when you HAVE to believe in superstition

the chinese fortune-telling almanac says that today is not a good day to do anything. which explains why i am not working today. that and the fact that i am battling an incoming flu. not that i am a firm believer of superstition, but anything that tells you that it is not a good idea to work has strong merits going for it. not something to scoff at.

it doesn't say, however, that not working is extremely tiresome. i have just discovered that i am bored witless, hence this rambling post. never realise when working has taken over my life, to the point that i do not know what to do with the free time on my hand. still, i am obstinate about not working. i've got principles, you know. i'll just continue pottering around here, filling my time with absolutely nothing. the chinese almanac says so.

what i will like to know is

weekends should be about sleeping in bed and leisurely breakfast, about slowing down and breathing in the flowers, if the smog is not rampant and the sun not scorching down, like it is now. what a damper.

when i was little, mum would start pounding on the door around 10 in the morning, telling me to get a start on my day, the sun is shining up to my bum and all the stuffs that mothers shout about to get your lazy carcass out of bed. in the blink of an eye, i'm all old and cynical now and realisation dawned that i can't sleep late. much as i want to, the alarm in my head jolts to awareness with the early morning sun. such a cruel twist of fate. want most, have not. have most, want not. perhaps it's the pre-conditions of getting old; you don't need as much sleep; regardless of how much you crave for it, apparently your body doesn't. or perhaps it's deeper into the subconscious. with each ticking of the clock, knowing that time left is limited and morbid as the thought may be, it is more effective than all the alarm clocks in the world.

i welcome the early start of a new day, if only it preludes the start of a good breakfast. last weekend we drove around the area looking, searching, hunting for a place to have a nice leisurely breakfast. we were armed, with a thick weekend edition of the newspaper, promising many hours of peaceful reading. it only served to confirm what i already know. the other vexation of growing old, besides creaking joints that wake you up when you toss and turn, is that no respectable eateries are open when your stomach announces its start of a new day. used to be all you needed was breakfast, at 12pm. now, you need nourishment, sustenance, ambience, at 7 am in the morning. but nothing is open. aside from the 24hours macdonald with its vacuum-dried scrambled egg and cold stiffling cafes, and the forever-open mamak places with their heart-clogging nasi lemak and roti canai. you can only have those so often in one week before you keel over, clutching at your chest. if you are willing to wait, willing to deny your stomach satisfaction, at the very least until 8.30am, those kopitiam chains are popping up everywhere faster than mushrooms. again, you can only go for roti bakar and omega 3 eggs so many times before your body trembles at the mere mention of the words. so, when you are almost 40, when you wake up at 7am in the morning, where do you go for a good breakfast? that's what i will like to know.

a once upon a time story

there was once a man who was very eager to embrace the buddhist way of life, to grasp the way to enlightenment and renounce all temptations. he spend hours after hours locked in his room, days after days, in deep meditation. for years he practiced asceticism, thinking that this will lead him to the path of enlightenment, wanting nothing, wishing for nothing and asking for nothing. he wanted to be oblivious to the evils of the world, free from jealousy, greed and temptation.

after many years of spending long hours in deep meditation, he emerges from his chamber one day, acknowledging that he had finally mastered the essence of the buddhist teachings. he wrote a letter to the dharma to share with him the good news. a few days later, he received a reply from the dharma. on the letter was written a single word, 'rubbish'. the man's brow furrowed in confusion. rubbish? what did the dharma meant by rubbish? is he denouncing all the hours that i have spent in meditation as rubbish? did he not believe that i have indeed achieved enlightenment? the more he pondered over the meaning of that single word, the more frustrated he became. he was restless, turning the word over and over again in his conscious and subconscious mind. he could not understand why the dharma will censure his achievement.

finally, the man decided to set forth to look for the dharma and seek and explanation from him personally. after days of journey, he finally reached the temple. however, the dharma was nowhere to be found. outside the dharma's living quarter, the man found a letter stuck to the door.

