Last minutes of being 24

I spent it being a coward. I spent it doing exactly what I've been doing for the past two decades. Being unsure. Being scared. I'm not afraid of growing old. I'm afraid of how young people would see me as. How frivolous. How immature. 


I'd written something about the last few minutes of being 24, half spontaneous and half caffeinated, and could not bear the thought of posting it up. It was written off the top of my mind, which can usually pass off as what's in the deepest of heart. It feels too unmeasured, too callous, too reckless. What if I make a fool of myself? What if I make a fool of other people? I don't like consequences because I feel responsible for everything. I don't like spontaneity because I can't feel responsible.

But this wasn't what 24 taught me. 24 taught me to let go, to be free. 24 had me loosen my grip off the handles by the swimming pool, had me jump into the middle of the ocean to touch the fishes, had me drop my Baggages to embrace the one Happiness that til today, I know I do not deserve.

And today, I sit here in Starbucks with the person who can make me laugh the hardest and love the deepest, sharing a drink that I have never heard, and a song that's unfamiliarly soothing, and I'll say - 

"25 can be the way the cookie crumbles". I have no idea what it means, but it's off the top of my head, and as 24 had taught me, that's all that matters.

Number. Adventure. Blank Paper.

Looking at property listings is as sobering as, well, as a hobo having run out of alcohol under a sobbing evening sky.

Not that I’m planning to add a house to my current list of assets soon (my laptop, childhood bolster and Pratchett collection don’t take too kindly to newcomers. Especially those that cost more than them). Not that I can.

It was probably a bout of adulthood hitting me between the eyes, because I sure as heck felt the slam when the living daylight left me. Those prices had so many zeroes that I was pretty sure it’s a health code violation in several countries, and a stigma in at least one.

But it was something perfectly sensible to do, wasn’t it? In another 4 months or so, I would be 25 years old. Doesn’t matter that my 14-year-old inner self is writing angsty songs about it. Doesn’t matter that I have no idea how to be 25. Doesn’t matter if I think 25 is but a number, except that with this one we get cake, which is definitely more than what you can ask of, say, 3.14159265.

I would be 25. And still making it up as I go along.

And one of the things I managed to make up was perfectly adulty things like looking through property listings. And feel depressed. And complain about feeling depressed. And drive people insane by repeating myself, in this case, one “and” at a time.

I also started thinking in timelines again. You know, that unwritten decree that you must be married by this age, and get a promotion by that age, and pop a baby out by some other age, etcetera. Not that there is anything wrong with thinking like that. It got some people somewhere – family, career, a nice house, a shiny car, mid-life crisis… hey, it’s not my kind of life, but heck, my life probably involve a telephone-booth sized apartment and irregular meals, so it may not be to your taste either. We’d both be even, in a way – although you’d be richly smooth, while I’m merely spread thin.

What bothers me is that this was precisely the kind of mentality that I vowed not to fall into. I do not want to live my life by a schedule that was chiselled into the psyche by culture and customs. This is not to say that I’m against marriage, or promotion, or procreation. In fact, these are all things that I would celebrate with fanfare and noisemakers and a costume party for at least one of them. But if these happen to me, I want it to be meaningful, not merely punctual.

Thinking in timeline felt like a grid pressed into my mind, grating it into a colony of work ants with only one obsessive purpose; one Queen to feed. And the Queen breeds. She breeds more sterile, wingless slaves. And she doesn’t care who dies.

One of my biggest fears is that one day, when I look in the mirror, I would see the zombie in my eyes. A zombie that wants no brains, because it knows not what to do with them. A zombie who forgot how to be hungry.

Is that what adulthood looks like? Are the grids finally clamping down? Will it all be a wingless, barren chase for survival from here, for the fulfilment of a fertile future?

Is it the right thing to do?

Perhaps. But not this year. 25 can be just another number, another adventure, another blank paper.

And if I toss the damn watch into the lake, 25 can be the best.

We make it up as we go along.

Ouch. Who put that here? Had someone done something to the decor?

I have been staring at the same blank page for two weeks. Granted, I’m not knee-deep in fortnight stink (suspend imagination, please, if you ever want to look at me without gagging) and the state of my tummy has not been compromised. I blame it on living with the parents. They seem to unable to stomach the idea that a writer with a block would just want to hunch over the beckoning prompter, damning in its every blink, and wallow in no certain amount of self-pity and 9Gag posts. It would, however, have been better for my heroic agony if they had come around to force me to take a shower and swallow bread. But no, their mere presence commanded my sensitivity to body hygiene and food pyramids and the calls of Kuih Kapit, because my holistic upbringing was designed to suit the path of a 9am-5pm future, not hobo writer.

