100 Mystery of the recurring knee bruises: solved.

2010-02-01T18:31:00.000-08:00

It began with two bruises on the knee. Then they became three. And then they disappeared.

Forget them I did, until one day, two bruises appeared again.

Now, this obviously shows that I’m a klutz – to the point that most knocks and bumps don’t register in my memory anymore.

But that’s not the mystery. Why my knees?

And then it hit me. Literally. Or rather, I hit myself – on the knobs at the end of my bed frame, just as I walked out of my bathroom. And I fell onto my bed.

Ow.

She gingerly picked a sour plum from the bag.

2010-01-25T01:02:00.001-08:00

She bit into it and smacked her lips, then vigorously shook her head.

“No no no!”

We’d already made 2 attempts at picking what we deemed the ‘right’ sour plum – the right balance of sweetness and saltiness that would put taste buds into overdrive.

And we had to do this by looking through rows of plastic containers in the titbit shop. No tasting allowed. So we’re judging based on colour, amount of white substance on the wrinkled skin, and gut feel.

3 times lucky perhaps? It’s like playing sour plum jackpot.

I've decided, enough is enough.

2010-01-20T02:28:00.001-08:00

And while I grief for loss, I still care. I don’t shut my eyes in resentment and anger and turn away from the world. I am not despairing. I am not hung up on hurt. I am broken but hopeful.

But when I make a phone call out of this care, I meet a hard wall of defence. I’ve been turned around by the shoulders and given the shove. Should I make pretend that you don’t exist?

“You see, I’m not like you. When you hurt, you have God. All I have is this darkness.”

“So, what did they say about the mangoes?”

2010-01-16T18:42:00.000-08:00

Mom was referring to the time she brought some of these mangoes to me in KL. I peeled them and shared them around the office – all gone in barely a minute. They didn’t need to say much.

Some of these fruit had travelled far. But only because we know that season in, season out, its fruit had never failed – always sweet, always firm, always to bring a “Mmmm” out of the taster. And always a joy to be shared.

I suppose that’s what its like to have the fruit of the Spirit.

Mango #11

2010-01-07T19:59:00.000-08:00

Mom was right. There, on my right, was a growing pile of sweet-smelling, freshly-peeled, plump yellow mangoes. Albeit some with angular pieces of flesh missing, not one fruit went to the bin whole.

The knife reveals more than we can ascertain at first. Some small bruises were only the signs of bigger ones within. But some with blackened skin had beautiful flesh to unveil.

“Don’t cut so much off first! Slowly! You’ll waste the good parts.” She kept yelling at me.

It’s tedious work. But here’s a lesson in believing: In the end, there’s always more to enjoy.

Mango #4

2010-01-05T19:56:00.000-08:00

“What are these?” There were nasty gnashes on an otherwise beautiful fruit.

“Oh! These mangoes were too high up to reach. Have to wait for them to drop. I got to these before the birds!”

I’m not amused. You know the nice little story they tell single ladies?

‘Women are like apples on trees, the best ones are at the top. They just have to wait for the right man to come along, the one who's brave enough to climb all the way to the top because they value quality.’

So what happens if I can’t hang on?

Mango #1

2010-01-04T21:50:00.001-08:00

I go for the biggest, most beautiful fruit. Elimination process, I tell myself, as I catch a glimpse of some shrivelled ones at the bottom of the bag.

“So do I throw the bad ones away?” I ask mom.
“Noooooo!!!” She yells, as if I’d asked if I could just slit myself with the knife. “All can eat! Just need to cut away the bad parts.”

I saw some really spotted ones down there. But she has faith I guess. That one bad mango don’t spoil the whole bunch. And that every one of them has its good.

“Peel as many as you can.”

2010-01-03T19:24:00.000-08:00

That was my task this afternoon. Our tree had been exceptionally fruitful this time round and mom had been collecting all the ripe fruit in a big black plastic bag in the fridge, waiting for opportunities to share them.

I was home for a break. And tonight was our house-warming get-together.

I peeked into the bag.

“Wah!”

I really needed to get to work.

The tedium would do me good, I thought, after a whole year of being battered and bruised by what felt like wave after wave of overwhelming changes, decisions and worries.

I believed in you.

2009-10-20T02:24:00.001-07:00

Against my own instinct. Do you know how hard it is to stop myself from prying or pursuing suspicions? I did it to respect you. Trust you. Support you.

But you didn’t appreciate that in me did you? No. You used it for yourself. For your selfish gains.

You lied. And for what? Are you afraid of losing? Afraid of the truth about yourself?

You want the truth? You are a coward.

I may not have achieved anything better than you. But at least I don’t go to bed at night hating the person I’ve become.

“Hello, what are you doing now?”