"if you have indeed achieved enlightenment, my letter would have brought you no sorrow nor agitation. if you are reading this letter now, it means that you have been disturbed by my one single word to you and have set forth on the long journey to seek clarification for a simple word. you have not achieve enlightenment."

alien invasion

how have you been? have not heard of or from you for a long time. he asked.

have not heard of me? have been abducted by aliens. been trying to lie low, avoiding the aliens, you understand. i replied.

sigh, he said. do you have a standard template for replies? you said the same thing last year.

i was shocked. flabbergasted. one year ago and yet my reply was exactly the same? i don't go around replying about alien abduction to everyone who ask, incase you were wondering. this is my only exception. second exception actually, because he was right. it hit me like a lightning from out of the blue. this was exactly how i answered one year ago, when he asked the same thing.

it's strange, freaky even, how my brain is so clockwork. trigger the same thing and you get the same reaction. predictable even, god forbid! he didn't suggest anything about martian invasions, not in the very least bit, in his friendly question. he doesn't look green, nor has long pointy fingers with nobbly ends. the last time i looked, which was eons ago, he had the normal count of hands, legs, fingers, toes, eyes, nose, ears and mouth even. he bears no passing resemblance to e.t. and does not go 'phone homeeeeeeeee' every few minutes. i wonder why, what makes me think of alien invasion, the furthest thing on my mind usually, when he ask me how i have been.

go figure my brain.

the woman in the mirror

i stare at her. eventhough it has been taught to us that staring is rude. it has been a very long time since i did, only cursory glances every now and then to make sure everything is fine. she looks different. older. but not quite. i see her every day, so to my eyes, all natural progression of age is invisible, insignificant. she looks like she did ten years ago. even twenty years ago. yet, she looks different.

her lips no longer twitches upwards, the excitement in her eyes dull to a tiredness that hint at the craziness that goes on inside her head. i don't hear her laugh as often, nor do i see her planning for her little distractions from life; her little coffee bean getaways, her musical plays and little parties. looking at her, i finally understand, that sometimes aging is from inside out, not outside in. that you get older when you forget to laugh, when you don't find life funny anymore, when you don't see things with excitement and a glimmer of hope anymore, when you resign yourself from life.

i stare harder at her. she understands what i am trying to tell her, to remind her. i smile at her. she returns the same exact smile at me. she will try harder.

between the angel and the devil

sigh

note to self: stop being so cryptic and stop being so sarcastic. not everyone will get it. please, pretty please, just come straight out and say what you want to say.

then, where is the fun in that? where is the fun in being so straightforward and blunt? where is the beauty in the words? where is the entertainment in the presumption and interpretation?

fun? where is the fun when people ignore you because they don't understand you? sigh.

well, i can't help it if people aren't on the same wavelength as me and don't get the way my cogs turn. everybody doesn't understand everybody half the time anyway. no reason to stop having a little fun.

it will make life much simpler if you just call a pig a pig, a cow a cow and whatever other farm animals by their own names, don't you think?

why animals? why farm animals for that matter? are you starting a looney farm? it will also make life very boring, don't you think?

sigh.

what?

at least people get you and don't classify you as weird, ready to lift up the receiver and dial the nearest number for an asylum.

sigh.

your turn to sigh now? what?!

i think i'll rather not talk then. to express everything without a little flair, without a little life, to see the world as it is, without the rose-tinted glasses, to be so dull, what is the point of it all then?

you don't get it, do you? you rather have cryptic conversations with yourself rather than social with the rest of the world?

once in a while. like now. hahah.

nightmare

usually, i forget. the memories of dreams dissipate in the early morning light, as soon as my eyes flicker open at the irritating sound of the alarm. scary as it may have been, or sweet as it sometimes was, details of all the stories i carried in my sleep evaporate into thin air when i am once again conscious.

not this one. the one that woke me up in cold sweat many nights ago. the one that is still fresh in my mind until this moment, and the very thought of which sends shivers up my spine. i remember the sadness, i remember the grieve, i remember everything all too clearly, and causes me to look at my endeared beddings with disdain, never too eager to return to its warm embrace again.

dreams don't fight fair. your subconscious knows, even when you not necessarily do, what you are most afraid of, what frightens you the most, and unfolds it into a horrifying nightmare when you close your eyes, playing on your fears and anxiety. that's hitting below the belt, i want to scream. but at who? at my own subconscious? ha. monsters and ghosts don't paralyse me even as much. only my subconscious knows the truth.