In between all that I also managed to hold down a full-time job, berkecoh-ed with a few of the most awesome people I know on Cameron Highlands, and generally tried to have a social life. I know, my tortured-writer-with-no-fun-and-salary street cred is in shreds. What else can I depend on to sell any of my books?

In my defence (because I really want to sell my books), the blank page have been hovering before me in all these two weeks. It haunted me, casting a semi-transparent veil over my visual. I saw it when I eat, I saw it when I sleep. I saw it when I Facebook-ed, I saw it when I emailed my boss. I sometimes forget to see it when I am too busy laughing my ass off at whatever Jee/Wan Qi/Eileen/Roya/etc said, but I will compensate by seeing it doubly hard afterwards. I promise.

On rare occasions when I actually sit down and type on the blank page, I saw it most. All its whiteness. And space. And potential. And risks.

I retreated, unable to remember how the words form and the fingers tap. I tried to wrap my head around the page but the rust of un-writing had long arthriticked my mind. I can no longer tell people that I am a writer without the certainty that the lie was written all over my face. I read other people’s prose and wondered how the hell they did it.

It was all very dramatic.

My worst fear had come true. I left the States wondering if I will now be immune to the suffocating mentality that seems to pervade the Malaysian air. The same mentality that had me fumbled my column every month, developed a strong dread for writing, and blind-folding myself to what is now clear as day. I wondered if I could maintain that spontaneous voice and borderless thinking which the Americans have taught me – the same one that had me discovering that I actually love making up stories as much as reporting them, and whipping off that darkness which I insisted on groping in. I wondered if I can still be curious, wide-eyed, eager and inspired.

For a while, I thought I could. My first few months back was amusing, and refreshing, and comforting. I could find food and company after 12 am. I could pronounce water and not ‘warer’. I could relish the joy among familiar loved ones with their familiar sense of humour. I could be pampered, and pamper in return.

But I did not write my blog.

It slowly became I could not write my blog. It was supposed to be my journal, where I record life and all its life-ness, but I wrote nothing.

It was like a brain-constipation. I had so many things I want to express, but it just won’t come out. I live my life with the engorgement in my mind that could never find the smooth exit.

You did not just read me equating my thoughts to crap.

Anyway, brain-constipation was major discomfort, as anyone with the bowel equivalent would understand. My mind was suddenly filled with things that I cannot do. Boundaries and bonds. I thought, this is it. The gated mindset had finally caught me.

Or maybe, I was the one who caught it instead. After all, it is probably far more convenient to whine about writer’s block than filling a blank page with words that at least looked like it had passed through the lobes. It was easy to blame it on "the limiting Malaysian mentality" than to admit that I’m just not doing my best.

I had thought about giving up blogging. Giving up on my journal. But I read once that “Don’t give up on the thing that you cannot spend a day without thinking about it.”

So, here I am. If none of the above makes sense, don’t worry. I will explain it once it starts making sense to me.

If I’m lucky, you’ll see me here again. If you're lucky, this would be my last whining-about-writing post.

In the meantime, I need to nurse that Drummer-Boy-shaped absence in my heart with some Pratchett.

Good night, y’all.

Homebound

I am currently 9, 754 meters above ground, flying at the speed of 854 km per hour towards Kuala Lumpur. Rumours have it that one is inclined to feel something at this point. Intense reluctance, perhaps – for I am going back from the Great Capitalistic Yes-We-Can America to the Aiyah-Out-of-Stock What’s-the-Point-lah Malaysia. Annoyed, even, for I am leaving a year of freedom and autonomy to go back to Living with The Parents. Terrified, most likely, for I am currently unemployed, crossing the roads like a Californian (pedestrians are god, no? Hey, why are you still driving towards me?!), have the defense mechanism of a wide-eyed person living in the a safe American suburb with houses that seemed to be designed by burglars (my brother-in-law calls it My Little Pony Land), and could possibly choke from humid heat and contract something deadly (like Extreme Irritance. I never said it was deadly to whom.)

In short, this should be a flight I’d hate to take.

Which is why I found my cheeriness a little unsettling. I am more used to freaking out and going bananas, and worrying about everything and then consoling myself that it is nothing, but go on worrying anyway, just in case.

Except I can’t remember how to do that. I remember the general worrying and conjuring up what-ifs in my head, but somehow my heart didn’t seem to be in it.

It’s probably because my heart is actually… pretty excited to go back to Malaysia. It also probably because this flight has so many awesome movies waiting to be seen and the refreshments just kept coming (Singapore Airline rocks!) It is also likely that I’ve just had the most amazing travel month, especially the last two weeks, that the giddy residue of it all is still pumping in my veins.

Call me optimistic, but I am really just looking forward to some nasi lemak done right. I sometimes suspect that I would fight for the betterment of our country just so that prawn mee have a place to exist.

