The Toads Had Been Calling. "Where were we? We were in Rlyeh, being masters."

Quiet night.

Or, well, as quiet as it gets.

Am listening to the repeating call of toads; the ‘ong-ongs’ of mating superiority and the burning need to breed. This is rather nostalgic; it has been years since the last Symphony of Horny Toads, and they used to sound every rainy season when I was a kid. I thought they had died off, or migrated when the new housing development took out all of the surrounding jungle. I guess they found good reason to get back in.

The toads used to invade the house as well. They’d hide under our shrubberies or tall grass, which riled the dogs up sometimes. The dad would rid of them using shovels. Too timid to kill them, I’d chase them out with brooms or large buckets of water. Yes, it occurred to me that using water against toads is like trying to blow bubbles at sharks underwater.

But I’m glad they’re back, even if they won’t be hopping into the house (we don’t have grass anymore, or shrubbery. Now everything is tiled-up and only the mango tree remained). They remind me of simpler times, and the years where we’d discover the world that is (or was) our neighbourhood.

I remember cycling down the street and stopping by the grassy roadside to hunt for grasshoppers, which were food for Minah the pet Mynah bird. These were the smaller types; tiny things that shape like the tip of a lalang no longer than a thumb. Occasionally, larger grasshoppers would find its way to our house, and they were palm-sized and far too scary-looking for me to catch bare-handed (the dad used to catch them deftly, then plop them into the aquarium to feed the pet kaloi).

Some nights, giant moths would nestle at the ceiling of the car porch, close to the light and away from the drizzle. They were beautiful things, as big as two palms put together. They’d stay still and leave in the morning, or they’d die and I’d watch them being swept away along with the fallen leaves on the porch.

Used to be times when the flying termites would leave their mounds, and turn the porch into a bug-filled apocalypse straight from hell. The best way against those was to shut off the lights and seal off the house. They’d leave to congregate around another source of light, and we only move out to sweep the casualties into the drain.  

We don’t get those anymore. No grasshoppers, no giant moths, and I don’t remember the last time we had a flying termite catastrophe. But the toads were back, at least, and on good days you might catch the resident squirrel having its way with our mango.

We’ve had more animal-related incidents here, but I guess that’s for another night.

For now, I hope the toads won’t carry on too far into the night. As nice as it is to have them back, I’d hate to dream of libido-heavy toads.

Goodnight, folks.  

And Before All That

Right.

The idea, initially, was to write a story every day. To make up small and big things and put them in words and leave them as they are – messy, pointless and meaningless – because what matters more here is that I get the cranial exercise that I need, so that I could keep writing the things I want to write.

That idea eventually downgraded into simply writing something every day. It doesn’t matter what; a story or a blog post or a sentence, it doesn’t matter. It just needed to be from the brain and heart.

Then real life came along and wrote itself, leaving most of everything that couldn’t catch up.

These days, it’s rare for me to be here, sitting in front of my computer with the night at my disposal. These days, I live more in the office and only return home to peruse the bed, and the toilet, and the dining table for the occasional breakfast.

These days, I wrote only for the desperate need to fill in the pages of a magazine that doesn’t want to admit that it’s understaffed, and perhaps a little overworked.

The scary bit here is that every month came and went without me being able to think about it. Life no longer presented itself like a piece of art, which subtleties and abstractness can be observed to reveal the kind of beauty you can smile to, or take to heart. Life now is a passing train that occasionally shows you a wonderful view of the world, only to return back to the caving darkness of the tunnels.

Life’s a lot less beautiful when you can’t see most of it. And it’s scary because I still wanted to see them all before I croak and drown myself in the bathroom.

I don’t want to start every month already in the thick of work, wrestling a growing pile of tasks that doesn’t know how to sort itself no matter what program I wrote into it. I want to be able to spend an hour every day to see Life, and being able to muse, observe and maybe write about it. I want to know I can still see the world and actually care for it, instead of simply shrugging because it doesn’t buy me another hour of sleep.

God dammit, I want to live. Shit.

Anyway, I’m writing this because I refuse to go into next week knowing that I have, once again, failed to write something that I can constitute as ‘Writing’. My job lets me write, yes, but when you have writing to get out of the way for many, many other things, it simply becomes a chore; it serves its purpose, but doesn’t mean anything more than taking the trash out.

Before all that, I want to feel a slight chance of accomplishment.

Then there’s nothing in the month than can get me lower.

****

I’m having trouble writing things now. In fact, I’m having trouble discerning between writing and Writing, or whether they’re the same thing and that I’ve just intentionally capitalised one letter to make it sound more prominent.

It’s frustrating. On one hand, I’m churning out soulless articles that reek of the boring and mundane. On the other, I’m Writing about nothing at all.

