Sunday, March 25, 2007

Nine Crimes



I feel bad for staying home and just staring at the ceiling shuffling in between Miles Davis and The Wallflowers. I needed that break after a whole week of four to five hour sleep before heading back to the mundane thing we are all stuck with – work and that after work, work out and yes, start up work.

Sometimes, in between all that engagements, I asked myself if I am doing all these just to prove my worth to people around me. That I am not your idle, in state of repressed limbo and as always, confused Minah.

Uhuh. A weekend of doing nothing. How responsible.

I am juggling between Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Emptiness, The Devils Finds Work and struggling to finish another Kundera. It pains me to continue that man because every line punched and filed yet another linear thought, and I’ll be “oh look, I’m on the MRT and I’ve got something so emotionally profound to canvass but whipping out the brush requires extreme effort when your mind is on an intellectual turbulence and nothing, should stop that train of thought, NO SU! You can write about it later, this is the moment!”

*snorts*

It was a very interesting thought. Maybe pseudo intellectual kind of way because hey, I’m your no.1 poser. Only by the time I get back, I lose all enthusiasm to (let's use a cheem term) immortalize them here. I can’t even remember now, but it was an interesting thought.

I feel like an utter failure right now because nothing is confirmed at the moment, I have no ideas how to fuel my publication, I haven’t finished any of the ten new books I have right now and my daytime job isn’t entirely satisfying although it pays the bills.

Oh god, what a load of insecurity and ultimate whinging. And there’s more:

I met CT last Monday. It must have been a pre red letter day. Shoved my way out of the train, hopped on the escalator and was affronted by pretty shoes, lovely lingeries, dresses and of course their vulture consumers in the middle of Plaza Singapura.

You know what, screw the likes of No Logo, anti-capitalists and what-nots. I wanted something pretty for myself and for once, I wished I could step into those stores and have a pick without worrying if I could be broke later on in the month. And I got into that pathetic phase where we feel all so sorry ourselves and start cursing the lucky ones who shop their lives away without a hoot or care in the world. Then I justified my vagabond and unbearably envious state of my mind by rationalizing on the savings I’ve diligently kept to fund my trip to UK in June and decided that it was a worthwhile sacrifice after all.

And then, moral reflexes kicked in. The whole humility moment ingrained ever since I learnt how to fast when I was a kid – every time you feel hungry or thirsty, understand and empathise the kids and the people of Africa who have nothing to keep them going at the end of the day.

Fasting is one of the best lessons ever disciplined by my parents and my religion. It humbles you.


So I digress.

As I was saying, moral reflexes kicked in. I thought of Mum immediately and felt so incredibly disgusted with my indulgent act of narcissism and selfishness. There I was feeling all poor, pathetic and worrying about not having enough fashionable clothes and looking forward to three crazy weeks in Glastonbury, Amsterdam, Swtizerland, Liverpool, London, Belfast – you get the idea – drinking, smoking and living a life of hedonism.

And there was Mum. Mum who worries about using up everyone’s money to pay for her medication, house bills, daily expenses etc. She came to my room the night before, fresh from her trip to Malacca and eager to share. It was late, I was tired and I know we were going end up discussing religion and I’ll just get mad at her. But she sat on my bed with her dentures removed, slitty eyes marred with age and her skin so translucent and devoid of any healthy pink patches and looked up at me.

It struck me then and at that moment floating aimlessly inside the shopping shaft; damn, mum is old. Mum looked very old.

So there she was on my bed and she looked so happy recounting her short weekend trip to Malacca. Other than the holy land, Malaysia has always been her vacation. No other room in the bank to get herself to any exotic destination.

And there I was with my 2007 goals to see the world, open my eyes and along with it, all other sophisticated travelers mantra imbued in my resolution.

She was happy being able to use the swimming pool, trying out the roller coaster rides, and shopping for cheap goods in the markets. My parents spent their lifetime struggling to make ends meet – bills, our school fees, transport - just so we’ll grow up with an education because uneducated as they are, they know that whatever-certificate we have is the ticket to a good life if you make the most out of it. There I was, paying off overblown bills and giving her the bare minimum just so I could save a significant amount into what? The traveling-soul-searching experience. That soul searching began not in some quaint cobbled streets in the middle of nowhere or elysian green fields amidst blue skies, but in that “Utopian arcade” we call Plaza Singapura.