But even I, in my less hungry moments, realise that while Malaysian food is Something, it’s not everything. One day, I may too get disillusioned again and complain about the government and shed longing tears at the miniature Lady of Liberty statue I bought for my mom. One day, I may regret coming back. One day, I may become bitter and reminiscent about the good old year that was America.

And that would be the day I forget what it really means to live.

It is not about the place, the food, the weather, and the people. It is not even about the government, and the policies, and the facilities, and the economy.

Life is what you make it – the place that you allow yourself to see, the food that you allow yourself to savour, the weather you allow your body to get used to, the people you allow yourself to love. It may even be about the government you allow to rule, the policies you fought to be made, the facilities you make the best of, and the economy you help to flourish. And – because we all need to maintain sanity – the complaints we love to dispense.

I have known Malaysia all my life. It takes leaving it to realise that everything I know is nothing – not about my own country and the potential and beauty it has, not about living in it, and definitely not about deserving it.

I know nothing.

Luckily, that’s a good start to Learning.

An even luckier thing is that I found Someone to learn it with (I wanna fly a Wau next! *hint* :P)

Malaysia is as imperfect as a country gets. But whaddyaknow, imperfection is my defining trait. Looks like we’d hit it off just fine, don’t you think?

The Year that Did, Did Not, and Did-I-really

I came to the States with my life in two pieces of luggage. I was 23.

Now, I’m leaving with double the amount of luggage, and feeling twice as old – even though it has only been just a year.

A year I still could not believe had happened.

A year in which I got shoved into the big black hole of Growing Up.

A year in which I made some of the toughest decisions; paid for the price, harvested the fruits, sometimes all at once.

A year which taught me more about human relationships, both the romantic and the platonic, than any hanging-out-and-yum-cha session could ever impart.

A year that picked up my beliefs, my principles, my worldview, my perspective, my assumptions (this constitutes the majority chunk), and threw it back on my face. Somehow, face dripping with the remains of the old Me, I am the better for it.

A year which I could finally breathe in my own skin, and wondering why the heck I lugged all those layers around for so long.

A year which I wronged, apologized, lost.

A year which I gained.

A year that dragged this coward into a ride of her worst fears, and pulled out a bedraggled, dazed person-thing who couldn’t believe she survived. (No, I’m not talking about those darn roller coasters – unlike mine, those rides hardly make you wiser. Just look at the amount of people who kept going back for more.)

A year that I saw the Jesus in many around me, those who extended their hand, their saving hand, to this undeserving, eternally grateful sinner.

A year which took me to places I’ve only dreamt of, met people who made all the difference, saw amazing sights that, as my brother-in-law would like to say, caused some serious mind-fuchuk-ness. Yet, YET, for some reason, I still manage to come to a conclusion that if you get right down to it, Everywhere is the Same.

A year that made me see my country with new eyes, and discovered that truly, despite everything, I love my home. Warts, inefficiencies, corruption, dirty politics, questionable economic standards, and all – for I realise that these made me angry and sad, more than the Amazing America can ever make me.

To me, Home isn’t where the heart is. Home is where the hurt is.

For what it’s worth, for New Dreams and Seasoned Friendships, for filial piety and sisterly promises, for obligations and optimism, for better or worse – I’m coming home.

And the awesome bit? The adventure continues lah!

Meeting Ol' Mel

Hey, Melancholy. I’ve been expecting you.

I had thought you would come earlier. It’s already June, and in about two months I would be leaving the States, leaving a dream that I had since I was seventeen, only now the dream has undressed into Reality – or at least, I hope it has, though sometimes I still find it a little surreal. You know, come to think of it, I never really bothered to double-check what was the medicine that shrink prescribed to me. Hmm.

Anyway.

I had thought you would march in when I was playing with the kids, enjoying the rare moments when they forgot to kill each other, and realising that man, I’m really gonna miss my Rowdyruff Boys.

How Little Boys are Created

And I thought you would sink in during those many times I immerse myself in Red Rock café, breathing the intellectual aroma (you can tell by the way the smell of caffeine practically knock you between the eyes).


I curled up at my favourite spot with my laptop opened in front of me, the Microsoft Word prompter blinking in anticipation of the next word – which is usually “zombie” – while a gig plays in front, and promised myself that if I ever leave that seat, it would be because someone had pried my cold dead body (the caffeine is that potent) away.

Sometimes, Red Rock feels more like home than home does.

I had also thought that you would pop by when I roamed the streets of San Francisco, where the Weird and Wonderful combined (though in Make-Love-Not-War-Hippie-Happy-San-Francisco, the right word would probably be consummate…) into something that explode into, well, Awesome. The people, the culture, the spirit of the city – its artsy and colourful and vigorous and, best of all, it’s Odd and OTT.