Clap them together rapidly and it becomes applause for the unremarkable. It’s like clapping at a rock for being hard. Even that was better cause for celebration.

I make as much sense as a broken calculator. All numbers but no equation.

I’m only writing whatever’s coming to my head now because I can’t think of anything else to write about, but I don’t want to stop just yet.

For once, I think I’m having fun.

****

How was the past six months?

Hectic. Crazy. A roller-coaster running in a whirlwind to the latest dubstep track. A lot of travelling, which was good until it became too much of a good thing. I travelled almost every start of the month and returned home to weeks of unending work. After Taipei, which happened in June, I told myself that I won’t be up in a plane again unless I’m headed out for an adventure, and not to the next foreign convention centre.

For the past six months, I had travelled to Krabi (adventure), Hainan Island (family adventure, plus obligatory Birthplace of the Forefathers visit), Orlando (work), Shanghai (work), Singapore (shorter work) and Taipei (crazy loads of work). I won’t be flying again until November, and that’s for Siam Reap and Angkor Wat (adventure).

But I did get to see the other bits of the world, and that’s always fantastic. And every of these places were beautiful, strange and filled with fascinating people. There was always something new to see. I just wished I could’ve seen it without having to rush back to the hotel in a bid to finish work on time.

Other than that, life’s pretty much on a chaotic routine. The gentler nights, I spent it with the people that matters. And I guess I can always be glad of that.

I can’t complain, and I know I just did. But it’s truly a complaint to myself. If I don’t cross out the Customer Satisfaction slips for myself, I can’t expect the service to improve.

Here’s hoping that I can still find nights like this for a hearty spot of word diarrhoea.

Man, it feels good to finally let it all out.

(Do pardon the stink).

Goodnight, people. And goodnight World.

Hello.

You will have to forgive me.

At this moment,

I’m having a little trouble with Perspective.

You see,

The problem in believing that you can write almost everything, and then

finding yourself not having written for the past good several months

can do many things to the Writing.

I think it’s the way the brain works, sometimes. If it’s a muscle, constant use of it is constant exercise. Though, I believe,

that if writing is one way to set the mind free,

then what I’ve really been doing is keeping the brain locked up, while it defecates stagnant ideas and wallows in it, always looking outwards believing that

Words and Stories and Ideas and Songs

are out there, and that one day it’ll reach it and be amongst it, where it belongs.

So.

My long-unused brain right now has no Perspective.

It’s not to say like it is not functioning. It just doesn’t – couldn’t – see things in that angle that makes it feel like it’s seeing something wonderful. Or different. Or fascinating. Or in the way that makes it wonder if there’s more to it, and seeing that Something More, and asking the What Else’s and What If’s and What Would Happen’s and Why Not’s.

It would only see things rigidly. Like right now, it could only

See things like it’s on the Right.

Or things like it’s on the Wrong Left.

Most times it sees things Straight; boringly Centred and stiff and predictable.

Sometimes it wouldn’t see things properly at all, preferring, instead, to be

S

        C

                A

                        T

                                T

              E

  R

B

                                                                 R

                                                            A

                                                                       I

N

        E

D,

and not at all comprehensible or helpful.

So I’m writing now, or at least, I think I am. What with the brain being like this,

the most that I could manage is total gibber`#%&@*@ish, or at least

something of a poor attempt

at trying to make a visual representation of how my

isn’t being very writerly.

It’s not going to be easy, because it’ll take much more than writing once to

set things better. It’ll take more words, and more sentences, and more posts and

ideas, even if I have to force it out, to keep the brain at work and writing.

And it doesn’t matter if I’m not writing right or writing well.

I just need to keep writing.

And if it’s about letting my brain get exercised and used, then it’s the sort of mental gym routine it needs.

If it’s about letting the mind go free, well;

It needs to relearn everything about Words and Stories and Ideas and Songs.

And because all I have, and perhaps ever will, are Words and Stories and Ideas and Songs (and Love), then

I better start letting it Believe again.

Dreaming may be one thing, but

In the end.

You’ll need the words to make it Real.

****

Let’s try this again:

Hello.

(Alright, much better).

I owe you an apology. One is for the above, which is pointless and unnecessary, though it might just be that walk through Stupidtown that I needed. To remind me that you can be so low to find more reasons to get back up.

Two is for not writing the things I was supposed to write, which are far too many and way too old. I think I had talked about things like the United States, and that was only one out of the 6 million things that I had wanted to write about but never had the time, nor the patience, nor the discipline and the drive.

I had worried that I had lost it all, the writing, and right now it may as well been gone. Only that I’m rather stubborn at having it around, tattered or broken as it is (not like it was wholesome or worthwhile at the first place, anyway), because – like it or not – it’s still that part of me that meant something. So here’s another shot, out of a hundred other shots, that I’d probably making until I hit something.