2009-10-19T02:38:00.000-07:00

“I’m packing all my stuff into boxes. So much to move!”
“Where did you get the boxes from?”
“Giant. They let me rummage through their discarded boxes.”
“Did you get any of my butter boxes?”
“Nope. I have Ribena, Pringles, BioZip. Even Minyak Cap Buruh. No ButterLite. You’re not pushing enough stock!”

Later, with someone else.

“So, you managed to get boxes from Giant?”
“Yeah. I realised it’s interesting to see my stuff packed into Pringles or Ribena boxes.”
“I know what you mean. My brother lugged a Whisper box to the new house.”

Priceless for cheap.

2009-09-28T22:24:00.000-07:00

A single stem of red petals. Or pink. Or yellow. And an unexpected gesture. Thoughtful, forthright, uninhibited. Very much like open-faced bloom itself.

It’s a near-wordless exchange. What is there to say that compares to this little wonder? Nothing. No need. Just hold it close and drink in its fleeting beauty – echoes of the moment that will soon fade away.

It’s about delighting in the now. It’s about a choice to find joy – through a small piece of a vast and unfathomable world that we have no control over.

And all for just 2 bucks a stalk.

2am roast pork.

2009-09-27T21:38:00.000-07:00

The best answer for a starved soul and stomach – friendship and food.

Not just any friendship. It’s the kind that says it doesn’t matter what time you call. It’s the kind that helps you see the good in you when you don’t. The kind that makes you thank God.

And not just any food. But the kind that makes you reach for more because you can taste the magical ingredient of love.

Then, when your hands are smeared full of tears and grease, you can look forward to tomorrow because suddenly, the world seems a better place.

Dear Celeste,

2009-09-17T04:02:00.000-07:00

Thank you for resignation note, dated today. While I found the concept interesting (and tempting to accept), I find the need to remind you that this is a joint venture. So while you may feel like resigning, your letter is null and void. You can ignore me. But I am bound to you by my eternal faithfulness.

Hence, I am returning your letter with an offer for more grace and mercy. And wish you the best of faith, hope and love. For the rest of your life.

Thank you again, for your kind (and entertaining) proposal.

Sincerely,
God

Dear God,

2009-09-17T01:35:00.000-07:00

I hereby tender my resignation of belief, effective today.

I would like to express my gratitude for the things you have shown me, as well as the love and the grace I have received. However, while I know the experience I have gained is all good and true, it has become increasingly difficult to continue in this present position.

In lieu of my resignation, please do let me know if I can be of any assistance to my replacement or in any other way during this transition.

Thank you for allowing me to serve with you.

Sincerely,
Celeste

The fondest memories can be found in the strangest objects.

2009-09-16T00:02:00.000-07:00

For me, it’s a pink stool from IKEA. It sits next to my work station and I never gave it much thought.

Looking at it now, it marks a soft spot in my heart – where different lives, different purposes and different paths met and shared. An argument over a brief. A frustration to let out. A joke to laugh at. A break from the computer screen. A bar of chocolate to indulge. Or just a little assurance that we’re not alone.

It makes me smile. It makes me miss people.

I feel like a big helium balloon.

2009-09-10T04:15:00.000-07:00

Everything is just so up in the air. My life. My beliefs. My work. Heck, even my address. Should I do this or should I do that? Or should I just not do anything? Can’t decide. Can’t seem to see a direction. Just drifting wherever the wind blows, till the pressures of external circumstances pop me. Or till test of time completely deflates me to a lifeless, soulless piece of trash.

Where’s my string to tie me down? Who will hold the other end and see me as a source of joy instead?

It’s easy to say why I like someone.

2009-08-31T22:00:00.000-07:00

“You make me laugh. You complement me. You get me. You understand me. You listen to me. You care about me.”

But when I want to say why I love someone, suddenly, I need to pause and weigh my words.

Why do I love?

None of my immediate answers can justify the enormity of the word ‘love’ because I’m compelled to give an answer that transcends me – my perceptions, my opinions, my feelings.

It comes down to this: that DESPITE me, I am loved. Till I can’t help but love in return.

Mart and his mashed beans

2009-08-13T00:34:00.001-07:00

Mart wants to fart. Needs to fart. Loves to fart.

He had many farts. Short and power explosions that would send everyone running helter-skelter in all directions. Or mild vibrations that would get many pairs of eyes staring at him. Or the deadly whiffs that enter the nostrils of unsuspecting victims – the kind that gets him looking for a magazine to accompany him to the throne.

He makes no secret of his love for his farts. But he keeps a secret weapon up his pants.

Beans at breakfast! All mashed to a potent fart-inducing consistency.

Celeste and the flying peas.

2009-06-08T00:15:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, there was a pea. The pea met another pea, and for a while, they were happy. But just for a while. Soon, they were not so happy. So the peas rolled away. One plopped into a puddle while the other fell down a cliff. But they wanted to do more than plop and fall around. They wanted to fly!