China Town, San Francisco

The pub/tavern outside Steampunk band Abney Park's concert. This is not in San Francisco, but in Oakland, which is about 20 miles away. But yarr, everyone was dressed like a matey. Odd and OTT.

St Patrick's Day Parade, San Francisco

Latino Parade, San Francisco



Latino Parade, San Francisco

It’s my third favourite city in the world, after Klang Valley, which is technically a cluster of cities, which makes it a cluster of Chun-ness.

But no, you didn’t come. I didn’t feel you much, except during the times when I concentrated and really tried, because it seemed like the right thing to feel. Instead, I panicked because I didn’t feel panicky at all. It was like I was okay with going home. Which is all fine and dandy, except I wouldn’t want it to sink in all of a sudden when I’m checking in at the airport. I wouldn’t want the realization that I’m really leaving the States to hit me like a ton of overweight luggage. I want to be mentally prepared now.

Then, just now, in my last class in Stanford, when my classmates were talking about coming back for another course in the summer, the sadness finally dawned on me. I can’t join them, because I would be gone. I am just a passer-by in their world.

My usual route to classes

I had, on occasion, drove down the roads of Stanford University, passing by the dorms and the Pi Beta Kappa Etc signboards, watching the students threw football or laid in the sun, and sitting in student cafes listening to these young intellectuals in their Stanford merchandises debating on subjects I couldn’t even fathom (I lump them all in the category of Quantum, because General Logic is full). I realised, after a while, that I was envious.

Memorial Church, Stanford University

Yet, that isn’t my world. Sure, I study there, but only for the adult classes. I am where they are, but not who they are. It was like a bubble that I could not penetrate.

It always just feels like a peep

I am surprisingly fine with that.

But I will miss Stanford. It is the place that I came to the States for. To find a Voice for my writing. I got more than that. Infinitely more.




The melancholy came from the reality check that I have to leave Stanford behind, and that it was something that was wonderful while it lasted – nothing more, nothing less.

I am, also, surprisingly fine with that. Now, at least, after that pleasant 30-minute-drive back.

A big part of me being so nonchalant is perhaps this: I’m not leaving the States. I’m moving on. Because after almost one year here, you realise that truly, Everywhere is The Same – the bad, and the good. You just need to know where to look.

There will be other places. But for now, I’m coming home.

Bridge and Magic

It’s been a while since I blogged.

Heck, it’s been a while since I even open with that line.

I’ve been writing, though. Extensively, frustratingly, obsessively, nonsensically. As usual. One can say that I have rediscovered the joy of writing, ever since taking up that fiction writing class in Stanford University (Conquering the Blank Page is the name of my class. I’d say I’ve done the Conquering bit. It’s the Controlling and Making Sure It Doesn’t Try to Overthrow Me that needs some work). I realise I really like making things up, even though my inner journalist is kicking my ass. I had tried to find a balance between the two, between fiction and non-fiction; the two ends of story-telling.

These days, I’m starting to think what I need isn’t a balance.

I need a Bridge.

******

I was never sure why I love circuses so much. The mystic charm? The razzle-dazzle? The death-defying stunts? The surreality? The clowns?

I remember my parents took me to my first circus show when I was 12. We had some free vouchers for the Royal London Circus, and even though I was sitting way back like us free vouchers holder deserved, the tingle down my spine when I watched the trapeze artists swinging through the air, the vibration of my heart to the roar of the motorcycle in the wire ball, the enthrallment overwhelming me as I stared at the magic that was happening on stage… these are the things that I could still remember.

Magic; that was the word. It was unreal; in the way they smile, in the way they move, in the way they command the impossible. It was like entering a world I can never be part of; a world much better than my own. A world where Romance and Poetry swing to grasp the arms of Peril and Excitement.

It was The Show – the kind that Must Go On.

On my first month in the States, I had the honour of catching Circus Vargas (the one the old man wandered into in Water for Elephant). It was a spectacular evening of gasping and laughing, sometimes both at once. From the point when the Ring Master thrust open his hands under the spotlight to the point when everyone beamed and bowed, my eyes were bulging with wonder and my breath short with disbelief. It was beyond good.

Therefore, one could imagine my elation when I had the opportunity to catch Cirque Du Soleil that happened to be touring near my city. I paid a whopping $70 bucks for my seats, which were way back, but heck, it’s Cirque Du Soleil. Just being there should be sending chills down my spine. They are the top dogs of the circus industry. People who knew I’m going to the States always asked if I’m going to watch Cirque Du Soleil, and now, I could nod with glee.

Except I fell asleep some time during the middle of the show.

