hazy times

there is a man-induced haze in Malaysia. i feel really sorry for friends and family in Kuala Lumpur. at first i thought it was just as it was in Singapore several years ago. looked slightly foggy, every building looked less colourful than before, the sky was "noisy" and pixelated. back then, i would not have been affected by the haze, the cats at The 'Rents had not gotten to my lungs yet. but i was wrong! the haze in Kuala Lumpur got so bad in the past week that a state of emergency was declared.

it is just not right that the Malaysian economy has to suffer at the hands of Indonesian (and perhaps Malaysian?) plantations burning forests just to clear land. so backward, so thoughtless, so lazy, so i-don't-give-a-fuck. firstly, the thought of clearing land pains me (but is a necessity), secondly, BURNING?! poor animals, not a chance in hell do they get to run. poor kids who have to breathe in toxic fumes. poor elderly coughing their lungs out. Singapore is lucky this time, wind directions have bypassed Singapore, also, the culprit plantations are far away (by perspective).

(picture on right: "don't burn the forests, or you'd be the Devil: warning from the nation of Malaysia." in Malay, it rhymes. er, alright.


AND, i am absolutely elated that smoking will be banned in public places. i am excited. just as smokers have their right to smoke, non-smokers have their right to breathe clean air. Japan has fantastic smoking etiquette. in Singapore, forget about it. 8 out of 10 of my friends and acquaintances smoke.

i have never understood the logic of smoking.

but then again, the logic is similar to overeating. what i really hate though, is when friends suggest to sit outside when it is humid and at least 33 degrees Celsius. it is insane. no normal person would enjoy that. it is simply uncomfortable. why can't we sit indoors and when one really needs to smoke, one inconveniences oneself and goes outdoors to smoke? never quite made a big deal out of it, but on bad days, i'd think "why the hell do we non-smokers always have to accommodate the smokers?" al fresco "dining/cafeineteining" in Singapore can sometimes be a joke.

haven't you heard? 2nd hand smoking is toxic. if they don't care about their own lives, they fucking hell should care about others'. but then again, if you don't quite care for yourself, why would you care about others?

5 out of 10 of my smoking friends are absolute daaaarlings and fantastically considerate. we do not even have to ask, we sit indoors and when they need to smoke, they go outdoors - although the smokers usually make up the majority of those at the table. to these darlings, i absolutely adore you! continue killing yourself :)

most of my friends really want to quit. but they find it so tough. we usually chide them, tease them and tell them how it's all about mind over matter.

but then again, try telling me to quit chocolate! but then again, moderate chocolate ingestion is not harmful to health - but rather, extremely beneficial. if it's the dark, non-sweet variety.

which i do not take.

but anyway, to my (considerate) smoking friends, erhmm, i love you, and good luck on quitting. we know you want to.

problem is, do you really want to? :)

over-and-out, it's a Saturday night and i would like to enjoy my weekend before the crazy working week starts. i love working with Canadians, Americans and Latinos. nothing quite like 'em.

to zafar.

love,

i really do not mean to stay away for such long periods of time from
you. i love you, very dearly. but mostly, i feel empty. i feel lost,
like on a makeshift raft that's about to give way just floating on
quiet seas, moving through the fog, blind without an island in view or
another man in sight.

i have been reading Prozac Nation and i absolutely hate it. i
absolutely abhor it. i am only at page 120 and it's the 50th time i've
told myself i need to stop reading. but i keep reading and reading,
perhaps hopeful that maybe the depressed, self-indulgent
protagonist, Ellie, will get out of her spell. i hate it, because it
is like reading every line on your face, rediscovering every freckle
across your cheeks that you've long forgotten.

rv keeps me sane, or at least allows me to see a more acceptable
reflection of myself. that i am living some sort of normal life. that
if i keep toiling at a 9-6 job, that i can, one day, convince myself,
that i am, indeed, a normal person perfectly capable of happiness.

but i am only capable of sheer brokenness and ecstatic bursts of madness.

why do i not know moderation, zafar? why do i not?

some days, i even manage to convince myself that i am happy. but it
never lasts. it never lasts beyond a faked smile to rv or a shrill
laughter amplified to shroud the bleeding sadness?

and why? what the hell am i so bloody fucking depressed about? ever
since i can remember, ever since consciousness took over mischievous
innocence, i have been responsible. responsible for my father's rage,
responsible for my mother's happiness, responsible for my brother's
punishments, responsible for my grandparents' satiation, responsible,
responsible, responsible. since i was at least 4.

i'd lock myself up in my own bedroom (i had the privilege of privacy
as a child) and talk to myself endlessly. the possibilities of
wonderful fiction, the possibilities of life was so exquisite! till
mama came home, then we had dinner. till i watched TV up to nine, then
grudgingly walked into my room for bedtime. then in my sleep, papa
would come home and sometimes i can feel his lips on my face.

and then the next day would come. and once again, i would have
breakfast, tiptoe to look at the kids screaming at the playground
through the window then lock myself in my room again. i'd pick up one
of the Childcraft Encyclopaedia series and read it. again. for at
least the 20th time. till i could spell chlorophyll when i was only 7
and understood its existence.

