Words unsaid

It's amazing how much hands can express and evoke emotions. 

Comfortable echo chamber

I'm listening to Jeff Buckley's Grace for the 8th or maybe 12th time today. For some reason, his eponymous hit never really hit my radar as a teen except for his cover of Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah.

The chords of the opening trills are distinctive of songs written and produced in the 90's. His varying octaves flowed effortlessly as he sketched a tale of farewell. His enunciation leaves much to be desired, but there's no mistaking the visceral passion that passes on through the vibrating sound waves.

How magical it is that sound can still touch your soul even after the emanator is long dead and gone.

Grace's melody triggered reminiscence of my teenage years. It was a time when I lived comfortably inside my head, with no urges to spill my latest thoughts and ideas across social media. I never even had a proper diary. I sometimes wonder why I'm compulsively sharing ideas and information as I do now, when I once was quite happy keeping them all to myself.

My head is a comfortable echo chamber that filtered intense emotions through books and music. It is powerful protective mechanism; perhaps one of the reasons I have been accused of being dispassionate and untouched by base emotions. The echo chamber made distancing myself from things that can hurt me reflexive.

But this comfortable echo chamber has another side effect: it made me more empathetic.

It's hard to hold on a good grudge when you can pretty much put yourself in your antagonists' shoes and understand that their lashing out at you isn't personal but rather driven by feelings of rage, impotency and fear caused by someone or something else.

I'll still look on it as a blessing.

"Grace"
by Jeff Buckley

There's the moon asking to stay
Long enough for the clouds to fly me away
Well it's my time coming, I'm not afraid to die
My fading voice sings of love,
But she cries to the clicking of time
Of time

Wait in the fire...

And she weeps on my arm
Walking to the bright lights in sorrow
Oh drink a bit of wine we both might go tomorrow
Oh my love
And the rain is falling and i believe
My time has come
It reminds me of the pain
I might leave
Leave behind

Wait in the fire...

And I feel them drown my name
So easy to know and forget with this kiss
I'm not afraid to go but it goes so slow

First posted on Cowbird.

What Lies Beneath

I liked watching beauty through the decades videos because it gives us a glimpse of how things once was like.

Of course those are limited to:
1. Western beauty ideals; and
2. Beauty ideals that were set by the wealthy (because they can afford it).

These videos underscore how no matter how much things change, some things remain the same. Women are expected to look a certain way (and suffer to get it if they didn't win the genetics lottery) to be considered beautiful. The beauty standards are often arbitrary and fickle; thick eyebrows one decade, pencil thin the next.

Here is another such video with an interesting twist. (Stolen from here)


It's a good refresher. Women are forever being erased from the history books as though half of the world's population have no historical value or did anything interesting enough to be noted. It is important to remind ourselves that women are not just vainpots primping in front of the mirror; they move the world as well.

Ada aku kesah?

Indifference kills lame trolls.

All stolen from here.

When I was a child, to be told that I am unattractive was one of the worst things that could happen to me. I bought the whole ideal of beauty in media: to be thin, to be tall, to be pale complexioned.

Which is daft since:

a) Though I was slender (note the past tense), I'm not media-friendly thin.
b) I was short until I hit 15.
c) I'm a Malay - tan is my default colour.

Luckily for me, I somehow developed this idea that it's okay to not be pretty by the time I was around eleven or so. I gloried in not fitting the ideal, and I stopped scrutinising people for pleasing or unpleasant features or appearances.

Life is so much easier when you don't care what people think of your looks.

When I was sixteen, I attended a co-ed school and got me a pretty nasty culture shock. My idea of what teenage co-ed life was pretty much gleaned from television shows like Saved by the Bell. I had no idea that boys are so much more mealy-mouthed and gossip hungry than girls. Heck, they are even bitchier.

Case in point: one male school mate cornered me one day and told me that I should stop wearing skirts because my legs are ugly. He said that with an air of smug superiority, as though what he said came down from Mount Hira'.

I sat on a table, and looked down at my legs. They were curvy from ballet and covered with scars from scabs that I peeled before they healed. Most certainly not centerfold worthy.

I looked back at him and smiled.

"And who are you to me that I should care about your opinion? Are you my father? My brother? My boyfriend? Not any of those, right? So why should I care that you think that my legs are ugly?"