Anyway, life’s so far been like this:

It’s great. It’s wonderful. It’s filled with joy and a little sadness. It can be boring and it can be exciting. I did things as much as I did nothing. Had some of the new, kept a lot of the old, and had generally been moving along with life at the slowest pace as I could manage, to enjoy the little things, because things had rather picked up in pace.

I’m happy now, as happy as I could be. I’m contented, and not scarily so, because there are new challenges and new prospects that make me feel lazy and afraid and excited. All in all, life’s good, and I’m glad of it.

My name card now reads Deputy Editor, though I tell people that it only meant that I’m doing a little extra outside of writing the usual stuff. I’m busier now, which is a good thing sometimes; other times, it made me feel like putting on a helmet and riding down a highway ramp on a shopping mall trolley.

I’ve also been on a few adventures. Like going up to Cameron Highlands for the first time, and seeing this:

Which made me feel like I could move to Newcastle, or New Zealand

Or going to Thaipusam for the first time, in the midst of this.

Not depicted: someone's foot on mine, and another photographer's elbow trying squash my pancreas

And seeing this and this.

Yeap; those are fruits hooked to his back

And that's a guy hooked to his back

Or even small adventures to places like Tanjung Sepat.

Which has a Lover's Bridge that isn't very loverly 

And a crummy amusement park in i-City Shah Alam, for a walk in a giant refrigerator.

Which has been storing things with a tackiness level of 1991, like this Santa Claus (the Girl, however, is a visitor frozen in shock)

 Things that deserve its own post, because it’s 1.30 a.m. now and I ought to be asleep for tomorrow’s event.

What I can truly say is that, if you’re wondering how I’m doing and what I’ve been doing, I can tell you that I’m doing great, and I’ve been doing nice, wonderful little things.

To bed now, and telling myself that I’ll be writing about these things in the days to come. Or else, um, no video games for the month. Yeah.

Goodnight, people.   

I’m a guy standing at the edge of a puddle.

I’m afraid to step in.

The puddle is, by puddle standards, relatively shallow. Large, wide, maybe a little murky, with strands of oily colours coiling by the sides. But shallow.

There is an urge to leap right in, for that satisfying splash. To kick the water and show ‘em who’s boss. To say, “Who’s in deep water now, huh?”

But I don’t want to dirty the shoes. I don’t like the idea of jumping into untested waters. I’m afraid of wetting the hem of my trousers, knowing that the soaked fabric would cling to my leg, reminding me of the dirtiness of the water, constantly stinging me with cold, haunting me with discomfort…

I take a step back, where I know it’s dry. Boringly so. Safely so.

I need to walk ahead.

I can easily sidestep the puddle. Make one great leap and pray I clear the water. Find a piece of something somewhere, and use it as a makeshift bridge. Or I can wait for the puddle to dry. I’m in no hurry, and the day is warm.

But you know what they say about puddles. Actually, you don’t. Because there’s nothing about puddles there is to be said. They’re just that; shallow waters to step into, or step over. They can be fun, they can be uncomfortable. They’re both things.

They are many things. But, in the end, they’re puddles, and you decide if you’ll walk in or not.

I need to walk ahead.

I think I’ll just walk. Puddle or not. Wet, dry, fun or discomfort… well, they’re just one of those things.

And well, there’re many more puddles ahead.

****

Make sense of what you might. I couldn’t. I was simply writing up an excuse from drafting this bit of website copywriting, which isn’t happening. It could be the heat. Or simply a brain on atrophy.

Whatever it is, I think I’m glad I wrote this. Because, well, it meant that I’m writing. Sorta.

Heh.

****

The truth is, I’m walking ahead because I remember;

Some time ago someone went off to fulfil her dream.

She walked on a foreign land, learned new things and saw great wonders.

She faced the world, braced the winds, and smiled and cried and stayed walking.

One flower against the world.

One flower who held my hand. Taught me to walk onwards, and giving me the strength to.

And now it's Two. 

Cold tables do not invite neighbours.

You don’t want them to come.

Dug up some old written works, in a folder marked Written Works in the external HDD.  One of the stories I’ve written, which belongs to the group of stories I’ve written without meaning, without plot, without much semblance of anything else – usually started from a random phrase or word from the dictionary, and left to flow and form and become – as they all become – total crackpot of stories, started out with this.

Think I miss writing stories like those. I’d be tempted to try sometimes, but the words don’t flow and form anymore. It’s like the river has met the lake, and everything about rapids and torrents and salmons are forgotten.

Anyway, I want it back. I want it back very much. So much that I think I’ll just start blogging on a whim because the feeling is here. Maybe I could listen to these whims more often.