All they needed was Celeste, who had clumsy fingers and loved to play with her food. A mis-stab of a fork and a slippery slide from the fingers, and they were off!

Eight years.

2009-06-03T00:38:00.000-07:00

That’s how long you and I have shared a room. That’s 1/3 of our lives.

But we believed that God put us together for a reason. Same church. Same classes. Same cell. Same friends. Same room. And it was difficult at first. But much fruit has come out of it.

Now He also separates us for a reason. And it’s difficult still. But God has shown His grace in providing everything we need up to this point.

I love you. And I know what love is because of you.

Don’t forget your promise to call once a week.

“Sounds like they’re singing about you.”

2009-05-28T07:37:00.000-07:00

She ain't got no money
Her clothes are kinda funny
Her hair is kinda wild and free
Oh, but love grows where my Rosemary goes
And nobody knows like me

She talks kinda lazy
And people say she's crazy
And her life's a mystery
Oh, but love grows where my Rosemary goes
And nobody knows like me

There's something about her hand holding mine
It's a feeling that's fineAnd I just gotta say
She's really got a magical spell
And it's working so well
That I can't get away

Edison Lighthouse. Youtube it.

It’s a strange moment, this one.

2009-05-22T01:02:00.000-07:00

A moment of waiting. Just waiting.
Because that’s the only thing I can do.
But it’s not a waiting in silence. Or a waiting in question.
It’s a waiting for a wave of circumstances to hit me.
And I can’t do anything, but hold my ground and face it like a big girl.
I kind of know what to do.
Hold my breath. Kick a little. Paddle a little. Wave my arms around a bit.
But will I sink or swim?
Only time will tell.
Ok, here it comes. I can see it now.

Obscene fruit.

2009-05-20T20:43:00.000-07:00

When the fridge is stocked fruit every Monday, I grab a few and leave it on my table for snack attacks.

A large jambu with a very red and very rounded butt.
Two China pears (those greenish-reddish ones) with their stalks facing the same way.
Two oranges.
Two apples.
Two huge yellow pears.
Two ripe golden yellow melons
A banana in between two oranges.
A banana in between two apples.
A banana in between two huge yellow pears.
A banana in between two ripe golden yellow melons (yes, there they make sure there plenty of bananas every week).

Ratatat is performing.

2009-05-18T20:44:00.000-07:00

I know, because some of the guys are spreading the word. I’m also quietly pleased that I know who they are talking about. But that’s because I have a few of their tracks on my playlist. Which were given to me, along with other random tracks. Because I was begging for some shit that wasn’t my own. Interesting sounds. But I wouldn’t be found squashed in a crowd, watching them. Much less pay 60 bucks for it.

I should go, I’m told, to experience it.
What if I don’t like it then?
Just drink until you do!

There’s a grumpoos lurking in the office.

2009-05-18T04:09:00.000-07:00

He seems to have his favourite victims – the poor writers who are seated in the corner of the creative team. And he chooses them at random. Different times. Different reasons. But always the same terrifying manifestation of grumpiness.

Sometimes it’s simply because it’s Monday. Or that a brief is too boring. Or that auntie rose is down for a visit. Or that someone was being rude.

Exorcising this grumpoos takes a little know-how. A little ice-cream works sometimes. Or some TLC. Or a good sleep might do the trick. Or a fantastic weekend!

I’d like the claw package please.

2009-05-13T19:53:00.000-07:00

Metal claws. 12 inches. Retractable. Will I be able to retract them one by one? And healing abilities come in the package? I don’t want to be bleeding all over the place. So, this is on special offer, right? What? No discounts? I thought this is the X-men promotion you’re advertising. Oh. What off-screen abilities are on offer then? Multiple-language abilities. What the hell am I going to do with that? Who am I going to talk to if everyone’s busy flying around? Smoke a thousand cigarettes at once?? This Super Power mall sucks!

It takes skill to steer a turbo-charged car along a twisty countryside road.

2009-05-13T00:17:00.000-07:00

It takes skill to be a passenger in one of these rides. It’s a less developed skill than driving, but an important skill nonetheless – to significantly reduce chances of muscle aches, headaches and vomiting.

I call it the 3-point grip. Fold your right leg under the left leg and jam your left foot against the wheel well. Grab the door handle with your left hand. And lean your back against right side of the seat.

Then relax. It helps you remain calm in case of a crash.

You wanted my Isaac.

2009-04-08T23:47:00.000-07:00

How could you? You gave him to me. He changed my life. Suddenly I had something to look forward to. To nurture and to see grow up. To reap joy from. Even in the pain. And just when I thought he was mine, you wanted him back.

Why? Why must I prove that I love you more than all this? Why must I give him back? What about what I want? But gave back I did. I raised the knife and plunged it in.

Isaac is now dead. And I’m still looking for that blasted ram.