it is not much different now.

i still lock myself away. but in a bigger room, in an entire house.
sometimes i'd call friends and we'd talk, but really, i'd rather just
disappear. i'd rather cocoon myself away at home, not even watching
TV. not even reading. not even cooking. not even surfing the Internet.
not even singing or dancing. i just vegetate. for some years now, i
try not to go out, not to venture further than 5km away from home. if
i could walk home in 10 minutes, even better. closer i am to home, the
better i feel. and the most cruel of friends would translate this only
into laziness.

but at the same time, i am terrified. i will lose all my friends. all
of them. then truly, i will have no one but rv. but we all have an
expiry date. and the way rv's eating habits are, i hope his
insurance payout is enough to isolate myself for years. and decades to
come.

i'd rather be at home, or far, far away. but i suppose one cannot keep
running. one could implode from running from one's self.

my obsessive dependency on rv keeps me alive. and at the same time,
dead. but oh, do i love him. i love him even more on days he keeps a
smile on his face when i throw my keys at him because he pushed my
button. he'd even offer his mobile phone to me to break (i've broken
my mobile phone after a fight with my mom over dowry) - although a
joke during a rage blackout is never good.

but i am OK, zafar. that's just it. i will always be OK. i will always
be floating. floating along like an undisturbed lotus. that really is,
rotting inside. it's chaotic, and thank god for rv, the one who sees it
in my eyes. even when i am smiling.

he sees, that i cannot even say it.

he sees, that there is so much on my mind, so much in my heart, that
if i would say anything, i'd go mad, i'd go quite mad.

i've always been the outsider on the inside. the first time i was
called weird, i was 11. then "weird" came repeatedly, but i know that
they felt threatened. there was nothing to be threatened about at all,
silly children. and now, i'm so used to it, it's an inside joke.
something you share with someone closest to you, and farthest from
you.

yourself.

i love you, tell me how you've been.

life has been kind, not too excruciating. it is only my fault.

c*devotchka

socks in a fruit.

i used to run out of my room when i smelt durians. i'd get really excited and would start jumping around my dad, urging him to crack open the durians "faster, faster, faster!"

eating durians is an entirely different experience altogether.

first, the smell hits you hard. caucasians usually find the smell offensive, someone once said it smells like socks in a locker room. not that i found that comment offensive, but i found it extremely insulting to the fruit. if you love durians, you know what i mean. you practically welcome the smell. the smell, sweet and creamy, lingers around, encouraging you to "come, eat me."

then your heart will beat faster, in eager anticipation for a taste of the King of Fruits. dad will slowly remove the heavy durians carefully by the stalks from the paper bags and onto the kitchen floor. by now, the entire family would have gathered round. i would not offer my precious hands to help dad. my hands would be half the circumference of a durian and a heavy spiked fruit could easily tear me apart. i only eat.

part of why the smell is so strong is because dad would have already asked the fruit sellers to cut through the thorny thick shell enough for him to pry open later, but not enough for the fruits to go bad.

dad will then remove the thin rubber bands wrapped around the durians and rest the base of his palms just below the thumbs on opposite sides of the split durians and apply pressure downwards and outwards to split them open.

the immediate increase of strength in smell would always be heavenly and welcome one.

i would always be tempted to immediately grab the first piece but remind myself not to because dad would get really angry. after all, after the first split, you can always split one half into two quarters to get more meat, then split the quarters into eighths and get even more meat! it was always a sweet surprise to keep splitting the durian into smaller fractions just to find more sweet meat! it was like opening a treasure box over and over again!

it was always a family affair. we'd sit around the durians just savouring the soft yellow flesh of the fruit, licking the seed clean. it was almost always so enjoyable, we'd be eating durians in silence. i always went for the bittersweet flesh, creamy variety. those are my favourite. the ones that were too creamy, slimy and sweet were too boring, somewhat bland. the bitter, hard ones were just not worth the excitement. the ones in between, with just the right texture, the right blend of bitterness and sweet creaminess if always worth getting your fingers pricked by the thorns.

once done, we'd wash one of the durian shell eighths, drink water from the hollow shell. must be an asian old wives' tale, that drinking water from the shell will help cool down the 'heatiness' that comes from eating durians. a fight-fire-with-fire approach to durians.

you'd usually sleep very well after that.

we have not had this ritual for years now. dad's gotten too busy to do it. i thought i could continue this ritual with my kids. then i find out that rv hates durians. he hates even walking by durians.

we'd walk past packed durians (air-tight) and i'd stand there giving him an absolutely pathetic look that falls on blind eyes. "no", says the eyes.

i'd walk away dejected.

no way my kids will ever enjoy watching their dad splitting open thorny durians and taking in the smell that even monkeys welcome.

but tonight, finally, tonight, i get to eat durian once more. albeit without rv. we went over to Geylang, famous for its durians (and prostitutes). we chose our durian, found ourselves a table, and once again, enjoyed durian in silence.

Tasty Thursday

it's Tasty Thursday again!

personal note to edsie.

look who can't wait for your hands to get on his grubby little bon-bon! (do i hear you panting like a dog?)