That was the first time I saw a Malay boy blush.

And frankly, if you are not going to pay for a new dress for me, or treatment for my ugly-ass appearance, why do you need to tell me what I already know? Bodoh, is it?

Walking down the lane of sappiness.

I grew up with Disney. My favourite towel as a child was a pale blue terrycloth with the whole cast of Aristocats featured on it. I cried when my mother declared that it had gotten too threadbare and  ratty, and she transformed it into a gombal (Javanese for rag for wiping or foot mat).

When I was ten, I persuaded my father to buy me the VHS tape of Disney Halloween cartoons and proceeded to watch it every morning after sahur until it was time to get ready to go to school. I love me some dancing skeletons. I guess that explains my penchant for Goth motifs and dark thoughts.

One of the few nice things that the girl who taught me what a sociopath is ever did was lend me her Disney Cinderella picture book. She knew that I liked it and used it to manipulate me to do what she wanted. I'm cheap, you can bribe me with books. Yup, that also happened when I was ten.

During school holidays, the local television station would put up old Disney films catered for teenagers; a number of them featuring barely-not jail bait Kurt Russell. Truly wholesome stuff, with barely any nod to sexuality, unlike the current Disney fares.

But the only Disney song that I liked and could caterwaul along to is this one. My sister bought me the VHS tape of the film after my third form exam and I was enchanted. I think it was Beastly Prince's library that cinched the deal for me. Who cares about dancing candelabras and singing teapots when you have that biblio collection?



Anything after the Beauty and the Beast is met with sincere disdain. It started with Aladdin. That was around the time I became an absolutely insufferable hipster about music. They played the theme song on rotation until I was sick. Also because it was associated with a terrible time in my life. No, let's not go there.

I detested Pocahontas. I hated that they made it a romance. Hello? She was a child when she met John Smith. If they had anything romantic going on, it was child abuse. Not to mention that he brought her back to England to be paraded around like an exotic animal. She died of small pox in a foreign land, away from her people. That ain't a romance. That's slavery.

But what about Finding Nemo, asked some of my pals. It's a cute tale about a fish and his pals. Ellen DeGeneres is in it! You want me to believe that a saltwater fish survived the sewer system to get back to Daddy? Pull the other one.

I am okay with Mulan. I took my niece to watch Malefiecent (I kept looking at my phone throughout the film).

I guess I am a kind of an old coot.

The Joy of Melancholia

Mellifluous and delicious.



We are all biased to think that the music of our teens and young adult to be the creme de la creme of listening pleasures. Research have shown that our music preference is pretty much imprinted during our teenage years. These aren't necessarily the pop hits of the day, I was imprinted with an appreciation for 60's bubblegum pop, thanks to Radio 4.

Mr Buckley has been dead for some time now, snatched by Death at 30. But his voice, the melody he penned, the lyrics he sang still touch the souls of his listeners. God knows I've put this damned thing on replay for the dozenth time.

Enjoy.

I want a perfect soul

When I first heard this on the radio, my first thought was: YES.



This song is my personal anthem; it resonates with my psyche, illuminates the darkest corners of my soul, voices the dreams I left unsaid. It has been many years, but my Pavlovian response to the opening chord remains the same.

This version by Scott Bradlee and co may not have the same shadowy depths but it's still delicious and hits the gut with a punch.



Happy Monday, y'all.

Finally ...

Another part of the on-going story on faithlessness.

It can be found here.

F is for fright

Back in my early teens, the television station would put up stuff like The Omen, The Exorcist, The Thing, and a number of horror classics from the 70s and 80s. I freely admit that I can be a scaredy cat, so I'd watch 'em behind the sofa, with a pillow over my face.

And because I'm a screamer, I avoid watching horror films in the cinema. It's not nice to make some random stranger deaf just because he/she was unfortunate enough to sit close to me in the theater. It was bad enough I drove away two movie-goers with my tears in the last 12 minutes of Warrior. Yes, I have no problem crying in public either (at least in a darkened cinema, that is).