It had storyline. It had the most elegant dances I’ve ever seen in a circus show. It had seamless choreography. It had trippy characters in even trippier costumes. It had the right clowns. It was held in a proper stadium, with speakers and seats and all.

And I realise, therein laid the problem. Those things are great, but they are not my kind of circus.

I like my circus performance simple and straight to the point – “I’m darn good at this, blink for a second and whoop, you missed it!” There is no plot or elaborated elegance to it, just pure energy and rhythm and acute timing for humour. I like my circus in a makeshift tent with rickety benches and smells like popcorn graveyard. I like my circus characters stock - the trapeze artist, the over-the-top and insane clowns, the motorcycle daredevil, the cheeky jugglers, the manically enthusiastic Ring Master, etcetera.

But I never understood why I love circuses.

And today, at the San Francisco Circus Center Spring Carnival, watching the students and instructors perform in their modest gymnasium, I realise I can love circus without the works too.

There was no razzle-dazzle, no elaborated make-up and majestic set-up. There were just the performers in their costumes, putting on a show for a bunch of adults and kids sitting in plastic chairs and gym mats.



It was the most beautiful performance I have ever seen.

It was not because the contortionists were so amazingly nimble. It was not because the aerial performers had all of us gaping and clapping and gasping and, at one point, blushing (it was two females sharing a swing. Enough said.) It was not because the jugglers had such crazy sense of timing – both for gravity and for humour. It was not because the clowns had us in stitches and –when they suddenly demonstrated their balancing act – disbelief.

It was because being so close, with no mood magic and light fantastic, you could see the shiver in their limbs, the buckling of knees, the strains on their forcefully cheerful faces, the popping veins of their muscles, the quick sweep of panic on their faces.


You could see the pain. The mistakes.

The Luck.

It was because when they messed up, the audiences were still forgiving and cheered for their effort. And the performer, no matter how embarrassed they were, still grinned, lifted their arms and took a deep bow.

It was because the kids in the audience were absolutely howling with laughter.


Effort. Sacrifice. Forgiveness. Appreciation. Impossible. Possible. Joy.

They could be illusions that circuses gives. Behind those curtains may lay humanity in all its dullness and ugliness and weaknesses.

But my love of circuses could just be my stubbornness in wanting to believe - that once you put on the make-up and turn on the lights, once the applause roar and the music booms, there will be Magic.

And I can be a child again.

Ten, owing two

The long arm of law...

...has feelings too.

Nine

---

"If you stand too close to a painting — all you see are patches of color, if you stand too far back, you can't see any of the detail."

-- Dead Like Me: Nighthawks (Season 1, Ep 12)

Eight. Dead.

What a coincidence to be meeting a dad trying to teach his son to spin tops.

What a rarity.

I just had a chat recently about childhood games, as in the ones that don’t involve buttons. The ones that are powered by nothing but a little ingenuity and kiddish egos. The ones that don’t try to add your dexterity or gold, nor unlock any new skills that make you feel vaguely awesome. Until the battery runs out, anyway.

He told me about kite-flying, and how his dad would balance the wing-tips with ribbons. I never knew that about kites. He told me about the game galah-panjang, and how the game was played with such intricate strategy. I never knew there was such a game. He told me about playing with marbles, and how the marbles would actually break if they were rough enough (and being boys, they usually were). I never had enough marbles to know what to do with them. He told me about spinning tops, and how he and his friends would try to wreck (or “tikam”) each other’s tops by spinning it with a certain force and angle. I never knew a seemingly harmless game of top-spinning has such a, ahem, twist.

What did I do with my childhood?

Perhaps my obsession with living-life-to-the-fullest is a sort of compensation – for times lost, and laughter unknown.

At least he promised to show me all of them. Recaptured innocence seems more appealing than premature maturity.

*****

If I may be allowed to make an honest observation, living life to the fullest can wear you thin.

(Now, now, put down that pitchfork before you hurt someone. Unnecessary excitement is never healthy. I promise that I’ll climb into the meat grinder by myself as soon as I explain my seemingly obnoxious statement.)

With only a year in the States, I sometimes feel like I’m not doing enough with my seconds. What do you mean I cannot write/feed/chauffeur/scream on a roller coaster/photograph the streets of San Francisco/cheer to a gig/skydive/sing lullabies/comb through the motherlode of movies that is Netflix/take a road trip/calm nightmare scares all at once? There ain’t no limit to the “multi” in multi-tasking, innit?

And therefore, every weekend, I promised myself that I would do something new. Something exciting. Something American.

I’d like to say that my weekends have been fulfilling. I feel quite proud of dragging myself out of the room before the lumpiness settled, and See and Did things. Sometimes it isn’t worth it. There were some things I saw and did which were, really, nothing to shout about. But at least I felt like I lived.