So maybe things will go back to the way I’ve always know them to be.

2009-02-26T01:55:00.000-08:00

I decided to take a step into something I’d never thought I’d do. To walk a path I’d never saw myself deviating to. And with every step, I took it oh so cautiously. Every deliberate step. Waiting. Waiting for a sign to say that this is the way I’m actually supposed to be. Or waiting for a sign to tell me that I should turn around and run back to where I was. So maybe this is it. One pause. One turn of the head.

Drink the soy.

2009-01-19T20:17:00.001-08:00

Coy toying. Boycotting. Plotting. Playing. Pulling.
NOTHING!
Funky bananarama, dalai lama. Soppy drama, holy mantra.
Honey bunny runny money. Funny.
Feel and deal. Sun and run. Take and break. Make and shake.
EXCUSE ME!
Tears and fears and smears and dears.
For the year? Something near? What do you hear?
Confused and used and battered and bruised.
Hide now and think how.
Loose sigh, look high. No show, tip toe. Yes or no. Go with the flow.
HAHA.
Slim shady. Maybe.
Stand up, heads up, bottoms up, give up, shape up, make up. Sit up. Pull up.

I stand humbled at my own weaknesses.

2009-01-12T18:44:00.000-08:00

All the steely resolve in the world. All the restraint I’ve kept myself behind. Everything I have willed myself to do or not to do – and made it even a source of pride. But now I see it all crashing around me. I am strangely comforted though. Yes, there will be things we’ll hold on to and things we’ll throw out the window. And in all that, the result becomes less important. Instead I come face to face with what it means to be just human. And in God’s eyes, that’s really ok.

I burst into tears today.

2009-01-11T18:55:00.001-08:00

All because of an SMS.

Perhaps I didn’t realise it before. I’ve been slowly wrapping up my heart in the worries of work, the tiredness of trying and just being overwhelmed by obligations. In all that, mum sends me a verse and prayer for the day. And it’s something about the fact that she never does this. And the fact that she’s thousands of kilometres away from me. And the fact that she knows better than the people I see everyday. That makes me see just how God comforts in the most unexpected of ways.

I was expecting him at our table.

2009-01-06T20:17:00.001-08:00

I was not expecting a boy with downs syndrome to be there too. I soon found out that the boy’s curiosity had led him away from his mother’s nearby table and to ours for a little attention. I didn’t mind, really. In between catching up about the tiresome and complicated world of work, I witnessed something I’d not seen in a while – a connection out of the human heart. He taught the boy to open a can of drinks, listened to his indiscernible chatter, and unexpectedly, made it an enjoyable time for us.

Good responses at work.

2008-10-25T03:20:00.000-07:00

RESPONSE 1
Earlier in the day
Boss: Can you take on this job?
Employee: Sorry, I’ve got tonnes of things to do.

Later on
Boss: Going home so early?
Employee: Yes, bye!
Boss: I thought you had tonnes of things to do?
Employee: Yes. Finished already.

RESPONSE 2
Manager: Last check please. Better not have any changes now.
Employee: Oh. But, now looking at it again, I think we need to move this here.
Manager: What??? You still want to cha-
Employee: I am not changing. I am improving. I cannot IMPROVE the work is it???

I feel like I’m slipping through your fingers.

2008-10-21T20:48:00.000-07:00

You’ve done so much for me – not that I don’t appreciate it. I do. There is nothing better than to be right here, right now, with you. But there is one thing that eludes me. You know what I’m talking about. And I can’t get a hold of it. My problem isn’t that I desire too much, is it? It’s that I don’t desire enough. I don’t see further than whatever will satisfy this void quickly - and find out later just how it dissipates just as quickly. Save me from myself.

Creative are like the stereotypical stay-at-home wife.

2008-10-20T07:53:00.000-07:00

We sit all day in the office, cleaning out briefs and ironing out the irritating little kinks that shouldn’t need to be fussed over, but we still do. We spend hours baking up ideas that sometimes come out a little half done. But hey, you can never know how these things turn out till they come out of the oven. So much care put into everything to give the husband an extra edge in his ‘big meeting’. Then wait all day for him to come home to eagerly ask “How did it go?”

How you know your boss has too much to do.

2008-10-14T19:27:00.001-07:00

Her diary is an ugly battle zone.
Instead of brisk walking around, she now runs. In heels.
You have to book her time on a Sunday to show your work.
People who need to see her don’t wait at her desk anymore. They follow her around like flies.
Fights about who get to see her first start breaking out.
She starts scavenging for potato chips at 5pm. And that’s her lunch.
But just when you think the coast is clear, she’ll appear behind you and ask “What are you doing?”

“Hey, are you ok?”