As much as I love Supernatural, horror is not a genre I sought after when it comes to viewing choices. I know people who find horror films fun and entertaining even if it makes it hard for them to sleep (one person would sleep with the lights on or force a companion to sleep with her for several weeks after watching a terrifying movie) or they get paranoid when they go into the shower (or see static rain on the television set). I'm cool about reading horror, but I do not enjoy the gut churning, heart thumping moments anticipating the big monster stepping out of the shadows or gory ordeals.

I think that there are enough frightening things in this world that are real (e.g. potentially catastrophic financial meltdown, climate change, death of bees etc) that I don't want to be frightened for entertainment purposes. 

But I do plan to watch Crimson Peak for this:

I could always watch from behind my fingers, no?

Writing again, yay!

Ah, muse. Thank you for whispering.

Another story on-going in my head finally expressed readibly. Well, at least a part of it.

Are you a lover?

Yes, Valentine's Day was two weeks ago. But watch this anyway.




Love isn't just between a man and a woman, a woman and a woman or a man and a man. Love is not always about romance and happily (n)ever after. Love is more than lust-fueled gropes and short-lived euphoria.

Love is ... ah, it's too complicated.

Easier to talk about what is NOT LOVE. Abuse is not love. Terror is not love. Non-consensual acts are not love. Harming and hurting is not love. Indifference is not love.

So what is love for you?

Water, water everywhere ...

... nor any drop to drink.

(The Rime of the Ancient Mariner)

I got the opportunity to attend a Toastmasters competition on Tuesday at the Women's Institute of Management Toastmaster Chapter. It was a lovely evening, watching the competitors pitting their wits and skills to speak spontaneously on a variety of topics.

 Competitor 1, Mr T, who is generous with advice and smiles.

 Mr. S, the main man for the event.

 Mr G, who is a fount of amusing tales.

 My pal, Ms. M, who invited me and won the Table Topics competition.

The Table Topic of the competition was "A Day without Water". All the competitors came up with their own tales of dehydration that were hilarious and yet thought provoking. As I listened to them wax lyrical for seven minutes, it made me think a little deeper about our relationship with water; more specifically, running water.

We take water for granted. We turn on the tap and we expect the life giving liquid to gush forth. We expect the water to be clean, safe and harbour no nasty critters. Oh, it also gotta be clear and odourless and tasteless, unlike what the reporters for the Sochi Winter Olympics encountered. Woe betide SYABAS and its ilk should there be unscheduled (and even scheduled) water interruption.

We forget that in many parts of the world (including our own backyard!), clean water supply is an enviable luxury. There are still pockets within our own nation where there are no tap water available. My father's kampung and my paternal aunt's house in Jeram had no piped water before the 1990s. We had to draw water from the communal well for bathing, going to the toilet (if you are lucky there are outhouses which you flush by dumping a pail of water into the toilet, otherwise it's the bushes for you. Try to avoid prickly ones or plants that can cause rashes.), cooking, cleaning and doing the laundry. Having ice cold baths in broad daylight where anyone getting to the main road is sure to get an eyeful breeds a certain je ne sais quois that I have no problem bathing in public in nothing but a scanty sarong.

The communal well was surrounded by a concrete platform that was wet and covered in moss and was slippery as hell when you are wearing the de rigeur selipar Jepun. Unlike the pretty wells illustrated in fairy tale books, these have NO RETAINING WALL AROUND THE WELL. If you are unlucky, you could slip and fall into it with barely a splash. Many times when we return home, my Mum would have to make several visits to the masseuse; her back and shoulders were strained by carrying water. The communal well was replaced by the communal water pump in the late 80s and by the early 90s, there are piped water supply. However, if you ask me to pick between having electricity versus piped water supply, I think you know which one I will pick, regardless of my Internet addiction.

We forget that millions of women and girls trek for miles daily to get water for their household use and even for watering their crops from rivers, water holes and groundwater pumps. Some places like Cambodia and India have a severe arsenic groundwater contamination, rendering their water supply unsafe. Drought stricken places in the US and Australia (among others) have problem meeting the demand for water and have to impose water restriction. In Chile, they have to harvest water from mist and fog because water supply is so limited.


When water supply is at a premium, basic sanitation is also compromised. The developed countries have measures to address this but for many places still lagging behind in infrastructure development. Poor sanitation is a major contributor of deaths in developing countries, particularly for infants and children. The governments' inability to provide for such basic infrastructure has led to some drastic measures being taken. For instance, in India, the groom who cannot provide proper latrine facilities will not get a bride.

