You gotta try doing it half-drunk, for once.

I’m feeling rather light headed now; put me at the edge of something and I’d tip over, laughing and saying Oops. It’s thanks to the alcohol I was forced to drink earlier, at Mekz’s place, at small-esque party meant for someone that couldn’t make it (Bryan, who had the misfortune of catching food poisoning on his birthday. I’ve toasted for his health, twice).

Well, it was either I take the booze (Smirnoff or Mich’s Special Brew) or drink something nasty Mekz blended into juice. I’ll try to name the ingredients; bell peppers, cili padi, wasabi, bitter gourd, coriander, strawberry syrup and a whole bunch of other things; it tasted rather similarly to Coca’s steamboat chilli sauce, only that the taste lingers in your mouth and throat, and after the first time, I realised that if I drink it again I’d puke.

So I chose booze. Mostly. I drank them when I lose in the games we played. It’s not enough to get me drunk, but I’m feeling woozy and tipsy and since, as they say, among scholars even, that legendary writers of old like Shakespeare himself, wrote under the influence of alcohol/drugs, so I thought I’d give it a try, and see what comes out.

I’ll leave you to decide if it’s any different, for better or worse.

Now, today was a fun day. I drove down to Sunway Pyramid, and we ice skated until we grew tired and hungry. Pauline, the first timer, was improvingly very quickly. I was getting worse, but at least I didn’t fall as much. Haha. After that we had chicken and takoyaki for lunch, and after that dessert in BerryYogurt or YogurtBerry or whatever you call it.

Then the dinner, in which we played Guessture and Black Jack, the penalty being booze or the nasty stuff.

Gah, the aftertaste of it… thankfully, I’m not as red as I was afraid I’d be; the parents didn’t notice anything when I got home. If they had, I’d say I had wine as a toast and pray that I pass any drunken tests (which I may, considering that I can still write).

If anything else, I’m feeling rather sleepy right now. But I have this urge to stay up late, and then sneak into the kitchen and cook myself some Maggi.

Maybe I’ll do it.

Maybe I will.

Filled with fish-bonding, and thoughts of oddities.

It’s strange, and -- when I gave it some thought -- hypocritical, even.

The father was away on outstation, and on the night before he left, shortly after I made him iced coffee, he looked into my eyes and said;

“Take care of the fishes while I’m away. And water the plants, or they’ll go chao tarr.”

I nodded, taking note that he placed the fishes’ importance over the plants, for my mental hierarchical chart of Things to Do and Bloody Hell Done Right.

“Feed them every 2 days, and clean out the turtles’ and the big pot.” I nodded, adding side- notes and making a huge circle over “Turtles, and Big Pot”. Then I spent the next couple of second trying to look like I’ll get it done, truth to honest, honest to good; because the father seemed to be rather ponderous and, in another perspective, especially mine, terrifying. I retreated to the room, and stamped a red URGENT sign over the mental chart.

Dad probably spent both flights composing and rehearsing the things to say to me should I fail. I don’t assume it; I feel it like the strands at the back of my neck, prickling over some invisible apparition (Tingling! Tingling!).

I think I did a good job, as far as my other jobs are concerned.

The thing is, it’s rather leisurely if I did all the feeding and cleaning and water-refilling without the father perpetually looking over the shoulder, barking tips and orders and insults (a rather common, and already stale, occurrence); in fact, getting it done over music and a peculiar affinity to scare the fishes silly, makes it rather nice.

I named the alligator gar Gary.

The goldfish in the fountain pot, I named him Fugly.

The turtles are now named Leo and Raph.

Feeding Gary is like watching National Geographic. You can even add your Steve Irwin voice-overs.

Look at her, what a beauty! And here she comes, eyeing the small little fishes, and WHACK! Look at the size of that mouth. And the teeth; see how she grabs and BANG! Fishies’ a goner.