i'm not three years old anymore. i can't run to mummy and jump into her bed everytime i have a nightmare. come to think of it, i never had that luxury. i jolted awake, shook my head as if to clear away every single trace of the painful dream and tried to close my eyes again, knowing that dreams don't continue after you have woken up, like episode 2 of freddy krueger . usually. that night, the nightmare continued. sigh.

i'm awake now. it's morning. the nightmare didn't continue into the next night. for that i am thankful. but i know. i know that one day the nightmare will have to turn into reality. it's inevitable. then i'll be stuck in a living breathing nightmare and i'll have no place to hide. even when i awake.

life's little laughters

can someone please tell me if the abbreviation for assistant is ass.? at this moment, my fingers are itching to key in 'audrey, charlie's ass' in my handphone contact list. that cannot be right, i know it is not right. technically, not morally. still, i'm going to enter it as such, simply for the chuckle i will get everytime i look at her name, and everytime that she rings me. my stomach tickles in anticipation of that. my day brightens, for this moment and everytime that she will call me. how easy life can be if only you let it, with only a little help from yourself. for this split-second, for this brief moment on a relaxed friday morning, i am that small little girl again.

what's wrong with the picture?

ok, i promised myself that i will not do it. one of this year's resolution, if you must, although not making a resolution was also one of this year's resolution but looks like i broke that one in a hurry, so, i'm not going to fret too much about breaking my next one either.

i am a virgo, what do you expect? i could be diplomatic and easy-going if i was born a few days later, but then again, what's the fun in reading the blog of a non-angsty perfectly-balanced-scale fence-sitter? i am critical, to be sure, so sue me.

walking up to the counter was this beautiful woman, dressed to the nines. she stands behind the counter for some time, talking to the person behind it. she is a vision for sore eyes. her hair perfectly set, her handbag branded, her clothes impeccable, her hands adorned with jewelleries, her foot...... dangling shoe-less?!

another scenario. a lady and a man, having lunch at a restaurant. their heads were bent together, their faces lit up with happiness. they chat softly and laugh loudly. ahhhh, a picture of bliss. you look under the table, and one of her foot is dangling shoeless. she isn't toeing him under the table, if that was what you were thinking. apparently, she is just 'breathing' one of her foot.

many women do that. i don't understand why. stand on one shoe and let the other lie forlornly like a collapsed heap on the floor whilst the foot does a robinson crusoe expedition around the world. not that i have anything against letting the foot do a little roaming and adventuring, but it seems inappropriate. a waste of a good picture, the top half anyway. incomplete. a ravishing beauty with a rickshaw puller's legs.

there. i've said it. i got it off my chest. otherwise it will gnaw at me until i am a nervous wreck, hands shaking, body shivering, eyes twitching. i've said my piece. i can once again look at a shoe-less lady without going crazy and having to pop my sedatives like m&m's. not like it's any of my business to begin with.

now i can go back to trying to be less critical of others. good luck on that.

attacked

was walking to the lift when it hit me. like a sucker punch to the stomach. the feeling was so raw and strong that it hurts so deep. nostalgia. i remembered walking down the streets of orchard road with mum when i was in my teens, her doing her walkathon-shopping thing in her heels and me, without a care in the world, except broken hearts and infatuation. looking back, even the broken hearts felt good.

life is much better now, but perhaps that depends on the yardstick. material wise perhaps, but the innocence, the substance has vaporised. i still spend a lot of time with my mother nowadays, sitting around the kitchen preparing food or running errands. it is not the same anymore. gone is the light-heartedness, the abandonment of a carefree childhood. no pressure, no expectation, not a care for the irritating ticking of the clock. the heart was light, the mood zealous; tomorrow was another new day, so many things to look forward to. i looked on the good side of things, we looked on the good side of things. when did i start to focus so much on faults? when did my heart become so heavy?

was sitting in the kitchen, taking in the aroma of cooking in progress. it hit me again. this time it was the kitchen of my parents' old house. the house that i grew up in. by comparison, the one that i am sitting now is much more glamorous, much more 'fashionably exciting' but i yearn to step back into that old kitchen, if only for one more time. that kitchen that i can remember ever so clearly, every crook and cranny. i know that is impossible; it no longer exists but in my mind. but the memories of my youth in that kitchen is so strong today that it almost makes me want to cry. cry for a time past that cannot be captured in my palms again. never ever again.

why are memories of things past always so perfect?