2008-10-10T03:37:00.001-07:00

It’s been a crap weekend. I had to come back to work and all. Not that I hate the work. I love the work. I just hate that I don’t get my weekend to do whatever I damn well please. So do forgive me if I’m a little bluer than usual and I brought it into the office with me today.

But that you asked, I am suddenly warmed from inside. Here I am, trying not to let my emotions dictate my day. But you saw beyond that and cared enough to add a little sunshine.

It’s been raining.

2008-10-07T04:43:00.001-07:00

After a day of sitting in the office and going home late without dinner, it really does suck. But as I get in through the front door of my home, I start to think of ways to wind down. Take off my jeans and walk around in my underwear. Put the kettle to boil for a hot pail of water – more oomph that those Jotun showers, I think. Then a bottle of Bovril catches my eye. I had forgotten it was there. One teaspoon in a cup of boiling water. There’s nothing that warms the soul more.

A tribute to the black box.

2008-09-26T00:10:00.000-07:00

You sat on that shelf, collecting dust and hair. You endured the prods from our toes when we were too lazy to get up and change the channels. You didn’t like that did you? So you zapped our fingers every time we dropped your antenna. We repented. And we tried to be more patient with you – sombrely waiting the 20 minutes you needed to warm up so we could see more than fuzzy RGB lines. But alas, you still decided to take your own life. A fall and a sickening crack. RIP.

About time!

Part seven.

2008-09-22T20:13:00.000-07:00

It’s a cheap thrill, really. Like taking the spoons from an airplane, or grabbing extra packets of ketchup from McDonald’s, or bagging pink nail polish from a shop.

People give me withering looks when they recognise the logos on the tissues. Yes, it is rather grandmother of me. I admit. But it’s not stealing, and I’m not wasting trees. If I were to buy a box of tissues, I would still be using trees to wipe my snot. It’s just a question of where the tissues come from. Might as well get a thrill out of it, right?

Part six.

2008-09-18T00:32:00.000-07:00

As we left through the door, I shamelessly grab another stack of tissues from the busy bar and walk out without so much as a glance backwards. We got to the car park where everyone could pull out their loot and combine it. Yep. That would be enough to last me for many more months.

But it wasn’t about the free tissues. I mean, how much could a proper box of tissues cost? It was the thrill of collecting it. Of doing it right under the noses of waiters as they thought we were playing a flirting game.

Part five.

2008-09-14T23:12:00.000-07:00

The guy comes back with an alcohol-branded glass filled with all too few squares. Grab the tissues. Hide the glass. Ask again.

“Excuse me,” Making sure it’s not the same waiter. “Could we have more serviettes please.” A polite but urgent look.

Yet another glass with more serviettes. Grab them. Hide the glass. Ask again – making sure our table’s waiter was out of sight. You get the picture. And that went on till each of us had an empty glass to account for. So we paid and left the table looking like we had quite some to drink.

Part four.

2008-09-12T00:56:00.000-07:00

Three months later, my car compartment needed replenishing. Trips to Starbucks and IKEA provided the much-needed supply of tissues. Unfortunately, they came in odd-sized oblongs. So I kept an eye out for those pristine white squares.

My diligence was rewarded at a local restaurant, where I was having dinner with a bunch of girlfriends one day. The service was good, but the tissue allocation for our table, terribly disappointing. There was barely enough to go round. So we took turns asking for more.

“Excuse me,” Not forgetting to smile sweetly. “Could we have some serviettes please?” Coy look.

Part three.

2008-09-09T19:33:00.000-07:00

I was to meet up with some colleagues for a brainstorm. Many cups of coffee and hot chocolate later, we were ready to call it a day. As we got up to leave, I saw what would have been a waste of a couple of clean serviettes that would indefinitely find their way to the bin. So (rather wisely, I think), I took them with me. And helped myself to an inch more of the stack of serviettes near the counter. Nice, square, white tissues, all just the right size for the little compartment under my car stereo.

Part two.

2008-09-08T00:08:00.000-07:00

No, I didn’t start shoplifting. But all it began when I’d bought my new car. It came littered with freebies, a box of tissues among them. They didn’t last long. And I kept forgetting to buy a new box. I couldn’t even remember to bring one down from the house.

So I’d have spilt some water on myself, trying to drink and drive at the same time. Or I’d have this sneezing fit because my tolerance for dust couldn’t compete with my laziness to vacuum the carpets. But no tissues.

I found a simple solution to my predicament.

Part one.

2008-09-06T06:57:00.000-07:00

I’ve always been a good girl. I was always home before my curfew. Never tried smoking. Never got drunk. Seldom lied – always got caught when I did. Never shoplifted. So I could never really empathise with people who did.

Not that I judge them. But when I hear things like “I didn’t shoplift because I wanted to steal stuff. I just loved the thrill of it.” I cannot wrap my head around it. I don’t shoplift because it is wrong. What kind of thrill are you talking about?