The problem with whims are, however, is that they can end rapidly. As it’s doing now.

I suppose I’ll head to bed now. And figure out this interview for tomorrow morning.

Before that:

Goodnight, people.

As it turns out, it can be a Thursday night when someone can wake up and find himself on a piece of paper the size of the World.

It was - as papers tend to be sometimes - completely empty.

There are many common, clichéd things a person can do when they find themselves on paper; walking and jumping around would be one, and yelling and hollering for answers would be another. The common, clichéd thing to happen next is the introduction of a Wise Old Man as a convention to further the plot and answer pivotal questions. Which is, incidentally, exactly what we’re going to do.

Naturally, the person would yell and holler at the Wise Old Man for answers. Unnaturally, the Wise Old Man would start doodling on the paper and drool after a few lines of “Pop Goes the Weasel”. This may seem like the Wise Old Man is, indeed, not Wise at all, but Old and Man all the same.

“You’re not going to further things by answering the question, won’t you?” the person would ask.

“There is no need to. You see, you’re merely a metaphorical representation of a writer meaning to metaphorically represent you in what that could easily be the metaphorical representation of what he may term as ‘A New Chapter’ in life. Ergo, you’re sitting on paper, which is the World – his World,” said the Wise Old Man. “A penny for a spool of thread…”

“So why is it all empty? Why is it blank?”

“Why, it’s so you can fill it out yourself. Write out the chapter. Make your own World.” The Maybe-Not-Quite-Wise-but-definitely-Old-and-Man Wise Old Man would then walk away, and as common and clichéd as it goes, simply vanished.

And so, our person stands still on a vast, empty piece of paper the size of the world, knowing very well that he would have to fill it out, and feeling very silly that he has to be written this way by someone not really sure on how to start a long neglected blogpost.

And so, I suppose, we move on to the rest of things.

***

This is what really happened after my previous post (unfortunately, it does not involve me on a plane crash stranding me on open seas where I inexplicably discover the mythical entrance to Rapture, which is some sort of adult theme park minus the fun):

1)    1)   I got on a plane. And then another.

2)     2)  I reached the United States of America (America! Eff Yeah!)

3)     3)  I had the best 2 weeks of my life (of Dreams, and Warmth, and Fireworks, and Hands-Held, and Burgers and Books and Kites and Green Grass and Childhood Memories)

4)    4)   I came back to the midst of hectic magazine-wrapping, which took 2 weeks.

5)      5) I’m living the sort of life I could only dream of. The sort of life I don’t intend to keep on living, because I want it to be better.  I want it to be more than a dream.

And that’s about it.

There may be too much of the States to write out in a single entry, so I intend to start off further posts with a little of the States and the rest of everything else. If I do.  

I hope I do.

It would be better if you make me.

I’m leaving the last bit of this post with two things. One of them is this:

And in case you’d be interested in joining or passing it along with more information, you can find out more here.

The other thing is this:

And well, also this:

Because they’re going nowhere and I ought to get back to taking pictures a little more seriously.

(I also notice the futility of trying to share things here, because, frankly, no one reads this, except maybe my blog spider, which I’m not sure if it’s still around.)

Goodnight, people.

In 9 hours or so, give or take, I’ll be flying off to the most important trip of my life.

It is, perhaps, nowhere as important as most other Important Trips can be. But I’d look at it at in different ways, try out different angles, and it would still be the most important. There’s probably no other way to it.

 People make important trips to find themselves, discover parts of them in other parts of the world. Some go on important trips because they were forced to; they’d be there, not knowing how significant things are until it Becomes. Some, they make important trips all the time, because the destination is always a goal.

Me, I make this trip for a Dream. And this is the sort of Dream you drift into, because you happen to have had the fortune of it finding you.

I’ll be meeting my Dream there, with the sense that I’m finding it again, in a different way. And I will live the Dream until I return with it.  And go on living it until the next path reveals itself, and it doesn’t matter what, because this is that Dream worth living.

I will return to home in 2 weeks, and life would be normal, and the Important Trip might’ve just been a simple holiday, of sights and sounds and experience. But in the way that I can’t explain, or perhaps in the way that only I know; the moment I set my foot past immigration tomorrow is the moment the page flips, and I’m in the next chapter. And I wouldn’t know what the chapter would be about; I only know what I wanted it to be (only that, being pages, it will never turn out the way you want it). It’s a huge thing, important thing, because – since a long, long time – this would be the first page flip. And for the past 7 months, what I’ve done was to be ready for it.

I will return home in a new life, living a Dream, and heading towards both old and new ones. It’s not a promise.

It just is.

I’ll sleep now, to dream of Dreams. And tomorrow, to America.

To my Love.