Feeling alive, however, was another matter altogether.

This weekend, the blues caught me by surprise. I could feel the lethargy in my body, the heaviness of my heart. It wasn’t as if something happened. I just didn’t feel like doing anything. And heaven forbid, I did nothing.

And then I realise, boy, am I tired.

I may eat my words several months from now, but I actually had fond thoughts about going home, to recuperate from this… pressure, for want of a better word, of always having to Experience the World. I’m not complaining, no. It’s a privilege to be living your dream.

I’m just a little worn out from trying to keep up with that privilege.

It’s probably a personality flaw. I have lots of them.

This weekend, I just lazed. And I thought about all the things that I didn’t do. I didn’t go to the Mardi Gras parade in San Francisco. I didn’t work on my Challenge for this month. I didn’t wash the car. I didn’t take my Smena Symbol out for a stroll.

But gosh, it’s too darn depressing to measure life by what you didn’t do, no matter what Mark Twain said. So I decided to think about what I did, instead.

I Dreamt, and that was doubtlessly the best. I napped, and it was sheer bliss.

But the most significant thing, I suppose, is that I fell in love with the world again.

And all I really did was just watched the tv series Dead Like Me, and cried.

(I realise, that could actually be my achievement for the weekend: shedding tears for a story well-told. Sure, I didn’t set out to do it. But heck, life is too short to spend the days making the goal. Sometimes, making up the goal as you go along would have to do.)


Dead Like Me is, essentially, a dark comedy about an uninspired, sulky 18-year-old Georgia being killed by a flying toilet seat (as freak accidents go, this one isn’t even the most bizarre one in the show). However, she doesn’t have the convenience of being dead. She got recruited as an undead – a grim reaper. Yes, “a”, because she is not alone in her duties to escort newly-expired souls to their Destinations. Along with an eclectic and experienced bunch of undeads, who have to hold day jobs or a life of crime to survive and squat in dead people’s houses (grim reapers are not paid because it’s considered public service), Georgia, as Netflix wrote, “doesn't quite know what she's doing -- or even why she was chosen for the job in the first place. But soon, she grows to recognize the poetry in her purpose.”

In short, it’s totally my kind of TV series.

I’m a sucker for humanization of the supernatural and mythical. That is why I’m so hooked on Pratchett’s Discworld – be it dragons or trolls or dwarves or vampires or werewolves or witches or humans or Corporal Nobbs (who has papers to prove that he’s human), everyone is just trying to live the best way they know how, and even if that involves selling you Dragonland souvenirs or counterfeits (or in Corporal Nobbs’ case, rummage about in your pockets), then so be it.

The motley crew of soul escorts in Dead Like Me is no different – they do laundry, smuggle drugs in their asses (it went horribly wrong) to pay the rent, order the cheapest things on the menu and keep pets because that’s the closest they can have for a friend. They also have to put up with the Rules of being a grim reaper, i.e. no messing about with fate. Ask Georgia; she tried.

In other words, being an undead has all the peskiness of being alive, with the added disadvantage that you can’t have contact with your loved ones, lest they can’t deal with the excitement. There are Inconveniences that you can’t run away from, like money issues, and Rules, and human relationships and well, death.

But as Episode 5 “Reaping Havoc” showed, even if you can’t run away from these certainties, you can find poetry in them – in money issues, in Rules, in relationships, and yes, even Death. It’s not that hard. I mean, it’s gotta be easier than finding poetry in, say, Taxes, at least.

So a grim reaper left a post-it note on the door of a victim’s sister. It says,
“M.J.’s okay.
:), Jesus.”

And a grim reaper buried a lone, old woman whose children do not visit her anymore, even though she can be haughty, when she’s not making him smirk.

And a grim reaper shut down one building’s electricity, so that the alarm clock of a resident – who had remained jolly and kind even though the undead wrote him a parking ticket in her day job – would not ring, and therefore he would not wake in time to meet his ill fate.

And two grim reapers watched a man having the time of his life doing an Irish dance on the bar table before his time was up. One of the grim reapers took a last polaroid of the man smiling in mid-dance, just like she did to every other soul she escorts, before they died.

And I watched all this, with tears streaming down my cheek, and found myself stubbornly believing that this is what the world is. A world I can really love; a world where everyone is just, really, human.

And because the Bible said that everyone is created in God’s likeness…

... therefore, maybe everyone is just, really, God.

*****

I can do with more weekends like this.

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.

Two

Looking Stupid: the mark of things worth doing.

“Well… swim.”

I stopped typing in mid dissent-diarrhoea, and stared at the two words in bold red fonts.

There is that, of course.

****************

I’m in my sixth month here. And I’m frustrated.