Be grateful that you can flush.

Water is deemed as a basic right for all mankind. This idea sounds grand on paper but it gets screwed up when national boundaries and politicians get involved. How many people are aware that the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is more about water and land than about religion? Tension and skirmishes have occured in Africa, South America, and Asia over control of this precious resource. It is expected that the adverse effects of climate change on water supply could lead to greater conflicts among nations.

Managing water as a sustainable resource is imperative and should be the focus of all. Sadly, it is evident that care for water supply is often sacrificed in the face of greed. Our thirst for fossil fuel has damaged our water supply. Poorly constructed agriculture and fishing policies have choked one of the largest inland sea (okay, lake) in the world. Indiscriminate dumping of toxic wastes into the water supply, overconsumption of groundwater that drastically affects the water table, destruction of water catchment areas, and many more, continues on merrily despite so-called stringent regulations and laws. Enforcement appears to be lackadaisical and punishments for transgressions seem to be little more than a mild slap on the wrist and this appears to be the trend the world over.

Perhaps we should start saving water and drink beer instead.

*sigh*

Self Pimpage ...

Presenting my first attempt at writing something of a romantical nature in Malay. It's not easy for someone who thinks and dreams in English, okay?

It's going to be a serial. Click here if you are curious. Part 2 is here.

Cut it out!

TL;DR.

(accidentally deleted post cos I can be lame that way) *head desk*

My dearest friends are well aware of my radical liberalism tendencies when it comes to matters of faith and religion. If you are not in the know, you can read it here.

Oh, and plus a tiny edit.

Losing My Religion - And Finding My Faith

Based on the writing prompt: What I Learned from Someone*

Sparked by ear candy

The year was 1991. The American rock band REM released a single that shot them to superstardom, Michael Stipe’s crooning of being left in the spotlight andlosing his religion has emphatically propelled the band out of obscurity. Personally, I preferred the Nina Persson’s version; her sweet, slightly raspy voice lent a different piquancy to the lyrics and melody. Tori Amos, mad musical genius that she is, deconstructed the song and reinterpreted it into something very different.

(more after the break)

What is truer than truth?

Title stolen from Isabel Allende in this video.

The following two videos underscore how story telling goes beyond mere entertainment. In the ancient days of my motherland, we have the penglipur lara, the storyteller, who travel from village to village, sharing stories, news and relating historical myths of the ancient kings. Their stories gave wings to the imagination of the ordinary folks and their arrival was much anticipated.

Technology and globalisation have changed the way stories are narrated. The penglipur lara may be dead for hundreds of years, but his stories continue to be told in different media. This is the power of stories: it evolves, are adapted and become incorporated into another narrative. In a way, stories are immortalised beyond the lives of the tellers.

But have we ever examined the origins of the stories we consume? Who delivered them? What was their intention? Were their sources right? What inspired them?

Herein lies the danger of the single story narrative.



I will admit to being guilty of the same thing. You tend to swallow what was told to you, especially as children. I am sure that many of us grew up with all kinds of stories about the "other" people. People who don't look like us, don't behave or pray (if they pray!) like we do, don't think like we do. Some of it is relatively harmless (or not); like mothers of the old admonishing wayward children to behave or "The benggali* will come and catch you!"

The more malevolent were like, "If you have to choose between killing a snake and a (insert ethnic/religious group of suspicion), it is better to kill the ethnic/religious person." This is about dehumanising the other person, making them alien and difficult to identify with. It would also make it easier to denigrate them, and to look down on them.

I am struck by her words about how the people in power made the definitive story and this could be used to dispossess the people, hijacking their history and culture. When a story is repeated over and over again, somehow it gained the veneer of truth and became accepted as a fact. This is some particularly profound for me, as my ethnic group is often painted as lazy, lacking initiative and always looking for a shortcut to solve problems. This perspective of our former colonial masters was countered by the eminent humanities scholar Syed Hussein Alatas in his book The Myth of the Lazy Native (which I will admit to having yet to read). But this idea of Malays being lackadaisical, etc has been so tightly woven in the nation's narrative, that it is difficult to disentangle. And like a self-fulfilling prophecy, we make it come true.