Don’t get me wrong, though. Given the chance, I’d rid of the fishes and the turtles in a flash. Pour them down the drain or see them swim in a pot over a nice fire. Maybe I’ll keep Gary, but just so I can see him feed over the smaller fishes. But still, I see the appeal; if I’ll ever live to become old and lonely, routinely feeding fishes and occasionally cleaning them out (over music) can be very relaxing.

(I doubt my dad will appear and nag me behind the ear, and say how I never remember the positions of the aquarium decors).

********

Like the fantasies I told, I always thought you’d be a dreamer.

You’d dream and believe and persevere, when the world turned desolate, left you alone, tell you lies and truths and stories about ‘reality’.

Thinking back, weren’t you one? A dreamer. A sailor on a solitary yacht, with a sail as large as imagination, heading into that horizon believing in treasures and sea monsters. Adventure and friendship. Love.

But I guess the world caught up. I guess there’s no good running, really. It always catches you.

I wonder what really happened.

I wonder what you made happened.

But I guess, in truth, I just wanted to know what you’re feeling. Pain? Anguish? Hurt?

Loneliness?

What happened was, I stopped assuming. I’d wonder, but never assume. I’d imagine if it was true; I guess that’s what you call empathy. But I’d stop, because that’s not knowing. That’s just standing and watching at a distant, seeing things as a dot. What moves or didn’t, I wouldn’t know.

I don’t think I’ll ask.

I don’t think I’ll dare.

The most I’ll do is wish you luck. Pray that you’ll be fine. Which you will be, surely, knowing you to that extent.

Maybe I’ll hope you’ll become a dreamer. If you were ever one, perhaps you’ll be.

Maybe I’ll say hi one day.

Right-o.

I’m having trouble starting this post. Somehow it felt that the course of this exam took away whatever little writing prowess that I own, and spread it around a Pacman maze waiting for me to avoid ghosts and try to gobble it up (pardon the odd analogy, but of everything going around my head now, it felt closest to that).

I don’t think I can call it writer’s block. Felt more like wading through scrambled eggs looking for egg shells than trying to climb an impenetrable wall, if it makes sense to you.

Well then, now to the usual update of events;

The exams are over, and while I’m nor particularly free or feeling as light as cotton candy puffs (final year project, beckoning, beckoning), still meant that between the guilt and work I have more time to game. And I have Assassin’s Creed, Devil May Cry 4, Star Wars: The Force Unleashed and a second Kingdom Hearts 2 play-through to keep me occupied, not accounting possible new games.

It’s probably high time I start reading the bunch of novels I got during the Book Fair thing; I’ve only finished four, and perhaps I should hold buying The Graveyard Book (Gaiman) until I finish Galilee (Barker).

Speaking of books, my Kinokuniya RM10 coupon only have 10 days left of validity. I’m thinking of getting Elizabeth Bear, just for the heck of it, or perhaps Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. Any suggestions? (Airman by Eoin Colfer also looks mighty tempting, if not the for crazy 50 bucks price tag).

(A Tom Holt might be nice, for a change.)

(And lets not forget the great Terry Pratchett).

(Gah damn so many damn choices).

*****

Yeah, well, it’s the start of sem break.

The first thing I got around to do was to convince my dad I didn’t need a vacation and it wouldn’t help to bring me down to Laos for a 5 day trip; on the contrary, it’s best that he leaves me alone so that I can camp in my room gaming and writing and movie watching until I go blind. It’ll also be nice if I get to go out once in a while, for a movie or for lunch with the gang.

I’m well aware that this sem break wouldn’t rightly be a break; there’s the FYP to worry about, and because I’m starting to drive down to uni now I think I should try freelancing, wherever I can find them.

(And I’m rightly the type that wouldn’t want to be introduced in by a friend, because I believe that if I get accepted or hired or whatever you call it, it should be based on the quality of my work, of which they should judge and decide).

(That’s probably my ego speaking. Gee, he’s been dormant for quite some time.)