I couldn’t understand. Till I picked up a certain habit.

I remember walking up a flight of stairs.

2008-09-02T06:08:00.000-07:00

It was a wooden one, leading up to a hut in the middle of the jungle. Absent-mindedly, I reached out my hand and slid it up the railing beside me. It didn’t feel right. I looked and saw that I had just swiped my fingers through a mob of red ants. I screamed and started vigorously shaking off the ants that had tumbled on top of my hand and were already clinging onto my skin. A few more quick flings of my arm and I was safe from a very painful experience.

I see that thread again.

2008-08-28T03:34:00.000-07:00

That blasted thread! I’ve already let go of everything I cared for. I look at them, all scattered on the floor. I've given up. But I’m left hanging by this thread that has become somewhat of an old friend by now. I’ve been here before. Why can’t I just snip it off? No strings attached. Like everyone else. But I can’t bring myself to. I know that it’s the very last thing that’s keeping me from falling. In fact, I should be grateful that it’s there at all. Not everyone has a conscience, it seems.

All it took was someone to believe in you.

2008-08-27T00:19:00.000-07:00

To be able to see beyond the facades you unknowingly put up. To understand what your reactions meant. To care even though it hurt. Simply because no one else could. That’s just the way it is sometimes. Some people can. Some people can’t.

But one day, you will show us all that there is no glory in human judgement. You will rise higher than any of us could imagine. And we will marvel that what we once saw as foolish, will now show us how we were all the foolish ones.

Limited capacity can be a good thing.

2008-08-25T02:03:00.000-07:00

There are some things that I just cannot measure up to others. I cannot do as great, handle as much, understand as well. I just don’t have the capacity. And I know it. That’s the weird thing about the brain – it’s complex enough to know that it’s not complex enough. That leaves me with the question of what I fill it with. When I realise I’m drowning in worries and self-doubt. I have to take a step back and fill it with bigger stuff till there’s no more space for the small things.

Knowing me is like eating cornflakes.

2008-08-20T02:20:00.000-07:00

When all the new-fangled cereals are gone, it's there, shoved to the back of the shelf. Tiptoe to reach in a grab it. Pour it into a bowl, get a spoon, dig in and munch on it. Mindless chewing. Like a cow on grass. But it’s good old cornflakes as expected. If it gets too boring, add some milk, fruit or honey. They enhance the bland flavour a little. And if we dare get a little creative, cornflake cookies make a better treat. But other than that, what you see is what you get.

So I’m walking along.

2008-08-18T01:22:00.000-07:00

I take good, long strides. Until I discover that there are more crossroads than thought. I turn left, I turn right, I ask for directions. Then I walk right into a wall. Wait a minute. I didn’t see that coming. Oh well. At least it eliminates one direction. So I get up and turn around. Behold! I see a wide open field in front of me. I walk. I run. And then I’m flying! Higher and higher. I can see everything below me. And ow! There’s a wall up there too. I crash down to earth.

The darkened living room felt so cool.

2008-08-13T04:33:00.000-07:00

The bedroom could do with some of that. So I went in and threw open the windows. The breeze gushed in. No rain. No mosquitoes. Just the breeze. Perfect.

I was lying still on my bed and the wind just swept right across the length of my body, tickling my skin with light gusts of breath. And I thought to myself, of all the majestic glories of nature that the world has to offer, nothing touches me more closely than the wind. Like a father’s stroke on my back. Coaxing me to sleep.

Psalms 135: 7 - He brings the wind out of His treasuries.

I love my car.

2008-08-11T02:25:00.000-07:00

He’s a tall, dark handsome one. With a fat ass. And winks at me every time I come near. We’ve encountered a couple of bumps and scratches so far. But that just makes me love him more.

Then there are others who join us on our journeys. On some of them, I discover something new about my car. How to push the right buttons. How to test the limits. And I gain respect for what he can or cannot do.

But I’m careful with who he meets. Don’t want him to be taken for a ride.

Couldn’t sleep.

2008-08-07T03:18:00.000-07:00

Whatever that needed to be done is done now. The lights are off. My body finds a comfortable spot. My eyes shut out the skulking shadows. But my thoughts begin ping-ponging inside the cavity of my mind. All day, they had been pushed to the back lobes. But now, when there’s nothing else to distract my senses, they creep out like wary mice, looking to play. They wrap themselves around my head, gnawing at reason, suffocating my consciousness, till time is relegated to a darkened, distant haze. My conscience is rubbed raw. My will relents. My mind resigns.

All or nothing.

2008-08-04T05:30:00.000-07:00

“I want all or nothing at all.”

But it’s got to start with something you want isn’t it? You want it so badly, that you can’t have nothing but. It’s got to be the absolute joy, complete satisfaction and brimming fullness of all.

Or nothing.

But nothing only becomes an option only when you can’t get all. After all, nothing means nothing without knowing what all means.