Like Ms. Adichie, the stories I write in my head (and occasionally pen down) often feature people from other countries because I have been steeped in American and Western culture, thanks to a steady diet of books, music, television and films.

*shame-faced*

While Ms. Adichie felt that Asian and African and South American and other non-white writers should be working towards developing narratives that is a contrast from the Western world view, Ms. Shafak felt that the manifestation of identity need not be utterly personal, so one could write from the viewpoint of people who is not oneself. 



To her, the most important thing is that the story need to be informative and well researched, written to evoke emotions and perhaps, create connections and empathy. One must not be limited to one's nationality, gender and sexuality. It is a very liberating thought, but I do believe that one should be free to tell the stories that speaks to one. However, it does seem that white authors get more leeway than non-white authors, who are expected to write only about their own culture and experiences.


Ninot Aziz, a celebrated Malaysian author, is reviving the hikayat, the folk tales and legends of  the Nusantara. Although the stories are sourced from Malay folk tales, she believes that the cosmopolitan nature of the stories transcends any cultural dichotomy and will speak to us regardless of our background.

Her book, Hikayat - From the Ancient Malay Kingdoms is up for the Anugerah Buku Perpustakaan Negara Malaysia - RTM. Please vote for her here. The author name is Ninot Aziz and the ISBN number of the book is 978-967-61-2540-80.

Here's to more excellent stories coming out of Malaysia!

* corruption of the word Bengali (someone from the state of Bengal in India). Usually the Sikh or other Bengal ethnic man who wore a turban and was an itinerant merchant of cloth and other household items during the pre and post Independent Malaya.

Self pimpage

I shamelessly share my latest posts on Cowbird.

On reading and not just reciting.

On fish crackers and sibling disbelief.

Aye, I'm a comment whore. Feed my habit, please?

*bats eyelashes*

Ugly Girl

I've been attending a short course for creative writing. This piece was prompted by the video below:



Usual disclaimer: Fictitious depiction of fictitious people, not related to anyone living or dead etc etc. And no, I've never been to New York City.

(crossposted)

*****************************************************************

Charlie was nibbling my toes, working his way up my right leg, paying attention to a most delicious spot on the back of my knees before repeating with my left leg. Then suddenly, he started lavishing attention on my chin. Come on, Charlie, that’s not an erogenous zone for me, you know that.

I woke up to Percy’s rough tongue cleaning the drool off my chin; I could barely breathe thanks to his 15 pounds bulk on my chest. Gently, I pushed him off of me and wiped my chin with the sheet. The watery light of early summer penetrated the gauzy curtains of my loft windows, illuminating the mess I made when I tossed out the remainder of Charlie’s things. I missed Charlie when I was horny; although he’s such a pontificating prick, he’s really one of the best lovers I’ve had. Generous to a fault; that’s Charlie. Must be his left wing tendencies.

I stretched until my shoulder joints popped before heading to the kitchen to get Percy his kibble. My kitchen was like Mother Hubbard’s cupboard, thanks to the long hours I had been putting in since last month to complete the new ad project for Givenchy. The art director was a pain in the ass, but he’s a mad genius at crafting images that make people open their wallets and demand that you take their money. He not only worked crazy hours, he worked at ALL hours. Thank God that bastard was no longer my problem. The client seemed happy with the results, so I can expect a fat bonus in my paycheque this month. I made a mental note to swing by Kate Spade to see if the purple patent leather stilettos that I eyed last month were still available in size 6.

Percy twined his sinuous body around my ankles, purring at the sound of the can opener. I bent to pour his food into his dish, ruffling his Angora-soft fur around the ruff of his neck, not covered by the jewelled collar I got from Bloomingdale’s. I sipped my first java of the day while idly scrolling through my diary app. Oh shit. I’m supposed to have Ellora, Jimmy, Devon and Trey over for dinner tonight. The only thing edible in my apartment (apart from Percy’s prime organic kibble) was a slice of Gruyere and a suspect-looking bagel in the fridge. I slid the bagel with the Gruyere on it into the toaster and sat at the counter to plan the dinner menu.

After completing my shopping list, I hit the shower and dressed to go to Piscary’s, my favourite whole-foods grocer on West 67^th. I had a look at my reflection in the hallway mirror before leaving, with a last pat to smooth my artless braid that made me look like a Teutonic model gone farm chic, I locked my door.

