My thoughts exactly

The knocking on the door was incessant, though for all the reasons exist to justify my annoyance with it, such as the way each pounding reverberates within my skull with amplified intensity and volume, I was momentarily angered by the irregularity of its rhythm, or lack thereof.

Knock. Pause. Knock. Pause. Pause. Knock. Knock. Pause. Knock. Pause. Knock-knock-knock.

My eyelids fought the gravitational weight of sleep to flutter open, only to narrow at the noise in its wake (no pun intended).  Belatedly, I heard the spurts of muffled garble interspersed with the pounding. Ching? Ding? Ping? Ling?

Oh wait. It is Ying. The second half of my name is a mere white noise from where I am lolling on the bed, as if the door is a translator for the speaker (whose voice I can by now pinpoint to being my grandmother’s) and my Hui is not a valid word in its language, thus lost in translation.  

Finally, I draw upon the dredges of energy my drowse-laden body can offer to utter an unintelligent and incoherent reply, acknowledging her wake-up call and indicating that my immobility is a temporary state awaiting metamorphosis.

The knocking ceased.

Cheeses and rice. What ungodly hour is this?!

I flopped over amongst the crumpled sheets and my tangled earphones, looking less like the quick flip of a piece of lean meat on a hot pan to cook the raw side, and more akin to the slow disjointed turn of a overtly burdened spit over a small fire.

I dared a squint at the window to judge the time of day.

HOLY EXCREMENT MY EYES.

I am putting my finger on ten o’clock. Perhaps even eleven. Well, either is an accomplishment (the hum of gratuitous prayers can be heard in the house whenever I happened to wake before noon). I mean, I know the early bird gets the worm, but I would prefer my motto to be ‘the second mouse gets the cheese’.

As I contemplate on my next move in the speed of sloth, a new shout did not take long to reach me. Neurological voice recognition mechanism labels my aunt as the source of sound.

“Are you up yet? It’s very late already! It’s almost 8.30am!”

VAT.

This is diabolical. Is it even humane to wake someone up before nine during a vacation?! Should not there be a legal set of holiday etiquettes to adhere to –

“Your breakfast is getting cold! There’s sausages and eggs and baked beans! Do you want coffee or not?”

Food.

All other thoughts ceased to exist following this point.

Well I believe it all is coming to an end

It is 21^st December 2012, the most anticipated date of the year, and I am physically exhausted, mentally drained, and wrung dry of my senses. Simply because Nothing had happened today. Then again, today WAS the end of the world. A slew of Nothings was to be expected. And seeing that I am a firm believer of the Doomsday prophecy, I expected my share of Nothings.

They checked in like punctual employees.

At nine am sharp, Nothing tripped up my alarm clock and prevented it from ringing. Nothing then tossed my breakfast to the ground in spastic flick of the wrist due to sleep-deprivation. Feeling driven, it proceeded to hit the road with me; Nothing obstructed my lane and disrupted the half hour journey. On top of that, Nothing made my parking difficult; big surprise, considering my skills. But it did not end there. Oh ho, Nothing haunted me throughout my working hours: Nothing irritated my boss and soured the entire staff’s festive cheer, Nothing clogged up the internet connection and disrupted my Twitter updates, and Nothing shit on my rice as I lunched by the roadside. And on my way home, Nothing froze the traffic flow, though scumbags Friday Night and Mild Rain tended to counteract its doings periodically. Thus, my vehicle movement alternated between a crawl and a pounce.

All in all, the Nothingness of the day was so overwhelming in its prophetic preaching that I am even more drawn than before to the belief of world apocalypse; there is no denying that Nothing happened and Nothing proved the truth of the ancient prediction.  

I now await the end. 

Gobble gobble

Today is Thanksgiving, the day to be thankful for everything that we have and everyone in our life, because the feeling of gratitude only comes once a year. That is right folks, for the other 364 days, we get to experience nothing but hate, jealousy, ungraciousness, skepticism and criticism towards all the beautiful people who cared about us and made our insignificant existence a memorable journey.

Well, I should also list out the couple of things that I am grateful for, or I will have to wait till next November to do so:

8. Karma. She is the cheapest assassin one can hire; you need only pay the price of a fair heart, a kind soul and an admirable personality, and all those who have done you wrong will simply perish. She cleanses the world of idiotic scum yet leaves enough of them alive to boost the superiority of the intelligent. She is much more efficient in granting wishes than Santa Claus and she basically invented the naughty and nice list; if you want a naughty present, be naughty, if you know what I mean.  

