment for the heart that I have wounded, and the mess I created. If I’m lucky, it would be the kind of Judgement that involves a meat grinder and some sterilized cans. But heck, I probably don’t have enough karma for that kind of luck.

It would, however, not be the kind of judgement that you are qualified to pass. Your opinion is not my sentence, because you did not live our lives. All you knew was just what you saw. All you decided was just what your mind was able to feed. You. Do. Not. Know. Period.

I owe to the people I have hurt. I will answer to them. If they punch me, I would not retaliate. If they do not punch me, I would do so for them.

I am already doing so.

But you. I owe you nothing.

I write this not to make you change your mind about me. Shove your Moral Meatpie in my face, or rather, as you did, behind my back – I have a big enough towel. Let’s see who gets tired first.

I wrote this to remind you that everyone has a reason for the things they did, and everyone is just trying to live the best way they know how. And really, we do not owe you an explanation about why we did what we did. That doesn’t mean you can wave your ignorance about and impose your values on us.

I wrote this, with the hope that you will remember to live and let live. Perhaps, even just one person in the future would be able to breathe easier without you huffing down their neck. Goodness knows we have enough monsters within already.

But of course, you can disregard all the above as a self-redeeming ramble. To which I will reply, “Go on, cast that stone.”

*****

Okay, enough of that venting. Here are some innocuous floral pics from the Tulipmania festival in San Francisco to balance it out.

Tulips are, I thought, the happiest flowers ever. If God knew Photoshop (he probably uses something infinitely more complex), Tulips would be the test subjects where He bumped up the contrast with.

And God saw that it was good.

Just a few personal favourites. The angles aren’t even original, for crying out loud.

Six

San Francisco, Feb 2011.

This Chinese New Year actually came and went quietly, with me hardly noticing it.

The key word here is “quiet”. The fact that it occurred in the same sentence with CNY makes it a novelty, and that is a fresh change from the usual scarlet festivity, which had always been just a novel – the kind that has more drama than you can keep up with, but still manages to be several hundred pages too long.

It’s not that I hate CNY. In all honesty, I actually enjoy going back to my Grandma’s for some home-cooked spread, soaking in the camaraderie and witty banters unique to Ipoh-town folks, and take full advantage of the homely love that Uncles and Aunts seem to be more inclined to dish out when they have not seen you for a year. And Kuih Kapit. Oh man, how I miss the sweet aroma teasing my senses when I levered open the Milo tins filled with those pieces of crispy, folded wonders. And lion dances. And wearing red for gung-ho’s sake. And holidays, except I always ended up working anyway, because a procrastinating workaholic (yes, they do exist, but the government hushed it up) should never end up as a freelance writer.

But I could really do less with the spring cleaning, and the noise level, and the stress, and the visiting, and the scorching heat pervading the air, and the songs. Gosh, especially the songs.
This year, however, CNY was a negligible affair. Granted, I baked the cornflake-cookie thing with my host kids (my first time baking okay!) to show some gusto, but other than that the day went on with a different kind of drama, stress and noise level (firecrackers stand no chance against the kids’ screams). I even forgot to wear red.

I did, however, shivered in the cold rainy evening for several hours in San Francisco to watch the CNY parade, which was supposedly among the top ten parades in the world.

My verdict? Meh. The lion dances were half-hearted at best, the marches were mostly unsynchronized, and some of the costume designs were just plain, well, plain. It could be that the whole spirit of CNY was dampened by the rain, which has the nipping potential to freeze anyone into immobility. There were times when I thought my hands went dead, which would be a bummer, considering that I was trying to push the shutter button on my camera.

And that was how I learnt to appreciate the things I never found the reason to. Like the warmth of the festivity in Malaysia, both in family and in weather. I realised that part of the fun of CNY is that it makes you want to tear your stinky, sweat-stained shirt out. And being able to stomach any chilled beverages, even Sarsi (diabetes in a can, that). I also realise that there are some things that Malaysians still do best, lion dances being one of them.

Most of all, I realise that my CNY in America lack a certain noise level, stress, visiting and general red-ness. And songs. Gosh, especially the songs.

I kinda, perhaps, miss them.

Next year, I’ll be eating my words. But I bet they wouldn’t taste so bad with Kuih Kapit.

Five

Won·der

[wuhn-der]
–verb (used without object)

1. to think or speculate curiously
2. to be filled with admiration, amazement, or awe; marvel (often followed by at )
3. to doubt

(Taken from Dictionary.com)

Being a nanny puts a lot of things in perspective. The importance of paying attention in class, for example.