How do we come up with these things? We don’t. We’re just made in the image of someone, who in the same way, wants us all or nothing at all.

So many tiny little hands.

2008-07-31T05:52:00.000-07:00

Desperately grabbing at the air, each desiring a different thing. All emerging from one bulbous, beating blob. In their innocence, they cry out for such seemingly simple things. So easy to satisfy.

I look at these hands and I pity them. They know nothing. I want to give every one of them what they want. But that’s just being foolish, so my grey matter tells me. “Their intentions are deceiving. Starve them all to death,” she says, “We’re better off without them.”

The heart knows no consequence. The head knows no compassion. And I’m confused.

In this world, there are no absolutes.

2008-07-28T22:15:00.000-07:00

We feast on life, gorging on a buffet of mismatched ideals and beliefs. Who is to say what is better than the other? It’s what we desire after all. Variety. Colour. A taste of everything – anything we want. Unlimited to seconds. And thirds. And fourths. Every dish calls out to us “Take me, eat me! There’s more from where that came from.”

But in all the greed for tiny temporal satisfactions, is lost the beauty of simplicity, where lack of more creates a greater whole.

I’m losing hope. Who wants a whole anymore?

What’s on your plate?

2008-07-24T23:56:00.000-07:00

“A fluffy mass of mashed potatoes with bits of skin inside, seasoned with a pinch of salt and some milk. Oodles of full-length spaghetti boiled to a chewy firmness and doused in thick tomato sauce – not from the can, but made from scratch with fresh tomatoes. Slices of French bread, spread with deep yellow butter and topped with crushed garlic, toasted till the edges are a crispy golden-brown and the garlic begins to give off a beautiful aroma. Oh, and a big slice of rich, moist chocolate cake on the side.”

“Carbs, carbs, carbs and carbs.”

I’ve had that sinking feeling for too long.

2008-07-23T03:34:00.000-07:00

Paddle a little. Sink a little. Kick a little. Sink a little. Gasp for air and hold it in. I see the rays piercing the surface of the water. Cup the hands and give it all I’ve got. Up, down, up down. Flap. Flap. Flap.

Whatever. Drift. Sink. Sink. Sink. Eyes half-opened. I thought I could swim. But I guess not. I’m not going to try anymore. I give up. Boink! My butt hits the rocks at the bottom.

Hey. I’m heading upwards. Slowly. I’m going to get my breakthrough after all.

I feel restricted.

2008-07-22T08:24:00.001-07:00

It’s for my own good, I tell myself. But now I find that I’m stuck behind my own fence. The great divide between yes and no. Unable to let myself go. I either stay behind it or I don’t. See less of what the world can offer. Or brave come what may.

But either way, I know I’ll still be subjected to the laws of the world. Of humanity. Of uncountable possibilities that are still only within natural reach. So restrictions or not, that’s not the point.

Instead, I have come to yearn for something far greater.

“Hey, I’m scared.”

2008-07-17T20:24:00.000-07:00

“It’s ok. Here, hold on to me.”
“I don’t want to land up the others.”
“We won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do. Quick! Jump now!”
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!”
“Offft!”
“We’re free!”
“Not just yet, dear.”
“It’s cold.”
“It will get colder.”
“How do you know so much?”
“Now, that’s something I don’t know.”
“How come I have to be the insecure, ignorant one?”
“Because I’m the assured, smart one. Wait. We’re moving.”
“How much longer now?”
“Just a bit. Hang on.”
“HAHAHAHAHA! Stop tickling me!”
“I’m not. She picked us off her shirt.”
“And away we go!”

I won’t admit it.

2008-07-16T05:13:00.000-07:00

I’m constantly seeking security in life, as most women do. Not just in the big things like having a home or a husband, but in the seemingly insignificant things. Like toothpaste.

For some reason, I love having a full tube of toothpaste in the bathroom. Or a full roll of toilet paper. The bigger the better. If I could steal those industrial rolls in public toilets, I would. I even get a kick out of seeing the fuel bar hit maximum after a pump at the station.

I like knowing there’ll be enough, just in case.

Use it then lose it.

2008-07-13T20:46:00.000-07:00

An ice-cold can of Coca Cola.
A condom.
A piece of Kleenex tissue.
Disposable underwear.
A PowerPoint presentation.
The Saturday newspaper.
Black garbage bags.
RM3 slippers from Bangkok.
Alkaline batteries.
Cooking oil.
A popsicle stick.
A plastic spoon.
Dental floss.
A quarter-chicken meal with coleslaw and fries.
A plaster.
Pyjama pants.
A paint brush.
Hot pink nail polish.
A coconut.
Good advice.
A parking token.
A trashy Hollywood gossip magazine.
Pocket money.
A birthday card.
A handshake.
A rain coat.
Friendship.

