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.

The Chant of the Devil

The day had come to pass again.

There was an expectant hum rumbling in the shed of mortar and bricks, even the harsh fluorescent bulbs dangling above dimmed and flared in crackling anticipation. Unbidden, the odor of stale food and drinks, abandoned in the room as if to feed wandering sprites and pixies, that rode the old musty carpet wafted up, setting the gathered masses’ noses a-crinkling.   

Beyond the enclosure, the sun scorched the land with an intensity that could only be experienced in the height of noon.

The Shaman lifted his arms, a simple gesture, but one that rippled with authority and demanded reverence from those seated before him. He was clad in somber black; the inky color ran the length of his body uninterrupted, though the solemnity was betrayed by the expression on his face, which reflected a significantly different mood. Perhaps it was his belief in the powers of the ritual, or perhaps it was a manifestation of the many years of performing the sacrament, but his being seemed to exude an air of mad exultation.

“Today we shall give our thanks through the glorious hymn of the Kaldumisi! Is there anyone who wishes to step forward and offer their servitude to the Great Lords of Du and Mol?”

Shadows of fear flickered across the pale faces of the people seated behind blue and green planks of wood that served as pews, each of them struggling to keep their eyes averted from the Shaman’s by staring intently at the shafts of paper containing the notated passages of the rite, with every individual’s own interpretation on the pronunciation of the lines scribbled messily across the pages. Desperation rose like bile at the back of the throats.

He clicked his tongue impatiently – a dangerous sound; the Shaman must not be tried. A wobbly hand pierced the clouds of bowed heads. The first sacrificial lamb.

A sense of finality settled over everyone. Of course, it was not to be deluded that this was the end; it was merely the beginning.

“Ah good! Come come!” he tapped gleefully against the Altar: a rickety but massive slab of wood, its sides painted in the shade of the night, as if licked by the tongues of flames till charred, though it had a glossy sheen to it.

The girl ambled to the front of the House of Aural and sat gingerly on the stool placed before the sacred Instrument of the Dark. She stroked the crude rectangular pieces of carefully varnished hollowed wood that would strike and ring forth the voice to accompany the ceremony.

Slowly, creeping, the dark rite of Kaldumisi began. It is a rite that asks not for Blood, but only for Time and Patience. It demands not for Hands and Feet, but for Ears and Mouth. Singing is the sole medium of commune, and a show of devotion that yet seemed to be devoid of amongst the herd.

The melody that came from the girl was haunting, a tuneless tune that ignited a sense of forbidding. It sang of unyielding frustration, of a fruitless harvest, of pointless suffering, and of a rigged game in which only the bystander could win. Soon, the Shaman’s voice joined the girl’s, imbuing the disturbing song with dark intentions. From the depths of the unwilling worshippers’ minds, a beast took form; a creature shaped by the mold of panic and dread was conjured till it was almost a physical, tangible writhing mass.  

The silence that followed the last note was eerie and deafening. In the lull, the Marks on the girl’s slate shifted and swirled, and at the Shaman’s nod and touch of his fingertips, a pattern formed and stayed. There was a stir among the ranks, like a huge animal shivering; the Curse of the Marks, the Judgment of one’s devotion.

The Shaman’s expression did not betray the girl’s fate; it never did. She would receive her Marked slate later, so would those who had performed the ceremony, but for now, more would be called upon to sing their loveless love to the Goddess of Aural.

The second volunteer came forward a little more hesitant than the first; hating to submit his fate to the nonsensical chanting, and yet hating more to risk the wrath of the Shaman.

It is a painstaking ritual that gnaws at a person’s Time and reserves of Patience, at times even biting off chunks of them if he is not careful. Thank the Chords that the voodoo garbling needs only to be executed once in a fortnight, maybe longer.  And it ought to be noted that completing the sacrament is by far a wiser and, surprisingly, less painful choice than the alternative, which would be denying the Shaman a sacrificial subject and setting fire to a tantrum that had the ability to burn for days. No, better to ride out the storm as best you can and pray that your ship does not capsize than try to steer and flee in the opposite direction.

For the dark rite of Kaldumisi, there is no fight or flight, there is simply endure.

The return of the doodle

“Read me to sleep.”

Her voice was barely a whisper, draped low by the heavy curtains of drowsiness. Yet the strength behind it was commendable; it was not a question, though not quite a demand.

He chuckled. That was his girl.

“Yes, ma’am. What story do you happen to fancy tonight?”

She knitted her eyebrows in mock annoyance and pursed her lips, which currently resembled a closed rose in the early hours of the day, before the golden beams of sunlight pried the pale-pink petals open.

A slim arm lifted and waved about shakily. “Whatever. Something I can relate to. Sleeping Beauty.”

“Oh?”

“I took forever to wake up too.”

“Your coma is not her beauty sleep.”

Her pause was negligible. “Well, I’m awake now –“

“ – barely.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Sorry, I’m just –“

The words were swept away by the brush of the lips and in a faint whiff of mango, apple cider and the underlying cloying scent of medicinal products. He wondered vaguely if her lips had always tasted this sweet, or their cold absence had made them so. Those long, gray weeks of waiting, praying for the first flush of color in her skin…

The impatient tug on his hair pulled him back from his brooding, and he felt himself arched a brow at the ferocity; it seems like Aurora was not the only who can be revived with a kiss.

“Sometimes I still dream about it. I would wake up from the nightmare of not being able to wake up – screaming, sweating – then squeezing my arms or legs so tightly till it the nails cut into the skin and it bled and the pain would assure me I’m alive…” Her breaths were shallow, and she sounded hollow, dispassionate, like someone being forced to recite lines in an audition she did not want to be in. “…but there are times where I actually welcome the endless sleep, never needing to wake and deal with all the shit life throws at me, free of the pain, so peaceful…”

“Baby, please don’t.”

But already his mind was flipping through the slow days in the whitewashed hospital room, doing everything he could to keep insanity and hopelessness at bay. He had read to her the stories she loved, sang to her the songs of their own soundtrack, recounted to her the moments they had together made now and forever. Then she had stirred; a twitch of the finger after three months and twelve days of dead stillness.

Now, to be able to feel of her heart beating against his chest and the warmth of her cheeks in the cup of his hands is his definition of blessing.

His lips found hers again, but this time with a sense of urgency spurred by the sad memories. Then, slowly, they drew apart. He grabbed the book from the shelves facing the foot of the bed, huddled close beside her and began to read.

The melody of his voice floated around them, and as she drifted off, it softened to a murmur, just like how the music of a musical box fades when being left unwound for a time. Her personal musical box. Every song I sing is for you. He leaned in and kissed her twice; one on her forehead, one on the jagged scar that marred a side of her face. As long as I get to keep your smile.

The room darkened still as the bedside lamp was flicked off; the stream of moonlight impatiently directing him out the door.  

And he left, knowing that she would wake up in the morning.

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I wonder why I'm not dissuaded by the amount of crap I write.