This is not to say that nanny-ing is, an inferior job compared to those that you need to blowtorch half your brains and numb the other half over (wait wait, they have a word for it… Yep, Education). I always think the value of a certificate, like many other forms of paper in the working world, is highly overrated. It’s just that, it would have been handy if I had listened to the droning of my Biology teacher. And actually commit to mind the Chemistry chaos.

Gosh, I would have carefully filed my notes and stored them in alphabetical order, had I know that I would be one day taking care of tiny human beings who have interest ranging from the uses of chemicals (dang the Powerpuff Girls and the mention of Chemical X) and the names of all the bones in the body. My boys, they seem to be held together by questions and the stubbornness to Get Answers, no matter the threat (which usually goes like:

“If you ask me one more question, boys… I’d… play dead.”

“What is ‘dead’?”

“Arrrgh!”

“Why did you say aargh?”

“Please, have mercy!”

“What’s ‘mercy’?”

“*foams*”

“What’s that white stuff?”

“*whimpers*”

“What’s that white stuff? What’sthatwhitestuffwhat’sthatwhitestuffwhat’sthatwhitestuff?”)

Yet, at times, their childish wonder and curiosity in the world keeps me from getting too old for my own good. They are so new, so fresh; everything fascinates them. They poke, they probe, they push every button (mostly mine) and pick up EVERY DARN THING from the ground.

Kids probably make the best journalists, mostly because they are oblivious to the popping vein on their victims’ necks, and that they probably invented Follow-Up Questions, and fortified them with steel stubbornness. And you have to admit, those huge eyes staring expectantly up at you have its effects. In a way, you feel like they believe that you Know. And goodness knows we don’t get enough votes of confidence like that.

And while I cringe whenever I feel the question mark creeping up, the kids have taught me to be fascinated about the world we live in. They have reminded me that living is pretty darn amazing, and life is so much stranger than we dared to hope for, if only we look in the right places. Or rather, don’t bother looking in the right places. Just poke your head into every place that looks fun, and let other people do the fretting for you about possible danger and death and, because you’d never know with kids, dynamites.

Where am I going with this? Heck, I don’t know. But as one mentor/friend once taught me, life is not about getting the right answers, but by asking the right questions.

Her

You may like me

(but really, what’s wrong with thee?),
or you can hate me
(by golly, what’s wrong with yours truly?),
but who I have turned out to be,
I like to think that I owe no one an apology.

But if you seek to praise a deserving name,
Or, more likely, finding someone to blame,
For crafting my odd personality that is prone to various levels of lame,
And, when not losing my shoe, as is my fame,
Would most probably clumsily set something aflame,
Let me tell you that this is all thanks to one amazing dame,
My infinite gratitude is hers to claim.

Without her as my sister,
My world would never be filled with the laughter,
That puts hyenas to shame.

For you must know,
That despite the early years of sisterly row,
The seeds of awe and wonder she still sow,
In my childish, awkward soul that was more graceless than a crow,
She was the Big Sister in which perfectness and brilliance flow,
She carried herself with such confidence, such glow,
She was popular in school, with impressive achievements in tow,
While I struggled to survive the primary-school low,
I looked up to her, occasionally my friend and mostly my foe,
And by secretly parroting her personality, my character found a way to grow.

The years went by, and as sisters do, we grew inseparable,
The fun we have; we guffaw more than we chuckle,
Together we survived various degrees of terrible,
For instance, Mum’s anger when our wee-hour -chats were not so subtle,
And the college years when our combined net assets worth only slightly more than rubble,
And when we caffeinated ourselves after watching a possessed child cackle,
And when we pigged out at a mamak,
with workers that like to soundlessly appear beside our table,
And how about the time when we were rolling in hunger,
waiting for Dad and the lunch in his motorcycle?

Thank you,
For saving my ass,
And saving my shoe,
For being my conscience,
And my cheerleading crew,
For standing by me,
Even when there was no reason to,
For Being There,
The difference it made, you have no clue.

To my uber awesome cool sister,
With her very own brand of humour,
One day the world we shall take over,
For Pinky and the Brain is born to conquer,
But for now a toast is in order,
Here’s to your spirit, your enthusiasm, your character,
May your strength and energy continue to inspire,
And although this will be that big 30th year,
I wish you never lose that joie de vivre,
For age is really but a number,
Ignore the details and we’d all be happier.

Happy Birthday, Pinky.

(This post will also serve as a reminder to myself: never attempt to rhyme past midnight again.)

Three, Four, Shut the Door

The problem with trying to write after taking care of kids all day is that only small words tend to come out. Worse, they are all in CAPS.

Nonetheless, I shall have to get this third entry for Project 52 out, seeing as I’m already a week late, because Pratchett said that if you bail on a commitment for a good reason, soon you’d be bailing on it for a bad one. And because he’s Pratchett, he’s always right. Kinda like a god, but with less irony.