Every day, I wake up a nanny, and go to bed a zombie. The most fulfilling part of my day is, when circumstances decide to be kind, the precious moment I steal to dream. This is when Time melts away and Distance goes for a ride, creating a vacuum of isolation where dreamers can rent and be left alone to their romantic reverie.

These dreams – they sustain me. But deep down I know that I have to do more than that. I’m in friggin’ America, for crying out loud (no actually, don’t. I’ve got enough of that during the day as it is). There has got to be more to life than just drowning in little boys’ tantrums all day long.

The truth is, I haven’t been writing anything truly substantial these days. Okay, there was NaNoWriMo, but it was so fun that it practically didn’t count. Of course, I also padded so much that “writing” would be an overstatement. I wrote one article for my Stanford class, which garnered mixed reviews during the workshop session, but for some reason, I am just not happy with that piece. I blogged – though the more accurate description would be I spewed thoughts all over here without the decency to make sense, or to wipe my mouth afterwards, but brevity, you know.

Yesterday, as I stood in the shower, letting the rush of water dissolve the day’s lethargy and drown out the tantrum tornadoes outside that little boys reserve especially for mummy and daddy, I thought to myself, “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t just be a nanny, and nothing else.”

I have told myself that I would, like every other person struggling for their art out there, write after my work hours. I would send my articles to the publications here. I would pursue the Stories, write travel essays, analyse humanity, change the world and wossname.

The truth is, I’m so worn out every day that I can’t muster the energy to arrange my thoughts, let alone laying them out on paper. Whatever is left standing in my body would be trying to commit suicide, once they discover how to do that while dozing off.

Yes, I don’t have the stamina to be a struggling artist.

I do have the frustration, though. I know I have to get out of this rut of idle mindedness, but I don’t know how. There are a million avenues to try and break through, but I’m rooted on the spot.

I felt like I was fretting upon a fast-melting ice berg, knowing that if I don’t jump to another floating piece of ice, I would sink – into oblivion, into mindlessness, into complacency. But the floating ice pieces around me looked a little too far to leap to. I’m scared shitless. I could see the ice berg shrinking, but I could not bring myself to take the leap.

What if I miss?

“Well… swim.”

Two words.

The sage, who have words like “genuflect” and “ruminative” and “pervasive” and “rapple” and for some reason, “lobotomy” in his repertoire, just gave me two words.

And that two words was enough to push me from my shaky, dissolving, and self-pitiful refuge. I crashed into the water, and it was cold, as cold as Reality, and it woke me up.

It just totally made my whole situation with the melting iceberg and the floating ice things and the leaping anxiety a tad ridiculous, and very obnoxious. Like dressing in Edwardian ball gown to a casual house party.

My first thought was, “Damn. I took a while to think of that iceberg analogy too.”

My second thought was, “Why the heck didn’t I think about swimming?”

I was too caught up with the leap. I was too fixated upon landing at the right places. I forgot that there are other ways – practical, simple and straightforward ways – to reach your goals. I forgot that when it comes to writing, you need to get yourself wet, and you need to work those muscles.

Like my boy reminds me in the picture above, sometimes you just gotta clamber to reach for whatever lofty goals you have, even though you have to look a little stupid doing it. Especially if you look a little stupid doing it.

Because heck, stupidity is fun. And it makes the best pictures.

One

Once upon a time, there was a girl who wants to tell stories.

And so she picked up a pen, which according to urban legends, is mightier than the sword (okay, it’s really because pure steel with ruby-studded handle was heavier than she thought), and set out the treacherous path of looking for Tales.

Obstacles abound, but that was really a mark of a road worth taking. She thought, anyway. Not too deeply though, lest she bump into the lair of Logic and Reason, who thirst for dreams like a baked sponge thirsts for moisture. Dreams were all she had, and have her insides sucked dry would be a tad dampening – or in this case, the exact opposite – to her quest.

And it’s not like she didn’t have other problems already. She had to wade through the icy Waterfall of Collective Doubt from Others, ride – or at least, maintain upright most of the time – in the Whirlpool of Filial Guilt, survive the Delirium of Premature Confidence, hack through the Tangled Vines of Darn-Who-Am-I-Kidding, only to run headfirst into a wall.

Who put the effing Writer’s Block there?

But seeing stars was worth it, once the bleeding subsided, because she did find Stories. In fact, they were pretty much all over the place, if you knew where to look. Some required digging (for politics is a lot like potatoes; it powered the masses, albeit tastelessly), while others you picked with ease, and still others even needed you to do the planting first. There were also those suspicious-looking ones which were jumping up and down desperately to be noticed, and the obnoxious ones that were shoved down her throat simply because they have the purchasing power to buy, err, whatever that is the poetic equivalent of Advertising Space.