What’s left now is the initiative to start, and knowing me, the initiative is probably as faulty and useless as a 1940 ‘Thunder-luck’ truck left to rust in a field.

And maybe I should start picking up basketball or badminton again; it felt like it was a century ago since I played something.

****

Ah, part of the bunch of things I looked up to distract myself while cramming for the exams;



CalArts looks like a really nice institution...



(Just to see how many people get amused by it. Oh, do check it out on Newgrounds, for better quality).

And lastly



Because it looks like a Gorillaz MTV.

Oddly, insomniac.

Which isn’t to do with the exams, or so I assured myself (the possibility of it is, well, impossible), and certainly didn’t have to do with a whole bunch of unwanted thoughts that haunt in the middle of the night.

I just couldn’t sleep, no matter how tired.

But if there’s something good out of it, I’d say is that, somehow, it gave me dreams that are both vivid and strangely intriguing. Dreams which I wake up from, waiting to disperse and make sense, and then quietly “Huh,” at. And then I’d find myself awake sometime before the initial alarm, more sober and conscious than I’d liked.

The one I remembered most, not without its reasons, was the one two days ago. The dream had shifted from something that had to with beds and lamplights to a full-fledge murder scene. There was a dead body, and a lot of blood, and when I moved closer I realised that it was Wendy (from class) lying face down in her own puddle of crimson plasma.

I think I went, oh shit. Then someone spoke to me.

“Don’t pity her. Don’t pity at all.”

I’m not. “What happened?”

“Got whacked. Pissed off the wrong people. Clean and jerk. Professional.” He lit a cigarette.

“Who did she piss off?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he tipped me a wink.

And then he went away.

The CSI team moved in; Kelvin was among them, and he went Haha grimly while taking the blood sample. I realised it was not my scene, and walked away. Someone passed me a towel and sat me by the ambulance, like I was a fire victim. A hot cup of chocolate was put into my hands. I didn’t remember if I had tasted it.

It was like the ending of a Die Hard movie; throngs of ambulances, police patrol cars, the red-and-blue lights dancing and intercepting each other. A medic checked my eye, asked me for my name, and then walked away sniffing. She was quite pretty. I don’t know if I’ve seen her before.

That was when the dream shifted into something else, this time to do with watching a movie. Casablanca was on. (This, here, was when I woke up).

I had thought of telling someone about it, or write it down as a story (it struck me as one that’s fun to write), but the day drove it off my mind.

And today, halfway through Newspaper Management, I imagined it as a stage musical. Starring the class. The poster of the play is titled The Blob(:Not The Horror Movie, Please).

Somehow, that amused me.

Bitter and Butter

I wonder if those two go together. Somehow, somewhere, there’s probably a Marjory and Mabel’s Bitter Butter, stacked at the supermarket refrigerator, beside the cheese and the dairy, and sales research would register that a lot of the buyers consists of little girls named Betty.

(I’m not the sanest tonight; I think lack of sleep and tiredness is accounting for some rather severe loss of rational thought and coherence. It’s probably best that you ignore this post, and go someplace more conducive, like Newgrounds, or East of the Web.)

Are there really bitter butters?

Butters, so far, are just butter to me. The only difference between them is the price that go with them, and with it probably quality in taste of which I can never truly discern (they taste the same, smell differently when put on a pan, and maybe a little different in saltiness). That, and the fact that I don’t see them any different from margarine, makes it even more evident. Nope, I just don’t taste butter. But I like them, and whatever they make with them.

So if there are really bitter butters out there, I’d like to try one. Just for the heck of it.

*****

There is a bitterness that linger in my mouth when I walk into the papers, and when I walk out the bitterness turned tart and seeped into my central nervous system, so that I lumber around and slur like goo.

Ah well, tis brought upon to myself. Talk about splashing yourself with Nippon paint while aware of the consequences, but you do it anyway because it seemed pretty artsy.

Two more papers to go; one of them I’m still unaware of what and how it will be tested, the other hopefully an easy hurdle if I take the days before it to study extensively.