Piscary’s was still deserted at this relatively early hour. I snagged a shopping cart and begun grabbing the things I needed to make dinner. I know I don’t look it, but I am actually an excellent chef. The three months I spent in Paris after high school were not all about making goo goo eyes at cute French boys. I was considering the truffle oil from Tuscany when I heard a familiar voice.

For an instant I flashbacked to this morning’s dream, before I was rudely woken by Percy. Before I could enact a strategic retreat, his familiar lanky figure appeared around the end of the aisle, pushing a half full cart. There was a woman beside him, but I only had eyes for Charlie. His hair was the familiar, shiny mop that I secretly envied, the torso toned by rock climbing carelessly sheathed in an old college ball team tee. His cargo shorts exposed muscular calves lightly dusted with dark hair, his size twelve feet shod in the flip flops he bought when we were in Rio last summer. Jerking myself out of my paralysis, I pulled my cart to execute a neat three point turn in the other direction when I heard, “Ashlee?”

        
Busted. I pretended to just notice him and faked a start. “Charlie? Hi!” My lips curved in a wide, semi-sincere smile. He was close enough that I could smell his after shave, the Davidoff I bought for him last Christmas. He still smelled as good as ever, the rat bastard. 

His dark eyes crinkled at the corner as he grinned at me. It looked like he wasn’t as broken hearted as I had hoped when I kicked him out of my life. He even had a fresh tan, for God’s sake, clearly he had gone somewhere outdoorsy for a good time, not moping in his apartment crying his eyes out over me. He grabbed his companion’s hand to pull her closer to me, a long arm curved around her body for a cuddle.

“You look just as good as ever, doll. Hey, I want you to meet someone. Jay, this is Ashlee, my ex. Ashlee, this is Jay,” he beamed. Really, does this man not know the etiquette of introducing his more gorgeous ex to his current girlfriend? Where was the expected awkwardness? The longing glances to gorgeous ex (i.e. me), with undercurrents of “Take me back, Ashlee!” to enhance the moment?

            
“Hi, Ashlee. I’m Jay. Nice to meet you,” said Charlie’s companion, her voice a mellow alto with a slight smoker’s rasp. I took a good look at her, studying my replacement.

In a word, she was round. Big, round, brown eyes behind John Lennon-style glasses in a round face that topped a round body. Her boobs stretched a t-shirt that said, “No Child Left Behind” with a background of some white plane and little children running away. Probably some hipster political statement, but whatever. Her HUGE hips were accentuated by the pleated, ankle length gauzy skirt, the peach clashing with the grey of her t-shirt. The chartreuse paint on her toes was chipped; my God doesn’t this woman know to get a pedicure? Judging by her haphazard curly hair and dressing, she’d probably be appalled to pay for a decent mani pedi; it looked like a lousy home done paint job.

“Hi,” I replied without enthusiasm. This must be his rebound girlfriend, that’s why Charlie wasn’t so discriminating. A floozy with no style was the best that he could do? Hah.

“Jay and I were picking up a few things to take to Mom’s.”

To take to his Mom? That witch hated me with the intensity of a thousand suns and the feeling was mutual. I’ve only ever gone to her house ONCE for Thanksgiving and it was hell.

“Yeah, it’s Kennedy’s birthday and I promised that I’d make her lunch and cake,” the way that woman smiled up to Charlie was positively sickening. I could feel my hands curling around the shopping cart handle to stop me from clawing her eyes out. I couldn’t believe that Charlie’s bratty niece had taken a shine to her. I bought that kid the latest Bratz doll for Christmas and she sniffed at me with a barely audible thank you; but she liked this woman enough to ask her to cook her birthday treat?

“How nice,” I commented with syrupy sweet insincerity. God, I need to get away from these two. If I didn’t need the stuff in my cart for the dinner tonight, I would’ve dumped it and walked away right now. This must be Hell.

“I saw that you were looking at Perrini’s truffle oil? You should give Alligheri’s a try; they’re a little cheaper but the truffle scent is more intense,” Jay offered. Like I would take her advice for anything. I would ignore her cries for me to stop, drop and roll even if I were on fire.