So, Pen in tow (or rather, several pens, with the hope that one of them would work), she Wrote.

And then she stopped. Got lazy. Got blind. Got swept away by Life and its Smoulder. Got impatient.

Got stupid.

Writing became merely a pain, a past, a possibility, a perished pride. The blank Microsoft Word page and beckoning prompter is a blatant reminder that her mind was not what it used to be. It is no longer a fertile ground for Words to flourish. Even the bad puns shrivelled, and she had a lot of them.

It is a rocky terrain of a conscience in there, and the jagged hardness give the sloshing brain cells a pretty bloody time. She can only deal with so many howling synapses at a time.

The saddest thing of all is that she stopped looking for Stories. Or rather, she stopped bothering to pick them up. She let them go. And went they did.

For example, the picture above was a street violin player she had the honour to bump upon in New York City. She was just hurrying past with her sister and brother-in-law, when the violin player yelled a question.

“Which country are you from, guys?”

“Malaysia,” her brother-in-law answered, while the patter of their feet grew more urgent.

And then they stopped.

And turned around, mouth agape.

The violin player, with a kind of smug nonchalance, was playing “Negaraku” on his violin. Tone perfect. There was no music sheet in front of him.

“But how--?” they asked in disbelief.

The violinist shrugged. “I like to study the national anthems of different countries.”

The brother-in-law tipped the violinist. They walked away – she with considerable difficulty, seeing that she was trying to kick herself at the same time, for not asking more questions, for not pursuing a Story when it was sitting right in front of her, for being stupid.

Inside every writer there is a story-teller wanting to come out. Mine did, but has, it seems, lost her way in the dark.

Sigh, now where did I put my flash light?

****

And because projects really only mean something when you get right down to doing it, the nonsense above managed to see daylight. This is my first post for Project 52, a writing/photography commitment that HafutotaJE and I are going to undertake (yes, we are ill-advised. Thanks for trying, though). Basically, we upload a picture we‘ve taken and write something, anything, about it, once per week for a year.

Yes, we are still the same people with deadlines/kids to chase and closing week to conquer and procrastination to overcome etc etc. You can tell that sanity and rationality have never been our strong points. For some reason, that is HafutotaJE’s charm, and my demise. Life is so unfair.

Join us in this joy ride if you are ever so inclined. Oh, but do bring your own sandwiches.

And drop us a line if you are hoping on, so that we can also go drool at your stuff ^^

Read-tail Therapy

Today, I decided that it would be quite a good day to shop for books.

Because, gosh, the kids were annoying today.

And ‘cause hey, it’s Tuesday!

And ‘cause, look, I’m wearing mismatched socks!

Okay, I ran out of excuse. I just need to shop okay. And just because my retail therapy happens in a bookstore doesn’t mean I’m a hopeless nerd okay.

Fine, I don’t care if I’m a hopeless nerd, okay.

Anyway, with my Borders discount voucher (which they send you ALL THE TIME, God bless America) in hand, I drove to my favourite bookstore. I heard Barnes and Nobles is boss in Nerdism here, but frankly, I fear too much for my wallet to even venture in that three-storey skyscraper of a bookstore.

I promised myself that I will only spend $10 in Borders. Because yes, that amount is possible here.

I ended up spending close to $20.

It’s not so bad, considering I actually bought only two books out of the six I was considering (among them, Scott Pilgrim vs The World, Gaiman’s The Wolves in the Walls and The Graveyard Book), after carefully skipping most of the aisles, afraid of what gems I may find.

Behold: my first Neil Gaiman novel.


Okay, to be honest, I bought it really because I wanted to own something that is drawn by Dave McKean. Which is not to say that Gaiman isn’t awesome (he is, immensely). But Dave McKean’s artwork just blows me away and sucks me back in; a sort of visual orgasm, complete with excitable noises.

You didn’t just hear me describe a children’s book with all that.

On the subject of children’s books, I ended up picking this up as well.



I’m not anywhere near a fan of Hans Christian Andersen, but for Joel Stewart’s illustrations, I can very well be. Flipping the pages in the bookstore, I held my breath as the quirkily intricate drawings did nasty things to my brains.

Like shutting it down, leaving me defenceless against my heart.

And the problem with following your heart is that it is never as good at budgeting as your brains. But other than that, there really is no downside.

When I go back to Malaysia, I foresee myself shivering in American-bookstore-withdrawal.

They have rows after rows of all the awesome stuff that you would possibly ever need to read, don’t need to read but nevertheless want to read, and don’t need to read and don’t even want to go near it.

He looks contagious.

I have more things on my mind that I should probably pen down. Like that obligatory New Year post. And the trip to NYC. And Tangled. Alas, dreams beckon, and it seems like tonight, it will be another fantastic one :)