Two more papers. Then I taste the beckoning freedom, and shelf it away for the sake of the FYP.

*****

My father surprised me the other day by bringing back a piece of art.

It comes in the form of a badly framed, rather flimsy looking painting depicted two half-naked women (with perfect Goddess of Venus bosoms), both of them who reminded me of Lindsay Lohan, amidst a sci-fi fantasy backdrop. The painting is very grey, rather sombre, but rather beautiful. In a mystifying way; Elegantly gloomy.

I followed a logo at the bottom corner of the painting and found that it was illustrated by Luis Royo. My father told me that his boss bought it sometime ago, in an art exhibition, for RM3000. The office was being moved, and the boss decided that the painting has to go. So the father took it home.

The next day, the father and I sat down and tried to frame the painting better (it was disdainfully held between a cardboard piece and a plastic layer, with cello-tape to hold it together) when we discovered that it’s not quite a painting, but a poster.

I wonder if it was really worth 3000 smackaroos, and if the father’s boss hadn’t got himself conned stupid.

At first we hung it at the wall facing the dining table. When I got home today, however, the painting is on the floor, leaned against the wall, and in its place was the Fortune Deity picture we had hung at the top of the front door. On top of the front door now is a wood ornament, supposedly a carving of the Qilin (or Kylin, or Kirin).

If the painting (poster) have nowhere to go, I think I might just ask if I can hang it in my room.

Ah-la-la-la

I’m feeling tired right now, and I don’t know if it’s caused by dinner or an innate self-defence mechanism that triggers when I’m supposed to study (it makes me stay away from the notes, go to happy places, do happy things, like sleep or Call of Duty or to visit old manga shelf). But it’s Creative Strategy for Advertising tomorrow, which doesn’t require me to study, only make things up as creatively as I can (oh yay ain‘t I good at it? Ain‘t I?), so I guess I’m entitled to rest a bit and allow the happy place to kick in.


Today was action packed. The exam was easy and I didn’t know how to do it, and on the way home I made three illegal U-turns and got caught in a traffic jam, in which I saw someone picking his nose. And when I got home it was late, the dad had managed most of the chores, and I actually took time and listened to the news.


News that told me that the UMNO Supreme Council had suspended Bukit Bendera division chief Datuk Ahmad Ismail for 3 years, due to his racist remarks. Good for him, but he’s not being racist; he’s just being a nationalist. What’s wrong with you people?


(Three years is also very short. Something more viable would be a lifetime ban).


I’m not very political.


It’s a staple of my father to lament my lack of insight and knowledge of the political realm, something he considers of utmost importance if I actually intend to stick to a journalistic career path.


I didn’t tell him that journalism is more than politics, nor the fact that my journalistic views does not dictate me to follow our nation’s political development with as much mileage as I can handle; journalism, for me, is getting stories and telling it as it is; truth. But yes, obviously, such responsibility shouldn’t be given to those who knew not the truth, and know little of everything else. So yes, I should, probably, get more involved in politics. But no, quite honestly, I don’t really see myself heading that way.


I don’t see myself heading anywhere, anyways. I’ve blindfolded myself, turned around three times and walk wherever my legs lead me, and if I fall into a pothole, well, I don’t think I’ll still learn anything.


But then again, walking blindly is very lonely. Fearful.


It’s also very painful.

********

Ah, this is worth noting.

Step 4 for the There She Is!! Flash animation series by SamBakZa is up. Head over here to see it: http://www.newgrounds.com/portal/view/456643


You probably don’t know it, but There She Is! By SamBakZa is probably one of the best flash animations around. Somewhat conventional-cute, but the animation is great, and the story effectively told plainly through music, animation and emotion. Great stuff. Check out the entire series if you can. You can find all of it at http://www.newgrounds.com/

Well then. Goodnight everyone.