“It’s okay, I’ve used Perrini’s before and it won me blue ribbon three years in a row at the gourmand festival in the Village,” I snarked back.

“Really? That’s fabulous. Charlie told me what a great cook you are. Me, I just stick to the staples,” she laughed self-deprecatingly.

“I think we better make a move, Jay. The party is supposed to start at two,” Charlie darted an uneasy glance at me. I guess he finally felt the undercurrents.

“Yeah, you’re right, hon. Have to let the beer batter breathe before we fry the chicken anyway. It’s been great meeting you, Ashlee,” she smiled and extended her hand.

I would rather pick up an angry cobra than her hand but my Mama had instilled lady-like qualities in her only daughter so I reached across to give it a half-hearted pump. Her palms were warm and slightly calloused; God, didn’t the woman ever moisturise?

“Likewise. See you around, Charlie, Jay …” I managed a smile. With a wave, they left the aisle, having added a bottle of extra virgin olive oil to their cart they headed to the checkout counter. I don’t think Charlie’s ever had his arms around my waist quite so protectively the way he did with that woman’s thick waist, back fat undulating gently above her skirt’s waistband.

I sniffed back the tears that unexpectedly welled. Charlie Westen wasn’t the richest or the best looking boyfriend I’ve had, but he was one of the sweetest and gentlest. Sometimes his gentleness made me grit my teeth, the way he’d let people over take him on the road, or letting an old man cut in front of him in the line. He was a genuinely kind person and was possibly one of the best men I’ve ever known (and I’ve known quite a lot, biblically and otherwise). But I don’t think I’m meant to end up with a boy scout, especially one who’s very vocal about his loss of faith in Obama.

But the rogue tears did not fall, and I refuse to mourn for Charlie any more. I have broken up with him, and I will move ON. Jimmy promised that he’d try to bring his squash partner that I’ve eyed a few times along to dinner tonight and even if he didn’t make my heart flutter, but at least he should have the stamina to make things interesting between the sheets.

I pushed my cart towards the frozen goods aisle. Time to pick up the ingredients for my to die-for crème brulee. I have guests to impress and no time to ponder over what ifs. I firmly pushed any and all thoughts of Charlie and his new girlfriend to the back of my mind and determinedly continued my food shopping.

Adrift in bliss. ..

It's late...and I have Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy's soundtrack on while I wrap my niece's books. The mournful trumpet wails in the foreground while sinister violins accompany the plaintive, tinkling of the piano.

Somehow it reminds me of the time I walked on the cobblestone streets of Istanbul. l was my snugly clad in my new patchwork bather jacket, ignoring the pinch of the new leather boots that threatened to slip from under me on the slick pavement. The air was redolent with the scent of coal smoke, strangely fragrant, unlike the stinging haze currently blanketing my city & country. Winter lent a crispness to the air; cool & moist near the shores of Bosphorus while inland the air was colder & dry.

The streets of Istanbul were clean & confusing. Wide tarmac thoroughfares were few in the maze of Byzantine slick cobblestones. We saw no stray  animals save cats. Turkish cats were fat, with healthy fluffy fur coats. They were friendly animals, obliging of cuddles from strangers even without food incentives.

Today I read & watch more unrest in the beautiful city. Protests over the Taksim square have evolved into something bigger & uglier, fueled by resentment & anger. Ordinary citizens battle & batter the authorities daily, the pretty streets strewn with rubble & burnt rubbish as protestors lob Molotov cocktails hither & yonder.

Outsiders like me would think that the Turks should have no complains. As more EU economies rumble & crumble, Turkey has been enjoying unprecedented growth. No longer are they the Sick Man of Europe. The horrendous inflation that saw me pay 1.7 million Turkish Lira for a tiny handbag is a thing of the past.

However, the threat to destroy one of the last vestiges of greenery in a city that is calcifying in towering structures in the name of progress has gotten the citizens up in arms. Personally, I feel that another shopping mall is superfluous, what more an edifice paying tribute to a shameful mark in Turkish history (the Janissary barracks look-alike was in the architecture plan. The Janissary was an elite military corps that were populated by stolen Christian boys who were forced to convert to Islam & serve the Ottoman empire.).