7. Google and social media. Without the former, there would be no twenty first century degree holders or even high school graduates. Without the latter, the very indulging sin of stalking celebrities and people we have the hots for would be nigh on impossible to commit. Spiders are not the only creatures that have fun on the web.

6. You Tube video-converter websites and music downloading tools. Oh illegal heaven, I am eternally in debt to you for my constantly evolving music taste, the albums that may one day be the soundtrack of a wonderful memory, and the new friendships formed through fangirling over artistes whose songs you allow me to download to love better. Though I would like to request that you disable the downloading of tragic nonsense like Hot Problems and Friday, if nothing but to slow the spread of the musical diseases.

5. Books; thick, massive, tome-like books. Not only are they one of the best weapons hiding in plain sight, they have allowed me to avoid awkward conversations with people who speak only gibberish, and have helped me fence off those of the degrading status below forceful acquaintanceship by making me look immersed in its written world.

4. My talent in daydreaming. Who needs external stimulations from films and television programs when you can spawn an entire series with your mere imagination, on any topic that you happen to fancy, containing characters casted by you and voicing your own script?

3. My best friends. They may not be the reason I am alive (my physiological and anatomical engines are), but they sure as hell are the reason I LIVE. Only in the presence of these six idiosyncratic and awe-inspiring people that I have been spontaneous, frisky, imaginative, mad, frustrated, foul at heart, wicked, dirty, humorous, sarcastic, narcissistic, adventurous and never more comfortable with myself. I would better let you guys know how much I love you because I will have to be unappreciative of our friendship till the next Thanksgiving.

2. My family. For being the only people who love me simply because I existed. For not letting me starve to death. For reminding me of the cultural beauty of being a ching chong ling long.

1. Me. This is self-explanatory.   

Of course, there are a billion other things, little and big, that I am thankful for, but since I cannot call to mind all of them now, I guess they will have to wait till Thanksgiving 2013. 

Back to where I was

The one thing better than finding a new song to get obsessed over is digging up old tunes and rekindling the love you first felt for them. Nothing like scrolling down your music files when you suddenly experience an instinctual pull toward an album or an artiste whose songs you have half-forgotten, and, overwhelmed by the need to answer the call of your mouse pointer, you play the tracks. And then…bam. You are sucked into the whirlpool of musical reminiscence, crying, “Oh sweet notes, how hath thy ears forgotten thou?” 

And you spend the next three or so hours being awed by your indisputable taste in music. Not that I have ever stopped being awed by everything I do.

I would, however, like to mention that I build my playlist on the foundations of random clicking of YouTube music video links. While I do get songs off the radio, to be googled and sung to shamelessly later, I prefer opening my current favorite track on YouTube, blindfold myself as best I could against prejudices, then trust my guts to expose my ears to new music. Thus, a revisit to those discovered a year ago can be quite inspiring. Artistes like Ed Sheeran, Bon Iver, Damien Rice, Mumford and Sons, and others I have came to love, all began appearing in my Finger On Repeat Button file with a “Hey, that song title sounds cute/interesting, let’s give it a listen!”

They are pretty much now a permanent resident on the expansive real estate of my external hard disk, should album collections of my idols equate to owning sprawling mansions, and single tracks of solo acts and bands sizing up to terrace houses.

I always appreciate an opportunity to admire my taste in music throughout the years, that is constantly evolving and growing; a ‘notated’ diary reflecting my mindset and thoughts during particular moments. But what I do not appreciate is having my intuition decide three in the morning is a perfect time to take a stroll, or a crawl, more like, down My Life’s Soundtrack lane.

As if my biological clock is not messed up already, never mind the fact that my creativity spurts tend to happen only after midnight. They say it is always darkest before the dawn. Lucky them, sleep comes easy when your world is pitch black. For me, it is often as not flashing neon-rainbow bright before the dawn; it is rather hard to doze with story ideas frying your eyeballs crisp.  

So, I am now reviving my Eric Hutchinson phase while typing this out, inspired in parts by the familiar rhythm and melody, and by the surge of neurological activity churning within my skull.

Next up, Augustana perhaps? 

A full, filling encounter

The fat beast behind the tinted glass was not pleased.

But I was too numbed from the sweltering heat to notice the displeasure. Plus, the interview left me a couple of thoughts to chew on. I concentrated instead on squishing myself as best I could under the sliver of shelter the roof offered, hanging for dear life to the cool of the blessed shade while my skin oozed sweat wherever the sunlight poured over it.

Desperate to retreat to my car quick, I thrust my hand into the slit in the glass pane to hand the visitor’s pass to the guard seated within. Ten tortured seconds ticked away, and the laminated piece of paper was still in my sweaty clutch. It was then I realized how massive the figure within was, and she did not seem to be stirring. So I stared, mentally willing her to take the pass and get on with signing me out.