So, it continues like this…

The bro is now safely in the UK, possibly shivering his arse off, bless his soul. We’ve video-called him three times now and he looks dandy on the webcam, albeit, well, cold. Mom’s quickly lost her anxiety, I’m not swamped with unnecessary housework (not yet, perhaps) and my exams started off with a hail of blizzard and possibly a touch of imminent disappointment (there you go, it’s what you get if you didn’t study enough).

Life’s good. However I see it, it should probably stay as good. I’m optimistic enough.

Well, that aside, there’ll be no more stories to tell. I won’t bother going with the same-old, same-old; that’s because everything’s quite about same-old, same-old, surprisingly. Aside from the brother gone, everything seems unchanged. Probably the tricks in the bag ran out, or, as I see it, probably life just reached that pinnacle, in which I’ll walk up to and find a brick wall, a sign saying; “end of the road. Nothing else ahead.”

Fine with me, I guess.

*****

Ah, this will be the first blogpost I’ve written on this PC (hard-damn the keyboard takes getting used to). So, well, YAY!, I suppose.

A post. The sort that goes very long.


And it’s because I have a lot of things to write about, so I guess a little forewarning will be extremely helpful.


It’s also because this will be the last time I’ll be writing (typing) on this laptop; I predict that this will be the last of my using it, and whatever else that’s down the road, will come as it comes.


I guess this is the best adieu I can give it, doing what I do best, on this faithful compatriot.


Let’s hope he does well to serve his new master.


*****

I’ve noted with great disdain that my writing has taken a dip down the cesspool, so bear with me for quite a bit; as far as my consistency goes, this is the plummet in the pulsing chart that goes all the way down and down, and whatever chance to see it climb up again into the sunlight will depend on how much improvement my brain will take during what I hope to be a revitalising plan, come the next few weeks.


Well, there’s a lot to tell. To brag and to bawl, so to speak. Let’s get started, shall we?

*****

My brother is leaving for the U.K. The big United Kingdom.


He’s there to further his studies and will be back a year later, with the complete and full acknowledgement into the world of law and the practising of it (dear God doom is upon us). I’ll miss him, I guess. I really might. After I celebrate, of course. I’ve planned a quiet, personal champagne-popping event at 4 in the morning, and later in the morning I’ll go ignite the leftover fireworks.


The house will be quieter now.


He flies tomorrow night. Thursday morning, to be exact. Taking with him his luggage and this laptop here, which I tendered up for him to take over rather than get a new one. I’ve gotten Bod (Black of Death, the new PC) to fill the role of house computer, so it’s fine. And this baby here comes with a webcam and full wireless online access, so it’s everything he’ll ever need over there, food and clothing aside.


The anvil took longer to drop, but drop it did, probably way later compared to everyone else. Him leaving will be a huge change. It’ll be his longest time away from home, and I daresay mom is already at the tipping point of her anxiety; she fusses endlessly, and for the next few weeks I expect to see her walking around with a shade of worry under her eyes. She’ll be proud, but she’ll be very worried. I wonder if my brother knows that.


With him gone I’ll be around to take the full fodder of whatever the house throws at me. It means that everything, and I mean everything, is under my full care. The dogs, the rabbits, the fishes, the car, dad… I’m up against it frontally, no armours, no covers, just guts and glory and tubs of lards. Ooo-rah!


Hmm well. The moss adepts to the cold, so they say.


I wonder if my father is anxious? I wonder if he worries, let his thoughts wander in the middle of the night, traversing the small cracks of possibilities and concerns.


He’s very cool about it.


*******

My brother leaving has been a huge cause for celebrations.

So far, we’ve had three BBQ parties, two to his name and one to our aunt who takes it as another chance to celebrate with him. Everyone went up to him, bid him bon voyage, shook his hand and patted his back, questioned his plans to bring home a ‘blue-eyed blonde’ (on my grandfather’s loud prompting), handed him gifts and ang pows and advices, asked him the questions he answered to millions of times. It’s not surprising; he’s the eldest grandson on both side of the family, and he’s the first to ‘soak in the sea’s salt-water’, as the Chinese say. He’s the first to step across the pedestal, up onto that threshold that leads far far away.