So yes, even though I have to have a thesaurus opened on my browser, and even though I may have to exercise restraint from the region of the Caps Lock button, and even though after each paragraph I type I’m taking a ten minute break to stare into space (it’s slightly livelier than my brains), I’m gonna get it out. Yosh.

If you are reading this, I am utterly sorry. This is painful for the writer, but even more so for the reader, who doesn’t even have the obligation to like it.

Anyway.

Life is like ice cream, sometimes. Live the moment, lick it while its frozen, and Happiness (or at least, it’s younger brother Contentment) makes your taste buds bloom. Leave it to its own demise, saving it for later, and the creamy heaven melts into soured puddle of ick. It perhaps does no good to you, too, if you get right down to it.

Where am I going with this? To quote the sage, “I was hoping you can tell me.”

******

Do our books reflect us, or do we reflect our books?
What a conundrum.
I wonder what Calvin and Hobbes have to say about this.

I should perhaps be reading something more substantial.

Something with more philosophical depth, perhaps. Something argumentative. Something political. Some social commentary. Something brilliant.

Thus, I chucked my “50 Philosophical Ideas You Need to Know” aside and curled up with some good ol’ Calvin and Hobbes.

It’s philosophical.

It’s argumentative.

It’s political.
It’s social commentary.


It’s brilliant.

Calvin’s mind jumps from metaphysics to madness, and stops to poke at everything in between until something explodes. Hobbes is wry, devious, and only probably stuffed with cotton. Together, they made, well, Calvin and Hobbes – possibly the most fantastic comic strip ever written in the history of Humans. That’s an understatement, by the way, but that’d have to do for now.

Granted, I’m a late Calvin and Hobbes fan. In fact, the addiction only started about several weeks ago (but already it has invaded a large part of my consciousness. I now believe that snowmen do turn into Deranged Mutant Killer Monster Snow Goon if you try to bring them to life. And that bicycles are Evil - I always knew it’s not my fault that I can never ride them properly.)

I never really got into Calvin and Hobbes when I was younger. In fact, I wondered what the hype was all about. I remember being really into Peanuts at one point, but the jokes got old and Charles Schulz got older. Eventually, I discovered Zits and read it whenever I can, and Baby Blues always got me chuckling. But none of them really registered like Calvin and Hobbes do now.

Perhaps it’s because none of them had Deranged Mutant Killer Monster Snow Goons.
The charm (again, an understatement) of Calvin and Hobbes to me is that Calvin, despite the restrictions and realities of being a six-year-old, just set out to have the best damn fun he can get away with. That, and grossing out Susie Derkins, a Girl who lives on the same street. His mind is his playground, and although he is sometimes bitter and grouchy about inconveniences of life such as school, vegetables, blockhead bullies, bedtime, and parent-teacher conferences, he still lives life on the fastest track he can put his wagon on, i.e. a steep hill straight down to the river.

And that is perhaps what being alive is all about. It doesn’t matter who you are, or how old you are, or where you are, or even what you are. You will have restrictions, you will have frustrations, and you will have reality. However, it is up to you to turn the Vegetables of Life to a murderous green blob that is trying to eat your face, because heck, it’s inevitable anyway, so you might as well have fun fighting it.



It’s about the Imagination, and the World it opens.

*****

Sometimes I think I should be doing more with my time here in the States. I feel like I should be soaking in all the American experiences that I can possibly get my hands on. I should be leaping onto roller coasters (except I hate them), riding the waves (except I can’t swim, let alone surf), jumping off planes (that’s even worse than roller coasters), and err, other exciting stuff which I would not be doing save for the feeling that I should be doing more with my time here in the States. I should be sleeping less.

The spirit may be willing, but the body is weak. And don’t get me started on the wallet.

The funny thing is, as I was watching the live cast of Barely Legal gyrating to the Rocky Horror Picture Show, it hit me. Granted, Tim curry singing “Sweet Transvestite” didn’t gain a cult following without causing some pain, but this is a different kind of “hit”.

It dawned upon me that hey, I’m actually doing okay in the States. I am in a cinema room full of people yelling things at the screen, and I just saw a dancer flashed her boobs, and in a while, when the character of Dr. Frank-N-Furter yells “Great Scott!” we were all supposed to send rolls of toilet paper sailing through the air.

It was oddly beautiful, sailing toilet papers.

Now, how many people can say that?

My point is, although sometimes I wish I can have some fantastically mind-blowing experience to take home with, I guess it counts to just be happy with what I can do.

To stop yearning, and start living.

Because Contentment deserves some credit too.

Well said, Watterson.