I could not see her reaction, what with my shadow thickening the gloom cast by the tinted glass, but I fancied her narrowing her piggy eyes at me and working her wobbly jowls. Perhaps an attempt to unnerve me. And when I did not quiver or appear in any way intimidated, she barked at me with the ferocity of a starved animal, “Ah moi, nak bagi I pass itu, tak?” (Girl, are you going to hand me that pass, or not?)

I literally had to shove my entire arm into the guard house, so far into the place pervaded by the stale air of an air-conditioned room and her rancid breath, before the hunk of meat decided it was near enough to pluck it daintily out of my hand. And as she searched for my Identification Card, sweet sounds of her mouth-fart floated toward me, grumbling about how I am inconsiderate to busy people like her and how she does not understand youths these days. So complains the person who disrupts an ecosystem with her gluttony. No wonder there are so many starving children in our country. Woman, your very presence is an inconvenience.

I guess my eyes conveyed the musings of my mind better than I would have thought possible through that tinted window, because her spurts of annoyance turned into a full-blown verbal diarrhea. Well, it did not sound any angrier, merely that the spaces between words vanished. Somewhere along the lines, “Ahmoi,lainkalikalaunakberikad,berilahsaja.Janganhanyaberdiridisitu,tungguorangambilkad.Adakerjalainbuat…”

It literally translates to, “OnnomnomnomnomnomMmmmmMonnomnomnomBURP.”

Oh fat beast, you so funny.

Finally, she found my card and handed it to me with a frown and some words of wisdom. Not being able to communicate in the tribal dialect of food language the Jabba was speaking, I could only smile politely and thank her for her time as I left.

“Ish, lain kali beri cepat sikit!”

On nom nom to you too, nasi lemak (:

The girl behind the tinted glass

The girl behind the tinted glass

Watches as cars trickle by

Her hand thrusts out the slit in the toll booth

Catching the money due 

Wishing instead that she could catch a chance

A chance to live a different life

The girl behind the tinted glass

Watches as people travel by

Her mouth curves up to smile through the gloom

Greeting the passing faces

Wishing instead that she could greet a foreign land

A foreign land to begin an adventure

The girl behind the tinted glass

Watches as time slips by

Her feet dangle off the swivel chair by the cashier

Tapping the dull beat of boredom

Wishing instead that she could tap to a tune

A tune to accompany fond memories

The girl behind the tinted glass

Decides to watch no more

Her hand flips up the ‘booth closed’ sign and shut the door 

Her mouth tastes the air of the world beyond the darken pane

Her feet waltzes her away to wherever they set their mind to

No longer wishing things to be

But simply to be

Let the sun illuminate the words you cannot find

The Ideas kept coming all night, like the mad gush of water when a dam is felled. Sleep was nigh on impossible as the army of images, scenarios, snippets of Words and stray phrases rammed against the castle gates of my mind. Yet the fortress held; manned by General Instinct with the strength and wits of a seasoned castellan, though the attack set the nerves and veins tingling with a zinging energy – the way guards and sentinels buzz upon spotting assaulting enemies from atop the battlements. Again and again the swarm of Ideas hammered the doors, relentless and merciless to the nightly rest of the household within the keep.

Perhaps it would have been easier if I had yielded, and allowed the Writing Ideas to storm the castle, because either way, insomnia would have ensnarled me. Even now, a mere five hours since Sleep took over the command and shuttered my senses to quell the sounds of conquest, my eyes are snapped back open at the softest touch of early morning sunrays. But this time round, the tide has turned and my mood has shifted; I am welcoming the host of Ideas, and trailing them a mile back, the horde of Words.

Already, my heart is drumming erratically to the song of the coming Words. The sounds of flapping banners herald the column, singing the prelude to the march in a sweet anthem of whispers and sighs. Adventure, Sci-Fi, Romance, Horror, Memoir, Fantasy – the ranks go on, till the horizon blurs in a profusion of Genres. A tourney will be held, to be sure, to allow the various Genres to joust for the honored place on my Blank Paper.   

As the Writer in me receives the Words’ gift of a pair of chunky, crescent shape necklaces in shades of black for my eyes to wear proudly, exhaustion nips at me playfully, hoping that I would give in and let it lead me to bed. Not that I would; when Words call, I answer gladly. Fatigue and sleep deprivation are a small price to pay for the joy of a complete written art.

Nothing comes for free, but there are certain things in life that are worth paying for.