How do you decide what something is worth?

2008-07-10T20:03:00.000-07:00

With how much you would give in return?
With what you want to keep for yourself?
Is it worth the money that you’ve slaved all day to earn?
Is it worth the time you could have given yourself?
Is it worth your heart’s desires? Your life?

What am I worth?
Do I know? Yes.
Do I understand? No, I don’t think so.
Do I love myself enough to die for myself? No, I don’t think so either.
Am I willing to die to self?
There must be something I’m not seeing here.

Passion?

2008-07-09T23:59:00.000-07:00

Desire. Want. Pursue. Longing. Focus. Devotion. Camaraderie. Determination. Conviction. Purpose. Belonging. Outcome. Grow. Heart. Push. Try. Time. Stretch. Groan. Sigh. Grasp. Overwhelmed. Tired. Maintain. Trudge. Discouraged. Sustain. Choose. Bitch. Rage. Why? Fight. Stand. Realign. Rediscover. Decide. Cut. Pull. Weed. Strive. Criticise. Do. Act. Sleep. Wake. Stress. Think. Frustrated. Dilemma. Tug-of-war. But. Burn. Stop. Relent. Stop. Give. Stop. Rationalise. Stop. Excuse. Stop. Compromise. Stop. Hide. Shame. Question. Cry. Yearn. Numb. Detached. Isolated. Selfish. Dry. Desolate. Confused. Find. Read. Huff. Give up? Maybe. Fight. Fight. Fight. How? How? How? Believe. Still. Look. See. Know. Desperation. Resignation. Sniffle. Flood. Now what? Desire.

Friday.

2008-07-09T02:45:00.000-07:00

Thank God it is.

The joy in anticipation of the weekend is now replaced with pure relief that the week is almost over.

“You know sugar cane? You put it through those rollers to squeeze out all the juice. But that’s not enough. You take it from the other end. And put it through the rollers again. Is that enough? No. You put it through again. That’s how I feel on Fridays.”

And the sweet juice? Given to someone else. Gulp. Gulp. Gulp. There is goes. What’s left? The pulp that’s breaking apart. Dry and void of any use.

Somehow, somewhere, I’ve gotten myself this cut.

2008-07-07T20:46:00.000-07:00

Don’t remember how. But it gives me this niggling pain. And it gets rubbed raw when I accidentally touch it.

So I put a plaster over it. Actually, I shouldn’t really, because I know it’s better to leave it out to dry. But it’s comforting to have that plaster there. A temporary shield from the harsh world. It lets me feel normal again. If only for a while.

But that plaster can’t stay there forever. I know it.

And when I need to peel it off. Boy, will it hurt. Again. Stupid me.

Know love.

2008-07-06T21:32:00.000-07:00

It’s making me laugh.
It’s asking me “How are you feeling?”
It’s buying ice cream for me.
It’s seeing me cry.
It’s giving my feet a rub because they hurt from dehydration.
It’s calling me to find out where I am because I’m still not home.
It’s your touch.
It’s making me talk about myself, just because you want to know.
It’s asking the difficult questions.
It’s standing up for me.
It’s figuring out the puzzle of life together.
It’s knowing that I can call you when anything happens.
It’s knowing who God is.
Because God is love.

I’ve given myself away.

2008-07-03T19:37:00.000-07:00

Sometimes as peanut butter on toast, to quell a hunger pang. Sometimes as gift-wrapped boxes that can spark many a smile, but contain nothing within. Sometimes as a single feather brushed under the soles of the feet.

I’ve given myself away. Sometimes as a mess of tangled yarn. Sometimes as a melting ice cube. Sometimes as a half-completed jigsaw puzzle.

I’ve given myself away. Sometimes as breakfast cereal to chew on. Sometimes as the view through a glass bottle. Sometimes as a ping pong bat.

He says that it is still not enough. Not just yet.

How do you choose an apple?

2008-07-02T19:52:00.000-07:00

Well, you go to a supermarket then head for the pile of apples. Look for the reddest or shiniest ones. Press them to see if they’re crunchy. No telling yet if they are sweet.

Then you pick one. Pay for it. And bring it home.

You can put it in the refrigerator if you want. Keep it. Wash it. Peel it. Whatever.

But when you eat it, make sure you eat the whole thing. Core and all.

It’s not like you take a bite out of the apple and leave it at the supermarket.

There’s a box inside my head.

2008-07-01T22:38:00.000-07:00

Every time someone asks what’s in it, I look inside and pull one thing out to show.

But each time I do, I am surprised that it looks different from when I put it in. Somewhat smaller. Then I stare at it. Turn it around in my hands.

Then somebody wants to see it too. Pry my fingers open to look at it. Prod it. Poke it.

And after all’s been said and done to it. I chuck it back in the box.

Thing is, what’s the box doing there in the first place?