There’re times people had asked me if I felt unfair that my brother is given the chance to study overseas. They asked if I’m jealous. I told them there’s no forsaken way I’d travel halfway across the world to study, not unless the study involves art and is free and takes the course of a three-week European tour. I told them the only thing I’ll be jealous about is that he gets to see Trafalgar Square before me, and he won’t take a single goddamn picture of it.


And it’s true. I don’t want to go away unless I go away to write, or backpack into the unknown with a notebook and a camera. I’ll go for an adventure. I’ll stay here if I want to study.


*******


I gave my brother a Moleskine


It’s not that I’ve given in to its marketing gimmick that went on to say that it’s used, a long time ago, by the likes of Picasso and Hemingway and Matisse. I got it because I see giving it equals the same as giving someone a silver-embossed Parker pen; it’s the symbol of growth and the ascension into the mature world. Sounds gay, inevitably, but it’s the best thing I can get for him, since pens were no longer an option (my 5th aunt beat me to it).


And the notebook’s really nice. Gives you a vibe of class and inspiration; boy, I’ll get myself one if I can help it.


Unfortunately, I won’t. But I’ll get those imitators that go for half the price.


*******


Well, I’d be lying if I said that life didn’t just revolve around my brother and the hullabaloo of flying over, but there’re snippets that still went on, quietly, at the sidelines, poking over imploringly.


The exams are near, and it’s sort of near enough to feel it burning the hairs on my arms. I’m grossly unprepared. I have time; I always have time, bearing the mark of a true procrastinator (class S = Sloth, 2nd Honours). Just not enough, I suppose, now that it’s immensely close and I haven’t done anything.


What sucks is that I promised -- swore, that I’ll ace it, months and months back, in a fit of burning inspiration. I see that inspiration taking the next plane to Cuba.


Holy crapshot doesn’t regret and anxiety burn? Ss-ah!


I realised, in a lurch of panic, that the work I’ve sent to my ex-boss might not actually have been sent, and that the true copy of it is accidentally deleted while I was transferring my documents over to the PC. I feel that I’ll be getting an SMS or an E-mail a few weeks later asking what the heck happened and if I’ve just abandoned some unfinished work. I’ll be waiting for it.


My brother had picked up Artemis Fowl and the Time Paradox at Borders last week. I read it up in a day, barely leaving the room. It’s a pleasant book, nothing short of Eoin Colfer’s ingenuity, but nothing more as well. That’s the unfortunate bit about it; after what I feel was the excellent Lost Colony, Time Paradox fell short and disappointing in scope. It still makes for an enjoyable Artemis Fowl romp, though.


We won’t see another Arty Fowl for 3 years or so, so I guess there’s nothing else to wait for but Neil Gaiman’s The Graveyard Book, coming in 4 weeks time.


I was surprised when I heard of it, but I found out that Elizabeth Bear’s excellent short-story, Tideline, actually won the Hugo Awards for Best Short Story.


You can read the story here: http://www.elizabethbear.com/tideline.html


I found her novel in Kinokuniya the other day, which is a rarity. Her books aren’t very popular here, and if it wasn’t placed (rather oddly) together with Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, I wouldn’t have noticed it. The novel is going for 25 bucks; I’ve got a Kino coupon for 10. That makes 15 bucks for it.


Excellent.


*********

I guess this concludes it. I expect tomorrow evening to be the last time I shut this laptop down, pack it into the bag and give it the usual dust down the top cover.


Thursday night I’ll be typing on Bod, on a keyboard which I’ll have to get used to.


I’ll be bidding farewell to the brother.


Here’s where I put up my wishes and prayers for him, and mine would go: Don’t shag the ang mohs.


I guess I really will miss him.


And to you, reader, if you’ve actually endured to this point of the post:


Goodnight.