Whatever the spark that ignited the rage fueling the protests, it is not the first time that Istanbul was rocked by civil unrest. It won't be the last. The city between two continents, watered by the Marmara & the Bosphorus, will continue to witness the drama of the Turkish people. Joy & sorrow, success & failure, elation & despair, the cycle plays on until the annihilation of mankind.

The conspiracy theorist in me suspects that there are unseen hands fanning the passion of the protestors, similar to that in my country. But like Turkey, the prosperity enjoyed in Malaysia breeds a different sense of discontent. When all of Maslow's pyramid of needs have been fulfilled, people begin to look for other aspirations to give structure & meaning to their life. Something loftier than the struggle for survival in the past. The siren call of civil liberties are only audible when one's no longer worrying about from where the next mouthful will be coming.

The cross dressing TV personality in Pakistan who was interviewed by Diego for the show, Don't Tell My Mom Where I Went (or something like that) was asked whether he is fighting for LGBT rights in his show. His candid reply was that Pakistan had bigger problems to solve such as violence & corruption. For two men or women to have the right to make love is not even on the table of the important things to be solved.

Although many people of Turkey decried their duly elected Prime Minister, I'll bet the people of Pakistan, Egypt, Algeria, Syria & many other countries ravaged by unrest, economic meltdown etc. would dearly love to have Reccip Tayyip Erdogan take a hand to manage their country. Someone who will suppress the infighting & foster prosperity will be a welcome change to the incompetent regime currently holding the reins as they head pell mell for hell...

Then again, you'll never miss the water till it's gone.

You won't even miss it!

"Today I lost weight. Close to half a kg. Ask me how!"

The last time I posted the above on Facebook I got tonnes of hits within 5 minutes asking me how. It's really very easy.

Just donate blood.

Stolen from here:http://www.rhireading.com/2012/08/wr-0810-0812-ambitions-donations.html

Once upon a time, when people embraced the "humour" theory of human physiology,  drawing blood from sick people to make them better was practiced. Nothing like throwing away a bowl of blood from a man suffering from a gunshot wound to make him better, right?

But once we figured out that the red stuff that circulates inside you is kinda vital to your well-being, we tend to want to keep it inside us. After that, some smart guy figured out that those who have lost (from stuff like injury, ulcers, etc) or have not enough blood (anemia) could be saved by giving them the sweet red stuff. The first successful blood transfusion was done in 1818 to save a mother who has lost a lot of blood while giving birth. What's amazing was that this was done before blood typing or cross-matching was even a glimmer of an idea and that the patient did not die of transfusion reaction.

For history of blood transfusion, read here.

Whole blood and blood products (e.g. platelets, clotting factors, plasma) have a plethora of use to keep people alive and healthy. Due to the risks in using and difficulty in managing blood products, doctors do not willynilly prescribe transfusion for sick people. Therefore, for those who require transfusion, it truly is a matter of life and death. However, there are athletes keep stock of their blood and re-transfuse before an important race/match in order to increase their performance. That situation don't count.

I try to make it a point to donate blood every three months or so. It was easier when I worked at the Faculty of Medicine of a teaching hospital, but now that I work farther away, it takes effort. *sigh*

I was alerted by a former colleague-cum-friend who works at the blood bank about the World Blood Donor Day and would I be a darling to come and donate on June 14th? So I moseyed over after lunch with a trio of friends and did the deed.

Lo and behold, to my surprise, there were door gifts!

Goodie bag and contents.

Content of small silver box above.

Content of the other box.

I know this post isn't as pretty as the ones that Ms. Goh have on her blog, but it was kinda inspired by her.

^___^

Anyway, this is just a PSA to ask you to be lovely and part with some of the lovely red stuff you have running in your veins. You make new ones every day and you won't even miss the amount that is taken. It doesn't hurt (they inject you with a numbing agent first) and it takes only 30 minutes of your time (from registration to drinks and snack). If you live around Klang Valley, you can contact the University of Malaya Medical Centre Blood Bank or consult with the National Blood Centre for their mobile campaigns for those outside of Klang Valley.

Please don't give lame excuses like, "I'm afraid of needles/pains/nurses/whatever" to avoid donating blood if you have an opportunity. There are many reasons why some people are excluded as donors, but seriously, cowardice isn't one of them.

Go out and save three lives! You can be a hero outside of a comic book too!