Those barrage of unwanted thoughts had me doing that “blinking back tears” moment, bumping into chaotic happy people, rushing into the third storey ladies, banging the toilet seat shut and sitting there staring at the clinical white washed door. And what started out as a few teary drops launched into a torrent of self pity, helplessness, envy, confusion and I don’t know what else. Incoherent, horrible thoughts. I stopped only to launch into another sobbing fit for what seemed like half an hour.

And then CT called and we met.





I shall attempt a happy entry after this.


you scare me

Sunday, March 11, 2007

Motorcycle Emptiness

For Real



This is sad. I have been spending the past few weeks exhausting myself silly. If there wasn’t these pitches I’ve been working on, it was mind numbing sessions at the gym. And when I felt I needed to take a break from the mental and physical workload, I take it out on a couple of pints with different companies of friends every week.

Went to catch The Lives of Others with a group of people I hardly knew. It was Stallion’s invitation I accepted. And there was his friend, JQ who invited her, and I quote “international posse”. The night became a networking session – us sitting at Sakae Sushi exchanging information, gossip and jokes. Which was grand, considering how anti social and clampy I can get when getting to know new folks. They were warm, friendly and this may seem the most trivial factor of all – they laughed at Stallion’s jokes. Stallion has always complained about how very few people could understand his jokes and I don’t understand either, because I am a huge fan of his deadpan self depreciating humor. The Stallion actually took time off to draw an itinerary and a post mortem email for everyone, which was hilarious considering, well it was just a movie outing.

Mr Cali and I have been emailing each other frequently and frankly speaking, all the initial euphoria is wearing off. Let’s face it: he doesn’t read, he knows nuts about music. Not that it is any regimental qualification for me, but there isn’t much we had in common except for his motivational quotes and sweet lovin’. Fine, I ensured he’s no Republican, but he ain’t no self professed fan of Noam Chomsky, Kundera, Camus and all other literary nobles lauded by intellectuals and pseudo intellectuals alike.

Ok. He has never heard of them. I did my homework on my first date.

Let’s take this back for those who are lost.

Mr Cali and I met at a pub on Mrs Darcy’s birthday. After clearing that initial misunderstanding, (he thought Mrs Darcy was into him and vice versa) we hooked up because well, I was in a roving mood and chocolates are in vogue. Sessions of fine dinners, drinks, shoe shopping and a nice romantic night at the Mandarin ensued.

He was a surprisingly gentle lover, perceptive and well, he had fine taste in (high) fashion. Here was a man who was willing to pamper me, knows I deserve the best and is all out to give me the best.

And it fits our lifestyle perfectly – I am always busy and he has to travel all the time for work and spends between four and six months in Singapore. But when we meet up, I’m all his, and (yes I'm flouting the grammar commandment by repeating this within two paragraphs) vice versa.

It was the perfect arrangement. It may not be the most normal of relationships and frankly speaking, what with the bourgeoning workload and after the fiasco(s) I’ve endured (ah, my poor desecrated heart!) the past few years, a normal relationship is the least on my mind. It gives me time to miss him and have a contractual relationship lasting between two weeks and a month at a time.

I get bored easily.

But of course, as the saying goes – out of sight, out of mind. I am Jack’s smirking revenge, Jill’s nipples and your nubile nymph out on a brainless fun, with no moral notions on fidelity and the likes. Hell, Mr Cali probably has a wife in every visiting port.

But you know, I know, we all know, I’ll never end up marrying him, having kids and living the high life in his Porsche, adorning expensive watches, decked out in Ferragamo, Gucci and Prada. I’m just not like that. As much as I love being all that, it’s just not how I was brought up. The things you own end up owning you.

That was a line from a movie. I’d love to give you the title but the first rule is, you do not talk about it. Go figure.


So.
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This is when MAP comes in.

Under neon loneliness, motorcycle emptiness.

What a lame ending.